* * * * *
Marion Stillwater and Ellen Dagleishe were not the type to sit quietly in their cabins, knitting or tatting lace. Despite their accommodations were far grander on this vessel than they had imagined, they preferred to be topside, if given agreeable weather. This time of year, the weather usually cooperated, except for the breeze being brisker some days than others – not cold, but strong. They preferred taking their coffee on deck in the morning, and whatever they were allowed in the evening – a glass of wine or rum. The water, however, was as bad on this ship as on any British vessel and becoming greener every day out of port.
The men of the crew stared, of course, when given a chance, but Marion and Ellen conversed in English and observed the fauna of the sea – birds, turtles, and the great fish. They also soon noticed a few of the Speedwell sailors at work among the French, and were occasionally able to speak with Captain Desmontils, Lieutenant Beauvais, or one of the other officers.
On one such occasion, when they stopped Lt. Beauvais, Marion asked, “Lieutenant, will you please tell me about the English sailors I see on deck?”
“Certainly, Mademoiselle, what is it you wish to know?”
“Why are they here amongst your men and not locked below? It seems very… kind, I suppose.”
“It is their choice. If they promise to obey what orders they are given, they may join our company – for sailing, but not for warfare, of course.”
“Have they done so?”
“They have all agreed, rather than sit below in the dark all day. Only eight of them came across, if you remember. Master Carstens commands one group on the larboard watch, and Mister Vondran the other group on the starboard watch. Unless they really wish to go aloft, they spend their time as landsmen.”
“May we speak with them?”
“Yes, certainly, if they are not on duty. There is plenty of time when they make and mend and the like.”
Once the English-speaking Beauvais was no longer within earshot, the two women set to planning what communications might be in order, given some fortunate circumstances in Guadeloupe.
“The day after we arrived in Baltimore, I wrote a letter to Joseph,” Ellen said. “I posted it immediately, so I believe the ship carrying it sailed before the horrible snowstorm that delayed us. I think there’s a good chance it might be in Jamaica by now.”
“Joseph doesn’t just sit ‘round waiting for mail, you know, so you don’t know he has received it. He’s probably at sea.”
“I know. I’m concerned he may be very worried if he receives it soon, and we don’t appear within a few weeks after.”
“I worry the same for my father, although I couldn’t send my letter until Mister Arnold prepared the package of business reports. I included only a sketchy estimation of our expected arrival date, so I hope he will allow plenty of time before worrying.”
“Maybe they will meet to discuss it. They know we are travelling together.”
“A scary thought, indeed. I can imagine what they might do.”
“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but since the captain has given his assurance our letters will be posted in Guadeloupe, I shall begin writing my report of this passage. If our letters can be sent quickly, it might assuage some of their enthusiasm. I won’t hand my letters over until we are in Guadeloupe, though.”
* * * * *
A fine carriage moved Ellen and Marion from the Department des Landes to the Governor’s Mansion in Pointe-a-Pitre on Guadeloupe exactly thirty days after Speedwell had been captured. Speedwell’s sailors had been marched along a lane toward some distant low buildings. Captain Desmontils, acting as the women’s escort, described the place as the ‘stockade’, where the Speedwells were housed as prisoners. They soon arrived at a large yellow two-story house at the top of a slight rise. Several steps rose to a wide veranda surrounding the house. Ornate wood and iron work enclosed the entire veranda, up to the eaves. Windows and doors boasted heavy shutters.
“It’s not what I expected,” Marion said. “Jamaican houses don’t have this…”
“French flair?” suggested Desmontils.
“Yes, I suppose that’s it,” Ellen said. “There are several rather like this in Savannah. “Look at the tall windows and doors, Marion. It should be cool inside.”
The horse and carriage drove through a lush garden and crunched onto the shell driveway. It halted in front of the main doors. “Here we are, ladies. Mind your step. Please follow me into the parlor.”
The large parlor emanated a secure, if somewhat outmoded, air. It was spacious, quiet, and relatively cool. The house appeared vacant, but Marion glimpsed a blue-coated guard outside.
“Wait here, please,” Desmontils said, “I will see if Captain-General Ernouf will see you now.” He walked along a corridor beside one of the curving staircases to the second floor.
Desmontils did not return immediately.
“I don’t like the feel of it,” Marion said, “What’s he doing – negotiating for us?”
“Don’t be so sensitive, Marion,” Ellen said. “I am sure he has been required to give comments on his reports. Let’s have a seat. I doubt they’ll scold us for it, even though we weren’t invited.”
Twenty minutes passed before Desmontils returned, followed by a late-middle-aged, stately-looking man of about six feet in height. The man wore his hair similar to Desmontils – a rather messy pile on the top of his head.
Marion and Ellen rose to be introduced.
“You are quite right, Captain,” said the man, “They are lovely, indeed. Americans, you say?”
“Aye, Sir, Americans.”
“Ladies, please meet the Captain-General of Guadeloupe, Auguste Ernouf.”
Marion and Ellen both summoned the manners to give a small courtesy.
“Most charmed,” Ernouf said. He held out his hand, palm up. Ellen, being slightly closer, put her hand in his. Ernouf bent forward, lifted her hand to his lips, and gave it a delicate kiss.
Desmontils said, “Please meet Mrs. Dagleishe of Boston. I know I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t think where. She says her husband is in the British Navy.”
“Dagleishe… Dagleishe…” Ernouf said, exactly as Desmontils had done. “Ah, yes, Captain Dagleishe of the British frigate Galatea. Took our corvette Lynx just this January past, am I right, Madame?”
She glanced furtively at Marion but raised her head to look Ernouf in the eye. “Yes, I am proud to say I am Captain Dagleishe’s wife. I know nothing of your ship, however. We have been in England.”
“So, you are British, not American, after all.”
“No. I am an American. I was born in Boston and will continue to live there until my husband is no longer at sea.”
They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, each raising a strange slight smile.
Desmontils turned to Marion. “I am pleased to introduce Mademoiselle Marion…” He stopped there. “I am amazed. A month at sea and I have never asked your last name…”
“Marion Stillwater, Sir. I am most pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand to Ernouf and received the same polite kiss.
“There’s another name I’ve heard. Stillwater – as in the Stillwater Rum Trading Company in Jamaica?”
“At your service, Sir. It is my father’s company.”
“So, you aren’t American, either – also British?”
“No. My father is American, not British.”
“Both are debatable, I assure you, but never mind. Captain Desmontils tells me he feels cruel to have disrupted your wedding. You have my assurance we will make every attempt to send you on to Jamaica at the earliest convenience. In the meantime, you are my guests here. It is a large house with only me and the servants wandering about, and even I am often gone. Oh, I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Stillwater… who is your fiancé?”
“Mister Neville Burton, Sir.” Her look became rather less cheerful. “Aboard the British ship Speedwell bound for France.”
&nb
sp; “And his position? Also, a British Captain?”
“No Captain, Sir; a merchant, associated with Mister Tudor of New England in the shipping of ice to Jamaica.”
“Ice to Jamaica? What in the name of Napoleon…?”
“It’s all in my report, Captain-General. May I have a word in your office?”
“Yes, certainly,” Ernouf said. He turned to Marion and Ellen, and said, “Please excuse us. Madame Dufour will be here in a moment to assist you. But before I go, will you please join me for supper?”
“Yes, thank you,” both replied.
The two officers walked toward the hallway behind the stairs, where Ernouf pulled one of three chords hanging from the wall. A little bell jingled somewhere nearby.
Marion and Ellen returned to their seats, where they expected another long wait. Outside, a slight warm breeze blew, shuffling the palmetto and hyacinth leaves, but the temperature inside didn’t seem to change. A horse and small wagon clattered up the lane. It passed the house to park in the rear. An unintelligible conversation between a man and a woman ensued. Shortly after, they heard clunks and thumps on what they guessed were the rear stairs, and heard the woman, again. She scolded others to be careful. The next sounds were of men’s boots tromping down the stair. Another door, behind the opposite main stair, opened silently – or at least they couldn’t hear it over the renewed clattering of the wagon outside and its driver’s calls to the horse.
A short woman’s head peeked out from behind the door. Seeing the two, she said, “Oh, my! Such fine young ladies. Come in. I’ll show you your rooms. We don’t often have such lovely creatures as you. Come in.” Ellen and Marion stood from their chairs and followed the woman along a short corridor and up a set of stairs to the second floor. She was dressed in the garb of a French country-woman, and might have been described as motherly, except for being a bit on the underfed side. “Here they are,” she said. “Take whichever. Those rude things from the ship have dropped your trunks just there. I don’t know which is which.”
Marion and Ellen took quick peeks into each room. They were essentially the same, with tall windows and a French door to a small balcony in each. “Perfect,” Ellen said.
“Yes,” Marion said. “They’ll do as they are.
“We have letters to post as soon as possible. Can you help us, Madame…?”
“I’m Madame Dufour. Give them to me. I’ll see they are posted. Did Monsieur Ernouf invite you to supper?”
“He did,” Ellen said.
“Lovely, lovely,” said Madame Dufour. “Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll see you at four.”
Madame Dufour hustled herself out the door.
“Thank you for supper last night,” Marion said to M. Dufour in the morning. She and Ellen sat in a cheery tree-shaded alcove in the back garden for breakfast, “Are you the cook?”
“Non, M’emoiselles, but I must supervise everything from cooking to gardening.”
“Well, supper was wonderful. Please convey our respects to the cook. Is Captain Ernouf sill here?”
“No, he has gone – very early today.”
“And our letters – what of them?”
“I gave them to him. He has taken them to the port. Oh, look. Here he is now, home already. Quite unusual.”
Ernouf strode into the garden, looking very much the part of Governor. The morning sun glinted off the silver of his hair, graying at the temples. “Good morning to you, ladies. How did you enjoy your breakfast?”
“An excellent quiche, Captain. We thank you. We have asked Madame Dufour to pass our respects to your cook for last evening’s repast. And we thank you, too.”
“I always enjoy the company of such lovely ladies. Your letters have gone.”
“Gone? To Jamaica?”
“Why, yes. You sound surprised. Is that not where they should go? They were addressed…”
“Yes, they were addressed to Jamaica, but if you had a ship going to Jamaica, why were we not aboard?”
“Not that ship! Oh, my goodness, no. I would worry for your very life, if not only your virtues. No, not the Raven. She claims to be one of our privateers, but I am not so sure she is not simply a pirate.”
“Oh, I see.” Marion and Ellen looked at each other. “Well, at least we have got word out that we are safe,” Ellen said.
“Might I ask something?” Marion said.
“Yes, go ahead,” answered Ernouf.
“Where are the sailors of Speedwell?
“In the stockade.”
“Are they well cared for? Do they get exercise?
Ernouf chuckled. “They certainly do. They have been organized to do repair work in the shipyard. We need their skills, and they are far more willing to work than to sit in a small room all day. It is a good arrangement, I think.”
“I have a request,” Marion said.
“Yes? What is it? I shall try to make things as easy as I can for you here.”
“The men of Speedwell; we think we should check on them – see if they’re well. How might we do that?”
“I think it is a good idea. It might stave off some boredom, yes? Let me arrange it with Captain Desmontils. I will be gone for a few weeks to Saint-Dominique. He will take you to see them… maybe a week from now after the prisoners – I mean, your sailors – have adjusted to the new routine.”
Captain Desmontils contacted Speedwell’s passengers within the week. He arrived on horseback looking far more relaxed than Ellen and Marion had seen him before, and he agreed to join them for lunch. They took time to exchange pleasantries, since they had become friendly during their month at sea.
“I am told you wish to see the sailors of Speedwell,” Desmontils said, “and that I am to arrange a visit. I have time now while my ship is under repair, so I thought to conduct your visit personally.”
“We thank you for doing so, Captain,” Ellen said.
“How do we proceed?” Marion asked.
“The men are marched in the morning from the stockade to the yard for their work,” Desmontils said.
“I’d like to see that,” Ellen said. She chuckled. “I’ve never seen sailors do any such thing as march.”
Marion gave her a smile and a wink, but Desmontils seemed offended. “I’m sorry, sir. Excuse me,” she said.
“We must go early, so be ready to leave the house by six. We can take a carriage and hold at the intersection to watch them pass. You will be able to see their condition.”
“We’d like to….”
“No, nothing more. Only watch them pass.”
Marion and Ellen dressed the next morning as if for riding – except for the addition of wide-brimmed hats – and waited at the front door until their carriage arrived.
Dust rose from wheels and hooves as the horse trotted along the lane from house to yard. When they reached the proposed intersection with the road from stockade to yard, the driver reigned the horse in.
A group of men approached from the stockade. They were guarded, but not heavily, and not shackled. Even if they escaped, where would English-speaking men go on a French island?
“I’m going to speak with Master Carstens, if he’s amongst them,” Marion whispered to Ellen.
“Captain Desmontils told us we couldn’t,” she replied.
“What are they going to do?” Marion queried, “Shoot us?”
“I’ll go, too,” Ellen said.
“I’m sorry, M’emselle; what did you say?” Desmontils asked.
“I said, uhh…”
“They seem to be enjoying the weather, too,” Marion finished.
The lead guard, of only two, stopped for a moment to salute the captain. His salute returned, he moved on. The straggling sailors, however, took the moment to shuffle. None was bashful about ogling two fine ladies and muttering their recognition to each other.
“I recognize a few,” Marion said,
“So do I,” Ellen agreed. “They’re from Speedwell, for sure.”
“Him,” Marion
said, and jumped from the carriage.
“I told you there is to be no…”
“I’m coming, too,” Ellen said, jumping out the other side.
“I forbid it!” Desmontils said. “Guard!” he yelled to the back of the lead soldier who, by then, had walked several yards on, “Stop them.”
“Aye, sir,” responded the guard. “Column, halt.”
“Not them. The women.”
Marion had already waded into the group of Speedwells – only eight of them – and approached a man she recognized. “You’re Mister Vondran, First Mate, yes?”
“What should I do Sir? Shoot them?” the guard asked.
“No, you fool. Drag them out.”
Deducing the meaning of the command, the Speedwells closed ranks around the women, facing outward defiantly.
“You men go work now or we shoot,” announced the guard in his clumsy English. He lifted his musket strap off his shoulder. By now all six Speedwells, two more Englishmen from some other ship, and the only other guard, at the rear, had caught up. A tight knot of men now stood in the center of the road.
“Only a minute, Captain Desmontils,” Marion said in French, “I only want a word. They will go along quietly afterwards.”
Desmontils was now obviously fuming, but he waved the guards to wait.
“We are being treated exceptionally well, Mister Vondran. How are your men?”
“Well for the situation, I guess, Miss. They want us to work, so we are fed well – although some of the food is strange.”
“Has anyone been hurt?’
“No, Miss. Well, except Mister Flood, that is, but it were his own fault. Didn’t hang onto the main yard well enough, and he fell off. His leg broke when he hit the chain plate, but he landed in the water and we fished him quick-like.”
“Does he need anything?” asked Ellen.
“No. Splint ain’t real good, though, and we’re always off at the shipyard. Might not heal nice.”
The Delirium Passage Page 15
