Saving Time

Chapter 36

“The inhabitants who flocked down to the beach to watch must have been a good deal surprised at the spectacle we presented. Our beards were long and ragged and almost all of us were without shoes and stockings. Many had their clothes and accoutrements in fragments, and some had their heads swathed in old rags. Our weapons were covered with rust. Quite a few men, from toil and fatigue, had become quite blind.”

—Benjamin Harris, Ninety-Fifth Rifles, on landing

ashore at Portsmouth, January 29, 1809

January 29th, Portsmouth, England

Melissa stepped on the dock from the long boat unsteady after fourteen days in cramped quarters on a rocking ship. The storm had blown dozens of ships of the fleet into Portsmouth by the 25th, but because of the continuing gale no one had been able to land. Thus, their ship, Horatio had been tossing in the harbor for four days. Crowds lined the wharves to see the army land.

There were loud expressions of dismay from onlookers as the soldiers, officers, women, and children stumbled onto the wharves and beaches. Her young cabin mate, Sally collapsed on the jetty, unable to rise. Kind citizens came to help Melissa with Sally, guiding them to the street above the piers. All the two could do was squat against a wall numb to the world amid the shambling soldiers flooding by, filling the street with limping, bandaged, gaunt figures of misfortune. Mel chided herself again for leaving the money purse her uncle had given her on the parlor table, forgotten in the rushed confusion of helping families prepare to board ships.

Many of the citizens of Portsmouth stepped in to help the army with food, directions to the barracks, and shelter. A wealthy merchant and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Abernathy, took pity on Melissa and a distraught Sally, bringing them to their large, well-appointed house on Cumberland Street, only a few blocks from the Naval Yard. Melissa remembered little of the day after that.

~ ~ ~

February 1st

Melissa sat on a divan with a comforter over her, a cup of tea untouched on the table beside her, pretending to read. Mrs. Abernathy, a round and bustling woman, had been very solicitous with her and Sally, who remained in bed with a fever. The only fell point was Mrs. Abernathy’s continual questions about what Melissa had survived during the campaign.

It remained the last thing she wanted to talk about, particularly with someone who had no notion of the realities she’d faced. She thought she’d burst if she heard one more, “Oh My!” in answering even the most innocuous questions about the campaign and retreat.

Her uncle was not in Portsmouth. With the family franking her letters, Melissa had written to the Horse Guards in London hoping to reach her uncle, Rig, and Sally’s husband. The family received the Gazette, and over the past two days she had scoured the newspaper for reports of ships from La Corunna making port. Along with listing the transported regiments, the ship’s officers and significant passengers would often be listed.

As maddening as it was for all concerned, Mel could do nothing but wait and continue to rely on the Abernathy’s hospitality. Their willingness to help had been enhanced when they learned she was the niece of Colonel Graham. It seems that one of Moore’s dying requests was that her uncle be elevated to the rank of major general after eight years of sterling service. She smiled, remembering that Rig had foretold it would happen as well as Moore’s death.

Where was he? Rig’s ship, the Dispatch, had not been counted among the ships disembarking all along the southern coast after the storms. It had been three weeks since the battle.

~ ~ ~

That same day, Rig squatted, wet and cold, on a pebble beach, leaning on his pack, the wind tugging at his filthy uniform, rocks jabbing his backside. Run aground, its wooden, barnacle-incrusted hull towering above them, The Black Swan had been driven ashore by the never-ending gale. In the afternoon fog, Calley and Payne huddled nearby as people clambered down rope ladders thrown over the sides of the drunkenly listing ship, only to fall among the rocks, and hobble to join the multitude clustered nearby. For fourteen days the gale had blown the ship ever northwest. The ship’s captain thought they were on the coast of Cornwall, someplace between Plymouth and Torbay.

Rig watched as their cabin mate, the gray cat, clambered down the ropes to race into the rocks on the shore and disappear. Rig wished the feral beast luck. Two days out, Rig had mentioned to the captain that there were rats, fleas, and lice infesting their cabin. Shortly thereafter, a sailor showed up with a yowling cat wrapped in a blanket. He let the animal go in their cabin, which raced to hide under the lower bunk. Then the sailor brought in a small box of dirt, which he slid under the bed, and left a bag he identified as food. He explained that ‘My Wife,” as the cat was named, was the captain’s cat. She would attract the fleas and lice as humans were the insects’ second choice of meals and would also catch or scare off the rats. The cat had met expectations while waking up everyone with yowls and crashing around chasing rats. And of course, she smelled like horse dung.

Rig’s stomach knotted up. He was starving. He’d refused to eat a good deal of the food the ship’s cook had literally served in a bucket. Not surprisingly, the cat refused hers too, preferring rats. Payne, like any number of passengers, had come down with dysentery, the result of foul water and rotten food. Rig was running on empty but had at least avoided all the food-related illnesses.

Squatting on the cold, damp rocks, Rig had never felt this lost and hopeless, his stomach aching, his movements, and thoughts listless, memories of Mel dominating them. He glanced up the craggy slope, the hazy light among the sea mists revealing a trail disappearing inland among the black sarsens, as Calley called the boulders.

The hundred meters to the trail seemed like tens of miles. He didn’t know how long he sat staring at the path before coming to a decision.

No benefit in waiting, Starke. Taking forever, he struggled to his feet, then shouldered his rucksack and saddlebags. He helped Calley stand Payne upright. Together they lurched toward the path to somewhere. For some reason, the mob of passengers rose together like a wounded beast, and more than one hundred souls tottered after the three.

~ ~ ~

February 7th

Melissa helped Sally across the Abernathy’s threshold and into the parlor. They had just returned for a walk down Penny Street to the wide Promenade and Pembroke Gardens. It had been too much for Sally, who, though recovered from her fever, still complained of weakness. There in the room were three officers, one in the colors of the Ninety-Fifth Rifles. Sally cried “Benjamin!” and leaped into the arms of the older man in a major’s red coat who turned out to be her husband. The other two officers glanced at each other, frowning at the unseemly display of affection.

Inwardly, Melissa sighed. She was truly back in proper society. Because of that, she controlled herself, approaching the officers. She recognized Major Brooks, but not the other man. He was introduced as Captain Palmerton of the Ninety-Fifth Rifles.

Melissa patiently waited through the social niceties and the men’s enquiries after the ladies’ health, all of them ignoring Sally and her husband’s continuing intimate reunion.

Melissa cut into the small talk. “Captain Palmerton, any news of the rest of the battalion, of Ten Company and Captain Sparhawk?”

Major Brooks and the captain exchanged looks before the captain answered. “Very little beyond what is reported in the Gazette. The Horatio with Ten Company sailed into Weymouth yesterday.”

Melissa offered the officers seats and Mrs. Abernathy and a maid brought in tea and sandwiches. “Most of the ships have been accounted for,” Captain Palmerton said, “but nearly a score have not been seen as yet.”

Major Brooks smiled and said gently, “We thought perhaps you would know something of Captain Sparhawk’s whereabouts.”

Disappointed, Melissa laid her napkin in her lap, smoothing it out repeatedly before answering. “All I know, gentlemen, is that Captain Sparhawk was assigned a berth on the Brig Dispatch. Has it arrived yet?”

Major Brooks shook his head. “No. It is one of the ships which has not been seen making land anywhere.”

Melissa gripped the hem of her dress. “It has been more than four weeks.”

“Yes, miss, it has.” Captain Palmerton shrugged helplessly. “The storm scattered ships as far north as Harwich and the west coast of Wales. We are all waiting for reports.”

“Have you heard word about my uncle?”

Happy to have one answer to her questions, Major Brooks smiled. “Yes! Colonel Graham landed at Brighton and went on to London with the rest of the army’s command staff.” He grinned and added, “I am sure Captain Sparhawk is well. I doubt anything could kill that man.”

Melissa nodded, not reassured, but confident her uncle had received her letter in London. Soon after, Sally’s husband, Major Stansbury, paid Mrs. Abernathy for the costs of caring for his wife and Melissa. He waved away Melissa’s offer to pay for her part when she joined her uncle. The major said he was indebted to her for aiding Sally so faithfully. The officers and Sally left with a promise to visit again, and to send word “when they heard something.”

Melissa sat down, running her fingers over the still warm medallion at her breast, and stared into the fireplace alone with her fears of the unknown, for Rig, for the days ahead without any real purpose. Without money for travel or lodgings, and little idea of where her uncle was, or where to travel to, all she could do was wait.

~ ~ ~

Rig sat with Calley in a booth at the Sunken Sloop Inn. He watched the hostile patrons of the tavern eye him while testing the blades of their two-foot knives. He was glad for the protection of his booth’s three wooden walls. He wore his sword and a pistol hopefully discouraging the patrons. He had no powder for the weapon.

After walking miles on the road, they had found the roadside inn. Before entering, Calley had whispered about all Cornwall men being scavengers and smugglers. As the army acted as the strong arm for the Revenue Officers battling the smugglers, soldiers were despised along the coast. Probably because of that, Rig couldn’t even get a straight answer about coach schedules, or even if there were any.

Payne was still sick in bed upstairs behind a locked and barred door. The only reason the owner had provided beds and food is that Rig had paid with French and Spanish money, smuggler’s coin. Calley, being an Irishman was more accepted because the Irish also challenged English rule. He’d heard that two days ago a salvage-minded pack of Cornwall men had beaten off the crew of TheBlack Swan and now all that was left of the ship was scattered kindling.

After sitting in the smoke-filled tavern for hours, Rig didn’t want to go back up to their cramped little room, which smelled no better, so he stepped outside into the fog and cold, Calley following. The man didn’t want to be left inside alone. After two days, regardless of Payne’s condition, they were hiking east tomorrow.

Sitting on a bench outside, he wondered where Mel was, how she’d fared. Had her ship made port? He had little idea how he would find her once they reached Portsmouth. Calley said there was a large army barracks there. It seemed a reasonable goal.

As the two rested their backs against the tavern wall, staring out at the rocky coast, they heard a clattering. Out of the mists, up stomped six large horses hauling a massive coach. It squealed to a stop before them. Rig and Calley jumping onto the bench for fear of being run over. Several people hopped off the coach, their luggage being tossed down to them. Rig walked up to the driver, who was hidden in a thick, winged coat, gloves, and top hat.

“Is this coach going to Portsmouth?”

The burly man, while checking his horses, gave Rig a disgusted look for the ignorant question, but nodded.

Rig frowned. How do I phrase this? “Then I want to buy passage for three to Portsmouth.”

The coachman studied Rig. “You be part of Moore’s army?” When Rig nodded in turn, the man shook his head in pity, saying, “It be one hundred-thirty miles. Three pounds.”

“Will you take five silver doubloons?”

With eyebrows raised in surprise, the coachman said, “Let me see the coins.” When Rig fished them out of his coat pocket, the man snatched them up. “I leave after a pint. Get your kit aboard.” Rig and Calley dashed into the tavern to wake Payne and grab their gear.

~ ~ ~

February 11th

Sitting near the fire, Mel finished rereading Major Brooks’ note from yesterday reporting no news on Captain Sparhawk, but several more ships had made it to port or had been sighted down the coast. Yesterday’s Gazette was days out of date. And still no word from her uncle, not even a letter. She crumpled the note, unable to find a task for her nervous energy. She couldn’t just sit here forever, not knowing where Rig had landed. The Abernathys worried about her because of how little she ate or slept.

In London she would have better access to information and would be easier to find her uncle. She needed to go, even with the dangers to a woman traveling alone. Did she dare ask Mr. Abernathy for coach fare and lodging in London?

While thinking about who she might know in London to take her in, there was a banging on the front door. A maid came in to announce Colonel Graham, accompanied by a smiling Mr. Abernathy.

“Uncle!” Mel jumped up but forced herself not to repeat Sally Stansbury’s enthusiastic faux pas. He strode in and gave her a hug, whispering, “Ah, lass.” He held her at arm’s length. “You look bonnie, child. I’m so sorry about the long wait. There has been such a canker’d culmany. It stuns the mind. The ministers and Horse Guards demanded testimonies, with cross-examinations galore. General Moore is either a hero who saved the army or a villain of stupidity, destroying British forces entire.”

He waved away the issue. “It matters for nothing here. You are safe. Can you be off with me to London today?”

She stepped back, smiling. “Gladly.” She then noticed that he held a newspaper. “Is that today’s Gazette?” she said, holding out a hand for it.

Her uncle frowned, a look of verist melancholy, and didn’t offer it. “Mo ghràdh, my dear, I am so sorry.”

Melissa’s heart froze in her chest. She stared at him and then grabbed the newspaper. He didn’t resist. There it was on the front page.

The Dispatch came to grief on Black Rock, attempting to beach at Widemouth Bay during the storms. The crew of twenty-seven, as well as twelve officers, and fifty-six men of the Seventh Hussars were lost on February Eighth.

There, among the list of those drown was Reginald Sparhawk, Captain, Ninety-Fifth Rifles.

She sank to her knees, sobbing, “NO, no, no, no.” Inconsolable, it was all her uncle could do to collect her trunk and guide Melissa to his waiting coach.

~ ~ ~

Rig, Calley, and Payne trudged through the Landsport Gate of Portsmouth’s Colewart Fort and Barracks, and up the fort’s Warbleton Street. The coach ride had taken the better part of four days with only one overnight in a wayside station in Bournemouth. After being rattled and thrown back-and-forth, beaten black-and-blue in the mail coach, if he hadn’t before, Rig certainly understood now why life expectancies were so short during this time. After leaving Payne at the infirmary, he and Calley reported to the day officer who directed them to the New Barracks in the middle of the fort.

At the barracks, a huge brick building three stories and at least 150 meters long, Rig was directed to the officers’ quarters. When Calley followed Rig, the officer in charge stopped him, telling him the enlisted men were housed further down the building.

Calley protested. “Cranky, I’m the Captain’s batman.”

The officer, a Guard lieutenant, Rig figured by the evenly spaced buttons and dark blue facings, shook his head. “Regardless, Corporal, you house with the enlisted men. The officers’ quarters have their own waitstaff. If the captain needs you, he can get a message to you.”

Calley, scrunching up his face and muttering oaths under his breath, bid goodbye and left with the promise to be close by if needed.

Rig wasn’t the first of Moore’s officers to drag themselves to the barracks from far-flung landings. The lieutenant furrowed his brow and said, “Leave your packs here. A servant will bring them up. I have to put you with the Guard officers. I don’t want to hear any complaints from them.”

Terrific. The elite officers might endure his lower caste person. His room to be shared with two other officers was B3 on the first floor, which meant he had to mount a flight of stairs. Rig labored up the stairs with his pack and saddle bags filled with Spanish doubloons. No one carried those but him. At the top of the stairs, the landing faced a large parlor with hallways off each end. The parlor barely contained a raucous group of officers in bright red uniforms laughing and drinking. The room fell silent when Rig appeared, everyone turning to stare at him. He nodded, saying, “Gentlemen.”

A man in the back whooped and pushed his way to the front. “By the saints, it can’t be!”

Major Brooks strode over to pat Rig heartily on the back. “But by God, it is! By all that is holy, what a timely entrance.”

Brooks studied him for a moment and turned to the others. “I told you he couldn’t be killed, no matter what that newspaper claimed.” The rest of the pack came over to shake his hand, Brooks introducing them. The officers said things like “Congratulations,” “You look well for a dead man,” and “You must be part fish.”

After the social niceties, Rig was handed a glass of wine. Looking over all the grinning faces, Rig said, “All right, what is it I don’t know?”

Everyone laughed while Brooks snatched a newspaper out of another officer’s hand and folding it to the appropriate section, presented Rig with the Gazette.