Chapter Thirteen
T he Channel was its usual windy grind of restless waves funnelled between a continent and a large island. Winter might be wearing out, but spring was a reluctant maiden.
‘She’s a tease, this Channel,’ Captain Beattie remarked to his new first luff after breakfast of coffee, ancient toast and highly suspect cheese, accompanied by curses from his steward, who took mouldy cheese personally.
As painful as Lieutenant Fontaine’s death had been, John did not hesitate over Will’s replacement. He had anticipated it for months, knowing that Will would soon be moving to his own command, and none better. Sadly, war had outfoxed them.
Second lieutenant Thomas Marsing had moved competently into Will’s former place. A Welshman with dancing dark eyes, Tom knew when to be serious.
‘Sir, I will never fail you, even as Will never failed you,’ Tom promised, and his captain had no doubts. John knew how to nurture leaders.
Captain Beattie understood the aloofness of command, and the demands of a hard service. He appeared on deck during long night watches, when no captain usually roamed. It became a matter of course for Tom to follow him onto the quarterdeck.
Sometimes they spoke; sometimes they didn’t.
Lately, John found himself deep in thought, relieved that Allan was in a safe mooring on Covent Street.
However, instinct told him that Reverend Maddy was a troublemaker.
His only consolation was the knowledge that Anna Fontaine would never be cowed by such a fool as that curate.
On this voyage John frequently lingered on the quarterdeck, leaning his elbows on the rail and gazing towards Plymouth, wondering at his audacity in thrusting himself, Allan and Pru onto Anna.
His chagrin mellowed into a pleasant reminiscence of a charming woman, and damned if she wasn’t pretty, too, in a calming, serene way.
He thought of Cathy, destined for a brief life, something he’d been aware of when he’d married her.
He knew he loved her still, but wasn’t there a time limit on wholesale grief?
Such were his quarterdeck musings, invariably followed by the utter folly of thinking that his life during war was his own.
His only solace was the knowledge that his son was safe.
The monotony ended when a Fast Dispatch Vessel dropped off a message from Admiral Collingwood himself, master of the Mediterranean Fleet, commanding the Swallow to sail with all dispatch to Gibraltar.
John nodded at his admiral’s sketchy handwriting: ‘I have a job for you, Captain Beattie,’ he read.
He turned over the note. ‘I also have mail on the Queen , for you miscreants aboard the Swallow .’ Mail. Thank God.
They made Gibraltar three days later. There was something about the Rock that drew even maritime veterans to it. Gibraltar was the door to the Mediterranean—Italy, Greece and North Africa. Since Trafalgar, the Royal Navy could rove almost anywhere.
‘Back again, Mr Marsing,’ he said to his first luff. He pointed to the Queen , Admiral Collingwood’s flagship. ‘There is mail aboard. Come with me, and you can take it back.’ He couldn’t help laughing. ‘You’ll be the most popular man on the Swallow .’
‘Aye, sir!’ Tom said, with the same enthusiasm. ‘May I ask, what does the Admiral have in mind for us?’
‘Your guess equals mine,’ he said. ‘Maybe we’ll rove about the Mediterranean. Better that, than to the blockade.’
‘Even if we have to deal with Americans here?’ Tom asked.
‘We’ll manage the Americans,’ he replied.
‘At least we speak the same language. I think.’ It was a Royal Navy joke.
Nautical upstarts from the former colonies had made treaty recently with pirates from Tripoli, who had disrupted their new-found trade in the Mediterranean.
So far as anyone knew, the treaty was holding. Who knew about the Americans?
Once aboard the Queen that afternoon, John was met by the bosun, who saluted and handed off a mail bag. ‘This is your personal correspondence, Captain Beattie,’ the bosun added, handing him a smaller pouch. ‘Lieutenant Kelso will see you to the Admiral.’
‘Toss the sack down to Lieutenant Marsing,’ John ordered. ‘Lead on, Lieutenant Kelso.’
No Collingwood below-deck. Lieutenant Kelso indicated a chair. ‘He hasn’t forgotten you, sir.’
‘No worries, Lieutenant. I’ll read my own correspondence while I wait.’
When the man left, John opened the oilskin pouch immediately, pawing through official business, looking for letters from Plymouth with the same eagerness as when Cathy was alive.
A letter from Allan caught his eye first, and he wasted not a moment opening it.
He leaned back, snapped the seal, and read, Dear Papa, I am doing fin. Missy sayes finer than fife pens .
He smiled, relieved that his instinct about Anna was true. Perhaps some help with spelling would be good. The smile left his face as he continued. I reely like chopping carots, onyins and potatos. Mrs Filyun lets me help Pru mak beds . ‘What is this?’ he said softly. Missy says not to wory .
John was worried. He folded Allan’s letter and rummaged in the pouch, suddenly desperate for more. He found two letters, one neatly addressed to Captain John Beattie. The other had GF written in the left upper corner and the admonition, READ THIS FIRST! in large block letters.
He held his breath and opened the letter that must have come from Grace Fillion of the Drake. Damned if his hands weren’t shaking. Never fear, sir, we are all well , allowed him to keep breathing. What followed horrified him. ‘What have I done?’ he asked himself.
He read the letter, which was as plainspoken as Mrs Fillion herself. An agent sent by that damnable curate had evicted Anna, she who was bearing enough burdens thrust on her by a desperate captain she hardly knew.
‘What must you think of me, Anna Fontaine?’ he asked the air.
Sickened, he turned the page, where, to his relief, Mrs Fillion told him again not to worry.
Sir, Anna is a solid sort , he read. She came right to me, and they are all safe here .
Pierre, my chef, is grateful for kitchen help.
Anna (such a shy, quiet lady) —‘Indeed she is,’ John said to the letter— has proved so helpful at the front desk.
There was more, but he heard a door open and stood up to bow to the Admiral of the Fleet, Admiral Lord Cuthbert Collingwood, and his dog Bounce, who trotted up with some dignity and sniffed his crotch.
‘Captain Beattie, how goes my favourite Scot?’ John heard through the fog of his distress. Suddenly, John felt tears course down his cheeks. He held out Mrs Fillion’s letter.
Without a word, the Admiral took it. ‘Tell me more,’ he ordered when he finished reading, and John did.
‘This is serious,’ the Admiral said.
‘I’ve ruined a kind lady’s life,’ John said, barely able to get out the words. He looked at the unread letter in his hand. ‘I fear to open this one.’
‘Tell me, Captain, what kind of man was Miss Fontaine’s brother? I know you lost him after Trafalgar.’
‘Lieutenant Will Fontaine was utterly dependable and destined to captain his own ship soon. I trusted him with everything.’
‘What you tell me, and what I have read, suggest that Miss Fontaine is cut from the same cloth.’
Don’t try to make me feel better , John thought, angry for a moment, until he realised he was angry at himself and not his commander.
‘She is.’ He held up her letter. ‘I haven’t read her letter yet, though.’
‘Ah, yes. It appears that Mrs Fillion, God bless her, wanted hers read first.’ Collingwood gave John’s knee a pat. ‘Read it. I must speak to my secretary.’
John broke the seal and spread out Anna’s letter. Captain Beattie, things have not precisely worked in my favour , he read, shaking his head over perhaps the greatest understatement since Eve bit into the apple.
Her story was much the same as Mrs Fillion’s, and he heard no blame. It wrung his heart when she thanked him—God in heaven!—for introducing her to Grace. She concluded with,
We are in good hands here at the Drake, and all of us are useful. Allan suffered a little at the eviction, but he’s my —she’d crossed out my and wrote your — smiling lad again . Do your duty. I promised you I would never fail you, and I will not. Yours sincerely, Anna .
From my to your . He stared at that and felt himself relax. Anna .
‘At least you are not in a towering rage,’ he whispered to the words.
The door opened. Admiral Collingwood resumed his seat. ‘Well, sir?’
‘She reminded me that she promised to never fail me, Admiral,’ he said, still choked. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He held out the letter, so personal. ‘Here, sir. I would value your opinion.’
The Admiral read Anna’s letter, nodding a few times with what looked like approval. He tapped it a few times. ‘Give me a moment.’ He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, it was to give John the Admiral’s Stare, but a benign one.
‘Let me lay this before you, Captain Beattie. I need you and the Swallow here in the Mediterranean. It’s roving duty, and one that I know suits you. But you need a land base.’ He pointed to Anna’s letter. ‘I am more and more inclined to Port Mahon on Menorca.’
John nodded, dreading the letters he had to write to both Grace Fillion and Anna. I will never be home , he thought despairingly.
‘Very well, Admiral,’ he said, knowing there could be no other reply. ‘I am yours to command.’
‘Wise of you!’ He thumped John’s knee. ‘You’re going to do one more thing. It’s something I long to do, but I have been sentenced to parade about the Mediterranean Sea and show the flag.’
Silence. ‘Admiral, to what are you referring?’
‘Simple. I am ordering you to Plymouth first, to see your son with your own eyes. Do one thing more, if you wish. I cannot order this or, by God, I damn well would.’
‘Sir?’
‘Marry that good lady and take her and your boy with you to Menorca.’
John sucked in his breath. He couldn’t have heard the man correctly. ‘Aye, her letter was kind, but she must be seething inside! I have made her an object of ridicule and shame in Plymouth. Marry her?’
‘Find out what she thinks of the idea. You might be surprised. Let your new first luff take the Swallow to a Gibraltar anchorage. You will take a Fast Dispatch Vessel leaving from my flagship for Plymouth tomorrow.’
‘But sir, I can’t just… What about my late wife?’ What was his admiral saying ?
Collingwood’s demeanour softened. ‘From what you have told me, she must have been a lady after your own heart.’
‘Aye, she was,’ John said quietly.
‘Napoleon doesn’t care, however, and we must continue to fight.’
‘But…marriage? I know how Miss Fontaine feels about my son, but not a clue what she thinks of me.’ He gave his admiral an exasperated stare. ‘ Marriage , sir?’
‘Damn the war,’ Collingwood told him almost cheerfully. ‘Go and find out. That’s an order.’