Georgiana’s eyes darted daggers. ‘Yes, sir, right away, sir,’ she muttered, and made her way below, leaving behind a trail of smelly wet footprints.
‘Beast!’ the word escaped Georgiana as she huddled within the hip bath, washing her limbs with cold seawater. Anger had given her the strength to fetch and fill the bath herself. With the chair wedged firmly beneath the handle of the interconnecting door of her cabin—or should she say the captain’s cabin?—she stripped naked and balled the stinking wet clothes in the corner, ready to be rinsed once she had removed every last trace of the offensive odour from her own person. If he thought he could just come upon her and cause such a mishap … How she fumed. He was rude and uncaring, the antithesis of a gentleman, and … And he was none of these things. Georgiana plummeted off her high horse and acknowledged the truth. Nathaniel Hawke was everything to be respected in a good man. It was only her pride that was smarting, as well it might, having been soaked in the stale urine of one hundred and eighty-five burly members of the King’s Navy. Ugh! She shivered at the very thought. And no matter how hard she scrubbed, it seemed that she could detect the faint whiff of that unsavoury excretion. By the time she had completed her ablutions, the tablet of soap was very small and she was once more fragrant and cleansed. Her clothes lay clean and ready to be hung out on deck. At least they would dry quickly in the warm breeze. All except her bindings, which she could not risk revealing to any other eyes. They dripped alone, a saddened state in the corner.
Georgiana looked down at her newly donned shirt and took a sharp intake of air. It would not do, it just would not do at all. Pulling on the waistcoat and jacket she inspected herself further. The problem still manifested itself in a rather obvious way. She would have to wait some time before facing the crew of the Pallas once more.
There was a tap at the door.
‘George.’ Nathaniel’s voice sounded through the wooden panels.
She did not answer.
The handle shifted beneath Nathaniel’s hand, but the door stuck fast. ‘George,’ he persevered. ‘I shouldn’t have laughed at you. It was an unfortunate accident. You’re not hurt, are you?’
‘No. I’m quite recovered from the incident, sir.’
‘Open the door, I wish to speak with you.’ His voice sounded a little impatient.
Georgiana’s gaze scanned the empty cabin. ‘I cannot.’
‘Why not?’ She could hear his perplexity.
She paused, thinking quickly. ‘I…I’m not suitably dressed.’
‘Well, put some clothes on and be quick about it.’ Nathaniel Hawke could be a persistent man when it suited him.
A pool of water was collecting on the floor beneath the bindings. It would be some hours before they would be dry enough to wear again. Neither Captain Hawke, nor any other member of the crew, would believe that it took that length of time to bathe and dress. ‘It will take some considerable time, sir.’
‘I’ve letters to write. Come out when you’re ready.’ He listened for her reply, as his boots echoed across the wooden floor to his desk.
There was nothing else for it. She would have to tell him the truth. ‘Captain Hawke, are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
She pictured him sitting serenely at his desk, quill in hand, a sheet of paper in readiness before him. ‘Are you quite alone, sir?’
She felt his gaze shift from the paper to the door. ‘Yes. Is something the matter, George?’
A small silence.
‘Yes, sir.’
The boots had risen and were making their way back over to the other side of the doorway. ‘George?’
More silence.
Then, ‘I cannot leave the cabin until tomorrow, sir.’
‘Why ever not?’
She chewed on her lip. ‘It’s rather difficult to explain, sir.’
Nathaniel’s apprehension was mounting by the minute. The girl must have hurt more than her pride. Worry pulled at his brow. ‘Open this door at once, George.’
‘I cannot.’
‘If you don’t, I’ll take the whole damn wall down.’ What the hell had happened to make her afraid to open the door? Had Pensenby accosted her? Nathaniel felt suddenly apprehensive at the thought. ‘George!’ The door handle rattled uselessly in his fingers. He contemplated dismantling the flimsy structure—it was, after all, designed to be removed into storage during battle situations.
Georgiana leapt up off the bed and placed her hands against the door. ‘Please do not, sir. I beg of you.’
The girl was clearly distraught. He forced his voice to sound calm, reassuring. ‘I cannot help you if you won’t speak to me. Just open the door.’ And all the while the knot of worry within his stomach expanded.
Silence.
She sighed. It was no use, her rebuttals and half-explanations were just making things worse. For all his efforts, she could hear the unease in his voice. Slowly she removed the chair and opened the door.
‘Georgiana,’ Nathaniel uttered with relief and stepped through the portal. Nothing seemed to be amiss. She appeared fully dressed and uninjured. He grasped her shoulders and scanned her face. ‘What’s wrong? Why wouldn’t you open the door?’
He watched the rosy hue rise in her cheeks as she would not meet his gaze. It was quite unlike her normal behaviour. ‘Georgiana,’ he whispered again and pulled her into an embrace. He touched a kiss to the top of her head and soap and seawater tickled his nose. His hand slowed its caress across her back as he looked down into her eyes. ‘Is it Pensenby? Has he questioned you?’
The blush deepened. ‘Oh, no, nothing of that nature.’ She tried to pull away, but his arms only tightened around her. She swallowed hard. ‘Perhaps, it’s not so much of a problem as I’d imagined if it’s not apparent to you.’ Easing herself away from him, she stood back and, despite the mortification she was suffering, held herself open to his perusal. ‘Do you notice no change in my appearance, sir? Please be truthful.’
His brow wrinkled in puzzlement as he scrutinised her hair and face, his gaze dropping to examine her newly donned clothes. Was it his imagination, or had she, was she…? Brown eyes met blue and a dark winged eyebrow raised its enquiry. ‘Take off your jacket.’
‘No, indeed I will not!’ Two pink spots burned brighter upon her cheeks.
At last Nathaniel experienced a glimmer of understanding of his ship’s boy’s strange behaviour. ‘Come now, George, it’s better if I see the full extent of the problem.’
Embarrassing though it was, she supposed him to be right. The jacket was quickly thrown upon the bed. ‘Perhaps it’s not as obvious as I’d thought. If I were to keep my jacket on—’
‘It would not hide the fact that you have a most admirable figure, nephew George, a fact that would not go unnoticed by the entirety of the company.’ He raised appreciative eyes to hers. ‘Yes, I believe I understand your dilemma.’
She snatched the jacket back against her breast. For, once freed of its restraining bindings, Georgiana’s bosom was clearly apparent and in complete defiance of her ship’s boy status. The reappearance of the hitherto forgotten attribute rendered Miss Raithwaite uncomfortably self-conscious. ‘Captain Hawke, if you would kindly refrain from staring,’ she said.
‘I do beg your pardon, nephew George,’ replied Nathaniel, executing a small bow in her direction. ‘But the view is uncommonly good.’
‘Nathaniel Hawke!’
A broad smile spread across Nathaniel’s face. ‘Forgive me, George. It’s quite clear you must remain cabin bound until your, um, bindings are wearable once more.’
‘That,’ said Georgiana with some exasperation, ‘is what I’ve being trying to tell you.’
‘I’ll inform Mr Fraser that you’re assisting me with my letter writing and we’re not to be disturbed.’
A shiver tickled at the nape of Georgiana’s neck. The prospect of remaining undisturbed in the company of Captain Hawke seemed remote indeed.
The white of the marine sentry’s crossbelts and f
acings stood out starkly against the scarlet of his coat. He gripped his musket and looked at the second lieutenant indifferently. ‘Orders is orders, Lieutenant Pensenby. If the captain says no disturbances, that’s what he means.’
‘I beg your pardon!’ Cyril Pensenby was annoyed to find the captain could not be interrupted. ‘I’m quite sure that the order did not include Lieutenant Anderson or myself, and—’ he puffed his chest out in self-importance ‘—given the importance of my news, he will want to know.’
The sentry looked unimpressed.
‘Has he someone in there with him?’ Pensenby snapped.
The marine’s shoulders shrugged, and he scratched at his head beneath the brim of his tall black hat. ‘Only the servant boy Robertson. But it makes no difference to my orders, sir.’
Cyril Pensenby’s face took on a sharpened expression. ‘Indeed. Well, I’m afraid I must override your orders and insist upon seeing the captain. There’s no time to waste, man.’ Without further ado, Lieutenant Pensenby rushed past the marine and straight into Captain Hawke’s cabin.
Everything around the cabin seemed perfectly in order. In the middle of the room the polished mahogany of the cleared dining table glinted in the sunlight. Six ornate chairs were tucked beneath it, awaiting the time it would be set for dinner. The desk was positioned closer to the windows lining the back wall of the cabin, its surface littered with papers and charts. Three pens lay beside the inkwell, a small sharpening knife in front of them. The red leather captain’s chair behind the desk was empty. Nathaniel was standing, arms behind his back, peering out of the stern windows while he dictated a letter. Ship’s boy Robertson was seated at the near side of the desk, neatly transcribing the captain’s words on to paper. Both faces shot round to stare at him.
The marine stumbled in at Pensenby’s back, musket raised towards the lieutenant. ‘I told him you wasn’t to be disturbed, Captain, but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘Mr Pensenby?’ Captain Hawke turned a glacial eye upon his subordinate and moved swiftly to shield Georgiana from the men’s view.
Georgiana’s hand surreptitiously stole to cover the front of her neatly buttoned jacket as she shifted in her seat to present both the second lieutenant and marine with a fine view of her back.
‘Forgive me, Captain Hawke,’ Pensenby looked over the captain’s shoulder at the rear of the boy’s head. ‘I thought you would wish to know that the look-out has sighted two French frigates heading in our direction.’
‘Very well, Lieutenant.’ Nathaniel hid the shock well. ‘I’ll join both Lieutenant Anderson and yourself on the quarterdeck shortly. That will be all.’
He waited until both men had left the room before turning to Georgiana. She looked so young, so vulnerable. He ignored the urge to take her in his arms, protect her for ever. ‘Lock yourself in the night cabin—’ a key passed between them ‘—and open the door for no one except myself. I’ll instruct that it should be left intact when we ready the guns. Do you understand?’ He wondered at the degree of concern he felt for her. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself.
A brief nod before she touched her hand to his arm. ‘Be careful.’
They looked into each other’s eyes before Nathaniel swept a feather kiss to her lips and was gone.
Through the magnification of the spyglass he could see that they were both large frigates, loading forty guns apiece, with the French tricolour fluttering boldly at the stern and a pennant at the topmast. He glanced at Pensenby, saw the shadow of fear in his small shrewd eyes. The stiff northwesterly wind would lead them directly to the Pallas, of that there could be no mistake.
‘They’ll be within range in approximately one hour, sir.’ Lieutenant Anderson was pale, but his blue eyes glittered with excitement.
Nathaniel knew what he must do. ‘Let out each canvas in full, we move with top speed in a southeasterly direction.’
‘But that would take us towards Santa Cruz and the Canary Islands, both of which are held by Spain.’ Lieutenant Pensenby frowned his disapproval.
‘Indeed, it will, Mr Pensenby. It’s what they’ll least expect. Before reaching Santa Cruz, we’ll turn and head out towards the mid-Atlantic, before sailing back up to the Azores.’
John Anderson was looking somewhat crestfallen. ‘We are to run?’ In his mind’s eye he was already valiantly engaged in the dramatic glory of battle, annihilating the French ships, and all for the sake of King and country.
Nathaniel saw the slumped shoulders and read the reason correctly. ‘In a straight confrontation we don’t stand a chance against them. They each carry forty guns to our thirty-two, both are made of oak to our pine. The Pallas simply cannot withstand the pounding she would receive. Hit for hit we would suffer vastly more damage than they, not to mention the injury to the men from the splinters. They would have us down in a matter of minutes.’
‘Then all is lost and we should strike our flag,’ said Lieutenant Anderson miserably.
‘Quite the contrary, Mr Anderson. We must look to our advantages and make the best use of them.’
Pensenby piped up, ‘But you said that the Pallas is no match for them in battle.’
Nathaniel closed the spyglass with a snap. ‘No, Mr Pensenby, that is only the case in direct confrontation. There are many other types of battle.’
‘But we’re to run.’ John Anderson looked puzzled.
‘For now, until the conditions favour us rather than our enemy.’ Both men regarded him in silence. ‘The Pallas is smaller, and at only 667 tonnes, significantly faster. She should easily outrun them. Then it’s simply a matter of waiting until the timing is right.’
Lieutenant Pensenby seemed reassured by this. He was not a man suited to the bloody physicality of war, and the prospect of escaping what would undoubtedly prove to be a crashing defeat beckoned appealingly.
Captain Hawke strode across the quarterdeck to shout orders to the ship’s master. He paused momentarily, looked back over his shoulder, and said, ‘Rest assured that I’m not Byng, Mr Anderson.’
John Anderson thought of Admiral Byng who had been executed for failing to engage the Spanish Fleet with sufficient vigour. No, he did not doubt Captain Hawke’s courage. He would do better to watch and learn.
With the sails set fully to capture the wind the Pallas skimmed across the surface of the water with a deftness of speed that could not hope to be matched by her bigger, bulkier opponents. Heading further south into Spanish waters, they had lost sight of the two large French frigates before Nathaniel gave the order to change direction.
Georgiana could feel from the rolling motion that the ship was fairly flying across the waves, and concluded with relief that they were fleeing from the French. Although she did not know the size or manner of the enemy, common sense warned her that two against one did not offer good odds of a favourable result. This, coupled with what she had learned: the Pallas was experimental in design, being unusually small for a frigate and built entirely of lightweight pine rather than sturdy English oak. It did not take a genius to surmise that any big gun fire would tear the ship apart.
Although Georgiana had no direct knowledge of exactly what naval battle involved, she had spent many an evening listening to Burly Jack’s reminiscences, tales of glory and honour, descriptions of blood and gore, death and decay. She shivered and drew her jacket closer around her. Nathaniel Hawke could be the best damn naval captain in the world, but, outnumbered and disadvantaged by his ship, there was little doubt as to the outcome of any encounter. And the thought of it brought a shiver to her soul. If she were to lose him now…She bit at her lip and wrung her hands together. She knew what would happen if the French were to catch up with them. For the second time in Georgiana’s life she was sailing dangerously close to a watery grave, poised to topple. She dropped to her knees and prayed for a gale that would spirit the Pallas with wings, far, far away from the long guns of the French.
A dense sea fog shrouded the Pallas, as she swept sl
owly, steadily on, cutting a path through the vast Atlantic Ocean, blind but for her trust in her captain’s charts and compass. Silently stalking her prey through the muffled cloud that enveloped her. All calls had been stifled, all pipes quelled. She floated as a ghost ship ever closer to her quarry, ears straining, guns readied. Then they heard it, an eerie shout through the gloomy miasma. Fingers moved to cock their muskets, hands to quietly draw their swords. Captain Hawke whispered his orders and the Pallas responded mutely, slipping into position. A bell sounded close by, its clang deadened by the blanket of fog. Nathaniel waited. Waited. Biding his time. Breath by breath. Second by second. He only hoped his calculations were correct, there would be no room for error. One chance, and one chance alone, to take the prize or be damned in the process.
Even as his hand clenched, poised to give the final command, his mind flitted to the girl locked below in his cabin. Like a moth to a flame he was drawn to her. Could no longer deny his compulsion. Was glad even that she was here on his ship, in his care, for all the danger that it brought. He knew he was a scoundrel to think such a thing. Hadn’t he learned his lesson with Kitty Wakefield? He had no right to gamble with Georgiana’s life, none but the knowledge of her likely fate at the hands of a French captain, or, even worse, a French crew. That was if she survived the wrecking of the Pallas. They were all supposedly governed by the gentlemanly rules of warfare. But Nathaniel knew that these were employed as and when it suited. Georgiana would stand little chance against either the Atlantic Ocean or their French opponents, and the thought lent strength to his resolve. There could be no failure. Not for her. Not for any of them. He could only hope that the Pallas would live up to her name—the Greek goddess of victory. With a steady hand and a courageous heart, Captain Hawke gave the order.
The full force of four carronades on the Pallas’ forecastle blasted at close range upon the hapless and unsuspecting French frigate Ville-de-Milan, inflicting substantial damage to the hull. In the lull that followed Captain Hawke personally led the small boarding party to secure the ship. In a matter of minutes the task had been completed. Nathaniel returned to the Pallas, ready to engage the second frigate positioned close by. The yells of her crew alerted him as to her precise position and he swung the Pallas round to hide her bow. The French guns fired before the manoeuvre was complete, shattering the foremast and splintering the bow. The Pallas’ carronades roared again, delivering their massive twenty-four-pound round shot with a snarling ferocity. The Coruna slipped behind the Ville-de-Milan, but Nathaniel had anticipated the move and was already leading his men across the barren boards of the first frigate to reach the second. Nothing could stop him, Georgiana would be safe and the prize his.
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