Bryce approached with the shaving kit, and a can of hot water. Henry had never enjoyed an experience more than that shave and partial bathe. He had never before reveled in the feel of a clean shirt.
He felt demonstrably better; Bryce was eager to tend him, and Henry wondered if the eagerness had to do with the prospect of being cast ashore in a foreign land with a dead master and no money, but he said nothing. That was only to be expected. The pettinesses and absurdities of life were closing around him once again. But he possessed not the energy to resent them.
With Bryce’s help he rose for the first time. The initial steps were painful indeed, but Henry persevered, determined to get the humours moving, or whatever would heal him fastest.
As the day turned into two, he took more short walks, and even helped a little with such homely tasks as bringing blankets to a man whose leg had been sawed off, and carrying around the water bucket for those who still could not rise to drink.
He listened to the buzz of conversation now that the patients were stronger. They talked about those of every rank, from captain to old hands. The least was said about the captain; it was as if Wentworth had sprung from the brow of Mars onto the quarterdeck. No one seemed to know anything of his family or even if he had one.
When Henry was called to place another blanket over the amputee, the empty space next to the healthy leg was shocking. The man lay in a sweat, either sleeping or staring overhead at nothing, except when his mess mates appeared. Henry found it both amusing and odd, how these huge, grizzled men with the accents of dockyard mateys spoke as if to a small child as they coaxed and pleaded and praised “Old Tom” by turns, in an effort to get him to eat.
Henry meditated on his reaction, and recognized in it that this old, uneducated sailor had value to these others. He wondered how much value he would have to anyone, if he was not possessed of rank and wealth.
Henry was not without visitors. William came when he could, but now that the ship was under way again, the officers and seamen were busy shaping the wounded ship for Minorca. Benwick came down twice, once bringing him a much-battered little booklet. “Here’s a capital satire by a Yankee name of Bryant, about their Jefferson. If you want any more reading, just sing out.”
Henry was reading The Embargo when the constant murmur of chatter suddenly died, and he found the Captain entering.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Crawford?”
“Much recovered, thank you, Captain.”
“The thanks are mine, for your generous aid in a tightish moment. We shall be reaching Minorca by tomorrow, if the wind holds. I wish to invite you to dinner tonight, in celebration of our triumph, to which you contributed no small part. If you can sit.”
“I should like that very much.”
o0o
“. . . and then we loosed our third broadside from the starboard guns, to prodigious effect, but we had yet to come about . . .”
Over dinner, the battle was refought in every detail. Only now, instead of sharp, high voices barking blasphemies and orders, the voices were low, deep, appreciative chuckles, the shared mirth of triumph and mutual compliment.
Instead of white faces, blood- or powder-splashed, and round mouths and eyes, faces were flushed with heat and good humor.
The merchant, not present at the dinner, had remained the entire time in the orlop. The company assured one another that was no reflection on the fellow, not the least fling at merchants, and he’d only done what he’d been told—but they despised him for it. Sir Charles had apparently gone into the maintop with his own pistols and ball to take the place of a Marine sharpshooter who had been wounded; he was there to regale his auditors with the history of every shot.
The words “bravery” and “courage” were thrown about freely. Henry raised his glass, smiled, laughed, saluted with the others, while knowing that much as they might cheer his bravery, his primary motivation had been relief. He’d had orders, he’d had something of purpose however little of his wit and skill was required to perform it, and his very determination to perform that labor had less to do with courage than a desperate conviction that if he did what he was told, there might be order restored in a world where all semblance of order had flown.
“Pho, pho, I only did my duty as I saw it.”
That was the most common refrain. Much was said of duty, in high-flown compliment that once would have stirred Henry to reach for his pen and exercise his wit against such trumpery. But Mary—once his closest confidant—was out of reach, still angry for her loss of Edmund Bertram, and also, it seemed, on behalf of Maria Rushworth.
Before Henry sat William Price, who flushed with pride at every fulsome compliment, perhaps taking more meaning than was meant, for he himself never uttered humbug.
“ . . . the bottle stands by you, Mr. Crawford.”
Henry started out of his reverie. He poured out wine, then raised his glass. “Here’s to duty,” he said recklessly. “Lus summum saepe summast militia.”
They all shouted, “Hear him, hear him!” but Henry saw comprehension in only Sir Charles and Captain Wentworth.
William, at his right, leaned over to whisper, “Was that a Latin tag, sir?”
“Yes. By a fellow named Terence.” Whose great works were all lost at sea. But Henry was not going to say that.
William thanked him, and raised his glass as Benwick, whose flushed face and bright eyes hinted at one too many glasses, gave a long, and somewhat maudlin, tribute to his lady love, borrowing freely from at least three poets.
Perhaps it was his unsteady hand, or perhaps the subject, but when that was finished, Captain Wentworth raised his own glass, and in his strong nautical voice toasted the king, which served as the signal that the dinner was over.
William helped Henry to the door, and thence to the railing, where the balmy air was refreshing. Henry looked around for Bryce, then leaned against the rail. Duty. There was an important thought hovering at the edge of his mind about duty, and William Price, and Captain Wentworth, who did not want to hang a lubberly boy at the yard-arm for cowardice, though he had a right to by the Articles of War.
“A question, sir, if I may ask.”
Henry’s head ached from the wine, and the heat, and from being too long upright after days of lying in bed. His leg throbbed. But here was the captain, leaning against the rail next to him, his fine profile outlined against the Mediterranean stars. “‘The law at its most rigorous is often injustice at its worst.’ May I ask what prompted that?”
Wherever Wentworth had come from, he had obviously been educated as a gentleman.
“It was not a fling at the service,” Crawford said. “Or at present company. The truth is, I hardly know what prompted it.”
“We will not hang that young dog Musgrove. I’ve a friend, an old steady captain, who might do better than I with influence, and I will trade him out.”
“I was thinking about him, I must admit, though I do not presume to be interfering with your ship’s affairs. I was also thinking about duty. Despite all the rhetorical flourish, something young Price said to me defines it better than any Parliamentary speeches: ‘That’s what duty means, each trusts the next man to do his part. So we all come through.’”
Captain Wentworth gazed up at the rigging, then out to sea. “That’s what it comes to, in the end. Each does his part. I won’t play the hypocrite and prate of the evils of war when it has been so good to me. I am a wealthy man . . . not that it much matters. But there you go. I admit that life, as well as the law, admits of its ironies.”
Henry had always matched his tone to his company, which had made him observant of the flicker of an eyelid, the slight lift to shoulder, the curl of lip that betrayed motivations and sentiments that people might keep hidden.
Most of the time such things ought to be hidden. But this captain’s signals did not hint of greed, or ambition. Henry thought he detected the signs of another who had been disappointed in love. Or perhaps it was simply that his head hurt, and
his leg—which might never be right again—was aching like the devil.
“One of the ironies of life,” Henry said, “is that the strongest person I know is not a warrior, but a woman.”
Henry waited, but the captain made no answer. Yet the man had stilled, and Henry sensed that his chance shot had struck home. He could not define how or why he should bestir himself, other than that vague sense of duty that lay outside of the narrow meaning of military order. He would gain nothing, he might even embarrass himself, for he did not at all know this Wentworth. But . . . Fanny had faith that her brother would be good to the monkey.
Henry said, “Though everyone in her life did their damndest to force her to a decision against her principles, she held firm. Though she had no power, or influence, or any of the mastery and authority we men insist is ours by right. Is that not the truest definition of strength?”
“Land ho,” the lookout called overhead.
MISS AUSTEN’S CASTLE TOUR
A fantasia about Miss Austen herself.
The generally accepted definition for ‘genius’ is an extraordinary intellectual power especially as manifested in creative endeavor.
A simpler definition might be, one who recreates. In its turn, ‘recreation’ has its own polysemy.
The irony is ingenious, I find.
Much has been written about the mysterious gap in Jane Austen’s letters between 26-7 May, 1801, and 14 September 1804. Evidence indicates she had suffered a disappointment in love, but to protect Jane’s privacy after the latter’s death, her sister Cassandra burned all Jane’s letters during that period.
The determined scholar glimpses her through mention in family letters beginning that autumn, and thenceforward until she reappears again in 1804. What happened during those four months? Jane’s movements are detailed in a travel diary, lost somewhere in Eastern Europe, which is why Cassandra never saw it.
This diary was found moldering in the remains of a castle, weather-stained and nibbled by mice. The ink had faded, the paper had darkened. Retrieving the text proved to be almost as monumental a task as the original search.
Here, as far as scholars can determine, is the opening:
As you can see, I obtained this little travel book, with the intention of writing you an extended Letter. I dare not claim the vaunted pinnacle of Volumes of Travel Reminiscence. My purpose is humble. Where would I post my letters? We are not so grand as to expect a convenient diplomatic pouch, or even some lieutenant carrying dispatches, as Charles had so confidently predicted. Naval lieutenants are not to be met with everywhere—especially as we plan to travel farther inland from the Sea.
What has happened, you ask? Permit me to retrace.
In the two days after I last wrote, the Endymion arrived at Portsmouth, and Charles having got leave, posted to us at once. I can say ‘at once’ because so it occurred: it seems that the vessel carried passengers from Calais, among whom were a clergyman and his sister, Dr. and Miss Crewfyrd. They offered a place in their Carriage to Charles, posting all the way to Bath, which demonstrates their good nature.
At first Jane did not write what happened to spark that friendship, because she felt ambivalent about the cause.
The Channel crossing was made difficult by stormy, contrary winds, which confined the passengers to the officers’ cramped wardroom.
Charles Austen, one of Jane’s many brothers, happened to be off-duty. He chuckled as he read from a packet of papers; on being encouraged by one of his fellow officers to read aloud to the company, he obliged. The text was Lady Susan, and when his audience lauded the story as not only funny but quite unlike anything they had ever heard, Charles admitted with scarcely concealed pride that it had been written by his sister. The packet, containing close-written sheets of Lady Susan, First Impressions, and Elinor and Marianne, was passed among the sea-faring Austen brothers to enjoy during their off-duty moments.
After the passengers had all disembarked and the officers were granted leave, Charles encountered the Crewfyrds just as he was about to purchase a mail coach ticket. When it was discovered that they all had the same destination, the Crewfyrds insisted he accompany them. No sooner had they rolled out of the inn yard than Miss Crewfyrd begged Charles to while away the tedium of travel by reading more of his sister’s tales, and so he took out Jane’s most recent effort, Elinor and Marianne.
Amid much laughter over the Dashwood family, the blue gazes of brother and sister met in triumph. Unaware, Charles kept reading.
Last night, Charles brought his Benefactors to meet us. The Crewfyrds began with “genius” and “extraordinary”—all the loud compliments I hate most, because, whether they be true or not, there is nothing one can gracefully say before strangers. But once they saw my discomfiture was real, and no fine lady bridling, they left off the Subject. That enabled me to enjoy the “We laughed out loud all the way” and “There was never a coach ride so short.”
The delicacy the brother and sister displayed thus had more appeal than the exaggerations about Genius. He is a gentleman-like man of stylish appearance, and his sister young and while you know I would as soon fling my pen out of the window than pen the trite phrase “she is as beautiful as an angel,” in this case it is very nearly true.
Jane Austen’s code for “handsome and attractive” was “gentleman-like.” She had never been effusive. Her earliest writings made fun of gushing language.
Since Tom Lefroy had so recently gone back to Ireland leaving her waiting for the proposal that both families expected, she had become more than ordinarily cautious.
When the Evelyns called—bringing Mr. Thomas Evelyn, who shares with his Uncle the all-consuming Love of Horses—glad was the outcry at their unexpected Encounter with the Crewfyrds, which three or four years of perfect indifference had delayed from the last.
Once the usual nothings were said, the Crewfyrds were so witty and full of engaging conversation that we were all soon talking and laughing, even Mr. Evelyn, who on rare occasion can be transformed from a Yahoo about Horses.
We discovered similar Tastes in books—Evelina delightful—Arthur Fitz-Albini dreadful—Madame de Genlis fashionable—Smollett at his best when satirizing the Great but in execrable taste—so comfortable when everyone is in agreement without the expectation of something else!
We went from Hesperus to the shore. Miss Crewfyrd, as both visitor and the prettiest woman in the room, was acknowledged the principal talker. She expressed a Desire to travel upon the Continent, to visit castles and places of antiquity. As soon as she uttered the words, the gentlemen all caught her idea.
We were assured that everywhere there is peace, and everyone smiles: the Treaty of Luneville during winter appears to have given the Prussians Cause to put away their swords, and the negotiations beginning in London intimate that the French will trouble us no more. Charles insists that after their naval defeat at the Nile and their recent losses in Egypt, their adventures have ended.
Then Dr. Crewfyrd declared that he had that morning received a letter via Diplomatic Pouch, inviting him to visit the Home of a Patron, and he is to bring any party he cares to invite.
Miss Evelyn exclaimed at once. You know her wish for Distinction through her drawings. Once she had spoken, I felt I could add my voice to the general outcry, without it seeming to be particularly aimed at Dr. Crewfyrd, who even Cousin Eliza acknowledged as the most interesting talker in the room.
I confess to you, who well know my Tastes, that a tour through crumbling castles with old moats would draw my eye and fire my imagination even if we are not to meet with a pack of ghosts, or a young lady dressed in white and bearing a single flickering candle as she runs weeping through the graveyard. I condition only for the moat not being filled with horrid creatures—or horrid smells.
Dr. Eldon Crewfyrd’s courtship of the reticent Jane was delicate, conducted not through compliments—he understood quickly that those resulted in silence—but through conversation.
Those who list
ened to the tales of his travels gained the impression of a clergyman in the agreeable situation of having no present living, but as the inheritor of a sufficient fortune, in no immediate need of one. He once or twice alluded to his intellectual patron, a well-traveled and educated prince in the Austrian Empire, which added greatly to his impression of erudition.
Miss Crewfyrd made her life with her brother, but she assured them in a witty aside that she did not have to depend upon him for her menus plaisirs.
Miss Evelyn whispered to Jane during the bustle of getting the tea things ready, that she had once met them in London, where Miss Crewfyrd presided over entertainments in her brother’s house in Wimpole Street. Miss Evelyn added meaningfully that the Crewfyrds numbered among their acquaintance people of rank and wit.
Jane later wrote to Cassandra that everyone likes to be known to have visited people of “rank and wit,” even if one can make no claim to those distinctions themselves.
At first, the idea of the castle tour faltered with the Austen parents. But Dr. Crewfyrd exchanged his seat next to Dr. Austen, and he explained in the smoothest, most sympathetic manner his conviction that a clergyman who travels and sees much of the human condition can bring more wisdom to a parish than one who has learned only through the threadbare sayings obtainable in published sermons. Dr. Austen was much struck by this observation.
Then Henry Austen, who had irritated the family by marrying their widowed cousin Eliza de Feuillide despite everyone’s wishes, commented, “Of course you will not wish to go, Mother. You may find a comfortable home with Frank, or Edward, while we are gone.”
Mrs. Austen promptly claimed her share in the prospective treat, adding plaintively, “I do not know why everyone would assume I would not be a good traveler. I am equal to anything that Father is, and why should anyone presume that I should not wish to go?”
That settled the question. They would go. They had only to establish the means. When Charles reported that the Endymion would be ferrying to the continent a party of relations belonging to the first lieutenant and the captain, and that he would send off a request by post to gain permission from his captain for passage, the conversation turned to the important topic of what to take—Mrs. Austen stating that the first thought must be given to sheets, as she had heard that foreigners had no notion of proper washing.