The Colonists E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Australians
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 499

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The eleventh book in the dramatic and intriguing story about the colonisation of Australia: a country made of blood, passion, and dreams.   Against overwhelming odds they fought to tame a savage land, now they must fight to keep it.   For three tumultuous generations they had struggled to harness an alien wilderness, to lay the bold foundation for their dreams. But now, just as a radiant future beckons, they are menaced by distant powers hungry to seize what they have so bitterly won. As the new generation comes into its own, some, like Lucy Van Buren, live drugged by lavish splendor. Others, like Michael Dean, carry on the invincible pioneer spirit. And still the newcomers arrive, burning with unbridled passions and dark desires. Men like Robert Willoughby, fleeing disgrace, headed for disaster … women like Alice Fairweather, willing to risk everything for a cause. Together, as lovers and enemies, they must battle to forge the glorious destiny that is rightfully theirs. Once outcasts, they are now The Colonists.

Leseprobe

The Colonists

The Australians 11 – The Colonists

© Vivian Stuart, 1984

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

Series: The Australians

Title: The Colonists

Title number: 11

ISBN: 978-9979-64-236-7

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

The Australians

The ExilesThe PrisonersThe SettlersThe NewcomersThe TraitorsThe RebelsThe ExplorersThe TravellersThe AdventurersThe WarriorsThe ColonistsThe PioneersThe Gold SeekersThe OpportunistsThe PatriotsThe PartisansThe Empire BuildersThe Road BuildersThe SeafarersThe MarinersThe NationalistsThe LoyalistsThe ImperialistsThe Expansionists

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This book is for Bill Mann, as a token of my gratitude for his many years of patient and almost uncomplaining help and encouragement.

Acknowledgments and Notes

I acknowledge very gratefully the guidance received from Lyle Kenyon Engel in the writing of this book, as well as the help and cooperation of the staff at Book Creations, Inc., of Canaan, New York: Marla Ray Engel, Philip Rich, Glenn Novak, Carol Krach, Mary Ann McNally, Jean Sepanski, Pamela Lappies, and last but by no means least, George Engel. All have given me encouragement and a warm friendship that has made my work as an author so much happier and less lonely than it was before I teamed up with BCI.

I should also like to put on record my appreciation of the help given me by my British publisher, Aidan Ellis, of Aidan Ellis Publishing, Ltd., in publicizing The Australians series in the United Kingdom, and my appreciation of the help always so patiently given in the domestic sphere by my spouse and Ada Broadley. My thanks also to the editorial and sales staff of Doubleday Pty. Australia and the many relatives and friends in Sydney who made me so welcome on my recent visit to the land “down under,” where I lived so happily for eight years.

The main books consulted were supplied by E. G. Glover of Sutton-in-Ashfield, Nottinghamshire, England, and Conrad Bailey of Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. These included:

The Australian Encyclopaedia: Angus & Robertson, 1927; The Convict Ships: Charles Bateson, Brown Son & Ferguson, 1959; History of Tasmania: J. West, Dowling, 1852; Description of the Colony of New South Wales: W. C. Wentworth, Whittaker, 1819; The Macarthurs of Camden: S. M. Onslow, reprinted by Rigby, 1973 (1914 edition); Australian Explorers: Kathleen Fitzpatrick, Oxford University Press, 1958; History of Australia: Marjorie Barnard, Angus & Robertson, 1962 (copy kindly supplied by Bay Books); Australian Historical Monographs, various titles, edited by George Mackaness, Ford, Sydney, 1956; Port Arthur: M. Weidenhofer, Oxford University Press, 1981; National Portraits: Vance Palmer, Melbourne University Press, 1940; In Step with Sturt: Swan and Carnegie, National Library of Australia, 1979; For the Term of His Natural Life: Marcus Clarke, Lloyd O’Neil (reprinted 1970); The Beginning: Appleyard and Manford, University of Western Australia Press, 1979.

Other books were kindly lent by Ian Cottam, and research in Sydney was undertaken by Vera Koenigswarter—my other invaluable Sydney researcher, May Scullion, having sadly died last year.

This book, like the others in the series, is written as a novel, with fictional characters superimposed on the narrative. Their adventures and misadventures are based on fact and, at times, may seem to the reader more credible than those of the real-life characters with whom their stories are interwoven. Nevertheless, I have not embroidered or exaggerated the actions of any of them, save where it was expedient to dramatize these a little in order to avoid writing “dull” history.

CHAPTER I

“They are here, Papa,” Emily Willoughby announced nervously. “Robert and James. They await your pleasure.’’

Rear Admiral Sir Francis Willoughby looked up from the book he was reading to eye his daughter with stem disapproval. “Have I not bidden you to knock before you enter my study?” he demanded with asperity.

In awe of him, as she always was, and fearing his temper, Emily apologized. It was of no use, she knew, to tell him that she had knocked; he would not admit that it was his increasing deafness that had prevented him from hearing her. His disapproval, she also knew, was of her brothers, not herself, and although she could only guess at the reason for it, she supposed it was Robert’s conduct that had, once again, aroused their father’s ire.

Since his court-martial two years ago and his dismissal from the King’s service, Robert had been in such constant trouble that, for some time past, he had been forbidden the house, his name never mentioned in the admiral’s presence. For this reason, Emily had been surprised to learn—only the previous day—that he had been sent for, and poor young Jamie with him. Though what Jamie could have done to warrant the peremptory demand for his attendance passed her comprehension.

She sighed. Her younger brother was thirteen, a cadet at the Royal Naval College in Portsmouth and nearing the end of his first year of study there. The excellence of his reports had hitherto afforded their father great satisfaction, and she could not help wondering why—in the middle of term—the boy had been required to make the long journey to Plymouth at what had evidently been very short notice.

“Shall I bid them come in, Papa?” she inquired, anxious to make her own escape. She would be sent out of the room, of course, once the boys presented themselves. Whatever their father had to say to them would not be for her ears, but she was accustomed to her exclusion, as a female, from purely masculine affairs and, in particular, from matters pertaining to the naval service.

Since her mother’s death eight years ago, she had kept house and supervised the upbringing of her two younger sisters, but, Emily reflected, conscious of a faint twinge of resentment, her duties and responsibilities had been purely domestic and largely taken for granted. She had never enjoyed her father’s confidence or merited the interest he had shown in his sons . . . until, that was to say, poor Robert’s fall from grace.

When news of the findings of the court-martial had reached him, her father had wept, and, for the first and only time that she could remember, he had permitted her to witness his grief and to offer him consolation. Since that moment, however, he had held more aloof from her than ever, as if ashamed that he had allowed her to sense a weakness in him that she had never previously imagined he possessed.

“Shall I,” Emily began, since he remained pensively silent, “shall I serve coffee for you and the boys, Papa? Or a bottle of your madeira? They have had no time to break their fast, and Jamie has traveled all night. He—”

“No!” The admiral cut her short. “You will serve nothing.”

The book he had been reading was flung down with such force that it slithered across the polished surface of his desk, to fall with a dull thud at her feet. It was a legal treatise, Emily observed with surprise as she bent to pick it up and replace it carefully within his reach.

Her father’s beetling white brows met in a forbidding frown. Offering no explanation, he gestured impatiently to the door. “Summon your brothers, if you please. And . . . I wish you to be present when I talk to them, since what I have to say concerns you also, if indirectly. I must warn you, however, that it may well come as a shock to you.”

Emily hesitated for a moment; then, her heart suddenly heavy with foreboding, she hastened to obey him.

Her brothers were waiting in the pleasant, sunny room that had been their mother’s boudoir and was now termed the morning room. Robert, tall and in the civilian dress that made him seem a stranger, had, she saw, anticipated their father’s refusal to offer him refreshment, for there was a decanter of brandy on the table beside him, and he had a half-empty glass in his hand.

Jamie, looking ill at ease, cut an oddly contrasting figure in his cadet’s brass-buttoned uniform, his cap tucked correctly beneath his arm and his hands empty, although Hawkins—the admiral’s onetime coxswain and now employed as butler and coachman—had set out a glass for him.

Robert spun round at his sister’s approach, quickly draining the contents of his glass before asking aggressively “What does the Old Man want, Emmy, for God’s sake? Why have we been sent for in such an almighty hurry, do you know?”

Emily shook her head. “I don’t know, Rob. Papa hasn’t told me anything, except that he wishes me to be present when he talks to you. He—that is, he says the matter is of some concern to me also.”

Robert swore under his breath. “No,” he objected. “Plague take it—no! I do not want you there when he takes me to task for my failure to live up to his damned outmoded standards. Please, Emmy, stay away if you care for me at all.”

Emily flushed. “You know I care for you deeply, Rob. But I cannot disobey Papa. What he has to say is to all three of us.”

Her glance at her elder brother was uneasy. His cravat was stained and badly ironed, his shirt cuffs frayed, his jacket worn and in need of repair. Wherever he was now lodging, it was obvious that little care was given to his wardrobe, and . . . Assailed by a sudden suspicion, she asked apprehensively, “Rob, are you still in employment? Are you still at the bank in—where was it? In Exeter Street?”

Robert laughed shortly. “Oh, Lord, no—Old Moneybags dispensed with my services two months ago. And be damned to him—I wasn’t sorry! It was abysmally boring work, and I could never have taken to it. Besides, he’s a tightfisted old swine, and he reported everything I did—or didn’t do—to Papa.”

Jamie started to speak and then thought better of it, reddening awkwardly. As she had often done when he was a child, Emily made to put her arm round him, but he evaded her embrace and stammered, eyeing his brother uncertainly, “We should not keep Papa waiting, R-Rob.”

“No, indeed,” Robert agreed, with mock humility. “The Lord High Admiral must never be kept waiting. They teach you that at the college, do they not? Respect for your betters—hats off and three cheers for the commandant or take a dozen of the best from your cadet captain! And I bet you cheer your head off, you yellow-livered little prig!”

Jamie’s color deepened and spread. He said in a hoarse whisper to Emily, “He’s drunk, Emmy. He—”

Robert glared at him. “Just you get under way, little brother. Spin the Old Man a yam about how you’re aiming for the term prize or the dirk of honor or whatever they give the cadet who never answers back. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve had another glass of brandy.”

His hand, as he splashed liquor into his glass, was shaking visibly, and Emily’s anxiety grew as she watched him. Their father disapproved strongly of heavy drinking, but, as if determined to flout his authority, Robert indulged in the habit as openly as he could whenever he came to the house. On more than one occasion he had arrived in a state of insobriety, as, it seemed, he had this morning . . . She took the barely tasted brandy from him, set down the glass, and linked her arm with his, wishing that there were time to serve the coffee her father had forbidden.

“Come,” she urged persuasively. “Truly we should not keep Papa waiting—Jamie is right; it will only anger him. Try to control yourself, Rob.”

“I’m not drunk,” Robert asserted. “I just need a little Dutch courage, that’s all.”

He gave her a thin smile and permitted her to lead him across the long, stone-flagged hall. It was a thousand pities, Emily thought sadly, that he still persisted in defying their father. He had done so for almost as long as she could remember, even as a boy, and throughout their mother’s lifetime. Robert had been Mama’s favorite, and looking back now, she found herself wondering whether this fact had soured his relationship with his father. Certainly Mama had indulged him, in every way she could devise. She had insisted on employing a tutor for him, instead of allowing him to go to school, and that had led—after a bitter family quarrel—to his being sent to sea at the tender age of eleven.

“It will make a man of him,” their father had said. “Instead of a spoilt milksop . . .” And, for all poor Mama’s tearful pleas, he had refused to alter his decision. Robert had spent his first three years as a so-called volunteer on board the seventy-four-gun Monarch in the Mediterranean, under their father’s command. Robert had never talked to her of those years, Emily remembered, but they had changed him. He had grown to manhood in the King’s service, seeing action against the French and the Americans in other ships and under other commanders, culminating in the great fleet action at Algiers, when he had been commended for his gallantry by the commander in chief, Lord Exmouth.

His father had been proud of him then, but . . . She drew in her breath sharply. All that had changed with his court-martial and the fact that Their Lordships of the Admiralty had declined to confirm his commission twice in the ensuing years. He had been twenty before he had gained lieutenant’s rank, and then . . . Robert’s fingers tightened about her arm.

“How is your romance with Dr. Simon Yates progressing, Emmy?” he asked, taking her by surprise and grinning at her discomfiture when the embarrassed color leaped to her cheeks. “Or perhaps,” he added unkindly, “there is no need to ask? Has Papa found a way to put an end to that, too?”

They were at the study door. Jamie knocked on it and stood back, to allow Emily to precede him, and there was no time to make even a brief reply to Robert’s cynical question. In any event, he knew the answer, she thought bitterly . . . the handsome young doctor, who was assistant to the family’s physician in the village of Murton, had been forbidden the house a long while ago. Their meetings were now infrequent and clandestine, save on those occasions that took place in the public gaze, or when she attended the local church for matins or evensong, accompanied by her father or sisters.

An ill-bred young fortune hunter—that was what the admiral had called Simon Yates, and . . . Lips close to her ear, Robert whispered maliciously, “Papa will permit you no suitors, you know, whilst he needs you to keep house for him.”

Emily put a hand to her mouth to stifle the indignant denial she had been about to utter, wishing that Robert would not so often and so deliberately seek to wound Jamie and her and set them against their father. And his claim was not true: Papa was not like that, she told herself. While he might show her little affection, he was always generous. He gave her everything she needed for herself and for the household expenses, willingly and without question, and they lived well. Murton Chase was a large and beautiful manor house, standing in its own extensive grounds just outside Plymouth, more than adequately staffed, and . . .

“Emily . . . James—” The admiral indicated two chairs on the far side of the room. “Be seated, both of you, and you’ll oblige me by listening in silence to what I have to say to your brother. Robert—” An imperious wave of the hand directed Robert to stand in front of him, as if, Emily thought pitifully, he were a criminal, already judged and condemned.

And indeed, in their father’s eyes, it seemed, he was. She listened in numb dismay to the catalog of Robert’s misdeeds, from his court-martial for incompetence and insubordination, which had led to the loss of his ship, to his dismissal from the merchant bank in London for, it appeared, much the same reasons.

In cold and censorious words, he was reminded that he had publicly insulted his former captain and, contrary to the law of the land and service custom, had challenged his superior officer to a duel.

“You have brought disgrace on our family name,” the admiral accused him. “Four generations of Willoughbys have been your predecessors in the King’s service. You have had the example of a long line of brave men, not one of whom ever left that service, save on his death or his honorable retirement. I named you Robert Horatio, believing that you would, in your turn, do honor to one of England’s greatest admirals . . . but you have caused me bitterly to regret having done so.”

Robert attempted to protest, but he was brusquely silenced. “There is no excuse for you, sirrah! None to which I can listen any longer. Until now, God knows, I have tried to give you the benefit of any doubt that existed, but I have stood enough.”

“Captain Neville’s charges against me were malicious and without foundation, Father. I swear they were brought for the sole purpose of covering up his incompetence, not mine. That was why I challenged him, sir—and why he refused to face me!” Robert’s voice shook with the intensity of his feelings, but once again he was harshly bidden to hold his tongue.

“You have run up debts, and I have settled them,” his father asserted wrathfully. “I have used my influence to procure you employment, but you have spumed all my attempts to help you. And now—now I have been informed by a Mr. George Barton—who is, it would appear, an attorney you engaged—that charges of the most sordid and unpleasant nature have been brought against you. Criminal charges, Robert! Damme, boy, do you deny it? Do you deny that you are at present released on bail, pending prosecution at the next county assizes?”

Emily’s heart plummeted as she saw the color drain from Robert’s flushed face. His expression told her that this time he had no answer to the accusation, which, it was evident, had taken him by surprise. Had he, she wondered unhappily, supposed his father to be unaware of the impending charges against him—had he perhaps hoped to keep him from finding out?

“I put up bail for you,” the admiral said bleakly.

“I did not ask you to,” Robert retorted, tight-lipped.

“No—Mr. Barton did. You had persuaded him to bail you, and he doubted he would ever see his money again. Had I not acceded to his request, you would, he informed me, have been held in custody to await your trial. And, the devil take it, if the charges are proven, you will be liable to a seven-year sentence—most probably of deportation to New South Wales! It is even possible that you could incur a life sentence, if Barton is to be believed . . . and I take it he is.”

Beside her, Emily felt Jamie stiffen. Her young brother was deeply affected and close to tears as, indeed, she was herself. Robert had been his hero, the object of his unstinting admiration since childhood, and this revelation had clearly shocked him almost beyond bearing. But, also like herself, he was too much in awe of his father to find the courage to interrupt, and the admiral continued with barely controlled anger, heaping accusation upon accusation.

“You are charged with having violated the person and besmirched the reputation of a virtuous young woman, the daughter of a tavern keeper in Plymouth . . . here on my very doorstep, you unmitigated rogue! And the father of that poor, unfortunate girl is a man well known, both to you and to myself . . . Daniel Raven, who served under my command as warrant gunner of the Monarch. And”—as Robert again attempted to speak—”do not try to pull the wool over my eyes by claiming that you did not know who Raven is. Or, come to that, damn your soul, seek to tell me that you were not aware of the appalling scandal it will cause if the case comes to trial. My good name would be sullied with yours, since it is my name you bear!”

“Sir, I beg you to listen to me,” Robert pleaded. “I give you my word that I—”

“Your word!” the admiral thundered. “Of what value is your word? I have borne enough, and I have reached a decision. It is for that reason that I have sent for you—and James, since my decision will affect his future as well as yours.”

He controlled his rising temper and, to Emily’s relief, spoke with measured calm. “You will forfeit your bail, Robert, and place yourself beyond the court’s jurisdiction. There is a convict transport, the Mary Anne, due to sail for Port Jackson from this port within forty-eight hours. You are to repair on board at once, do you understand? Your passage has been booked for you, and you will travel in the name of Roberts. I will arrange for the sum of two thousand pounds to be made available to you when you reach your destination—that will suffice to set you up as a farmer in the colony.”

Robert gave vent to a smothered exclamation, but the admiral ignored the interruption. He went on crisply, “I have made inquiries. The Colonial Secretary, Lord Bathurst, is seeking settlers with capital behind them, with a view to developing the colony’s wool trade and agriculture. Land grants are to be made in newly explored territory, opened recently for settlement and suitable for the raising of sheep and cattle. You will apply for a grant to the government surveyor in Sydney on your arrival there, and I will see to it that you are provided with suitable introductions.”

His father paused, and Robert eyed him in stunned dismay. “But, sir, I’m not cut out for a farmer. I’ve no experience of the land, no hankering for it. I—”

“For what else,” the admiral countered contemptuously, “have you any aptitude? Do you prefer to go out to New South Wales in chains, as a convicted felon?” Without waiting for Robert’s reply, he exclaimed forcefully, “By heaven, boy, I’d let you go thus were it not for the scandal your trial would cause and the damage it would do to my good name! Because of that, I am willing to offer you a last chance to make something of yourself. But it will be your last chance.”

The sight of her elder brother’s stricken face was too much for Emily. She rose to her feet, intending to range herself beside him, but a thunderous command from her father brought her trembling to a halt.

“Resume your seat, miss,” he ordered. “I have not done.” Turning again to Robert, he pointed to a rolled document on the desk before him, tied, like a legal brief, with pink tape. “This is my will. In it, I have disinherited you and made your brother James my heir. Apart from bequests to my daughters, James will, on my death, inherit everything I possess save, alas, for my baronetcy, which the law ordains must go to you . . . although I hope that you will not claim it. You will have the two thousand pounds I intend to make over to you—but only on the condition that you leave this country at once. And if you should see fit to refuse this offer, I shall cut you off without a penny, and, for all the shame it will bring, I’ll let the law take its course.” He paused, eyeing Robert with thinly veiled scorn. “Well? Do you accept my terms?”

Robert drew himself up. He was deathly pale, Emily saw, feeling sick with pity, but he managed to answer with a show of spirit.

“You leave me with no alternative, sir. I can only accept . . . but with reluctance. The last thing I want to do is to leave England.”

Jamie found his tongue at last. With an eloquence of which Emily had not supposed him capable, he besought his father to change his mind.

“I have no desire to be made your heir, Papa,” he insisted. “I beg you not to do anything of the kind. Please, sir, will you not permit Robert to stay here and accord him another chance?”

“If he stays, he will have to face trial, James,” the admiral reminded him. “And I have accorded him chance after chance. When he was in the service, I gave him my patronage. I did all in my power to obtain seagoing appointments for him and to advance him in rank . . . and how has he repaid me? By bringing his service career to a disgraceful end! I am ashamed to call him my son. But you, boy—” His tone softened. “You, I know, are of a different caliber. Your reports from the Naval College are admirable, and you will in the fullness of time, I feel sure, make me proud of you—which your brother has failed to do. So do not waste your breath in pleading for him. My mind is made up. Robert will sail at once for New South Wales as I have arranged. You heard him—he has accepted my terms, and there is no more to be said.”

But Jamie would not give in. “Then, Papa,” he requested earnestly, “will you permit me to quit the Naval College and go with him? I’m keen on farming, and I’m not all that keen on the service, sir, honestly—”

Wrathfully, his father cut him short. “I’ll not hear of it, boy! You are, perhaps, too young to understand the sordid nature of this latest affair in which your brother has contrived to involve himself . . . and, damme, I don’t intend to explain it to you! But understand this—if Robert does not leave this country immediately, he will face charges in a civil court against which he has no defense.” Leaning forward, he gestured with a bony hand to the door. “You may leave, James, and Emily with you. See to it, Emily, that James catches the afternoon stage. Hawkins can drive him into Plymouth in the trap, and he will return to the college tomorrow.”

James hesitated, his dun young face contorted in a brave attempt to hide his distress. “Rob,” he whispered wretchedly, “I want no part of your inheritance. Believe me, I truly did not know what Papa intended.”

“Be thankful, little brother,” Robert called after him derisively, “that you are so favored! It’s no more than you deserve.”

Emily, biting back her tears, closed the study door behind them. This time Jamie did not try to evade her when she put her arm about his shoulders. When they reached the hall, he said miserably, “The Exeter stage leaves in an hour, Emmy, and it’s always punctual. If I’m to catch it, I’ll have to go now. Anyway, perhaps it will be best if I do. Rob won’t want me here now, will he? Not after . . . after all this. And I cannot face Papa again.”

Emily’s arm tightened about him in wordless understanding. “I’ll tell Hawkins to bring the trap round,” she answered. “But you haven’t eaten, Jamie. Shall I pack you up some bread and cheese? Or some fruit, at least?”

He shook his head. “I feel too sickened to eat,” he confessed. “But perhaps a couple of apples to sustain me on the journey.”

Emily watched him drive away ten minutes later, a feeling of desolation sweeping over her, and this became still more acute when Robert finally emerged from their father’s study, grim-faced and seething with resentment.

“The Lord High Admiral’s orders are that I’m never to darken his doors again, for as long as he lives, Emmy,” he announced wryly. “And I’m not to see the little girls, even to bid them farewell. I’m permitted to take leave of you, but that’s all. As soon as Hawkins gets back with the trap, he’s to take me, collect my gear from my lodgings, and then he’s to wait and confirm that I’ve boarded the infernal Mary Anne. I pointed out that he’d need a glass to do that, if she’s finished loading and is lying out in the sound, and—” He smiled mirthlessly and gestured to a breast pocket of his shabby cutaway coat. “Papa gave me his own Dollond, which I’m to hand over to Hawkins, for the aforesaid purpose . . . but no other.”

“Oh, Rob!” Emily managed, her throat tight. “Dear Rob, I’m so sorry. But you—”

“But I’ve asked for it, I suppose?” he finished for her.

“I did not mean that.”

His expression relaxed. “No, I know you did not. You’re a darling, Emmy—the best of sisters, and I shall miss you more than I can say. But dear God in heaven, what a prospect lies before me! New South Wales, a savage land, turned into a penal colony and peopled by the scourings of our jails! And I’m to become a scurvy farmer at the back of beyond.”

“It might have been worse for you,” Emily began thoughtlessly. “If you had been forced to go out there as a—” She broke off, reddening, and as he had before, Robert completed what she had intended to leave unsaid.

“As a convicted felon, in irons—true, that would be infinitely worse. I must learn to thank God for small mercies, must I not? And for my father’s grudging generosity.” He took a folded square of stiff paper from his pocket and offered it for Emily’s inspection. “This is a draft on his agent in Cape Town, with which I’m to purchase livestock there. It seems that is the thing to do—cattle and sheep are cheaper there than in the colony. One makes a profit, provided the infernal creatures survive the passage to Port Jackson.”

Robert moved away, making for the morning room. The decanter and glasses were still there, and he helped himself to what was left of the brandy, gulping it down thirstily. Emily watched him but offered no reproof, and he said, an edge to his voice, “I’d have jumped my bail in any case, Emmy—I would not have let them bring me to trial, you know . . . for his sake, as well as my own. I had planned to go to Ireland as soon as I could raise the necessary funds.”

Conscious of an unreasoning hope, Emily asked eagerly, “Then why not go to Ireland now? Oh, Rob, surely you still could, could you not?”

Glumly he shook his head. “I have exactly twenty pounds, which our parent has given me for my shipboard expenses, and about five of my own. I’d not last long on that, even in Ireland. And I stand to gain two thousand, you know, if I do as he wants.”

“Yes, but—”

“Emmy dear, as I told him just now, he’s left me with no alternative. I’ll go to his blasted New South Wales, but—” His smile returned. “I don’t have to stay there for the rest of my days. Like the proverbial bad penny, little sister, I shall turn up here again.”

“Oh, Rob, I’ll pray that you will!” Emily looked up at him, seeing his face through a mist of unshed tears. She wanted to ask him about the charges that had been laid against him, but hesitated, fearing to hurt him anew. As their father had described them, the charges appeared to concern a young woman, the daughter of one of the town’s tavern keepers, with whom, it seemed, Robert had become amorously involved. Papa had spoken of her as a virtuous young woman, Emily recalled, and had accused Robert of having violated her person, which meant that he . . .

As if she had spoken her thoughts aloud, Robert said flatly, “I was to be charged with rape, Emmy.”

The ugly word, with all its implications, hung between them like a dark shadow, blotting out the warm spring sunshine streaming in from the garden outside, and Emily caught her breath on a sob.

“Oh, Rob . . . oh, surely you—”

“It was a ploy,” Robert told her, with bitterness. “Daniel Raven, the girl’s father, is a scheming rogue. He served as warrant gunner under Papa’s command in the Monarch and before that in the West Indies, under Sir Samuel Hood and Sir Francis Laforey . . . and he made a small fortune in prize money. Enough to buy the Crown and Anchor tavern on North Quay and set himself up in a tidy way of business. I used to drink there when I was in town. It’s not a place that is usually frequented by officers, and . . . I knew Dan Raven well. The junior mids and the young volunteers were in his charge on board the Monarch. We messed with the warrant officers, you see, and he was the senior. I had a high regard for him in those days. He was good to me, and I trusted him.”

In those days, Emily thought pityingly, Robert had been a lonely little eleven-year-old, dragged unwillingly from the bosom of his family and forced to endure the harsh discipline of the navy. It would be natural for him to trust anyone who was—as he had put it—good to him.

“Go on, Rob,” she invited gently.

Robert shrugged. “Oh, very well, if you truly want to hear the wretched story. But—” He broke off and held out the empty decanter. “Can you get me some more of this brandy, little sister? I really need it, and . . . talking’s thirsty work, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily apologized, with genuine regret. “But Hawkins keeps all Papa’s liquor under lock and key. And he’s not here. I could bring you some ale from the kitchen, if that would do, and something to eat, perhaps? You could have it here.”

“What about Papa? I don’t want him to see me.” Robert’s tone was again fraught with bitterness. “It might be regarded as an abuse of his hospitality.”

“Papa never comes in here,” Emily told him. “Do you not remember—this was always Mama’s room.”

She sped off to the kitchen and returned with a laden tray. “There was some cider, and I thought you would prefer that. They are busy with the preparations for Papa’s luncheon, but Cook gave me cold meat, with cheese and pickles and a fresh loaf . . . will that do, Rob? Oh, and there’s an apple pie.”

“That will do admirably,” her brother assured her. Seating himself, he fell hungrily upon the simple fare, his lips twisting into an odd little smile as he ate. “Old Moneybags never fed his miserable clerks like this,” he observed. “Do you wonder that I was thankful to quit his employ?”

“No,” Emily conceded. She waited in silence until he pushed his plate aside with a satisfied sigh and reached for the jug of cider. Then, curiosity getting the better of her, she asked shyly, “Rob, what is she like, the—the young woman who has made that terrible charge against you?”

“Rebecca Raven—Becky?” Robert sighed audibly. “Oh, she’s comely enough, but a child, barely sixteen. Unlettered, brought up in a low tavern, with a slatternly mother and a horde of brothers and sisters . . . she’s what you’d expect after such an upbringing, I suppose. I’ve sunk pretty low since Their Lordships threw me out of the service, but . . . I could not have married her, Emmy.”

“You could not have married her?” Emily echoed, startled. “But I thought—” She stared at him in bewilderment, wondering whether she had misunderstood him.

“Dan Raven bears a monumental grudge against Papa,” Robert said gravely. “I never fathomed out precisely why, but I know that his warrant was withdrawn when the Monarch paid off, and he never went to sea again. I played into his hands when I started going to his tavern, only I was too big a fool to spot what the fellow was after. He threw that girl of his at me. I’d go to his taproom, and he would see to it that I was plied with liquor, and then he’d send her to me. Devil take it, I’m only human, and Becky was willing enough, or she seemed to be! I swear I did not rape her, Emmy. But Raven accused me of it, and so did she, and I’d no defense—it was his word and hers against mine, with a bunch of riffraff ready to back him up. He offered to withdraw the charge if I undertook to wed her . . . but I could not. I simply could not saddle myself with such a wife. And,” he added wryly, “I feared that Papa would cut me off if I were to do so.”

“Did you imagine that Papa would not find out that you had been charged?” Emily asked.

“I hoped I could prevent it,” Robert admitted. “If that greedy crook Barton had not demanded the bail money, I might have succeeded. But he guessed that I was planning to skip bail before the case came to court and went to Papa with his damned hard-luck story . . . and without telling me what he’d done. Truly, Emmy, you could have knocked me down with a feather when Papa taxed me with it.”

He sounded aggrieved, and Emily began, for the first time, to doubt her elder brother’s veracity. How could he possibly have hoped to keep their father in ignorance of his impending trial when—as Papa himself had reminded him—it was due to take place on his very doorstep? Plymouth was only three miles away; the circuit judges numbered among his friends and acquaintances, and, since his last appointment had been that of port admiral, the name of Sir Francis Willoughby was widely known throughout the length and breadth of the town.

Even if Lawyer Barton had not informed him of his son’s arrest, would not someone else, surely, have done so, sooner or later? Emily’s teeth closed over her lower lip, in a vain attempt to still its trembling. Her brother Robert, she thought regretfully, was about to go out of her life, to embark on a twelve-thousand-mile voyage to the other side of the world; she could not, she would not let him go with even a suspicion that she doubted him.

“Rob,” she began, in a strained whisper. “Rob, I am truly sorry. If there is anything you need—”

“Money,” Robert said, avoiding her gaze. “I’ll have to square up for my lodgings, unfortunately. If you could spare me a few pounds, Emmy, I’d be grateful.”

She had only a few pounds of her own, Emily knew—five or six, perhaps, left over from her dress allowance, which had to last her until the end of the quarter, but . . . She went to the bureau that had been her mother’s. There was the month’s housekeeping money, virtually untouched. If she economized, if she let some of the tradesmen wait until next month to be paid, she could give her brother half of that, and their father need never know what she had done. She seated herself in front of the desk and recklessly counted out five gold coins of her own and another ten from the leather bag containing the housekeeping money.

“It’s not much, Rob, but—” The sound of horse’s hooves on the gravel outside told her that Hawkins had returned with the trap, and she rose to her feet, mindful of her father’s instructions. “I—I’d better tell Hawkins that he’s to drive you into town. I’ll tell him to wait until . . . until you are ready.”

But Robert, too, was on his feet with unexpected alacrity. “No point in prolonging the agony, Emmy dear. I might as well be on my way and have done.” He pocketed the coins and, smiling, reached for her hand. “Thanks! Er—you’ll bid Charlotte and little Biddy farewell for me, won’t you?”

Looking up at him with swimming eyes, Emily nodded her assent. Robert bent and planted a kiss on her cheek. “You might do a lot worse than marry your Dr. Yates, you know—whatever Papa says! Yates is always talking about becoming a missionary and taking modern medicine and Christianity to the Maoris of New Zealand, is he not? At least then we’d be neighbors, if not exactly next door to each other, so think about it, will you? Good-bye and God bless you, Emmy, and may He have you ever in His keeping!”

“And you, Rob dearest.” Now that the moment of parting had come, Emily’s doubts faded and she was conscious only of her impending loss, willing to forgive him for his teasing reference to Simon Yates, which, she told herself, had not been intentionally unkind. Although in the circumstances . . . She stifled a sob. “I pray that you will have a safe passage and that you—that you will be able to make a new life in Sydney, and new friends.”

“Undoubtedly I shall,” Robert retorted, with bitter sarcasm. “Plague take it, it’s a penal colony, is it not? I shall feel quite at home there.”

He led the way into the hall, picked up his hat and cloak, and reaching the front door, flung it open with a flourish, calling out to Hawkins to pull up and wait for him.

The man did so, showing no surprise. Robert held Emily to him briefly, then he strode across the gravel driveway and climbed into the small, two-wheeled carriage, to seat himself at the coachman’s side.

“You—Rob, you will write?” Emily pleaded.

Robert shrugged and pointed toward the house. Guessing that their father had come to stand at the study window, in order to witness his elder son’s departure, Emily turned to glance behind her.

The admiral’s face was grimly set, she saw. He gave no sign of his feelings and did not offer even a token gesture of farewell.

Robert, smiling mirthlessly, put two fingers to his hat but did not bare his head.

To Emily he said, lowering his voice, “I’ll address no letters to this house—they would be unwelcome. But I’ll write in the care of Dr. Simon Yates at Murton, when I’ve anything worth writing about . . . that will give him an excuse to seek you out. Take care of yourself, Emmy, and don’t let the Lord High Admiral ruin your life, as well as mine.” He clapped a hand on Hawkins’s broad, livery-clad shoulder and ordered, with conscious mockery, “Put your helm up, cox’un, and set course for my lodgings in Breton Street. You know where we’re headed, I imagine?”

“Aye, sir, I do,” Hawkins answered woodenly. “To the Mary Anne transport, out in the sound. And I’m to see that you board her, sir.” He whipped up his horse, and the trap went bowling down the long drive. To Emily’s chagrin, Robert did not look back.

“The bird’s flown the coop, Martha,” Daniel Raven announced, with a satisfaction he did not try to disguise. Motioning his wife aside, he drew himself a tankard of ale and drank deeply before continuing. “You kept on saying ’twas a waste o’ money having his lodgings watched—but it’s paid off, woman! Come back with that toady Mick Hawkins in a trap, he did, less’n an hour since, packed up all his gear and lit out. Charlie followed him. Says he took a wherry out to that convict transport, the Mary Anne, with a load o’ bags and boxes. Didn’t I tell you as Admiral sodding Willoughby was planning something o’ the kind, when he went on board whilst she was loading at Guy’s Wharf last week? I knew I was right!”

His wife regarded him with lackluster dark eyes. “Do you mean,” she questioned, pushing back a lock of graying hair that had fallen over her face as she worked at swabbing the bar counter, “do you mean young Mr. Willoughby’s skipping his bail?”

“He was always going to,” Raven told her with conviction. “The admiral would never have let him stand trial. But Botany Bay—that’s where the Mary Anne’s bound—I’d not expected him to send the young swine there, I grant you. Not until I seen him hanging round Guy’s Wharf, that’s to say. It came to me then. Best place for him, of course, only he ought to be going out there chained up on the orlop, ’stead o’ having his passage paid for him.”

Martha Raven regarded him uncertainly. Wise in her husband’s ways after seventeen years of marriage, she had not supposed that he would give in easily. The treatment that Admiral Sir Francis Willoughby had meted out to him, when their ship, the Monarch, paid off, still rankled as deeply as it had then, and Daniel was not a man to forget—much less forgive—such an injury to his reputation and his pride.

She had not held with the methods he had resorted to in order to avenge the injury. Becky was her daughter, as well as his, and granted the girl’s virtue had been in danger of corruption long before Robert Willoughby had made his drunken assault on it, the effect on them all had been little short of disastrous. Becky had become sullen and rebellious; she had believed her father when he had promised that young Willoughby would wed her and, imagining herself in love with him, had refused initially to support the charge of rape. Dan had been obliged to beat her into submission, and . . . Martha expelled her breath in an unhappy sigh. She and Dan had quarreled bitterly on that account, and then the discovery that the girl was pregnant had widened the rift between them.

Becky, poor little wench, had threatened to put an end to it by taking her own life. She had even made an abortive attempt to do so and had now to be watched, lest she try again. . .

“Dan, is it over, this mad scheming of yours? Are you going to let young Willoughby go to Botany Bay?” Martha’s tone was pleading. “You can’t put the law on him now, can you? Surely it’s too late for that.”

Her husband took another long swig from his tankard. He wiped the froth from his bearded lips with the back of his hand and flashed her an oddly furtive smile. “It’s not too late for that, no—the Mary Anne’s still in British waters. But I’ve a better notion.” He leaned forward to grasp her arm, forcing her to look up at him. “Martha, I’m going to take Becky out to the ship. Old Parson Crickley’s agreed to come with us and—”

“Parson Crickley!” Martha exclaimed, her voice shrill with alarm. “That crazy old man? Oh, Dan, you can’t—he’s never sober!”

“He’s still a parson, ain’t he? He can still perform the marriage service.” Dan Raven’s strong, blunt fingers bit into the flesh of his wife’s arm. “Robert Willoughby shall marry my daughter and take her with him to sodding Botany Bay as his wife. He shamed her, didn’t he? He got her with child, so he’s a right to wed her. If he refuses, then, by God, I will put the law on him! But I’ve a hunch that this time he won’t refuse. He’d have the admiral to reckon with, if I had him brought back.”

“And Becky?” Martha asked bitterly. “What has she to say about it? Or didn’t you tell her what you’re aiming to do?”

Raven’s smile widened. “She’s over the moon, the silly wench. I told her young Willoughby had sent for her. She’s packing up her glad rags, ready to go, and she wouldn’t care where the plaguey ship was taking her, just so long as she’s going with him.” He shrugged. “Best take your leave of her now, wife. Old Crickley won’t be long. I sent Charlie to dig him out.”

Martha felt her heart sink. Becky had always exasperated her, and never more than during the past couple of months, when her noisy grief had driven them all almost to distraction, but . . . the lass was her daughter, her own flesh and blood. And the good Lord knew that Dan had used her very ill, with his scheming and plotting, his single-minded quest for vengeance.

“All right.” The bar till was beside her, and Martha opened it and, under her husband’s disapproving eye, extracted all the coins it contained. There were not many; they amounted, in all, to about five pounds, but at least Becky should not be penniless.

The coins jingling in the pocket of her apron, Martha sought out her daughter and found her, as Dan had claimed, brimming over with happiness. She had rolled her few possessions into a bulky bundle and had changed into her Sunday best, a pretty sprigged muslin, which—already a trifle tight for her—revealed all too plainly the telltale signs of her pregnancy in the swelling curves of her breasts and abdomen. But her small, pinched face was aglow, lending her a beauty so unexpected that it tore at her mother’s heartstrings.

“Did Pa tell you?” she asked excitedly. “Did he tell you that Rob Willoughby’s taking ship to someplace they call Botany Bay and wants me to go with him? Oh, Ma, ain’t it wonderful? It was all lies about him not being willing to wed me! Old Parson Crickley’s coming with us so’s we can be wed before the ship sails . . . did Pa tell you that?”

Aware that Dan had not told her the truth concerning Robert Willoughby’s sudden departure, Martha gazed at her daughter with conscience-stricken pity. Unable to bring herself to shatter the girl’s illusions, she thrust the money she had taken from the till into her hands and hugged her. Dan’s scheming, daft though it sounded, might achieve the result he wanted, she told herself—Rob Willoughby might fall in with his wishes. He would not want to be shamed in front of the Mary Anne’s passengers and crew, and the old priest’s presence, coupled with the threat of putting the law on him, might break down his resistance, stubborn though it had been. And besides, he was going out to a convict colony, where a wife like Becky would not be the social stigma it would be here in England. Even the military officers married convict girls out there, and the soldiers and civil officials certainly did, so that . . . Martha stifled the prompting of her conscience and managed to smile through her tears.

“You must take good care of yourself, Becky love,” she urged. “Wrap up warm when you go on deck—you’ve packed a shawl, haven’t you? And you’ll need clothes for the baby—I’ll see what I can find. You—” An impatient summons from her husband cut short the flow of good advice she had intended to offer.

Becky kissed her hurriedly and broke away from her clinging arms. “I’ll have to go, Ma,” she exclaimed. “Pa says the ship’s due to sail very soon. But Rob won’t let them sail until I’m on board. Good-bye, Ma, and thanks for the cash. It’ll come in handy—per’aps I’ll be able to buy clothes for the baby with it.”

Martha had time only to take off her own shawl and wrap it round her daughter’s thinly clad shoulders, and then she was gone, clutching her bundle and rushing down the narrow wooden staircase as if the devil himself were after her.

In the taproom below, Dan Raven waited, a big hand grasping Parson Crickley by the elbow. The damned old reprobate had been half seas over when he had made his appearance, grumbling mightily at the intrusion Charlie had made into his afternoon’s drinking. But the promise of a sovereign and a bottle of the best French brandy for his services had ended the grumbling, and a mug of black coffee and a session under the pump in the backyard had sufficed to restore him to a semblance of sobriety.

When Becky joined them, Dan relieved her of her bundle and sent Charlie scurrying ahead of them to engage a wherry to take them out to the Mary Anne. She was lying half a mile offshore the last time he had seen her, and a hasty inspection with a glass had shown him a bunch of female convicts being exercised, under guard, on deck . . . a sign, he had reassured himself, that she was not yet ready to get under way. The breeze was nor’easterly, though, and blowing strongly—her master might decide to take advantage of it, instead of waiting till next morning.

Impatiently he urged his charges onward. Becky was not unwilling; chattering like a magpie, she skipped along at his side, asking eager questions about Botany Bay that he had neither the will nor the knowledge to answer. His service had been in the West Indies, the North Sea and the Baltic, and finally in the Med; praise be to God, they had never sent him to the Indian Ocean or the Pacific, and he had only once been to Rio and the Cape. Dan frowned.

“Save your breath, lass,” he bade his daughter repressively. He shifted her heavy bundle from one shoulder to the other, and paying no heed to the old parson’s querulous protests and faltering steps, guided him at a brisk pace down the cobbled street.

The wherry was waiting when they reached the quay, the ragged, sharp-featured street arab Charlie seated on a bollard a few yards away. Dan delved into his pockets and found a couple of shillings with which to reward him, and the boy, grinning, assisted Becky and Parson Crickley to ensconce themselves in the passengers’ seats.

“I’ll pull an oar,” Dan offered. “We’re in a hurry.”

The boatman eyed him sourly and, sensing a ruse to trick him out of his full fare, shook his head, motioning Dan to a seat in the stem.

“I’ll get you where you be goin’, Mr. Raven,” he asserted, in a thick Devon burr. “The Mary Anne transport, ain’t it, out in the sound?”

He plied his oars with commendable vigor, and the unwieldy boat, expertly handled, skimmed over the surface of the dark harbor water at heartening speed. Once they were out in the sound, however, the wind took a hand, whipping up choppy waves and sapping the oarsman’s energy as he strove to keep on course. Finally, sweating freely, he moved along his thwart and said gruffly, over his shoulder, “Take an oar now, Mr. Raven, if you’m minded to. This ’ere old wind’s makin’ powerful ’eavy goin’ of it an’ no mistake.”

It was Becky who sounded the first note of alarm. Crouched in the bow, she suddenly gave vent to an agonized cry. “Pa! Oh, Pa, look—the Mary Anne’s setting sail! Pa, she’s going—she’s going without me!”

Dan swiveled round, cursing angrily. The ship, he saw, was indeed getting under way. Her lee anchor had been hove up and catted, the weather cable brought to a short stay, and he could hear, across the intervening distance, the clank of her capstan and the sound of men’s voices, mingled with the steady tramp of bare feet on her deck planking. Her headsails were loosed, the topmen aloft, laying out along the yards, letting fall topsails and courses as the weather anchor came up. Slowly, majestically, the big, bluff-bowed vessel gathered headway and her sails filled.

Aware of the futility of trying to make himself heard, Dan cupped both hands about his mouth and yelled. There was no response. He had known there could not be, but . . .

“Gawd!” the wherryman exclaimed, in shocked tones. “Watch out, miss! You’ll be in the water else!”

Becky, Dan realized, was standing up, teetering unsteadily on the bow thwart, the wind tearing at her flimsy dress and whipping her hair into wild disorder.

“Pa, Rob Willoughby never sent for me, did he?” she flung at him bitterly. “He never did mean to wed me, not ever. You—Pa, you lied to me. It wasn’t true—none of it was true!”

All the happiness had vanished from her face; his daughter’s gaze, as it met his, was accusing, the big, dark eyes brimming with tears. Dan lurched toward her on his knees and, suddenly, sickeningly certain of what she intended to do, reached out in an attempt to grasp her ankles. But Becky eluded him, still poised precariously on the thwart, yards beyond his reach.

“Don’t try to save me, Pa,” she warned, her voice a shrill whimper of sound, just audible above the wind’s increasing bluster. “I want to die, I . . . ain’t got nothing to live for anymore.”

She let herself fall into the cold gray water, and the boat rocked dangerously as Dan desperately grabbed at her flying skirt, to measure his length on the bottom boards, a scrap of tom muslin grasped in one hand.

“You’ll have us over!” the wherryman bawled. “For Gawd’s sake, mister, take an oar an’ help me bring ’er about!”

Dan obeyed him, his stomach churning. Like most British seamen, he had never learned to swim, and stunned though he was, he knew that their best—perhaps their only—chance of saving Becky was to remain in the boat. Two other boats, one an excise launch manned by a crew of six, joined in the search, but it was Parson Crickley who was the first to see her.

“There she is!” he croaked, and displaying a reckless courage of which Dan had never supposed him capable, the frail old man splashed in an awkward belly-dive into the water. He reached the sodden white object that was Becky and trod water, gasping for breath and contriving, somehow, to keep her afloat. The wherryman maneuvered his boat alongside them, and Dan, exerting all his strength, hauled both of them inboard.

His daughter lay inert on the bottom boards, her eyes open and sightless, gazing up at him in mute reproach. Frantically he sought to revive her, knowing in his heart that it was too late.

Old Parson Crickley, soaked to the skin, his lined face blue with cold and his teeth chattering, grasped his arm. “The poor young lass is dead, Mr. Raven,” he said gently. “May God have mercy on her soul!”

Dan Raven sat back on his heels. Through misted eyes he watched the MaryAnne, under a press of sail, head for the open sea, a glistening, churned-up wilderness of water in her wake. She was gone, he thought dully, and the thrice-damned Admiral Willoughby’s son with her.

The chances were that, in the bustle of getting their ship under way, none of her people had seen his daughter’s drowning, or if they had, they had attached little importance to it. Accidents happened in the sound. The men laying out along the Mary Anne’s upper yards would have deemed it no business of theirs, whatever they had seen, but . . . bile rose in Dan’s throat, almost choking him.

He shook his fist at the distant ship, calling down curses on her and everyone aboard her.

“You would do better to pray, Mr. Raven,” Parson Crickley admonished him sadly. “Rebecca is in the arms of her Heavenly Father now, and there is nothing you can do to bring her back.”

It was true, Dan Raven was forced to concede, looking down at Becky’s still, white face. His daughter was dead, but her seducer—her murderer—should be made to pay for it. If there was a God to whom he could pray, and if that God was a just God, Rob Willoughby should not be permitted to escape unscathed.

For a moment or two, he considered the possibility of making the long voyage to Port Jackson in pursuit of him, and then dismissed the thought. He had a wife and family to think of, and the Crown and Anchor was a gold mine . . . besides, had not Rob Willoughby’s infernal despot of a father, Admiral Sir Francis sodding Willoughby, gone out of his way to ensure that he would never be permitted to set foot on board a King’s ship again? Anything else was unthinkable for a man like himself, who had served in the Royal Navy for the greater part of his life and who had risen to warrant rank. As for taking passage in a scurvy convict transport like the Mary Anne . . . Dan’s mouth hardened.

But Becky should not go unavenged. The mills of God grind slowly, he reminded himself, but they grind exceeding small. He closed his eyes and, under the benevolent gaze of old Parson Crickley, prayed silently and blasphemously, ending his prayer by declaiming aloud, “God rest my poor Becky’s soul, but may his soul rot in hell!”

In his cabin on board the Mary Anne, Robert lay, fully clothed, on his bunk. He had not gone on deck when the ship was preparing to weigh anchor, having no desire to look his last on Plymouth.