Early in November in the year 1807, Admiral and Mrs. Croft touched at Plymouth, where he was to transfer to his new flagship preparatory to setting sail for Ireland.
As they warped into the harbor against a recalcitrant wind, they passed a much-battered French frigate anchored in the roads. They traded field glasses back and forth, having plenty of time to survey the damage. The admiral observed, “That must have been a fierce fight.”
No sooner did they open the door to the naval office than they nearly walked straight into a tall, hard-faced officer wearing the two epaulettes of a post captain. Indifferent black eyes in a handsome face turned their way—
“Frederick?” Sophy gasped.
Instantly that haughty, cold countenance transformed into a ready smile. He shook hands with the admiral, kissed Sophy, and apologized for nearly knocking them down. Then he turned to indicate the tall man walking at his side. “May I present my premier, Lt. Harville—soon to be commander, I hope and trust.”
Bows, smiles, and Frederick continued, “I’ve been four days bringing the Aout-Dix in,” he said. “I have not slept—I scarcely know where I am at.”
“That Frenchman in the harbor, that was your doing?” the admiral asked. “No, no, do not answer. Go and get your rest. Come aboard us to dinner tomorrow, the both of you. Mind, I shall expect a description of every shot. That must have been warm work.”
“It was warm enough, but the storm afterward was the worst of the bargain,” Frederick said. “I will retail it all when I am not all about in my head.”
Lt. Harville bowed, thanked them, and they were gone in two steps.
Sophy kept her thoughts to herself, hoping that the startling change in her brother was indeed due to arriving fresh from a ship battle followed by a storm.
He and his first lieutenant presented themselves aboard Admiral Croft’s flag the next day, prompt to their time as customary in the navy, for an invitation from a superior officer was tantamount to an order. Over dinner, Frederick and his lieutenant traded in furnishing a vivid description of the Asp’s spectacular end, with all the detail anyone could wish.
Sophy listened, gaining more pleasure in the easy camaraderie between the two men than in the exact measure of shots, and the relative impact of canister versus chain and iron balls. She liked Harville; and on discovering that he had left his wife and several small children in Portsmouth, asked civil questions about them.
But Frederick said nothing at all of his life outside the service; there was no mention of Monkford. He might never have been there at all. When Sophy put a tentative question, he replied, “Edward is a capital curate, respected by everybody. He’s been given a strong hope of his own living in a year or two.”
Sophy had it at her tongue’s end to say that was not what she had meant, but his manner gave her pause. She could not define her reluctance to speak. An unfamiliar, wary look to his dark eye, the tightness in his hand, prevented her.
The gentlemen then turned the conversation to the naval list—ships—fellow captains—Frederick’s hope of promotion for Harville to commander—before the last toast was drunk, and they took their departure.
As soon as Sophy and her husband were left alone, she said to him, “Frederick’s reluctance to speak of Monkford seemed significant, did it not?”
“Pho, pho, he has much to do. I showed you the dispatch saying that he’s to get Laconia, all rerove, recoppered, and so sweet in stays. He will be wild to get to sea—thinks nothing of land—I never did, except when you were there.” He smiled and kissed her.
She returned the kiss, reflecting that the admiral, while excellent as a naval officer, seldom looked into the personal affairs of others. The best of husbands, he had never exhibited the smallest particle of interest in other women, except in the way of benignant friendship. He was sadly puzzled by anything else in return. Sophy had, in consequence, begun to regard as her duty the niceties of social interactions, in particular with wives and other female dependents. The Mrs. Grotons, in short, had fallen to her.
Therefore, though the admiral had not professed to observe anything amiss in Frederick’s countenance, Sophy remained uncertain in her conviction. After some thought, she sat down to her desk.
Dearest Edward:
We encountered Frederick here in Plymouth, fresh from what he described as a tightish ship Battle followed by a storm. That might explain his demeanor, which I can scarcely Characterize, except that he is so changed I might almost have not known him. And this misgives me—you remember how much Mama disliked Hyperbole so you will know I mean what I say when I add that I was never more shocked by a change in anyone.
Can it be he is still mourning what might have been, with this mysterious Miss Elliot? Pray tell me what you can.
We are about to depart for Cork, so you must direct any reply to the Harbor there . . .
Letters between England and Ireland being significantly more expeditious than those in other stations, within a few weeks, Sophy received a reply.
Dear Sophia:
I have to begin my letter by apologizing for what I sent you last autumn. I believe I might inadvertently have broken confidence, in that I received a letter from Frederick the very day after I sent mine, or I would have exerted myself to call it back.
In his letter Frederick stated that he had visited the Admiralty and closed with an offer to take the Asp cruising, as I believe I mentioned. But at the end he requested me never to speak of the events of his stay to anyone: he was quit of that part of his life.
I feel honor-bound to heed his wishes, and I will add at risk of sounding officious—but I trust you will acquit me, and accept my motivation in the best light—that any mentions, or references, or attempts to console him on this vexatious Topic would only grieve him.
Further: I had not until that summer spent considerable time in his company since we were boys, and so in essence we were become reacquainted. I need scarcely tell you of Frederick’s excellence in all important Matters, but in addition I came to comprehend that though he feels very deeply, he keeps such sensations to himself. I have since that date exchanged letters with him three or four times, and though he writes of the wind, the weather, his crew, his ship, and what the French are about, there has never been the slightest reference to the above. I take my hint from him.
Sophy lowered the letter.
What he means, but is too kind to say, is that Frederick is still as proud as Lucifer, Sophy thought.
She understood. She had her own pride; she had snubbed Admiral Brand when they met at Plymouth, refusing to acknowledge his bow, though she knew it was impolite, even petty. But she would never forgive him for betraying Admiral Croft’s promise to his men after Trafalgar.
The rest of the letter was strictly about Edward’s affairs. She ran her gaze down it, and set it aside to be answered later. This much was clear: her brothers were united in silence about whatever had happened. So she must do her best to forget it—and hope that Frederick would, too.
There were, after all, plenty of young ladies in the world.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The rest of the year slid by.
In 1808, the admiral received orders to quit Ireland and command the squadron defending the ships carrying Wellesley’s troops to Portugal. Admiral Croft—now Vice Admiral of the Blue—was to take up command at Lisbon, overseeing the defense of troop carriers.
Sophy loved Lisbon, which was considerably warmer than Cork had been, and much of it was new, rebuilt in the fifty years since the terrible earthquake. In an effort to calm the merchants and re-establish life on a civilized footing, wives of military officers of both branches were encouraged to buy and to entertain—and to be seen doing so.
Sophy bought beautiful Portuguese silks, and established a regular salon in the beautiful new marble building assigned to the Crofts. She gave dinners regularly, entertaining not only naval wives, but those of army officers who had come with their families. English was heard everywhere in
the great city, which seemed to have three seasons: a brief cool and rainy period, followed by a long spring, and a longer summer that waxed and waned over six months.
Time fled unnoticed as more and more British soldiers poured in to swell Wellesley’s command. The great commander himself gained titles from a distance—viscount, earl, and marquess of Wellington—as he shaped his army to strike from the west while Napoleon divested himself of one empress, married another, then set out to conquer the east.
Sophy was ever vigilant in her communication with her brothers, the one—now a dashing frigate captain of some reputation—carrying out successful raids against the French ships trying to break British naval lines, and the other having at last gained promise of a living.
One day the admiral came to Sophy before the sun had set, looking weary. She knew at once that something was wrong. As soon as they were alone, he said to her, “It’s official—there is war with the American colonials. It’s this damned impressment. I told the First Lord it would not answer, that you cannot get a content ship when a parcel of your men have been dragged aboard against their will, and made to be British again.”
“But some of them are British,” Sophy said. “That is to say, a father and mother in England, a sister or brother in New England, and cousins in both places and Halifax as well.”
“Which brings me to the damndest part,” the admiral burst out. “We are to hang British sailors who have run to the Yankees. Now, how is that to effectively address the lack of manpower to sail and fight our ships?”
Sophy shook her head. “It will only make you, and the kingdom, further despised.”
“Yet I must pass on these orders.” The admiral took a turn about the room. “What do you think? My idea is to hand on the orders, because I must, but to say nothing to my most trusted captains about how these orders are to be carried out.”
When Sophy concurred, he brightened. “I thought you would agree. And that puts me in mind of the rest of our news. We are off to the East Indies once again, but before my orders were cut, I succeeded at last in getting Frederick’s orders changed. He shall have a free hand to break those French privateers taking advantage of our being stretched so confounded thin.”
“Frederick!” she exclaimed. “Is he here?”
“He is coming to dinner, he and his friend Harville, who shall have his own ship at last. I wrote a letter or two, ha ha, and at last it has answered. We will wet Harville’s swab, and send them off in style.”
“Capital!” Sophy exclaimed.
Frederick came to dinner not only with the happy Captain Harville, but brought in addition his new premier, a soft-spoken, elegant young man named James Benwick.
The talk over dinner was all of the war and their determination to dismantle the French naval lines themselves. Lt. Benwick demonstrated the same degree of enthusiasm here that characterized Frederick, but when the dinner drew to a close amid the usual toasts, there was one added with meaning, by this gentleman, “To Miss Harville.”
And Frederick was the first to raise his glass. They all drank to the unknown Miss Harville, and finally to the king, before the three young officers took their leave.
As soon as they were alone, the admiral surprised Sophy considerably by shaking his head and laughing. “Well, well, I always knew I was no dab hand in that quarter. What a fool I’ve been, but no one the wiser!”
Sophy said, “What is this?”
The admiral sat down beside her on the couch, their arms intertwined comfortably. “I hoped to surprise you—if it answered. But however it did not, however much I was able to do for Harville in the naval line. Harville’s sister, a capital girl—knows a clew from an earring—fine pair of eyes—well, the short of it is, I’d hoped to do Frederick a good turn when I found lodgings for Harville’s family at Portsmouth, and ordered the Laconia to indent at that dock for repairs. I knew he would stay in the family.”
Sophy said in wonder, “You were matchmaking?”
She was charmed when her husband, so tough on the quarterdeck under fire, blushed and hung his head. “It’s just that your brother did a good turn for me when he said yes to my question about asking you to wife.”
Sophy had to smile, and so he had to kiss her. “I will be forever grateful,” he said. “And of late, I bethought me, he don’t seem as happy . . . no, I’ll not venture there, for it is obvious I was all out, as usual, with such ticklish affairs. Give me a Frenchman trying to disguise himself as a Dutch herring-bus and I know where we are at. But the ins and outs of misses and their misters, well, at any event, it was young Benwick who attached Fanny Harville. Not Frederick. Now I am very glad I said nothing to anyone, and I will not make that error again.”
“Oh, my dear, you meant well.”
“Meaning well and doing well are two different things. You can mean well in taking a ship-rigged brig against a 74, but that don’t guarantee that you’ll board and carry her—that don’t mean she’ll strike to you because you desire her to. You’re far more likely to find yourself floating in the water with nothing but a two inch plank at hand, and feeling mighty foolish. I was wrong to interfere, and I’ve done with meddling in people’s lives. I will confine myself strictly to our profession, because there, I know what I am about.”
o0o
They reached the East Indies. Bad news chased after them: Captain Harville, motivated by determination to capture a great prize, had attacked a bigger enemy and was badly wounded, which caused him to be laid up at Gib.
Sophy and the admiral were grieved at these tidings, and further by the rest of the world’s news: Napoleon Bonaparte winning battle after battle, seemingly invincible—continued war at sea with the Americans—the navy stretched to its limits—until the Emperor of the French began retreating at last, losing first Russian and then hard-fought ground in the west.
In the spring of 1814, the emperor of ten years was sent off to Elba, bringing peace to Europe at last.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Crofts sailed for England once again, along with the greater part of the kingdom’s military and naval forces.
Portsmouth—Plymouth—London brought the speeches, the parades, the awards, and everybody smiled, but for both naval and military officers, the demobilization meant many were beached, whether they liked it or not.
“What shall we do?” the admiral inquired of Sophy, after yet another great state dinner that ended with multiple toasts of mutual congratulation.
“What do you wish to do?” she countered.
He slapped his hands on his knees. “All I know is how to command a sea battle, but with Boney rolled up and his navy in pieces, why, it seems it is time to turn my hand to something else. I have had my luck, and made my fortune. It might be better to retire and make way for those poor younkers who must still find their way in the world. We’ve enough to settle somewhere, if you like. And if I find myself possessed of a desire to taste the sea air again, and listen to a bosun’s whistle, why I could buy myself a yacht, I suppose. Would you like that? Or should we look abroad—back to Bermuda, perhaps?”
“Do you have your heart set on Bermuda, then, love?” she asked.
“No. Truth to tell, I find it devilish hot, and the insects vile. And the troubles among the French are in course going to happen to us. You know I had little stomach for putting down rebelling slaves—the whole business . . . well, I agreed with Charles James Fox about it, bless his memory. Politics aside, I thought you were partial to the place.”
“I was happy everywhere we went, but I agree about Bermuda. Truly I would settle in preference for familiar surroundings. Perhaps we might visit Edward—call upon his new bride, which is only proper—and look about us. What say you?”
“Well, well.” The admiral laughed, and threw a packet of letters onto the table. “There is this, too. Now that I am a rich man, and ‘Admiral Croft’ apparently sounds well enough in Taunton society, my Delafield relations have discovered me again, inviting me to visit. It see
ms that after all these years, they find they cannot do without my august presence at their assemblies. I have not answered any of their letters until we decided what we wanted to do. Shall I give them an answer, then?”
“Taunton?” Sophy said, with other ideas in mind; she knew Frederick must eventually follow them, for where else had he to go? “I confess a desire to see the place again.”
o0o
As if to lure her wanderers back home, England displayed under mild skies her most beautiful foliage that June. Everywhere Sophy looked, gardens bloomed, their fragrances reaching back into childhood to awaken memories long buried.
They arrived in Taunton just before sunset at the ivy-covered vicarage where Edward was staying with his first patron, elderly Dr. Gregory, while his new vicarage in Shropshire was in preparation. Edward, it transpired, was performing the offices of curate until Septimus Gregory, the last of seven sons, came down from Oxford to work for his father.
Standing side by side in the doorway, wearing equally welcoming smiles, were Edward and his bride. The first thing Sophy noticed were the twin flashes and twinkles of spectacles on both faces.
Behind them stood old Dr. Gregory in his powdered wig, speaking those elegant, old-fashioned cadences that had called up images of ladies and gentlemen in silks, satin, and red-heeled shoes.
The elderly vicar, once politesse had been satisfied, excused his wife’s absence—she was staying with her own mother—and then withdrew, leaving the young couple to welcome their guests.
Sophy was charmed to discover that they could not have been more different. Edward, though he had not attained the height or breadth through the shoulders as Frederick, looked taller than he was because he was so thin. In contrast, his wife was short, round as a ball of wool, and blonde.
Fair Winds and Homeward Sail: Sophy Croft's Story Page 13
