Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (59 page)

“Here we thought the Regent’s daughter, Princess Charlotte, was a handful, showing her legs in public, preferring horses to literature, throwing tantrums, and keeping the company of Whigs. My dear,” he said with a cluck of his tongue, “she truly pales in comparison to
you
.”

3

Saturday, August 7

Noon

(Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

Aboard HMS Impregnable

Portsmouth, England

Emily looked up
from the pages of
Pride and Prejudice
and listened to HMS
Impregnable
quiver and gripe as her crew toiled to dock her in Portsmouth Harbour.

Earlier in the day she had stood at her open gunport, sipping lukewarm tea, and watched, for what seemed like hours, as the ship sailed past the chalk downlands of the Isle of Wight, and into the town of Portsmouth — its dockyards and collection of taverns, inns, and churches rather dreary and unwelcoming under leaden skies that threatened rain. She had marvelled as the senior officers on the weather decks had squabbled — in a manner not unlike a haggling group of women at a fish market — over their navigational charts and their opinions regarding the dangers that lay in the waters of the Solent. There was so much to consider that Emily was quite happy to leave the anxieties of seamanship to others, though she was not certain she had complete faith in their abilities. The men argued about the position of various rocks and sandbars and channels; some wished to adhere to the routes laid out upon the charts, knowing they had been plotted with consideration given to leeway and the tidal stream; others wanted to rely on visual clues — namely lining up the landmark transits of Gosport Chapel to the west and the Blockhouse to the east — in order to maintain the deepest water. One man carried on about keeping a sharp lookout for the red buoy that marked the sunken remains of the
Royal George
, and the white one that marked the submerged
Boyne
; another had much to say on the subject of misplaced buoys. Her admiral uncle, the Duke of Clarence, was among the contentious officers, his voice rising up, shrill at times, bemoaning the absence of an experienced pilot to steer them safely in and around
all
lurking impediments.

Soon Emily had tired of gazing out over the mundane vistas, for they did not fill her with any kind of joy; they only served as a painful reminder that her time on the sea had finally come to an end. Leaving the gunport, she had tried to occupy herself and her mind by inspecting the corners of her cabin to make certain she had collected all of her belongings — the paltry few she did possess — and had packed them away in the small chest the purser was kind enough to forage for her. She had then changed into the blue-and-white-striped morning gown — the one Magpie had especially sewn on the occasion of her Bermuda reunion with Uncle Clarence back in early July. Having slept in curling rags in an effort to smarten up her long hair — neglected for so long in either a straight queue or concealed beneath a scarf — she arranged the gown’s matching bandeau upon her head, hoping it would quite impress the well-born ladies of Portsmouth and London, and keep them from gossiping about the style in which she dressed her hair. Boredom and cheerless thoughts had followed, at which time she had reached for the solace of the novel written by Jane Austen, Fly Austen’s youngest sister.

But now, as she lifted her chin to listen, her ears detected a sound — nay, a racket — that rose in a deafening crescendo, surpassing that made by the mooring grumbles of the ship. She was about to make an investigative return to her open gunport when Gus Walby stuck his head into her doorway.

“Em, please come. You must see this!” In his agitated state, he hopped about on his crutch and playfully pulled her out of her cabin, out into the cool, windy day, where he led her to the spot near the rail where the admiral — beaming from ear to ear in his polished and pressed blue uniform — stood with his senior officers. Hanging back, Emily endeavoured to make sense of it all, while Gus’s shining eyes observed her closely, awaiting her reaction.

On the wharves below, a sea of people rolled like a colossal wave toward their ship. Waving their arms about and roaring with excitement, men, women, and children of all ages, from all circles of society — some dressed in finery, others in rags — rushed to find a place to stand, as close as possible to the docked
Impregnable
. Emily was aghast. Never before had she seen so many gathered together in one location. It was as though a much anticipated country fair had just opened, and those who had waited patiently outside the restraining gates had all broken into a run to be the first to see the attractions.

“But I don’t understand,” she said to both Gus and her uncle. “Surely the people of Portsmouth are quite used to seeing a ship.”

“Oh, my dear, they have no interest in the
Impregnable
,” said her Uncle Clarence, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

“Oh! Is there a sea serpent clinging to her hull then?”

“No, Em, I —” Gus quickly broke off, and corrected himself. “I … I meant to say Your Royal Highness.” Fortunately for him, the Duke of Clarence’s present high spirits precluded any form of admonishment.

Emily still struggled to comprehend the extraordinary scene before her. “Has the Prince Regent come in a silk-lined coach and six to welcome you home, Uncle?”

A bit of sunshine left her uncle’s smile. “Good God, Emeline, my brother has little time for me these days; besides, he’s far too busy to come all the way to Portsmouth just to drink tea with us.”

“Keep me in the dark no longer, and tell me why there’s such a crowd here?”

“Isn’t it obvious, my dear?”

“I can only guess that you and your escorting ships have been away at sea for a very long time, Uncle, and these people are family members come to welcome their loved ones home.”

“Now you are approaching the truth.” The duke firmly took hold of Emily’s arm and steered her toward the rail, thrusting her into the clear sight of the stimulated throng of humanity beneath them. In her gown and bandeau, it was easy to identify Emily amongst the many male faces that lined the ship’s side. A thunderous outpouring of
huzzahs
, whistles, and applause rattled Emily’s eardrums, and, further adding to her discomfort, her uncle leaned in close to shout into her ear, “You see, Emeline, they’ve come to see and welcome
you
home.”

Emily was completely astounded. “But why? I’m of no consequence.”

“But you are, and curiosity has got the better of them!”

“Curiosity?”

“Word has spread very fast — most likely on account of my messengers sent on ahead of our ship. It’s not an everyday occurrence that the ordinary people see a granddaughter of the king, who has lived among men on a congested ship, taken a bullet in the back, and married a most traitorous and contemptuous sea captain. Why, you’ve become a veritable spectacle.” The duke paused in expectation, as if he thought his niece would soon burst into a fit of unmitigated delight, but when she remained speechless he chirped, “So, come along, my dear, let us give the people joy, and parade down the ramp arm-in-arm, allowing all to see the kidnapped princess, and her loving uncle, her brave saviour who sailed with a flotilla of ships to rescue her from the war-ravaged seas.”

Emily wriggled out of her uncle’s arm-lock and gave him an icy stare. “I will
not
parade down the ramp in front of all these people as if I’m some kind of prized horseflesh.”

Her uncle’s head shot back in disbelief; however, his recovery was a speedy one, and, not to be deterred from enjoying the occasion, he brushed away invisible bits of fluff from the gold braiding on his full-dress uniform. “Very well, when you are ready to leave, have Mr. Walby help you off the ship — if he’s able to, although I daresay,
you
may have to carry him off! There’s to be no dilly-dallying, for I’ve arranged for a barouche to transport us to the inn.” He signalled to his officers to follow suit, and he led them down the ramp on his squat, unsteady sea legs, periodically acknowledging the people with an enthusiastic wave or a nod of his flushed countenance.

Emily sidled away from the rail on her own wobbly legs, and sought the comfort of an overturned bucket, away from the attentions of the clamorous crowd. Unable to match her uncle’s ebullience she suddenly felt very tired, and desired — of all things — to return to the peace and quiet of her little cot, but she was too weary to even move. Her brown eyes dropped to the deck planks in a frozen stare, though she was conscious of the crewmen, leaving the
Impregnable
one-by-one, carrying their belongings in ditty bags strung across their shoulders, and balancing their hair-trunks and chests in or under their arms. Wordlessly, Mr. Walby, dressed in his cream-coloured pantaloons and blue jacket, leaning on his crutch, stood at her side. Glancing up at him, Emily could see evidence of his having been aggrieved by her uncle’s insensitive remark in his young features.

“I’ve not been off a ship in months, Gus. I cannot even walk properly. Were I to attempt that ramp this minute, I’d surely topple over and end up smashed upon the pavement or stones, or whatever covers the ground down there, in front of all those people.” Emily released a sardonic laugh. “A
veritable spectacle
indeed!”

“You shall not fall, Em,” he said, attempting to sound strong. “I will help you down.”

“I know you will, Gus.”

The air around Portsmouth seemed to thicken and grow chillier, causing Emily to shiver. She looked skyward at the dark, racing clouds, wondering if they were planning to release a torrent of rain upon the town and its dockyards. Without any kind of warning, a drum rolled, its beats both startling and disturbing, and the words
“make way”
rang loud and clear. Instantaneously, a strange hush filtered through the crowds assembled on the wharves, and although they could no longer see her — hidden from sight on her bucket — Emily could see that each and every person had stopped moving, as if her Uncle Clarence had taken up a speaking trumpet, and ordered them all to
“be silent and stand at attention
.
”
Those closest to the ship wore expressions of apprehension upon their upturned faces; some of the children, their mouths agape, had reached for the security of their mother’s skirts, while the mothers, in turn, clung to their husbands’ arms.

A few feet from the place where Emily rested, four red-coated marines appeared through the hatchway, gripping their muskets, eyes before them, backs erect, faces grim. Thereafter came the clanking, grinding noise of someone — his feet bound in chains — making his gruelling way, step-by-step, up the ladder rungs. Emily’s heart quickened as she recalled the suffocating blackness of her nightmare. Captain Thomas Trevelyan — the man she had not laid eyes upon for six weeks, but whose diabolical shape constantly surfaced in her dreams — came slowly into her line of vision: first his hatless head, his straw-coloured hair long, matted, and unclean; then his torn and soiled shirt, his hands tied at his back; and finally his long legs, heavily bandaged around the thighs with old dressings. The marines might have allowed him freedom from his irons as he made his last journey up from the ship’s hold, but they did not — there could be no opportunity for escape — and so a length of chain still loosely imprisoned his bleeding, ulcerated feet.

Feeling ill, Emily’s first thought was to flee to her cabin, but she could not induce her limbs to mobilize. Her eyes stared, absorbing every terrifying part of him as he materialized bit by bit upon the deck — like a spider creeping out of a cavernous hole. The crowd stirred, exhaling a drawn-out exclamation of horror, but there followed neither boos nor hisses nor hoots of condemnation, only a watchful silence.

At first his eyes fought with the glare of daylight, but the minute Trevelyan lifted his heavily shadowed face in defiance, they beheld her. Ravaged by weeks of imprisonment, his uniform jacket and boots stripped from his body, he still stood tall, insurmountable; his spirits seemingly unbroken, his hatred still hot. He paused in his labourious march, ignoring the marine’s bayonet that repeatedly jabbed into his back, and allowed his gaze to slowly rove over her. Emily expected to see a flicker of loathing cross his face, or a narrowing of the eyes, perhaps a sneer of the lips. But his face remained void of all emotion. His cracked and swollen lips moved, and he uttered nothing more than a single word.

“Pity.”

It was not a plea for sympathy; it was spoken with regret.

There was no interest on his part in awaiting any kind of rejoinder she might have tripping upon her tongue. He moved on, dragging himself forward on the path marked by the marines. Emily watched him go, and suddenly she understood why the crowds had come to Portsmouth on this day. As her blood ran cold in her veins, she knew she had not seen the last of him.

9:00 p.m.

The George Hotel, Portsmouth

Safely ensconced within the
private parlour of the George Hotel, the best inn Portsmouth had to offer, Emily nestled into the comfort of a velvet-lined chair, her hands clasped around a steaming cup of tea, and gazed into the crackling flames of a fire that one of the George’s servants was kind enough to build for her.

It was chilly this August evening, for the rain had arrived the minute she got up the nerve to quit the
Impregnable
— only once Trevelyan had been carted away and was long out of sight — and had scrambled into the hired barouche alongside Gus and her Uncle Clarence. It was a relief to see the downpour; it had served to scatter the crowds, pressing around their carriage with their probing eyes and grasping hands. Her uncle’s good-humoured smiles and chuckles were testimony to his enjoyment of all the attention, and Gus — high colour in his young face — had seemed to as well, but since it was
her
they were trying to touch, and
her
who received the queerest of looks, Emily had not shared her companions’ enthusiasm, and wished to make a speedy withdrawal to the hotel. The crewmen of the
Isabelle
, the
Amethyst
, the
Impregnable
, and even the USS
Serendipity
had been known to stare at her, sometimes they had openly gawked, and she had understood that a woman was a rarity on a warship; however, the overwhelming majority of them had always maintained a respectable distance.