Table of Contents
Title
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
Excerpt
Dedication
Chapter ONE
Chapter TWO
Chapter THREE
Chapter FOUR
Chapter FIVE
Chapter SIX
Chapter SEVEN
Chapter EIGHT
Chapter NINE
Chapter TEN
Chapter ELEVEN
Chapter TWELVE
Chapter THIRTEEN
Chapter FOURTEEN
Chapter FIFTEEN
Chapter SIXTEEN
Chapter SEVENTEEN
Chapter EIGHTEEN
Chapter NINETEEN
Chapter TWENTY
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
THE
GATHERING
STORM
Also by Peter Smalley
HMS Expedient
Port Royal
Barbary Coast
The Hawk
PETER
SMALLEY
THE
GATHERING
STORM
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ISBN 9781409064886
Version 1.0
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Published by Century 2009
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Copyright © Peter Smalley 2009
Peter Smalley has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of
the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental
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First published in Great Britain in 2009 by
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ISBN: 9781409064886
Version 1.0
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is available from the British Library
An horrid stillness first invades the ear,
And in that silence we the tempest fear.
John Dryden
Frigate in the navy, a light nimble ship, built for the purpose of sailing swiftly. These vessels mount from 20 to 50 guns, and are esteemed excellent cruisers.
Falconer's Dictionary of the Marine
As ever for Clytie, my heart's companion
ONE
Spring 1791
Captain James Hayter, RN, raised his fowling piece, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The flint snapped home in the pan, there was the flash of a spark, then nothing. The fat woodpigeon soared up, wings clapping, and disappeared into the trees across the meadow.
'Damnation.' Muttered.
Captain Hayter lowered the gun, and examined the lock and pan.
'Damp powder, old fellow.' To his dog. 'That is what comes of pushing too eagerly through foliage after rain, d'y'see. Without putting the lock under my arm. Carelessness, Tam.'
The dog looked at him, head tilted on one side at the sound of its name.
'And disappointment.'
The dog's tongue lolled as if in agreement.
'No pigeon pie, that's what.' A breath, and he shouldered the gun, and adjusted the strap of the empty game bag. 'But we've come far enough today, and walked off our fat. Hey?'
The dog watched him, waiting and alert, one ear cocked, the other half-cocked.
'Time to go home, I think.' He set off to the south, along the winding path at the edge of the meadow. Sharp sunlight gleamed on the metal furniture of the gun, and along the barrel. The dog tarried a moment, having heard the word 'home' and become reluctant.
'Come on, Tam.'
And now the dog bounded after him. Cloud shadow followed them across the field, hiding the sun, darkening the copse on the hill above. Presently a shower of rain came sweeping and billowing, and the man and his dog became indistinct as they reached the stream and the line of low trees on the far side.
When they reached Birch Cottage, Captain Hayter's home, about thirty minutes after, both were very wet. James crossed the stable yard and went in at the rear of the house, left the dog in the scullery, and put his gun and bag in the dark little parlour beyond the kitchen that he used as his gunroom. He took off his wet coat, shook his wet hat, and now turned his head to the kitchen with a frown. The kitchen was empty. The whole house had a curious atmosphere of emptiness, and quietude. He strode out into the passage, glanced again into the kitchen, then went through into the living quarters. Silence.
'Catherine!'
He glanced up the staircase, then went into the library, opening the door wide. The fire had not been lighted. The room was empty. He went through into the drawing room, and found that empty. Turning out of the room:
'Catherine!'
From the scullery the aggrieved barking of the dog, echoing through the lower part of the house. And the subdued tick ... tock of the long-case clock in the library. No other sound.
He stood a moment in frowning puzzlement, then ran quickly up the stairs, gripping the banister to lift himself along, just as he would have gripped the shrouds of a mast to aid his going aloft. As he came to the top of the staircase: 'Cathy! Are you there?'
No answer. And now he was beginning to be anxious, a little. A muffled voice, from the bedroom at the far end of the passage. The boy's room. A man's voice. Fear gripped his guts, and dug in its claws. He hurried there, to the door of the room, and saw that it was ajar.
'Cathy ...'
He went in. Catherine stood at the foot of the boy's bed, and Dr Harkness, the new local practitioner, stood at the head, bending over the small form of the boy, who lay with his head on the pillow. The doctor adjusted the pillow, and under the rustling movement was the rapid shallow rasping of the boy's breath.
'Oh, James ...' Catherine's terrified, distraught face as she turned to him. He moved to her.
'What is the matter?' As he took her hand, dreading the answer.
'Perhaps it would be best, Mr Hayter, if you was not to come farther into the room.' Dr Harkness, holding up a cautionary hand. 'I have already said so to Mrs Hayter.' A brief glance, and he returned his attention to the boy.
'Not come in?' The truth flooding in on James even as he asked the question. 'Is it a fever ... ?'
'Aye, it is. Typhus.' Plain, matter-of-fact. 'He must be kept isolated. We must make a quarantine of this room, this quarter of the house entire.'
'There can be no doubt ... ?'
'None. Y'will observe the petechial eruptions upon his neck.'
James leaned, peering at his s
on, and saw on his neck and on the upper part of his shoulder visible above the covers, small roseate eruptions on the sweat-sheened flesh. The claws in his guts dug deep, and he bent nearer.
'Nay, do not venture too close, if y'please.' The doctor's black coat hung over the back of the chair by the bed, and his black instrument case stood on the seat. The doctor's spectacles, perched precisely halfway down his nose, gave his face a particular severity of expression, even as he sought to be calm and factual in his pronouncements. He was a young man of twenty-eight or -nine, who looked a dozen years older. His hair was already grey at the temples, and his forehead bore a chevron of deep lines.
'I had no notion he was ill,' said James. 'I did not see him this morning, in course, before I went riding over to talk to Mr Brimley about his hunting meet.' Mr Brimley was their nearest neighbour, across the hill. 'I was up and about and gone so early. And then straightway when I returned ...' as if explaining things to himself as much as to Catherine and the doctor '... I went to examine some papers, and then I was gone again with my gun and the dog. It did not cross my mind that he—'
'He could not eat anything, poor little boy ...' Cathy, tears now on her face. 'He had seemed listless a little, all these last days, but I had thought it was only a spring chill. And then today he could not rise from his bed after his rest. Oh, could not I soothe him, doctor? Could not I cradle his head a moment ... ?'
'Nay.' Not curtly. 'He cannot be aided by that, just at present.' He did not say the word quarantine again, but James heard it under the other words.
'Where is Tabitha?' he thought to ask now. 'There was no one at all in the downstair part of the house when I came in. Where are the other maidservants?'
'I have advised members of your staff to remain in their own quarters for the moment. I must make arrangements.' Dr Harkness wiped the boy's forehead with a wet cloth, and wrung out the cloth in a basin. Catherine began again:
'But, Doctor, if you are close by him, and will take the risk of fever, why cannot I, his mother—'
Dr Harkness cut short her pleas with not quite harsh authority and directness. Laying the cloth on the edge of the basin he said: 'Madam, I am a physician. I think your husband will understand me when I say that it is my duty to take such risk, and I hope that you will understand me, in turn.'
'I thank you for your kindness in warning me, Doctor, but I think you must know that I have already had such proximate contact with my child all the morning that I cannot be in any greater danger now, if I sit close to him, and bathe his forehead and hold his hand. Is not that so?'
'Nay, it ain't, I fear.' With the same directness. 'The petechial eruptions have appeared only in the past hour. You will do very well to keep clear, now. Both of ye.' A glance at James.
'Who will care for him, poor little boy?' Catherine's tears again spilled. 'He must be nursed.'
'There is a young woman in the village that has already been exposed, when her younger brothers took ill. She has shown no sign of fever, when she tended to them as their nurse.'
'Have they returned to health?'
'Alas – no.'
'They are dead?' Aghast.
'Neither child survived, but their sister is hale. She—'
'She will never come into this house while I draw breath.' Catherine drew herself up, lifting her head, and looked at Dr Harkness very direct. 'I thank you again for all your kindness, Doctor, and for your advice. I shall nurse my own son.'
'Madam, is that really—' began the doctor.
'Cathy, I do not think—' began James.
'I shall nurse my own son!' Fiercely, staring straight ahead. 'Do you hear!'
And the thing was settled. Both men knew that it was, and that they had better say nothing further. The doctor permitted himself a very small sigh, and shrugged into his coat. James stood back from the bed to let him pass, then followed him along the passage and down the stairs, leaving Catherine alone with the ailing boy.
'What treatment should my wife apply, d'y'think?' James asked Dr Harkness as they came to the bottom of the stair. 'If she is to stay by his side, what physic should she give to him? And when? I mean, how often should she—'
'There is very little may be done for the boy. I should advise prayer, was I a priest. I am not.'
'There is nothing at all can be done for him?' James, his voice very low in spite of the vehemence of his question.
'We are practical men, I think, sir. We know what life is. Your wife, his mother, will be by the boy's side. If he has strength enough to resist and fight the disease, then the fever will break. If he has not ...'
'He is going to die.' Flatly.
'Nay, I have not said so.'
'But that is what you mean, ain't it, Doctor?'
'While ever there is life there is hope.' Sincerely.
'Damnation to pieties! Tell me the truth!' His voice cracking.
'If the boy lives through the night, then we may hope for a gain on the morrow.'
'That is all you can say ... ?' His voice again very low.
Dr Harkness looked James in the eye, made to touch his arm, and then hesitated – for fear of contaminating him – and withdrew his hand. A moment, and:
'I hope with all my heart that your boy may live.'
James met the doctor's honest gaze, read in it what he already knew, and nodded. The doctor fastened a last button on his coat.
'If there is any change this evening, or during the night, do not hesitate to send word. I shall come at once.'
'You are very kind.'
'And I must iterate – no one of your household, other than your wife, is to venture into that part of the house where the boy lies.'
'Very good, Doctor. Thank you.'
He saw the doctor to the door, and his waiting gig. The rain had ceased and evening light lay angled across the paved forecourt as the doctor climbed into his gig and drove away, the sound of the horse's hooves fading on the quiet air.
*
In the days following, James went over and over in his mind all of the events leading to the culmination. The papers he had paused to examine when he returned from Mr Brimley's house, and later in the morning, papers he had read and reread in the library, and had then sat long in answering, because he had thought himself obliged to take great trouble with his reply. The walk he had embarked upon thereafter, taking with him a wedge of pie and a flask, his gun, his game bag, and the dog Tam. The afternoon he had wasted, largely in sheltering from showers of rain, in pursuit of elusive woodpigeons. His late return, thoroughly wet and disappointed, and caught up in his thoughts. Could he have done different, on that day? Should he have? And what of the days preceding? Had he been inattentive, when Catherine remarked on the boy's less than energetic demeanour?
'Rondo is a little out of sorts, I think.'
'Is he? Is he? Then he had better go out into the fresh air, hey?' As he searched for and found his riding crop.
'I wonder if there is not a draught in his room? The chimney—'
'Do not fret about him, my love. He is a boy, and boys are hearty creatures. I shall say a word to Albert, and we'll have him up on Danny Boy this afternoon. Now, where the deuce have I put my gloves?'
But he had forgotten to speak to the stable lad, had forgotten about the pony Danny Boy, and his son, in pondering his own future. Should he have accepted his new commission, after all? Should he have accepted the ship-sloop Eglantine, 22, merely to attain the rank of master and commander? When Captain Rennie, his erstwhile commander and friend, had wanted James to return with him into HMS Expedient frigate as his first? Should not he write voicing his doubts to Their Lordships, and request further time to come to his decision? Good heaven, no. Certainly Their Lordships would look very unfavourable on a fellow that ... And so his thoughts had dashed hither and thither in his head, until the letter had come – the sealed, official, absolute and unignorable letter:
... you, the said Master & Commander so appointed, shall proceed forthwith to Portsmout
h, there to Receive from the port admiral's hand your Warrant; thence to His Majesty's Portsmouth Dockyard, where you will go aboard the said Vessel, His Majesty's ship-sloop Eglantine, 22 guns, & duly commission her, & assume your duty of Command, and with all Despatch make her ready for the sea ...
His doubts had arisen from something that had happened during his previous commission – his first as commander – in HMS Hawk, cutter. A thing that had haunted him ever since. He had been obliged, in most pressing and distressing circumstances, to shoot dead a horribly injured man. It was a very shocking thing to have had to undertake, and he knew that his people had been shocked. He had seen it in their eyes. And yet he had had to do it, there had been no alternative if the poor wretch was to be delivered from his agony. He had fired the shot, and at once thrown the pistol into the sea.
'God forgive me.' He had said it then, and an hundred times since, as he rode his horse, as he shaved himself in the glass in the morning, as he strode to the top of the hill behind the house – at any moment when he was alone with his thoughts.
'God forgive me, I am not fit to command men any more.'
Even when he had replied to the letter, informing Their Lordships that he would go to Portsmouth, he was not free of nagging doubt, but in least now he knew his duty; duty had freed him of indecision. And then came the blow.
Dr Harkness's face, never handsome, was a grim mask of self-control, framed by deep lines, as he came into the library on the day following:
'We have lost him. I am very sorry.'
James got up out of his chair, and had to grip the back. 'But he ... he had seemed to recover. There was a gain, earlier today ... was not there?'
'There was, a little. It was not enough. I am so very sorry, Mr Hayter.'
'Is Catherine with him?'
'She has not left his side. You should go to her, and bring her out of the sickroom.'
'Yes ... yes.' Gripping the back of the chair still, and looking out through the window.
'And we must – forgive me for being so hard, at such a moment – but we must remove the body without delay.'
The Gathering Storm Page 1
