by Carla Kelly
She cried again and he didn’t argue with her tears or try to reason with her. He held his handkerchief to her nose when she had subsided into hiccups and she blew. She wasn’t stiff in his arms, a woman unwilling to forgive him for taking his life into danger.
“You need a bath, Able,” she said finally. “When was the last time?”
Relieved, he could have cried. “It was a fast trip. There wasn’t time to change
my linen.”
“I can tell. Were you eating onions, too?”
She sniffed and he grinned over the top of her head so she couldn’t see, even though the enveloping blanket made their nest dark. “Husband, the boys are busy in the dining room, and Mrs. Perry is at the market, probably terrifying the fishmongers. No one is using the laundry room, and there is hot water on the range.”
“Only if you scrub my back, Meri.”
“Certainly I will,” she said, sounding a little indignant. “What sort of wife do you think I am?”
She couldn’t keep up the banter, but her tears were fewer this time. They still broke his heart.
— Chapter Forty-one —
Mere hours later, Headmaster Croker ushered the major of the Royal Marines barracks, Walter Cornwall representing Landport Gate, Captain Angus Ogilvie, Jean Hubert and Able Six into his sitting room. Looking as serious as the others, Nick, John Mark, Smitty, Lark and Wren sat on the floor. Simon Goodrich was already seated, but he offered his chair to a little man with pince-nez perched on his long nose, and the look of a clerk.
I am getting so proficient at explaining the plan, Able thought, as he stood to one side until everyone was seated and Thaddeus Croker nodded to him.
Deeply mindful of the minutes and seconds sweeping by, Able explained the crisis as economically as he could: the conspirators, the plot to blow up Building Twelve (which made Simon Goodrich wince and say something best not repeated), the devilment being planned aboard the prison hulk Captivity (the Marine commandant narrowed his eyes at that one), and the remedy, designed to confuse the ringleader on the hulk and flush out the perpetrators.
“That brings me to you,” Able said, addressing the little man. “Mr. Markham, is it? Navy gunners are going to place charges in your building and blow it up.”
The little man’s mouth made a perfect O. The spectacles fell off his nose. Nick caught them and handed them back. “M…mm…my building? Good God, sir, but this is highly irregular. Does Admiralty know what you are doing? ‘Pon my word.”
Able had to look away when the major’s lips started to twitch. Sir B managed a discreet cough. Stern navy face, Able told himself.
“Aye, sir, Admiralty knows. So does Trinity House. The actual target of the French conspirators is Building Twelve, directly behind you, the block pulley factory.”
“I know what is behind me, and it is dashed noisy,” Mr. Markham retorted. He tried to put his spectacles back on upside down, to the amusement of the Gunwharf Rats. They sobered instantly when Able gave them his sailing master stare.
“That factory, noisy and all, is vital to the war effort, which is why the French are planning to blow it up on the evening of May 17,” Able explained. “The conspiracy is being directed from aboard the Captivity, that first hulk in line in the harbor. When Building Eleven blows instead, they won’t be able to tell the difference from that distance.”
“Dash it all, why don’t you just nab the conspirators on the hulk and avoid the drama?” Mr. Markham asked, and it was a good question. “My building will remain standing,” he added pointedly.
“Sir, there are three hundred prisoners on each level of the hulk. If the ringleader even suspects what we know, he will blend in with the others and we will not find him,” Able said. “We also suspect he has been planted by Napoleon to create havoc on our port and destroy other valuable resources. And consider this: We are not entirely certain just how many conspirators there are on land right now. Your building has to go. The conspirators must think they are successful, and we hope, overplay their hand.”
“One more thing, Mr. Markham,” Sir B said. “Jean Hubert and Able Six will be in place in that hold, watching for the conspirator to answer a signal which he will see from the conspirators’ house on shore, when Building Eleven explodes. If he has another signal to send to that house, we need to know it. Then they will pounce and nab him. Your contribution, sir, is of vital importance to the war effort.”
“So is paperwork, sir,” the little man said stubbornly. “What will become of my folders and files?”
“Starting tomorrow, you and your office workers will box them and move them directly behind you to Building Twelve,” Able told him.
“I have room in my building,” Simon Goodrich assured Mr. Markham. “You will move the boxes at random tomorrow and Thursday, in case anyone is watching us. A box here, a box there, until the job is done.”
“It is for the good of the nation,” Thaddeus Croker reminded him gently. “We can replace your desks and chairs.”
“I wish it could be otherwise, sir, but these are the facts,” Able added, wondering what the stubborn fellow would do if suddenly confronted by Mrs. Perry in full pugnacious mode. The idea was tempting. “And there is this: Absolutely none of your clerks or office boys must be told anything beyond that the paperwork must be relocated to Building Twelve. They must vacate at the usual hour of six of the clock.”
The head clerk nodded as Able’s words sank in, but he did not go gently. “You realize, sirs, that the records and bills of lading will be all jumbled about. We will not know if ten dozen pairs of woolen stockings were delivered to Plymouth or Chatham. Watch caps will probably wind up in… in God help us Scotland, and who will know what to do with them there?”
“It’s a weighty business,” Able said. “Ye cannot depend upon the Scots, but this is war, sir, not watch caps.” Sir B coughed louder.
“Mr. Markham, one of my Marines will escort you back to Building Eleven,” the major said. “You may call upon him and other Marines with him to help you pack your invoices and bills of lading. Come with me.”
Mr. Markham left, probably destined to worry himself sick about those watch caps misplaced and trousers headed toward some other remote outpost of empire.
“Napoleon calls us a nation of shopkeepers, or so I have been told,” Headmaster Croker commented. “What next, Able?”
“Jean Hubert will instruct Nick Bonfort in the signal he is to send from inside the house to the Captivity, after the explosion in Building Eleven,” Able said. “As for the house, I have asked Smitty, Wren and Lark, who will be assisted by Ezekiel Bartleby, to help the Marines and constables. I need stout lads, because we don’t really know how many conspirators are in there.”
“It’s dangerous work,” the headmaster said. “Are you Gunwharf Rats ready?”
“Aye, sir,” they chorused, with so much enthusiasm that Able wondered if he was training men for the fleet, or pirates for the Spanish Main.
“And John Mark? What will he do?”
“Headmaster, he and a few of the other Rats and constables will remain by the sea wall and watch if anyone from the hulks strikes out for shore,” Able said. “Captain Ogilvie, will you accompany Jean and me and the Marines in the apprehension of Captain Faulke?”
“Capital!” he declared, rubbing his hands together. “I know a variety of ways to encourage his cooperation.”
I’ll wager you do, Able thought with some distaste. “I’ll leave it to you and the major to deal with a traitor.”
“Meanwhile, Grace and I will carry on teaching, right here at St. Brendan’s,” Thaddeus said. He bowed to Sir B. “We can use your help, Captain St. Anthony.”
“I never sparkled at mathematics, but by God, I can tie any knot known to a sailor.” Sir B looked around the crowded room, assuming command in his effortless way that A
ble could only envy and never duplicate. “I trust I need not remind you that this is a matter of grave national importance and you must say nothing to anyone. Do I have your word on it? Good.”
“And that is that, Meri,” Able told his wife that night, after the boys were finally in bed, and Jean probably pacing back and forth in the room he shared with Smitty. “How about a cuddle? Meri?”
He held her as she tried not to weep, taking great breaths. “Better now?” he asked gently. She nodded, unable to speak.
“I know it’s dangerous,” he told her as he rubbed her back. “I am counting on total confusion belowdecks.”
She nodded and burrowed closer to his chest like the wounded cat set upon by rat terriers that he had snatched up from a back alley, during a port of call in Tangier, where helpless animals had few friends.
“Meri, I’ll come back to you in one piece. I promise,” he told her.
“If you don’t, I will die,” she whispered.
“I didn’t marry a woman that helpless,” he told her. “I married a resourceful, lovely lady who will always take care of those she loves.”
“Just words, Able,” she said, and she sounded so weary. With a pang, he knew it was the closest she had ever come in their short married life to turning away from him.
He held her until she fell asleep, thinking of lonely Isaac Newton, who had never known the love of a woman. He did not know about Euclid. Copernicus had been chastised by two bishops because of his over-fondness for his housekeeper. He thought of sad Lavoisier, the newest polymath to join the odd fraternity in his brain, moping about because his Marie-Anne, wife and lab partner, cried for him from the distance of a France in turmoil.
He could try to explain to Meri that he had to play out this chancy hand to the end, but he doubted she would understand. She was as bright a female as he could have hoped for, but she was a wife and a mother first.
When he knew she slept, he pulled on his dressing gown and walked to Ben’s little room. He stood over his son’s crib and watched the simplicity of a baby sighing and settling himself deeper into sleep, not a care anywhere because his mother always had a meal for him, and people changed his nappies.
Able closed the door quietly, then walked downstairs, unhappy with himself, suddenly uncertain about the day after tomorrow. He knew enough about fleet actions to know they never went as planned. He could tell Meri that he and Jean would get into the hold and nab Claude Pascal before he saw them, but she was a woman and practical. Who was he fooling? He knew crafty men like Claude Pascal were unaccountable in their conduct.
“Master Six, you’re going to wear out the carpet.”
He turned around, surprised to see Mrs. Perry standing in the sitting room doorway, looking more enormous than usual in her blue and white-striped nightgown that looked like mattress ticking.
He knew she had seen fleet actions because she sailed with her carpenter husband. Granted it was irregular, but the officers in the wardroom had even joked behind their captain’s back that he wasn’t brave enough to tell her no.
“Meri is so unhappy with me,” he said simply.
He sat down and she sat beside him, crowding him on the sofa. He wondered what she would do if he leaned against her shoulder. She decided the issue, pulling him close. Able closed his eyes and savored the softness of her bosom. Not for the first time, he asked himself what kind of mother she would have been, she who rough-mothered half the sailors on each of her husband’s frigates.
He thought of the mother he had known only briefly, as she gave birth to him and died, leaving him to face alone the hardness of life. He couldn’t cry over her loss, really. Rational thought, something he was full of, assured him it was impossible to miss someone he never knew. But he knew Meri Six, knew everything about her, and loved her past all understanding.
“The last person in the world I ever want to injure is my wife, and here I am, doing precisely that. Mrs. Perry, Napoleon is the puppet master of Europe. He jiggles our strings and we dance to his tune.”
“It won’t last forever,” she assured him.
“My sole aim is to survive the next two days,” he said. “I don’t care about forever. Just two days.”
“Mrs. Perry, I wondered where he went. Hand him over to me.”
Able’s brain politely informed him that an hour and ten minutes had passed. He opened his eyes to see his wife crouched beside the sofa.
“He’s not much,” his big housekeeper told her, which made Meri laugh.
“I know, but I love him.”
“Then here he is, Mrs. Six. Take him upstairs and put him to bed.”
— Chapter Forty-two —
May 16 passed in a merciful blur. After a morning’s classwork where he taught by rote and his students paid only polite attention, Able escorted John Mark to his usual afternoon assignment at the block pulley factory.
Even the effervescent little fellow was strangely sober. “Is it always like this before a fleet action?” he asked, as they passed the water hoy inlet that still sent Able’s stomach down to his shoes and back up again, as he remembered everything.
“No. We don’t usually have the luxury of planning ahead,” he said, as he asked himself which was harder, the plan that never went quite as expected, or the spontaneous battle they made up as they went along. “Hard to say which is worse, though.”
He noticed with satisfaction that Mr. Markham had tapped into an unexpected vein for the dramatic in his bean counter’s heart. He and John watched as the clerks, dressed as ordinary dockworkers now, carried out papers and invoices in boxes labeled screws, nuts and bolts. They went in twos and threes, waited a while, then crossed the alley randomly, always carrying something.
Simon Goodrich’s artificers had already covered the windows facing the back of Building Eleven with heavy boards, but from the inside. “I am certain the glass will go when the powder ignites, but this will save my machinery,” he said. He gestured with his head toward the corner of the building, where two drunks sprawled. “Those worthless layabouts are Royal Marines, dressed rather more casually. They’ll deal with any suspicious characters who might wander into the alley between now and then.”
Simon turned to John Mark, whose eyes were wide with the adventure of it all. “Never a dull moment, eh, laddie?” he said, and rested his hand on John’s head. He took it off quickly. “Oops, there. My wife says I shouldn’t do that if my hands are oily, as they usually are.”
“I don’t mind,” John said, an honest fellow. “I really don’t.”
“He doesn’t, either,” Able said as they watched John walk down the corridor to the room where he copied machine parts. “My wife tells me that workhouse boys need a good touch now and then, no matter how long they have been away from that grind. And look, here is his shadow.”
They watched Pierre Deschamps sidle past them, worry in his eyes, until he came up to John, who took his hand and walked into Simon’s office.
“I know you have plans at St. Brendan’s for John,” Simon said. He paused, as if he didn’t know how to say what was on his mind. Able had noticed that the artificers at the block pulley factory were long on mechanical skills but short on conversation.
Maybe he could help this young man who obviously had something on his mind.
“Aye, we do, but we at St. Brendan’s have already discovered that some lads are better suited elsewhere than at sea.”
“I have something more in mind, beyond the fact that John Mark does have the makings of a mechanical artificer.”
Simon took a deep breath, and looked around. Able wondered how private this conversation needed to be. They were in the middle of a block pulley factory after all, probably not a place for someone to bare his soul.
The artificer spoke softly, and Able leaned closer. Too many years of cannonading had worked on hi
s hearing. “My wife has been unable to carry a baby to term.” He shook his head. “Eight difficult years. Honestly, Master Six, she is hungry to have a child or two about the place, and I wondered…”
Able swallowed the great lump in his throat, thinking of all the children in his workhouse, their faces pressed to the windows, whenever they knew couples were coming by to take a look at them. He felt his heart grow light, freed, at least for the moment, from the awful burden of the action coming tomorrow. Another thought traipsed through his mind of little flowers that sometimes grew on kitchen middens or dung heaps. Only last night, after Meri got him back to bed and loved him, she had whispered into his chest. “I will never lose hope,” she had said. “Please don’t give me a reason to.”
He looked in Simon’s eyes and saw the hope and kindness and a certain resolve evident on the face of every man on the Portsmouth docks. From stevedore to harbormaster to factory builder, they were engaged in a great enterprise, one that could decide the fate of nations, and they knew it. But in all this worry and bustle and commotion, hope still flourished.
He put his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Come ‘round and see us after we have got through our trying time tomorrow. Bring your wife to my house, too. We’ll see what John Mark has to say about your proposal.” He smiled. “The one you’re a little shy to admit.”
“Am I whistling in the wind?” Simon asked. “I won’t take Lydia anywhere unless I have some assurance that her heart won’t be broken again.”
“You’re not whistling in the wind,” Able told him. “I’m glad you told me this. And now, sir, to work.”
“One more thing, Able.”
“Aye?”
“Lydia and I are both Methodists. I’ve been told that there isn’t anything you don’t know, but are you aware that John Mark was also referred to in the book of Acts as John, and other times simply as Mark?”
