by Susan Kaye
“Certainly, Captain. Trent is a good boy. I hope to keep him on my next commission. And what of the Laconia? Have you gotten orders as of yet?”
“No, no orders. I am assured she will be placed in ordinary. I gave her copper a terrible battering and it must all be replaced. And there are other repairs that have been ignored for some time. No, I think my dear girl and I are to be separated for good, Captain.”
The look on Benwick’s face said it all. He was deeply sympathetic that Wentworth’s ship should be taken from him, but he was also thankful he was not the one to endure the loss.
Lieutenant Furlong begged pardon to speak and asked, since the wind had died, did Benwick wish to be underway so as to reach port before dark?
“Aye. Starboard watch to the boats and dismiss the larboard watch to dinner, then join us in the Great Cabin when you are finished.”
Wentworth was relieved that they would be returning to their anchorage immediately, but it was also clear there would be no quiet, private dinner. Rather it would be a full, loud table that was the prerogative of any captain. He clung to the idea that, in but a few hours, he would be free of his burden.
“I know you prefer keeping to the old ways and the old dinner time of six bells, but I could not resist taking her out and reminding you what sailing a sloop was like. She’s not much, but I know you will excuse the pride. Even the parent of a pale and thin child is wont to show him off.” He looked at Wentworth with an embarrassed half-smile and headed towards the gangway.
Entering the Great Cabin, which in a sloop was a term of courtesy and not one of exact description, Wentworth remembered how he struggled to keep the skin on his forehead while living below on the Asp. Between the beams, he could just stand to his full height, but still he felt the presence of the decking above. He noticed Benwick had no trouble standing straight.
The room was obviously James’s. Several crates, doubling as bookshelves and containing many nicely bound volumes, were placed neatly beneath the stern windows. There was a small chest of drawers, a dining table laid with serviceable china and pewter, and a small writing desk. Again, the desk reflected its owner. It was tidy and all the writing utensils were placed in neat ranks. This cabin was Benwick’s territory to be sure. His exacting mark was everywhere, even to the small silhouette of a woman perched on the open desk.
“I have to say, I was quite shocked when Furlong told me you were at the Crown last night. I’m afraid I was…” Benwick said, a look of embarrassment creeping across his face.
Wentworth handed over his hat and said, “You were sated with the fruits of victory, James. As for not knowing I was present, I was quite late to the party. You had no reason to expect me. However, I could not be in Portsmouth and not wish you joy. And so I do. She looks to be a fine ship.”
The embarrassment disappeared and pure delight took its place. “She is, sir, I assure you. No man has had such good fortune in obtaining a command. Oh, there are a few situations that are not to my liking, but I shall deal with them as I was shown by a former captain of mine.” He handed Wentworth a glass of cool water. “I like to think that I learnt at the elbow of a master.”
The compliment was crushing. James’s shy nature made such a passionate admission all the more agonizing to him. He refused to wonder what Benwick’s opinion might be after his mission was accomplished.
“I thank you for the fine words, James, but at the very best, I am a journeyman. No matter what we may call an officer, I am not sure that any one of us can ever truly be a master where the sea is concerned.”
Benwick smiled at the deferral. The moment of high feeling was interrupted by the arrival of the other guests. Lieutenant Milsom of the marines looked to be nearly as young as Furlong, but his voice betrayed him as more adult than youngster. Milsom was followed by the ship’s Master, Mr. Roderick; a greying man but, like all masters he had ever known, possessing lively eyes and a ruddy tint to his cheeks. Midshipman Trent was introduced after Benwick himself had taken the boy aside and given him the guinea. Lieutenant Furlong came in just as the steward was about to close the door.
“The boats are away, sir.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. Shall we all be seated? Captain, you will of course do me the honour of taking the head of the table.”
For just a moment, Wentworth considered refusing the seat. However, to do so would go against all tradition and courtesy. Just as on land, it was an honour to give over one’s rightful place to a superior. Even more so at the Captain’s own table.
“Certainly, Commander. I assure you, the honour is all mine.” He took the seat and the rest of the men followed his lead.
The room was stuffed to bursting with the guests, a steward for each, and the men seeing to the removes. It was insufferably hot, but mercifully, the starboard watch was pulling its heart out. A breath of wind moved through the open stern windows and the skylight above.
The food was excellent. Wentworth suspected that Benwick would have taken care with the menu and coins from his own purse to see that the fare was to Wentworth’s liking. He was not sure whether the heat and headache were to blame for his lack of appetite or his natural dread of things to come. The reason was irrelevant; the news was to be postponed and nothing could be done for it. He would have to put on a good face and do his utmost to uphold his responsibility as a guest.
The meal progressed wonderfully. All the faces around the table were red with the heat and a few with more wine than was good for them. Furlong and Trent were acquitting themselves well by listening raptly to their betters. The indelicate subject of promotions had come to the fore. Benwick had just told of his own step up from Mid to Lieutenant. It was a laughable circumstance that left all the party saluting the fates and their mysterious ways.
“And I must add, Master and Commander Benwick, had I been apprised of the entire incident, I am not certain I would have allowed you on my quarter deck. A man who can manage to sink the captain’s boat, with him in it, is not to be trusted.” Wentworth smiled particularly at Benwick and saluted him.
The men all raised their glasses, laughing and calling, “Hear him. Hear him.”
The bottle was passed and when the glasses were once more full, Mr. Trent ventured forth into the fray. “Captain Wentworth, might we know how you came to your rank?”
All around the table stared at the child. Squeakers were invited to dine in the Great Cabin so that they might learn to be civilized and behave decently when in company. This training did not include them asking questions of those far superior to them. However, Wentworth was in a benevolent frame of mind. The room was not as stifling as it had been earlier, and the wine had improved his appetite somewhat, though the headache still lurked behind his eyes. To be sure, manners went into the making of an officer and a gentleman, but courage must be counted for something.
Smiling at the boy, he began. “I think my promotion to Commander would be more instructive, Mr. Trent.”
He was puzzled as to why he said such a thing. The step to captain had been a great adventure involving a thrilling chase, the first raging storm of the commission, and the sinking of his ship just after delivering an exceptional French frigate into the hands of the Admiralty. It was a story that, at the time, had piqued the interest of more than one high-ranking official in Whitehall. In fact, it was a story he had dined on more than once. Perhaps he looked further into the past because, when he made Commander, his love for the sea and for the navy was still pure and undiluted by anything or anyone. To that point, the most attractive thing he had ever seen was a ship at full sail. He had not yet learnt that the wounds of battle were nothing compared to the pain suffered by the human heart.
“I was told it was the hottest February day in memory, and it was dusk before the French finally surrendered to the superior British forces,” he began.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
The now 77-gun Borthwick, (she had lost one over the side during the action), had taken two captures. The Petite Fleur
, once the English Rose, was a brig-sloop that had been ferrying munitions between the French ships. Her crew was minimal, but it would still put bounty money into the pockets of the Borthwicks.
It was well dark before First Lieutenant Hale saw Rosie, as they were now calling the repatriated boat, secured and manned with a prize crew ready to sail. Midnight was sounding and Second Lieutenant Wentworth laid waiting on the surgeon’s table. He cursed his luck while he listened to the calls of the men above, wishing Hale well as he pulled away into the darkness. When he had first presented himself to the medico, there had been talk of malingering. There were few visible wounds. But when he removed his coat, the surgeon became suddenly business-like and nearly tore off his shirt. A deep knife wound near the left kidney was the concern. After probing the wound and finding no broken blade inside, the lieutenant was declared very lucky indeed and told he should be saying extra prayers for quite some time to come. Stitched up and dosed with a foul tasting tincture, he was sent on his way.
The energy of battle subsided while he had a proper wash. His empty stomach was grinding away even as his exhausted body sank into his hammock. He tried to rest, but the enormity of the day’s events crashed in on him. Succumbing to the swing of his bed and the ship’s roll, he relived every moment, every stroke of the blade, every man who fell before him.
“You know the Captain is already writing the letters to the Admiralty. Let me be the first to wish you joy at the promotion I know will come of this.”
He looked up to see his friend, the Borthwick’s commander, Patrick McGillvary, holding out cups and a bottle of wine. “I always knew you to be a man of courage. You more than proved it in this engagement, Wentworth, and you will prove yourself even more when the orders for the Jeanette are prepared and you sail away with her tomorrow. I inspected her cargo. Your part of the prize will be sizeable.”
The news he would be taking the Jeanette immediately revived him. “How is this possible? The Jeanette is the larger of the two, and Hale has taken the brig. You, by all rights, should be the one to take her.” He sat up, cursing the wound.
“Yes, by rights, I should. Nevertheless, as the first officer I must put the good of the ship above personal gain. There are major repairs that require a better hand than yours overseeing them.” McGillvary did not smile; there wasn’t any softness about him at all.
“But you sent off Hale, who has time and rank all over me. At best, I should have had Rosie.”
“So, perhaps I misjudged the repairs and the time needed to implement them. Who was to know that Chips would be so deft at repairing the damage to her rudder and making fast the crack in those two larboard knees?” Patrick replied. “Can I help it if we have the finest, most talented crew in this part of the world?”
“When I follow him into Plymouth, just a few days behind, he will bellow so loudly you’ll hear him off the cliffs of Dover.”
“Lieutenant, do not begin your ascendancy by questioning your superiors.” McGillvary’s face was as hard set as he had ever seen it. The situation was of his making and to his liking, and it would stand.
He left the hammock and joined Patrick, leaning at the doorway. “Thank you, McGillvary.” Nothing more was ever said between them on the subject.
“Well, this is an occasion,” Wentworth said, taking the bottle, along with one of the proffered cups. “It takes an event of great magnitude to propel Master and Commander McGillvary into the bowels of the ship to visit an inferior.” He poured each of them a bumper of the wine. They drank, and then he said, “As for courage and promotions, I think you exaggerate, Paddy.” Nothing was said as they threaded their way farther aft to the table in the gunroom.
It was called a room, but it was really no more than a clearing behind a set of stairs with a terribly abused table and two creaking benches. No one was about; it was the middle watch and little stirred below. The only sounds were assorted snuffings and snortings from various curtained sleeping areas that served as quarters for the inferior and warrant officers. Occasionally, laughter was heard from the duty watch above.
Both men were too worn out to slide more than a few inches down the seat. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, drank their wine and picked at a plate of boiled mutton and potatoes left from that afternoon’s dinner.
McGillvary shoved the scavenged plate aside and refilled the mugs. Slowly, they drank them away.
“Are you sure about the Captain writing letters, or is this another one of your tricks, Patrick?”
“Me? Tricks? You wound me, Lieutenant Wentworth.” He straightened and placed his hand over his heart. “I swear on all that is sacred to me that the Old Man is this minute writing a glowing report, much of it about his valiant Second Lieutenant.”
Wentworth took a drink. “That is not much comfort, for you are practically a pagan and a blasphemer into the bargain.”
McGillvary’s cup came down hard. “I realize I am not the most pious of men, but friend, believe me, I would not set you up for a fall. I had to endure a long homiletic on several of you lower ranking heroes.” He filled his cup and drank it down. “I think he is wonderfully amazed by his talented gaggle of junior officers.”
Wentworth snatched the bottle before McGillvary and emptied it into his mug. “You sound almost worried, my friend. Might you be contemplating the day I shall outstrip you?”
Patrick laughed, grabbed Wentworth’s mug and drained it. Rising from the table, he said, “Lieutenant Wentworth, I will concede that your moral sense is more acute, owing to that religious brother of yours no doubt, but the day you become my superior officer will never dawn.” He slammed down the mug and left the room laughing.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
The gentlemen of the Grappler also laughed heartily and called again for a toast to the latest story. As another took his place telling his story, Wentworth drank his wine and continued recalling the memories of that all-important year.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
“There now, Frederick, have a care.” Commander Wentworth had taken up a position next to his brother, bumping his arm in the process.
“Relax, Edward, it is only wine. The gloomy uniform of a curate hides a multitude of stains. No one will ever notice.”
“Yes, how fortunate for you that my uniform stands in such stark contrast to your glittering blue and gold,” he said, as he dabbed a handkerchief at the unseen spots of wine. “But, for all your success, even you cannot change the fact that wine is wet.” Before Frederick could reply, he continued: “You’re cross all of a sudden. Mission fail?”
Before he could answer, they heard the rustle of a gown and a gentle voice asked, “Mr. Wentworth, might I importune you for an introduction?”
Both men turned to the voice. Mr. Wentworth was all smiles. “Of course, Miss Anne. Miss Anne Elliot, may I present Commander Frederick Wentworth. Frederick, you have met her father, I believe, Sir Walter Elliot of Kellynch Hall.”
Wentworth stiffened as he bowed and murmured a greeting.
“Commander. It is an honour to meet you. It is not often we have a genuine hero in our midst. The action was in…”
The slight tilt to her head, as she tried to remember the name of the foreign shore, was breathtaking.
“San Domingo!” she exclaimed, again stifling his reply.
He glanced at his brother. His arrival in the area several weeks earlier had caused little comment. Anne’s acknowledgement was, in fact, the first local recognition of his participation in the action against the French. The King’s reward had been a step in rank, but no ship had accompanied it as of yet. Tonight, that was of little matter as the Commander found the admiration of a pretty country girl far more invigorating.
“I am sure my brother exaggerated my importance in the matter, Miss Anne.”
Anne smiled at the curate. “He has been the picture of brotherly pride.” She glanced around and, lowering her voice, said, “In fact, there are many who are beginning to avoid his company altogether, fearing they will ha
ve to endure the story of your exploits for a third, even a fourth time.” She smiled at the Commander, looked away, and opened a small lace fan. The bit of air stirred by it disturbed tiny curls at her temple. The effect made him swallow hard.
Reluctantly, he looked away, raising a brow towards his brother. It seemed odd that Edward would speak so freely with everyone but him. He had not wished to hoist his own flag; however, the efforts had been great, as had the reward, and he wished to share it. To hear that the curate was becoming a tiresome braggart was a surprise and a pleasure.
Edward gave a little laugh. “Thank you for this bit of news, Miss Anne. I was merely riding the coattails of my brother. A curate’s life has few luxuries. You cannot blame me for trying to muster a few more invitations to dinner. I shall endeavour to be more judicious in the use of my brother’s heroics.” He looked into his brother’s eyes, then quickly lowered them and took a drink of his wine.
“Mr. Wentworth, I am heartened to see such a humble man as you indulging in a few luxuries. I am sure your brother doesn’t feel your weight on his coattails a bit.”
“No, not a bit,” Wentworth said, leaning his shoulder into Edward’s. He had thought his brother did not care about his career, but it would seem he was quite mistaken.
After a few awkward looks and smiles, Edward set his glass aside and said, “I hope you will excuse me. I see a neighbour of mine, and I must speak to him about a small matter.” He bowed to Anne and left them.
Wringing her hands through an awkward moment of silence, she finally said, “Commander, while it has been my sincere pleasure to meet you, I have to apologize for my family and for myself.”