Am I drowning? He wondered. Or just losing consciousness? I have felt this before. When was that? When did I feel this way? When…?
24 - “The Passage Home”
T’was there that we parted in yon shady glen
On the steep, steep sides old Ben Lomon'
Where in soft purple hue, the highland hills we view
An' the moon comin' oot in the gloamin’.
The wee birdies sing an' the wild flowers spring
An' in sunshine the waters are sleeping
But the broken heart it kens, nae second spring again
Tho' the woeful may cease from their grieving.
Traditional Scottish song
Neville’s first sensation on waking was pain. The concept of waking had not yet settled upon his brain. His head thumped something between the feelings of a strong ache and having been struck by a club. The leg injury from St. Christopher pained almost as it had when first broken three years ago. His head, where it had been hit in a previous naval action, was screaming at him. Then the realization that he might be waking came to him. Am I waking? My head is bleeding. Is my leg broken again? I must be waking, but how could I? Am I not dead? Where is Maria?
He cried out, and someone came and stood beside the bed.
A thousand thoughts flooded over him at once; many questions and few answers: I’m not in water or in sand or wet ground, even. This is a bed. Where’s Maria? Is this a ship?
First reactions on rising from unconsciousness are usually to save one’s own life, and he reacted as such. He raised his hand to his head and asked, “Did you stop the bleeding?”
A voice from someone he could not see clearly answered, “The bleeding was not much. It is not serious wound. You have been delirious for a day now.”
“Did Maria survive? Where is she?” he asked franticly, and then moaned, “My leg. Is it broken again?”
“Your leg is fine, but bruised. It does look as if something fell on it.”
He felt his heart begin to thump very hard and pressed his hand harder on his head.
“Where am I? Did Maria survive?”
“There was no woman with you.”
A hand raised his head and a cup was pressed to his lips. “Doctor says to drink this.” The liquid was very tart and not hot; thick and foul-smelling. He drank it, and was soon asleep again.
He woke again, and it was dark. No part of him hurt as it had before, but he felt a general ache everywhere. He hadn’t attempted to move yet. His arm, where the sign had fallen on it, was a specific pain. Someone had left a small oil lamp burning, hanging on a beam in the corner of the little wooden room. It is a ship, though not a large one. Not my Experiment. Have I been rescued from the sea by a ship? Where could Maria be?
I must move. Left Leg. Right Leg. Left arm. Right arm. Head. Now sit up. That went well, but I’d better just sit a minute. Nobody’s about.
The ships’ bell chimed three and he heard the Master-at-Arms up on deck cry out, “All’s well.”
He stood, and his leg held. He tried a step forward, and his head struck a beam that he hadn’t noticed hard enough to send him to his knees. No, it is not my Experiment. After another minute, he struggled to his feet again and went for the door in a crouched position. Once there he opened it, and finding himself mere feet from the main hatch stair he ascended slowly to the deck. A light warm breeze enveloped him, wafting with it a faint rotten smell; a smell he knew only too well. The warm night breeze carried the stink of a dump that he assumed was Port Royal’s. Thankfully, it was very faint, or in his condition might have triggered other problems.
His motion caught the attention of the Master-at-Arms Mate who had cried out a minute ago, and the man strolled over, as many night guards will, probably in hopes of a conversation. Neville noticed a hesitation, but the man came on, and he knuckled his forehead when close.
“G’d evenin’ Sir. Nice night, ain’t it?”
“Aye. It is,” responded Neville. The sound of his own voice rolling through his head was painful, and he reached up to hold his head again.
“Sorry you’ve not been well, Sir, so it’s good to see you up and about. Wells, Sir, Master-at-Arms Mate.”
“Good evening, Mr. Wells,” Neville forced out as cheerfully as he could manage. “What’s that over there?” Neville was leaning on the gunwale rail by then, looking landward across the harbor.
“What, all them lights? Kingston, Sir,” said Wells with a tone of confused surprise.
“Kingston what, Mr. Wells, I’m afraid I don’t know it.” I thought I was still in Jamaica. This looks every bit like Port Royal Harbor except for that city.
“Kingston, Jamaica, Sir, it is indeed.”
“I am confused, Mr. Wells. What’s this over here then?” asked Neville as he turned slowly and pointed to the peninsula seaward.
“That’s the old Port Royal, Sir; the old ‘sin city’, sure enough, full ’o pirates an’ scalawags, it was, until an earthquake mebbe an ‘undred years ago.”
An ugly thought struck him: “I’ve jumped in time again? I’ve lost Maria? Really lost her?” Tears welled to his eyes. Tears of loss. Terrible loss. Neville felt his knees go out from under him, and he went straight down. He felt his head bounce off the deck, and he returned to blackness.
Again he felt himself waking, and he was assaulted by a new sensation – that of hunger. Otherwise, he felt more aware of his surroundings than he had on the last two attempts to wake up. He no longer despaired of being able to move, and so without testing all his limbs, he slowly sat up.
“Oh, hello, Commander,” said a voice. “I was beginning to think we would have to set you ashore again. How do you feel today? It’s three days now since they fished you off the beach. Mr. Wells says you were up last night but fell in a heap by the rail. Mustn’t go taking exercise without some food in you,” he finally admonished.
That’s a lot of blabbering, Nigel thought. “Hungry, I am, sir, yes. I am hungry.” Again, the voice rolled heavily through his head.
“Don’t you be calling me ‘sir’, Commander. I’m just acting loblolly t’day. Here’s doctor. I’ll get you some pease porridge.”
“Hello, Sir,” said another man who reminded him quite a bit of hairy MacRead, but spoke with an Irish accent rather than MacRead’s Scotts. “Not a doctor, either,” he continued, “but I do what I can. I’m Cameron, Sailmaker’s mate, and I suggest you stay seated until you’ve et.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cameron, I will. How did I get here?”
“Best I have it is like this,” he began. Neville was pleased to realize that he was going to get the full story: “The Fort Charles patrol brought you over. They say that when they went aboard Sting when she came in from down south that they had a lieutenant to set ashore here to take this ship home to Britain. Lieutenant’s name was Barton, or some such. Is that you?”
“Aye, It’s Burton.”
“Well good, we’ve got the right commander, then.”
Neville glanced to his shoulders. Epaulettes were not required for navy uniforms in 1692, but he had worn one on each shoulder as captain of Experiment; a throwback from his ‘past’. The earthquake must have claimed one of them, because there was only one on his right shoulder, and two little ripped holes on his left where the other had been. He was wearing the new uniform he’d just had made in Port Royal, but it was definitely worse for wear. There was sand ground into the knees and he could see that it had been thoroughly wet. There was a cut on the sleeve where the sign had fallen that corresponded with the cut on his arm. The money sewn in various seams was still there. Enough gold pieces to live for a while, anyway. He noticed also that his sword, the one with the Fleur-de-Lis from Sans Pareil, hung in its belt on a peg by the door.
“The guard boat brought us your orders, but Sting said they set you ashore on the Port Royal strand. The guard found you walking down High Street toward land all bloody-like, so they supposed you’d been attacked and knocked on the head.”
“What happened to Sting?” he asked, thinking that he might get a better answer with that question.
“Dunno. Left next morning.”
Neville thought a moment, trying to absorb what he’d been told and wondering what to do next. His pease porridge came, and he began to eat. “What ship is this?” he asked.
“You don’t know?”
“Might’ve known. Don’t remember.”
“She’s the L’Eole, Sir, 18-gun French privateer captured by Solebay off Santo Domingo.” The man seemed disappointed or possibly even slightly offended, despite that he could not have been part of the ship’s original company.
“She’s a flush-decked ship sloop as you’ve seen.”
He would have to be part of a prize crew, maybe from Solebay, and is proud of that?
“You are to take her home to the prize court at Plymouth.”
“Oh, yes. When do we sail?”
“When you say, Sir.”
I can take a couple days to search for Maria, then. “Will you tell me today’s date, please, year and all?”
“Today is June…. “He turned and yelled over his shoulder, “What’s the date, Thomas?”
“Ninth June, 1800,” he concluded after Thomas answered.
Neville winced, “Are we ready to sail?”
“With all due respect, Sir, you might ask First Lt. Dodd.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. Please leave me now.”
The men left his cabin, as he now understood this room to be. He looked for the commode and found it to be a luxurious one in some unfamiliar style - probably French. It contained a large mirror – at least a foot square – on the bulkhead. The man he saw in the mirror was grizzled for his age, with a duller eye than normal, frizzy, untied, fly-away hair and a two-inch run of dried blood on the forehead. I shouldn’t wonder this head wound hurts. It’s right on top of the old one.
He stumbled back to the cot, sat on the edge of it, put his tired head in his hands, and wept the tears of despair until he fell asleep. When he awoke, he heard the eight bells he assumed to be midnight. He was alone. It would seem his officers finally believed he would survive. I should read my orders, if I can find them. He found them in the desk drawer, in the standard Navy envelope. Mine? Yes, my name in the address, with the rank of Lieutenant. Lieutenant. After almost three years as captain. Are they current? Only the date ‘June, 1800’.
Seeing the date was sufficient reminder. It’s true, then. I’ve jumped in time again! Dear God, I’ve lost Maria! Tears returned to his eyes. She may have been lost anyway, but I must look. I saw the wall coming down on her and I couldn’t reach her in time. It can’t be! She can’t be gone! Maybe I can find the Fuller place in that city there – Kingston.
He returned to the orders. “Commander Neville Burton - go aboard the L’Eole in Kingston Harbor, Jamaica and take command –“
So my rank will be ‘Commander’, at least. That rank dear Lord Inchiquin did not comprehend. Neville collapsed back into his cot.
He awoke to the sound of the off-watch being called up to holystone the deck. He went topside to watch the process, not so much because he cared, but for some diversion, and then took his breakfast alone in his cabin. Ten minutes before the eight bells that would call hands to breakfast, he assembled the ship’s company and read himself in as commander. Before the bells rang, he asked Lt. Dodd to be set ashore, and informed him that they would sail three days hence.
L’Eole’s gig discharged him on the strand half an hour later.
This is what’s left of Port Royal? Most of the buildings are gone. This is definitely a road, and it’s by the water, but it isn’t Thames Street. I think it might he High Street. He walked toward Fort Charles until he reached something that resembled it in form. It had been rebuilt in red brick.
After staring at the portal for several minutes, Neville turned to walk toward Kingston. The very idea of walking from Port Royal to another city was difficult to grasp, but he overcame his reticence and began. A military transport coach rattled up behind him from the Fort and, to his great surprise, stopped.
“Are you going to town, Sir?” asked the coachman.
“Aye,” was all Neville said.
“Get aboard, then.”
The coach appeared to be capable of taking as many as ten, though there were but three aboard.
That explains why he stopped, thought Neville, but he hasn’t asked for payment.
There was no conversation. The other passengers were of low rank and apparently not willing to speak in front of a navy commander. Neville was not in a mood to strike up conversation with them, so silence prevailed.
All passengers disembarked in towne centre. He found his whereabouts quite confusing, and decided to proceed as best he could by physical things - the direction of the sun, the slope of the hills and natural landmarks; but not the buildings, of course.
He walked uphill for some time, until the landscape seemed to take on some familiarity. He asked passers-by for things he suspected might not have changed, and the Fuller Plantation was one of those. Although he felt he was getting closer, the first three people he stopped knew nothing of it. The fourth directed him to the Verley House on Fuller Road. That answered, but at the same time confused him.
Walking up the road, he no longer questioned that he was in the right place, and then the house came into view. His emotions were scarcely in check as he approached the house. By now, his logical side knew that Maria would not run out to throw her arms around his neck; Thomas would not be there to greet him with an invitation for a drink of rum in the library. What of ‘Verley’? Vincent couldn’t be here, could he?
None of the vitality of the place was there; it was clearly not a working plantation – just a home. It was the house where he had held Maria and kissed her and loved her only a few days ago, and made a child with her but three months gone by. Yet it was not the same; it was old now. It looked as if a couple in their dotage might materialize if he dared ring the bell. It occurred to him that he had never rung the bell. He had been family here.
I cannot stand here stupidly all day. I must at the very least ring the bell. His hand shook as he reached for the lever. If someone comes to the door and is not of the Fuller place, I cannot deny reality. He paused again. I must know. I cannot leave this place without knowing. His arm rose of its own will. The hand on the end of it turned the lever, and some noise happened inside the house. Nothing else was heard for a full minute. He was about to ring the bell one more time when the silence was broken by a clumping sound from within.
The door creaked open, and were it not for his depressed mood he might have laughed when an old man materialized behind it. The old man stood there with a cane in one hand – hence the clumping noise. “Can I help you?” he asked in a scratchy but vaguely familiar voice.
Neville had not been prepared for questions, and stood dumb for a moment. He found his tongue, “Whose residence is this, if I might ask.”
“Verley, Sir, why?”
“I would dearly love to see Captain Vincent Verley, if I may.”
“Vincent, oh my,” reacted the old man, “That’s certainly not possible. Father’s been dead over fifty years. I’m his son, Clive.” There was a hint of Vincent about the hunched old man. The firm chin and the eye color were the same – and the voice.
“Thomas Fuller, then. Did you know him?”
The old man paused before answering, as if digging through memories. “Not really. I’m told I sat on his knee as a very young boy. He sold this place to my father. He had no heir, you know. Very sad it was. Why do you come here asking these questions?” he finished, now seeming a bit suspicious.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” said Neville, turning to go as his tears welled up again. He could not force himself to wait and ask the last question - about Maria. Walking back down the lane to the road, he heard the door shut. He stopped there, leaning on a tree, waiting for his emotions to clear.
&nbs
p; There is one last thing, he mused, and circled past the house to get his bearings. Noticing a very old tree higher up the hill, he walked up the lane the hundred yards to it. Surrounding the tree was an overgrown thicket. He picked his way into the thicket until he stumbled over a grave marker. “Catherine Fuller,” it said, and his heart began pounding. Is this as close to Maria as I will ever get again? There’s the little stone house. He bent down and pushed on the roof. It didn’t move, so he thumped it with his fist; then it slid to the side, revealing a very badly rotted wood box. The lid crumbled when he poked his fingers into it. He pushed the wood aside and lifted an old copper sheet beneath. It, too, broke in half. A jumble of tarnished silver coins was evident beneath. Well, I certainly can’t carry that. He slid the lid shut.
“What are you doing there?” shouted the hunched Clive Verley, who had apparently followed him up the lane but had not entered the thicket.
“Looking for them,” answered Neville after a short pause. I must at least try.
“Looking for whom? And how did you know there was a cemetery here?”
“Vincent and Mary – and Maria. Is there a marker here for Maria Fuller?”
Clive waited, as if trying to decide whether he should answer or not. “Yes. Colonel Fuller put one next to her mother, even though her body was never found. Father and mother are over there,” he said, pointing farther from the tree. “What do you know of Maria?”
Let him think me mad. I don’t care what this old man thinks, and I will not deny her. “She was my fiancée. I loved her with my very soul,” he yelled, frantically swishing overgrowth aside with his hands. There! My God! Maria Fuller, 1671 – 1692. A great moan arose from somewhere inside him. He more collapsed than knelt, put his forehead against the cold marker and wept again.
Clive retreated silently into the house, probably more in fear than sympathy. Neville left before the fireflies would come out in the dark. He returned the next day with a small canvas sack, filled it with half the silver, and left behind a single plumeria flower. He re-covered the coins with the copper lid liner and some of the rotted wood. You never know. It’s too heavy for me to carry it all, anyway, and I doubt I’ll need it all now.
A Journal of The Experiment at Jamaica (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 2) Page 37
