Federick Wentworth, Captain by Susan Kaye

Chapter One

Captain Wentworth studied the young woman as she and Gilmore Craig conversed. He occasionally glanced over at Admiral Hammond, who was busy finishing off a manly portion of figgy dowdy. The sweet was not to his taste, but taking a bite now and then disguised his examination of Miss Hammond.

As he sailed most frequently out of Plymouth, they had been introduced some time before. On those occasional meetings, her dark, intelligent eyes never failed to charm. So it was with mixed feelings that he had accepted Admiral Hammond's invitation to dine that night. Though he was very nearly exhausted from an especially trying time afloat, he was anxious to determine whether Miss Hammond was as clever as she was beautiful.

This evening, the question plaguing him was whether or not the curl laying alongside her prettily curved neck was merely a happy accident, or, was it part of a larger stratagem? The question of course would never be fully answered; nevertheless he was pleased to find she was indeed intelligent. For this he was glad, as too often he found a young woman had all the signs of being astute, but then failed to live up to the promise.

All-in-all, it was a pleasant evening. He had not been disappointed concerning either the dinner or Miss Hammond.

The Admiral scraped the last of the pudding from his plate and Wentworth readied himself for more talk of the man's recent orders to India. But, to his relief, the Admiral signaled that he only wished more wine and more pudding. The old bachelor had no reputation as a host, but he set a fine and generous table, and was liberal with his cellar. This being the case, Wentworth was not in the least offended by the slight.

As the Admiral began attacking his sweet, Wentworth considered his new status as a captain without a ship. The Laconia had been in port just three days when he was given the news that his dear girl was to be dry-docked.

This meant she would be taken from him and placed in the charge of the Harbour Master. Plans were to give her a right thorough going over, which was to include new copper on her bottom, rebuilding the privies, a new mizzenmast stepped and the compass in the binnacle replaced. This being the case, Wentworth had nothing to hope for but new orders and a ship under him soon. However, this was the fondest hope of every officer left superfluous by the peace; he had few options aside from visiting his family and strategically loitering the corridors of Whitehall.

He mentally hoisted his glass to Bonaparte. May your second carry on your legacy, he thought.

Drifting back to the tête-à-tête between Gil and Miss Hammond, Wentworth could not help but be amazed at the adaptability of the young woman. Earlier, when he had been the object of her full attention, he was heartened, for the sake of conversation only, to find that she was well versed concerning life aboard ships of the line, particularly his sentimental favorite, the frigate. She had more than a passing knowledge of many of the small, local boats surrounding several of the major ports. Her understanding of the politics of Whitehall was astonishing and her laughter at his sly jokes and puns was unrestrained. Now, she was astonishing Mr. Craig, the manager of one of the largest warehouses supplying the English Navy, with her knowledge of the price of the cork needed to make bungs for casks and the difference between a London hogshead of beer and one shipping from Liverpool or Dublin.

Gil's face was a study in rapt stupefaction. Frederick took inordinate pride in his own self-command that would never allow him to fall into such abject witlessness.

Again he considered her admirable qualities; a face, coloring and figure just to his liking, a quick wit and a quick mind that weren't afraid to show themselves, but more importantly, her admiration of the Navy went deeper than the blue and gold of the uniform. She understood the life and would be the perfect woman to stand alongside a strong-minded officer bent on rising as high as was humanly possible in the King's Navy. Miss Hammond should be perfect, but there was a sour note in this perfect piece of music. If only he could find it, perhaps he could put it back in tune—

"My dear Niece," the Admiral said, as he motioned away his plate, "I wish you would not neglect our other guest."

"I am sorry, Uncle. Captain Wentworth, deepest my apologies. Mr. Craig and I have neglected you in our pursuit of the perfect method of packing pork hindquarters in salt."

The Admiral snorted and motioned for another bottle to be brought to the table. "If she weren't so bloody smart, I'd sent her off this minute." He raised his now filled glass and drank it down.

She smiled in the old man's direction, and then turned to Frederick. "And so Captain, what do you think will be the next great challenge to the Crown, now that the Royal Navy has subdued that wretched Napoleon?"

Yes, she was bloody smart, but there was still something discordant about this enticing young beauty.

"I'm boring you."

Raising his head from the squab, Frederick blinked his eyes until Gil's features came together clearly. His statement was only partly true, he had talked nonstop since they left the Admiral and Miss Hammond, but it was the gentle rock of Gills' exceptionally fine coach which had put the Captain to sleep.

"No, not at all. I was just enjoying your treatise on the virtues of Miss Hammond." He pulled himself to full sitting and prepared for more of Craig's observations.

"She is a wonderful girl."

"Yes, she is lovely. And I think she is quite taken with you." He rearranged his gloves on the seat beside him.

"Do you really think so?"

Wentworth was amused that his friend was even questioning her attentions. Gilmore Craig could buy and sell most other men out of his pocket change, but more than that, he was a genuinely good man. The same could not be said for his father, but the business would soon be his completely and Miss Hammond would be a lovely addition to the Craig family.

"Certainly. Her interest was unmistakable. She had eyes only for you even when the scintillating topic of brining versus salting of meat was discussed."

Gill laughed. "I know you find trade mundane. And it is, compared to your occupation. But now you know how I felt when the two of you were discussing the weather gauge and polaccas and polacre rigs and pollacks."

He too laughed. "Well, just don't get them confused. The first two are ships in the Mediterranean and the third is—"

"Yes, I know. A pollack is a fish."

"And, no doubt you know how to salt it, brine it, crate it, store it and ship it."

"I do."

Even in the dim light of the carriage, Frederick could see his friend's face fall a bit. Comparing sea faring to fish most likely. "Seriously, Gilmore, I think she is very pleased with your attentions."

"The Admiral is anxious to find her a suitable position before he leaves for India."

"As he should. She is his dependent and her comfort must be secured. If her health were not so delicate, I am sure she would be a great asset in setting up his new household."

"Well, her health is actually quite good, he is mostly worried that she will not do well in the heat. And disease is a worry."

"That being the case, and your feelings being what they are, perhaps she will soon have that suitable position just as the Admiral wishes."

Gil looked out the window, lowered the shade against the setting sun and then decided to speak. "He means her for you."

It was the truth, but Wentworth had hoped it was not so obvious that his friend would notice. After the meal was finished, they lingered at the table and whenever the conversation drifted for too long towards Gilmore, the Admiral briskly guided it back to the Navy in general and Captain Wentworth in particular.

"He wants her to marry a man of the Navy. That's why she is so well-versed concerning ships and Whitehall and everything nautical."

"Perhaps. It might also be that she has lived her entire life in Plymouth. What else is there for her to know but the Navy?"

"Nevertheless, he has his sights set on you marrying her."

Were it not for the niggling, indefinable discomfort she evoked, he might well take the bait, as it was sweet bait indeed. But no, Miss Hammond would not do for him.

"Fortunately Gil, we live in modern, enlightened times when a woman cannot be dragged to the alter and forced to marry the man of her family's choosing. Regardless of what the old man wants, I think Miss Hammond would rather discuss cork prices with you than anything else in the world." Though he was not interested in her, saying so aloud stung just a little. Was it too much to ask for something a little closer to perfection?

"So, you are sure? There would be no hard feelings between us if I were to make myself a nuisance at the Admiral's?"

"No Gil. No hard feelings." Fredrick nearly laughed aloud at the self-satisfied expression in his friend's face.

Gil enthusiastically rubbed his hands together and settled himself for the rest of the journey to the docks.

"Well, since you have no intentions of transforming Miss Hammond into Anne Wentworth—"

The sour note sounded clear and jarring, setting Frederick's teeth on edge.

He had not thought of Anne Elliot for months. He would not have thought of her at all if not for midshipman Elliot.

Mr Andrew Elliot was from a wretchedly poor family who traded him for the five-pound bounty, in hopes of giving him a chance at a better life. He was slight with dark hair and eyes, quiet in manner, but with an intense desire to please his betters. It was weeks after the boy came on board that Wentworth was forced to notice his name, and physical resemblance to his former love.

Just after sunset, some of the younger boys were skylarking in the rigging when one of them called out sharp and crisp, "An-dy. An-dy Elliot." When it filtered through the evening breeze, he heard only "An-nie. An-nie Elliot." Without thinking, he stalked off the quarterdeck to search out the culprit. After observing Midshipman Elliot making a crude gesture to someone in the shrouds, he silently, unceremoniously walked back to his post. His reaction had been so violent, his first officer inquired if there was something amiss. A curt "Nothing, Lieutenant," ended the inquiry.

But that was weeks ago and this was a fine July night and he was determined that nothing would intrude upon his peace. Looking over his dear Laconia as his small boat closed the gap, he saw a sight that was sure to disturb any man's peace.

"D*mn. Speak of the devil," he said.

"Beg y're pardon, Sir?"

"Nothing, Eyrely," he said to his coxswain. In fact, the Elliot in question was on watch and waiting for him at the rail. And directly behind him stood the fidgeting figure of Mr. Lull.

Lull was his ship's clerk. Aside from having a name antithetical to his true nature, Lull was a marvel. The collection of books kept by the various warrants and rated officers aboard a ship were the bane of every captain's existence. If the attention needed to keep the pen pushers in Whitehall, and the various ports, happy were actually lavished upon the records of a voyage, never would an anchour be weighed or a sail hoisted. Indeed, never would a war be won. But Lull, despite his twitching and constantly tapping foot, was a worker of miracles whose overscrupulous habits made turning the ship's books over to the port admiral's clerk as near to a pleasure as any captain could wish for.

Mr Elliot acknowledged his return with a touch of his hat and opened his mouth to speak. As soon as Wentworth's foot touched the deck, Mr Lull was elbowing the boy aside and pressing for the Captain's attention. A nod to Mr. Elliot and they began to move in union towards the gangway.

"Sir, Mr Turlow refuses to give me the Carpenter's log. He says he will see it into your hands personally." The man's breath was all ready coming in quick gusts. Without looking, Wentworth knew his face was turning pink. "I have requested the Surgeon's inventory, but he says the loblolly boy pitched it over in the side out near the Eddystone Rocks." His pen was tapping the page of the open book he clutched. "And—"

Wentworth brought them all to a sudden stop. "And, Mr Lull?" Turning, he turned a grave stare on the clerk.

The man blinked through his round-rimmed glasses. "Well, Sir, your log book is incomplete. You've not touched it since we arrived." His voice waned as he spoke.

Frederick looked from Lull to Mr Elliot, who looked away to examine the deck. "Mr Lull, I can appreciate your dilemma, and I assure you that when you come to the great cabin, first thing in the morning, I will see to all your concerns." He nodded and turned to leave the deck.

"Sir."

He stopped. "Mr Elliot, in the morning, you may come to my cabin directly after Mr Lull."

"But sir, there is a Captain Harville waiting in the great cabin to see you."

Chapter Two

"Captain Timothy Harville? When did he arrive?"

"About a hour ago, sir. He asked to come on board, and when I was about to turn him away, Old Cotton called out and spoke to him. I took Cotton's word that the man was who he claimed."

The boy was uncertain how his decision was going to be met.

"Very good, Mr Elliot. Back to your duties." He turned to descend the stairs. It was his plan to visit Harville in the near future, but preparing the Laconia to be turned over to the Authorities was his immediate concern.

"Sir."

Wentworth turned and was now eye-level with him.

"Sir, you should know that the fellow didn't look good at all. He struggled mightily up the accommodation ladder." This was not particularly alarming as Harville suffered from a stubborn wound to the leg. "And, when he was finally up, he was all pale and sweatin' something terrible." The boy looked genuinely startled to think of the man's appearance. It bothered Wentworth also. He looked in perfect health that past spring, when the Captain brought Mrs Harville, Harville's sister, Fanny, another female relation, along with several children from Portsmouth to Plymouth. Perhaps his health was chronically poor, and that was only the glow of a man reunited with his family.

"I took him personally to the great cabin, and told Michaelson to see to him proper."

"You did exactly the right thing, Mr Elliot." He nodded towards the quarterdeck. The boy straightened as he gave a touch of salute. His turn was sharp and there was a new purpose to his step.

The smell and heat of the lower decks met him as he pulled off his hat and began unbuttoning his coat. Coming to his cabin, the marine on duty snapped to attention and reached for the door. Wentworth held up his hand to pause his entry.

They had exchanged no letters over the spring and summer so Harville had no intimate knowledge of the Laconia's whereabouts. Having dropped anchor three days previous, the news of their arrival would naturally have made its way through Plymouth. Under normal circumstances, Harville would have waited for an invitation, knowing his friend to be immersed in the multitude of tasks required when returning to homeport. His appearing unbidden, and in obvious ill heath, did not bode well. Something must be wrong. But, having nothing aside from suspicion based on ignorance, he decided to leave the situation in the hands of Providence.

Nodding to the marine, he took a deep breath and entered the great cabin.

Though the stern windows were propped open, the heat was more oppressive in the cabin than without. Captain Harville was seated, his back to the door, looking at the Plymouth docks from the watery vantage. The announcement brought him to his feet. Struggling to simultaneously turn and rise, he stumbled slightly. Between his walking stick and the back of the chair, he righted himself. Offering his hand, he said, "Captain Wentworth."

Frederick was shocked. The face of his friend was indeed pale, and thinner than he remembered. Taking Harville's hand, he was equally disturbed to find the grip weak and tremulous, and the skin clammy. Without letting loose, Wentworth gently pressed him back into the chair. "Harville, I will not allow such formality between us." Pulling another chair close, he took the seat. Spying an empty glass on a small side table, he said, "I see Michaelson has taken care of you. But I think you need another."

He called out the door for his steward and ordered a bottle be brought. Pouring Harville a glass of water, he handed it over. "You look as though you could use this."

Harville took it gratefully and began to drink.

"So, what brings you to me? This is a beastly hot day to sit below deck on a ship at anchor."

Harville's lips thinned and he set the glass down. As he turned to look out the window, Wentworth noticed his eyes blinking furiously. The man was spared answering as Michaelson entered and poured. As he left, Frederick snagged the bottle from him. His steward's thrift and hawkish supervision over his private stores was an advantage at times, but this was not one of them.

The door closed and Wentworth straddled the chair next to his friend.

Time passed and the only sounds heard were of the distant docks, bells and calls from other ships, and the lapping water outside the window. Occasionally, a puff of what might be considered a breeze could be felt, but only occasionally.

As life above deck on the Laconia went on apace, Frederick contemplated the various scenarios that might be the cause of Harville's surprising visit, and undisguised grief. Immediately it came to his mind that Elsa Harville was dangerously ill. Or, perhaps dead all ready.

The thought of such an evil nearly took his breath away. There were things in life one took for granted. It was a fact indisputable that Wentworth would always be an officer of the Navy, it was just as sure that Elsa Harville would be alive and well to care for her husband and family. She had always been the more healthy of the two, and the one who buoyed the man's spirits when his injury brought him low. Nevertheless, there were no real certainties in life anymore. He himself was now thrown ashore with no sign of a ship…

Harville thumped his stick on the floor. No doubt a sign of resolve, and turned to face Frederick.

The expression on his pallid face was one of puzzlement and surprise. "It's my sister, Fanny. She's dead." His eyes, and tone of voice, begged for an answer to an unasked question.

For a few seconds, Frederick could not comprehend Harville's anguish. There was no mention of his wife being dead, or of the death of one of his several children. What was the crisis? It was merely his sister—

Before he could speak, the scene in his mind was altered and he could see himself receiving a word or a letter proclaiming his dear sister, Sophia, dead. They had not seen one another for years, but the understanding that her thick, gossip-filled letters would follow him to whatever part of the world he found himself, was a comfort that he now realized was vital to his happiness.

"It was a fever…in June…she was only sick for less than a week and then she was gone." The statement was of few words, but he might just as well have recited the Articles of War in one breath. He was gulping air and his chest was heaving; his face was growing rosy. All the life was rapidly draining from him.

Ignoring propriety, Frederick stood, pushed the chair away, and began to strip off Harville's coat.

He hadn't the strength to fend off Frederick's onslaught and made no attempt to do so. "You should really have something a little lighter for summer, Timothy. You know how stifling this cabin gets in the heat…" One of the buttons popped off and flew across the floor as they were viciously undone. "And yet, you come calling wearing your sturdiest wool."

"You're right, of course." He refused to look at the Captain. "But I must be prudent about spending these days," he said between pants. He was limp as a damp rag and allowed the Captain to remove his coat and unwind his neck cloth.

Retrieving a wet towel from the washstand, Frederick handed it to him. Harville finally glanced up as he dabbed the towel around his neck. "Well, if I must humiliate myself, I suppose it is best done before a good friend." Their eyes met for a moment. Harville continued, "Please do not allow it to be known that I came very near swooning like a woman."

He was relieved that Harville was not offended with his behaviour. Loosening the knot from his own stock, he said, unwinding it, "Aside from the excitement, I'm glad you did. As the host, it wouldn't be proper for me to make myself comfortable in the presence of a guest."

"I'm not really a guest, now am I?" He refolded the towel and placed it against his neck.

"No. And you never will be, just a guest. Besides, this cabin is Hades lower deck, and I suspect that you've not been much concerned about taking care of yourself since Fanny…" He stopped. Her name was now dangerous to utter.

"I have been bearing up manfully for Elsa. She has not taken it well." He took another glass of water mixed with some wine. Looking intently into the reddish liquid, Frederick knew he saw his sister. "You know she did not wish Fanny to live with us. She complained that we were too many in too little space to be taking on anyone extra."

When he had brought the three women from Portsmouth, in the spring, nothing would have lead the casual observer to believe there was anything but perfect harmony between them all. But, he knew from experience that the female of the species was highly skilled in making a show of possessing tender emotions when the truth was, there were none.

"She came to us in Portsmouth and Elsa was resentful, mostly concerning the space. But, being a good Christian woman she was determined to be kind. Before long, they were closer than most genuine kin."

"Your wife has always been a good and generous soul. I have always been treated well when I come to impose."

He smiled. "She likes you very much. Besides, she is a clever girl who knows that you treat men of great influence with great esteem."

Frederick laughed aloud, but felt guilty for an expression of levity at such a wretched moment.

"The irony is, the last time either one of us stepped foot into her room was the day she died. The bedding was stripped after they came and took her away, but it now stands empty. Neither of us can bear the thought of anyone in there. All that precious space and no one to use it."

A thought was gaining in his mind, and he was about to ask a question as Harville said, "When she was alive, I took for granted she would always be with us. Even when marrying Benwick. There was no great, outward affection between us, but now—" He looked at Frederick and said, "I miss her terribly. When you know you will never see someone again, it hurts something awful."

It was a truth he could wholeheartedly embrace. Rather than dwell on it, he asked, "How has James taken the news?"

Timothy's face went blank. "He is on his way from the Cape. Had you heard he was made into the Grappler?"

"No, I hadn't heard."

"We have gotten letters right along. He was making for Plymouth, but then orders were given for Portsmouth."

"I see."

"His last one, the letter that came just before her fever, was very hopeful. He feels he is very close to having the wherewithal for them to marry. He never came out and asked her to think about choosing a date, but he made it clear it is soon. Very soon." He took a drink.

It was not hard to imagine Benwick savouring his well-deserved step in rank by wetting the swab with the few fellow officers carried by a sloop. It was painful thinking of him labouring under the delusion that his promotion now put him and Fanny in the way of marrying soon. Knowing Benwick's romantic sensibilities, he was no doubt filled with thoughts of Fanny greatly anticipating his return, planning for their forthcoming wedding and planning a life of perfect felicity and joy for the both of them.

Harville's look and lack of explanation on the subject made it clear that their mutual friend knew nothing of his beloved's untimely death.

Frederick knew Harville's compassionate bent precisely. It was a two-edged sword, which had served quite well when a dab hand was needed dealing with the mercurial, sometimes arbitrary nature of a ship's crew. It was also a blade that cut the other way now and then.

Mercy greatly informed Harville's basic nature. In that, he reminded the Captain of his brother, Edward. And, while this inclination created a great fraternity amongst the men of his division, it had occasionally forced the two officers to opposite poles concerning disciplining the crew. Wentworth could hardly be called a flogging captain; the cat remained in the bag for weeks or months depending on the behaviour of his men. He never felt the need to prove his authority with trivial punishments. But, now and then, Harville would take it into his head that the Captain was being too brutal in his dealings with the men. It was those times he would come to the Great Cabin to plead mercy.

They never agreed in the particular cases, but Harville always presented himself respectfully, always mindful of his position as an inferior officer requesting leniency from his superior. And, he never assumed upon their friendship. For this, Frederick was always grateful. Nothing could fuel discontent on a ship like a whiff of partiality. There could be no favorites on a well-ordered ship of war. Loyalty above all things bound them together when they were weeks away from the civility of England. Loyalty to the Captain was fundamental and Harville never failed to give all of his.

That same loyalty now touched the Captain's mind and heart. In the same way Harville would always return and, out of respect and duty, administer the proper punishments, despite his reticence, it was clear that the duties of friendship required that Frederick carry out a task that his friend could not. He could not even allow Harville to ask his assistance.

Frederick rose and took a seat at his desk. Pulling out paper and a quill, he began to write.

Again, the cabin fell calm and quiet, except for the scratching of the pen.

Finally, Timothy rose, gathered his neck cloth and tossed the towel towards the basin. It missed. He thumped his way across the room to pick it up. "I am sorry I disturbed you. This is a family matter and really isn't your concern."

Fredrick said, "Nonsense," and continued to scratch away. Harville finished the last of his wine and water and made an effort to fold the neck cloth.

Wentworth replaced the quill and blotted the letter. He reread it as he crossed the room to speak to the Marine. "Pass the word for Eyerly, Michaelson and Mr Lull to come to the Great Cabin." He turned and Harville was standing right before him.

"Thank you, for writing this, Frederick." He reached out to take it. "I just could not bring myself to dash all Benwick's hopes."

Allowing Harville the letter, he said, "I suppose I have more experience relaying tragedy than most. But, this is not the instrument. I am applying to the Admiral for a leave of absence and shall leave for Portsmouth at first light."

A sharp, overlong rapping at the door distracted them. "A moment, please, Mr Lull." Frederick took the letter and went back to the desk. As he folded and sealed it, he said, "Why am I not surprised that Mr Lull is the first? Come," he called.

Lull entered and looked Harville's unkempt frame up and down as he passed. "Sir?"

Frederick pressed his seal into the blood-red wax. "This is to go to the Port Admiral's clerk first thing in the morning. It is a request for leave of absence." He handed the packet to his clerk.

"Might I ask for who, Sir?"

"For me. I must be away at first light."

Lull was clearly agitated by this late evening development. "How long, Sir?"

None of his questions was proper, but the news of the Captain's departure might as well be heralded by a reliable crier as not. "The time is unfixed. I will know more when I arrive in Portsmouth. The business is private." This was said in such a way as to signal an end to the questioning.

"But, Sir, what if the request is not approved. How will I explain…"

Frederick reminded himself he would be thankful for this dull, obtuse little man when the ship's books were turned over. "Mr Lull, there will be nothing for you to explain. We are merely waiting for the formality of orders to vacate the ship so she might be placed in dry dock. It is unlikely that my request will be denied, but if that does occur, Mr Cranmer will express me in Portsmouth, in care of the Grappler, and I shall return, posthaste." He handed Lull a sheet with the information. "In any case, I will be responsible for explanations, excuses or elaborations."

The clerk took the letter and moved towards the door. Before he left, he tuned and asked, "Sir, about the books…"

"You and Lieutenant Cranmer will take care of the books nicely, I am sure." With a quick bob, Lull was gone.

"You are going to a lot of trouble about this."

"No, not really. There's no chance of being sent out again. I've made peace with that."

"Yes. Yes you are. And I must confess something."

"And what would that be?"

"When I came here, I was hoping this would be the outcome. That you would volunteer to go to Portsmouth and speak with James, face-to-face. This is not the sort of thing one should learn from a letter."

"There is no need to…"

"You don't know how I dreaded the notion of going myself, and having to stand before him and tell him that the woman he loves is dead. To be the one who destroys him, with my own heart broken besides."

"Yes, Timothy, I understand. James is, after all, my friend as well."

As though he didn't hear Frederick, he continued, "But you are the far better choice for this, I think. You have never known love, and have no understanding of the pain that comes when that love is taken so cruelly from you."

It was all he could do to keep from setting the record straight. To keep from making it clear to his friend that he indeed did know what it was to love, what it was to have all your plans and hopes destroyed. What it was to consume oneself for years with hopes, then, deciding to put them aside, letting anger have its way with your heart. Feeling the muscles in his face tense more and more, he thought James the lucky one. Fanny was dead. On more than one occasion Frederick had to endure the knowledge that the woman he had once loved would undoubtedly be married by now. Married and happy without him.

As much as he wished to shake his friend and convince him that he was indeed a brother in the fraternity of heartache, he refrained. No one knew because he never gave away anything concerning his heart. Harville knew nothing because, for years, Frederick had chosen to keep the entire world ignorant of his greatest disappointment. Only two people knew anything about the sad business. Anne knew his anger, and Edward knew his anguish.

He looked at Harville's face. The pain was yet palpable, but somewhat relieved. He could not change what Providence had declared, but he could accomplish this most painful deed for his friend. There was a rap at the door and it opened, knocking Wentworth into Harville.

"Sorry, Sir. You sent for me." Michaelson was obviously just out of his hammock; his eyes were bleary and his jersey on backwards. Before he could answer, Eyerly was also at the door.

"Ready my boat to take the Captain back to shore." The coxswain tugged his forelock and disappeared. "Michaelson, please assist Captain Harville with his dressing, then you will go with Eyerly." He left Timothy to the care of his steward and went above.

The air had cooled and the breeze freshened. Short playful gusts lifted his hair and tugged at his damp lawn shirt. A few deep breaths cleared the feeling of the closed, tight cabin.

Eyerly stood near the davit, protecting the small boat as she was hoisted over the side. "Have some grace you lubbers. I just painted 'er last week." This little scene reminded Wentworth that he was not the only man aboard the Laconia who loved and cared for her as though she were a lover. Not that the paint on the little boat mattered now; it would be tossed aside during the refitting and who knew what the paint would be like after.

Taking a coin from his pocket, he handed it to the coxswain. "Eyerly, take a shag. His leg is as bad as his neighbourhood so see him right to the door." He stopped as the bell was struck marking eleven-thirty. "Return immediately. And see that Michaelson is not distracted by a late-night cockfight."

"Aye, Sir." Eyerly smiled. Both knew Michaelson was a hopeless gambler, and the caveat only proved nothing escaped the notice of the captain.

"Yes, we have more than established that I am the most proper man for the job. I will give you a full report when I return."

Harville shook his hand. It was obvious he wished to say more, but as they were in public, they knew the proprieties and Harville did nothing to compromise the position of the captain in the eyes of his crew.

It was indeed painful to watch Harville manoeuvre down the accommodation ladder. Michaelson knew he was being observed and took every care in seeing him settled in the stern of the small boat. Watching them pull away, he put his mind to the unpleasant task at hand.

Lieutenant Cranmer was a little wide-eyed with all the responsibility of command, even if it was over a ship that would be doing no more than sitting in the harbour. His instructions were clear, do nothing out of the ordinary. If any activity came from the quarter of the Admiral's office, Wentworth was to be summoned immediately. The inferior officers and Warrants were good, constant men, not imaginative, but dependable. They would support Cranmer and do their duties without any shirking. In turn, their example would keep the men in line. He also counted on Lull, Eyerly and several of the other older, steady Laconias to keep the peace. He pulled away the next morning with only a little dread.

"The Blue Booby's a fine e-stablishment. Close to the docks, and the weemin, if ya knows wha' I mean." The driver gave him the toothless grim Frederick had come to abominate. Three days and nights of bad roads, horrid food and even worse company had turn his normally sanguine temperament to one of bloody-mindedness. "I'll ship ya right over, free uh charge."

"Thank you for the offer. I am sure The Blue Booby has every convenience, but I am for The Crown." Wentworth was hard pressed to be very angry with the Miles Gordon, (the man took great pains to introduce himself, repeatedly if necessary, at every stop). He could hardly be blamed for nearly inedible food at the coaching stations, though he seemed to be on very intimate terms with all the innkeepers. It would be unfair to blame him for the quality of the passengers he hauled, though many of them were his near and distant relations. The roads probably were not his fault. Though, Wentworth thought it barbarous to place paying customers at the mercy of a carriage whose seats were little more than tanned hides stretched over boards, while the springs had long ago lost their temper. No, for the abominable condition of his carriage, he could be doubly blamed.

That being the case, the Captain felt as though he had been beaten day and night with a belaying pin. As for The Blue Booby, the man undoubtedly had a deal with the keep and would get a bounty for every customer he steered that way. Considering how many family members Mr Gordon hauled it more than likely a family enterprise. It might also be the sort of establishment where a man woke up sans his money and valuables, or worse. He gave the man a few pence, in hopes he would take himself and his odious smile away.

Seeing he could not deter the Captain from rooming at the Crown, he said, "Suit yaself," and shoving the coins in his waistcoat pocket. He hauled down the Captain's bag and dropped it unceremoniously at his feet. Without a word, he turned, mounted his death machine and drove off.

"An appropriate beginning for my sojourn in Portsmouth," he said under his breath. As he reached for the bag, a small, young hand reached out to take it.

"Let me get that for ya, Sir." Struggling to lift the case with both hands stood a sturdy man-child of indeterminate age, but obvious good humour. "I see you didn't fall for Gordon's offer of The Booby. Might I offer you a place at The Crown?" When he made a sweeping gesture towards the building, the case pulled him off balance. He quickly righted himself, hoisted the case off the ground and waited for the Captain’s bidding.

Were he not all ready bound for that place, the earnest face would have made a refusal completely impossible. Such good-willed enterprise should always be rewarded. "Lead on, Sir." He allowed the boy to struggle, offering no assistance. He had found that honest toil could be the making or breaking of a young man. It was clear from each small grunt issuing from this one, he was improving by the minute.

Setting the case by the bar, with as much grace as he could muster, the boy called out and was answered by an older man with cloth over his shoulder and five pints in his hands. "I'll be right wi' ya, Sir."

The boy looked up at him, as though the Captain might change his mind concerning the accommodations. "The Crown's the best beds and the best beer in all of Portsmouth."

Frederick was keenly drawn to the boy. For one so young, he was wonderfully bright and better spoken than most of his officers. Moreover, was not afraid to step into an advantageous situation. This was just the sort of boy a captain longed to see come aboard his ship. He could help steer him away from foolish mistakes that so often befell a young man with no patronage. This boy could rise as far as he liked in Service to the King.

"Now, what might I do fer ya?" He asked, glancing up as he began to wipe the bar. At first, he offered Frederick the customary smile of a man of business looking to please a customer. When his eyes dropped to the captain’s shoulders, the smile widened, and he began wiping his hands on the towel as he gave him his full attention.

"The Captain will be wanting a room, Sir. There's one in the back open. Nice and quiet like."

"George," the man was stern of voice and expression. "Let the good Cap'un speak for hisself." His compliment was genuine enough, but was also to gently belabour the esteem being paid to a man of his rank.

Glancing at the boy, then looking at the man, he said, "I think George here is right. I would like the room in the back, all nice and quiet like."

"He'll check and see that ever'thing's sound." As if to punctuate the tranquility of the room he had rented, a roar of male voices from behind the curtain of a private dining room raised every head in the place. It continued for a time, then sunk back to a manageable hubbub.

Fearing the outburst might dampen the Captain's enthusiasm for staying at the Crown, the keep said, "Just a few of yer fellows celebratin' their return to the comfort of good English soil." His worried expression begged a reply.

Another roar delayed the answer. "No one with a drop of loyalty in him would ever begrudge sailors their celebrations. Besides, I will be out most of the evening."

Relief spread over the man's face. "I figure a little high spirits is in order. As long as they don't break up the furniture, I'm happy to provide the place." Satisfied that Wentworth was not going to take his business elsewhere, he named the room's price.

As he handed over the coins, Frederick said, "Your son is quite persuasive. Very well-spoken for one his age."

"Aw, that's the truth. George can talk like a lord, to a lord, or better. But George, he ain't mine. He jus' showed up one day and before I could run him off, he made hisself more than a little useful. He's worth his bed and board."

"Tuggins. George Tuggins. Other than his given name, he's tight-lipped about ever'thin' else. All I know is, no one's ever come makin' enquiries about him."

Frederick assured the man that he would not need George’s assistance in carrying his case, and asked directions to his room. As he made his way down the hallway, he decided if he were ever in Portsmouth again, with a place to put him, he would have a word with Master George Tuggins.

The evening was warm and the walk to the docks was longer than he remembered. It was a bit galling when he walked by The Blue Booby and its short hike to the water. He surveyed the ships at anchor. He had no memory of ever seeing the Grappler. Since there were several sloops from which to choose, he would have to wait until he got aboard to appraise her further.

He began to look for a boat to take him out when fortune smiled. A wiry young man, dressed in his finest going ashore clothes, was carving on a fist-sized chunk of wood while chatting with a little boy of similar dress. Frederick continued to survey the ships, but eavesdropped on the animated conversation.

"…now the Post Cap'un's the money-hungriest of 'em all, Billy. Why, most of 'um will sail right into a hurricano without blinkin' a eye, if they thinks there's prize to be got. That's why ya want to get onboard a good frigate with one of them crown and anchor fellas. Ya can come away with thirty or forty pounds when they pays ya off." The younger boy was all agape at the idea of such wealth.

Smiling to himself, he had to agree with the fellow about the greedy nature of men of his rank. There was once a time that description would have fit him very well. But for some time now, and particularly on this, he would rather have a hurricano blow up and have to sail precisely into the middle of it rather than take the short pull out to Benwick's ship. His one consolation was that in a few hours, it would all be over and he would be free of the obligation.

The fellow was going on about a new subject when Wentworth inspected more closely the embroidery on the band of his cap.

Looking Wentworth over, his eyes took in all the braid of his dress uniform, and fixed particularly on his golden shoulders, adorned with the very crowns and anchors he touted to the boy. Motioning for the youngster to stay put, he rose and quickly approached the captain. He tugged on his forelock and began: "Well, sir, as we've just experienced one of the most unlucky sails of all history, I'll have to ask which captain you might be inquirin' about? We got poor Captain Luden. He made it to Gibraltar and no more. Bad fever took 'im. Then there's Captain Halliwell. He succumbed to a unknown illness just the other side of the Cape. That left our fate to the newly made Master and Commander, James Benwick." He lowered his voice, "The scuttlebutt is that Commander Benwick owes a great deal to the bad moral habits of Captain Halliwell."

Sailors rivaled any group of women for their fondness of gossip, and ordinarily Frederick would have little to say about this base slander concerning Captain Halliwell, but the young boy was listening closely and he wished him to have a lesson.

The man's eyes grew large. "Towrey. Henry Towrey, acting coxswain of the Grappler, Sir."

"Mr Towrey, it is one thing to gossip among the members of your gun crew while taking your grog. It is quite another to impart such a…delicate communication to strangers. I would hate to see you lose the confidence of your captain when word returns to him that his coxswain might not be the most trustworthy of companions."

Glancing at the boy, he knew a good deal of circumspection had entered him that evening. Mr Towery was in a similar state.

Referring no more to the incident, he said, "It is Commander Benwick that I seek. He is not expecting me, but I come on a matter of some urgency. Please take me to him."

Relief overtook Towrey and he said, "Well, sir, I would most gladly do that, only he's at The Crown bein’ feted by his friends. Some of his Portsmouth mates come and insisted they wet the swab good and proper."

"Aye, Sir. One of the finest houses in the town. The best tap around, as far Grapplers are concerned. They've been at it quite a while. Even so, I don't expect him back for quite a spell."

"I see. Well, thank you." As he was about to walk away, he turned and said to the boy, "And you, Billy," the boy started at his name, "he's right about a frigate. If you're aching to be rich, find a frigate." The little boy's startled look made him smile as he turned to make the walk back to The Crown.

As he walked, he rehearsed the words, turning them to suit any of the possible responses Benwick might make. The most difficult words had to do with the death itself. Dead. Passed on. Gone. Left us. These were the best he could think of, others were best left to describing the departed sailor. The best he could do was to describe for him her lack of suffering and that the Harvilles shared his pain and despair.

With the Crown in sight, he stepped up his pace. He wished to be free of his burden quickly so that he might have a chance at a decent rest. Since Harville's visit, he had had no sleep worth considering.

As he was about to enter, the door burst open and several men came blundering out, hooting and laughing as only drunken men can. He stood aside and hoped that these were the foundation of the loud group in the private room. He had no desire to try to impart such dreadful news in the midst of Bedlam.

Surveying the room, he did not see any sign of Benwick. Perhaps his friends had procured something more private. Despite his grim errand, he could not help but be amused by the idea of Benwick and a few of his studious mates, endeavouring to engage in pleasant, but intelligent conversation while the rout carried on in the next room.

The idea was entertaining for only a moment and he knocked on the bar to the attention of the keep. "Sir, might you help me? I am looking for a friend."

"Ah, yes, Benwick. Well, he's in there with a few of his friends." He pointed to the curtained room. The roar was no quieter than before.

Glancing at the room, Frederick said, "No, no, you must be mistaken, he would never go in for anything like that mob. He is a very quiet, retiring fellow. Roundish face, dark hair, about this tall."

The man smiled as he brought glasses from under the bar. "Well, Cap’n, I know they're wettin' the swab of a James Benwick, who just made Master and Commander. I know the ranks, Sir."

It was the keep’s turn to be amused. “It’s amazin’ how a little touch o’ superiority, not to mention quite a lot o’ drink, can make a man so tolerant.”

Frederick smiled. “Very good point, sir. Thank you.” He stood for a moment and thought. It would be agreeable to celebrate Benwick’s good fortune, regardless of what might come later. It was always agreeable to be in the company of other officers, even inferiors to him.

He pushed off the bar and went to the private room. As he reached to draw the drape aside, a midshipman came stumbling through. When he extricated himself from the curtain, he caught sight of Wentworth and stuttered to his uniform, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see you—“ Just then he thought to salute and this sent the glasses he carried down his own front, slopping the remainders of wine and ale over his white waistcoat. The glasses crashed and broke at their feet. He bent to pick up the glass then stood to apologize to the captain. The man had the look of a marionette bobbing and bending.

“Here, Sir, let me help you with that.” The keep was in the midst of them, shooing the midshipman away. “He didn’t mean no harm, I’m sure.” He had no desire that one customer should do anything that might aggravate another.

The keep stood with the glass in his towel. Surveying the Captain, he said, “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you’ve got some wine on your fine coat. Let me get ya a towel.”

Another burst of laughter came from behind the curtain. After the reaction of the midshipman, the abject fear of facing so much gold braid on one coat, he wondered if his presence might not cause the party to wither and die prematurely. It would be cruel to Benwick to ruin this last happiness for a time.

“Certainly. There’s no hurry, Sir.” The man then busied himself with a broom, working the remaining glass into a small pile.

In his room, Frederick wiped at his coat, deciding that the keeps attentions had been an over reaction. There was very little of anything on him. He did take the opportunity to change.

His undress coat, sans the epaulettes, would lend itself to becoming one of the mob, allowing them to forget a Post Captain was in their midst. He carefully brought the shoulders together on his dress coat and was about to toss it on the bed, when the dash of red of the crown caught his eye. Drawing it back, he examined the epaulettes more closely than ever before.

“They are beautiful,” he said softly. For something made of nothing more than a small sheet of metal, a bit of gold coloured silk, wool and gold thread, they rivaled any work of art. Their beauty was derived from what they represented, as much as how they looked. The gold thread, some woven for the background and the others twisted into the bullions, did not glitter, but had a dignified glow from the light of the lamp. His thumb followed the curving S of the rope fouling the anchor. It looked smooth, like silver, but was rough from all the tiny stitches. He then felt the crown, the symbol of his allegiance to his sovereign and country.

These were the objects that proved his worth more than anything else in his life. Not even the generous numbers in his bank accounts meant more. These weighty bits of decoration made most men kowtow, some, like the innkeeper, gave him due deference; the few that were left gave grudging respect if nothing else. As for women, this symbol of rank was a prize to be won, and in his mind, most women were not too particular on whose shoulders they rested.

However, a woman like Fanny Harville did not care about epaulettes or rank, she had waited out of love for Benwick. Now that she was gone, his new bit of finery would have little meaning. Considering he was to be told of her death so close to his promotion, whenever he felt the weight of them, he might only be reminded of what he had lost and none of the gain.

Perhaps if his own life had been different, he would not have these beauties now. Perhaps he would have something more.

His plan was to take Benwick aside as the party broke up. They would bid the others farewell, and with the pretense of a friendly drink he would take his friend to a quiet table and tell him. The plan was set firmly in his mind as he drew back the curtain.

The party was all ready losing strength; men were weaving and bumping their way around the table to leave. The most prominent difficulty was Benwick himself.

Frederick could not recall ever seeing James Benwick intoxicated. The man had been his First Office some time ago and he could not think of a single instance of drunkenness. However, it was possible that since the man was so quiet, even when he was in his cups it was not very noticeable. However, there was no ignoring it tonight.

Two men were helping one another out of the room and lurched into Frederick. 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 James.

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

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

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

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.

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

“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 slurred. Frederick wished he would just pass out so that they would not have to do this drunken dance while walking him out.

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

“Sir, 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 want 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 me self. 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’ and 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 were passing the inn.

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, 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 be a 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 was no trouble to situate in the cart. Furlong jumped in along side him. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Just tell Benwick I’ve come. I cannot trust that he will even remember seeing me. And tell him I will dine with him tomorrow.”

Frederick studied the stars for a moment, and listened as Portsmouth began to quiet for the night. Stuffing his purse back in his pocket as he headed for the door of the Crown, he said, “It looks as though I am fated to miss another night of sleep.”