by Seth Hunter
My dear Nathan,
Having just been informed that Imlay is to journey to Gibraltar and has every expectation of meeting with you, I could not miss a sure opportunity of writing, not being certain that any of my previous letters have reached you.
If they did, however, you will know the very sad news that Mary Wollstonecraft has died. I am sorry if this comes as a shock to you, for I know that you esteemed her greatly, and that she was a very good friend to you, as she was to me, both in Paris and in London. Although it is several months since she passed away, there is not a day goes by that I do not grieve for her, for I believe her to be the dearest friend I ever had.
Nathan stared down at the letter.
Mary Wollstonecraft was dead.
He had a sudden mental image of her, flushed and excited, after visiting Thomas Paine in the Luxembourg prison, and in the garden at Neuilly with little Fanny at her breast and the maid Hélène pushing Alex on a swing.
He had been much exasperated with her at times, especially over her relationship with Imlay. Her despair at his infidelity had caused her to make at least two attempts on her own life: once by throwing herself in the Thames, when Nathan had come close to drowning himself in a bid to fish her out. He wondered if she had finally succeeded. But no. He read on:
Mary died in childbirth at her home in Somers Town, with her husband, family and friends at her side, myself among them. The cause of death was given as a poisoning of the blood. The infant survived and is a healthy little girl named Mary, after her mother. I am looking down at her as I write and she is smiling happily up at me from her cot and is the dearest little thing.
If you have received my previous letter, you will know that Mary and Godwin were married in March, since when she and I had been sharing a house in the Polygon, with Godwin occupying the house next door.
Nathan read this sentence twice so as to be sure of taking it in, but was no more enlightened at the second reading. He had no knowledge of this previous letter she referred to, and when he had read of Mary’s husband being at her side, he had immedi ately taken this to mean Imlay. But apparently not.
What was this about sharing a house in the Polygon, with Godwin occupying the house next door.
The explanation, as such, was swiftly forthcoming:
You may think this eccentric, but both Mary and William were anxious to maintain their independence, and it is no more extraordinary, as they would argue, than for a Duke and a Duchess to maintain their own separate apartments and households while continuing to hold each other in great affection. Indeed, although Godwin had many times called for the Abolition of Matrimony, and their marriage exposed the true nature of Mary’s ‘Arrangement’ with Imlay, on which account she lost a great many of those she counted as friends, they were a very happy couple and often communicated by letter and in person.
Nathan’s frown grew a little more perplexed. Had it not been for the tragic nature of the letter, he might have wondered if he was the victim of a tease.
Certainly, Godwin’s great love for her is apparent from the extremity of his grief, and I have taken upon myself the care of him and the little ones until he is more able to take an interest in his life and responsibilities.
Nathan chewed this over for a moment without coming to any definite conclusion.
In the circumstances, however, and knowing how much people are inclined to Gossip, especially in London, you must consider yourself to be freed from any understanding or obligation that you may feel towards me, especially as I now have several others for whom I must accept responsibility.
It is difficult for me, my dear Nathan, to write of such things as our feelings for each other when we have not spoken of them for so long and in circumstances which have changed very much between us, and in the world. We have been apart for so long and spent so little time together.
Please do not be anxious for me. Although I grieve for Mary I am otherwise content and in no want of money or other comforts. Your mother remains very kind and generous. Alex is in good heart and at school in London, and he sends you his greatest respects and hopes for your continued safety and wellbeing.
As does your affectionate and special friend,
Sara
Nathan read several of the passages again, trying to discern a hidden meaning. A hint of what she truly meant to convey to him.
Knowing how much people are inclined to Gossip …
Gossip about the true nature of her relations with Godwin – or Mary?
Something that she thought would give him cause for distress or offence, however.
… especially as I now have several others for whom I must accept responsibility.
This might be intended as a warning that it was not just she and Alex he would be taking on, but the two little girls, Fanny and Mary. Or it might be an indication of her attachment to Godwin.
… circumstances which have changed very much between us, and in the world … We have been apart for so long and spent so little time together.
What she meant was – we can no longer feel the same passion for each other as we did in Paris, at the time of the Terror. We no longer even know each other.
Sadly, this was true. And yet. He wanted her and he wanted what they had had then. The same intensity, and longing, and love.
And he felt this savage and unreasonable jealousy.
Was she freeing him – or herself? The more he thought about it, the more he was inclined to believe the latter. She wanted this man Godwin. Godwin and a home and family, a ready-made family. Not some distant memory of a few nights’ passion in Paris, and a man five years younger than herself, who did not know what he wanted, and probably never would.
There was a tentative knock on the cabin door and Imlay entered. Alone. His face was grave. Nathan indicated the letter. ‘It is from Sara,’ he said.
Imlay nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘She gave it to me.’
‘Then you know about Mary. I am sorry.’
‘So am I.’ Imlay sat heavily, taking off his hat and running his hands through his hair. ‘He is just a boy, he has never grown up,’ Mary had said of him once, but he looked his age now.
It was impossible to guess what his true feelings towards Mary had been. Nathan, having met them both in Paris, was convinced he had set out on a course of seduction partly because of the challenge she represented as a celebrated feminist and writer. But it was not impossible that Imlay had fallen in love with her. He had talked of buying a farm in Kentucky and having six children together. Of living the simple life. A life of principle and high ideals. He might even have believed it at the time. He had the facility of believing in whatever image of himself he wished to put across to people; it was one of the chief reasons they were fooled into believing it themselves.
‘You know of this Godwin?’ Nathan asked him.
‘Yes. William Godwin. He is a writer. Like myself.’
Nathan raised a brow but let this supposition pass unchallenged. ‘A writer?’
‘More of a journalist, I guess. And I believe he is regarded as something of a philosopher.’ His tone verged on the dismissive.
‘You were in London when Mary died?’
‘No. I heard about it later.’
‘So what of the child?’
‘Godwin’s child?’
‘I was thinking more of your child. Fanny. The child you had by Mary.’
‘I have made what provision I can for her,’ Imlay retorted stiffly. ‘Sara is looking after her at present. Did she not tell you?’
‘Yes. She seems to be looking after all of them. Godwin included.’
‘Ah – yes.’ A bitter smile. ‘Godwin seems to bring out the maternal in women.’
Did he want Nathan to believe there was something between them – Sara and Godwin? Had she confided in Imlay? They had known each other well in Paris. For a time Nathan had wondered if they had been lovers before Mary came into the picture. Or even since, for fidelity had never been Imlay’s stro
ng point.
‘Why did you give me this now?’ Nathan pressed him.
‘What was I to do? Withhold it?’
He would have, if it had suited him to do so. But perhaps that was unfair. Imlay had some sense of honour, though it was adaptable to circumstance.
‘Well, it seems I have little reason to return to London,’ Nathan told him, as he folded the letter carefully in half and returned it to its envelope to read again, no doubt, over and over again in the loneliness of his cabin, or the next prison cell. This was nonsense and he knew it. He had every reason to return to London – apart from his own fear of commitment. ‘So, I will take you to Tripoli, God help me.’
‘Excellent.’ Imlay beamed. ‘We will have a splendid time.’ His face fell with an almost comic facility. ‘It will help us forget our bereavements – and our disappointments.’
‘You said I might have Tully as first lieutenant.’
‘By all means, by all means.’ He fitted his fist into his hand. ‘I will speak to the Governor this very morning. I am sure he will be able to arrange it with the Port Admiral. And if not, a letter to the Commander-in-Chief will secure whatever approvals are necessary.’
‘In writing.’
‘In writing, as you say.’ Though he frowned a little.
‘So what other officers do we have, apart from Lieutenant Belli, of course?’
‘What other? Ah, I am afraid Lieutenant Belli is our full resource, so far as officers are concerned. Oh, and the midshipman, Lamb.’
‘Lamb? Mr Lamb is with you?’
‘Yes. He assisted Tully during the refit. I believe he spent last night ashore, but it is quite possible, of course, that he will consent to join us as a volunteer, if you were to put it to him kindly.’
‘And what of the hands? You said you had plans to increase their number.’
‘I did. I will disclose them to you in a moment. But first, I think this calls for a celebration.’ He produced a hip flask and, after wiping out the dregs of their coffee with a napkin, poured a generous quantity into each of their cups.
‘I would much rather have breakfast at this time of the morning,’ Nathan informed him ungraciously as he peered into the colourless liquid gracing his cup.
‘And so you shall, so you shall. But first let us drink to the success of our present venture.’
They clinked their cups together and Nathan sipped cautiously. Not cautiously enough, however, for the fiery liquid caught at the back of his throat and near choked him.
‘What in God’s name is it?’ he demanded, when he had got his breath back.
‘Vodka,’ Imlay replied, amiably. ‘A Russian drink not unlike gin but much purer in content, I am told. Possibly it is an acquired taste.’
Certainly Imlay seemed to have acquired it, for though it caused him to shudder it was with every evidence of enjoyment. ‘It is customary to smash the glass after a toast,’ he said, ‘but as we have only two cups between us, I give you the Jean-Bart and all who sail in her.’
‘Wait. We cannot call her the Jean-Bart.’
‘Why not?’ Imlay’s cup was poised in mid-air.
‘Because that is what she was called when she was in the French service. They may not know her by sight, but they may very well know the name – and that she was taken prize by the British.’
‘I had not thought of that. So what shall we call her?’
Nathan considered. The naming of a ship was not to be taken lightly.
‘What about the Swallow?’ he proposed.
‘The Swallow?’ Imlay mused. ‘Well, it is an elegant bird – and swift.’
‘It is also a sign of hope, in the maritime world, of a sailor’s return,’ Nathan said. ‘For the swallow, I am told, always returns to its own home, no matter how long its absence and how far the journey.’
He was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of melancholy so desolate he was scarcely aware of Imlay’s response.
‘So, the Swallow it is.’ Imlay raised his cup once more. ‘A successful voyage, and a safe return – to whatever we think of as home.’
Part Two
The Shores of Tripoli
Chapter Ten
The Seraglio
The life of a slave girl in an Ottoman harem was not so very different from the life of a nun, Caterina reflected, except that you prayed less, ate more, and bathed a great deal more frequently. And though it might have surprised a few people of her acquaintance in Venice, you never saw a man, not even the shadowy figure of a father confessor through a grille.
At other times she was reminded of her childhood, tending to her father’s sheep in the hills.
It was rather more enclosed, of course. You never saw the sky, or the sun, or the moon and the stars – all you saw was their light through the narrow windows, high above your head, or reflected off the tiled walls or in the play of shadows on the stone floors. You could not smell the herbs crushed beneath your bare feet or breathe the sun-baked earth and the fresh, clean air. But there was the same sense of timelessness – of endless days of quietude, and boredom, and loafing around with very little to do. Except watch sheep. And the women of the harem were very like sheep, in Caterina’s view, except that they were lazier, and sillier, and a great deal more inclined to petulance.
Caterina’s understanding of the word ‘harem’ was that it meant a safe haven, a forbidden place, sacred and inviolable. In the best of them, the women were educated and trained, not only in the skills of being a wife and mother, but in diplomacy and statecraft. Certain of the women of the Sultan’s harem in Topkapi had achieved so great an influence they had become the effective rulers of the Empire.
The harem of Yusuf Pasha, however, was not quite in this exalted category.
The seraglio – the living quarters of the harem – occupied a labyrinth of rooms on two floors along one side of the castle, facing towards the sea. Not that the sea was very much in evidence. Sometimes, you could smell it. And in some of the rooms you could hear it, especially at night, the soft murmuring of waves on shingle; the sound of freedom. But you could not see it. Not if you were a slave.
There were about thirty women in the harem, not counting the hostages, and about a dozen young children. It took Caterina a while to sort out who they were and how they were related, and even after six months, some of these attachments were still puzzling to her.
It quickly became apparent, however, that there was a fairly strict hierarchy and a shifting system of alliances.
At the top of the pecking order was the Pasha’s mother, Lilla Kebierra, a faded blonde beauty with an air of tragedy about her, and a withered hand like a claw which she normally kept hidden within her robes.
It was some time before Caterina learned that her hand was not withered but shattered – smashed by a pistol ball fired by her son, the present Pasha, when she had had tried, unsuccess fully, to prevent him from murdering his elder brother. And to make it even worse, this terrible crime had been committed within the sanctuary of the harem itself. There was a room which no one ever entered where the murder had been committed, and it was even said that the floor and furnishings were still soaked in the blood of the murdered prince.
Lilla Kebierra had apparently forgiven Yusuf Pasha this atrocity, or was at least officially reconciled with him. But then, as Caterina’s informants told her, what choice did she have?
But although Lilla Kebierra was the official doyen of the harem, the real power lay with the Pasha’s wives.
There were two of them. Lilla Hadrami and Lilla Hamdouchi. Lilla Hadrami was white and Lilla Hamdouchi was black. Otherwise, so far as Caterina was concerned, there was not a great deal to choose between them in terms of spite and petty-mindedness.
They were reckoned to be great beauties – at least by the standards of Ottoman high society, if not by Caterina – and they preferred to be surrounded by beautiful things, provided such things could in no way be construed as a threat.
Caterina and Louisa came into this favo
ured category. They were without any obvious physical defects or deformities, but far too thin to be considered alluring by the Pasha or any of his important male familiars, in the opinion of the wives. This qualified them as handmaidens. So instead of being confined to the role of skivvies – working in the kitchens or cleaning out the bedchambers and the privies – the two women spent a great deal of their time in attendance on the wives and their immediate family circle.
Beneath these close relatives was an amorphous layer of ‘dependants’ who were either vaguely related to the Pasha or were the wives and mothers of men he had murdered and for whom he had generously taken responsibility. Their role seemed to be to look after the spoiled brats that passed for children and to organise and discipline the servants.
The servants were the next layer. They were either Arabs or Africans and they were exclusively Moslem. Beneath them, at the very bottom of the heap, were the slaves, who were all Christian, of course, and did the most menial tasks. There had been four of them before the arrival of the hostages – all Italians – and they became Caterina’s chief informants.
It was through them that she learned why Lilla Kebierra’s left hand resembled a claw and why her hatred of Lilla Hadrami and Lilla Hamdouchi was only surpassed by their hatred of each other.
For if Lilla Kebierra was unable or unwilling to be revenged upon her son, she had no such reservations about his wives. Most of the time she kept her feelings as closely hidden and as clenched as her shattered hand, but she did everything she could to make their lives difficult, if not impossible. The two wives distracted themselves from this torment by tormenting each other. And all cloaked in silk and satin and smiles.
So all things considered, the harem of Yusuf Pasha was not so very different from your average convent in Venice.
The problem, from Caterina’s point of view, was that she was no longer in a position of authority. And though she was a natural-born conspirator, her opportunities in the closed world of the harem were strictly limited. She could not use her beauty to the same devastating effect as she had in the past; she was a despised Christian; and most difficult of all, she could not speak the language, for though she spoke Spanish and Latin, and French and English almost as well as her native Venetian, she had never learned Turkish or Arabic. There was not the call for it in Venice. And without the books she was unable to master more than a few basics.
