MASTERS, MAGISTRATES, MUTINEERS & MEN


Chapter 2: The Letters


Despite all his assertions to the contrary, John Thornton fell into a deep sleep that night. He rose refreshed and with the renewed and single-minded purpose to attend to the Hales again. Nothing in all creation could prevent him, save for one woman. His mother's determination proved just as single-minded as his own, with far more years of experience carrying her point.

"No, John," she said, her eyes flashing with fierce stubbornness. She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, and her head held as high as a general facing down an enemy army on the charge.

He gave her his myriad of arguments, but she was resolute.

"I will go, John," his mother promised. "I will spend the entire day there if needed. You tend to the mill."

Reluctantly, he agreed. He knew his mother would prove far more helpful in matters of women's tears and tempting frail appetites to eat than he would. Still, with every ounce of his being, he wanted to be alongside Margaret, offering whatever strength or encouragement she needed.

His mother's advice proved correct, as it usually did. An entire day lost, and an unplanned one at that, was not easily recovered from. Williams met him in his office with a list of tasks a mile long and John did not cease his frenetic activity until long after sundown. As soon as he could manage, he made his way to Crampton.

He was surprised when Dixon answered the door. Her usual haughty glare was replaced with a nearly absent indifference, though her shoulders sagged and her feet moved slower than honey in January. She hardly managed a greeting before directing him to the drawing room, where he found his mother waiting for him. She gave him a terse nod of approval when he entered.

"You are here, then."

"I am."

She tossed her head in the direction of the study, ready to answer his unasked question. "They slept most of the morning and come afternoon, they have been as busy as mill hands in that study there. They ate something, though not as much as I would have liked. Miss Hale is looking more herself, and she was ready to speak a few words here and there to a willing ear. But, John, I do not like how Mr. Hale is. I summoned the doctor and he came sometime this afternoon, but there is little he could say that we do not know. The grief, the shock, it has overtaxed his strength. He may recover, he may not. Who can say? Miss Hale and I made sure he ate and rested, but he hardly spoke all day."

John inhaled deeply, concerned by the condition of his friend. He reached out to clasp his mother's hands. "Thank you. Mother, has there been any news?"

"Precious little. Mr. Bell will attend to them as soon as he is able. It is more likely than not the trial will commence in Portsmouth by the beginning of next week. The young man will be taken to Portsmouth the day after next. Some fine London cousin or other plans to come to speak about the young Hale's chances. It was he the young man sought in London, when he was found out, you know. Miss Hale believes he will know more of what is to be done, or so she hopes."

John nodded.

His mother nodded. "I will be off to home now," she said. By her expression, he heard what she did not speak aloud.

I will wait up for you. Do not stay longer than you ought.

John saw his mother out before making his way to Mr. Hale's study. Within, he found the Hales busily pouring through books and letters. The difference in manner and posture of the pair from the previous day's lethargy was so profound that Thornton momentarily paused before entering.

"Mr. Thornton, you've come!" Margaret cried, when she saw him loitering in the doorway. Margaret's greeting made her pause her frenzied motions long enough to look up at him with a genuinely warm, welcoming smile.

Thornton was transfixed and nearly forgot to breathe or look away. She stood to curtsy and shook his hand. Then, just as quickly and far too soon, she released his gaze and returned to her work. Mr. Hale's greeting was far less animated and involved only a thin, wan smile, as if such an exertion taxed all his lethargic energy. His movements were far slower and more labored than Margaret's and he languidly reached out his hand to his friend.

"John," was all he said, though that single word was filled with so much emotion, it might as well have been an entire speech.

"You find us quite occupied this afternoon," Margaret explained, as John sat in a chair between them. "We are searching through all of Frederick's letters for any evidence they might contain, any possible leads we can give to Mr. Lennox when he comes."

Thornton smiled to himself. It was so like Margeret to seek to do something useful, to not give up, to keep fighting against all odds. Margaret quietly made observations as she read. A paper on an end table was scrawled with notes and symbols, a pile of letters carefully organized underneath.

The piles of papers on Mr. Hale's desk and on his lap gave the appearance of exertion, but John wondered how much the man managed to read or comprehend. While his hands sifted through a pile of unfolded letters, his eyes rarely left the fire in the hearth and John did not once see him look down on the rows of words before him.

"How can I assist you?" Thornton asked, pulling Mr. Hale's attention away from the fire. With an unsteady glance, Mr. Hale assessed Thornton and produced a heavy, deep-throated sigh. Then, he handed Mr. Thornton the entire stack of letters in his possession. Mr. Thornton hesitated. Was it not an intrusion into their privacy for him to read their correspondence?

Sensing his reluctance, Margaret pressed him to continue. ""Papa's eyes are not strong today. Perhaps, you may read the letters aloud to him? It would be a great comfort for you to read some of Fred's earliest letters while I search through his letters from around the time of the mutiny."

John nodded in acquiescence. He cleared his throat and held up the first page to the firelight until he could read clearly the bold, uneven script – slightly stained with salt and yellowed with age. It was an old letter, one full of a young boy's longings for fresh peaches and good apple tarts.

"Maria made apple tarts every day, on his next visit," Mr. Hale said, his smile fond. "He ate tarts until he was sick with them."

For the next hour, John read through the letters of a very young Frederick Hale while Mr. Hale listened with fixed attention. The boy wrote about the sea, the places he traveled, the people he met. He wrote warmly of Helstone, reminisced on the summers spent in trees or under hedges or running across fields. He told of winter nights by the hearth fire and the little carvings he made for his young sister. They were idyllic domestic scenes, so different from his own childhood in the urban jungles of Milton, and yet, he could remember times with his father, before, with equal nostalgia. Back when their family was whole, back before all things fell apart.

Frederick Hale, too, remembered a time when his family was hale and strong and not separated by such vast boundaries as life and death. Slowly, the letters changed with the growing youth, their contents shifting and evolving with the man. It was almost as if Frederick's spirit was conjured up before him, manifesting himself in the study to introduce himself to John, begging his admittance into John's care along with the rest of the Hales.

And why not? He had cared for Mrs. Hale - that elegant, fragile invalid who he had never met except when her strength was already waning. He cared about Mr. Hale as a father and friend and mentor. And then, there was Margaret. Oh, Margaret!

Between his letters, he glanced up to catch glimpses of her eyes fixed on her reading, brow furrowed in concentration, her dark hair pulled loosely into a bun at the nape of her neck. He was ever aware of each turn of a page, each shift of her movement in her chair. Had they ever remained in the same room for so long together? He did not think so. Had she ever been this welcoming of his company, this grateful for his presence?

He tried to tell himself not to thrill at thought or to allow his hopes to bloom in his chest. However, he couldn't help it.

Afterall, it was her brother.

There was no other lover.

Maybe, just maybe…

No, he determined to fixate his attention on reading the letter before him and not let himself get distracted by his most prominent and determined distraction.

By the time tea came, Mr. Hale was asleep. His head bobbed and nodded against the old sage armchair and not even the sound of a dropping teaspoon roused him. Upon noticing his snores, Margaret cast her father an expression half of fond affection, half of worry. She carried a blanket over to wrap around his shoulders. Then, she smiled at Mr. Thornton.

"Please, do not mind him. I am afraid he is very careworn. We will not wake him for tea."

Mr. Thornton nodded. By the red-rimmed eyes of Miss Hale, he doubted it was only her father so heavy-laden with cares.

She served the tea. For a few moments, they ate their cakes silently. Then, she tapped on the letter on the table next to her.

"When Fred was here, while mother was so ill, he told me a philosophy he holds to. He said, 'Do something my sister, do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something.' He told me he never allows remorse afterwards but simply blots out misdeeds with good ones as soon as possible. I remembered his words this morning and decided to follow his example. Here we are, up to our ears in all those years of Fred's correspondence, 'doing something' with all our might. It may prove a fruitless effort – but, it is the only task I could think of to give us the impression of helping Fred."

Thornton smiled faintly; his brow furrowed in concern. "You do not need to explain yourself, Miss Hale. I find I agree with your brother's sentiments. I would rather exert myself on some task, some action, than idle away the day in grief and anxiety. At least, then, I feel I am doing something, even if my actions have very little impact on successive events."

She nodded. "Yes. I do believe you share that trait with Fred… that, and others."

There was such an undercurrent of meaning in her tone and John wondered what she meant by comparing him to her brother – and if that was a comparison in his favor. He did not have time to consider this for long before Margaret motioned to the pile of letters again.

"It is strange to me – reading through all these letters. I have so few memories of my brother, but they were all happy ones. He was as much a part of Helstone as the forests and the winter snow. He was always with us, so much older and bolder and stronger than anyone else I knew. He was Mama's pride and joy, Papa's delight. He doted on me so. Then, one day, he was gone.

"I was four years old when Fred went to sea. Then I went to live with my aunt only a few years later. I only saw him on shore leave one more time before… and, well, he wrote so much more frequently to my parents. I believe I am reading many of these letters for the first time. There is so much I never knew, never thought to ask. It makes me wonder if I have ever truly understood my brother."

"I felt that way – after my father…," John said, uncertain whether it was the appropriate sentiment to share. He set his tea cup down, considered his next words carefully, and leaned forward. "After my father died, I read through his letters and sorted through his belongings. I knew him better, after, than I ever had before. Every few years, I take out his letters again and read through them. Each time, I find something I did not know before, because I am the one who has grown and changed and I must relate to him differently."

"I suppose that is the way of all of us with our families – whether they are living or not. Returning to Helstone after so many years in London made me see my parents in such a different light. Even now, after so long in Milton, I do not think I will ever relate to Aunt Shaw and my cousin Edith the same as I did before."

"Where were you when, well, when the news about your brother came? Were you with your parents?"

"Oh, no. I was in London, then, and I only heard the tale in bits and pieces. Aunt Shaw told me something terrible had happened and I ought not speak about Frederick to anyone again. Sure enough, Aunt Shaw and Edith never mentioned him again, except in hushed voices when no one was around to hear. His letters to me stopped and I only ever heard of him from Mama and Papa and only when I returned home to Helstone each summer.

"When I returned to Helstone next, everything had changed. Mama was never quite herself again. Her health became so fragile. She complained about the air in Helstone, our house, my father. Nothing would satisfy her. For all that she complained about Helstone, she refused to go anywhere else. She would not visit Aunt Shaw or go to London. She hardly left Helstone."

Margaret took a deep intake of breath and cast a fond, sad glance at her sleeping father. "Papa, too, changed. It was as if a frost had fallen and turned all his hair to grey overnight. He never spoke about it, but I wonder now if it was then that he first started questioning his faith and struggling with his role in the church.

"Then, it was as if Fred had died, but secretly so, because suddenly no one would speak of him or inquire into his well-being. No one in Helstone would ask when he would next come to visit or where he last sailed. I could not understand what could have been so terrible as to cut Fred off so completely from his home and everyone he once knew.

"It wasn't until recently that I ever heard the story of the mutiny. Mama told me, during the time she pleaded for me to write to Fred. Oh, if she had but known what a cost it would require!"

She looked up at John, her grey eyes fervent in their eloquence. She was silent for a time.

"Tomorrow or the day after, Henry Lennox will come and he will tell us what our chances are. Maybe, if he can contact enough witnesses or find anyone who can collaborate Fred's story, then there are hopes. Until then, I will pray and intercede with the Almighty that justice will be done and Fred will be spared."

"Perhaps, that is the greatest action you may undertake on his behalf," Mr. Thornton said.

"You are right," she said. Then she reached out, and placed her hand on his – so very warm and soft and fragile. "Thank you, Mr. Thornton. I know you have sacrificed a great deal to be with us - yesterday and today. I.. it is just... you are a great comfort to us… both to my father… and to me. We are very grateful for your friendship, you must know. And your mother – she has been so kind."

John felt he ought to say something, acknowledge her gratitude in a way that expressed his own willingness, his own fervent desire to be of assistance, but he stumbled over his own tongue. Once again, he was reminded of the great, rough fellow he was. All he could do was nod his head once and force himself to smile.


Author's Note: This story is book-based, not series based. Therefore, John has not met Henry Lennox yet.