None But You (Frederick Wentworth, Captain: Book 1)

by Susan Kaye

  Two men, helping one another out of the room, lurched into the Captain. He set them on their way and entered. Several fellows were facedown on the table and would be cleared away by the keep. His main concern was Benwick.

  “Sir, I think we would do well to go to the ship.” A lieutenant prodded Benwick, who was staring at the ceiling.

  “Do you require some assistance, Mr…” Wentworth’s voice drifted off.

  The young man looked up and frowned a little. “Furlong. Acting First Lieutenant Miles Furlong. Of the sloop Grappler.”

  “And this would be your captain?”

  “Yes, sir. Commander James Benwick. Just made.”

  “He seems to be a bit under the weather.”

  “Well, yes, sir. He is. But I have to say I ain’t never seen him like this afore. Sir.”

  “No, neither have I. But he does need to return to his ship.”

  Furlong frowned more deeply and spoke again to Benwick, who started and looked around at the two men.

  “Frederick Wentworth, as I live and—” he cried, and struggled to his feet. When he went down it was only by the grace of Providence that Furlong was able to keep him from slamming his chin into the table. Wentworth came around to their side of the table and grabbed an arm.

  “I think you could use my help. He’s grown a bit stout over the years.”

  “You have come to wet my swab?” Benwick began to laugh a little.

  “Yes, Commander. I’ve come just to see you.” To Furlong he said, “Let’s get him to the street and find a cart to take him to the dock.”

  “It’s been a long time, my old friend. Furlong, did you know that I was the first on the Laconia? The finest frigate in His Majesty’s Navy!” His voice was loud and his speech slurred. Wentworth wished he would just pass out so they would not have to do this drunken dance while walking him out.

  “Yes, sir. You’ve told me several times.”

  They were now outside and placed him on a bench next to the door. Looking around, neither saw any conveyances for hire.

  “Sir,” said Furlong, “I don’t know exactly why you’ve come, but I can assure you that this is not the Commander’s customary way. I’ve served with him for some time and have never seen him like this before.”

  “As I said earlier, neither have I. He is a man more likely to prose eloquently about the look of firelight gleaming through a glass of wine than to actually drink it.”

  Furlong reached over and steadied the tottering, giggling Benwick. “I’m sorry if I overstepped meself. It’s just that I didn’t know what you come about. I mean, the Commander’s written orders ain’t arrived yet and—”

  “You were worried that I might be skulking around for the Admiralty, hoping to find an excuse to deny him his promotion and save Whitehall a pound or two a month, eh?”

  “Well, with the peace, sir, there’s a lot of frettin’. I wanted to make sure you wasn’t, well, you know.”

  “I assure you, Furlong, I am friend, not foe.” It struck him that he might not have the right to claim such a thing after he broke the news.

  Around the corner of the building, the rattle of a cart could be heard. Soon an old man driving a bedraggled pony and dogcart passed the inn.

  “Sir,” Wentworth called out. “Might I have a word?”

  The man looked him over and then reined the pony to a stop. “Aye, what do ya want?”

  “Just a bit of your time and a little space on your cart.” As he approached the man, he made a show of taking out his purse. “My friends here need a ride just to the dock.” He clicked some coins together.

  The man examined Furlong and Benwick and then asked, “I’m on me way home after a very long trip. Why would I want to go out uh my way for the likes of them?”

  Coins glinted in Wentworth’s hand. “I just think it would be to everyone’s advantage if you were to play the Good Samaritan, that’s all.”

  The man smiled and waved to Furlong. “I think you’s right, sir. There is a definite blessin’ that come of helpin’ your neighbours.”

  By this time, Benwick was asleep and no trouble to situate in the cart. Furlong jumped in alongside him. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Just tell the Commander I am in Portsmouth and wish to congratulate him on his promotion. I cannot trust that he will even remember seeing me. Tell him I will dine aboard Grappler tomorrow.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And Furlong, tell him the dinner is to be private.”

  “Aye, sir” The young man’s worried face disappeared into the darkness.

  Wentworth studied the stars for a moment, and listened as Portsmouth quieted for the night. Stuffing his purse back in his pocket, he headed for the door of the Crown. “You are fated to miss another night of sleep, I fear,” he sighed.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  Though he did eventually sleep, Wentworth was still labouring under the pall of his mission when he walked to the docks the next day. Seeing a group of Grapplers loitering nearby, he looked for Mr. Towrey. The young man saw him first and called the men to order.

  “Mr. Towrey, am I correct in assuming you are here to take me out?”

  “Aye, sir. Cap’n said to make sure you thought you was glidin’ o’er glass, the pull was to be so smooth.”

  “I’m sure it will be,” he said as he took a seat in the stern. The day had been hot from early in the morning and the sun was still a glorious fury in the sky. There had not been a breath of wind all day. Sails not furled hung limp, along with all flags and pennants. It was nearly three; the heat would persist for several hours. As the small boat slid across the water, he saw little activity on the decks of the ships they passed.

  Even at the easy pace set by the coxswain, sweat was dripping from the faces of the men rowing. The dark blue baize of Wentworth’s uniform was absorbing the heat and becoming uncomfortable. The beaver felt of his cocked hat rested heavily on his brow and gripped like an iron band around his head. A drop of sweat escaped and began a slow, torturous roll down the back of his neck. A lone gusty breeze kicked up and blew across the boat and crew. He focused on the cool of the breeze and the prickling sensation as the bead of sweat moved through the short hairs, and did not allow himself the luxury of wiping it away. Keeping his back straight and hands on his knees was a discipline he required himself to exercise. To give in to his physical discomfort and ease it would be a sort of betrayal. He must suffer, even in this trivial way, for the suffering he was to inflict.

  “There we are, sir.” The coxswain pointed to a sloop just ahead. He was surprised to see a neat, trim, rather large ship-sloop. Her deck was the exception around the fleet as it was alive with activity. He could see Benwick standing at the waist. He could not help smiling; James was a picture with his glass to his eye watching them approach. The man had been as fastidious as a woman when he was Wentworth’s First, and it seemed that nothing was changed. The crew would titivate until the moment he planted a foot on the deck. It was Benwick’s first real command; he could not disdain the pride and the desire to show off his beautiful Grappler.

  It was plain to see, as they moved closer, that Grappler was, indeed, a true ship with three masts. However, it was also clear she had been stripped down and rebuilt several times to arrive at her present configuration. This was no great shock as the term “sloop” was only a vague notion rather than a precise definition. After examining a few irregularities, he suspected Grappler was cobbled together like so many other small vessels. However, it was done with a deft hand and some elegance of design, and Wentworth was glad his friend’s first command was one of which he could be proud.

  The small boat gently nudged Grappler’s side and the rope was tossed. It was just a few steps up the accommodation ladder and he was aboard. Unlike a rated ship, the sloop’s deck was flush. There was no quarterdeck—that universally acknowledged holy ground on which the captain was high priest and supreme master. Despite this imperfection, Grappler was a fine ship. Wentworth counte
d sixteen four-pounders and an additional pair at both bow and stern. She had pretensions of being a small frigate in her weight and capacity. He estimated her compliment to be between eighty and one hundred men. He quickly counted twelve marines as well. No, unlike his timeworn Asp, Grappler was a sleek and sturdy ship that could not be disparaged in the eyes of anyone who understood sailing vessels.

  “Captain Wentworth, welcome aboard His Majesty’s sloop, Grappler.” Benwick stood ramrod straight as the boatswain’s pipe pierced the heat and the assembled men stood taller.

  He then ordered Mr. Furlong to weigh anchor. Furlong called to the boatswain and another call sounded, this one sending the men to their stations to raise the anchor. Turning to his guest, Benwick smiled and said, “You have brought us good luck, sir. I watched you as you rowed out, and the wind picked up markedly as you came to us.”

  Inwardly Wentworth groaned. His hope had been for a quiet visit, a private meal, and the unburdening of himself. Obviously, that was not the plan of James Benwick, or Providence above.

  A young man, with a fiddle, mounted the capstan and began to play a shanty to set the cadence for the men exerting themselves on the bars. Employment of the canty tunes was falling out of favour with scientific captains, those more attuned to the modus operandi of sailing than giving any place to the romance of her traditions. On this brilliant day, on such an excellent ship, and in the company of his friend, the Captain could see nothing in the world wrong with the practice. Benwick beamed as his men worked, and the familiar tune did much to lighten his own heart.

  In just a few moments, he knew the camaraderie of the old days was not lost. In fact, Benwick’s newly awarded parity made Wentworth feel their bond more acutely. A man could occupy the position of a ship’s first officer and even be the particular friend to the captain, but until such a man had firsthand understanding of command, he could not fully comprehend his friend. Understanding only came with knowing the intense joy of authority and its natural partner, the sharp sting of isolation. Benwick might command a ship smaller than his prized Laconia, but the commander was now, in most ways, the Captain’s equal.

  “We shall haul clear of the shipping lanes and work the guns. The men have fadged up several targets and I am told the wagering is wonderfully heated as to which crew will carry the day.” Taking a second look at Wentworth, he said, “Are you unwell? Let us move out of the sun.”

  He was unwell, but heat and sun did not answer for it. However, it was a relief to step into the shade of the canvas stretched over the waist and stern of the ship.

  Grappler eased out to open sea. Towrey was at the wheel and did as fine a job as any sailing master. Benwick tried mightily to hide his apprehension, but the occasional widening of the eyes and pursing lips smoked him out. Wentworth assumed this was his first opportunity to show off his crew, and the fellow dreaded any mistakes. He remained expressionless and ignored the few slight errors.

  Once they were in unpopulated water, Benwick evidently felt he could divide his attention, and said, “As you can see, we are well equipped with four-pounders. I would dearly love to trade them, even just a few, for sixes, or even twelves, but I am fairly certain those would buckle her knees with the first shot.”

  Wentworth considered this and said, “You may escape the natural consequences of shooting off larger guns, once, perhaps twice, but after that it is highly likely you would find yourself bursting your seams and having to ask your adversary for a tow into port.” They laughed at such foolishness. “No, it is best to exercise with the aim of improving your rate of reload. Sloops in close action, with crack gun crews, are the likeliest to come out the prize-winner.”

  This observation began an earnest conversation. When Benwick was the First on the Laconia, he would never have endured, in part or whole, any comment that gave the slightest superiority to a sloop over a frigate. However, as he was now captaining the first and not the second, his opinion was more elastic. He put forth a suggestion that the Navy might be better served increasing emphasis on the smaller, more manoeuvrable sloops than the larger-gunned, more heavily manned, but less responsive frigates.

  The good-natured but deep conversation went on for some time, the two officers weighing the merits of each design, positive and negative, and bringing to bear every ounce of their own particular prejudice in favour of their opinion. But it was Wentworth who finally settled the issue, pointing out that regardless of the skill or luck of the gun captain, nearly any sloop could be sunk with one good shot. A frigate, on the other hand, must sustain substantial damage in order for her to sink. Neither was inclined to discuss larger ships and the effect of their weaponry on the structure of a frigate, so the discussion ended amiably.

  Grappler sailed well, not as tightly on the bowline as he would like, but she was completely acceptable. Benwick consulted with his deck officers as the bell struck the hour. Every man was employed, and all was as it should be on a King’s ship. Despite a creeping headache and the unfortunate news he must deliver, Wentworth felt at home. It was a joy to feel the living deck under his feet and not merely the indifferent drifting in Plymouth Sound that was his present lot. The sounds, the activity and energy of a functioning ship were not to be dismissed because the ship was smaller than he was accustomed.

  He could not help but notice Benwick’s epaulettes gleaming bright in the sun. As a lieutenant, Benwick had worn only the left shoulder board. Though these new boards lacked the crown and anchor, they communicated influence nonetheless. Benwick moved back into the shade of the canvas and his boards maintained their pristine radiance. It stung just a bit that now, with one on each shoulder and a uniform coat as lace-decorated as his own, anyone glancing at the pair of them might mistake them for post-captains.

  The ship was as fine as a man could hope for his first command, and Benwick was rightfully proud. If Grappler were a scandalous ship and her crew unmistakable slow-bellies who deserved none of his respect, perhaps that would ease his conscience and make telling the news of Fanny’s death easier. This was most likely not the case, Wentworth determined. For if the ship were a scandal, and the crew fit for nothing, he would pity Benwick all the more. Either way, his situation was impossible. In short order they arrived at the spot where Benwick intended to show off his gun crews. The anchor was dropped and he ordered they beat to quarters. The men jumped into action, anxious to prove themselves to their captain and his guest and, no doubt, anxious to collect on the wonderfully heated wagers. The targets were towed out and the festivities began.

  After several rounds and the sinking of one target, an incongruent tea party was arranged. The heat below deck was too oppressive for human endurance, necessitating the refreshments be brought to the gentlemen at the stern. The beverages consisted of plain grog, for those so inclined, or a rum shrub, which suffered very little for being warm. For those with an appetite, an assortment of sweet biscuits, including an entire plate of arrack biscuits, was part of the offering. Benwick was a canny host and never drew attention to the fact the biscuits were a favourite of his old master. The lemon in the shrub was refreshing, and after several biscuits, Wentworth’s headache was on the wane and he felt more like himself.

  The tournament required several rounds be shot off, with the eventual elimination of one gun crew. The excitement was high, but the uniformity of the teams in skill and swagger kept either from taking an advantage. The men of Iron Death were a spindly lot but full of skill and purpose. Those manning Bloody Terror were beefy and blustering and determined to prevail, taking the extra rations of tobacco and rum promised the winners.

  “Benwick, I am afraid the equality of these men will empty your magazine if this is allowed to go on much longer.” The competition, while exciting and acting as a restorative to Wentworth’s state of mind, was wearing thin and he wished to see its conclusion.

  “And what do you suggest?”

  Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he pulled out a handfull of coins and picked out several. �
��I imagine these are the sort of men who will work double-quick for a sure and generous reward.”

  Benwick nodded and swept a hand, giving permission for the Captain to address the crews.

  The boatswain blew his pipe and the men stopped their cheering, wagering, and murdering of targets to listen. “Gentlemen,” he called out as he walked to the larboard rail where the remaining men stood poised.

  “I thank you for your exertions on our behalf; we have been greatly entertained by your skill and energy. In gratitude, I offer an inducement.” He raised his hand so that they might see the coins. “In addition to the extra ration of rum and tobacco, I offer a guinea for each man on the winning crew with a crown bonus for the gun captain.”

  Smiles broke out on the dirty, tired faces of the two crews, and the cheers of the others became louder still. He returned to his place next to Benwick, and after much conferring between the crewmembers, the competition began again.

  Each crew became more conscientious and each shot took longer to load, tamp, aim, and fire off. The promise of a monetary reward made each man particularly scrupulous concerning his own job, and more so when it came to advising their mates on theirs. Wentworth mused that it would be the crew who could throw caution to the wind and rest on their natural ability who would take the prize. In three shots, the competition was concluded. The men of Iron Death pushed their powder monkey, a thin, pale boy named Herman, forward. After making his obedience, he received the coins, made a leg and hared back to his gun captain.

  Benwick said, as the applause for the winners died away, “You are a hero now. This will be spoken of for quite some time.”

  “Ha! The Greeks would be embarrassed to know they wasted all that blood and life for what I now have at comparatively little cost,” Wentworth said. Taking out another coin, he handed it to James and said, “I know that Mr. Trent, being a junior officer, should not be accepting what is only a little short of a bribe; but if this were prize money, he would have his share. See that he gets this if you please.” He had noticed the stout, awkward midshipman who led the winning gun crew was all eyes as the guineas were handed round. The Captain could not bear the idea that Master Trent’s victory would be overshadowed by a slavish devotion to a well-intentioned principle.