'The body.' Looking at the doctor. 'Yes.' His boy, his son, a body. Lifeless in the bed. 'Yes, a body cannot be left to lie, when fever has struck. It is the same in ships exact, you know. The bodies must be got over the side, without delay, if there is fever below.' Explaining the thing to himself as much as to Dr Harkness. 'But in course you know that, Doctor. I shall go up to her, and bring her out of the room.' He released his grip on the chair.
'I should say also – she must remain in a separate room herself, for a day or two. As a precaution. You – you should not embrace her, just at present. Nor touch her at all.'
'I cannot be with her? To comfort her?'
'I am sorry to be so hard. I would not place these strictures upon you, was there an alternative.'
'Nay, Doctor, you cannot help what is fact. I shall go up to her.' Taking a breath and moving towards the door.
'I'll send Marcus Freeman from the village, at once.' Laying down his bag a moment, and shrugging into his coat.
'Freeman?' James, pausing in the doorway.
'The undertaker. He must come today.'
'Oh. Yes. Yes, you are right. Please to make it so, Doctor.'
He went upstairs and found Catherine sitting on the chair by the bed, very pale and still, a shawl round her shoulders, her eyes closed. The boy, his son Rondo, that was no longer his son, no longer a boy with life in his limbs and a voice in his throat to cry out in excitement as he sat his pony and trotted through the gate to the grassy paddock, Albert running alongside at the bridle ... lay now at peace. James stared a moment, and swallowed, and made himself breathe.
'Catherine ...'
Opening her eyes. 'He is asleep.'
'Yes ... he is asleep.'
'I shall wait here until he wakes.' Adjusting the shawl.
'Nay ...'
'There is no need for you to stay with me. I shall wait with him until he wakes.' A pale smile.
'My love – Cathy – he will not wake again ...'
'In course he will wake. In a little while. He is much better.'
'Oh, my poor darling Cathy.' He made to come toward her, and:
'Do not come near! He is asleep! I do not wish him to be waked, when he is so very tired ...'
Utter despair rose in James's breast, and threatened to unman him. His eyes filled with tears, his throat was constricted, he wished to fall to the floor and weep. He overcame this sense of helplessness and grief by pure effort of will, lifted and shook his head, and was resolute.
'Catherine.' Not loudly, nor harshly, but with authority of tone. 'Come with me now, and we will go along to your bedroom.'
'I cannot leave him alone. What if he should wake?'
'There is someone to care for him.'
'To care for him? Who?'
'I have arranged it. Come.' He held out his hand. 'We will go to your room, where there is a fire, and fresh linen.'
'Fresh linen ... ?' Looking at him, uncomprehending.
'Come.'
She rose, and came towards him. He wished to take her in his arms, and hold her close to him, and kiss her. He wished to show her all the profound love he felt for her, and to share with her in long embrace the grief of their loss, and to reassure her with all his heart that he would love her always and for ever, but never so deeply as at this moment. He wished it with all of his being, and knew that he could not do it. Could not even touch his beloved wife, for fear that she was herself infected, and would infect him in turn.
She came to the door, with a last glance over her shoulder at her child in the bed, and as James went ahead followed him to her bedroom. A fire burned bright in the grate, the flickering flames reflected in patterns on the ceiling. The curtains had been drawn, and the room was pleasantly warm. A fresh nightgown lay on the bed, and covers had been turned down. James had seen to all this himself, since the maidservants were not permitted to come into this part of the house.
'I will leave you to undress, my dear.'
He stood aside to allow her to go in. She walked to the fire, and turned anxiously:
'Are you going away, now?'
'There is much for me to do—'
'You are going to Portsmouth?'
'No, no – I am not. I must go downstairs and—'
'You will not leave me alone in the house?'
'I will not do that.'
'I could not bear it.'
'I will not go away from you.'
'That is well ... I could not bear it.' Turning to stare into the fire.
Had she accepted it? Did she understand that Rondo was dead? He did not know. Her expression, lit by the glow of the fire, was not one of bewilderment or confusion. She seemed sad, but calm. Presently he left her, and went down.
When he returned with bread and broth on a tray, twenty minutes after, she was fast asleep, her hair spread on the pillow. He put the tray down by the bed, and pulled up the covers gently, so as not to wake her.
'She has accepted it,' he murmured to himself. 'She knows the boy is gone from her.'
He watched her a moment longer, her breath fluttering a strand of hair on the pillow, her face ghostly pale with the exhaustion of her vigil, now relieved.
'I love you, my darling Catherine.' Whispered.
*
The undertaker came with his assistant from the village, and the removal was conducted with the minimum of upset. James took no part in it. He remained in his library while it was done, and allowed one of the maidservants to direct the men at their work. Dimly he heard the wheels of the covered cart and the hooves of the horse as the body was taken away through the stable yard at the rear. Had they brought a coffin with them? He did not know. He did not want to know anything of how it was managed.
Dr Harkness had said he would inform the vicar, and James had not had the presence of mind to tell the doctor to say nothing at the rectory, that he would call there himself on the morrow, and make the necessary arrangements for the interment. He tried to read, and could not. He attempted to write a letter or two, and put the quill aside. A thought came to him.
'The bedding must be removed, and burned. I must see to it at once.'
He went upstairs to his son's bedroom – and found that the bedding had been removed with the body. Only the frame of the bed remained, stark and small upon the floor.
'Gone.'
And now James felt the terrible loss of his son, and he sank down on the floor by the open door. He did not know how long he had lain there when there came the sound of an arrival below. Hooves, wheels, voices. One of the servants at the door. A man's voice, enquiring. James roused himself, wiped his eyes with his kerchief, and tidied himself – and went down.
It was the vicar, the Reverend Constant, a full-figured man, ruddy-cheeked, in usual a very genial fellow as he drove his gig about the lanes of his parish, or rode to hounds, not in the least like some of the more modern clerics, that were pallid, gaunt men, very black in their coats and breeches, and inclined to sermons quoting direct from the Old Testament. 'Thou shalt not' was none of the Reverend Constant's purpose. He liked good food and wine, and made no secret of it. His wife and numerous children were fond of him, and he of them. He was not a man for profound thoughts, or deep philosophies. He was a convivial country parson with a good living. But at times like this he felt it incumbent upon him to strike an attitude of dolorous sympathy quite out of kilter with his usual self. James had been dreading it.
'My dear Mr Hayter,' he began, as James came into the library. 'That is – Captain Hayter.'
'Vicar.'
'My sincere condolences, sir, in your very dreadful loss.' Holding his hat before him. Had he withheld it from the maidservant in order to appear more pious? wondered James, and then was ashamed of himself.
'Thank you, you are very kind. Will you drink a glass of sherry?'
'The loss of a child is always a very dreadful thing, and we cannot all of us readily understand why God has permitted it, why he has allowed the taking of so young and vibrant a life, i
n the full flower of innocence. That is his mystery, in his infinite wisdom. It is our sorrowful portion to pray for the souls of those departed, and obediently to trust in his divine judgement, always tender, and merciful. When we reflect—'
'You are kind.' James did not know how much more of this rank nonsense he could bear. He was fairly certain the Reverend Constant did not believe in it, either. That he was doing his duty as he saw it, going through the motions, being pious and gloomy and platitudinous, and would sooner be drinking a glass of warming sherry, and dealing with the arrangements in a suitably practical and kindly way – a decent, sensible, better way. James made it easy for him. He poured sherry into glasses, handed one to the vicar, and:
'To my son Rondo, and what he might have been, and become.'
The vicar put his hat on a chair. Relieved of ponderous obligation, he lifted his glass and:
'To Rondo, indeed.'
When they had drunk their sherry, James and the vicar fell to discussing the arrangements. All pieties and solemnities were forgotten, and the form of the service and the time, and that of the burial, were soon agreed. The Reverend Constant drank a second glass of sherry, and was on the point of departure when:
'My dear Captain Hayter, I am remiss.'
'Eh?'
'I have not asked after Mrs Hayter. Is she ... ?'
'She has took it hard, certainly. It will take time—' A sharp thudding sound, beyond the door. Both men turned.
The door of the library was now flung open, and Catherine appeared, her hair in disarray, her nightdress trailing on the floor. Her skin was very pale, and her eyes shone over-bright.
'Where have you taken him!'
'My darling, you should not be—' began James, moving toward her.
'Where is he!'
'He has – he is being took care of.'
James glanced at the Reverend Constant, who took up his hat and and began a sideways-stepping movement toward the door.
'Is that you, Vicar?' Catherine now swung on him. 'Why have you come?'
'Dear lady, I am just going—'
'Nay, do not fly away on my account, Vicar. I will like to hear all your news. As an example, will you tell me what you and my husband have done with my son?'
'Done with him? Why, we was discussing the—' Breaking off as he saw James's frantic signal: Say nothing.
'Well?' Catherine, an imperious stare.
'I must leave these – these family matters to your husband, madam. They ain't my business.'
'No? Are not they?'
'No, indeed. And now, if you will excuse me, I shall—'
'I do not excuse you, Vicar. You see, I have listened at the door.' A wild, glassy, triumphant smile, now turned on James.
'Listened?'
'Hah! You did not think me capable, neither of you, of such subterfuge and cunning! But I am a woman, and women are cunning in defence of their children!'
'Catherine, my darling, you are not quite yourself.' James moved toward her again, holding out a hand.
'Do not lay a hand on me, sir! Stay away from my person! I will not allow you to steal me!'
'Darling, dearest – I am only concerned for your health. You will catch cold.' But he did not try to go any nearer to her, fearful that she would plunge away from him, fall and injure herself.
'You wish to send me away! I will not go!'
'My darling, I have no wish to send you anywhere. This is your home, where you—'
Abruptly breaking down: 'Oh, why did you do it! Why, why, why, why? Poor little boy, poor little boy ...' She collapsed, as if her bones and sinews had turned to sand, and her head hit the the edge of the door with a thud as her body tumbled slack. Her head lolled to one side, and she lay still. James ran and knelt beside her, and cradled her head, careless of his own health now.
'Oh, my love ...'
The Reverend Constant, shocked and anxious, peered over his shoulder. 'Has your poor wife injured herself?'
'You came in your gig, Vicar?' James, urgently, turning his head.
'I did.'
'Will you do me a service? Will you fetch Dr Harkness?'
'I will, I will, gladly. She is injured?'
'I fear so.' James's hand, when he lifted it from the back of her head, was covered in blood. 'I fear she is gravely injured. Please hurry, will you?'
'You may rely on me.' Another glance at the prostrate Catherine, and the vicar hurried away.
Dr Harkness came, and bathed Catherine's cut and bruised head, and wound a bandage round it. He helped James to carry her upstairs to her bed, and pronounced her free of any greater damage from her fall. She had regained her senses, but was dazed and unable to converse, or to understand what was happening to her. The doctor gave James physic, with instructions, and came downstairs with him.
'You will need to keep a close eye upon your wife, Mr Hayter, these next few days. I do not mean the abrasion on her head, which will heal quickly. There are more cases of typhus in the village, and I am concerned that your wife had such close contact with her son when he was suffering the worst eruptions of the disease. You yourself must also be vigilant. Any headache, any sudden flux of the bowels, any sudden onset of fainting weakness – and you should avoid contact with other persons, now, even your own servants.'
'But the vicar has been here today. We were together some little time, in the library.'
'The Reverend Constant asked me to alert him in all cases where the disease has struck. Like myself, he wishes to do his duty.'
'But surely he has young children of his own?'
'He has.' A sigh. 'I cannot prevent him from tending his flock, you know. He knows what risk he takes, I assure you.'
'How many cases altogether, Doctor?'
'In Winterbourne Keep, seven. And five in the neighbouring village.'
'Will there be more, d'y'think?' As they went out on to the front court.
'It is entirely probable.'
'Should I send the servants away?'
'How many servants have you here? Three?'
'Aye. Tabitha, that is very elderly now, and the two young maidservants. Oh, and the stable lad.'
'It will be better, I think, for them to stay here.' He did not elaborate, but James was wholly aware of what he meant. If the servants were themselves already infected, sending them away, among other people, would do more harm than good. As the doctor drove away:
'Perhaps we are all infected. Perhaps we are all doomed to die.' But he did not say it loud enough for Dr Harkness to hear.
On the morrow a letter came for James, from Portsmouth. He did not reply. He did not even read it.
TWO
Captain William Rennie, RN, and his bride Sylvia – a handsome naval widow he had met months since, and had been immediately and greatly drawn to – were living for a few weeks at Portsmouth, far from their home in Norfolk. They had taken rooms at the Marine Hotel while Captain Rennie's ship – HMS Expedient, frigate, 36 – was refitted. The ship had lain in Ordinary most of the previous year, and had now been recommissioned because of the worsening situation in France.
Expedient was at present shored up in the dry dock having her copper examined. Rennie moved about the dockyard, visited the port admiral's office, returned to the yard, fretted, enquired, took the wherry over to Gosport to chivvy his purser Mr Trent as he made his requests and purchases at the Weevil, visited his tailor Bracewell & Hyde, and was full of the energy of renewed command.
'Yes, yes, but what of the buttons?' he said in Mr Bracewell's shop. 'Have Firmins sent them?'
'I am still awaiting them, I fear, sir. The—'
'What? Still? Good heaven, Bracewell.'
'Firmins are very taxed at present, sir, with many orders. So many ships coming back into commission, so many officers that wants new buttons, not to mention new lace—'
'Yes yes, very well. Let me know the moment you have the buttons to hand, will you? The full set, for my dress coat. Do not forget.'
'I will not
likely do that, sir.' Mr Bracewell, politely, tape measure draped neatly about his neck.
'Very good. I am at the Marine Hotel.'
'I have the address in my book.' Politely, as Rennie strode out to the clinking of the above-door bell.
Rennie had gone aboard Expedient as soon as he had come to Portsmouth, and before she had been given her number for the dry docking by the master shipwright. He had formally read his commission on the cluttered deck, surrounded by indifferent artificers, his standing officers, and those few men of the ship's complement already berthed in her. The bulk of her people had not yet been gathered, leave alone entered in the ship's books. And now that the ship was out of the water, her standing officers and those few others attached were living in a hulk moored upstream of the dockyard, until she could be refloated.
The boatswain Mr Tangible and the carpenter Mr Adgett had followed Rennie to the dockyard gate, caught him up there, and vehemently complained about this arrangement.
'Why cannot we live decently ashore, sir?' demanded Mr Tangible.
'Surely a port hulk is decent enough these days?' Rennie, knowing the answer to that.
'I am not a man to complain, not in usual, but that damned hulk is intol'ble, sir. Rats, filth, the cook is senseless drunk, and her people bring whores into her at all hours, and – well – conduct themselves very licentious. It is altogether very hard for both Mr Adgett and myself.'
'Yes?' Glancing at Mr Adgett.
'Yes, sir, as I say.' Mr Adgett, nodding.
'Well well, we must see what can be done.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'I shall say a word to the master attendant. He may know of lodgings—'
'I could save you that trouble, sir, if you please. We have lodged at my sister's all the while the ship was in Ordinary, and would wish to go there now.' Mr Adgett.
'Y'didn't live aboard – at all?'
'We did go aboard her regular, sir.' Mr Tangible.
'By the by, where is the gunner? Where is Mr Storey?'
'He is presently ashore, sir.' Mr Adgett, nodding.
'Ashore? Where?'
'I believe he has took a room at the Pewter Inn, sir.'
The Gathering Storm Page 2
