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Chapter Three"We've made excellent time, Captain," MacKenzie observed. "A five weeks' passage from Plymouth to the West Indies this time of year is no small feat." "We were lucky," said Wentworth grimly. "We cannot expect such luck on the passage home." "No, sir." Wentworth scanned the bay with his telescope. The convoy was to depart in six days, on the first of November. He did some quick mental arithmetic: he had seven and a half weeks to get the convoy into Portsmouth, and himself back to Newbury Oaks, in order to keep his promise to Anne. He was determined to keep that promise, though an English Christmas seemed terribly distant while the Minerva sailed under the hot tropical sun. "It seems we are to have a visitor," Wentworth observed. A boat was approaching the Minerva, and young Murphy, the midshipman of the watch, hailed it. The boatman replied, "Annis!" Mr. Murphy gave a quick order, and the sideboys and Marines on duty scrambled to present themselves as a guard of honour. The bosun's calls wailed as a naval officer made his way up the side, and Wentworth and MacKenzie moved forward to greet him. The officer was an ungainly individual with dark eyes and the perpetually brown skin of the sailor, wearing the insignia of a commander in the Royal Navy. Wentworth extended his hand; Annis was the brig that would join them in escorting the convoy to England. "Captain Sherwin, I believe?" he asked. "Honoured, sir. Frederick Wentworth." Sherwin took his hand. "Welcome to Tortola, Captain Wentworth. The honour is mine, sir." He shook hands cordially with MacKenzie, whom he already knew, and the two officers followed Wentworth aft. "Will you take a glass of Madeira, Captain Sherwin?" "Certainly, Captain, I thank you." Wentworth told the Marine standing guard at the door to his cabin to pass the word for his steward, and led Sherwin and MacKenzie into the cool shade of the great cabin. They each took a chair and made inconsequential small talk. Jenkins soon entered with glasses and a decanter, poured a glass of the rich wine for each of them, and left silently as a ghost. "How many ships of the convoy have assembled?" Wentworth asked Sherwin. Sherwin swirled the wine, poked his long nose into the glass, sniffed deeply, then took a sip. "Thirty-three, out of forty-seven. This is very good, Captain Wentworth." "I am gratified. Will the other ships arrive on time?" "They will, or we leave without them. The convoy leaves on the first of November. We'd have a mutiny on our hands if we waited for stragglers. The merchant ships haven't been allowed to sail since August; their insurance policies won't allow them to leave the islands during hurricane season. The masters are chomping at the bit to be gone. And yet we'll get well out to sea and they'll get up to their usual tricks, reducing sail at night and suchlike." "I mean to keep the convoy on schedule," Wentworth said. "Barring weather, six to seven weeks should see us in Portsmouth. We shall meet with the merchant masters on 31 October to explain the instructions." Each master of the convoy received a set of written instructions, including their place in the convoy and the manner in which they were expected to conduct their vessels. Was it his imagination, or did Sherwin and MacKenzie exchange ironic glances? "As you say, Captain," Sherwin replied. "We must pray that we are not incommoded by weather, or worse yet, by the Mirabelle." "The Mirabelle?" "The thorn in the side of merchant vessels and their escorts in the islands for the past two years," Sherwin said morosely. "She was a privateer, the fastest and sweetest Baltimore clipper you've ever seen; we took her off the Americans back in '12, and while Whitehall debated what to do with her, a French privateer cut her out from Kingston Harbour, as neat and daring an action as you'd ever see. He renamed her, mounted her with twelve-pounders, and began to pick off unescorted shipping between Barbados and Jamaica. Her master's a right bastard; got a taste for privateering, too. When the war ended, rather than go back to legal shipping like a Christian, he turned pirate. Mirabelle's been a scourge on shipping in the islands, and nobody's been able to catch her yet. Came close a few times, though." He turned to MacKenzie. "Remember last year, Rob? Merriam nearly had her, and if Minerva hadn't lost her main topmast, Mirabelle would be His Majesty's property now." "I remember," said MacKenzie quietly, his face revealing no emotion. "If he keeps her to the Caribbean, we need not worry about Mirabelle," said Wentworth. "He knows we'll be leaving from Tortola, and he's hungry. He hasn't had a capture for three months. There was a rumour he had her hove up in the Florida Keys with her masts and yards struck over hurricane season. Annis was sent to investigate, but we never found her. You can be sure her master knows when the convoy is leaving, and from where. We'll have to keep a sharp eye out." He drained his glass and rose. "I thank you for your hospitality, Captain Wentworth, and I look forward to working with you." Wentworth said all the polite things, and escorted Captain Sherwin to the entry port and watched him climb down to his boat. His mind swirled all the while with what Sherwin had told him, as well as a vision of a Baltimore clipper with the Union Jack flying from her halyard. Wentworth had sent a letter ashore the day they arrived in Road Bay, and in return had received an invitation from a sugar plantation owner named Mallory. The jolly boat was launched, and the captain's crew in their matching white trousers, blue coats, and beribboned straw hats rowed him to a dock on the southwest side of the bay. Mallory had sent an elegant barouche, driven by a black servant in elegant livery, with a sort of shade rigged on the top: all the pleasure of observing the country in an open carriage, without the discomfort of the midday sun. Once the carriage was underway, Wentworth pulled some papers from his wallet and checked them over. Two of the papers were copies of letters he had written to Mallory, and a third document was a promissory note for three hundred pounds. It was the barrier that stood between a poor widow and a comfortable life, and his mission today was to blast down that barrier with a resounding broadside in the form of a draught upon his own bank. Celina Smith was dear to Anne Wentworth from the time they were at school together. Anne spoke warmly of Celina's kindness to a girl grieving her mother, and indignantly of her hard treatment at the hands of the executor of the late Mr. Smith's will--Anne's own cousin, William Elliot. When Charles Smith had died suddenly of a fever, his affairs had been involved, and the young couple's property sold to pay his debts. The only thing the widow had not been able to sell was the deed to a piece of land on Tortola; the deed was held by Mallory, the plantation owner, who had lent Charles Smith two hundred pounds some four years previously. If the note could be redeemed, the land could be sold, and the proceeds provide a relatively comfortable life for the widow, who suffered grievously from both poverty and rheumatic joints. She had written to Mallory, and asked him to sell the land on her behalf, take back the two hundred pounds he had lent her late husband along with the additional hundred he had demanded as interest, and send her the difference. Mallory had not answered the letter, and Wentworth had undertaken to write to the man, reckoning that the signature "Capt. F. Wentworth, R.N." at the end of the letter might receive a greater share of Mallory's attention than "Mrs. Charles Smith." However, he had no more success than Mrs. Smith; when he was ordered to Tortola, he immediately formed a scheme to call upon the planter and offer to settle the note from his own funds in exchange for the deed. When he returned to England, he would assist Mrs. Smith in the sale of the land, at which time she could reimburse him. It was a scheme that Mallory could hardly refuse, if he was any kind of gentleman. The barouche turned off the dirt road and onto a gravel driveway. Wentworth squinted up at the plantation house; it was a handsome building, combining touches of classical architecture with the soft colours and textures of island construction. The carriage stopped in front of the door, a liveried servant opened the door of the carriage, and another led him into the cool shade of the house. The house was furnished with tasteful though sparing care. The walls were painted a pale yellow that was nearly white. The sofas and chairs were in the English style, upholstered with light-coloured fabric. The ceilings were high, and the windows large, giving the rooms a feeling of airy coolness. There was none of the fashionable dark clutter of Uppercross, and little of the cozy elegance of Newbury Oaks, but it suited the house and the climate. The servant led Wentworth through several sitting rooms until they reached a large apartment at the end of the house. Two of the walls were composed of a series of French doors that stood open, leading to a veranda. The servant indicated with soft movements that Wentworth was to go out to the veranda, and he did so, finding himself amongst a riotous jungle of green plants and colorful flowers. The ground was paved with tiles, and wrought-iron furniture was placed under some trees nearby. The smiling servant waved him to a chair and disappeared silently. Wentworth sat down gingerly in one of the wrought-iron chairs--he was a large man, and he doubted the strength of an object of such fragile appearance--but it seemed sturdy enough. Another servant brought him a tall glass containing a cool beverage that tasted of rum and lemon and sugar. He sipped it, thinking about the servants he had seen, all of whom were black; in all probability, they were slaves owned by Mallory. What kind of man could claim ownership of another? It was an idea that went against all of Wentworth's most fondly-held beliefs. He waited for ten minutes by his watch, growing increasingly annoyed. Clearly, Mallory was playing games with him. Who did he think he was, trifling with the time and patience of a post-captain in the Royal Navy? The opulence of his surroundings only added to his irritation. Anne had taken him to visit Mrs. Smith, in her two rooms chosen for their proximity to the hot baths as well as their modest expense. Mrs. Smith had made a deep impression upon him. Despite her pain, she remained cheerful; despite her poverty, she contrived to knit useful little oddments that she sold, not to supplement her own meagre purse, but to allow her to assist those even less fortunate. While she struggled so bravely, Mallory ignored her plight, and lived like a king, tended by servants that he purchased as though they were animals. The longer Wentworth brooded upon it, the angrier he became. Finally, a man came out of the house. He was of advanced middle age, as tall as Wentworth, cadaverously thin, and dressed with the same spare elegance with which he furnished his house. "Good day, Captain Wentworth," he said courteously. "I beg your pardon for the delay; I was meeting with my overseer." With an effort, Wentworth controlled his impatience. It did not serve the task at hand. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," he said. Mallory waved his hand graciously and sat down. "What service can a mere farmer render Captain Frederick Wentworth of the Royal Navy?" Wentworth ignored the light cast of sarcasm in the man's tone. He removed the promissory note from his wallet and handed it to Mallory. "I am here to redeem this note on behalf of the widow of Charles Smith." Mallory looked over the note and said, "I would be obliged if you waited a few months to do so." "That would oblige neither Mrs. Smith nor myself." "Indeed. Well, that is certainly a problem." "I am only in Tortola until the first of November. I would very much like to have the business concluded by then, so that I can carry the deed back to England and assist Mrs. Smith in the disposition of the land." Mallory drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. "You misunderstand the circumstances, Captain Wentworth," he said. "I hold the deed to the land as surety of the note." Mallory seemed to be hinting at something, but Wentworth could not make out what he meant. "Yes, and I am prepared to pay the value of the note with a draught on my bank." "The land, you see, is too valuable to lie fallow. It is adjacent to my property, and..." Mallory's voice trailed off as he once again waved one of his thin, white hands in front of him. "You have planted it." Wentworth did not bother to hide his contempt. "You have planted land that does not belong to you." "Smith is dead. It seemed unlikely that the note would ever be paid. The land, in effect, is mine." "The land is not yours. The note does not come due for another year." Wentworth's voice was not loud, but it was clear and strong. It was a tone of voice that made unwary midshipmen quake in their boots. It was not the voice of Frederick Wentworth, private citizen and loving husband; it was the voice of Captain Wentworth, the god of his quarterdeck, and it demanded obedience. "You've been receiving an income from the land, yet you refused to buy it from Smith's widow when she begged you to do so, in order to relieve her distressed circumstances. She had no friend to act for her then, sir, but she is no longer so unfortunately circumstanced. You will by-God buy that land, or I'll make damned sure that every Englishman in the West Indies knows that you cheated a poor, sick widow of her only sustenance." "You accuse me of cheating," replied Mallory, his eyes glittering, "yet you will take advantage of me now?" "I will not. The land, according to your own documentation, is valued at four thousand pounds. You will pay that four thousand pounds to Mrs. Smith, with the deduction of the three hundred pounds due you from the note. I will accept a bank draught, and if your banker in England should fail to honour it, I will send armed Marines here to collect the payment in cash. And you had better hope that your slaves do not take a mind to turn on you, Mallory. The Royal Navy might not be so quick to come to your defense as it has in the past." Mallory glared at him for a moment, and then rose and went into the house. A few moments later, he came out with a draught instructing his London banker to pay Mrs. Charles Smith the sum of three thousand seven hundred pounds. "The carriage is waiting to take you to the dock," he said. Wentworth carefully folded the draught into his wallet and rose. "I thank you for your time, and the use of your carriage." Mallory said nothing, and the servant materialized from the shadows of the house and led Wentworth through the house to the drive. As the barouche carried him back to the dock, Wentworth thought with great satisfaction on the day's events. Three thousand seven hundred pounds, invested in the Navy Fives as was the greater part of his own fortune, would bring Celina Smith one hundred and eighty-five pounds per year in interest. No one could call that a handsome income, but it would keep her in bed and board and medical care, and perhaps permit her to hire a servant to assist and nurse her. He felt he had not only repaid Celina for the kindness she had shown Anne, but had assuaged some of the guilt he still carried from the flogging of young Burns. All in all, a fine day's work. ~
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