Chapter Three

 

The first part of the passage was marked by nausea and a small dark cabin.

Thomas attended the widow Fleet with a tenderness she would never have expected. Had he known her thoughts and purpose, tenderness she did not deserve. More than a week outbound, she took the deck daily for fresh air when the weather and sea permitted. She had little desire to socialize as she preferred to travel, at least on this errand, as little known as possible. She rarely spoke to anyone other than Thomas and given the circumstances, they shared conversation of a more familiar nature than would have ever been proper ashore. She had resolved and hoped that he knew that such discourse must end promptly upon her stepping from the gangway in Halifax.

On a gray summer’s day, just as the noon sight would have been made had the sun been the least bit discernable, a lookout from aloft cried, “Land! Two points off the starboard bow.”

She thought the excitement premature. She looked but could see nothing but that which she had witnessed now for some weeks by the millions; large, undulating, inexorable waves, rolling and cresting in what seemed a purposeless march to a destination governed only by an arbitrary wind.

The lookout’s hail signaled to Abigail only urgency for a conversation she had been considering since detecting, if not attraction, certainly devotion, on the part of Thomas toward his new Lady and Mistress of all Fleet holdings.

She approached as Thomas stood easily to leeward, his legs either instinctively or with decades of training compensating for the motion of the deck. She took hold first of the fife rail post, steadied as she approached from behind, then grasped some manila line leading skyward only to feel it sway as she sought to gain some degree of stability. She recalled Thomas told her to trust only in that which was well-tarred and in a leap of faith, she used the natural motion of the deck to propel her three steps outboard to the nearest black line, catching hold before she continued and collided into the bulwark. Thomas detected her approach from his periphery and rushed to assure her safety.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she laughed. “But I rather think I am getting the hang of it, don’t you?” Thomas just sighed, smiled and placed his large, powerful frame between her and that point along the bulwark to which Abigail would, in a large sea, most likely slide and possibly go by the board. He grasped the maintopmast backstay to steady himself. “Just you hold tight, M’Lady. The sea is in a fine mood this day!”

“As am I, Thomas. I wish to thank you, as it appears this ocean does have a western shore from the call I just heard. You have been invaluable to me, really, ever since Sir Edgar’s passing.”

Thomas was disarmed by the compliment. Such had rarely been offered by the Admiral, even after Thomas saved his life at the Battle of the Nile. But in all the years of service for the Fleet family, whether at sea or for the last many on land, he realized during this passage he had never known the widow Fleet. This passage allowed him to see her as a woman of strength and determination and not just the Mistress of the Manor in command of a rather large staff spread throughout England. And of course, he admitted to himself, a woman of beauty. He blushed, unsure as to whether from her compliment or from his reflection.

Having ingratiated him to her, at least for the moment by her comment, she dove into deeper waters. “Thomas, you know that I am musts go to see James. Sadly, Sir Edgar did not have the time to provide much for me or for my life in England.”

His eyes grew wide as he realized the widow Fleet was sharing with him personal details of her situation. His expression grew into one of concern as he comprehended her message and purpose. Abigail noticed and wondered for whom he donned the look of concern. “I would like to keep you, Thomas, bound as you have been to our family, serving so well over the years. In fact, I was hoping to improve your situation and provide generously for your later years. Tell, me, you do actually age, do you not?”

The flattery, gratitude and promise of security were difficult to resist. Thomas had never liked James, thinking him a weak and poor model of his father, the Admiral. The widow Fleet certainly held his attention. Abigail thought, This is too easy, but take it slowly. Say just enough to allow him arrive at the desired conclusion on his own. In the manner in which they handled and dealt with others, Abigail and the Admiral had made a very good pair.

“Pray, walk with me Thomas as I take some exercise.” She slipped her gloved hand into his arm, for stability certainly, and with any other suggestion left entirely ambiguous. They began with small steps to approach the foredeck. Upon arriving forward of the hatch, Thomas stopped to admire the motion of the packet, lunging and heaving as she smashed to windward. The spritsail yard arm to leeward occasionally sliced the wave crests as the ship leaned her shoulder into the oncoming seas. But he was not thinking of the inherent beauty of a fast packet hard at work.

A bit of spray caused him, finally, to speak, just as she also started. He instantly deferred, but Abigail insisted, “No, Thomas, what is on your mind?”

“Well, M’Lady, I know nothing of paperwork or legal matters, so tell me simply, has James been left the family holdings?”

Abigail turned, faced aft, feigning shame and crisis but instinctively knowing that now she could look at him as she answered, tufts of her golden hair blowing wildly across her face. “That is most certainly what that wretched man, Mr. Wellstone, informs me; save for a modest stipend.” She shook her head slightly, combed back her windblown locks and purposefully let her voice trail off in despair.

Thomas looked in her eyes, a bold act but one appropriate to the moment, shook his head and as he set his jaw, he promised, “That’s not right, M’Lady, and you just let me know how I can help.” The words were no sooner cast a lee, than Thomas thought of the Admiral’s first wife, of whom he thought the world, and he was surprised his pledge of assistance came so easily and without recall for past circumstances.

Abigail played the next card, one she had planned and rehearsed in her mind while laying in the dank cabin for some days, “Why, Thomas, that is very kind. I have no doubt I can count on you; which is precisely why you deserve so much the better of this last crisis. I am sure the Admiral would have well provided for you, had he been given the chance. I will keep your pledge in mind, though please do not fret. I am sure James will be most generous.”

Abigail purposefully slipped her hand from his arm, walked cautiously ahead as was her prerogative and design, suggesting to Thomas a sense of isolation while approaching his last years without the security of the Fleet fortune. She also left him to ponder the ridiculous optimism of her last assurance.

Abigail and Thomas both knew James. Neither had ever witnessed anything resembling generosity.

The widow Fleet and Thomas, her attendant, arrived in Amherstberg, Upper Canada on 29 September 1812. The nights were cool, the days frequently filled with a crisp wind and the forests along the shore were adorned in full autumn splendor. The season was changing rapidly, evidenced not just by the climate and forests but also by the inland seas which reflected colors more vivid and bright than she had seen in years, since leaving the Great Lakes more than ten years before.

Thomas was surprised the widow Fleet did not arrange a charter and set a course directly for Dover Mills, but rather shipped aboard an English merchant schooner from Fort Erie taking her well west of her home and bound for the opposite end of Lake Erie, Amherstberg. She explained she preferred not to misrepresent her situation to her family and first needed to resolve and clarify family affairs with James. Thomas rather looked forward to what he knew may well develop into a confrontation. Having thought through the matter thoroughly as they made their way slowly up the St. Lawrence River, he came to conclude he would follow his heart. In that sense, his interests were entirely consistent with his personal financial welfare and with his loathing for James.

They made landfall in the village by mid afternoon. The widow Fleet, now on land, donned the formality of their respective stations and asked Thomas to remain within sight, but allow her to proceed alone. She first made arrangements for her personal luggage and secured a room for herself and one for Thomas for up to the next couple of days. She then reported to Captain McNair, Port Captain for the Royal Naval establishment. Utterly unaware of what reception she would receive from James, she was unsure of their needs and inquired while departing his office, “Captain, can you be so good as to tell me, Sir, when I might book passage east to Dover Mills?”

“Certainly, M’Lady.” He looked surprised and took the liberty of asking, “You will be departing so soon?”

“I am not at all certain and wish to just know what options are available.” Captain McNair did not request more details, as the matter obviously involved a family affair.

“Of course, M’Lady. The Brig Caledonia, together with the Snow President Adams, which we renamed Detroit, sailed for Fort Erie now more than two weeks ago. But the little Brig General Hunter is departing just tomorrow, to reconnoiter Presque Isle. In light of your late husband’s service, and we tending to regard officer’s wives as a part of our Naval family, I could offer you transport to Dover Mills, entailing only a slight diversion. Her mission entails little risk.” He further explained his accommodation, “I met Sir Edgar years ago and would be happy to arrange passage, should you desire.” Abigail thought it odd he made no mention of her step-son, James.

“I am obliged, Captain; thank you.” She determined to test the water, “I suspect James does not yet know of his father’s death. I would prefer to tell him, if that can be arranged.” The Captain thought it highly unusual for the news not to be delivered by way of letter, given the journey of thousands of miles in the midst of a war, but tried to conceal his surprise. “Would you have any objection were I to seek out my step son, James, yet this afternoon? Do you know where he might be found?”

The Captain, now walking her out onto the porch, gestured in the general direction of the slip way on the other side from the rig shop which they faced, “I suggest you report to Mr. Ashton of the rig shop. Lieutenant Fleet will be nearby, I am almost certain.”

Abigail found James within minutes. He was inspecting the fresh paint of a ship’s name across her transom and preparing the frame for the winter cover over her deck. The square topsail sloop had just the day before been hauled from the water for the winter, somewhat earlier in the season than was customary. Abigail noticed the sloop had already been nearly completely downrigged. She took the work as an obvious sign that the Royal Navy had ample resources and the Upper Lakes were secure.

Abigail approached from an angle somewhat behind James. She was first impressed by his apparent good health and vigor. He had aged little, it seemed, since she last saw him at Christmas ’08 at the manor house in Touro. His face was more weathered, perhaps, but the tan could well reflect the end of a very active sailing season from a frontier establishment. Just before her address, she glanced back and assured that Thomas was some distance back, well out of earshot and standing near some dockyard workers, purposefully indistinct.

When just five steps behind and to his right side, James heard or sensed her approach just as she called softly, “Hello, James.”

He wheeled, shocked by a woman within the dockyard, confused by a voice known to him and taken fully aback when, after a second or more passing, he comprehended the truth of what his circumstances suggested as so unlikely—his stepmother, Abigail Fleet, was standing before him, half a world from where he expected her to remain for some decades.

His expression simultaneously confessed his reaction, confounded almost to speechlessness, and demanded her explanation. She began to speak just as James managed to utter, “Whatever are you doing here?”

She processed his inflection carefully, his emphasis on the word ‘you’, and searched his tone for hostility, but had to proceed primarily upon instinct and continue with her explanation with no time to adjust accordingly. “I came to inform you, James, that your father, Sir Edgar, has passed.” His expression suggested he could process only so many turns in so many seconds. She gave him some time to absorb, then continued. “Early July, very sudden and with no apparent pain.”

James stared off to the river and at the sun growing low. Abigail noted there was no look of grief for the loss of a loved one. Indeed, she rather doubted James felt any. Rather, he adjusted to what in fact he, by virtue of his birth, had since a young boy regarded as wholly inevitable. Someday he would inherit his father’s lands and titles. The day, at least of his awareness, was apparently this day.

James then regarded Abigail as the messenger, not as the widow Fleet. Truly mystified, he asked, “Why did you come here to tell me?”

Abigail hesitated deliberately and well, as naturally as her expectation of that precise question could permit. Searching his eyes, she offered, “I wanted to be here to console you.” After a few seconds, she added, “Irrespective of your reception of me, I will also spend some time with my mother.”

Again he stared at the river, then realizing no woman would make such a journey unattended, James asked, “Who accompanied you?”

Abigail motioned in the general direction and explained, “Thomas, for safety, of course.”

She noted his strong frown as he picked Thomas out among the crowd of workers, then turned the frown to her. She parried, “You look well, James.”

Her comment had the desired effect. James remained silent as his gaze shifted from her as a messenger of news, to Abigail Wheems of Dover Mills, both of which he knew well some ten years before, as a young midshipman. He beheld her at that moment in such manner as he was not permitted to regard her for ten of those past twelve years, as his step-mother. She noted the change in his expression, but he did not return the compliment.

She continued, hoping to keep his mind absorbing facts, rather than at that moment recalling memories, “I assume from your expression I arrived before any letter from Mr. Wellstone. I am certain such is forthcoming, with all the details.”

James recalled his father’s attorney, nodded. “What of the estate?”

Abigail shrugged nonchalantly, “I know little of such matters but I assume you take all. I apparently have been provided a modest stipend.” Her tone was matter of fact and suggested no disappointment.

At that moment, two sailors descended down a ladder from the ship’s starboard side. Evidently they had not noticed her presence and called out while still descending, “All secure, Sir. Will the name serve?”

The interruption brought a look of frustration and outrage from James that surprised Abigail. He rounded on the sailors, admonishing, “You presume to interrupt your superior, obviously engaged with and in the company of a Lady? Leave us, you ill-mannered knaves and turn to a bell earlier on the ‘morrow for your offense!”

Entirely surprised by Abigail’s presence but obviously well used to sharp words from Lieutenant Fleet, the men knuckled their foreheads, making their obedience, mumbled their apologies and hurried off. In the awkward silence, Abigail made to change the subject, “Your ship, James? And a new name?”

James turned to regard the sloop, smiled with pride and explained, “Yes, my command since her capture at Mackinaw in July. Ironically, I have been pursuing her merchant master since the traitor deserted from Hope.”

Abigail, aware of the outcome of James’ command of the H. M. Schooner General Hope, leading to her loss and his acquittal by a Courts Martial now six years before, steered the conversation to a happier course, “Little Belt? Why, wasn’t that the name of the British ship fired upon by an American ship just last summer?”

James smiled and nodded in satisfaction, “Aye, with this fully intended as vindication for the offense!”

Abigail could see he enjoyed speaking of his ship and his command, “And her previous name, which I can see just the faintest imprint through the new paint, ‘Friends…’’ I cannot make out the last part…”

James assisted, “Friends Good Will. She was built as an American merchant ship at the River Rouge and launched in the spring of ’11. I could not wait to repaint her Naval black and buff and change that horrid name!” Then reminding himself of whom he was addressing, James turned again to the river, walked a few steps from Abigail and grew silent. He seemed almost distracted at one point and she was uncertain as to what drew his focus from her.

A young man in a canoe paddled, it seemed, too near to the dockyard, his craft laden with supplies for what appeared a long journey. He was obviously preoccupied with Little Belt and seemed only to notice James at the last instant. He veered away, realizing his interest was drawing the attention of a Royal Navy Lieutenant. He picked up the pace as he paddled downriver to the opening of Lake Erie.

James turned suddenly to Abigail, and pleaded with anger in his eyes, and a tone only betrayal can foment, “What could ever have led you to have married my father?”

Abigail knew the question must come and hoped only for time so to assess the deep wound for which she knew she was entirely responsible. “James, I came here because I cared. If you would like to talk, of so much after so many years, I will dine this evening at the public house Regent, where I have taken a room.” She dropped her eyes, suggesting remorse and finished softly, “Please join me.” She turned and walked gracefully from the dockyard.

James called out loudly to Abigail, sounding almost in pain, his voice revealing anguish, “You promised yourself to me!”

He turned from Abigail, admitting her beauty, even if he had denied her his admission. His emotions went quickly from anger to frustration as he regarded, now from a greater distance, what he accurately took for an impertinent young waterman, an American, his enemy, plying British waters in a humble birchbark canoe in defiance of his power and command.

James did not at that moment know whether he would join Abigail that evening at the Regent, or take his other, more frequent comfort; regular company for him this past decade. He had brown jugs well hidden at various locations throughout the dockyard.

Abigail walked toward Thomas, hoping he had not heard James’ final outburst, and together they headed back to the Regent. She instructed, “Pray, Thomas, inform Captain McNair that we will not require passage upon General Hunter on the ‘morrow.”

She knew well that James would be engaged with her that evening over dinner. In fact, she suspected there would be many dinners. Abigail knew there would be dinners because she heard his anger. Had Abigail heard only that which she, as a woman feared most, she would have returned to England, having let Thomas proceed with his plan, as he preferred.

But where there was anger, there was hope. Only ambivalence held none. There was no ambivalence in his voice, no disinterest in his eyes. Anger was a strong emotion, very close to that which at one point, years before, James freely professed only for her.