"The flying squadron" - читать интересную книгу автора (Вудмен Ричард)

CHAPTER 7 A Riot in the Blood

His acceptance of Mistress Shaw's invitation troubled Drinkwater the following forenoon. He did not advertise his forthcoming absence from the ship, indeed he busied himself with the routine of paperwork to such an extent as almost to convince himself he had no appointment to keep. Mullender guessed something unusual was afoot, since the captain called for his boots to be blacked, but Mullender, being incurious, gave the matter little thought, and although Drinkwater had a coxswain, the man had never replaced Tregembo as a servant and confidant.

Oddly it was Thurston who almost by default came closest to the captain's soul that morning. Called in to make up the ship's books and to assist in the standing routine inspections of the purser's and surgeon's ledgers, Thurston fell into conversation with the captain.

Until then he had kept a respectful silence and attended to his duties, aware of the awful punishment Drinkwater had it in his power to dole out. He was conscious that the captain was neither inhumane nor illiberal, in so far as a post-captain in the Royal Navy could be expected to be either, having been guided in this matter by older heads who were less willing to heed the trumpets of revolution and had pointed out the virtues of service to the common weal. Thurston was intelligent enough and by then experienced enough to know the sea-service was different from life ashore and that, for cogent reasons, libertarian concepts were inimical to survival at sea. He had therefore learned to tread warily where Captain Drinkwater was concerned.

Drinkwater, on the other hand, now regarded Thurston with more interest than suspicion. By keeping the man to hand and working him hard, by altering his status from pressed man to captain's clerk and by making him a party to a measure of the frigate's more open secrets, Drinkwater had sought to seduce the revolutionary by responsibility.

Prompted by his guilty conscience, he addressed Thurston while the clerk cleared away pen, ink and sand.

'Well, Thurston,' he began, 'are you settled in your new employment?'

'Well enough, thank you, sir, under the circumstances.'

'What circumstances?' asked Drinkwater, puzzled.

'Of being held against my will, sir.'

Drinkwater gave a short cough to mask his surprise at the man's candour. 'I believe you to be luckier than you deserve, Thurston. You could have been transported.'

'That is true, sir, but that would have been a greater injustice. It in no way mollifies my outrage at being carried to sea. Both punishments, if punishments they be, are unjust.'

'Sedition is a serious matter,' said Drinkwater, regretting starting this conversation yet feeling he could not dismiss its subject lightly, despite the increasingly pressing nature of his engagement. 'You do not truly advocate rule by the mob?'

'Of course not, sir, but the mob is a consequence of the ill construction of government. By exalting some men, others are debased, until this distortion is inconsistent with natural order. The vast mass of mankind is consigned to the background of the human picture, to bring forward, with greater glare, the puppet-show of state and aristocracy.'

'A puppet-show, you say,' Drinkwater said, somewhat nonplussed.

'Indeed, sir, there is no class of men who despise monarchy more than courtiers.'

'You have had much experience of courtiers, have you, Thurston?' Drinkwater asked drily.

'My father was in the service of a duke, sir. It amounts to the same thing,' Thurston answered coolly.

'Ah, I see, so you do not want mobocracy?' Drinkwater said, returning to the safer ground of his earlier remark.

'No. Governments arise out of a man's individual weakness. He places himself and his own in the common stock of society. Locke says for the preservation of his property, but also for the security of his family. He becomes a proprietor in society and draws upon its common capital as a right, thus it follows that a civil right flows from a natural right. If all men behaved with equal respect the one to another, then an equilibrium would exist within society. Each man would give and take according to his means and abilities, thus the differences whose abolition is so much feared by those who misunderstand, would themselves be a natural, earned and unenvied consequence of civil rights, a right in themselves; but no man would want, be beggared or dispossessed, for he would by right hold that of the common stock to which he was entitled.'

'And if he failed to gain that stock, or to hold it... ?'

'He could not fail to gain it, it would be his by natural right. You only raise the matter of loss because you have lived under English law and know it to be possible even when a man does not actively break the law. Dispossession by enclosure, by loom and seed-drill and steam-engine, have severally destroyed the hopes of many, because artful men have seized upon this common stock and called it their own; they have then held it by the immoderate use of superstition and power, created a monarchy under which their privileges stand and are upheld by the law.' Thurston paused.

'That is all very well...'

'You know the doggerel, sir, I'm sure,' Thurston went on relentlessly:

'That is clever, Thurston ...'

'As it is true, sir. I do not seek to justify the excesses of a mob, even when it is made up of men without hope. But I do not condone the maintenance, at the expense of the unfortunate, of a parasitic court, of a self-perpetuating legislature, an unjust judiciary, the practitioners of sycophancy, nor all the recipients of privilege, those jacks-in-office who extract the last penny from a man in order that he may prove himself a free-born Englishman!'

Drinkwater wondered if, as a post-captain, he was himself included in that awful list as a recipient of privilege? Did Gantley Hall exist in even its moderate freehold at the expense of a dispossessed yeomanry? Yet he knew to what inequities Thurston referred. From the prevarications and vastly tedious pettifoggings of the High Court of Chancery, to the perquisites and bribes recognized as being necessary to further the public service, no area of life seemed exempt. He looked at his desk. If he and Thurston did not attend to their business properly, if these very books were not properly kept, then a mean-minded Admiralty clerk might postpone their clearance at the end of a commission. Such a delay meant his ship's company would not be paid, further exacerbating an already unjust system which failed to pay men for their labour until a commission ended, forcing them to resort to usurers who bought up their 'tickets' at discount rates, advancing the poor devils cash at far less than face value. It was customary for captains to pass a little money over with their books, to expedite the matter.

'How many widows' men have we entered for this morning, Thurston?' Drinkwater referred to the allowed practice of bearing upon a man-o'-war's books a number of non-existent men to provide a sum for relieving the hardships of the dependants of those lost or killed at sea by disease or action.

'The regulation six, sir.'

'I could make it twelve ... and either pocket the difference myself, or distribute it among the needy.'

'Sir, I had not meant anything personal...'

'I had not thought so, but either act would be illegal, within the strict letter of the regulations.'

'You suggest that I should wait for a better life in heaven then, sir?' Thurston asked, with a curious bitter hardening of his face.

'Do you truly think this world is capable of improvement?'

'Most assuredly so, sir.'

'They thought so in France, yet they have ended up with an Emperor Napoleon and have trampled on half the nations of Europe…'

Thurston shrugged, apparently undisconcerted by this irrefutable logic. 'They are the French, sir, and have merely trampled upon courts,' he said. Drinkwater suppressed a laugh with difficulty. Time was drawing on and he was more anxious than ever to escape the oppressive confines of the ship. 'They order things very differently hereabouts...' Thurston's eyes wandered wistfully through the stern windows to the sweep of green grass and deciduous woodland bordering the river. 'Very differently.'

'Thurston, you know very well why I had you made into my clerk, don't you?'

'I think so, sir.'

'You know so, sir ... and you know why I cannot tolerate your spreading your creed aboard this ship.'

'I know that, sir, and I pity you.'

'Have a care, Thurston, have a care, you may not find things would fall out quite as you wish even in Utopia. I am aware some men think you dangerous, while others think you mad. I am aware too that cranks are small things which make revolutions ...' The pun brought a smile back to Thurston's face, 'but the word on ship-board also signifies unstable and top-heavy, so have a care. Do you understand?'

'Oh, I understand, sir.'

They faced each other for a moment, the one, unresponsible and armed with the truth; the other worn down by obligations and compromised by the nature of the world.

'Pass word to call away my barge, if you please.'

On Drinkwater's insistence they rode away from the house directly inland. He had first enquired if there was news of Stewart's return with Vansittart's passport and having thus acquitted himself of the last demands of duty he gave himself up to pleasure with a rare and uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Vansittart reading his novel and patiently awaiting the acceptance of his credentials; Metcalfe, irritated by his non-participation in the previous evening's rout and further annoyed by Drinkwater's departure this morning; Frey, moonstruck and vacant; even Thurston righting all the world's ills with his honest and impossible creed — all could go hang for an hour or two. He had given them enough to keep them busy. A wood and watering party sent off under adequate guard, a restowing of the hold and a rattling down of the rigging should guard against the devil finding work for idle hands ...

It did not occur to him as he kicked the roan mare after the spirited chestnut gelding that he was the only one whose hands were, at least metaphorically, empty.

'Do we go alone?' he had asked as she walked the leading horse round the rearward corner of the house and so cut off the view of the river.

She had turned and patted a bulging saddle-bag. 'I have a luncheon here,' she called gaily, 'or do you think me in need of a chaperon?' The notion caused her to burst out into a peal of laughter and spur her horse.

For a moment or two Drinkwater was too preoccupied by the need to stay in the saddle to think of anything else. He was aware his dignity was non-existent as he struggled to get the rhythm of the trotting horse, urging the beast to canter as much to stay in the saddle as to keep up with his hostess. It was only when the mare obliged and Drinkwater recalled the tricks he had learned on a similar horse of Sir Richard White's, that it occurred to him Mistress Shaw was wearing breeches.

The day was fine and sunny, with small puffballs of cumulus clouds trailing downwind under the influence of a fresh breeze which made the leaves of the trees rustle delightfully. He had never fully mastered the skills of horsemanship, unlike his father and his younger brother. The former was long dead but Ned, he supposed, was still at large, somewhere in Russia, an adopted Cossack.

And here he was, in Virginia, behaving like a fool in hot pursuit of a delightful rump as it bounced ahead of him and, dear Christ, went over a hedge!

'God's bones,' he swore, recalling his mother's adage that pride invariably preceded a fall. There was no need for fate to be so literal, he thought desperately as the hedge drew rapidly closer. And then with a sense of mounting panic he realized it was not a hedge. This was not enclosed England, but wide and wonderful Virginia. He was confronted by a row of bushes which, he realized with sudden certainly, ran alongside a little brook. He was too late to rein in; he felt the mare gather herself and, at the last moment, remembered to lean forward. The mare crashed through the brushwood and stretched herself for the brook beyond. He saw the bright flash of water and then his whole frame shook as the mare landed and the bony structure of her shoulders steadied and received his weight. The horse stumbled, recovered, and began to pant as it breasted the rising ground beyond the brook. Relieved, Drinkwater took stock of his surroundings. Mistress Shaw had halted her horse on the summit of the hill. He pulled up alongside her.

'You promised me ...' he panted.

'A docile mount, not an easy ride,' she laughed, cutting him short.

'Thank God your horse knows the lie of the land.'

'Betsy would die rather than throw you,' she said, leaning forward and affectionately patting his mount on her neck. The mare whinnied softly and the chestnut threw up his own head and jingled a protest at this favouritism.

For a moment they sat on their horses and regarded the view in silence. Drinkwater was surprised how far and how high they had come. He could see the roof of Castle Point, and beyond, on the silver-grey waters of the Potomac, the two ships with the bright spots of their rival ensigns at their sterns.

'They look so insignificant from here, don't they,' she said. It was not a question, nor could he argue with the fact.

'They are,' he said suddenly, and the sense of liberation the words gave amazed him. In a sudden impulsive movement he had jerked Betsy's head round to the west and kicked his unspurred heels into her flanks. Without looking back he worked the mare up to a gallop, dropping down towards more trees on the far side of the hill.

She watched him for a moment, holding her own restively eager horse in check until the foam flew from its mouth. Her heart was hammering inexplicably and she knew her hesitation was useless; yet she felt compelled to wait, not knowing the reason for this foolishness. When she could stand it no longer, she gave a yelp, flicked the reins and let the chestnut have its head.

The two ships were instantly hidden behind the summit.

'You remind me of a magnolia we have at home,' he said. 'It grows against a south-facing wall and produces flowers of a singular loveliness.'

'We have them here in Virginia,' she said, blushing and busying herself with the game pie. 'Do you open this.'

He sat up and took the bottle and corkscrew while she knelt and laid two plates upon the spread cloth.

'You have more than a magnolia at home, Captain,' she said pointedly, after a long pause, her voice strained.

'And still you remind me of it,' he said, placing the uncorked bottle on a level corner of the cloth, 'magnolia, home and beauty.'

'Have you killed, Captain?' she asked suddenly, looking at him squarely, her expression intent.

'In cold blood, or action?' he prevaricated, wondering why she had so cruelly turned his love-making aside.

'Does it matter?'

He shrugged. 'Perhaps not to you…'

'You men think by setting such moral questions in grades of dreadfulness to make them acceptable.'

'I am somewhat wearied of moral judgements being made against me today. You are not the first woman to ask that question of me. I am a sea-officer, for better or worse. I have my duty.'

'Does it not bother your conscience that you murder with some proficiency?'

'Of course; but adultery is a sin as proscribed as murder, madam, yet is indulged in with little thought by people who do not conceive themselves as wicked. It has been a matter of amazement to me that one who moralizes about the evils of the latter can so easily practise the former. I am a sinner, but hesitate to throw stones.'

She had coloured and bit her lip, then said, 'I had not expected such flippancy.'

'Would you have me bare my soul to a stranger?'

'Perhaps,' she said, looking at him again, 'the stranger would wish to be otherwise.' She poured the wine into two glasses and handed him one.

'And what would the stranger be? An adulterer, or merely a magnolia?'

'Perhaps both.'

Later she propped herself on an elbow and looked down at him as he stared impassively at the clouds moving slowly above the trees.

'You regret what has happened, don't you, Nathaniel?' He remained silent, staring upwards. 'Do not, I beg you, if only for my sake. For you 'twas but a riot in the blood.'

He turned and looked at her, and saw her eyes were brim full of tears.

'I think we are both too old for such ... such rioting to be passed over thus easily.'

'It doesn't signify ...'

'On the contrary,' he said gently, 'even madness has its own place under heaven.'

'Do you feel any different now?'

He smiled sadly. 'Not all men spend in the same manner as they piss, Arabella. Perhaps I wish I did, it would make my infidelity the easier to bear.'

'I do not think', she said, her voice trembling, 'you should reproach yourself. I am not...'

He took her hand and smiled at her. The boyish attractiveness had gone, replaced by something she could not describe, but which would, she knew with the certainty of true foreboding, haunt her future loneliness. 'My darling ...' she breathed.

They arrived back at Castle Point at sunset. As they approached, walking their horses for fear they might arrive too soon, yet both aware their arrival was inevitable, the sound of shots rang out. Seized by a sudden awful thought that his absence had precipitated wholesale desertion, he pushed the mare forward until he saw Moncrieff's scarlet coat floundering through a reedbed waving a duck above his head. Relieved, he watched the wildfowling party which appeared to consist of Moncrieff, Metcalfe and Davies, one of the master's mates, until Arabella drew level with him.

'They are fowling,' he said, 'I hope with your father-in-law's permission.'

'You are forgetting me already,' she reproached him.

'When I heard those shots I feared for my life,' he remarked grimly, then turned towards her. Her hair was dishevelled and her cheeks were wet with tears. 'My dear,' he said, his voice thick with emotion, 'you make me reproach myself... please, do not cry, I am not worth it.'

She sniffed noisily. 'We must ride back to the house. Let us at least look as if the day was enjoyable.' And she drove her spurs into the chestnut's flanks so that the galled horse reared up and then leapt forward into a gallop.

Drinkwater followed as best he could, but she was already dismounting as he drew rein in the gravelled courtyard before the stables. The negro groom was rubbing down a large black stallion and, as the horses whinnied at each other and the stallion stamped, Zebulon Shaw came towards them.

'Bella ... Captain Drinkwater, I trust you enjoyed your excursion.' He clapped his hands and a little negro stable-boy ran out and took the two bridles. Shaw spoke to his daughter-in-law and she turned to her guest.

'My brother is back and wishes that you and Mr Vansittart join us for dinner. He has brought the answer we wish for.' Her triumph was tempered by the formality about to overlay the day's intimacy.

'It is surely good news, Captain Drinkwater,' Shaw said.

'Surely, sir,' Drinkwater replied, easing himself out of the saddle. He looked at Arabella. 'It is for the best, I think,' he added in a low voice.

She caught his eye and then bit her lip, just as Elizabeth was wont to do, turned away and went into the house.

'Shall we say in two hours, Captain?' asked Shaw, looking from the retreating back of his daughter-in-law to the large turnip-watch in his red fist. 'Charles has retreated to his ship refusing the ministrations of our servants to wash the dust off him, but I reckon he'll be ashore again by then.'

'I'll fetch Vansittart, Mr Shaw, and perhaps we can make some travelling arrangements for him ...'

'Of course, of course,' Shaw waved aside any trifling difficulties of that nature. "Tis in a good cause, Captain, the noble cause of peace.'

'Indeed, sir, it is.'

It was almost dark when he reached the water's edge at the same time as the returning shooting-party.

'Have you had a good bag?' he asked and was caught up in the jocular repartee of their high spirits. Metcalfe seemed to have forgiven Drinkwater his absence and had gathered an impressive bag. Already the events of the afternoon were become a memory.

He paused on the quarterdeck and looked back at the shore. The white fagade of Castle Point was grey in the gathering dusk. A few lit windows blazed out, some hid behind curtains. Was Arabella concealed behind one, washing him from her voluptuous body and dressing for the evening?

'Post coitus omnes triste est,' murmured Drinkwater to himself, and went unhappily below.