Now We Shall Be Entirely Free Read online

  “Something for you to know,” said the master, who had come up quietly and stood just behind Lacroix, close enough for him to feel his breath against the whorls of his ears as he spoke.

  “They are looking for men. Most of all they are looking for any who were with them before. So I would ask you, for all our sakes, to forget the existence of Crawley.”

  “The sailor with the bird on his neck?”

  “He was five years with them and five was long enough. When he had the chance he made himself free. If they find him they’ll take him, and we’re short-handed as it is.”

  “He’s a deserter?”

  “You might call him a man who has played his part,” said the master, still speaking like a familiar into the lug of Lacroix’s left ear. “One who has done more than most.”

  “And is that all they want?”

  “If the mood is on them they may take everyone but you, me and wee Davey. They may take wee Davey.”

  “There’s nothing you can do?”

  “We cannot outrun a frigate. Not in this.”

  “I mean, nothing you can say?”

  “Very little,” said the master. “Or it might be you will think of something.”

  The gig had come within hailing distance. The man at the bows shouted for them to put down a boarding ladder. The mate, Berryman, already had one in his arms, a roll of rope and wooden rungs. At a nod from the master he made it fast and tumbled it over the side. They could not see the gig now, it was directly below them. Lacroix looked across to the frigate, her flags shifting idly in the softness of the breeze. She had the look of a vessel that had been at sea a long time. Her black and yellow paint was streaked with greens and browns. All the gun ports but one were shut. From her quarter-deck came the glinting of a spyglass.

  The crew of the Jenny—everyone but Crawley—stood in a huddle behind the master. Almost too late, Lacroix realised that his own position, a stride ahead of the rest, might cause confusion, and he stepped back, stepped again to the side.

  A hat appeared, a head, a face, scowling, flushed from the climb. The blue coat and white waistcoat of a naval lieutenant. He surveyed them a moment, then swung himself over the rail. Three ratings came after him then a midshipman, older than Wee Davey but not by very much. They were all armed with the short swords favoured by the press gangs. Two of the sailors had belaying pins in their belts. The lieutenant had a pistol. He looked the length of the deck, then strode towards them, a man rich with purpose. “Who is in charge here?”

  Captain Browne stepped forward.

  “Is this your whole company?”

  “Other than the man on the helm.”

  “We saw more when we looked at you earlier.”

  “No,” said the master, glancing round as if to be sure, “this is all there is.”

  “Where are you bound for?”

  “Dumbarton.”

  “Dumbarton by Glasgow.”

  “The same.”

  “And your cargo?”

  “Window glass, flint glass, loaf sugar. Some linen. Ten boxes of brass buttons.”

  The lieutenant nodded. His face was seamed, the skin of his cheeks mottled with shallow scars. Smallpox.

  “And you,” he said, turning to Lacroix, “you do not look like a sailor to me.”

  “I am a passenger,” said Lacroix.

  “On a pleasure cruise?”

  “I have business in Glasgow.”

  “You are in business?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what sort of business is that?”

  “Land,” said Lacroix. “Rents.”

  Briefly, the lieutenant looked unsure of himself. “You own land?”

  “I do.”

  “And your name, sir?”

  “My . . . ?”

  “Your name.”

  “Lovall.”

  “Lovall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good.”

  He turned back to the master. “You will not object, I suppose, if we look below. You and your crew will remain where you stand. Are any of you armed?”

  “None of us,” said the master.

  “Mr. Parks!” called the lieutenant. The young midshipman stepped forward. “You will keep these gentlemen company. The rest of you with me.”

  They walked aft, paused to interrogate Suliman at the wheel, then one by one disappeared through the companionway behind him. The crew of the Jenny stood in silence. At the flap of a sail the master and Berryman looked up and frowned. The midshipman glanced at Wee Davey, who grinned back at him, shyly, as if they might now start a game together. The day was utterly benign. The hens clucked in their coop. A gull, more silver than white, circled overhead with barely a flick of its wings. Lacroix studied the frigate (he could not see her name), then, sensing himself being observed and unable to keep himself from knowing if it was so, he glanced round and met the master’s gaze.

  “I hope, Mr. Lovall, you passed a pleasant night.”

  “I did,” said Lacroix. “Thank you.”

  He had, until that moment, been unsure whether the master knew his name, his true name. He had not given it himself, he was confident of that, could not remember hearing the master use it, and if William had mentioned it, it might easily have been forgotten. Now, from the master’s remark, from the watchful, amused light in his eyes, it was obvious he did know—had known—and that at some point it would be necessary to offer an explanation. But what sort of explanation? He could not explain it to himself, was astonished at how easily the fabrication had come to him, as though, in some deep fold of his being, he had been rehearsing it for days.

  They waited on the deck the best part of half an hour. The cat, disturbed by the searching, strolled along the scuppers, paused a moment to observe them, then made a nest for itself inside a coil of rope beside the capstan. They waited. There were no sudden shouts or alarms from below. Was it really possible to hide a man on a ship like the Jenny? Was there some place they kept ready for just such a moment?

  The lieutenant pushed his head above the forward hatchway. “Mr. Lovall?” he said. “Yes, you sir. If you would be good enough to come with me a moment.”

  He went. He did not look back at the others. As he climbed down the ladder he half expected to feel himself seized round the waist, bundled, pinioned. He also knew this was an absurd idea. They were here to find Crawley and he had nothing to do with Crawley. He was a bystander, albeit one who had just stood in the sunshine telling lies about himself.

  The curtain to his cabin had been hooked back. There was light from a lamp—not the one Erikson had given him but a larger one they had brought from somewhere else in the ship. The lieutenant, cocked hat under his arm, stood by the cot-bed. On the blanket, laid out neatly, were the contents of Lacroix’s bags.

  “We do only what the times require of us,” said the lieutenant.

  Lacroix nodded. He was looking at his things, wondering which of them might have betrayed him, but of what he could see on the blanket the only object that carried a name was the writing case.

  “You are on your way to Glasgow?” asked the lieutenant.

  “I am,” said Lacroix.

  “To collect rents.”

  “Yes. That is part of it.”

  “And the rest?”

  “The . . . ?”

  “The rest. In Glasgow. Besides your collecting.”

  “I may visit relations. Friends.” The man was forcing him to tell these lies! He was indignant, he resented it. At the same time felt a kind of latitude, childish no doubt, immoral, but not without its own strange appeal. Having mentioned his Scottish relatives, none of whom had existed the moment before he spoke, he instantly saw, in his mind’s eye, faint pictures of their homes.

  “You play the fiddle, Mr. Lovall?”

 
; “So you have seen.”

  “In different circumstances we might invite you on board. Our captain is very fond of music.”

  “Yes,” said Lacroix. “Another occasion.”

  “And you are well armed.” The pistol was lying on its wrapper of oilskin. It had been placed like an exhibit at the centre of the piled belongings on the blanket. “It looks like a military piece. Swivel ramrod. Looks like a cavalry pistol.”

  “It is.”

  The lieutenant waited.

  “I was, for a time, with the volunteers,” said Lacroix. “It was a very local affair.”

  “Parades in the market place and such?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You have fired it though?”

  “Fired it? Of course.”

  “And you thought to bring it with you? You are going the wrong way, Mr. Lovall, if you hoped to meet with the French.”

  “Does your frigate hope to meet the French? Up here?”

  “We are keeping an eye on the Irish, Mr. Lovall. The French come and go but the Irish are always with us.”

  Lacroix said nothing. Both men looked at the things on the blanket as if considering making a purchase.

  “What can you tell me,” asked the lieutenant, “about the sailor who is hiding?” He had dropped his voice to ask the question but when he saw Lacroix had not heard him well he spoke up again. He was a man used to pushing his words through weather.

  “If we find him we could press the whole crew and tow you into Milford Haven. But if you were to oblige us, Mr. Lovall, we’ll take just the man himself and leave you to go on your way.”

  “You’ll not find anyone,” said Lacroix. “I have seen them all. None is missing.”

  “He is known to sail on this vessel. We have knowledge of it. We would have stopped her last time if we had been at leisure to.”

  “I suppose,” said Lacroix, “the crewing of a ship like this must be a casual affair.”

  “He’s a deserter.”

  “A what?”

  “A deserter. A runaway.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” said Lacroix.

  By the entrance to the cabin one of the boarding party appeared. He was the biggest of them and had to stoop in the passageway. Must spend his life stooping on the frigate.

  “Well?” said the lieutenant.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No, sir.”

  The lieutenant turned back to Lacroix. “I have your word as a gentleman, Mr. Lovall?”

  “You do.”

  The lieutenant sniffed. “How’s this,” he said. “We take you all off, sink this ship and see who swims?”

  From the deck of the Jenny they watched the gig row back. Almost before it arrived, the frigate began to shake out her sails. She steered a few points to the west, gathered speed, eased away from the Jenny. The master watched her until there was a good mile between them. Only then did life on board resume. He studied the skies, gave instructions to Berryman, sent Erikson below to make coffee. The men—without Crawley—worked the ropes. Sails were loosed, trimmed, trimmed again. The day freshened. The Jenny became a living thing once more, her bows butting a sea dark with cold. For a long while the frigate remained in sight, but she drew steadily away until, between one glance and the next, she was gone entirely.

  Several times throughout the afternoon Lacroix readied himself to speak to the master. He would tell him, plainly, why he had given the lieutenant a false name. He would say, for example, that he had found the man impertinent. That, surely, one was not required to give one’s actual name every time some jackass in a blue coat asked for it. It was a question of one’s dignity, one’s liberty as an Englishman. Was that not what the war was about? Not trade or national advantage but liberty, which the French pretended to champion but in truth extinguished wherever they went? His lie therefore, was a type of assertion. It was patriotic. Or some such. Something of that. You may call me Lovall or Lacroix, sir, whichever takes your fancy. Then laughing together. Perhaps a handshake? Remarks about the weather, the ship, poor Crawley who must be hiding in the bilges or in the hold with the glass.

  How does a man hide behind glass?

  In the end he approached the master, found himself treated to that same droll gaze, knew immediately the folly of any attempt at explaining himself, and asked if he might try his pistol at the sea. It had been unused a long time now and he wished to test its action.

  “As you like,” said the master.

  Lacroix thanked him. He went forward, descended through the hatch, then along the passageway to the galley. He found Erikson there and asked him for a fresh candle. Behind Erikson, peeling a potato over a wooden tub, was Crawley. Erikson pulled another candle from his apron, lit it as before with a spill touched to the flames of the stove. Crawley glanced over. The smallest of nods, then back to his work.

  In his cabin, curtain drawn, Lacroix repacked his bags, put them out of the way, and laid the fiddle case on the cot-bed. He took out the fiddle and tilted it in the light of the lamp. There were grey finger smudges on the varnish and these, he decided, belonged to the lieutenant. He wiped the wood with a square of green velvet from the case. The back of the fiddle was sycamore, the grain of the wood like ribbed sand under clear water. He polished until there were no more traces of the lieutenant, then settled the instrument back in its case and took up the pistol.

  The fiddle, full of air, had floated in his hands; the pistol was all heft and drag, a dead weight. He raised it, lowered it. With its brass heel it was as much a club as a gun and would, swung hard, fell a man just as surely as a ball would. He squinted into the barrel, felt in it with his fingers, then placed the gun on the blanket and took up the gunsmith’s parcel. The parcel had a slit in it through which the lieutenant or one of his men had peeped at the contents. They were lucky they struck no sparks or the day would have ended very differently for them. He drew the string, picked open the knots, smoothed down the paper. As he did so he caught a whiff of powder. His face stiffened, his fingers were still. Then he set to work making cartridges.

  He had watched practised men knock up as many as five inside a minute. He was not as quick, nor had there been any need of it. A cavalry officer’s principal weapon was his sword. In the case of light cavalry, a sabre, the Le Marchant model, with its leather grip and iron knuckle bow. The pistol, in an action, you might fire once and reload once. It was not like standing in an infantry line firing and reloading until your face was black. In Spain he had discharged the gun perhaps half a dozen times. The first—the only occasion he might actually have hit someone—was after they charged the chasseurs through the snow and morning mist the week before Christmas. After that, two or three shots at enemy patrols to make them wary. The last time was in the mountains, a long way north, a rabbit or hare at thirty yards it would have taken a miracle to hit. There was no miracle.

  He folded the cartridge paper, cut it with his clasp knife until he had eight rectangles laid like playing cards on the blanket. He glanced at the lamp, the flame, then opened the bag of powder and the larger bag of lead balls. The first cartridge fell apart in his fingers but the next was a passable success and the third—a neat tube of ball and powder, a loop of thread wound beneath the ball—was one he might have shown to the colonel and won a nod of approval for. When he had finished, he gathered the cartridges together, put one aside, and after looking round for somewhere to keep the remainder, lifted the fiddle from its case again, opened the little lined box that lay under its neck, and stowed the cartridges there. It turned out to be perfectly sized for them.

  He half-cocked the pistol and loaded it with the set-aside cartridge. Powder, ball, wadding. Everything pressed home with the swivel rod. When he had primed the pan he went on deck.

  It was the first of the dusk, the sky mostly clear, the wind steady from the west. To
starboard, the land, though miles off, was picked out with strange precision by the low sun. He knew roughly where they were and that the distance held mills, foundries, towns, whole cities darkening with human population, yet he could see no smoke haze or glint of fire. Only bays and headlands, pristine and fret-like under a sky the colour of irises.

  He drew back the hammer to cock the pistol fully, held it at arm’s length, then, after a second, brought it back to his chest, barrel to the sky. It seemed wrong somehow to shoot towards the land, even if the ball would only travel a fraction of the distance, and he crossed to the other rail where there was nothing but sea, the flaring sun, an infinite play of shadow on the water. He held the pistol out again. The gun had no sights—it was not that type of gun—and there was, anyway, nothing to aim at but the sun itself. He breathed in, breathed out, slowly squeezing the trigger. Squeezed it a little harder. Felt it start.

  6

  Tom had just left. He had smelled of the fields, the animals. He had smelled as close as a man can to a May morning. She had made no mention of it, of course, it was too whimsical, but she served him his coffee in one of the cups reserved for the family, one of a set with gilded lips, the porcelain painted with wild flowers. She had not done that before. The cups were old and beautiful and very fragile.

  She washed it now, washed away the grounds (that she might have studied to tell her fortune), dried it on her apron and set it back among the others in the dresser.

  And what did it matter if they used such things? There was no one else to use them. If she had been a dishonest servant she could sell the place off, cup by cup, plate by plate, the china stuff, the pewter, the silver. Then start on the furniture—the old settle, the tall clock (moon and all). The pictures on the stairs? She did not know who would want them. The women looked worse than the men and the men looked bad enough. As if their wealth had brought them no joy at all.

  She could sell the books. The brewing tubs. The clothes! Of the girls, only Lucy had taken any of her mother’s gowns and petticoats. The older girl might only be a farmer’s wife but she would wear nothing but what was new. Catch her in the fashions of 1770!