Time of Terror

by Hunter, Seth

  “I did not know Small was a Roman Catholic,” Nathan remarked. “Nor indeed of any religious persuasion.”

  “He isn’t,” said Tully. “ ’Tis his wife. Bonne-Jeanne.”

  The name struck some distant memory with Nathan which he was inclined to dismiss, it being a common enough appellation in France, until he recalled that it was the name of the prize he had taken in the Nereus in the first weeks of the war: the little hooker off Étaples.

  He hoped this was not portentous.

  Bonne-Jeanne was a good Catholic, explained Tully, and she had insisted upon being married in a Catholic church by a proper Catholic priest and not some “government tart,” as Tully put it, presumably quoting Small.

  But the happy couple had been informed against and were now in custody awaiting trial. The penalty, predictably, was death.

  “But how . . .” began Nathan. He was going to say: how did he meet her? But this seemed to be the least of the obstacles he must have had to surmount. The woman’s family, the fact that he spoke little or no French, that he was a Protestant and, not least in the list, his appearance. For Small was not a handsome man. In fact he was possibly the ugliest man Nathan had ever encountered who had not been disfigured by war or disease.

  “The lady in question,” said Tully, “is not a looker.”

  “No,” Nathan acceded. “I did not think she would be.”

  “She is, however, an excellent cook.”

  Even less of a reason, Nathan considered, for her attachment to Small whose accomplishments in that line were far from impressive. Indeed, in other circumstances Nathan might have welcomed his enforced absence. The death penalty, however, appeared harsh.

  And the crew apparently felt the same way. Small was, moreover, their fellow countryman and they were considerably angered by what they considered to be his unjust detention.

  “In short, they have resolved not to sail without him,” confided Tully with an apologetic grimace.

  “I see,” said Nathan thoughtfully.

  Compared to the problems he had imagined in his darkest moments over the last few weeks—and indeed encountered—the problem of Small and his bride seemed of little account and yet it appeared it would prevent him from returning to England as effectively as a blockading fleet. More so, in fact, as his Admiralty protection was of no benefit on this occasion.

  “Do we know when he is to be tried?” he inquired of Tully.

  “It is not yet determined. I believe these things are somewhat arbitrary. It might be tomorrow or next year.”

  “And there is no such thing as bail?”

  “Regrettably not; not in this case, at least.”

  “Does it not make a difference that Small is an American—and ignorant of the law? After all, one Catholic priest must appear to him very like another.”

  “I put that to the authorities,” said Tully, “but they were unmoved.”

  “And the American consul in Le Havre?”

  “Is indisposed. A mysterious malady I am informed.”

  He crossed to the larboard rail and leaned upon it with a dejected scowl. The wind was from the southwest and the tide on the ebb. All being well they might leave port within a matter of hours and be in England by tomorrow noon. He did not altogether like the look of the sky but it would not otherwise have deterred him.

  “We could, I suppose, offer a bribe,” he proposed.

  “I doubt they would take it,” said Tully. “They are become very stubborn on the issue. Small is their shipmate and their countryman, they say, and they will not abandon him to the guillotine.”

  “I meant the authorities,” said Nathan, though the thought of bribing the crew had in fact occurred to him. “But I will need advice on the subject.”

  And right on cue came Imlay, walking briskly along the quay twirling his cane and looking more than usually pleased with himself.

  “I have gotten us a cargo,” he declared cheerily as he ran up the gangplank. “Wine and spirits only this time, it being very short notice, but at a very good rate. It will occasion only a short delay. I have arranged for it to be delivered by noon tomorrow.”

  He saw Nathan’s expression.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Nathan told him.

  “Dear God,” he swore. “What was the man thinking on?”

  “Love, I imagine. It tends to distract a man from more practical considerations.”

  “Oh bollocks, man. Besides we are not talking of love, we are talking of marriage.”

  Nathan declined to engage upon this issue, though Imlay’s wife, he supposed, might have resented the distinction, had she been present.

  “The point is, is there anything we can do about it?” he demanded.

  “Well, short of breaking him out of jail, no,” replied Imlay. He dropped his voice. “You must prevail upon the crew to sail without him. Tell them I will find him a lawyer—much good that will do. Tell them you won’t pay them else, or offer them an additional bonus, whatever you think will impress them the most.”

  Nathan repeated Tully’s remarks on the feelings of the crew. Indeed, he was beginning to share them, for he knew not what reason, save a natural predisposition to resent the arbitrary nature of authority, doubtless imbibed at his mother’s breast.

  “But this is monstrous!” Imlay exploded. “We cannot afford a moment’s delay. The fate of France may depend upon it.”

  “And yet you were prepared to delay sufficiently for us to embark a quantity of wine and spirits.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, man, that is business. Without which, I do assure you, the activities of the Speedwell would be more closely inspected than has hitherto been the case. You have no idea of the favours that are involved, the money that is exchanged.”

  “I was wondering if such an approach might be helpful on this occasion,” Nathan proposed.

  Imlay stared at him. “You mean a bribe.”

  “Is that out of the question in the current political climate?”

  “Good heavens, no. Just because they are Revolutionists does not mean they are honest. No, no. Business would be impossible else. It has to be put with a certain discretion, of course.” He gave Nathan a penetrating look. “I take it you are prepared to bear the cost?”

  “Well, within reason,” said Nathan, who had not considered this aspect of the matter. “How much will it be?”

  “I don’t know. I will have to inquire,” Imlay sighed.

  While they waited upon Imlay, the wind changed, very much for the worse. A brisk westerly drove directly into the bay, whipping the sea into a froth of white horses and chasing them up the Seine to Harfleur and beyond, making it quite impossible to leave harbour. The sky, too, grew uglier by the minute, with black rain clouds massing on the horizon and their ragged outriders chasing overhead like the scouts of some advancing alien army.

  “We are in for a night of it, I fear,” remarked Nathan as he and Tully shared a scratch meal of bread and cheese in his cabin washed down with a jug of ale.

  “It may be a long one.” Tully appeared unconcerned. Having spent the best part of two months kicking his heels in Le Havre, he clearly considered a few more days of little account. But then he knew nothing of Nathan’s involvement in the tortuous politics of Revolutionary France. He was too polite, or respectful, to ask Nathan what had kept him so long in Paris but he must have wondered. He was no fool. He must know the Speedwell’s mission had more to do with spying than smuggling. But the two had long been combined.

  Nathan and Tully were still at their dinner when Imlay returned.

  “Well, I have spoken with the public prosecutor,” he said, “and he has agreed to release them on payment of what he is pleased to call a large fine.”

  “How large?”

  “One thousand
livres—in coin.”

  “Dear God, but it is a king’s ransom!”

  “Hardly. A little over one hundred and twenty pounds at the current rate of exchange. He will take louis d’or or English sovereigns.”

  “Is it not a crime in Republican France to deal in gold?” Nathan inquired indignantly, stirred to a sense of moral outrage at the prospect of paying such a sum.

  “Indeed. And punishable by death. However, I doubt the public prosecutor will wish to raise a clamour in this instance.”

  Nathan counted out the coin in his cabin. Half of his profit from the prize he had taken off Étaples. One Bonne-Jeanne for another.

  “I would not mind half as much,” he complained to Tully, “if the man could cook. But it is a considerable outlay for one who has tried to poison me since I first came aboard.”

  He wondered if he might claim it from the Admiralty as a legitimate expense but they would probably laugh in his face.

  “I will bring them back directly,” Imlay promised as he prepared to depart with Nathan’s savings.

  “What, both of them?”

  “But of course. They are man and wife. And it is a condition of their release that they both leave France without delay.”

  When he had gone Nathan gave vent to his feelings. “So now we are to have a woman aboard.”

  “I do not believe she will prove a distraction,” Tully assured him, “as far as the crew are concerned.”

  Imlay brought the happy couple back in a carriage and they came aboard to loud huzzahs from the assembled crew: Small beaming and bowing as if he were an admiral and the blushing bride upon his arm.

  “By God,” Nathan marvelled in an aside to Tully, “she is his exact replica. In the female form.”

  Mrs. Small was indeed built to the same tonnage and dimensions as her spouse only with a mobcap and curls framing her plain features and a pink ribbon tied around her several chins. She made a very pretty curtsy to Nathan, however, and as pretty a speech of thanks, which made his face as bright as hers.

  Imlay took the shine off it somewhat by requesting ten livres for the coach.

  “What? Can you not deduct it from your profits for the cargo we are about to embark?” Nathan charged him with some fervour.

  He was still smarting from the iniquity when Tully informed him that Small wished to thank him and the crew for his deliverance with what he was pleased to call a feast.

  Nathan groaned. Small’s idea of a feast doubtless comprised a larger portion than usual of boiled beef with an onion added.

  “But it is a little late in the day for a feast,” he objected.

  “Well, we might compromise on a light supper,” Tully proposed doubtfully, “but the couple are most anxious to show their gratitude—and it would very much please the crew.”

  “I suppose we have nothing better to do,” observed Nathan with a scowl.

  In the event he decided to make the best of it and invite his two officers, Tully and Keeble, to dine with him in his cabin. He even invited Imlay.

  “Let us hope we might call it a leavetaking,” he submitted without great expectation, for the breeze had freshened to a near gale and was blowing the rain in sheets across the bay.

  The supper was a long time coming. “Madame” had been forced to go shopping, Gabriel replied to a somewhat testy inquiry on the subject, there being very little to her liking in store. She had clearly taken over in the galley, wisely relegating her spouse to a subsidiary role. Nathan, who had eaten a scrappy lunch and little better on his journey from Paris, would normally have stuffed himself with more bread and cheese, possibly toasted for a change, but when he proposed this solution to Gabriel as a stopgap the steward was firm in his rebuttal.

  “No nibbles,” he retorted sharply as if Nathan had not aged or advanced in status since Gabriel had first entered his father’s service. “Supper will be served shortly. Madame is returned.”

  “Madame” had clearly established a measure of authority, no mean feat where Gabriel was concerned, and the smells emanating from the galley suggested that she might be as good a cook as Tully had intimated.

  As it was a formal occasion and they were in port, Gabriel set the table with Nathan’s Venetian glasses and his best blue Delftware and Imlay provided a quantity of wine from some nearby stash which helped to alleviate a certain tension, invariably present when dining at the captain’s table. Nathan had of course entertained the officers on the Nereus from time to time but never with any great success, largely on account of the brooding presence of the first lieutenant, Mr. Jordan, and he was not wildly optimistic on this occasion. His own skills as a host were not impressive and he was thankful to Imlay for keeping the wine flowing and the conversation at least lurching gamely in its wake while they waited to be served.

  The meal began, uniquely in Nathan’s experience, with the presentation of a menu. He raised his brows in pure astonishment at the steward whose face remained as deadpan as if he were accustomed to such embellishments at every meal. The document was written in a bold but clear hand and announced that they were to commence with a Tourte au Livarot et aux Pousses d’Epinards, followed by a Mousseline de Sole Normande and a Canard de Rouen au Cidre et aux Pommes; and for dessert, as a change from Small’s plum duff which had the consistency of a cannonball and was as lethal to the teeth, a Terrine de Pommes Vallée d’Auge.

  “So what are we having?” inquired Imlay rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  “Fish,” replied Nathan, who was still somewhat stunned by the menu, “and a duck. And some kind of tart.”

  The Tourte au Livarot turned out to be a form of cheese cooked with spinach. It was received with some suspicion, by Keeble in particular, but it proved to be excellent, if a little less than filling to men with a hearty appetite. This niggling objection was swiftly overcome by the next two dishes, served together in the French style, and with an assortment of vegetables, whose existence Small had not hitherto acknowledged.

  For a while there was a near silence, broken only by the conventional invitations to partake of this dish or that, and when they began to eat, it descended entirely. Finally Nathan, in his role of host, looked up and remarked, “This is astonishing.”

  As a comment on the quality of the fare it lacked elegance but accurately reflected its effect on the company.

  “The woman is a genius,” exclaimed Imlay. “What on earth is she doing in Le Havre?”

  Out of common courtesy no one asked the more obvious question of what she was doing with Small.

  The conversation remained stilted as they applied themselves to the serious business of eating but as their appetites were nourished and the wine continued to flow it assumed a satisfactory level of animation.

  Imlay, of course, dominated, though Nathan was interested to observe that in the company of a fellow American, the bluff frontiersman was sublimated to the grand New England gentleman.

  “My family own land in New Jersey and have extensive business interests in Philadelphia,” he replied to Keeble’s inquiry on the subject. “Indeed as a shipping man you may have heard of the firm of Imlay and Potts which was established by my brother and is much involved in trade with New Orleans and the West Indies.”

  Nathan was content to listen to the two Americans trading stories of their experiences in the Caribbean and more particularly New Orleans where they had both fallen foul of the Spanish authorities on more than one occasion. He was naturally anxious to avoid inquiry into his own antecedents and when Keeble did venture a dart in his direction he was relieved that Imlay was swift to divert the conversation onto safer ground.

  “A glass with you, Mr. Tully,” he proposed. “I fear our talk of the Americas can hold little interest for you.”

  “On the contrary,” replied Tully, “for I have long desired a better acquaintance, my trav
els being largely confined to the seas off France and England.”

  Nathan was concerned that the wine might have loosened Tully’s tongue rather more than he desired. He had no idea what he had disclosed to Keeble during their long stay in Le Havre but he did not wish for any public discussion of his connections with the Navy, particularly as their conversation had become somewhat loud. He need not have feared however for Tully proceeded to entertain them with an account of his smuggling activities in the English Channel, an entirely acceptable topic in the present company.

  “And were you always a smuggler?” inquired Imlay with a lack of inhibition that Nathan was inclined to think of as characteristically American.

  “No, as a babe I had little interest in the trade,” replied Tully, “being more concerned with the supply of my mother’s milk in which King George had not then expressed a financial interest. I did not lack for tutors, however, the Channel Islanders being much inclined to avoid sharing their profits with His Majesty—or indeed any other man.”

  “You are not then a loyal subject of the King?” Imlay persisted with a sly glance in Nathan’s direction.

  “Oh, loyal in every way, save the desire to pay taxes, like every honest Englishman.”

  “So you count yourself English, though a native of the Channel Isles?”

  “I do indeed, as do most Channel Islanders, for what else could we be but French?”

  “Hear him,” called out Nathan hastily, lest the conversation become more personal. He was curious, however, as to Tully’s background for he had better manners—and wit—than the wardroom of the Nereus and many other officers of his acquaintance. So he was not at all displeased when Imlay persisted in questioning him on the subject “for you are the first native of the Channel Isles I have ever met,” he confessed.

  “Well, there are those who believe we are the progeny of fishermen and mermaids,” said Tully, “and are born with gills and webbed feet but though my father was a fisherman my mother was entirely human, being the daughter of Sir Charles du Maurier of Guernsey.”