by Peter Greene
Book Two
The Adventures of Jonathan Moore
Castle of Fire
by
Peter Greene
illustrations by
Michelle Graham
The Adventures of Jonathan Moore Series
Book1: Warship Poseidon
Book 2: Castle of Fire
Book 3: Paladin’s War
Praise for award-winning author Peter Greene and
The Adventures of Jonathan Moore, Book 2:
Castle of Fire
Finalist Independent Author Network Action/Adventure
“Chock-full of adventurous fun… Greene seamlessly weaves together several dynamic storylines, creating a rich, complex world for readers to enjoy. It’s driven by an eclectic, well-drawn cast of characters… Jonathan, Delain, and quirky best friend, Sean Flagon, form a wonderful trio whose escapades will leave readers hooked. A spirited tale of high-seas adventure that will leave readers both young and old anxiously waiting for more!”
— KIRKUS REVIEWS www.kirkusreviews.com
“The characters in this book are so fun! There is a lot of action as there was in the first book. There's sword fighting, pirates, cannons, stealing pirate ships, a little romance, a stowaway, friendship, and much more. I love it when I can hand a child a book and not worry at all about questionable words or content. If you liked the first book in the series then you should read this one— you'll love the ending.”
—Readathon.blogspot.com
Reviews for award-winning author Peter Greene and
The Adventures of Jonathan Moore: Book 1:
Warship Poseidon
Adventure Writers Winner 2012, IAN Outstanding A/A book of the year
IAN Finalist First Novel, Finalist Historical Fiction
“A robust story of a young lad in the British navy during the Nelson years. A thorough insight and beautiful portrait of those days under wind-blown sails and the creak of wooden hulls. Peter Greene has created a story that shines from every page. An excellent book. He truly nails an insight of nineteenth century sailing ships and their crews."
- CLIVE CUSSLER, best-selling author of Poseidon’s Arrow,
Raise the Titanic, The Sea Hunters
“A heartwarming tale of a boy essentially orphaned in search of his father, WARSHIP POSEIDON never ceases to entertain. Greene’s swashbuckling tale of high-seas adventure is pure, uncomplicated fun!”
— KIRKUS REVIEWS www.kirkusreview.com
The Adventures of Jonathan Moore: Castle of Fire
K9
Copyright 2013 by Peter C. Greene
ebook Reprinting 2013, 2016, 2018
Illustrations: Michelle Graham www.michellegraham.co.uk
Jacket cover: Sven Gillhoolie
All artwork and content of this book is sole property of the author. For information about permission to reproduce selections or artwork from this book, or for other requests, please write to:
Sven Gillhoolie Publishing
15418 N Castillo Drive
Fountain Hills, Arizona, USA 85268
ISBN-13: 978-1-365-31618-0
Jonathan Moore Books and Sven Gillhoolie Enterprises are registered trademarks of Peter C. Greene. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Author’s note: This book has been written so it can be easily read aloud. You may notice it contains additional dialogue direction pertaining to who is speaking. This will make reading aloud more enjoyable for all parties. Also, chapters have suggested breaks approximately halfway through marked with * * * * * so you can easily stop and continue the story tomorrow night from a sensible point.
To purchase and learn more about Jonathan Moore adventure books please visit:
www.ajmbooks.com or www.castleoffire.com
Chapters
Shadow and Son
Dragons in the Admiralty
Audience with George
The Nemesis
Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
A Loose Gun
One for Adventure
The Turtle and the Fiero
The Ghost at the Gun
Finally, a Pirate
Planted Seeds
Planted Weeds
Rendezvous Incognito
The Duel
The Mouse Takes the Bait
El Fort de la Selva
The Stowaway
The Castle of Fire
Point of No Return
The New Marine and the New Commander
Acknowledgements
To my stowaway and true love:
Pammy Delain Sutton Greene
Book Two
The Adventures of Jonathan Moore
Castle of Fire
1
Shadow and Son
In the shadows of the buildings surrounding the London docks at Wapping, a man waited. His hands were clenched; one holding a club of hardwood, the other holding nothing but anger and hatred. He peered out to the busy streets at the many gay people rushing towards the waterfront. They were anxious to greet HMS Danielle and her victorious crew, the latest heroes of the realm and favorites of the city’s papers. In the man’s heart was not pride, nor happiness, nor approval of these new darlings of London; there was only the burning fire of revenge.
Meanwhile, drawn by a pair of fine bay horses as he traveled in his covered landau carriage to the River Thames in London, Captain Nathaniel Moore could hear the roaring of ships’ guns. At times, he swore he could also hear the cheering of a crowd—or could it be the echo of the horse’s hooves as they clipped-clopped down the cobblestone street? Certainly the guns were celebratory, not from a battle but a commemoration—the arrival of a very important ship.
He adjusted the collar on his dark, navy blue, wool uniform then adjusted the heavy blanket about his shoulders. The carriage was cold this time of year, however, before leaving his small but comfortable apartment, he had placed more than a few large blankets by the fire. After an hour or so in the heat, he carried them into the carriage to aid in keeping the occupants warm.
This year, 1801, would certainly go down in England’s history as the coldest in a century. Staying comfortable was hard enough for a wealthy man such as himself, but what of those unfortunates—the people who lived on the streets? Over the past few years, these people had been on his mind—a certain person in particular—and the thought disturbed him greatly. How could one survive with no suitable shelter? No warmth or proper food? All those frozen nights and wet conditions huddled God knows where? How could they endure, especially the youngest ones? It would be impossible.
However, he knew of one young boy who did survive, and in a strange way, Captain Moore was extremely proud of what that boy had accomplished and was dreadfully sorry for what had befallen them both.
Across from Captain Moore sat Dr. Lane, the surgeon assigned specifically to him by the Admiralty of His Majesty’s Navy. Though a great honor to have an esteemed surgeon at his beck and call, Captain Moore considered the doctor more of a nuisance than a benefit, and as if to prove the point, the doctor began speaking.
“Captain Moore,” he said, breaking a long silence, “I would strongly advise taking your cane as assistance to your walk and an extra shawl, as it can be very damp and chilly on the London docks.”
“Can it?” asked Moore sarcastically, as if he, a Navy man his entire life, would not know the climate of the London docks. Without hesitation, Dr. Lane continued.
“Why yes, all the salt air and cloud cover, especially at night, traps the cold and fog. It collects, dank and chilly, about the area. It’s a wonder more do not become ill who live by the ocean.”
“Imagine those who live on the water mo
st of their lives!” said Captain Moore with a chuckle. “Yes, Doctor, it is a wonder they don’t all take ill. I will follow your advice.” He held his cane up for verification of his intent. They lapsed again into silence as the carriage rolled closer to the docks.
Moore had never needed a cane, not in his thirty-nine years of life, until this past summer. As he looked through the frost-covered window of the carriage, watching people rush here and there through the cold streets, he thought about all that had happened. Was it really over three years ago that he had become the sudden and momentary captain of HMS Helios? The original captain had been killed early in a clash with a squadron of French ships, and Nathaniel was forced to assume command. The battle seemed to last for days, and Moore, with the crew of the Helios, had nearly defeated all the enemy ships—all but the largest one. The infamous French warship Danielle, with its seventy-four guns, was too much to handle. The Helios had been grievously damaged and was now afire from its scrapes with the other four rival frigates. It was all he could do to save twenty or so of his remaining crew and then surrender.
What followed was three years of captivity in a small French prison just outside of Guéret in central France. His status: war criminal. While there, he learned of the untimely passing of his dear wife and the news almost caused the death of him. It was only his desire to return home and be with his son that kept him alive. His only son, who now needed him, drove Nathaniel to escape captivity. He spent weeks making his way to the sea, then north along the coast. After many days and nights of sneaking and plodding, Nathaniel “borrowed” a small sailing boat from the shores of Calais and made his way across the English Channel. The waters were not completely calm, and a wicked wind swept him eastward, then north, to finally come ashore near Lowestoft, England, and thus to freedom.
A few weeks later, he spoke with the captain of HMS Echo, a sloop delivering news from the Caribbean Sea. He was told that Captain William Walker of HMS Poseidon had taken the French seventy-four gun Danielle as a prize and defeated the infamous French Captain Claude Champagne, the very same man who had captured Nathaniel years ago. Though he learned that Walker and his crew had successfully retrieved an enormous treasure, he also learned that the Poseidon had been sunk in the process, with many men lost. This shed fear and doubt as to the survival of his son, who was supposedly aboard.
The carriage rambled on. Even though it was early evening, the darkening streets were crowded with citizens of London, all rushing to the docks. The cold weather should have kept them away, cozy in their homes with a spot of tea and a warm blanket by the fire. However, here they were—a few thousand, Moore surmised—all rushing to the docks. It seemed the word had gotten out that the newly captured Danielle was arriving tonight, Christmas, and many excited people desired to see the heroes for themselves. Nathaniel was also heading for the dock and the Danielle, but he cared nothing for the treasure of gold. He went to find his son.
A voice from above, the coachman, called down to Captain Moore and the doctor: “We ‘ave arrived, gen’elmen! London Docks. Pier number four, as ordered!”
Nathaniel turned to the doctor, who looked less than happy to leave the warmth of the carriage to stand in the cold.
“Doctor Lane, no use for us both to catch a chill. Please, remain here and I will go on by myself. Just a short stretch of the legs.”
“By all means,” said the doctor without hesitation. “Good to exercise the legs.”
London Docks, Christmas 1800
Nathaniel smiled briefly, collected his cane and hat, then opened the carriage door and stepped into the busy crowd. Closing the door, he took a deep breath of the cool salt air and smiled. Yes, as dangerous as the doctor believed the damp air could be, the docks, the ocean, the ships and all their sights, sounds, and smells invigorated him. It was one of his greatest loves, being in His Majesty’s Navy and sailing the open sea. The only greater love was his long-lost son, Jonathan Moore.
The crowd moved on ahead of Nathaniel and he was happy to allow them to pass. It was still a struggle, the leg not quite behaving as it should. In fact, he had to pause from time to time just to rest. He slowly made his way closer to the docks, passing a few stores with their Christmas wares on display in the windows. Then, after he had taken a brief rest, the last of the crowd disappeared around the corner ahead, leaving him alone. He could now only hear the cheers of the crowd in the distance and his own footsteps echoing against the cobblestones.
As he neared the last corner before the docks, he saw something move in the shadows. Cautiously drawing closer, he saw a shape move into the half-light. It was crouched like a beast—but it soon became clear that it was a man, a short one, with his face covered by a scarf and a hood low over his brow. Abruptly, the man rushed at Nathaniel, raising a club over his head as he ran.
“Take this!” the man yelled in a high-pitched voice as he brought the club down to smite him.
Startled, Nathaniel reacted with pure fighting instinct. Using his cane as a sword, he quickly warded off the blow. He extended his foot so as to trip his attacker, who fell crashing to the ground, club flying from his hand and clanking harmlessly on the street. Quickly, Nathaniel struck the man across the face with his cane, causing the attacker to cry out in pain. For an instant, Nathaniel could see the man’s features: he was young, with dark eyes and a stern look above a square chin. He had straight, dark-brown hair, gathered in a pony-tail. A welt was rising above his left eye where the cane had struck him. The young man quickly came to his feet and stood, adjusting the scarf and hood to cover his face once again.
“What is all this?” demanded Nathaniel.
“Curse you!” the young man yelled, then turned and ran away.
Nathaniel was slightly flustered, but unhurt. Spending a moment to calm himself with a deep breath, he straightened his uniform and retrieved his hat from the ground. It was now wet and slightly crushed, but a few brushes with his hand made it presentable, at least in the dark. Taking a final look around, he continued onward to the ship.
After a minute or two more, he heard the crowd cheering loudly with many a huzzah voiced by the Navy men, lords, and ladies that must have been crowding the waterfront. Nathaniel realized he must hurry, or he would miss them.
Finally he reached the pier and stood at the entrance of the main berth, holding his breath. Yes, there was a great ship moored there, a seventy-four gunner that he recognized very well. The Danielle had obviously been repaired and was smartly painted with a gold stripe down her side. Wasn’t the Poseidon also gold-striped? A fine tribute to her!
The crowd was already thinning; people were returning to their homes, and soon a number of them were moving past him as they made their way. Some recognized him, mostly Navy men and their families, and this caused Nathaniel to stop and return more than a few salutes. He considered each person as they passed, hoping to see if any resembled his son. Searching, searching, searching for a face he could not possibly remember. The last time he had seen Jonathan, his son was barely six years old.
How would he have changed? Nathaniel thought. What would he be wearing? Maybe I should first locate Walker and ask him where Jonathan might be. Wait! There! A face in the crowd! A boy of eleven or twelve? He is wearing a crewman’s garb – black trousers, a heavy wool coat and a tasseled hat. Could it be? Certainly Jonathan would become a ship’s hand and a member of the crew. But no, this boy is now hugging and kissing a woman who could only be his mother.
“Little Paulie Garvey! Oh to hold my boy in my arms again!” the woman shouted.
“Aw, Mum! The men are looking!” the young seaman said, embarrassed.
Nathaniel continued searching the crowd, however, there were very few young men in the crew. After a few moments, he did see one handsome youngster, a midshipman to be sure, standing among his friends at the end of the pier with a solemn look on his face.
Jonathan could not be a midshipman, Nathaniel reasoned. That would be highly irregular. No, he would be a crew m
ember and dressed as such.
He rested on his cane for a moment, then regarded the midshipman again. He was taller than he originally had supposed, especially compared to the young seaman who stood by his side.
But wait. Isn’t that Steward? Next to the midshipman? Steward, my crotchety old bosun from the Troy? We were marooned together! It seems like a lifetime ago! And next to him, the young Lieutenant Harrison of the Helios? I set them both aboard the jolly boat before I surrendered! And there, behind them. That tall Marine Captain appears to be . . . Gorman. Why the saints be blessed! There is William! William Walker!
Nathaniel then caught the eyes of Steward, who briefly smiled and clasped his hands to the midshipman’s head. He firmly pointed the boy’s gaze directly at Nathaniel.
“My God,” Nathaniel called out softly, “Could that midshipman be Jonathan? But how . . . ”
Through the string of festive lanterns lining the pier, he gazed in wonder at the young midshipman. The uniform looked new and the boy stood tall and straight. Nathaniel took a few steps towards him, trying to get a better look. If it were Jonathan, then what a handsome young man he had become. A few more steps and their eyes met. In a flash, Nathaniel knew. Memories came flooding back to him like a rush of fire—seeing the boy only seconds after he was born, crying loud and strong, cradling both Jonathan and his mother in his arms as they entered their first home in Hampstead, walking the beach on the Isle of Wight, searching for shells, and kissing him goodbye as he rode off on that bright August day to his ill-fated command of HMS Troy. But most of all he remembered tucking him into his bed and whispering “I love you” as the child drifted off to sleep.
