The Africa Hand by Andrew Wareham

Author:Andrew Wareham [Wareham, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: PublishNation
Published: 2022-09-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

“There is a soldier at the doorstep, ma’am. Come on horseback and says he must address the Captain.”

Marianne started up from her work table where she was venturing upon the household accounts, and not enjoying the experience. She knew she must take responsibility for her own house, and her mother had shown her how to keep the proper ledgers for staff and purchases, but it was a daunting prospect to be responsible for so many people and more than a hundred pounds in bills alone each month and to put money aside for Quarter Day when it came.

“You should speak to the Captain, Chilvers! He is master of the house!”

The butler was used to having a Porteous as his master and spoke whenever possible to his mistress rather than the interloper who was wed to her. She peered out of the window.

“He is a Royal Marine, not a soldier, Chilvers. The uniform is quite distinctive!”

Twice rebuked, Chilvers drew his dignity around his shoulders and paced gravely away to discover the Captain, who he knew was in the Library.

“A Marine, sir, which has come from Portsmouth. Shall I send him to the back door?”

That was a deliberate provocation, an implication that sea-going mortals were not worthy of the gentleman’s entrance to the house.

“No, Chilvers. He will almost certainly have a letter for me, to be responded to urgently.”

Nick paced his way rapidly to the door, discovered the Marine stood back by his horse.

“Stay there. Keep a hold of his bridle.”

He was not convinced that sea-soldiers were necessarily the best of horsemen.

“Which, sir, as ‘ow I got a packet what must be delivered agin signature to Captain Turnhouse, RN, sir.”

“A pen, please, Chilvers.”

The marine produced a canvas-wrapped package and a small book, written up in pencil and with space for a signature with date, day and time.

Nick glanced at his watch, glittering in gold, a Lepine, which he understood to be one of the finest of French makes, looted for him by McKay.

“’Five and twenty past eleven on the morning of Thursday, 12th July in the year of 1798, at my house in Wickham in the County of Southamptonshire. Nicholas Turnhouse, Post Captain’. There you are, Private.”

The marine handed over the packet, after signature, carefully comparing the name on the superscription to that of the signature.

“Sir!”

He could not stand properly to attention while holding the reins, compromised as well as he could by stamping his feet.

“A penknife, Chilvers. This packet will not be penetrated by mere fingers.”

The canvas was best winter weight, sealed with red wax and further secured by tarry string, tied tight with a simple reef knot, but well waxed over.

“Secure against the waters of the Channel, which is perhaps redundant on land.”

Chilvers smiled tightly – he must respond to his unwanted master’s witticisms.

The knife was sharp and the packaging surrendered to it, revealing a single sheet, also sealed.

’Captain Turnhouse, you will oblige me by reporting to my cabin ashore at the Port Admiral’s building at Portsmouth on Friday, 13th July at ten o’clock of the morning.

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