Take, Burn or Destroy, page 30
“I was treated the same,” Hayden told him. “And yourself, Doctor? How do you fare?”
“Well enough. I cannot say I thrived, lying exposed to the elements upon the deck of a wrecked ship, but I feel my strength returning . . . If only I could get warm!”
“Everyone says the same. Perhaps a good fever is needed.”
The doctor’s face turned dark. “Do not even jest about such things. Prisoners are breeding grounds for fevers of all the worst sorts.”
“I was not thinking—indeed, my mental powers appear to have been much reduced, as they were by the blow to my head some months ago.”
“I am sure we all feel exactly the same, Captain. Another half a day and I believe we would have begun to lose our own men. That is how close we all came to death.”
“Rest, I am certain, will do much to restore our vigour. If I could but sleep. Nightmares haunt me the moment I close my eyes—all to do with being trapped in the ship, drowning in darkness.” Hayden shivered.
“My own dreams are much the same,” the doctor admitted. “I dare say, we shall all suffer from this malady for some weeks or even months.”
Hayden had little doubt that the doctor was right—all of the men slept but poorly, moaned in their sleep, and started awake often in the greatest possible distress. The cells in the Brest citadel were deep within the foundations, where daylight could not penetrate. The air was noisome and dank, and the single tallow candle granted each cell did not even send its light so far as the corners. There were tales of men living in such misery for decades, but Hayden suspected that few lasted more than a handful of years; disease and despair preyed upon the inmates as effectively as the guillotine. It was Hayden’s hope that his men would be moved to some better place soon, though he dreaded them being marched any distance in their present states. None would go very far before they collapsed.
If not for the distant ringing of the citadel bells marking the passing of hours, time would have appeared to have abandoned its duty. Some effort was made to keep up the spirits of the men. The cell was swept and cleaned as best they could, duties were assigned for water and waste that must be dealt with. Stories were told, even old saws that had often been heard before were brought out and made welcome.
“Tell us about rounding the horn again,” someone would say to Barthe at least once a day, and the sailing master would oblige and tell the same story, differing only, from one telling to the next, in the height of the seas and ferocity of the winds. Songs were sung by individuals, and some by everyone who could muster the energy.
When the two daily meals were brought, Hayden would press the guards and ask if they knew what would be done with them or if there was not some official who could speak to him, but each time the answers were the same—they knew nothing and no official wished to climb down so many stairs. Talk began that they had been forgotten. That no one in England knew they lived. They would rot in the dark.
Hayden would cut such talk short and call for a song or a story. The spirits of the men must not be allowed to sink too low. Melancholia was a disease as real as gaol fever, and Hayden did not wish to see it take hold among his crew.
Several days passed in this way, and then, in the forenoon of a day no one could name or fix a number to, a troop of guards led by an officer appeared outside their cell, a gaoler in tow. To everyone’s surprise, the door was swung wide, and the officer beckoned them out in a manner that appeared almost amiable.
“Come,” he said in French, “you are to accompany me.”
The sleeping were roused, and the rest gathered their resources and rose stiffly. “Where are we going?” Hayden asked. “To a prison?”
The officer shrugged. “It is not for me to say, Capitaine. Bring your men along, if you please.”
The British sailors trooped out and, with difficulty, ascended the many steps, climbing up through the levels of the citadel until they came out into blinding sunlight, then descended a stair into a gravel courtyard.
Here they were met by a group of officers and attendants, one of whom, Hayden was delighted to see, was Capitaine Raymondde Lacrosse.
“Capitaine Lacrosse,” Hayden said in French, “I am pleased to see you well, sir.”
“And I you, Capitaine. So many men were lost. You must have been touched by God to have survived.” Lacrosse smiled.
“Do you know where we are being sent? To what prison? My men are not yet recovered enough to make a long march.”
“You shall make the shortest march possible—a stroll, I should call it.” He smiled. “Down to the quay, Capitaine Hayden, and aboard a ship.”
Hayden was confused. “How far do they send us, then?”
“Not so far. You will be home tomorrow or the day next.” He smiled again. “I have been in Paris working on your behalf, Capitaine Hayden. Once I had convinced my superiors that Les Droits de l’Homme had a fatal flaw—her lower gun-deck was too near the water for us to open the gunports in anything but a calm—I was absolved of all blame and reinstated to my position. I then set out to convince them that without you and your crew many more lives would have been lost. And I must say they were moved to hear of the loss of your bosun caused by French sailors. It has been agreed, therefore, to return you and your men to England. It took some time to arrange this with your government, but they have now agreed to allow a single transport to carry you all to Portsmouth and return here without being molested by your cruisers. It is, I believe, unprecedented and a singular honour by both nations.”
Hayden could not believe what he was hearing. “Do I dream, Capitaine Lacrosse. This seems . . . impossible.”
“It is more than possible, my friend, it is a fait accompli. You have but to accompany me down to the quay and you will set out this day.” He turned to another officer standing by. “Is everything in order?”
“Would Capitaine Hayden object to signing these forms for my records?”
“Would you mind, Capitaine?” Lacrosse asked. “Bureaucrats, you know.”
Hayden signed everywhere he was asked, only glancing briefly at the documents, trusting that Lacrosse would not be involved in anything underhanded—he was too honourable.
And so they made their way down to the quay, a few guards in company, though they appeared not at all concerned about their charges and were quite friendly and amiable to all concerned.
“You appear quite hale, Capitaine,” Hayden observed. “Given our ordeal, you have recovered rapidly.”
“I have been blessed with a strong constitution, Capitaine Hayden—a great blessing in our profession. Ah, here,” he said, gesturing to a small gate. “We have but a brief stop to make here.”
They were led in past guards to a barracks.
“I thought you might all desire a moment to bathe. Your clothes will be taken and washed, and sent with you aboard the ship. The commander of the citadel has ordered clothing for all of you.”
To bathe was a luxury Hayden had dreamt of these last days, for the bedding in the cells was lousy and they were all bitten and itching. They bathed and dressed in the clothing supplied—simple breeches, hose, and a cotton shirt. Still, to be clean and dressed in fresh clothing did something for their feelings of well-being that Hayden could hardly describe. They emerged to a table set for them and were offered all that they might eat. Lacrosse joined them and was so amused by the looks upon the Englishmen’s faces that he kept laughing in spite of himself.
“I am sorry, Capitaine. Please excuse me, but if you could see the looks upon your faces . . . No one yet seems to believe their good fortune—though it stems from perhaps the worst fortune.”
“We have gone from believing we would die, to being certain we would spend some months at least in prison, to being pardoned and sent home in very short order, Capitaine Lacrosse. It is a great deal to take in.”
“Indeed it is. I myself thought I might end upon the guillotine, but it seems the man who drew the draughts of Les Droits de l’Homme had some enemies in Paris and so he was blamed and has fled the country, poor fellow. And instead of ending my days, or at the very least my career, I am to be given another ship.”
“And somehow you have even managed to have us sent home, for which I can never thank you.”
“Capitaine Hayden, it is I who can never thank you. When my own officers refused to do their duty, to my lasting shame, your own men stepped forward and took their places. Your sailing master and midshipman piloted one boat safely ashore, and I am certain that your bosun would have done the same had he been given the chance. His death will hang over me all the rest of my days.”
“Sir, your position was made untenable by your own government, and you bear none of the blame,” Hayden said firmly.
“You are too kind.” He tapped his forehead. “Ah, I have almost forgotten to say that I lost everything in my cabin. Had you anything stored there, it would be gone too. I am sorry, but nothing was saved.”
“I am sorry to hear it, Capitaine.”
They came to a set of steps where a boat was waiting. “C’est des Anglais pour la Fortune, Capitaine?” a sailor called out.
“Yes, these are the men. You will treat them well. They saved many French lives and lost some of their own.”
“We have all heard, Capitaine. Be at peace; we shall treat them like honoured guests.”
Lacrosse turned to Hayden. “I must take my leave of you, Capitaine.”
“I am in your debt, Capitaine Lacrosse. I do hope when next we meet it shall not be as enemies.”
“I hope the same, Capitaine Hayden.” He looked at Hayden oddly. “You have no coat, Capitaine?”
“It was lost.”
“Then you will take mine,” and before Hayden could protest he removed it and pushed it into Hayden’s hands. “I will not hear otherwise. It will be cold upon the ship this night. Bon voyage.”
He thanked all the English sailors, especially Barthe and Wickham, and not without a show of emotion. The remains of Hayden’s crew climbed into the boat and took their places, but before they could push off there came a shout from down the dock to hold the boat.
Hayden looked at Hawthorne, who sat nearby.
“Have they changed their minds?” he asked.
“I do not know.”
Three guards came hurrying along the quay, a man held between them.
“Ah, just in time,” Lacrosse announced.
The prisoner was Rosseau—Hayden’s cook!
Lacrosse put a hand on Rosseau’s shoulder, and the little Frenchman looked as though he might collapse from fear. “This member of your crew was mistakenly thought to be French, no doubt because he speaks our tongue almost as well as you, Capitaine Hayden. But clearly he is English.”
The manacles were removed from Rosseau’s hands and the terrified Frenchman was bundled into the boat, almost too weak to make it on his own.
Lacrosse waved the boat away, and it set out across the Rade de Brest.
Rosseau hid his face in his hands, and his shoulders heaved between deep gasps.
Wickham put a hand on his shoulder. “You are safe. Be of good heart.”
“I was . . . on my way to the guillotine . . .” Rosseau managed.
“For God’s sake, man,” Wickham whispered, “do not speak!”
Sixteen
You appear very thoughtful this evening, Mrs Hertle,” Robert Hertle observed, putting a hand over the fingers she had tucked into the crook of her husband’s arm.
Robert had appeared unannounced, as often he did, for no one could ever predict the day a ship would return to harbour, and for the past two days she had been so utterly happy and content that she had begun to wonder if she did not look rather girlish, though in truth she hardly cared.
“Do I, my dear? I must be thinking always how much happiness your sudden return has brought me.”
Happiness was in the very air that evening, among the gathered Carthew family and their guests, but not everyone partook of it. She let her gaze wander over the familiar faces. In a room of notably joyful souls, Elizabeth Hertle wondered who, next to Penelope, was least pleased with the proceedings. Mrs Hertle hovered near to her youngest daughter, attempting, largely in vain, to lift her spirits. And though Pen was striving to put on a brave face, far too often she seemed about to weep. Mrs Carthew appeared happier than Elizabeth would have guessed, given the reservations she had recently expressed regarding a match between Henrietta and Frank Beacher. Perhaps her motherly instinct had come to the fore when she realised her lovely daughter was engaged to a gentleman whose character she knew, from long familiarity, was in all ways above reproach.
Elizabeth put this question aside a moment. Who the happiest person was anyone could tell; Frank Beacher looked as though he had been granted every wish he had ever imagined. Miss Henrietta Carthew was to be his wife, and he was transported into a state of near bliss, a smile always upon his lips, his gaze ever returning to his intended.
Poor Pen, Elizabeth thought, such happiness must be like a knife in her heart.
Henrietta, who was capable of a near saintly grace when it suited her, had donned that persona and smiled upon everyone and everything as though they gave her unimaginable joy—but there was, for the briefest second, now and then, a tightening of the skin around her eyes that Elizabeth had come to recognise as distress or perhaps disquiet.
Disquiet was precisely the word that Elizabeth would have chosen to describe her own feelings—not her feelings towards her returned husband, which were never in doubt—but her feelings towards the match that had been announced that evening. Despite the approbation of Henrietta’s father and two Carthew sisters—and even Beacher’s friend Wilder—Elizabeth felt that a terrible mistake was being made. Not that she thought poorly of Frank Beacher—like everyone in the room, she believed him integrity brought to life. He would cherish Henri and do everything within his power to assure her happiness, she had no doubt of it. But . . . she could not feel joy or even moderate satisfaction. She had pushed Henrietta in this direction and now she regretted it most profoundly and she could not even say with certainty why. For no reason that she could explain, she felt that, in time, Frank Beacher, even more than Henrietta, would be made entirely miserable by this union. And then it occurred to her—Henri would never be able to love Frank as he imagined she would. Oh, she might love and respect him and care for his happiness, but there would be always be something amiss—she would never give herself over to him completely, body and soul. And he would spend his life always yearning for a love that could not be. She felt sorry for him already—and for Henri as well.
Mr Carthew cleared his throat, caught everyone’s attention, and then held aloft a glass. “Is everyone’s glass charged? Then let me propose a toast that I am sure will win Mrs Carthew’s approval; may Mr Beacher and our dear Henrietta be blessed with children.”
Everyone was willing to drink to such a proposition, and Elizabeth, with Robert at her side, crossed over to Mrs Carthew to say how she wished she would soon have a grandchild. At that moment a servant entered the room, spotted Mrs Carthew, and came immediately to her.
“Pardon the intrusion, ma’am. There is a gentleman caller at the door—a sea officer. He has asked to speak with Miss Henrietta on a matter he describes as of the greatest urgency.”
“How very odd,” Mrs Carthew interrupted. “Did he give his name?”
“Yes, ma’am. Charles Hayden.”
Mrs Carthew put a hand to her heart and, though she opened her mouth three times, could make no words issue forth.
“I will attend to this caller,” Robert stated, gently removing his wife’s hand from his arm and immediately making his way towards the door.
Mrs Carthew looked at Elizabeth. “Who in their senses would come to our home and make such a claim?”
“I do not know, but whoever it is, Captain Hertle will see him on his way.”
And then, without either saying a word, they made for the door in Robert’s wake.
“What is it, Mother?” Cassandra asked as her mother hurried past. “Whatever is the matter?”
This caught everyone’s attention, and as Elizabeth and Mrs Carthew passed out of the door, half clinging to each other, a general enquiry followed.
As no guests were expected that night, the entrance hall was poorly lit. A man stood inside the door, too stooped and thin to be Charles Hayden, certainly. Elizabeth perceived that immediately.
Robert did not hesitate but approached the stranger directly, his shoulders tight with anger.
“Robert!” the stranger said. “Thank God!”
“Charles . . . ? My God! Charles!”
And the two friends all but threw themselves into each other’s embrace.
“How is it you are here?” Robert managed as they pounded each other on the back. “I was informed you had perished. The Admiralty think you dead.”
“They did, but no longer. I will tell you the whole story, but . . .”
There was a swishing of gowns behind, and Elizabeth turned to see the remaining family and guests wedged in a little knot, staring past one another at the two murky figures before the door.
The two friends released each other, and Robert noticed all the others staring. “Henrietta,” he said, “it is Charles . . . returned to us by what agency I do not know.”
It was one of those moments, Elizabeth thought, so completely unexpected and fraught with emotion that no one knew the proper course of action or even how they should feel.
Henrietta gazed, in either amazement or confusion, at the shadow-man standing by Robert, then at the face of Frank Beacher. Then back again to Hayden. In what appeared to be three strides, she crossed the hallway and threw herself against Charles’s chest, her face pressed into his neck. Neither said a word but clung to each other.
