Rocks and shoals, p.26
Rocks and Shoals, page 26
A figure on the poop deck raised his speaking trumpet.
‘Boat ahoy!’ he shouted as if he didn’t know exactly who his longboat would be carrying.
‘ Dartmouth !’ replied the coxswain, and he steered for the larboard side.
Third-rates had an entry-port, but these new fourth-rates had a similar arrangement to frigates; one entered the ship on the waist, through a removable section of the gunwale. It was a longer climb up the side than he was used to, but the far greater tumble-home helped him once he was past the lower tier of guns.
The pipes squealed, the side-boys stood ready to help Carlisle over the last few feet of the climb, and the ship’s officers were all gathered ready to receive him. There were so many of them! More lieutenants than he was used to and a great line of midshipmen and volunteers that stretched across the waist to the starboard side.
‘Lieutenant Gresham, sir,’ said a short, powerful figure who stepped forward to meet him, ‘First Lieutenant, at your service. May I introduce the officers?’
‘Yes please, Mister Gresham, just the commission officers and the standing officers. I’ll meet the others later.’
He tried his best to concentrate on the names, but after John Halsey, second lieutenant and Arthur Beazley, sailing master, he lost his focus. It didn’t matter, none of them expected him to remember and the introductions would be repeated later.
‘Thank you, Mister Gresham. This is Lieutenant Wishart, the new third, and Mister Angelini.’
He didn’t elaborate on Enrico’s status.
‘Now, as Captain Downey has already departed, if you’ll call the people together, I’ll read myself in.’
They were waiting, of course, gathered on the lower gun deck and eager for the first glimpse of their new captain, the man who above all others would be the master of their fates for the coming months and years.
‘The hands are mustered, sir,’ said Gresham, removing his hat and bowing.
Carlisle took his commission from his pocket and smoothed it onto the lectern that had been placed at the quarterdeck rail. It was already growing dark, and he had difficulty reading the words, but he said enough of them in the right order:
‘By Sir Charles Saunders, Vice-Admiral of the Blue and Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels in North America, to Captain Edward Carlisle Esquire…’
◆◆◆
25: Stolen Moments
Monday, Fifteenth of October 1759.
Dexter’s Print Shop, Williamsburg, Virginia.
‘And then the captain of the port, bless him, winked at me and asked if I’d fancy a quick convoy to Hampton Roads before I headed back to Portsmouth! I’d given up hope of seeing you for many, many months until he spoke. Of course, a ship-of-the-line is entirely the wrong beast to be sending with a coasting convoy, but he at least had the excuse that he didn’t have a sloop to hand at that moment, nor even a frigate. There’s always the potential for a French privateer to be lurking off Sandy Hook or Cape Henry, you know. In any case, his need and my desire coincided, and here I am with two whole days before I must sail.’
Carlisle was finding that his speech was running away with him. A nervous reaction, he thought, that went with the relentless guilt of not being with his family. Chiara was her usual serene self, her equanimity hardly affected by this sudden appearance of her husband, washed in, apparently, on the morning’s sea-breeze.
‘Which captain are you referring to now, Edward? I must say there is a plethora of naval gentlemen in your story and I’m finding it hard to keep up.’
‘Oh, my apologies. It was Captain Griffiths who’s looking after New York; he was kind enough to give me the convoy to Hampton Roads. Admiral Saunders – you remember me speaking of him, from Quebec? He sent me to New York with the transports and supply ships. I would have been straight to Spithead from there were it not for Griffiths.’
‘Well, in any case, here you are.’
They were interrupted by a tentative knock on the door. The whole household seemed to be walking on eggshells since Carlisle’s arrival on the doorstep an hour before. They were doing their best to leave him and Chiara alone together as much as possible. However, little Joshua Carlisle had been washed and brushed and clothed for his father’s inspection, and the transformation wouldn’t last long. A one-year-old who had just started walking could be relied upon to cover himself in nameless secretions in a matter of minutes, and Susan, Chiara’s maid, knew that there was not a moment to lose.
‘Is this my little man!’ Carlisle cried out in wonder. ‘He was a babe in arms nine months ago, now look at him!’
Susan held Joshua carefully as he caught his balance, then she tentatively released her grip. He sagged, she caught him up again. Then, when he looked as though he could toddle the few yards to his father, she let go again. One step, two steps and he lurched forward onto his knees. Nothing daunted, he rushed forward on all fours towards his father. Then he looked up. A puzzled expression crossed his face. He looked again and sped forward, swerving to the right and straight to his mother who knelt to pick him up.
‘Never mind, dear,’ she said, holding her son protectively. ‘I’m sure he’ll soon become used to you. Perhaps I should show him your miniature from time to time.’
Carlisle opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it. He was only home – if these apartments at the back of his cousin’s shop could be called home – for two days, and the last thing he wanted was a misunderstanding with his wife. He held out his hands and Chiara passed his child to him. Joshua looked over his shoulder for the reassurance of his mother and Susan and he tried to push himself away. Carlisle had never had much to do with children, and he was unprepared for this apparent rejection.
‘I’ll take him and sit beside you, Edward,’ said Chiara, ‘then perhaps he will learn come to you.’
Susan curtsied and left the room. They sat in companionable silence on the chaise lounge while Carlisle offered his fingers as playthings for Joshua.
‘He looks so like you, don’t you think,’ said Chiara, searching for the most amenable thing she could say after her unfortunate comment about the miniature.
She really loved her husband, but she resented the way he had disappeared for nine months, leaving her in a foreign country with a new baby. Certainly, she’d been made very welcome by Carlisle’s cousin, and Edward’s father had been trying as best he could to make up for the chill of their first meeting. She really had not meant to be shrewish, but what had started as a harmless joke had misfired.
Carlisle was not a man without empathy, and in his own way, he had a misty understanding of his wife’s thought processes. He’d learned to hold his tongue the hard way, in the midshipman’s berth of a variety of King’s ships, and he’d learned to make the most of a stolen moment. He’d be off in just two days and who knew when he’d be back?
‘That was the nicest thing you could have said to me,’ he looked at his wife and again at his son, ‘and look, I do believe he wants to come to me.’
Sure enough, young Joshua was holding out his chubby arms to Carlisle. Chiara smiled.
◆◆◆
‘Now, that is the house I was telling you about,’ said Chiara, pointing down Governor’s Green. ‘There, on the left, next-but-one after Elizabeth Wythe’s home.’
They’d had a trying time walking through the city. News of the fall of Quebec had preceded him, and everyone wanted to hear the story and meet one of the captains who had sailed up the fabled Saint Lawrence. It was the most welcome news, better even than the capture of Louisbourg the previous year. The English colonists in America were largely disinterested in the war in Europe or the East Indies, but the news that the French were but one campaign away from being evicted from North America stirred them as little else could. They gave no thought to the difficulty of maintaining a battle-weary garrison in the wreckage of a beaten city through a Canadian winter. The danger that the Marquis de Vaudreuil may sweep the British garrison away before a relief squadron could ascend the Saint Lawrence in the next spring hadn’t even occurred to them. Carlisle knew the fragility of the victory at Quebec. Only a few years ago it looked entirely likely that the French would encircle the thirteen colonies, cutting them off from the vast continent before them and making them forever reliant upon the good offices of their mother, England. He also knew that words of caution were not wanted now, for today the city was ecstatic in its rejoicing.
There was another factor that he had to consider. This victory was won largely – almost exclusively – by the British navy and by regular British soldiers; the colonial militia had played only a very minor part. However, Carlisle was himself a colonist, one of the few to hold a regular commission in either the sea or land forces. He was a tangible bridge between the colonies and England, and the citizens of Williamsburg loved him for it. Carlisle knew that he must decide where to put down his roots. Would it be a rural home in the English counties? Or perhaps a townhouse in London. He could afford both, he knew, having seen the last statement of his affairs from Campbell & Coutts, his London bankers. Then, of course, he could settle here, in Williamsburg. Such a thing had never really occurred to him until Fauquier had spoken to him last winter. When he went to sea at the age of fourteen, he thought he’d shaken the dust of Virginia from his feet. It was sheer chance that had brought him to his hometown at exactly the moment when it became evident that the expectant Chiara should travel no further. Even then, he’d imagined that she’d soon be pressing him to arrange a passage back to England, or even to her native Nice. And yet here she was pointing out a property for sale, a substantial property, and just yards from the Governor’s Palace. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it, he thought ruefully.
‘It really is most convenient, you know. Elizabeth arranged for me to look around it last month. Oh, I said nothing, I gave no hint that I was anything other than merely curious, just another vulgar busybody. But you know, it is such a nice home, and so close to Barbara and Cranmer, and with the most eligible neighbours,’ she added nodding towards the Governor’s Palace and favouring Carlisle with her most winning smile.
Carlisle had the distinct impression that he was being manoeuvred. Chiara had a heightened sense of her position in society and a dread that she should ever be thought anything less than a Great Lady. She would usually have come no closer to her husband than a light hand on his arm in public, but now she was positively clinging to him.
‘Would you like me to arrange for us both to look around the house? We could do that tomorrow. It may be a relief after dinner with the lieutenant-governor this evening.’
‘Oh yes, Edward,’ said Chiara, moving away slightly as she saw an acquaintance approaching them. ‘Mister Wythe is the seller’s agent; I’m sure he would be delighted.’
I’m sure he would, Carlisle mused. George Wythe would have a shrewd idea of Carlisle’s fortune; he was, after all, a man of business as well as the law. He could probably name all the prizes that Carlisle had taken in this war and would be able to tally the values to within a hair of the truth. Little did Carlisle know of property prices in Williamsburg, but he was confident that they couldn’t be greater than London or the home counties. No doubt Elizabeth had already told George of Chiara’s interest, and he was probably anticipating a visit from his old school friend.
‘Then I’ll send a note to Mister Wythe before we go to dinner,’ Carlisle said. ‘I’m sure he’ll be most surprised.’
That earned him a sharp look from Chiara, but she also was trying her best to make these brief few days as pleasant as possible, and it quickly changed to laughter as she hugged his arm tightly.
◆◆◆
‘I keep meaning to ask, my dear, how you are getting along with my father. Have you seen much of him?’
Carlisle was wrestling with his silk stock, and he felt as though he was all thumbs and no fingers.
‘Here, let me,’ said Chiara, and with a few deft twists she tamed the unruly length of silk. ‘Have I seen much of him?’ she laughed. ‘He can hardly be kept away. Truly, he’s a changed man from the one that we met last year.’
She paused and stared at the window as they both remembered that dreadful day when they’d paid a dutiful visit to Joshua Carlisle at his Jamestown plantation. The father had been unfriendly but Carlisle’s older brother, Charles, had been outright hostile. Neither thought that there was any possible healing for that family rift.
‘I couldn’t wish for a more pleasant father-in-law.’
‘And Charles?’ Carlisle continued, ‘have you seen much of him?’
Chiara’s face darkened, and she bit her lower lip.
‘He frightens me, Edward. If there is any danger of seeing him, I take my servant with me. You know that he would die for me, although I hope it won’t come to that. You know that it was I who suggested the name Joshua. It’s a normal compliment to a grandfather in my country and I felt that your father deserved it. Now I wonder; it seems to have ignited a jealous spark in your brother. He can hardly contain his fury when he sees me.’
Carlisle nodded thoughtfully. He knew that he’d have to confront his brother and he wasn’t looking forward to it. It wasn’t that he was afraid, not physically at least, but it was a public admission of failure for two brothers to fall out. Perhaps it was already too late. It was likely that all of Williamsburg knew how matters stood.
‘But I spoke in haste. Your father’s expression when he sees little Joshua is worth any number of furious stares from your brother. I do believe that for two pins he would throw over Charles’ inheritance in your favour, or even in Joshua’s.’
How much did Chiara really know about inheritance law? Carlisle himself knew almost nothing, but he imagined that it was impossible to disinherit an older son, under the law of the colony. But was that correct? He could hazily remember instances where land had been willed not to the eldest son, but to a younger, or to a further distant relative. Had his father written a will? Probably. He would have to ask him. But first, he’d presume on his old friendship with George Wythe to clear up his understanding of the law. He’d never thought of it before, and he knew why. He’d always been the unwanted son, the disregarded second sibling, and only last year it would have been unthinkable that his father would even have acknowledged him in his will and testament. How things had changed!
◆◆◆
The lieutenant-governor’s invitation to dinner had been most unwelcome to Carlisle. He yearned to spend time with his son, to have a simple meal with his wife and his cousin and to hear the common gossip of the city. However, an invitation to the palace carried the force – almost – of a royal command and Carlisle could only bow to the inevitable. Chiara, however, was in her element. She’d been bred to the court of King Charles Emmanuel, and she missed the sense of being at the centre of, if not world, then at least regional affairs.
Carlisle was, of course, the focus of attention. Here in the heart of the colonial government, the affairs of the world were given their due consideration. They’d heard the momentous news from Europe. Prince Ferdinand had won an important battle at Minden and Hanover was safe, for now. Boscawen had caught a squadron of the French Mediterranean fleet under de la Clue on its way to reinforce Bompart in the Caribbean. The admiral had breached Portuguese neutrality to destroy de la Clue’s squadron in Lagos Bay close under Cape Saint Vincent. However, the Virginia colonists cared nothing for Portugal and its neutrality, just so long as it kept exporting its fortified wines, its Madeira and port. Even the news from the East Indies was encouraging, where it seemed that Admiral Pocock was getting to grips with the French on the Coromandel Coast.
Word of the fall of Fort Niagara in the summer was, of course, welcome and anyone who looked at a map could see how British control of the head of Lake Ontario split Canada from the western French possessions. Amherst’s army was wintering at Crown Point on Lake Champlain, just a week’s march or a day’s sailing with a fair wind from the Richelieu River that flowed into the Saint Lawrence below Montreal.
All those victories were important, and the bells of the parish church had hardly paused in their ringing, but it was Quebec that really stirred their imagination. With Quebec in British hands, there was no communication between Montreal, the capital of New France, and King Louis in Versailles. It would be difficult for even a message to be sent to Governor-General Vaudreuil, while supplies and reinforcements were out of the question. If Murray could hold on to the shattered city until the spring brought fresh reinforcements and supplies flowing up the Saint Lawrence, then the campaign season of 1760 must surely see the end to the long dream of New France.
When the ladies had withdrawn, Carlisle’s opinion on these great events was eagerly sought. He had an advantage; the war that had started on the Ohio River had become global, and its conduct was the principal subject of conversation when the captains of Saunders’ fleet had met. That and the perennial talk of prospects of promotion, removals to larger – or smaller – ships, whose star was in the ascendant and whose falling; but that was the background hum of naval intercourse. Most of all the governor’s guests wanted to know about the campaign for Quebec. How had Wolfe died? and Montcalm? Where was Vaudreuil while his battle was being lost. Could Murray hold out through the winter? What sort of man was he? Cautious? Impetuous? Carlisle could give a considered opinion to each of these questions. His reputation rose as the minutes passed and few men left the table without wondering what part Carlisle would play in a post-war Virginia. For although Carlisle had only heard earlier that day that he was considering buying a house in the capital, it had been well known among the leadership of the colony for at least a month.
