by Lona Manning
* * * * * *
July 29, at sea
Dear Fanny,
I hope this letter finds you and Mr. Crawford well. Even though in all likelihood I will hand this letter to you in person, as we may reach England before the next packet, I can relieve my feelings by noting down some lines about the adventures we have undergone. The first ship to which I was assigned as a lieutenant has gone to a watery grave, and although the poor old Solebay was a rotten old tub, unfit to cross a duck pond, let alone go to sea, I shall always feel a sentimental tenderness toward her and lament that my career on her was so short. I was not aboard her when she was lost, nor were any of the officers, for I was placed in command of a launch, carrying a detachment of soldiers to attack the French outpost of Barbague—I doubt you will find that in the atlas—and the ship was left in charge of the Master.
We left her anchored in the Gambia River, close enough to bring her guns to bear upon the Frenchies, but overnight, she shifted in her berth and went aground. These African rivers are treacherous, barely navigable but, we had to risk encroaching as far as possible upstream if we were to bring Maxwell’s troops to attack the settlement, and on the bright side of the matter, we took the Frenchies by surprise when we showed up at their doorstep with a frigate and a sloop, and commenced firing on them, so that they took tail and ran, and none of our men injured, though a few sadly were drowned. So that is one nest of slave traders cleared out, and Senegal is now a British colony!
So now we are bobbing about in the ocean, two ships’ crews crammed aboard the one, the Derwent. Therefore, we must land frequently for more water and firewood, which, unfortunately, exposes us to the unhealthy air of the coast. Many of the men have fallen, including, I am sorry to tell you, our mutual friend, Mr. Gibson. I searched his possessions to find his supply of Jesuit bark, only to discover that he had given almost all of it away, when our cabin boys, his students, fell ill last month. So typical of his generous nature! He has contracted a severe case of putrid fever, and is in the ship’s infirmary with many others. I pray that he will hang on until we reach Portsmouth, and more can be done for him there, I trust.
But may I tell you of a signal service he performed for us just before he fell ill, one which will give every man on board some prize money—we have captured a slaver! The lookout spotted a brig last week, we gave chase and the ship heaved to, flying the Portuguese flag. Captain Columbine chose Gibson and me to go with the first lieutenant as part of the boarding party. (I speak a few words of Portuguese that I picked up in Gibraltar), and we get aboard and meet with the captain, who is as friendly as you like, and says to us, why yes, they are transporting Africans to the Indies but, as the vessel is neither English nor French, there is nothing that the British Navy can say about it.
While the officers were talking and me attempting to translate, Gibson was looking around him at some of the sailors, and observing their tattoos, and he sees one or two that were tattooed with English words, such as ‘Roast Beef & Liberty’ or ‘Heart of Oak’ and suchlike. So, he whispers to me, “say something provoking to them in Portuguese, Mr. Price,” which I did—I shan’t repeat what I said—they all just looked away and refused to answer me, and I thought, the Portuguese sailors I met in Gibraltar would have had their knives at my neck for such a remark and no error. So I said it again, with illustrative gestures, and one of the cabin boys swore a stream of oaths at us—in perfect English, or at least perfect English of that particular sort—and, the game was up!
It was an English ship, the Clementine, from the Bristol dockyards, but flying under a false flag, and the so-called captain was the only Portuguese on board! We turned up her real captain and her papers, all English, and then, below decks, we discovered—well, Fanny, I cannot find words to express it and, I hate to think of my sister even knowing of these things, as I know your gentle heart would break over it. I will leave it for Gibson, for he says he will write a book about it when we return. But our crew, who are hardened sailors, were weeping for pity and anger when the poor shackled wretches, men, women and children, were brought up on deck, naked, covered in their own filth and vomit, and just as frightened of us as they were of their captors, as they knew not what was going to happen to them. The place of their confinement was something horrible, and the stench and the close air was enough to make a man faint. There were over five hundred of them, and some of them already dying or dead, but still shackled to the living.
We arrested the brig’s crew, and Captain Columbine assigned Lieutenant Tetley and a prize crew to sail the brig back to Sierra Leone where the Africans will be set free. (Although what they will do after being abducted from their homes and then cast ashore with nothing even on their backs, is beyond my knowledge.) The owners of the brig will be fined and the ship confiscated—that will send a message, won’t it?
I would it had been me, of course, in charge of the prize crew and commanding that beautiful new brig, instead of Tetley, but we will all be in Portsmouth by the middle of August, so I do rely upon meeting with all my family again and I hope that you and Mr. Crawford can visit from Norfolk. Perhaps we could meet together in Northamptonshire? I should like to pay my respects to Sir Thomas and all of his family, if I can get leave.
I look in frequently upon our friend Mr. Gibson and I trust that we can bring him safely home to England. I own that I am in some anxiety about him.
Until we meet again, I am,
Your loving brother, William
* * * * * *
Fanny and Susan, thankfully, were not long left in ignorance and suspense concerning the fate of the ‘two Williams,’ for on the late afternoon of the first day, while stopping to change their horses in Newmarket, they happened to meet in the inn-yard, a traveler lately from London. Susan, spying a newspaper under his arm, eagerly questioned him. He was able to inform them that the Solebay had run aground during an action against the French colony of Senegal, but that the crew had survived the engagement and had landed in Portsmouth, aboard the Derwent, five days previously.
With many fervent ejaculations of thanks to Providence, the sisters allowed themselves to rest at the Inn for the night, confident that surely their brother and his friend numbered among the sailors safely returned to England.
“There will be a court-martial, you know, Fanny—there always is when a captain loses a ship. All of the officers will be questioned. I fancy that our brother must remain in Portsmouth until then,” Susan explained, and Fanny promised to take Susan home to support their brother, although they had no doubt between them that far from being in any way culpable in the loss of the Solebay, the court-martial testimony would reveal that Second Lieutenant Price’s skill, devotion to duty and exemplary courage had forestalled some greater disaster.
“Will we see dear Mr. Crawford in London?” Susan next enquired, and received, to her astonishment, another perplexed look from her sister, who, to all appearances, needed a moment to recollect the name of her husband! Fanny looked doubtful, she was not sure, but at Susan’s prodding, undertook to write Mr. Crawford at his usual hotel.
The following day brought them to the airy, pleasant country neighbourhood of Stoke Newington, and the handsome home of Mrs. Butters, whom Fanny was extremely pleased to see after so many months. Fanny delighted in the warm and charitable welcome she received from her friend, and mutual reassurances and congratulations were exchanged on the good news respecting the crew of the Solebay.
Fanny was proud to see how well Susan bore her introduction to Mrs. Butters. Susan was wearing one of the new dresses Fanny had provided for her, and her entry into Mrs. Butters’ parlour, her curtsey and her polite replies to her hostess shewed that Fanny’s gentle tutelage had not been in vain. Susan acquitted herself well, even when introduced to another guest of Mrs. Butter’s—her neighbour, Mr. James Stephen, an older gentleman with an intelligent and penetrating gaze. When the girls came to understand that he was a lawyer, and a Member of Parliament, and had, moreover, been the author of
the celebrated Act that banned all Englishmen from trading in slaves, they were both pretty well awed into silence.
Mr. Stephen and Mrs. Butters were not indisposed to carry the conversation while the young people listened respectfully; naturally, the adventures of Lieutenant Price and Mr. Gibson were touched upon, but as Mr. Stephen had spent part of his early life in St. Kitts, he tended to view travel and its attendant hardships as salutary for male character, and he declared he would not be who he was today if he had not seen, with his own eyes, scenes of suffering and injustice meted out to the black slaves which, in consideration of the young ladies at table, he would not dwell upon.
After dinner and tea, Susan was discovered to be nodding off in her chair, and she was kindly led upstairs by the maid for a long rest, while Fanny, still delighted to be among such interesting conversationalists, felt she could listen all night. But now that Susan was gone, Mrs. Butters, with an emphatic look, demanded of Fanny that she tell everything relative to her recent marriage. She knew something of Henry Crawford by reputation, and could not imagine that he and Fanny were in any way suited to be husband and wife, although she acknowledged that Fanny had never looked so well and she must, therefore, be well content.
Fanny’s all-too-evident discomfort upon being applied to in this manner was of course immediately noted by both her auditors; even taking into account Fanny’s gentle and reserved manner, she did not appear to be a newly-married woman in love, and Mrs. Butters was by no means inclined to leave off pursuing the matter, especially since she had determined (it must be no secret to the reader) that Fanny was to have married William Gibson, and she was therefore a little disappointed in Fanny, and began to suppose that Fanny had made a loveless, mercenary match. She even hinted as much.
“Now, my dear hostess, don’t condemn the girl if she has married for money,” Mr. Stephen put in bluntly. “We all must have something to live on, and Mrs. Crawford may be in the way of becoming a patron to Mr. Gibson, if she will not have the pleasure of starving with him in a garret. And by ‘patron,’ I do assure you I mean the word literally, Mrs. Crawford, and nothing that would redound to your discredit.”
To have her private affairs canvassed so openly by the two older people, especially after weeks of solitude in Everingham, was such an unexpected turn of events for Fanny, and took her so aback, that she did not even blush or stammer, but found herself confessing that one of her motives in “becoming Mrs. Crawford,” as she put it, was to help her brother’s career. And having said that much, recklessly added that Henry Crawford was a man of good understanding, education, wit, imagination, and address, but…
“But?” prompted Mrs. Butters, truly interested.
Fanny confessed that his fault was a liking to make girls a little in love with him. What a relief it was to her, to say aloud even a small part of the truth! But she could find no words to explain why she did not know where her husband was—for she lacked the guile to dissemble on this point—though only four months married.
Mrs. Butters had heard enough, and started to condemn him as a rake and a libertine, when restrained by Mr. Stephen. “He may yet turn out well, my dear Mrs. Butters, if Mrs. Crawford will be as patient and show as much forbearance and forgiveness as my own poor first wife. Mrs. Crawford may yet make something of her husband. The most abandoned rake may reform his ways, although in my case, to be honest, I think it is the operation of time, and the consequent extinguishment of the passions of youth—not repentance or reflection—that has changed me from an ardent young man to a philosophic old one.”
The flickering firelight, casting its shadow on the wall, the deepening shades of night without, the silence of the household, all lent themselves to a confessional mood, and Fanny found herself listening with amazement and horror to his story:
“Many years ago, I was secretly engaged, to a lovely girl. Nancy's parents objected to me—as well they should have! She was the sister of my dearest friend, Tom, then away in the Navy. Tom was pledged to marry a beautiful girl, Maria. While Nancy, that sweet trusting girl, waited for the day I would take her as my wife, I was so powerfully attracted to Maria’s charms that I began secretly courting her as well. I overcame Maria’s virtue and got her with child.”
Fanny gasped and clasped a hand to her mouth.
“I was then courting two women, and promising to marry both of them. My friend returned to England and learned that I, his good friend, had destroyed all his hopes in this world. He left for a distant post. I never saw him again. Nancy, meanwhile, was driven to despair, almost to suicide.
“I determined to escape to the Caribbean, and as I could marry only one of the two women I loved, I vowed to marry whichever of them could not find herself another husband. But, in the meantime, I fell in love, briefly and violently, with a Scottish girl.”
Fanny’s eyes rolled in her head but she stayed silent.
“As that affair ended, the lovely Maria was courted by another man and taken as his wife. Nancy was great-hearted enough to forgive me and adopt Maria’s baby as our first child.
“There, Mrs. Crawford. Would you say that my character was the same, or worse, than your husband’s? And yet, I have lived to make myself useful to my fellow creatures—” here, Mrs. Butters nodded her head vigorously— “without, indeed, overcoming many, or any of my faults. My temper is bad, my language often vile, and I was more apt to be ashamed of my lack of classical education, than to remedy that lack through constant study. Still, I am proud to be the ally of Mr. Wilberforce, and Mr. Clarkson, and to be one of those who will accomplish the mighty work, please God, in our lifetimes, of making the thought of slavery so detestable to civilized men that we will see it eradicated from the globe.
“So, don’t despair of your own husband, Mrs. Crawford. With the talents you say he possesses, he may yet redeem himself.”
* * * * * *
The next morning, Mrs. Butters and her guests prepared for their day’s diversions. Madame Orly insisted on helping Fanny with her toilette: “We are in London now, Madame Crawford, we must look creditable!”
Mrs. Butters kindly offered to take Susan to see the Tower of London and then to Wapping New Stairs to look in on their brother John, who was a junior clerk at the Marine Police office. Fanny requested to be let off at Wimpole Street to call on her cousins, with a promise to meet her brother another day.
With trembling and apprehension did Fanny descend from the carriage, but her longing for her family gave her the courage to lift the door knocker and gently tap at the door. “Pardon me, are any of the family within?” she enquired of the butler who responded.
“May I take your card in, madam?” he replied, for of course it was not Baddeley, but a total stranger to her.
“Oh—I have no card, but could you please inform them—that Fanny is here. I mean, Miss Price. I mean, Mrs. Henry Crawford.”
The butler started slightly, then recovered his composure and bowed her in to a small but elegantly appointed entry hall. “Please wait here, madam, if you please.”
Fanny stood in terrific suspense, not knowing who, if anyone, would appear and acknowledge her as a relative. She heard some low murmured voices, and then she thought she heard a commotion, as though a chair had been scraped back suddenly—even knocked aside—she heard a firm rapid footstep, a man’s voice saying, “No, I shall greet her myself,” a door opened and there appeared—
“Cousin!” she exclaimed.
Edmund approached rapidly, looking at her carefully. He saw an elegantly dressed little woman, looking up at him with joy on her face. It was his own Fanny whom he had last seen the previous October but oh, how the intervening months had changed them both!
“My Fanny!” He watched her countenance carefully for some signs of the disdain which his wife had assured him Fanny felt for him and all the Bertrams. She stepped up lightly to meet him, and to his infinite relief, she embraced him and laid her head on his chest.
“Thank goodness! Fanny, there is s
o much to explain, so much I need to apologize for—”
She stepped back, startled. “Apologize? You, cousin? I rather think I need to apologize to you!”
“No, never, Fanny, for you could never do anything harmful to anyone. Please, please, come in and sit down. You cannot know how comforting, how wonderful it is to see you again. Please come and talk with me.”
Edmund took Fanny by the hand, led her to the sitting-room and closed the door behind them, with the warmest affection on his countenance.
“Fanny, I need not ask you if you have been well, you look very well indeed.”
They had not met for three-quarters of a year, and Fanny had altered from a girl to a fashionable young woman in that space of time. Her hair curled charmingly under her stylish little bonnet, coral earrings dangled from her neat little ears and the high collar of her burgundy jacket set off her pale, slender neck. But was she still his friend, still his greatest confidante in this world? With an eagerness which bespoke the warmth of his affection, he begged her to tell him all of her story, from the day of her early morning departure from Mansfield Park.
“Fanny, please, I must know one thing—did you leave a letter for me when you left the house?”
Startled, Fanny replied, “Yes, of course I did, cousin!” and to her astonishment Edmund sat back abruptly, then leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. “Fanny—Fanny, I never received that letter.”
Fanny sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then ventured— “why then, you must have believed that I disappeared without a word of explanation to you and the family, and the first news you had of me was my letter from Bristol? How sorry I am! You must have wondered and worried—But stay—no, cousin—Miss Crawford—that is, as she was then, when she found me in Bristol, she told me that you had read my letter and you were very angry with me…..” she trailed off in perplexity.
Edmund sighed. “I cannot explain…. wait…… no, Fanny—with you I can have no reserve, particularly if these horrible misunderstandings and blunders are to be set aright, I must explain, I must tell you the truth. Believe me, only my desire to do right by you compels me to cast aside all reserve, all decorum, and all the discretion which I ordinarily uphold as every person’s duty toward those whom they are bound to honour. You will understand my reticence, and all of the motives which would enjoin me to silence. I am not proud of confessing what you will soon perceive—how matters stand with me and mine! At least I will obtain some comfort, some solace, by confiding in you. And so I will be direct, and trust upon your generosity and candour.