June 1779
First Week
From the Remembrances of Tara Mason
Tuesday 1 June 1779
Jennifer and Mary had taken the carriage John hired and had gone off, over Mary’s protests, to a dressmaker’s shop for new clothes. The gowns Stewart bought for his new wife in February were not only too heavy for the summer in New York, but they also no longer fit comfortably, given her growing child. It took some doing, but Jennifer can be very persuasive when she needs to be, and she wanted Mary to have something new, cool and pretty that fit comfortably. I was expecting Doctor Fred with John’s latest letter, so I begged off from the outing. Fred appeared right on schedule, asked after my friends, and said with a grin, “Well, I will be sure to tell ‘Brother Ian’ that Mary is going everywhere in the carriage these days, then, and I shall look forward to seeing her new gowns. Jennifer has excellent taste in clothes so I know they will be very flattering to our dear Mary. Now, I have your letter to John, precious girl, and I will see you tomorrow at about this same time.”
He kissed my hand and off he went, mentioning that he had a few errands to run in town before he returned to the ship. After he left, I had an idea. I looked down at the gown I was wearing - the sprigged muslin, one of John’s favourites, so no reason to change. My mind was made up. I found the straw hat that went with it, located a pair of gloves and a reticule, and dashed off a quick note to Jennifer so she wouldn’t worry about me. If I went out the front door there would be time lost in explanations to Prewitt, so I slipped out the back and cut over to William Street. Fred would be going down Broadway to Wall Street and then cutting over to where the gig would be waiting – I would simply walk on a parallel course until I reached Wall and go down to Murray’s Wharf. If I hurried, I might still catch him.
I was in luck. I am sure I caused some raised eyebrows, a young woman dashing down the streets to the wharves in something of a hurry, but I didn’t care. I was going to see John, and that was all that mattered. I arrived at the gig almost at the same instant Doctor Fred did, and the look of surprise on his face was priceless.
“Miss Tara, did you forget something, or did I?”
“Neither. May I go with you, Doctor Fred? Just to deliver my letter in person? I promise I won’t interrupt the running of the ship, but if I could just see him again…”
He studied me for a long moment and for that long moment I was afraid he would refuse. Politely, regretfully, but it would be a refusal all the same. He seemed to come to a decision, though, and to my relief it was in my favour. “I think that is an excellent idea. Good for morale – and not just his. The men will enjoy having you aboard, I’m sure.” Without further ado he handed me down into the gig and off we went.
I settled into the sternsheets beside MacGregor, holding onto my hat with one hand as the fresh breeze tried to carry it away despite its ribbon bow. We pulled up to the main chains and the bowman hooked on. Someone – Bart Jones probably – must have had a glass on the gig, because the bosun’s chair was lowered smartly toward the gig almost as soon as we hooked on. I remembered the story John had told me in his first letter about how Fred had ordered the chair for him when he first came back a few days before, and how he had refused it – rather emphatically. As the chair descended I looked up and there was John smiling down at me from the entry port. He reached up to doff his hat to me but only clutched empty air as he had apparently left it in his cabin. I couldn’t help but laugh at the expression on his handsome face. Then tucking my very full skirts about me, I climbed into the chair and held on as it was hoisted high into the air and swayed inboard – and I am very sure that whoever was on the end of the rope was making sure that there were no possible problems, since he would hardly be one of John’s favourite people if he let me take an unexpected dunking. I think every man on the ship – and the ones in the gig below, waiting to come up – breathed a sigh of relief when the chair neared the deck and I was able to step down and run headlong into John’s waiting arms for a kiss that seemed to go on forever – and yet was much too short.
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair
Tuesday 1 June 1779
Feeling almost normal again after my first bath in weeks I had been enjoying coffee while reading through the reports concerning Arronbourge when a commotion from the skylight drew my attention.
“Mr. Helstrom, rig the Bosun’s chair if you please.” I heard Jones order. “And have all hands muster at the side. Mr. Cutler, My respects to the Captain and he might want to come on deck.”
Then I heard a boat being challenged and the usual response of “Aye aye.” Not another Captain come to call then nor the Admiral. Who then? It might be Fred returning, for he had gone to check on Mary Stewart and deliver my letter to Tara about an hour ago. But why have all hands man the side for him. Then it hit me, Tara. Tara was in the boat with him.
Snatching up my coat I was through the door in an instant, almost cannoning into Cutler as I went and calling out quickly to him, “I heard,” before he could so much as open his mouth. Throwing the coat on hastily I ignored the twinges in my shoulder and dashed out to the entry port on the main deck.
Emerging from beneath the quarterdeck just as the Swede called out, “Lower avay!” to the hands on the tackles, I strode to the port and looked down to the most wonderful sight I had seen in days. There was Tara sitting next to Fred in the sternsheets and wearing the lovely sprigged muslin that she knew was one of my favourites.
She looked up at me and smiled brightly, her eyes full of delight. I reached up to doff my hat to her and realized that in my haste I’d left it in my cabin. She laughed at what I’m sure was a quite comical expression on my face. Then quickly addressed herself to seating herself easily in the Bosun’s chair as if she'd been doing it for years, which as the only daughter of a prominent merchant captain she probably had.
Up the chair soared above the bulkhead then down once more to the deck not three feet away from where I stood. Then she was out of it and in my arms again. Our lips met. The kiss was quite long and by the time we parted again we were both breathless. We still had yet to say a word when from behind us Fred’s voice sounded.
“Are you planning to do that all afternoon?”
“And what if we are, Fred? Do you have a problem with that?”
“Not at all.” He laughed. “But I might suggest that you not do it on deck for the whole world to see.”
“He has a point you know.” Tara said still in my loving embrace. “But you know that it’s bad manners to interrupt when a woman is greeting the man she loves, Doctor Fred.”
“Perhaps he’ll understand when we find him that nice widow to take care of him.” I said brightly.
Bart smothered a laugh and Fred glared at him.
“We’ll see if you still find it funny when they start conspiring about you, Bartholomew Jones!” Fred remarked indignantly. Jones was unfazed however.
“If the lady they find for me is even half as lovely as Miss Mason then I would be pleased to have her, Doctor.” He said gallantly. Tara smiled at him and dropped to a small curtsey.
“You’re such a gentleman, Mr. Jones. No wonder William likes you so much.”
“How long can you stay, my love?” I asked her as we walked to the cabin.
“Not long I'm afraid. I just left a note for Jennifer and snuck out the back to show up at the dock when MacGregor was about to take Doctor Fred back.”
“Then we’ll make the most of the time.” I said as I closed the door behind us.
From the Remembrances of Tara Mason
Tuesday 1 June 1779
All too soon I had to leave. John and I had spent a few precious moments together in the privacy of his cabin, but I didn’t want Jennifer to worry unnecessarily. I delivered my letter and was rewarded with another kiss - or several of them - and I had my first chance to look about the cabin, but a tour of the ship would have to wait for another day.
“Do you think Fred will be happier that we’re down here, kissing, instead of on the deck?” I asked as one of those kisses ended.
“Fred’s just jealous because I have someone as beautiful to kiss as you and he doesn’t, my love.” He murmured as he watched my bosom rise and fall with the exertion of our activities. “Did anyone ever tell you that that gown looks lovely on you? Of course… ” The rest was murmured outrageously in my ear, provoking the slight flush that has come to replace the full-scale blush I used to be prone to. I have spent too many weeks in company with this very vital, very virile man who loves me with every fibre of his being to blush quite as much as I used to, but he can still provoke a response with his comments.
“They’re going to wonder what we’re doing down here.”
“Oh, they know. The same thing we were doing up there, only with no prying eyes. But I suppose I must get you back to the gig, and back to Jennifer. Thank you for coming, my sweet. You really brightened my day.” John said between tiny kisses.
“Even if you did go on deck without your hat. A grievous breach of naval etiquette, I’m sure. You know the punishment for that, don’t you?” I teased.
“What? Am I to be clapped in irons? Sent to the masthead like an errant midshipman? Sentenced to kiss the gunner’s daughter over the breech of a gun?”
“No, but you might be sentenced to kiss the Captain’s daughter,” I said, referring to my father’s career as a ship owner.
“I don’t think we’ll muster the hands to witness punishment, though,” he said, as he surrendered himself for his ‘sentence.’ “We’ll just take care of that privately, don’t you think?”
From the Remembrances of Tara Mason
Thursday 3 June 1779
John went back to his ship a week ago and I am missing him terribly, even though he writes every day and we have been aboard Sapphire to visit once already. Still, it’s not the same as being able to pop into his room almost anytime I want to share a letter, or something in a book I’m reading, or the day’s events as reported in the local newspapers, such as they are. Still, the life of a sea officer’s lady is one of waiting and patience, and I must take a page from Jennifer’s book and begin to practice these virtues. This morning was scheduled to be one of our visiting days among the soldiers’ wives, but I simply did not feel like going. In fact, I did not feel like getting out of bed, my stomach hurt so bad. Mary came in to check on me when Jennifer reported this fact at breakfast, her face concerned.
“What’s the problem, child?” she asked as she felt my forehead with one work-worn, gentle hand. “No sign of fever, I don’t think. Do you feel sick to your stomach?”
“No, it just - hurts.” I gasped. “I tried to stand up and the pain almost doubled me over.”
“Sharp pain?” She asked, her voice calm but her eyes anxious, as she moved her hands over my belly, probing gently. “Does it hurt worse when I press here?”
“No, it’s dull and it’s everywhere. What is it, Mary?”
“Don’t know yet, child. Let me get you some herb tea and a hot water bottle. That will help, I think.”
“One of your Indian teas?”
“Yes’m. Learned it from an old Cherokee herb woman. Good people, the Cherokee. Their medical practices make more sense than this endless cycle of bleeding and purging some of our ‘university trained’ doctors believe in.”
“I’m not sure Doctor Fred would appreciate your saying that, Mary,” I remarked but she just laughed.
“Oh yes he would, Miss Tara. Doctor Fred’s a good man who doesn’t care where an idea came from as long as it makes sick people well. He picked up a lot of medicine that established doctors would frown on when he and the Captain were in China seven years ago. Didn’t matter to him that the Chinese were heathen, just that their medicine worked. Now you lay down and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She was back ten minutes later with both the tea and the bottle. “Now, I’ve wrapped the hot water bottle in towels so it won’t burn you, and here’s the tea. Do you want anything to eat?”
“Not now. Maybe later.”
I dozed fitfully for most of the morning. Mary, who had stayed home to be with me, came in to change out the cold hot water bottle for a fresh one occasionally, but otherwise she busied herself in the house while Jennifer and Maisie were out on their calls. Just before noon Fred Bassingford arrived with his daily missive from John. When he heard that I had been in bed all morning, he came in to check on me. He checked the same area Mary did, asked the same questions Mary did, and then he asked even more questions.
“Do you usually react this way, dear girl?”
“I hardly remember. It’s been so long. But yes, I think I do. The last few months have been a welcome relief, in that way.”
“But you know this is a sign that you are healing, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. I want to see three complete cycles from you between now and August, that will tell us your body is fully healed. Does the tea Mary gave you help? It does? Good. Well, keep drinking it, and I shall be back to check on you tomorrow. How much do I tell John?”
“If I tell him how much it hurts right now he’ll be over here like a shot, won’t he?”
“Part of loving, my dear.”
“And yet I don’t want to keep secrets from him. Use your best judgment, Doctor Fred.”
“Good girl.” He kissed my hand and turned to Mary.
“Now, my dear Mrs. Stewart, if I am correct your first three months are up, or near as makes no difference, and young Master or Miss Stewart is still very much with us. I am guardedly optimistic that all will continue to go well, now that we are past this all-important milestone. How do you feel?”
“Very well. The nausea is gone, has been for several weeks, and I’m not as sleepy as I was at first,” she said.
“No, that will come back later on, as the time draws closer. When Jennifer got her letter from Will the other day, was there one for you as well?”
“Yessir. Nicolas says he is well, just still trying to take it all in. He’s forty-six now, you know, and never married before, and if he has children by any other woman he doesn’t know it. If he had he would have married her – he’s a good man.”
“A very good man, I knew that five minutes after I met him, and one I look forward to getting to know better later on. Well, I shall slip my winged cap back on,” he said, referred to his role as Mercury, the messenger, “and be on my way. Miss Tara, even though it hurts, think of it this way – one down, and two to go.”
He tucked the letters into his coat pockets and took himself off.
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair
Thursday 3 June 1779
“What’s wrong?” I said abruptly.
Fred had just handed me Tara’s letter and something in his manner had been off. Nothing I could put my finger on but somehow I just knew that there was a problem ashore.
“What makes you think that anything’s wrong?” Fred responded attempting to avoid the question.
My eyes bored into him as I flatly repeated my question. He sighed heavily before answering. Once he’d finished his explanation I rapped sharply on the skylight above my head.
“Officer of the Watch!” Talbot appeared in the open skylight.
“Sir.”
“Call away my gig. I’m going ashore.”
“Aye aye, sir”
“John, there is nothing you can do for her. Monthlies are just part of being a healthy young woman, Tara’s are more painful than most, that’s all.” Fred interjected as Andrew helped me into my coat. “There is nothing anyone can do except make her comfortable and let time take its course.”
“I know that, Fred.” I answered as I picked up my hat. “But I can be with her as she was with me when I needed her. At least for a few hours.”
“And what if you’re attacked again?”
“I’ll take MacGregor with me. Any other objections?”
“Yes.” He answered. “I do not like your climbing up and down the side so much, I do not like it all!”
“Well if you don’t like that you’re going to positively hate this. Starting tomorrow morning I’m climbing the masts.”
Fred looked at me as if those three heads that I’d seemed to sprout last February had all suddenly popped up again. He stood there in shock for a moment before finally erupting in a fountain of language that he’d learnt in the better part of twenty years at sea. He was profane, colourful and quite imaginative in his exclamations. But at length he tired and finally wound down and I was able to respond.
“Look, Fred,” I began. “I’m climbing the masts tomorrow. Now you can work with me to set up a reasonable programme of exercise to get me back into fighting trim within a reasonable period of time or I can ignore you and do it myself. Which is it to be?”
He glared at me for several minutes as I calmly gazed back at him then finally spoke.
“If we were in England… ”
“You’d post St. John and have me declared unfit for duty.” I completed for him. “But we aren’t in England and you can’t do that so which is it?”
“If I agree to this do you give me your word that you shall make this a gradual regimen at my direction?”
“As long as you don’t try to drag it out.”
“Alright.” He said with resignation. “We will start you tomorrow climbing the mizzen once and see how you look afterwards.”
“You see, Fred, that wasn’t so hard now was it.” I said cheerfully, then walked to the door and the gig that would take me to Tara.
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair
Saturday 5 June 1779
“It looks like he escaped sometime between midnight and two in the morning.” Collins said from his chair in my day cabin. “The guard was found with his throat cut at that time.”
“He must have had help.” I replied. “Someone had to get the blade to him.”
“Capitaine Montaigne has only had two visitors in the last forty-eight hours. You were one of them, sir. I’m afraid I must ask you why you were there.”
“Well as you know I had captured Montaigne a bit over two months ago. When he learnt that he was not to be exchanged he wrote me and asked, demanded really, that I do something. I received the messages once I’d returned aboard Sapphire last week and spoke to both Sir Avery Canning and Sir George Collier. They were sympathetic but they didn't have the authority to overturn Sir Henry’s decision. I went to see Capitaine Montaigne to explain the situation.”
Collins nodded, his eyes focused on the deck as he took the information in.
“How did he take the news?” He asked slowly.
“Poorly at best, Major. He insisted that it was my fault for having waited so long. That I had purposely delayed just to keep him prisoner. When I asked him why he thought I would do such a thing he said it was because I was afraid to meet him at sea. I backhanded him, told him that I would be happy to face him anytime and anywhere. Then I left.”
“And I understand that Lieutenant Nash, the Officer of the Guard, was with you the entire time?”
“Yes, he was. Who was the other visitor?”
Collins shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t tell you at this time. Regulations. I’m sure you understand.”
“I have a bad feeling about this, Major Collins. A very bad feeling. Montaigne was practically frothing at the mouth when I talked to him. Do everything you can to apprehend him as soon as possible. A man like him is capable of just about anything.”
First Week
From the Remembrances of Tara Mason
Tuesday 1 June 1779
Jennifer and Mary had taken the carriage John hired and had gone off, over Mary’s protests, to a dressmaker’s shop for new clothes. The gowns Stewart bought for his new wife in February were not only too heavy for the summer in New York, but they also no longer fit comfortably, given her growing child. It took some doing, but Jennifer can be very persuasive when she needs to be, and she wanted Mary to have something new, cool and pretty that fit comfortably. I was expecting Doctor Fred with John’s latest letter, so I begged off from the outing. Fred appeared right on schedule, asked after my friends, and said with a grin, “Well, I will be sure to tell ‘Brother Ian’ that Mary is going everywhere in the carriage these days, then, and I shall look forward to seeing her new gowns. Jennifer has excellent taste in clothes so I know they will be very flattering to our dear Mary. Now, I have your letter to John, precious girl, and I will see you tomorrow at about this same time.”
He kissed my hand and off he went, mentioning that he had a few errands to run in town before he returned to the ship. After he left, I had an idea. I looked down at the gown I was wearing - the sprigged muslin, one of John’s favourites, so no reason to change. My mind was made up. I found the straw hat that went with it, located a pair of gloves and a reticule, and dashed off a quick note to Jennifer so she wouldn’t worry about me. If I went out the front door there would be time lost in explanations to Prewitt, so I slipped out the back and cut over to William Street. Fred would be going down Broadway to Wall Street and then cutting over to where the gig would be waiting – I would simply walk on a parallel course until I reached Wall and go down to Murray’s Wharf. If I hurried, I might still catch him.
I was in luck. I am sure I caused some raised eyebrows, a young woman dashing down the streets to the wharves in something of a hurry, but I didn’t care. I was going to see John, and that was all that mattered. I arrived at the gig almost at the same instant Doctor Fred did, and the look of surprise on his face was priceless.
“Miss Tara, did you forget something, or did I?”
“Neither. May I go with you, Doctor Fred? Just to deliver my letter in person? I promise I won’t interrupt the running of the ship, but if I could just see him again…”
He studied me for a long moment and for that long moment I was afraid he would refuse. Politely, regretfully, but it would be a refusal all the same. He seemed to come to a decision, though, and to my relief it was in my favour. “I think that is an excellent idea. Good for morale – and not just his. The men will enjoy having you aboard, I’m sure.” Without further ado he handed me down into the gig and off we went.
I settled into the sternsheets beside MacGregor, holding onto my hat with one hand as the fresh breeze tried to carry it away despite its ribbon bow. We pulled up to the main chains and the bowman hooked on. Someone – Bart Jones probably – must have had a glass on the gig, because the bosun’s chair was lowered smartly toward the gig almost as soon as we hooked on. I remembered the story John had told me in his first letter about how Fred had ordered the chair for him when he first came back a few days before, and how he had refused it – rather emphatically. As the chair descended I looked up and there was John smiling down at me from the entry port. He reached up to doff his hat to me but only clutched empty air as he had apparently left it in his cabin. I couldn’t help but laugh at the expression on his handsome face. Then tucking my very full skirts about me, I climbed into the chair and held on as it was hoisted high into the air and swayed inboard – and I am very sure that whoever was on the end of the rope was making sure that there were no possible problems, since he would hardly be one of John’s favourite people if he let me take an unexpected dunking. I think every man on the ship – and the ones in the gig below, waiting to come up – breathed a sigh of relief when the chair neared the deck and I was able to step down and run headlong into John’s waiting arms for a kiss that seemed to go on forever – and yet was much too short.
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair
Tuesday 1 June 1779
Feeling almost normal again after my first bath in weeks I had been enjoying coffee while reading through the reports concerning Arronbourge when a commotion from the skylight drew my attention.
“Mr. Helstrom, rig the Bosun’s chair if you please.” I heard Jones order. “And have all hands muster at the side. Mr. Cutler, My respects to the Captain and he might want to come on deck.”
Then I heard a boat being challenged and the usual response of “Aye aye.” Not another Captain come to call then nor the Admiral. Who then? It might be Fred returning, for he had gone to check on Mary Stewart and deliver my letter to Tara about an hour ago. But why have all hands man the side for him. Then it hit me, Tara. Tara was in the boat with him.
Snatching up my coat I was through the door in an instant, almost cannoning into Cutler as I went and calling out quickly to him, “I heard,” before he could so much as open his mouth. Throwing the coat on hastily I ignored the twinges in my shoulder and dashed out to the entry port on the main deck.
Emerging from beneath the quarterdeck just as the Swede called out, “Lower avay!” to the hands on the tackles, I strode to the port and looked down to the most wonderful sight I had seen in days. There was Tara sitting next to Fred in the sternsheets and wearing the lovely sprigged muslin that she knew was one of my favourites.
She looked up at me and smiled brightly, her eyes full of delight. I reached up to doff my hat to her and realized that in my haste I’d left it in my cabin. She laughed at what I’m sure was a quite comical expression on my face. Then quickly addressed herself to seating herself easily in the Bosun’s chair as if she'd been doing it for years, which as the only daughter of a prominent merchant captain she probably had.
Up the chair soared above the bulkhead then down once more to the deck not three feet away from where I stood. Then she was out of it and in my arms again. Our lips met. The kiss was quite long and by the time we parted again we were both breathless. We still had yet to say a word when from behind us Fred’s voice sounded.
“Are you planning to do that all afternoon?”
“And what if we are, Fred? Do you have a problem with that?”
“Not at all.” He laughed. “But I might suggest that you not do it on deck for the whole world to see.”
“He has a point you know.” Tara said still in my loving embrace. “But you know that it’s bad manners to interrupt when a woman is greeting the man she loves, Doctor Fred.”
“Perhaps he’ll understand when we find him that nice widow to take care of him.” I said brightly.
Bart smothered a laugh and Fred glared at him.
“We’ll see if you still find it funny when they start conspiring about you, Bartholomew Jones!” Fred remarked indignantly. Jones was unfazed however.
“If the lady they find for me is even half as lovely as Miss Mason then I would be pleased to have her, Doctor.” He said gallantly. Tara smiled at him and dropped to a small curtsey.
“You’re such a gentleman, Mr. Jones. No wonder William likes you so much.”
“How long can you stay, my love?” I asked her as we walked to the cabin.
“Not long I'm afraid. I just left a note for Jennifer and snuck out the back to show up at the dock when MacGregor was about to take Doctor Fred back.”
“Then we’ll make the most of the time.” I said as I closed the door behind us.
From the Remembrances of Tara Mason
Tuesday 1 June 1779
All too soon I had to leave. John and I had spent a few precious moments together in the privacy of his cabin, but I didn’t want Jennifer to worry unnecessarily. I delivered my letter and was rewarded with another kiss - or several of them - and I had my first chance to look about the cabin, but a tour of the ship would have to wait for another day.
“Do you think Fred will be happier that we’re down here, kissing, instead of on the deck?” I asked as one of those kisses ended.
“Fred’s just jealous because I have someone as beautiful to kiss as you and he doesn’t, my love.” He murmured as he watched my bosom rise and fall with the exertion of our activities. “Did anyone ever tell you that that gown looks lovely on you? Of course… ” The rest was murmured outrageously in my ear, provoking the slight flush that has come to replace the full-scale blush I used to be prone to. I have spent too many weeks in company with this very vital, very virile man who loves me with every fibre of his being to blush quite as much as I used to, but he can still provoke a response with his comments.
“They’re going to wonder what we’re doing down here.”
“Oh, they know. The same thing we were doing up there, only with no prying eyes. But I suppose I must get you back to the gig, and back to Jennifer. Thank you for coming, my sweet. You really brightened my day.” John said between tiny kisses.
“Even if you did go on deck without your hat. A grievous breach of naval etiquette, I’m sure. You know the punishment for that, don’t you?” I teased.
“What? Am I to be clapped in irons? Sent to the masthead like an errant midshipman? Sentenced to kiss the gunner’s daughter over the breech of a gun?”
“No, but you might be sentenced to kiss the Captain’s daughter,” I said, referring to my father’s career as a ship owner.
“I don’t think we’ll muster the hands to witness punishment, though,” he said, as he surrendered himself for his ‘sentence.’ “We’ll just take care of that privately, don’t you think?”
From the Remembrances of Tara Mason
Thursday 3 June 1779
John went back to his ship a week ago and I am missing him terribly, even though he writes every day and we have been aboard Sapphire to visit once already. Still, it’s not the same as being able to pop into his room almost anytime I want to share a letter, or something in a book I’m reading, or the day’s events as reported in the local newspapers, such as they are. Still, the life of a sea officer’s lady is one of waiting and patience, and I must take a page from Jennifer’s book and begin to practice these virtues. This morning was scheduled to be one of our visiting days among the soldiers’ wives, but I simply did not feel like going. In fact, I did not feel like getting out of bed, my stomach hurt so bad. Mary came in to check on me when Jennifer reported this fact at breakfast, her face concerned.
“What’s the problem, child?” she asked as she felt my forehead with one work-worn, gentle hand. “No sign of fever, I don’t think. Do you feel sick to your stomach?”
“No, it just - hurts.” I gasped. “I tried to stand up and the pain almost doubled me over.”
“Sharp pain?” She asked, her voice calm but her eyes anxious, as she moved her hands over my belly, probing gently. “Does it hurt worse when I press here?”
“No, it’s dull and it’s everywhere. What is it, Mary?”
“Don’t know yet, child. Let me get you some herb tea and a hot water bottle. That will help, I think.”
“One of your Indian teas?”
“Yes’m. Learned it from an old Cherokee herb woman. Good people, the Cherokee. Their medical practices make more sense than this endless cycle of bleeding and purging some of our ‘university trained’ doctors believe in.”
“I’m not sure Doctor Fred would appreciate your saying that, Mary,” I remarked but she just laughed.
“Oh yes he would, Miss Tara. Doctor Fred’s a good man who doesn’t care where an idea came from as long as it makes sick people well. He picked up a lot of medicine that established doctors would frown on when he and the Captain were in China seven years ago. Didn’t matter to him that the Chinese were heathen, just that their medicine worked. Now you lay down and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She was back ten minutes later with both the tea and the bottle. “Now, I’ve wrapped the hot water bottle in towels so it won’t burn you, and here’s the tea. Do you want anything to eat?”
“Not now. Maybe later.”
I dozed fitfully for most of the morning. Mary, who had stayed home to be with me, came in to change out the cold hot water bottle for a fresh one occasionally, but otherwise she busied herself in the house while Jennifer and Maisie were out on their calls. Just before noon Fred Bassingford arrived with his daily missive from John. When he heard that I had been in bed all morning, he came in to check on me. He checked the same area Mary did, asked the same questions Mary did, and then he asked even more questions.
“Do you usually react this way, dear girl?”
“I hardly remember. It’s been so long. But yes, I think I do. The last few months have been a welcome relief, in that way.”
“But you know this is a sign that you are healing, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. I want to see three complete cycles from you between now and August, that will tell us your body is fully healed. Does the tea Mary gave you help? It does? Good. Well, keep drinking it, and I shall be back to check on you tomorrow. How much do I tell John?”
“If I tell him how much it hurts right now he’ll be over here like a shot, won’t he?”
“Part of loving, my dear.”
“And yet I don’t want to keep secrets from him. Use your best judgment, Doctor Fred.”
“Good girl.” He kissed my hand and turned to Mary.
“Now, my dear Mrs. Stewart, if I am correct your first three months are up, or near as makes no difference, and young Master or Miss Stewart is still very much with us. I am guardedly optimistic that all will continue to go well, now that we are past this all-important milestone. How do you feel?”
“Very well. The nausea is gone, has been for several weeks, and I’m not as sleepy as I was at first,” she said.
“No, that will come back later on, as the time draws closer. When Jennifer got her letter from Will the other day, was there one for you as well?”
“Yessir. Nicolas says he is well, just still trying to take it all in. He’s forty-six now, you know, and never married before, and if he has children by any other woman he doesn’t know it. If he had he would have married her – he’s a good man.”
“A very good man, I knew that five minutes after I met him, and one I look forward to getting to know better later on. Well, I shall slip my winged cap back on,” he said, referred to his role as Mercury, the messenger, “and be on my way. Miss Tara, even though it hurts, think of it this way – one down, and two to go.”
He tucked the letters into his coat pockets and took himself off.
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair
Thursday 3 June 1779
“What’s wrong?” I said abruptly.
Fred had just handed me Tara’s letter and something in his manner had been off. Nothing I could put my finger on but somehow I just knew that there was a problem ashore.
“What makes you think that anything’s wrong?” Fred responded attempting to avoid the question.
My eyes bored into him as I flatly repeated my question. He sighed heavily before answering. Once he’d finished his explanation I rapped sharply on the skylight above my head.
“Officer of the Watch!” Talbot appeared in the open skylight.
“Sir.”
“Call away my gig. I’m going ashore.”
“Aye aye, sir”
“John, there is nothing you can do for her. Monthlies are just part of being a healthy young woman, Tara’s are more painful than most, that’s all.” Fred interjected as Andrew helped me into my coat. “There is nothing anyone can do except make her comfortable and let time take its course.”
“I know that, Fred.” I answered as I picked up my hat. “But I can be with her as she was with me when I needed her. At least for a few hours.”
“And what if you’re attacked again?”
“I’ll take MacGregor with me. Any other objections?”
“Yes.” He answered. “I do not like your climbing up and down the side so much, I do not like it all!”
“Well if you don’t like that you’re going to positively hate this. Starting tomorrow morning I’m climbing the masts.”
Fred looked at me as if those three heads that I’d seemed to sprout last February had all suddenly popped up again. He stood there in shock for a moment before finally erupting in a fountain of language that he’d learnt in the better part of twenty years at sea. He was profane, colourful and quite imaginative in his exclamations. But at length he tired and finally wound down and I was able to respond.
“Look, Fred,” I began. “I’m climbing the masts tomorrow. Now you can work with me to set up a reasonable programme of exercise to get me back into fighting trim within a reasonable period of time or I can ignore you and do it myself. Which is it to be?”
He glared at me for several minutes as I calmly gazed back at him then finally spoke.
“If we were in England… ”
“You’d post St. John and have me declared unfit for duty.” I completed for him. “But we aren’t in England and you can’t do that so which is it?”
“If I agree to this do you give me your word that you shall make this a gradual regimen at my direction?”
“As long as you don’t try to drag it out.”
“Alright.” He said with resignation. “We will start you tomorrow climbing the mizzen once and see how you look afterwards.”
“You see, Fred, that wasn’t so hard now was it.” I said cheerfully, then walked to the door and the gig that would take me to Tara.
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair
Saturday 5 June 1779
“It looks like he escaped sometime between midnight and two in the morning.” Collins said from his chair in my day cabin. “The guard was found with his throat cut at that time.”
“He must have had help.” I replied. “Someone had to get the blade to him.”
“Capitaine Montaigne has only had two visitors in the last forty-eight hours. You were one of them, sir. I’m afraid I must ask you why you were there.”
“Well as you know I had captured Montaigne a bit over two months ago. When he learnt that he was not to be exchanged he wrote me and asked, demanded really, that I do something. I received the messages once I’d returned aboard Sapphire last week and spoke to both Sir Avery Canning and Sir George Collier. They were sympathetic but they didn't have the authority to overturn Sir Henry’s decision. I went to see Capitaine Montaigne to explain the situation.”
Collins nodded, his eyes focused on the deck as he took the information in.
“How did he take the news?” He asked slowly.
“Poorly at best, Major. He insisted that it was my fault for having waited so long. That I had purposely delayed just to keep him prisoner. When I asked him why he thought I would do such a thing he said it was because I was afraid to meet him at sea. I backhanded him, told him that I would be happy to face him anytime and anywhere. Then I left.”
“And I understand that Lieutenant Nash, the Officer of the Guard, was with you the entire time?”
“Yes, he was. Who was the other visitor?”
Collins shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t tell you at this time. Regulations. I’m sure you understand.”
“I have a bad feeling about this, Major Collins. A very bad feeling. Montaigne was practically frothing at the mouth when I talked to him. Do everything you can to apprehend him as soon as possible. A man like him is capable of just about anything.”
