A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  She was locked in. Who did this?

  Now overcome with a panic that overrode her throbbing head, she pounded on the door with her fist, calling out for someone to help her, release her.

  She could hardly hear herself over the din of the sailors working. Why would she expect them to hear her weak voice from the other side of the door?

  A banging fine accomplishment, Marguerite. You, who loathes sailing more than anything, are now trapped on a hulking beast headedfor battle. This couldn’t be happening. Surely someone will find me soon and send me back to shore.

  She continued rapping on the door and crying out until she was hoarse and her smarting head had her near to blacking out.

  Perhaps I should rest a moment.

  She stumbled back across the room to one of the leather-cushioned benches along the wall of windows next to the dining table.

  She felt better as soon as she sat down. The pain receded only a little, but it was enough that she began to feel drowsy. The rhythm of the ship slicing through the water added to her lethargic feeling.

  Perhaps I should lie down for just a few minutes.

  Marguerite lay down on one side, facing the interior of the cabin, her knees pulled up toward her chest and her skirts in a jumble around her. She was fast asleep in moments.

  * * *

  “What in blazes are you doing down here?” Nelson’s agitated voice pulsated in her ears.

  Marguerite slowly opened her eyes. How long had she been asleep?

  She blinked her eyes, trying to get her bearings again. So many blurry faces above her.

  A familiar voice drifted over from somewhere in the room.

  “Admiral, I believe Mrs. Ashby is injured. Her hair is matted with blood. May I suggest we have Mr. Beatty have a look at her? There’s no sense in incurring a casualty so soon.”

  Another voice interceded calmly. “Mrs. Ashby, can you hear me? What happened to you?”

  Marguerite mumbled that she had fallen while setting up the figures but had been locked in and couldn’t leave the ship before it departed. Meanwhile, she was trying desperately to fully wake up despite her throbbing head.

  That second voice spoke up again. “Admiral, it would seem the woman has had an accident and should not be blamed. Once we catch up to the rest of the fleet, I recommend we transfer her to a ship at the back of it. Lieutenant, she’s in your charge. Keep her out of the admiral’s sight until we reach the rest of the fleet.”

  Squinting her eyes, Marguerite could just make out the shape of what must be Captain Hardy’s long, dour face.

  Nelson spoke again, and his perturbed tone made her wince. “As though Pitt’s idea wasn’t idiotic enough, now we have to deal with an injured woman creating a predicament for us. Can you imagine what would happen if it was put out that I forgot an unauthorized woman was aboard?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” replied Hardy in a soothing voice. “I imagine I should also be castigated soundly as well.”

  “Quite. Make sure the crew knows its duty with regard to this.”

  Marguerite attempted to apologize for the trouble she was causing, but couldn’t quite form the words. Besides, didn’t they realize she might have died? Instead, she closed her eyes to block out the light and the faces, and sank back into quiet oblivion.

  When she awoke again, she was still lying on a window bench, only now she had a thin blanket tossed over her. It smelled faintly of grease. Darden was on one knee next to her and peering into her face with concern.

  “Marguerite, do you know me?”

  She nodded her head slowly. Her headache was still excruciating and the movement made it worse.

  Darden clasped one of her hands in his damaged left one. “Everyone else is gone. You were shivering so I covered you. I apologize for taking that liberty. The ship’s surgeon has been in to see you and doesn’t think there is serious damage. He wanted to bleed you to release ill humors from your brain, but I thought you’d had enough trauma to sustain you for one day. I must admit your hair is a bit frightful, though. Fortunately, you’re on a man-of-war and mirrors are a scarcity here.”

  Marguerite laughed weakly. “Why did Captain Hardy say he would put me off the ship once they meet the fleet? Why doesn’t he put me off before we leave sight of the shoreline?”

  Darden looked at her, baffled. “Marguerite, do you know how long you were sleeping?”

  “Not more than a few minutes, I’m sure.”

  He shook his head. “We were at sail for two hours before Nelson called his officers together for a meeting in his cabin. That’s when you were discovered.”

  “That’s not possible!” she gasped.

  “I’m afraid it is. Do you think you can take some tea?”

  He gently helped her up into a seated position and put her hands around a warm cup before slipping into a dining chair nearby. She gratefully sipped the hot liquid.

  Keeping her eyes down on her cup, she said, “I suppose Lord Nelson and Captain Hardy are furious with me.”

  “I suppose it’s not every day that a beautiful widow stows away in the admiral’s cabin.” He looked away, embarrassed, when her eyes met his.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued.

  Marguerite swallowed the last of her tea. “So how long before we reach the fleet? A day?”

  “I’m afraid not. Captain Blackwood has blockaded Villeneuve and the combined French and Spanish fleet at Cádiz. Vice Admiral Calder’s fleet presumably arrived there today to join him, and Nelson’s plan is to get there as soon as possible to take overall command. I expect it to take another couple of weeks.”

  “Two weeks! You must be joking. Darden, you know I cannot possibly survive in a ship that long. Besides, I have no change of clothing or any personal belongings.”

  “That’s actually not true. All of your personal bags that I loaded onto the carriage in London are here.” He nodded to a pile of luggage near the door.

  “I don’t understand. I left all that on the dock while I was setting up the figures. A sailor helped me with the crates after getting approval from the captain, but that was all.”

  “Well, somehow your belongings got aboard Victory. So hopefully you have a book or two to keep you company for the journey. My intent is to put you in the sick berth, since it’s empty right now. You’ll need to stay as inconspicuous as possible. Promise me that you will do so.”

  She nodded obediently, feeling like a chastised little girl. “You know, I didn’t do it on purpose, Darden. And I worked dreadfully hard to fulfill this order for Mr. Pitt.”

  “I know. And when we catch up to the rest of the fleet, we’ll put you in a launch and deliver you to a ship at the rear of our columns. You should be quite safe. How does your head feel?”

  “Rather like it made contact with an anchor, but the tea helped. By the way, is Lieutenant Selwyn aboard with us?”

  Darden’s face darkened. “No, you may recall that the lieutenant was headed for the Royal Sovereign. It is doubtful that we will have the pleasure of his company for the foreseeable future.”

  “Yes, I remember now. How foolish of me to ask.”

  Darden stood and offered his arm. “Are you ready to go to your new quarters? The sick berth won’t be as glamorous as the admiral’s cabin, but you’ll be on the same deck near the figures and it’s as private a place as you’ll find in the ship.”

  She attempted a feeble joke. “Will my bed be as sumptuous as the admiral’s over there?”

  Darden smiled in return. “I’m afraid not. That cot was specially made to fit Lord Nelson’s frame. If something happens to him, he’ll be wrapped in it with two round shot at his feet and buried at sea. Lady Hamilton made the hangings herself.”

  “He loves her greatly, then?” Marguerite’s question was more a statement.

  “Unfortunately, yes. Although most of the Royal Navy and the government find their relationship scandalous, given that both were married when Lord Hamilton was alive, it does have its supporters. Ca
ptain Hardy thinks Emma is good for the admiral.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  Darden shook his head. “I don’t think anything at all. Not on this topic, anyway, should I like to retain my position. But I will say that when I am married there will be no room in my life for a mistress, because I’ll be too busy loving my wife.”

  And on that very interesting comment, Marguerite allowed herself to be escorted to what would be her new home for the next two weeks.

  Time passed slowly for Marguerite. Although her head wound bled, the surgeon decided it did not require sewing up, so after a biting cleanup with saltwater, she was left to mend on her own. Her headache lasted nearly as long as the large knot on her head, although it did get progressively better with each night of sleep.

  She was provided with a hanging bed in the farthest corner of the sick berth, which was still in view of the admiral’s cabin. Darden told her this was the upper gun deck, an undesirable-sounding place, but the cannon pointing out through the open ports reminded her that it was an accurate term. At least her bed did not hang directly over one of the guns, a decidedly unpleasant notion. The flat beds with their raised cloth sides in the sick berth were infinitely better than the rough, rope hammocks the regular sailors slept in on the decks below, but the conditions made her dream at night about the glorious four-poster bed Aunt Claudette had provided during her time at Hevington. She made a mental note to visit Claudette and William the moment her feet touched English soil again.

  She quickly grew used to the noise, comprised of both the wood creaking and groaning, and the men constantly yelling in a variety of languages and moving about. Most of the sailors avoided her, whether because of some superstition about women aboard a ship or because Darden had let word out that she was under his care, she couldn’t say.

  Marguerite spent most of her time sleeping or reading. She had packed a few books for her journey to Portsmouth and she was very grateful to have them now to pass the time.

  She was even more grateful that the weather had been cooperative. She was beginning to feel like perhaps she could overcome her fear of sailing.

  Marguerite took her meals with the officers on the middle gun deck, one level down. The officers’ quarters, which Darden called the wardroom, had four cabins with a shared dining table in the center of them. Darden personally escorted her down there to eat with him during his appointed meal times. After witnessing the ordinary seamen on her deck eating in shifts with their messmates, she realized that officers were treated much differently. Unlike the routine of salt pork, dried peas, thin stews, cheese, butter, and bread, to be washed down with eight pints of beer each day, the officers lived in relative luxury.

  If the confined quarters anywhere in the ship could be termed luxurious.

  But they did have fresh meat whenever the captain ordered goat, or goose for his afternoon dinner, as well as fresh eggs from the chicken coops. An entire area above the galley was reserved to keep the animals confined in pens. And the officers partook of sweet wines not available to the rest of the crew.

  She was also granted the right to use the officers’ quarter gallery, a private toilet that Darden assured her was vastly superior to the six “heads” the rest of the sailors used, which were located in the open air at the foremost point of the ship, and through which waste was dropped directly into the sea below. Some of the officers looked at her askance or with questioning eyebrows, but most left her alone.

  Under the same orders as the rest of the crew, I suppose.

  Still, it was a fine thing to be able to share with the officers on board the man-of-war, and she was grateful for Darden’s intervention, which assured her better status while she was trapped here.

  The ship’s surgeon, Mr. Beatty, a surprisingly young man with wire-rimmed glasses who looked more like a university student than a medical man, exercised deliberate contempt for Marguerite’s presence in the sick berth. He perpetually muttered about the bad luck women bring to a ship and what it meant to lose even a single precious cot that could be used for tending to a sick seaman. “Ill-advised, I say. Sure to bring about defeat,” he would say for Marguerite’s benefit when no one else was around to hear. Fortunately, his disdain for her company meant he spent as little time in the sick berth as possible unless there was a call for his services, instead spending time training his assistant surgeons, Messrs. Smith and Westemburg, or staying hidden away in his own cabin several decks below. Marguerite made it a habit to hold her breath when he came near, and to finally expel it with relief when he disappeared again.

  Marguerite observed that most men who came to the sick berth had been injured in their daily work routine. Fingers were routinely sliced by men cleaning the pistols and cutlasses that seemed to be stored in plenty aboard the ship.

  But the primary recipients of injury seemed to be the men working the sails. On more than one occasion, a man was carried in by two others and heaved into a bed, moaning about the pain of a broken leg, arm, or worse. Marguerite soon learned that these men deftly scurried across the yardarms to furl or unfurl sails, but with no protection against falls onto the deck or into the undulating ocean. The men were experienced, but the combination of wind and waves resulted in more than one fall.

  She cringed one day when a sailor was brought down, looking more battered than most and crying piteously for relief. Mr. Beatty gave him some beer to gulp down while he examined the man’s injuries. The man wiped his mouth with his sleeve and fell backward onto his cot, as if unconscious. The surgeon put a small piece of glass to the man’s mouth and shook his head, gesturing to one of his assistants.

  Mr. Smith rolled the nearest cannon away from the gun port, while the other hurried off the deck and returned shortly with a sailmaker carrying a rolled-up piece of cloth. The sailmaker unrolled the fabric on the ground into what looked like a large sack and, with the help of Smith and Westemburg, hauled the expired man from his bed and placed his body into the bag. The sailmaker grabbed two small cannonballs from a rack of them nearby, and put one at the man’s feet and the other at his head. From there, he quickly made loose stitches to close the sack around the man’s head. Marguerite could have sworn the sailmaker made a stitch across the dead man’s nose but shook her head to clear the thought.

  Silly goose, why would he have sewn across the poor man’s face?

  The sailmaker departed as quickly as he had arrived. The surgeon’s assistants picked up the wrapped man and unceremoniously tossed him through the exposed gun port. Mr. Smith looked through the opening, as though to make sure the man had made it down to the waves.

  Marguerite gasped and broke the unwritten rule of not communicating with the crew. “What did you just do? Was that a proper sea burial? Isn’t the chaplain called before someone is … is … sent down like that?”

  Mr. Smith lifted a shoulder. “Sorry, miss, not everyone gets it done up all nice and pretty. He was just an ordinary seaman. He probably didn’t even have anything his messmates could sell to raise money for his family. The captain will write to his wife, though.”

  Marguerite clutched her stomach after the men left. How horrid the life of a sailor could be!

  Whenever Darden had a free moment, he would slip down to see her, inquiring solicitously after her head wound and wanting to know what else he could provide for her.

  Of Nelson she saw nothing, as her view from the sick berth to his cabin was blocked. Captain Hardy actually came down once to let her know that he intended to have her rowed to HMS Pickle, a small sloop already waiting at the rear of the assembling fleet.

  “Pickle is armed, so you’ll be protected, Mrs. Ashby.”

  Somehow that information was of little comfort in the face of potentially witnessing serious fighting between the navies of her homeland and Madame Tussaud’s. But hopefully Pickle would be far enough away that she wouldn’t see or hear much.

  Although that meant she also wouldn’t know whether Darden was safe. Strange how fond she was
growing of him. He was a curious mixture of rigid politeness and some kind of hidden, burning obsession. He expressed no blatant desire for her, though, leaving Marguerite to assume that he was merely taking his duty toward her very seriously.

  Brax Selwyn, though, was as far from serious as the bright sky was from the darkened night. What levity he brought to a room! And how he plagued poor Darden! How did the two of them ever become friends? Were they really friends?

  Together, the two men reminded her of nothing more than Nicholas, who combined Brax’s light and humorous spirit with Darden’s grave sense of devotion and duty. She smiled with the pleasant recollection of her husband, gone almost three years now. Whatever would Nicholas think of her situation now?

  “Damn you, I’ll have you lashed, you insubordinate whelp.” Nathaniel’s face was mottled with rage. How dare these drunken, ill-tempered, overpaid buggers cross him with complaints about his orders? He was the captain, wasn’t he?

  The unshaven man stood defiantly before him, stocky legs spread apart and arms across his chest.

  “You’re not likely to find anyone to do it for you. Unless you propose to do it yourself.” The man’s eyes flashed his scornful challenge. “As I said, the other men and I have been talking, and we’ve decided we won’t go along with you. You lied to us about what you’re doing. We don’t plan to go to the scaffold for the likes of you. We’re taking the ship back. You can pay us the wages you owe us and we’ll forgive the rest.”

  “You will forgive me? This is mutiny and I can have you hanged for it.” Couldn’t he?

  “You ain’t the bleeding Royal Navy, Captain.” The man spat the title out like an overly chewed bit of tobacco. “You’ll have to look for some other dumb boobies to follow you on this dunderheaded mission.”

  “I’ll spread word around that you can’t merit a farthing’s worth of hard tack, and none of you will ever get jobs again,” Nathaniel said. Maude Ashby had used this technique many times with great success on the household servants.