by V. E. Ulett
While the first vegetable courses were served Miriam was free to speak to Doctor Polidari, a little, dark, drab and unobtrusive man with a penetrating gaze.
“Oh yes,” Doctor Polidari said, in response to Miriam’s inquiring whether he and Captain Thorpe were acquainted in Edinburgh. “We go back to University days, and even before. I was a correspondent of Maximus’s foster-father. A unique gentleman, ever willing to receive and treat with a foreigner. I knew Maximus when his eyes were the same color.”
Miriam was intrigued by this statement, but before she could make any rejoinder, a burly red faced man across the table, a civilian seated next to Captain Thorpe, declared so loudly as to call everyone’s attention, “Tell us of the bombardment of Algiers, Captain, I understand your ship was there. A glorious action, a stunning victory, by all accounts. But what else is to be expected in an encounter between good English Tars and mere Turks and Arabs.”
The beefy man cast a malignant stare in Miriam and Doctor Polidari’s general direction. Miriam was unsure for whom, exactly, it was meant. The Highland officers stirred uneasily, while the witty banter between Lady Anne and Captain and Lady Losack up table was momentarily suspended.
“I regret to disappoint you, sir.” Captain Thorpe spoke into the waiting silence. “The ship under my command was not present at the actual battle.”
“Quite right, Harriman,” Captain Losack called, “Nonesuch was ordered in after the excitement, in support of the Fleet.”
“Surely the Captain must have heard accounts, from those more fortunate in being upon the scene of glory?” Harriman fired back. “Share one or two anecdotes with us, I beg Captain Thorpe. I hear the Mohammedans were notoriously undisciplined creatures. Nearly as bad as our Hottentots.”
Another rapid and furious glance from Harriman seemed to encompass Miriam, Doctor Polidari, and the black man serving them. This time Miriam felt sure she was merely on the periphery of the man’s malignancy. Captain Thorpe caught Miriam’s eye, and an unhappy concerned look passed between them.
“I...” Captain Thorpe began.
“If it’s the view of the Mohammedans you’re after,” Lady Losack put in, “you may as well ask it of Miss Blackwell. She’s Persian.”
Heads whipped round and everyone stared at Miriam. She clasped her hands together to keep them still in her lap, and returned Lady Losack’s gaze directly, resisting the urge to touch or adjust her hijab.
“What do I care from Persia?” Harriman declared. “We were speaking of the conniving, turban wearing—”
“A glass of wine with you, Captain Thorpe,” Captain Losack called loudly, with a quelling look at the choleric Harriman. “And a toast! Here is to the brilliant success of the Fleet under the estimable Lord Exmouth!”
After everyone drank the toast, each turned with unspoken accord to address their right hand neighbor. Multiple conversations broke out again.
“The freeing of thousands of Christian slaves,” the clergyman on her right said to Miriam, “after the bombardment of Algiers, cannot be viewed as anything but the righting of a great wrong.”
A black man leaned between Miriam and the clergyman, proffering a dish of potatoes and onions. Angry red welts round the man’s wrist were exposed as he extended the platter.
“Oppression of any people, anywhere, must be a great wrong, sir,” Miriam said.
The clergyman sniffed. “I would not go so far as that, madam, for then the discussion becomes a Philosophical one. What constitutes oppression, and what is done for the good of a people. Take our own black tribesmen here in Little Constantia as an example, a more feckless, ignorant, dirty set of heathens was never to be met with—”
“Hear him!” called Harriman. “We Britons are the first race in the world, and the more of it we inhabit the better for the human race.”
“He shall launch next into phrenology,” Doctor Polidari muttered. “God give me patience.”
“It is a well known fact,” Harriman declared, “that the skull of a bushman differs significantly from that of a gentleman.”
“For one,” Polidari said, low and to no one in particular, “it is not scarred and bruised the way a black man’s of this country is like to be.”
Doctor Polidari’s remark went unnoticed by all but Harriman, who glowered mightily. A large dish of mutton cutlets fried with crumbs of bread and pickles was served, followed by tripes, soup and fish, and a final course of great joints of roast mutton and beef. At last Lady Anne invited her guests to take coffee and fruit on the terrace. In the confusion and clatter as the party rose from table Miriam secreted a number of bread rolls in her reticule, into the center of which she’d stuffed hunks of roast mutton.
Miriam was obliged to take a seat near Lady Anne and Lady Losack, as the only other females of the party, while the gentlemen smoked cigars and strolled the plantation grounds. Lady Anne’s little pug dog began to show an eager interest in Miriam.
“Come away, Jules,” Lady Anne cooed, pulling the dog off Miriam’s knees. “It is an impertinent creature, is it not?” She grasped the dog’s head as she spoke to it, even allowing the upturned black muzzle and tongue to wet her cheek.
Miriam and Thrax touched noses, yet such liberties seemed far more repugnant with a dog. Jules, the pug, gave Miriam and her reticule a significant woof, and ran a lolling tongue over an already moist nose and upper lip.
“I beg your pardon for subjecting you to such a dinner, Miss Blackwell,” Lady Anne said of a sudden. “You may have remarked Mr. Harriman’s, ah, antipathy to Doctor Polidari?”
Lady Anne and Lady Losack exchanged a glance, and it was Lady Losack who took up the tale. “Harriman is a considerable land holder in Little Constantia, and Big Constantia too. Doctor Polidari had the effrontery to offer his services in a medical capacity to those unfortunate inmates of Harriman’s Hole. Did you remark the place as you passed this way?”
“I did,” Miriam said, holding her reticule tighter.
“Mr. Harriman is a gross man,” Lady Anne put in softly, “and received Doctor Polidari’s suggestion in the most ill-tempered and froward manner. Mr. Harriman cannot be made to understand if he insults Doctor Polidari, he offends his entire regiment.”
“Doctor Polidari is the much esteemed surgeon of the Thirty-First,” Lady Losack told Miriam. “An eminent hand with a lancet or scalpel, top of his college at Edinburgh, but he was born in Constantinople.”
Miriam tried to keep her many feelings from showing on her face, her instant understanding of the root of all those menacing glares from Harriman at table, and her wonder at the two ladies with whom she sat for bringing these men together.
“Was this dinner an attempt at peace-making?” Miriam said.
“Just so!” Lady Anne cried. “How perceptive you are, Miss Blackwell. But it has gone terribly wrong, I’m afraid.”
Ill judged and ill managed was how Miriam would have put it. Why had these women allowed the aggrieved parties to sit near one another, while they held a separate confabulation at their end of the table?
“Some people just do not understand what it is to be oppressed.” Lady Losack inclined her head to Miriam. “I suppose you should be very glad to be told you need not go about showing only this much of your face.” With her hands, Lady Losack framed her own face as though wearing the veil.
Miriam glanced down, and thought of what Doctor Polidari said earlier. God give me patience.
“No, I should not be glad, ma’am,” Miriam said, “for no one tells me what I must or must not wear. Do they you?”
Lady Anne snickered. Lady Losack was dressed, as was her custom, in an extraordinary way. She wore a long naval style jacket in blue broadcloth with gold lace, an epaulette on each shoulder, with her gown and petticoats underneath.
Lady Losack reared back, taking hold of her brass buttoned lapels, primed to return fire. But she was cut off by Mr. Harriman stomping up to them on the terrace. He came in company with Captain Losack to take his leave. Mir
iam rose and retreated, unremarked by any of the important people.
She and Captain Thorpe were among the last to escape. Miriam took the opportunity of bringing up the end of the line to thank their hosts, to cram several oranges left on the coffee tables into the top of her reticule. Eventually they emerged on to the sunlit front porch, facing the track that passed before the plantation house. Most of the Highland officers were mounted up and away, but a few stragglers still awaited their horses. The pony trap Captain Thorpe had engaged was held by a black man at the bottom of the steps.
“I don’t give two bloody shits for those wooly headed black bastards, or for you, you misbegotten brown pill-driving bugger!”
This vulgarity was flung out into the tranquil afternoon air by a flushed and furious Harriman. The big beefy man and Doctor Polidari were standing toe to toe in the carriageway. Captain Thorpe ran down the steps toward them, extending his arm out to Miriam as though to hold her off.
“Will you answer for that, sir?” Doctor Polidari shouted.
Harriman reached out a ham sized fist and knocked Doctor Polidari’s hat from his head. Doctor Polidari stepped back and in one elegant motion drew his sword with a whoosh. The Highland officers moved toward the pair. Captain Thorpe was nearest the combatants.
“Draw, sir, draw!” Doctor Polidari cried. “Or I shall skewer you like the beast you are. Maximus! Take that fine young woman away, right away from here. You know what is said of pearls and swine!”
The two men circled one another with swords drawn, the Highland officers forming a line at a respectful distance from the duel. Captain Thorpe hastened up the steps and took Miriam’s arm. He practically lifted her into the trap, took his seat, and started the horse in motion.
Miriam was incredulous Captain Thorpe should rush off and leave his friend. She turned round in her seat. Doctor Polidari dashed forward and in two quick passes opened Harriman’s shirt front, making it blossom red. Then Miriam remembered: Dueling, Edinburgh.
“How fairs Polidari?” Captain Thorpe asked. “Has he killed his mon yet?”
Doctor Polidari emerged from a tight clench with Harriman. Harriman flew backward, landed on his back, and found the Doctor’s foot on his wounded chest and a sharp sword point at his throat.
Miriam faced forward on her seat.
“He will no kill the brute,” Captain Thorpe said. “Don’t let that trouble you. Polidari is a medical man. Harriman shall have to beg the good doctor’s pardon, and if he don’t, well...”
“Then it shall be Harriman in the hole,” Miriam said.
Captain Thorpe laughed aloud, one bark of laughter only before he contained himself. Thinking perhaps of the bloody encounter left behind, he said gravely, “There would be justice, Harriman in his own hell hole of a prison. But that shall never happen, he would have to change his skin colour, or this country would have to change entirely.” Captain Thorpe paused, and glanced at Miriam out of the corner of his eye. “Pardon me for using course language, Miss Miriam, and indeed for bringing you into unfit company to-day.”
Miriam hardly knew what to say, he didn’t know the half of it. And why they—Captain Thorpe and Mr. Dashwood—should feel responsible for any of it, or for her, both puzzled and annoyed her.
“Stop the carriage, if you please, Captain!”
The horse was moving at a steady pace, but Captain Thorpe easily brought the animal up. They’d arrived at the outermost edge of Harriman’s Hole, near the part of the corral where the women and children were earlier. Miriam stood up in the trap and scanned the enclosure, spotting the little group in the shade cast by the late afternoon sun behind the fencing.
“I had hoped to reach them from here,” Miriam said, and then jumped down from the carriage.
“Hold hard, Miss,” Captain Thorpe called after her. “What are you about?”
Miriam moved past an unoccupied guard tower, until she was level with the women and children. Taking from her reticule one of the rolls stuffed with lamb, Miriam hurled it over the fence. There was a startled cry from the group of women and children, and then shouts were heard in the distance.
Captain Thorpe sprang up beside her. “Give those to me,” he said, “you throw like a little wee lassie.”
She pulled the oranges and bread rolls from her bag, and Captain Thorpe fired them over the fence. Miriam studied the action of his throwing arm.
“Now, Miss, run! Look, as they are doing.” Captain Thorpe pointed to the group running away with their morsels, to a remoter part of the yard.
Miriam sprang unladylike onto the carriage seat. Captain Thorpe followed and flicked the reins over the horse. Someone shouted at them in a guttural tone. As they passed, a string of bedraggled men filed out of the main building of Harriman’s Hole and into the corral toward the horrible triangles and posts. The women and children might be able to eat their small portions, while the guards were distracted with beating their husbands, fathers, or brothers.
“Thank you, Captain Thorpe, I am obliged to you. I do throw like a...lassie.”
“You must forgive me, I was in an agony lest the horse wander away and we afoot in this god forsaken country.”
“You will be happy to return to Nonesuch,” Miriam said. After a moment’s hesitation, during which he seemed to hold his breath beside her, she added with perfect truth, “And so shall I.”
It was a companionable return journey until they reached Cape Town. Captain Thorpe’s posture suddenly stiffened as they drove past the Lutheran Church and the public library, painted white, yellow, and green, with a profusion of frolicking wooden gods and goddesses decorating the gable above a balustrade. A clear view of the anchorage in Table Bay opened up to them.
They left the horse and trap with its owner, one Mr. Strombom, and proceeded on foot. Unhappy rumbling noises were escaping Captain Thorpe, as they passed a gallows erected near the parade ground before the quay. Purple-black clouds tinged the color of tea at the edges were racing toward Cape Town and Table Bay, filling the sky from far out in the Atlantic. The weather had turned threatening, and so had Captain Thorpe’s mood. Miriam couldn’t account for the change in the affable companion of earlier, to the man walking beside her with clenched jaw, and a kindled, almost furious look in his mismatched eyes.
Captain Thorpe’s gaze was concentrated on the ships at anchor. Miriam saw nothing unusual in the scene nor in Nonesuch, the ship’s true character was well hidden. Indeed to her, there was a great deal of beauty in the sight of Nonesuch and the other ships in the Bay. But he was turning red in the face as they hustled toward the quay. Wearily, Miriam wondered if there was to be more bloodshed this day.
She was determined not to interfere, to refrain from asking what was vexing him. She would be silent, be modest, and hope she was not be the one Captain Thorpe blew up on.
“He is flying the Blue Peter!” Captain Thorpe cried, when Nonesuch was in full view. “Do you see, Miss Miriam, the blue flag with a white rectangle at its centre? Hoisting that signal means the ship is ready to sail. It is done to recall all hands, something only the ship’s captain may order. Your Mr. Dashwood overreaches, so he does.”
“He is not my Mr. Dashwood.” Miriam replied, before she’d fully considered.
“Nay?” Captain Thorpe halted in his headlong rush to the ship. He turned to her, quite a changed expression on his face, the storm clouds receding.
“Perhaps this blue flag is only due to the weather,” Miriam said.
Captain Thorpe tilted his head back and studied the sky and clouds, then squinted at her. “Oh aye, the weather. Did ye think I had not noticed?”
After saying this in a kind, almost jovial tone, Captain Thorpe offered Miriam his arm. They proceeded at a gentler pace to the quay, Miriam unsure what took the sting out of that blue peter.
Chapter Nine
Maximus’s head ached from the long weary day, and the effort of restraining himself from cuffing Mr. Dashwood about the ears.
“I have great
respect for your abilities as a navigator, Mr. Dashwood, and for your skill with the Mechanism,” Maximus said. “What you will not be considering is the terrible cold it is rounding the Cape of Good Hope.”
“But the lift, sir, this storm promises—”
“Aye. The ascent will be a thing of beauty. And once we are aloft, the flotation will ice over and we shall come down like a lead balloon, throwing out the guns, stores, and the buckles of our shoes to slow our crash.” Maximus grimaced and motioned with his head. Miriam sat on the stern lockers, her back half turned as though she was not attending to their conversation. She drew Thrax closer to her.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Mr. Dashwood said, following the direction of Maximus’s concerned gaze. “I had not considered—”
“No, indeed, Mr. Dashwood, I perceive you had not. May I just mention that if ever you have a notion to fly the Blue Peter at Nonesuch’s masthead again without her captain aboard, there shall be consequences.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Mr. Dashwood flushed and stared at his own pair of silver buckled shoes.
Maximus heaved a great sigh, disliking the tension and constraint between them. “In this instance it is almost fortunate you did fly the Blue Peter, Mr. Dashwood,” he said. “For if we don’t up anchor and away this very moment, we shall find ourselves trapped in Table Bay.”
Miriam rose and crossed the cabin with Thrax in her arms. After curtseying to them both she turned to enter her sleeping cabin, touching noses with Thrax and then kissing the top of the furry head.
Maximus felt like he’d been hit in the bread basket with the business end of a cudgel. It was a long time since anyone kissed him. He gave a little ahem. “Time won’t wait, nor tide show mercy, Mr. Dashwood. Let us be about it.”
Mr. Dashwood had to admit that Captain Thorpe was right; rounding the Cape of Good Hope it was one squall after another, bringing heavy rain and sleet. Once round the Cape though, he was able to guide them reading the Mechanism as no one else could do—or so he fancied—into the southern Indian Ocean. This was Mr. Dashwood’s third aerial cruise. The second one was when they’d ascended in the vicinity of the islands of Amsterdam and St. Paul, those remote volcanic island outcroppings stuffed with seals, penguins, and mermaids. The ship was carried at a tremendous rate by the variables from there to Van Diem’s land and New South Wales.
