Authors: Christine Trent
Mr. Beatty caught sight of Marguerite, and scowled as though seeing her for the first time.
“Dratted woman. Be off with you now. I need to treat these men’s wounds.”
Without thinking she said, “I can help.”
“Help? You? How would that be? You haven’t done much but be in the way, have you?”
“I’ve not had much of a chance, have I?”
The surgeon crossed his arms in front of him. “And just how is a delicate little missy like you going to help these bleeding men?”
She looked around desperately and caught sight of one of her bags.
“I can make masks!” she exclaimed triumphantly.
“Are you daft? They’re not going to a ball.”
“No no, I mean that I know how to mix plasters. Surely you will apply a plaster of some sort to their backs. I can help you. Give me the ingredients and I will make it for you. Then the three of you will be free for more important duties.”
Mr. Beatty stared incredulously at her, as though she had asked to be allowed to amputate a leg or dig shrapnel out of a man’s chest.
One of the flogged men groaned and slumped down out of his helper’s grasp, falling forward and hitting the floor with a thud. Marguerite went and knelt before him to examine his tattered back, full of countless bloody welts. They would not heal easily.
Without waiting for approval from the surgeon, she opened his locker and whisked out a large wooden bowl and ladle.
“Tell me your recipe so I can make a poultice for him. Hurry. This man is in pain.” When he didn’t respond, she added,
“Now
, Mr. Beatty.”
The surgeon shook his head and reached into the locker, pulling out a ragged notebook. He flipped through it until he found what he wanted and handed it to her without a word, then turned away to issue instructions for lifting the flogged men into beds. The last she saw of him he was headed back up the stairs, shouting upward to have the next two flogged sailors set aside for him to check.
Marguerite ran her finger down the list of ingredients and began poring through the locker looking for them. She lifted out a buckled case and opened it. Inside were vials, bottles, and boxes of various creams and liquids. From the case she pulled a corked bottle of olive oil, a wrapped paper of flour, and a small box marked “Litharge of Lead.” She put all of these items in the bowl and scurried off to the officers’ galley with her supplies, but not before
stopping off at each of the two occupied sick beds and offering the men a word of comfort.
Since most of the crew was on the quarterdeck witnessing the punishment, the galley was empty. She spread her things on top of an upright barrel in the middle of the area. A kettle boiled merrily on its hook atop the iron stove. Using a nearby rag, she lifted the kettle from its perch and poured some water into her bowl. She blew on the scalding water until it cooled enough for her to taste it with her finger. Fresh water, excellent. She allowed it to cool a few moments more, then added the proper amounts of oil and lead, stirring after each addition. When she felt the plaster was of a proper consistency, she sprinkled in some of the flour. She stirred again until the powder was blended into the rest of the mixture, and returned to where the injured sailors lay.
Marguerite went to the swinging bed of the man groaning the loudest, bending over and saying quietly, “I won’t ask if it hurts, since that would be the question of a knave. I’ve brought you something that will help you. It’s cool and should make you feel better.”
The man nodded his head weakly. With the expert hand of a waxworker, she scooped some of the plaster out of the bowl and gently applied it to his back. The man’s groan this time was one of relief. It did little to block out the noise of the continued floggings two decks above them.
Out of habit, she passed a fleeting thought to how she would recreate the man’s back as part of a wax figure. What an interesting character it would make for the Separate Room.
When she considered his back to be sufficiently coated, she moved on to the second man, who looked up at her fearfully with one eye.
“What’s your name?” she asked as she gave the poultice another stir to keep it from hardening.
“Wynn. What’s that you got?”
“’S okay, Wynn,” called the first man from his bunk. “Feels good. Makes me want to sleep. Guess we’re lucky we didn’t have to go right back to work.”
Marguerite lifted a full ladle up for the man to see. He nodded and she applied it in the same manner as she did the first. Soon both men were snoring comfortably.
By the time Mr. Beatty and his assistants returned with the second set of lashing victims, Marguerite had prepared another bowl of the plaster and was ready to tend to those men right away.
There weren’t enough sick beds, so some of the patients were laid on pallets around the deck. While Marguerite continually prepared new batches of plaster and applied them to their flayed and oozing wounds, Mr. Beatty went from man to man, checking on his overall state and making determinations as to which patients had priority on plastering, who needed to be bled, and who needed to be dosed with a pint of grog, which the assistants served up. Nothing could be done to block out the noise of the punishment itself, as the lashes continued with their ruthless exertions.
Hours later, Mr. Beatty declared Marguerite’s work finished and gave her a sort of grudging apology. “Not bad work for such tender hands,” he mumbled.
Marguerite put away all of the supplies and sat on top of the locker to rest her feet. Her bed was now occupied by one of the men, so finding a place to curl up and sleep would be no easy task. She wiped a hand across her brow and looked down at her dress. It was hopelessly encrusted with dried plaster and oil splatter. Undoubtedly her face looked the same. Thank goodness Darden had told her there were few mirrors on board. No need to frighten herself to death.
She slipped to the deck from the top of the locker, leaned upright against it, and pulled her knees up, arranging her dress around her as modestly as possible.
This will have to do, I suppose.
She leaned her head back in exhaustion. Deep, dreamless sleep came to her, despite the resumed cacophonous activity of the crew.
Word of Marguerite’s work reached Darden’s ears with the speed of an unfurling sail. As though there wasn’t enough to admire in the woman, now he learned of her selfless care of the flogged sailors. He contemplated Marguerite smoothing her hands over his own
bare back and could well imagine why the men in the sick berth were now resting comfortably.
But he had to resist going down there on some contrived mission of thanking her. Until everything was finished, he couldn’t let his mind get entangled in thoughts of her. Could he? He hoped none of the other men would do something rash, like fall in love with her.
Or worse, that she would fall in love right back.
I simply cannot believe she has disappeared like this.”
Claudette sipped her tea nervously. The Greycliffes had learned nothing from the Admiralty office. William had even been able to secure a meeting with Mr. Pitt, who offered his condolences on their situation, but offered no help other than to say he knew the wax figures had been delivered to
Victory,
therefore Marguerite must have made it to the ship.
Which was no more than they had learned at the Admiralty office.
William reached a hand across the table at the inn where they had stopped to rest and have a meal during their journey back to Hevington. “My love, we don’t know that anything untoward has happened to Marguerite. We must be patient. I’ll hire a private agent to look into matters.”
Claudette tilted her head to one side as she put down her teacup.
“Like last time?”
William had hired a private agent to investigate Claudette’s own disappearance inside Paris many years earlier when she was tricked into traveling there. That agent had proved useless, and William charged into France himself to take care of matters.
“Well, certainly someone different. Why are you staring at me
that way? I do believe there is a dangerous thought percolating under your frilly new bonnet.”
“My lord Greycliffe, my thoughts are never dangerous. They’re just … a bit persistent. I say we go to Portsmouth ourselves to see if we can find out what happened to Marguerite.”
“Ourselves?” William considered this. “I suppose it’s better than doing nothing. We’ll stop back at Hevington to collect more clothing and to send for my cousin Arabella so she can come and keep an eye on the children.”
“Don’t you think they’d be fine with the servants? I’d like to get to Portsmouth as quickly as possible without detouring through Kent. We could make it there so much more quickly if we left directly from here.” Claudette fidgeted in her chair, ready to depart the inn at that very moment.
William squeezed her hand, knowing that she must be anxious indeed to be willing to leave the children indefinitely without at least saying good-bye. “Persistence is fine. But there will be no impetuosity. We’ll go to Portsmouth, but via Hevington.”
Claudette sighed. She got her way most of the time, so it was difficult to argue when William put his foot down. If only this wasn’t one of those rare occurrences when he said no. She shook her head in resignation and held up the watch pinned to her breast.
Across the table, William smiled and pulled out his own pocket watch.
“Do you fancy a race back to Hevington, sweetheart?”
So once again Nathaniel Ashby sought out a crew for
Wax Maiden.
But this time he was much smarter about his financial investment in outfitting the ship. No sense in risking so much this time. At least not until Mr. Pitt recognized his great contribution to England’s success and began showering him with rewards. An appointment as some kind of foreign envoy would be appropriate for services rendered, wouldn’t it? With the necessary title to go along with it. And funding for future ventures would be his topmost requirement. No negotiation on that point.
But the biggest prize would be Marguerite’s return to him. He
imagined it perfectly in his mind. So eager to greet the incoming hero that her hat had flown off, exposing all of those waving tresses of lavender-scented hair. Her cheeks flushed with excitement and her eyes burning bright. And her heart beating so fiercely with pride that it was nearly visible beneath the mounds of her—
“So where d’ya want this?” asked his new assistant.
“What? Oh, put it in my quarters.”
Nathaniel had indulged himself in the purchase of a small desk for his cabin. The desk took up most of the floor space in the tiny cabin, tucked as it was below deck in the stern of the ship. But it made him feel more like a real captain to have a private place to study charts and letters and to write out his daily log.
The man did as he was told without the merest peep of rebellion. What a brilliant idea it was to scour the rolls at the Marshalsea prison for minor debtors who could never pay their way out. He swept in and offered to pay monies owed for nineteen men who had been rotting away for over a year.
There was no better way to ensure loyalty than by making a man obliged to you for his freedom. Better yet, Nathaniel had learned his lesson and was not about to reveal his plans to the crew, so this new group of men was led to believe that the journey was to deliver supplies to the fleet, which reports said had now reached the coast of Cádiz.
Finally. He was manned and victualed and ready to carry out his mission of greatness.
The mood aboard
Royal Sovereign
was one of tight anticipation. Brax and his shipmates had been bored to the point of exhaustion when the first signal had gone out.
The nearest ship watching the port of Cádiz, the frigate
Sirius
, hoisted a message in the stilted code of naval semaphore flags: “Enemy’s ships are coming out of port.” This was it. They were planning to run.
Their long wait to engage England’s long-standing adversary was over.
The message was hoisted from
Sirius
to
Euryalus
to
Phoebe,
to
Defence,
and so on until it passed through
Royal Sovereign
on its way
to its ultimate destination,
Victory,
which was still fifty miles out to sea.
Nelson’s return message through the chain of ships was clear: “General chase, south-east.”
And so every ship in the British fleet was in the process of obeying the admiral’s order. Brax felt almost joyfully anxious. A battle would bring relief from the mind-numbing monotony of the daily life of patrol and blockade, even though the idea of a confrontation in which many men were sure to die was sobering.
Yet there was a great possibility of promotion to post captain if he performed well, and everyone had the chance for prize money, which would be distributed to the men of the ship or ships that captured a prize.
To earn both a promotion as well as a share of treasure would be a fine pairing indeed. Every lieutenant sought the elusive advancement to post captain; a difficult achievement, but once made nearly ensured eventual promotion to admiral. His father would then be quite proud to have given his son to the navy.
For although Lord Selwyn had graciously released Brax from his duties to the estate, Brax knew his father well enough to understand his hidden disappointment.
And hidden doubt in his son’s ability to rise on his own.
An officer could rise through the ranks in three ways. Someone important on the outside could influence the promotion process, or a man’s sheer ability could get him through the ranks. Nelson had risen through ability. The third, and riskiest, path to promotion was through a singular act of heroism, usually in a time of battle.
Brax was anxious to earn his promotion himself, preferably through a fearless act of valor.
“No need to be ashamed of me yet, Father,” he whispered to himself as he helped a gun crew strap down its platform. “I’ll marry a fine woman one day”—his thoughts flickered over Marguerite—”and settle down to have a bevy of strapping sons to carry on the Selwyn name. Just be patient until I can establish for myself what sort of eminence I can bring to the Selwyn name before I think about passing it along to heirs.”