Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

Chapter 5 The Odour of Chessyre's Fear

24 February 1807, cont.

MARY AND I WERE GRANTED A REPRIEVE OF SEVERAL hours before I should be expected to take up my new vocation; at present, Mrs. Braggen's serving woman — a close confidante, it seemed, of many years' standing — was in attendance upon the surgeon, Mr. Hill. I should have laughed aloud at this sacrifice of a personal maid, in testament to Mrs. Braggen's devotion to her adopted cause, had Catherine Bertie not warmly assured me that dear Cecilia had worn herself to a fag end in nursing the sick at Wool House. She had absented herself from its noisome interior merely to solicit the aid of her naval sisters. I might expect her return in the midst of my own service — the better to instruct me, I suspected, in the finer points of contagion.

Mary and I bid (he ladies adieu — assured Mrs. Foote that we should not fail her on Friday evening — and tarried only long enough in the hall to be certain of escaping our departing friends. Happily, the rain had dwindled to a fine mist, exactly calculated to freshen Mary's complexion and add a springing curl to the wisps of hair escaping from my bonnet And so we set off.

My first object was to select a joint suitable for Martha's delectation, and order it sent home to Mrs. Davies; my second was to ensure that my brother's wife did not come to any harm in the public market, where she intended to examine every egg ever laid by ardent hen. At the last, if time permitted, I intended a healthful walk up the length of the High — which in Southampton runs the entire extent of the ancient center of town, from the Quay at water's edge, north to the very Bar Gate. Southampton, like its sister, Portsmouth, has always been fortified with broad, stout walls and the Keep so necessary for the defence of the realm; all the efforts at improvement — the Polygon that ambitious builders would tout, as the next Fashionable locus for Gentlemen of Means, fine shop fronts along the broad sweep of the High, the modern villas erected in the hills beyond the town, by sailors turned once more on land — cannot disguise the pleasant utility of a stone escarpment twenty feet tall and eight feet wide, perfectly suited for a promenade in view of the sea. The garden of our prospective house in Castle Square is bordered by the city's battlements, and from its height — achievable by flights of steps at several points along the wall's length — one might gaze at the New Forest beyond. The sea washes steadily at the great wall's foot; and I imagine that in warmer months — my window flung open to the night air — I shall fall off to sleep amidst the gentle susurration of the waves, and dream that I am rocking aboard one of my brother's ships.[7]

So absorbed was I in this pleasant thought, that I was almost propelled headlong into the arms of the brother in question, as he stood outside the door of the Dolphin Inn, gazing earnestly upwards at one of its bow windows.

“Frank!” I cried; and, “Dearest!” exclaimed Mary at the same moment

He turned, and appeared not to recognise us, so absorbed in thought was he. But then his expression changed; he shook off abstraction and mustered a smile. “You have caught me out, Mary, in a private dissipation— I never can pass the Dolphin without remarking upon the strange picture by way of a ship, that they have propped there in the window; a very strange ship, from its construction, and hardly one I should consent to command. The wind is filling the sails from entirely the wrong quarter, to judge by the ensign; and how any fool of a painter could expect such a craft — but enough, you are laughing at me, and no husband worth respect should consent to be laughed at,”

I was convinced, from an intimate knowledge of my brother's ways, that some other object had drawn his eye to the Dolphin's window; but I forbore to question him. Over Mary's head, his gaze slid anxiously to my own; but I preserved my serenity of countenance, and he appeared relieved.

“You are in time, Mary, to renew your acquaintance with Captain Sylvester,” Frank told his wife. “See — he is just coming along the opposite side of the High, and Mrs. Sylvester with him. Should you like to cross, and say how d'ye do?”

Mary expressing her willingness to perform this small social duty, we had soon exchanged one paving for another, and stood in a tight little knot of the Navy, while the Sylvesters — he a hale fellow of perhaps fifty, she a smaller article with an expression of bird-like intelligence — offered all that was solicitous regarding Mary's condition and Frank's shipless state. Our direction being consulted, the couple then obligingly turned back in order to accompany us on our way to Queen Anne Street. Amidst all the chatter of, “When do you expect to be removed to your home?” and, “When may we visit you in Castle Square?” and, “Pray allow me to relieve you of the burden of your eggs, Mrs. Austen—” an exchange of Captain Sylvester for Frank was made at Mary's arm. I found my brother at my side.

“I have seen him,” he murmured low in my ear. “I have found him out. Chessyre.”

“He lodges at the Dolphin?”

Frank nodded abruptly. “It was no very great matter to learn his direction. The whole town may know it, provided they frequent the more disreputable taverns and houses of ill repute by the quayside. Mr. Chessyre, I find, is intimately known in certain circles that should never gain admittance to the Dolphin.”

“And you spoke to him? You learned the truth of the engagement?”

“You possess far too wide a knowledge of the world, Jane, to assume that truth is so easily secured,” my brother replied grimly. “Do not sport with my under standing by undervaluing your own; I am not in the humour for it.”

Mary's laughter pealed delightedly before us; Captain Sylvester — or his diminutive wife — must be roundly entertaining.

“What did Chessyre say?”

“Very little. For a man much given to boasting when disguised in drink, he preserved a Delphic silence in his own rooms. I prodded — I pleaded — I threatened by turns; but the Lieutenant remains obdurate in his charge of murder. He would have it that Tom Seagrave demanded blood for blood, at the death of his Young Gentleman; and therein lies the end of the matter.”

“And did Chessyre witness murder with his own eyes? Or does he merely assume the act, from the dirk's being first in Seagrave's possession?”

“He insists he saw the Frenchman, Porthiault, hold out his sword in surrender, that Seagrave took it, as is the custom, as the French colours came down; and that while the enemy captain stood defenceless, Seagrave cut him to the heart” Frank's voice was heavy. So determined a recital — complete with facts, and clear in its account — looked quite black indeed.

“Then why did Chessyre say nothing against his captain until he reached port?”

“From fear of Seagrave. To hear Chessyre tell it, he might as well have thrown himself into the sea, as accuse the man aboard his own ship. I cannot blame him for keeping silent, if there is truth in his charge. Such an act of murder — for that is what every man of feeling must hold it to have been — would urge the Lieutenant to believe Seagrave on the verge of madness. I confess, Jane, that having seen Chessyre — having heard his account with my own ears — I comprehend the grim looks of Admiral Bertie. So harsh a testimony could well sink my friend.”

“And do you believe it, Frank?”

He was silent just that instant too long. “I confess I do not know what to believe.”

“Will none of Seagrave's crew give Chessyre the lie?” I cried.

“None has come forward. It is possible that they are all in the most fearful indecision.”

Much would be required, for a man to risk the contempt of the Admiralty — the loss of confidence were he proved wrong — the negative consequences for his career. Silence, in such a pass, would seem the wisest policy of all.

But silence was not my brother's choice.

“Jane, the Captain's trial is to be held two days hence on board Admiral Hastings's ship, moored in Portsmouth harbour. I intend to be present for the proceedings — and to offer my most fervent testimonial as to the worth of Seagrave's character.”

“The case shall turn upon evidence, Frank, and not upon a judgement of character. If you would clear Captain Seagrave's name, you must learn why his lieutenant intends him to hang.”

My blunt words occasioned little more than a grunt of displeasure from Frank; he could not love the duty that must destroy the honour of one man, or the other.

“You have but two choices,” I persisted. “To regard your friend as innocent, or to believe Lieutenant Chessyre's charge. If the latter — your friend's cause is lost. If the former — then we must consider the possibility that the Lieutenant would shift guilt upon the Captain, because he is mortally afraid of being charged with murder himself.”

“Chessyre?” Frank cried, as one amazed.

“I can account for his actions in no other way— excepting the spur of truth. And you will not allow him to speak from truth.”

“But why should Chessyre kill the French captain? Seagrave has never suggested that he did; and if Seagrave did not see the hand that struck Porthiault down, then how may we accuse Chessyre of the act?”

“I confess the entire affair confounds reason. I am almost persuaded that both men are mired in half-truths and prevarication. No other construction may be placed upon events.”

“A very simple construction might be placed upon them,” Frank countered grimly. “Shall I tell you what it is? Eustace Chessyre is an aging man. He has been thirteen years a first lieutenant, and is unlikely ever to achieve a further rank. Two younger men in Seagrave's command — second lieutenants, both of them — have been promoted to master and commander from beneath Chessyre's eye. He told me so himself. The success of his subordinates has made him bitter, Jane. He has been passed over, from among the ranks of his own men. He cannot bear the indignity — and he blames Seagrave for its accomplishment. He regards his captain as blocking his advance — as deliberately thwarting Chessyre's career — when by all accounts poor Tom has done nothing but look out for the man in his progress through the service.”

I considered this theory. “And thus we find the goad to murder. You believe the fellow nursed his grievance, and merely awaited opportunity to exact revenge?”

“If he was so struck by Seagrave's act — if indeed he witnessed the Captain's hand strike down an enemy officer after receiving that officer's sword — then why did he not denounce my friend at the very moment? Instead we find him appointed commander of the French prize, and beating back to Portsmouth without a murmur.”

“That is very singular,” I admitted.

“Chessyre had several days' sailing time to consider of his story, before appearing off Spithead in the captured prize. He might have walked the Manon's deck with any number of devils, Jane; he might have been tortured in his mind up to the very moment of going over the side with Seagrave's letters, and only cast his lot for murder as he gained the Admiral's ship to convey his intelligence.”

“He took a formidable risk. What if the British seamen under his command denied the charge against their captain?”

“They probably knew nothing of Chessyre's intent while yet in Portsmouth; they should have been sent out to regain the Stella once the prize was secured. Chessyre seized his moment, convinced that he should be safe.”

“—Acting solely from revenge?”

“And from interest, Jane. A healthy and hopeful self-interest. Eustace Chessyre thought to be made master on the strength of this action — and if Seagrave were removed from the Stella, why should not Chessyre command her? A temporary appointment, perhaps, but one that might satisfy so embittered a man. Never mind that masters and commanders are never posted into anything higher than a sloop: Chessyre was in the grip of delusion.”

“He should better have thrust the dirk into Seagrave's heart,” I observed, “and assumed command of the Stella while yet on the high seas.”

Frank was silent an instant in consideration. Then, with his eyes fixed upon the rain-splashed paving-stones at our feet, he said, “It is one thing to strike down an enemy in the heat of battle; it is quite another to kill a man in cold blood with whom one has sailed year after year. If pressed, I should say that Eustace Chessyre is not above plotting what is devious; he may calculate, and lie, and attempt to turn misfortune to every advantage — but I do not think he would do murder outright.”

“How kind you are!” I cried. “How judicious! The court-martial had better employ your powers of pleading on behalf of your fellow man, Fly. To say that the Lieutenant preferred Seagrave to die at the hangman's hands, rather than his own, is so much flummery. I wonder your man can live with himself!”

“He certainly does not live in comfort,” my brother said. “I have been long enough at war to recognise the stench of fear; it dogs the gundeck before every engagement, it sleeps in the hammocks of unsound men. Chessyre's room was rank with it, Jane. The man is awash in terror, and sinking fast.”

I halted on the street and stared at Frank. “And what do you believe him to fear? Discovery in deceit?”

“I cannot say. Something more powerful than myself, or all the threats I might bring to bear. But in parting with the fellow, I urged him to consider his course — to judge if it were sound — and pressed my direction into his hand. We might yet hope for a visit from the Lieutenant, and a reversion of events, before Thursday morning.”

We walked on, each of us silent, until achieving the turning for Queen Anne Street. There my footsteps slowed, and I gazed down the broad sweep of the High to the huddle of buildings that fronted the Quay. One of these — a squat, square stone structure of ancient date, with a peaked brick roof and windows barred with iron — was Wool House.

“What we require,” I told my brother, “is an impartial witness to the French captain's death.”

“That is exactly what we shall never have,” Fly retorted.

“Do not be so certain, my dear,” I replied. “Never is an unconscionable period.”