Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“Admiral Hastings. But the directive might come from the Admiralty, in London — from persons unknown to Seagrave himself.”

“I see,” I said thoughtfully. “Careful planning, and the simple employment of an established system for despatching ships, might answer the case of conspiracy. I wonder if the engagement with the Manon was intended as well?”

“Absurd!” Frank cried. “Now you liave gone too far!”

I wheeled upon my brother with ill-concealed impatience. “Etienne LaForge is afraid for his life, Frank. After what occurred in Southampton last night — can you blame him?”

26 February 1807, cont.

“AUSTEN!”

My brother withdrew his gaze from my earnest visage and peered about the yard. A gnarled figure under a battered cockade was advancing upon us.

“Admiral Bertie!” Frank cried. “I did not know you was to be in Portsmouth this morning! We might have come down in the hoy together! How d'ye do?”

“Fair enough, Captain, fair enough — though I could wish my legs in better trim. The gout has nearly crippled me; this is what comes of shifting too long on dry land. I cannot recommend it!”

The Admiral has long been intimate with Frank, but now forms a part of our family's Southampton acquaintance, in company with his invalidish daughter, Catherine. I felt a rush of affection at the sight of his weather-beaten countenance framed by an old-fashioned powdered wig. In his kindly manner and hearty goodwill, the Admiral must always recall my father, though he lacks the subtlety of my father's understanding.

“Nothing would do for Catherine but that I should be driven down from Southampton in the trap,” said he, “and all the while I was longing for the roll of the sea! Good day to you, Miss Austen. You look a picture.”

A picture of what, might better be left undisclosed; the wind and persistent damps of February cannot have improved my complexion.

“I hope you left Miss Bertie in good health?” I enquired.

“A slight cold, nothing to refine upon. But I should better be enquiring after yours! I understand that you have spent several days with my surgeon, Hill, among the prisoners of Wool House. He speaks your praises whenever we chance to meet. There is no better nurse than Miss Austen, so Hill says, throughout the Kingdom.”

“He is an excellent man. The French are in good hands.”

“Pity. I could wish them in worse. Your brother, Miss Austen, should treat them as they deserve — eh, Austen? He should nurse them with a few good broadsides apiece, and scuttle what he could not tow!” The Admiral smiled at his little joke, and Frank attempted the same.

“My sister has proved the value of charity,” he said, “in procuring the testimony of the French surgeon. I thought Monsieur LaForge should have achieved Tom Seagrave's acquittal — but was sadly disappointed.”

“I understand the proceeding has been suspended.” The Admiral drew a snuffbox from his coat and procured a pinch of fine grey powder. “Bloody business— meaning no disrespect, of course, Miss Austen.” He sneezed resoundingly.

“None taken, sir, I assure you. Bloody is only too apt a term in the present case.”

The Admiral looked slightly started at my freedom; Catherine Bertie, it must be supposed, should never have uttered an indelicacy. She should sooner have fainted at the blow of an expletive.

“It looks very black for Seagrave,” the Admiral went on. “His sole accuser throttled on the very day of his trial! I wonder old Hastings did not string him up directly. Still, we must afford the man an opportunity to explain himself. With the Southampton magistrate putting in his oar, however, we may expect a delay. There will be all the dispute of jurisdiction and authority, and Seagrave shall go free on the strength of it, I'll be bound.”

I glanced at Frank, whose looks had taken a lowering turn. “Would you suggest, sir, that…”

“That Lucky Tom did for the scrub himself? Shouldn't wonder at it.” The Admiral let out a bark of laughter. “After all, the Captain ran a Frenchman through with his own dirk, and after the colours came down, too. One cannot vouch for Seagrave's temper. — Nor, I understand, for his whereabouts last evening.” Bertie raised one hoary eyebrow significantly.

“I beg your pardon?” I managed.

“The Captain will not say where he was last night,” the Admiral repeated, “nor allow his wife to be questioned. Hastings has just told me of it. Asked Seagrave himself. Seagrave replied that as the court-martial was suspended, he considered himself above the necessity of an answer. Damnable cheek! Should be resigned the service.”

The alteration in Frank's countenance was suddenly dreadful. Some thought of the express despatched on Tuesday — of Seagrave's taking the news to heart — of Frank having put, as he phrased it, a spur to murder — all were evident in his looks.

“I understood that Captain Seagrave meant to fix quietly at home until this business was concluded,” he said stiffly.

Admiral Bertie shook his head. “I confess I cannot be sanguine as to his chances, Frank, when the court-martial is resumed. As it certainly must be. We shall have you in the Stella yet.”

My brother was on the verge, I am sure, of refuting such an ill-timed hope — but I glimpsed Thomas Seagrave over Frank's shoulder and clutched at the sleeve of his coat, forestalling any answer he might have made.

The Captain had come to a halt some ten paces from our little party, and eyed us with a mixture of anger and mortification. He was resplendent in full dress uniform; his white pantaloons shone with brushing, and the gold at his shoulders gleamed. That he had overlistened some part of the conversation, I am convinced; and that he misapprehended the tenor of it was obvious.

“Ah, Tom,” Frank said, his visage suddenly scarlet “There you are. You are acquainted with Admiral Bertie, I believe?”

Seagrave inclined his head; the Admiral barely acknowledged the courtesy, and an awkward silence fell.

“I must leave you here, Austen,” Admiral Bertie said abruptly. “Hastings is most pressing in his desire to take refreshment, and I cannot keep him waiting. My compliments to your wife. Good day, Miss Austen.”

“Admiral.”

He strode off without a backwards glance: the clearest example in my experience of a mind uncomplicated by subtlety. Such a one is distinctly suited to the pursuit of the Enemy — he will have the rules of engagement by heart, and follow them $o the letter. Life, in its attacks and repulsions, must seem a simple arrangement enough. All the infinite shadings of circumstance and will, decision and restraint, are not for him. It does not do to think overmuch on the point of batde; but woe betide the pure of heart on dry land.

I glanced at Seagrave. Here was just such another; and he was aground and awash in the present perplexity of his fortunes. Even this little exchange between my brother and a senior officer was rife with betrayal and deceit. There is a brutal innocence in your seafaring men: tho' accustomed to all the savagery of conflict from a tender age, they know little of social intercourse. Tom Seagrave was ill-equipped to take a sounding of the depths of such waters. I sincerely pitied him.

“May I offer my heartfelt congratulations on the suspension of your trial, Captain,” I attempted.

“You are too good, Miss Austen. Frank tells me you have been sitting some time with my wife. Pray, how did she take the news?”

I felt my cheeks flame red. There seemed an embargo on every answer. For lack of a better, I said, “She fell into a swoon. But we left her in good hope of recovery. Her maid attended her.”