by Jay Worrall
She showed him the figures in her book, and in truth, it took him aback. She described the labor costs and the material costs and the anticipated income and how it might pay for itself in seven years but not more than ten. Charles knew what his answer would be, and his attention soon drifted back to the more fulsome subject of her bosom.
“But sweetheart, love of my life,” he said when she had finished, “I haven’t that much money.”
“I never believed that thou had so much as thou hast, my love,” she said evenly. “I have included payments against borrowing in my calculations. The income from thy tenants is more than sufficient.”
“Sweetness,” he reasoned, “do you think it wise—prudent, I mean— to borrow so much when we are anticipating so blessed an event?” He patted her hand consolingly.
Penny slid her hand out from under his and tapped her fingernails on the tabletop. “I believe it to be prudent to build a mill in Tattenall, dear heart,” she said. “It will be a blessing for a great many people. In a short time, it will enrich thy purse, if thou thinks that important.”
Charles felt that he wasn’t making the kind of progress he had hoped for. He scratched his nose to give him a moment to think. For one thing, he was running out of endearments. “Sunshine of my garden—” he began.
“Charles Edgemont,” she said firmly, “tell me honestly. Dost thou think me incapable of such a venture? Dost thou think me incapable because of my sex?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” he said immediately. “Of course not; certainly not. You are the most capable girl I have ever known. But with a baby … everyone knows that girls become, well … emotional when they have babies.” He thought to try a little humor. “And remember—ha, ha— that girls’ emotions are barely comprehensible to begin with—ha, ha. You wouldn’t believe the things girls get exercised about.”
In some corner of his mind, Charles understood that this had not helped. Perhaps she had not taken his joke the way he’d intended. He reached for her hand to show his affection. She yanked it away.
“It’s not you personally,” he said in an overly hurried attempt to make amends. “It’s your nature, don’t you see? It’s the feminine nature, you know, the things that girls—women, I mean—excel at. Things like having babies and managing household servants. Men aren’t good at that. I mean, I could never do those things. It’s the humors, you see. Women have different humors than men. Ours are more … masculine.”
Charles thought that his cabin had grown awfully close and uncomfortably warm. There must be something he could say that would make her see the soundness of his point. At the moment she was looking at him as if he had just suggested roasting Claudette for their supper. Maybe if he offered his compromise. Maybe if he improved on it.
“All right,” Charles said, “a school. Women can run schools, I grant you that. Even a market, although that’s more complex. It’s business, you see. You do see, don’t you? But a mill is too complicated, too … too … mechanical for girls’—women’s minds to grasp. You see,” he said finally, “I am doing you a favor, really.”
A silence filled the small cabin, a silence so preternaturally profound that the wash of the water along Louisa’s sides and the gurgle of her wake seemed deafening. Penny sat rigidly erect, her face pale, her bloodless lips set in a line as straight as any ramrod. Charles perceived that she was having trouble controlling her breathing, which he found interesting in itself. When she finally spoke, it came as a relief.
“Art thou finished?” she asked.
“Yes,” Charles said.
“Quite finished? Thou art sure that thou dost not wish to compare feminine humors to those of milch cows or brood mares?”
“Yes, no,” Charles said.
“I apprehend that thou dost not wish the mill,” she said.
“No, I don’t want the mill,” he answered. “I’m sorry.”
“Good. At least we are clear.” She thumbed through her ledger until she came to a page she had shown him earlier. It displayed the traditional income from his estates and the amount that could be expected after her improvements. “The mill is necessary for everything that follows. I will make it simple for thee,” she said with only modest sarcasm. “Dost thou comprehend this number?” She pressed her finger down on the page under the smaller sum, so hard that its nail left an impression on the paper.
“Yes,” Charles said.
The finger moved to the second figure. “Dost thou comprehend this number?”
“Of course.”
“Follow me closely,” Penny said. “Which is greater?”
“The second,” Charles said, “any fool can see that.”
“Possibly not,” she said. “Of these two numbers, one greater and one lesser, which dost thou prefer?”
Charles sighed a sigh that he hoped would convey sweet reasonableness while maintaining his opposition. “The larger,” he answered, “but is a mill really required?”
Penny allowed him a small smile. “As thou were so intently studying the bodice of my dress,” she said, “I explained that the increase was not possible without the mill. Perhaps thou wert not attending.”
Charles leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. Her calculations did not include all of his sources of income: his salary as a naval officer, or the proceeds from his half-ownership of the estate still managed by his brother, whatever that would be. Of course, those monies went automatically into his bank account, which he had agreed to give her access to. But there must be a way around that. Perhaps he could write to the bank; maybe they could help him. And he would receive a certain amount of head-and-gun money from the Admiralty for the frigate Félicité. He regretted burning her now; he would have made more if he had towed the prize back to Gibraltar. Of course, that would have added weeks to the journey.
He picked up the ledger book and leafed through the pages. One thing was clear: She had put an impressive amount of thought and effort into her plans. Perhaps she could accomplish such a thing. The worse that could happen would be that he would lose his money. He decided there were more important things than money.
“You’re set on this?” he said.
“I am,” she answered. “It is for thy benefit as well.”
“And you believe that you will have the ability—the time—to attend to all of this with the coming child?”
“I will not be alone,” she said. “I have assistance from Molly and thy sister, and my father. I am well supported.”
“All right,” Charles said with all the grace he could muster, “you may do it.”
Almost before he had finished the sentence, she had a fresh paper in front of him.
“What’s this?” he said, looking at the printed page. All of the blank spaces had been filled in with various sums and numbers, except for a space at the bottom for his signature.
She pushed an ink bottle and quill in front of him. “This is thy application to borrow monies for our projects,” she said. “After thou hast completed the necessary letters and forms, we shall discuss thy views on women, the limits of their abilities, and especially an exact description of the nature of feminine humors.”
“I trust that this will be a loving discussion, involving a good deal of Christian charity,” he said.
LOUISA AND HER shadow, Pylades, continued their struggle eastward against obstinate headwinds across the empty Mediterranean Sea. Charles felt an increasing anxiety to be rid of the responsibility for carrying the intelligence on the French invasion of Egypt and the battle fleet from Toulon. After passing his report to the British consul at Syracuse, he could then make for Gibraltar, report to Jervis, and secure transport for his wife, their expected child, and adopted daughter home to England. He would rest easier when that was done.
Louisa’s crew got ample work aloft, tacking the ship and tacking again, so Charles exercised the gun crews with powder taken off Félicité, and at small arms for boarding and repelling boarders.
On the tenth day sinc
e leaving Egypt, a Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of July, just after four bells in the forenoon watch, the lookout in the maintops called down to the deck, “Land ho, fine on the starboard bow, five leagues near enough.”
Charles turned to Eliot, standing with him on the quarterdeck, with an inquisitive look.
“Unless I miss my guess, sir,” Eliot responded with a touch of pride, “that would be Cape Murro. Syracuse will be just up the coast a touch, t’other side of the headland.”
“I find myself impressed,” Charles said. “A very good landfall, Mr. Eliot. It’s been over eight hundred miles as the crow flies since we left the Rosetta mouth. I measured it from my atlas.”
“Aye, it’s closer to twelve hundred if you measured our wake, what with all the back and forth. It were a healthy distance.”
Soon the point of land, the smallest speck of dark, could be seen from Louisa’s deck as she rose on the crest of a wave. The speck slowly became a low hump, with its features visible and the shore falling away on either side. Charles went below to his cabin to collect the report he had written for the British consul in the city.
“What is all the commotion, Charlie?” Penny asked, emerging from his sleeping cabin.
“We have arrived at Syracuse. We’ll be in the port in a couple of hours.”
“I have just put Claudette down for a rest,” Penny said. “I will come upside as soon as she is asleep.”
“Topside,” Charles said. “You’ll never be a seaman.”
Penny stuck her tongue out at him. With a chuckle, he departed the cabin to go upside. On the ladderway to the quarterdeck, he heard a loud cry from the tops: “Deck there! There’s warships in the harbor. Can’t tell how many, but it’s a quantity.”
“Can you tell if they are English or French?” Charles shouted up.
“No, sir. It’s too far. Should be able to tell soon, though.”
“Mr. Beechum,” Charles called as he came upon the quarterdeck.
“Yes, sir,” Beechum said, touching his hat as he hurried past with a long glass under his arm, and started up the mizzenmast shrouds.
Penny soon arrived. “Canst thou not be more quiet?”
“In a minute,” Charles said. His head tilted back, he yelled upward, “Beechum, what do you see?”
“They’re English, sir,” the young man’s voice came down. “More than a dozen ships of the line.”
“What does that mean?” Penny asked.
“It means,” Charles answered, “that we have found Admiral Nelson and his squadron at last.”
NINE
LOUISA ROUNDED THE POINT MARKING THE SOUTHERN LIMIT of the great port of Syracuse, the ancient city of peeling white and yellow buildings with their red-tiled roofs rising along a finger of land on the harbor’s northern side. Charles came onto the quarterdeck in his best uniform coat and hat, the hat being somewhat the worse for wear, as it also served for daily use. He stood for a moment by the rail and surveyed the double line of English warships riding at anchor in the bright afternoon sun. All were familiar to him as ships attached to the Mediterranean Fleet. He saw Orion, Culloden, and Goliath, which had been present at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, and Nelson’s blue rear admiral’s flag flying from Vanguard’s mizzenmast. He counted thirteen ships of the line, all seventy-fours, Leander, fifty, and a solitary brig.
“Mr. Talmage,” Charles said, moving toward the lieutenant, “a word with you, please.” It was an unpleasant business, but with any luck, it would be soon finished.
“Sir,” Talmage responded curtly.
Charles leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “In a few moments, I will be going across to report to Admiral Nelson. I take it that you still wish me to request a transfer on your behalf.”
“That would be my preference,” Talmage replied.
Charles nodded. “You should know that I have a report prepared on your service as first lieutenant and on your altercation with Lieutenant Winchester, as I am required to do. I have written that your deportment and abilities as second have been satisfactory.” He had decided that some positive recommendation would be helpful in encouraging the admiral to agree to a trade.
Talmage nodded stiffly but said nothing.
“All right,” Charles said. “I will put it to Admiral Nelson in as favorable a light as I can. You do understand that I don’t know if he will approve it or not, or what his reaction to the incident will be. But I will request it.”
“I am aware of the possible outcomes.”
At that moment Charles heard the cable run out through the hawse, followed by a loud splash from forward. He glanced to see the topmen already aloft, beginning to furl the sails. “The bower’s down, sir,” Winchester called from across the deck.
“Very good,” Charles said. “Begin the salute and have my gig hoisted out, if you please.”
Winchester called down to Beechum on the gundeck, and the first cannon bellowed out its powder charge, the first of thirteen guns, the salute due to the flag of a rear admiral.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Sykes reported smartly. “ Vanguard has signaled Captain report on board.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sykes.”
“WHERE IN THE devil’s name have you been, Captain Edgemont?” Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson demanded hotly, almost before Charles had stepped onto the flagship’s deck. “Do you realize I have been scouring the Mediterranean these past two months without a frigate to be had? Where the hell are the rest of my frigates? Where is Captain Pigott?”
“Sir,” Charles said, standing rigidly erect and touching his hat, “Pylades and I have been searching for you. Emerald and Terpsichore returned to Gibraltar from the rendezvous, Emerald in particular for repairs to damage sustained during the storm. Terpsichore was ordered back by Captain Pigott.”
Nelson was a slight, almost frail man of less than middle height with a lined face and prematurely gray hair. The right sleeve of his uniform coat lay pinned empty across his chest, a token of an assault on Tenerife the year before, and Charles knew that he had lost the sight in one eye as a result of action in Corsica some years before that. But he still possessed something irresistible in his manner, an alertness, enthusiasm, intelligence, the undivided attention he paid to those addressing him. “Well, I devoutly wish you had found me earlier,” he said, still aroused. “We’ve been the length of the Mediterranean looking for the French, who, you may know, have escaped from Toulon. I’ve had reports that they are here, others that they’ve gone there, but I’ve found nothing at all. It’s the most vexing experience of my life. A frigate or two would have made a world of difference.”
“Sir,” Charles said, “the French are in Egypt, off Alexandria.”
“Egypt? They can’t be in Egypt. I looked into Alexandria not a month past.”
“You were two days ahead of them,” Charles said. “Just ten days ago, I saw elements of the French army at Rosetta and encountered a frigate and a corvette off the mouth of the river. I am informed there are thirteen ships of the line: the first-rate L’Orient, three eighty-gun ships, nine seventy-fours, and three frigates. I have it all in a report I had intended to pass to the British consul.” He reached into his coat pocket and handed the paper over. Since he had inadvertently destroyed Jones’s list, he had reconstructed the composition of the fleet from memory.
The admiral took the document, unfolded it, and read with raised eyebrows. Then he placed it in his pocket. “Did you look into Alexandria? Did you see the whereabouts of the transports?”
“No, sir,” Charles said. “I was unable to do so. I saw that they have landed their army, though. We were pursued from Rosetta, and I thought it best to take such intelligence as we had and return.”
Nelson’s good eye looked out over the side at Louisa and the makeshift repairs to her masts. “Quite rightly,” he said with a smile. “This was the result of one of the frigates?”
“Actually, there had been four,” Charles said. “Now there are three. We were fortunate enough
to carry the fourth, and then burned her. I allowed the crew to be taken off by one of her sister ships.”
“Upon my word,” Nelson said, breaking into a grin, “I thought you had mettle when I first spotted you from San Josef ’s deck; what was it, a year back? I do enjoy being proved prescient.” He paused as if remembering something. “Did you know I met your wife at Naples? She was looking for you. A Quakeress, I believe, a bit queer on warfare, but quite enchanting all the same.”
“Mrs. Edgemont is on board Louisa at this moment, sir,” Charles said. “She also speaks highly of you. I was hoping to carry on to Gibraltar so that she can be seen safely home.”
“That will not be possible,” Nelson said flatly. “ Louisa is the only frigate I have now. Still, I will be sending dispatches to Lord St. Vincent. I’m sure something can be arranged. Possibly I’ll send Pylades back. What state is your ship in?”
“Aside from our mast sections, we require renewal of our water, victuals, and firewood before any prolonged cruise. I believe Pylades to be in a similar situation.” Charles hesitated, thinking of Talmage’s transfer and Beechum’s advancement. “I have another pair of issues that require your attention.” He reached into a different pocket and produced the report he’d prepared on Lieutenant Talmage.
“Trouble?” Nelson asked.
“Of a sort, sir,” Charles answered, and briefly explained the problems that had arisen with respect to his former first lieutenant, including the provisional advancement of Beechum. “I am in hopes of sending Mr. Talmage to another ship in the squadron in exchange for a replacement. I believe such an arrangement would be best for all concerned, sir.”
“I never agreed with placing Talmage as a first on a fighting ship,” Nelson said with a frown. “I suppose it had to be done on account of his family and his seniority, but he’s a touchy sort of fellow. Allow me to read this, and I will consider it.” He pocketed Charles’s report with barely a glance. “Now, sir, I have much to do in light of your intelligence about the French. If you would be so good as to attend on me after supper with Lieutenants Talmage and Beechum, I will have your orders and the answers to your other concerns. The squadron will sail for Alexandria in the morning. Please convey to Mrs. Edgemont my fondest remembrance and that I am sorry I will not be able to greet her. I expect you at the top of the first watch, sir.”
