The Gathering Storm (2 page)

'God forgive me, I am not fit to command men any more.'

Even when he had replied to the letter, informing Their
Lordships that he would go to Portsmouth, he was not free
of nagging doubt, but in least now he knew his duty; duty
had freed him of indecision. And then came the blow.

Dr Harkness's face, never handsome, was a grim mask of
self-control, framed by deep lines, as he came into the library
on the day following:

'We have lost him. I am very sorry.'

James got up out of his chair, and had to grip the back.
'But he ... he had seemed to recover. There was a gain,
earlier today ... was not there?'

'There was, a little. It was not enough. I am so very sorry,
Mr Hayter.'

'Is Catherine with him?'

'She has not left his side. You should go to her, and bring
her out of the sickroom.'

'Yes ... yes.' Gripping the back of the chair still, and
looking out through the window.

'And we must – forgive me for being so hard, at such a
moment – but we must remove the body without delay.'

'The body.' Looking at the doctor. 'Yes.' His boy, his son,
a body. Lifeless in the bed. 'Yes, a body cannot be left to lie,
when fever has struck. It is the same in ships exact, you know.
The bodies must be got over the side, without delay, if there
is fever below.' Explaining the thing to himself as much as
to Dr Harkness. 'But in course you know that, Doctor. I
shall go up to her, and bring her out of the room.' He
released his grip on the chair.

'I should say also – she must remain in a separate room
herself, for a day or two. As a precaution. You – you should
not embrace her, just at present. Nor touch her at all.'

'I cannot be with her? To comfort her?'

'I am sorry to be so hard. I would not place these strictures
upon you, was there an alternative.'

'Nay, Doctor, you cannot help what is fact. I shall go up
to her.' Taking a breath and moving towards the door.

'I'll send Marcus Freeman from the village, at once.' Laying
down his bag a moment, and shrugging into his coat.

'Freeman?' James, pausing in the doorway.

'The undertaker. He must come today.'

'Oh. Yes. Yes, you are right. Please to make it so, Doctor.'

He went upstairs and found Catherine sitting on the chair
by the bed, very pale and still, a shawl round her shoulders,
her eyes closed. The boy, his son Rondo, that was no longer
his son, no longer a boy with life in his limbs and a voice
in his throat to cry out in excitement as he sat his pony and
trotted through the gate to the grassy paddock, Albert
running alongside at the bridle ... lay now at peace. James
stared a moment, and swallowed, and made himself breathe.

'Catherine ...'

Opening her eyes. 'He is asleep.'

'Yes ... he is asleep.'

'I shall wait here until he wakes.' Adjusting the shawl.

'Nay ...'

'There is no need for you to stay with me. I shall wait
with him until he wakes.' A pale smile.

'My love – Cathy – he will not wake again ...'

'In course he will wake. In a little while. He is much
better.'

'Oh, my poor darling Cathy.' He made to come toward
her, and:

'Do not come near! He is asleep! I do not wish him to be
waked, when he is so very tired ...'

Utter despair rose in James's breast, and threatened to
unman him. His eyes filled with tears, his throat was
constricted, he wished to fall to the floor and weep. He overcame
this sense of helplessness and grief by pure effort of
will, lifted and shook his head, and was resolute.

'Catherine.' Not loudly, nor harshly, but with authority of
tone. 'Come with me now, and we will go along to your
bedroom.'

'I cannot leave him alone. What if he should wake?'

'There is someone to care for him.'

'To care for him? Who?'

'I have arranged it. Come.' He held out his hand. 'We
will go to your room, where there is a fire, and fresh linen.'

'Fresh linen ... ?' Looking at him, uncomprehending.

'Come.'

She rose, and came towards him. He wished to take her in
his arms, and hold her close to him, and kiss her. He wished
to show her all the profound love he felt for her, and to
share with her in long embrace the grief of their loss, and
to reassure her with all his heart that he would love her
always and for ever, but never so deeply as at this moment.
He wished it with all of his being, and knew that he could
not do it. Could not even touch his beloved wife, for fear
that she was herself infected, and would infect him in turn.

She came to the door, with a last glance over her shoulder
at her child in the bed, and as James went ahead followed
him to her bedroom. A fire burned bright in the grate,
the flickering flames reflected in patterns on the ceiling.
The curtains had been drawn, and the room was pleasantly
warm. A fresh nightgown lay on the bed, and covers had
been turned down. James had seen to all this himself, since
the maidservants were not permitted to come into this part
of the house.

'I will leave you to undress, my dear.'

He stood aside to allow her to go in. She walked to the
fire, and turned anxiously:

'Are you going away, now?'

'There is much for me to do—'

'You are going to Portsmouth?'

'No, no – I am not. I must go downstairs and—'

'You will not leave me alone in the house?'

'I will not do that.'

'I could not bear it.'

'I will not go away from you.'

'That is well ... I could not bear it.' Turning to stare into
the fire.

Had she accepted it? Did she understand that Rondo was
dead? He did not know. Her expression, lit by the glow of
the fire, was not one of bewilderment or confusion. She
seemed sad, but calm. Presently he left her, and went down.

When he returned with bread and broth on a tray, twenty
minutes after, she was fast asleep, her hair spread on the pillow.
He put the tray down by the bed, and pulled up the covers
gently, so as not to wake her.

'She has accepted it,' he murmured to himself. 'She knows
the boy is gone from her.'

He watched her a moment longer, her breath fluttering a
strand of hair on the pillow, her face ghostly pale with the
exhaustion of her vigil, now relieved.

'I love you, my darling Catherine.' Whispered.

*

The undertaker came with his assistant from the village, and
the removal was conducted with the minimum of upset. James
took no part in it. He remained in his library while it was
done, and allowed one of the maidservants to direct the men
at their work. Dimly he heard the wheels of the covered cart
and the hooves of the horse as the body was taken away
through the stable yard at the rear. Had they brought a coffin
with them? He did not know. He did not want to know
anything of how it was managed.

Dr Harkness had said he would inform the vicar, and James
had not had the presence of mind to tell the doctor to say
nothing at the rectory, that he would call there himself on the
morrow, and make the necessary arrangements for the interment.
He tried to read, and could not. He attempted to write
a letter or two, and put the quill aside. A thought came to him.

'The bedding must be removed, and burned. I must see
to it at once.'

He went upstairs to his son's bedroom – and found that
the bedding had been removed with the body. Only the frame
of the bed remained, stark and small upon the floor.

'Gone.'

And now James felt the terrible loss of his son, and he
sank down on the floor by the open door. He did not know
how long he had lain there when there came the sound of
an arrival below. Hooves, wheels, voices. One of the servants
at the door. A man's voice, enquiring. James roused himself,
wiped his eyes with his kerchief, and tidied himself – and
went down.

It was the vicar, the Reverend Constant, a full-figured man,
ruddy-cheeked, in usual a very genial fellow as he drove his
gig about the lanes of his parish, or rode to hounds, not in
the least like some of the more modern clerics, that were
pallid, gaunt men, very black in their coats and breeches, and
inclined to sermons quoting direct from the Old Testament.
'Thou shalt not' was none of the Reverend Constant's purpose.
He liked good food and wine, and made no secret of it. His
wife and numerous children were fond of him, and he of
them. He was not a man for profound thoughts, or deep
philosophies. He was a convivial country parson with a good
living. But at times like this he felt it incumbent upon him
to strike an attitude of dolorous sympathy quite out of kilter
with his usual self. James had been dreading it.

'My dear Mr Hayter,' he began, as James came into the
library. 'That is – Captain Hayter.'

'Vicar.'

'My sincere condolences, sir, in your very dreadful loss.'
Holding his hat before him. Had he withheld it from the
maidservant in order to appear more pious? wondered James,
and then was ashamed of himself.

'Thank you, you are very kind. Will you drink a glass of
sherry?'

'The loss of a child is always a very dreadful thing, and
we cannot all of us readily understand why God has permitted
it, why he has allowed the taking of so young and vibrant a
life, in the full flower of innocence. That is his mystery, in
his infinite wisdom. It is our sorrowful portion to pray for
the souls of those departed, and obediently to trust in his
divine judgement, always tender, and merciful. When we
reflect—'

'You are kind.' James did not know how much more of
this rank nonsense he could bear. He was fairly certain the
Reverend Constant did not believe in it, either. That he was
doing his duty as he saw it, going through the motions, being
pious and gloomy and platitudinous, and would sooner be
drinking a glass of warming sherry, and dealing with the
arrangements in a suitably practical and kindly way – a decent,
sensible, better way. James made it easy for him. He poured
sherry into glasses, handed one to the vicar, and:

'To my son Rondo, and what he might have been, and
become.'

The vicar put his hat on a chair. Relieved of ponderous
obligation, he lifted his glass and:

'To Rondo, indeed.'

When they had drunk their sherry, James and the vicar
fell to discussing the arrangements. All pieties and solemnities
were forgotten, and the form of the service and the
time, and that of the burial, were soon agreed. The Reverend
Constant drank a second glass of sherry, and was on the
point of departure when:

'My dear Captain Hayter, I am remiss.'

'Eh?'

'I have not asked after Mrs Hayter. Is she ... ?'

'She has took it hard, certainly. It will take time—' A sharp
thudding sound, beyond the door. Both men turned.

The door of the library was now flung open, and Catherine
appeared, her hair in disarray, her nightdress trailing on the
floor. Her skin was very pale, and her eyes shone over-bright.

'Where have you taken him!'

'My darling, you should not be—' began James, moving
toward her.

'Where is he!'

'He has – he is being took care of.'

James glanced at the Reverend Constant, who took up his
hat and and began a sideways-stepping movement toward
the door.

'Is that you, Vicar?' Catherine now swung on him. 'Why
have you come?'

'Dear lady, I am just going—'

'Nay, do not fly away on my account, Vicar. I will like to
hear all your news. As an example, will you tell me what you
and my husband have done with my son?'

'Done with him? Why, we was discussing the—' Breaking
off as he saw James's frantic signal: Say nothing.

'Well?' Catherine, an imperious stare.

'I must leave these – these family matters to your husband,
madam. They ain't my business.'

'No? Are not they?'

'No, indeed. And now, if you will excuse me, I shall—'

'I do not excuse you, Vicar. You see, I have listened at the
door.' A wild, glassy, triumphant smile, now turned on James.

'Listened?'

'Hah! You did not think me capable, neither of you, of
such subterfuge and cunning! But I am a woman, and women
are cunning in defence of their children!'

'Catherine, my darling, you are not quite yourself.' James
moved toward her again, holding out a hand.

'Do not lay a hand on me, sir! Stay away from my person!
I will not allow you to steal
me
!'

'Darling, dearest – I am only concerned for your health.
You will catch cold.' But he did not try to go any nearer to
her, fearful that she would plunge away from him, fall and
injure herself.

'You wish to send
me
away! I will not go!'

'My darling, I have no wish to send you anywhere. This
is your home, where you—'

Abruptly breaking down: 'Oh, why did you do it! Why,
why, why, why? Poor little boy, poor little boy ...' She
collapsed, as if her bones and sinews had turned to sand, and
her head hit the the edge of the door with a thud as her
body tumbled slack. Her head lolled to one side, and she lay
still. James ran and knelt beside her, and cradled her head,
careless of his own health now.

'Oh, my love ...'

The Reverend Constant, shocked and anxious, peered
over his shoulder. 'Has your poor wife injured herself?'

'You came in your gig, Vicar?' James, urgently, turning
his head.

'I did.'

'Will you do me a service? Will you fetch Dr Harkness?'

'I will, I will, gladly. She is injured?'

'I fear so.' James's hand, when he lifted it from the back
of her head, was covered in blood. 'I fear she is gravely
injured. Please hurry, will you?'

'You may rely on me.' Another glance at the prostrate
Catherine, and the vicar hurried away.

Dr Harkness came, and bathed Catherine's cut and bruised
head, and wound a bandage round it. He helped James to
carry her upstairs to her bed, and pronounced her free of
any greater damage from her fall. She had regained her senses,
but was dazed and unable to converse, or to understand what
was happening to her. The doctor gave James physic, with
instructions, and came downstairs with him.