"More chores—first the holes in my hose, now the hankie. And I won’t even mention the burrs."
Kate stood up and started waving the wet, little square. The leaves dropped away in pathetic clumps: a treasure no more. Then she felt her teeth start to clench, and she couldn’t stop it. This wasn’t the first time she had seen this. Kate thought of a few weeks ago, before she ended up in prison.
“There is no treasure,” Louis Dumars had assured her. “No sense in telling them that, and no sense in resisting. They will not listen at all. They will break up the place and tear down the art from my walls, then grumble for the loss of the time.”
He had set a white flag with is own neck kerchief. It was small, and it fluttered slightly with the breeze made by so many soldiers rushing by.
Surrender, perhaps, but also a flag of truce. Ignored, tattered and trampled as they ignored Louis’s pleas for them to let her go free.
The emotions of the remembrance rose up in her throat and threatened to overcome her. Kate closed her eyes only to see his face there in her mind once again.
It was all too much. She choked out a sob. “I am not weak, it’s just too much for anyone of good heart and half a brain. Yes, at least half a brain.”
Kate stopped short and took a few deep breaths, blinking the tears from her eyes. Then she started walking in measured determination, counting by threes to stop the random thoughts.
“Three, six, nine—pass another bottle of wine.
Twelve, fifteen, eighteen, and then—
Pass the bottle of rum again.”
That doesn’t quite rhyme. She spent the rest of the trip trying to figure out that instead of counting. Nothing worked, but in a few minutes, she was near the ship.
She stopped with her hands on her hips. "No knots in my skirts, indeed. What on earth shall I wear?"
She had other dresses, but they were serviceable things, meant for life on a ship and foraging for herbs and bark and berries. She had nothing handy but boots anyway, and she hoped there would be no dancing.
There would be no ladies’ shops nearby on the quay, she assumed. Walking up and down might be dangerous business, given thieves, and worse, sailors taking her for a woman of the oldest business.
She didn’t know Plymouth, the town, at all. I could summon a cab and tell the driver to find something, but that meant spending money. It’s not that she didn’t have enough, but she didn’t quite know where.
Kate was not about to go rummaging down to the bottom of her trunk again. Not in the daylight where some random officer of the Royal Navy could challenge her and make her move out. Besides getting the old man in the warehouse in trouble, it would see her back on the Wilde, or worse, in a hotel somewhere.
She had to step aside as a wagon went by. Then she heard somebody yelling: Hessians, craftsmen and carpenters, hired to work on her ship. Nasty foreman, argumentative man, he didn’t like her presence.
She turned to look back toward the warehouse again . . . maybe one of her mother’s gowns? Kate decided that she could bribe one of the wharf-rat boys as a lookout, just as she had bribed some to take back the stolen boat.
She felt in her pocket, but found only a few pennies left, along with the wet and soiled lace hankie. She might as well tend that too. She sighed. “More and more chores.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER 06 - The Mission
Captain Lindsay watched the wharf rats rowing closer. He had been watching them for the last half hour with his foot tapping and his mouth shut tight. He found it amazing that she took the boat, but that was not the issue. That she now had the audacity to have these boys tow it back to him was an added insult. It was like saying that His Majesty's Navy was now subject to the whims of women and boys. The guards who had been lax in their duty last night had been punished, but his own pride was still smarting.
When the pair of boats came alongside, he ordered his first officer, “See to this boat, and make sure it is secured this time. And you now have command, Mr. Tyler. I have a meeting with Vice-Admiral Tobin."
"How long will you be gone, sir? Do you think we will finally get out of here?"
He had known Mr. Tyler a few years. He was never friendly with the man. Neither of them was the type to make friends in that way. Tyler was competent and reliable, but Sir Edward had not seen the spark that would make the man a captain one day. Tyler seemed happy enough in his current position, and there was no shame in that.
He was younger than Sir Edward, but Mr. Tyler was rich enough by now from his service, at least, in his own estimation. That would see him through this war, and then the captain knew Tyler planned to settle in some quiet place in the country, some little place inherited as a younger son. That didn’t mean the man wasn’t keen on his duty now. It just meant that he did it for the profit, not because the sea was in his blood. It also meant the man had other options.
Still, Mr. Tyler had a point, even if his motivation was different. They had been in port only a few days, but there was no end in sight. Many other ships had been here for weeks awaiting new orders. Mr. Tyler, like many others in the crew, preferred to be at sea where profits could be made and homebound burdens avoided, even forgotten.
"That I would also like to know," Sir Edward said. “And get those wharf rats away from my ship.”
Mr. Tyler snickered. "Do you not care to press them into service, sir? That one at the aft looks hearty enough."
Sir Edward thought about it for a moment, but shook his head. "Carry on, Mr. Tyler."
His rowing crew was already in the jolly boat, and Sir Edward felt some relief as he stepped aboard and ordered them off. The boys who brought the boat back were about his age when he first joined the navy. The position was just menial work, nothing challenging or dangerous, and he soon grew bored. He was well educated; his father’s doing, and always had a book nearby. It did not go unnoticed. The officers treated him differently then. They spoke with him sometimes and eventually gave him more responsibility.
Sir Edward’s first long voyage had been to the West Indies. He could still remember the thrill of his last glimpse of Land's End as they eased out of the English Channel and into the open Atlantic. The coast of Cornwall was home. Leaving with that view in sight had double meaning for him: He was now a Navy man heading for the New World, saying goodbye to his childhood along the way.
Deep inside, he felt relief at its passing, but he missed his father more than he expected. And when they hit the high-cresting waves of the open sea right away, he felt so sick he thought he would rather toss himself overboard than face another day.
The storm had been a bad one, the officers claimed, but he suspected it was just to comfort him. Their sympathy only made him feel worse. Luckily, the illness passed quickly. He had never been sick again from the sea—or homesick either.
Years later, on his next trip to the West Indies, his ship was supposed to stay in the Caribbean for only three years. But the American unrest turned into full-scale rebellion. Three years stretched into nearly six as the ship was pulled into the blockade of the American colonies. He had seen little action, but had moved up the ranks through the illness and accidents of others.
On his first call to courage, he had done the right thing. His captain gave him an appointment to midshipman then. The praise gave him confidence, or maybe it was the added years that he hadn't noticed slipping away. From there, it seemed quick and easy. Near the end of the American conflict, he was the master of a ship of his own. It was only a dispatch vessel, but the Sprite was quick and sharp.
When they came to the aid of a frigate under the guns of three French corvettes, it turned the battle in British favor. It was only a little aid, for a dispatch vessel is built for speed, not fighting. But it made the difference. He followed his gut instinct, without reason or warrant, and it served them all very well.
One French corvette was sent to the bottom, but the other two surrendered. They were converted to the service of the Royal Navy. The f
rigate captain died of his wounds, and the war was going badly. Edward Lindsay got command of the frigate and his knighthood in one arbitrary action from the crown in an attempt to improve somebody’s morale.
Sir Edward had followed his gut instinct ever since.
But he had no feeling about what was coming now. That is what disturbed him most. Then there was the woman. His gut told him nothing about her. True, he felt something inside. Curiosity? Perhaps. Annoyance, he was sure. He was trying hard to forget the whole thing.
"I will probably never see her again anyway," the captain mumbled.
"Pardon, sir?" some sailor said.
"Nothing, tie up over there," the captain said roughly.
He got out of the boat and ordered them back to the ship. He had no idea how long he would be, but he knew it would be long enough. Sailors on shore with nothing to do were just trouble waiting to happen. Dockside trollops, drink, gambling, desertion, and abduction by the impress service that had not a care to take from one ship and sell to the other.
The captain saw the boat away, and then caught a carriage to Government House. The Vice-Admiral, Sir Hugh Tobin, was taking morning tea, and already pouring a second cup when Sir Edward came into the study.
"Saw your carriage pull up,” the Vice Admiral said. He was not wearing his uniform jacket. This was his home, and he felt comfortable with the son of one of his oldest friends. “Come in, sit down, have a cup of tea."
"My regrets about dinner last night, Sir Hugh. I was detained."
"I gathered. Was it business or pleasure?"
He didn't know what to say. Some of both? Really neither? It was like nothing he had ever encountered before. He didn't care to comment either way. Vice-Admiral Tobin pointed to Sir Edward's face and laughed. The captain felt himself grow warm with embarrassment.
"I am sorry, my boy, but the look on your face is priceless. Never mind, it was a damned frivolous order and you did not miss much. We would not have had a chance to talk anyway. The veal was sour, and as bad as that was, it only got worse."
"Sir?"
Sir Hugh burped. "Bilious stomachs all the way round. It was not a pleasant evening, and then Millicent had her young ladies sing."
"Ah."
So it was a matchmaking affair. The order to attend was a pressured decree from the Lady, not the officer. Sir Edward was glad that he missed it.
Sir Hugh said, "The woman cannot leave well enough alone. But you probably figured that out by now."
"Yes, sir."
Lady Millicent Tobin was the reigning social power on this stretch of the English shore. There was no use spitting into a hurricane, and they both knew it. At least Sir Edward could escape the torrents of the social season on occasion. Not so with Sir Hugh, and he often showed the strain of that far worse than from the war.
The Vice-Admiral got up and shut the door, then opened a cupboard and pulled out several rolled-up maps. He spread them open on the desk. The top chart was a map of France and the parts of Europe directly beyond its borders. Some areas in France were shaded in red, some in purple, and some were slashed with diagonal lines.
"Know what this is?" Sir Hugh said.
"The colored areas mark the hearts of both revolution and resistance activity. Purple is the Royalist cause; red is the Republican. The hashed marks here and here are the most recent battle fronts with other nations in Europe."
"Excellent, exactly. Know what they mean?"
Sir Edward took a breath and held it for a moment. "If you were looking at this without knowing the details, you would guess that the counter-revolution is actually going quite well."
"And if you know the details?"
Sir Edward drew a circle around the hashed marks with his finger. "First, the French Republic is holding its own in their external conflicts. They have enough support from their experienced military officers to carry on quite effectively.”
Then he tapped the map in the shaded areas of purple. “Second, the Royalists have motivation and heart, but they are not organized. They offer only pockets of resistance, and that is quickly quelled. The most they can hope for is to continue the civil war for years perhaps, but the outcome will be the same.
“Meanwhile, the foreign powers will pick away at French borders, and who knows what will happen for the final balance of European power."
Sir Hugh said quietly, "But taken as a whole, the Royalist cause is lost."
Sir Edward agreed, but none of this was news. The map did put it out so plainly that only a fool would deny what was coming for the fallen French nobility. It was said that the Republicans had strife in their own ranks as well, often fighting such fierce political battles that the end for the loser was a cart ride to the guillotine.
What a terrible waste of time, money, and human life. Not that Sir Edward cared what the French did in their country—it was their own and they were welcome to it. But now that they had dragged England into the fray, it was his fight after all, and he would just as soon get it over with.
"You are a clever man, Edward," the Vice-Admiral said.
The captain blushed.
"Come, come. Your father was one of the wisest men I ever knew, and your mother is clever too, in her own way. It only follows that you should have a good head on your shoulders."
Sir Hugh Tobin had gone to university with Sir Edward's father, who wasn't in the peerage, but whose family had the right access in the form of lots of money. The money was eventually lost to his grandfather’s gambling, but Sir Edward was used to his father’s old school ties treating him with favor he didn't deserve.
In fact, Edward Lindsay had refused the midshipman's commission that his father had offered long before the colonial war broke out. But it turned out that he'd made it on his own. Which made his father and his father's friends all the prouder. Still, Sir Edward knew well enough the benefit of money in any walk of life. It could seldom buy pride or respect, but sometimes it was as impressive as birthright when it came to speaking to your face. Behind your back was always another story.
But it was the comment on his mother that made him the most uncomfortable. The Vice-Admiral didn't seem to notice. "How is your mother, by the way?"
"Tired, last I heard."
Sir Hugh roared in laughter. "She makes Millicent green, she does."
"Your wife is a lady, sir, and has no need to compare, no matter who my mother is married to now."
The Vice-Admiral studied him for a moment. Sir Edward fought the urge to squirm. Just like his father, this man could make him feel like he was ten years old again and waiting for a good tanning for something he did, but should have hid better.
Sir Hugh returned to the map, tapping at it impatiently as he said, "Damned funny business, this."
"Sir?"
"Now instead of fighting the Frogs, we have to make nice to some and war with the rest. Problem is, how to tell a friend from a foe in the bloody thing. You may have noticed, but they all talk the same way."
"Why make friends with either?"
"My enemy's enemy is my friend. Besides, regicide makes kings a nervous lot, same with the aristocracy. Some still have relations there . . . hopefully."
"Point taken, but surely, King George is not concerned—“
"No, of course not. But you must admit, the whole thing is a bad business and a very bad example. Especially coming so soon after we lost the colonies. The Whigs in Parliament are as nervous as starving tomcats waiting to pounce on a skinny rat. They say the Prince of Wales is getting impatient."
King George III was said to sometimes suffer from dementia, and the British Parliament passed the regency bill in 1788, giving the son control while the father still survived, but was not deemed competent enough to govern. Some said the same was also true of the son, and the whole thing was just a matter of politics in Parliament. But now the king was cogent again; and the Prince Regent was again set aside.
"I do not care for politics, I never have. You know that," Sir Edward said.
"You want to know what this meeting is about."
"I do, sir."
"You will not like it," Sir Hugh said with his hands held out as if offering apology.
"I have gathered that already. It would seem like so many other things in this life, I would have no choice but to do my duty."
"Well said, but remind me again after I tell you the plan." The Vice-Admiral waited. Sir Edward glanced up at the prolonged silence.
"More tea?" Sir Hugh said.
"You are stalling.”
"I apologize. It makes me feel dirty, that is all."
"It gets worse and worse," Sir Edward said.
"No sense in prolonging it, I suppose. His Majesty's ministers are interested in helping the Royalists coordinate their efforts. Movement is closely watched in France, the resources are secret and so hard to coordinate . . ."
Sir Hugh lingered over a loud sip of his tea.
Sir Edward said, "It would be easier for them to meet in England and plan over here. Since a great number of them are here for sanctuary anyway, I do not see the problem, though I fail to see the logic. A civil war weakens France, and a weak France is always my preference."
"A weak nation seeks strength elsewhere."
Sir Edward had thought about this before. He said, "Alliances with the Dutch and now possibly with the Spanish or even America. True, but we have seen it coming, and I feel we are prepared for the worst."
"Bravado is always problematic, Edward. So many things can turn against us. Particularly when we have uncertainty within.” He was again referring to the succession, and when that would occur, randomly or permanently. “It is important that our information is timely and accurate."
"I am a sailor, sir, not a politician. What do you want of me and my ship?"
"I have some good news and some bad, my boy. Which would you like first?"
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 6
