by Jay Worrall
“This way, if you please,” said the attendant, indicating a side door which led into a small anteroom. “His Excellency will be at his leisure presently. Please make yourself comfortable.” He left, closing the door firmly behind him.
Charles made himself comfortable for two full hours. After a half an hour, he rose to examine the oil paintings hung from the walls. They were in the Dutch style and tended to be portraits of men with beards in black suits against dark backgrounds. One was of a woman with deep eyes and a small mouth that reminded him of Lady Hamilton, whom he had met in Naples the year before. When he finished the portraits he examined a large globe of the world with interest, even though all of the place names were in Dutch, some of which he could not read. A case of books against one wall housed texts in Dutch, French and German. He found one, however, that was a leather-bound atlas, which he had open on his lap when finally summoned.
“This way, sir. Sir Horace will see you now. You may have a quarter hour of his time.”
St. Legier was a tall, formally dressed man with a superior, suffer-no-fools look about him. As Charles entered he rose from behind a highly polished desk bare of any papers or implements or objects of any kind. “Captain Edgehill, I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He extended his hand.
“Edgemont,” Charles corrected. The two men shook.
“Edgemont,” St. Legier repeated. “Please be seated. I assume you are on your way to Bombay to join the East India Fleet?”
“No, sir. My orders are for Mocha on the Red Sea to join Admiral Blankett’s squadron. I had hoped you might have some recent intelligence on the situation there.”
“Do you mean the rumor of the French coming down from Egypt?” He scowled. “Has Whitehall nothing more pressing to worry about? I have heard no credible evidence of such a threat. Dreamed up by a gaggle of Admiralty clerks in petticoats, I’ll wager. Frankly, it is a fantastic notion to begin with, and I can tell you on some authority that the government on the subcontinent are taking steps to settle this Tippu Sahib business for once and all. That is serious; this other about the French is nonsense.” His face changed expression. “Mocha? Are you connected with that American group in some way? I seem to remember that Araby was mentioned in connection to them.”
“I’m to provide transport. Why do you ask?”
“Why? Because I ordered the lot of them arrested this morning. That’s why.”
Charles held his breath. “Arrested? On what charge?”
“On the charge of bigamy.” St. Legier assumed a look of moral indignation. “Do you know that this man Jones has been living openly with two women? One is young enough to be my daughter. He has not denied it. The courts will make quick work of this case.”
Charles’ heart sank. Christ, what else could go wrong? Already he had been sent into distant waters for what in all probability was no purpose, he had a bullheaded crew, and he’d had to contend with two French warships just to get as far as he had. Taking Jones to gather his intelligence was most likely the only useful thing he would accomplish. “But, sir,” he said, “I’m told Doctor Jones is a follower of Muhammad. Multiple wives are usual among them.”
“An American and a Mussulman? I don’t believe it. Doesn’t matter in any event; the laws are clear.”
Charles had some difficulty with this concept as well, and he chose not to argue the point. Jones, if that was his real name, was clearly a very odd bird. He didn’t really know if the man was American, a doctor of antiquities as he had once claimed, a Mussulman, or if he was in fact married to anyone. All he knew for certain was what was in his orders. “When do you anticipate they will come to trial?” he asked.
“In a month, not more than two,” St. Legier answered. “The formalities must be observed, you know. I promise to see they receive their punishments immediately they are convicted so as not to detain you needlessly.”
Charles felt a rising sense of alarm. He could not possibly sit in Cape Town harbor with his crew confined on board for a month, or two, or no one knew how long. There would hardly be any point in going on after that. “Sir, if I may speak in confidence,” he said, struggling to keep any note of desperation out of his voice. “Jones and his, er, companions are charged by the Admiralty with a mission of the utmost delicacy regarding French intentions in Egypt. My orders are to carry them into the head of the Red Sea without delay. Surely you have some discretion to release them.”
St. Legier did not hesitate. “No, I will not do it. Bigamy is a serious crime, sir; it’s in the Bible. They must stand trial and have their punishment. As for the other, I am certain the situation with the French will be the same in a month or two, or even a year, as it is today. There’s no urgency there.”
If a sense of urgency was required, Charles knew that he would have to supply it. “I should inform Your Excellency of more recent intelligence that I conveyed to Admiral Cobbham only yesterday. Intelligence which I trust you will find changes the situation significantly.”
St. Legier straightened in his chair. “What intelligence?”
“Off Cape Verde and again in the southern latitudes, we encountered a force of French warships on the same course as our own. I have followed in their wake long enough to determine that they have passed the Cape, very possibly on their way to aid in the attack on India. The Joneses must be taken to Egypt to do their work before it is too late. The future of India, no, even of Britain itself may depend on it.” Charles was surprised that the tale came out so easily. Once he’d said it though, it didn’t seem so preposterous. It wasn’t true, or it probably wasn’t true, but it could be. “Time is precious, sir,” he continued. “I must sail, with the Americans, the moment we are re provisioned. On behalf of the Admiralty, I must insist on it.”
The governor hesitated, but maintained a firm scowl.
Charles decided he would have to come up with something more. “What kind of punishment is normal for bigamy?” he asked.
“A public whipping for all concerned and banishment,” St. Legier answered thoughtfully. “It’s not in my power to brand people any longer.”
“Would it be possible to release them into my custody? In that way, they could do their work and I can see them brought safely back to Cape Town on my return.”
St. Legier stroked his chin in contemplation. “You will guarantee their presence at trial?”
“I must of necessity put them on shore in Egypt, otherwise there is no point. It is always possible they will be captured or even killed. I cannot be responsible in that event.”
“But what it they decide to take the opportunity to run?”
Charles allowed himself a small smile. “In that case they have banished themselves. None of them could ever return here. Your problem would be solved.”
A door opened and an attendant, the same that had called Charles in, half entered. “Heer Johannes de Groote and his delegation are arrived, sir,” he announced.
“Damned Dutch farmers,” St. Legier muttered under his breath. “You’d think they’d be grateful the French don’t occupy the Cape Colonies. A more obstinate bunch of ingrates I never saw.”
Charles rose from his chair. “And the Americans?”
The governor assumed a displeased look. “Oh, all right, since you insist. Just a moment, I’ll write you a note to the jailer.”
Charles found Augustus standing patiently with his arms folded across his chest, leaning against a pillar, just outside the entrance to the building. “Come along, we’ve an errand to run,” Charles said as he passed.
They found the driver laid out on one of the benches in the back with his jacket covering his shoulders and face. “Wake up, it’s time we were off,” Charles urged, pulling the covering away.
The man blinked, than sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Back to the waterfront, sir?”
“No.” Charles pulled himself on board over the tailgate. “To the jail. Do you know where it is?”
“Aye,” the driver climbed forward to his bench. “W
hy would you want to be going there for?”
“The governor has been gracious enough to give me my pick. Hurry, I want to arrive before all the good ones are gone.”
Cape Town’s gaol proved a dingy, low stone building with a single door and no windows. An imposing gallows stood in front. The smell of the place was evident from a distance; even the horses shied at it.
Charles recalled that he had encountered Doctor Adolphus Jones twice, both times during the previous year. The first was off Cadiz in Spain. Dressed as some sort of academic, the man had convinced a Spanish port official to carry him and his two women out from the harbor to the English frigate Charles commanded. On that occasion he had brought the intelligence that a large French fleet was preparing to sail from Toulon. The women, Charles thought he remembered, had been introduced as his wife and a niece. The second time was at Acre, at the far end of the Mediterranean. There, in Arab dress, he informed Charles that the French had landed at Alexandria, in Egypt, information which ultimately contributed to Nelson’s victory at Abukir Bay.
“I do not expect to be long,” Charles said to the driver. He dismounted the carriage, signaling Augustus to follow, and stepped to the heavily studded wooden door. The nearer he came, the more noxious the odor that swept over him. The door would not budge so he banged loudly several times. As he was about to knock again a panel opened and a pair of eyes peered out.
“What d’ye want?”
“I am a king’s officer,” Charles said. “I have come to collect three of your prisoners. If I may enter, please.”
The panel closed. Charles heard a bar slide back. The door opened just enough for him to see an unshaven man in soiled clothing standing with a ring of keys on his belt. The stench of feces and sour body odor from within was almost overpowering.
“Lemme see yer paper,” the man demanded.
Charles took the note from St. Legier and handed it over. “I am in a hurry, if you please.” He thought the foul emanations from inside would make him retch.
He held the paper in front of his eyes. “It ain’t the proper form,” the man said firmly. “You have to have to proper forms—one for each.”
“I’ll have them sent around later,” Charles growled. He pushed on the door to open it wider. The man pushed back. Charles nodded to Augustus. “If you would, please.”Augustus stepped forward, put his shoulder against the wood and the portal swung back.
Charles forced his way inside and instantly regretted it. “How do you breathe in this place?” he said. “The smell is atrocious.”
“What smell?”
“Never mind,” Charles said, wanting to get the thing done without delay. “Release my prisoners and hurry about it.” He looked around him and saw a small, unlit space with a table and a single chair. The floor was bare earth. Barred doors revealed two holding cells, neither with any furniture or sanitation facilities. He tried not to breathe. The larger of the cells held something like a score of men with the familiar Jones standing in the fore, his hands on the bars. The others were mostly blacks in rags. In the second cell were two well-dressed white women whom he also recognized immediately.
“We keep the men from the women when we can, you see,” the jailer explained. “It leads to trouble otherwise.” He made no move to open the cells.
“How civilized of you,” said Charles, and reached for the man’s belt to snatch up his keys. These he tossed to Augustus. “The two women and the white man,” he said.
“But I ain’t been paid for them,” the jailer protested.
Charles wanted nothing more than to be out of this stinking hellhole as quickly as possible. “How much do you get for three prisoners a day?”
“A quid each.” The reply came quickly.
“No you don’t,” Charles said. “I’ll give you six-pence for the lot and call that generous.”
“Two shillings,” the man insisted. “I got expenses.”
“One shilling, and if you argue with me any further I’ll lock you in with them when I go.” When he saw that Jones and the women were free, he tossed the man a coin, and hurried outside. In the sunshine, he took several deep breaths to cleanse his lungs.
“Captain Edgemont, as I recall,” Jones said, brushing at some filth on his jacket. “Did the Admiralty send you? What the hell took so long? I’ve been waiting a month already.”
The American was a dark-haired, rugged-looking man of middle height whom Charles guessed to be in his late thirties or early forties, although it was difficult to be sure. “My ship has only just arrived. I’ve orders to provide transport for yourself and your companions to the Red Sea,” he answered. “The idea may have originated with a certain Viscount Effington I met with in London.”
“Ah, Freddy,” Jones said, apparently more concerned with the state of his clothes than anything else. “I do odd jobs for him on the occasion. Somewhat nervous in temperament, but the only one worth a fig in London.”
“And how did you find yourself in prison? Really, bigamy?”
“An unfortunate misunderstanding,” Jones answered offhandedly. “The authorities hereabouts are a gaggle of crab-assed, myopic, puritans. Beside, I’ve been in worse places.”
The older of the two women, whom Charles had understood to be the only Mrs. Jones, stood disapprovingly silent. The younger, an attractive, delicate-looking brunette he remembered as Constance, spoke indignantly. “If that sodding turnkey came in to paw me one more time I was going to hand him his balls.” She lifted her skirt and petticoats above her knee and came up with a slender nine-inch dagger. “I need to pee,” she added.
“There are facilities on board ship, I’m sure,” Jones said. “Cross your legs.” He turned to Charles. “We must hurry; there is not a moment to lose. You are prepared to sail? We must be away on the tide.”
Charles opened his mouth but Mrs. Jones spoke first. “You are always in such a rush. We shall proceed to our lodgings for the luggage, Adolphus. Constance may attend to her wants there. Then we can sail.”
This was agreed to. The carriage clip-clopped off in the direction indicated by Mrs. Jones with repeated urgings to hurry from Constance.
“Why such an urgency to depart?” Charles asked as they rattled along. “I’ve spoken to the port admiral and the governor. Neither considers the French any threat to India. Even the Admiralty is divided on the subject.”
Jones looked at him incredulously. “No threat? Of course there’s a threat, a deathly serious threat. That the dim thinkers of Cape Town find the notion inconvenient does not mean that it will not be attempted.”
Charles remained skeptical. “But why?” he said. “This General Bonaparte has only just secured Egypt. The door to any reinforcement from France has been shut by Admiral Nelson. He has not only destroyed their fleet but now blockades Alexandria. Why would the general, as intelligent as he is said to be, further extend himself to India? I should think he has enough on his plate where he is.”
“Think, man,” Jones goaded impatiently. “Use your head for once. You ask why Bonaparte would attack India. Ask yourself this, why did he invade Egypt: For the sand? For the trinkets of the Pharaohs? There is nothing in Egypt of the slightest interest to Paris. But India is different. The loss of the colonies on the subcontinent would cripple your government and destroy the economy. The value of Egypt, the only value of Egypt, is as a stepping stone to India.”
“Still,” Charles argued, “there’s no point to it. Bonaparte could have no hope of supply apart from what he might capture or loot. Even if British forces were defeated he couldn’t hold the place. Why would he make such an effort with no hope of success?”
“What is success?” Jones said patronizingly. “The French, I am sure, have no intention of occupying anything as large and fractious as India. They have no need to; success is throwing the English out. The place can go to hell after that for all they care. I doubt this little man Bonaparte seriously intends remaining in Egypt once the greater object is accomplished. You must t
hink strategically. It’s not winning every battle that matters; it’s which battles you win. Even the complete loss of their expeditionary force in exchange for cutting away India would be considered a capital bargain in Paris. A general as capable as Napoleon understands this; the pooh bahs in London do not.”
Reluctantly Charles had to admit that Jones’s argument carried weight if one looked at it that way. He had a further objection. “It is well known that Tippu Sahib would be France’s strongest ally. The governor-general in Bombay had decided on war against Mysore. Surely that changes everything.”
“It changes nothing,” Jones snorted derisively. “I doubt the army in India has a competent general among their ranks. But, I grant you, suppose by some miracle they were to suppress Mysore. If not Tippu, it will be someone else. There is little love for the British Empire anywhere in that region. I tell you, even five thousand veteran French grenadiers would make hash of your colonial forces. Mark you this,” he said firmly, “whatever General Bonaparte does is planned to the last detail. The man is a genius; his methods are always well considered. Of course the French will attempt India, and they will do so sooner rather than later, you may count on it. There is no time to lose; we must sail immediately.”
“We will have to complete our re victualing first,” Charles answered dryly. “It is a little known fact that navy ships require food and water for long cruises.”
They came to a halt in front of a nondescript building along a narrow dirt side street. With Augustus’ and Charles’ assistance, a small mountain of trunks and other baggage were carried out and heaped onboard. With just enough space for the women, the carriage started again, groaning its way toward the waterfront. The men followed on foot.
Charles had asked Sykes to bring the jollyboat and its crew to the dockside at noon, the hour at which he expected to return. It now being mid-afternoon he found the midshipman sitting on a bollard whittling on a stick, but saw no sign of his boat, or Cassandra, either at her former anchorage or closer to in the harbor.