by Hunter, Seth
Nathan was wondering how to raise the subject when it came about naturally in the course of the conversation. They had been discussing the war—which they agreed was the excuse for all manner of repression—when Mary asked her, in a lowered voice and with a glance to ensure that no servants or government agents were in the room, if she had heard lately from Turenne.
Nathan took this for a place until it became clear that it was, in fact, the missing husband, who had fled France to avoid imprisonment or worse and was now with the French court in exile in Koblenz. Nathan gathered that his wife had remained in Paris partly from preference but also to safeguard their property and the interests of her young son, for which purpose she had reverted to her maiden name of Seton.
“My father was a Scottish soldier and adventurer,” she informed Nathan, with a hint of pride. “That is his picture above the fireplace and that is the family seat you can see in the background.”
Nathan twisted round in his chair to observe the likeness of a fierce, bearded gentleman with both hands clenched round the hilt of one of those murderous weapons he believed the Scots called a claymore. The “seat” to which she had referred must be the ancient castle over his right shoulder.
“He fought for Prince Charles Stuart at the Battle of Culloden,” she told Nathan, “and was forced into exile.”
“Then you are Scottish?”
“Half Scottish. My mother was French and I was born in Provence.”
“So we are all exiles,” remarked Mary, “in our different ways.” There was a brittle tone to her voice which suggested to Nathan that she was not prepared to tolerate a private tête-à-tête. “Though I expect you will be returning to your native land very shortly, Mr. Turner.”
“As soon as I have delivered my cargo,” he confirmed, with a glance at Imlay who gave him a look that conveyed an element of warning.
“And where is it you live in America?”
“My family are from New York,” Nathan told her, “but I have been many years at sea.”
“Ah New York. I could not quite place the accent.”
“You are looking tired, Captain,” observed Imlay, a little sharply. “I believe you would welcome your bed tonight.”
This was true. Nathan felt as if he could barely keep his eyes open.
“But of course, how inconsiderate of us,” declared their hostess with concern. “And hardly surprising after what you have been through . . .”
Nathan wondered if it was his recent ordeal that had made him so weary or the fact that he had spent the last two nights on the road. But he had moments when he still felt the rope round his neck and thin air beneath his kicking feet.
“Well your room is ready for you, sir, and you should not stay up on our account.”
“Indeed, and we should be leaving shortly, my dear,” said Imlay to Mary, “for I will need to organise our journey to Le Havre.”
It was the first time Nathan had realised that neither of the Imlays planned to spend the night here. He would be alone with the lady of the house—apart from her servants, and the sleeping child.
“Is it necessary for you to leave tomorrow?” she inquired of Imlay. “Surely Mr. Turner needs time to recover from his ordeal.”
“I will hire a chaise,” Imlay declared, “and Mr. Turner can sleep all the way to the coast.”
“Then we had better get you to bed,” said Sara, looking at Nathan in a way that for all his tiredness stirred certain of his facilities into a high state of alert.
“Sleep well,” said Imlay as they parted at the door. “I will be here first thing in the morning.”
“Safe journey,” said Mary, adding in a voice so low as to be a whisper, “and give my regards to your mother when next you are in London.”
Chapter 11
a Man of Many Parts
Nathan spent the night before the journey to Le Havre compiling a detailed inventory of his character as a New York shipowner. Should Imlay voice his wife’s concern that he was in fact the son of one of her closest London friends and an officer in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, he was prepared to suggest that she might have mistook him for another and, in extremis, to question the reliability of her eyesight, not to mention the possibility of madness in the family.
He need not have bothered. Imlay betrayed not the slightest interest in Nathan’s nationality, family background, politics or religion. He was far too interested in talking about himself.
“I have been called a man of many parts,” he informed Nathan in reply to his polite inquiry as their coach proceeded westward through the Bois de Boulogne. “And indeed I have been soldier, adventurer, explorer, backwoodsman, author and now, it appears, merchant and shipping agent. A gypsy once told my mother I would have seven lives and by my own reckoning I have used up five of them. But I would like to be remembered as a man of letters.”
He had begun his adventures as an officer in Washington’s army “fighting the British,” he said (with a roguish grin that suggested he was not entirely ignorant of Nathan’s true character). After which he had joined with other veterans in exploring and surveying the frontier territory of Kentucky. He had blazed a trail across mountains and through forests, shot rapids, travelled on a flatboat down the great Ohio, fought redskins, mapped an entire new territory, purchased eighteen thousand acres on the Licking River and found time to write a book about it all. “A Topographical Description of the Western Territory of North America,” he pronounced grandly but with a dismissive wave as if it was altogether too imposing a title for so modest a work. But then belied the gesture by informing Nathan that it had been published by Debret in London with a view to encouraging emigration.
“A vast country with vast potential,” he informed his companion as if he were a potential investor. “All it requires is people and we will possess a new empire of the west.”
Nathan raised the delicate matter of those living there already.
“Why, it is a wilderness,” Imlay replied in surprise, “with scarce a living soul west of the Ohio saving a few French trappers and backwoodsmen—and the savages, of course.”
It was the savages he had in mind, Nathan admitted, having heard his mother’s views on the subject, though she was more inclined to blame the English for giving away their title than her own countrymen for seizing it.
“A noble race,” Imlay intoned. “I have spent some time amongst them and speak a few words of the Cherokee.”
He assumed an appropriate pose and uttered a series of grunts for Nathan’s edification.
“Which is to say in English: ‘Would you care for a pipe of tobacco?’ But they are nomads for the most part who have no more understanding of the value of land than we do of the composition of the moon. Unless you are one of those who subscribe to the notion that it is made of cheese. No, as I have written, they must be taught the very rudiments of agriculture and civilised life to have any chance of survival.”
“And yet they seem to have managed quite well for some thousands of years,” Nathan ventured a direct quote from his mother with whom he had, in fact, been arguing at the time.
“Ah well, that is progress, you know,” replied Imlay obscurely.
“But will they not resist?”
“There have been instances . . . but for those of an adventurous disposition this does but add to the drama of the enterprise. Indeed, this is partly the subject of my second book, The Emigrants, which was published earlier this year in London. You may purchase a copy on your return . . .” Another sly dig? “It is a novel. An adventure story with a love interest. Some of the passages, I dare say, will shock the more prudish reader. It contains scenes of violence and depravity. Rape and nudity. A modest woman, her clothes torn from her body staggering into the street, dazed and bruised, clutching her scanty rags to her naked bosom . . . And the assailant, her own husban
d! I have spared no blushes.”
“Indeed. And has Mrs. Imlay read it?”
“She has, and I believe approves its candour and lack of cant. It has a serious theme comparing the freedom of the New World with the hypocrisies of the Old. It favours equality between the sexes and has some harsh words to say about the institution of marriage as it is practised in Europe.”
“And yet it has not deterred you from entering into such a union . . .”
Imlay gave him a sharp look. “Mary is an exceptional woman . . .”
Nathan bowed in acknowledgement of this fact.
“Her circumstance, too, is exceptional. As an Englishwoman living in Paris, her situation was delicate to say the least. I felt it incumbent upon me to offer the protection of my name, as an American citizen.”
This was not the same as saying they were married. Nathan pondered this in silence but could think of no diplomatic way to pose the question.
“And Madame Seton,” he ventured after a while. “Is her situation also delicate?”
“More than that. It is extremely dangerous. If her true identity were to be revealed . . .” Imlay dropped his voice, although it was quite impossible to be overheard. “Her husband is Raymond de la Tour d’Auvergne, Count of Turenne.”
He observed Nathan’s expression carefully but discovering no more than polite interest, added, “They are one of the most esteemed families of France. Descendants of the great Turenne who led the French armies at the time of Louis XIV and was widely regarded as the most accomplished military mind of the age.”
“And has the present count inherited his genius?”
“Alas no, he is more of a courtier. Currently attached to the émigré court in Koblenz.”
“His wife is unable to join him there?”
“It would be difficult. Besides,” with a leery grin, “I do not suppose either party is anxious for a reunion.”
Nathan raised a mildly inquiring brow.
“I may tell you, in confidence, that the marriage might be held as an example of all that is vile in the institution, as I have described it in my novel.”
“The brutal husband, the modest wife?”
“As to that I would not know but the count is a collector of rare and beautiful objects in which category we must place the delectable Sara. As the daughter of an impoverished Scottish soldier she was effectively purchased by the gentleman to add to his collection. To tantalise his acquaintances with his possession of such an object of desire.”
“And yet he was not loath to part from her.”
“The Count’s own desire was not perhaps as strong as his appreciation of beauty. Sara was eighteen when they married, the count some thirty years her senior. He is now quite an elderly gentleman and I do not believe they were ever close.” He noted Nathan’s expression. “I said it was vile, did I not?”
“You also said she was in some danger if her true identity were known.”
“At the very least she would be imprisoned and the boy cast into an orphanage.”
“Then she is in hiding?”
“On the contrary, she is very much exposed to the public gaze.”
He smiled at Nathan’s confusion.
“She attends the studio of Jean-Baptiste Regnault in the Rue Honoré as a pupil . . . and also, it is rumoured, as a model. Thus paying for her lessons. Regnault has painted her en déshabillé on a number of occasions and also, I believe, quite nude.”
He slapped Nathan’s thigh and laughed aloud.
“You blush, sir. I do believe you are smitten. Oh, there are many young men who attend Regnault’s classes who would die for her. It is said she poses for them too if she requires a little extra food for the pot.”
Nathan wondered if Imlay had allowed his writer’s imagination to get the better of him but it was not an image easily dismissed from his own and he was silent for a time.
“Are we to spend the night on the road?” he inquired at length. It was growing dark and the coachman had stopped to light the lamps.
“No, but we should press on until we reach Rouen,” replied Imlay, “so that I may arrange for your cargo.”
Nathan was confused. “My cargo? But the cargo is at Le Havre.”
“Yes,” replied Imlay tolerantly, “but the cargo you are to take back is in Rouen.”
“What cargo is this?” Nathan demanded, with a frown. He felt he was being put upon. “I received no instruction to embark a cargo in France.”
“Only some wine and spirits. And a quantity of silver plate I have managed to purchase from a confiscated estate. It is all quite legal and aboveboard, I assure you, and I am sorry if you were not informed of it. It was most remiss of . . . those that sent you. I assure you it is expected.”
“Expected by whom?”
“According to my instructions, you are to deliver it to a Mr. Williams of Newhaven. A short crossing from Le Havre, as you are doubtless aware.”
The name Williams of Newhaven sounded familiar to Nathan though it was a moment before he had placed it.
“This Mr. Williams, would he be the owner of a lugger called the Fortune?”
“I believe that is the name of one of his vessels. He was engaged in the cross-Channel trade for some years until the war but now he is in the service of government, like yourself.”
“Which government?”
“Why the British government, of course.” Imlay made a quaint arch of the brow. “Do not look so shocked, my friend, it is one of the perquisites of government service. And my lord Chatham is perfectly acquainted with it, I promise you. You will exchange your cargo for another like any respectable man of business. And if certain other gentlemen profit by the transaction, why then, as we say in France, c’est la guerre.”
He clapped Nathan once more upon the thigh and laughed aloud at his discomfort, or his own wit, or both.
Chapter 12
Fog in the Channel
The Speedwell eased her way through the patchy fog muffling the mouth of the Seine as the last dregs of light leaked from the westward sky: perfect conditions for a blockade runner slipping port; all it lacked was a wind. It had been with them from Le Havre, the merest zephyr from the southeast but enough to bring them smoothly down river with the current and the ebbing tide. Then, minutes after dropping the pilot in the Petite-Rade, it failed them completely and left the barque drifting in the shipping channel in a flat calm a little over a mile to the south of Cap de la Hève.
Nathan gazed reflectively upon the damp sails, hanging like limp rags on a line of washing.
“I think it will pick up a little,” said Tully at his back. “There should be something of an offshore breeze at this time of the year.”
Nathan nodded as if this confirmed his own conviction though in truth he was convinced of no such thing and he did not know how Tully could be. They were still moving, drifting through the ghostly banks of fog on the ebb and with just enough speed to give them steerage-way, the entire crew up on deck or in the tops, looking out for other vessels in the haze, and every minute the silence broken by the piercing whistle of young Francis Coyle in the bow. The pilot had washed his hands of them, consigned them to oblivion with a curse. Any reasonable man, he had informed Nathan, would lie up in the roads and wait for daylight and a fair wind, knowing full well that blockade runners had a different notion of reasonableness and that in any case it did not jingle in the pocket like coin. Nathan, besides, had other motives. He felt like a smuggler. He probably was a smuggler. The Speedwell’s hold was stuffed with Imlay’s contraband—there was no other name for it—and as far as he was concerned, the sooner he discharged it the better, even to the notorious Mr. Williams of Newhaven.
There had been a surprising lack of interference from the French authorities. Bribes had doubtless been paid and as Imlay had po
inted out, the port depended on trade for its existence, even trade with the enemy. Even so he had been nervous. There had been a change of regime in the port. A représentative-en-mission had been sent from Paris with orders to crack down on such dealings. The mayor and several leading merchants had been arrested. It would blow over, Imlay assured Nathan, but the sooner they left the better.
Before they parted he had handed Nathan a sealed envelope, instructing him in his most irritating, conspiratorial manner to ensure that it was placed into the hands of “he who sent you.” It was now fastened inside Nathan’s jacket. He would very much like to have opened it but even if he could have brought himself to contemplate such a flagrant breach of trust, he dared not tamper with the seal.
He leaned back on the rail and listened to the gentle gurgle of water past the hull and other sounds, overloud in the muffled stillness. Creaks and groans from rope and timber. The squabble of invisible gulls in the murk ahead. And from the waist a low-voiced discourse in an accent that had become familiar to him on the voyage out and was oddly comforting now though he could not place the speakers.
He knew the crew little better than when they had set sail from Bristol, although it must be supposed that Tully did after their stay in Le Havre. Promisingly, none had skipped ship though they had been freely allowed ashore. Tully had warned them to be discreet and as far as Nathan could tell they had been, for all the cheap wine poured down their throats. It was significant, at any rate, that none had been taken up by the authorities though several had been teased for information. They were smugglers, Tully said simply when Nathan expressed his guarded surprise: they knew to keep their mouths shut. And Tully was a smuggler too, Nathan reminded himself, and the only man aboard beside his servant, Gabriel, who knew he was not an American.
He caught the eye of the second mate—Keeble. Jonathan Keeble from Marblehead. Most of the crew were from Marblehead or one of the other small ports to the north of Boston. He noticed Nathan watching him and gave him an easy nod and a wink. Nathan was stunned. He nodded uneasily back but he felt as if he had been embarrassed in public.
