by V. E. Ulett
Mercedes was pale of face, sweating, doubled over and gasping. She unbuckled the sword belt she wore and thrust it at Emma. Emma snatched up the weapon, buckled it round her own waist, and grasped Mercedes by one arm.
“Edward, take her other arm.” Emma said in the gentlest tone, “What now, Mama?”
“A carriage, up the street. Harley and G-g-greene Street.”
Out Lord Cochrane’s front door they fled. Emma resembled more a pirate wench than a young lady of quality, Edward was dripping blood, with Mercedes in young gentleman’s garb supported between them.
Imperieuse’s surgeon Mr. McNeath had done what he could for Captain Blackwell. The truth was the most learned of the medicos probably could not help him; he needed to grow new skin. In the meantime he was a swollen, suppurating, blood colored mess. He spent the majority of the time lying on his good side in a cot in the sick berth, willing the canvas sides not to touch and stick to the rawest patches. Between the carefully divided doses of laudanum Mr. McNeath allowed him, Captain Blackwell was managing the pain.
Aloka came to him in the evening. Lanterns were lit in the sick berth, so Captain Blackwell knew it was night, but the evening of which day he could not tell. It was unclear to him how much time had passed since the night of the fireship attack.
“You would not credit it, Father, the timidity, the shameful cowardice.” Aloka spoke to him low and in Hawaiian, because of the delicacy of the subject. “His lordship signaling all morning. ‘Half the fleet can destroy the enemy. Seven on shore.’ And then, ‘Eleven on shore.’ The Admiral would not budge. The fireship attack drove eleven ships of the line aground. Only two were afloat, with the rest falling aboard one another, and still he will not order in the fleet. When the captain saw the enemy beginning to heave off with the tide, what does he do?” Aloka’s eyes glowed with the recollection of that day’s action. “He allows her to drift down stern foremost and we played our guns upon one of their big ships, the Calcutta. All the while his lordship is signaling the admiral, hallooing for assistance. Two of our line of battle ships did come down, and five frigates. Your Valiant, sir, came on like a good ’un.”
“Poor Woolich will earn no favor by it.” Captain Blackwell shifted carefully in his cot.
“What ails the man? Is he old, addled in his wits, or merely craven? Now I see what Admiral Harvey was on about, never was a man so unfit to command a fleet.”
“Hold hard, son. Help me up, if you please.”
“Do not tell me you will defend the man? After he threw you into this action.” With a large man’s gentleness Aloka assisted Captain Blackwell from the cot, and to a seat on a stool.
Their conversation continued in Hawaiian, the sick berth patients who were not so bad off exchanging winks and nods. Captain Blackwell rather cherished the Hawaiian language he’d acquired at such cost. It linked Aloka to his forebears, a line of chiefs. Captain Blackwell would not otherwise have been able in a crowded man-of-war to speak so intimately with his son.
“It is the most irksome thing, I am not comfortable in any position. No, I won’t defend him. There is no love lost between us, believe me. But, listen to me now, son.” Captain Blackwell gave Aloka a serious considering look, and changed tack. “You would not do anything to injure Mercedes, I suppose, nor cause her discomfort of any kind?”
Aloka was silenced, taken aback. Captain Blackwell glanced down at himself. He was horrible to look on, bare to the waist, wearing only a pair of cotton trousers, his wounds smeared with goose grease.
“What the dear soul will think of me now, I cannot say.”
“She will love you as heartily as ever, Father. You know that, more so even.”
Tears were in Aloka’s eyes. He always said his earliest memories were of being aboard Captain Blackwell’s ship coming away from the Sandwich Islands. He’d contracted a series of agues, and was so gravely ill they almost despaired of him. Whenever he’d surfaced from delirium there had been Mercedes sitting beside him, willing him to live. He’d recovered and grown remarkably hearty, experiencing barely a sick day since. She’d always cared for Aloka, shielding him, even within his own family, from the taint of being a bastard.
“I should never wish to cause her the least discomfort,” Aloka said. “Or a moment’s anxiety. But what can she have to do with that—”
“This is not my tale to tell, I hope you will bear that in mind. That timid old man is Mercedes’ natural parent. Hard to credit, ain’t it? But it is so. Never was a braver, truer hearted creature than Mercedes, and that she should have sprung from such a canting, hypocritical, shrewish man…”
Captain Blackwell shook his head. He and Aloka stared at one another, considering the accidents of progeny.
“He never owned her,” Captain Blackwell went on, “he is not man enough for that. But if there is crying out about timidity and cowardice, it might yet wound her. I beg your pardon for speaking so free, but your captain is just such a man to raise the hue and cry. Not but what he does not have cause. In your case son, being so closely related as it were, best be silent.”
A tremendous roar and a concussion, and the ship gave a great lee lurch, throwing Captain Blackwell and Aloka from their stools. Captain Blackwell screamed when he hit the deck, loud and full-throated.
“Let’s get you into the cot, Sir.” Aloka’s voice shook. He glanced anxiously round at the dumbfounded sick berth patients.
“That would have been a ship exploding.” Captain Blackwell groaned. “Thank you, son. You may be needed on deck. Tell Mr. McNeath I would like my draught now.”
It was a ship that blew up, the 50-gun Calcutta. Almost as soon as Imperieuse had begun to play her guns on Calcutta earlier, the French commander led her abandonment, climbing out the stern windows. The British had set Calcutta afire, and the flames at last reaching the magazine caused her explosion. With a bitter feeling at his heart Aloka watched her burn.
Captain Blackwell’s remark that Captain Lord Cochrane was the sort to raise a hue and cry had not fallen well on him, it had at first rankled. Aloka had slept little in the last forty-eight hours and lived hard. The horror and fear of those hours was still with him. He and Mr Monroe had been sprayed by viscera when a cannon shot took out the whole of a seaman’s bowel, standing before them on Imperieuse’s forecastle. As the long night wore on, and repairs to Imperieuse went forward, Aloka became convinced his lordship would continue engaging any French ships within reach in the morning. It had been a mistake to bring Captain Blackwell aboard Captain Lord Cochrane’s command, to be tossed around in a ship in action.
Imperieuse was once again preparing for action next day. Repairs from the previous day were still going forward, enemy shot holes in the ship’s sides and deck plugged, the foremast had been shot through, the standing and running rigging was much cut up. For a time Imperieuse had exchanged fire with Calcutta and two French 74-gun ships as they lay aground. About midday three brig sloops arrived from the fleet and anchored near Imperieuse. A boat from one brought a letter for Captain Lord Cochrane.
‘My Dear Lord,
You have done your part so admirably that I will not suffer you to tarnish it by attempting impossibilities, which I think, as well as those captains who have come from you, any further effort to destroy those ships would be. You must, therefore, join as soon as you can, with bombs, etc., as I wish for some information, which you allude to, before I close my despatches.
Yours, my dear Lord, most sincerely,
Gambier’
Then there followed this extraordinary addendum:
‘PS — I have ordered three brigs and two rocket vessels to join you, with which, and the bomb, you may make an attempt on the ship that is aground in the Palles, or towards the Ile de Madame, but I do not think you will succeed; and I am anxious that you should come to me, as I wish to send you to England as soon as possible. You must, therefore, come as soon as the tide turns.’
Lord Cochrane naturally chose to regard only the portio
n allowing a further attack on the French, and ignore the recall order. Imperieuse’s officers and crew continued with their repairs and preparations. Yet it became obvious to all that the French, by this time, could not be effectively engaged. Four of the French warships had managed to heave themselves off and were proceeding up the river Charente. Ships’ boats and fisherman were taking stores out of the wrecked French vessels. Those French ships still aground were unloading their guns into local vessels lying alongside, in order to heave off with the next tide.
Aloka imagined Lord Cochrane’s fury, when a little more expedition would have annihilated the French fleet. Napoleon could not have come back from such a blow this war. With the tide turning, Aloka requested to speak to the captain.
He was immediately admitted to Captain Lord Cochrane in the great cabin. His lordship was in a vexed humor, pacing up and down.
After saluting Aloka said stiffly, “Sir, with respect, I’d like to request Captain Blackwell be sent aboard the ship to England that will carry the dispatches. You are aware he is gravely injured, and I am sure he will recover best at home with his wife to attend him.”
Lord Cochrane looked rather startled. “Certainly he must do better with that incomparable woman by his side.”
Aloka’s face took on a hard, reserved expression. Was Lord Cochrane speaking of Miss, not Mrs. Blackwell?
“I shall do everything I can to oblige you and Captain Blackwell,” Lord Cochrane said.
“Thank you, sir. Your servant.” Aloka bowed. He was convinced Lord Cochrane was considering his consequence with Emma more than Captain Blackwell’s well being.
“What has Admiral Gambier against Captain Blackwell? Threw him into the worst of it headlong. Come in.” Lord Cochrane called in response to a knock at the cabin door.
A post-captain was ushered in by Imperieuse’s premier, and a letter handed to Lord Cochrane. He glanced at the brief note, and as it concerned his officers, Lord Cochrane read it aloud.
‘My Dear Lord—It is necessary I should have some communication with you before I close my despatches to the Admiralty. I have, therefore, ordered Captain Wolfe to relieve you in the services you are engaged in. I wish you to join me as soon as possible so that you may convey Sir Harry Neale and those despatches to England.
Yours, etc. Gambier’
Four
Imperieuse weighed anchor and sailed out of Aix Roads to rejoin the fleet. The tenor of the meeting between the fiery Scottish commander and his evangelical admiral could be guessed from the furious set of Lord Cochrane’s face on his return to Imperieuse. While they awaited Sir Harry Neale, Admiral Gambier’s flag captain, to come aboard, store ships and a boat from Valiant came alongside.
Mr. Midshipman Monroe sought Captain Blackwell out in the sick berth. “A letter from home, sir, I believe.”
“Must obliged, Mr. Monroe, that is welcome of all things.”
Mr. Monroe bowed and left Captain Blackwell to his letter.
‘Curzon Street, London
Dear Papa,
You said I must send for you if Mama were ill, and I find myself distressed to have to obey your command. Do come, Papa, as soon as ever you can. She is unwell and she suffers, but she will take no measures without you are here to give your consent to the treatment proposed to her. Her physician is most urgent with her to proceed, but she is intractable in her position. I am sorry if I astonish you, we have all been dreadfully frightened for her. There is another Circumstance that may have given Mama such anxiety as to have measurably contributed to her current reduced state. I cannot tell you of it in the present, though no one is more sensible of where the blame lies for this Circumstance than me. I shall give you a full accounting when you are home, and that you should be so at the earliest are the wishes of,
Your ever dutiful,
Emma’
Captain Blackwell was still holding his letter when Aloka looked in on him later.
“What is it, Father? You’ve gone all white beneath your red and blue.”
Captain Blackwell handed Aloka the letter, and gave him a bare few seconds to read before he blurted, “Hell and death, son, I could not bear it if …”. Captain Blackwell swallowed hard. “It must be very bad indeed for Emma to write such a letter, and sign herself ‘ever dutiful’.”
Aloka was silent. He gazed at the letter and rubbed his thumb over Emma’s signature. His jaw clenched and his face became grave.
“There’s not a moment to lose, Sir.”
On Imperieuse’s arrival in Portsmouth, Captain Blackwell was offered a seat in Lord Cochrane’s carriage. His lordship was posting immediately to London and the Admiralty. He accepted and was graciously set down before his doorstep in Curzon Street.
“No, I will not get down, sir, I thank you,” Lord Cochrane said. “I will save that felicity for another time. Your family will be anxious to receive you.”
A pretty speech, Captain Blackwell thought, as he adjusted his clothing before going in. Bad weather in the Bay of Biscay had delayed them, and given Captain Blackwell time to heal. He looked somewhat less like a creature of the knacker’s yard. He wore a shirt draped over one shoulder with the badly burned arm in a sling against his body. No waistcoat, with the King’s coat over all, one good arm in and the other pinned up as for a one-armed man.
“There you are, sir, God preserve us!” McMurtry said, letting him in the front door.
“How do you do McMurtry? Take this coat, won’t you.”
“Any dunnage, sir?”
“In the port—”. Captain Blackwell broke off, seeing Emma poke her head out the library door and then come running toward him. “This side, sweetheart.” Captain Blackwell gestured, holding out his left arm to her.
She pressed herself to his breast, underneath his encircling arm, as he’d never remembered her doing before. Then Emma looked at him, really looked, and the more familiar, slightly disapproving expression returned to her eyes.
“What has happened to you, Papa?”
“He’s been blown up. Ain’t it obvious?” Edward followed Emma from the library.
“Oh, my God, Aloka!”
“No, girl. He’s fine. Hale and hearty and with Imperieuse. She is paying off in Portsmouth. He will be here soon. How do you do, son?”
“Better than you do, Sir. And better than dear Mama.”
“Go up to her right away, Papa. She will probably be awake. Her physician left a letter against your return.”
“Your letter frightened me very much, Emma.”
“I’m sorry for it, and for your wounds.”
“Aloka, Mr. Monroe, and Narhilla, all suffered minor burns. My gunner Mr. Segesse was killed.”
Emma and Edward murmured their sympathy.
“You do not ask after Lord Cochrane?”
“I do not, and I shall tell you why but not just now. You must prefer to see Mama.”
“I do. I do, indeed.” He leaned down and kissed Emma’s cheek and clutched Edward’s shoulder as he passed him.
He was made anxious by their behavior. Emma had never encouraged him to go to Mercedes, she’d always behaved more as though she resented his taking her mother’s time and attention. Captain Blackwell crept up to her room. He expected to find her writing letters at her little desk, sewing, or reading. Instead she was asleep, albeit in her morning dress, looking small and fragile beneath the counterpane. Captain Blackwell sat down in a chair at her bedside, tears starting in his eyes.
She was pale and, at intervals, would come out in a sweat, yet Mercedes slept heavily. Captain Blackwell thought it might be the effects of laudanum and this brought fresh tears to his eyes, that she should suffer so much as to need it. She didn’t wake while he sat there blubbering, nor when he recovered and walked about her room. In a little glass dish on her vanity, he found a letter addressed to ‘Captain James Blackwell, R.N.’ and a calling card with naval insignia and bearing in script Physician of the Fleet.
The calling card gave
him pause as he sat down to read his letter, it had no name upon it.
‘Dear Sir,
Forgive the liberty with which I address you, having never made your acquaintance. I desire you will wait upon me at 22 St. James Street near the Greene Park. I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. and Miss Blackwell at a ball our daughters attended, and subsequently Mr. Edward Blackwell when he and his sister called upon me. A discussion of Mrs. Blackwell’s condition and prognosis is of the first importance, for she will not be moved until she has consulted ‘her partner in all’. I use her words, sir, and I know you will understand the importance of there being not a moment to lose.
Your humble, obedient, etc.
W. Russ’
“The Physician of the Fleet,” Captain Blackwell said aloud.
There was no time to wonder at Mercedes having met such a man. He wiped the tears from his face and went over to her. Captain Blackwell longed to embrace her, to kiss her pale cheek, but he did not wish to wake her and destroy what little peace and ease she was finding. In the barest whisper he told her he would return directly.
Captain Blackwell ran downstairs with the doctor’s letter in his hand, his own injuries of little importance, calling to McMurtry for his jacket.
Captain Blackwell followed a tall, superbly dressed young woman down the hall to the doctor’s study inside the house on St. James’s Place. The young woman had a graceful carriage, striding along with her head high, a delicate beauty in the curve of her neck.
She rapped twice upon the study door and opened it.
“Here is a wretched man to see you, Father dear.”
Doctor Russ glanced up. “Here is a wretched captain, you meant to say, Daughter dear.”
Captain Blackwell assumed he’d been presented, for Doctor Russ and his daughter were speaking Irish, he bowed and said, “Captain James Blackwell, sir, at your service.”