MASTERS, MAGISTRATES, MUTINEERS & MEN

Chapter 1: The Paper

John Thornton's hands shook so hard he could barely make out the printed letters on the page. He must be misreading the names, he thought to himself. She was so much on his mind, his thoughts revolved so much around her, it was no wonder he saw her name everywhere and anywhere, even in poems and newspapers and random bits of advertisements in a milliner's shop window.

He closed his eyes once, then twice, and took in a deep breath of the dining room's air. The low fire in the hearth cast out the scent of burning coal and a wave of warmth at his back. The cup before him steamed with the rich, pungent fragrance of strong coffee. Out in the hall, he could hear the footsteps of the servants carrying the linens out for washing. Their quiet conversations echoed against the walls, intermingled with the ever-presents sounds of Milton that permeated every room of Marlborough House. There was the constant hum of men and machines, horses and wagons, movement and toil. It was all familiar. Opening his eyes, he carefully laid the page of newsprint on the dining room table and clung to the heated sides of his porcelain cup. Slowly, he took a deep draft. He did not mind the way it burned his tongue or the curious, wary eyes his mother now cast in his direction.

"John?" She inquired, setting aside her own page of newsprint in concern.

He shook his head and reached out for a second piece of toast. When she no longer paid him any heed, he let his eyes fall back to the newspaper before him on the table. He glanced over the headlines again. There were protests in London again, some freshly appointed knights, observations on the state of trade with the Americas, and references to the influx of new scholarship inspired by the Great Exhibition. All was very much what he expected to find within the densely printed columns. It was noteworthy from an intellectual perspective, but none impacted him personally, at least not yet.

Then, he came to the one he hoped he had misread.

ARREST OF HALE THE MUTINEER AND PIRATE. At thirty minutes to nine o'clock yesterday morning, London Constable Mr. Smith, received a tip from an informant describing the whereabouts of Mr. Frederick Hale, formerly of Helstone. Hale served as a lieutenant on the H.M.S. Russell during the mutiny which occurred the 15th of June, 1845. Hale will be held in prison in London awaiting a naval court martial on charges of mutiny, piracy, and treason.

The article ended and the next began.

Thornton read through the article two more times before leaning his brow into his hands.

A Frederick Hale of Helstone! Could it be? Was it possible? No, it could not be. It must not be a relative of the Hales! They had never spoken of such a connection. He remembered hearing about a London aunt and cousins. Mrs. Hale had mentioned some Beresford relations. Mr. Hale had mentioned a brother once, long deceased.

Could it be a nephew?

No, his overwrought mind was creating too many assumptions. This must be some coincidence…

And yet… and yet… How many Hales could Helstone claim as their own? At the very least, he must be an acquaintance.

If it were a relative… He permitted his imagination to tumble through the possibilities of such a connection. With a charge of mutiny and a potential hangman's noose in his future, such a relative was not to be advertised incautiously. The Navy lost no expense to track down and arrest those accused of mutiny. If Frederick Hale's location was ever discovered, be it the middle of the Pacific Ocean or the farthest flung edges of India, the British Royal Navy would seek him out and bring him to trial. The Hales would be wise to never speak of such a relative to any uninitiated in the family secret.

"It is another's secret," Miss Hale had meekly said, that day they last met. "I cannot explain without doing him harm."

Her resistance to candor, her refusal to permit him into her trust, her reluctance to fight for her innocence that day were still an affront. He felt the familiar tumult of jealousy and anger boil within him for a moment before he let his eyes fall on the newspaper again.

Would it change anything? If it was true?

Who was Frederick Hale? Mrs. Hale's long illness provided enough impetus to gather relatives around her… but was it enough incentive to face a court martial? For six years, the man had escaped detection, only to be discovered in England the week of Mrs. Hale's death.

His mind wandered back to that night at Outwood Station… and the succeeding confrontation with Leonards. He remembered the man's excited babbling, when John stood by as magistrate. Leonards had spoken of the sea, of his quest for an electric telegraph and a hundred pounds, of captains and lieutenants and railway porters and gin. It was all a jumble, as if the threads of a loom had been tangled together.

Yet, he vaguely remembered a mention from one of Leonard's acquaintances… that he had been a sailor once… and that he came from the south. John wished he had inquired more, that Leonards had maintained his wits about him, that John had lingered longer at Outwood Station and seen the confrontation himself.

Was this man a lover or a relative? The possibility of the latter had never crossed John's mind. Of course, the intimacy of their farewell and the emotion in their parting looked quite different from the perspective of two relations parting for an indeterminant separation. If there was danger and uncertainty surrounding the man, well, so much the better for inspiring such an indiscreet display.

Had Margaret Hale accompanied a relative to Outwood Station, intentionally seeking the darkening, dwindling hours of the day, in order to protect him from detection and recognition? If, as the stories went, they were then accosted by a drunken ruffian who possibly recognized her companion as Frederick Hale, what fears and dangers had Margaret endured! If her companion had been a fugitive, it would be little wonder that she attempted to prevent further investigation into her whereabouts that night! What other burdens had she carried these last weeks, beyond those of her dying mother and her grieving father?

Was it any wonder she had not confided the source of her troubles to him? What manner of help had he been in her hour of greatest need? He thought of sending his mother to warn her against walking in lonely places with a man and his florid imaginings of her in the thralls of an incautious romance…

"I have done wrong, but not as you think," she had said.

He had not believed her.

There were other things- small remembrances and irregularities from the days leading up to Mrs. Hale's death. He remembered his quick dismissal from the Hale's residence, the sound of another man's laughter from the stairwell, and the sudden departure of Martha from the house at the time the family must need her most.

No, no. It must be wishful thinking. He was proving himself fanciful again. Some part of him hoped to find other explanations for Miss Hale's indiscretions, some just and rational cause for her lie. The inclusion of a mutineer in the family certainly solved both counts… and left John wondering if he had ever known the Hales at all.

He needed to know the truth.

In a sudden motion, he closed the newspaper and stood to his feet.

"John?" His mother inquired.

"I am going out, Mother," he said simply. Without another word, he left.

Oooooo

He composed flimsy excuses for his visit that morning on the walk to Crampton. He would give some reason for his sudden appearance and he would use whatever stolen moments he gained to take in their overall state of well-being. If they appeared unconcerned and at ease, he would put his imaginings aside and strive even more to push Margaret Hale from haunting his thoughts each day. What he would do if they were simply ignorant rather than unconnected, he did not wish to dwell upon. Instead, he convinced himself that a single sight of Margaret's face would inform him of the truth of it all.

He came to the house and rang the bell. Then, he waited.

It was still early. He should have waited longer before walking to Crampton.

He could not have waited.

He rang the bell again. No one answered.

He glanced up at the windows of the house, straining for any sign of the inhabitants. Smoke billowed from the chimney. The curtains had been opened for the morning light. He was about to turn away when he determined he would rather prove himself impolite and impertinent than turn away without ensuring the well-being of the inhabitants. He had to know for certain and he could not rest until he discovered if Frederick Hale was, indeed, a relative of the Hales of Crampton.

From a window overhead, he heard heart-wrenching cries and his heart sank.

He knocked this time and then called out.

Still, no one came. While faintly muffled, he could still hear someone weeping.

Growing ever more concerned, he determined to enter the house. He found the door unlatched. Quietly, he entered and shut the door behind him. He called out. No one answered. He took another step into the entryway and gave a wary glance around him. The sight of the capsized tea tray and broken crockery on the floor was not heartening. A second call gained no more acknowledgment than his first and all was silent save the unabated cries from the floor above. Yet, the voice was not that of Miss Hale or her father. It could only be that of Mrs. Dixon, their housekeeper. Her cries reverberated through the thin walls, keeping time with the steady ticking of the clock on the mantle and the sound of hooves from the windows beyond.

No servant could be heard in the kitchen or in the hall beyond. John stepped over the spilled sugar bowl and ventured into the drawing room. The room proved as quiet as a crypt, despite the live inhabitants within. The typically cheery, comfortable space felt nearly suffocated with oppressive stillness. Two figures failed to notice his entrance or respond to the sound of his voice. Both were as white as a bale of cotton and just as thinly wrought. A newspaper lay on the floor between them in a disgraced heap.

John knelt between Mr. Hale and Miss Hale. He reached out to take each of their hands - one withered with age and long years, the other full of the vibrancy of youth and ungrasped potential. Their hands were cold to the touch and twins in their trembling. It was his touch that caused them to stir. Two pairs of eyes, so similar in shape and shade, blinked down at him, full of anguish and nearly drowning in unshed tears.

"Mr. Hale, Miss Hale, forgive my imposition, I simply needed to ensure you are both well."

They turned toward him, but they did not respond.

"Do you require a doctor, a glass of wine, some tea? How may I be of assistance to you?"

He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them, only for his glance to fall upon the newspaper again. There it was. The page that had thrust John onto his path this morning. Open and crumpled and glaringly eloquent, even as the pair alongside him remained silent.

ARREST OF HALE THE MUTINEER AND PIRATE.

However incredulous and unexpected, John had found the answer he sought. John took a deep breath and turned to his companions again, hoping to offer whatever assistance could be had at such a time.

John released their hands and looked around the room for something useful. He found a decanter of brandy and poured two small glasses. These he offered to the pair, hoping the smell, at least, would rouse them and bring some awareness of reality back into their eerily absent faces. In this errand, he was successful. Dazedly, the pair accepted his offering, momentarily bringing their statuesque features back to life.

"John?" Mr. Hale stammered, once the cold glass was clasped in his trembling hand. "John? Is that you? Did I… did we… are lessons today? I believe I have quite lost track of time."

"No lessons today, Mr. Hale. I came to inquire into your well-being."

"That is very kind of you, I am sure," Mr. Hale said. He looked down at his hand, watched as the liquid within jostled and danced with his movement, and then he drank back the entire glass in one swift swig. He coughed and spluttered before staring at his hand again, as if he could not understand if the appendage belonged to him and if so, why it behaved as it did.

"You are not well, sir," Mr. Thornton broached, as gently as he could. "Something has upset you. What must be done?"

Mr. Hale opened his mouth once… then twice… and then both men were interrupted by Margaret collapsing onto the floor.

"Oh my! Oh dear! Oh, my dear!" Mr. Hale exclaimed. The glass in his hand fell and shattered on the nearby hearth but Mr. Hale did not seem to notice. Instead, he knelt on the floor by his daughter, his already pale face turning three shades whiter in anguish.

"She has fainted!" Mr. Thornton said in surprise. He took up her hand to feel for her pulse. He found it, steady and warm and full of rhythmic life, full of her heart, however absent her mind might be at the moment. "Should we send for a doctor?" He asked.

"No, no, no, no. No need. I will call for her mother. Her mother will know what to do," Mr. Hale muttered.

Mr. Thornton's heart fell at this. "Her mother?"

"Yes. Maria always knows what to do. Or Dixon. Where is Dixon?"

"I believe your maid is quite distraught. I could hear her cries when I arrived."

"Yes, yes. Yes, yes. She was quite overwrought. She loved him very much, you see. He was such a lovely babe, her Frederick was. I believe Dixon loved him nearly as much as his mother."

During this speech, Mr. Thornton had been searching the room for smelling salts and hardly attended. Yet, at that name, he paused to look back at his old tutor again.

"Frederick?" He gently inquired.

"Yes, yes. Such a fine boy. So handsome, so brave, so charming. I believe he was most like Maria. He always was. My boy. My poor, poor boy. Oh, what shall become of him? First Maria, now Frederick? I cannot bear it!" Mr. Hale stammered, as if to himself rather than to John. Then, as if a dam had been breached, the aged scholar burst into tears. His shoulders hunched and shook with the weight of his emotion. His motions reminded John of an old oak tree during a storm, his branches all aquiver in the wind and rain.

"My poor boy. My poor Frederick," was all Mr. Hale could say.

Oooo

John was relieved when Martha arrived, carrying baskets of food from the market. She deposited her burdens in the kitchen. She stopped short in surprise at the shattered tea things in the entryway and her dismay only grew when she met John Thornton there.

"What has happened?" She inquired, her eyes wide and her brow furrowed.

"Ill-tidings of a relative," he answered. "Martha, I need you to go to Marlborough House and tell my mother to send food for the Hales. Tell her to inform Williams I will be out all day. Tell her we will also need an additional servant to tend to the family."

She nodded and hurried to retrieve her shawl. Then, she was gone.

ooooo

Margaret opened her eyes to find herself laying on the settee in the drawing room. It was unusually dark; the drapes had been drawn so she could not tell whether it was night or noon. A cheery fire blazed in the hearth and she felt the weight of a blanket draped over herself. She struggled to sit upright, her entire body feeling as though it were drained of all blood and filled with heavy liquid lead. She blinked again and then yawned.

"Miss Hale," came a deep voice beside her and she startled. "I am relieved to see you wake. I have just prepared some tea."

Her mind was hazy and she could not figure out quite what was happening. A cup of tea was placed on the table before her - a large, masculine hand spooning sugar into the steaming cup. A piece of cake was placed alongside and she eagerly consumed all her offerings before closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath.

"Good, good," the voice spoke again. "Would you like another cup?"

This time, her eyes flew open and her hazy mind slowly began to clear.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly midday," he answered.

"You are… Mr. Thornton?" She surmised, her eyes growing questioning. "Why are you… what has happened… Is Papa…?"

"Your father is asleep, just there," Mr. Thornton said and he motioned to her father's favored chair. Sure enough, there he sat, covered in a blanket, quiet snores emanating from his open mouth. His cravat had been removed, along with his jacket, and his face showed the evidence of deep sorrow and many tears. "He is well, simply heart-sore," Mr. Thornton continued, his tone gentle and meant to reassure her.

"Did he call for you?" She asked, her mind attempting to piece together the missing hours of this terrible day.

"No," he answered.

"Why are you here?"

"I wished to inquire into…," he began, but the old, oft-repeated phrase felt raw and overused. He shook his head and motioned to the discarded newspaper, still on the floor. "I read the paper this morning."

At her quick intake of breath, he was worried she would swoon again, or fly into a temper, or burst into tears. Instead, her face paled. She nodded once, and dropped her eyes.

"Did Papa explain?"

"A little."

She nodded. "I wanted to tell you… I would have but…"

He shook his head. "I should not have asked it of you. You did not owe me such an explanation… and I was wrong to accuse you as I did. You had enough to bear without my assumptions. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," she said with a sigh. "It was I who was in the wrong. I lied… and for what? I proved myself faithless and, in the end, it did not save him. Fred was captured all the same. And it is all my fault."

"Miss Hale, surely you cannot take the blame upon yourself!" he protested.

"It was I who wrote and told him to come! Papa never would have done so! But Mama, she wept so and wished to see him and I could not deny her. Yet, it was such a risk! Now, what a price we have paid for our transgression! Oh, Fred! How will you forgive me!" She exclaimed and then burst into tears, her hands covering her face as she finally gave way to sorrow.

Mr. Thornton fumbled for something to say, some means of comforting her, but he could come upon nothing that did not come across as false or trite. It had been a risk. A terrible risk, and yet, what son could deny such a request of his dying mother? What man could live with himself if he failed to come?

John could not tell her it would be well. It very well could end on the gallows.

However, he also could not tell her she had been wrong.

While she wept, he moved to add more coal to the fire. He brought Miss Hale a glass of water and offered her his handkerchief. She took it gratefully, but she did not release the hand which offered it. From the gentle insistence of that conquering hand, he obeyed and sat on the settee alongside her. He did not speak but simply remained nearby.

Oooooo

His mother came herself. John had not expected any less. Martha and another servant trailed along behind her, each carrying baskets of food. He did not bother to hide his relief when she arrived on the Hales' doorstep and he flung open the door for her before she had even rung the bell. She took a step back in surprise and then glowered at him.

"Have you come to keep house for the Hales now, John?" She asked. "You answer their door for them like any common servant!"

He grinned and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "I'm glad you have come." Then, motioning to the entourage behind her, he nodded in approval. "Thank you. For this."

"John, what has happened? What is this? Have the Hales fallen ill?" Mrs. Thornton pressed, her brow furrowed in concern.

"In a way," he said.

He ushered her into the house and brought her aside in the hall. He motioned his head towards the empty drawing room and up the stairs.

"A great ill has befallen Mr. Hale's eldest child. His son will very likely not last the year. They received the news quite suddenly this morning and are all the worse for it."

"A son!" Mrs. Thornton exclaimed, her hand flying to her heart. "Why have we never heard of him till now?"

"Aye. It was he that came when Mrs. Hale died. He ran afoul of the navy some time ago and has been living abroad under another name for some time, I gather."

Mr. Thornton quickly apprised her of all he knew of the situation while his mother listened quietly.

"The man… at the station…?" Mrs. Thornton surmised, when he had finished. When John nodded, Mrs. Thornton gave a great harrumph. "Well, I cannot say that absolves all, but to lose a mother and a brother in so short of time… where is she?"

"Upstairs. I only just convinced Mr. Hale and Miss Hale to take their rest. Their maid has been weeping since I arrived. I take it she tended the boy since his infancy. If you could…"

Mrs. Thornton glanced heavenwards, as if pleading for patience and long-suffering for the task ahead of her, and then tersely nodded.

"I'll look in on her, too."

"Thank you, Mother."

She tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement of his gratitude, the tone of his voice revealing the depth of his anxiety and how much of his own strength he had already given during the long hours spent at the Hales' that day. She took the stairs slowly, not sure what to expect from an overwrought, overly self-important servant or the young woman she had once accused of an improper liaison with her own brother. It was little wonder Margaret had walked out on Mrs. Thornton in a temper or refused all her less than well-meant advice.

Mrs. Thornton shook her head and scoffed.

These Hales. She would never truly understand them.

Ooooo

It was an hour or so later when she rejoined her son in the drawing room. She found him quietly reading next to the fire, though by the expression on his face, she wondered how much he paid heed to what was on the page. He immediately closed his book when he saw her enter and his eager eyes pleaded for any news.

"How are they, Mother?"

"That maid, what is her name?"

"Dixon."

"Aye, that's the one. She would not take anything from me but water and I could not do much but give her a sleeping draft and send her to bed. Went on and on about 'Poor Master Frederick.' When I looked in on Miss Hale, the girl was already asleep so I did not disturb her."

"Thank you, Mother."

She wanted to chide him for taking on the cares of these Hales, when his plate was already over full with is own troubles. She held her tongue. That was simply John. Once he grabbed hold of an idea, there was very little she could do to shake him off of it.

She remembered the day he determined to make his own kite. There had been no wind and still he insisted, he would make it fly. He cut and sewed and remade that kite again and again. Then, he ran up and down the tallest hill he could find until he forced his creation into the air. It tumbled and hardly stayed aloft, but it was enough for him to come home with a self-satisfied air about him. Even if he tore his breeches at the knees and fell asleep at tea time.

That was just his way. Here he was, determined to assist these Hales in their trials even if it required all of his strength and will to do it. Even at the neglect of himself.

Well, Hannah Thornton had to admit they were a sorry lot, sorely in need of John's formidable strength. God knows, none of them seemed to have any of their own at the moment and she just hoped John had enough for all of them.

She ate supper with her son in the Hale's dining room. It was strange. Occupying the home of another family as they were. Yet, what else could be done? John refused to leave and she would see him eat.

She was about to press him to return home and leave the maid to tend to the household needs that night when they heard quiet footsteps on the stairs. The footsteps hesitated outside the door before the door swung open with a gentle creak.

"Miss Hale!" John exclaimed and he quickly rose to his feet.

"Mr. Thornton, Mrs. Thornton," she said and her eyes fell on the dishes of food before them on the table.

"Come, you must eat, child," Mrs. Thornton urged. She stood to take Margaret's hands and lead her to the table. She complied without protest, almost as if a child on leading strings. Then, John handed her a plate of food.

"You must keep up your strength. Eat as much as you can. It'll do you no good to go hungry and will be more likely to make you swoon," Mrs. Thornton chided.

Reluctantly, Margaret began to eat, though Mrs. Thornton doubted she tasted a bite of what she put in her mouth.

She remembered how it was, after George died… how hard it was to simply force herself out of bed and into her clothes. Grief could sometimes paralyze into lethargy and sometimes propel one into a frenzied motion of activity.

"I thank you," Margaret said, once she could manage no more. She pushed away her plate and looked over at her two companions. She forced a wan, weary smile, though her eyes held a genuine warmth. "I thank you for coming and staying with us today. I am afraid we have not borne all with composure."

Mrs. Thornton nodded her head, her lips pursed. "If you told us all before now, we could have been more helpful to you in days past. Yet, you let me come and chide you as a brazen woman rather than admitting the truth of it all. No wonder you were cross! I cannot but think how John would take it… being accused of walking out with Fanny."

A startled laugh burst from Margaret's mouth and she turned wide eyes on Mrs. Thornton. John was warmed by her reaction and he grinned widely.

"My reaction? What of Fanny's?" John said, smiling at the image of his sister's wide-mouthed, disgruntled look of offense. "She would rather cast me to the wolves than sacrifice her reputation for my safety."

Mrs. Thornton harrumphed but she cast a fond glance at her son. "To speak of your sister so! Come now, John!"

"Oh, surely Miss Thornton would do whatever was in her power to see you safe and free from harm!" Miss Hale interjected earnestly.

"Fanny would do whatever was in her power to see to her own interests… and if keeping me from harm assures those interests, then I would be well under her protection," John answered.

"Well, God knows you've done enough for your sister," Mrs. Thornton answered. "Heaven forbid we find out just what Fanny would do in your place."

Mr. Thornton nodded in acquiescence and then turned to Miss Hale again. "Your father continues to rest and Mrs. Dixon finally succumbed to sleep, though she has been sorely taxed this day. Do you know of anyone else we should contact? Other friends or family that should be here alongside you?"

"Oh, I'm sure they will all hear, soon enough," Margaret said, her countenance sinking back into misery after the short reprieve. She sighed. "Mr. Bell would prove useful, especially for Papa. I do not know if his health will permit him to travel, but I would wish for him to come. My Aunt Shaw is still in Italy, but I do not believe she would be of much assistance right now. Edith and her husband are abroad, as well. Henry could be useful, though," Margaret mused, more to herself than to her audience.

"Henry?" Mrs. Thornton inquired, casting a furtive glance at her son.

"My cousin's husband's brother. He is a barrister… we sent Fred to him in London to see if anything could be done, if his case had any hopes… Fred had just met with Mr. Lennox before trying to sail from London. At least, I think he did. I hope he did. I do not know where he was discovered or how. Mr. Lennox will be the most informed of the case and best equipped to offer assistance. He is also the best positioned to visit Fred. I will write to him directly."

"Very good. Is there anyone else?" John asked. "Any other hidden sisters or surprise cousins or neglected nephews we should know about?"

Margaret smiled and shook her head.

"No. There is only Frederick."

Oooo

It took time for letters to be written and even more time to ensure Mr. Hale ate, once the old man woke. Then, in his state of melancholy, Mr. Hale spent the better part of the evening tell stories about his son. It was as if he had stored decades of memories in an old trunk and kept it locked in an attic. Only now, he broke open the lock and cast all the contents of the trunk out for all to see. They were dusty and tear-stained and chipped around the edges, but they were full of fatherly pride and parental vanity to even rival Mrs. Thornton.

It was Margaret who finally convinced her father to retire for the night. She followed shortly thereafter, despite the early hour.

"John, you must sleep," his mother commanded him as well, when they were out of earshot of the Hales. "Come home and you can return here directly tomorrow morning. What can you accomplish here during the night? They are all of age and can manage for the night on their own. I daresay they could manage well enough tomorrow too, but I can see you are of a mind to come back."

"But what if…"

"No, John. Come home."

She had no doubt John wished to spend the entire night keeping vigil from an arm chair, jumping at the slightest sound, fetching water at the smallest provocation. Yet, he was already sorely taxed and if he did not rest, he would be even more weary by the next day.

"John, they need your strength. Come home, rest, and regain what you can."

Reluctantly, he agreed.

Author's note: This story is the culmination of a crash course into the history of a hundred years of British Naval mutinies. Typical of Gaskell, it is a far more nuanced, complicated topic than I anticipated. This story has also ended up a bit angstier than I anticipated, and I still haven't figured out how to bring in breadfruit, but here we go.