Free The Moonless Night by Joan Smith Page B

of the Plym River,” David explained. “Plymouth is situated between two rivers, the Tamar on the other side. This inlet is called Catwater, and on the other side it is called Ham-Oze. This is the more picturesque in my opinion. We’ll ride into town and walk along the Hoo, if you don’t mind being crowded. You will get the best view of Billy Ruffian from there.”
    “Billy Ruffian, that is another name for the Bellerophon I take it?” Benson asked, nodding at all the odd scraps of information thrown to him.
    “Yes, it is what the crewmen have named her, and of course the whole crowd of landlubbers have become sailors since the ship anchored within view. Anyone in town could tell you she carries seventy-four guns, and is under the command of Captain Frederick Maitland.”
    They dismounted and walked along, enjoying the sun, which was dissipated to a glow by the hazy air, but still warm enough that the salt air from the ocean was welcome. They jostled elbows with fishmongers, sailors, children, soldiers, ladies and housemaids till they had reached a good position on the Hoo, an elevated esplanade that ran along the edge of the sea, and was the favorite spot for regarding the ship. David, who always brought a small hand telescope with him when he came into the city, handed it to Benson to train on Bellerophon , but its ineffectual lens showed no more than the same view seen from the point, a large ship riding the waves, with indistinguishable shadows moving about on board.
    Unaware of the machine’s weakness, Sanford reached for it. “I think we could get a look at him if he came out on deck now,” he said, training the glass on the ship.
    “He is nothing to see I promise you,” Benson remarked casually.
    “What—have you seen him?” David asked.
    “Yes, I was in France when he escaped from Elba, and met him once. He is a short, obese, unkempt gentleman with thinning hair and bad teeth. Awkward in his movements, and slovenly in his dress. He wears his uniform open at the neck, and can be rude to people when he wishes.”
    “Petty complaints about the greatest genius of our age,” Sanford said.
    “Ah, do you put him a rung above Beau Brummel?” Benson asked.
    “Several rungs below in toilette, from what you tell us. I begin to perceive I must invite Beau to Wight to smarten the Emperor up.”
    “I made sure his toilette would be of interest to yourself, Sanford, so interested as you are in your jackets. And with what other detail can you cavil? He is short, certainly. Five feet six inches, to be precise.”
    “But somehow, you know, it seems inappropriate to measure Napoleon Bonaparte in inches,” Sanford objected.
    “How would you measure him, milord, in pounds?”
    “No, it is not my practice to assess people in pounds and pence. I assume that was your meaning, Mr. Benson? You are interested in the fortunes of your friends, one hears.” He just glanced to Marie as he said this, a meaningful look, though it meant no more to her than that Sanford was extremely rude indeed.
    “It was pounds and ounces Mr. Benson referred to,” she said angrily.
    “Ah, was that it?” Sanford asked with a light laugh. “It was giving us the figure in feet and inches, but not in pounds and ounces that led me astray.”
    Benson ignored the whole pass, like a gentleman. “He is aging besides,” he added. “Forty-six years old.”
    “And how many months and weeks?” Sanford inquired courteously. He was again ignored by Mr. Benson, and the rest of the party as well.
    They fell silent, looking across the gray-green water, shimmering with a silvery-gold light, and flecked with white caps where the wind ruffled it. “The wind’s rising. We’d better be getting on if we want to take Fury out,” David said.
    “In a moment,” Sanford said, again trying to adjust the telescope to give a clearer picture, but with no success. “What is that island there, just off the coast?’ he asked Marie.
    “St. Nicholas Island,”