Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House (12 page)

“It is only that my brother is a post captain, I said lamely, “and I suffer considerable anxiety on his behalf.”

“He is presently at sea?”

“No—but he is likely soon to be.”

LaForge stared at me quizzically, unconvinced.

“And… and we possess a considerable acquaintance among the officers of the
Stella Maris.
The action has been of no little significance in Portsmouth.”

“I see. You wish to carry all the smallest details of the noble Porthiault's end to your next card party. I am afraid that I cannot increase your delight, Miss Austen. I was below decks, throughout the action.”

“You saw nothing?” I murmured in disappointment.

“The surgeon's place in battle is always the cockpit deck,” LaForge said by way of reply. “I was entirely taken up with amputation, you understand—two men had suffered crushed feet, from the dismounting of the guns, and there were arms and legs torn away. I did not emerge on deck until I had dressed the last wound.”.

How unfortunate, that the most articulate and sound observer of the naval battle should be below decks throughout the action! I stared at Etienne LaForge with consternation; and at that moment a timid hand brushed my elbow. Jean-Philippe.

“Ma lettrvfhe
enquired.
“C'estfinie?”

“Mais out,
“I replied, and folded it swiftly. “Did any of the
Manon's
crew observe how your captain died, Monsieur LaForge?”

“You are very interested in a fellow who was no better than a fool, and who is now feeding sharks off Corunna, Miss Austen.”

His voice—formerly so weak and gentle in its expression—fell like a lash upon my ears. I looked up, and dripped hot tallow across my fingertips.

“I listen to the talk of the Marines outside, from time to time,” he said slowly, his half-lidded eyes never leaving my face. “They say that the captain of the
Stella Marts
has been charged with murder. I thought I imagined their words—in the rages of fever, you understand, much may be distorted—but now I am no longer certain. Is that man accused of the death of Porthiault?”

I nodded. “Captain Seagrave is charged with having killed Captain Porthiault after the
Manon
struck. He is to go before a court-martial on Thursday. The outcome is … uncertain.”

LaForge pursed his lips. “A pity. Seagrave is a gallant fellow—a Heart of Oak, as you English say. Clever in his tactics and fearless in their execution—he fought like a tiger, as though all the hounds of hell were at his back. Are you in love with him?”

I gasped incredulously. “You mistake me, sir! Captain Seagrave has long been a married man!”

LaForge lifted his shoulders dismissively. “There must be some reason you concern yourself.”

“The Captain is my brother's fellow officer. I am acquainted with his wife.”

“Ah.” The surgeon's voice was now faintly mocking. “The bosom friend of the wife. I understand. But you do not believe this Seagrave killed
le capitaine.
And neither do I, Miss Austen.”

I studied the amusement at his mouth, the strong chin, and knew that the man was sporting with me. He was, after all, the French ship's surgeon; if any had examined Porthiault's body before it was sent over the side, it should be LaForge.

“How do they say that Porthiault died?” he asked.

“That is a point under dispute. Captain Seagrave would have it the man was already dead when the colours were struck. Others insist that Porthiault died by Seagrave's hand,
after the Marion's
surrender. Seagrave's dirk was buried in Porthiault's heart, but Seagrave will have it that he never touched the man! It is a difficult tale to credit—”

With effort, LaForge leaned towards me. He spoke very low. “Porthiault did not die from the knife to his heart. He died from the wound to his head.”

“His head?” I repeated. “But the dirk—”

“A small hole at the base of the skull,” the surgeon continued, “oozing blood as the chest wound could not The chest wound was given
after
death. I tell you, I examined the body before it was delivered into the sea.”

“A musket shot, then? Fired during the batde?”

There was a glint of something in LaForge's narrowed gaze. Then his shoulders lifted again in that most Gallic of gestures. “There is nothing very wonderful in this. Your own Nelson—the Hero of Trafalgar-died in much the same way.”

It was true. A French marksman had aimed for the jewelled star pinned at the Admiral's breast, and wounded him mortally.

“Seagrave said the Frenchman lay as though dead when discovered on the quarterdeck. He thought the man had been stunned by a falling spar. Why, then, thrust a dirk into his heart?” I mused.

“For vengeance? Or … the desire to make it appear as such? This Seagrave was not alone, ????”

“He was not. His first lieutenant stood with him.”

The man held my gaze. Despite the fever, despite his weakness and the lazy arrangement of his limbs, Etienne LaForge was taut as a bowstring. He knew the end to which I must be brought; but he preferred that I reach it under my own power.

“You saw him!” I declared. “You saw Eustace Chessyre near Seagrave on the quarterdeck. You were not below throughout the battle, as you claim.”

“I do not know the man's name.” He glanced over my shoulder warily and lowered his voice to the faintest of murmurs. “There was a great deal of sea in the cockpit deck, you understand. The pumps could not keep up with it. Those British guns—how they love to kiss the waterline! I was forced to pile my patients at the foot of the gangway, and to plead for help in shifting them; otherwise, I feared they should drown. And I am not in the habit of saving a life, to lose it to the sea.”

“You went up the gangway to beg assistance.”

“The waist of the ship was a chaos of men,” LaForge said faintly. “I turned and glanced up at the quarterdeck, where the Captain already lay dead. It was then that I saw him.”

“Seagrave?” I whispered.

“The British captain was being set upon, by our second lieutenant, Favrol; the two were fighting du corps a corps”

“So the ship had not yet struck.”

The surgeon shook his head.

“Seagrave was alone?”

“For all the good his support did him—he ought to have been. But no,
mademoiselle,
the Captain had an officer at his back. I did not, at the time, observe the rank—but I recognised him later. He was master of the ship that carried me prisoner into this British port.”

“Lieutenant Chessyre,” I breathed.

“Very well. I observed him, bent over
le capitalize
Porthiault, while Seagrave and Favrol were at each other's throat; he knelt there a moment—his arm rose—and when he stood, Porthiault's sword was in his hand.”

“What of the colours?”

LaForge shook his head. “At such a time—who can say when the
Manon
struck? All was confusion. But know this,
mademoiselle”
—his voice became almost indistinct—“when the officer rose from Porthiault's side, the dirk was in my captain's breast. I would swear on my mother's grave that it was not there before.”

My breath came in with a hiss. LaForge's eyes widened in alarm; he raised a feverish hand to his lips.

“Mademoiselle
—do not betray us both. More than one man's life may hang upon your discretion.”

His fingers dropped heavily to his side.

“But why thrust a blade into the breast of a dead man?” I murmured, with a swift glance around the shadowy chamber.

“Must I always translate for you,
mademoiselle}
The word is not
why,
but
who.
Who among all the men of the British Navy would wish your Seagrave to hang? For that was certainly Chessyre's object. He did not strike for vengeance against the French, but from motives none may penetrate. This was no act of war, Miss Austen. Your Seagrave was betrayed from within.”

¹
Gaol-fever and ship fever were the common names for typhus— an acute infectious disease caused by a rickettsia transmitted to man by the bite of fleas or lice. Typhus is not to be confused, however, with typhoid fever—a malady caused by a bacillus found in unpasteurized milk.—
Editor's note.

²
An Ordinary seaman was a man with little experience of the navy or of ships. He was paid less than a sailor rated Able, a designation accorded men who had mastered the skills required for the working of ships. The French navy probably employed different terms and standards from the Royal Navy in this regard; but Austen would have used the designations familiar to her.—
Editor's note.

³
The
Naval Chronicle
was a journal published twice annually from 1799 to 1818. It detailed Royal Navy actions as well as other topics of interest relating to the sea, with maps and illustrations.—
Editor's note.

Chapter 7
Messenger to Portsmouth

cont.

~

I
RACED HOME THROUGH THE DARKENING STREETS
, intent upon finding Frank and relating all that LaForge had told me. I must have looked a trifle mad among the sedate ladies and aging sailors that made their careful way along the High; in the darkness and stench of Wool House I had become like one of Mrs. Radcliffe's desperate heroines, with Etienne LaForge my cryptic prisoner of the keep. I do not think that I would have accorded the Frenchman's words the same horrific weight, had he not presented a failing aspect. There is something chilling about the word
betrayal
when uttered by a sinking man, particularly against the backdrop of ancient stone walls. LaForge had chosen his moment—and his auditor—well.

My brother was established with Mary before the fire in Mrs. Davies's sitting-room; at the sight of my flushed face and heaving breast, he rose at once in alarm.

“Jane! You are unwell!”

“Nothing I regard. A trifle fagged from haste.”

“But where have you been, my dear?” Mary enquired.

“At Wool House. Tending the French prisoners laid low with gaol fever.”

“Gaol fever!” Frank's countenance darkened. “Have you lost your reason, Jane? To expose yourself to such a scourge, when Mary's health—and the health of our child—is certainly at stake? I forbid you to go so close to my wife as twenty yards, madam, until we may be certain that you have not contracted the disease! No, nor so close as fifty yards to our mother, given her delicate state of health! I am in half a mind to procure you a room at the Dolphin until we may be sure that you are clear!”

“Banish her to London; Fly, and permit me to serve as chaperone,” said my dear friend Martha Lloyd as she sailed into the room. “I might recommend any number of places in Town, and Jane and I could enjoy the Season at a safe distance from little Mary—provided, of course, that gaol fever does not carry Jane off. But I confess to a sanguine temper on that head. I have little fear of seeing any of us come out in spots. It has always been a man's complaint.”

I embraced Martha with joy, and enquired as to the safety and comfort of her descent upon the south; declared her in excellent looks after her visit to her sister— a compliment she turned aside with asperity—and took her bonnet into my own hands for safekeeping.

But the niceties of welcome had eluded my brother. Frank took one furious stride across Mrs. Davies's small parlour and turned in frustration at the far wall. He appeared to be itching to draw someone's cork; his hands were clenching and unclenching in a fine demonstration of the pugilist's art. I was not to be forgiven my improbable charity. In such a mood, he was unlikely to credit anything I might say.

“Oh, my dearest,” Mary cried, “do not be thinking of sending Jane away! I confess that I cannot do without her!”

Her plump hands were pressed against her mouth; she stared at Frank in dismay. I do not think she had ever witnessed a display of her husband's temper; but I have an idea it is very well known among Frank's colleagues in the Navy. He did not survive the mutinies at Spithead in '97, nor yet a gruelling chase across the Atlantic and back again in pursuit of the French, without driving his men and himself to the point of collapse.

“Damned foolish P he returned, with fine disregard for our landlady's peace. “And why? Because Celia Braggen—that lantern-jawed, jumped-up busybody whose husband is the worst sort of scrub—required it!”

“Jane only went to that dreadful place to spare me the trouble, Frank,” Mary stammered. “I thought it very kind in her to oblige Mrs. Braggen, and save me from giving offence!”

“I shall call upon that Harpy in the morning, and offer my opinion of her presumption,” he muttered.

“Then pray let us dine on the strength of your conviction, Frank—it does not do to meet a Harpy on an empty stomach.” Martha's attention was given entirely to drawing off her gloves. “Jane may sit at the farthest remove from Mary and the fire both, as punishment, and your mother have her meal on a tray. They do not offer much in the way of sustenance, in your southern coaching inns; and the smell of that joint makes me ready to weep with vexation.”