Captain's Surrender

by Alex Beecroft

  “So,” he said, when at last he could not fit another mouthful in, “captain, eh?”

  “In truth, only ‘master and commander’,” Josh clarified and found that—contrary to what might be expected—the inner pain hurt more now that the outer man was satisfied and at rest. “The Macedonian was bought into the service yesterday, and I am named her commander until someone more appropriate may be found. Or I prove myself beyond doubt—which ever comes first.”

  “Is that not extraordinarily rapid advancement?” Adam wiped his fingers with the tablecloth and looked away, down the hill to where the flat roof of the Summersgill house was visible, spiky palms and orange trees in pots on top of it, glowing against the sky. “Fortune smiles on you.”

  “It is Captain Kenyon’s doing.” Josh too looked down, to the small lodging house from which Peter had now removed himself. Peter’s new terraced house was on the other side of St. George, and though it was less than five minutes walk away, it could have been the other side of the world. Josh had taken Mrs. Hodges’ larger room despite everything, on the understanding that he could keep his own mattress. But already, less than a week later, the scent of Peter had faded from it, until he had to burrow into its center and draw the sheet over his head before he could catch the elusive comfort of it and fall asleep.

  He looked back at the time before Kenyon, before love, as an age of innocence lost. It had all been so much easier then.

  “He recommended me.”

  “And Captain Kenyon’s voice is very much heeded where ever he should choose to speak,” said Adam. It was a shock to Josh to find that the young merchant could be resentful too, like reaching out to a fluffy pet dog only to have it close its teeth on your fingers.

  “Captain Kenyon has been a true friend to me,” Josh said stiffly. “I was a midshipman with no prospects when we met, and through his influence I now have my own ship. I’m a poor Irishman with no family, and I’m fortunate to have acquired such a patron.”

  All of which was, of course, quite true and did not make one whit of difference. It should have been a comfort to retain Peter’s friendship, but Josh was finding it difficult, at present, for every mention of the man was another tug on the hook and line that seemed to have embedded themselves in his chest, and he could not ask people to stop mentioning Peter while still feigning to be friends.

  Josh took a few swigs of his beer, and that eased the constriction in his throat enough so that he could lean forward and say, “May I speak to you frankly, Mr. Robinson?”

  “If you want me to stand aside, so that your friend may have unimpeded access to Miss Jones,” said Robinson bitterly, pushing back his blond curls and scattering a small shower of soot on the table, “you have wasted your breakfast. I have already said goodbye to her, I must presume, for the last time.”

  Josh’s heart fell. He told himself—again—that he was doing this from sheer disinterested friendship, but—again—he failed to convince himself. “You misunderstand me entirely, Mr. Robinson. To begin with, I know what it is to be hungry, and I know what it is to be in love with no hope of a return. I’m not trying to buy you off. I’m trying to help.”

  “Why? Why would you help me against your friend’s interests when, as you say, you owe him so much?”

  It was the question Josh had been asking himself since he saw Adam at the foot of the burning stairs. He could only give it the same answer. “Because I think you love her, and that she loves you. And Peter—he’s flattered by her notice, he thinks she’d be suitable, but his heart is no more engaged with her than it would be with any other prize. You know I value him above all other men on this earth? You know I owe him everything? So, as his friend, I can say that the man is a blind fool to think she cares for him, and in my opinion, he deserves better than a wife who accepts him as a grudging second best, only to cuckold him at the first chance with the man she truly loves.”

  Adam threw down his knife with an angry clatter, half rose from his seat. “You impugn her honor if you think she would ever…!”

  Josh pushed his chair back and stood, facing him down, eye to eye. “That’s not the point, and you know it. Christ, man, tell me why you’ve given up? If I were in your position, I’d be fighting still for what was mine by right. I don’t understand you.”

  While they had been eating, the room had filled, and there was now a general disapproving rustling of papers to indicate they had stepped too far for politeness and should either call for their pistols or stop disturbing the peace. Choosing the latter, Adam sank into his seat and put his head in his blistered hands.

  “What can I do?” he whispered. “If I had only a little money, enough to offer her a house and a single servant, I know she would take me. But I have debts in the hundreds of pounds. Last night, Captain Andrews, you found me reduced to sponging a stake from my friends and looking for a card game in the hopes of winning just enough funds to finance one journey that I might hazard my future upon. And I could not manage to achieve even that.”

  Josh wondered how far he should go with this fellow-feeling. How many separate pieces of the puzzle he could afford to give Robinson before the man put the evidence together and condemned him. But it felt good to be able to alleviate someone’s misery, to change a fate so like his own.

  “Is that all?” Calling for the kitchen maid to bring him pen and paper, he wrote down an address and a few words of recommendation. “Take this to the timber factory on Penno’s Wharf and ask to speak to Mr. Jack Clarkson. He runs a highly successful timber and fur business and is always looking for more ships. If you mention my name, I’m sure he will be delighted to finance a voyage, for the usual commission, of course.”

  Mr. Jack Clarkson was another man Josh had known from Mistress Sukie’s molly house in London. The constant threat, the need to identify allies, to know where to run to in case of exposure had ingrained in him the habit of keeping track of such contacts. Though he was reluctant to use them except in great need, he soothed his doubts by telling himself that Adam’s need was great enough. Clarkson himself might see it more in the light of Josh putting fresh business his way rather than a request for help. And should Adam ever find out about his employer’s vice, and somehow connect that with Josh in his mind, it was always possible that obligation and gratitude would keep him silent.

  It was certainly a less ridiculously suicidal thing to do than to decide to visit St. George’s only molly house while the repercussions of Reverend Jenson’s sermon were still roaring around the town. If Josh had not particularly cared about his survival then, why should he do so now?

  He picked up the piece of paper with address and introduction on it, and offered it to Robinson, who took it with all the awe suitable for handling a new hope. Adam read it, shocked, disbelieving. “He will take me on? Give my men a wage? And me?”

  “Yes, for my sake. He is a…reclusive, private sort of man. You must promise not to press him or pry for more than he is willing to tell you.”

  “Oh.” There was a small moment of revelation on a face that had become so radiant it might have modeled for a Greek statue, had it been a little less thin, and Josh realized that Adam thought he had been put in contact with a smuggler and was willing to keep silence about it. It might not actually be that far from the truth. Josh had taken care never to inquire.

  “Captain Andrews.” Robinson rose and shook Josh’s hand. “I… God’s blood, sir, you are a messenger of Providence. Your kindness leaves me unable to speak, but if the prayers of two loving souls now given new hope are of any practical benefit, you will be showered with blessings. What may I do to repay you? I can scarcely restrain myself from flying out the door and running all the way there now, but tell me first what your dearest wish is, so that should ever the chance come my way, I can return to you the hundredth part of this obligation.”

  Despite everything, Josh could not help laughing at this enthusiasm. It lifted his spirits to have restored Robinson’s characteristic good temper. And the
thought that it also delayed the inevitable day when Peter wed and was out of his reach forever added a more personal pleasure.

  “I need nothing, sir. Pray do not trouble yourself in the slightest. But cherish a little more kindness for Captain Kenyon in future, perhaps. For my sake.”

  As Josh stood at the inn’s door, watching Adam run down the steep hill like a deer, all slender, gaunt grace and legs, another small dot came toiling up the road towards him. Within five minutes it had resolved itself into the youngest of his new midshipmen, Hal Tucker, hatless and coatless, scarlet as a tomato and breathing like a bellows.

  “Please, sir…I’ve been…looking for you…everywhere. Commodore wants you, sir, half an hour ago.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Commodore Dalby’s office was small and filled to bursting with three captains and the commodore himself. The commodore, trying to unroll a large map on the small deal table looked up with a grunt when Josh entered. Josh bowed, to him, to Peter, and to Captain Joslyn of the Asp.

  “Macedonian ready to sail, Andrews?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Dalby looked down again. “We’ve received a report of a French ship of the line—possibly the Indomitable—cruising up the coast of America. She has not come to the aid of any of the French privateers nor has she taken part in any action against British troops on the ground. I’ve also had reports of strange sail from Fort Albany. Call it an intuition, but I suspect the French are trying to take advantage of our distraction in order to break the treaty and retake Hudson Bay.

  “The three of you should be a match for a three-decker. You’ll proceed to Hudson Bay in company with and under the command of Post Captain Joslyn and deal with whatever you find there. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Sail ho!” came the cry from the masthead. Peter ran up the shrouds, glass in hand, to the maintop, looked where the midshipman pointed, and could see, perhaps, a smudge of white too regular for a cloud. Excitement coursing through him, he came down to universal smiles on deck.

  “Make the signal for Captain Joslyn,” he commanded and waited until the signal flag was flying before returning his attention to the sea.

  “And prepare to tack ship.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  As they came about, Peter saw flags break out on the Asp, signaling a general pursuit. He bent on as much sail as the rigging would safely bear, and after an hour, it became clear that the Seahorse was gaining on the unknown sail.

  By the following day, they had gained ten miles and could see her quite clearly, green hull banded with cheerful yellow. The name painted on her stern was Virginie, a thirty-two, a little heavier than the Macedonian. She was flying a Dutch flag, but apart from the sheer implausibility of this, the coxswain’s mate recognized her as the thirty-two which had taken him prisoner in the year sixty-seven, and had then been under Captain Jean-Paul deBourne, a gentleman of the old school.

  “Sir,” said Peter’s first lieutenant, the newly senior Mr. Howe, “that’s the Hudson Strait ahead, sir. If we don’t do something now, and there is a two-decker in the bay, well, our prospects will be considerably worse.”

  The man affected Peter like a bad smell—quite unfairly, for he was a competent officer and this was a justified worry that Peter shared. No doubt it was just that he was used to Andrews there, with whom he would have shared his thoughts, and the knowledge that Andrews was on his own ship, inaccessible, made his rigid back ache.

  “Mr. Howe, I gather it has not occurred to you that I might have already thought of this? Nor that your asking the question is disrespectful in the utmost to Captain Joslyn, who can be supposed to have thought of this too?”

  “No, sir, sorry, sir.” Howe rubbed a hand over the cocoa-brown stubble on his chin and looking cowed.

  Worried that he might be turning into a monster of authority like Walker, Peter relented. “However, I think we can begin setting things in train for action. We won’t clear until we’re given the order, but there will be no harm in putting out the fearnought screens and slow match now.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Howe smiled and hurried away. Feeling the need for something to counterbalance his presence, Peter took out his glass and trained it on the Macedonian, watching the small figure of her captain on the quarterdeck. Josh had left off the expensive and prestigious wig, and in the red-tinged sunset light, his hair shone like a point of fire. Peter, admiring both ship and man, huddled into his greatcoat and felt briefly piercingly happy. Andrews at his right hand and a steady colleague at his left, a battle ahead and the sun going down in a sheet of flame over a blue shadow of land. There was a smell of slow match in the air, and all the world seemed eager, poised for glory.

  Life, he thought, did not get much better than this, and at the thought, some presentiment of danger made him reach out and stroke the Seahorse’s rail, touching wood.

  The signal to engage broke out on the Asp and time for reflection was over. On deck the cannons were set loose, and there was a rumbling below as the larger thirty-eight pounders were brought into action on the gun deck. Ship’s boys ran up from the armory with canisters of shot and powder, and the swivel guns at the bow were already shotted and primed.

  “All divisions ready, sir,” Howe reported, returning like an unwanted guest.

  “Bow chasers fire at will,” Peter commanded, “and a guinea for the man who shoots out the first sail.”

  The swivels barked with a high-pitched note, like terriers, and the crews of the cannon tied up their hair with their scarves, spat on their hands. Seahorse plunged through the smoke and the cold arctic air was briefly warm and thick, smelling of gunpowder.

  But the Virginie had been lying to them about her speed. Now her captain trimmed the yards, she filled, and staysails broke out on all masts, spritsail and spritsail topsail on her bowsprit. At once she leaped forward out of range. Peter ordered staysails set himself, and royals, touching the braces of the masts to feel whether they would take it. To starboard, the Macedonian came up beside them, her more powerful chasers firing. A ball hit the Virginie’s stern galley and a spray of glass burst up, glittering. A little closer and—though they could not rake her with a broadside—they might keep up a steady fire with the swivels, sending shot the whole unprotected length of her deck.

  No, not unprotected, for now the Virginie’s stern chasers spoke—there was a yellow cloud of smoke and a roar. He felt the wind as the ball passed his elbow, made a hole in the hammock netting behind him, and he laughed, feeling all earthly cares depart at the nearness of death.

  “Like that, is it?”

  Looking back, he saw that the burst of speed was leaving the Asp behind, and he wondered why Virginie had not done this at the start, but had deliberately allowed the fourth rate to keep up. Was she so confident the three-decker she undoubtedly believed he knew nothing about would be enough to take on three British warships? Well, it was time to disabuse her of that notion. He’d take on the Virginie and the Indomitable too, if he had to.

  The wind remained constant. Peter gave the order for the studding sails to be set, just as the Virginie began her turn into Hudson Straight. The speed cracked on. They were sailing now at thirteen knots straight towards Virginie’s turned broadside, and the French captain took the opportunity to open a full roaring fire, raking the Seahorse from stem to stern. The air was full of metal. One of the gun crew, receiving a ball in the breast, was literally burst apart and his limbs landed on either side of the boat, his severed head catching in the splinter netting and hanging there.

  The men on deck flung themselves flat on the boards, including Midshipman Prendergast, a boy of thirteen, for whom this was his first experience of battle.

  Peter walked over to the boy, acutely conscious that the gun crews on the Virginie were reloading and that the second broadside would be closer, more deadly, as the strip of water between the vessels narrowed. “Stand up, Mr. Prendergast,” he said firmly. “A gentleman doe
s not cower.” He took the boy by the elbow, feeling the racking shudders of fear, and stood him on his feet, with a smile. Then he leaned forward and whispered the words his own captain had told him on a similar occasion, long ago. “If you cannot be brave, it is perfectly adequate to pretend. But pretend you must. How would the men feel otherwise, seeing their officers afraid?”

  The boy gave him a waxy smile in return and nodded. Then he was promptly sick into his hat. Choosing not to notice, Peter said, “Get someone to clear Beatty’s head from the netting, would you? Assemble what pieces you can find for burial,” and walked up the quarterdeck stairs just as the second wave of iron smashed into the Seahorse and came shrieking and smoking down her deck. The main mast was hit a jarring blow, splinters flew through the air, humming like bees. Peter saw that the Macedonian had begun to turn, but in the process had lost way. A shot from her chasers knocked off the boom of the Virginie’s mizzen spanker, and the whole fell, tangled to the deck.

  For one instant her stern was to the Seahorse’s broadside, and Peter scarcely had to shout “fire” before all the weight of metal his sloop possessed was loosed on the Virginie, but at the speed they were going, he could only fire once before she had gone racing into Hudson Straight, and he had to go about to avoid being driven into Resolution Island.

  This was easier said than done, with the land so close on his lee. In the end he had to clubhaul to gain enough sea room to double back, set all sail once more and drive through, almost close enough to pick the little slipper orchids on Cape Chidley’s grassy point.

  By that time the night was black as the inside of a barrel, and he shortened sail to avoid driving her onto some unknown reef in the dark.