by Carla Kelly
Able walked beside Sir B, following the formidable phalanx of Elder Brothers in front of them, William Pitt in the middle. “Sir B, why am I here? You’ve been remarkably coy about this summons,” he asked.
“Word gets about, no matter how much Headmaster Croker would wish otherwise,” Sir B said, keeping his voice low. He lowered it further. “There was that nasty business last spring with the, ahem, disappearance of that regrettable lump of carbon I will laughingly call Master Blake. His family does have court connections.”
“I doubt they miss him,” Able whispered back.
“So do I, but everyone keeps up appearances. Here we are. Gervaise, wheel me up with the others. Able, you and John Mark sit in those two chairs.” Sir B nodded to Meridee. “Mrs. Six, you and Gracie behave yourselves, Gracie especially.” He winked at Grace when she glared at him.
Able didn’t know where to seat the ladies. Elder Brothers were finding their places around a long, baize-covered table, u-shaped and connected at the head, but with a narrow aisle, as if to allow for a secretary to distribute documents for comment and perusal.
He felt Meridee press against his shoulder again. She gazed around with wonder in her eyes.
“What in the world are we doing in a place like this?”
“It’s a far cry from the steps of the Dumfries Church of Scotland,” he said under his breath, his odd mind swooping and darting about in split-second bursts from his birth in that back alley, to cold church steps, to beatings in the workhouse, to life in the fleet, to hunger, cold, heat, and the plunging fire of battle, to the warmth of his wife’s body, to the milky smell of his son hopefully asleep in Curzon Street and guarded by a big black woman with a ring in her nose. His thoughts landed him right here, bumping as gently as Sir B’s yacht the Jolly Roger bumped against the dock after a training sail to the Isle of Wight and back.
Without a word, he found Meridee and Grace seats away from the table, but not too far. He squeezed his wife’s hand, then gazed into her lovely eyes, so kind.
He knew she was as frightened as he was, so he allowed himself the unspeakable luxury of another bursting thought that blasted through all the fear: Meri Six loved him. He could do anything, be anything, because he knew that. At the end of the day, she would go home with him, no matter what happened in this place.
— Chapter Four —
HMS Captivity – Portsmouth
February, 1804
Even Jean Hubert’s dreams gave him little pleasure. Here they were, captive in the stinking hold of a prison hulk, anchored in Portsmouth’s harbor, where every day the ship’s foul waste buckets were dumped out of portholes. The Captivity rolled in a brown stew of feces and bloody stools, depending on the tides. Jean shook his head to clear it. Why could he not remember the simplest things? Oh yes, something about organizing an escape club. Surely not. “Escape club” sounded almost festive, as though this whole ordeal were a lark.
Eh bien, a meeting, and a select one at that. Claude Pascal, the hulk’s self-appointed judge and chief officer below deck, had tapped some of them on the shoulder that afternoon and whispered, “Deck three, near the Hole, after lights doused.”
Why he had been chosen, only God knew. It was anyone’s guess. All Jean wanted to do was sit at his rickety desk and draw pictures of la belle France. A shady deal with a guard meant he could hand off two sketches a week, for a paltry ten sou. They were worth more, but who was the prisoner here? the guard regularly reminded him.
All the same, it was enough to buy someone’s meat ration, or stockings probably taken off a dead man, more sketching paper, and colored pencils. He was better off than some.
Dark came early. The daily count of prisoners began at two in the afternoon, which meant standing in one place too long, and complete purgatory for those among them with dysentery. To counter the boredom at first, Jean imagined walking along the beach at Trouville, or ducking into a favorite bookshop in Caen. Lately, he thought of nothing, because it was easier.
The evening swill followed. It was a meatless day. No one ate Thursday’s dried herring, at least no one in his right mind, which meant that probably quite a few ate it. Friday’s cod was a mushy stew, but there was bread, now and then.
After the guards threatened them and shut down the hatches, little pinpoints of light bloomed here and there. The air was so poor in the winter, and oxygen so scarce, that the light was hard to see. He joined the other men moving toward the back of deck one, his deck. The damned English had no idea their prisoners could move from deck to deck other than by the companionway. Last year while everyone sang “La Marseillaise” really loud, a carpenter cut a small square in their own dark corner. Another one in the deck below, and voilá, nothing was off limits.
One man could squeeze down at a time, down through the next deck, and then in the bowels of the hulk near the Hole, where, thank God, no one was confined currently.
Claude Pascal called them to order. “Mes amis, we need to coordinate any escape attempts. Do you know what happened to François du Lac yesterday?”
They all knew. No one wanted to talk about it. Brave François, or maybe foolish François, had cut a square in the side of the ship about midway between deck two and the waterline, covered himself in bilge slime and squeezed out through the impossible opening. No one warned him about the nails studding the outside of the hulk. He had caught his canvas bag with clothes and a few coins and dangled there as the sky lightened and sentries saw him.
They had used François for target practice, and they weren’t good shots. François dangled there still, and probably would until he finally melted into the harbor, a potent reminder of the folly of escape.
“We must know is who is planning what,” Claude said.
Me? Never, Jean thought. Perhaps it wasn’t a thing to be proud of, the honor of France and all that, but he hadn’t cared much for the aristocrats, and he wasn’t particularly enamored of the Jacobins and republicans who had followed. What he wanted was to be left alone.
With fierce eyes, Claude waited. A hand went up, and another.
“Stand, Citizen Remillard,” Claude said. “You are a gunner, are you not?”
“I am, Citizen Pascal.” He gestured beside him, and a small boy stood up. “And this is Pierre Deschamps, my powder monkey.”
The boy ducked his head and would have sat down again on the deck, but Remillard fixed him with a glare.
Jean stirred uneasily. Already he did not care for this scheme. Let the boy alone, he wanted to say, but that would have called attention to himself.
“Citizen, we have been watching the water hoys,” Remillard the gunner said. “It appears to me that we could each climb inside a keg. One of you in the know could mark the two kegs, maybe a knick with a knife. That way, whoever is to sling the keg into the hoy for the return trip to the harbor would be one of us here, informed of the escape.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, poof! Someone might complain to the damned English that the keg was too heavy and all would be over.”
No one said anything, which cheered Jean. It was a foolhardy scheme. But as he looked around, he saw too many thoughtful gazes, as if their owners were considering the idea. Mon dieu, he thought. Don’t listen to Remillard, Claude.
Claude evidently was not susceptible to thought waves. “What would happen then, or do you know?”
“I casually asked one of the guards about the kegs,” Remillard said.
Brilliant, brilliant, Jean thought in disgust. And he probably casually told Captain Faulke, goddamn him.
“He said they are stacked in one of the harbor inlets by the factories. A day or two passes, and then they are filled, taken back to the water hoys and over to us. I think it would be entirely feasible to stick a small man like me in one keg, and the lad in another. When the kegs are returned to the wharf, we wait until dark and climb out.” He drew his f
ingers together and kissed them. “Then home somehow to la belle France, to fight another day.”
“Aren’t the kegs offloaded to the dock? Wouldn’t the Englishmen on the other end of this process notice heavier kegs?”
Lord help us, I have spoken out loud, Jean thought, horrified with himself. Well, someone has to set these ninnies straight.
Remillard, damn him, seemed to have an answer for everything. “The water hoys usually arrive back in port near dusk, what with winter limiting daylight. I would wager that the dock workers are in such a hurry to quit that they leave the offloading until morning, when we are long gone.” He shrugged. “Besides, we are so thin now. We weigh nearly nothing.”
More silence. Jean Hubert, sensible man, closed his eyes. He knew what was next.
“What say you, men?” Claude asked. He turned to Remillard. “When are the next water hoys due?”
“In two days, Citizen.”
Claude Pascal looked around again. “Are we in?”
— Chapter Five —
Trinity House - London
“I hope we’re not in anyone’s way,” Meridee whispered to Grace. “Able should have seated us farther back.”
“Then you would be out of his line of sight,” Grace said simply.
Grace was right. Funny how a man so capable, brilliant and wise as Master Six required her presence. Meridee smiled to herself, thinking of the times she had been working on some mundane project in the kitchen or in the little room off the pantry he had dubbed her office, only to find him on the prowl for her.
She grew a little warm at the thought of that room with its shabby desk and thoroughly comfortable daybed, where they occasionally ended up, once he found her. Good thing the door had a stout lock. For all she knew, Ben had got his start on that daybed.
She asked him once why he felt the need to search the house for her, considering that she was generally available within calling distance. “It’s not a mansion, my love,” she had reminded him.
He turned serious. “I think there is a part of me that will always wonder if I am worth loving,” he said. “Some maggot gets inside my head – along with all the others – that tells me I should look for you.”
She smiled even now to think how that conversation concluded. “And here you are, already down to your shimmy, and it is only eleven o’clock in the morning. Maybe it was a good thing I came along. You could freeze like this.”
Why was she thinking about that now, of all times? Easy. It was a comforting thought and she was currently terrified. Better to take one deep breath and another, and look around.
As imposing as were the current monarchs whose paintings flanked the fireplace, with its massive mirror reflecting sunlight from opposite windows, more impressive was the almost-life-sized portrait of twenty-three gentlemen, positioned on the wall behind the curiously shaped table. Powdered and wigged, the subjects were dressed in elegant black suits with red stand-up collars. She looked around the room at the men assembling and saw the same uniform.
William Pitt moved to that center place of the U, and the Elder Brothers joined him. It must have been the signal for everyone to rise. Meridee and Grace rose, too.
“Brothers and guests, let us pray,” said an Elder Brother. “Almighty God, who calms the tempests and bids us find safe harbor through the grace of thy son, Lord Jesus, attend us this day in our assembly. Guard and guide this mighty nation, is our prayer. Bless our sovereign king and his queen. Protect all ships at sea and those who command them, and our lighthouses. Smite the French wherever possible. Amen.”
“What a militant prayer,” Grace whispered. “The poor French.”
More interested now than frightened, Meridee watched a man without a red collar handed around papers to the men at the table. Perhaps he was a secretary. She heard the low buzz of conversation.
She looked at her man and John Mark, seated at the open-ended foot of the table, wondering if the lad was ready to start fidgeting. What she saw humbled her.
Both Able Six and John Mark sat absolutely still, eyes ahead, hands in laps. As she watched them, she knew they had both reverted to workhouse days, where inmates who moved about or otherwise caused a disturbance could find themselves struck or denied a meal. Able had told her as much one night when he felt like reminiscing, which was seldom.
The business of the meeting seemed to conclude then, with the secretary gathering up the papers, some of which, as Trinity House warden, Mr. Pitt took a moment to sign. What looked like claret came around next, and glasses, brought in by two servants. She glanced at Able, who still sat like a statue.
“Brothers, we are here at the urging of Captain Sir Belvedere St Anthony,” Mr. Pitt said finally. He looked around the hall, and nodded toward Grace and Meridee. “This has come with a first for us, as well. Hoorah for the ladies.”
The men chuckled. No one seemed irritated. They were navy men, after all, with a certain reputation, or so Meridee reasoned. Thank goodness she saw no pointed stares or ogles. She knew an ogle was one thing that would have lifted Able out of his chair immediately. He tended to be proprietary about her.
But Mr. Pitt was speaking. “A singular school has come to our attention, one that we might wish to have a hand in. It is…” He looked down at his notes. “St. Brendan the Navigator School in Portsmouth, located close to Gunwharf.” He looked again. “In fact, it appears that the lads have taken to calling themselves Gunwharf Rats.”
After the laughter died down, one of the Elder Brothers spoke up. “Gentlemen of St. Brendan’s, surely you can relax a bit. We’re not in formal session.”
Able’s shoulders lowered and he leaned back. He rested his arm on the top of John Mark’s chair and the boy shifted toward him. They exchanged glances.
“Indeed, you put us to shame,” the same man said. “Have you been studying Greek statuary?”
“No, sir,” Able said. He gave Meridee a glance, almost one of validation. “John Mark and I are both alumni of workhouses, where a fidget can get you a lash. We’re well trained. That is all.”
Meridee didn’t mistake the intake of breaths in the room.
“You, too, Master Six?” someone asked.
“Aye, sir. I’m a workhouse bastard from Dumfries, Scotland,” Able replied with no hesitation. He looked at John Mark with real affection. “John is one of my Rats.”
Mr. Pitt appeared unflappable. “Perhaps you should explain Gunwharf Rats.”
“Aye, sir. While cleaning out a stone inlet, we found a long-expired rattus norvegicus.” Meridee could tell Able was in his element now. He rubbed his hands together. “With the somewhat reluctant assistance of my wife, the boys cleaned the bones and mounted them on a wooden plaque.” He turned to John Mark. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you dub all of us Gunwharf Rats?”
“Aye, sir.” John seemed to swallow his fear. “We hung the plaque in our classroom. We…we even touch it for good luck before examinations.”
Mr. Pitt nodded. “I could have used a good luck talisman any number times in the last seventeen years, leading this unruly nation.” When the laughter died down, he glanced toward Sir B. “I am getting ahead of the story. Sir B, tell us more.”
“With pleasure, Mr. Pitt. Move me a little closer, Gervaise.”
Sir B’s valet did as requested. “Better. Thank you. The tall fellow with the curly hair is Sailing Master Durable Six. He teaches the calculus to brave students, instructs all our mathematical courses, plus a hodge-podge course we call seamanship. Our goal is to train lads to become sailing masters, is it not, Able?”
“Aye, captain.”
“Introduce your lad, please,” said Mr. Pitt, who was leaning forward and listening with some interest.
Meridee noticed other men doing the same. She also took note of the ones who leaned back and folded their ar
ms. One of them, a florid fellow in a too-tight uniform, had a positive sneer on his face.
Able nodded to Mr. Pitt. “Brethren, this is John Mark.” He glanced at Meridee again. “John is one of two remaining students who have been boarding with my wife and me, practically since we arrived at St. Brendan’s ourselves, and newly married.”
“We began this lodging experiment with four students,” Sir B explained. “These were students our headmaster felt needed more nurturing than some of the other lads who live in St. Brendan’s dormitory. One student is now in Australia, clerking for a secretary in Sydney Cove. We’re waiting for our first letter from him, are we not? Another is serving as a loblolly boy at Haslar Hospital.”
“Not a sailing master’s apprentice among that lot, eh?” commented Mr. Florid Face, and he didn’t sound accommodating to Meridee. “So much for good ideas.”
“We’re a young school, sir,” Able said promptly. “Four of our older students went to sea as sailing apprentices only last May, when the treaty broke. Three are serving in the fleet now as such. One died…died in a shipboard accident.”
Meridee heard all the pain. So did Sir B, who spoke up quickly. “We have six in advanced training now, don’t we, Able?”
“Aye, sir.” Able looked at Sir B, and then Mr. Pitt. “Sirs, if I may…”
“By all means, Master Six.”
“I reiterate that we are an experiment. We are discovering that not every lad is suited to the duties of sailing master.”
“Send them back to the workhouse then!” said that same disagreeable brother, even as the man seated next to him frowned. Meridee’s hands knotted into fists. She relaxed when Grace gently put her hand over them.
“Never!” Able declared, taking a step forward. “That loblolly boy is very soon to be examined for apothecary apprentice. And as for Stephen… if mail were not so slow, we would have a good report from Australia, I have no doubt. You see, sirs, what we have discovered at St. Brendan’s is that even bastards deserve a chance.”
