by Jay Worrall
“Belay that order,” Charles barked. “Wilson, lay off a point.” To Tillman he said, “Run out the starboard guns and prepare to heave to.”
The La Petite Claudette’s sails slapped in useless confusion as she lost way. She was momentarily almost dead in the water and out of control as her head began to fall off with the wind.
“Steady, boys, steady,” he shouted to the men crouched at their guns. “We’ll give her a broadside she won’t soon forget.”
The Lomond seemed to be racing down on her prey. The Frenchman continued to turn helplessly, her bow pushed by the wind. Now she was broadside to the waves, still turning, her stern showing. The Lomond would cross that stern at pistol range or less, fifty feet, no more.
“Back the fore mainsail,” he shouted. Then, “Fire!”
The bark of the starboard six-pounders hurled the guns inboard on their carriages as one. Charles smiled to himself; compared to the old Argonaut’s thunderous broadside it wasn’t much, but then they weren’t dueling with two- and three-decked ships of the line. Thick gray-black smoke temporarily hid the Claudette from view except for her mast. A wild cheer broke out on the Lomond’s decks.
“Silence! Reload,” he ordered. “Canister on top of round shot.”
Her backed mainsail acting as a brake, the Lomond slowed almost to a stop, drifting downwind on the cutter. As the smoke quickly blew clear, Charles could see the damage his guns had done. Several ragged holes just under her counter and—he looked closer to be sure—her rudder hanging uselessly at an awkward angle beneath. Her mast still stood and the mainsail began to fill. She could still flee downwind but had no hope of beating back until her rudder was repaired. The quicker gun crews were just now hauling the cannon back out, ready to fire.
“Fire as you bear,” he ordered.
Orange flame stabbed across the gap. Above the smoke, he watched as the Claudette’s mast teetered, then fell in a great arc over the side.
“That’s done it,” Tillman observed.
“Have the guns reloaded and run out,” Charles said. “But don’t fire them. We’ll see if she strikes.”
As the smoke cleared away, the French privateer lay dead in the water, rudderless, her mast half in the sea. A figure appeared at what was left of the taffrail shouting something in French and waving a French flag, which he promptly threw over the side.
Charles lifted his hat in salute across the span. “Send Sergeant MacPherson and his marines over to take command of her. Also the carpenter to survey her damage.” He turned toward the rail and looked for the second privateer. She was barely a speck on the horizon, running southward with all sail set.
“She’ll get away,” Tillman said.
“Yes, but we still get the prize.”
The Lomond’s boats were lowered and the marines, the carpenter, and a half-dozen sailors went across to the crippled privateer. As soon as they were aboard and signaled that all was well, Charles directed that the Lomond come about and run down the captured merchant brig.
That night all three ships hove to while repairs were carried out on the cutter. Charles sent Tillman across to take command of the privateer along with a midshipman and six seamen. There was a short and heated discussion with the English master of the now-liberated brig Ursula, who would not understand that his ship was now a prize to the Lomond after being recaptured from the French, and was required to sail with the others to Liverpool to be condemned by the prize court.
“You didn’t not do ’alf bad, all in all,” Attwater observed as he was helping Charles prepare for bed.
“What do you mean?” Charles asked.
“I mean, sir, that you’ve captured two ships, even if one of ’em was English, and never a mark on the Lomond.”
“Well, yes,” he allowed, secretly pleased with the day’s events. “But we’ll be very late getting back to Liverpool. Captain Freemont will be furious.”
IF COMMANDER NIGEL FREEMONT was furious, or even mildly perturbed, he concealed it well. Charles half-expected that the Lomond’s regular captain would be waiting in a small boat at the mouth of the Mersey, ready to storm aboard in righteous indignation at the length of time he had been kept waiting.
The Lomond and her two prizes sailed into the broad estuary on a bright Friday afternoon. All three ships dropped anchor off Whitby, at the Lomond’s previous anchorage of almost a month earlier. Charles immediately had a boat lowered into the water and sent a senior midshipman to the admiral’s office in the port with the report of his encounter with the La Petite Claudette. There had been no small boat or irate captain waiting at the mouth of the river, nor did either appear that evening.
The following morning, Charles was discussing with Lieutenant Tillman arrangements for the transfer of the prisoners taken in the engagement when he overheard the midshipman of the watch shout, “Ahoy, what boat?” and the reply, “Lomond.” Both men went to the entry port in the waist to greet the ship’s rightful captain, Charles with some trepidation, Tillman without an apparent care in the world.
The figure that emerged up the sidesteps and onto the deck was a middle-aged man of average height with clear blue eyes and a somewhat distracted expression. Charles noted that he carried several thick books under his arm.
“Welcome back, sir,” Tillman said, extending his hand. “I have the honor to present Commander Edgemont, who has very ably served as our temporary captain in your absence.”
Charles and Freemont shook hands, then Freemont said, “Edgemont, Edgemont—weren’t you somebody at St. Vincent?”
“Yes, I was second lieutenant aboard the Argonaut.”
“Well, I see you’ve had a busy time here. Not worked our young lieutenant too hard, have you? I noticed all the fresh paint and such. And two prizes, my word. Still, no harm done. I want to thank you for your enthusiastic caretaking of my ship; I’m sure the crew enjoyed the change of routine. Now, if you will excuse me, I will retire to my cabin. I’ve finally obtained a copy of Herodotus’s Inquiry in the Greek and can’t wait to begin. Lieutenant Tillman will escort you to the side. Good day.”
“Good day,” Charles answered, half-bowing and touching his hat. As soon as Freeman had descended to his cabin, he turned to Tillman and said, “I guess that’s that.”
“I wouldn’t take it personally, sir,” Tillman answered. “That’s the way he is. He loves his books. If I may say so, I’ve enjoyed serving with you, despite the beginning. It has been a bit of a change.”
Charles decided to ask something that had been nagging at him almost since he first came on board. “Exactly what does the Lomond do when Freemont is in command?”
Tillman frowned. “Not very much,” he said. “We sit at anchorage in the river at lot. Sometimes we sail out into the middle of the Irish Sea and heave to or sail up and down a bit. Then we come back and sit at anchorage some more.”
“How can that be? Doesn’t Freemont have orders, some regular mission, something he has to accomplish from time to time?”
“Well, you see,” Tillman began, “Freemont is the third son of the earl of Connan in Ireland. The earl comes from a long line of sea captains, admirals, and such. He is also on friendly terms with the king and politically very important to the government. One older son died during the American War, commanding a frigate. The earl wanted one of his sons to carry on the family seafaring tradition, but he didn’t want any more killed, so he worked out an arrangement. Captain Freemont gets to command a warship that can never be in any danger, or a danger to anyone else. He’s not much of a commander, really. He likes a quiet ship with not too much work going on so he can read. He loves his books and his wine. Sometimes he likes the wine a little too much, so he has to go home and rest his liver now and again. When he’s gone, I usually let the men have a little license with women and spirits. They have to be very quiet and mostly out of sight when he’s on board. It wears on you after a while.”
Charles shook his head in disbelief, then extended his hand. “If you ev
er think of transferring to a proper warship, I’d be pleased to have you serve with me again.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll keep it in mind.”
SEVEN
THE BROADSHEET OUTSIDE THE LIVERY SCREAMED, “Britons! Serve God, King and Country. Enlistments currently being accepted on board H.M. Frigate Tempest. Cash bonuses awarded for qualifying seamen. Set sail for Glory and Prize Money. All ratings accepted.” Charles had seen hundreds of such posters in and around Liverpool, advertising for recruits for at least a dozen ships. The need was great. Almost every British warship sailed shorthanded; but the results from such advertisements as these, he knew, usually disappointed.
He and Attwater retrieved their horses and carriage from the livery early the next morning to begin the long drive back to Tattenall. Charles sat in the back in a contemplative frame of mind while his servant urged the horses along the crowded streets of Liverpool. Charles was, of course, pleased with the outcome of his time on board the Lomond. Not only had he established order and made the ship presentable, but he had notched a mark for himself by successfully engaging two privateers with their prize, capturing two of the ships. It was something to be proud of.
He idly noted the impressive bustle of the busy, largely commercial seaport as they passed. The scene was different from the streets of naval ports like Portsmouth or Plymouth. There were fewer naval officers to be seen in their blue uniforms fringed with gold, and far more merchant sailors, easily identified by their golden earrings, braided pigtails, or rolling, loping strides, a legacy of years at sea on pitching decks. The seamen of the King’s Navy were rarely allowed to walk the streets of any port unattended for fear they would desert.
In addition to the broadsheets tacked to trees and lampposts seeking recruits, he had also seen evidence of the navy’s more direct efforts to obtain men: patrols from the Impress Service—press gangs, in common parlance—trolling for the able but unwilling. He thought of the many iniquities in the means by which the Royal Navy supplied its ships with men and then kept them there. The press was one of the primary instruments and the worst, essentially arresting sailors on merchant ships in port or on the open seas and landsmen on the streets near their homes. It was a rotten, cruel system that brought the navy a steady stream of sullen malcontents, prone to become troublemakers. Charles didn’t know of another method to keep the hundreds of warships the nation desperately required manned and at sea, but, in his opinion, better pay, better food, and less brutal punishments would be a start.
As they cleared the outskirts of the city, his mind turned to more pleasant things, the first of which was Penny Brown. Might she have changed her thinking while he was away? It had been more than a month, and it was said that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Should he call on her when he returned? He wanted to, badly. But he had better not. She had asked him not to for a time. How long was “a time”? Ellie might have some news or advice. She had become friends with Penny; she must know something.
Thinking of Ellie led him to contemplation of the relationship between his sister and Winchester. Charles grimaced. He was sure—almost sure—that the two were knowledgeable of each other in the biblical sense, or were at least quoting Scripture furiously. Maybe Winchester had proposed by now. That would make things a little better. But what about Penny? What did she know or think about Ellie and Winchester? Some women were likely to be a little peculiar when it came to intimate relations. Would she be shocked or understanding? What were the Quakers’ attitudes about that sort of thing anyway? And so Charles’s mind worked its way in meandering circles as Attwater encouraged the plodding horses along the deeply rutted roads toward home.
Late in the afternoon the pair of mares quickened their gait as they entered the familiar high street into Tattenall and soon after turned up the lane to Edgemont Hall. A freckled, redheaded boy of about fourteen, whom Charles did not recognize, came out from the stables to meet them.
“Who are ye?” the lad asked tartly. “And wha’ d’ ye want?”
“I am Charles Edgemont,” Charles answered. “I live here. Who are you?”
“A’m Ezekiel Frith. A’m the new ostler.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ezekiel. Help Mr. Attwater here take these sea chests into the house, if you please.”
“A’m the ostler,” the lad insisted with a touch of self-importance. “A don’ heft chests.”
“Well, Ostler Frith, I’d consider it a personal favor if you would make an exception in this case. I’m sure Mr. Attwater would appreciate it as well.”
Just as the boy opened his mouth to say something potentially interesting about what Charles and Attwater might or might not appreciate, the door to the house opened and Charles’s brother John came out. “Ah, Charles, welcome back. I see you’ve met Ezekiel.”
“We were just discussing his moral dilemma in helping carry our chests into the house.”
“See to it, please,” John said. With a pout the boy went around to the side of the carriage, where Attwater added, “You only have to carry half. It ain’t so hard.”
“So, how did it go?” John asked as soon as they were alone. “Is England any safer from invasion by the French?”
“A little,” Charles smiled, “I—”
“Oh, before I forget. You had a visitor about two weeks ago.”
“Who?” Charles asked. His heart skipped a beat. “It wasn’t Penny Brown, was it?”
“No, not Miss Brown. It was her father, George. He requested that you call on him as soon as you’re back. Didn’t say why, but he seemed unsettled.”
Charles swore under his breath. What did Penny’s father want? He hadn’t done anything to his daughter. “I’ll see him tomorrow,” he said.
Inside the house, Ellie greeted Charles with an exuberant hug and a kiss on his cheek. “Have you spoken to Penny?” he asked directly.
“I saw her the day before yesterday. She’s not been herself since you left,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t understand it exactly, but it’s something to do with Quakers and soldiers, although I don’t understand what soldiers have to do with it. It’s sailormen in the navy, isn’t it? There aren’t any soldiers, are there? She did say that she hoped you were well.”
“Yes, sailors; no soldiers,” he said absently. “Where is Winchester? I haven’t seen him yet.”
Ellie’s expression assumed a secretive air that also hinted at some inner joy. “He went home to visit his father. I expect him back in a day or two.”
“His father, why?” Charles asked. “I didn’t think he got along with his family.”
“Oh, it’s just something,” she said mysteriously, her eyes shining. “You’ll find out.”
Charles looked at his sister in all her radiance and knew why his lieutenant had gone home to speak with his parents. At least one of us is lucky in love, he thought. “I can hardly wait,” he said.
In the morning Charles rode to the Brown home in a sour mood. He didn’t know why George Brown wanted to see him, but he could guess. He was also undecided about what he should say in return. He tried to be objective. How did he feel about Penny, really? They’d met only a few times. He couldn’t be that attached to her, could he? He could say, if the father asked how he felt, that she was an agreeable girl, and that he was fond of her, but the differences in their backgrounds and religions would make any match between them unsuitable. He should say that, while he wished his daughter well, he had decided that his attentions must of necessity focus on the navy and his estate and that it would be unwise just now to be sidetracked by romance, particularly with a religious nonconformist. He could say honestly that she would be a hindrance to his career. Her father would have to agree with that.
He dismounted from Pendle in front of the mill beyond the house and with some trepidation walked inside. He found George Brown sitting at an uncluttered desk in a low-ceilinged office off to the side of the building. “Please, sit thee down,” Penny’s father said, half-rising and indicating a chair in
front of the desk. “I thank thee for coming.” Charles nodded and sat silently, waiting uneasily for the older man to speak his mind.
“What art thou about?” the miller said after a minute. “What dost thou require of my daughter?”
Charles had known the question would be asked in some form, but he didn’t expect it to be put so directly. He avoided the older man’s steady gaze as he tried to frame in his mind what he should say. The resolve he had built up earlier in the morning to put her behind him wavered, then vanished. He knew what he wanted. He was pretty sure that Penny at least liked him, but he didn’t understand her reluctance. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t just put her religious scruples aside for him. Any normal woman would. Wives followed husbands, not the other way around. But she had once said something about how he should follow his heart, and he knew what his heart required. “I want to marry her,” he said directly, looking her father in the eye. “I want your permission to ask her to be my wife.”
“Art thou serious?” George Brown said, raising his eyebrows. “Dost thou, an officer in the King’s Navy, wish to marry a Quaker woman? Why?”
“Because I love her,” Charles said. The words, once begun, tumbled out. “Because I’m not happy when I can’t be with her. She’s all I think about. She…she brings joy into my life and I don’t know how I’d live without her.”
Penny’s father appraised him thoughtfully. “I can well understand that,” he said. “She brings those things into my life, and the lives of others, too.” The older man took a breath. “I judge thee an agreeable man, Charles Edgemont. I think thee honest and direct and I think thee would be a caring husband to Penny. I am concerned about thy profession, but that is not for me to decide. Still, I do not think that thou fully grasps what thou art asking.”