chapter 65

Frying Pan

Early on a warm September morning, Nathanial Bidwell browsed the canvases of the art show assembled on the square across from the wharf, just beyond the customs booth. The square was almost empty at this early hour, the population of the nation’s capital still preparing to meet the day.

Forced to wait for weeks in the Caribbean for a ship, it took much longer to get to Washington than he had calculated. The coastal trader he finally boarded in Jamaica had taken its time, making many ports of call on the way. Nate had disembarked just that morning and was in no hurry to get to the secretary of state’s office. John Quincy Adams probably wouldn’t be in yet anyway.

Although returning to America had always been a risk, things looked to be weighing in his favor. Nate was confident that the information he would provide to the secretary would earn him a pardon. In addition, he was sure Adams would find Nate’s newfound friendship with the king of Brazil to be useful.

It was growing warm, even in the shade of the canopies set up to protect the canvases. He had seen enough. Bored by the portraits of people he’d never heard of and the syrupy romantic renderings of landscapes, he was turning away when something caught his eye.

At the very end of a group of floral paintings, he spied what appeared to be a painting illustrating the wide leaves and exposed tuber of an orchid. Coming closer, his quickening pulse beat in his ears—the profuse flower of the orchid was black as coal. The script in the corner read M. Southwell. He must find out more about this painting.

Two pairs of strong hands pinned his arms from behind. “You’re under arrest on the orders of the secretary of state, for murder and treason, while acting as an agent of a foreign power.”

Despite Nate’s protests, he was hustled into a closed carriage waiting at the curb. Before he knew what was happening, they were speeding through the early-morning streets of the wakening capital. Two of his abductors sat facing him in the carriage, along with those still gripping his arms. His captors wore civilian clothing. They did not speak. The curtains were drawn.

“That’s a fine ‘welcome home,’” Nate said, right before they gagged him.

William took his evening tea in the garden of the spacious detached cottage the duke had assigned to him. Each day he had spent as many hours with his daughter as possible, trying to make up for lost time. Their housekeeper, like a fond aunt, cooked and cleaned for them. William’s daughter really didn’t remember her mother. But William wasn’t worried. Sarah never wanted for company—the families on the estate had adopted her as one of their own, and Mrs. Hudson and the girls were always nearby. She was fully recovered and thriving with all the attention.

However, this evening William was unsettled. There were stories. A recently hired gardener, a former soldier not long out of India, had told of the high number of casualties throughout the empire—men dead or dying from fever. It was rumored that over a third of the military was incapacitated, and almost another third already dead. There was concern that not enough remained to man the empire. The new gardener himself was recovering from a long bout of illness.

William didn’t know how he felt. The next morning, he was overseeing a team of men pruning fruit trees when he heard a cough from behind.

“Mr. Turner, I beg your pardon, I didn’t know you were there.”

“Oh, I was here all right,” the master gardener said, noticing the faraway look in William’s eyes, “but where were you? That’s the question.” The old Scotsman scrutinized the British soldier. “Aye, laddie, ye’ll be off again, soon enough,” he said, shaking his head. He walked away and called over his shoulder, “His Grace wants a word. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Cavendish was standing in the library holding a cup of tea.

“How is your daughter?” the duke asked, looking at William closely. “And how are you settling in?”

“Well. But you haven’t asked me here for that, Your Grace, have you?”

“I admire a man who cuts to the chase, Gunn. And the answer is no, of course not. You will be going back to South America.” Before William could refuse, the duke said, “Your associate in South America—tell me his name again.”

“Bidwell, Your Grace, Nathanial Bidwell.”

“That’s right. Bidwell. Of course.” He carefully placed the cup and saucer on an immaculately polished walnut table. “Pity about Mr. Bidwell,” he said with a sigh, “but the fortunes of war and all that.”

“What are you saying, Your Grace?”

“The man’s life is forfeit—arrested, to be hung as a traitor, I believe.”

William’s mind raced. This time he recognized the game was on, but once again, the duke held all the cards. Stalling, he said, “Not only is he not a traitor, but if the Americans hang him, you’ll never get your red cinchona.”

Cavendish’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “How’s that?”

“Bidwell furnished the bark; he’s the only one who knows where the cinchona comes from. He got the directions from an old medicine man in the upper Magdalena.”

“Captain Gunn, you misunderstand me. I know what the American means to me. The real question,” the duke pronounced smugly, “is what is the value of his life to you?”