A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  ‘I suppose it is a banality to say, “I will wait for you”?’ Henrietta offered, trying to smile.

  It touched Hayden to his very core that she would try to cheer him at that moment, when she must feel the pending separation as greatly as he.

  ‘Or that, “I will think of you every day”?’ Hayden, attempted to rise to the occasion.

  ‘Not “every minute”?’ she chided.

  ‘If you would prefer it.’

  She considered this, mouth turning down a little. ‘Every second does seem a bit too… There must be a limit to devotion.’ She did meet his eyes, and he saw distress that her smile and manner could not hide. ‘Don’t think of me when your attention is required to keep you safe. I shouldn’t want you distracted by thoughts of my inestimable beauty at the wrong moment.’

  ‘I shall only contemplate upon your inestimable beauty when alone in my cabin.’

  ‘Perhaps just once a day – as you fall asleep, and into dreams.’ She closed her eyes suddenly, a hand springing up to shade her face from view. ‘This will not do! I am tormented and wretched at your leaving. Every moment I shall worry until I see you safe again.’ She took his hand in both of hers so tightly that her nails dug into the skin. ‘Come back to me unharmed – you must promise me.’

  ‘It is a difficult promise to keep –’

  ‘I care not. You must keep it. Promise me,’ she demanded.

  So he did.

  She leaned against him, her breath warm and sweet. Beyond the door, footsteps were heard, faltered and then resumed. The two separated quickly, Henrietta wiping ineffectually at her eyes.

  Lady Hertle entered, appearing stooped and tired. Hayden thought her recent illness had aged her some years, at least temporarily.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, smiling at the two of them, pleased by the budding affection that could not be hidden. But the smile was erased by concern. ‘My dear Henrietta, are you not yet recovered? Your eyes are all rimmed red and your complexion is high. I fear you are fevered, yet.’

  ‘Not in the least, Aunt. I have naught but a wretched cough – and that descends upon me only by night. I am otherwise perfectly hale.’

  Lady Hertle did not look convinced, and her gaze lingered on her niece a moment before turning to Hayden.

  ‘Captain Hayden,’ she said. ‘It is a pleasure.’

  ‘I hope it is not a pleasure you are experiencing too often, Lady Hertle. It is not my intention to impose upon your hospitality.’

  ‘You could visit me every day of the year and I would not grow weary of it. There is nothing I fear so much as to be left each day with only my own company to keep. I would be driven to utter distraction within a few months. No, visit as often as you wish. Robert frequently says you are like a brother to him and therefor you are like a nephew to me. Where are Robert and Elizabeth? They are very poor chaperones, I must say,’ she teased. She beckoned them to walk with her into the dining room. ‘Sailors are very prone to taking liberties, you know,’ Lady Hertle instructed her niece. ‘Why, Admiral Hertle, when he was a young man, would kiss me every chance he got. Of course, we were engaged to be married, but even so, he was highly undisciplined when it came to kisses.’ A smile hovered about her lips at the memory – only a little sad.

  ‘I am completely scandalized,’ Henrietta said, ‘to learn that you would allow any young man to kiss you; even one to whom you were engaged.’

  Lady Hertle made a dismissive noise. ‘I rather like kisses and miss them more than you know.’

  ‘Why Aunt, I kiss you every day,’ Henrietta responded.

  ‘Indeed you do, but it is not quite the same thing. Ah, Elizabeth,’ she said, finding her niece and Robert by the window in the dining room, apparently interrupted in the very act of affection presently under discussion, ‘you have been shirking your duties as chaperone.’

  ‘Not at all, Aunt. I have been performing them admirably. I leave Charles and Henrietta to keep their own company just enough to foster their affection for one another… and no more. I should say I am the perfect chaperone.’

  ‘Well, all of this courting going on beneath my roof makes me feel terribly lonely for the admiral, I am not ashamed to admit it. Terribly lonely.’ She stopped by her chair. ‘Do you know what we called it when we were young? – kissing, that is. Osculation. We thought no one could possibly know of what we spoke but everyone did. I think that awful Dr Johnson had gone and put it in his dictionary. We went about thinking we were terribly clever but everyone knew all along. I near died of embarrassment when I learned it.’ A faint rosy blush coloured her cheeks. ‘Now, I understand you are off to the theatre?’

  ‘Are you certain you do not wish to accompany us, Aunt Hertle?’

  ‘Another time. I am feeling a little tired this evening. What is it you see?’

  ‘Shakespeare, Aunt. Romeo and Juliet.’

  The theatre was filled to capacity that evening but Robert had arranged a snug little box, large enough for their party and no more, just before the stage. At Elizabeth’s insistence, the chaperones took the seats nearest the rail, allowing the courting couple to sit behind in a sliver of shadow.

  ‘Can you see the stage, Henrietta?’ Robert asked, twisting about in his chair.

  ‘Perfectly, Robert. Do not be the least concerned.’

  Hayden could feel a palpable air of anticipation in the theatre box. When she spoke, Henrietta’s voice seemed squeezed just a bit, and she drew breath with every few words. This anticipation was not for the play, however, unless it was for the distraction it would provide so that the two lovers could touch, perhaps steal a few kisses.

  The floor below seethed with an unruly mob, many sailors and soldiers whose boasting and posturing escalated with each drink. Boxes were filled with officers, some of very high rank, from both services. The hubbub and calling out and quizzing of the ladies made for a lively scene. Just below the height of the ceiling, a smoky haze began to form like a squall on the horizon. As the night progressed it would thicken and descend until it hung like a storm over the audience on the floor.

  The first play began, with a crash of cymbals and beating of drums, certain signs of an approaching tempest. A short farce ensued that appealed greatly to the common sailors, who left off threatening the soldiers and turned their attention to the stage, shouting out sallies and bits of wit, even giving direction to the players.

  With all attention elsewhere Henrietta’s soft hand stole into Hayden’s and they shifted but a little in their chairs so that their arms touched. Hayden reached across his body with his right hand and caressed the delicate skin inside Henrietta’s wrist, making a small circle with a single finger. Her eyes closed and a long, sighing breath was released, almost silently. Without a word they turned toward each other and kissed.

  Too soon the play came to an end. And then the famous phrases floated up from the stage.

  ‘Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene. From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life…’

  Even the sailors grew quiet a moment to hear this.

  Sampson and Gregory took their cues and engaged in the type of wordplay the sailors approved; the jest on maidenheads receiving a squall of laughter. Soon enough the more important players appeared, and then young Romeo, whose secret sadness Benvolio had promised to discover.

  A rather aged Benvolio spoke his lines to Montague. ‘See where he comes. So please you step aside: I’ll know his grievance or be much denied.’

  Montague: ‘I would thou wert so happy by thy stay, To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away.’ Montague and his Lady slipped off the stage in a scuffling patter of feet.

  A rather dapper Romeo appeared, so full of his own importance that there were titters in the audience. An extravagantly feathered hat perched, precariously, upon his head. His costume deferred not at all to his h
eadgear, the sleeves of his doublet hanging like silky jowls, his breeches so tight one could not help but wonder how he managed to walk. Betwixt hat and doublet was suspended the face of a simpleton, innocent and debauched at once, right eye larger than the left.

  ‘If ever a man wore motley,’ Hayden whispered to Robert, ‘this would be he.’

  Benvolio made a deferential bow. ‘Good morrow, cousin.’

  Romeo seemed rather too surprised by this to be considered reasonable, looking about as though suddenly noticing the sunlight. ‘Is the day so young?’

  Benvolio: ‘But new struck nine.’

  Romeo laid the back of a wrist against his brow. ‘Ay me! sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast?’

  ‘My, has this company a player ill to use such a ham?’ Elizabeth whispered to her husband. This drew Hayden’s attention from his love to the stage.

  Benvolio: ‘It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?’

  Romeo threw up his hands in an awkward gesture, walking away a few paces in apparent agitation. ‘What sadness lengthens Romeo, one might ask. Am I not handsome, well known a dandy, Ben?’

  Henrietta was almost startled from her seat. ‘What in this world…? That is not Shakespeare!’

  ‘Nor is it Romeo,’ Hayden laughed. ‘Or not the Romeo we came to see. That is Fowler “Romeo” Moat, I am quite certain.’

  ‘Who?’ whispered Henrietta.

  ‘A planter’s son – by no means poor,’ Hayden explained. ‘He fancies himself an actor and pays theatre managers to let him perform in their productions. Romeo is his preferred part. He thought to rewrite the lines to better suit him – Romeo is now quite a dandy.’

  ‘And we paid for this?’ Robert complained, outraged.

  They returned their attention to the play in time to hear Romeo say, ‘Why such is love’s transgression, Griefs of mine own lie heav—’ Whether Moat had forgotten his lines or his look of utter confusion was feigned no one could tell. ‘Grief!’ he cried, not so much in pain but as though he called an oddly named dog, ‘were it only brief! But grief bears me a grievance. She who is passing fair, and fairly passing, Virginal in her chastity, Has sworn that if no man is found worthy she shall perish without passion, Before marrying a man… who has no eye for fashion.’

  ‘This is blasphemy!’ cried Henrietta, offended but amused in spite of herself. ‘The man should not be encouraged… He should be stoned!’

  And so the play went, the blameless actors confounded at every turn by the prancing, posing Romeo, whose lines had been reworked without reference to their own. The crowd, however, could hardly have been more delighted, calling out to Romeo, applauding his every appearance, his every utterance. For his part, Moat took all this acclaim as though it were his due, thinking it all sincere, convinced that his skills as player and playwright were of a superior nature.

  The play progressed and even the officers and quality convulsed with horrified laughter.

  As Romeo stood beneath Juliet’s balcony, Henrietta hid her face. ‘I cannot bear it,’ she moaned but soon took her hands away.

  Juliet slipped gracefully out into the moonlight.

  ‘But soft!’ Romeo cried, ‘What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! But what thing is it she wears upon her breast? Is it a rag, cast off by scullery maids? A gown it cannot be –’

  But Juliet was apparently determined to save the scene, and to cut Moat’s foolishness short. ‘Ay, me!’ came her anguished lament, causing such laughter that she coloured through her make-up.

  Romeo pointed at his love, his dangling sleeves wafting about like limp folds of skin. ‘She speaks! O! speak again, bright angel; for thou art –’

  But again Moat was interrupted. ‘O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo!’ Juliet cried in desperate passion, causing more laughter, for what woman in her reason could pine for such a dolt. ‘Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet. ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part –’

  ‘How little she knows of a man’s parts!’ Romeo chortled.

  An unsettled Juliet tried to soldier on. ‘… B-Belonging to a man. O! be some other name! What’s in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet –’

  But this, too, was interrupted, not by another aside, but by Romeo inhaling an immoderate pinch of snuff. The laughter stopped Juliet mid-soliloquy. Before she could take up her speech again, Romeo climbed up a step and offered her his open snuff box. The response from the audience to this act of inane chivalry thwarted Juliet from proceeding for several minutes.

  Hayden and his companions could not help but join in.

  ‘Poor Juliet,’ Henrietta said, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘This is a far greater tragedy than Shakespeare ever intended.’

  ‘There has never been anything to equal it!’ Robert pronounced, turning to his companions as the scene drew to a close.

  The play began again, taking their now rapt attention, for no one wanted to miss what Moat might do next. Another scene, as farcical as the ones that went before, was followed by yet another until, at last, the final scenes played out. Romeo entered Juliet’s tomb to find his love lying silent, still, beautiful.

  ‘She’s died of embarrassment,’ Henrietta whispered.

  ‘Ah! dear Juliet,’ Romeo said. ‘Why art thou yet so fair? Is it this gown I gave thee? Night-slip for thy endless sleep? The green that made thine eye so bright, Now makes bright mine doublet red. At last we lie together this long night, Dark shades of jade and crimson velvet. Who will not say we are a pretty sight?’ Moat took his draught of poison. ‘O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick!’

  But apparently not quick enough. Moat pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and with it swept clean an area of the stage. After laying his hat for a pillow, he died the most prolonged and embellished death in the history of that famous tragedy until, as he knelt by poor Juliet, he cried, ‘O Death! how longst hast thou been dying? Thus with a kiss I join my deadly bride.’ He swooned down, his head landing softly on his ridiculous hat, its vast plume waving back and forth like some banner raised in theatrical surrender.

  The applause was beyond anything Hayden had ever known, and then cries of ‘Encore! Encore!’ were taken up by the entire crowd.

  Not one to refuse his audience, a delighted Romeo hopped up and died a second time… and then, by popular acclaim, a third, each death more lingering than the last. Poor Juliet’s demise could not summon a single tear after that; in truth, her death caused almost as much hilarity as Moat’s, the poor actress’s heartfelt declarations made ridiculous by contrast.

  ‘Never has a Juliet looked so relieved to finally make an end of it,’ Henrietta pronounced.

  ‘Moat thought he played Lazarus, not Romeo, at the end,’ Robert said.

  ‘Yes,’ Hayden agreed, ‘gravity, apparently, could not keep him to his tomb.’

  To which Henrietta gave him a playful tap on the arm with her fan.

  The audience departed, many in little strolling companies declaiming Moat’s rewritten lines in more or less accurate imitation. On the street before the theatre, a company of sailors performed the death scene… repeatedly. Hayden and his companions were carried along by this noisy crowd but a few blocks put them on a quieter way.

  They were all still giddy from the performance, which had been unlike anything they had seen. ‘Where have you met a Shakespeare to compare with that?’ Robert asked. ‘ “With a kiss I join my deadly bride”!’

  ‘ “Virginal in her chastity”?’ Elizabeth quoted. ‘Can you imagine?’

  ‘I should pay triple to see him play Hamlet,’ Robert declared.

  Hayden laughed at the thought. ‘To starch or not to starch, that would be the question.’

  ‘I was only surprised that Juliet
did not stab herself in the first act,’ Henrietta said.

  ‘That would never have stopped Romeo. He would not be denied his two hours in the public’s eye. What strange character that he would make a spectacle of himself for so brief a fame.’

  Hayden and Henrietta slowed their pace a little so that they might converse in private. Taking his arm, Henrietta asked, ‘Hast thou mistaken me for the sun of late?’

  ‘The sun is too common by far,’ Hayden declaimed, though quietly, ‘rising daily Like a drudge, to trudge across the earthly sky.’

  Henrietta laughed. ‘I am uncertain of “drudge” and “trudge”.’

  ‘I am sure even Shakespeare reworked his verse a little.’

  ‘As I am sure Moat did not!’ Henrietta said, but then grew more serious. ‘I do not like these tales of lovers dying. Even our simpleton-Romeo could not take the sting from that.’

  Hayden nodded.

  Giving his arm a little tug Henrietta said, ‘Let us not be “star-cross’d”. Such things never turn out well.’

  ‘As long as our families do not fall to murdering one another, like Capulets and Montagues, I think we shall be safe from such a fate.’

  At the door of Lady Hertle’s home they stopped. Robert and Elizabeth had preceded them inside. A moment they hesitated, allowing a father and son to pass. And then a soft kiss followed by a sweet embrace.

  ‘You will sail tomorrow?’ Henrietta asked so quietly he could barely hear.

  ‘Wind and tide permitting… yes.’

  Henrietta burrowed a little farther into his embrace. ‘I find no sweetness in my sorrow,’ she whispered.

  ‘Nor I.’

  For as long as they dared tarry, they remained thus and separated with such terrible reluctance. Henrietta would not release his hand even as she put her own upon the door’s handle. ‘Robert claims that you have no fear,’ she said hurriedly, ‘but, Charles… do not be too brave.’

  ‘I shall be no braver than required.’

  A quick embrace, then Henrietta ducked inside.

  Leaving Hayden on the dark and empty street. A moment he stood, and then very softly whispered, ‘And I shall say adieu until the morrow.’ Feeling only a little foolish, he tore himself away from the shadow of Lady Hertle’s home. His shoes echoed down the faintly moonlit street, the touch of Henrietta’s lips on his a fresh memory.