An Echo in the Bone (51 page)

A great deal of Maneuvering then ensued in the Strait, and the Battle began in
earnest about Midday, the Carleton and Inflexible bearing most of the Brunt of
the Action, along with the Gunboats. Arnold’s Revenge and Philadelphia were
badly hit by Broadsides, and the Philadelphia sank near Evening.

The Carleton continued firing until a fortunate Shot from the Americans severed
the Line to her Anchor, causing her to drift. She was heavily attacked and a
number of her Men killed or injured, the Butcher’s Bill including her Captain, a
Lieutenant James Dacres (I have an uneasy feeling that I have met him, perhaps
at a Dance last Season) and the senior Officers. One of her Midshipmen took
Command and carried her to Safety. They said it was Edward Pellew—and I
know I have met him, once or twice, at Boodles with Uncle Harry.

To resume: Another lucky Shot struck the Magazine of a Gunboat and blew it up,
but meanwhile, the Inflexible was finally brought into play and battered the
American Boats with her heavy Guns. The smaller of Sir Guy’s Craft landed
Indians meanwhile upon the Shores of Valcour Island and the Shore of the Lake,
thus cutting off this Avenue of Escape, and the Remnants of Arnold’s Fleet were
thus obliged to retreat down the Lake.

They succeeded in slipping past Sir Guy, the Night being foggy, and took Refuge
at Schuyler Island, some miles south. Sir Guy’s Fleet pursued them, though, and
was able to draw within Sight of them the next Day, Arnold’s Boats being much
hampered by Leakage, Damage, and the Weather, which had turned to heavy
Rain and high Wind. The Washington was caught, attacked, and forced to strike
her Colors, her Crew of more than a hundred Men being captured. The rest of
Arnold’s Fleet, though, managed to get through to Buttonmold Bay, where, I
understand, the Waters are too shallow to allow Sir Guy’s Ships to follow.

There Arnold beached, stripped, and set afire most of his Craft—their Flags still
flying, as a Mark of Defiance, the Germans said; they were amused by this, but
admired it. Colonel Arnold (or must we now call him Admiral Arnold?)
personally set Fire to the Congress, this being his Flagship, and set off Overland,
narrowly escaping the Indians who had been set to prevent him. His troops did
reach Crown Point, but did not linger there, pausing only to destroy the Fort
before withdrawing to Ticonderoga.

Sir Guy did not march his Prisoners back to Quebec, but returned them to
Ticonderoga under a Flag of Truce—a very pretty Gesture, much admired by my
Informants.

10:30. Did you see the aurora borealis when you were here, or was it too early in
the Year? It is a most remarkable Sight. Snow has fallen all Day, but ceased near
Sunset and the Sky has cleared. From my Window, I see a northern Exposure, and
there is presently an amazing shimmer that fills the whole Sky, waves of pale blue
and some green—though I have seen it to be red sometimes—that swirl like Drops
of Ink spilt in Water and stirred. I cannot hear it at present, because of the
Singing—someone is Playing a Fiddle in the Distance; it is a very sweet and
piercing Tune—but when I have seen the Phenomenon outside the City, in the
Woods, there is often a most peculiar Sound, or Sounds, that accompany it.

Sometimes a sort of faint Whistling, as of Wind around a Building, though there is
no Movement of the Air; sometimes a strange, high, hissing Noise, interrupted
now and then by a Fusillade of Clicks and Cracklings, as though a Horde of
Crickets were advancing upon the Listener through dry Leaves—though by the
time the Aurora begins to be seen, the Cold has long since killed all Insects (and
good riddance! We applied an Ointment used by the local Indians, which was of
some help against stinging Flies and Mosquitoes, but does nothing to discourage
the inquisitiveness of Earwigs, Roaches, and Spiders).

We had a Guide for our Journey between St. John and Quebec, a Man of mixed
Blood (he had a most remarkable Head of Hair, thick and curly as Sheep’s Wool
and the color of Cinnamon Bark) who told us that some of the native People think
that the Sky is a Dome, separating Earth from Heaven, but that there are Holes in
the Dome, and that the Lights of the Aurora are the Torches of Heaven, sent out
to guide the Spirits of the Dead through the Holes.

But I see I have yet to finish my Account, though it is only to add that following
the Battle, Sir Guy withdrew to winter Quarters in St. John, and likely will not
return to Quebec until the Spring.

So now I come to the true Point of my letter. I rose Yesterday to discover Captain
Randall-Isaacs had decamped during the Night, leaving me with a brief Note
stating that he had urgent Business, had enjoyed my Company and valuable
Assistance, and that I was to remain here until either his Return or the arrival of
new Orders.

The Snow is deep, more may come at any Moment, and Business must be urgent
indeed which could compel a man to venture any Distance. I am of course
somewhat disturbed at Captain Randall-Isaacs’s abrupt Departure, curious as to
what might have happened to cause it, and somewhat anxious as to his Welfare.

This does not seem a Situation in which I would be justified in ignoring my
Orders, however, and so … I wait.

11:30. I stopped writing for some little time, to stand and watch the Sky. The
Lights of the Aurora come and go, but I think they have gone altogether now; the
Sky is black, the Stars bright but tiny by contrast with the vanished brilliance of
the Lights. There is a vast Emptiness in the Sky that one seldom senses in a City.

Despite the Clangor of the Bells, the Bonfires in the Square, and the Singing of
People—there is a Procession of some kind going on—I can feel the great Silence
beyond it.

The Nuns are going in to their Chapel. I leaned out of my Window just now to
watch them hurrying along, two by two like a marching Column, their dark
Gowns and Cloaks making them look like small Pieces of the Night, drifting
among the Stars of their Torches. (I have been writing a long Time, you must
forgive the Fancies of an exhausted Brain.)

This is the first Christmas I have spent with no Sight of Home or Family. The
First of many, no doubt.

I think of you often, Papa, and hope you are well and looking forward to roast
Goose tomorrow with Grandmama and Grandpapa Sir George. Give my Love to
them, please, and to Uncle Hal and his family. (And to my Dottie, especially.)
A very merry Christmas from your Son, William

PostScriptum: 2:00 a.m. I went down after all, and stood at the Back of the
Chapel. It was somewhat Popish, and there was a great Deal of Incense, but I
said a Prayer for Mother Geneva and for Mama Isobel. When I emerged from the
Chapel, I saw that the Lights have come back. Now they are blue.

THE BOSOM OF THE DEEP

May 15, 1777

My dears,

I hate Boats. I despise them with the utmost Fiber of my Being. And yet I find
myself once more launched upon the dreadful Bosom of the Sea, aboard a Craft
known as the Tranquil Teal, from which Absurdity you may deduce the grim
Whimsy of her Captain. This Gentleman is a Smuggler of mixed Race, evil
Countenance, and low Humor, who tells me, straight-faced, that his name is
Trustworthy Roberts.

JAMIE PAUSED TO DIP his quill, glanced at the receding shore of North Carolina, and, observing it to rise and fall in an unsettling manner, fixed his eyes at once upon the page he had tacked to his lap desk to prevent its being borne away by the stiff breeze that filled the sails above his head.

We are in good Health
, he wrote slowly. Putting aside the notion of seasickness, upon which he did not propose to dwell. Ought he to tell them about Fergus? he wondered.

“Feeling all right?”

He looked up to see Claire, bending to peer at him with that look of intent but cautious curiosity she reserved for people who might at any moment vomit, spurt blood, or die. He’d already done the first two, as a result of her having accidentally put one of her needles into a small blood vessel in his scalp, but hoped she didn’t distinguish any further signs of his impending demise.

“Well enough.” He didn’t want even to think about his stomach, for fear of inciting it, and changed the subject in order to avoid further discussion. “Shall I tell Brianna and Roger Mac about Fergus?”

“How much ink have you got?” she asked, with a sidelong smile. “Yes, of course you should.

They’ll be very interested. And it will distract you,” she added, squinting slightly at him.

“You’re still rather green.”

“Aye, thanks.”

She laughed with the cheerful callousness of the good sailor, kissed the top of his head—avoiding the four needles protruding from his forehead—and went to stand by the rail, watching the wavering land recede from view.

He averted his gaze from this distressing prospect, and returned to his letter.

Fergus and his family are also well, but I must tell you of a puzzling occurrence.

A man who calls himself Percival Beauchamp …

It took him most of a page to describe Beauchamp and his baffling interest. He glanced up at Claire, wondering whether he should also include the possibility of Beauchamp’s relationship to her family, but decided against it. His daughter certainly knew her mother’s maiden name and would notice it at once. He had no further useful information to provide in that respect—and his hand was beginning to ache.

Claire was still at the rail, one hand on it for balance, her face dreaming.

She had tied back the mass of her hair with ribbon, but the wind was whipping strands of it out, and with hair and skirts and shawl streaming back, the cloth of her gown molded to what was still a very fine bosom, he thought she looked like a ship’s figurehead, graceful and fierce, a protective spirit against the dangers of the deep.

He found that thought obscurely comforting, and returned to his composition in better heart, despite the disturbing content he had now to confide.

Fergus elected not to speak with Monsieur Beauchamp, which I thought wise, and
so we presumed this to be the end of the Matter.

While we were in Wilmington, though, I went down to the Docks one Evening to
meet Mr. DeLancey Hall, our Liaison with Captain Roberts. Owing to the
Presence of an English Man-of-war in the Harbor, the Arrangement was that we
should repair discreetly aboard Mr. Hall’s fishing Ketch, which would transport
us outwith the Harbor, whence we should rendezvous with the Teal, Captain
Roberts disliking close Proximity to the British navy. (This is a fairly universal
Response on the part of private and merchant Captains, owing both to the
prevalence of Contraband aboard most Ships and to the Navy’s rapacious
Attitude toward the Ships’ Crews, who are routinely abducted—pressed, they call
it—and to all Intents and Purposes, enslaved for Life, save they are willing to risk
Hanging for Desertion.)

I had brought with me some minor Items of Luggage, intending under the Pretext
of taking these aboard to inspect both the Ketch and Mr. Hall more closely before
entrusting our Lives to either. The Ketch was not at Anchor, though, and Mr. Hall
did not appear for some Time, so that I began to worry lest I had mistaken his
Instructions or that he had run afoul either of His Majesty’s Navy or some fellow
Rapscallion or Privateer.

I waited until it had grown Dark, and was on the point of returning to our Inn,
when I saw a small Boat come into the Harbor with a blue Lantern at its Tail.

This was Mr. Hall’s Signal, and the Boat was his Ketch, which I assisted him to
tie up to the Quay. He told me that he had some News, and we repaired to a local
Tavern, where he said that he had been in New Bern the Day before, and there
found the Town in an Uproar, owing to an infamous Assault upon the Printer, Mr.

Fraser.

By report, he—Fergus—was making his Rounds of Delivery, and had just got
down from the Mule Cart when someone sprang upon him from behind, thrusting
a Sack over his Head, and someone else attempted at the same Time to seize his
Hands, presumably with the Intent of binding them. Fergus naturally resisted
these Attempts with some Vigor, and according to Mr. Hall’s Story, succeeded in
wounding one Assailant with his Hook, there being a certain Amount of Blood to
substantiate this Assumption. The wounded Man fell back with a Scream and
uttered loud Oaths (I should have been interested to know the content of said
Oaths, in order to know whether the Speaker might be French or English, but this
Information was not included), whereupon Clarence (who you will remember, I
think) became excited and apparently bit the second Assailant, this Man and
Fergus having fallen against the Mule in their Struggle. The second Man was
discouraged by this vigorous Intervention, but the first returned to the Fray at this
Point, and Fergus—still blinded by the Sack but bellowing for Help—grappled
with him, striking at him again with his Hook. Some Reports (says Mr. Hall)
claim that the Villain wrenched the Hook from Fergus’s Wrist, while others claim
that Fergus succeeded in striking him again but that the Hook became entangled
in the Villain’s Clothing and was pulled off in the Struggle.