by Anne Perry
There was no sense of what manner of men they had been, brave or cowardly, wise or foolish, honest or lying. Pitt knew Cornwallis, at least knew him as he was now, an assistant commissioner in the police force, taciturn, painfully honest, out of his depth with politicians, having no conception of their deviousness.
But he did not know how he had been fifteen years before as a lieutenant, faced with physical danger, the chance of admiration and promotion. Had this been an otherwise honorable man’s one mistake?
He did not believe that. Such deceit would surely have left a deeper mark. If Cornwallis had profited from stealing another man’s reward, praise for someone else’s act of courage, would it not have stained everything else he touched? Would he not have spent the rest of his career looking backward over his shoulder, fearing Beckwith’s telling of the truth? Would he not have built guards for himself against just this eventuality, knowing there was always a chance? And would that not have shown in all else that he did?
Would he have allowed Pitt to know of it?
Or was he so arrogant he thought he could use Pitt, and Pitt would never realize?
That was such a distortion of the man Pitt perceived that he discarded the notion as close to impossible.
That left the question, did the blackmailer believe it was true or did he simply know that Cornwallis could not prove its untruth?
Beckwith was dead, according to Cornwallis. But had he relatives alive, someone to whom he had told the story, perhaps boasting a little, elaborating on his own part until he appeared the hero, and this person had taken him at his word, as perhaps a son or a nephew might do?
Or for that matter, a daughter. Why not? A woman was as capable as any man of cutting out letters from newspapers and framing a threat.
While he was there, Pitt decided, he should find all he could of the rest of Cornwallis’s naval career, and all there was available on Samuel Beckwith as well, particularly if he had a family still alive, and where they might be now.
More argument and more persuasion were necessary before he was given a very abbreviated summary of Cornwallis’s career, only those things which were largely a matter of public knowledge anyway, such as any other naval personnel might know from their own observation.
He had been promoted and changed ship within two years. In 1878 and 1879 he had been in the China Seas, involved with distinction in the bombardment of Borneo against the pirates.
Within a year after that he had had his own command. He had sailed in the Caribbean and been involved in several actions of a minor nature, largely skirmishes to do with slavers still operating out of West Africa.
He had retired from the sea in 1889 with distinction and an unblemished record. There was a list of ships on which he had served and the ranks he had held, nothing more.
Pitt compared it with Samuel Beckwith’s career, which had been cut short by death at sea, carried overboard by a spar broken loose in a gale. He had never married, and left behind a sister, living in Bristol at the time of his death. His effects and his back pay had been sent to her. She was listed as a Mrs. Sarah Tregarth. Her address was given.
But Beckwith had been unable to read or write. The letter sent to Cornwallis was quite articulate and contained several complex words. Had Sarah Beckwith learned such an art in spite of her brother’s inability?
A discreet letter to the Bristol police would confirm that.
Now Pitt looked at the names of the ships on which Cornwallis had served and copied down a dozen or so names of other men who had served at the same times, including the captain of the Venture and the first lieutenant.
Next he showed his list to the man who had so far assisted him and asked for the addresses of all those who were not currently at sea.
The man looked at Pitt narrowly, then read through them.
“Well, he was killed in action about ten years ago,” he said, biting his lip. He moved to the next one. “He’s retired and gone to live in Portugal or somewhere. He’s in Liverpool. He’s here in London.” He looked up. “What do you want all these men for, Superintendant?”
“Information,” Pitt replied with a tight smile. “I need to know the truth about an incident in order to avert a considerable wrong … a crime,” he added, in case the man should miss the urgency of it or doubt his right to involve himself.
“Oh. Oh, yes sir. It’ll take me a little while. If you’d come back in an hour or so?”
Pitt was hungry, and even more he was thirsty. He was delighted to accept the suggestion and go out and buy himself a ham sandwich from a stall, and a cup of strong tea. He stood in the sun on the street corner enjoying them, watching the passersby. Nursemaids in starched aprons wheeled perambulators. Their older charges rolled hoops or pretended to ride sticks with horses’ heads. A small boy played with a spinning top and would not come when he was told. Little girls in frilly pinafores mimicked their elders, walking daintily, with heads high. He thought with a wave of tenderness of Jemima and how quickly she had grown up. Already she was beginning to be self-conscious, aware of coming womanhood. It felt like only months ago she had been struggling to walk, and yet it was years.
When he had first met Balantyne she had not even been born. And she had been stumbling with speech, often unintelligible to anyone but Charlotte, when Balantyne had lost his only daughter in the most fearful way possible.
Memory of that turned the sandwich in his mouth to sawdust. How could a man bear such grief and survive? He wanted to rush home and make doubly, triply sure Jemima was all right … even hold her in his arms, watch her all the time, make any decisions for her, decide where she should go and who befriend.
Which was ridiculous. It would make her hate him-rightly so.
How did anyone endure having children and watching them grow up, make mistakes, get hurt, perhaps even destroyed, suffer pain worse, more inexplicable, than death? Had Augusta been any help to Balantyne, any comfort at all? Had their common grief brought them closer together at last or merely driven them each into greater isolation, even more alone in their grief?
What was this new tragedy? Perhaps he shouldn’t have left it to Tellman to investigate. And yet he could not abandon Cornwallis.
He threw away the rest of his sandwich, drank the last of his tea, and strode back to the Admiralty. There was no time for standing around.
He began with Lieutenant Black, who had served as first officer with Cornwallis in the China Seas. He was home on shore leave and might be called back to sea quite soon. He lived in South Lambeth, and Pitt took a hansom over the river.
He was fortunate to find Lieutenant Black at home and willing to speak with him, but unfortunate in that what Black had to say was so punctiliously honorable it conveyed very little at all. His professional loyalty to a brother officer was so great as to rob his comments, even his memories, of any individuality or meaning. It conveyed much of Black himself, his perception of events, his fierce patriotism and allegiance to the service in which he had spent all his adult life, but Cornwallis remained only a name, a rank and a series of duties well performed. He never became a man, good or bad.
Pitt thanked him and looked for the next name on his list. He took another hansom and went north over the Victoria Bridge to Chelsea, watching the pleasure boats in the river full of women in pale dresses with bright hats and scarves and men with bare heads in the sun, children in sailor suits, eating toffee apples and striped peppermint sticks. The music of a hurdy-gurdy drifted loudly on the air, along with shouts, laughter and the swish of water.
He found Lieutenant Durand a very different man, lean, sharp featured, roughly the same age as Cornwallis, but still a serving officer.
“Of course I remember him,” he said sharply, leading Pitt into a very pleasant room filled with naval memorabilia, probably from several generations, and overlooking a garden full of summer flowers. It was obviously a family home, and judging from the portraits Pitt had glimpsed in the hall, he came from a long and distinguished li
ne of naval officers, going back long before Trafalgar and the days of Nelson.
“Sit down.” Durand indicated a well-worn chair and sat in one opposite it himself. “What do you want to know?”
Pitt had already explained his reasons, but this time he must phrase it more skillfully and learn something of the man. “What qualities made him a good commanding officer?”
Durand was obviously surprised. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this.
“You assume I thought he was a good commander,” he said with raised eyebrows, looking at Pitt very directly and with amusement. His face was burned by wind, his eyebrows fair and sparse.
“I assumed you would say so,” Pitt replied. “I was wanting something a little less dry. Was I mistaken?”
“Loyalty before honesty. Is that no use to you?” The faint thread of humor was still there. He sat with his back to the window, leaving Pitt to face the garden and the sunlight.
“None at all.” Pitt sat back in the chair. It was very comfortable. “Sometimes it is all I can find.”
“A naval failing, at times,” Durand observed, a flicker of bitterness in his voice. “And the sea has no such sentimentality. She forgives nothing. She’ll find the measure of a man faster than anything else. In the end the only honor is the truth.”
Pitt watched him carefully, already aware of strong undercurrents of emotion, perhaps of anger or a belief of injustice or tragedy somewhere.
“And was Cornwallis a good commander, Lieutenant?”
“He was a good sailor,” Durand answered. “He had a feeling for the sea. In a way I would say he loved it, insofar as he loved anything.”
It was an odd remark, said without affection. His face was shadowed, difficult to read.
“Did his men trust him?” Pitt pursued. “Have confidence in his ability?”
“Ability to do what?” Durand was not going to answer anything lightly. He had decided to be frank, and that meant no evasions simply to satisfy.
Pitt was obliged to think harder, more clearly. What did he mean?
“To make the right judgments in bad weather, to know the tides, the wind, the …”
Durand smiled. “You are not a seaman, are you.” It was a statement, not a question, and made with patience, even condescension, the amusement returned. “I think the questions you want to ask are, for example, was he thorough? Yes, extremely. Was he competent to read a chart, take a ship’s position, and judge the weather? Yes, to all of those. Did he think ahead and plan accordingly? As much as any man. Occasionally he made mistakes. When he did, could he think quickly, adapt, get out of the danger? Always, but sometimes more successfully than at other times. He had his share of losses.” His voice was dry, the emotion carefully controlled.
“Of ships?” Pitt was horrified. “Men?”
“No, Mr. Pitt, if he had done that he’d have been retired ashore a long time before he was.”
“He wasn’t retired for loss?” Pitt demanded too quickly.
“Not so far as I know,” Durand said, leaning back a little, still staring at Pitt. “I think he simply realized his career was going no further, and he got tired of it. Wanted to come ashore, and somebody offered him a comfortable option, so he took it.”
A tart response about the reality of Cornwallis’s present job was on Pitt’s lips, but he could not afford to alienate Durand if he were to gain any useful information, strong as his impulse was to do so. And Durand obviously had not liked Cornwallis. Perhaps the fact that Cornwallis had reached captaincy while Durand was still serving, and only a lieutenant, had much to do with it.
“What other questions would I ask, if I knew something of the sea?” Pitt said a little stiffly, trying to mask his own feelings.
Durand seemed quite unaware of it. There was a concentration apparent in the angle of his head and shoulders against the light. He was eager to talk.
“Was he a good leader?” he started. “Did he care for his men, know them individually?” He gave a slight shrug. “No, he never gave that impression. If he did, they did not believe it. Did his officers like him? They barely knew him. He was private, withdrawn. He had a captain’s dignity, but he had a cold man’s isolation, and there is a difference.” He was studying Pitt’s face as he spoke, watching his reaction. “Did he have the art to communicate to the crew his belief in them, in the mission the ship was bound on?” he continued. “No. He had no humor, no common touch, and no visible humanity. That was what lifted Nelson above all the rest, you know, his mixture of genius and humanity, sublime courage and foresight, with a complete vulnerability to the ordinary aches and losses of other men.” His voice hardened. “Cornwallis had none of that. The men respected his naval ability, but they did not love him.” He drew in his breath. “And to be a really good commander, you must be loved … that is what inspires a crew of men to go beyond their duty, beyond even what can be expected of them, to dare, to sacrifice, and to achieve what to a lesser crew, with the same ship, would be impossible.”
It was a masterly summary, and Pitt was obliged to admit it to himself, whether it was true or not. It was not how he saw Cornwallis, or how he wished to. Honesty and fear both forced him to stay and listen. He was afraid they showed in his face, and he resented the thought that Durand could read them there.
“You mentioned courage,” Pitt said, clearing his throat, trying to keep his voice from betraying his dislike of the man and his own loyalties. “Was Cornwallis brave?”
Durand’s body stiffened. “Oh yes, undoubtedly,” he conceded. “I never saw him show fear.”
“That’s not quite the same thing,” Pitt pointed out.
“No-of course it isn’t. In fact, I suppose it’s almost the opposite,” Durand agreed. “I imagine he must have been afraid at times. Only a fool would not be. But he had the sort of icy self-control which hides all emotion. One never saw the humanity in him,” he repeated. “But no, he was not a coward.”
“Physically? Morally?”
“Certainly not physically.” He hesitated. “Morally, I cannot say. There are few great moral decisions at sea. Such judgments of command as he made were not in the time that I knew him. I think he is too orthodox in his thinking, too unimaginative to be a moral adventurer. If you are asking if he ever got drunk and behaved with abandon … no! I don’t think he ever even behaved with indiscretion.” There was a curious contempt in that remark. “Rethinking your question, yes, perhaps he was a moral coward … afraid to take life by the horns and …” He lost his metaphor and shrugged, a gesture of inner satisfaction. He had painted the picture he wanted, and he knew it.
“Not a man to take risks,” Pitt summed it up. Durand’s judgment had been cruel, intended to injure, but perhaps in his ignorance of the issues he had said precisely what Pitt wanted to hear-not that Cornwallis was too honest to take credit for another man’s act of courage but that he was too much the moral coward to take the chance. The fear of discovery would have crippled him.
Durand sat comfortably with the sunlight at his back.
Pitt stayed for another fifteen minutes, then thanked him and left, glad to escape the claustrophobic feeling of envy that permeated the comfortable house with its family portraits of men who had succeeded and who had expected future generations to follow in their steps and provide even more glittering pictures with their gold braid and proud faces.
The following day Pitt found two able seamen and a naval surgeon. The first was MacMunn, retired after a pirate raid on Borneo, having lost a leg. He lived with his daughter in a small, neat house in Putney where the carpet was patched and the furniture gleamed and smelled of wax. He was more than willing to talk.
“Oh, yeah! I ’member Mr. Cornwallis well. Strict, ’e were, but fair. Always very fair.” He nodded several times. “ ’Ated a bully, ’e did. Couldn’t stand ’em. Punish ’em summink ’or-rible. Weren’t free wi’ the cat, but ’e’d see a man wot bullied them wot was beneath ’im flogged raw, ’e would.”
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p; “A hard man?” Pitt asked, afraid of the answer.
MacMunn laughed a rich, happy sound. “Nah! Not ’im. You in’t seen nuffink! Mr. Farjeon, now ’e were wot yer’d call ’ard.” He pulled a face, turning his mouth down at the corners. “I reckon as ’e’d ’ave keel’auled yer if ’e could. He’d a’ liked the days o’ floggin’ through the fleet!”
“What was that?” Pitt’s naval history was shallow.
MacMunn squinted at him. “Put a man in a longboat an’ ’ave ’im rowed ’round an’ flogged on the deck o’ every ship in the fleet. Wot yer think?”
“It would kill him!” Pitt protested.
“Yeah,” MacMunn agreed. “Mind yer, a good ship’s surgeon’d see a man numbed ter the point ’e’d not know. Die pretty quick, so me grandpa told me. ’e were a gunner at Waterloo, ’e were.” Unconsciously, he straightened up as he said it, and Pitt found himself smiling at him without knowing quite why, except a heritage shared, and a knowledge of courage and sacrifice.
“So Cornwallis wasn’t hard or unjust?” Pitt said quietly.
“Gawd no!” MacMunn waved the idea away. “ ’e were just quiet. I never fancied bein’ an officer meself. Lonely kind o’ way o’ doing things, I reckon.” He slurped his tea. “Everybody got their place, an’ w’en there’s dangers o’ yer in one rank, all the same, yer got companions like. But w’en there’s only one o’ yer, yer can’t talk ter them above, an’ they can’t talk ter you, an’ yer can’t talk ter them below. Can’t make a fool o’ yerself if yer an officer, ’cos people expect yer ter be right all the time. An’ Mr. Cornwallis took ’isself very serious. Didn’t know ’ow ter unbend ’isself, if yer know wot I mean.”
“Yes, I think I know.” Pitt recalled a dozen times when Cornwallis had hovered on the brink of candor and at the last moment retreated self-consciously. “A very private man.”
“Yeah. Well, I suppose if yer want ter be captain, yer gotta be. Make a mistake, show a weakness, an’ the sea’ll ’ave yer. Makes men ’ard, but makes ’em loyal too. An’ yer could always rely on Mr. Cornwallis. Bit stuck kind o’ by the book, ’e were, but honest to a fault.” He shook his head. “I ’member one time w’en ’e ’ad ter punish a feller wot done summink wrong, don’t rightly recall wot now. But it weren’t much, but regulations said ’e ’ad ter be lashed wi’ the cat … answered back the bo’sun or summink. Yer could tell Mr. Cornwallis din’t wanna do it. Bo’sun were a right bastard. But yer can’t break ship’s discipline or ye’re all lost.”
