Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea

by Kage Baker

  Shortly before sunset, Mrs. Corvey looked them over and pronounced everyone as ready as they could be. She and Lady Beatrice looked iconic in the westering light: Lady Beatrice as red and white and grey-eyed as a classical goddess, and Mrs. Corvey herself as a rather more mundane shadow. The rest of the Ladies were considerably less noticeable.

  “We look like romantic gypsy wenches,” commented Mrs. Otley, surveying them all.

  “Or tinkers’ girls,” said Jane, and essayed a few jig steps.

  “Slip out one at a time, now, and use the stable exit,” instructed Mrs. Corvey. “You do like like something from Mr. Gay’s opera—and we don’t want any attention. Maude, do you have your clicker?”

  “I do, Mrs. C.” Maude showed a cloth bag about her neck, wherein lay a clicker. Its mate lay in Mrs. Corvey’s bosom.

  “Herbertina?”

  “Arrangements all made and ready, ma’am.” Herbertina tugged her cap subserviently.

  Mrs. Corvey nodded sharply, satisfied. “Luck to you, my dears. Mind yourselves, now.”

  One by one, each of them wished good fortune to the others as well, and went silently down the outside stairs. They scattered in all directions, so as not to make their way in an obvious group, and set out one by one for the beach.

  Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey waited patiently by lamplight. Domina, left behind, whined at the closed door and settled in her basket to wait.

  No sooner had Herbertina, the last to leave, vanished down the back stairs than footsteps were heard ascending from the front. Jenny the parlor-maid knocked at the door to announce the expected carriage had arrived.

  It was a closed carriage tonight, rather than the open-topped barouche, and Mr. Pickett had sent it along without his own attendance. The coachman assured them, though, that he was waiting for them at the Sceptre’s mooring, and bowed them in.

  The interior was sumptuous, and a corsage of roses lay on the back seat. Lamps on gimbals glowed on the walls, lighting the coach like a tiny ship’s cabin. Mounted over the forward seat, however, Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey were startled to observe a long-barreled musket and accoutrements. Lady Beatrice examined it before she sat down.

  “It takes Minie balls, and is loaded,” she told Mrs. Corvey, “though I cannot tell if it has been rifled.”

  “Must be an American custom,” observed Mrs. Corvey. She patted her own reticule, where a small derringer resided, and said, “Best to keep your weapons to hand, not strewn about the place. Anyone could seize that up.”

  They rode on in silence a few moments before she added, thoughtfully, “Let’s keep it in mind, then, eh?”

  It was not a long ride; they had already learned that the Sceptre did not lie at anchor near Mr. Pickett’s house (nor the suspicious cottages and sea-caves) but rather on the far side of the New Breakwater, in a small cove. The carriage rattled along what appeared to be new-laid gravel, and then out into a smooth path through a meadow; they descended to the level of a small shingle beach along a fresh new path filled with the scents of the sea and cut grass.

  “Very rural,” said Mrs. Corvey dryly. “Quite a pleasaunce he has hidden away here.”

  “There is a pier, though,” said Lady Beatrice, peering through the window. “And I see a vessel, which must be the Sceptre; the mooring area is very well lit.”

  Indeed it was—a sturdy new pier stretched out into the protected waters of the little cove, boasting paired standing lamps. A lovely two-masted schooner was moored at the end. She swarmed with men and was evidently upon the very point of putting to sea; she seemed to quiver with impatience as moving shadows cast from the pier-side lanterns danced over her. Her bowsprit was carved as an eponymous scepter, long as a man and bound in brass: more a mace than a scepter, really, and more an unlikely visual pun than anything else.

  “D’you suppose he really doesn’t know what that says?” wondered Mrs. Corvey in amusement.

  “Do many of our patrons?” asked Lady Beatrice.

  “No, not really. There’s none better at self-deception than little men,” said Mrs. Corvey, “unless it’s romantic girls.

  “Lord, what a coat!” she exclaimed then, as Mr. Pickett came striding along the pier toward the carriage.

  Like Juliet, he seemed to make the torches burn brighter—not by overwhelming beauty, but by the contrast of his scarlet coat with everything behind him. It was longer, brighter, redder than his previous pirate king’s costume—ornamented with gold at shoulder, cuff and pocket, too, and swirling round his legs like a bloody tide.

  The driver leaped down and opened the carriage door as Mr. Pickett strode down off the pier. Lady Beatrice, rather than waiting to be handed out, saw a dramatic opening—she promptly stepped down and out into the mingled shadow and lamplight, and stood there motionless with her arms

  outstretched in welcome.

  When Mr. Picket swept her into his arms, the scarlet of their clothes mingled in a seamless match.

  The holiday hours spent shopping and walking through Torquay had given all the Ladies a thorough knowledge of its alleys and byways. There were a dozen well-nigh invisible ways down to the shore, and they slipped along them like so many cats. So long as they stayed off the main streets they were unlikely to be remarked, anyway. As Lady Beatrice had noted, people see what they expect to see. In sleepy, respectable Torquay—a seaside holiday destination for invalids and families—no one expected to see so many women slinking through the streets by night. Simply, no one saw them at all.

  There were considerable lights and activity at the commercial wharfs, where the fishing boats and freights vessels docked. This was Herbertina’s first stop, where she went up to a ship loading great bales of raw wool. It was nearly done; only a few carters still stood about, their empty carts tufted bizarrely from their loads. Herbertina went to the smallest—a single horse, its head held by an exhausted-looking boy—and handed the lad a gold coin. The boy handed Herbertina the reins. Herbertina drove away.

  If anyone noticed, they would have seen one nameless boy pick up an empty cart at the end of a freight run, from another nameless boy. Odds were no one saw. And if they did, the ship was leaving on the hour for Australia. So simple.

  Mrs. Corvey’s plan was mostly simple—so simple, indeed, that for ordinarily-equipped women it would not have worked. They were relying on this to provide cover for them, as neither Mr. Pickett nor his private navy would reasonably expect a direct attack upon the steam gun platform. They expected to sally forth from their sea-caves, hidden by darkness and distance, and encounter their prey far out in the Channel. Perhaps close enough for the fireworks and dragon’s breath of the steam cannon to be seen—Mrs. Corvey was not sure of that, but she was sure Mr. Pickett did like an audience—but certainly far enough out that Le Cygne Impériale was without succor.

  The Ladies, however, meant to encounter the submarine gun platform fresh from its lair, if not still within it. They would disable it within sound of the surf, where neither its crew nor master would expect opposition. The Swan would sail on unknowing.

  Whistling, Herbertina drove out to where the town lights dimmed and the beach was dark and silent. Just north of the base of the Breakwater, half a dozen shadows slipped from the roadside and stood waiting. Herbertina slowed the plodding horse to a halt. The shadows tossed in bundles, and began to climb into the cart.

  “What a pretty boy!” said one. “Want to come with us and do something you’ve never done before?”

  Herbertina tugged her cap brim, grinning. “Why, I’d like that, I am sure. Will I get home to mother in good time, though?”

  “Oh, I doubt it very much,” said Dora, clambering up on the seat.

  “Sounds jolly!” said Herbertina. They drove on.

  Mr. Pickett was in a high state of excitement, color blazing in his cheeks to match his scarlet coat. He had greeted Mrs. Corvey with high good humor—especially since she could not have “seen” his welcoming embrace of Lady Beatrice—and led both ladies abo
ard with a firm proprietary air. His hands trembled, though; they could both feel the tremor like a current in his flesh.

  The Sceptre really was a royal pleasance, an exquisite pleasure craft. At the same time, she was obviously trim and efficient; Lady Beatrice knew little about ships (and Mrs. Corvey knew less), but it was clear to even a casual eye that the crew and fittings were superb. The crew greeted Mr. Pickett with respect and affection both, which indicated he was a competent master; they set to on departure as soon as he led his guests aboard.

  The first order of business was the owner’s tour, and Mr. Pickett was delighted to show off his pride and joy. He displayed the four-pound cannons at bow and stern with no comment on their utter unsuitability on a civilian craft; nor did Lady Beatrice do more than murmur appreciation of their fine crafting. As Mr. Pickett obviously assumed that she now knew all his plans and approved thoroughly, all it was necessary to do was listen to him. No questions were needed, which might have revealed how much she inexplicably did know. As usual, a smile and an approving murmur sufficed as conversation with Mr. Pickett.

  Mrs. Corvey clung to his arm and asked occasional querulous questions as he led them round the deck. Mr. Pickett revealed an inclination to pat her arm and say, “Don’t you worry, Mother!”

  Lady Beatrice idly calculated the odds of his ending up gun-shot or over-sides before the evening was out.

  A brief turn about the deck, though—and a grinning aside that Lady Beatrice would “soon know all!”—and he led them down to the main cabin. This, like the carriage, was a small snug jewel box, filled with lamplight. The center panel of the casement bow windows over the built-in bunk was open, letting a soft breeze in. There was a table set for three in the center, with the usual cunning arrangements to allow for maritime dining: a confining rim to the table, fixed rotating chairs, stands for bottles and carafes. But the woodwork was refined, the china, silver and napery perfect. There was already a plate of cold canapes like little gems laid out, and at the side stood Mrs. Drumm—looking serene, hands folded and her formal cuffs and collar well displayed.

  “I thought you ladies might want to freshen up while I see to getting us out to sea,” said Mr. Pickett. He raised Lady Beatrice’s hand and kissed it. “It’ll be smoother once we’re well out beyond the Breakwater, much better for dining. And Mrs. Drumm here says she’ll be pleased to act as maid for you.”

  Mrs. Drumm nodded.

  Heartfelt farewells were exchanged—one would have thought Mr. Pickett were headed miles away instead of ten feet up and twenty feet over. One would also have thought he took Mrs. Drumm to be as blind as Mrs. Corvey, so ardently did he embrace Lady Beatrice before he bounded away.

  “Would this whole enterprise just founder, do you suppose, if I simply shot him?” said Mrs. Corvey wearily.

  “I doubt it. It appears to have momentum,” replied Lady Beatrice.

  Mrs. Drumm came forward to relieve both of them of their shawls. “That Felan is out there with the gun crew, too,” she informed them. “He’ll go on regardless tonight, unless your lasses take him. And this lot will be pacing them while Pickett romances you and capers about like a Morris dancer, I’ve no doubt! We’re to assist if the gun platform founders, too; which it is a common problem, I’m told.”

  “You’ve been busy, Mrs. Drumm.” Mrs. Corvey settled herself at the table. She picked up a spoon and checked the maker’s mark.

  “Well, I’ve offered to make all the provisions, see—not just for you ladies, though I must say it’ll be a sin and a shame if you don’t get to taste them—but I’ve packed up some treats for the crew, too,” explained Mrs. Drumm. “They’ve been in and out of the place for the last two days, too, and hungry men always find their way to the kitchen. And they talks among themselves over the little bits of dainties I’ve been feeding them. Men are born gossips!”

  “I have found it so, yes,” Mrs. Corvey said. “Our business relies upon it, in fact.”

  “Nor I’m much surprised,” said Mrs. Drumm. She poured out a little white wine for each of them, neatly encasing the bottle in a linen cloth as the ship’s roll began to increase. “And just for your ears, madam—the crew of the Sceptre are going to get a real special plum duff tonight. Not enough to kill ’em, but enough to make ’em sick and groggy.”

  “Good heavens, Mrs. Drumm, have you poisoned everyone?”

  “Not at all!” Mrs. Drumm looked offended. “I don’t want us out there with a dead crew, not being able to sail a boat by myself! But the sicker they are, the less harm they can do. I couldn’t see to the gun crew, though; they don’t carry provisions.”

  “My girls will see to them,” said Mrs. Corvey.

  She drew a little shining silver case from her bodice; tiny beads studded one surface. She pressed four of these in a short rhythm; paused, then repeated it twice. A few seconds passed, and then the device emitted a soft double chirp, like a cricket.

  “Ah, they are on their way,” she said. She smiled at Mrs. Drumm’s stare, and her lenses whirred behind her smoked glasses. “And they know we are in place. We’ve been busy, too, Mrs. Drumm.”

  The Ladies in the cart had seen the glow of the lights at the Sceptre’s mooring as they passed on the road above, but now they were some ways beyond it. Herbertina angled right at a descending hollow that gradually deepened to a willow-lined draw leading down to the sea. They trundled along a widening strand of brook running ahead of them to where the sound of breakers filled the darkness.

  The bottom of the draw widened out to a tiny beach, where the brook lost itself amid rocks and coarse sand. Just beyond, Herbertina stopped; the others unloaded their packs and headed down to the water’s edge, while Herbertina dismounted and carefully led the horse around to face back up the draw. She knotted the reins loosely and chocked the wagon with stones, where the horse could reach both the brook and some scrubby willow.

  Down by the water, the others were stripping off their boots and outer clothing; Herbertina joined them, shedding her boy’s clothes. All the garments were bundled into their packs. Ultimately, each of the Ladies was down to her corset, pantaloons and long, thick stockings.

  “Bathing costumes would be have been warmer,” complained Maude.

  “But bulkier. One cannot really swim in those things,” said Miss Rendlesham practically. “We will be doing rather more than splashing about in the shallows.”

  “How will you keep the clicker dry?” asked Dora. She began to rub wool wax over her arms, as the others were doing. “Eeeww, this sheep grease does stink!”

  Maude wrinkled her nose at the jar in her hand. “I am using a French letter, and then covering it all with the stuff—it will be waterproof, then.” So saying, she fitted a condom, a length of sheep intestine neatly stitched, over the clicker and greased the assemblage well with the wool wax.

  “This is what the fishermen use for their hands, when the nets are rough. And to grease the tillers and such on their boats. And to waterproof canvas,” observed Mrs. Otley. She made an effort to sound objective about it, but was making a very wry face as she anointed her face and throat. “Though it does have an awful smell, we will appreciate it when we are in the cold water. And we may contemplate how very useful sheep are, too.”

  “Sheep grease may be useful. So are French letters. I would rather contemplate the usefulness of sheep over a grilled chop and some warm wool stockings, though!” returned Dora. “Here, Erato—I’ll do the backs of your arms and legs, then you do mine.”

  One by one, the Ladies prepared themselves and one another. At length they were all ready—clad in corsets and stockings and slicked head to toe with wool wax. Their corsets were armored, they all had various weapons concealed about their persons, and a mood of high endeavor prevailed.

  Just before they took to the waves, Maude sent the pre-arranged code that would inform Mrs. Corvey they were doing so. If Mrs. Corvey had any new intelligence on the location or schedule of the submarine, she would send a specific chirp;
then they could exchange Morse code to elucidate the situation. If not, a second, different chirp would order them on as planned.

  There were no changes.

  The moon would not be up until near dawn. The waves were quiet and dark. There was a concerted gasp as the waves surged up over waist-level, but after a moment the chill was bearable; at least, so long as one kept moving. A few moments’ determined swimming and they were beyond the waves, in water that surged up and down vigorously but did not break over their heads. They struck out paralleling the beach.

  With the Daddyhole cliffs on the left to guide them, it was simply a matter of following the coastline. Per their plan, the Ladies kept as close inshore as they could—twice actually coming ashore at small beaches along the cliff-edge to rest, huddled together under the towels each had brought. The distance was short, but the night was chill; the starlight on the sea was very lonely.

  “This would never work in winter,” said Jane rather mournfully at the second stop. “Not even in Torquay!”

  “And yet the fishermen assured me that the water is

  practically tropical this time of year,” said Dora.

  “They were hoping you would decide to bathe nude,” said Miss Rendlesham. She laughed. “Think what we could charge for this tableaux in the way of business!”

  “Bath salts, then. And hot water,” said Dora firmly. “And no sheep grease.”

  “It does help, though. Come on, girls, we need to get round one more curve in the cliffs,” said Herbertina.

  “Scuttling boats ought to work up some heat, at least,” muttered Dora.

  Her sister Jane sang a line or two of The Lowland Sea, very softly, as they slipped away back into the sea like so many mermaids.