‘But why so many for the Channel? Surely more could be sent to America, in view of the situation?' Thomas protested. Chelmsford gave a grim sort of smile.
‘And leave the Channel unprotected? My dear young man, do you know how many ships Estaing has, to say nothing of the Spanish fleet? And divided between Brest and Toulon, they cannot even be properly blockaded -they could slip out into the Atlantic at any moment.'
‘True,' Thomas said gloomily. 'And where in the world will we get the men to man these new ships? With no more American sailors to be had, and half the West India fleet suffering from either fever or scurvy—'
‘Or both,' Chelmsford put in. 'And the army competing for the same men - even a hot press may not round up enough for skeleton crews. But we shall soon have other troubles as severe. Supplies, now - Sandwich was telling me today that the timber for masts comes from America, and where are we to turn to now?'
‘The Baltic, perhaps?' Thomas suggested. Chelmsford shook his head.
‘Relations are very delicate there. We do not know which way the Russians will turn, and the Swedes have always been difficult, though they call themselves neutral. Well, at least with France in the war the Government's unpopularity has eased somewhat, and the Opposition's guns are spiked. But poor North would give a limb or two to be out of it. He tried again to persuade the King to let Chatham take over, but His Majesty remains adamant. He won't have Chatham at any price. One has to admire him, you know.'
‘Chatham?'
‘No, the King. He sticks to his guns. And he still believes we shall succeed in America, and won't even think of granting independence. It's a sore subject. You know North sent to treat with this fellow Franklin in Paris? Offered him everything except independence, and Franklin said independence was the only thing he wanted. Most peculiar looking fellow, Franklin. Did you see him when he was in London? Goes about dressed as a farmer. Wears a fur hat with a tail hanging down the back, as if he was
going to a masque. Though the way he's fêted in Paris, I daresay his life is one long series of masques.’
There was a silence, in which Thomas, through an inevitable association with the word masque, thought of Flora. It was evident that Chelmsford's mind ran that way too, for he said, almost apologetically, 'It's a pity Mrs Thomas Morland didn't know you were to be in London again today, or I'm sure she wouldn't have gone. It is only a private party at Mrs Montague's, to hear the new soprano. The young people, you know, want always to be doing. They have not yet learnt the joys of sitting by one's own fireside. But my son is with her, and she will be quite safe.'
‘Of course,' Thomas said, making an effort to be polite. ‘I am glad she has the opportunity to be amused. A sailor's wife is often forced to be solitary.'
‘She is very much loved, wherever she goes,' Chelmsford said, smiling. 'My wife and I dote on her, and wish we had the opportunity of seeing more of her. But, dear me, she is always at something or other. She is always in demand.'
‘Yes,' said Thomas shortly. He did not need to be told that. Whenever he walked up from Whitehall Steps to Pall Mall, he knew the chances were that Flora would be 'just this minute gone out - but expected back some time or other'.
‘By the way,' Chelmsford said after a moment, 'you seem to have made a good impression on Parker - Sir Peter Parker, I mean.'
‘Indeed? I am glad to hear it.'
‘Yes, Sandwich was telling me after the levee today that Parker said he has a vacancy for a midshipman, and was wondering whether our young cousin William might like to transfer to his ship. I said I thought he would be delighted. Life on a three-decker is not as exciting for a young man, I know, as life on a dashing little frigate or sloop, but—'
‘It would be a wonderful thing for his career,' Thomas said, cheering considerably. He was very fond of young William. 'I have the highest opinion of him,' he added. Chelmsford nodded sagely.
‘And it is such a compliment to you, too.'
‘I hadn't thought of that,' Thomas said.
‘Mind you, I wouldn't be surprised if Aylesbury didn't have something to do with it. You know he thinks the world of Mrs Thomas Morland, and Parker's wife is sister to Aylesbury's wife's cousin, who is a permanent secretary at the Admiralty.'
‘I see,' said Thomas. Chelmsford cocked an eye at him. ‘It is the way these things are done, my dear,' he said.
‘It's the way of the world. You mustn't mind it.'
‘No, of course not,' said Thomas.
*
In April Lord Carlisle at last achieved his desire to be employed as an ambassador by the Government, and was sent to America to treat for peace with the Patriots, though when Thomas heard he was not to be allowed to discuss independence with the rebels, he had little hope the mission would succeed. Ariadne was to take his lordship's party to New York, and Thomas welcomed him on board with more than official warmth, as a friend of Allen and Jemima, who, in genuine kindness of heart, had taken the trouble to offer his services to Morland Place in carrying letters to Thomas. From these Thomas, who had not been able to go back to Morland Place since December, learnt that Edward had surprised and somewhat dismayed them all by declaring a desire to read for the Church; that James had frightened them out of their wits by falling from the roof of the kennels, where he had been climbing unlawfully, and breaking his arm; that little Louisa had just completed her first sampler, though the stitches were very large and loose, and was beginning to learn French from Father Ramsay who thought everyone ought to know it; and that Jemima hoped she was pregnant again, but was not yet entirely certain.
For a moment, as he read the letter in the seclusion of the lee side of the quarterdeck, the grey and choppy Channel and the familiar sights and sounds of a naval vessel faded away, and he saw in his mind's eye with painful clarity the warmth and peace and busy-ness of Morland Place, the children growing up, the work of the estate going on around them, and Allen and Jemima celebrating their love for each other in another child. He smiled at the picture, rejoicing that Flora would be there to share it, safe under the eye of the woman who had been almost a mother to her, far from the glittering temptations of London and society. For Flora, trying hard not to sulk about it, had been sent off home for the rest of the year at least, to be fixed in Yorkshire by maternity. Thomas, during that Christmas at Wolvercote, had managed to make her pregnant again, and was setting sail for New York with far greater peace of mind than he had anticipated.
They made a quick passage to New York, arriving in May, with orders for the British army to evacuate Philadelphia, and for the soldiers to be dispersed to the West Indies and Florida. The theatre of war was shifting, and with the entry of the French into the conflict it had been decided to concentrate the attack on the French possessions in the West Indies in the hope of diverting their forces and keeping them occupied. Sir Henry Clinton was now commander-in-chief, and he decided to march the men across New Jersey to New York for the embarkation, since large ships would not be able to get up the river as far as Philadelphia. Thomas was ordered to take Ariadne up the river to Philadelphia to take off supplies and the three thousand refugees from the Patriot army who had come in during that bitter winter. They had terrible tales to tell of the hardship the Patriot army had suffered at Valley Forge, where lack of supplies had led to disease and famine, and the savage cold and the lack of proper clothes, sometimes even shoes, had led to terrible cases of frostbite, many of them losing feet or limbs.
Thomas took his quota of refugees up to New York where they were to await the main body of the army coming by land, delivered Clinton's reports to Admiral Arbuthnot commanding the squadron at New York, and was immediately sent home to England again by the Admiral with despatches. It was the usual round, the predictable circuit for a small fast ship in time of war, and Thomas was resigned to it. When he made his number at the Admiralty, however, he was summoned before the First Lord and once more found Sir Maurice Suckling with him. Suckling greeted Thomas kindly, despite being evidently unwell
-he looked pale and drawn and tired.
‘I want your opinion, Captain Morland, of the coppering,' Suckling said, when the preliminary reports had been made. 'How do you find Ariadne handles? Would you speak in favour of coppering?’
Thomas said that he would, and a technical discussion ensued, at the end of which the First Lord consulted some papers on the table in front of him and Thomas waited in patient silence on his pleasure.
‘You have been a long time on the West India station,' he said at last. It was not a question, and Thomas remained silent. Suckling looked up with a faint smile. 'We are well aware that young captains regard it as a good station. My own nephew has just been sent there, made lieutenant into the Lowestoft, and not all the tales of yellow fever could dissuade him from thinking it the best. Prize money is the lure, easier to attain in the West Indies than in Europe.'
‘So I understand, sir,' Thomas said neutrally.
‘You have been fortunate in your health, Captain? The fever has not claimed you amongst its victims.' It was a statement from the First Lord, rather than a question. ‘No, sir.'
‘But then, you have not been fortunate in the matter of prize money,' Suckling added. All the information was there in those papers before them.
‘No, sir,' Thomas said. It was not necessary to tell Suckling why - a ship used to take despatches back and forth had no chance of single-ship action which might lead to the capture of a prize.
‘Well, Captain, a change might be beneficial for you,' the First Lord said, looking up again, and folding his hands before him. 'The Isabella has been refitting at Spithead, and while we had her in dry dock we took the opportunity to copper her. You are to proceed with all speed to Portsmouth and take command of her. Here are your orders - you'll be joining the Channel fleet under Admiral Keppel. You had better travel post. We need our ships at sea, not in dock.'
‘Aye aye, sir,' Thomas said. He was a little bewildered with the speed of events. 'Thank you, sir.'
‘I am sure you will justify our trust in you, Captain. A number of people have your welfare at heart, it seems. Isabella is a thirty-six-gun frigate, so you may well have a chance to prove yourself in action. I hope you do. I have a presentiment that the navy is going to need fighting captains before long.’
Thomas, his orders in his hand, hurried back to the waterside, where he took a pair of oars back to the Ariadne. He had barely time to pack his dunnage if he was to take a post-coach that night; little time remained for explaining to his officers and saying goodbye to them, after their four years together. He took a last look round the tiny cabin, which had been his home for so long, and felt a foolish constriction in his throat. There was a knock at the door at that moment, and he had to cough before he could say ‘Come in'.
It was the midshipman of the watch. 'Mr Blake's compliments, sir, and there's a shore boat coming off, with an officer aboard. Mr Blake thinks it will be our new captain, sir.'
‘Very well,' he dismissed the boy, and decided there was just time for one more task, if he was to wait and greet the new captain. He sat down at his desk - his no longer - and scribbled a note.
‘Dearest Flora, in great haste, on my way to the coach, I write to tell you that I am going to Portsmouth to take command of the Isabella, 36, a great step forward which I know you will rejoice in, though I am sorry to leave my dear Ariadne with such short notice. I am to join the Channel fleet, so I hope you will have more frequent news of me than hitherto. Look in the newspapers for mention of me, for I hope to bring glory to the name of Morland. At least, I trust I will never cease to deserve the love and respect of my wife and children, whom I trust think of me and pray for me as often as I for them. Ever your loving husband, Thos. Morland.’
He sealed it and wrote the direction on the outside, and was hastily scattering sand over the wet ink when the bosun's calls shrilled their warning that the new captain had arrived. Thomas hurried on deck.
The new captain was coming through the entry port, his hand at his hat in acknowledgement of the compliment. He was a young man with a swarthy face and black hair in lovelocks, and the lithe walk of a cat.
‘Captain Morland?' he inquired, his eyes going straight to Thomas's gold lace.
‘Captain Thomas Morland at your service, sir,' Thomas said.
‘Captain Hannibal Harvey at yours, sir. I am ordered to take command of the Ariadne.' The young man grinned irrepressibly, his teeth looking very white in his pirate's face, and Thomas, from his own memories, guessed how delighted he must be to be appointed to such a new and lovely ship.
Harvey read himself in, and Thomas said, 'Welcome aboard, Captain. You'll find her everything you've hoped, I am sure.'
‘Will you do me the honour, sir, of taking dinner with me, and telling me all about her?' Harvey said genially. 'If you don't think it indelicate for the second husband to ask the first husband about the wife's habits.’
Thomas smiled. 'Nothing would please me more, but alas I am ordered to Portsmouth at all speed, and must take your shore boat up the river if I am to get to Charing Cross in time for the coach.’
Harvey bowed his consent. 'I regret that we shall not have the opportunity to become acquainted, then, sir. But time and tide and the Admiralty wait for no man.'
‘It is the fortune of war,' Thomas said, equally solemnly, and was glad that he was leaving Ariadne in the hands of a captain he felt he could have liked very much.
*
It was a peaceful summer at Morland Place, and Flora, after an initial tendency to complain of boredom, slowed her pace to that of the burgeoning countryside, and allowed herself to drowse through the days, swelling alongside Jemima and an estimated two months ahead of her. Nothing could ever quite make Jemima rest, but Flora became positively lazy, rising late in the morning, idling away an hour or two dressing and drinking chocolate before joining Jemima for her daily walk in the gardens.
She interested herself in what interested Jemima -Allen's doings, the state of the horses, and the health of the children all taking a higher place than the state of the nation in their talk. Whether Allen should renew the licence for the Bear and Staff, which everybody knew was little better than a brothel, and watered its ale into the bargain; whether Helios's tendon would go down in time for the race at Wetherby; whether James's arm was sound enough for him to be allowed to take part in the cricket match at the midsummer fair; these were the matters of burning interest that summer.
The midsummer fair in itself was topic for endless conversations, for Jemima and Allen had decided that this year they would make it a very grand celebration. There had always been a certain amount of merrymaking at Morland Place at midsummer, both because it was an old traditional fair day, and because it marked the end of shearing. But this year Allen, on account of being Justice of the Peace, and Sir Allen, thought a more public event would be appropriate.
The cricket match was but one part of it, and was to take place on the open ground in front of the house in the morning. Cricket had been vastly improved of late years by the introduction of proper rules, and a third stump to the wicket, and a straight instead of a curved bat, and in some parts of the country it had become as popular as racing, and the subject of as many and as enormous bets. Jemima did not want their cricket match to be compared with anyone else's and found wanting, and so she had persuaded Allen to make it a competition between the village girls and the village boys, all to be under the age of sixteen. They were to be dressed all in white, and there were to be prizes for the winning team, provided by Allen. But nothing in the world could ever stop Yorkshire men betting, and already there was fierce wagering, not only on which team would win, but on how many notches each side would score, and in how many hours and minutes, and many a purse had been promised by way of bribery to improve the performance of the fancied team. The girls had been practising fiercely for weeks on Clifton Ings, while the boys had got together in the field behind St Edward's School, but since the latter team had spent most of their time su
rreptitiously smoking and boasting of how easily they were going to beat the girls, Jemima was secretly afraid there would be no competition.
The vexed question of whether James should be allowed to risk his newly-healed arm by playing in the match was decided one morning when a deputation of boys came to Allen at Morland Place, just as he was finishing his petty sessions, and begged him to allow it. James, in some way mysterious to Jemima, made himself popular wherever he went, and the boys' team embarrassed Allen in front of his tenants by suggesting that they would refuse to play altogether if James were not allowed to play with them.
‘That boy is born to be hanged,' Allen said to Jemima afterwards. 'I can only think he has bribed the team to beg for him.'
‘I don't know how he does it,' Jemima sighed. Edward was home for the summer, but despite his public-school advantages, he had not been asked to play. Jemima felt rather sorry for Edward, who was continually being put in the shade by his younger brother. James, at eleven years old, was ravishingly beautiful, and had the entire staff of Morland Place in slavery to him, and had even bewitched Father Ramsay to the extent that the priest rarely beat him, and then only reluctantly and with the most half-hearted strokes. As it was a known fact that boys only learned through being beaten, it was obvious that James would grow up entirely ignorant, but equally obvious that it wouldn't matter a bit, since he could make his way in the world very well indeed with no discernible talents.
It was a few days before the fair that Jemima went to find Flora, and being told that she was still in her chamber, laboured up the stairs to the West Bedroom, wondering how Flora could bear to be indoors on such a heavenly day. Jemima had been up since six in order to hear first Mass and take breakfast with Allen before he rode away to York for a meeting of the Turnpike Trust, which was making a determined effort to improve all the local roads, not just the London road. Since he left, she had interviewed Mrs Mappin, labouring under the delusion that it was necessary to give the housekeeper orders about the monthly wash and the necessity of making enough candles for the dinner on midsummer night; had comforted Abram for the loss of his favourite cat, who had eaten too many black beetles and died of a ruptured stomach, and persuaded him that Mrs Mappin had certainly not fed the beetles to Malkin on the sly. She had spoken to the laundress about washing her lace, and to the sewing maids about getting Miss Flora's dress finished in time for her to try it on before the day. She had picked and arranged the flowers for the Lady chapel, taken a piece of bread out to Poppy in the home paddock so that she should not feel neglected, dealt with four callers, written a note to Lady Marjorie and sent it with a basket of early gooseberries over to Shawes, and requested God-den, the kennelman, to look out for a prettily-marked kitten for Abram, who was a man who needed something to love.
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