A Birthday Unlike Any Other
Captain Frederick Wentworth surveyed his new command and found her wanting.
The Sir Richard was an old-built sloop, much like his first command, the Asp.
And much like Asp had done, her timbers groaned in the modest swells that had come up after sunset.
This aggravation was surpassed only by the poor quality of the assembled crew.
Alongside him, Michael Eyerly, his trusted bosun of many years, surveyed the gathered men.
The captain’s birthday gift of an extra ration to his crew was a naval tradition Wentworth was beginning to regret upholding.
His second, Lieutenant Small, was overseeing the distribution.
And doing an appalling job of it. “I wonder if the practice was worth upholding with this particular assembly,” Wentworth remarked, keeping his voice low enough that only Eyerly could hear.
The ship rolled beneath them, the timbers creaking in protest at even the modest swells of the evening.
As if he needed reminding that the Sir Richard was a knackered old beast from a bygone era.
This would be her last sail, and he would be her last captain.
It was a dubious honour at best. But all that depended on their making it back to Plymouth in one piece.
“A flock of blighted lambs if I ever saw one,” Eyerly responded, his weather-beaten face settling into familiar lines of concern.
He ran a calloused hand along the rail, as if apologising to the ship for its current occupants.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but this lot wouldn’t have lasted a week aboard the Laconia. ”
“No, they would not.” Wentworth permitted himself a small smile at the memory of his former command.
Now, Laconia was a proper ship with a proper crew.
Though several were pressed into service, soon they came to understand and honour the sacred compact between captain and sailor, between man and sea.
This volunteer crew, including Small, were men not wanted on land at the port and were obviously inept at sea.
Already, the effect of the extra ration was becoming apparent. Voices grew louder, laughter more unrestrained. A tall, gangly sailor with a shock of red hair stumbled against a barrel, nearly upending it.
“Thirty-six years,” Eyerly said suddenly, changing the subject. “Not a bad age, if I may say so, Captain.”
“Thirty-seven, Eyerly. I am thirty-seven today.”
“Begging your pardon, sir. Thirty-seven it is.” The bosun nodded respectfully. “The officers have collected a small token. Nothing extravagant, given our hasty departure, but—”
“It is unnecessary.” Wentworth cut him off, perhaps too sharply. He softened his tone. “Though I appreciate the sentiment. There is only one gift I await today, and it is not one any man aboard can provide.”
Eyerly’s understanding was immediate. “Any word from below about Mrs Wentworth’s condition?”
“None since midday.” Wentworth’s jaw tightened as he gazed toward the horizon. “The surgeon assures me all progresses as expected, but who can tell?” What did Hannigan know of birthing a child aboard a ship of war? What did any of them know? He did not allow himself to follow the thought further.
Below, the noise level rose another notch. Two men began arguing over a perceived slight, their words slurring into gibberish.
“Perhaps we should intervene before this celebration becomes a wake,” Wentworth suggested, grateful for the distraction from his thoughts.
Eyerly nodded. “Aye, sir.”
The ribald laughter from above deck pulsed through the wooden beams. She gripped the edge of the narrow bunk as another contraction seized her body. The coarse wool blanket beneath her was damp with sweat despite the February chill.
“This won’t do, Mrs Wentworth,” Mr Hannigan declared, as the sound of stomping feet and drunken cheers filtered down from above. “The noise is disturbing your progress. We must move you.”
It took Anne a moment to focus on his words through the pain. “Move? Where would…?” Her question dissolved into a gasp as another wave crashed through her.
Llewellyn clicked her tongue. “She’ll never make it to the sick bay.”
But Hannigan was already lifting her. “Then we’ll take her to my berth. It’s farther from the noise.”
“Should have done that hours ago,” Llewellyn muttered.
The ship rolled beneath them as they helped Anne to her feet.
Her nightdress clung to her, and the cool air chilled her skin.
“Blanket,” she whispered. Each step was an exercise in agony, her swollen body betraying her with every movement.
“I cannot—” she began, then bit her lip as the ship lurched again.
“It’s alright, my dear,” Llewellyn said, supporting Anne’s weight. “Just a few more steps.”
The berth was no larger than a closet. She felt the space close in around them. A mere piece of cloth separated her from the rest of the ship.
Anne sank onto the narrow cot, fighting for breath in the stifling air.
A lantern swung from a hook overhead, casting wild shadows that danced across the bulkhead with each roll of the ship.
The movement had intensified her pain. She could feel the change in pressure, the quickening rhythm of her body’s demands.
Something slid across the small table, crashing against a basin with a metallic clang. The noise startled her, and she clutched at the thin mattress beneath her.
“The pains are closer now.” Llewellyn pressed a cool cloth to Anne’s forehead. “How long since the last one, Mr Hannigan?”
He mumbled and then said, “Four minutes, perhaps five.”
“Three at most. I’ve delivered more babes than you’ve had hot dinners.”
“I assure you, madam, I am quite capable of measuring time,” he mumbled again.
“And I assure you, sir, that this child waits for no man’s timepiece.”
Their voices faded into the background as another contraction seized her.
This one was deeper, more insistent. Once she was old enough to join the ladies for tea, Anne had heard the whispers and came to know the risks of bringing children into the world.
So many women lost to childbed fever, to haemorrhage, to exhaustion.
The ship pitched forwards, and something heavy crashed to the floor. In that moment of chaos and pain, one thought crystallised: She might never see her dear Frederick again.
“Please... I must see my husband.”
“There’s time yet, dear. Best let the captain attend to his duties.”
“No.” Anne reached out, catching the woman’s wrist. Llewellyn winced. “Please. If I should... if this should be...” She couldn’t bring herself to finish. “I need to see him.”
Llewellyn’s expression softened. “Very well.”
“I don’t think it advisable,” Hannigan said.
But Llewellyn was only a step away from the door. “You there, boy!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Find Captain Wentworth immediately. Tell him his wife needs him. Tell him...” She glanced back at Anne. “Tell him it’s urgent.”
Steps hurried away. Hannigan snorted. Anne didn’t care. She closed her eyes, focusing on the next wave of pain.
Frederick. She pictured his steady gaze. She could even feel the gentle strength in his hands. He would smile for her and the corners of his eyes would crinkle. Please come. I need you.
They descended to the main deck, where the bosun’s commanding presence immediately drew attention.
The quarrelling sailors, sensing authority, attempted to straighten themselves and appear sober.
Lieutenant Small did not see the captain or the bosun, and when he bumbled around towards them, he sprawled at Wentworth’s feet.
“Jameson! Turner!” Eyerly’s voice cut through the noise like a cannon shot. “Is this how you honour your captain’s birthday? With drunken discord?”
“No, sir,” muttered the taller of the two, a stringy man with a perpetual squint. “Just a misunderstandin’, sir.”
“Then misunderstand each other quietly, or you’ll both be understanding the cat tomorrow.” Eyerly’s threat of the lash was enough to quell the disturbance. Resentful glances cast their way accompanied the men’s reluctant obedience.
This was the challenge for a volunteer crew.
These men had been worse than impressed; they had been happy in the sunny warmth of Minorca and now were being forced back to the cold, wet February weather of England.
And that was not even taking into account the three men forced on him by the port gaoler.
Almost to a man, they lacked the backbone that came from decent naval training and the pride that arose from service on a distinguished vessel.
The Sir Richard, with its leaking hull and stained sails, inspired no such pride.
It was a commission that whispered disfavour, though Wentworth could think of no offence he had given to deserve such a posting.
As Eyerly continued to restore order, Wentworth found his mind drifting back to their last days in Minorca.
Anne’s face, pale but composed, as he explained about their sudden recall to England.
She had been sitting in the garden of their modest but comfortable accommodations.
In one hand, she held a book; the other rested on her stomach.
She closed the book and asked, “How soon must we depart?” Practical as always.
“Three days. Perhaps four. It depends on how quickly Sir Richard can be fitted for the voyage.” He had knelt beside her chair, taking her hands in his. “Anne, I would refuse if I could. Your condition—”
“Time and tide wait for no man, Frederick,” she said, with that quiet smile that still, after five years of marriage, could disarm him completely. “Nor for any woman, apparently. We shall manage.” And manage they had.
When Eyerly caught wind of the reassignments, he was the first to sign on, saying, “I’ve been thinkin’ about going back.
Too many sunny days here. I miss the rain.
” This had bolstered Wentworth immeasurably.
Eyerly had seemed to be everywhere. With Mrs Wentworth in mind, he had seen that the captain’s quarters were cleared of mice, installed fresh linens that Wentworth suspected were purloined from the port laundry, and had arranged for and hidden extra provisions for Mrs Wentworth, ensuring Anne would have a few little comforts.
But no amount of preparation could make a naval vessel a suitable place for a woman so close to giving birth.
“Captain.” Eyerly’s voice drew Wentworth back to the present. The bosun had successfully dispersed the troublesome elements of the gathering, and the celebration had returned to acceptable levels of revelry. “Perhaps we should reduce the ration for tomorrow to balance today’s excess.”
“A sound suggestion. But only reduce it by half. We do not wish for a mutiny in these closing days.” Wentworth nodded, though his mind remained divided between duty and concern. “I shall make a note in the log.”
They turned to return to the quarterdeck when a young midshipman approached, his face flushed with exertion.
“Captain Wentworth, sir,” the boy said, offering a hasty salute. “Mr Hannigan sends word that—”
His heart quickened. “Lower your voice, if you please, Hart,” Wentworth prompted.
The young man paused, aware of the many ears around them.
“Yes? Go on.”
“Mrs Wentworth’s time has come, sir. The surgeon requests your presence below.”
The birthday celebration, the troublesome crew, and the uncertain future vanished in an instant. He exchanged a quick glance with Eyerly, who nodded in silent understanding.
“You are in charge, Mr Eyerly, and send Mr Small to bed,” Wentworth said, his voice steady despite the tumult within. “I shall return when I am able.”
“Aye, Captain.” Eyerly touched his forelock in salute. “And sir,” he added as Wentworth turned to follow the midshipman, “happy birthday indeed.”
Wentworth made his way below decks, each step taking him further from the familiar world of command and certainty toward one where he held no authority. The ship’s timbers groaned around him like a living thing, and for the first time in his naval career, Frederick Wentworth felt utterly at sea.