On the following day, Fanny took Mr. Gibson’s article with her, to share with Mr. Edifice. The curate was in no very receptive mood. It had dawned on him, when he was about half-way through the twenty-second chapter of Numbers, that the story of Balaam’s ass was a poor choice for a bible reading for young students. He stubbornly carried on, ignoring the laughing and tittering, but the tips of his ears grew red and his temper frayed. Therefore he greeted Miss Price with some asperity when she told him, “Mr. Gibson quoted quite extensively from your speech to Mrs. Perceval, and it will all appear in the annual report.”
“Did he indeed?” Mr. Edifice replied disagreeably, to Fanny’s surprise. “If he is appropriating my speech, over which I expended no small pains, it would seem only right I should be remunerated, would you not agree? Will I receive some portion of the fee Mr. Gibson was paid to write it? Why should I be pleased when he has profited at my expense?”
“Oh, but you are quite mistaken, Mr. Edifice. Mr. Gibson is not receiving any payment for writing this article, although of course he earns his living as a writer. But as this is for the benefit of the Society for Improving the—you know, the Society, he did not request a fee.”
Mr. Edifice was visibly discomposed by this explanation.
“Really! That is—no, no, of course not. You are certain? Quite certain, then. Ah, yes, but as it’s for the Society, after all, and neither would I ask the Society for any—that is, not any amount above and beyond my usual salary for my duties here—that is— how very generous of him.”
He turned to leave, then paused and added, “I own that I assumed Mr. Gibson would expect to be paid for such a service—indeed, for any service. He told me most decidedly that no man of sense should venture upon matrimony unless the bride brought a substantial dowry with her, or something to that effect. Pure folly to do otherwise, he said. As a result, I had put him down, perhaps wrongly, as being of a mercenary character. But, obviously Mr. Gibson has his charitable side. I should be sorry to think I misjudged him. Naturally, I am highly gratified to see my words in print, and I look forward to the publication of the annual report.”
Fanny bid farewell to Mr. Edifice with her usual placidity but with great inner perturbation. After the curate left, she kept puzzling over his account of his conversation with her friend. She had often heard it said, that gentlemen spoke more candidly and revealed their true sentiments, in company with other men, without ladies present. Still, she could hardly credit the assertion that Mr. Gibson—who had always said money was of no consequence to him—would only consider matrimony if his bride were wealthy. The sentiment was completely at odds with what she knew of his principles.
But, after all, what did it matter—what could it matter, to her? So far as she knew, Mr. Gibson never intended to marry—he had said so, more than once. Still, she felt greatly dismayed, and she wondered how she might hint at the topic when Mr. Gibson returned from Portsmouth. But how? She blushed at the thought.
* * * * * * *
The Kangaroo had lost many weeks, tracking a wandering path down the coast of Africa, attempting to rendezvous with Captain Frederick Irby and the HMS Amelia, as per their orders from the Admiralty. Lieutenant Price and the entire crew scanned the horizon for the Amelia or the Protector, and they were still more vigilant in watching out for any slaving ships. The West African Squadron consisted of these three ships—Kangaroo, Protector, and Amelia—which were entirely insufficient to patrol the vast expanse of coastline, and the many wandering rivers and tributaries, out of which the evil trade continued, and for every slaver the Squadron encountered, at least a dozen slipped away with their freight of despairing Africans.
During William Price’s previous tour of Africa, he had enjoyed the companionship of William Gibson, and he felt the loss of his friend’s conversation every day. His fellow officers on the Kangaroo were not as congenial, and there was a tendency to complain and find fault with everything, that was as dispiriting as the sultry weather.
The voyage and a subsequent tedious month back in Sierra Leone, reinforced William’s conviction that his late commander’s dying warning was completely sound—he would not have wished the tedium and the misery, the heat, and the blinding rains, upon the woman he loved—not for any consideration, and not even for the consolation they might have found in one another.
At no time did this persuasion weigh upon him more profoundly than on a miserable day in mid-February, when he and some of the crew were assigned to paddle their launch to explore a tributary of the River Gambia. The endless creeks and twisting rivers along the coast were home to the luxurious settlements of the slave-masters. The long caravans of men, women and children, chained together and driven through the jungle, were collected at these slaving establishments, examined, sold, and packed into canoes to be ferried to the waiting ships on the coast.
This was William’s first opportunity to command a small expedition, charged with enforcing the will of His Britannic Majesty King George at the point
