After whispered consultation, the surgeon accepted the few coins I pressed into his palm and sent an urchin to a nearby tavern. The appearance of writing materials a quarter of an hour later occasioned a surge in health, an increase of life and energy among the ailing. A few moments bent over my pen, and I was surrounded by such men as could drag themselves near to watch my hand move across the cheap foolscap. Had the supply of paper not been swiftly exhausted, I might be writing to France still. A tedious job I should have found it, for the mind of your common sailor is in general unimaginative.

The fellow whose duty I first undertook, was direct in his wording and naive in his aims. He wished only to inform a lady named Marguerite that he was alive— that he was confident he should soon be returned to Boulogne — that he desired her to remain chaste — and that she must not, on any account, sacrifice the red-backed rooster to her mania for cassoulet. I managed to convey as much of these varying sentiments as my pitiful mastery of French would allow, and then enquired: “Do you not wish to tell her anything of the engagement in which you fell prisoner? It was with the Stella Moris, was it not?”

My seaman pursed his lips and emitted a peculiarly French sound somewhere between an expectoration and a whistle, as if to say, “Tant pis. He had done with defeat; he was marshalling his strength for a return to battle; he could not reflect upon ships that were lost. Why discredit the Emperor's glory, by sending news of so ignominious an engagement? All these sentiments and some I could not fathom were contained in that single syllable, that sputum of contempt. I folded the sheet of paper in disappointment.

But directly I had sealed the edges with tallow, my services were implored by others too ready to relate the particulars of the Manon's loss. And here I discovered, to my chagrin, the limits of schoolgirl French.

I had never been taught the sort of terms that might prove useful in such a pass — the French that should distinguish the differences among guns, or describe the varying weights of shot, or convey the particulars of sail and line. I struggled to decipher the full sense of vient sous le vent, which I took to mean “coming under the wind,” when (I later learned) it meant “coming into the lee.” I could not attempt to explain “seizing the weather gauge” in any language. And I knew nothing of the patois that reigned supreme among the denizens of the gundeck. I was on the verge of despair, when a quiet voice at my shoulder said in English—

“I believe I might prove of some assistance, madame?

My face flushed with effort, my ears ringing with a multitude of voices, I turned to glare at the man propped against the stone wall. And managed to utter not a word of acknowledgement or thanks, being overcome, of a sudden, with confusion and surprise.

He was too weak, I imagine, to sit upright without assistance, and his dark eyes glittered at me through half-opened lids. He wore breeches of a colour indeterminate in the dark, and a white linen shirt oddly at variance with the soiled garb of the men about him; his fine hands rested lightly on his knees. It was the hands that drew my attention, after those first words of English; they had certainly never hauled a line, nor pulled this man upwards into the shrouds. He had recently shaved. His features were fine. There was a quirk of humour about the full lips, and strength in the cut of his chin. I must be staring at a French officer — inexplicably left to sicken and die among the ranks of his own men. But where was his uniform, or the marks of authority?

“You speak English,” I managed.

He bowed his head — a gesture of courtesy, the habit of a gentleman. “I might translate for your pen. There are niceties, there are forms, to a life at sea with which a lady like yourself could not be expected to be familiar….”

Niceties. Forms. How often had I heard those words? He might be my very brother Frank; he had been cut from the same mould. “Certainly you may assist me. I should be glad of the help. Are these your shipmates?”

“What few remain. Most of the Monoris crew are held at the large naval prison in Portsmouth — you know it?”

I nodded assent It was a fortification that dated from the Norman era; twenty generations of British prisoners might have rotted there.

“But your navy has had too much luck, and that prison is full of the French; and so we are sent here, along with others of different vessels, to await the exchange.”

“You are not a common seaman,” I said awkwardly, “and yet I do not observe the uniform of an officer.”

“We are all equal in defeat, madame,” he retorted gently. “But perhaps that is a French belief — the equal right of men to suffer arid die. When something more of value is at stake, however, we prove as selfish as the rest of the world!”

He smiled — a flash of white in that dim and awful room — and I felt a wave of giddiness rise from my feet to my cheeks. I could not help smiling back.

“You were writing to the sister of Jean-Philippe, I believe,” he resumed. “Something about the Stella luffing, and the wind being three points off the bow, and the Manon incapable of carrying royals.”

“Yes,” I stammered. “Luffing. Is that what vient au lof meant?”

His eyelids drifted lower, as though he would fade with weariness. “I would write to all of them myself,” he murmured, “but I can barely hold up my head. C 'est une fièvre de cheval…”

I rose and went to him in some anxiety. His forehead was clammy, his limbs trembling with the effort he had brought to bear on conversation. “You should lie down,” I said sternly. “You require rest.”

“A little water, if you please.”

I hesitated — Mr. Hill did not like cold water on a fevered stomach, believing it to cause retching; I fetched the man some lukewarm tea instead. He drank it without complaint, sighed, and closed his eyes again.

“Madame,” cried Jean-Philippe, the young seaman who had wished to write of luffing. “Madame, s'il vous plait—”

“Un moment.”

The Frenchman's eyes flicked open. “You are very good, with your paper and your broth. May I ask what is your name?”

“I am Miss Austen.”

“And I am Etienne LaForge,” he murmured. “You may call me ship's surgeon. It is as good a name as any for me. Has M'sieur Hill determined the nature of this illness?”

“Gaol fever.”

“Ah. It is as I suspected. Pray continue with your letters, mademoiselle, and I shall supply whatever words you deem necessary—”

I recommenced writing; and in a very little while, possessed a greater understanding of the Manon's last moments than the Naval Chronicle should be likely to procure.[10]

It would appear that Captain Seagrave had learned his tactics at Nelson's foot, for like that great departed naval hero, he was a proponent of gunnery and of crossing an enemy's bows with complete disregard for peril. Seagrave laid the Stella yardarm to yardarm with the French frigate, and brought his full broadside to bear at point-blank range — only four hundred yards of heaving water lay between. The destruction rained upon the Manon's hull was dreadful, for the British crews displayed greater accuracy than the French in training their guns. Where the Stella received a quantity of grape in the rigging, to the detriment of her masts and canvas, the Manon took several balls below the waterline, and was shipping water faster than the pumps could work. A mere forty minutes into the action, three of the French guns had been dismounted, and were rolling about the deck with every pitch of the waves, at immense hazard to the men; two unfortunate sailors found their feet crushed beneath the weight