by Susan Kaye
Eyerly touched his forehead. “Aye, sir. Captain Harville saved my young arse a time or two. It’s only right I help ’im when I can.”
Before the coxswain left, Wentworth requested the surgeon be fetched.
“No, please, I don’t need a doctor.” Harville’s voice was strong enough and firm in its resolve. Wentworth cancelled the order.
Harville struggled up and offering his hand said, “Captain Wentworth.”
Getting a good look at his friend, Wentworth was shocked. The man’s face was as white as Dover’s cliffs and thinner than he remembered. Taking Harville’s hand, he was equally disturbed to find the grip weak and tremulous, the skin clammy. Without letting loose, he carefully pressed him back into the chair. “Harville, I will not allow such formality between us.” Pulling another chair close, he took the seat. Not yet ready to launch into a conversation, he saw the empty water glass and said, “I think you need something stronger.”
He called out the door for Michaelson and ordered a decent wine be brought. Pouring Harville another glass of water, he handed it over. “You look as though you could use this.”
Harville took it gratefully.
“So, what brings you to me? This is a beastly hot night to be taking your ease below deck on a ship at anchor.”
Harville’s lips thinned and he set the glass down. He turned to look out the window and Wentworth could not help but notice that his eyes blinked furiously. The man was spared answering when Michaelson entered and poured each a glass of a robust red wine. As he left, the Captain snagged the bottle from him. His steward’s thrift and hawkish supervision over his private stores was an advantage at times, but this was not one of them.
The door closed and Wentworth straddled the chair next to his friend. Time passed and the only sounds heard were of the bells and calls from other ships, and the lapping water outside the window. Occasionally, a puff of what might be considered a breeze could be felt, but only occasionally.
Life above deck on the Laconia went on apace while Wentworth contemplated the various scenarios that might be the cause of Harville’s surprising visit and undisguised grief. Immediately it came to his mind that one of the man’s children was dangerously ill. The only thing that might be worse was the loss of his wife, Elsa. The thought of such an evil nearly took his breath away. There were things in life one took for granted. It was a fact indisputable that Wentworth would always be an officer of the Navy; it was just as sure that Elsa Harville would be alive and well to care for her husband and family. She had always been the more robust of the two, and the one who buoyed the man’s spirits when his injury brought him low. Nevertheless, there were no real certainties in life anymore. He himself was now thrown ashore with no sign of a ship…
Harville thumped his stick on the floor. No doubt it was a sign of resolve. He turned to face Wentworth. The expression on his pallid face was one of puzzlement and surprise. “It’s my sister, Fanny. She’s dead.” His eyes, and tone of voice, begged for an answer to an unasked question.
For a few seconds, Wentworth could not comprehend Harville’s anguish. There was no mention of his wife or any of his several children. What was the crisis? It was merely his sister—
Thankfully, before he could say anything rash, he clearly saw their positions reversed and it was he whose dear sister, Sophia, was dead. They had not seen one another for years, but the knowledge that her thick, gossip-filled letters would follow him to whatever part of the world he found himself, was a comfort that was vital to his happiness.
“It was a fever—in June—she was only sick for less than a week and then she was gone.” The statement was of few words, but he might just as well have recited the Articles of War in one breath. He was gulping air and his chest was heaving; his face was growing rosy. All the life was rapidly draining from him.
Chapter Two
Ignoring propriety, the Captain stood, pushed the chair away, and began to strip off Harville’s coat. He hadn’t the strength to fend off the onslaught and made no attempt to do so. “You should really have something a little lighter for summer, Timothy. You know how stifling this cabin gets in the heat…” One of the buttons popped off and skittered across the floor as they were viciously undone. “And yet, you came calling wearing your sturdiest wool.”
“You’re right, of course.” He refused to look at Wentworth. “But I must be prudent about spending these days,” he said between ragged breaths. He was limp as a damp rag and allowed his friend to remove his coat and unwind his neck cloth.
Retrieving a wet towel from the washstand, Wentworth handed it to him. Harville finally glanced up as he dabbed the towel around his neck. “Well, if I must humiliate myself, I suppose it is best done before a good friend.” Their eyes met for a moment. He continued, “Please do not allow it get around that I came very near swooning like some agitated woman.”
He was relieved Harville was not offended. Unwinding his own neck cloth, he said, “Aside from the excitement, I’m glad you did. As the host, it wouldn’t be proper for me to make myself comfortable in the presence of a guest.”
“I’m not really a guest, now am I?” Harville refolded the towel and placed it against his neck.
“No, and you never will be just a guest. Besides, this cabin is Hades’ lower deck, and I suspect that you’ve not been much concerned about taking care of yourself since Fanny…” He stopped. Her name was now dangerous to utter.
“I have been bearing up manfully for Elsa. She has not taken it well.” He took another glass of water mixed with some wine. Looking intently into the reddish liquid, Harville continued. “You know she did not wish Fanny to live with us. She complained that we were too many in too little space to be taking on anyone extra.”
When Wentworth had brought the three women from Portsmouth in the spring, nothing would have led the casual observer to believe there was anything but perfect harmony among them all. But, he knew from experience that the female of the species was highly skilled in making a show of possessing tender emotions when, in truth, there were none.
“She came to us in Portsmouth and Elsa was resentful. But being a Christian woman, she was determined to be kind. Before long they were closer than most genuine kin.”
“Your wife has always been a good and generous soul. I have always been treated well when I come to impose.”
He smiled. “She likes you very much. Besides, she is a clever girl who knows that wisdom dictates treating men of great influence with great esteem.”
Wentworth laughed aloud but felt slightly guilty for an expression of levity at such a wretched moment.
“The irony is the last time either one of us stepped foot into her room was the day she died. The bedding was stripped after they came and took her away, but it now stands empty. Neither of us can bear the thought of anyone in there. All that precious space and no one to use it.”
A thought was gaining in his mind, and he was about to ask a question when Harville said, “When she was alive, I took it for granted she would always be with us, even when she married Benwick. There was no great, outward affection between us, but now—” He looked at Wentworth and continued, “I miss her terribly. When you know you will never see someone again, it hurts something awful.”
It was a truth he could wholeheartedly embrace. Rather than dwell on it, he asked, “How has James taken the news?”
Timothy’s face went blank. “He is on his way from the Cape. Had you heard he was made commander into the Grappler?”
“No, I had not.”
“We have gotten letters right along. He was making for Plymouth, but then orders were given for Portsmouth.”
“I see.”
“His last one, the letter that came just before her fever, was very hopeful. He felt he was very close to having the wherewithal for them to marry. He never came out and asked her to think about choosing a date, but he made it clear it would be soon. Very soon.” He took a drink.
It was not hard to imagine Benwick savouring hi
s well-deserved step in rank by wetting the swab with the few fellow officers carried by a sloop. It was painful to think of him labouring under the delusion that his promotion now put him and Fanny in the way of marrying soon. Knowing Benwick’s romantic sensibilities, he was no doubt filled with thoughts of Fanny anticipating his return, planning for their forthcoming wedding, and planning a life of perfect felicity and joy for the both of them. Harville’s look and lack of explanation on the subject made it clear that their mutual friend was ignorant of his beloved’s untimely death.
Wentworth knew Harville’s compassionate bent precisely. It had served quite well when a dab hand was needed dealing with the mercurial, sometimes arbitrary nature of a ship’s crew. It was also a blade that cut the other way now and then.
Mercy informed Harville’s basic nature. In that, he reminded the Captain of his own brother, Edward. While this inclination created a great fraternity amongst the men of his division, it had occasionally forced the two officers to opposite poles concerning discipline of the crew. Wentworth could hardly be called a flogging captain; the cat remained in the bag for weeks on end. He never felt the need to prove his authority with trivial punishments. But, now and then, Harville would take it into his head that the Captain was being too brutal in his dealings with a particular crewman. It was those times he would come to the Great Cabin to plead mercy.
They never agreed in the particular cases, but Harville always presented himself respectfully, always mindful of his position as an inferior officer requesting leniency from his superior. He never presumed upon their friendship. For this, Wentworth was always grateful. Nothing could fuel discontent on a ship like a whiff of partiality. There could be no favourites on a well-ordered ship of war. Loyalty above all things bound them together when they were weeks away from the civility of England. Loyalty to the Captain was fundamental and Harville never failed to give all of his.
That loyalty now touched the Captain’s mind and heart. In the same way Harville would always return and, out of respect and duty, administer the proper punishments despite his reticence, it was clear that the duties of friendship required that Wentworth carry out a task that his friend could not. He could not even allow Harville to ask his assistance.
The Captain rose and took a seat at his desk. Pulling out paper and a quill, he began to write. Again, the cabin fell calm and quiet, except for the scratching of the pen.
Finally, Timothy rose, gathered his neck cloth and tossed the towel towards the basin. It missed. He thumped his way across the room to pick it up. “I am sorry I disturbed you. This is a family matter and really isn’t your concern.”
“Nonsense,” Wentworth said, and continued to scratch away. Harville finished the last of his wine and water and made an effort to fold the neck cloth.
Wentworth replaced the quill and blotted the letter. He read it again as he crossed the room to speak to the marine. “Pass the word for Eyerly, Michaelson, and Mr. Lull to come to the Great Cabin.” He turned and Harville was standing right before him.
“Thank you for writing this, sir.” He reached out to take it. “I just could not bring myself to dash all Benwick’s hopes.”
Allowing Harville to take the letter, he said, “I suppose I have more experience relaying tragedy than most but this is not the instrument. I am applying to the Admiral for a leave of absence and shall leave for Portsmouth as soon as possible.”
A sharp, overlong rapping at the door distracted them. “A moment, please, Mr. Lull.” Wentworth took the letter and went back to the desk. As he folded and sealed it, he said, “Why am I not surprised that Mr. Lull is the first? Come,” he called.
Lull entered and looked Harville’s unkempt frame up and down as he touched his brow. “Sir?”
The Captain pressed his seal into the blood-red wax. “This is to go to the Port Admiral’s clerk first thing in the morning. It is a request for leave of absence.” He handed the packet to his clerk.
“Might I ask for whom, sir?”
“For me. I must be away immediately. You wouldn’t happen to know when the Portsmouth post departs?”
Lull was clearly agitated by this late evening development. “At three, sir. How long will you be gone, sir?”
Leave it to dear old Lull to know something so pedantic as the nightly schedule of the mail coach bound east. He silently thanked God for the man’s plodding and tedious ways. Though the question concerning the length of his absence was impertinent, the Captain decided the news of his departure might as well be heralded by a reliable crier as not. “The time is unfixed. I will know more when I arrive in Portsmouth. The business is private.” This was said in such a way as to signal an end to the questioning.
“But, sir, what if the request is not approved? How will I explain…”
Wentworth reminded himself he would be thankful for this dull, obtuse little man when he turned over the ship’s books. “Mr. Lull, there will be nothing for you to explain. We are merely waiting for the formality of orders to vacate the ship so she might be placed in dry dock. It is unlikely that my request will be denied, but if that does occur, Mr. Cranmer will express me in Portsmouth, in care of the Grappler, and I shall return, post haste.” He handed Lull a sheet with the information. “In any case, I will be responsible for explanations, excuses or elaborations.”
The clerk took the letter and moved towards the door. Before he left, he turned and asked, “Sir, about the books…”
“You and Lieutenant Cranmer will take care of the books nicely, I am sure.” With a quick bob, Lull was gone.
“You are going to a lot of trouble about this,” Harville observed.
“No, not really. There’s no chance of being sent out again. I’ve made peace with that.”
“Yes. Yes, I can see that. And I must confess something.”
“And what would that be?” Wentworth asked.
“When I came here, I was hoping this would be the outcome—that you would volunteer to go to Portsmouth and speak with James face to face. This is not the sort of thing one should learn from a letter.”
“There is no need to…” Wentworth wished no more talk of thanks.
“You don’t know how I dreaded the notion of going myself, and having to stand before him and tell him that the woman he loves is dead. To be the one who destroys him, with my own heart broken besides.”
“Yes, Timothy, I understand. James is, after all, my friend as well.”
As though he did not hear Wentworth, Harville continued, “But you are the far better choice for this, I think. You have never known love, and have no understanding of the pain that comes when that love is taken so cruelly from you.”
It was all Wentworth could do to keep from disabusing his friend of such a notion, to keep from making it clear that he indeed did know what it was to love, what it was to have all plans and hopes destroyed with a few words from another. A maggot of resentment called up what it was to consume oneself with hopes, then, deciding to put them aside, letting anger have its way with one’s heart. Feeling the muscles in his face tense, he thought James the lucky one. Fanny was dead. On more than one occasion, Wentworth had to endure the knowledge that the woman he had once loved would undoubtedly be married by now. There was no doubt in his mind; Anne was alive, married, and quite happy without him.
As much as he wished to shake his friend and convince him that he was indeed a brother in the fraternity of heartache, he refrained. No one knew because he never gave away anything concerning his heart. Harville knew nothing because, for years, the Captain had chosen to keep the entire world ignorant of his greatest disappointment. Only two people knew anything about the sad business. Anne knew his anger, and Edward knew his anguish.
He looked at Harville’s face. The pain was yet palpable, but somewhat relieved. He could not change what Providence had declared, but he could accomplish this most distressing deed for his friend. There was a rap at the door and it opened, knocking Wentworth into Harville.
“Sor
ry, sir. You sent for me.” Michaelson was obviously just out of his hammock; his eyes were bleary and his jersey on backwards. Before he could answer, Eyerly was also at the door.
“Ready my boat to take the Captain back to shore. After, I shall need you to take me to the three o’clock mail coach for Portsmouth.” The coxswain looked curious but said nothing as he tugged his forelock and disappeared. “Michaelson, please assist Captain Harville with his dressing, then you will go with Eyerly.” Michaelson began to protest that the Captain needed him to pack his travelling case.
“It will not be necessary, Michaelson. I think I can manage. Now please see to the Captain.” He left Timothy to the care of his steward and went above. The air had cooled and the breeze freshened. Short playful gusts lifted his hair and tugged at his damp lawn shirt. A few deep breaths cleared the feeling of the closed, tight cabin.
Eyerly stood near the davit, protecting the small boat as she was hoisted over the side. “Have some grace, you lubbers. I just painted ’er last week.” This little scene reminded Wentworth that he was not the only man aboard the Laconia who cared for her as though she were a lover. Not that the paint on the little boat mattered now; it would most likely be tossed aside during the refitting, and it was anyone’s guess what it might look like after such severe neglect.
Taking a coin from his pocket, he handed it to the coxswain. “Eyerly, take a shag. His leg is as bad as his neighbourhood, so see him right to the door.” He stopped as the bell was struck marking eleven-thirty. “Return immediately. And see that Michaelson is not distracted by a late-night cockfight.”
“Aye, sir.” Eyerly smiled. Both knew Michaelson was a hopeless gambler, and the caveat proved nothing escaped the notice of the Captain.
“When you return, there should be a little time for rest before I have to leave.”
Just then, Harville, accompanied by Michaelson, appeared at the side.
“These men will see you home, Captain.”
“Captain, I can’t tell you how much this means…”
