One Sloop and Slow Match

by James Spurr

  Just a few days later, diminished and weary, though more lean and tough than at anytime in his life, Trove made out the familiar banks of the River Rouge and a short paddle later, near its mouth, beheld the walls of Detroit. He wept with joy and that surprised and embarrassed him. He was, for only that moment, glad to be alone.

  Trove recalled Captain Lee, his son James, Mr. Williams and his wife and family. He smiled at the thought of Samuel, the landlord of the Pontiac House who often assisted with affairs of their merchant sloop. Together they formed the nucleus of a close family, not bound by blood lines, but by lines of hemp, sails of cotton flax and prodigious quantities of tar, paint, oils and touches of varnish. This family formed by his sloop and of the inland seas was the closest by far that Trove had ever known. He was home.

  As Trove approached the walls, he was disappointed to see that the spars of those ships lying in the river were not those of his merchant sloop. They lacked the grace and rake that was so characteristic to its proud crew. Indeed, as he drew close, he was shocked and nearly disbelieving that the flag flying above the walls was the Union Jack of the British Empire and not the Stars and Stripes of his United States. As he approached more closely, now more cautiously, he noticed much less activity than was normal this time of year and wondered where he might find his friends, the memory of which had so powerfully motivated him through his recent ordeal.

  Trove could not have known and was in fact the better not to have been told, upon embarking upon his trial, of that which Samuel soon informed him. Alongside a warm fire and braced with a mug of ale, the old sailor turned landlord, a veteran of the Revolutionary War, brought Trove current as to how events had changed his world, “Trove, lad, it is a joy to see you again. If you will remain with us, we will rest and feed you well, despite the shortages. But to answer your questions, Mr. Williams is now imprisoned, likely in Kingston. And as for Captain Lee and James, why they are now both fugitives making their way east.”

  Trove’s heartache only increased at hearing Samuel’s initial news, who soon thereafter confirmed that his surrogate home, of which they were all most proud, the nearly new, well found and swift merchant sloop Friends Good Will was now “docked downriver in Amherstberg, undergoing numerous changes, under a different flag, supervised by Lieutenant James Fleet, Royal Navy.”

  Trove came to realize as he finished his mug of ale, which symbolized his acceptance in the community as an adult, that not only had his world changed, but with the advent of war on the inland seas, so too had the lives of his only true family, those few so tightly drawn together by Friends Good Will.

  Chapter Two

  The ritual of the service, the ceremony of the procession, the sermons, eulogies and expressions of sympathy were at last behind her. The peel of the bells faded from her consciousness. The reality of the present descended upon her with the imposing silence of a disbursed crowd. Sir Edgar Fleet, Knight of the Bath, Admiral of the Blue, was interred.

  The widow Fleet stared from the open bay window of the second story office overlooking the commerce of London below. The midsummer afternoon heat brought little relief and well more stench from the horses and carriages clattering along below than would otherwise be polite for her station. Her black dress was warm and uncomfortable. Her mood was darker still. “Surely, Mr. Wellstone, you do not expect my future to hang upon the vagaries of the market!”

  “Now, M’Lady, ‘tis not all that uncertain. As Trustee, I will invest most conservatively. Nary a pound will be at risk. The Admiral, Sir Edgar, would have insisted.” Mr. Wellstone tugged at his collar and pretended sympathy. The widow Fleet knew he felt none. “After all,” Mr. Wellstone observed while wiping his brow, “the sheer volume of the principal will not require much by way of return so to leave you in comfort.”

  She strongly suspected what he really meant but dared not speak was that she had been, after all, the second wife and then only for ten years. Impertinent man, she thought. What did he know of her desires, now free of the Admiral? She certainly had not for the last decade suffered the isolation and loneliness of the Fleet Manor in Touro, just north of Portsmouth, Cornwall, now only to be tied by purse strings to some London Solicitor by way of, what he referred to as, a ‘Life Estate’.

  As for risk to the principal sum, or the lack of it, did Mr. Wellstone think her a dolt? She knew well from her late husband, Sir Edgar, that risk brought reward. Trustees such as Mr. Wellstone knew not how to even so much as spell either, much less entertain one so to achieve the other. Why would she so much as care if the principal was preserved? The strategy Mr. Wellstone described would deliver only fewer returns. There must be a way to achieve the freedom she felt she deserved.

  She turned and faced him, “Mr. Wellstone, I am sorry; it has been a long day. I fear I am not comprehending all that I should be.” She feigned weakness, fanned herself with a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Sir Edgar Fleet, well thick enough to stiffen nicely and create an artificial breeze.

  Mr. Wellstone rose deftly and slid a chair just behind her. She sat, sighed, and he rushed to pour her a glass from the pitcher. “M’Lady, truly, we need not go over these details today. I am certain the funeral this morning has left you exhausted.”

  “Indeed, but Sir Edgar was always pragmatic and I can hear him speak to me now, admonishing me to face reality.” They each nodded while both thought that Sir Edgar had not been so much pragmatic, as opportunistic. Each looked to the other and wondered if they were the only one in the room who knew of the Admiral’s complicity in smuggling as the source for the fortune, not so much in land, but in stocks, bonds and indentures. As for the estates, the Fleet family ancestors had secured plenty. “Pray, describe for me once again the arrangement with the lands, personal property and accounts.”

  “As is provided, M’Lady, in Article Fourteenth through Article Eighteenth, you are entitled to live upon and exclusively enjoy all lands in Cornwall, estates in Scotland and the flat here in London, fully furnished and well maintained, from both the returns upon investments from all accounts, with opportunity to draw down the principal if deemed necessary by the Trustee.”

  “And that would be, you, Mr. Wellstone?” the widow Fleet implied with a peculiar emphasis suggesting mildly his utter lack of qualifications.

  With an admirable hiding of any resentment he may be feeling at her tone, perhaps by recalling his new role, the likelihood of future fees, and the fact that he was in the presence of a very wealthy beneficiary, he simply replied, “That is correct. Of course.”

  “Have you ever been to Scotland, Mr. Wellstone?” she queried.

  “Why no, M’Lady, however…”

  “And Cornwall, Mr. Wellstone, certainly you leave London on occasion, do you not?”

  “Some years back I set out for…”

  “How then can you possibly determine the need with respect to estates you have never visited and know nothing about?”

  Mr. Wellstone gave a sigh, perhaps tired of her rudeness. “Here now, M’Lady, of course you may make application through your men in residence, and we will correspond regularly.” He paused before adding, “And of course James will be kept informed, although such capital improvements and needs will be within my sole discretion.” Of which the widow Fleet suspected he added entirely because he knew well it would cause her some distress.

  Mr. Wellstone’s suspicion was entirely correct. The comment was as subtle as it was cruel; not even the widow Fleet could disguise her angst. She surrendered an expression of dread at the thought of an entirely cumbersome process.

  Mr. Wellstone returned to the fifteenth page of more than thirty-six reflecting his work of now more than a year ago, “In addition, you are to be paid monthly amounts equaling, on an annual basis, twenty thousand English pounds, or fifty percent of all annual earnings, whichever is less.”

  It was the last phrase that hurt. Not that the entire arrangement was anything but a total shock. Her husband, Sir Edgar, and his only son, Jame
s, by his first marriage, had been estranged for years and she knew her husband’s disdain for his natural issue was matched only by the contempt James held for his father. Setting aside the causes for the instant, she ignored Mr. Wellstone’s observation that the amounts provided were “prodigious sums” and refrained from comment until after he had successfully slapped at a horse fly.

  How could the Admiral have made her subject to his son? Further, how could he have determined that rather than have her withdraw from the principal, she should rather be subject to a percentage of earnings? In essence Sir Edgar affirmed that the growth of the principal fortune for his heir, James, was more important than her continued well being.

  The widow Fleet conceded her sentiment might be a bit of an overstatement. Even Mr. Wellstone could likely employ the principal so to earn the twenty thousand pounds each year. Even the least capable, under current economic circumstance, could achieve such lackluster returns.

  Still, the economic circumstances unfolding throughout England in the summer of 1812 were not entirely comforting. After a generation of war with France, each year the population of England bore more of the burden with few allies upon which to rely. A new war with the United States while at the same time Napoleon marched on Moscow kept taxes as high as Sir Edgar had, for the last dozen years, flown his private signal from the mainmast truck. The cost of keeping the largest Navy in the world on constant patrol was bankrupting the national treasury and wreaking havoc throughout the imperial economy.

  The limitation imposed upon the widow Fleet, however, by her late husband hurt her deeply. She thought she had loved the Admiral, well, not so much really, but at least controlled him, more effectively. This Last Will and Testament shattered her confidence more than it shattered her lifestyle. Was she slipping in her ways with men?

  The document did, undoubtedly, complicate her life plan and she knew she must first understand what Mr. Wellstone had so vainly declared, as the Fleet family attorney, as his exclusive realm—the facts and the law. She asked, “Could not the process for principal withdrawals as you describe, Mr. Wellstone, take months with James overseas?”

  Mr. Wellstone noted her tone had moderated. As a concession, he explained, “In an emergency, the Trustee is empowered to act without notice to the remainderman.”

  She calmly took a drink, “That would be James?”

  “Correct, M’Lady. James is regarded at law as holding the ‘remainder’ of the fee of all estates and will, upon your passing, receive unencumbered title and take all personal property held within the trust.” Mr. Wellstone placed the original document back into his file and his action and tone suggested that both his patience and the meeting would soon draw to a close.

  The widow Fleet, however, would not be rushed during those few minutes of the day which were of real importance for her future, as opposed to the earlier hours of theatre comprising the funeral were relevant only to her past. She recalled that she and James were approximately the same age. James would be mightily frustrated with such a long-lived step mother and she smirked at the thought. “Do you even know how to reach James?”

  Mr. Wellstone delved back into his file for a letter from the Admiral and assured, “Oh, yes, M’Lady. I received confirmation from your husband last winter that James is serving on the North American Station, in the, well, what the Navy refers to as the ‘Great Lakes.’ A village serving as His Majesty’s Royal Naval Establishment on Lake Erie, by the name of Amherstberg, which I think is—”

  “In Upper Canada, Mr. Wellstone; the delta of the Detroit River.” She enjoyed shattering his predisposed notion of women as children and did so at every opportunity.

  Mr. Wellstone, surprised, suddenly recalled, “Of course, but M’Lady is from those parts,” making her sound entirely unworthy of her title by virtue of the geography of her birth. “In fact, I recall you met the Admiral while he was serving in that region?”

  The widow Fleet used the truth by implication so to confirm a lie. The circumstances of her acquaintance to the Admiral were regarded as well known and generally accepted as fact throughout English society. The story quelled what would otherwise only fuel further scandal. “At the turn of the century, the Admiral was stationed upon the Great Lakes, establishing a dominant naval presence upon those waters. He returned to England, leaving James, then a midshipman, to later make Lieutenant.” That was true.

  “And your home?” encouraged Mr. Wellstone, making small talk as he stood, announcing his intention to turn to other matters.

  “Dover Mills,” she confirmed as she donned her black gloves and made to stand.

  As he hurried around the desk and stooped to withdraw her chair, he glanced slightly longer than was polite at the curves of her bodice, waist and hips. Still, he could not help but attempt to humiliate her one last time, perhaps out of respect for the Admiral’s first wife, “And where might ‘Dover Mills’ be located amid that vast wilderness, M’Lady?”

  Mr. Wellstone, having already throughout the meeting admired her body, would now, she quite insisted, be forced to regard her mind, “Along the north shore of Lake Erie, some forty miles west of a Fort named for the same inland sea, east of Long Point. Really, Mr. Well-stone, you must get out of this horrid office and see the world!”

  While still considering his retort and reaching for the polished brass door handle, just then awash in a shaft of sunlight contrasted by a former forest of dark oak, she stopped him cold with one last question. “Does not the fifth line of Article Twenty First provide that should James not survive me, the Trust continues with me as sole beneficiary, with no limitation on the withdrawal of principal and all corpus passing to my designated beneficiaries?”

  Mr. Wellstone did not so much as turn the knob. The widow Fleet was uncertain as to whether his jaw dropped from her unexpected command of “the facts and the law” or from the chilling implication of her question. Mr. Wellstone could only at first confirm, “Yes,” though added after a moment, “… although James is as yet still a young man.”

  She glanced down at the knob, his hand still upon it, and she gestured so to suggest he attend the door. As he opened it, she gave him a glance with a glint in her eye, punctuating her goodbye, “Not so much really; or rather, if so, then I am certainly as yet a young woman!”

  With her errand completed, the widow Fleet exited the inner office and took the arm of her companion, who had awaited her in the small outer room. He stood to greet her with all propriety for the sorrowful occasion, and together they proceeded down the open, formal staircase, across the large lower lobby.

  Mr. Wellstone called out, “Good day, M’Lord,” hoping for an acknowledgement from the well-known and noted companion of the widow while amongst his colleagues, so to enhance his status among them, but was ignored and disappointed. All eyes followed the two onto the street. It was difficult to adjudge which among the attorneys, staff and clerks buzzed with excitement over the widow Fleet, coming so quickly to attend her affairs after the funeral, or at her companion, the late Sir Edgar’s close friend and, some would gossip, the likely successor as her husband, her second, thanks to her stunning beauty and naturally golden hair.

  The coachman stood ready with the door open, having, while he waited, removed what little dust had lighted upon the fine maroon carriage and brushed the team once again. Thomas, Sir Edgar’s former coxswain and now coachman since retiring from the sea, bowed slightly and mumbled, “M’lady, Lord Castlereagh.”

  Thomas closed the finely fitted coach door and stepped high, whip in hand. He acknowledged the order from Robert Stewart, the Viscount Castlereagh, Great Britain’s Foreign Minister, “To my home.”

  Before he could complete his nod, the widow Fleet overrode the order, “No, thank you, M’ Lord. It would not be proper. And besides, the Prime Minister awaits you for dinner. Thomas, we shall first drop Lord Castlereagh and then take me back to the flat.”

  “Yes, M’Lady.” Thomas glanced deferentially to the more powerful man i
n his presence, dominant in all company save that of this particular woman, of which both of them, the coachman and the Viscount, well understood.

  Inside the close, almost intimate confines of the coach, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone covering their conversation, Abigail Fleet asked her trusted advisor, “Tell me of this most recent conflict. Will it be long? Will it be difficult?”

  Surprised by her foray into politics and world conflict at such time of personal crisis, he acceded, as always, to a most unpredictable, intelligent and beautiful woman. He knew he could trust her and revealed, “The United States has through its Secretary of State’s man in London, Mr. Russel, just informed me of a desire for an early reconciliation.”

  Hiding her disappointment at what she had hoped would be a long and bloody conflict for those on the front lines of the Great Lakes, Abigail posed a question reflecting more tact, “So you believe there will be an early peace?”

  “Not at all, actually…,” the Viscount Castlereagh shook his head, “… which is why I dine tonight with the Prime Minister. It appears both nations will fight a war which neither wants and which neither will end.”

  Abigail looked at him quizzically and he continued, “You see, Abigail, the United States makes only two demands. It requires the repeal of the Orders in Council and the cessation of the impressments of American merchantmen.”

  The Viscount Castlereagh caught her astonishment, “Yes, the first is already done, indeed, even before the demand was delivered. The first demand is therefore as easy as the second is forever impossible.”

  Abigail’s years in North America allowed her a rare and independent perspective from most British citizens. “By what right do we as a nation have to continue such a practice as the continued impressment of American sailors?”