Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  “I’m sorry sir, I don’t understand.” Turpin bravely pressed on.

  “It’s from a book, my lad. Defoe, Daniel Defoe, I believe.” Some of the men around the table nodded in agreement. “It means the sea. The bottom of the sea is Davy Jones’ locker, but there are superstitions that he is a demon. Sailors are very superstitious men, Lieutenant Turpin,” he said with his eyes twinkling.

  As the purser placed some lamb onto Turpin’s plate, he joined in the conversation. “This same Davy Jones, according to sailors, is the fiend who presides over all the evil spirits of the deep, and is often seen in various shapes, perching amongst the rigging on the eve of hurricanes, shipwrecks, and other disasters to which sea-faring life is exposed, warning the devoted wretch of death and woe.” Turpin looked up at him in horror. “That’s from another book…” He grinned. “…by Tobias Smollett.”

  “Fear ye not!” the captain called out with a great laugh that made his whole body shake. “We’re sailing home seas and we’re too close to England for any enemy ship to venture out to attack us, I assure you.”

  Turpin, Wickham noticed, had turned ghostly white upon hearing the tales.

  The following morning, Wickham stood on deck breathing in the fresh sea air not long after the sun had risen. All was quiet save for the creaking of the ship’s timbers and rigging. Somehow, the gentle movement of the ship that morning soothed his aching head.

  He vaguely remembered the purser producing a bottle of rum, which became three and, Wickham shook his head, mayhap more. He was astounded at how much a naval-man could drink and amazed at how hard, and foolishly, he had tried to keep up with them. He took another deep breath and tried to clear his head and remember. The evening was filled with tall tales of the sea, and rum. Try as he might, Wickham could not recall the night in very much detail at all.

  Footsteps behind him made him turn away from the side of the ship to see Captain Fletcher approaching in full vigour. “Good morning, Lieutenant Wickham.” He chuckled at the look of surprise Wickham knew he wore plainly on his face. “Feeling a little worse for wear, are we?”

  Wickham shook his head at the man and immediately wished he had not. “How can you not be suffering the ill effects of the rum this morning?”

  The wizened old sea captain threw back his head and laughed heartily, clearly showing he was missing a few teeth and that his head did not pound in the least. “Years of being at sea, my lad. I suppose you might say that I’m immune to the stuff.”

  Wickham turned back to the sea. “It is a beautiful morning.”

  “Aye, that it is, and we caught a fortuitous wind last night, I am told.”

  “What does that mean?” Wickham turned to look at the captain as he looked up at the billowing sails above them.

  The older man pointed upwards and indicated the sails. “See there. The wind changed direction whilst we were at dinner last night. It’s now in our favour, and we’ve been making up for the lost time yesterday, and then some.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. With a favourable wind, we could make London sometime this coming night.”

  Wickham smiled in amazement. He had heard tell that ships could travel at phenomenal rates of speed, but had never experienced such a thing. “This night? A day early?”

  “Aye. A day early. That’ll please your men, will it not?” He laughed.

  Wickham laughed at that comment, too. “Yes, it will indeed. And I must confess it will please me, too.”

  The captain turned and looked at him feigned shock. “Is my hospitality not to your satisfaction?”

  “No, not at all,” Wickham quickly responded. “I am not insinuating that, sir. What I mean is this idleness does not suit infantrymen. Your men, I see…” He pointed to the main deck, buzzing with activity. “…have plenty to occupy them, but we do not. I see boredom in their faces, and that is dangerous.”

  “Aye, it is, very dangerous.”

  “I look forward, simply, to arriving in London and then making our way to Dover, or wherever our next point of departure is.”

  “Eager to be part of the fighting, are we?”

  Wickham shook his head. “On the contrary, I assure you. I have no appetite for such things.”

  “I know that feeling well. We have our duty after all, but battle is a thing which leaves a foul taste in the mouth.”

  “All I know is, the quicker we get to France and reinforce our troops there, the sooner we will see an end to all this fighting.”

  “Well said, Lieutenant, well said.” The captain patted him on the back forcibly and Wickham took a step forward to steady himself. “From what I hear, we have ole Bonaparte on the back foot. Pray it won’t be long now.” The captain took a deep breath and sighed, and Wickham saw for the first time how old the man was in actuality. “Aye, it will be good to be at peace again.”

  Wickham’s curiosity got the better of him and he tentatively asked, “I assume you’ve seen a lot of action, then, Captain?”

  Again, the man took a deep breath and sighed. “Seen it, experienced it, and narrowly escaped the jaws of death, young man.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. I lost three of my four sons to this bloody war. The youngest, because of his loving mother, was saved from a life at sea. I thank God for that woman daily.”

  “Three sons?” Wickham was struck by what the man confided.

  “Aye, three sons. We have two daughters, too. In the early days, my wife travelled with me aboard ship, but once the little ones came along, that wasn’t practical, as you can imagine.” Wickham tried to imagine how it would be to have Lydia and Georgie in tow all the time and knew he could not have borne it—such a life would never have suited her. “So I found her a little cottage in Deal where she brought up our family all by herself. I, like a fool, insisted that the lads come and join me at sea when they were of an age enough to do so.” He hung his head and Wickham felt a palpable sadness emanate from him. “To my eternal shame, they were eager to join the ranks aboard my ship. Then, they were transferred to other ships and I left my sons in the hands of other captains. You cannot know, and I pray you will never know, the pain and grief of losing sons to war, Lieutenant, or of having to travel and deliver such heart-breaking news to your wife—their mother.”

  “I am so sorry,” Wickham whispered.

  The captain sniffed, rubbed at his red nose, and lifted his head. “I’ll see them again in the by-and-by; of that, I am sure. I gave up my commission as a frigate captain that year for this cargo ship. I am content and glad for the change. Now, my aim is to retire at the end of this very year and see my two daughters happily married, and my remaining son settled into a land-based career of his own choosing. I hope, too, in my retirement, to bring succour to my dear grieving wife.”

  Wickham stood, watching the man before him. He felt such admiration for him and wished he too would one day have such a deep love and yearning to be with his own family. “I pray your retirement comes quickly and you and your family know peace.”

  The captain turned and looked Wickham in the eyes, and then he smiled warmly. “I thank you for those kind words, Lieutenant. Thank you kindly.”

  Wickham did not have another opportunity to speak to the captain for the remainder of the day. His time was taken up with occupying the men under his command. They took exception to being asked to coil ropes and lend a hand with one or two things on the ship. The boatswain saw, as he did, that idle men make mischief, and therefore, with Wickham, Turpin, and Poynter’s full consent, he set them to doing a task or two—none of which they accepted with grace. The griping and complaining was reaching a fever pitch by late afternoon just as the sun closed in on the horizon, but thankfully was cut short when a cry from the crow’s nest caught their attention.

  “What did he say?” Wickham asked the boatswain as he passed. He reached out a hand and gripped him by the arm, stopping him in mid-stride.

  “Boat ahoy. It means there’s a boy out there,” he mu
mbled as shook off Wickham’s hand and trotted off about his business.

  “A boat in the open sea?” Wickham wondered. He climbed back up to the quarterdeck and watched in fascination as brass telescopes were brought to the officers and, as one man, they searched the seas in the direction where the man in the crow’s nest pointed for the boat, which was spotted. Wickham could see nothing at all. The sun reflected off the waves with such an intensity as to momentarily blind him. There was a flurry of movement and he could see nothing of what was happening, nor could he hear about what they were talking. However, a midshipman offered him his telescope and pointed to where he should look. To his utter amazement, there upon the sea, amongst the golden glistening waves, was a small rowing boat. “What on earth?”

  The midshipman smiled at the look on his face. “Do not be concerned. It appears the man being transported this way is an army man. I assume, Lieutenant, that he has orders for you.”

  “For me?”

  The midshipman shrugged and inclined his head to the other ships that followed. “Well, for your captain, travelling in the other ship in this convoy.” He smiled and departed to his duties.

  Wickham frowned. What could be so urgent that the army had to send someone out to meet them? “I say…” Wickham reached out and touched a passing naval officer on the arm. “…where would the boat be coming from?”

  The man turned and pointed out to sea. “See that outcrop of land there? That’s Felixstowe.”

  “Is it?” Wickham looked, but in truth could see nothing.

  “Yes, sir. It’s a bit hazy, but it’s there. They haven’t sailed very far at all, and from what I’ve heard, it must be urgent.”

  Wickham, Turpin, and Poynter could do nothing but stand impotently by, speculate, and watch events unfold. All the ships in their convoy came to a halt and dropped anchors. The small rowboat with its exhausted seamen came alongside the ship, carrying Captain Brook and Colonel Sullivan. The three lieutenants watched in silence as the man from the shore and their commanding officers climbed aboard and spoke with the captain on the sister ship.

  What seemed like hours later, the boat was dispatched back off towards the shore again and Colonel Sullivan himself disembarked and boarded a rowing boat heading for their ship. Wickham, Turpin, and Poynter joined Captain Fletcher and his officers to greet the colonel as he climbed aboard.

  “Permission to come aboard, Captain,” he said breathlessly, trying to maintain his countenance and straighten his hat at the same time.

  “Permission granted. Welcome aboard, Colonel Sullivan. What news?”

  With a quick glance at Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin, he answered the captain’s question. “It’s true—the rumours—Napoléon has been spotted in Paris. All reports say that he amassing and marching his army in force.”

  “Is he indeed? That beggar never gives up, does he?” the captain grumbled. “Are our orders changed? I assume that man did not get those seamen to row all the way out here to us just to give us gossip we could get in London tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir. We are to head into Felixstowe this evening to be briefed, and we will sail in the morning directly for Calais.”

  “We? As in you and your men, or we as in me, too?”

  Wickham watched as Colonel Sullivan shifted uncomfortably. “I assume you, too, sir.”

  The captain nodded curtly and dismissed Colonel Sullivan, who did not in the least like to be dismissed by a naval captain. However, the mood on board the ship had changed, and the captain did not speak again until Colonel Sullivan was well on his way back to his ship. “Well, it seems that we are to be told what to do by the army!” He huffed as he headed back up to the quarterdeck with his officers in tow. “Weigh the anchor and set sail for Felixstowe!”

  The order was bellowed back across the ship. “Weigh anchor! We sail for Felixstowe!”

  The captain then huddled with his officers and Wickham could hear only the occasional utterances of, “To hell with what the army say, we answer to the Admiralty.” Wickham suspected that if they did indeed sail onwards to Calais with Captain Fletcher and his crew, it would be under duress, and that as soon as they landed in France, the captain would high-tail it back to British waters as quickly as the winds and his sails could take him.

  “What think you?” Turpin whispered at his shoulder.

  “About Napoléon?”

  “Hmm.” Turpin nodded.

  “The man’s a blasted fool.” Poynter scoffed as Wickham turned back to his friends. “I mean, what man in his right mind would amass his armies to take on the might of the British? What does he mean by it?”

  “He means to take his country back, no doubt,” Wickham muttered.

  “Hmm… I don’t like his chances.”

  “Neither do I; Poynter and I expect the Iron Duke is furious.” Turpin grinned happily.

  “Turpin…” Wickham laughed. “…only you could find joy in the Duke of Wellington’s fury.”

  “He will bring down everything we’ve got like a hammer on Boney, that’s for sure.” Poynter and Wickham nodded—Turpin was more than likely correct. “The only question that remains is where precisely the hammer will fall.”

  From Lincoln southwards, through Peterborough and Huntingdon, the rain came down heavier and more persistently. The cold damp from the air invaded the bones and lungs of all four travellers. Lydia noticed that Tess had developed a tickly cough, which she too developed soon after. From the sound of it, the driver, outside and atop the carriage, also had developed what Lydia would term as a nasty cough. By the time they passed Hitchin, to Lydia’s utter dismay and panic, little Georgie, too, was also coughing and spluttering. To begin with, Lydia was uncertain whether the child was sneezing, but over the ensuing days, it became more and more evident that he had caught a chill from the infernal damp weather. After stopping the night at Hitchin, Lydia, whilst trying to avoid being coughed on by the Bennets’ manservant, told him that it was expedient that they divert immediately to Netherfield, where her sister, Jane, and her husband, Charles Bingley, would take care of them all.

  Tess was looking worse with every passing day, until Lydia had to take sole charge of little Georgie, despite suffering from the grippe herself, and she knew in her heart of hearts that they would not make it to Longbourn under the weight of their infirmity. Throughout the day that she hoped they would arrive at Netherfield, Lydia herself, drifted in and out of consciousness. At one point, she almost dropped the sleeping babe in her arms. If it had not been for Tess waking at that very instant, Lydia would have most assuredly dropped her child onto the floor of the carriage. Tess quickly retrieved Georgie and made a sort of sling with her shawl and wrapped the child in it, tying it securely around her shoulders.

  It was the sound of the carriage’s wheels on gravel that woke Lydia the next time. She sat upright and pulled down the window. She breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Tess, Tess!” she wheezed; her voice barely above a whisper. “We are here. We have arrived at Netherfield.” Lydia watched as the young girl opened her eyes and feebly smiled.

  Lydia did not know what it was about, but there was a commotion outside the carriage as they called to a stop in front of the grand estate. Once again, Lydia nodded off to sleep—she could not help it, she was so tired—and was jolted awake as the carriage door opened. She did not know the person speaking, but what they said she understood clearly.

  “Dear Lord! They are in a right state! The master and mistress are not at home. It would be best for you to press on to Longbourn and get Mrs Wickham into her mother’s care with all haste.”

  Lydia could hear more conversation, coughing, raised voices, and grumbling, but she could not hear what they were saying. She felt warm, tender hands touch her forehead and place a blanket about her. Yet, she could not open her eyes to see who was there. The next thing she knew, they were on the move once again. She opened her eyes a little and, to her surprise, saw her father’s manservant sitting in the back of the carriage with
her, Tess, and Georgie. She opened her mouth to ask him what he was about, but the effort proved to be too much for her and she rolled her head back against the padded seat. She looked over at Tess, saw her sleeping, and could hear the ominous sound of phlegm on poor Georgie’s chest. She prayed that they would stop their journey soon as she closed her eyes again. She yearned to get out of the carriage and into a warm bed. Then she frowned as a thought occurred to her; she was unsure if she had fed Georgie at all that day. She began to grow concerned about the child. She wanted to sit up, take the child from Tess, and feed him, but she had not the energy, and she worried that the child also had no desire to be fed.

  She moaned as she shifted position to sit and felt a woman’s hands gently push her back in the seat. “Rest easy, now, Mrs Wickham. We’ll soon have you with your mama.”

  It was not long thereafter that a scream rent the air and Lydia awoke once more to the sound of her mother’s voice.

  “Oh my dear Lydia! Oh my dear, dear girl!” Mrs Bennet cried.

  Lydia managed to summon the energy to open her eyes and peep from under her eyelashes, smile weakly at her mother’s concerned face, and utter, “Mama.”

  She felt herself physically lifted out of the carriage and, amid a furore of activity and shouted commands, was transported into the Longbourn house, up the stairs, and into the bedroom which was hers before she married Wickham. As she opened her eyes, she spied Mrs Hill, and tried to smile. The housekeeper helped Mrs Bennet to undress Lydia, put a clean, white linen nightgown on her, and tuck her in, securely, to the bed. What seemed like only a few minutes later, the room filled with the unmistakable odour of chicken broth. Lydia felt so much better being in her parents’ home and was able to take a few mouthfuls of the broth, which her mother insisted she have.