Authors: Christine Trent
They returned the following morning only to be told to return again the next day.
And the next day.
And the next.
In all they waited nearly a week for the weather to settle down enough for the captain to signal for a departure. The women’s nerves were frayed, Marie’s because of the ever-burgeoning expenses of the move, and Marguerite’s as she drew inward in contemplation of what her life was to be in Dublin.
Ash House, London.
Nathaniel’s search for Marguerite had been rather fruitless, but proved to be far more interesting than cozying up to whatever latest bucktoothed, pockmarked young lady of wealth his mother had dredged up from the Society papers. His first act had been to write to Marguerite’s aunt. He’d received a rather curt reply from Lady Greycliffe that she had no idea where Marguerite was off to at the moment, but that she was sure Marguerite would have told him had she wanted him to know.
Damned impertinent she was.
He next engaged a private inquiry agent, but the most he learned was that the wax exhibition she was apprenticed to, Dr. Curtius’s Cabinet of Wonders, had left London for Edinburgh, then disappeared. It was supposed to have gone on to Wales, but there was no evidence of it ever having arrived there.
Hmm. Now what?
Wouldn’t it be a lark to go himself to look for her? Imagine the surprise on her face to see him there. And that surprise turning to great admiration when she learned how brave and clever he had been to find her. Smarter and more courageous than his idiot brother, for sure. Her shock would be better than the haughty look she had worn as Nicholas’s wife.
But what would he have to show for his efforts once her initial amazement wore off? He’d need something to demonstrate that
he was a better man than his brother ever was. He needed an
honor, a medal, a recognition that even she could not deny. Wait—didn’t Mother say something about Mr. Pitt forming a new alliance to displace the prime minister? That would be a jolly intrigue. And one at the top levels of the government. Splendid.
He rang for a servant to fetch him two bottles of the finest port in the Ashby cellar.
Marguerite’s level of stunned exhaustion had reached a peak she had not known since the early days of her husband’s death.
My first husband, that is.
The group trudged up the plank onto the ship whose tall sails still whipped about in the dying wind as they were set in place. Each carried a valise of clothing and supplies, plus Marie and Marguerite toted aboard an additional box of their most valuable waxworking supplies.
Had they only known that weather was not to be their only problem.
They boarded
EarlMoira
with about one hundred other shivering passengers and a handful of crew. The trip began well enough as they sailed calmly out of the Firth of Clyde and into the North Channel, with brief stops at Rothesay and Brodick to pick up and drop off passengers. Most passengers stayed below deck and out of the cold, but Joseph’s unflinching nerve for sailing demanded that he stay above deck to watch the wind and waves. Marie and Marguerite stayed to keep the boy company, while Philipsthal followed the other passengers down below. “Good riddance,” Marie mouthed to Marguerite as they watched his retreating back. Marguerite didn’t respond, her mind already churning at the realization of what it meant to undergo another sea voyage. She had been so frantic over Philipsthal these last few weeks that she had given little thought to being at sea again. At least the weather seemed to have improved.
But the voyage’s simple good luck was not to last.
The captain came to see what hardy souls were braving the chill on deck.
“It’s my son, sir,” Marie told him, a protective arm around
Joseph. “My little Nini, I call him. He’s a very good sailor and doesn’t want to go below deck and miss the activity up here.”
“Alack! And what of his women folk? You need to consider them, don’t you, my boy?” He removed Joseph’s hat and ruffled his hair. “Don’t one of you have a husband about? I thought I saw a tall man with you.”
Marguerite spoke up. “Yes, Captain, my husband chose to go below deck.”
“And leave a beautiful lass like you all alone? Why, you would charm the tail off old Lucifer himself. I ’spect my crew is off right now dueling over who will get to speak to you first. A fool your husband is, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”
The captain belched, loudly enough to be heard over the sails flailing above and the water slapping against the hull below.
He put a hand over his mouth. “Mmm, sorry, ladies. Must have been some spoiled beef. You best get below deck soon, though. Son, you’ll take care of them now, d’ye hear me?”
Joseph nodded solemnly at the uniformed figure before him.
“Marie”—Marguerite grabbed her friend’s arm as the captain disappeared from sight—”I could swear that man is in his cups. Did you smell the fumes when he blew wind at us?”
“I did, but thought it was as he said. Foul meat.”
“I don’t think so. I wonder if he’s fit to pilot the ship. A drunken captain is a dangerous one.” As though the journey itself was not enough to fret about.
“He’s got crew, though, my girl. They take care of things. Not to worry.”
But Marguerite was not convinced.
As the prow headed into the open waters of the Irish Sea the weather became impossibly colder, and so the trio headed into the interior of the ship, much to Joseph’s protests. They did not seek out Philipsthal, but instead found companionship with a family by the name of Callum, consisting of a husband, wife, and three young girls of whom the eldest could not be more than ten years of age. They were traveling to Dublin as well. Mr. Callum was a land surveyor by trade, but had fled the Catholic persecutions in Ireland more than fifteen years earlier. He settled in Scotland, married
and had children, and thought to spend his life there. But the toning down of persecution over the last decade, followed by the Act of Union in 1801, convinced him that it might be time to return home. Especially since there was now a profusion of ambitious building projects going on in Dublin that could keep him employed for many years.
The adults played cards in a common area where many passengers milled about, while Joseph and the Callums’ three girls explored the ship together. Marguerite quickly realized that her innards were far more unsettled down inside the ship than they were topside. She rubbed a hand furtively across her stomach.
Please, dear God, don’t let me embarrass myself in front of all these passengers.
At least she had no headache.
But soon enough her intestinal focus was replaced by sheer terror.
In the open sea past the Isle of Man and northeastern tip of Ireland, the weather seemed to worsen. High gusts of wind blew around the ship, rocking her to and fro. Before long the rocking became violent pitching and it was plain that the ship was making no forward progress whatsoever. Silence fell over the common area, except for the scattered cries of children. Joseph and the three girls returned, all to hide inside their mothers’ strong embraces. Leaky vessels, storms, and pirating were all common enough in British waters. What was this ship’s fate today?
People withdrew into themselves, cards and games forgotten. The Callum family huddled together, with Mr. Callum offering them words of solace and encouragement.
Marie began muttering. “Figures … knocking about … Philipsthal’s fault … need more wax bricks …”
Marguerite tried to encourage her. “Madame, we packed the figures as tightly and securely as we could. As long as the ship doesn’t—oh!” The ship listed fiercely to one side then righted itself. “As long as the ship does not go down, they should be safe.”
Marie raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes, so long as the ship does not go down everything will be perfect.”
Marguerite could not help laughing, despite her woozy stomach
and the odor of fear permeating the ship. It was so rare that her friend showed a sense of humor.
“I suppose I should go and find Paul. Joseph, would you like to accompany me?” Marguerite stood and held out a hand to him, gripping a nearby beam with her other hand. He eagerly took it.
“Yes, Mrs. Philipsthal, I will take care of you.”
And even in the dim interior of the pitching ship, Marguerite could see Marie’s glow of pride in her young son. As she turned to leave, she saw that some of the passengers were making their way up to the deck for air, bitter and dangerous as it may be up there. Others were retching into barrels.
They found Philipsthal in his cabin, furiously scratching away on a parchment. The room reeked of vomit and a slop bucket in the corner gave full evidence of how he had been occupying most of his time until this point.
“Whatever are you doing?” Marguerite asked him.
He turned his ashen face, usually so ruddy and hale, toward her. “I am preparing my last will and testament. I must ensure that I provide for you, sweeting, in case something happens on the ship. What say you to that?”
Provide what?
Without Marie he was as poor as a church beggar. She ignored his question.
“Wouldn’t you feel better up on deck? We’re going up there next. Many of the passengers are doing so to get out of this reeking place.”
“They’re all fools to go up. They’ll be washed overboard.” Philipsthal returned to his scribbling.
Marguerite and Joseph stumbled their way back to his mother, whom they found busy trying to comfort an elderly couple. Marguerite could hear them chattering away in French. She waited for Marie to conclude her ministrations, then proposed to her that they follow the other passengers making their way to the upper deck. Marie grimly agreed that topside was probably the best place to be, and insisted that the old man and his wife accompany them. They clutched hands in a single line with Marguerite leading the way, the old couple behind her, and Marie at the rear with Joseph grasping her skirts.
It was difficult to even make their way to the narrow stairway with the ship continuing to pitch and roll. Marguerite had to help the wife get up from the deck twice. The woman was reduced to sobbing in French.
“Mon Dieu, aidez-moi. Dieu nous aide tous.”
God help us all, indeed.
But their little ragtag group finally made it up into the open air, edging their way along beams, ropes, or other available surfaces that would help them maintain balance. Most of the passengers were clinging to rails along the outer edge of the ship. It had started raining since Marguerite went below. She and the others were soaked by the downpour in seconds, and the drenching seemed to make even her blood freeze. It was impossible to see very far off the ship at all. The only clear things were the waves, now close to reaching the deck of the ship.
What would happen then?
We should have stayed below.
She helped the old couple find seating, such as it was, along the outer edge of the ship, urging them to hold fast to ropes. She had to shout loudly to be heard, and even then the couple looked confused. So she placed the fibers directly into their hands and motioned with her own that they should stay down.
At the moment she let go of the rope, a large white wave crested up like a watery gorgon over the ship, crashing down and sluicing its snaky fingers around the deck, searching for victims. It was rewarded with a man who was trying to calm a crying child. The water knocked them both to the deck, but grabbed the man in its sodden grasp and heaved him over the side of the ship into a frothing grave.
Marguerite, too, felt herself being pulled downward, sliding in rhythm with the ship’s tilt. Her head rapped sharply against the decking and she blacked out for seconds—minutes?—before she saw a stranger’s face looming over her, gently smacking her face to bring her to consciousness.
She sat up, grasping his hand and sitting up, but the man disappeared before she could properly thank him. She crawled to where she saw a grate on the deck’s floor, and curled her fingers into the
grid pattern to keep from going overboard. The wind and rain were whipping now, too much for her to have much awareness of where she truly was. Was Marie still topside? Was that Joseph, near the stairs, going back below? The only reality was the incessant onslaught of water over the deck, combined with the ship’s sharp pitching and the equally sharp cries of the people who could barely be heard over the roaring wind.
More waves crashed onto the deck, picking off passengers in twos and threes. Marguerite shut her eyes and held on to the grate as though she were clutching her dying husband again. The water felt like sheets of ice pummeling her body into submission.
But the gorgon will not have me. I will not give in to her. I will not be fodder to the sea.
For a brief moment she was transported back to the day she sat down in a tiny stream at Hevington and willed herself to lie back and be drowned. But things were different now. She had to stay alive. To help Marie. To develop her craft. Even to—God help her—help Paul with his own show and learn to be a good wife.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a tremendous jolt. The ship was no longer moving. Had they managed to anchor somewhere? No, the ship would still be bouncing wildly. But within a few moments the ship had dislodged itself from whatever had grasped it and the roiling continued.
The shrieking on deck was unbearable. Was she screaming herself? Underneath her was the distant sound of moaning, praying, and cries for help from down below. Would this voyage of terror never end?
Again the ship seemed to collide with something. Where was the captain? Was the ship steering itself while he drank himself into oblivion?
And now a great groaning noise rose above the bitter winds, sharp rain, and piteous cries of people both below deck and those under continual threat by the water gorgon.
Marguerite wasn’t sure what had happened, only that the ship was once again jammed against something. But what was that deafening noise? It sounded as if the ship was complaining vociferously against the unfair treatment it had received by its captain.
And now the groaning was replaced by another noise, this one even more terrifying. The sounds of cracking and splintering could be heard—no, felt—everywhere. They must be grounded somewhere.