Remember Me - Lesley Pearse [189]
‘Leave me here,’ she said to him as they got to the boat. ‘Don’t come aboard, you must go back to meet up with James as you promised.’
The wind had blown itself out and the rain had stopped. For once there was no fog, and the moon and stars were clear and bright, making twinkling lights in the inky river. The sound of water slapping gently against the hull reminded her poignantly of that other desperate voyage, something she hadn’t thought of for a very long time.
‘Will you be all right?’ Boswell asked her, his customary confidence deserting him.
‘Of course I will,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘The sea holds no terrors for me.’
Boswell caught her by the forearms fiercely, his face suddenly more youthful in the blaze of a lighted torch by the boat. ‘If ever you need me, send a message,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘You take care of yourself, Bozzie,’ she said. ‘And say goodbye to James, Bill, Nat and Sam. Tell them I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to celebrate their freedom.’
Mary heard Moyes or John cough and knew they were waiting for her to go aboard. ‘Goodbye, my dear friend,’ she said, kissing him again, this time on the lips. ‘I shall never forget you. You gave me back my life.’
She left him quickly, not trusting herself not to cry. As she reached the deck she turned and waved just once. He was just standing looking up at her, the silver buttons on his coat and his gold watch-chain glistening in the light from the torch. He raised his three-cornered hat and bowed majestically, then turned and walked away.
‘Will you miss London?’ John said at her elbow.
Mary turned to look at him and smiled. She had a feeling that his real question was would she miss grand people like Boswell, not the city itself.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said truthfully. ‘I’m glad I’ve seen it, but I prefer a simple life, and people I can be myself with.’
Suddenly, she had the oddest feeling of having been here before. Puzzled, she looked around her, but in the darkness she could see little but the gleam of brass and the whiteness of coiled rope.
‘What’s the matter?’ John asked. ‘Don’t tell me a born sailor like you is disturbed by the movement beneath your feet?’
‘No, of course not,’ she said, then laughed because John’s Cornish burr was enough to jog her memory. The smell of river water, and a man who attracted her, completed the picture from the past.
She was on the deck of the Dunkirk, a girl in rags and chains, setting her heart on an officer with a faint Cornish accent.
‘Let me show you to your cabin,’ John said. ‘You’ll get cold up here.’
All at once Mary felt completely liberated, far more so than when she was released from Newgate. She was going to a cabin, not the hold. Tomorrow at dawn they would set sail, she would eat meals with Moyes, John and the other seamen. And she could use a spoon if she wanted to, because no one here would mind. They would drink rum and swap sailing stories, and she would be the men’s equal.
She began to laugh as she climbed down the steep steps to the cabins.
John stood at the bottom with her box in his arms and laughed too. ‘Are you that happy to be aboard?’ he asked, tawny eyes twinkling. ‘I’m very happy about it. But we expected you’d have had enough of ships to last a lifetime.’
‘I thought I had too,’ Mary replied, with laughter still in her voice. ‘But this one feels like I’m already home.’
Postscript
I confess that I never looked at these people without pity and astonishment. They had miscarried in a heroic strug gle for liberty; after having combated every hardship and conquered every difficulty.
The woman had gone out to Port Jackson in the ship which transported me thither and was distinguished for her good behaviour. I could not but reflect with admiration at the strange combination of circumstances which had brought us together again, to baffle human foresight and confound human speculation.
An extract from Watkin Tench