“Not to make too long a story of it,” Mr. Donnelly continued, “for there’s not much glory to tell, the plain truth of it was that they were too much for us. We sank one of their frigates, set another burning so badly that it had to be abandoned, and one of the cargo ships was put out of commission. But that ship of the line, it played holy hell with us. There was little we could do against all those cannon. We were outmanned and outgunned. The Fortune went down swift and took half her crew with her. And while the Advance stayed in the fight longer, what with our decks being raked, our masts coming down, and our rudder damaged, we were forced to retire and fortunate to get away.
“Well, little of this did I see with my own eyes, for by the time the shooting started, I was do’wn in the cockpit with my surgeon’s mates, none of whom knew much, amputating legs, feet, arms, and hands, as the wounded were brought down to me. Amputation, you see, Jeremy, is the one sure treatment in battle; you may be doing too much, but at least you’re doing something for the poor, bleeding wretches. I do recall that among the last brought to me — pulled off the deck he was, with little hope for him — was one who was wounded so badly I could scarcely believe that he still breathed. I daresay you can hardly picture this, but the top of his head had been taken off as neatly as if the fellow had been trepanned — skull, skin, hair, and a good bit of his brain, as well. It was possible to reach into the top of his head, what was left of it, and touch what was left of his brain, and in fact I did so as I tried to clean out the bits of skull and what-all, which littered the bloody, pulpy mass which was inside. But the medulla oblongata, which is deepest beneath all the rest, had gone uninjured and untouched. I saw that he breathed quite regularly. I put my ear to his chest and heard a strong heartbeat. The fellow was physically well, except that he had only half a head left.”
“What could you do for him? “
“Very little. I bandaged up the great, gaping hole, and we laid him aside. It was as if he were asleep — and sleeping rather peacefully, too.”
“But what about his — how do you say it? — his cere-bellum? Could he move?”
“It seemed to me that he could not initiate movement. He could not get up and walk away, for the part of him which could decide to do that had been destroyed, even though he was probably physically capable of doing so. But when I was given a minute or two alone with him, I took it upon myself to move him a bit, one way or another, and each time he moved himself back to the position he had originally held. It was as if he were sleeping.”
“Were his eyes open?”
“Yes, but there was no light in them, no sign of consciousness.
It seemed to bother some that his eyes stared out in that unseeing way, and so eventually I closed them.”
I had never heard such a story, nothing in the least like it. Yet there was more to know, questions I had to ask.
“What happened to him? Does he live yet? “
“I went to the captain with the problem. At first he wanted to hear nothing of the wounded, for, after all, it was his responsibility to bring a badly damaged ship back to port. That occupied him completely. But when I told him how the man was wounded, he was fascinated and asked to know what would happen to him if he were kept just so. How long would he survive? Not long, I told him, for I had already considered the matter — about as long as it would take him to starve to death or die of thirst. ‘That’s all he can look forward to?’ I assured him that that was so. ‘Then dump him over the side with the rest of the dead, after the chaplain has said his prayers over them.’ Those were the captain’s exact words — ‘with the rest of the dead’ — they expressed the situation perfectly, for though the man without a cerebrum breathed well and had a strong heartbeat, he was nevertheless by all other measure a dead man. He was buried at sea.”
I thought long upon the tale I had been told. There were moral implications, as well as medical, to this strange story. To me it seemed apparent that with it, he had proven his theory of the separate functions of the separate sections of the brain. Yet when I declared as much, he shook his head almost sadly.
“Ah, if it were only so easy, Jeremy,” said he. “In truth, I have no idea how one would go about proving the theory, save for destroying, piecemeal, the brains of a number of poor fellows. If I could only get to Benjamin Franklin and talk with him at some length about it. Perhaps he would have — “
“Mr. Donnelly,” I said, interrupting, waving his invitation under his nose, “I may have the answer to that problem.”
“What then? What have you there?”
When I explained, Mr. Donnelly rejoiced. He accepted the invitation with pleasure and seemed not in the least dismayed when I told him that all depended upon Samuel Johnson’s powers of persuasion.
“I have not the slightest doubt that Mr. Johnson will be able to bring the guest of honor round to your table. Mr. Franklin likes a good meal as well as the next man — or so I hear — and since that new cook of yours cooks as well as she looks, he’ll be well fed. Oh, and by the bye, as I recall, Sir John has a very democratical table, does he not?”
“He does indeed. We all sit together, the cook along with the guests.”
“Yes, well, do what you can to get me seated next to her. I should like to have gotten to know her far better that night we met.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
A knock came upon the door in the next room.
“I must be rid of you, Jeremy. The report to Sir John is there on the cabinet. If you would let in the men from the mortician as you go, I would be greatly obliged to you.”
“Ah, then the body’s not bound for a potter’s-field grave.”
“No, Lord Hillsborough bought him a proper funeral.”
“That’s the first good I’ve heard of the man yet.”
Clarissa and I were both surprised when Sir John gave his permission that we might accept Black Jack Bilbo’s invitation to visit him and Marie-Helene that night. What surprised us was that he had given it with such alacrity. His only concerns were two: that we travel there by some safe means of conveyance; and that we not tell Lady Fielding of our visit. He was reassured when he learned that Mr. Bilbo was sending his coach for us, and he gladly took our word that we would tell neither Lady Fielding, nor Molly Sarton, nor anyone else.
“Why do you not tell them,” said he, “that I have sent you two off to the Drury Lane Theatre to see David’s production … of… what u he now doing?”
“I believe ‘tis The Merchant of Venice,” said I.
“You’ve both read it, have you not?”
Clarissa and I agreed that we had.
“Well then,” said he, “you should be able to answer any questions put to you about the story — how it ends, that sort of thing.”
Again, we agreed.
“Tell them, if you’ve a need, that it was in the nature of a reward for some specially commendable work you’ve done for me — oh, on this burglary, the missing letters, et cetera.”
“What sort of commendable work?” Clarissa asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. You’ll think of something. You’ve a good imagination, and so has Jeremy.”
And thus it was arranged. We descended the stairs promptly at eight and found Mr. Bilbo’s coach waiting for us below in Bow Street. The footman hailed me by name, for we had met often and under all manner of circumstances. Then he did hop down from his perch and open the door for us with a bit of a flourish. As I passed him, accepting a boost at the elbow, he offered me a wink and a smirk. Why did people always seem to find it necessar’ to leer, smirk, wink, roll their eyes, and otherwise make strange facial contortions whenever they spied a lad my age in the company of a girl Clarissa’s age?
We settled in side by side, and she put round her wrap to keep her bare arms warm. I wondered why she had not dressed warmer. She should have worn a scarf, as well, for, after all, even wearing the wrap, her bosom, of late a bit more prominent, was left half-exposed. Women w ere like that, were they n
ot? They never seemed to wear sufficient clothing, nor did they think sufficiently ahead to bring along what they might need for warmth later on in the evening. Instead, they preferred to snuggle and complain of the cold — just as she was doing at that instance. As we got under way, I thought it best to involve her in conversation, do whatever must be done to keep her at bay.
“Why do you suppose Sir John wanted us to withhold from Lady Fielding our intentions to visit Mr. Bilbo and Marie-Helene?” I asked, finding it needful to clear my throat a time or two as I spoke thus.
She leaned forward and looked at me direct. (Truth to tell, she was a bit shortsighted even then.)
“You know, Jeremy, she’s been behaving a bit strange lately. I would put it to her worries about her mother’s condition. She came back from York declaring that her mother was past the crisis, and she thought it time to return to Sir John and her family — meaning us, which I thought quite nice of her to say. But no, I don’t believe her mother is well. She has a tumor, and they are not got rid of so easily.”
“Indeed not,” said I, remembering the long suffering of the first Lady Fielding. “She seems to go up to bed earlier each evening. She says she reads.”
“I’ve heard her voice at night. She’s either talking to herself… or praying.”
“But to address that question with which we began, I really can’t say why she should object to our visiting Black Jack Bilbo. She seems to like him quite well, thinks he’s rather a rogue, a scoundrel, nevertheless a lovable one.”
“Ah, but Marie-Helene — that’s another matter, entirely.”
“I wonder what Lady Fielding has against her — not to mention what Molly might.”
“With Molly, no matter what she may say to the contrary, I feel certain her anger at the woman is all personal.”
“Not that she hasn’t reason.”
“Oh no, certainly not.”
“It’s just …”
“Right. It does no good.”
We fell silent. There was little more to say on the matter. Clarissa leaned back again and nestled against me. She was most aggressive. She went so far as to incline her head upon my shoulder, which made me most uncomfortable. Not physically, of course. Yet when we went from the Strand to Charing Cross, the road went bumpy, and she was forced to lift her head from its place.
“My goodness but you do have a bony shoulder, Jeremy!”
“I can scarcely help that now, can I?”
If I could only think of something to say, this would be the time to introduce some new topic of conversation, anything to divert her from her foolishness.
“Well, I suppose not. You eat enough for two as it is.”
Then came a sudden inspiration, a question which might engage her attention for the length of the trip.
“What do you think Marie-Helene wishes to discuss with you?” I asked her.
At that she laughed, which surprised me greatly.
“Have you not supposed what this is about?” she asked.
“No,” said I, “I have no notion of it.” Not strictly true, but anything to deflect her.
“Did not your friend Bunkins say that he would have some things to say to you? “
“He did.”
“And do you not also suppose that Mr. Bilbo, too, would wish to talk with you?”
“I had that feeling, yes.”
“Well, dear Jeremy, it is my certain conviction that we have been summoned that they may say their good-byes.”
“Yes, certainly Marie-Helene wishes to say her good-bye to you — perhaps to me, as well, I suppose — for she will be gone some three years or more. But Mr. Bilbo? Bunkins?”
“Have you not the sense that God gave you? Do you not see that they are planning on escape?”
The word, which she had actually whispered, seemed to sound like a shout in the close quarters of the coach. I heard it, and heard it well, yet I refused to acknowledge it. I simply stared at her.
“Let me make it plain,” said she, continuing. “If the woman you loved were about to be sent away to serve a term in prison, perhaps even to be condemned to death — and you had the means to take her any place in the world, would you not steal her away and take her out of danger? Jeremy, he has riding at anchor out there in the river a fine seagoing vessel. You told me yourself that when last you saw him, Mr. Bilbo was counting his cash, and there were so many banknotes and sovereigns that you could not see the top of the desk. We know that he has sold his gaming den — for cash — and he has probably sold that grand house in St. James’s Street, as well. He has great wealth that can be spent anywhere. If you cannot see where all this is pointing, then you are not near as clever as I think you are.”
She, who was but sixteen, appeared much older as she expounded upon my blindness to the obvious. Her eyes shone steady and sharp. There could be no doubt of the intensity of her feeling as she made her argument. It seemed altogether impossible that this was the girl who had but a short time before rested her head upon my shoulder. She seemed to contain within her some several females of various ages. Which must I now address?
‘ Listen to me please, if you will,” said I, “and don’t interrupt. I have not heard what you have said, and for that matter, we have not had this conversation. If I had heard, and if this conversation had taken place, then I should have to go to Sir John and give it as our suspicion that Mr. Bilbo was preparing to aid and abet the escape of Marie-Helene, Lady Grenville. Naturally,” said I (a bit sarcastically), “I would give you credit and declare that you had convinced me. Now if — “
“But why?’ she demanded, interrupting in spite of my request. “Why would you have to bring this to Sir John?”
“Because I hope to be an officer of the court someday not so far in the future, and I want no stain upon my record. And if you are still as talkative as you have been in the past, you would not be able to resist spreading your thoughts and observations about and boasting you had convinced me. In other words, that I knew in advance of their plans.”
“I would not!” she declared. “I would do no such thing! ‘
“Perhaps indeed you would not. Perhaps you would get past that temptation and all would be well. Nevertheless there is this matter I should like to clear up between us. I should like to tell you, Clarissa, that I am as clever as you think I am. By the time I left Mr. Bilbo’s residence yesterday, I thought that there was much amiss, yet I would not allow myself to pursue such thoughts and draw the sort of conclusions that you have drawn, for the reasons I have just stated. I would have to be a dunce to thus overlook the obvious. And if you want suspicions, here is one of mine you may not have considered: I believe that Sir John himself is fearful that Black Jack and his lady will try something of the sort you’ve suggested. Do you recall how he came home from Bilbo’s the other night? So angry and out-of-sorts? I believe he sensed it then taking shape. He sent me with that dreaded message, because he did not want to know more about it, for if he did, he would have to prevent it — perhaps report it himself to the Lord Chief Justice.”
There I stopped, panting and quite out of breath. It seemed we were both left with nothing more to say, for we were silent for a considerable while.
“And so,” said Clarissa, “what shall we do?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, I should think.”
“But it’s all so plain,” she protested. “Do we cover our eyes and stuff our ears with cotton wool?”
“If we must, I suppose. Yet I do not think it will pose a problem. Black Jack is much too canny a fellow to ignore the limitations put upon us all. He will have explained to the others, I’m sure.”
As with so many things in life, the problems were greater in anticipation than they proved to be in actuality. It was a surprisingly happy occasion. Surmising correctly that we would have had our evening meal, Mr. Bilbo served us dessert rather than dinner — or, indeed, it was Marie-Helene who had proven so dangerous to Clarissa when last we had imbibed. The dessert was a tar
t in the French style — a variety of berries and other fruits in a base of Sweet custard, and all of it baked in a pie of the finest, flakiest crust. I had had no such treat since our days in Deal. It was, in fact, so like what we had eaten during our first days there that I began to wonder.
“Tell me,” said I, “was this delectable dessert baked by the famed Jacques?”
“It was,” said Marie-Helene. “And do you remember him so well?”
“In truth, I never met the man. Yet I believe I would know him an3rwhere by his works, which are quite the finest of their kind.”
“Put like a true gallant! ” said she, punctuating her declaration with a bit of impromptu applause.
“Might I meet him?”
At my question, Marie-Helene and Mr. Bilbo exchanged glances; hers was of an inquiring sort, and his response came back in the negative.
“Ah, but no, Jeremy. That is not possible. He has begun his journey back to France, and left this tart which we eat as his final gift to us.”
And Jimmie Bunkins merely smiled.
So it went through the evening as we recalled old times and other occasions.
Clarissa reminded Mr. Bilbo of our chance meeting with him in Bath, where he had come of a purpose to lose his money. I asked Marie-Helene if she knew how Black Jack and Bunkins had met; then did I tell her the whole story before she could say yea or nay. Then did Bunkins stand and toast our host declaring that he was “the best cove a lad could want and to be equaled only by one who ain’t with us at the moment.”
It was thus a true valedictory moment with toasts raised and drunk; there was laughter, yet through it all a sense of underlying seriousness, as well. More stories were told, another bottle of wine opened, and then at last we divided; I went with Bunkins at his suggestion to the front of the great house, as Mr. Bilbo excused himself and said that there were matters which begged his attention in his study. Thus were Clarissa and Marie-Helene left alone to talk, as the latter had requested.
An Experiment in Treason Page 8