Another roar.
"And an extra shilling for the man that first puts a pennywhistle in my hand!"
Chapter 22
James Emerson Fletcher, Midshipman
On board HMS Essex
On station off France
My Dear Jacky,
Although I despair of ever hearing from you again, much less actually seeing you and taking your hand in mine, I shall continue to keep corresponding with you in this manner as it does give me some comfort in that I feel that I am communicating with you on some level, spiritual or otherwise.
I am still studying for my lieutenancy, though I take no joy in it, my real interest in this life having taken to her heels and run from me, and I am back on board the Essex, on patrol off the French coast.
I have sent word throughout the fleet concerning the possibility that you were somehow contained in it, though in what capacity I cannot imagine. If you are here, could you be posing as a boy again? No ... not likely. What would be the point? Could some unscrupulous officer have ... no, I will not think of that possibility.
If you could read this, you would be happy to know that I have placed your Judy and my Hattie with a lovely old woman, Lady Chumbley, who is greatly in need of their company and care. Judy and Hattie have been getting along famously. It is a good post, and though it will not last forever, I believe all concerned are happy.
Judy had told me, in vivid detail, a good deal of your life on the streets, before you had joined the company of the Dolphin, and while I took her wild tales with more than one grain of salt, I did enjoy hearing stories of you, however fanciful. However, I was disabused of the notion that the stories were exaggerations, to a great extent, when Judy, before being conveyed to Lady Chumbley's residence, asked that she be permitted to visit your old "kip," as she put it. I agreed, of course, but only on the condition that I be allowed to accompany her. She protested, thinking that not at all wise, but I persisted and she finally agreed.
Upon gaining the place, that dank place under the old bridge, it was all I could do not to draw the handkerchief soaked in cologne water that I kept in my sleeve as protection for my nose from the smells of the city, and putting it to my face and keeping it there. In deference to the children living there in that place, though, I managed not to do it. Even so, I was aghast at the thought of you, my brave but still frail and fine flower, living here in this squalor all those years. I truly cannot put my mind around it all.
The urchins received Judy as an old comrade and there were expressions of great joy as she doled out portions of her meager earnings into each hand, money, I then realized, that she had been saving up for just such a purpose. I, however, was viewed with the greatest of suspicion. I suddenly felt ashamed of my own wealth and position.
The excited conversation flowed and I was astounded to hear from the girl Joannie that you had visited here on your arrival back in Britain. It seems that all the whole world has had the joy of your company, all except me.
Judy informed me, upon our taking leave of the place, that, had I ventured in there and had she not been with me, I would have been clubbed, stripped, and left unconcious and nak*d in the street in under two minutes, but I cannot quite believe that. They are just children, after all.
So, to sum it up, Judy and Hattie seem content and contemplate their futures with happiness, but that same happiness, however, continues to elude me, as word of you and your whereabouts are still unknown to all. In desperation, I had written to your school in Boston and have received a reply from your friend Miss Amy Trevelyne to the effect that you have not returned there and she is frantic with worry over your safety. I fear I have done wrong in alarming her, but I saw no other path in trying to find you.
In addition, I have sent ... wait ... there is a knock on my door...
It is with a shaking hand that I report that a boat has just pulled up alongside bearing a very small midshipman with a letter from one of our smaller patrol ships. My Captain informs me that it concerns events that have recently occurred on HMS Wolverine. It seems that its Captain has died, its officers are missing, and the ship is being commanded by a J. M. Faber, Acting Lieutenant.
Good Lord.
We leave in the morning,
Jaimy
Chapter 23
We are not far into the Morning Watch when we see the boats approaching—both our lifeboat, which I assume carries Georgie and my boat crew, and a larger boat that bears a commodore's flag.
Well. It looks like we're going to get the royal treatment here.
"Beat to Quarters!" I say for the last time. "Let's look sharp for the Flag, his own self!" The Werewolves fly to their stations.
I go over to the large table, which once again has been set up on Three Hatch. There are chairs set out and plates laid with the finest delicacies from both the Captain's stores and those of the prizes, along with bottles of rare brandies and vintage wines—burgundies, Bordeaux, ports, sherries, and Madeiras.
When I had Higgins set it up, he had asked discreetly, "Not in the cabin, Miss?" and I said, "No, Higgins. I know that would be the usual place for this sort of thing, but I don't want to be anyplace where they could take me quickly, and bind me and confine me and stuff me in a sack, out of sight of my crew," and he nodded and said, "Very wise, Miss," and then he set about his task.
The boats draw closer. I take my long glass and see that the Wolverine boat carries just my small midshipman, our original crew, and a few other sailors—probably the new Captain's coxswain and other enlisted staff. I swing the glass to the other boat and see much gold on lapels, shoulders, and hats. That will be the new Captain and Commodore Shawcross. Why is he, himself, coming over here? Probably for a little excitement—patrol duty is as boring for a commodore as it is for a seaman. There is one man with one swab of gold on his shoulder—that will be the new Captain of HMS Wolverine. I hope for the sake of my crew that he is a good and a fair man. We shall see. Hmmm. There seem to be only two more officers in the boat with him. That is good. I want to try to get the new Captain to keep Jared, Harkness, and Drake as warrant officers, as, by God, they have earned it.
I swing the glass back to the smaller boat and see Georgie standing up in the prow, directing the approach. Good boy, Georgie! The gangway is down, waiting for your arrival, but let the Flag boat get there first, that's a good boy...
I swing the glass back to the Flag boat one more time before putting it down and...
Oh ... my...
The glass starts trembling in my hand. There, standing next to the mast on that boat, is none other than ... him.
No. Get hold of yourself, girl. You have been good and strong, you have not thought of him even once since he proved false. You have done well. You have survived without him. Treat it just like meeting another old shipmate ... the same as when I saw John Harper, another man from the Dolphin ... just another old shipmate ... no less, and certainly, no more ... It does not matter ... Calm, now. Calm.
I advance to the place where they will come aboard and inspect my quarterdeck crew. Tucker, Eli, and Tremendous are fitted out as side boys, looking nervous, but they'll do all right, I know. Then there's Ned and Tom and Joseph Jared and Jack Harkness and Peter Drake all drawn up and looking fine, and then there's me with Midshipman Robin Raeburne standing straight and true by my side as First Mate.
I'm not wearing the pistols—I had Higgins pack those, figuring that my mere presence in tight white trousers tucked into shiny black boots would be scandal enough—but I do have Persephone strapped on and I am wearing my Lieutenant's jacket with gold lace woven through its lapels over a new dress shirt that Higgins had somehow found, with creamy lace spilling out at my throat and wrists. And, by God, I have the Look on my face—eyes hooded, chin up, lips together and teeth apart, as Admiral Shawcross, Commodore of Squadron Fourteen, steps upon my ship. Following close behind him is the new Captain, and, I suspect, the new First Mate of the Wolverine. Then ... and only then does Midshipman James Emerson Fletcher step onto the deck of the Wolverine.
The Bo'sun starts his shrill trill and the side boys whip up their hands in salute, as does everyone else on the quarterdeck.
I step forward and take off my hat, a cocked hat that we had taken from the Dutch Captain that Higgins had somehow altered to fit me. It is all dark blue and gold and I feel ridiculous with it on and am glad to take it off. I bow and tuck it under my arm, as I have been instructed by Higgins.
The Commodore merely looks me over and does not return the bow. A definite snub. Very well, Commodore.
"You would prefer this, then, Sir?" and I dip down in my lowest curtsy, pantomiming the holding out of an invisible dress. The Look is hard upon my face as I rise. If they were expecting a pipe-chewing harridan as a female Captain, they do not get it. If they were expecting a simpering, frightened female, they don't get that, either. What they get is a Pimm's girl, pure and simple.
This time he barks out a laugh and gives an offhand salute. He looks about at the ship—the newly scrubbed decks, the shining brass. "This is Captain Trumbull," he says, gesturing to the new Captain. "He will be taking command of this ship."
I bow to Captain Trumbull. He does not bow back. He is a dark cove, of slight build and a long, blue-jawed face. He does not seem to be possessed of a great amount of humor and he certainly does not seem to approve of me.
"Shall we get on to the business at hand then? Will you take refreshment?" I say and motion Commodore Shawcross and the others to the table. He greedily surveys the spread on the table. His girth shows him to be a man of some appetite, and he wastes no time in going to the head of the table, and, after a seaman pulls out his chair, he sits down. After many months on station, even the stores of a commodore must be growing lean.
"Some wine with you then, Sir," I say, nodding at the Weasel, who has been pressed into this service by Higgins. He has been cleaned up and put in a white steward's uniform, and we have promised him a grisly death if he messes up. He shakily pours from a dusty old bottle of extremely rare amontillado, which looks like it came straight from the catacombs of Rome. The other officers come to the table and are seated, a specially selected seaman behind each chair. It is then that I, too, sit.
The Commodore smacks his lips over the wine. "Ahhhh ...," he says, unabashedly, "it's been a long time."
"I hoped you would like it, Sir, and I took the liberty of setting aside a crate of it for your own personal use," purrs I. "I'm sure the Admiralty would not mind. There is also some French perfume for your lady, Sir, as well as many foodstuffs that would surely spoil if not used right away." The Commodore looks at the pile of stuff to the right of the quarterdeck, the most prominent of which is the box of wine plainly stamped h. m. Fletcher & sons, importers of fine wines. brattle street, London on its side, and beams his pleasure.
"I'm beginning to like this girl," he says. "How many prizes, then?" he asks, smiling in anticipation.
The man who will become the next Captain is not smiling. The slight, dark man does not look like he has spent a large part of his life in idle pursuits. He has a sharp face, with prominent nose and piercing black eyes. He is not drinking the wine. Instead, he is looking around at the rigging, the trim of the sails. As well he should. That's what I would be doing, were I in his place.