Return to England
The approach to Plymouth was a slow and laborious affair.
The Sir Richard, never a swift vessel even in her prime, seemed to crawl toward the harbour, her timbers groaning in protest with each shift of the wind.
Wentworth stood on the quarterdeck, spyglass trained on the distant shoreline, his expression a careful mask that betrayed none of the mixed emotions churning beneath.
“She knows she’s headed for the breaker’s yard,” Eyerly remarked, coming to stand beside him. “Ships have a way of knowing such things.”
Wentworth lowered the glass. “Superstitious nonsense, Mr Eyerly,” he replied, though without conviction. After weeks at sea with this troublesome vessel, he had developed a grudging affection for her stubborn resilience.
“How fares Mrs Wentworth this morning?”
“Better. I am assured she will be permitted a short walk on deck later today, or tomorrow, depending on the weather.” Wentworth, concerned by Anne’s slow recovery, was assured such difficulties were to be expected.
“And the boy, sir?”
“You take a keen interest in him and know he grows stronger by the day.”
The bosun had taken the infant’s care as seriously as any duty Wentworth had ever assigned him.
“I do, sir. Has quite a grip on him now. Nearly pulled my whisker clean out yesterday.”
Wentworth permitted himself a small smile. “A sailor’s hands already.”
Lieutenant Small approached, his perpetual look of confused concern more pronounced than usual. “Captain, harbourmaster’s signals, sir. We’re instructed to anchor in the outer roads. No berth available at present.”
“No berth?” Wentworth frowned. “We are expected. The Admiralty orders specifically stated—”
“Yes, sir. I signalled as much. They responded that we are to wait until summoned.”
Such bureaucratic indifference was not a surprise. He had hoped the welcome would be different. “Very well. Prepare to drop anchor. And have my gig made ready. I shall go ashore and sort this matter out personally.”
“Aye, sir.”
As Small departed, Eyerly gave Wentworth a knowing look. “Welcome back to England, Captain.”
The harbourmaster’s office was chaos contained in a dingy office scattered around the edges with at least ten coils of frayed rope and milled lumber of numerous lengths and circumferences.
And three tattered desks scattered about, each piled high with loose papers and logbooks.
Clerks scuttled between them and called out occasionally to officers of varying ranks relegated to a far wall with one uncomfortable-looking wooden bench in desperate need of paint.
The smell of damp hemp and sweat pushed out any fresh air.
Wentworth finally took a vacated seat on the bench and found it more unpleasant than he’d imagined.
At two hours his confidence of seeing anyone in authority wore almost completely away.
Thankfully, his name was croaked out by one of the clerks, and he was ushered into the harbourmaster’s inner office.
The man was turned away when the clerk introduced Wentworth.
The captain bowed and when he straightened, he found not the official himself but a junior deputy, not even an officer, barely old enough to have finished his schooling.
“Captain Wentworth,” the young man acknowledged without rising from his desk. “HMS Sir Richard. Minorca to Plymouth.”
“Yes,” Wentworth confirmed, remaining standing when no seat was offered. “There seems to be some confusion regarding our berth. We were expected.”
The deputy shuffled through a stack of papers with deliberate slowness. “Hmm. Sir Richard. Sir Richard. Ah, yes. Decommission scheduled.” He looked up. “No berth allocated.”
“That is patently absurd,” Wentworth said, his patience gone. “The vessel cannot be decommissioned while anchored outside the port boundaries. She must be brought into harbour.”
“Indeed, sir. Most irregular.” The deputy returned to his papers. “It appears there has been a... miscommunication. The order for decommission was received, but no corresponding order for berthing was issued.”
“Then might you issue one now?” Flies and honey were the order of the day.
The young man looked genuinely pained. “I’m afraid I don’t have the authority, Captain.
That would require the harbourmaster’s signature, and he is currently attending a meeting at the Admiralty office.
He is not expected to return until tomorrow.
My superior is Captain Withers, and he is with the harbourmaster. ”
“Tomorrow?” Wentworth would not announce his wife’s condition to the world. He fought to keep his voice level. “I have a crewman very ill and in need of more attention than my surgeon is able to give.” He fought to keep his voice level. “He cannot remain aboard in the outer roads indefinitely.”
“Most unfortunate, sir.” The deputy’s expression suggested differently. “Perhaps you might make arrangements to have him brought ashore? There are many fellows for hire willing to do that sort of work.” The deputy blinked. “In any case, it would be your responsibility to arrange, Captain.”
Wentworth leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk. “Listen to me carefully, Mr—”
“Finch. Jeremiah Finch.”
“Mr Finch. I have spent the past three weeks commanding a vessel that should have been left in Minorca to rot away peacefully as she had been. The crew, which the admiral forced on me, would disgrace a bum boat, all while my wife nearly died—”
“And that is a shame, Captain Wentworth.”
He spun around to face a captain just entering the room.
“I will thank you to allow me the privilege of dressing down my own deputy.” The man stepped around him, motioned for Finch to leave, and took a seat.
“Now, I heard you are here about the Sir Richard being left to paddle about outside the safety of a berth.”
“That is correct, Captain Withers.”
Withers looked up from a file and nodded.
It never went amiss to acknowledge a man’s position.
“I do not hold it against you chewing on Finch. He begs for it, I am afraid. However, the fool is right, there is nowhere decent to put you just now. Unless you don’t mind parking Sir Richard in with the other derelicts.
” He sat forward. “In fact, that would give you an easy passage with a cart as your wife is ill.”
Wentworth straightened. “I am sorry, sir. I should not have brought it up.”
Withers was writing. “You know the docks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here.” Wentworth took a scrap of paper from the captain. “This will get you by any other types like Finch out there.”
Three hours later, Wentworth was carrying Anne into the bed chamber of a decent set of rooms in the Admiral’s Rest, a respectable inn overlooking the harbour.
The bed was readied, and he laid her in it.
She weighed little and this alarmed him.
“There you go,” he whispered. Again, seeing her exhausted was a pain to his heart.
Llewellyn had come ahead and readied everything.
Edward was now sleeping in a hastily arranged cradle beside his mother.
The landing had been far from ideal. Anne, still weak, had needed to be lowered in a bosun’s chair to the waiting Hannigan and Llewellyn.
A process that had left her pale and shaking despite her insistence that she was perfectly fine.
Edward had been secured in a padded basket and similarly lowered.
Eyerly had undertaken the operation with fierce attention.
No one dared show anything less than perfect care.
It was a memory now, as Anne said nothing but “I love you,” and fell asleep.
Now, watching the harbour through the sitting-room window, Wentworth felt the first true moment of calm since their departure.
He could barely hear the ting of the ship’s bells striking on the half-hour.
They were far enough from the docks that the only voices he heard were the occasional shouts.
Anne and Edward being away from the cramped, damp conditions of the mouldering ship was the greatest relief.
It was not the homecoming he had envisioned, but it was, at least, a beginning.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. He opened it to find Eyerly, who had come ashore with them to assist with the transfer, standing with his hat in his hands.
“Begging your pardon, Captain, but Llewellyn recommended a particular doctor to visit Mrs Wentworth tomorrow morning. She says he’s attended naval wives before and understands their particular constitution. He’ll be here at four bells.”
“Thank you, Eyerly.” Wentworth stepped aside to allow the bosun to enter. “That is most thoughtful.”
“Also brought some of your personal effects from the ship.” Eyerly indicated a sea chest in the hallway behind him. “Thought you might need them, being ashore for a time.”
Wentworth nodded. “Please bring it in. Join me for a glass of brandy? The innkeeper assures me it’s of acceptable quality.”
“Don’t mind if I do, sir.” His acceptance was reluctant, and his eyes darted around the entire time.
They settled in the small sitting room, the familiarity of Eyerly’s presence a comfort in these strange surroundings.
This familiarity was improper in every way.
Wentworth had learnt a few years ago that familiarity could give the wrong impression.
But, in his opinion, Eyerly was just as responsible for bringing Sir Richard into port as he was. And for that, Frederick was grateful.
Besides that, after weeks aboard at sea, the stillness of land felt oddly disconcerting.
“What will you do now, sir, if I might ask?” Eyerly inquired after his first sip.
At another time, he would make a meandering answer, but this was now.
“Report to the Port Admiral tomorrow. Seek clarification on my next assignment.” Wentworth gazed into his glass. “Though if today’s experience with the harbourmaster’s office is any indication, I may find myself waiting some time for answers.”