“Sir Francis is as yet in Southampton,” returned Mr. Hill pointedly. “But I cannot be easy in Monsieur LaForge's safety. Sir Francis will know, even now, of the fire on the prison hulk; he shall enquire, and he is not a fool, as to the fate of LaForge.”

“Perhaps it would be better for us all if LaForge had died,” I said slowly. “Then the eyes of enquiry should turn elsewhere, and leave us all in peace.”

Mr. Hill stared at me in surprise and consternation. Then he seized my meaning, and his looks altered.

“A fortunate death?”

“With a certificate affirming the hour and cause, penned by a reputable surgeon.”

“—One who had seen the patient often in his care,” Frank said quickly, “and must be trusted to know the man and his condition. It is imperative the news of the Frenchman's death be published at once.”

Etienne LaForge thrust himself to his feet, his headless stick held before him like a sword. His face had drained of colour.

With a sudden movement, Jeb Hawkins placed himself between the Frenchman and my brother; in his hand was the seaman's knife he had used to cut my dreadful knot

There'll be no murder done tonight, gentlemen,” he said warningly, “unless it's your blood I shed in defence of a brave man.”

Frank gaped — Mr. Hill nearly choked — but I burst out in shaky laughter.

“Not murder, Mr. Hawkins — only its parody,” I told him. “We mean to hide our friend in the surest way we know, by declaring him dead, and smuggling him out of the city.”

The Bosun's Mate went still. He considered my words an instant then let out a low, admiring whistle. “The lads at the dockyard allus said as the Cap'n was a rare fighting gentleman, miss — but you're no dithering ninny, neither.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Hawkins. Will you put up your knife, and fetch a hackney chaise? My brother, I am certain, will bear the charge.”

Chapter 22

In Gaoler's Alley

Sunday,

1 March 1807,

cont.

THE BOSUN'S MATE HAD ONLY TO COMPREHEND WHAT was wanted, to devise a suitable plan.

“Yon Frenchman is not fit to take the mail to London,” he decided. “He's as weak as a newborn lamb, and that's a fact. And though he speaks the King's English to admiration, he's not without the sound of foreign parts; there'd be those as were curious how a Frenchie came to travel our roads as free as a lord.”

“A private hack might answer,” said Frank impatiently.

“—but for the powers of Sir Francis,” persisted Jeb Hawkins. “That roguish gentleman has only to learn of the Captain's hiring a conveyance at the Dolphin, to have the chaise followed and waylaid on the road.”

“But he shall believe Monsieur LaForge is dead,” I pointed out.

“He'll hear as much,” said Hawkins grimly, “but don't you be certain, ma'am, as he'll believe the same, without the sight of the corpus in his own eyes. If you wish to safeguard the mon-sewer's life, you could do worse than to trust Giles Sawyer.”

“Giles Sawyer?” said my brother blankly.

“He's a coffin-builder in the town, Cap'n, and a rare mate o' mine. He'd be sailing with the Hearts of Oak still, if it weren't for Boney having taken off his leg. Giles'd be agreeable, I reckon, to shifting the Frenchie in his cart to London — and if the mon-sewer don't mind a bit of confinement, and travel by the slow road, he might rest secure until Kingdom Come.”

“Not quite so far, I beg of you,” said Etienne LaForge; but there was laughter behind his words. “First you would have me dead, then pack me off to London in a casket, hein? The English — they are plotters a la merveille. Ban. I shall go to my death with a will, as you say. Monsieur, I applaud you.”

It required only the addition of Nell Rivers to the cart, as principal mourner for her dead husband; Frank's note of explanation for the delivery of LaForge to the home of our brother, Henry, in Brompton; and a second note of introduction vouching for the Frenchman's probity, to Henry's acquaintance Lord Moira, who might be depended upon to convey LaForge to the First Lord.[29]

“I shall be off to nab old Giles directly,” said the Bosun's Mate, and fixed his cap upon his head.

My brother paid him the courtesy of a bow. “I could wish there were more men of fibre like yourself, Mr. Hawkins, as yet in the Royal Navy. We are greatly in need of your wit and courage — and greatly in your debt.”

“Now, then,” said Mr. Hawkins sternly, as though Frank were an errant Young Gendeman, “none of that misty palaver. I'll have Giles bring the cart round the back of Wool House, and carry the coffin inside; he has nobbut to do but poke a few holes in the sides, so that the mon-sewer don't stifle, and we'll all be right as rain.”

I COULD NOT BEAR TO PART FROM MY CONSPIRATORS before the conclusion of such a business, and thus found myself at home as late as nine o'clock. My mother had retired with a hot posset, but poor Mary was as yet abroad and beside herself with apprehension on her husband's part. When the door to Mrs. Davies's establishment opened to reveal only myself, the poor girl nearly fainted from fretted nerves.

“Where is Frank?” she implored, and clutched at Martha Lloyd's arm for support.

“He is making the rounds of the taverns,” I told her, “in the company of Mr. Hill, the naval surgeon, and is no doubt better fed than I. Has Jenny retired for the evening?”

“Taverns!”

“There has been a fire, Mary, on a hulk moored in Southampton Water, and Mr. Hill fears the loss of one of his patients.” We had determined among ourselves that if the ruse of LaForge's death was to bear weight, it must be supported in the bosom of our family as well as in the town. “The Frenchman who gave testimony at Captain Seagrave's trial is believed lost in the sea. Frank is conversing with all and sundry in an effort to learn of the unfortunate man's fate.”

“Good God!” ejaculated Frank's wife. “Shall we never be free of that wretched affair? Tom Seagrave is gone to gaol, and still my husband will not accept his guilt. Hang Tom Seagrave, I say, and be done!”

“Come and lie down, Mary,” interposed Martha gently. “You should have been abed long since. I believe, Jane, that Mrs. Davies left a little bread and soup on the kitchen hearth; you might enquire for your supper.” And with a speaking look for me, my friend led Mary firmly towards the stairs.

FRANK DID NOT RETURN UNTIL WELL NIGH ELEVEN o'clock, when I was tucked up in bed with the candle already snuffed; I heard the low murmur of conversation as he entered the adjoining room, and knew that Mary had enjoyed little rest in the interval. I was very warm, exceedingly comfortable, and shockingly sleepy — but spared a thought for Etienne LaForge, shut up in an oak box with handsome brass handles, and freezing, no doubt, on his way to London. His coffin was worth all of six pounds, seven shillings, eight pence, Giles Sawyer had assured us; and as holes had been bored in the sides, thus rendering the coffin useless, my brother and Mr. Hill had felt compelled to recompense the man. They paid him as well for the loan of his waggon, the use of his horse, and several hours' cold journey north to London; no small sum for either Frank or the surgeon. Such are the sacrifices of gentlemen for King and Country. I hoped that Monsieur LaForge should survive the trip: it would be a wretched joke indeed, if the coffin-lid were removed to reveal a corpse.

SUNDAY MORNING, AND ALL THE BUSTLE OF SERVICE AT St. Michael's, our parish of preference — it is close enough to Castle Square to prove an easy walk, once we are established in that house. My mother, upon observing that the day should be fine, determined to mark the Sabbath by quitting her bed. She rose in good time to accompany us into St. Michael's Square, where I had the pleasure of hearing a sermon neither too long nor too bombastic, and of meeting afterwards with Mr. Hill in the vestibule.