C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

Franklin looked up when Sebastian settled on the bench beside him, his head nodding in greeting. “I heard you’d been hurt. How is the arm?”

“Well enough that I hardly think of it, thank you. And you?”

“The warm weather is kind to old bones.” Franklin glanced over to where Ellen was watching a line of ants marching between two moss-covered tombstones. “But I don’t think you’re here to talk about an old man’s health, are you, my lord?”

Sebastian smiled. “I want to know what you can tell me about an American named Nathan Bateman. A seaman, impressed off the coast of New Bedford, Massachusetts, by the HMS Rodney back in June of 1809. Ever hear of him?”

“I have, actually.” Franklin shifted his weight, both hands gripping the knob of the walking stick he held between his spread knees. “A nasty business, this impressment. Bad enough for a nation to essentially kidnap and enslave her own men, but to do it to the citizens of other countries?” He shook his head. “No wonder the United States complain. In fact, I’ll be surprised if this high-handed behavior doesn’t drive the Americans to declare war before the year is out.”

“That, and their desire to take over Canada,” said Sebastian wryly.

Franklin gave a laugh that turned into a cough. “That, too.”

“Is Bateman an American?”

“Oh, yes. The Navy has impressed thousands of them, you know. As many as fourteen thousand, according to the previous U.S. Consul. The Admiralty says it’s the Americans’ own fault, because they allow deserters from His Majesty’s Navy to sign up on American ships. They claim that when a British warship stops an American merchantman on the high seas, they’re only looking for their own. The problem is, how the devil can you tell an American seaman from an Englishman? They look the same, sound the same. And the burden of proof always rests with the poor sod accused of being an Englishman. In other words, if he can’t satisfy the boarding officer that he’s not a British subject, then he is considered one. And if truth be told, when a warship needs men, they’ve been known to board an American ship and simply select the most able-bodied seamen, and to hell with any identity papers they might try to present.”

“So tell me about Bateman.”

“He was on a coastal schooner. The Rodney had run short of hands and stopped the schooner within sight of shore. Bateman was one of three men taken off, all Americans.”

“He has proof of his American citizenship?”

“Oh, yes. His father has presented copies of his own commission from the days of the war, in addition to testimonials from the likes of President Madison and the current Governor of Massachusetts.”

“So what’s the problem? Why hasn’t Bateman been released?”

“Some men are occasionally released by order of the Admiralty, on application of the American Consul.” Franklin let out a huff of laughter that carried no amusement. “They send them on their way with nothing more than an apology to the effect that since Americans and Englishmen speak the same language and are of the same race, it’s difficult to distinguish between them. Needless to say, few are mollified. Why the devil the Admiralty can’t understand that if service in His Majesty’s Navy weren’t such a god-awful experience, they wouldn’t have such a problem with desertion, is beyond my comprehension. When a sailor deserts his ship and turns around and signs with an American vessel, it should tell them something, now, shouldn’t it?”

“What happened to Bateman’s application?”

“Well, the original application was made by William Lyman, the previous American Consul. But then Lyman died last fall, and it took a while for his replacement to be posted. This new chap, Russell, renewed the application. But last I heard, it wasn’t going anywhere. Bateman’s father—a man named Jeremy Bateman—and the lad’s sister finally made the journey over here themselves, hoping to have more success in person. But it doesn’t seem to have helped.”

“They’re here, in London?”

“Last I heard, yes.”

Sebastian stared off across the scattering of moss-covered gray tombstones. “What might any of this have to do with a man named Alexander Ross?”

Franklin shook his head. “Ross?”

“He used to be with the Foreign Office.”

“Sorry. Never heard of him.”

“Can you tell me where I might find this Jeremy Bateman?”

“No. But I can look into it, if you like.”

“Thank you,” said Sebastian, pushing to his feet. “That would be helpful.”

Franklin looked up at him. “This Alexander Ross has been murdered, has he?”

“Yes.”

“You think Jeremy Bateman and his daughter have something to do with it?”

“I don’t see how they could, but I’d like to speak to them.”

A gleam appeared in the old man’s eyes. “If they thought you could put in a word for them at the Admiralty about Nathan, I suspect they might be more willing.”

Sebastian smiled and dropped his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Her curiosity thoroughly piqued by her morning’s conversation with Devlin, Hero decided to pay a condolence call on her kinswoman, Miss Sabrina Cox.

She found the girl seated in an elegant window embrasure overlooking the expansive rear gardens of the Cox family’s lavish Bedford Square mansion. The room had been exquisitely decorated by Adams himself, with classically inspired paneling picked out in sea green, pale pink, and gilt. Sabrina had her head tilted to rest against the room’s rich paneling, her hands limp against the black crepe skirt of her mourning gown.

Hero paused in the doorway, her gaze taking in the woman’s pale cheeks, the listless slump of her shoulders. She was a small, slim thing of just eighteen, with a head of fashionable dark curls, and the creamy complexion and delicate features that had come to her from her mother’s family. The two women were not particularly close, for the kinship between them was a distant one and they were separated in age by some seven years. But Hero had always had a fondness for Sabrina and liked her far better than she did her abrasive, arrogant brother, Jasper.

At that moment, Sabrina opened her eyes and turned her head, saw Hero, and said, “Oh . ”

“I told the footman I’d announce myself,” said Hero, going to embrace her in a gentle hug. “I hope you don’t mind?”

“No, of course not,” said Sabrina, pulling her down on the window seat beside her. “It was good of you to come.”

Hero took the girl’s hands between hers. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m trying to be brave,” said Sabrina, her lips trembling slightly. “I know it’s what Alexander would wish. But I miss him dreadfully. And when I realize I’ll never see him again—” Her voice broke.

“I am so sorry. I wish I’d had the chance to know him better.”

“Oh, Hero; he was such a wonderful person! So kind and generous. Always laughing and yet so fiercely honorable, so determined to stand up for what he believed in and do the right thing. What is it they say? ‘He whom the gods love dies young’?” Her voice caught on a small sob.

“You’d no notion he wasn’t well?”

She shook her head, her dark curls fluttering about her wet cheeks. “No. To tell the truth, when I heard he’d been found dead, my first thought was—” She broke off.

“Your first thought was—what?” prompted Hero.

Sabrina simply shook her head, her lips pressed tight.

“You thought someone might have killed him, didn’t you?” said Hero.

Sabrina drew a quick, frightened breath. “It was just—Oh, I don’t know. It’s foolish of me to even think such a thing.”