by Carla Kelly
He sidled into the cell and stared at her, uncertain, as she cried and then sagged against her husband, who picked her up and deposited her on the cot.
“Keep it up, love,” he whispered.
She curled into a ball and continued to weep.
“Should I send for a physician?” the colonel asked, his voice quavering. Nana could barely hear him over her own racket.
“What good would that do, since you will not allow her to leave with me?” Oliver said, sounding more weary than ten men with hysterical wives.
“I have my orders,” Colonel San Sauvir said feebly.
“As one officer to another, I do not dispute that. Do one thing for me, at least—let me and Pete leave as soon as it’s light. The sooner we’re away, the sooner this matter will be resolved.”
“Oui, certainly.”
Oliver sat down heavily beside her. “Colonel San Sauvir, I depend upon your word as a gentleman that she will be treated with the utmost care.”
“You have that, Captain Worthy.”
Nana heard him open the door and speak to someone in the corridor. In a moment, there was the smell of food in the room.
“Is there anything else I can do for you? I will have a pallet brought here for Monsieur Carter. Some smelling salts for your wife? Can I warm that poultice?”
“No, you’ve done all you can,” Oliver replied, his voice so mournful that she had to remind herself to continue her own charade.
“There is one more thing,” her husband said. “Pass the word to my men on the beach to be ready to receive me and Pete at first light.”
“I will do that now, Captain.” There was a long pause, then San Sauvir said, “Do give your charming wife my sympathies.” The door clanged shut behind him.
With a laugh, Oliver leaned back against her hip. “Nana, you’re amazing.”
She sat up, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “It wasn’t hard, Oliver. I’m scared to death.”
He handed her his handkerchief. “I wish we had a better plan. Unless Lord Nelson himself rises from the dead and suddenly appears on the horizon with the whole Royal Navy, I can’t imagine what it would be.”
Exhausted by the events of the day, and even more by the weariness that seemed to be her lot since finding herself with child, Nana slept soundly in her husband’s arms. She vaguely heard him conversing in low tones with Pete, but was too tired to care.
When it was still dark, Oliver woke her by unbuttoning her dress. She stood up dutifully; shivering, she stepped out of her dress. She untied her petticoat and let it drop, but kept on her chemise. In another moment, Oliver handed her Pete’s clothing, which she put on quickly.
“Too big around the waist,” she whispered, holding the waistband away from her.
“Savor the moment, Nana,” Oliver teased, as he handed her Pete’s belt. “It’ll pass in a month or two, eh?”
She jabbed him with her elbow and he kissed her neck in return.
“Can ye button me the back, sor?” Pete asked, which made her laugh out loud, then cover her mouth.
“I’ll do it, Pete,” she said. “Did you already tie on my petticoat?”
He muttered something which she took for a yes.
When she finished, Oliver grinned at him. “Twirl around, Pete. Let’s see how captivating you are.”
Pete said something that made her gasp and then giggle.
Pete’s shoes were too large, but Oliver tore off a length of her petticoat that Pete wore, and stuffed the toes so she could at least keep them on. Wrapping Pete’s boat cloak around her, she lay down on the pallet he had vacated, and he replaced her beside Oliver on the cot.
“You’re not nearly so soft, my love,” Oliver told him.
“Mind your manners,” Pete growled. “You know buggery’s a hanging offense in the fleet.”
“Stop it, you two,” Nana said.
Wide-awake, they lay still. The room began to lighten slowly, as dawn came. When she could see outlines in the cell, Nana got up.
Oliver rose, too, and stood peering out of the small window. “Perfect,” he said. “It’s raining. Nobody will wonder at your hood up over your face, Nana.”
She heard footsteps in the hall and took a deep breath. “Pete, I love you,” she whispered. “If it’s a boy, we’re naming him after you.”
“Ye’d better, Nana.” Pete laughed softly, and tucked the blanket high around him, turning toward the wall.
She heard the key turn in the lock and a high voice proclaiming, “Get up! Get up!” in French.
“Thank the Lord. It’s Lieutenant DuPuy, the dumbest man on the continent,” Oliver whispered. He gave her a quick kiss and made sure her hood was hanging over her face.
The door opened. She stood behind Oliver, letting him shield her from the lantern light.
“Get out now!”
She could see Oliver securing the thin wheat poultice around his neck. “Cold morning,” he said in French. “One moment, Lieutenant.”
He went back to the cot, leaned over it and kissed Pete. “I’ll send someone for you as soon as I can, my love,” he said. He stood up and clapped Nana on the shoulder, pushing her forward roughly. “Come on, Pete. Let’s get this over with before she starts to cry again.”
On cue, Pete began to wail in a high falsetto, which made the French lieutenant gasp and then giggle nervously. He couldn’t leave the cell fast enough.
With her husband’s hand on her shoulder, Nana began Pete’s rolling, arthritic walk. Tears started in her eyes as she walked along the corridor, remembering the time Gran had punished her with no dinner when she had imitated Pete’s walk for her little Plymouth friends.
She nearly lost Pete’s shoes on the stairs, but they were out of the convent soon enough. When the door closed behind them, her husband could not hold back an audible sigh of relief.
Following the French lieutenant and his bobbing lantern, they walked through the convent’s gates and down to the beach. The sun was up now, but it was raining. The grey of the sky met the grey of the sea and she thanked God for the bluster and the rain that kept the French sentries crouched by their fires.
Oliver steadied her as they went carefully down the slippery steps of the quay toward the Tireless’s jolly boat. She could barely make out the sailors, sitting there, ready to row. Oliver pushed her forward into the boat. “Hurry up, Pete,” he said gruffly. “We haven’t got all day, damn ye.”
She stumbled toward the stern of the jolly boat. The bosun’s mate sitting there looked her in the eyes. To his everlasting credit, he caught on immediately and shoved her down beside him, forcing her low in the jolly boat and out of sight of the French soldiers standing by to cast off the lines that bound them to Spain.
Hurry, hurry, my love, Nana thought as she watched her husband standing so casually on the dock, talking to the lieutenant.
“You and your colonel had better make sure my wife is treated with all respect, or by God, I will bring the whole fleet down upon your head,” Oliver said, biting off each word.
The lieutenant pulled himself up tall and bowed. “Sir! We are Frenchmen! We do not make war on females! Leave now!”
“With pleasure,” Oliver said, with a stiff nod of his head.
He took his time getting into the boat, pausing to look back at the lieutenant and glare at him. “I’m trusting you with my heart’s delight,” he told the Frenchman.
“Sir! Please! Go!” the lieutenant snapped. He turned on his heel and left the wharf, after ordering the soldiers to release the lines.
Oliver sat down in the bow.
“The Frogs took the sail,” the bosun’s mate said in a low voice.
“Then row, lads,” Oliver ordered, “handsomely now!”
Chapter Twenty
Oliver sat in the bow, watching his wife crouched in the stern, her eyes fastened upon him, her terror obvious. He wanted to move back and reassure her, but he couldn’t risk upsetting the boat. They were moving slowly out to sea, under
guns that bristled from the convent’s parapet. An alarm raised now would blow them from the water.
Call him a fool, but he could not help the relief he felt, just in being on the water again. After all these years, it was his native element, and would remain so, no matter how much he loved his wife, and all the children that would probably follow, provided they survived to reach the Tireless. As he kept his unwavering gaze upon the creature dearest to him in all the universe, he hoped she would understand this dual nature of his. He thought she did, which made her even more beloved, if that were humanly possible.
After ten minutes of energetic rowing, the Tireless came into view through the mist. He didn’t know when he had seen a more welcome sight, unless it was Nana, her arms open wide, come to greet him at the door of the Mulberry, these past few times.
It didn’t come as a surprise to him that Nana was carrying his child. Their few couplings had been fervid and intense, almost a mirror of his—and now their—knowledge that the clock was always ticking every second he spent on land. He wondered what it would be like to someday make a baby in leisure. He looked at the receding coastline. A tranquil love life would depend entirely on Boney, he thought.
As he watched the convent, he felt the rumble even before he saw the flash. Maybe DuPuy wasn’t the fool he had thought. Or maybe Colonel San Sauvir felt remorse at his suffering wife in the cell. Pete had obviously been discovered, and San Sauvir must have not been amused by an arthritic sailor in a dress.
Nana cried out in terror as the cannonball splashed into the water some yards behind the jolly boat. Her scream of “Pete!” drilled right into his brain. I’ve got to get to her, he thought, even as he knew better than to move. The last thing they needed was for him to be pitched into the sea, and the note, snatched from Rodriguez at terrible cost, to be soaked. He stayed where he was, and was gratified a second later to see the bosun’s mate put his arm around Nana, and speak to her. His wife nodded, and set her lips firmly together.
I must see that Riley is promoted as soon as possible, Oliver thought.
“Row, lads!” the bosun’s mate shouted.
They needed no encouragement. Still, the pace seemed desperately slow. He pressed his own lips in a firm line as the next cannonball landed in front of the jolly boat. Oh God, we’re bracketed now, he thought.
“Nana, can you swim?” he shouted.
She nodded, telling him with her eyes how much she loved him. Her hand was pressed involuntarily to her belly, protecting their child against the next barrage that would probably take them out of the water.
It never came. The Tireless’s starboard gunports opened and hurled an answering barrage. He watched his frigate, commanded ably by Mr. Ramseur, leave its anchorage as though on springs and swoop toward the coast. Mr. Ramseur wore the ship expertly and the guns on the port side belched fire. The sailors in the jolly boat rowed for all they were worth.
The bosun’s mate had pushed Nana down between the thwarts, where she huddled, her hands over her ears.
The French gunners fired again, but their target was the Tireless now. Oliver yearned with all his heart for the next fifteen minutes to pass quickly. They could haul Nana aboard, he could regain his own quarterdeck and they would make all sail for England. He had to trust his acting first mate to do what his captain would do.
Mr. Ramseur did not disappoint. Like a mother eagle swooping to defend her chicks, the Tireless sailed as close to the wind as she dared, then backed her sails. In a blessed few minutes, the bosun’s mate—God bless the man—was holding Nana up to the chains and she was clambering up. Willing hands reached for her and swung her over the rail. Oliver closed his eyes in relief, and turned his attention to the shore, where the guns still fired.
The target wasn’t the Tireless this time, but the Goldfinch, teasing the French gunners like a strumpet, diverting their attention from larger prey.
“Your turn, sir,” the bosun’s mate said.
He gave the man’s shoulder a squeeze as he passed him, then threw himself against the chains for his own climb to the deck. He looked down as the sailors secured the jolly boat to the Tireless, then made their own ascent, none the worse for wear.
Nana stood there, shivering, but his attention had to be on the quarterdeck where Mr. Ramseur stood, his eyes boring ahead at the coastline. He looked down at his captain, and Oliver saw the familiar Ramseur again, a little unsure.
Oliver cupped his hands to his mouth. “Mr. Ramseur, take us out of here. I’m tired of an enemy shore!”
The gunners in the ship’s waist cheered as the acting first mate shouted, “You heard him!” then cheered again as Oliver grabbed his wife in a monumental embrace that threatened to topple her.
He couldn’t overlook the tears on her face. “We’ll get Pete out,” he assured her. “I have an idea. It might even be a good one.”
His arm around her, he walked her to the quarterdeck and up the short ladder. Mr. Ramseur immediately took the lee side of the deck, but Oliver went to him and shook his hand.
“Mr. Ramseur, you are no longer acting first mate. You’re my number one now. I can’t thank you enough.”
Mr. Ramseur blushed and stammered his thanks.
“I’m taking Nana below,” he said. “The deck’s yours.” He looked around. “Where is Lord Ratliffe?”
Ramseur nodded toward the Goldfinch, which was retiring now, too. “He said he had important work at Admiralty. We transferred him late last night at his request.”
“I can well imagine,” Oliver said dryly. “Have the signalman run up this message—‘Captain Worthy boarding.’”
“Aye aye, sir,” Mr. Ramseur said.
Oliver helped Nana belowdecks and into his cabin. He was startled to see her bandbox in his sleeping cabin, then remembered she had been on his ship only a day ago. Even still wrapped in Pete’s cloak, she shivered. As she watched, he opened her bandbox and took out her nightgown. Without a word, he took off Pete’s cloak as she unbuckled the belt. The trousers hit the floor next, followed by the shirt. Without saying a word, she raised her arms and he dropped her nightgown over her.
He picked her up, holding her close, then put her in his sleeping cot, which swung from the overhead deck beams. He found another blanket and tucked it around her as she burrowed into his bed.
“Don’t leave me yet,” she asked.
He needed no more invitation. With a sigh, he took off his shoes and then his uniform jacket and lay down beside her, careful not to set the cot rocking too vigorously. He put his arm around her and she tucked herself close to him, one leg thrown over him, in that way he had come to like so well.
“I’ve never been so frightened,” she admitted. “I don’t know how any of you face that, week in and week out.”
“Maybe we do it so our wives and children can rest easy in their own English beds,” he replied. Maybe that was the truth. It seemed far simpler than any proclamations from politicians, but he felt that way now.
Her head was resting on his chest, so he kissed her hair. He held her close until she stopped shivering and began to relax, her breasts heavy and warm against his side.
“I didn’t know you had asked Mr. Lefebvre for a sketch of me before you left that first time,” she said, her voice sleepy.
He looked up at the two pictures of her on the overhead deck beam. “It seemed like a good idea. And then you so brazenly sent me a picture of your own.”
“Rag manners on my part,” she admitted. “I didn’t want you to forget me, because I knew I was going to remember you forever, even if I never saw you again.”
Her words were as honest as everything else about her. He knew it was time for another confession.
“Nana, I never really told you why I came to the Mulberry in the first place.”
He thought she was asleep, because it took her a moment to answer him.
“I assumed you saw one of those flyers I put up at the Drake.”
“Not at all. I had already drop
ped my luggage there because I always stayed at the Drake. When I was at Admiralty House, reporting on my latest mission to your father, he told me what turned out to be a cock-and-bull story about you rejecting all his attempts to help you.”
His answer was an unladylike snort from his wife.
“He asked me to stay at the Mulberry and make a report on how things were.”
“We were at our last prayers.”
“I know. When I learned how things really were, I wrote him what I thought was a real taradiddle about how times were tough, but the Mulberry was doing well. I can only surmise he didn’t believe me.”
“And what about Mr. Lefebvre?”
He felt his eyes grow heavy as his wife’s body heat reminded him how tired he was. “Nana, Lefebvre sketched picture after picture of the harbor and what came and went. They’re hidden in his sketchbook, at least those he didn’t send on to your father, or to Colonel Lefebvre-Desnouttes, who is supposed to be the object of this exchange, probably engineered by Lord Ratliffe.”
She sat up and leaned on her elbow to look him in the face. “Can you prove this?”
“Maybe not, but I can bluff your father.” He sat up and kissed her, then pushed her down and wrapped the blanket around her. “Keep that spot warm. I’ll be back.”
She wouldn’t release his hand, so he stayed a few more minutes at her side until she fell asleep.
He gained the deck again to see the Goldfinch alongside. “It’s still yours, Mr. Ramseur,” he said as he took off his shoes and stockings for stability and walked the sloping plank between the ships.
Dennison saluted as he came aboard. “Well done, indeed, sir,” he said.
Leaning against the rail, Oliver acquainted the younger captain with the details of their escape. “So you see, a good man is a prisoner there now, and I want him back.” He looked around. “Where’s that blasted Lord Ratliffe?”
Dennison made a face. “Lord, what a chowderhead! If we were to make a pact and drop him overboard, not one man on either ship would tell.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s send him ashore for another exchange. I owe Napoleon an Admiralty officer. Where is he now?”
