Finish the wooden-navy story: A Raking Broadside

Cafe Society
101

“Your request is granted, Mr…?” queried Pearson.

“Sedgewick, sir, Arthur Henry Sedgwick. I daresay I have some explaining to do, but this” and here he lifted the leather wallet, “can do much of it.” Arthur gestured at the cursing figure of Richards. “And if I might be so bold, sir, that one needs to be kept *very * secure. He’s the man I just replaced aboard Yarmouth there.”

Pearson and Merriott both were surprised at how well spoken this man was. His claim of government service could well be a ruse, but the accent and mannerisms gave credit to the tale.

Lt. Merriott leaned over and spoke to Pearson quietly. The latter nodded back, saying “Make it so.” and Merriott, looking into the chaotic scene around them, gestured to the tall Marine, Sgt. Marston. “Round up a detail and take this prisoner back to the pirate vessel. See what you can do about arranging confinement. Make it fast, but don’t worry about his comfort. We’ll be sending more of this crowd,” he looked around at the defeated renegades, " as well."

“Sir!” rapped out Marston. Richards was dragged roughly back to Yarmouth.

Merriott turned back. “Now Mr. Sedgewick, I hope you’ll understand that we must have some proof of your claims. I hope what you have there is convincing.”

Sedgewick gave a tired grin. God, it felt like so long since he’d had reason to smile! " I don’t think you, or the Admiral, will be disappointed"

David’s eyebrows rose. “Admiral you say? This should be worth hearing. If you will follow me.”

The trio began to pick their way along the deck, heading for the captain’s cabin. The battle was over but the noise was still tremendous, with men shouting, screaming, groaning in pain. He wanted to avert his eyes from where figures were being laid out on the deck, covered in canvas, but he did not. His gorge rose as he saw one face he recognized, the Portugese who’d done interpreting for them, Fiuza, just now being covered. *The man hadn’t been that * short, had he?, he wondered, before seeing rusty stains on the scrap of sail material laid over him.

An arm wearing a uniformed sleeve showed at the edge of the last covering in line. David’s hand trembled as he reached down to peel back the canvas a little, and his eyes watered as he looked into the gray face and sightless eyes of Lt. Tyldesley. An ugly head wound had left the side of his face, and down his shoulder, covered in crusted blood. Hearing a muttered “Damn!” from Merriott behind him he reached out and gently closed Tyldesley’s eyes, not quite suppressing a shudder at the thought that it could have been himself laying there, never to see Eleanor again.

The young captain stood up, but now he felt old. Lt. Merriott stepped up beside him. “Captain, you understand there will be letters to write, families to be notified? The lieutenant there was unmarried but had a widowed mother I believe…” Hector’s second stopped speaking as it’s captain abruptly held up his hand and said, in a low voice “Later, I’ll do it later, we have other matters to go over now. If I think about it too much now I’ll go crazy.” The three continued on their way.

Caleb gave a start as he felt cool water being sponged over his face. It took him two tries to open his eyes, as they felt crusted shut. A little water trickle past his lips and he licked at it eagerly, before grimacing at the taste of seawater. He heard a low chuckle.

“So, me boy, yer back amongst the living, are ya?” The voice of O’Reilly was one of the most pleasing things the American could remember hearing in quite a while, and he finally succeeeded in focusing his eyes on the face of the old Irish cook.

“Well lad, when ya finally find a girl that’ll let you court her you’ll know for sure she’s not going for yer looks. That’s goin’ to be be quite a scar you’ll be havin’. I saw a guy with one like that, his hair did come back, but he had a white streak in it.”

Caleb tried to sit up and look around him but it was difficult. His head was throbbing as if a drummer boy was beating on it with a stick, and the pain was making him nauseous. He managed to look around him and found he was alone with O’Reilly, in the galley. Caleb didn’t remember his arrival, only a vague sensation of having his arm hanging around someone’s neck as he stumbled along.

“It doesn’t look to bad in here” he murmured, thinking it odd that anything should be like it had been before the fight.

“Well, Yank, I’ve had some time to do some cleaning up, but I tell ya, I’ve been run off me feet without you as a helper. Men don’t stop getting hungry just because of a battle, and I’ve had to try n’ get some kind of softer stuff for the wounded.” Here he looked bleak for a minute. " 'Course, there’s not as many to cook for now, either."

Caleb didn’t want to ask about Crew #3, but he had to. “Um, O’Reilly, what about my team? Did they make it, do you know?”

“I knew ye would want to know, right enough, so I checked for ya.” Caleb’s heart rose into his throat. “Ya wouldn’t believe it, but they all came through. Atkins, he’s the worst, but Archer says he’ll make it, if the wounds don’t fester, thanks to the Swede who stood over him.”

“Johannsen?”

“That’s the one. He wasn’t hurt at all, but after hauling Atkins belowdecks he slipped on some blood and fell. Dumb bastard got his arm broke. Isaacs got his nose broken and another tooth knocked out, but he’s up and around already.”

“The captain?”

“He’s with us too, holed up in his cabin with Lt. Merriott and a man from the pirate we took. Lotsa rumors flying about that but nobody’s heard much. I took 'em up some vittles once, but they stopped talking when I knocked. Oh, Lt. Tyldesley got hisself killed, died like a man I hear tell.”

“What about the middie, Callow?”

The cook got a puzzled look on his face. “Ya know, that’s one I haven’t heard about, now that ya mention him.” Seeing the concern that flashed across Caleb’s face he reached out and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Nothing ye can do about it lad, best not to worry. I’ll ask, he’s sure to be around. Now just lay back a mite longer and relax. Way things are goin’ I may have to ask you for help later on.”

102

There were so many names on the piece of paper.

David sat at his desk, with the open muster book before him, reading down the column of names to find man after man on the list Worstead had prepared for him. “DD” was the note to be entered in the book, “Discharged Dead” – the Navy’s slightly forced expression that told of the third and most final way a man could leave the King’s service. There was “D” for Discharged – which almost invariably meant that the man was too injured or infirm to continue serving; very few men were discharged for any other reason in a Navy stricken with a perpetual manpower shortage – or there was “R” for Run, which meant that the man had deserted and could expect to be severely punished if ever he was found. Or there was “Discharged Dead”, which meant in this case that he had been shot, torn apart by cannon-ball or splinters, or cut to pieces with a cutlass or boarding-pike.

And the paper was covered with their names. Tyldesley, the small Third Lieutenant with his quirky sense of humour but careful speech as though every word was one of a finite store; Chisman, the Master with the monkish tonsure; Joe Fiuza, who’d died under the Surgeon’s saw, screaming for mercy in a language no-one present could understand; “Mynheer” Flens, brained by the shot that dismounted his gun; Jean Renoir, the well-bred Frenchman who’d seen Bonaparte take everything his family had, and Pierre LeBlanc, cut down trying to save his young master; and dozens more he’d not had time to get to know even superficially. Here and there Dame Fortune had smiled: all of Atkins’s gun-crew had come through alive, with only Atkins himself badly hurt, and him likely to mend in time; the Master’s mate had come alive through what, by all accounts, had been a regular bloodbath; and David himself and Lieutenant Merriot hadn’t a scratch on them. Elsewhere she had casually blotted out an entire gun-crew, an entire mess, all the men assigned to the foretopmast…

This was victory, David had to remind himself. Hector had known defeat, and it was worse – and he could hardly imagine how, say, Merriot or McVicar or any of the men who’d been present for that could ever have got themselves out of bed in the morning ever again.

With a murmured announcement from the Marine sentry at the door, Lieutenant Merriot entered the cabin. He stood calmly waiting while his Captain made another mark in the muster book and on the single sheet of paper before looking up to acknowledge him. “Merriot?”

“Sir. Prisoners are secured aboard the Yarmouth. We’re short of men to guard them, but there is a loaded swivel trained on them – oh, and two carronades – and I don’t believe that there is any doubt whatever among them that their guards will open fire if they so much as sneeze. Prize crew is short-handed but we will make English Harbour if we’re not in a hurry, and provided there isn’t another hurricane betimes.”

“We’re ready to make sail?” asked Pearson.

Merriot confirmed this with a nod. “Yes. As soon as we cast off grapples, we can set course for Antigua. The American captain’s asking to see you when you have time.”

Pearson gazed at the muster book for a moment. “Time? Oh, yes. I’ve all the time in the world. Send him down.”

“Yes, sir. And, sir?”

It was so unlike Merriot to volunteer anything that it took Pearson a moment to register the fact that he was asking permission to speak. “Go ahead, Merriot.”

“There isn’t a man aboard – not who understood what we were about, at any rate – who gave us more than an even chance of beating the Yarmouth, even if we could find her; and personally, I’d have laid two to one against with the lightest of hearts. Even with the merchant crew we still had the numbers against us, and while I don’t mean to decry our American friends, you can’t expect a lot from well-meaning amateurs in this kind of engagement. You’re thinking that your clever plan got a lot of good men killed. Well, there was no help for that. There was no way to do it with less. Every man left alive now is fizzing over because we not only beat the renegade; we did it with fewer losses than anyone could possibly have expected. That’s thanks to you and you alone, sir.”

Pearson could only bow his head in silence. Merriot never raised his voice, and this wasn’t an exception, but the sincerity in his tone was unmistakable – as was the expertise behind his assessment. “I hope you’re right, Lieutenant,” he said, lifting his head after a long pause. “I’m not… callous enough for this kind of work yet.”

“No, you’re not,” Merriot answered. “But that’s a good fault, sir. Your predecessor – and be damned to speaking well of the dead – would have thought he’d done a good day’s work if he’d beaten the Yarmouth and lost seven men out of ten doing it. Except that Captain Anselm couldn’t have beaten her if he’d had the day of his life, aye, and a seventy-four at his command besides.”

He felt as though he’d never laugh again, but Pearson forced out a dry chuckle. “You’d be wiser to call it beginner’s luck, Merriot.”

The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “I don’t much care what we call it, sir, as long as it brought us through, but I’ll venture one more observation. I’ve known and heard of captains both lucky and unlucky, and by all I ever saw and heard, good or bad luck was the luck they made for themselves. I’ll go for Captain Harding now, shall I, sir?”

Pearson was silent for a moment longer. Luck? What else could you call it when the chance of a man tripping over a flag led to the charge that turned the battle? And… “Yes. And also pass the word for Seaman Wynton.”

103

A sharp rap at the galley hatch made O’Reilly look up in annoyance. He was trying to shift a steaming pot of broth, boiled up from some decent dried beef he had in his private stash. Some might wonder where it had come from, but none would dare ask. The Irishman had little else for the sick and wounded, and had reluctantly decided to use his own, seeing as how he was one of the few left untouched through the battle.

“See to that, will ya Yank?” he said, looking at Caleb and jerking his head at the hatch. Caleb ached all over, and his scalp felt like a line of fire had been drawn on it. But he felt guilty watching the older man do all the work, so he had begun to rouse himself to give a hand. It would sure beat cleaning up blood or sewing shrouds.

Tottering over, he pulled the hatch open and was surprised to look into the face of Midshipman Callow. The middy was trying to smile at him, but Caleb could see that his eyes were red-rimmed, and dried tear tracks stained his cheeks. He looked almost as green as the night when the two of them had gone overboard.

But for all that Mr. Callow was erect, and seemed genuinely happy to see him. So
Caleb managed a smile of his own, as the younger man’s eyes traced the cut on his head.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, Mr. Callow. And even if my hair does turn white there, I’m blonde headed, so it won’t stand out so much. Now, what brings you down here?”

“Captain Pearson wants to see you in his cabin.” Behind him Caleb heard O’Reilly give a groan.

"And what’s so all fired important that the captain wants to see me for?’

“I don’t have the captain’s confidence Mr. Wynton.”

Caleb made a face. “Just this once, can’t we call each other by name? I believe we’ve been through enough together. I’m Caleb, and you’re…oh my God, what the hell is your name anyway?”

The middie’s face pinked up a bit in embarrassment. “Uh, it’s” and here the boy hesitated. “…it’s Sylvester”

Caleb didn’t crack a smile. “Well, that’s a hell of a name for an officer. Let’s go see what the captain wants with me this time.”

Order was being restored on the deck of Hector. She’d taken a beating and would require yet another stint in the shipyards, being refitted and repaired once again, but the Hector was seaworthy.

Callow kept his face rigid as he and Wynton had to pass by the dead laid out in rows on deck. At least they were all decently covered now, ready for a quick burial service once they were underway again. There just wasn’t any way to keep the dead for their families, although a few of those better off might erect a headstone anyway, or pay for a plaque on a church wall somewhere.

Caleb noted Lt. McVicar, with a whetstone, sharpening the blade of a fine looking sword. McVicar looked tired as the very devil, and his uniform was still torn and grimy, with rusty smudges on it. The American’s knowledge of swordsmanship was virtually nil, but he could tell, as the officer inspected the edge a last time, and brought out a soft cloth to polish it, that in the hand of a man like Lt. McVicar a sword like this could be a lifesaver. As indeed it had, while sending many a renegade to perdition.

Callow and Wynton approached the captain’s cabin, each wrapped up in their own thoughts, and so nearly ran into William Harding, master of the Passamaquoddy, returning with Lt. Merriott to see Pearson a final time before sailing.

Caleb looked at his fellow American and got a speculative gleam in his eye, matched by that of Harding himself.

Harding leaned over an whispered “You know, lad, it’s too bad you weren’t *‘Killed in Battle’ * , if you know what I mean. Passamaquoddy is going to be shorthanded getting back to Rhode Island.”

Callow, being close, kept his face turned away, pretending not to hear, as Caleb whispered in reply “Yea, and this dead man could have used some help getting back to Boston, and advice when he gets there.”

In the short time David Pearson was alone he’d still had time to wonder about his own future. In spite of Merriott’s words earlier he still felt awkward as a naval officer. It was Merriott, he felt, who should have been in command, and Lord knew he deserved it.

But was he going to be able to go back to accounting? It would seem mightily dull, working with fussy clerks over big books, moving figures from one column to another. At least there would be Eleanor. If any good had come out of this whole mess it was that he’d proved himself to his damned future father-in-law.

David still had the letters he’d written to his beloved, but been unable to post. He’d rectify that as soon as Hector reached Antigua, and with any luck, perhaps there would be letters waiting for him. He had a shrewd suspicion that the admiral had hoped that his absence would be long enough for Eleanor’s determination to cool, or fatal enough for David so that his betrothed would be forced to look elsewhere for a husband. But one thing David knew for sure, was that Eleanor was stubborn, once she’d set her mind on something. And even if, in years to come, that caused problems, they would be problems worth dealing with.

He had just begun to search the prayer book, to find the service for the dead, when he heard a rap at his hatch.

104

(*Author’s note: We’ll attend to that rap in a little while. File under ‘edits to be done before submitting manuscript’ :slight_smile: *)

The Hector didn’t carry a chaplain. Very few frigates did; the Admiralty assigned clergy only to ships of the line, so unless a chaplain volunteered to join a specific frigate, she went without, and religious services were another duty of the captain. Until now this had not been a problem. Every Sunday the ship’s company were ordered to “Rig church”, which meant only placing forms on the deck to sit on, with a flag over the binnacle to stand in for the altar, and the service itself consisted only of a few rousing hymns (which the men enjoyed) and a suitable prayer or two out of the book.

Until now…

Up on deck there were a number of hammocks, now sewn shut with their former owner inside, each with a roundshot at his feet to ensure that he sank swiftly after he was slid over the side, “over the standing part of the foresheet”, as the saying went. A few words spoken over the deceased, and off he went to the bottom. Forasmuch as it has pleased our Lord to take unto Himself the soul of John Smith, we now commit his body to the deep…. David sighed. It seemed unkind that the dead man should be denied the final privilege of resting in the soil of the country that birthed him, but there was no other way. Sometimes a body might be shipped home in a barrel of brandy, but the Hector hadn’t enough, even had she taken ten times fewer the casualties.

And some words to be spoken to the surviving Hectors, something suitably decent and respectful to their dead shipmates. Even the roughest man on board had a sense for what was fitting, no doubt hoping that someone would do as much for him when the time came. David was grateful for the grave dignity of the resonant words of the Book of Common Prayer: I am the Resurrection and the Life and Greater love hath no man, than that he lay down his life for his friends. For himself David attended church only out of custom, and was honest enough to admit to himself that he actually listened to maybe one word in ten of what the parson said. But he was also honest enough to acknowledge that, confronted thus by the spectre of his own mortality, there was comfort in the ritual and tradition, even if nothing else.

He jotted down a few words and wondered if they would be enough. Better to be brief and sincere than pile up empty verbiage before the solemn gaze of two hundred men. If there was a God in Heaven then David hoped He understood that it was different for seamen. They were the very type of insobriety and unchastity whenever they got the chance, they were almost universally intemperate of thought and speech, and scarcely a man among them even knew how to spell “pious” let alone be it. But when it counted, they stood up and did their duty, bravely and without flinching, even up to their own deaths, and nothing worthwhile the Navy ever did could have been managed without them… and God have mercy on their souls.

He heard footsteps in the companionway outside and put the paper to one side, dusting it with sand to dry it. He straightened in his seat even as the sentry announced the arrival of Merriot, Captain Harding and Caleb Wynton, and gave the word for them to be admitted.

“Gentlemen, thank you. Captain Harding, will you be seated?” Pearson indicated the small sofa. “And Mr Merriot? Wynton, stand easy.

“Captain, we spoke once before about the difficulties facing our two countries on the high seas,” Pearson went on. “Namely, the incidence of fit and able English seamen seeking refuge aboard American ships; which carries with it the concomitant problem of Americans forced to serve aboard English ships, simply because they are unable to prove their nationality. As captain of one of His Majesty’s ships, I’m naturally obliged to be as just as possible, but in case of doubt, to favour the King’s ends; as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Harding grimaced, not without some humour. “I believe I’ve encountered the phenomenon.”

“Then you’ll understand that when I take aboard a young man who claims to be a citizen of your country, I’m torn between trampling on his rights if his unsubstantiated claim be true, or doing the King a disservice if he be merely a clever fake. As he’s repeatedly conducted himself well, I naturally hoped to find some occasion to verify his claim; such as, for instance, finding someone well acquainted with the city of Boston to examine this man’s assertion that he is a native of that city. You see, I shall certainly have to answer to a higher authority for any decision I might take to discharge him from the King’s service – as my First Lieutenant’s grim nod now attests.”

“You’re asking if I’ve a Bostonian aboard, Captain?”

“Not at this time, Captain,” answered Pearson. “I’m somewhat swayed by the fact that Seaman Wynton’s sole fall from grace to date has been a certain hesitation in obeying an order to fire upon the American colours – for which, as a matter of discipline, it was necessary to punish him.”

Caleb stirred uncomfortably at the recollection. His half-healed back still itched like the very devil; but he held his tongue.

“But that didn’t amount to conclusive proof – or at any rate, I daren’t assume so, or else any man making such a claim as Wynton’s might resort even to outright disobedience, with disastrous consequences that I needn’t elaborate on. So I was most intrigued to observe an incident during the late battle.

“You’ll recall that the Hector opened the engagement under American colours – and as you know, before she could legitimately fire a shot, it was necessary for her to strike these and fight under her own. That entailed your country’s flag being tossed aside with, I fear, excessive haste, and I apologise for the irreverence. Some little while later, with smoke wreathing the deck and shot flying around and men being butchered to left and right, I observed Seaman Wynton stumble over those very colours. He paused – in the middle of a battle – to stoop and pick them up, and I swear that his attention was so thoroughly engaged by them that, but for Midshipman Callow’s timely intervention, he would himself have been cut down.”

Caleb’s face flushed. The Captain was right – he’d been lucky to live through those few moments.

“So considering this, Captain, I naturally conclude that a man who will attend to a fallen flag in the middle of a battle owes more than a casual allegiance to it,” Pearson finished, “and I need no further convincing. Captain, I’d take it as a kindness if you would take this American off the King’s hands.”

Harding seemed to fumble for words to say, and his mouth worked for several seconds before he spoke. “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that all right – ’n’if he’ll work his passage as far as Rhode Island, I’ll see he gets on a boat for Boston.” He paused before continuing; then, getting to his feet, he approached Pearson. “Captain, I’ll own that until now I’ve been wrong about one Englishman, at any rate. Will you put it there?”

Standing, Pearson took Harding’s outstretched hand. “Gladly. And, Wynton, there’ll be a share due to you for the Gudrun at least, even if the prize court rules there’s nothing to pay for the recapture of the Yarmouth. Will it reach you safely if I send it to Boston? He has a few people there who wish him no good,” Pearson added to Harding.

“Then you could send it care of me,” Harding volunteered. “I’ve a man or two I could send to Boston with it – such as know how to look out for themselves.”

“Excellent. Well, Mr Wynton, you’d better go and pack; and I have a funeral to conduct.”

105

Actually, I’d intended that the “rap” was Harding et. al. arriving, so that’s taken care of!

106

Yep, I know, but I needed to give Pearson a little more screen time first!

107

Wynton and Harding turned to go, with Lt. Merriott holding open the hatch to Capt… Pearson’s cabin. But before they could leave a sudden idea made David say “Wait, there’s something I should ask you Mr. Harding!”

The American turned back for a moment. “Yes Capt. Pearson?”

“It’s about that funeral. Since we fought and died together, perhaps we could gather for a joint service of committal. I know you are anxious to be off, and Wynton there” (here he nodded at Caleb), “can’t hardly wait to shake the dust of this ship off his feet. But it needn’t be a long service, and if any of your dead are aboard Passamaquoddy, those left holding your vessel could slip them in as we commit those aboard Hector.”

Harding considered the captain’s words. “Sir, it’s not something I’d ever have thought to see. But I like the idea. We may have stopped a provocation to war between our nations, by winning this fight. Maybe God is trying to tell us something.”

“Are you devout, sir?” inquired Pearson.

“More so when I’m home, actually. I was raised Reformed, or Congregationalist. I lead a few prayers most Sundays but I don’t try to press it on my men at sea. They’re free to pray, or not, as they will.”

“Would there be any objections to using the prayers from our English church?”

“Doubt it, so long as you kind of forget to include anything about your king.”

David gave a faint smile. “I think that can be arranged. Shall we say, four hours from now? That will give you and your men time to either come over here to Hector, or make further arrangements for a speedy departure.”

“I’ll be here” said Harding, “and thank you.”

After Harding and Wynton’s departure Pearson exchanged a few more words with his First Lieutenant, about informing the men, and getting a complete list of names to be read, then Lt. Merriott also took his leave. David got back to the task of trying to decide what to say. As he had from his first Sunday aboard Hector, he was glad he didn’t usually have to deliver a homily or sermon.

Caleb’s spirits were soaring as he sped down to the galley. He was laughing at Capt. Pearson’s words about packing. “What in tarnation would I have to pack?” he chuckled to himself. Aside from three or four pieces of clothing he had managed to scrounge, for an occasional change, a rough comb and a pair of sandals, he had pretty much what he stood up in.

Whistling he banged open the galley hatch and rushed over to his tiny pallet. Caleb grabbed the sack he’d kept his few possessions stuffed in and turned to go. As he did he saw O’Reilly standing there looking at him. He hadn’t said a word when Caleb burst in.

“I can tell by the look on yer face that the captain has turned you loose.” The cook stuck out a rough paw. “I’m sorry to see ya go, ‘cause I doubt I’ll find another helper like you.” He grimaced in annoyance. “And what the divil am I to do about finding a lettered man?”

Caleb took O’Reilly’s hand and shook it. “You might consider Mr. Callow. He’s young enough to enjoy a treat.”

“Hmmm, that might work, I’ll have ta think on it. Now, be off with ye, I have work to do. This ship still has to eat ya know!”

Caleb hesitated, and looked around. His joy was bubbling over, like the big kettles, but he’d come to like the old Irishman. “Uh, O’Reilly, the service won’t be for a while yet, and I’m leaving with Mr. Harding, maybe I could…”

The cook tossed him a knife, which Caleb neatly caught in one hand. “Drop that bag and get to work, Yank!” he ordered.

The deck of Hector had not a bit of empty space on it. Every man who could manage it, British and American, and including the walking wounded, was aboard her. Those detailed to the other ships watched from their respective rails. They wouldn’t be able to hear much of anything but the looking made them feel a part of the event. The British colours hung at half-mast aboard Hector, as did the American flag aboard Passamaquoddy. That flag was the one made for the “Benjamin Franklin”, and the same Caleb had waved about, and whose concern for had bought him his freedom from impressment. It was stained with blood and dirt, and torn in several places, but in this case the custom of displaying only clean banners had been put into abeyance.

Pearson and Harding stood together near the rail of the ship. Also ranged along the rail were the bodies of the dead, now decently covered, along with those seamen who would put them over the side when the time came, and the names of the dead were read.

Those in attendance looked a scruffy lot, for the most part. Many sported bandages and splints. The thrill of victory, while still present, had begun to wear off and an aching glumness to set in. The small group of powder monkeys, boys younger than Callow even, were sniveling for one of their own, Jerry Hoskins, who’d died when a taut rope had snapped, the recoil lashing his throat open .

David Pearson, captain of the Hector, stepped forward, along with Mr. Harding, master of the Passamaquoddy. They had arranged to share the reading of prayers and psalms, with the greater part going to David, along with speaking a few words. As Pearson opened his book men pulled off their head coverings, if they had any. In a clear voice, set to carry, he began.

*I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die

I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shalt stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.

We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord. *

Harding followed this with a reading of the 90th Psalm. Familiar, solemn phrases slid by.

*“Lord, thou hast been our refuge: from one generation to another…

Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever the earth and the world were made: thou art God from everlasting, and world without end…

…the days of our age are three-score years and ten; and though men be so strong, that they come to fourscore years: yet is their strength then but labour and sorrow; so soon passeth it away, and we are gone…

…comfort us again now after the time that thou hast plagued us: and for the years wherein we have suffered adversity…”*

Following a short series of other readings David concluded with the prayer appointed for those at sea, giving thanks for a victory. He hadn’t thought to include it, but had at the suggestion of Lt. Merriott, who’d said it would please the crew. Merriott reminded the captain that following Hector’s previous encounter with the pirate, that this prayer had not been able to be included.

“…if the Lord had not been on our side, now may we say: if the Lord himself had not been on our side, when men rose up against us;
They had swallowed us up quick: when they were so wrathfully displeased at us…
… We gat not this by our own sword, neither was it our own arm that saved us: but thy right hand, and thine arm, and the light of thy countenance, because thou hadst a favour unto us…
…The Lord hath done great things for us: the Lord hath done great things for us, for which we rejoice…

Shutting the book for a moment David looked at the expectant gaze of the massed crews. Hesitating for just a moment, he cleared his throat and began, hoping he’d get through this without looking foolish.

*“I imagine that many of us who have lived thorough this battle are now asking ourselves, ‘Why me? Why did I live, while many of my companions died?’ It galls me not to be able to answer that question, and I don’t actually believe anyone can.

But what I can say is this. I don’t believe those of our number who fell in this battle are separated from us forever. They have embarked on a voyage that we all will take someday, are ‘over the horizon’ as it were. We can’t see them for now, but we can rest assured that as they approached their journey’s end, Someone else was at the dock in that far port, waiting to greet them and rejoicing, saying ‘Look! Here they come!’

I believe that the Almighty is merciful. So if we have any regrets or sorrows for our lives and conduct, let’s try leaving them in His hands, trusting that that same mercy that will allow us to take the same voyage that our shipmates have.”*

Now the prayer book was opened again, and a signal given to ready the bodies for the sea. Since burial was to be at sea, and not in the earth of home, the wording of the committal was slightly different, and the list of the dead would be read after, as the bodies were given to their rest. Pearson would read Hector’s dead, and Harding would do the same for those of Passamaquoddy.

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our shipmates here departed we therefore commit their bodies to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, (when the Sea shall give up her dead,) and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at his coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”

One by one the shrouds were slipped into the waiting sea. One by one the names were read, in alphabetical order, not by order of rank. This was not the time for rank to be pulled David had decided, and Alastair Robert Knox Tyldesley would, for this once, follow little Jerome Hoskins.

When all was completed those assembled were led in the one prayer they may all have know by heart.

“Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; But deliver us from evil. Amen.”

With that final word the ceremony was ended. For just a moment all was quiet, then a low murmuring began, as the men dispersed to prepare for the separation of the ships, and their respective leave takings.

108

There was blue water now between the Passamaquoddy and the Yarmouth, the two British frigates still grappled together while crew were being transferred between them. Caleb watched the gap between them widen. He was going home, his shoulders still draped in the American flag, he had the balance of his wages in his pocket and a promise of prize money to come, and the sense of assurance that came from knowing that the doughty Captain Harding was interested in his affairs and he was no longer alone and friendless. A month or two previously he would never have dared hope that matters would turn out so well.

And there was an ache in his chest that was like a physical pain.

He was still near enough to make out clearly the figures of Atkins, Johansen and Isaacs aboard the Passamaquoddy, all of them having found some excuse to be working where they could see the American trader stretching away to the north, to Rhode Island where Harding was doubtless going to be entering a loss in the books after the predations of the renegade. There were other men still aboard the Hector whom he’d seen only a few minutes ago and would never see again in his life; O’Reilley, wise, kindly and the kind of shipmate a man pressed into service aboard a foreign vessel might hope for to make life at all bearable; Lieutenant Merriot, a hard taskmaster but a fair one; and Captain Pearson, whose quick thinking had saved Caleb’s life when it stood forfeit by the Articles of War.

It was over and done with now. His unjust slavery to the King was a thing of the past, he was set free with no stain on his character and no fear of being picked up and punished as a deserter, and with a number of deeds to his credit that he could look back on and feel proud of. But the pain in his chest didn’t know that.

“I know, lad,” murmured a voice to his right. Caleb jumped, turned, and saw Captain Harding favouring him with a tolerant look. “Don’t ask me to explain why. You wanted no part of their navy or their war, and now you’ve had the good fortune to be rid of them both. You ought to be unfeignedly thankful, but you know, a ship has the damnedest way of getting into your blood and you’ll never forget her.”

“I believe it, sir,” said Caleb. “Part of me would have me aboard her yet – just to see the job done, though it’s no business of mine.”

Harding laughed, not unkindly. “Americans don’t belong in European wars, Caleb. We came to the New World to leave all that behind. Besides which, you’ve business enough of your own – concerning which, I’ve an idea or two, but we’ll talk that over later. For now” - Harding’s gesture took in the Passamaquoddy’s deck – “we’ve work to be getting on with. Let’s see you getting on with some.”

“Aye, sir,” said Caleb. The Yarmouth was still near enough for a wave to be visible, and he gave a slow sweep of his arm, side to side over his head, before turning away. He removed the flag from around his shoulders and folded it reverently. It was the least he could do for the flag that had made him free.

O’Reilley smiled thoughtfully as he sorted through another cask of salt pork, fishing out and rejecting the pieces that were beyond edibility even to the hungriest deckhand. Get the midshipman to sign up as Wynton’s replacement as cook’s mate, would he? The bosun would give him half a dozen with his starter if he even suggested it. Still, you couldn’t expect a Yank to understand how things were done aboard a King’s ship. Not much more than a boy Callow might be, and as well-named as any of the Hector’s company, but for all that he’d be an officer one day and already he was a sight too far up the ladder to be troubled with seaman’s chores, let alone the messiest, smelliest job on the ship bar a surgeon’s mate. Well, he’d just have to hope there was a likely lad out of the next mess of ne’er-do-wells the press gang brought in. Another day, another port, another hand.

Still, he’d miss the young American and no mistake. He’d been brighter than most and not averse to hard work, and had no more of a chip on his shoulder than most who found themselves aboard a ship they certainly hadn’t volunteered to join. And with a little luck and a fair wind, things would work out for young Wynton, what with that wicked stepmother and all. It was just a shame, O’Reilley thought, that he’d probably never know.

The Gudrun took up station ahead of the Hector, with the Yarmouth bringing up the rear, both of the frigates jogging sedately along under reduced sail. Neither had crew enough aboard to handle a cloud of sail if the weather turned unruly, not to mention letting the schooner keep up. Captain Pearson stood by the helm and watched the compass come on to the bearing for Antigua. He nodded approval and murmured “Hold that course” as the lubber line hovered over south-west by west. One thing he’d mastered by now was boxing the compass – just one of the many skills he’d been sadly lacking when he was sent to command the Hector.

And that was largely thanks to Merriot, now temporarily in command of the Yarmouth and, if Pearson had any say in it, likely to be given her permanently when they returned to English Harbour. Oh, the Admiral might well have a favourite of his own due for promotion into this conveniently-available frigate, but hopefully his recommendation would count for something. Pearson would miss him, though…

And he realized that he was now firmly set on the idea of retaining command of the Hector. There was any amount he still didn’t know about captaining a ship, and he would have to hope that his next assignment was a little more straightforward, but by hook or by crook he’d managed it this time and with some competent lieutenants he’d manage it again. Certainly the more he though about it the less a return to the counting house seemed even imaginable. Life at sea offered a thousand hazards that the landlubber was spared, but he’d never felt so alive as in the last few weeks and if he had to give it up he would feel half-dead by comparison.

But as for lieutenants… Merriot deserved a ship if anyone did, and the Gudrun – sure to be renamed again now she was no longer masquerading as a Swedish trader – ought to go to French who’d done nothing wrong in commanding her. That left him McVicar as his only commissioned officer, once he’d recovered from being bled almost to death; he’d need a new Master to replace poor Chisman; and it wouldn’t hurt to take another midshipman or two on board as well.

And, of course, what about Eleanor…?

109

Few people had been more surprised than Adm. Sir John Strachan when Hector, under the command of Captain David Pearson, had sailed back into English Harbour.

From the moment the panting courier had reached him, with news that Hector and two other ships had signalled their approach, Sir John had been eaten up with curiosity. How had the accounting clerk *done * it? For not only had he returned with Hector, but two prizes as well! And one of them was the triply damned renegade!

Now that clerk sat erect, but very weary, across the admiral’s desk from him. The interview had lasted all morning and into the early afternoon, with Sir John doing his best not to show his astonishment at the story. He didn’t want to admit that he was impressed at the recently commissioned captain’s performance, because he still had his reservations about his daughter’s choice of husband, and there had to be some way to put the marriage off even longer, or pry them apart some other way.

Finally running out of questions, at least for now, Sir John leaned back slightly in his chair. “Well, my boy, you have made quite a stir, that I can tell you. Once he finds out, I think Adm. Foraker will have a difficult time believing his agent, that Sedgewick fellow, has finally come back. And your two prizes! There’s going to be some lusting after those commands, that I can tell you, never enough to go around…”

David stirred now, looking the admiral straight in the eye. “Sir, with all due respect, my written report will recommend that Lt. Merriot and Lt. French be given command of those two vessels. Their performance during this voyage, I believe, entitles them to it.”

Sir John’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Entitles them? Perhaps, but there are other names that must be considered, just as deserving. Forgive me for reminding you, but you still lack experience yourself, and if you expect to retain a command at sea, as you have hinted you might, you will have to learn that seniority can and does matter.”

Expect to retain a command at sea? David heard the words, and wondered if the admiral was going to seperate him from* Hector*. He knew that he didn’t want that to happen, at least not for now. But in spite of the brief naval “education” he had recieved David had to acknowledge there was some truth in Sir John’s words. His commission was of very recent vintage, however it had been arranged.

David Pearson gave himself a mental shake. No doubts! If he appeared weak now, or acted as if he would back down, he would lose his command for certain, and any shred of moral authority he’d managed to gain. With a strange gleam in his eye he began.

“Sir, with all due respect, my officers and I, and the crew as well, have completed our task, to bring the pirate renegade to justice. We had other help as well, the Americans, but we also brought back a second prize. If you have any reason to fault me for my performance…”

Here Adm. Strachan interrupted. “Ah yes, the Americans! What will it look like to say that a king’s ship needed help from them? And that one seaman,who claimed to be American, you let him go without papers, taking only his word and your own personal belief in his alleged citizenship.”

David was tired and beginning to be angry, especially at the mocking tone in the admiral’s voice. Damn, if he let himself be provoked into open disagreement he’d lose command for sure. But he knew he wasn’t politcally minded enough, yet, to play this game of words. Before he could think of a proper response, however. fate intervened.

The heads of both men turned towards the door of Adm. Sir John’s office, as loud and angry words were heard outside. Then that door flew open, and Eleanor Strachan entered the room, with the admiral’s secretary following her, protesting her entry with little effect.

“Eleanor!” exclaimed two voices. That of the admiral was scandalised, that of her betrothed adoring.

She crossed the floor to David, with eyes only for him, but she still spoke first to her father. “Yes, Father, it’s me. And just when were you expecting to inform me that David here had returned?” Her lovely face glowed as she looked at the man she loved, and he rose to meet her, overjoyed to see her again, and forgetting, just for the moment, his new-found ambition.

Sir John began to turn an interesting shade of red. “Now see here young lady, your behavior is absolutely outrageous, interrupting us like this. I was of course intending on informing you, but wait… How did you find out anyway?”

A small smile of self satisfaction appeared on Eleanor’s face. “I paid the grocer’s delivery boy, to keep me informed. When he arrived this morning and told me about the ships arriving, and who they were, I determined to ride into town to see for myself.” Seeing that her father was puffing up for another lecture she said “Don’t worry, I didn’t come by myself, I had a groom with me!”

“Well I’m glad to see that you haven’t lost all sense of propriety!” he said angrily. Then he relented slightly, sensing she didn’t really care anyway.

“Oh very well, you two can have a few minutes! But stay here on the grounds, as I shall want this man back to discuss his commission further. This is a serious naval matter you know.”

“Thank you sir” said David sincerely, attempting to acknowledge protocol and come to attention before he left. But it was a poor attempt, as his mind was elsewhere. What did he tell her now?

There was a tiny garden behind Admiralty House, with one bench to sit on. For a moment, as the two lovers looked at each other after so long, there were no words.

Finally Eleanor spoke up, chiding David gently. “I’d heard returning sailors were bold fellows. Did I hear wrong?” That was all the hint he needed and for the briefest of moments neither one of them cared for “propriety”.

Coming back to the world Eleanor spoke again. “Now tell me, what is Father trying to pull on you now?”

David gave her a brief account of Hector’s adventures with him as captain. Then, taking a deep breath, he tried to explain how he had fallen in love with the sea, as well as with her, and how he wished to remain, for the present at least, in command of Hector.

Her complexion paled a little as she understood, by his words and by his tone, his sincerity. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling, and looked down at her feet.

Worried, David tried to ressure her. “Eleanor, my dearest, I don’t want to hurt you. I hardly know how it happened myself. But I can’t go back to the counting house now, it would bore me to tears. Please, try to understand me, as I don’t understand myself very well at this point.”

Bring her eyes back up to his she sighed deeply. “I was afraid something like this would happen. David, I’ve been a navy daughter all my life, and I don’t especially want to be a navy wife. Are your *sure * this is what you want?”

I’m going to lose her, was David’s thought. But if I really love her I have to be honest. “Yes, dearest, it’s what I want.”

Eleanor’s voice firmed up. “Then let’s be about it.” She stood, bringing David up with her, and began striding briskly back up to her father’s office. He followed along, confused by her words and tone. This time Eleanor Strachan didn’t barge into her father’s presence, she politely asked permission of the admiral’s secretary. She was admitted at once of course, but still she had asked.

This time David remained standing as Sir John asked grumpily “Well, what have you cooked up now Eleanor? And don’t try to snow me missy, I know you too well and can tell by the look on your face that you want something.”

“Why Father, I just wanted to ask how long David will have ashore before Hector ships out again. We do have a wedding to plan you know.”

“I haven’t definitely decided to extend his captaincy of Hector yet, and as for marriage I really think a longer engagement would be in order.”

“Father!”

“Yes, daughter?”

“I know how you got David here his commission.”

“How could you possibly know that… I mean, Eleanor, what are you saying?”

“Father, it’s not often, but when you are ‘in your cups’ you talk. And I thought I remembered you mentioning another David Pearson, from your Leopard. I simply put two and two together.”

Admiral Sir John Strachan looked at his daughter. He knew she would never talk and embarrass him, but he also knew that he’d lose her respect if he didn’t follow through with his promises, both to her and to this still wet behind the ears captain.

His hands rubbed his face in resignation. “Oh all right, set a date the two of you. But, Eleanor, look at me, no, don’t look at him! Are you positive this is what you want?”

She heard the echo of her own words, a few moments before, to David, and a shadow passed behind her eyes. “It’s not what I’d hoped for, but it’s what I’m going to get.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “It isn’t as if I haven’t had the practice. If I’m going to be a navy wife, I want only the best, and a captain is the least I’ll settle for.”

David couldn’t believe what he had been hearing. The admiral cocked an eye at him. “Don’t look so stunned, son. I guess I have to start thinking about you like that now, don’t I? Anyway, she’s always been that way, I think she gets it from her mother. I sometimes wonder if my own career…well, that’s neither her nor there, is it?”

Captain David Pearson, of HMS Hector, couldn’t disagree with his future father-in-law, any more than he could disagree with his betrothed.

110

The Admiral grunted in a mixture of amusement and chagrin. “Now, girl, you’ve had your way – as usual – so be about your business and let the men attend to theirs. David, m’ boy, do you ride?”

“A little, sir,” said David. “I learned as a boy in England – but I’m no steeplechaser.”

“No matter. I’d not make a horse gallop in this heat, you may be sure. Let’s go for a trot and look over those ships you brought in.”

Fortunately the mount Admiral Strachan picked out for him was docile and placid, and very disinclined to break into more than the steady trot the Admiral held them to. It was only a few minutes to the quayside, barely a cable from where the Hector, the Yarmouth and the Gudrun all rode at anchor. Without quitting the saddle, Strachan unfolded a telescope and held it to his eye. He surveyed the ships in silence for a few moments, then chuckled.

“What in the world have you done to that schooner? She’s well down by the stern – must have sailed like a fortepiano! Surely the Dons didn’t give her twelve-pounders for stern-chasers?”

“No, sir, that was my idea,” said Pearson. “She stopped the Passamaquoddy with a single shot, for that matter.”

“Did she, indeed?” Admiral Strachan lowered the telescope and turned towards Pearson. “You know, any man who knew a thing about ships and the sea would never have put three tons of artillery on a schooner’s counter like that. They’ll call you ‘Twelve-Pounder Pearson’ for that, and I shouldn’t wonder. The sooner we get those out of her and put in something more to the point – four-pounders and a few swivels, I’m thinking – the better. Still…

“If I had my way, boy, I’d have you command her for half a year, while you learned your business properly; for, and it’s not to be wondered at, you’ve less seamanship to you than any of your midshipmen, and beginner’s luck like that piece of foolishness,” said the Admiral, indicating the Gudrun, “won’t carry you for long. But captains don’t command schooners, and more especially, they don’t come back after a successful voyage aboard a frigate, only to be transferred to a schooner. I may have put you through the wringer just now, but you’ve earned your place aboard the Hector, though it seems you’ve cost me m’ daughter after all.”

Seeing the twinkle in the Admiral’s eye, Pearson decided it was safe to laugh. “Truly, sir, I don’t believe that decision was ever mine to make, nor yours.”

“No. Well, son-to-be,” said Strachan, “you had better get used to it, for if my girl sees anything she really wants she’ll not be dissuaded. Entirely too much like her mother! Now, as to these Americans. The way I see it, they were legitimate prize of war from the moment they fired on our flag, mistake or no, and it was large-hearted of you to let them off with only submitting to your command while the common enemy was attended to. It was very much in their own interests as well as ours, and that tactic you came up with – the disabled vessel under tow and all that; like staking out a kid for the tiger – was a clever ruse. Lured the enemy into grappling, when she might have run from a fight she was losing – if she was.”

“That was much how I saw it, sir.”

“A visionary decision from a beginner; and, moreover, I’m just as pleased you didn’t bring in an American prize, regardless of circumstances. Would’ve been a diplomatic embarrassment at the very least. The Americans are touchy enough as it is, and we don’t need any more enemies while we’ve our hands full with Bonaparte and the Dons besides. So if Passamaquoddy’s captain has gone home full of the joys of a heroic triumph and helping out the British in their hour of need, that’s no bad thing. There’ll be trouble with the Americans one day, but if this business has put it off by so much as a month, I’ll be content. And it’ll have done that and more if this devil Richards was about to make a habit of preying on American shipping, and under our flag to boot.”

“I wonder,” said Pearson thoughtfully. “Could this all have been some deep game, with the French at the back of it? To bring America into the war against us?”

“Maybe that Sedgewick fellow has the proof somewhere in his dossier, and maybe Foraker or one of his hole-and-corner men will loosen Richards’s tongue. Not that we’d need tremble in our boots for fear of America,” Strachan added. “We hadn’t the heart or the will to hold them in the rebellion, not with the French cutting our supply lines, but it’s a long way from that to her actually being able to threaten us! But they could make nuisances of themselves, whether or not, and we don’t need that. No, they have the damnedest notion of neutrality at times, and there are far too many of our seamen passing themselves off as theirs, but I’d as soon matters were no worse.”

“Yes, sir. And under the circumstances, I thought it only reasonable to release the American, Wynton, papers or no. I’d half a mind to note in the log that, after the battle, he’d gone over the side wrapped in the American flag – which is the literal truth…”

“Instead of which you courageously opted to speak your truth and be scoured for it,” said Strachan, “which is the kind of man I want for my daughter. Well, the sooner I can transfer Hector to another station the better. You’ve made a bright start, youngster, and if you’re to keep it up, I want no man saying you owe a thing to nepotism. But you’ll need your First Lieutenant to go with you.”

Pearson opened his mouth to protest, but the Admiral cut him off. “No, there’s no help for it. I accept your commendation concerning Merriot, but I have other Firsts with better records waiting for a command. That’s more a reflection on your predecessor, Captain Anselm, than your First Lieutenant. Unfortunately Merriot loses out to the men whose captains have been pushing them for promotion. Anselm, it’s likely, was too apathetic or too incompetent to advance his lieutenants’ careers. It’s unfair, but it’s the fairest form of unfair I have for now – and I’m no more flush with frigates than any other admiral on any station from here to India. But I’ll put French in command of that schooner, once I’ve thought of a name for her.”

“Not even a schooner for Merriot?” asked Pearson, his face falling. Admiral Strachan looked amused.

“Certainly not. From First aboard a frigate to command of a schooner would be no favour to him; I’d need to give him a brig at least. A young junior lieutenant can look on a schooner of his own as a step up; a First with several years’ seniority would be getting a strong hint he’s never going to make post if he were given a command like that. No, there’ll be a lot of whipping into shape to be done. You’ll need new third and fourth lieutenants, another middy or two, a new Master unless that master’s mate of yours passes the next set of examinations, and a Master’s Mate if he does; more crew to make up your numbers to somewhere near… all work for a really good First Lieutenant, so be glad you have one, and for heaven’s sake make sure you learn everything he knows and be sure to keep submitting good reports on him.”

Pearson nodded. “I’ll do that, sir. And now I had better get back to my ship, I imagine.”

“For sure. There’s any amount you don’t know about refitting and resupplying a ship, and the sooner you’re about it, the better. Leave the horse, I’ll send a groom for it; but before you go…”

Admiral Strachan held out his hand, and after a moment’s startlement Pearson reached out and took it. “I gave you a beaten ship, a demoralised company, and a mission that might have baffled the best captain in the fleet. You brought back a prize, a valuable prisoner, and a frigate fit to serve the King – and a man I’ll be proud to have as a son-in-law. See that you don’t let your standards slip!”

Once upon a time Pearson would have said “I’ll try not to, sir”. But if the hunt for the renegade had changed the Hector beyond recognition, it had not left its captain untouched either; and instead he said “No sir, I shall not”.

“Good. Be about your business, Captain,” said the Admiral, and waved him on his way with a curt but not unfriendly gesture. He’d no idea where the Hector’s own boats were, but there were boats aplenty for hire, all willing and eager to oblige a man who wore a captain’s gold epaulette and would tip accordingly. He signalled one of the boatmen, a middle-aged black with greying hair, and seated himself with an ease he hadn’t possessed a mere handful of weeks back.

“What ship, sir?” asked the boatman, shoving off as soon as his important passenger was comfortably aboard. Pearson indicated the Hector with a nod and a point.

“There she is,” he said. “My ship.”
End

Thanks and acknowledgements are gratefully due to the Dopers who first displayed enough interest in this thread to rescue it from the obscurity of a single sunken post, and to Ivylass for the concept of Captain David Pearson. I hope we have done him justice. But thanks are chiefly due to my principal co-author Baker, whose enthusiasm and persistence have brought me back to the keyboard many times when my own zeal seemed to be waning. It’s been an enjoyable voyage and a rewarding one. May you find your ways as pleasant.

111

Malacandra, it’s been a heck of a voyage, one I have enjoyed immensely. I find I can “see” the characters in my head. I learned a lot trying to research naval matters, so I didn’t make to many errors, but mostly I learned from you.

I’ll second your thanks to ivylass. I kind of thought Lt. Merriot was going to be the star character, but Pearson’s role did evolve well. And when I introduced him, I don’t think I meant for Caleb Wynton to be more than a supporting role, who would occasionally appear for an “American” point of view.

It’s strange, but I wonder what’s going to happen to the characters in the future.

Again, major thanks to Malacandra, I’ve had a blast ever since this thing started!

112

Maybe we’ll find out some day. But - whoo-ee, it’s been sixteen months to the day since Merriot saw Pearson rowing out to the Hector, and I for one am about due for a rest! :slight_smile: