Free Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House by Stephanie Barron Page B

murder. He would have it that Tom Seagrave demanded blood for blood, at the death of his Young Gentleman; and therein lies the end of the matter.”
    “And did Chessyre witness murder with his own eyes? Or does he merely assume the act, from the dirk's being first in Seagrave's possession?”
    “He insists he saw the Frenchman, Porthiault, hold out his sword in surrender, that Seagrave took it, as is the custom, as the French colours came down; and that while the enemy captain stood defenceless, Seagrave cut him to the heart” Frank's voice was heavy. So determined a recital—complete with facts, and clear in its account—looked quite black indeed.
    “Then why did Chessyre say nothing against his captain until he reached port?”
    “From fear of Seagrave. To hear Chessyre tell it, he might as well have thrown himself into the sea, as accuse the man aboard his own ship. I cannot blame him for keeping silent, if there is truth in his charge. Such an act of murder—for that is what every man of feeling must hold it to have been—would urge the Lieutenant to believe Seagrave on the verge of madness. I confess, Jane, that having seen Chessyre—having heard his account with my own ears—I comprehend the grim looks of Admiral Bertie. So harsh a testimony could well sink my friend.”
    “And do you believe it, Frank?”
    He was silent just that instant too long. “I confess I do not know what to believe.”
    “Will none of Seagrave's crew give Chessyre the lie?” I cried.
    “None has come forward. It is possible that they are all in the most fearful indecision.”
    Much would be required, for a man to risk the contempt of the Admiralty—the loss of confidence were he proved wrong—the negative consequences for his career. Silence, in such a pass, would seem the wisest policy of all.
    But silence was not my brother's choice.
    “Jane, the Captain's trial is to be held two days hence on board Admiral Hastings's ship, moored in Portsmouth harbour. I intend to be present for the proceedings—and to offer my most fervent testimonial as to the worth of Seagrave's character.”
    “The case shall turn upon evidence, Frank, and not upon a judgement of character. If you would clear Captain Seagrave's name, you must learn why his lieutenant intends him to hang.”
    My blunt words occasioned little more than a grunt of displeasure from Frank; he could not love the duty that must destroy the honour of one man, or the other.
    “You have but two choices,” I persisted. “To regard your friend as innocent, or to believe Lieutenant Chessyre's charge. If the latter—your friend's cause is lost. If the former—then we must consider the possibility that the Lieutenant would shift guilt upon the Captain, because he is mortally afraid of being charged with murder himself”
    “Chessyre?” Frank cried, as one amazed.
    “I can account for his actions in no other way— excepting the spur of truth. And you will not allow him to speak from truth.”
    “But why should Chessyre kill the French captain? Seagrave has never suggested that he did; and if Seagrave did not see the hand that struck Porthiault down, then how may we accuse Chessyre of the act?”
    “I confess the entire affair confounds reason. I am almost persuaded that both men are mired in half-truths and prevarication. No other construction may be placed upon events.”
    “A very simple construction might be placed upon them,” Frank countered grimly. “Shall I tell you what it is? Eustace Chessyre is an aging man. He has been thirteen years a first lieutenant, and is unlikely ever to achieve a further rank. Two younger men in Seagrave's command—second lieutenants, both of them—have been promoted to master and commander from beneath Chessyre's eye. He told me so himself. The success of his subordinates has made him bitter, Jane. He has been passed over, from among the ranks of his own men. He cannot bear the indignity—and he blames Seagrave for its