Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House (7 page)

My heart whispers that I should have been better pleased with my lot, had I never formed an acquaintance with the Great—had I not sampled the dangerous delights of a certain notorious gentleman's world, or shared some particle of his confidence. I am sure that my sister, Cassandra, believes the same. But one cannot wish a hundredth of one's experience undone, any more than one might command the heart and will of another; and though I might lament the change, in having traded the summer beauties of the Peaks and all the elegance of a ducal household in Derbyshire, for the damp and draughty lodgings of winter in Southampton, I could not desire Derbyshire unseen. I might recognise the pernicious hand of regret clutching at my entrails, but I confess that I prefer a sense of loss—and its attendant spirit, depression—to ignorance of my own heart.

I have heard nothing of Lord Harold Trowbridge since parting from him at Bakewell last September. I have no expectation of a furtherance of our acquaintance. Indeed, in regarding the inner oppression that so often follows a sojourn in his company, I have lately begun to wonder whether I should leave off the acquaintance entirely. But I have not the heart for a formal break in friendship, nor, indeed, the strength. Hope of once more encountering The Gentleman Rogue, I confess, is one of the few impulses that sustains me in such a raw and unlovely February.

But perhaps, like Louisa Seagrave, I have little right to submit to such weakness. Mine is too sharp a character to invite melancholy; I have always despised those poor honies, who languish in boredom on a procession of sophas, and fancy themselves ill. Such behaviour must argue a lack of inner resources, a sinking of the female mind. And yet what, of a sustaining and nourishing nature, have I sought out this winter in Southampton? I subscribe to a circulating library; I read aloud to my mother. I devote myself to planning the shape and composition of our garden in Castle Square. I choose green baize for the dressing-room floors and consider of the size of beds. But I have not ventured inside the theatre in French Street; I have not danced since quitting Bath; and I have entirely left off my attempts at novel-writing. The creatures of my pen afford me no amusement in this despondent season. Their caprice and wiles cannot dislodge the mental dullness and spiritual weight that have dogged me, now, for too great a period—dogged me, in varying degree, since my poor father's death, and the end of so much that was comfortable in our domestic arrangements.

There is nothing unusual in a period of lowness during the winter months. And I have been more than usually bereft of companionship—my sister, Cassandra, having gone to my brother Edward's estate in Kent for Christmas. Edward's wife, Elizabeth, being but recently delivered of her tenth child, there is much to do this winter at Godmersham—what with the little boys too young to be sent away to school, and the little girls in want of a governess, and the eldest child, Fanny, on the verge of quitting the schoolroom altogether. I am certain that Cassandra must have her hands quite full, and may forgive her the letter that arrived only Friday, postponing her descent upon the South until April, several weeks after we shall have undertaken the move to Castle Square. I could not wish her to suffer the same lassitude and confinement I have myself endured, and may hope that she enjoys a pleasant interval of dancing at Chilham, and the luxury of claret with her dinner, and much coming and going in my brother's equipages, before the monotony of home life must once more descend.

But I am sick of cities and towns, of the rumble of cartwheels on paving-stones, of the ceaseless babble of harsh conversation, of muck and commerce and an end to all peace. I would give a good deal for one breath of fresh air—for the sharp green smell of bruised clover, the sight of snowdrops poking through the warming earth; for the call of a curlew, and the rushing chatter of a stream. In the blessed quiet of a country lane, or before a wide-flung window, I might recover somewhat of my serenity, and learn to sustain myself in the affections of my family alone. I might cease to yearn for love that is beyond hope. I might even be able to write again.

This rush of confidence, scrawled in the pages of my little book, was spurred, I know, by Louisa Seagrave— by her own air of disappointed hopes, of throttled ambition. The love of a brash man, and a headlong union of two brilliant spirits, accomplished little towards her happiness. She is more earthbound and compassed now—by obligation, duty, the bonds of family—than the young girl beating her wings against a viscount's cage could possibly have imagined. I pity her; I recognise in her the human condition; and I return once more to the conviction that life's burdens may only be overcome by a summoning of inner resources: by a dependence not upon others, but upon the qualities of spirit and mind.

I resolve to do better. I resolve to leave off depression, and embrace what I may of good in my lot. I possess, after all, life and health—or should, but for this abominable cold—and am not so far reduced in circumstances as to admit of shame. There might yet be cause for rejoicing in the years ahead; much of worthy and fruitful endeavour, that might contribute to the happiness of my family and increase my own respectability. It cannot be so seductive a prospect as the life of a woman of fortune—one, for instance, allied to all the resources of a duke's second son, a confidant of the Crown—

But I must banish the thought It is as illogical, as unlikely, as improbable as one of my own creations—a Lizzy Bennet, perhaps, in conquest of a Mr. Darcy, or a Marianne triumphant over a Willoughby reformed. Such things may only be permitted in novels.
¹
They wither in the harsh light of truth as a bloom in exile from the hothouse.

Better to exchange the contemplation of my own troubles for those of my brother Frank. It is impossible not to consider, upon waking, of the thoughts that so engrossed my attention as I fell off to sleep; impossible not to rise, and throw aside the bedclothes, and recollect that Frank had intended an early breakfast before setting off in search of Tom Seagrave's first lieutenant. It was this man—an officer by the name of chessyre, who had sailed with Seagrave against the Manon as well as two previous commands—who had laid the charge of murder against him. Frank, having gained some understanding of the matter from his conversation with his old friend, thought to comprehend it still better by a close interrogation of Seagrave's accuser.

“I cannot fathom a man who would so betray his captain,” Frank had said, as we beat up towards Southampton last night in the rain-lashed spray, “and

a man, too, who was loyal to Seagrave beyond any other—a man Tom counted as friend! It does not bear consideration, Jane. There are niceties—there are forms—to the conduct of naval life; and I should sooner hang myself at the yardarm m, than behave as Chessyre has done! He has displayed himself as the very worst sort of scrub, and deserves to be run out of the Navy on the strength of it!”

“Are you at all acquainted with the Lieutenant?” I enquired.

“Not in the least. He's a fellow well past the next step—shall probably die in his present rank—a competent first lieutenant, mind you, but nothing brilliant in his action or understanding. Seagrave might have had a host of ambitious young fellows at his call, all eager for the chance to take a prize, and show their mettle before the Admiralty; but Tom chose to offer a hand to his old shipmate, and ensure that Chessyre earned a comfortable berth at a time when he most required it. Not that Tom said so much in his own behalf, mind you—but I am well enough acquainted with the service to understand the case.”

“And you regard Chessyre's laying of information as the basest ingratitude?—Regardless of whether there is truth in his accusation, or not?”

“I think I may be allowed to recognise truth when I meet it, Jane,” Frank replied with an air of impatience. “Tom Seagrave is as frank a soul as ever breathed. He described the Stella's engagement with the Manon in every particular—and for my part, I credit his claim that it was entirely above-board. The court-martial cannot help but do the same! Are they likely to believe the word of an aging lieutenant, over the best fighting captain the Navy has seen since Nelson?”

Frank did not appear to require an answer, and I offered him none. I knew too little of courts-martial, or Admiralty boards, or anything so subject to Influence as this body of men who promoted or scuttled one another's careers with seemingly equal caprice. Frank may possess the best will in the world, and the most open of characters—but he has been formed by the naval conceptions of rank and seniority. The presumptions of a junior must appear akin to mutiny; they threaten the Divine Order of Naval Things. I could not look for a dispassionate account from such a quarter.

My brother had related some part of his conversation with Seagrave; but having heard it, I could not declare with Frank that only one judgement was open to the court-martial. There were gaps and inconsistencies in the tale that must trouble an impartial listener, and a clear requirement for further intelligence, if Seagrave's innocence was to be established.

Just after Christmas, Tom Seagrave sailed out of his anchorage at Spithead under sealed orders. He was instructed to open his packet only upon achieving a certain position near Lisbon; but having progressed so far as Corunna, some leagues north of the Portuguese port, he fell in with the Manon. The French frigate possessed only thirty-two guns to Seagrave's forty; and moreover, her gunnery was not equal to our Captain's, who soon had the satisfaction of seeing four gaping holes below the
Manon's
waterline. With the French ship taking water fast, and her mainmast carried away, Seagrave brought the
Stella Maris
across the
Manon's
bows, and prepared to board her.

Seagrave led his men, including Chessyre, into the French frigate, and fought his way to the quarterdeck at great risk to himself. There he discovered the French captain lying as though dead, and approximately one hour and forty-three minutes after the commencement of action, the French colours were struck. But prior to the moment of this glorious capitulation, an event occurred which greatly disturbed the crew of the British frigate: a small boy perched high in the shrouds— where no Young Gentleman should be during the heat of batde—plummeted with the
Stella Maris's
roll to the deck below. Upon examination, the child was found to have been shot through the heart by a French marksman mounted in the
Manon's
tops; and the rage this deliberate injury caused among the seamen was impossible to describe.

The savagery of the boarding party, and its success in carrying all before it, may thus be credited to a desire for revenge; but revenge may be carried beyond reason. Certainly Lieutenant Chessyre would have that this was so. When the Captain of Marines undertook to secure the survivors of the French ship's crew, for conveyance as prisoners of war back to Portsmouth, it was discovered that Porthiault, the French captain, had been stabbed through the heart by a British dirk—and the blade was certainly Tom Seagrave's own. Seagrave expressed astonishment at the fact; owned that he had missed his dirk from its scabbard in all the confusion of the boarding party, but could not say how it came to be found in the corpse of the French captain.

It is customary, after the taking of a prize, to send the enemy ship home to port under the command of a junior officer. Seagrave appointed Lieutenant Chessyre commander of the
Manon,
and ordered him to return to Portsmouth with the French prisoners, while Seagrave pursued his appointed course south towards Lisbon; and so the two officers, and the two frigates, parted company. Seagrave despatched with Chessyre a letter to Admiral Hastings, his commanding officer, describing the action and detailing the British casualties; he also enclosed a letter intended for the mother of the dead boy, which Chessyre swore solemnly to deliver.

It was only upon Seagrave's return to Portsmouth some weeks later, that he learned he had been charged with a violation of Article Nine of the Articles of War, for the murder of the surrendered French captain, Victor Porthiault. Chessyre had laid charges with Admiral Hastings within moments of achieving Portsmouth; and he claimed, moreover, to have witnessed the murder himself.

“And what motive does he ascribe to Captain Seagrave, worthy of so brutal an action?” I had enquired of Frank.

“Chessyre would have it that Tom blamed the French captain for the death of the Young Gentleman. The lad was a great favourite, it seems, and no more than seven. Chessyre claims that Tom Seagrave forgot himself in a rage at the Young Gentleman's murder; and that he stabbed the unfortunate Porthiault at the very moment when the Frenchman gave up his sword.”

“But how dreadful! And Seagrave?”

“—Denies it. He is convinced that Porthiault was already dead when he and Chessyre discovered him on the
Manon's
quarterdeck.”

“But the dirk, Frank!”

“The dirk is a problem,” my brother agreed. “Seagrave, in boarding an enemy ship, should have brandished his sword. He claims that the dirk—a smaller blade altogether—was pulled from its scabbard in a moment of confusion during the fight with the French; and that he neither knew the person who seized his dagger, nor how it came to end in Porthiault's chest.”

“And how does Captain Seagrave account for the Lieutenant's charge?”

“He is charity itself in speaking of Eustace Chessyre. Tom will have it the fellow mistook him for another, in all the smoke and madness of the boarding. Chessyre was mistaken in his account, Tom believes, and will own as much during the course of the proceedings.”

“Is a recantation likely, Fly?”

My brother sighed heavily and dashed a spate of rain from his cockade. “Certainly Seagrave's superiors do not live in expectation of it. There was
that
in Admiral Bertie's looks, when he spoke of posting me into the
Stella,
that cannot urge me to be sanguine. The Admiral should never have imparted so much of a confidential nature did he not find the case against Seagrave compelling in the extreme.”