Hearts of Oak
Heart of oak are our ships, heart of oak are our men;
We always are ready, steady, boys, steady!
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
[...]
Britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea,
Her standard is Justice—her watchword, 'be free.'
Then cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing,
Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and king.
- Heart of Oak, traditional anthem of the Royal Navy
We must not sit still and look for miracles. - George Eliot.
Part One: Queenie Beauchamp
—In vain from Fate we fly,
For first or last, as all must die,
So ‘tis as much decreed above,
That first or last, we all must Love.
- Lansdown
[From the cover page of Eliza Haywood’s novel Love in Excess; or the Fatal Enquiry, a Novel]
Chapter One
[The Account of a Crossing to France by Queenie Beauchamp
And Her Fellow Travelers in the Year 1794]
Mr. Algernon Swift peered at the young woman sitting across from him. She was pretty in a comely sort of way. Nothing about her features would have made her stand out from a hundred other girls he supposed. But Swift doubted he would ever forget Queenie Beauchamp for as long as he lived. He vividly recalled the day Miss Beauchamp entered his Boston office. She had not pleaded or simpered with syrupy words; just asked politely if business was going to take him in the near future to the continent in particular, to France.
He had thought at first that she wanted him to deliver a package and was a little shocked himself when she asked to accompany him on his travels. France in his estimable opinion was a bloody place and most importantly not a place for a young lady on her own. He himself was duly proud that his wife and young daughters were safely ensconced in the wilds of Massachusetts far far away from the bloody mark of revolution and war. But before he could voice his approbation at her request, she replied that her father, Mr. Henry Beauchamp was in Paris on business, and she needed to travel to see him as he had asked her to join him in France. Mr. Swift was unsure exactly what had transpired between the two for Ms. Beauchamp to be so eager to travel to France, and he against his better natures agreed arrangement. She had all the papers required of her for travel to France. All she needed was the transportation—Swift knew her father, not well, but enough to know that he was a practical man, who loved his daughter if only a bit too much, and would not have asked for his only daughter to travel all the way to bloody France if he did not think it was right.
Although Algernon Swift agreed to let her accompany him aboard ship, he did at last voice issue with the young woman. She responded most peculiarly by nodding her head and giving him a glimpse of a grin.
“I understand, sir,” she replied. “Thank you for your concern, but my conscience remains unmoved.”
He had though her a little foolish then, but now that they had been aboard the Belle Marie bound for Marseilles for almost a fortnight, he had begun to reconstruct his hypothesis of her.
Queenie Beauchamp glanced at Mr. Swift. The older man was scribbling something small and illegible in his leather bound, moleskin date book. She felt a little flush of shame at the remembrance of her lie to him, but by now she had reconciled with herself that she had not really lied to the man. She had just not told him the whole truth. Her father’s last letter itched from where it rested, tucked in the bosom of her dress. She had read the letter too many times to count; its words now embedded in her mind. She just hoped she was not too late.
A few days later, Queenie was leaning over the side of the fat, little ship, the Belle Marie, watching the waves lap against the wooden hull. She could feel the beady eyes of Belle Marie’s captain upon her back. She knew he did not trust her. He had openly remarked on the superstitious exigency of having a woman aboard ship, but Mr. Swift had intervened. Queenie had thanked Mr. Swift for his entreaty to the Captain on her behalf. She had also imagined that Mr. Swift had paid the captain a little extra to see that she was permitted on board his ship, yet Mr. Swift had not conveyed the existence of such a moment, so she did not bring it up in conversation with him.
The Belle Marie was a small cargo ship which did regular runs from Boston and Charleston to Marseilles. So far their journey had taken them through at the most foul weather; they had spotted a few other merchant ships passing this way and that, but no ships of war: none bearing the flag of king or country. For that, Queenie was thankful. She had heard stories back in Boston of the cruelty of the Barbary men and how they treated their captives. She imagined that the British might treat her as an enemy hostile as well. She had no wish to have her mission to France be impeded further.
The fear, a little worm in her brain, which had started upon first reading her father’s hurried words had now grown. It was all that encompassed her thoughts, especially at night when sleep was late to claim her. The concern and disquiet had fixed her judgment upon an inexorable point; her whole vision was commanded by one pursuit: to find her father.
Drawn back to the salt spray stinging her cheeks, Queenie conquered the urge to wipe her cheeks or turn her face. The captain’s whetted gaze pricking at her neck and down her spine. She stared out at the dark water and prayed to the Almighty that she would see her father across the sea.
Queenie spent most her time aboard the Belle Marie in the miniscule quarters the captain had begrudgingly allowed her to occupy. When she was not in her cabin, Queenie was above decks; a few times, Mr. Swift had accompanied her though the man openly shewed through thinly veiled disgruntlement that he had not nor even been made for the sea. At the present moment, the ship had run afoul of a storm and the captain had barked at Queenie to stay put. For a moment, she had thought for a moment the captain had locked her within, yet he did not. She had attempted to wedge herself in the corner of the cot, laboring to stay at least somewhat settled as the ship pitched and lurched in the storm. Every few moments or so, Queenie would endeavor to read a few more words of her book in a struggle to keep the nauseousness at bay; it helped in part because of the familiarity of the words. Queenie had lost count of how many times she had opened, closed, and thumbed through the pages of Romance of the Forest—Radcliffe’s printed utterances and morphemes were now old friends of Queenie’s.
The seas had bearably soothed in their tempests, so Queenie shifted all her attention upon Volume II. She was just at the part when Adeline had found the old, partially illegible manuscript in the ruined abbey and the scuffling of feet was apparent outside the door. Queenie carefully closed her book and strained to hear the whispers of the men outside. The French words were harder for Queenie to decipher and not just because of the soft manner in which they were spoken, but the appearance of their origin—the sailor’s speech carried distinctive, continuous rumble of words that characterized those from the south of France. Queenie always had trouble with disentangling the language of the southern region—the lazily delivered utterances always seemed to converge together. Her ears caught a few words—most of them pertaining to the ship or the cargo of rice in the hull. She perceived her own name being revealed but Queenie dismissed their statements as they seemed to be discussing whether she was the cause of the latest turn in the weather.
Later that evening, the captain had entertained the idea of dinner in his cabin. Mr. Swift joined them looking a little less green about the face. Queenie appreciated Mr. Swift’s presence as she did not relish having to eat alone with the Belle Marie’s caustic captain.
Queenie Beauchamp frowned into her soup. She cast her eyes up at the captain who was slurping away contentedly at his meal. She quietly pushed around a crust of bread in the unappetizing liquid. The captain belched, and Queenie fought a snicker as Algernon Swift rolled his eyes.
The captain picked up his napkin and wiped his chubby face. Queenie meekly chewed on the now somewhat soggy crust of bread—it was slightly better than edible.
“I think you a stupid, foolish woman, Ms. Beauchamp. If I had a daughter, young miss, I would have you under lock and key.”
“Sir!” Mr. Swift exclaimed clearly flustered by the captain’s remark. “You should hold your tongue with a lady present.”
“Oh, I doubt this one is a lady, Mr. Swift.”
Mr. Swift was aghast at the man’s comment, but Queenie ignored it.
The rest of the meal was spent in silence. All the while, Algernon Swift muttered under his breath about the sculduddery of French captains.
Sometime after dinner, Queenie made her way above decks and stood against the windward rail, staring out at the sea. Mr. Swift soon joined her.
“Why do you put up with the likes of him?” Algernon Swift asked consternated.
Queenie shrugged her shoulders and looked at the man. “Because…” She did not quite know how to answer him. “Thank you.”
Algernon Swift shook his head, confused yet obliging to her acknowledgement. Queenie was unsure of how to express her gratitude to the man more than she had, so she kept quiet.
Queenie pretended not to watch the man mull over something rather peculiar.
“Oh, Ms. Beauchamp, it seems unfitting that you should be compelled to suffer that man’s fits of pique.”
Queenie looked away from Mr. Swift and pursed her lips eager to change the subject. “Mr. Swift, do you think we will arrive in Marseilles soon?”
Algernon Swift scowled. “Not soon enough, my dear, not soon enough.”
But, from the little classical training I've had (shh, I know, I suck, lol) I remember that there was a pretty big emphasis on letters and letter writings, so maybe if we can know what's on the letter, it might be good!
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