The French Prize (35 page)

For all his bombast, Frost was a subtle creature, Wentworth could see that. He did not make decisions. Rather, he steered Biddlecomb into making the decisions that he, Frost, wished him to make. Mounting the guns, taking on the additional crew, preparing the
Abigail
to fight her way to Barbados, Wentworth watched as Frost manipulated Biddlecomb into coming around to his way of thinking on all those matters. Wentworth listened and took note as Frost ever so carefully shifted the discussion from protecting the
Abigail
from French privateers to fighting
L'Arman
ç
on
once again, until Biddlecomb was talking as if that had been the plan all along.

Damn the fishing and the sistering
, Wentworth thought,
doing battle with the Frenchman, that's the decision that matters, and it ain't Biddlecomb making it.

Which led to the next plaguing question: Why was Frost doing this? Were these really Oxnard's orders? Or was Frost playing his own game? And in any case, what possible reason could either man have to bring the fight back to
L'Arman
ç
on
?

It was two days after his talk with Chandler that the idea for this dishonorable thing, this disgraceful act that violated everything Wentworth believed to be right, first germinated in his brain, and it was Frost who planted the seed.

Their rooms, Wentworth's and Frost's, faced one another across a hall on the second floor in the stone building, and so they would often meet there as they headed off for their breakfast or when they were retiring for the evening. “Ah, Mr. Wentworth!” Frost said one morning at just such a meeting. “If you have not heard, there is a ship outward bound in a few days, if the wind will serve, and we may get mail back to the States by her. So if you have any letters you wish to send home, I suggest you write them now.”

Wentworth thanked him, though there was no one with whom he particularly wished to correspond. But Frost's suggestion did get his mind moving down yet another path. If Frost were taking this opportunity to write letters back to America, he might well be corresponding with Oxnard, might well be giving an explanation of their activities, particularly if whatever they were about was something he and Oxnard had hit upon together.

What that might be, he could not imagine. Oxnard was a Republican, an acolyte of Jefferson, proud of it, and vocal. Frost kept his political leanings to himself, but Wentworth had taken pains to disparage Jefferson, republicanism, and the French at every opportunity, just for the amusement of seeing Frost flare with anger and then struggle to hold it in check. He did not doubt that Frost shared Oxnard's inclinations. Why, then, would he wish to attack a man-of-war of their beloved Republic of France? And why would Oxnard risk losing his ship and cargo in a quixotic fight against a country he ostensibly supported?

“Oh, damn it all!” Wentworth said out loud, overtaken by frustration. It was entirely possible, likely, in fact, that sitting on Charles Frost's desk was a letter that would reveal everything. Wentworth had only to wait until the others were in the dockyard, which they were every day, then open the door, step in, read the letter, put it back, and leave enlightened, and Frost none the worse for it.

It was so simple. And so utterly wrong.

For two days he agonized over the question. This affair was none of his business. But—and this aspect both surprised and irritated him—he was coming to like Biddlecomb, in part because Biddlecomb was so unabashedly rude to him. No one had ever really been rude to him before. No one had dared. The power and influence his family wielded and his own prowess with sword and pistol had always meant people treated him with deference, feigned as it might be.

Biddlecomb, however, was not impressed and William found that amusing. And he did not care to see Biddlecomb led by the nose by the likes of Frost. But did that justify so base an intrusion into a man's privacy? And if he was found out, how could he tolerate the humiliation?

Then, at dinner, as he was indulging in his third or fourth glass of wine (he had quite lost track), Frost raised his glass and said, in that boisterous hail-fellow-well-met manner that annoyed Wentworth in the extreme, “Tomorrow the first of the guns goes back aboard and soon we shall be teaching Jean Crapeau a new tune to dance to!” Biddlecomb raised his glass as well, smiled, not nearly as broad a smile as Frost wore, and Wentworth, through the fog of wine, grit his teeth and thought,
Well, damn this fellow, let us see what you are writing, and to whom, shall we?

The next morning his head had cleared but his resolve had not wavered, much. He breakfasted with the others as he usually did, wandered down to the quay as he usually did, then wandered back toward the barracks as he often did. He stepped through the door into the cool interior of the stone building, but his hands were slick with sweat and trembling slightly, his stomach churning, and he thought he might vomit.

I am bloody afraid
 … he thought, and the realization surprised him. Physical danger would not bring on this reaction, but now his honor was at stake.

Wentworth climbed the stairs and to his surprise met Lucas Harwar coming down, which made Wentworth start. The flush of guilt was already working on his nerves, but Harwar seemed not to notice. The mate nodded, said, “Good morrow, Mr. Wentworth. Forgot my knife, if you can believe it!” Unlike the lieutenants of the
Warrior
, the mates aboard
Abigail
took an active part in the labor of getting the ship ready for sea, yet another reason, Wentworth thought, that this naval service was such a civilized endeavor.

Wentworth returned Harwar's nod but did not trust himself to speak, and once Harwar was past he continued on up the stairs. He paused outside his own door, ready to reach for the handle in the most innocent manner if he heard anyone approach. But he did not. It was ten thirty in the morning and everyone was occupied elsewhere, or should have been at that time. He let his heartbeat and his breathing settle.

For a long time, ten minutes at least, he stood in the hallway and listened. The far-off sounds of men working, the creaking of a wagon, the occasional lowing of one of the dockyard's oxen, the call of a wild bird, all these things came in from the door below stairs, but not a sound of anyone approaching.

Wentworth crossed the hall and rapped on Frost's door, and realized as he did so that if Frost was there, he had concocted no reason for knocking. His mind raced for an excuse, his hands felt sweatier still, and just as he was coming up with some weak question about when the ship carrying the post might sail he realized that no one had responded to the knock.

He knocked again, a bit louder and bolder this time, but still there was no response. He wiped his palm on his breeches and grabbed the doorknob. He felt a momentary hope that it would be locked, that Frost's precaution might save him from this horrible conundrum. But it twisted easily and the door popped free of the jamb.

Wentworth pushed it halfway open, took a step in, and called softly, “Mr. Frost? Are you here?” No sound greeted him. He stepped all the way into the room. The door was still open, he could still leave. If he was caught he could still make some legitimate-sounding excuse about how he was simply seeking his fellow passenger. He looked over at the small table near the window. There was a quill standing in an ink pot and a paper lying in front of it, half written over. Wentworth closed the door and it shut with the click. Now he was committed.

He stepped quickly across the room and snatched up the paper. The window looked out on the dusty road below. Wentworth leaned forward and looked up and down the road to see if anyone was approaching, then realized that, standing where he was, he could clearly be seen by anyone on the street below, and if that anyone was Frost, he was done for. He stepped back into the shadow, cursing himself, and thought,
I am bloody bad at this underhanded sneaking about business …

He held the letter at an angle to catch the light coming in from the window.
My Dear Oxnard,
it began and Wentworth felt a charge of excitement, a sense of satisfaction at having guessed so correctly.

Wentworth continued to read.
This letter, you will note, comes by way of Antigua, and though it was not our original intent to arrive at this place, and how we happened here I will relate, allow me to say firstly that our being here will greatly facilitate our plans, and indeed I suspect will ultimately render them an even more profound success.

Wentworth's eyes moved quickly over the words, each sentence adding to his sense of revelation. His mouth was hanging open and he closed it. He finished the letter; it was no more than half written, and cryptic in the extreme, so that it could arguably be construed as completely innocent. But it was not, and for Wentworth, who was right in the middle of the affair, there was certainly enough to give him a decent understanding of what was acting, of the game that Frost and Oxnard were playing.

He started reading again from the beginning, reading more slowly, feeling more confident that he was safe from detection. He scoured the words for any deeper hidden meaning, any allusions or hints or double-talk. So intent was he on the words that he did not hear the footsteps on the wooden stairs until they were at least halfway up the flight to the second floor.

And then he heard them. A soft step, an odd creak. He felt a rush of panic and unreality. He looked wildly around but his mind seemed to have gone dark like a candle snuffed out. He looked at the letter in his hand, realized he had to be rid of that. He dropped it back on the desk. He looked wildly around the room for some place to hide.

No, no, stupid, stupid … out, get out!

He took two steps and crossed the room and flung open the door and realized that that was stupid as well. If it had been anyone but Frost they would have walked right past and never known he was in there.

Too late, too damned late
 … He stepped out into the hall, trying for all he was worth to appear entirely innocent, a man exactly where he should be, doing what he should be doing. He closed the door, turned, and found himself face-to-face with Thomas Chandler.

“Ah, William, there you are!” Chandler said.

“Yes … yes I was just returning a book … a book. Frost lent it to me.”

“I understand,” Chandler said in a tone that suggested he did not understand.

He doesn't know which damned room is Frost's and he doesn't care!
Wentworth admonished himself.
Stupid, stupid …

“Well now that you're done with your book, I was coming to enquire if you might be up for some shooting this afternoon?

“Shooting?”

“Yes, shooting. With guns, you recall.”

“Ah, yes, yes. Yes, I should be grateful for any distraction,” Wentworth said.

“I dare say,” said Chandler. “Very good, then. Shall we meet at, say, three, when this beastly heat is on the ebb?”

“Certainly,” Wentworth said. And it
was
hot, beastly hot. He could feel that his shirt was quite soaked, the sweat running down his forehead and back, but the odor was not entirely that of a heat-induced sweat. Wentworth could smell the fear on himself.

It was clear Chandler could see something was not entirely right, but gentleman that he was, he did not inquire, but rather left Wentworth in the hall with a pleasant nod and, “I'll see you at three, then.”

Wentworth returned the nod and remained standing long after Chandler's footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs and he heard them move across the stone surface of the bottom floor and out the door. The fear was gone, the nerves dissipated. He had done the deed, had not been caught. This dishonorable thing was his secret alone, and he could live with that. Because what he had learned could have implications far beyond the lives of just a few men.

At length he spoke out loud, to himself. “And now I'll … do what?” he asked. But he had no answer.

*   *   *

If Jack Biddlecomb was anything it was decisive. He made decisions quickly and he stuck with them and he did not second-guess himself. Sometimes his decisions were right and sometimes they were horribly, horribly wrong. But Jack did not waver in them. Until now.

Never in his life could Jack Biddlecomb recall a time when he was more aggravated, confused, and irritated than he was in the Royal Navy dockyard in Antigua. He seemed to fly from rock-solid resolve to wavering uncertainty on a minute-by-minute basis. He had felt more sure of himself and of the decision he was making on the day he had walked away from Amos Waverly and the
City of Newport
, rejected his past, and turned his life 180 degrees, than he did just then. The heat was not helping, the damnable heat. He had never done well in heat.

Abigail
was on an even keel once more, floating alongside the quay, her wounded strakes now well mended under his sharp scrutiny. That much he felt good about, because there could be no question that repairs, and repairs well made, were the right course of action. But now he was engaged in a discussion with the lead shipwright, who had suggested shifting the windlass aft a few feet to make for better clearance for the recoil of the forward-most of the new six pounders, and that had set him off again in a frenzy of self-doubt.

He listened with half an ear as the man had explained the benefits and downsides of such a modification, but mostly Jack was thinking about the decision to mount these additional guns in the first place, questioning the wisdom of the whole thing.
The bottom is sound now, perfectly sound, and clean as well,
he thought.
Mizzen's fished and near as strong as new … if we were to just run for Barbados I'll warrant we could show our heels to any damned Frenchman in our wake …