by Lona Manning
“Well, it’s too bad, Honoria, you must look for another governess,” Mr. Smallridge consoled his wife as the carriage pulled away. “But Miss Price forgot to ask for her half-year’s wages, so you are ten pounds to the good.”
No sooner had the carriage cleared the sweep, than Henry Crawford sat back and laughed uproariously until tears came to his eyes. Fanny wondered if she would have to remind him that no one was to suspect they were not an engaged couple, when he finally collected himself, still chuckling, and wiping his eyes, exclaimed softly, “That was capital! Capital! You played your part very well, Fanny –” then seeing her stiffen at being so addressed, added, “Oh, very well. Miss Price. Now, let us calculate the days—how long would it take to travel from here to Gretna Green, and back again, at my usual rate of speed? How long before you will permit me to address you as ‘Mrs. Crawford?’ We shall spend the intervening days in Portsmouth and London, actually. I thought you might like to visit your family, and see William before he ships out.” And he fell to laughing anew as his bride’s countenance changed from frost back to sunshine, as she expressed her raptures at the prospect of seeing her beloved William, her parents and her younger brothers and sisters.
But even the best news in the world could not sustain Fanny’s spirits forever, even the prospect of seeing William in his lieutenant’s uniform, and knowing that it was her own doing, was still not enough to prevent her from worrying about the rash step she had taken and whether she had one one-hundredth part of Mr. Crawford’s audacity sufficient to pull off the imposture.
Fanny’s eyes brimmed over again, as she thought about deceiving her own father and mother, although she tried to weep silently. Her eyelashes were still wet when she composed herself to sleep, and as the late afternoon sun filtered in through the coach window, Henry Crawford found himself speculatively evaluating her—as any young man in the full prime and vigor of life will adjudge the worthiness of any female old or young enough to come within his observation, in terms of being a possible bedmate.
She was, in point of figure and height, not to be compared to the Bertram girls, who possessed the type of beauty that he favoured. They were full-figured and fair, and either one could be an artist’s model for a statue of Britannia. Miss Price was slender and delicate, and somewhat less than the middle height. Her short hair, curling about her forehead, was brown—simply brown, not chestnut or light brown shot through with golden strands, and he could barely recollect the colour of her eyes, now closed, but thought they must be blue. But as she lay sleeping, her head thrown back against the seat, he could acknowledge that, taking her all in all, she could be considered pretty enough. The nicely arched little eyebrows for example, and the neatly formed head with its close-set ears, the delicate lines of her jaw, the long, vulnerable fair neck presented toward him, some might think pleasant to nibble upon, her small but high bosom, her slender waist…. perhaps if the two of them spent any time together at Everingham, he would amuse himself by making her overcome her dislike of him. It might be entertaining to draw her on, to be the first man to kiss those soft pink lips, to slide his hand up under her skirt, to watch her eyes open wide with surprise and perhaps a little fear, but, soon yielding to his skillful caresses, the very reserved little Miss Price would receive her first lessons in the arts of love.
Ah, well. He shifted in his seat and thought about cricket. More than likely, Fanny Price would behave like a heroine in a three-volume novel—she would reject him with horror, call on Heaven to protect her, and then faint dead away at his feet—that last part, he had always thought a peculiarly ineffectual strategy for heroines hoping to escape ravishment.
And, in fact, the buxom actress whom he had hired to impersonate a lady’s maid—who was sharing his bedchamber in the various inns they stopped at on their journey—was more suited to his tastes.
* * * * * *
On the day after leaving the Smallridges, Henry Crawford and Fanny were in the environs of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her, and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and entered the town; and the light was only beginning to fail as, guided by Mr. Crawford’s recollection of his previous visit, they rattled into a narrow street, leading from the High Street, and drew up before the door of the small house now inhabited by Fanny’s family.
Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the house, and in her mother's arms, who met her there with looks of true kindness, and there were her two sisters: Susan and little Betsey.
They were then led into a tiny, dark, parlour, where in the half-gloom she saw her father. The reappearance of his oldest daughter after an absence of ten years was not sufficient inducement for him to rise from his seat, but he greeted her affably enough.
Fanny then performed the office, which she had been dreading, of introducing Mr. Crawford to her parents, as her husband! The first exclamation of surprise was not over before Mr. Crawford smoothly took the conversation into his own hands, and Fanny found that she need not do more than sit and watch, as at a play, while Mr. Crawford described their first acquaintance at Mansfield Park, his growing admiration for Miss Price, his anguish at her disappearance, his search for her through the length and breadth of England, his joy at finding her and his impetuous proposal that they be married in Gretna Green. He was also prepared to speak, eloquently and at length, about the charms and virtues of his new bride, but he was, as always, sensitive to the minutest shades on the faces of his audience, and he discovered that when he came to speak of Fanny’s perfections, he pretty soon lost their attention entirely. He moved ahead to the bland announcement of his yearly income and the extent of his estate at Everingham, to which they attended with incredulity and pleasure, and which rendered the concluding part of his speech—his plea for forgiveness for marrying Fanny without reference to them, and his request for their blessing on the union—a mere formality, as he well knew it would be.
His narrative had forestalled most of their questions, and the Prices had only to express their approval: “By g-d, you’ve knocked us on our beam ends, Mr. Crawford, and no mistake! Fan, if your husband has half the gilt he’s told you he’s got—you’ve done very well for yourself!” Mr. Price pounded his daughter on the back approvingly, she began coughing, and the subject of her husband’s wealth, as fascinating as it was to the Prices, was soon forgotten when William entered. He wore his lieutenant's uniform, and the happiest smile over his face, and he walked up directly to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out her various emotions of pain and pleasure.
Here was her triumph indeed, though her brother would not, could not, know the secret pain it had cost her. Now it was William who took the centre stage in the family—all conversation now moved to his commission, his prospects, and when he might ship out—William explained over the growing din, as three younger Price brothers ran downstairs to admire him, he was soon to sail in the Agincourt, and he knew not where or when he would join the Solebay, but perhaps at Sierra Leone, and suddenly Fanny’s marriage to Mr. Crawford was no longer the main wonder of the evening. Mr. Crawford, not deficient in his knowledge of the Navy, thanks to his uncle the Admiral, joined in, and all Fanny had to do was sit and listen and long for some tea! She smiled inwardly to recall her anxieties on the subject of her first parental interview, mixed with some mortification at seeing herself so quickly overlooked and forgotten after a ten years’ absence.
Finally, Susan and a servant appeared with everything necessary for the meal; Susan looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, as if divided between the agreeable triumph of showing her activity and usefulness, and the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an office. “She had been into the kitchen,” she said, “to help make the toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they should have got tea, and she was sure her sister and her new brother mu
st want something after their journey.”
Fanny was very thankful, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well. Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition and goodwill toward herself.
It was not to be wondered that the bridegroom—not the bride—was the more honoured guest during Fanny’s brief reunion with her family; as it was Mr. Crawford who had put William in the way of obtaining his promotion. He was the first to be served tea by Mrs. Price, the first to be toasted with madeira by Mr. Price, and while Fanny’s brothers did suffer her to kiss them, they all lined up eagerly to shake Mr. Crawford’s hand when the new-married couple excused themselves for the evening. Her father’s final benediction on the match was to make a coarse remark to her new bridegroom and to slap him heartily on the back as they left.
When bidding Mr. Crawford ‘good night’ at the Crown, Fanny thanked him most sincerely for his great kindness in bringing her to Portsmouth, and he, once again, enjoyed the sensation of being a fine fellow who had actually done some good for his fellow creatures, so that despite the vulgarity and disorder of the Price household, he retired to his separate chamber feeling well-disposed toward mankind in general and even all persons named Price.
And when he grappled with his buxom actress, for the first of several lively encounters that night, in various postures, he reflected that his wedding night exceeded his most sanguine expectations and his only regret was that he could not tell all his acquaintance about it—at least not for the present.
The next day was the Sabbath, and Henry had already resigned himself to staying in Portsmouth another day, as Fanny made her reluctance to travel clear; it was no great hardship, as he had a number of naval acquaintance in Portsmouth and was happy to call on them while his new bride spent the day visiting with her family.
Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing. Fanny attended chapel with her family, and afterwards walked with them as she had not done for almost ten years. Before she had been sent away to Mansfield, she had been the little shepherdess to her younger brothers and sisters, but she was sorry to discover that, of the children still at home, only Susan retained any faint memory of her.
William was free to walk with them for an hour, and Fanny gloried in being once more on the ramparts with her brother. He pointed out the ugly hulk that was the Agincourt, anchored far out in the harbour, but since it was not the Solebay, Fanny could not be interested in taking a boat to go and tour it, nor did William think the rough-and-tumble atmosphere on the ship appropriate for his sister.
As they parted, and over his protests, Fanny gave him all of her paltry savings, knowing that he would need ready monies more than she, for he would have to pay for his share of the officers’ mess, and while Fanny was inexpressibly sorry to part with William, she preferred to make her adieux in the open air, in the haunts of their childhood, than back in the crowded, noisy, squalor and disorder of their Portsmouth home.
William hurried back to the ‘rondy,’ to escort a batch of new recruits to the launch that would carry them to the Agincourt. A detachment of marines with baleful expressions and glittering bayonets prodded the victims of the press gangs out of a dismal holding cell to the sally port, and they were rowed out through the harbour, past graceful frigates and plump merchant ships to the great, black, hulking shape of the Agincourt, already surrounded by small boats bearing sailors’ wives, and those who claimed to be sailors’ wives. The boats bearing these dainty damsels competed with merchants steering bumboats piled high with all sorts of merchandise and gimcracks, who likewise intended to separate the sailors from their earnings. The rowers on the launch shoved their way through the throng and accompanied by enthusiastic swearing and prodding, everyone was sent climbing up a rope net to the gun deck.
Price idly took stock of the impressed men, and noticed one slender young man with glasses who was taller by a head than everyone else. No tattoos, no tar-blackened hands, he thought to himself. He doesn’t walk like a seaman, nor dress as one.
William Gibson barely had time to look around him before he and his fellow pressed men were forced to climb a series of ladders down to the orlop deck—a gloomy, airless hole in the bowels of the ship. As the last of them clambered down—including two little boys who had run away from home and volunteered to be cabin boys and who were now trying not to weep for fright—an iron grating was dropped over the hatch.
The ceiling was so low that Gibson could not even stand up. He tried to find an unoccupied spot to sit down in the dark, and to avoid calling attention to himself, surrounded as he was by men who appeared to be mostly experienced sea-faring types of one sort of another. By sitting back and listening, he hoped to learn as much as he could about his strange new world, but he soon found himself intervening when some of the men, to pass the time, were amusing themselves by telling the two little cabin boys about what awaited them.
“Here are two new powder-monkeys for the gunners’ crews, mates. I remember when that eighteen-pounder exploded in the Bulldog. The gun crew disappeared, we found little pieces of them blowed t’other side of the gundecks, we did.”
“There was my old mate, Sam Polly. He was no taller than the two of you youngsters, and he said the cannonballs would go over’ im, but lor’ if one didn’t take his head clean off, right above the ears!”
“Better a clean death than having both your legs off with grapeshot, I say. Then comes the sawbones to finish the job.”
“Here, here, chaps, this is all very interesting,” Gibson’s calm, pleasant voice rang out in the darkness. “Tell me about it, I am a true landlubber. How long shall we be kept in confinement? I have never been pressed before.”
A chorus of groans went up in the darkness. “Oh, devil spare us. A landsman.”
“We’ll be put before the ratings committee,” a raspy voice issuing from about Gibson’s left elbow explained. “You’ll give your name –”
“Or some other name –” put in another, which brought some harsh laughter from some of the men.
“—and you’ll be rated as a landsman, see, and most of us are able seaman. We’ll be paid more because we’ve got tar on our hands, see? Then we will each be assigned somewheres.”
“We are not to serve on this ship, then?”
“This is just a transport ship.”
“I heard the Agincourt is a victualling ship, going to the African coast,” another voice chimed in.
“G-d help us. I’d rather fight the stinking Frenchies than face those mosquitoes again.”
“Why are they sending us to fight the mosquitoes?,” asked a laughing voice. “Not that the bastards don’t deserve it.”
“Not mosquitoes, you blockhead, it’s to stop the slave ships leaving Africa.”
“Piss on that. I want my bonus money for fighting Jack Crapaud.”
“That’s all you know. The Navy is paying a fat bonus for every slave that’s rescued, see, and every slave ship that’s captured.”
“Will they pay my wife a bonus if she comes to rescue me? I do appear to be held against my will.”
More bleak laughter.
Through patient enquiry, Gibson learned that some of the men were merchant seaman, newly arrived back in England after months or years at sea, and snatched up for service in His Majesty’s Navy, sometimes within sight of their long yearned-for homes. Some were fisherman, some were drunkards, some were harbour toughs he would have crossed the street to avoid back in Bristol, and all could speak to each other in a language,
or using terms and expressions, he could not begin to understand. Finally, he leaned back against a barrel and softly recited to himself:
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn’d.
No: dear as freedom is—and in my heart’s
Just estimation priz’d above all price—
I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no Slaves at home—
“Here—you’re a gentleman, aren’t you?” asked the raspy voice at his elbow. “You’re scot free, my lad. When they start asking you questions, answer them in Latin or Greek like that, see. They’ll have to let you go.”
“And if they do not?”
“Then, you’re off to boil your brains in Africa, my boy. Or the West Indies. Or maybe freezing your arse off near Copenhagen.”
The grating was briefly lifted while a keg of water and some ship’s biscuit was lowered down, then a handsome young man, who Gibson recognized as being the young lieutenant on the launch, peered down at them.
“Lads, I don’t wonder that you want to kick at your fate,” said William cheerfully, looking down at the glowering men packed below. “But consider—you will see the world, and the rate of pay is better than you will get ashore, and the prospect of prize money for all. So if you sign up and volunteer, you will receive the joining bonus.”
“Shove your bonus up your arse, my little captain’s pet,” snarled one of the pressed men under his breath, following up with a vulgar reference about what he could do to the young lieutenant if he could corner him, which caused Mr. Gibson, out of an abundance of caution, to move a little away from the grumbler. But it seemed the young lieutenant was quick-eared.
“You will address me as Mr. Price. And I have served in His Majesty’s Navy since my twelfth year and have eluded more nimble fellows than you. I am second lieutenant of His Majesty’s frigate Solebay, assigned to the West African Squadron, whither perhaps some of you are bound, along with me.” The grating slammed down again and Gibson wondered—Price? Fanny spoke of a brother in the Navy, but he was a midshipman, as I recall, in Gibraltar. He closed his eyes and tried to get some rest, but the foul, close air was sorely trying.
