Part One
Casting off
One
The HMS Thunder slid into port as the first gold cracks appeared on the night’s fading horizon. As dawn itself broke free, and a glow flooded the neatly aligned, vertical-glazed windows of Keystone Manor, the old sea captain sat bolt upright, threw back the blankets, and cried for Richard.
‘He’s on his way father.’ Rachel tried to reassure him but he seemed not even to see her there, just called for her brother. ‘We sent a message to his Captain’ she told him. She must be patient she knew. ‘The ship has docked sir, he will be here soon. Landsman says they have gone to fetch him.’ He did not seem to hear, did not even look in her direction.
‘Richard! Richard! Boy, is that you?’ The old man continued to call, his voice hoarser by the minute. He slumped back.
Rachel leaned forward and took her father’s hand. ‘Don’t worry father, it’s me, Rachel, I’m here now, rest easy and sip this.’
She offered him a glass of Mrs Smallpiece’s best porter, but he dashed it away with surprising force and the liquid splashed across Rachel’s dress. She stifled exasperation. On the light muslin the streaks could have been blood. Her father was no less abrupt in dying than in life. Before her mind had a chance to dwell further on the miseries of the past few years since failing health had forced the proud Captain from the seas against his wishes, choking gasps from beside her caused Rachel to turn back to the old man. His chest rattled and he spat his last breath. There was an immediate deep silence in the room.
‘Oh! Father…!’ She sighed deeply and leaned over him but there was no sign of life. Gone, and still no sight of Richard. Hands trembling, she crossed herself, leaned forward to kiss her father’s still warm forehead, and gently closed his now unseeing eyes. Then, before sitting herself back at his bedside, she laid his hands across his chest. She did her best to breathe deeply and think slowly. She was alone.
She had never been this alone before. What should she do? A million things raced through her mind. Landsman and Richard must be here soon. Richard would know what to do. Her breathing was shallower now, she was trying to keep calm, although her mind was dizzy with previous impossibilities. There was no one here to stop her now, to insist she wear the latest fashion, grow, and style her wayward curls, or get misty eyed about which eligible young men were on her dance card at the Admiral’s Ball. Heart quickening again, she began to pace the high-ceilinged room tossing alternatives in her head. For once she was undistracted by the trophies of a man well-travelled. Normally they stared down at her from the walls as she moved around the room. Many, like the picture of a tribesman, and the iron shackles her father said had been gifted to him by a grateful merchant trader, had scared her as a child. She must keep calm, she would keep calm. Richard must surely be here soon. Each step she took in the house must surely be mirrored by a step towards here for her brother and thus a step further towards knowing what to do. Assuredly, he must come soon.
Rachel’s ponderings brought her pacing to a stop at the foot of the bed. She regarded the old man, now quiet in final repose. Her dearest father. She had loved him, and he her, but their views on a good future for her had differed widely. She and her twin had grown up alike, not just uncommonly so in looks, but in their natures too. Richard claimed an extra inch in height, and she supposed that after the last four years at sea he must have muscles, whereas she had retained a slender, almost boyish, figure. Both feisty in their own ways Richard had been more foolhardy, Rachel more cautious, but both felt the claustrophobia of life in this small seaport and longed for excitement. Indeed, they had taken every chance to create it from home, such that, eventually, the Captain was prevailed upon to take them to sea with him for want of less fun and mischief on their part. Rachel had been disappointed that after their life at sea the old man had insisted on very traditional roles for the twins as they grew older, to mixed success. Now, once Richard arrived, Rachel feared there would be no change for her, for her twin would surely be of the same mind as their father. There would be more need than ever for her to behave the way she was supposed to behave. Just how might she manage that? She recalled their thirteenth birthday celebration when Richard had outlined his plans to go to sea as a cabin boy and make his way through the ranks to become master of his own ship, just like their father. The Captain had applauded this idea. Expressing her wish to do the same the old man’s response was simple:
‘Don’t be ridiculous child, you’ll find a good man and have a family, the sea is no place for a gentlewoman.’
It had been the winter after that when, with Richard now away at sea, she had found herself bundled off to balls and parties, time and again in the company of Henry, heir to the neighbouring Masterton estate. Resistance had been futile.
Startled by a knock on the door Rachel hastily moved away from the bed as Landsman entered.
‘A letter for Captain Wainwright, madam, from master Richard’s ship.’
‘Thank you, Landsman,’ was all she could manage. Nodding, he left her, alone once again. Hands shaking, she broke the seal and read,
Dear Sir, I regret to inform you… She had almost stopped breathing now,
…. Your son never returned from shore leave in Sainte Martino…
She could read no more. Dropping the letter she gasped for air. Missing! She reached the window in time to see Landsman turning the messenger away. No further reflection needed, she had the answer to all her fears for the future. She did not need Richard to be here to decide what to do, she would do so herself! Seizing the razor from her father’s dressing table Rachel hacked off as many of her unruly curls as she could. Seconds later she was along the corridor and into Richard’s wardrobe in search of britches, jacket, and shoes. Not many more minutes still and, leaving the stained muslin dress on the floor, she was on the coast path weaving downwards to the town, a pack over her shoulder and a cap on her head. With every shaky but eager step she whistled, just as her sailor brother would have done.
Two
For the last four hours they had been stacked upright, arms squashed to their sides in the overloaded carriage. It was a wonder the horses could cope for, although the three sitting opposite Susanna looked reasonably spread across their bench, on her own side the gentlemen to the left and right of her could each have filled a bench single-handedly. She had not moved, had been scarcely able to breathe, and too terrified to lose the cloth bag balanced on her knees. The carriage lurched forward, and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the bag yet tighter. The man to the left was sweating the excesses of the last Inn stop. She could feel his heat, a dampness even through her thick shawl. It gave her chills, worrying ones. She had been desperately fighting waves of nausea since he had insisted on helping her get on board back in Bath, his hands resting uncomfortably long on her hips as she hoisted herself into the carriage. She had tried to move her arm away earlier, and he had taken the excuse to lift his own and lay it over hers, placing his hand on to her knee in a proprietary fashion.
Leaning towards her now, breathing beer breath that sickened her further, he whispered,
‘Don’t worry my dear, Thomas, John Thomas, can take care of you, you will want for nothing... ‘
It took but a moment for her to turn her head away, alas, she feared, too late to prevent him seeing the flush of shame as she took in his insinuation. She did not want to know his name and most certainly did not seek his attentions. She concentrated hard on her breathing so that he might not sense her rising panic.
‘My brother is meeting me in Tydmouth’ she replied, out loud and in as firm a voice as she could muster, determined that all around would hear. She was sensing the need of witnesses to this encounter.
The old lady opposite her, apparently asleep, opened an eye and looked straight at her.
‘That’s as well my dear; one can’t trust anyone in that place – too many sailors. And the press men. They say they only take the men but there’s some out there, I know, a gatherin’ young girls too.’ She paused. ‘For nefarious purposes.’
Uncertain what that might mean exactly, Susanna nonetheless caught the implication in the old lady’s message. She tried not to let discomfort show on her face, but she couldn’t stop the heat she felt already from spreading further across her cheeks. John Thomas’s thigh pressed harder against her. He leaned forward again but this time spoke out loud, addressing the old woman,
‘Don’t trouble yourself madam, I shall see that this young woman is placed in good hands if it’s the last thing I do…’
‘Really sir, there is no need, sir, my brother will be there…’ A lame response but Susanna could think of nothing else to offer, her mind was too busy wondering how she might avoid the unpleasantness attached to the thigh pressing increasingly hard against her. Assuredly her brother did not have such worries! Should she have rather been a boy? Or, should she have just stayed home and married William? No, she caught herself, actually, that would have been worse. In her mind’s eye an image of William as she had last seen him appeared unbidden. With his bowlegs, and in his dirty, scuffed, riding boots, he had a whip in hand and a wild grin on his face as he chased her around the barn. It was a sharp reminder of why she was here now and of the fate she knew she could not embrace.
‘You have to marry someone,’ was her brother’s contribution to the conversation on the matter of the supposed need for her to get married.
‘With father and I gone on mission duties you must look after Mama, and you will need a man.’
Seeing her horrified look, he could not but see it for she knew her face could hide nothing, he had concluded,
‘And he’d be a great catch, he has his own estate.’ He grinned at her, ‘he may be a little older, and, I agree, he has a want of hair, but he could give you everything you desire, you’d want for nothing.’
Except for love.
Some while later, a little after Exeter and in a swirl of fog, the man to her right got down from the coach and Susanna was able to stretch a little sideways although, as she did so, it seemed John Thomas’s thigh followed her. She wanted to clamp her bag to the seat between them, but she dared not loosen her hold and risk the loss of it, everything precious was in there. Breathing deeply, she set her mind to what she must do when they arrived and, in truth, there was no brother to meet her. She was sure that Tydmouth was where he had been headed but when he had told of his plans, he had certainly had no idea she would be following, nor that she might have need or inclination to do so anytime soon. But no choice now, she could not, would not, marry William, and that was that. And, if no William, there was no future, no home, no choice. Except, she gulped at the thought, her feet had dragged her to this coach so there must be choice! Her stomach shifted and churned at the enormity of it all. Then, a brief memory flashed in front of her eyes: dear Mama, pale, grey, eyes barely open as she struggled to breathe. Susanna banished the vision with a shudder, she must not think of Mama. Her present predicament called for a plan not sentiment.
Three
‘Boy soup!’ Was he being offered a soup made of boys? Jack smiled despite himself. He must be becoming resigned to his new underground life. Whatever the truth, ‘boy’ and ‘soup’ seemed to be the only English words the prison guard knew. They got used any time he needed Jack’s attention. This time, with a pause between the two words, it was a fairly literal statement, and, if you could count this watery gruel as anything edible. There seemed to be something hard and grey on the tray beside the soup too, although what exactly was not easy to say for everything in this humid, stuffy cell was a shade of dungeon grey. There was a crack of a window, but it was high up, at foot level on the street outside. Any light daring to attempt entry was filtered through whatever filth lay on the ground. It was rainy season on the island of Sainte Martino too which did not improve matters, just varied the shade of grey a little towards the darker side after each tropical drenching. The only major change was the smell which, like the soup, ranged from rank to just about floridly bearable. Jack dropped the grey ball in the bowl and waited. In a minute it would all become porridge like, and then he would swallow it as fast as possible and pray that it was less rotten than the last lot, which had had him rolling in pain all night. If the very worst happened and he died, how, he wondered, would they find out he was gone? He thought about his sister a lot, her, and father. Jack dreamed about them a lot too. Dreams of happier times when father, fit and adventurous, had taken the rebellious pair on his travels. Back in the days when Keystone Manor was a haven not a burden. Had some message reached them of his plight, or had Sandy not dared to advise the Admiralty? He thought of the plans he and Sandy had talked of and their dreams of returning to Keystone Manor where, enriched with bounty from the Caribbean campaign, they would revive the parts of the estate recently neglected because of his father’s illness. Impossible now. Would Sandy even look for him? Presently, Jack was thinking maybe not. His thoughts always got stuck at this point. Sandy had risked a lot for Jack, and Jack’s prayers–he had a lot of time to pray these days and did so at length–were divided between asking the Lord to protect Sandy from a court martial, and asking for one more sight of him, so that he might apologise for that awful night, and the careless adventure that had led him here to this prison. Such foolishness, as father might have called it. He shuddered despite the sticky Caribbean heat. Foolishness that might imminently lead them both to the walk of shame along the plank to a watery eternity.
Four
An hour further, and no closer to a solution as to how she might proceed, Susanna closed her eyes just long enough to beat back a wave of despair. Then, suddenly, there was a shout from the carriage driver, the sound of hooves slowed to a trot, and she was sure she heard ‘Tydmouth’. Grabbing her bag, and without even a ‘good day’ to her fellow travellers, she scrambled through the door as the coachman opened it. She heard ‘John Thomas’ and the old lady shout after her but did not look round. The fog was thicker here, and it was coming to night. Relieved that the fog might cloak her, she ran forward, only too late seeing her trunk, deposited on the ground by the coachman, and now blocking her way. Skirts flying, she skidded to a teetering halt and half tipped, half rolled across it, to land on top of the young man seated on the bench behind.
‘Oh my! Well, hello…’
It was a light and gentle voice, as soft as his lap!
‘Goodness, I’m so sorry sir…’ She was breathless and embarrassed and thankful for the thickening fog! She could barely see her hands in front of her face now and prayed that her soft landing would not recognise her, should their paths ever cross again. She could feel herself flushed and foolish. ‘So, sorry, sir,’ she continued, ‘I didn’t see…it’s so…’ Her words were cut short by the arrival of a somewhat red-faced and breathless John Thomas. Her heart sank.
‘Come, come my dear, is this your brother?’
His tone suggested he knew otherwise. Momentarily, she wondered what would happen if she said yes. Might this young man sense her disquiet and play along with her? The voice was so gentle, but he was dressed as might a sailor, in britches and a neat blue jacket, with buttons that shone even in the gloom. She flashed him a sweet smile through the haze but, before she could even try saying a word, John Thomas had a vice like grip on her arm and was leading her away.
