The Flood-Tide

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Axemen, here! Mr Dunmow, fetch a party of axemen to cut away this rigging. Secure the guns. Mr MacArthur, get the carpenter up here as fast as you can, see what can be done about repairing this wheel. Mr Morland, take a party up the mainmast and clear away that fallen topmast.’

  This was Mr Harris, taking command as was his duty, giving sharp orders for getting the ship under control again. William shook his head to clear it, and turned away automatically to obey, taking his eyes at last from the unrecognizable red mess under the poop at which he had been staring. Everything around him seemed clear but far away, as if seen through the wrong end of the telescope; a sense of unreality pervaded him, and it was better to allow it to have its way, to let himself think this was all a strange, mad, horrible dream. Later would be time enough for acknowledging reality.

  *

  All day the battle raged, and from the top of Cape Charles, Charles and his neighbour watched in fascinated horror. At sunset, when the sea and sky seemed dyed with blood, the firing grew scattered, and ceased, and the two battered fleets drew apart again, drifted slowly out of range, and hove to, to lick their wounds. Both fleets were badly mauled. No ship had sunk, no colour had struck, no side had won or lost. The two men returned to their pinnace in absolute silence, all their excitement gone. There seemed nothing to say. They got her under sail, and came around the point to see if there were any survivors to be picked up, for there had certainly been men in the water at various points of the battle. They found only one, a seaman who had managed to swim to the shore but had been unable to haul himself out of the water, for the shore was high and rocky. He was hanging wearily, almost unconscious with fatigue and cold, to a ledge just round the point.

  It was impossible to get the pinnace close enough in to pick him up, and Charles in the end had to strip off his outer clothes and go in. It took some doing to prise the man away from his handhold, and swim him back to the pinnace, where ready hands hauled them both back on board and rubbed them down and hung coats about them. The rescued man relapsed into unconsciousness, and Charles, after swallowing a large amount of brandy, dozed fitfully under the thwarts as Tomkin sailed him homewards.

  ‘Well, that's that,' he heard Tomkin say. 'The British won't try that again, and without the navy to back them up, the army won't have a hope of holding Yorktown. I reckon we might have seen the end of the war out there today.’

  They might learn some more from the sailor they had picked up, Charles thought, if he ever regained consciousness. He wondered if Thomas had been out there today, if he had taken part in the battle, if he had been wounded. But he mustn't think of that. America was no longer a part of Britain, and he was no longer a part of the Morland Family. He must make up his mind to it, and make the best of the situation, and learn to stand alone, just as America would have to, from now on.

  For three days the battered fleets lay within sight of each other while they cleared away wreckage, fitted jury-rigging, plugged shotholes, tended the wounded, and buried the dead. So many dead, a long, long line of them on every deck, to be sewed into the hammocks and slipped overboard. And on the fourth day sails appeared on the horizon and the Rhode Island fleet came into sight, arriving at last to reinforce the French. At the sight of the new ships, Graves gave the signal to withdraw. The French fleet retired into the shelter of the Bay to refit properly, and the British fleet limped away northwards to the safety of loyal New York harbour.

  The Daring took her place in the line, carrying sail gingerly on a spare mainyard, fished to the stump of the mizzenmast, with Lieutenant Harris temporarily in command. In New York she was docked for repairs, but supplies were in such short order, and such high demand, that she was still far from refitted when the news arrived that on 19 October General Cornwallis, having suffered heavy losses in the siege of Yorktown, had been forced to surrender, four years after the surrender at Saratoga. Coming on top of the disaster of the naval battle, it seemed like the final blow. William, writing a difficult letter home, to tell of Thomas's death, added, 'We all feel that this must be the end. It is impossible to win a war under these conditions. Unless we make peace, there can only be further loss, and God knows we have lost enough.’

  William felt his lip tremble as he wrote those words, and he laid down his pen for a moment, and put his face in his hands. He had been sleeping badly since the battle, for every time he closed his eyes the image was waiting there for him of Thomas, smashed to a red smear by the flying cannonball. If there was peace, he would probably be sent home again. He would like to see his home again. He thought of Morland Place, and could bring no image of it to his mind, but a general sense of greenness and quietness. He thought he would sleep better, with the silence of fields around him.

  He picked up his pen again to write a little more, and to express his desire of going home, and seeing his mother and father again. Yet in the back of his mind, too deep to need acknowledging, was the awareness that when the green fields had healed him he would want to go back to sea again. He was a sailor, first, last, and always.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was Jemima who met the stagecoach that brought Flora back from London at the beginning of November. It was a raw, dark day, drizzling rain, and clouds so low that they hung like wet rags about the tops of the tallest trees, and Jemima was glad to stay inside the Hare and Heather by the parlour fire until she heard the horn. Then she pulled her cloak about her and hurried outside to watch the six white horses approaching at a brisk trot. Childish though it was, she never quite lost the thrill of excitement at seeing the heavily-laden coach come into sight, hinting of travel and adventure and news from foreign parts. When she was a little child, her brothers had sometimes taken her down to the road to see the coach from London - though in those days the roads were so bad that the horses never went out of a walk. Well, now she was nearly fifty and had more grey hairs than she liked to count, and had seen all she wanted of foreign places, but still she clasped her hands inside her muff and felt her lips curve into a smile as the cumbersome, swaying vehicle drew into the inn yard.

  It was a smile she banished hastily as Abel ran forward to let down the step, and helped out the small figure in heavy mourning. Flora seemed somehow frail in her burden of black, and she seemed to totter a little in the thick mizzle as Abel released her arm. Her maid Joan had scrambled out after her and was pointing out the boxes to the coachman as Jemima hastened forward to claim her.

  ‘Flora, my dear child! My poor dear, you must be perished.’

  She held out both hands and Flora's, in black kid, rested in them. Her veil was up, and Jemima observed the white, strained face and the blank stare of the eyes, and the back of her mind registered a small relief that Flora was so properly distressed at the news of her husband's death.

  ‘Jemima - I didn't - I wondered if anyone would meet me,' Flora said vaguely. Jemima drew Flora's arm through hers and led her towards the waiting chaise to the side of the yard.

  ‘But of course. Allen wanted to come, but he is suffering from really such a dreadful rheum that I had positively to forbid him to stir from the fire. So I came myself. Here is the carriage, waiting - we shall soon be home. My poor darling, you must have had a dreadful time of it. Such a long journey, too, by stagecoach! I really wonder that you did not come post. I am sure the Chelmsfords—'

  ‘Yes,' Flora said abruptly. 'They offered to send me post but - I would not.’

  Jemima drew breath to ask why, and then let it out again in silence. Flora would speak in her own time. She was obviously not inclined for speech now. Jemima settled her in the coach, saw that the boxes were being brought, and got in herself, with Joan following. In a few moments the coachman cracked his whip, the carriage lurched and then rolled smoothly forward as the two horses broke into a restrained trot. Flora gave a long, exhausted sigh and sank back into the corner of the seat.

  ‘Oh, I am tired to death,' she said, and spoke no more on the journey home. Morland Place looked to Jemima extra-spec
ially welcoming on such a grey, unpleasant day, with the beacon light in the barbican already lit and yellowly glowing, and a flag of smoke rising from the chimneys, promising glorious crackling fires, warmth and food and comfort. She leaned her face to the cold side-glass to watch it approaching, feeling her love for it swell inside her as it always did, even when she had been away only a few hours. It was home, with all that that lovely word implied, but more than that it was her kingdom, her heritage, her pride. She had served it and protected it and belonged to it for so many years, had so nearly lost it, and now was come to the golden harvest years when everything was being repaid. There was her husband, whom she loved, whose love and trust and confidence made them as close as two human souls can be, and her children growing up around her, and her happy household, and the estate growing fruitful and properous; it was hard to remember not to smile, sad to see the contrast between her own contented state and that of the poor bewildered creature beside her.

  Oxhey opened the great door as soon as the carriage came into the yard, and Esther was waiting in the hall to help Joan take off the ladies' cloaks, and here was Allen, coming through from the drawing room to meet them, and gesturing back the others who were following, realizing that Flora would not want to have a crowd about her. Now here was something to give Jemima a twinge of anxiety, when she saw how white-faced her husband was, and heard how little voice he had left. His rheum had gone to his throat and chest, and he had lost his voice and gained an exhausting cough, and he should have been in bed these two days past, but he was always so stubborn about it, saying he had too much to do to lie abed.

  ‘Flora, my dear,' he said - or rather croaked - 'welcome home. You know that you have our deepest sympathy.' He took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks, and continued, 'There is a good fire made up in the West Bedroom, and Joan shall take you up straight away, so that you can rest and compose yourself. Is there anything in your luggage you need immediately?'

  ‘No - thank you. I have what I need in my bag,' Flora said with an obvious effort.

  ‘Very well then. We shall see you at supper, I hope.’

  He took Jemima's hand and pressed it warningly as Flora turned away, and when she had disappeared upstairs, he said, 'I thought she would not want to be amongst us at first. It must be a difficult moment for her, coming home.'

  ‘I was going to take her to the fire to warm herself,' Jemima said, and he shook his head.

  ‘Too many eyes upon her,' he replied, and broke into another bout of coughing, so that Jemima grew almost angry.

  ‘You are very solicitous for others, and I wish you would do the same for yourself. Dearest, won't you please go to bed? Look how tired and pale you are. It distresses me to see it.’

  He drew her hand through his arm and walked towards the drawing room. 'After supper, I will go. But I want to be here if Flora comes down. I'm well enough, my dear. You suffer more than I do from my symptoms.’

  In the drawing room Mary, who had been the most eager to greet her cousin, pouted crossly at the news that Flora had gone to her room; James, who remembered her with affection always as his childhood protectress, merely shrugged and went back to his sketching, at which he was developing quite a talent. Edward was not yet home from Oxford, and Harry, Lucy and Jack were in the nursery, but Louisa had hoped to see her mother, and was waiting with a mixture of eagerness and apprehension that touched Jemima. She was in heavy mourning, of course, for her father, whom she did not remember at all, and Jemima thought it looked strange on a little girl of seven. She explained to her that her mother had gone to her room, and watched Louisa absorb it along with all the other disappointments of life with a childish philosophy. Then Allen resumed his seat by the fire, and having asked and received permission by the exchange of a glance, the little girl scrambled onto his lap and settled happily into her accustomed haven.

  In her room, Flora submitted to the ministrations of Joan, and as soon as she reasonably could, dismissed her. Once alone she gave a sigh of relief, and walked over to the windowseat, and sat down to stare out at the grey world and think. Her impulse to come back to Morland Place had been an instinctive one of flight, but she was not sure, now that she was here, that it had been such a sensible thing. There was too much to remind her at Morland Place, too much to accuse her.

  Here in this very room she had grown up; sitting on this windowseat and gazing out of this window she had spun her silly romantic dreams, had fixed upon Thomas as their object, persuaded herself that she was in love with him, longed so hard to marry him that she had carried the matter by her own will alone. Without her efforts would he ever have noticed her, beyond his pretty young cousin beginning to grow up? He had married her because she wanted it, and what had she done but bring him pain? Oh, she could find excuses for herself. She could say that he had not been forced to marry her; that as he was considerably older than her, he ought to have been responsible for himself; that she was too young to know what she was about. She could cry out, passionately, inside herself that she had done no actual wrong, that she had committed no crime, that she had not been unfaithful to him, in the physical sense. But none of that was any good. Married to him, she had fallen in love with another man; she had been false to him in her heart and, worse, had never much cared about it, until the news of his death had brought it home to her.

  Thomas, dead - killed by a cannonball in action. Thomas, kindly smiling Thomas, her childhood's hero, father of her children. And oh, her children! Here was fresh fuel for grief and guilt. She had been at Chelmsford House - where else? - when they brought the news. She remembered the quiet commotion of it, when no one could decide who should be the one actually to tell her. Then Charles had come to her, held her hands, looked so seriously and carefully into her face to prepare her - as if anything could be apt preparation for such news. And then, confusion, shock, bewilderment, and guilt. Charles, then and in later interviews, telling her that she must not blame herself, that there was nothing to feel guilty about; Charles, saddened by Thomas's death, yes, really saddened, and yet unable to hide his joy and hope that now they could really be together.

  ‘Are you mad?' she had cried. 'How can I marry you? How can you even suggest it?'

  ‘Oh, not now, this minute, of course,' Charles had said hastily. 'Of course there must be a proper period of mourning, but when that is over, I can claim you honestly and openly as I have always wanted to.’

  And racked with guilt she had denied him, abused his callousness, and he had tried to persuade her.

  ‘We have done nothing wrong. We have not contrived his death - not even wished it. Yes, I can truly say that, that I never wished him harm, and I know that you can say the same. But Fate has freed us, for each other. Why should we refuse what Fate offers us?'

  ‘Everyone knows!' she had cried hysterically. ‘If I marry you now, they will talk. They will always be whispering, staring at us and whispering. Oh, I have been so wrong! I cannot bear to think about it.’

  And she remembered now also the last interview, when with the calmness of exhaustion and grief upon her she had told him in a voice that allowed no argument that she was going home to Morland Place.

  ‘For how long?' he asked. 'You must not stay too long away.'

  ‘I shall never come back,' she said. 'I shall never see you again.’

  She held him with her eye, so that he should not plead with her, and in the end all he said was, 'But I love you.’

  She fought against tears then. 'I love you, too. But I can never be with you again.’

  So she had fled home, refusing even to allow them to send her post, for the greater scourging of her soul. The long, cold, uncomfortable journey had passed like a bad dream, and now here she was at Morland Place, in her own bedroom, where every evidence of kindness - the good fire waiting for her, the hot water ready in the silver ewer, Allen's understanding of her need to be alone, Jemima's warm and sympathetic smile - reopened the wounds of guilt and injured self-esteem.

&nbs
p; She did not go down to supper. Like an animal, she hid in her burrow. Alone, she went over and over the same train of thought, and wept until grief exhausted her, then slept, and woke to repeat the process. And every day, as the year shortened into darkness, her heart cried, senselessly, after Charles, longed for him as unheedingly as a dog whining at the door; and, like a dog, could not be comforted or explained to.

  *

  Edward came home for Christmas, and Jemima discovered all over again what a satisfactory young man he was making. At nineteen he had become steady, sensible, kindly, mature, a person she felt at once she could trust and confide in. He will be like his father, she thought, and there was great satisfaction in the idea.

  Allen was still in bed, nursing his cough, but mending now, so Jemima had her son to herself the first evening, and they sat up late when the others had gone to bed, talking. It was natural for her to discuss Flora with him.

  ‘She still keeps to her room, and when she does come out, she is so silent, and looks so pale and drawn,' she said. 'I must admit that at first I was a little relieved that she had such proper feelings, because, you know, I have had doubts once or twice whether it had been such a good idea for her to marry so young - but now, she looks so uncomfortable, I wish she could begin to get over it. Do you think you could persuade her to leave her room? You have probably seen more of her in the past few years than we have. She might regard you as less of a stranger.'

  ‘I could try,' Edward said doubtfully. ‘If she will see me tomorrow, I will do what I can - but she may not want to see me. I might remind her of too many things.' There was a silence, while Jemima wondered whether to ask him what things, and then he said, 'Has she had any letters, since she came back? Has she heard from Charles - Lord Meldon?’