by Peter Greene
“I assume,” said Admiral Moore, “that you are referring to Sean’s unofficial title as bomb maker—”
“A title given to him by His Majesty himself!” interrupted Miss Thompson, again firm in her reproach. “Hardly could it be called unofficial!”
“Yes, and he is certainly well prepared for that task,” said Admiral Moore. “I meant no slight to him, Miss Thompson. He is improving on his skills is what I meant to say.”
“Yes,” she said, now smiling as if she had achieved a small victory in the defense of one of her boys.
With that, the two couples collected their few belongings—mostly gift items purchased at the surrounding shops—and exited the ice cream parlor.
The bearded man observed from inside the ice cream shop by Jonathan and Delain had not spoken to a soul since he left Piccadilly. He now walked briskly away from the avenue, down a neat alley near Coventry and Haymarket that led to an unmarked doorway of a pub named The Raven and Snake. It was dark, crowded, and not at all well kept; however, the man ignored the condition and ordered a tall porter. As he sipped, he secretly eyed every person in the room. Most were quiet and to themselves, and all were certainly of the lower class. “Slightly ragged to outright degenerate” described not only their clothing but their physical look as well. These were the unrefined commoners of the great city of London.
Once he had finished his drink and completed the review of the patrons, he stood, dropped two pennies on the bar, then exited quietly out the front door into the busy street.
Walking a full block eastward, the man hailed a hackney coach and had the driver take him to the Palace of Westminster. It was now approaching five in the evening, and he could see the streets were emptying as the night’s cold descended on the city. Gas lights illuminated the few corners and at times spilled out from the open doorway of an establishment or the window of a town home.
Arriving at Westminster, he tipped the driver and then walked toward the Thames and across the bridge to Lambeth. After walking a few blocks south, he hailed another carriage and instructed the driver to take him back across the Westminster Bridge to Pall Mall, just past the Admiralty Building. Most would take this as a short walk, but the man feigned a limp, and because of this, the driver asked no questions.
Once the short ride was completed, the man exited into the near darkness. He found a secluded shadow beneath a large, old willow next to the gravel path and stood there for a full eleven minutes. No one had followed him.
Purposefully he walked west down the mall and took a path through Saint James Park to Queen Anne’s Gate, where he stared at the statue of the queen for a few moments as only the lights of nearby lanterns dimly lit the scene. The darkness surrounded him as the wind blew in short, cold gusts.
After a few moments, another man approached. He was dressed in a more ragged coat compared to the bearded man; however, he cared not. He blended in with many who walked the streets of London, and that suited his purposes.
“’Oo is this statue of, gov’na?” he asked the bearded man.
“Queen Anne of the House of Stuart,” answered the bearded man.
“Don’t know ’er,” said the ragged man.
“Why would you?” asked the bearded man, completing the coded signals.
“Why do we meet here?” whispered the second man, losing his street accent. “We are close to many who would do us harm. You most of all, Orvislat, would know that.”
Orvislat frowned and gritted his teeth. “Lupien! You just used my name!” he whispered hoarsely.
Lupien became alarmed, looked about in the darkness to see if anyone was near. Then he realized his partner’s mistake.
“And you just used my name, Mister O!” he said.
“Forgive us both then,” said Orvislat. “Do you have any news for me, Mister L?”
“Do you have my payment?” asked Lupien.
Orvislat removed a package from inside his coat, opened it, and removed an envelope. He checked the name on the front. It simply read “bосс” in scripted letters.
“Ah. This is not yours. This one is for the boss,” he said, returning it to the package.
“It looks a tad thicker than the one I am to receive,” said Lupien.
“You are not the boss, so you do not get the thick one. This thinner one is yours,” replied Orvislat.
Lupien accepted the thin envelope and stuffed it quickly into his coat pocket. “Thank ya, gov’na,” he said.
“Now that you have been paid, will you inform me of your findings?” asked Orvislat.
“Yes, yes. It is reported that our agent was successful. The plan went off almost perfectly,” Lupien answered.
“Good, good!” said Orvislat. “Then I assume Kharitonov has placed an order for another one.”
“Ian Kharitonov! Even the mention of his name makes me shudder,” said Lupien. “Yes, he has placed another order. Shall we fulfill it in the same manner as the first?”
“No, we will deliver the treaty,” Orvislat said, saying the words slowly, as if to imply more meaning than just the face value of the statement.
“Ah, it is time for that already? Well, then things are going according to plan,” said Lupien. “I assume you would like an inventory of available merchandise for delivery?”
“Yes,” said Orvislat. “As soon as possible.”
“That may be a problem. Things have been heating up, as they say, and there are eyes on the watch almost everywhere. I can’t work in daylight, and it is difficult to see details in the dark.”
“Will it calm down?” asked Orvislat.
“Eventually,” said Lupien.
“Then our betters will have to sit tight for a while. They will not like it.”
“Kharitonov will not like it,” corrected Lupien.
“He doesn’t like anything,” said Orvislat. “We will meet again at our other location in three days. In the meantime I will have the treaty signed, sealed, and dispatched with the utmost secrecy. Then, as soon as we have a ship, it is off to Zadar for the exchange.”
“Dugi Otok will be better,” suggested Lupien. “It is easier for our man. He is familiar with it and should be there and waiting.”
“Agreed. I look forward to our next meeting,” said Orvislat.
“As do I, Mister O,” added Lupien, with a tap to the envelope in his breast pocket.
With that, both men walked away in opposite directions as a drizzling rain began to fall. Once they were underway, a third man, wearing a dark hood, slid out from under a shadow cast by a dim gas lamp that was shining on the nearby corner building’s edge. He followed the man called Lupien to the east.
3
Paladin’s Race
The following morning, just an hour past sunup, there marched three red-coated marines of His Majesty’s service, arms slung to shoulders, making their way past the barracks at Chatham, home of the First Division. Under an overcast sky, they passed the last of the wooden buildings, across the parade field, to a smaller clearing on the outskirts of the grounds. To see them walking in a straight line, one behind the other, silhouetted against the rising sun, would make one laugh aloud. The leader was of average height and portly, and he strode with confidence and purpose. The second was shorter by far—muscular yet still smaller—and he walked with trepidation. The last one was tallest, thinnest, and was obviously disinterested in the whole purpose, looking about at the surroundings and completely out of step with the others.
In this clearing of approximately three acres sat a short, squat, structure of wood—a large crate actually—at one end of the field closest to the parade grounds. The field had no trees except about the edges. However, spaced a dozen or so feet apart and anywhere from ten to forty feet away from the crate were several odd-looking posts sticking out of the earth. They were more or less a man’s height, almost like young tree trunks but noticeably missing branches and leaves. Closer inspection would show they had many holes in them, and chunks of their trunks were missing
.
The largest marine by far was Corporal Hudson, a man seasoned in battle and in having sailed around the world at least twice by this time in his life. A steadfast sailor and excellent shot, Hudson was up for promotion. By luck or by being able to take great advantage of his assignments, Hudson had sailed with Captain William Walker several times, and each mission was as successful as the last. Many wondered why he hadn’t been promoted to sergeant as of yet. A few good words from his marine captain after his last voyage almost assured the new rank would be his. It was now just a waiting game, waiting for paperwork.
He led the procession to a point next to the wooden crate.
“All right then, Sean Flagon,” he said in a loud, authoritative voice. “Let us get you set for practice. Remember what we said about safety?”
“Aye,” said Sean, the smallest of the marines. He was certainly no more than fourteen years old, but his exact age was a mystery even to himself. “Never point the musket at anyone or anything I don’t mean to put a hole in.”
“Right. Now, let’s check and load. Private Hicks?”
The third marine, the thinner and somewhat less interested party, looked to the corporal.
“Aye?”
“Set up some bottles for Sean to knock off, eh?”
With that, Hicks opened the lid of the crate and removed six empty wine bottles. He walked into the field and began placing a bottle on top of each pole.
“All loaded, Sean?” asked Hudson.
“Yes, sir,” said the boy. “Are ya sure I’ll be needing to fire this? I am much better at the sword, ya know.”
Hudson frowned.
“Flagon. We have been through this many a time. Swords are fine, and you are almost considered a master at such a young age. But we are Royal Marines! It’s our duty to keep His Majesty’s enemies off our ships. That is best done with a musket or one of them new rifles the colonials have. Swords are a last resort.”
“But it seems…unfair,” offered Sean. “A sword fight is more…”
“Ge’lemanly?” suggested Hicks as he placed a bottle. “They won’t seem like ge’lmen and it won’t seem unfair when they’s shootin’ back at ya. Best to mind ol’ Hudson, Seany.”
“Ol’ Hicks is right,” said Hudson. “Did you desire to be a marine just because you liked the fancy red coat and sashes?”
Sean looked to the ground, not wanting to answer. Yes, he desired being part of the prestigious service, but he was young and therefore small to be a marine. However, all who knew his story knew that the king himself awarded Sean the honor of joining the corps as a private.
“Now, let’s get you set up correctly,” continued Hudson. “Rest your arm on this crate, as if it were a barrel on the deck that ya might be hiding behind, and hold the piece like I told ya. That’s it. Close your left eye—yes, yes. Now line up the sight with that red bottle—”
“’Oly ’ell!” called Hicks from the last post. “Give a man a fair chance ta find a safe place ta stand before ya start firin’!”
“Hicks!” yelled Hudson. “You’re way over to the left! We are shooting to the bottle farthest right!”
“No offense, Sean,” said Hicks as he placed the last bottle on the farthest post to the left, “but the last time I saw ya shoot, ya missed the mark by a good ten feet. Beggin’ yer pardon, but yer only a beginner.”
“He’s not goin’ to miss by that much!” bellowed Hudson.
Sean didn’t agree. He believed that any person or thing within a hundred feet in any direction, be it in front, left, right, or even behind, was in danger of being accidently shot. The last time Sean had practiced, Hudson instructed him to concentrate on simply staying on his feet after the blast. It was entirely possible that any gun was too heavy and powerful; however, Sean was now committed, and marines were trained in gun warfare. At least now he could fire the weapon without falling over. Today’s lesson was on aiming.
“Just a moment,” said Hicks as he ran to stand directly behind Sean. “All righty, Sean! Now, give ’er a whirl. Dead-eye blind, as they says!”
Hudson now turned his attention back to Sean, checking his stance, his holding of the weapon, and his general aim. He squared the boy’s shoulders a bit, then gave him an assuring pat on the back.
“Get the sight directly on the center of the bottle, and keep that left eye closed. That’s it! Take a breath and hold it, then squeeze the trigger slowly.”
Sean did as instructed. The musket fired in a blinding flash. The blue bottle exploded in a thousand pieces, sending glass in every direction.
Unfortunately, the bottle at which Sean had been aiming was red and on the second post to the right of the blue bottle.
“Glory be!” Sean said. “It’s no use!”
The marines looked at each other, somehow trying to think of a positive thing to say. Then finally:
“Yer still standin’!” said Hicks.
“True! True as rain! Very well done!” said Hudson.
For Sean, however, his spirits remained unlifted. He realized that he had a long struggle ahead of him to be considered even slightly proficient. And would he ever get to that point? As low as he felt, however, he knew that he was certainly better than the first few times he fired the weapon. Many of those attempts ended in his being knocked to the ground by the force of the blast. Another time, the gun actually flew out of his hands, the shot going high, knocking off an overhanging tree limb just above his head. At the very least, he realized that he had his friends to assist him, and they seemed dedicated to the task of his becoming a decent shot. He couldn’t let them down now, could he?
“Well,” he said finally, “as long as they are in a line abreast and standing still, I should be able to hit someone!”
The marines nodded. Hudson began loading the weapon again.
“That’s right, Seany! We can build on that! Again, dear laddie!”
The sun was peeking through a clouded sky as a tolerable breeze was blowing and the crowd gathered at the Marine Parade at Dover, a picturesque seaside town with a wide lane running parallel to the sandy beach. Stately homes dotted the edge of the hillside, and the Dover Castle rose atop the east cliff. Visitors strolled the wide streets and explored the shops at seaside. The beach was occupied by dozens of children, mostly playing in the sand as the water was, as it always seemed to be, still frigid.
In the center of the strand, a viewing platform had been erected for dignitaries to observe the upcoming yacht race. The ladies present were in their best finery, looking like flowers about to bloom in the spring. The men, drab by comparison, were formally dressed in dark gray and black. Only the navy men sported any color to their hats and jackets, though only dark navy blue.
In these stands sat a happy group of those related to the Paladin in some way or another: Admiral Moore and Barbara Thompson, Lady Bracknell and all three of the Ladies Dowdeswell: Delain and her sisters, Rebecca and Penelope. They had traveled all the previous day, a tedious but uneventful journey in the large carriage owned by Lady Bracknell, and had then spent the night at Loddington House, enjoying a fine dinner.
“Delain, can you see the racers?” Barbara asked.
Delain took up the telescope glass lent to her by none other than Admiral Moore and pointed it southeast toward the sea. She had previously found the Paladin in its position marking the final turn. Though still quite a small image, Delain could at times make out movement aboard the decks. As for the yachts, there was no sign.
“No, not as of yet. I believe they are coming all the way from Portsmouth.”
“I wonder who will win,” said Rebecca. “I am sure none of them can best the Paladin.”
“And why isn’t the Paladin allowed to race?” asked Penelope.
“Because, my dear child, this is a race for private yachts, not for warships,” answered Lady Bracknell. “The Paladin is a ship in His Majesty’s Navy.”
“Then why is it here? Why does it just sit out there at anchor?” asked Penelope. “M
ister Harrison explained to me that it is the fastest of all the ships in the British Fleet—and the most beautiful too.”
A man’s voice interrupted from behind them.
“And to which ship do you refer? The Paladin, you say?”
The ladies and Admiral Moore turned about to see who had addressed them. A stately gentleman, thin of face, yet with deep blue eyes and a proud chin, smiled broadly. His eyes were alive with cheer, and his nose, a bit longer than most, was slightly raised as he expected his answer. Next to him sat a ravishing beauty with auburn hair, the complexion of a porcelain doll, and deep brown eyes that, despite their darkness, had a twinkling of light and purity. She too held her head high and smiled politely.
“Lord Wilder,” said Nathaniel Moore with a surprised look and a nod. “So good to see you.”
“Admiral,” said Lord James Wilder, “a pleasure.” The men knew each other in a professional manner. Lord Wilder had recently been awarded a post on the Navy Board, though even prior to his association with the Royal Navy, he had watched Admiral Moore’s rise to the top over his twenty years of service.
“You remember my wife, Admiral? Lady Alina Wilder?”
“Yes, we met at the celebration of your appointment to the Navy Board last June, if I remember correctly. Are you enjoying the day, Lady Wilder?”
“The day, yes. But all these ships and navy business—I actually detest it, to be quite honest,” she said, almost apologetically. “Though to support dear James, I will endure it!” she finished with a laugh.
“What a pleasure to see you again, Lady Bracknell!” continued Lord Wilder. “Could all these lovely ladies be your charges? I had heard that you had agreed to sponsor Lord Dowdeswell’s children here in London.”
“Not all are my relations,” she answered. “I believe you know Miss Barbara Thompson?”
