Eventually, Roscarrock returned to his cabin and set himself to wait for the fog to clear. It was another hour before Midshipman Hart knocked on the door and touched his hat. “Mr. Gervaise’s compliments, sir. The fog is clearing rapidly now. There is a nor’-northwesterly wind beginning to blow.”
Roscarrock stood up. “Excellent. Take a run up aloft and scan the horizon. I don’t think the Frenchman has remained nearby, but we don’t want any surprises. I will come on deck immediately.”
Hart touched his hat again and turned out of the cabin.
Roscarrock reached for the brandy bottle and poured a generous glass from its amber contents.
Time seemed to pass interminably.
There was a sudden commotion on deck.
He raised his glass and swallowed quickly.
There was a cry: “Pass the word for the captain!”
Almost immediately one of the youngest midshipmen knocked at his door, a lad no more than fourteen years old.
“Mr. Gervaises compliments, sir,” came his childish piping treble. “Would you come on deck immediately, sir?”
Roscarrock grabbed his hat and followed the boy on to the quarterdeck.
He glanced around as he came out of the companionway. “What is it, Gervaise? Is it the Frenchman?”
Gervaises face was pale. “Young Hart, sir. He came on deck, sprang into the stays, and went scrambling up the mainmast to the crow’s nest. He was up there before I could warn him! Didn’t I mention earlier that the chain shot had frayed the rigging and splintered the spars there? All above the mains’1 was unstable. Young Hart just slipped, lost his footing, and came crashing down to the main deck.”
He indicated toward where a group of sailors were gathered around something that looked like a bundle of clothes.
Surgeon Smithers rose from his knees by it and glanced upward toward the captain. He stood his head in a studied fashion. “Neck clean broke, Cap’n,” he called.
Roscarrock turned back to Gervaise. “Was there no way the boy could have been warned before he went up the main rigging?” he demanded.
Gervaise shook his head. “What was the boy climbing up there for anyway?”
“I told him to go aloft,” replied Roscarrock. “I wanted a sweep around with the fog clearing to see if the Frenchman was anywhere in sight. I didn’t realize that he would go for the mainmast. I thought everyone had been warned that it was unstable. I presumed that he would use the mizzenmast crow’s nest, which would give a good clearance of the horizon, but…”
“Poor little sod,” muttered Lieutenant Unstead roughly. He had been standing behind Lieutenant Gervaise. “One more body to go over the side, I suppose. Fll get the sail-maker to stitch up another canvas and shot.”
An hour later the sloop was tacking across the wind, moving painfully slowly north-northwest across the bight toward the waiting British fleet.
Captain Richard Roscarrock sat at his desk and unlocked the cupboard, drawing forth the small miniature. He gazed down at the young, soft face, with the golden ringlets and pert red lips that smiled out from it. He stared in disapproval for a moment and then returned it, taking out the sheaf of letters that had been so emotionally addressed to Lieutenant Jardine and signed “your own adoring P.”
They were outpourings of a desperate and naive love. Hart had been right. The last letter had alerted Jardine to the young woman’s suspicion that her husband had found out about their affair and was a threat to Jardine’s life. It was clear that the husband, whose name was not indicated in the letter, was a fellow officer on board the Deerhound.
Roscarrock gave a low sigh, folded them up, and returned them to the locker.
He drew some clean sheets of paper toward him and reached for the pen and ink.
He addressed his letter to Mrs. Mary Roscarrock, care of the Rat and Raven Inn, Chatham. Then he paused a few moments for thought before beginning: My dearest wife, Polly… He paused and smiled grimly to himself. It was a good thing young Hart’s education had been lacking in that he had not realized Polly was used as a diminutive of Mary.
THE PASSING SHADOW
“And talk of Time slipping by you, as if it was an animal of
rustic sports with its tail soaped.”
The two men sat opposite each other, either side of a dark oak table in the dark, tiny snug of the Thameside tavern. There were no windows in the curious threecornered little room. A gas burner, jutting from the wall above the solitary table, gave a curious flickering light, reflecting reddish on the red oak paneling. The elder man was in his early fifties, small of stature, immaculately dressed and coiffured, his curly hair receding from a broad forehead. A small “goatee” beard and mustache gave him the appearance of an intellectual, perhaps a professor. The other man was younger, in his thirties, fair of skin, with wide blue eyes and auburn hair. His handsome features had an indefinable Irish quality about them, although when he spoke, his soft, wellmodulated tones were clearly those of someone educated in England.
There had been a momentary silence between them while a young girl had brought a tray into the snug on which reposed a decanter of port and two glasses. She had placed it on the table between them and left with a bobbed curtsy, for she was well aware of the identity of the older guest that now sat gazing moodily at the cutglass decanter as the gaslight caused it to flicker and flash with a thousand points of light.
“I think that you are worried, esteemed father-in-law.” The younger man broke the silence with a smile.
The elder man turned with a disapproving frown and commenced to pour the port into the glasses. “You know that I hate being addressed as father-in-law,” he reproved.
The young man shrugged. “Since I married your daughter, Kate, I have been at odds as to how to address you. Since I am called Charles and you are called Charles, it would sound like some echo in the conversation if we hailed each other with that mode of address.”
The elderly man’s eyes lightened with humor. “In that case, let us agree. I shall call you Charley, and you may address me as Charles; otherwise, we shall have to resort to the formal Mr. Collins and Mr. Dickens.”
He pushed the port across the table, and his son-in-law dutifully raised the glass. “Your health, Charles,” his son-in-law toasted solemnly.
“Yours, too, Charley. I hope your new novel sells well.”
“StraithcairnP” The young man laughed whimsically. “Alas, I will never succeed as a novelist like my brother Wilkie. He has made more out of his Woman in White than I have made out of both my novels. My art lies in illustration, as you know. I am more of an artist than writer, as was my father.”
“Although I believe that your grandfather wrote?”
“Indeed, he did, sir. But had to leave his native Ireland to come to this country in order to earn a living as a picture restorer. Being no man of business, he failed to provide for his family.”
“In that, we share a common background, Charley. That is what endears me to you. Moreover, I respect your critical opinion.”