Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea (16 page)

“It takes Minie balls, and is loaded,” she told Mrs. Corvey, “though I cannot tell if it has been rifled.”

“Must be an American custom,” observed Mrs. Corvey. She patted her own reticule, where a small derringer resided, and said, “Best to keep your weapons to hand, not strewn about the place. Anyone could seize that up.”

They rode on in silence a few moments before she added, thoughtfully, “Let’s keep it in mind, then, eh?”

It was not a long ride; they had already learned that the
Sceptre
did not lie at anchor near Mr. Pickett’s house (nor the suspicious cottages and sea-caves) but rather on the far side of the New Breakwater, in a small cove. The carriage rattled along what appeared to be new-laid gravel, and then out into a smooth path through a meadow; they descended to the level of a small shingle beach along a fresh new path filled with the scents of the sea and cut grass.

“Very rural,” said Mrs. Corvey dryly. “Quite a pleasaunce he has hidden away here.”

“There is a pier, though,” said Lady Beatrice, peering through the window. “And I see a vessel, which must be the
Sceptre
; the mooring area is very well lit.”

Indeed it was—a sturdy new pier stretched out into the protected waters of the little cove, boasting paired standing lamps. A lovely two-masted schooner was moored at the end. She swarmed with men and was evidently upon the very point of putting to sea; she seemed to quiver with impatience as moving shadows cast from the pier-side lanterns danced over her. Her bowsprit was carved as an eponymous scepter, long as a man and bound in brass: more a mace than a scepter, really, and more an unlikely visual pun than anything else.

“D’you suppose he really doesn’t know what that
says
?” wondered Mrs. Corvey in amusement.

“Do many of our patrons?” asked Lady Beatrice.

“No, not really. There’s none better at self-deception than little men,” said Mrs. Corvey, “unless it’s romantic girls.

“Lord, what a coat!” she exclaimed then, as Mr. Pickett came striding along the pier toward the carriage.

Like Juliet, he seemed to make the torches burn brighter—not by overwhelming beauty, but by the contrast of his scarlet coat with everything behind him. It was longer, brighter, redder than his previous pirate king’s costume—ornamented with gold at shoulder, cuff and pocket, too, and swirling round his legs like a bloody tide.

The driver leaped down and opened the carriage door as Mr. Pickett strode down off the pier. Lady Beatrice, rather than waiting to be handed out, saw a dramatic opening—she promptly stepped down and out into the mingled shadow and lamplight, and stood there motionless with her arms
outstretched in welcome.

When Mr. Picket swept her into his arms, the scarlet of their clothes mingled in a seamless match.

The holiday hours spent shopping and walking through Torquay had given all the Ladies a thorough knowledge of its alleys and byways. There were a dozen well-nigh invisible ways down to the shore, and they slipped along them like so many cats. So long as they stayed off the main streets they were unlikely to be remarked, anyway. As Lady Beatrice had noted, people see what they expect to see. In sleepy, respectable Torquay—a seaside holiday destination for invalids and families—no one expected to see so many women slinking through the streets by night. Simply, no one saw them at all.

There were considerable lights and activity at the commercial wharfs, where the fishing boats and freights vessels docked. This was Herbertina’s first stop, where she went up to a ship loading great bales of raw wool. It was nearly done; only a few carters still stood about, their empty carts tufted bizarrely from their loads. Herbertina went to the smallest—a single horse, its head held by an exhausted-looking boy—and handed the lad a gold coin. The boy handed Herbertina the reins. Herbertina drove away.

If anyone noticed, they would have seen one nameless boy pick up an empty cart at the end of a freight run, from another nameless boy. Odds were no one saw. And if they did, the ship was leaving on the hour for Australia. So simple.

Mrs. Corvey’s plan was mostly simple—so simple, indeed, that for ordinarily-equipped women it would not have worked. They were relying on this to provide cover for them, as neither Mr. Pickett nor his private navy would reasonably expect a direct attack upon the steam gun platform. They expected to sally forth from their sea-caves, hidden by darkness and distance, and encounter their prey far out in the Channel. Perhaps close enough for the fireworks and dragon’s breath of the steam cannon to be seen—Mrs. Corvey was not sure of that, but she was sure Mr. Pickett did like an audience—but certainly far enough out that
Le Cygne Impériale
was without succor.

The Ladies, however, meant to encounter the submarine gun platform fresh from its lair, if not still within it. They would disable it within sound of the surf, where neither its crew nor master would expect opposition. The Swan would sail on unknowing.

Whistling, Herbertina drove out to where the town lights dimmed and the beach was dark and silent. Just north of the base of the Breakwater, half a dozen shadows slipped from the roadside and stood waiting. Herbertina slowed the plodding horse to a halt. The shadows tossed in bundles, and began to climb into the cart.

“What a pretty boy!” said one. “Want to come with us and do something you’ve never done before?”

Herbertina tugged her cap brim, grinning. “Why, I’d like that, I am sure. Will I get home to mother in good time, though?”

“Oh, I doubt it very much,” said Dora, clambering up on the seat.

“Sounds jolly!” said Herbertina. They drove on.

Mr. Pickett was in a high state of excitement, color blazing in his cheeks to match his scarlet coat. He had greeted Mrs. Corvey with high good humor—especially since she could not have “seen” his welcoming embrace of Lady Beatrice—and led both ladies aboard with a firm proprietary air. His hands trembled, though; they could both feel the tremor like a current in his flesh.

The
Sceptre
really was a royal pleasance, an exquisite pleasure craft. At the same time, she was obviously trim and efficient; Lady Beatrice knew little about ships (and Mrs. Corvey knew less), but it was clear to even a casual eye that the crew and fittings were superb. The crew greeted Mr. Pickett with respect and affection both, which indicated he was a competent master; they set to on departure as soon as he led his guests aboard.

The first order of business was the owner’s tour, and Mr. Pickett was delighted to show off his pride and joy. He displayed the four-pound cannons at bow and stern with no comment on their utter unsuitability on a civilian craft; nor did Lady Beatrice do more than murmur appreciation of their fine crafting. As Mr. Pickett obviously assumed that she now knew all his plans and approved thoroughly, all it was necessary to do was listen to him. No questions were needed, which might have revealed how much she inexplicably
did
know. As usual, a smile and an approving murmur sufficed as conversation with Mr. Pickett.

Mrs. Corvey clung to his arm and asked occasional querulous questions as he led them round the deck. Mr. Pickett revealed an inclination to pat her arm and say, “Don’t you worry, Mother!”

Lady Beatrice idly calculated the odds of his ending up gun-shot or over-sides before the evening was out.

A brief turn about the deck, though—and a grinning aside that Lady Beatrice would “soon know all!”—and he led them down to the main cabin. This, like the carriage, was a small snug jewel box, filled with lamplight. The center panel of the casement bow windows over the built-in bunk was open, letting a soft breeze in. There was a table set for three in the center, with the usual cunning arrangements to allow for maritime dining: a confining rim to the table, fixed rotating chairs, stands for bottles and carafes. But the woodwork was refined, the china, silver and napery perfect. There was already a plate of cold canapes like little gems laid out, and at the side stood Mrs. Drumm—looking serene, hands folded and her formal cuffs and collar well displayed.

“I thought you ladies might want to freshen up while I see to getting us out to sea,” said Mr. Pickett. He raised Lady Beatrice’s hand and kissed it. “It’ll be smoother once we’re well out beyond the Breakwater, much better for dining. And Mrs. Drumm here says she’ll be pleased to act as maid for you.”

Mrs. Drumm nodded.

Heartfelt farewells were exchanged—one would have thought Mr. Pickett were headed miles away instead of ten feet up and twenty feet over. One would also have thought he took Mrs. Drumm to be as blind as Mrs. Corvey, so ardently did he embrace Lady Beatrice before he bounded away.

“Would this whole enterprise just founder, do you suppose, if I simply shot him?” said Mrs. Corvey wearily.

“I doubt it. It appears to have momentum,” replied Lady Beatrice.

Mrs. Drumm came forward to relieve both of them of their shawls. “That Felan is out there with the gun crew, too,” she informed them. “He’ll go on regardless tonight, unless your lasses take him. And this lot will be pacing them while Pickett romances you and capers about like a Morris dancer, I’ve no doubt! We’re to assist if the gun platform founders, too; which it is a common problem, I’m told.”

“You’ve been busy, Mrs. Drumm.” Mrs. Corvey settled herself at the table. She picked up a spoon and checked the maker’s mark.

“Well, I’ve offered to make all the provisions, see—not just for you ladies, though I must say it’ll be a sin and a shame if you don’t get to taste them—but I’ve packed up some treats for the crew, too,” explained Mrs. Drumm. “They’ve been in and out of the place for the last two days, too, and hungry men always find their way to the kitchen. And they talks among themselves over the little bits of dainties I’ve been feeding them. Men are born gossips!”

“I have found it so, yes,” Mrs. Corvey said. “Our business relies upon it, in fact.”

“Nor I’m much surprised,” said Mrs. Drumm. She poured out a little white wine for each of them, neatly encasing the bottle in a linen cloth as the ship’s roll began to increase. “And just for your ears, madam—the crew of the
Sceptre
are going to get a real special plum duff tonight. Not enough to kill ’em, but enough to make ’em sick and groggy.”

“Good heavens, Mrs. Drumm, have you poisoned everyone?”

“Not at all!” Mrs. Drumm looked offended. “I don’t want us out there with a dead crew, not being able to sail a boat by myself! But the sicker they are, the less harm they can do. I couldn’t see to the gun crew, though; they don’t carry provisions.”

“My girls will see to
them,
” said Mrs. Corvey.

She drew a little shining silver case from her bodice; tiny beads studded one surface. She pressed four of these in a short rhythm; paused, then repeated it twice. A few seconds passed, and then the device emitted a soft double chirp, like a cricket.

“Ah, they are on their way,” she said. She smiled at Mrs. Drumm’s stare, and her lenses whirred behind her smoked glasses. “And they know we are in place. We’ve been busy, too, Mrs. Drumm.”

The Ladies in the cart had seen the glow of the lights at the
Sceptre
’s mooring as they passed on the road above, but now they were some ways beyond it. Herbertina angled right at a descending hollow that gradually deepened to a willow-lined draw leading down to the sea. They trundled along a widening strand of brook running ahead of them to where the sound of breakers filled the darkness.