On the Lee Shore, page 17
As he walked his spirits lifted. The May sun warmed him as it shone down, and the fresh breeze that blew in from the sea helped to clear his head. His mouth was still thick and furred with the excesses of the previous night, but even though he was now very thirsty, he knew better than to drink from the first stream he came to. The water was discoloured and smelt foul, flowing down from the mine at the head of the valley. A few hundred yards farther was a spring, clear and bubbling as it spilt down the moss covered stone wall. He drank greedily for a while, cupping his hands against the wet stone till they brimmed and then raising them to his mouth. When he had at last quenched his thirst, he dashed water over his head and let it soak into the thick blond pigtail that ran like a rope down his back. Finally he wetted his neck cloth and tied it back into place. The water cooled him as he walked, trickling down his chest under his shirt.
The track started to become more and more familiar as he neared home. The stone walls on either side were almost lost under a heavy pelt of tufted grass. Wild flowers studded the turf banks, and the occasional small trees grew up on either side, gnarled and bent over like old crones by the constant wind from the west. He rounded a corner, and saw the sea at last. The Channel spread out before him, blue and tranquil under the caress of the sun. The slope of the path grew steeper now as it plunged down towards the little fishing village. To his left a flock of sheep was scattered over the hillside. He could hear the tinkle of their bells amongst the flowering gorse bushes. He waved at the shepherd girl, who waved back uncertainly. Can that truly be Farmer Werrin’s youngest daughter, he thought to himself, old enough to tend the flock now?
A little farther down the track he came to a break in the wall. He glanced up and down the path, but he was alone. With a smile of recognition he passed through the gap and into the sloping field beyond. Near the centre was a collection of larger gorse bushes, and in among them a patch of short, scented grass, warm beneath his hand as he sat down. He was sheltered now, both from the wind and from prying eyes, just as he had been all those years before when he would meet Molly here on sunny days like this. He leant back with his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He remembered how she would lean over him, her red hair cascading down like molten copper, her skin pale and her eyes green as a cat’s.
A little while later he walked into the village. The track had widened into a cobbled thoroughfare that led down past the houses to the little harbour. To left and right were small stone cottages, their windows shuttered against the sun. It was mid-afternoon, and the street was quiet. That will be the war, thought Trevan to himself. The young men have all been pressed into the navy like me, and the old have had to take their places in the fishing boats while the women work in the fields. From somewhere farther down the path he thought he heard the sound of a child crying, and he wondered if it might be his son. Too young, he concluded. His Sam was a sturdy five year old now; the child he could hear was no more than a baby.
The prospect of seeing his little boy again put a smile back on to Trevan’s face once more. He reached into his pocket to check that the carved model boat he had promised to make for the lad when he saw him during the winter was still there. Satisfied, he carried on down the road. He arrived at the opening of one of the many narrow alleys that led back up the hillside towards the church and caught a flash of movement. He turned to see the figure of a women disappear around a corner. He paused for a moment. Something in the gait of the lithe figure had been familiar.
‘Molly?’ he called, but she did not return. He wondered what to do. Should he carry on the hundred yards to her mother’s cottage, or follow the figure? He made his choice, and plunged into the cool shade between the houses.
The alleyway was narrow and unmade. It rose up in a series of short slopes punctuated by occasional flights of rough stone step. Halfway up he turned around the corner the woman had taken, but could see no sign of her. He carried on, passing openings to left and right into walled courtyards and buildings. At one point he had to squeeze past a line of old lobster pots, still pungent with the sea, until at the top of the rise he came back out into sunshine. He was above the village now, on a shelf of land that overlooked the harbour. Beside him was the little church. He looked towards it, and saw a white mop cap among the grave stones.
He strode along the churchyard wall and through the gate. The figure kneeling by a small pile of fresh turned earth was unmistakable now. He recognised the curve of her neck, the line of her heaving shoulders and the wisps of copper hair that had escaped from the confines of her cap.
‘Molly, my love,’ he called to his wife. ‘I don’t understand. What are you doing here?’ She looked around, her tear-stained face turning from grief to wonder at the sight of him.
‘Adam! You’re back.’ She stood up and in two strides had flung herself into his arms. He closed his eyes in joy as he held her tight to him. When he opened them again the little grave was still there. He did not have the skill to read most of the words on the headstone, but he could make out the shape of his surname, and could read the dates below it. 1792 – 1797.
*****
Although Captain Alexander Clay’s journey home had been rather longer than Trevan’s, it had been done in a lot more comfort. Not only had he not been suffering from a hangover when he left Plymouth, but he had spent the journey in well sprung carriages seated on plush upholstery, and had travelled for the most part on made turnpike roads. As a result he was able to jump down from the carriage when it pulled into the driveway of Rosehill Cottage still relatively fresh. He left Sedgwick to deal with their luggage and dashed up the familiar steps to the front door.
‘Why, sir!’ exclaimed the maid as she let him in. ‘You have returned from the sea.’
‘Indeed so, Nancy, for two whole weeks of leave,’ smiled Clay. ‘Is my mother at home?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the girl. ‘She is away visiting some of the village sick with the parson’s wife. Miss Clay is here, mind. She is taking a turn in the garden with a friend of hers what is staying with us for a few days.’
‘A visitor?’ he said. ‘How unusual, I wonder who that might be?’
‘It is a very elegant lady who they say has been to India, if you can believe that, sir,’ said Nancy. ‘Miss Browning is her name.’
‘Miss Browning? She is here, right now?’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes, sir, that’s right,’ said the maid. ‘Are you quite well, sir? You have gone all pale like.’
‘I am fine, thank you, Nancy,’ he replied. He pushed on past her and strode towards the back of the house. ‘Did you say they were in the garden?’
In fact the two friends were no longer in the garden. They had strolled down past the cottage’s formal beds packed with flowers, had paused to admire the progress of the plants in the vegetable plot, and had now moved through into the little walled orchard. The blossom of spring was long gone, and they walked amongst the gnarled tree trunks with their arms linked and their heads close together as they talked. It was cool and shady under the canopy of apple leaves. Only the odd ray of sun penetrated the foliage to cast spots of light like brilliant coins scattered across the grass. Lydia Browning was dressed all in black satin, while Betsey Clay wore a pale lemon dress with a pattern of tiny flowers on it. The cut of the two dresses differed too. Lydia’s dress was cut modestly, as befitted one in mourning. In contrast that of her companion was in the latest fashion. Its short sleeves were puffed and round and the dress was gathered into a high waist with a contrasting bronze coloured ribbon that matched that which held her straw hat in place.
Betsey was the first to see him as he swept through from the garden and into the orchard searching about him. She felt a rush of pleasure at the sight of her brother, but she resisted the urge to run over and greet him. She knew this was Lydia’s moment. She gently disentangled her arm from that of her friend and stepped away from her side. Her companion looked at her in surprise, and Betsey smiled to reassure her.
‘I shall return to the house now,’ she said, looking past her towards the brick arch from where Clay had appeared. Lydia followed her friend’s gaze and let out a small cry.
‘We shall speak later, Alex,’ whispered Betsey as they passed. She trailed her hand against his and felt him squeeze it for a moment as they crossed.
‘Oh, Lydia,’ he cried as he came rushing across the grass. ‘Can it truly be you at last, my darling?’ He threw wide his arms and she came into them, her face wet with tears. The long remembered smell of her perfume filled his nostrils and he felt joy surge within him. He turned her face up towards his with a single gentle finger under her chin and they kissed, nervous at first but soon with growing confidence and passion.
‘Alexander, I have missed you so much,’ she murmured and he crushed her to him once more. When they parted he looked at her, and smiled at her flushed face and tousled hair.
‘I... ah, fear I may have allowed my emotions when we first embraced to get the better of me,’ he said gravely. ‘Your bonnet is sadly crumpled.’
‘Is it indeed?’ she grinned. ‘Then I shall take it off directly.’ She undid the bow beneath her chin and shook her hair free. It cascaded down in a glossy dark river that complimented the satin of her dress.
‘How very shocking, Miss Browning!’ he laughed. ‘I have no idea what my mother or your aunt would say if they could see you in such an immoral state of undress.’
‘Have a care, Captain Clay,’ she said in her turn. ‘Your emotions have quite disordered your attire too, you know.’ She reached up to pull his uniform coat straight and placed a firm hand on his left shoulder. Pain troubled his face for a moment.
‘Alexander, how careless of me,’ she exclaimed. ‘I quite forgot you have been but recently a wounded there. Does it still trouble you?’
‘A little,’ he said. ‘Chiefly when the weather is wet.’
‘It troubles you in the wet?’ she asked, the mischievous twinkle he had so admired when they first met once more in her clear blue eyes. ‘Is that not rather inconvenient for a sailor?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ he laughed. ‘I have so missed your humour, Lydia. May I share a confidence with you regarding my injury?’
‘Of course,’ she replied.
‘Thanks to my shoulder I am no longer able to ascend the rigging, which might be thought of as an even worse inconvenience for a sailor,’ he explained. ‘But I am exceedingly grateful for it because I have had a guilty secret.’
‘Really, do tell me more,’ she said, moving close. ‘If the nature of this secret is suitable for a lady to hear, that is.’ Clay looked around the empty orchard, as if he feared to be overheard.
‘I am morbidly afraid of heights,’ he whispered. ‘For years I dreaded going aloft, but somehow I managed to master my fears. I have had to fain indifference to the terrifying void beneath me. But now I have my wound climbing is an impossibility, which suits me very well indeed.’ She nodded at this, her face grave.
‘I shall endeavour to be discreet when I next find myself being interrogated by the Board of Admiralty on the climbing abilities of their officers.’
They walked on a little, she still close beside him, his right arm forming a protective arc about her shoulders. He could feel her warmth through the light cloth beneath his fingers, and her hair lay softly over the skin of his wrist.
‘When did you return from India?’ he asked, finding it hard to think how to make polite conversation while his senses were so loaded with her closeness.
‘Several weeks ago,’ she replied. ‘We returned to a Portsmouth convulsed by this extraordinary mutiny. It was there that I met with dear Mr Sutton, poor man.’
‘Why do you call him poor man?’ he asked. ‘I had heard that his was one of the few ships in Portsmouth whose crew remained obedient. He has gained much credit with the Admiralty in consequence.’
‘Because I had seen his ship on our way in to Portsmouth,’ she explained. ‘I saw it was called Rush, and in the last of your letters, you had informed me that was the name of your ship. So naturally I hastened on board asking to see the captain. I was so sure that I was about to meet you that when I was presented to poor Mr Sutton it was all too much for me. I burst into tears of frustration the moment I laid eyes on him!’
‘Did you, by Jove!’ he chuckled. ‘John does like to regard himself as something of a beau where the ladies are concerned. It will have done him no ill to have found himself so utterly rejected, for once.’
‘Naturally when I had calmed down a little he was able to give me some welcome news of you,’ continued Lydia. ‘He was unsure if your ship had been caught up in the mutiny. Did your men rebel too?’
‘No, I am pleased to say that they did ultimately remain loyal, but it was touch and go for a while,’ he replied. ‘The Titan had been a troubled ship, so a part of the crew did rise. Of all things they were chiefly provoked by my fool of a purser deciding to feed them on pork that was over three years old.’
‘Meat that was three years old!’ exclaimed Lydia. ‘Surely it would have long since become rotten?’
‘It had, hence their uncivil reaction,’ he said. ‘Although at sea we do quite often feed on salt meat that was slaughtered over a year ago, without any apparent ill effects.’
‘Bless my soul, do you really?’ she said, ‘Is it pleasant to eat?’
‘Not especially, no,’ he conceded. ‘The men call it Irish horse, being unwilling to believe it can ever have once been pig meat. They maintain that the best way to cook particularly venerable salt pork is to boil it in a pot with an iron nail. When the nail is soft, the meat will be tender.’ Lydia laughed aloud at this. Her neat white teeth contrasted with her sombre clothing. Clay enjoyed the moment a little, and then he frowned as he thought about the implications of the black dress.
‘How insensitive of me,’ he exclaimed. ‘What was I thinking of going on in such a fashion, letting you ask after my foolish shoulder when I had not yet enquired about your much more grave injury. How have you and your aunt endured the loss of your poor uncle?’
‘I will not say that it has been easy,’ she replied. ‘Oh, Alex, I feel such a curious mixture of emotions! It seems strange to speak of so painful a matter when I am overjoyed to be with you at long last. In truth I feel the loss very keenly. Over the years he had quite taken the place of the father who died when I was but a little girl, and since he and my aunt were without issue of their own, he had become very much as close as any parent could.’
‘It is terrible to lose a father,’ he said, ‘but I suppose in that regard you were fortunate to have been able to replace that paternal love with his, at least for a while.’
‘That is true, but the cholera took him so swiftly that I find myself quite cheated,’ she said. ‘There was such a lot I still wanted to do with him and say to him which I shall not now be able to. Of course, for my dear aunt it is even worse.’ She felt Clay hold her a little tighter.
‘I understand a little of what you speak of,’ he said. ‘As you know I too lost my father as a boy. I cannot say that I miss him now for himself, I have so much else in my life, not least you and my dear mother and sister. But there are yet matters I would have wanted to share with him, about my life in the navy, my ideas and my ambitions. If I had had an uncle like yours, he might have taken that role. In consequence I find myself drawn towards the council of older men that I encounter in the service. I have that very situation on board my current ship. My first lieutenant is much older than I, and as a result I am obliged to be careful that I am not tempted to confide overly in him. It could end very ill, if our relationship should no longer remain appropriate to one between a superior and inferior officer.’
‘Perhaps I could be of help?’ suggested Lydia. ‘I would be happy for you to share with me those ideas and ambitions that you would have engaged your father with. And in return you might take the place of my uncle when I wish to share my own considerations?’
‘Lydia, my darling,’ he said, taking both of her hands in his and bringing her to a halt in front of him. ‘There is nothing that I would rather do, from now and forever. I will happily commit myself to your future happiness in all things.’ Then he dropped to one knee in the grass beneath the apple trees. ‘You must know by now how much I love and admire you. Our long months apart have done nothing to lessen the regard I have for you. Will you consent to be my wife?’
She looked down into his calm grey eyes. There was something different in them now. The boyish good humour she had so liked when they first met was still there, but now they had a gravity and depth to them. They were eyes that had seen much in the time they had been apart, both of good and bad. She could see little lines that radiated out on the skin around them that had not been there before. That will be all the pain he suffered from his injury, she thought. He had made light of it, but his sister Betsey had been more frank, sharing with her the horror she and her mother had felt at the pale, thin invalid who had returned last winter from the Caribbean. She sensed that tears were welling up in her own eyes again, partly at that thought, but mostly at the feeling of utter joy that this long delayed moment had come at last.
‘Yes, my darling Alexander,’ she said, stroking the side of his face. ‘I will marry you.’
Chapter 12
Tents
Edward Preston shrugged his cavernous uniform coat back up onto his shoulders for the umpteenth time and silently cursed once more the man who had sold it to him. His elevation from senior midshipman on the Rush to his appointment as third lieutenant of the Titan had only given him a few days to acquire all the new clothing and equipment he needed. He was not a wealthy man, and once he had bought his full dress uniform, his sword, telescope and sextant, he had been running very low on funds. So when he had spotted the coat in the window of a Plymouth pawn brokers it had seemed to be the answer to his prayers. The coat’s former owner had been of a similar height to him, but what was obvious to him now was that he had also been a much larger man than the slim eighteen-year-old. This had been concealed from him at the time of purchase by the shop keeper. He must have gripped a fist full of broad cloth in the hand he held behind my back when he was presenting me to the mirror, thought the Titan’s newest officer, shrugging at the garment once more.
