Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“Everyone knows Mr. Fortescue,” I replied, unwilling to relate the sad history of the Seagrave family, and the end it had found in the Dolphin. I could not revisit the place, however, without recalling that desperate period in our first Southampton winter, and the hard truths it had taught me of the naval profession. [28] Jane is recalling here the history recounted in Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House (Bantam Books, 2001 ). — Editor’s note. “And, too, we have our Assemblies here in the winter months — the ballroom is not indifferent.”

“And filled with every random officer so fortunate as to gain a bit of shore-leave! Dare you venture into such a place? I have an idea you are besieged!”

Frank dragged a chair from the table near the fire, and proceeded to divest himself of boots and coat. “I confess I am equally surprised to discover my sister here, my lord, at such an hour of the evening. What drew you out of Castle Square, Jane?”

“A matter of some urgency; but I would beg you both to take your meal while I relate the whole.”

Lord Harold furnished me with a glass of wine, which I gratefully accepted; and as the minutes wore away in that comfortable room, and the good Port fired my veins, I told them of Sophia Challoner, and the Conte’s offer of marriage; of her petition for passage on a western-bound ship, and the mysterious companion Mr. Ord should carry with him.

Lord Harold listened, and drove a knife into his cheese, and drank some of the wine with an expression of absorption, as though he heard my words less clearly than the thoughts that ran through his brain. When I had done, my brother whistled soft and low. “So the Jesuit and Ord must flee by dawn, is it?

And I am to be the tool of their flight?”

“And Mrs. Challoner is bound for London,” Lord Harold mused. “They are all of them concerned to distance themselves from Southampton — and in that, I read a warning, Captain. There will be trouble in Southampton tomorrow.”

“Then we must prevent it, my lord.”

“But how ?” He thrust away his meal, half-eaten.

“If we arrest Ord and the Jesuit tonight, we merely alert the Enemy of our vigilance. The attack itself will come from another quarter.”

“One of the French prisoners, freed from the prison hulks at Spithead?” I enquired.

“Very likely. But how do they intend to communicate? When shall the signal be given? Would that I might set Orlando upon their heels— We should then watch the rogues in secret, and follow where they led!”

“We might still do so much,” I returned. “Do you know of a ship out of Portsmouth, Frank, bound for the Americas?”

He frowned in consideration of my words, and then his brow cleared. “By Jove — the Adelphi is readying for Halifax! Captain Mead intends to haul anchor at about four o’clock, when the tide shall be on the flow.”

“Halifax is never Baltimore — but in a moment of crisis, any landing will serve,” I said calmly. “Let us write to Sophia that her friends may have passage. Ord and the Jesuit shall consider themselves safe . We might then wait before the Vine, where Ord lodges, and as he quits the place—”

“—follow him,” Lord Harold concluded softly. “I will warrant he makes direct for Netley Abbey, and the turret stair, where a lanthorn light shall serve as signal.”

My brother rose and yawned wearily. “Jane, I should be much obliged if you were to inform Mary that I may not find my bed for some hours yet. Say that a matter of business detains me; and think of your friends, established for King and Country in a frigid coach, while you settle into your quilts, my girl!”

“You must be joking. Do you really believe I intend to leave you?” I demanded.

“But, my dear,” Lord Harold protested, “your brother is correct. You had much better turn for home, and await the issue of events.”

I crossed to the writing desk placed against the far wall, and extracted a piece of paper and a pen.

“Finish your dinner, sirs, while I write to my sister. I shall not be a moment.”

A messenger galloped from the yard with my brother’s note for Mrs. Challoner, informing her that Captain Frank Austen extended his compliments, and would be delighted to secure the passage of her friends aboard the Adelphi, commanded by one Captain John Mead, and bound for Halifax at the four o’clock tide. Fortescue sent a kitchen boy to Castle Square with my letter to Mary. The fitful rain had passed, but the night was cold; I secured the advantage of hot coals for Lord Harold’s braziers, that we might not suffer from frostbite during our lengthy vigil.

Amble, his lordship’s coachman, sat upon the box with his breath steaming in the air; but his master shook his head, and despatched his man back to the stable yard.

“I do not like to make a show of the Wilborough arms about the streets. We shall travel tonight in one of Fortescue’s conveyances — and I shall drive it myself.”

It was an open gig, and the braziers, however comforting, should soon lose their effect in the chill wind streaming over the box; but I forbore to comment, or protest that the Wilborough arms should mean little to either a Jesuit or an American. His lordship knew his business.

We had assembled before the stable, and my brother was about to lift me into the gig, when a man sped in haste through the gates of the yard. “Lord Harold Trowbridge! Is Lord Harold within?”

The voice, though charged with excitement, was yet further burdened with the mangling of vowels that heralded a foreigner. In the flickering light of the torches, I studied the man: brown-skinned, wideeyed, with a forelock of gleaming hair. Perhaps it was the play of flame and shadow that recalled his name; a face glimpsed through conflagration.

“Jeremiah the Lascar!” I said aloud.

5 November 1808, cont.

“Is that Dixon’s Lascar?” Frank asked me in surprise. “I have seen him some once or twice, at the Itchen Dockyard.”

“But what has brought him here?” I whispered. Lord Harold stepped forward. “Good evening, my good man. I must beg to defer our conversation until tomorrow. I and my friends are about to quit this place on a matter of pressing business.”

“My business is also urgent, m’lord,” Jeremiah said. “You will remember that when most honoured Dixon was killed, you said I am to come to you with informations? And you so kindly honoured me with your card, and the direction of this inn?”

“I remember.” Lord Harold glanced about; the curious eyes of the ostlers were trained upon our party. “Lower your voice, man. There are ears everywhere, and some of them unfriendly.”

“Well I know it. But I come to you now, and not to the fool of a magistrate, who cannot catch a hare when it pilfers his garden.”

“You have learned something to the purpose?”

Lord Harold enquired.

“I have seen the very man! The villain in a cloak who slit old Dixon’s throat!”

“Where, for the love of God?”

“At the Itchen dock. He crept in by cover of darkness, not half an hour since, and made off with a skiff. There were several small boats, you see, undamaged by the fires; and it is a small matter to drag a skiff over the lock and launch it in the river.”

“And this he did?”

The Lascar nodded. “When he had gone, and I was sure to be safe, I looked out over the lock itself. He went downriver, in the direction of Southampton Water.”

“And thence to the sea,” Frank muttered in frustration.

“You’re certain it was the same man?” Lord Harold demanded. “The one you espied from your rooftop last week, when the seventy-four was fired?”