Captain Boyle rose, walked to the stem windows, drew aside the curtains and peered out. “A fine starry night,” he said. With that he returned to his chair, and, as he came, fixed the back of Sir Arthur’s head with a hard, level gaze.
“Well, now,” he said, “this is the way of it. Most people in this world seem to be in the position of doing things for money. Your kings and our presidents; your doctors, lawyers, generals, admirals and ship-builders; your poets and your writers of books: all these men earn a living by what they do; and by stretching a point you might say it’s a commercial matter with them. Why, I’ve even heard it said your great families in England marry oftener to gain a few acres of land or a sure addition to their incomes than for love.”
He paused and looked shyly at his fingers, the most harmless-looking gentleman I had ever seen, and I was astonished to discover that Lady Ransome was as white as the linen at Captain Boyle’s wrists, and that Sir Arthur’s leathery, dust-colored face had gone a muddy red.
“Yes,” Captain Boyle went on gently, “were most of us money chasers in this world, though some of us chase it more grimly than others, and others chase it because they’re whirled along with the chasers.
“Now, you gentlemen may or may not be aware that in the American navy there are only seven frigates and fifteen sloops-of-war to cope with your tremendous fleet of eight hundred men-of-war; but this is a fact. It’s also a fact that many hundreds of Americans— many thousands of them—are eager to do battle with a nation that has so flouted and insulted their country as has England.”
Captain Boyle leaned forward and looked wistfully into Sir Arthur’s face. “What’s to be done in such a case?” he asked. “These men are seamen: all their lives they’ve known nothing but the sea. They’re lost on land; and the ways of landsmen are beyond them. They’d be worthless in an army; and besides, they’ve no quarrel with England on the land. It’s on the sea that England treads on our toes and denies us the right to be our own masters; and it’s on the sea that Americans wish to fight for free trade and seamen’s rights and no impressment.”
Captain Boyle, it seemed, could not sit still. He rose again from his chair to stand with his back against the oak rudder casing, swaying as the brig, rising to the lift of a wave, swooped with it and lowered herself gently to the bosom of the following wave.
“What can these people do who want to fight you?” he repeated, looking from Captain Parker to Sir Arthur. “There’s no room for ’em in our navy, on our few small government vessels. What am I to do when I want to fight you? I’m a navigator. I can work a brig or a ship, and work her well. I can fight her. Shall I go as a common seaman on one of our twenty-two government craft, where my knowledge of seamanship will be lost? What are the rest of us to do?”
Captain Boyle’s voice fell almost to a whisper, so that I leaned forward for fear of losing his words in the slight screaking of the rudder and the lapping of the water against our sides. “You have a vulnerable spot, you English,” he said. “It’s your merchant fleet. We’re striking home, Sir Arthur Ransome, when we send the price of flour in England to fifty dollars a barrel—to sixty dollars a barrel.”
“Ah, yes,” Sir Arthur said. “And getting the sixty dollars yourself, Mr. Boyle!”
Taking a handkerchief of gray silk from his breast pocket, Boyle smoothed it between the palms of his hands; and as he did so he lowered his head and looked into Sir Arthur’s face as intently as though there were nothing else worth seeing in all the world. “I think I’ve made myself quite clear,” he said. “I beg, therefore, you’ll indicate in some way to me that you’ve labored under a misapprehension.”
Sir Arthur met this intent look now bent upon him for a moment or two only; then lowered his eyelids and glanced aside.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt it’s a fair enough sort of fighting, according to American ideas,” he admitted.
Captain Boyle bowed gravely, resumed his seat, and lifted his glass to Captain Parker, then lowered it. “On second thought, Captain,” he said, “I can’t ask you to drink with me to the fortunes of war just at present.”
“No,” Parker returned gruffly. “And they wouldn’t be what they are for us just now except for the damned laziness, saving Lady Ransome’s presence, of our damned blockading fleet that’s supposed to hold your privateers inside your own ports. How you get by them I’m damned if I can see, saving Lady Ransome’s presence again.”
“Oh, but it’s the simplest thing in the world!” Boyle said. “We back out.”
“Back out?” Parker repeated, with a kind of hoarseness. “Back out?”
“Let me explain it,” Boyle said winningly, and turned to Lady Ransome. “You see, ma’am, your people have a heavy blockading fleet cruising up and down before the entrance of every harbor in America, so we come out stern foremost: that is to say, backwards; and your people look at us carefully and think were going the other way. So they don’t bother us. Sometimes we have to back halfway to the Scilly Islands; but, after all, what could be simpler?”
Captain Parker sputtered, grunted, and seemed to be swearing internally. Lady Ransome said, “La!” and looked purely scornful, whereupon Boyle lifted a protesting hand toward her.
“You’ll not betray me, ma’am,” he said, “for giving this information to the enemy—I’m afraid I must regard your husband and Captain Parker as enemies; but I’m sure they’ll be honorable and not betray the secret. Doubdess you know yourself, ma’am, that Sir John Borlaise Warren had it published in England how well he holds the Chesapeake blockaded; but as a hundred and fifty American privateers are constantly passing in and out of those lively waters, Sir John could only be excused on the ground that he sees nothing but their sterns and therefore thinks they’re all inside.”
When he had said this he sat staring at Parker. His face had suddenly become as blank as a clam shell. His eyes seemed turned inward, and his lower lip sagged, so that he looked to be gone entirely from us. Then, as abruptly, a little glow appeared upon his cheek. He came to life, smiling, and turned to me.
“Blockade!” he said. “Why, what fools we’ve been, Captain! Warren’s in America, blockading us; and we’re here, so why shouldn’t we blockade them?”
“Blockade who?” Sir Arthur asked.
“The British!” Boyle cried, striking his fist on the table. “Captain Nason, we’ll blockade England.”
“Good!” I said.
Captain Boyle clapped his hands softly and rubbed them together. He slid from his chair to walk up and down the end of the cabin, beaming delightedly at me, as though I had done something mighty pleasing. “Pencil and paper, Captain!” he said. “Pencil and paper! This blockade must be effected at once!”
I went to my dispatch box for writing materials; and thinking all eyes were on Captain Boyle, I stole a glance at Emily Ransome, only to find she had looked suddenly over her shoulder at me. It was the same level glance she had given me once before; but now I saw no enmity in it; for when she turned quickly away, her face and throat flushed hotly red. I fumbled in my dispatch box as though my fingers were turned to thumbs.
I forgot, almost, what I had come to get; I heard but dimly the voice of Captain Parker, plainly outraged by Boyle’s remarks. “It seems to me, Captain Boyle,” he said, “that what you say is in extremely poor taste!”
Boyle stopped abruptly in his pacing. “Poor taste, Captain?” he asked, as if he doubted his ears. “Surely you didn’t say poor taste!”
Captain Parker made a sound like an outraged goose. “Such a thing’s impossible of accomplishment,” he said, “and you’d never say it to our naval officers; so it must be said for the purpose of irritating us, who are helpless here in this cabin.”
“Why, sir,” Captain Boyle said, and I thought he spoke regretfully, “I’ll ask you to pardon me if I’ve irritated you. That wasn’t my intention.” He raised his eyebrows at Lady Ransome. “Have you found my words irritating?”
“I find them pleasantly fantasti
c,” she said, smiling at him.
Boyle shook his head sadly. “Not fantastic,” he said. “They’re meant more soberly. Why, here—” he turned to Captain Parker— “it’s not half as impossible for me to blockade England as for Sir John Borlaise Warren to blockade America. And I question your judgment, my dear sir, when you tell me I’d never say such a thing to naval officers. I’m quite willing to say it to anyone.” He seemed struck with a new idea. “I shall insist on saying it to everyone! You shall carry my proclamation to London, Captain Parker, and post it in Lloyd’s Coffee House!
“Take it down for me, Captain,” he said, seeing I had brought pencil and paper. “Take it down! We’ll make three copies, so all Great Britain may be warned.”
Thereupon, with a mocking spark in his velvety brown eyes and the gentlest of smiles playing about his lips, he wandered around the table, dictating to me, seemingly oblivious of the rigidity with which Sir Arthur and Captain Parker sat in their chairs.
“At the top,” he announced, “the word ‘Proclamation,’ printed large, and flanked by American eagles with ruffled feathers, if you’re any hand at drawing eagles: if not, we’ll get along with American ensigns. After that, in red ink, the word ‘whereas/ large and italicized, and with that we can start.” His voice rose a little and became flat and monotonous. “Whereas, It has become customary with the admirals of Great Britain, commanding small forces on the coast of the United States, particularly with Sir John Borlaise Warren and Sir Alexander Cochrane, to declare all the coast of the said United States in a state of strict and rigorous blockade without stationing an adequate force to maintain said blockade;
“I do therefore, by virtue of the power and authority in me vested, possessing sufficient force, declare all the ports, harbors, bays, creeks, rivers, inlets, outlets, islands and seacoast of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland in a state of strict and rigorous blockade.”
“Owl” Sir Arthur protested.
Captain Boyle held up a warning hand and continued his dictation: “And I do further declare that I consider the force under my command adequate to maintain strictly, rigorously, and effectually the said blockade.”
“Adequatel” Captain Parker protested. “Two small vessels adequate!”
“Why not?” Boyle asked. “Look at Warren!” He nodded at me and resumed his flat, monotonous dictating voice: “And I do hereby caution and forbid the ships and vessels of all and every nation in amity and peace with the United States from entering or attempting to enter, or from coming or attempting to come out of, any of the said ports, harbors, bays, creeks, rivers, inlets, outlets, islands, or seacoast under any pretext whatsoever. And that no person may plead ignorance of this, my proclamation, I have ordered the same to be made public in England.
“Given under my hand on board the Private Armed Brig Chasseur, THOMAS BOYLE, Commander.”
Captain Boyle came and looked over my shoulder. “I date it as from my own ship, as more fitting and proper, if you’ll pardon me, Captain Nason. Have you it all?”
“I think so,” I told him, pleased to see Sir Arthur looking at me sourly. “In reference to the supposed British blockade of America, it might be nearer to the truth if you inserted, before the words about stationing an adequate force, the words ‘without possessing the power to justify such a declaration.’ ”
“My dear Captain,” Boyle said, starting back wide eyed, “the proclamation would have verged on the inaccurate without such a phrase. I thank you a thousand times for the suggestion! Pray make it sol”
With that, smiling graciously upon us, he caught up his hat and swept a quick bow to Lady Ransome. “Charming evening,” he told us. “I shall hope for others before the blockade ends.”
XVIII
IT WAS thick as pea soup in the Channel on the following morning: thick and choppy; and it seemed to me there was trouble in the air; for Pinky lay in my bunk, his head hanging across my legs and his beady black eyes wide open, now elevating one bushy yellow eyebrow at the stern windows, then twisting the other toward the door of the cabin, and between times growling faintly deep in his throat; so in the end he drove me to dressing and going on deck at an early hour.
I could make out nothing in the fog. Pomp, standing his trick at the wheel, his face like polished ebony from the wetness of the air, jerked his head to larboard and said he had caught a glimpse of the Chasseur’s topgallant sail half an hour earlier. There was no breeze to speak of; only light airs from the west that left us wallowing and creaking in the oily cross-seas, with steerageway but little more; so from our reef-points and top-hamper there was a slatting and whacking reminiscent of a hailstorm on a barn roof. The suggestion of a barn, indeed, was one that came to me readily, because of the barnyard flavor of our waist, where there were sheep pens and crates of fowl.
One of the men brought me a cup of coffee, stout enough to hold up a nail, and I mooned idly over it, with that early-morning numbness of eye and brain which often accompanies changeable weather.
Pinky stirred himself between my ankles, where he was resting, and peered out around my leg. Feeling his stub of a tail begin to thump, I looked around myself and saw Lady Ransome had come on deck, a dark green kerchief bound around her head like a Spanish fisherwoman’s, and her fur cloak wrapped tight about her. I gawked at her, my cup half raised.
“Well,” I said, staring. “Well—what are you—where—”
“Is it hot?” she asked, looking at the cup.
“Yes,” I said, holding it before me as if waiting for someone to throw a marlinspike at it.
“Let me have a little,” she said, and took it.
“Wait; I’ve been drinking from it. I’ll send for more.”
Even while I said it, she drank what was left, watching me over the rim as she did so. I couldn’t, for the life of me, think of another thing to say, and only stood looking at her until she put the cup back in my hand, which was still half open in mid-air.
“What would your aunt Cynthy say if you gave her coffee like that?” she asked. “What do they put in your coffee? Rusty iron?”
“It seems to me,” I said, “it seems to me you look thinner than when I saw you in Arundel.”
She seemed almost to study over her answer. “How is your mother, Captain Nason?”
“She’s very well. She helped me with this sloop. No: this is a brig: she helped me with the sloop I had before this.”
“When did you see her last?”
“Why, only a short time ago. Last fall. No: it was longer ago. A year ago. No: it was over a year ago: it was a year and a half ago.”
Speech deserted us, and we stared at the tide streaks always to be found in the dirty gray water of the Channel, which has as many cross-currents as one of our marsh rivers within a few minutes of flood.
Only the night before, it seemed to me, there had been scores of things I wanted to say, if I could catch her alone for a moment. Yet now that I was alone with her, and she surprising me by seeming to be in a friendly mood to boot, my brain was as muddled as a plate of lobscouse. Nothing would rise to the surface.
“There are sticklebacks in England,” she said at last. “They live in the ditches. In London I found a print of a woodcock flying with one of its babies held between its knees, as you said. Has your head hurt since that day?”
I told her it hadn’t, and wondered why I had to be so dull and stupid.
“I suppose you’ve helped other girls cut their initials in the beech tree,” she went on. “Better carvers than I. La, how crooked my letters were!” She laughed a gay little laugh, though it seemed to me she laughed overlong. “I fear you’re always following after the women.”
“No, I’m not,” I said, hoping my voice sounded stem and truthful.
“Why,” she said, “there’s one under your bowsprit at this moment. Aren’t you afraid she’s leading you on, Captain Nason?”
“Leading—leading me on?” I stammered. “She was a ghost when we got the brig. She was
pale—she looked entirely different.”
“And you had her changed afterward, Captain Nason?”
“I changed her myself,” I said. I intended my words to have no double meaning, but I thought she eyed me strangely.
We stared at each other. She stooped suddenly and picked up Pinky, pressing her cheek against the top of his head.
“I saw your brother,” I told her awkwardly. “A pleasant young man. I saw Annie too. Did you see Annie?”
She nodded. “You said nothing to my brother about knowing me?” she said.
“No, I didn’t. Did you?”
I knew she hadn’t because of her sudden interest in adding to the roughness of Pinky’s eyebrows. “Why was it you said nothing to him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe because we’re at war. No: I don’t know why. Perhaps for the same reason I didn’t tell my mother about your picture.”
“What picture?” she asked, wide eyed.
“Why,” I said, wishing I had held my tongue, “the one you—the one Annie—”
“Where is it?”
I fumbled under my coat and had to rip the button from the pocket, so clumsy were my fingers. I got out the picture at last and unwrapped the silk handkerchief from it. I glanced at it before I gave it to her. Certainly, I thought, she had grown thinner, and there was a look in her eyes that had never been in them when I first knew her, and that was not in the eyes of the miniature—a look I have seen only in the eyes of prisoners.
She gazed steadily at it, turning it between her fingers: then, before I realized what she was doing, she dropped it inside the collar of her dress.
“Here,” I said, “here!” and I found myself with my hands stretched out toward her, as if to snatch it back again.
“There’s been a deal of trouble over this, Captain Nason.”
The Lively Lady Page 17