by Nicola Pryce
‘I thought you were dead, Edmund. Uncle Alex assured me you couldn’t be alive. Everyone . . . everything . . . pointed to your death. They assured me you had died, and I believed them. I thought you were lying in an unmarked grave – it’s been so awful. I’ve only just got your letter from the convent. It took eighteen months to reach me.’
‘The one letter I didn’t post. Of all the letters I sent, only that one got through? I must have written ten or more, but I had no means of posting them. I just thrust them at people when I could, praying they would somehow reach you.’
A fine tremor shook the lace at his cuffs, his chest rising and falling, his breathing growing rapid. I glimpsed a band of purple and pulled up his sleeves, sudden revulsion making me gasp. Deep angry scars encircled both wrists.
‘Edmund, tell me everything. I need to know everything.’
Chapter Nineteen
His voice was hesitant, more of a whisper. ‘The commission on HMS Faith was offered to Francis, not me. Captain Owen was a friend of his father. I never quarrelled with Francis – you know how much I tried to keep my head down – but when he dismissed the offer so lightly, it triggered in me such anger. He’d been so insistent we went to Sumatra and he was refusing to join the navy? It didn’t make sense. Francis’s family were all seafaring men – that’s what I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t see why he didn’t seize his chance for an honourable solution. Money was tight – there were little enough funds for the family, let alone an allowance for him.’
‘Your father didn’t insist?’
‘No, far from it. They were very close . . . in fact, it made me jealous. Amelia, it won’t come as a surprise to you that Father preferred Francis. They constantly belittled me, as if by refusing to join them in their bawdyhouses it made me a lesser man. When I refused to go to Sumatra, Father wouldn’t let Francis go on his own and that made Francis furious. He started undermining every suggestion I made – dismissing every trading deal I tried to negotiate, convincing Father they’d be unworkable. I felt very isolated – they were reckless risk-takers where I sought only security.’
He stared into the fire, a pulse racing in his neck, a fine line of sweat forming above his upper lip. Yet he sounded more hurt than bitter.
‘Not a night passes without me regretting my decision to join the ship. I should have stood my ground, I should have come down to Cornwall, or found the strength to stay and face them, but I hated the spice trade – the insecurity of it . . . the constant worry of fortunes being lost. All I could think of was to be free from it . . . the chance to earn my own money. And then I got your letter about Frederick – your obvious pride in him, the honour and courage of men fighting to keep our country safe, and it seemed like the answer. That you were somehow pointing me forward, and the lure of prize money suddenly took hold . . . it gave me hope. What if I could accrue enough money to enable us to live without Father’s allowance?’
An iron grip clasped my heart. I had influenced his decision. I could not look at him, nor could I speak.
‘I ran from my responsibilities. I see it now as weakness, but at the time I saw it as a chance to escape their endless taunts and innuendoes. I sought honour in place of derision, the constant pulling of strings – Father’s idiot puppet, to be paraded and scorned. I thought I was showing strength, that you’d be proud of me. Now I perceive it as terrible weakness.’
I should never have written that letter. He was impressionable and I had planted the idea of glory and honour. I was meant to be his rock, yet I had failed him so terribly.
His frown deepened. ‘My life has been spared, Amelia, but not my conscience. I feel such guilt I abandoned Francis. I knew Father’s influence was leading him down a path of debauchery, yet I did nothing.’
I forced myself to speak. ‘You couldn’t do anything. It sounds like he wouldn’t have listened.’
‘That last night in Plymouth I had the chance to speak without Father being there and yet I didn’t. I should have stopped his womanizing.’
He placed another log on the fire and I noticed his nails were bitten, his knuckles scarred. ‘In London, I was always going to be Father’s puppet, but I thought if I could return with enough prize money we’d be able to start married life free of his control. The idea seemed so simple and it took hold of me. I didn’t know the fleet was assembling – that Admiral Jervis had given the captains new orders and we were to be part of Sir Charles Grey’s landing force.’
I needed to stay strong. He needed my help, not my remorse. ‘I read everything I could. You were catapulted straight into action. Martinique and Guadeloupe asked for British protection because they wanted to keep their slaves. France was to abolish slavery and the plantation owners didn’t want to lose their workforce, so they asked for British protection. You went to their aid – to help them keep their slaves enslaved and their tobacco picked.’
His frown deepened. ‘When I heard the orders, I felt sickened. It went against all humanity, yet those were our orders. We had to believe that gaining sovereignty over the islands was honourable – vital for our king and country – and I did. At least, that’s how I saw it at the time. The plantation owners were French Royalists, and many French Royalists fought in ships alongside us. Their hatred of the new Assembly was enough to make them question their allegiance to France and that made them our allies.’
Firelight flickered across his profile, accentuating a myriad of small scars. Deep lines framed the sides of his mouth, a constant furrow between his black brows. The scar above his lip was reddened and slightly raised; others were hidden beneath his thick, black sideburns. He saw me looking and turned his face to the full glow of the fire.
‘Please look, Amelia – look deeply and don’t be afraid to show dismay. I’m not the youth you loved.’ His voice caught. ‘I’d never look in a mirror again if I had the choice.’
A chill flooded my heart, a terrible sense of loss. He was so familiar yet seemed a stranger – the vulnerability in his forced smile, the terrible wanting in his eyes; the way he held up his chin, desperate for me to see him as he now was, knowing I was remembering him as he used to be. He had no laughter lines, no softening round his eyes. All exuberance of youth had gone, just rough, coarse features with skin browned by the sun and pitted with scars. He picked up the poker, tapping it on the hearth in sudden sharp taps. It was the drill of a woodpecker and my heart leapt.
‘You never did get it quite right,’ I whispered. ‘It’s much quicker . . . more like this.’
I took the poker, attempting my own woodpecker drill. We were in the park again, leaning against a large oak tree, the woodpecker drilling above us. Two carefree young lovers, content to while away the afternoon imitating birds.
‘Constance gave me the beautiful shell you had engraved. Captain Owen returned it with your private possessions. It’s at home with me . . . in Truro.’
‘I’m so pleased you like it . . . and I’m so thankful it arrived. I know the real meaning of desolation now – I didn’t then.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Amelia, I wrote you so many letters, but I don’t know which ones you received . . . I don’t know where to start.’
I had to swallow, hide my resentment. ‘Hardly any letters reached me – neither from London nor from the ship. ’
‘And yet I wrote and wrote. I lived for your letters, Amelia. There was a time when I thought you might have found someone else . . .’
My cheeks started burning, fire scorching my throat. ‘You were in the Leeward Islands . . . about to hear new orders . . . you’d just written the men’s letters home.’
‘My last letter from the ship. Our orders were to evacuate the trapped soldiers in Fort Fleur d’Epée in Guadeloupe.’
‘And you volunteered to lead the landing party?’
He breathed deeply, a nervousness to his whisper. ‘Yes, I did . . . and I’ve long since regretted it. The initial conquest went smoothly – the 6th Regiment of Foot established a garrison and we left them holding
the island but soon the soldiers began to sicken – yellow fever and just about every tropical disease took them in a steady stream. We thought the island was secure, but pockets of freed slaves and French Nationalists still roamed the eastern side. Our troops were weakened, their numbers too low, and the men holding Fort Fleur d’Epée were surrounded and besieged.’
‘They were trapped – Uncle Alex sent me the details.’
‘The only chance they had to survive was if we could evacuate them from under the noses of the surrounding French.’ His hand trembled as he held the poker. ‘An advance party was needed to secure the two cannons guarding the harbour . . . and I heard myself volunteer.’
‘You saved scores of men, Edmund. You were recommended for bravery.’ He prodded the fire with harsh violent stabs. ‘Did you want to prove to those who stole from you that you weren’t afraid?’
He froze, the poker mid-air. ‘I shouldn’t have burdened you with that. I’m so sorry.’
‘I want to know everything, Edmund. Please don’t hide anything from me.’
‘We needed to secure the cannons defending the harbour so that our ship could get close enough to evacuate the soldiers. The two cannons were manned – six men on each, and I studied them through my telescope. As they came into focus, I could hardly bear to watch them. Captain Owen called for prayers that night, but I couldn’t pray. I stared at those men, knowing I had to kill them. I saw their faces . . . I watched them smoking their pipes and I was petrified.’
A youth unable to kill a chicken, now a man bearing the scars of war.
‘Just before dawn we scaled the walls of the battery. HMS Faith sailed away – as if she was leaving – and they fell for our ruse. We caught them unprepared. We secured the cannons . . . everything going exactly to plan – but what we didn’t know was that another cannon stood out of sight of the ship, positioned to protect the very cannons we were sent to disable. The fighting grew fierce. We just kept loading and firing . . . loading and firing. I’d chosen our best gunners and we returned fire for fire.’
‘You saved their lives. Men lived because of your action.’
‘But I lost two good men – men whose letters I’d written the night before. It was as if I had iron in my blood. I vowed I wouldn’t lose another man. Somehow we held the cannon off long enough for the last boatload of soldiers to get to the ship. There’d been no return of fire for over an hour and I believed we were safe. The first boatload of men left, the second was waiting for me. I was nearly there but a blast caught me and I remember nothing more . . . just my head bursting with bright light. I must have knocked myself out on a boulder. I woke just in time to drag myself behind it. I was drifting in and out of consciousness, but they didn’t find me.’
The mother-of-pearl buttons on his waistcoat caught the firelight. ‘I should have come forward and demanded my rights as a British midshipman, but I could see them kicking the two fallen men, taking their rings, and every ounce of courage deserted me.’
‘It must have been terrifying.’
‘By our circumnavigation of the island, I knew small boats lay in a cove nearby – I’d seen a settlement with ships anchored and I thought I stood a chance. In my muddled state, I thought I just needed to skirt the palm-fringed beach and reach those ships. Our forces still held the western island. All I needed to do was get back to them.’
The candle on his desk gutted, a plume of smoke rising from the brass candlestick. The room grew darker. ‘They reported the death of six sailors and one officer,’ I whispered. ‘They were so sure it was you.’
‘They must have found my uniform. I stripped it off and threw it to the ground. There were fires all around – castings burning . . . bushes burning. They must have thought I’d been consumed by the flames. Taking off my uniform was the second mistake I made. Without my uniform, I had no proof of who I was. Yet at the time, I couldn’t get it off quickly enough. In my muddled state, I thought to pretend to be a merchant. It was incredibly foolish . . .’ He turned to look at me, his huge black pupils seeking reassurance.
‘You saved countless men, Edmund . . . you had a head injury. No one can think properly with a head injury.’
‘I walked for miles. From the ship, the shore looked fringed with sand, but there were swamps, tropical forests and mangroves. I was dizzy, blood oozing from my head – yet somehow I forced my way through the dripping branches. When evening fell, I collapsed beneath a banana tree and stared up at the moon. That was my third mistake. I should have known I’d become a feast for insects.’
I caught his wry smile, a flicker of the humour of the youth I had loved so passionately. ‘It must have been petrifying.’
‘It was – but that was just the first night of being eaten alive. The itch is so powerful, it’s impossible not to scratch – then the bites turn to wheals the size and colour of plums. I’ve the scars to show for them.’ He ran his finger beneath his silk necktie. ‘When dawn finally broke I saw a track leading into the forest – a waterfall was cascading into a pool of clear blue water and I rushed to it. The water tasted like nothing I’ve ever tasted – better than the finest claret or brandy. I just cupped it to my mouth and drank – and I bathed my wounds. Do you know they recommend woollen garments for the tropics?’
He smiled again, his hand sweeping through his short hair, the familiar tapping of his fingertips.
‘Yes, I do. Frederick told me wool absorbs the sweat – if men are bathed in sweat when the sun goes down it brings on shivers and night fevers.’
His voice softened. ‘Connie tells me you grow herbs. She told me you saved Mother’s life. Amelia, I can’t thank you enough. If Mother had died before I got here . . .’ He tried to control the sudden trembling of his lips. ‘I should never have left you. I ran away . . . but I will make amends – I promise, I will make amends.’
He waited for his voice to steady. ‘Every single day . . . every single night, I thought only of you. I had to survive . . . to see you again . . . to know you were happy and that my actions hadn’t caused you despair. As the years passed, I believed there was little hope of you remaining free. I’d been the perpetrator of my own misfortune and I knew I must brave the consequences. I honestly thought I’d lost you – that I deserved to lose you. I was foolish and weak. When I read Sir Alexander’s letter telling me to hurry back, I could hardly take it in. Amelia, it’s more than I deserve – more than I could ever hope. It’s like being offered the chance to live again.’
A knock on the door, and Constance entered carrying a huge tray. She peered over it as she stepped sideways through the door. ‘Are you in here? Oh, yes . . . here you are – I didn’t see you down there. She was wearing a crisp white apron over her silk gown. ‘Mrs Alston’s prepared a light luncheon for you. Nothing too much as she’s roasting meat for later.’
Edmund rose from the floor, towering above me. ‘Thank you, Connie. Let me take that from you. You know you really shouldn’t be carrying that – you should have sent a servant.’
Chapter Twenty
Above us, a row of Melville barons watched in sharp disapproval. Despite the fire, the room smelled musty and damp. Edmund laid the tray on the floor and resumed his place, sitting by my side just as we used to sit sharing a basket of food in the gardens at Trenwyn, or on the stony shore with Frederick and Francis; sometimes we’d be in a rowing boat, sometimes hiding behind a hay-wain when we should have been harvesting.
The cold ham lay barely touched, the bread drying in the heat of the fire. Edmund shook his head as I pointed to the wine.
‘I walked all day, eating what I could. The mangos weren’t ripe, but the bananas were. A steep track led up through the trees and I could see tobacco plants, so I started up it. I felt certain the plantation owner would be sympathetic, but I was weaker than I thought and I didn’t see the line of prisoners until it was too late. They were manacled, chained together, their overseers driving them down the narrow track. I didn’t have the strength to run. I could do nothin
g but cry out as they bound my wrists and pulled me to my feet.’
‘The French Nationalists turned on the plantation owners?’
‘Yes. They rounded up everyone who’d helped the British – the landed elite, the émigrés, the plantation owners – all of them manacled and bleeding from vicious wounds. I could barely keep up with them. I kept stumbling forward, trying to avoid their lashes. That was the beginning of my captivity. Men were needed to repair the batteries to fortify the harbour against another British attack and though I tried to explain who I was – to claim my rights under the terms of warfare – they took no notice. They just forced us into a stinking prison hulk. It was indescribable – the rancid bilges running with rats, the air so foul I could hardly breathe.
‘But you must have told them who you were?’
‘Each time I told them my rank and ship’s name, the beatings got worse. I was never taken to the fort but kept chained in the hulk, driven out by day to labour under the fiercest sun. All of us, rounded up as enemies of the French Republic – plantation owners, merchants, engineers, anyone who’d been in power before the new regime. For twelve months they died around me. Each day the same routine. The guards would unchain the hatch and kick us to see who moved . . . then they’d unlock the manacles of those who didn’t and fling them on to a cart. Fifty of us, dwindling to twenty.’
The shaking in his hands was getting worse, his breathing getting faster. ‘And every night, we’d take turns to drag our chains to the grille and stare silently up at the moon. It was our only link to home – the same silver light shining on each of our homelands. I lived each day just to watch the moon, hoping you’d be watching it too. And the days when there was no moon, I felt such desolation. As if it was an omen I’d never see you again.’
‘I was watching it,’ I whispered.
His hands reached for mine – callused hands, holding me softly. ‘The French force arrived in their hundreds and the new governor set about his revenge – hanging or guillotining all those who’d helped the British. But we were spared – left to repair the fortifications.’