… When I came back, every one had disappeared, except aunt Adèle who was brushing away the flies. I took her place, and she left me alone with dead father. It seemed impossible that he should be dead, he looked so warm and lifelike, and then I held my breath to hear him breathe again. From that hour, the idea that he would presently come to, never forsook me until I saw his coffin lid screwed. People wondered at my self control, but I could never have kept my promise so faithfully, if it had not been for that wild thought.
… Then the next morning before sunrise, I was sitting by father again, looking at his grand head. It looked so magnificent, there was some thing so majestic in the form, that I could not cover it up. Brother came and stood by me; he too was trying to control himself; but I knew all he was suffering, by what I suffered myself. Presently came the men with an iron coffin, and set it down almost at my feet, with a dull, hollow clang, that went to my very heart; and they said Miriam and I must go out; but we would not, and stayed by, and saw him put in it. When they brought the lid, we kissed him good bye—poor Sis! I kissed him for her too—and Brother cried, but did not touch him; and even I had to turn to the window, for the tears would come. And we watched them cement the iron lid, and screw it down, and then I took my old place at his head, and held the handle nearest me, though I could no longer see his dear face again.
5.
November 1861. Isleworth, outside London
IN THE EVENING the sleet struck steadily against the windowpanes. The family sat at the dining room table. Joseph’s back was to the window, Mary’s to the door. She wore a shawl against the draught, though not one of her sister’s thick cashmere paisleys, which had all gone to the Gunnells. Austin faced his brother, Joey, and his sister, Theresa. The room was lit by two candles on the table. Darkness pooled in the corners.
Joseph was complaining about his boots. “I might as well wear carpet slippers,” he said. “These do nothing to keep out the wet.” Joseph had heavy eyebrows and a forceful manner. “It’s the tanning. It’s not done properly nowadays.”
Joseph’s boots leaked not because they were poorly tanned but because they were old. The leaking vexed him; everything did. Ten years later he still couldn’t believe the money was gone. He was still rummaging about for a way for it to return. He wanted everything—leaving the big house on Duke Street for this small one in undistinguished Isleworth, letting the servants go, selling his mother’s pretty French desk—to reverse itself. He wanted the servants to come back, for Mary to lose the pinch in her forehead, for his sons to be back in schools where they belonged.
Joey was at a Church school, on scholarship, as though he came from a poor family, instead of an old and distinguished one connected to a bishop decapitated by a king. Joey would have no choice but to become a priest: the Church would only educate him if they could keep him, and there was no money for any other sort of education. There was no shame in becoming a priest, but there was shame in having no choice because of poverty, and Joseph resented this.
What Joseph wanted was to have his life return to normal. He wanted to live in a large, comfortable, well-lit house, not to live like this, with a single resentful servant and problems each month about bills. This one simple thing was all he wanted, but it never happened. Each time he thought of it the money was gone. It was always gone. He had spoken to lawyers, but they looked dubious and spoke in tongues.
He leaned back, making his chair creak.
“Wet boots will give you a chill,” he declared, looking reprovingly around the table. Young Joey leaned carefully toward his soup plate. He was narrow and quick and clever, with his mother’s fair hair and blue eyes. Tessie eyed her father watchfully. She was shy, with a high pale forehead, white-blond hair, and nearly invisible eyebrows. When she saw her father’s gaze on her she looked anxious and locked her ankles together tightly under the table.
“We’ll make sure your boots are dried out tonight,” Mary said. “We’ll set them by the fire to toast.”
What she offered Joseph was comfort, and a twist of the compass. She saw things ninety degrees differently, if not one hundred and eighty. She took pleasure in her days; going about the house she sang. Under her breath as she stood counting sheets, out loud as she came down the stairs. She took pity on her husband (though she’d never have told him), not because he had lost the money, but because he was unhappy in the world. He was still struggling to make up the money, trying to find a position. It was harder for him than for her.
She smiled at him as though this were nothing. But Joseph knew who would crouch down by the ashes with his damp boots, tug out the smelly leather tongues. It was his wife. It should be a servant, and he should have new boots, made of properly tanned leather.
Austin cleared his throat; he’d heard this before, and changed the subject. He was twenty-one, open-faced and enthusiastic. He was not quite tall, but carried himself as though he were. He had his father’s dark blue eyes, strong nose, and thick brown hair, with a troublesome wave. He saw the world as his mother did. He enjoyed his days, liked hard work, and trusted people. He was confident that he’d succeed at what he tried. He worked on Fleet Street, and heard all the news.
“What do you think about the Trent?” he asked. This was a British mail packet that had been seized in the Bahamas by a Union ship. They’d taken custody of two Confederate agents, on their way to England to raise support for the South.
“Not very much,” Joseph said.
“That seizure is against international maritime law,” Austin said.
“What of it? We’re not going to war over two Americans on a mail ship.”
“The Americans can’t tell our ships whom they can carry.”
“Those men were planning to rouse support from a foreign government against their own country,” said Joseph. “That’s sedition. The Americans had every right to seize them.”
“They can’t seize our ships. We have every right to go to war over it.”
“You know nothing of war,” said his father.
“I know something of principle,” said Austin loftily.
Joseph shook his head. “War is an abomination.”
“The Union has invaded its own Southern states,” Austin said. “It’s disgraceful. The Confederate states are very brave.”
Tessie drew a quiet breath. She was eleven. Her dress was becoming too tight, and she was careful not to breathe too deeply or too quickly. She could feel the fabric’s fragility, how it might suddenly yield and split. But it was irresistible. She inhaled surreptitiously, filling her bodice with air, stopping before her lungs were full.
“And why do you think so?” asked Mary, who had lost track.
“Because they are standing up to the Union,” Austin said. “I’m thinking of going over to fight with them.” He knew his father would disapprove.
Joseph set down his spoon. “Going to fight? With the Americans?”
Mary looked at Austin, the pinch in her forehead deepening.
“Why not? I’m free at the moment.”
“Having no job is no reason to risk your life,” said Joseph severely.
“An idea is reason enough,” said Austin. “I sympathize with them. They’re like the English barons standing up to the king. It’s like the battle of Runnymede. It’s a matter of principle.”
“It’s a matter of rubbish,” said Joseph. “We want their cotton for our mills. We’re protecting our trade.”
“These states are fighting for their independence,” said Austin grandly.
“The Americans already have their independence,” Joseph said. “They don’t seem to know what to do with it. Why on earth would you tangle yourself up in a foreign war?”
“To fight oppression,” said Austin, adding, “and it would be an adventure. Plaisir’s joined the Foreign Legion. He’s gone off to fight the Moors.”
“You can’t have government without some form of oppression,” said Joseph. “You give up some rights in exchange for some benefits. But
none of this is your affair.” There was too much here to answer. And he couldn’t even address the idea of adventure. He did not want to lose his son. Of course it would be an adventure.
“Anyway there’s a blockade,” he said, changing tack. “There’s no way to reach the South. How would you get there?”
“Join the Confederate navy,” said Austin. “They have a ship in Southampton right now. That would get me to America and give me a job once I arrive.”
“You can’t join the Confederate navy,” said Joseph. “You’re not an American citizen. Also you know nothing about ships or sailing.”
“That would be true of every sailor, at some point,” Austin said cheerfully. “I can learn.”
Nothing deterred him. It was infuriating.
“You’re going to America?” asked Joey.
“Only for a few months, young Joey,” Austin said.
“You should stay here and go on with your journalism,” Joseph said, though he disapproved of journalism. “You could go on writing plays.”
“They weren’t a great success,” said Austin, “and I can be a journalist again when I come back.”
“But why would they have you?”
“An American friend introduced me to an agent for the Confederate navy. I’ve written the captain.”
Joseph stared. “You’ve written to the captain? And how do you have an American friend?”
“I have. And I met him at the paper,” Austin said. “He’s from a place called Arkansas. His name is Smith.”
“And who is this captain?” asked Joseph.
“Captain Robert Pegram,” Austin said. “I have an appointment to see him.”
Tessie took a cautious breath. She could feel the bodice trembling.
“America?” said his mother. She could not do without him. He held up his corner of the family tent, while Joseph’s dragged heavily.
“Don’t worry.” He smiled at her. “I’ll be all right.”
“You can’t say that,” said his father. “This is a war. You have no idea you’ll be all right.” He tore a piece of bread apart. Crust scattered like shot.
“But I think I will be,” Austin said, still smiling.
“I don’t want you to go,” Joseph said. He leaned back in his chair, which creaked loudly.
“Please don’t forbid me. I’m twenty-one, and of age. I don’t want to oppose you.”
“The Confederate navy sails the high seas, seizing Union ships and burning them. That’s not warfare, it’s piracy. If you’re caught you’ll be hanged as a pirate. You’ll disgrace the family name. You have no right to do this, I forbid it.”
“I promise you I won’t disgrace the family name,” Austin said.
“It won’t be up to you,” Joseph said. “You won’t have a choice.”
“I won’t disgrace the name,” said Austin. “I won’t use it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll use a nom de guerre. If I’m hanged I’ll disgrace only myself.”
“Ridiculous,” Joseph said. “What name?”
“Dawson,” said Austin.
“Dawson!” said Joseph, outraged. “After your aunt who left you nothing?”
“After my uncle,” said Austin. “A brave officer who offered to adopt me. Also my aunt, who paid for my education, and did quite a lot for me.”
“She could easily have done more,” said Joseph, scowling thunderously.
“Except she died, sir,” Austin said.
“I do not want you to do this,” said his father.
“Dawson?” his mother repeated. “Dawson what?”
“I’ll use Francis, from my name-saint. And I’ll use Warren, your cousins’ name, for the middle.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” his father said.
“Then Warrington. Francis Warrington Dawson.”
Tessie took a deep breath and felt the bodice tear deliciously, swiftly, a smooth liquid opening, running along her side.
* * *
IN SOUTHAMPTON, Austin had himself rowed out to the Nashville. When they reached the ship he handed up the letter to the officer on duty. He waited as the dinghy rode the swells, knocking against the ship’s side. Austin stared up at the curving side, looming over him. Someone called down permission to board, and Austin clambered up the long rope ladder, which yielded and swung beneath his weight. At the top stood a young officer. Austin held out his hand.
“Frank Dawson,” he said, wondering if they might become friends. But the officer was on duty, and ignored his hand.
“Come this way, sir,” he said.
Captain Pegram’s cabin was small and immaculate, gleaming brass and polished mahogany. Captain Pegram sat at his desk, and looked up as he came in. He was tall, with heavy brows and a nose like a knife. His manner was courteous.
“Please sit down, Mr. Dawson,” Pegram said. “I understand that you’d like to join our navy.”
“I would, sir.” He explained his sympathy for the Confederacy.
“Very generous, but it’s not possible,” Pegram said. “You haven’t graduated from our naval academy, so I can’t take you as a midshipman. And I can’t take you as a passenger because the Nashville belongs to the Confederate navy. I’m sorry.”
“Then how can I come, sir?” asked Austin.
“You can’t,” Pegram said. “All I could offer is a place before the mast as a member of the crew. Which you wouldn’t accept.”
“I accept, sir,” Austin said.
Captain Pegram made a noise and shook his head. He was sure Dawson was lying about his age; he hadn’t even a mustache. And he was a gentleman; he couldn’t go below with the crew, who were not.
“I don’t think you understand,” Pegram said.
“I do,” Dawson said. “Just send word when you need me.”
Pegram bowed. “When we need you we’ll send word.”
Dawson gave the salute he had practiced in front of the mirror. Pegram made the little noise again. It came from inside his nose.
At home Austin told his family he was a member of the crew. He bought a sea chest and had his name painted on it in white. His friend Smith said he’d need a bowie knife.
“Do gentlemen carry knives in America?” Austin asked.
Smith nodded. “Everyone has one.”
“But why?”
“Protection,” Smith said.
“But from what? Bears? Wolves?”
“Everything,” Smith said. “Other citizens.”
He demonstrated in the air how to use it, miming slicing a rifle barrel in two, throwing the phantom blade unerringly into the heart of an attacker. “Indispensable,” he said.
Austin nodded politely. “I had no idea how dangerous it was there.”
He ordered the knife from a surgical instrument maker. It was a heavy, savage thing, with a blade three inches wide, fifteen inches long. The edge was steel, bright and deadly, very sharp. Dawson didn’t like handling it; he couldn’t imagine using it.
* * *
HE LEFT FOR Southampton four days after Christmas.
It was bitterly cold. Austin dragged out his sea chest and the family came into the street to wait. Austin wore the inverness cape his father had given him. He walked back and forth in front of the house, and each time he turned, the cape rippled about his shoulders. It was spitting snow, and the cobblestones gleamed with damp. Mary pulled Tessie close in front of her and wrapped her shawl around them both. They stood against the whitewashed wall of the house.
“You’re sure you must leave so soon,” Mary said.
“I must.” Austin didn’t think Captain Pegram would send for him, and he wanted to be on the ship when she sailed.
“You must write every week,” Mary said. She was secretly proud.
“I’ll write as often as I can, Mamma,” Austin said. “I’ll tell you everything.” He smiled at her, wanting to be off. The bowie knife lay at the bottom of the chest.
Joseph stood in the doorway, the hall behin
d him dark.
“Well,” his father said, as though it were a whole sentence. He was secretly angry (his son was directly opposing him), secretly jealous (he himself had never had such an adventure), secretly fearful (he did not want to lose his son), and secretly proud (Austin had galloped over impediments as though they didn’t exist).
“Bring me a doll,” Tessie commanded. She leaned back into her mother’s body. Her high forehead gleamed in the soft light.
“Remember everything,” Joey said. “Tell us everything when you come home.”
At the corner a big white heavy-footed horse appeared, drawing a high-wheeled cart. Austin turned to his family. The moment had come. He shook hands with his father, who frowned. He hugged Joey and kissed Tessie. His mother put her two hands on either side of his face and held it hard.
“Write,” she said.
He nodded. “Yes.”
The cape swayed around his shoulders; his breath made pale clouds. His cheeks were bright with cold and excitement.
The cart drew up before the door. The driver was small and gray-haired. He held a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The horse stretched his neck and tossed his head, mouthing at his bit. He had feathery fetlocks and a thick winter coat, and on his pale sides were dark streaks where the snow melted as it hit his warm flanks. Austin shouldered his sea chest and set it in the cart, then climbed up on the bench. Everyone called goodbye; the driver waited for a moment, then shook the reins. He spoke to the horse, who moved off slowly, his big hooves slipping on the wet stones.
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