by Nicola Pryce
‘He took the early stagecoach.’ I could not say and he lied to cover his tracks.
‘Amelia, I understand this is very hard for you, but it’s vital I make this point. You saw great anger in Edmund . . . but what if the rage you saw wasn’t the desire for revenge – but instead was fear? The fear of a man who knows he must keep his story safe? If an escape was to be believed, how much better to be from a hulk floating on the water than a dungeon deep beneath a fort. A hulk where no names are recorded?’
‘Uncle Alex! How can you even think that? It’s just the wrong harbour – the wrong part of the island.’
‘All his records state he was kept in a prison hulk under Fort Fleur d’Epée. If there was no prison hulk under the fort, then we have to face the distinct possibility that Edmund is lying.’
‘You judge him too harshly. He’s forgetful – that’s all. His head injury makes it hard for him to remember. His vision’s damaged and his hearing is poor. Sometimes he blanks out completely . . . sometimes his headaches render him incapable of even lifting his head. He’s a sick man and he’s made a mistake. That’s all. He’s come back and his mind’s gone blank and he remembers it wrongly.’
I needed to breathe. I needed to hide the terrible twisting in my stomach, yet he would not stop. ‘Amelia, my love, no British ship can verify or disprove his story, but a French frigate captain who sailed in and out of the harbour while Edmund claims he was in the hulk would be able to. What if he knew just one word from Captain de la Croix and his story would no longer hold? What if his sole intention is not to avenge his shipmates, but to silence Captain de la Croix?’
My chest was too tight. I had to gulp for air, control my sudden giddiness. They were all thinking the same; I could see it in their faces, the sudden horror in their eyes. ‘It’s not a story,’ I whispered. ‘He was praised for his valour.’
Luke rose from his chair and stood behind me. ‘Maybe the blow to his head rendered Sir Edmund unconscious and . . . instead of capture, he found himself crawling to freedom? What if he was trying to reach a naval base when he was taken by the Portuguese ship?’
His words brought me sudden hope, but Uncle Alex merely frowned. ‘And what if, as time passed, he couldn’t bring himself to return to the navy?’
I hardly recognized my godfather; it was Admiral Sir Alexander Pendarvis speaking, one time Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Channel Fleet.
Aunt Marie had been silently watching. When she spoke her voice was soft, making it harder to hold back my tears. ‘Amelia, dearest love, your godfather is not without influence . . . He does understand, and he will do everything in his power to see this confusion cleared. You think you have led Edmund into a trap – that you have exposed him to great harm, that your desire to see Captain de la Croix safe has led you to betray a man you once loved so very dearly. To help Edmund now, you must tell us everything because it will serve Edmund much better if we get to the truth.’
Luke was still behind me, his hand resting on the back of the chair. I drew a deep breath. ‘Edmund hated the navy,’ I whispered. ‘He should never have taken the commission . . . he was very unhappy. He wanted to fit in . . . his letters were full of how hard he tried. He wanted me to be proud of him – like I am of my brothers – but in reality, he was desperately unhappy. The men in his mess hated him . . . he was the target of some very cruel behaviour.’
‘He was the target of malice?’
‘Yes, Lady Polcarrow. Edmund was, and still is, very impressionable. He didn’t stand a chance. They stole from his chest – they took his money, his gold watch, his compass and his silver nutmeg grater . . . and some of his clothes went missing. He tried not to let it affect him – he sought advice from one of the other officers, but he was told it would make things worse if he went to Captain Owen. So he did nothing . . . and they never returned his belongings. There was very little left – they stole everything.’
James Polcarrow’s dark brows creased. He had been following the conversation with deepening concern. ‘Forgive me, Miss Carew. They were at sea and no one left the ship?’
‘Yes. They kept off shore because of the fevers.’
‘And they didn’t return his property once he was declared dead?’ His blue eyes pierced mine. ‘That rather goes against the honour of sailors for their fallen shipmates. I’m sure your brothers would know this to be the case – fellow shipmates often pay more at auction for the clothes of their fallen friends than they’re worth, and if personal property is borrowed, or taken out of malice, they would see it returned. Especially if no one had left the ship. Clothes and possessions are listed in their sea chests. Am I right to believe this, Alex?’
‘Stealing from fellow shipmates incurs the severest punishment – running the gauntlet. It’s harsh and strictly imposed. Very few risk it.’ Uncle Alex’s voice had taken a chilling tone. ‘What was returned, Amelia?’
‘His Bible, a shell for me . . . and my miniature portrait. Very little else – nothing of what they stole.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘This makes it worse. We now need to consider a very uncomfortable thought.’ I caught the glance he gave his wife, the returning rise of her perfectly arched eyebrow. A pulse twitched by his mouth. ‘And that is this: we must consider whether they may or may not have actually been stolen?’
A bolt shot through me. I felt winded, reeling as if punched. ‘But they were! He wrote it in his letters. I’m sorry to sound so angry but you’re being really rather beastly.’
In the silence, the fire crackled. I thought they would hear the thumping of my heart. Uncle Alex had never spoken to me like this; he was kind, he was indulgent, he never questioned or probed. He bought me books, helped me study. He had pored over the designs of my herb garden, always encouraging, sending numerous pamphlets about physic gardens and the names of gardeners I could contact. I hardly recognized the fury in his face.
‘I know I sound harsh, Amelia. I would protect you from this if I could, but this is something I’ve come across before. It’s important to take money with you – a gold watch to sell, a compass for when you steal a boat.’
The room whirled round me. ‘They were stolen from him . . . how can you think otherwise?’
The man questioning me was Admiral Sir Alexander Pendarvis, knighted for exceptional valour. He was not without influence, he was the influence, the adored hero of all my brothers and every last man who served under him. The Admiral whose word was law, who court-martialled and imposed the severest penalties.
Luke pulled out my chair, his hand resting on my back as he helped me put my head between my knees. Someone was fanning me, Aunt Marie, I think. Lady Polcarrow handed me a glass of water.
Uncle Alex addressed Sir James, his words slicing the air. ‘This doesn’t sound anything like a scared man running on the off chance. This was carefully planned – a cynical, well-executed desertion. He even had time to lie to Amelia in his letters.’
‘I believe he volunteered to lead the landing party . . . ?’
‘Apparently he was quite insistent. They carried powder bags over their shoulders – and no one checks the bags. It would be the perfect way to carry money to bribe a crew, even to buy a boat. Certainly a change of clothing. It sounds like the man had planned it down to the last detail; he gave orders for his men to return to the ship, waited until they were in the rowing boats – the heroic officer who wanted all his men safe – then he lit a small fuse, fabricated his fall and lay there as if dead.’
‘But I understood one of his men went back to save him?’
‘Yes . . . and died later of extensive wounds in the fort. That’s why I’ve been re-reading Edmund’s papers.’
‘Because the man was taken to the fort and Sir Edmund was imprisoned in the hulk?’
‘Yes, but now I see it differently. According to the prison records, the man was found burning in a fire.’
Chapter Forty
The hateful conversation continued. ‘Desertion is often a spur-
of-the-moment decision – a sudden opportunistic chance – or it can be accidental, often unintended. Stragglers miss their ships for a number of reasons – poor transport, bad weather, ships needing to sail in an emergency. Some ramble too far ashore and through inattention or drunkenness miss their ships, some are always watching, waiting to seize the first opportunity.’
‘It’s not a hangable offence, is it, Sir Alex?’ Luke returned to his seat, leaving Lady Polcarrow and Aunt Marie beside me.
‘Not for the ranks, Dr Bohenna. If a sailor’s marked absent for three successive weekly musters and is returned to his ship, the captain can enforce whatever punishment he sees fit. The runaway could face twelve lashes, sometimes more. Some captains show leniency, others charge them with more than one crime and demand twelve lashes for each crime. It depends on the circumstances – but we’re talking about an officer, Dr Bohenna. Again, it depends on the severity of the situation – desertion is tried through court martial. And yes, it could be a hangable offence. It could involve several hundred lashes, flogging round the fleet – imprisonment in Marshalsea, or the severest fine. It depends on the evidence submitted at court martial.’
‘Miss Carew has often spoken of Sir Edmund’s gentle nature. What if his ability to reason was affected? What if his possessions had been stolen and he didn’t plan to desert but was knocked unconscious and he managed to crawl away – only to watch his ship sailing away on the horizon? What would he do?’
Alexander Pendarvis regarded Luke through shrewd eyes. ‘You are determined to defend him, Dr Bohenna? If he wasn’t captured he should have gone straight to a naval base . . . find his way to an island under British control. There are many within close distance – Dominica, Grenada, Barbados. But instead, he tells us he was taken as a slave and they sailed the Caribbean Sea to the coast of Venezuela. To Brazil where he writes to Amelia.’
His voice was harsh, spoken through thin lips, yet Edmund had described it so clearly. I had exact images in my mind – the rancid bilges, the locked grilles, the way he had stared up at the moon; the men who had died in their chains around him, the relentless heat, the fortifications they had been made to rebuild. The ships he had watched, the chance he had taken at just the right time.
‘He was imprisoned . . .’ I cried. ‘He has manacle scars on his wrists to prove it. I’ve seen them – deep purple bands that cut into his flesh. It’s in his medical records. He was imprisoned.’
In the sudden silence I saw pity in their eyes. Uncle Alex shook his head. ‘It’s the first thing they think to do. They get tight bands fitted to constantly chafe their skin; it might hurt, but it’s effective.’
I stared back in horror, fighting my tears. Lady Polcarrow’s frown deepened. She stood up, tall, elegant, the kindness in her voice making my mouth quiver. ‘Come, Miss Carew. We will withdraw and leave the men to their brandy.’
Deep sorrow etched Captain de la Croix’s fallen face. He remained silent, staring down at his plate, his fist held against his chin. He was a good man, kind and polite; there was no reason for him to lie, yet Edmund had lied this very morning. Lady Polcarrow slipped her hand through my arm, Aunt Marie’s hand was on my shoulder, strong, supportive, leading me to the door.
I needed time to breathe, to compose myself. I felt winded, my senses reeling. Edmund should have told me the truth – that he had crawled to safety and tried to find a ship home. I would not have thought less of him – no one would have thought less of him. Only Luke understood. Only Luke. My legs were buckling, Rose Polcarrow and Aunt Marie leading me as surely as I was leading Edmund to the gallows, as if I had hold of his hand and was taking him straight to the hangman. Stabbing him in the back. The worst kind of treachery.
Uncle Alex’s voice cut through my pain. ‘James, do you have pen and paper – enough for four of us? If you don’t mind, I’d like us to follow the ladies through to the drawing room. There’s something I’d like to do.’
‘Paper? Yes, I can certainly get some.’
‘Thank you. Something’s been niggling me, and I’d like to try something while we have Dr Bohenna with us.’
They followed right behind us. I sat upright and tense, Aunt Marie smoothing her gown as she sat beside me. A footman brought a filigree silver tray with a glass decanter and crystal glasses, and I watched Uncle Alex swirl his brandy in his hand. He had never wanted me to marry Edmund; he thought Edmund weak, mistaking his vulnerability for foolishness, his sensitivity for lack of manhood.
I fought for courage. Uncle Alex would have to defend Edmund’s character if it came to a court martial – I would plead with him, beg him to tell everyone Edmund was a good, kind, gentle man, that he was vulnerable, cruelly treated, and must have acted under the severest provocation.
Sir James was handing everyone a sheet of paper and Uncle Alex shook his head. ‘No paper for me, James – just one for Lady Polcarrow, my wife, yourself and Captain de la Croix. Perhaps you should all sit round the table and use this inkwell?’
He pointed to a round table between the two French windows and waited while they settled themselves with a sheet of paper, their pens poised. ‘Now, I want you to imagine that Midshipman Melville has suffered the rigours of a harsh imprisonment. He has been bartered for alcohol and finds himself heading for São Luís, in Brazil, on a ship that carries yellow fever. The crew are sick and dying, and Midshipman Melville is, himself, struck with the illness. The captain orders the sick men off the ship, and sends them in the direction of a sandy beach where he knows the good nuns of the Sacred Heart will take them in.’
He turned to Luke. ‘Dr Bohenna, describe if you please, how Sir Edmund would feel as he rises at the first opportunity from his near deathbed, to write a letter.’
Luke cleared his throat, glancing at me. ‘He’d be very weak – his legs especially. He’d be helped to the chair. He’d feel dizzy – light-headed. He may even have a pounding headache. Yellow fever causes aches in both the joints and the muscles so he’d be in pain and he might still have some residual fever.’
‘Thank you, Dr Bohenna.’ The lines round his mouth hardened. ‘So, Edmund Melville takes up the pen and with shaking hand starts to write . . . now, write, please. Each of you – Captain de la Croix, write in French. You are Edmund Melville, and this is the first opportunity you have to let your beloved fiancée know you’ve survived and you’re safe and will do your utmost to return to her as soon as possible. You’re feeling just as Dr Bohenna described but you’re filled with such elation. Now write, please . . . write from the heart.’
None of them had seen Edmund’s letter from the convent but Luke had, and I searched his face, the fire reflecting his auburn hints, the dusting of freckles on his cheeks. There was sadness in his eyes, a glance of fear, and my heart thumped. He looked as if he were trying to warn me. He had guessed what this was about and knew it would do me harm.
Their pens scratched the paper, their words flowing as Uncle Alex hovered behind them, watching the lines grow into a paragraph. ‘And stop,’ he said abruptly. ‘Stop now. Put down your pens. I don’t need to read what you’ve written, but if you could lay your letters out so we can see them.’
Luke came to my side and we walked slowly to the table. Captain de la Croix rose for me to take his seat and I hardly thanked him, staring instead at the different writing: Lady Polcarrow’s beautiful copperplate, Aunt Marie’s flowing loops and fancy flourishes, Sir James’ precise hand, the urgency in Captain de la Croix’s hurried scrawl.
All the letters ended abruptly, all mid-sentence, just like Edmund’s. They had written the name of the convent, the date, and had all started with My darling Amelia. But I was no longer his darling Amelia; I was his betrayer, the tightener of the noose that would hang him.
Uncle Alex pointed to each of the letters. ‘You’ve all written the Convent of the Sacred Heart and the date, but not one of you has written for whom the letter is intended. How is it to reach its destination?’
Lady Polcarrow raised
her hands in protest. ‘But you stopped us before we could address it, Sir Alex! You gave us very little time.’
‘You were going to finish the letter, then sign it, fold it, and write the address clearly, Lady Polcarrow?’
‘Yes, of course I was. I’m in São Luís, Brazil, and the letter must get to Truro. I would have addressed it very clearly.’
She had said the words he wanted to hear. He nodded, staring down at each of the letters. ‘Yes – you would leave an appropriate gap so that when you folded the letter, the address could be written on the front – and you would seal the letter on the back. But what if you knew you weren’t going to finish it? What if you were going to stop mid-sentence and someone else was going to find the letter and send it for you? You would need to make sure they knew where to send it.’
Rose Polcarrow’s bright eyes sharpened. ‘I’m not sure I quite understand, Sir Alex.’
I understood, and so did Luke. I held his gaze. This was how the trial would go, each man made to write the same letter. Uncle Alex was addressing me, but I could not look at him. I remained staring at Luke, desperate to hold back my tears.
‘Your parents told me Edmund had written the address on his letter – and it took eighteen months to reach you. But we’re a hard-bitten, cautious lot in the Admiralty. We pick over every word – every detail. Prize money is at stake, a man’s reputation. When officers return from unexplained absences we use a very fine toothcomb. Everything is questioned and indeed, everything Edmund told us was verifiable – the ship he escaped from was carrying what he said, and it had visited the ports he told us it had. The tides correlated to the seasons, the passage from Guadeloupe totally feasible, though he seemed to have had more wind in the doldrums than I would expect there to be, but his story added up. Everything he told us matched the seasons and the tides.’