There is no sight that stirs human emotions like that of a beautiful woman in a beautiful gown. Esther Pimenta and her friends gasped and clapped as Selena entered the salon dressed in a sack-back gown underpinned with stays and panniers, laced across the bust with ribbon, and with sleeves bearing cuffs trimmed with French lace.
The gown was the pride of Esther Pimenta's collection: fearfully expensive, superbly cut, and of the most lustrous yellow silk. It was a gown to enhance the beauty of any woman, but never had it shown to such advantage as when worn by Mrs Selena Garland. Only her darkness could set off the yellow quite so well. Only her daintiness, elegance and femininity could so perfectly compliment the complex trimming of the gown, which on lesser women was merely pretty, but on her was glorious.
Selena smiled at them and curtsied, and they rose and returned the compliment and applauded still louder. Esther Pimenta applauded with them, even though it was her gown, and even though she could never wear it again for fear of the comparisons that would be drawn. But in compensation she glanced at Mrs Judith Harrow, whose rivalry had been definitively squashed by the delivery into Charlestown society of the exotic black nymph Esther was parading before them now. She didn't actually own the nymph, but Charlestown treated her as if she did.
Selena spotted the glance and smiled to herself. It was an enormous pleasure to be a woman, to dress as a woman, to be among women, and to recover all the elegance that had been hers when Miss Eugenie Delacroix had loved her It was a joy to be among something softer and cleaner than dirty sailors with their constant violence, gluttonous drinking and filthy speech.
At the same time, she was aware that, while Meshod Pimenta was indulging her because he still had hopes of a bargain with Flint, Mrs Esther Pimenta was parading her round town in fine gowns for an entirely different reason. It was the same reason Eugenie Delacroix had taken Selena as a companion. She had become a doll again, a little black doll to be dressed and made pretty and shown off, displaying for society's entertainment the tricks she'd been taught: speaking properly, using a teacup and reading French. At least, that was how it seemed to Selena now, listening to the applause — supposedly for her, but actually aimed at Esther Pimenta.
Ah well! Selena shrugged. She'd learned to live for the day. There was little point in making plans. She was as trapped now as ever she'd been on the Delacroix plantation. So she played the role, sat down, took tea, chatted and gossiped and was persuaded to read once more from the Mercure and to suffer the pride and ownership in Esther Pimenta's eyes as she did so. Then…
Windows shook, tea-cups rattled to the thud-boom of artillery. The ladies gasped, and a servant was sent to find out why the guns of the battery were firing — if it was the batteries and not the French! Or even the Spanish! There was real fear in the room. Charlestown's walls hadn't been built for nothing; her residents were all too aware that a war which started in Europe with proper warnings and diplomacy might announce itself out here by the arrival of an enemy fleet with guns run out and loaded.
Meanwhile, Selena had her own cause to be alarmed. What if Flint were taken? What if he were killed? Where could she go? What would Meshod Pimenta do? She'd seen how he looked at her.
"There ain't no cause to worry, ma'am," said Thomas the butler, hurrying into the salon. "It's an English squadron, salutin' off Fort Johnson as they comes into the bay. There's four ships, ma'am, and…"
But nobody was listening. The ladies were all transported into excitement, in anticipation of the wonderful calendar of social occasions that must follow the arrival of a naval squadron — a squadron packed with officers who would need to be entertained by the town.
"Ladies!" cried Esther Pimenta, before Judith Harrow should think of saying anything. "Up! Up!" she clapped her hands like a schoolteacher. "Why are we sitting here when a fine new squadron is coming in? Let's go up on the walls to see them!"
So Esther Pimenta led her own squadron through the streets of Charlestown, and since the weather was cool but comfortable, the squadron sailed without cloaks or topcoats, the better to demonstrate the fact that they were the elite of Charlestown, proclaimed by the rich colours and costly materials on display. Under full sail, they proceeded down Broad Street towards the Half Moon Bastion and a fine view of the bay.
Meanwhile, the town shook to the multiple concussions of warships discharging their guns. The city walls and bridges were black with townspeople cheering, gaping, and pointing across the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper rivers to where a Royal Navy squadron was coming in — and doing so in style! Where merchantmen crept nervously under topsails, the squadron charged into the anchorage under full sail, as only men-o'-war could do with their massive, expert crews. And the four ships sailed in a line astern that could have been drawn with a ruler and measured with a chain.
They were led by HMS Oraclaesus, flying a commodore's broad pennant at the main and a red ensign astern. She was one of the finest ships in King George's navy: an eight-hundred- ton frigate, the first of her class, mounting twenty-eight twelve- pounder guns, with two hundred and fifty men aboard, including fifty marines. Behind her came Bounder, Leaper and Jumper: identical sloops of two hundred tons each, with ten six-pounders and a hundred and fifty men embarked. Like the flagship, they were brand new, with no expense spared in their fitting out, right down to the very latest advance in shipbuilding: actual copper sheathing on their hulls — a technical marvel that gave greater speed, and complete protection from ship-worm.
Any man could see that the bringing together of such splendid ships showed serious political interest was at work. Undoubtedly some heavy purpose was being served here.
Having saluted Fort Johnson at the mouth of the bay, the four ships forged onward in silence, coming closer and closer to the out-jutting piers of Charlestown, heeling to the wind under bulging sails: topmasts and topgallants curving to the strain, colours flying, white water under their bows. Not even a bosun's call was heard as the squadron drove deep into the anchorage. It was a magnificent sight, but the show had only just begun.
Boom! A gun spouted smoke from the bows of the flagship and — like parts of a machine — the four vessels came into the wind together. It was majestic to behold: like dancers performing a quadrille, they came about in perfect synchronisation, dropped anchor with a roar and a rumble, and simultaneously struck canvas.
When the powder smoke cleared, the four ships were as steady at anchor as if they'd been there a week.
There was a moment's silence then a band struck up on the flagship's quarterdeck and all hands in all four ships, sang with a wilclass="underline"
God save Great George our king!
Long live our noble king!
God save our king…
Grown men wept at the beauty of it, and those who knew the words of this patriotic song joined in with choking voices: especially those who dreamed of the homeland; especially those afraid of the French; especially those who were seafarers — and that meant most of Charlestown.
Two who did not sing with choking voices were Joe Flint and Danny Bentham; both being infinitely far from King George's grace and his navy's favour. Also not singing were Charley Neal and Brendan O'Byrne who — as Irishmen — had no time for songs about English kings. These four stood silent on the Half Moon Bastion among the crowds of singing, cheering Charlestownians, but they still marvelled at the seamanship displayed.