Fanny was disconsolate to think of Mr. Gibson, with all his accomplishments, being snatched off the streets and forced to become a common seaman, though she naturally regarded the Navy more benignly than did the Bristol abolitionists. She wrote an anxious letter to her brother, giving a description of Mr. Gibson and asking him to be on the lookout for her friend.
* * * * * *
Blinking in the harsh sunlight after several days held below decks, William Gibson was lined up with the other pressed men on deck, to be interviewed by a serious young lieutenant supported by what Gibson supposed were midshipmen or clerks on either side. He listened as the men ahead of him were interviewed, until his turn came.
“Name?”
“William Frederick Gibson.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Place of birth?”
“Cambridgeshire.”
“Occupation?”
“Writer.”
“A writer? A writer of what?”
“Anti-slavery tracts, mostly. And poetry.”
“Religion?”
Gibson was tempted to say ‘none’, just to see the expression on the lieutenant’s face, but having watched the previous pressed men being interviewed, he knew there was only one acceptable answer, one which he refused to give. He prevaricated.
“My uncle, who raised me, was a clergyman.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Bayly,” said a voice behind Gibson. “But this man is a gentleman. He’s no sailor.”
“Silence! No one is to speak unless spoken to.”
Bayly scrutinized Gibson, who was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing more than a fortnight ago when he was seized off the streets in Bristol. Well, few gentlemen could look like gentlemen after such an ordeal.
“Are you, sir, a gentleman?”
Gibson had struggled for several days, locked in the hold with his conscience. The fact that he could put on a show of outrage, speak of having attended Cambridge, declare himself to be a gentleman in education, birth, breeding, everything but substance, and escape the fate of his fellow captives, struck him as a trial or a temptation comparable to the tale of St. Anthony. He might walk away; they could not. Neither could the Africans he had pledged his life to fight for.
“Well?” demanded Lieutenant Bayly. “Do you contend that you were impressed illegally?”
“Civis romanus sum, sir. But the fact of my being impressed, is not more unjust than the impressment of any of my fellows here.” There! It was said, and he wanted to feel glorious and noble for having stood by his principles, but he felt tired, grubby, and possibly foolish to the point of insanity.
A long cool stare from Bayly. Then—
“Any previous seagoing experience?”
“None.”
“Will you volunteer?”
“No. No, thank you.”
“Landsman Gibson, you are assigned to the West Africa Squadron. Many vacancies have arisen there. Dismissed.”
Gibson turned around, expecting to see awe and respect in the eyes of the other pressed men, but most were watching him with looks of disgust or perplexity.
“What’s that? He didn’t try to get off” — “Now we’ve got to look after this lubber” — “touched in the head” — “you take care of him, I won’t take him in my mess.”
Gibson was unceremoniously shoved aside. His eyes were finally adjusting to the sunshine, but he saw to his dismay he was being taken below decks again. He looked around for the friendly young Lieutenant Price, but he was nowhere to be found.
* * * * * *
Sir Thomas was visiting his bankers, Mrs. Norris was gone to pay her morning visits, and Julia elected to stay home with Maria, who was feeling unwell. However, Maria made it clear that she desired nothing more than to be left alone, and Julia was descending the stairs to the parlour, hesitating between practicing on the piano, or writing a letter to her mother, when there came a knock at the front door, and, out of curiosity, she answered the summons herself.
She beheld a tall, broad-shouldered, suntanned young naval lieutenant, with a cheerful and open countenance, whom she had never seen before, yet there was something about him which was oddly familiar to her. She was taken aback, but also could not help returning the artless smile he bestowed upon her. It would be fair to say that each of the young people surveyed each other, and each was not displeased by what they saw.
“I beg your pardon, Miss—do I have the honour of addressing one of my Bertram cousins?” ventured William Price (for of course it was he).
“Oh! You are Cousin William! I mean—Mr. Price,” Julia exclaimed, then reddened. “Do—please—” the lieutenant was ushered in with no further ceremony and shown to the parlour. She was briefly alarmed that she had perhaps greeted her cousin with more warmth than was proper, considering the vast gulf between the Bertrams and the Prices, but William Price was so unselfconscious in his manner, so free from either cringing servility or assumed hauteur, that she soon was chatting with him without reserve.
Captain Henderson had kindly left him at Wimpole Street and his carriage would return in twenty minutes’ time. The visitor declined all offers of tea, and there was but time to tell how Mr. Crawford’s uncle had obtained his long-desired promotion, for which Julia congratulated him heartily, not even blanching at the mention of the name “Crawford,” and she listened with great attention, though not much comprehension, to his animated description of the fifth-rate frigate HMS Solebay, the number of her guns,
