by David Healey
"Ensign Fowler at your service, sir."
"So I have heard." The admiral did not bother to get up. "You have information for me, Fowler?"
"I have news for you, my lord, about the action that Resolution undertook against three Napoleonist ships."
"Indeed?" The admiral said. "What could you possibly tell me that was not in Captain Bellingham's detailed report."
"Did the report mention waves, sir?"
Briefly, the admiral considered informing the ensign that it was none of his business what had been written in the report. But Jervis was curious. He also felt that he was sailing blind in turbulent waters.
"It did, Mr. Fowler. Two waves, in fact, that arose out of a sudden storm."
Fowler looked surprised. "What storm? There was no storm, my lord."
"How else might one explain the sudden appearance of rogue waves large enough to crush three enemy ships, Mr. Fowler? Of course there was a storm, although it may have been a distant one. That is what Captain Bellingham wrote in his report. May I remind you that Bellingham is a most esteemed captain and I trust him immensely. Have you come here to contradict his report?"
Fowler seemed to waver. He looked away from the admiral's glowering face, as if to take a moment to rally his thoughts. Fowler spoke carefully, "I would never think to contradict Captain Bellingham, sir."
"Oh? How good to hear that you are a loyal young man. Then why are you here wasting my time?"
"It's possible that the captain overlooked some detail or did not see everything that took place that day," Fowler said carefully.
"And you were more observant than Captain Bellingham?"
"Yes, my lord." Fowler seemed to go forward now with more confidence, the way a man charging into an enemy battalion will run faster, knowing that he will either succeed, or die trying. "Did the captain's report mention the actions of an Ensign Hope?"
"I will tell you what the captain's report said when I am ready to do so, Fowler. Where was this Ensign Hope during the battle?"
Fowler barely suppressed a smile. "He was standing on the quarterdeck next to Captain Bellingham."
"I am sure that Captain Bellingham had his reasons for leaving out the actions of this ensign. Generally, an ensign's chief concern is to keep his head out of his arse. What, pray tell, did this ensign do that had such a bearing on the battle?"
"He summoned the waves, my lord."
The admiral managed to spill hot coffee on his desk. "He what?"
"He raised his arms like this—" Fowler lifted his own arms over his head, dropping his hat in the process "—and the sea rose up around us, my lord, in a magnificent column of water. Then Ensign Hope brought down his hands and the sea smashed the enemy ships."
The admiral was speechless for several moments. He finally thundered: "Has our beloved Royal Navy fallen so low that it now accepts witless boys who tell such outlandish stories? Preposterous!"
"It was Ensign Hope, my lord," Fowler insisted in a quiet, but determined voice. "He commanded the sea. He is an elemental."
The admiral rose, preparing to hurl this foolish ensign from his office with the fury of his voice alone. But something nagged at the back of his mind. The admiral stroked his chin. Names and connections were like the coin of the realm. "Ensign Hope, you say? Hope? Where have I heard that name?" The admiral's eyes grew wide. "The Hero of the Armada!"
"Yes, my lord, you have probably heard of Sir Algernon Hope. He was the one who sank the Spanish Armada in—"
The admiral pounded the desk. "I am well acquainted with the legend of Sir Algernon Hope! There is no need to instruct me in the tale that every schoolboy knows, Mr. Fowler!"
"Then, my lord, you may know that Ensign Hope is his direct descendant." This time, a sly smile formed on Fowler’s thin lips.
The admiral sank slowly into his chair. "To whom else have you told this?" he demanded.
"No one, my lord."
"Then we must keep it this way, Mr. Fowler. These are dangerous times for rumors and half truths to give false optimism. The admiralty must proceed cautiously in such cases. I would say that this Ensign Hope bears watching. If you are serving with him aboard Resolution, perhaps you could report periodically to me. Directly to me, I might add."
"It would be an honor, my lord. Unfortunately, I am no longer assigned to Resolution. Captain Bellingham made a change in the roster that has put me ashore in a most inconvenient way."
The admiral knew that the "inconvenient" aspect probably had to do with the fact that Ensign Fowler was now on half pay and out of the running for any prize money. Judging by the state of his uniform, it was likely that Fowler sorely needed his Royal Navy pay. Of course, there were families who kept their sons in fine fettle, but Fowler did not appear to be one of them.
"I am sure Captain Bellingham can find room for you on his ship."
"Perhaps Bellingham won't want me, sir."
"Indeed? We shall see about that." The admiral took pen and paper, and in his own hand, wrote orders. He began to hand Fowler the sealed packet, took stock of the ensign's uniform again, and wrapped a twenty pound note around it. Quite a considerable sum. "Here. You are now promoted to Senior Ensign. This should settle matters with Captain Bellingham. And perhaps a new coat would set you right in his eyes."
Fowler took the orders and the money. "Thank you, my lord."
"Keep me informed, Mr. Fowler. That will be all."
• • •
Lord Jervis was both excited and troubled after his meeting with the ensign. He wasn’t much concerned with Fowler, who seemed to be nothing more than an opportunist and toady—but one whom the admiral could put to his own uses.
No, it was this Ensign Hope that troubled him.
Lord Jervis had not been exaggerating when he said that every schoolboy knew the legend of how Sir Algernon Hope had destroyed the Spanish Armada and saved England from invasion. He sipped his coffee and reflected on that tale.
In 1588, the King of Spain had sent hundreds of ships and thousands of soldiers to invade England. The Spanish were wily sailors and fierce soldiers who had conquered an empire in the New World. Now, they had set their sights on England, which was outnumbered in every way.
Aboard the Armada were no less than three fire elementals, including the savage Duke of Castille. The English had none, because Henry the Eighth had exiled or put to death any elementals for fear that they might pose a threat to the throne.
Algernon Hope had only been an unknown boy, about the same age as an ensign. While Sir Francis Drake was doing what he could at sea and with Queen Elizabeth herself leading troops on land, this mere boy rowed out in a skiff and summoned the sea to crush the Armada.
The thought that England might have another such hero should have been a relief to Lord Jervis. But he knew all too well how the story of Sir Algernon Hope had ended in intrigue and tragedy. His descendant could tip the balance of power against the Emperor Napoleon, but in what way? If this Ensign Hope really was an elemental, Lord Jervis knew he must tread carefully as a barefoot man in a room filled with scorpions. For now, it would be enough to keep in eye on Ensign Hope. And Fowler seemed to be just the lad for the job.
• • •
An hour later, the newly promoted Senior Ensign Thomas Fowler made his way through the streets of London. He felt almost giddy with delight. He was returning to sea and to the Resolution! That alone was rich reward.
Of course, the admiral's money also helped to improve Fowler's frame of mind. He had stopped in the first tailor's shop he came to and been measured for a new coat, just as the admiral suggested. In fact, there was money enough for an entirely new uniform, right down to his sea boots. He paid extra so that it would be ready by the morning. He would be returning to HMS Resolution in style.
He patted the pocket that held the admiral's orders. Old Bellingham might not be entirely glad to have him back, but he wouldn't have much choice. No matter—once he was back aboard Resolution and at sea, he would have a
chance to prove himself. With luck, promotion would await him or perhaps a transfer to one of the new triple-decker ships of the line that were being built to help thwart the threat of invasion by the Napoleonists.
Passing a row of vendors, the delicious smell of grilling meat and fresh-basked pastry made his belly rumble. He had been short on funds, living on stale bread and cheese in his rented room above a dingy storefront. He stopped, and with one of the bright coins in his pocket he bought a meat pie wrapped in newspaper. When he bit through the golden brown crust, hot juices ran down his chin. Delicious! He devoured it on the spot, standing beside the vendor's cart. And then he bought another.
Eating this pie more slowly, savoring the flavor of it, he nearly tripped over the beggar who suddenly appeared in his path. The beggar was a boy, scarcely more than eight or nine years old. Ragged clothing hung off him, and the skinny lad shivered in the damp air. "Please, sir, I'm starving! I haven't had a bite to eat—"
"Out of my way!" Fowler shoved the child harder than necessary, so that he went down on his hands and knees on the rough cobblestones. Then Fowler kicked him. "You filthy beggars are ruining this city!"
"Oi!" someone shouted, and Fowler looked up to see a sturdy workman pointing at him angrily. "That's no way to treat a beggar boy, young master, not rough like that!"
"Who are you to say how I shall treat him?" Fowler pulled back his coat to reveal a pistol and a knife tucked into his belt.
The unarmed workman just shook his head and looked away. No good would come from tangling with a young Navy officer.
Fowler snorted in derision. "That's what I thought!"
He kicked the beggar boy one more time for good measure, and then made his way toward the waterfront, whistling.
CHAPTER 3
Captain Amelia Blackburn of the Royal Flyer Corps stood at the quarterdeck of HMS Resolution, watching a messenger gryphon make a clumsy landing at the ship's unfamiliar gryphon port. It was several minutes later that the courier appeared, wearing the sky blue uniform of the Royal Flyer Corps.
He had come to deliver a message to Captain Bellingham, the ship’s commander, but it was Captain Amelia who greeted him by critiquing his flying skills in a loud voice that was audible to all on deck: "That is by far the worst landing I have ever seen!"
"If you say so, ma'am," the courier said, taken aback by the look of outrage on the flyer captain's face. He was small and compact as many flyers were, while Amelia was tall and lithe. Although he had never met her, he knew at once who this was, for Captain Amelia Blackburn's sharp-tongued reputation was well known throughout the fleet.
"I do say so! It seems we are now putting any boy with a skinny arse into a gryphon saddle and calling him a flyer. It's quite disappointing."
Captain Bellingham stepped forward and took the message packet. "Thank you, young man. That will be all."
Gratefully, and with a wary eye on Captain Amelia, the young flyer saluted the ship's commander, drew himself up to his full height—his head barely reached the brass buttons of Bellingham's sea coat—then spun smartly on his heels and marched away. Minutes later, he and his gryphon took off again. It was a rather puny gryphon, not much larger than a pony. The beast looked bony rather than sleek, as if the creature had been flown too much and not fed enough, and it tumbled alarmingly toward the water before seeming to remember that it had wings. As rider and gryphon flew away from the Resolution, they were followed by a few shouts from Captain Amelia, who took pains to point out their sloppy execution of a take off.
Then Amelia stood for several long moments, staring at the sky until it was empty. While she loved the sea and open sky, at the same time she sometimes thought there was nothing so bleak as a gray sky above a calm sea on a ship moored in the harbor. A ship should not be tethered, she thought, just as a flyer should not be grounded. Unfortunately, she had not been in the air for several weeks now, not since the battle against the three Napoleonist ships in which her own beloved gryphon, Desdemona, had been killed defending her in hand-to-hand combat when the Resolution had been boarded. The loss was doubly felt. Part of her mourned Desdemona, and the other part mourned the fact that she had been grounded since then.
The problem was that a gryphon was a rare beast and quite expensive. It was not like replacing a horse. No, it was a situation akin to a captain who had lost his ship. One did not simply sign out a new ship because no ship was to be had. Nor did one simply sign for a new gryphon.
There were exceptions to this rule, depending upon one's circumstances—wealth, to put it baldly—and connections. While she had not done badly for herself between her share of prize money and her officer's pay, Amelia lacked the sort of money needed to simply acquire a new gryphon rather than wait for the Royal Flyer Corps to get around to assigning one. Her caustic nature had not won her any rich patrons met at London parties.
Really good gryphons assigned by the service were rare—case in point being the bony gryphon with the sloppy landing and takeoff she had just witnessed. Desdemona had been an exception.
"Come, Amelia, join me for coffee in my cabin," said Bellingham. It was his kindness this last few weeks that had kept her from going mad. "I should like your opinion on a naval matter."
She followed him below. The captain's cabin is one of the grandest spaces on a Royal Navy Frigate, which for the most part is a cramped, crowded world, even for an officer. Bellingham's cabin glowed with whitewash, and a great table stood in the center of the space. A lantern swung above, keeping the gloom at bay and make the space seem cozy. A row of windows in the stern let in yet more light, and offered a view of the other ships anchored at Spithead, biding their time like birds of prey at rest.
"The courier has brought me orders, Amelia." Bellingham slapped his big hands together happily. Just as Amelia couldn't wait to get back in the air, Bellingham preferred to be at sea. "We are to sail on tomorrow's tide."
"That is wonderful news," Amelia said hollowly, then forced a smile for Bellingham's sake.
Bellingham’s serving man poured them coffee and added a great deal of sugar and cream to Bellingham's cup. Captain Amelia drank hers black.
"We are to have passengers," he said. From time to time, Royal Navy vessels carried important persons such as diplomats on special missions. "What makes this most unusual is that our passengers are to be Americans."
Amelia sat up with something like alarm. She had never met an actual American. Most British viewed them the same way they would see poor relations from Liverpool, or the unfortunate cousin who once went to debtor's prison; maybe he was even suspected of stealing sheep. In other words, one rarely discussed Americans in polite company. "Don't they have their own ships?"
"One would think so, but orders are orders. The Admiralty can be very mysterious, as you know."
While she was happy for Bellingham, going to sea would, in all likelihood, delay even further her hopes of receiving a new gryphon. "Is there any word yet from Rigley and Hobhouse?"
Bellingham shook his head. The two had taken young Mr. Hope to shore to recover after the poor boy had been left nearly comatose in the battle against the Napoleonists. Something terrible and awful had happened that day. Bellingham forbade anyone to talk openly of what they had seen but the crew whispered about it in hushed tones. The captain had not heard from Rigley or Hobhouse in weeks, and his messages had gone unanswered.
"I sent the courier back with a message for Lord Parkington, in hopes that if he has made his recovery, that he may join us in time," the captain said.
"Let us hope he can," Amelia said vaguely, and sipped her coffee. She had mixed emotions on Parkington. He was a good flyer—she grudgingly admitted he was one of the best—but his status as a wealthy aristocrat made him prickly where taking orders was concerned. A disdain for following orders was a quality she admired in herself, but not in her ensigns. Of course, for someone like Parkington it would be no great thing to find a new gryphon. She'd heard the beasts bred like rabbits at the you
ng earl's vast country estate.
But Amelia's pride would not allow her to write to an ensign, a mere boy at that—even if he was the Earl of Parkington—and beg for a gryphon. No, she would be grounded until the Royal Flyer Corps worked its slow way 'round to issuing her a new gryphon. She feared it was a process that could take weeks—or months.
Bellingham seemed to sense what she was thinking. He reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. It was something of a liberty for a man to take with a woman, but it could be seen as a gesture between friends. Yet Bellingham held her hand long enough to indicate that it could mean something more, if she wished it to. "Give it time, Amelia. You know how slowly the service works. One of these days you will be back in the air with a gryphon every bit as good as Desdemona was."
"If you lost the Resolution, would you think the replacement ship was as good?"
Bellingham scowled—he didn't like the thought of losing the Resolution and considered that even the mention of it was bad luck. Then his look softened. "I would honor Resolution's memory, and then count myself lucky to have a new ship."
It was Amelia's turn to smile. "You always do see the grog glass half full, don't you? Well, the tide turns tomorrow. We shall see."
• • •
Michel Ney, marshal of France, stood before a roaring fire and contemplated the flames. Some found it strange that he always had a fire going in his headquarters, whether it was winter or summer. The flames licked over several chunks of hardwood and crept up the blackened stones of the fireplace itself. The heat was searing, but Ney did not seem to notice.