A Sea Unto Itself (22 page)

Charles knew that sooner or later he was going to have to put a stop to this. There was no harm to it, but it was embarrassing, as if he needed protection. “All right, this time if it pleases you. But be assured, I can manage on my own.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

At the dockside, Charles hired a glorified farm cart with two aging dobbins that passed as a carriage. The thing jolted along on its unsprung axles through the town’s market square and up a broad cobbled way to the residency. The building stood as an imposing structure on the crest of a low hill with a panoramic view of the harbor. It took him only a moment to pick out his own ship, small in the distance, an oblong black and tan form surrounded by dark blue waters. She had evidently pulled her anchor and was even then dropping her topgallants to move closer into the port.

“Captain Edgemont of His Majesty’s Frigate Cassandra,” Charles announced to the corporal of the guard at the arching wrought-iron gates.

“Sir.” The red-coated soldier saluted, touching the back of his open hand to his forehead, in the army fashion. Two privates opened the barrier, and the carriage passed into the courtyard. Charles ordered the driver to wait, and then stepped down. Augustus immediately moved to follow. “You will have to stay with the carriage,” Charles said firmly. “I hope not to be long.” Without waiting for an objection he turned and started toward the entrance.

“May I know your business, sir?” another uniformed attendant inquired as he stepped inside.

“Captain Edgemont to see Sir Horace. I am expected.” Charles looked around him with some curiosity at the high-ceilinged hall with its marble floor and oddly foreign ornamentation.

“This way, if you please,” said the attendant, indicating a side door which led into a small anteroom. “His Excellency will be at his leisure presently. Please make yourself comfortable.” He left, closing the door firmly behind him.

Charles made himself comfortable for two full hours. After a half an hour, he rose to examine the oil paintings hung from the walls. They were in the Dutch style and tended to be portraits of men with beards in black suits against dark backgrounds. One was of a woman with deep eyes and a small mouth that reminded him of Lady Hamilton, whom he had met in Naples the year before. When he finished the portraits he examined a large globe of the world with interest, even though all of the place names were in Dutch, some of which he could not read. A case of books against one wall housed texts in Dutch, French and German. He found one, however, that was a leather-bound atlas, which he had open on his lap when finally summoned.

“This way, sir. Sir Horace will see you now. You may have a quarter hour of his time.”

St. Legier was a tall, formally dressed man with a superior, suffer-no-fools look about him. As Charles entered he rose from behind a highly polished desk bare of any papers or implements or objects of any kind. “Captain Edgehill, I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He extended his hand.

“Edgemont,” Charles corrected. The two men shook.

“Edgemont,” St. Legier repeated. “Please be seated. I assume you are on your way to Bombay to join the East India Fleet?”

“No, sir. My orders are for Mocha on the Red Sea to join Admiral Blankett’s squadron. I had hoped you might have some recent intelligence on the situation there.”

“Do you mean the rumor of the French coming down from Egypt?” He scowled. “Has Whitehall nothing more pressing to worry about? I have heard no credible evidence of such a threat. Dreamed up by a gaggle of Admiralty clerks in petticoats, I’ll wager. Frankly, it is a fantastic notion to begin with, and I can tell you on some authority that the government on the subcontinent are taking steps to settle this Tippu Sahib business for once and all. That is serious; this other about the French is nonsense.” His face changed expression. “Mocha? Are you connected with that American group in some way? I seem to remember that Araby was mentioned in connection to them.”

“I’m to provide transport. Why do you ask?”

“Why? Because I ordered the lot of them arrested this morning. That’s why.”

Charles held his breath. “Arrested? On what charge?”

“On the charge of bigamy.” St. Legier assumed a look of moral indignation. “Do you know that this man Jones has been living openly with two women? One is young enough to be my daughter. He has not denied it. The courts will make quick work of this case.”

Charles’ heart sank. Christ, what else could go wrong? Already he had been sent into distant waters for what in all probability was no purpose, he had a bullheaded crew, and he’d had to contend with two French warships just to get as far as he had. Taking Jones to gather his intelligence was most likely the only useful thing he would accomplish. “But, sir,” he said, “I’m told Doctor Jones is a follower of Muhammad. Multiple wives are usual among them.”

“An American and a Mussulman? I don’t believe it. Doesn’t matter in any event; the laws are clear.”

Charles had some difficulty with this concept as well, and he chose not to argue the point. Jones, if that was his real name, was clearly a very odd bird. He didn’t really know if the man was American, a doctor of antiquities as he had once claimed, a Mussulman, or if he was in fact married to anyone. All he knew for certain was what was in his orders. “When do you anticipate they will come to trial?” he asked.

“In a month, not more than two,” St. Legier answered. “The formalities must be observed, you know. I promise to see they receive their punishments immediately they are convicted so as not to detain you needlessly.”

Charles felt a rising sense of alarm. He could not possibly sit in Cape Town harbor with his crew confined on board for a month, or two, or no one knew how long. There would hardly be any point in going on after that. “Sir, if I may speak in confidence,” he said, struggling to keep any note of desperation out of his voice. “Jones and his, er, companions are charged by the Admiralty with a mission of the utmost delicacy regarding French intentions in Egypt. My orders are to carry them into the head of the Red Sea without delay. Surely you have some discretion to release them.”

St. Legier did not hesitate. “No, I will not do it. Bigamy is a serious crime, sir; it’s in the Bible. They must stand trial and have their punishment. As for the other, I am certain the situation with the French will be the same in a month or two, or even a year, as it is today. There’s no urgency there.”

If a sense of urgency was required, Charles knew that he would have to supply it. “I should inform Your Excellency of more recent intelligence that I conveyed to Admiral Cobbham only yesterday. Intelligence which I trust you will find changes the situation significantly.”

St. Legier straightened in his chair. “What intelligence?”

“Off Cape Verde and again in the southern latitudes, we encountered a force of French warships on the same course as our own. I have followed in their wake long enough to determine that they have passed the Cape, very possibly on their way to aid in the attack on India. The Joneses must be taken to Egypt to do their work before it is too late. The future of India, no, even of Britain itself may depend on it.” Charles was surprised that the tale came out so easily. Once he’d said it though, it didn’t seem so preposterous. It wasn’t true, or it probably wasn’t true, but it could be. “Time is precious, sir,” he continued. “I must sail, with the Americans, the moment we are re provisioned. On behalf of the Admiralty, I must insist on it.”

The governor hesitated, but maintained a firm scowl.

Charles decided he would have to come up with something more. “What kind of punishment is normal for bigamy?” he asked.

“A public whipping for all concerned and banishment,” St. Legier answered thoughtfully. “It’s not in my power to brand people any longer.”

“Would it be possible to release them into my custody? In that way, they could do their work and I can see them brought safely back to Cape Town on my return.”

St. Legier stroked his chin in contemplation. “You will guarantee their presence at trial?”

“I must of necessity put them on shore in Egypt, otherwise there is no point. It is always possible they will be captured or even killed. I cannot be responsible in that event.”

“But what it they decide to take the opportunity to run?”

Charles allowed himself a small smile. “In that case they have banished themselves. None of them could ever return here. Your problem would be solved.”

A door opened and an attendant, the same that had called Charles in, half entered. “Heer Johannes de Groote and his delegation are arrived, sir,” he announced.

“Damned Dutch farmers,” St. Legier muttered under his breath. “You’d think they’d be grateful the French don’t occupy the Cape Colonies. A more obstinate bunch of ingrates I never saw.”

Charles rose from his chair. “And the Americans?”

The governor assumed a displeased look. “Oh, all right, since you insist. Just a moment, I’ll write you a note to the jailer.”

Charles found Augustus standing patiently with his arms folded across his chest, leaning against a pillar, just outside the entrance to the building. “Come along, we’ve an errand to run,” Charles said as he passed.

They found the driver laid out on one of the benches in the back with his jacket covering his shoulders and face. “Wake up, it’s time we were off,” Charles urged, pulling the covering away.

The man blinked, than sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Back to the waterfront, sir?”

“No.” Charles pulled himself on board over the tailgate. “To the jail. Do you know where it is?”

“Aye,” the driver climbed forward to his bench. “Why would you want to be going there for?”

“The governor has been gracious enough to give me my pick. Hurry, I want to arrive before all the good ones are gone.”

Cape Town’s gaol proved a dingy, low stone building with a single door and no windows. An imposing gallows stood in front. The smell of the place was evident from a distance; even the horses shied at it.

Charles recalled that he had encountered Doctor Adolphus Jones twice, both times during the previous year. The first was off Cadiz in Spain. Dressed as some sort of academic, the man had convinced a Spanish port official to carry him and his two women out from the harbor to the English frigate Charles commanded. On that occasion he had brought the intelligence that a large French fleet was preparing to sail from Toulon. The women, Charles thought he remembered, had been introduced as his wife and a niece. The second time was at Acre, at the far end of the Mediterranean. There, in Arab dress, he informed Charles that the French had landed at Alexandria, in Egypt, information which ultimately contributed to Nelson’s victory at Abukir Bay.

“I do not expect to be long,” Charles said to the driver. He dismounted the carriage, signaling Augustus to follow, and stepped to the heavily studded wooden door. The nearer he came, the more noxious the odor that swept over him. The door would not budge so he banged loudly several times. As he was about to knock again a panel opened and a pair of eyes peered out.

“What d’ye want?”

“I am a king’s officer,” Charles said. “I have come to collect three of your prisoners. If I may enter, please.”

The panel closed. Charles heard a bar slide back. The door opened just enough for him to see an unshaven man in soiled clothing standing with a ring of keys on his belt. The stench of feces and sour body odor from within was almost overpowering.

“Lemme see yer paper,” the man demanded.

Charles took the note from St. Legier and handed it over. “I am in a hurry, if you please.” He thought the foul emanations from inside would make him retch.

He held the paper in front of his eyes. “It ain’t the proper form,” the man said firmly. “You have to have to proper forms—one for each.”

“I’ll have them sent around later,” Charles growled. He pushed on the door to open it wider. The man pushed back. Charles nodded to Augustus. “If you would, please.”Augustus stepped forward, put his shoulder against the wood and the portal swung back.

Charles forced his way inside and instantly regretted it. “How do you breathe in this place?” he said. “The smell is atrocious.”

“What smell?”

“Never mind,” Charles said, wanting to get the thing done without delay. “Release my prisoners and hurry about it.” He looked around him and saw a small, unlit space with a table and a single chair. The floor was bare earth. Barred doors revealed two holding cells, neither with any furniture or sanitation facilities. He tried not to breathe. The larger of the cells held something like a score of men with the familiar Jones standing in the fore, his hands on the bars. The others were mostly blacks in rags. In the second cell were two well-dressed white women whom he also recognized immediately.