by Peter Greene
“Mellowed?” suggested Admiral Moore as he appeared from the opposite side of the carriage with Lady Bracknell. “You will find that the longer William Walker is on land, the more relaxed and softened he becomes. I am sure he will be a pleasant and graceful host throughout the evening.”
Delain and Jonathan both remembered the few times they’d had the unfortunate experience of being the focus of Captain Walker’s wrath. Granted, he never became angry without good reason. It was just the length and ferocity of his anger that were infamous among his crew and other naval acquaintances. His word choices were as legendary as they were colorful and fiery, and because of this, he was called affectionately by the crew the Grand Dragon—of course, never to his face.
“So,” Admiral Moore said with a sigh as they approached the steps that led to the door, “let us enjoy a wonderful and pleasant evening at the hands of our most generous and peaceful host.”
At that moment, the front door to the Walker’s home was flung open rudely from within, and there stood Walker. He immediately threw what appeared to be a full tray containing numerous cups of coffee over the heads of the approaching guests.
“By all the saints! Just a simple cup of drinkable coffee is all I ask! Any dim-witted son-of-a-wagger could arrange that! That is why I have employed Claise as the cook!”
He disappeared into the house again, leaving the front door open, and then reappeared with both Steward, his boson from HMS Danielle, and Claise, his cook aboard that same proud ship, clawing at what he carried, begging him to stop his rant.
“Now, Cap’n! Just a misunderstandin’, that’s all!” said Steward as he tried to wrestle something from Captain Walker’s grasp.
“Confound it, Steward!” cried Walker.
“Please, sir!’ begged Claise. “It’s a beautiful coffee vase! Don’t—”
But Walker was determined and considerably larger than the other two men, and he finally tore the coffee urn free from the numerous hands grasping it and launched it into the air. All watched as it sailed over the stoop, over the heads of the guests and the Admiral’s carriage, and into the street, crashing into a hundred pieces.
The arriving guests turned back toward the house as Steward and Claise started past them to clean up the mess.
“G’d evenin’, Admiral Moore,” said Steward as he rushed past, giving a hasty salute.
“Good to see you again, Mister Moore. Miss Dowdeswell. Lady Bracknell,” said Claise as he tipped the hat he wasn’t wearing.
All turned back to Walker for an explanation—and possibly, in the case of Lady Bracknell and Delain, an all-clear signal from the Admiral.
“Ah!” said Walker, as if nothing had happened at all, his mood changing to charming and joyous immediately. “Lady Bracknell! A pleasure as always! Come in! Come in! Nathaniel! So nice of you to come! Is that my favorite stowaway, Miss Delain Dowdeswell, on the arm of Midshipman Moore?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jonathan, warily.
“Spa-len-did! Spa-len-did!” Walker continued, reflecting the articulation of each syllable of the word, just as the king had done during Walker’s audience with His Majesty the previous year. The pronunciation had remained with and become part of the vocabulary of the several participants who attended that day, and the use of it had now spread to many of their acquaintances. Interestingly, many of those not appearing that day had heard the tale so often and repeated it to others with such frequency that they claimed falsely, yet proudly, they had been present in person.
Walker rushed down the few steps to the cobblestone drive to greet them formally.
“William! What on earth was that all about?” asked Lady Bracknell.
“What was what, my dear?”
“The launching of the coffee!” Admiral Moore laughed.
“Oh that. Nothing at all. It seems that Steward decided he would assist Claise, who you all know I have promoted from cook aboard the Danielle to cook aboard my kitchen here at home, in the making of some coffee for tonight’s guests. When I discovered the gross disregard for my standing order that Steward was to give up all culinary duties on land and sea, I sampled the batch. I have tasted better in the black pitch we use to caulk seams! But never mind! Mrs. Walker and Miss Barbara Thompson await the ladies in the dining room! The men, to my study! We have business to discuss!”
At this point, a second carriage appeared in the drive, and from it emerged Commander Harrison in his uniform, escorting Rebecca Dowdeswell dressed in a beautiful silvery affair, complete with a stylish wool shawl and a dainty necklace about her neck fitted with a single diamond. Individually, anyone would use the term handsome to describe them, though as a couple, the word didn’t seem adequate.
Harrison noticed Steward and Claise bending over the mess in the street and approached them on the way to the door, Rebecca on his arm. He had a look of puzzlement on his face.
“The street is full of something resembling tar,” he said. “Steward, is this your attempt at pudding?”
“Good evenin’ to ya, Commander,” said Steward with an agitated tone.
Once inside the study, the men were seated and offered a few hors d’oeuvres. Jonathan, always with an appetite, settled on the bacon-wrapped dates, while the Admiral and Captain Walker had somehow enjoyed the miracle of out-of-season anchovies delivered by Claise, fried and lightly battered. Harrison joined them, dipping his fish into an apricot sauce set just to the side.
Walker sat in his large easy chair, sipping a brandy and munching his favorite fish when he turned to Admiral Moore who had taken up residence on the lounge nearby.
“Nathaniel, I am bored!” Walker announced.
“And why is that, William?”
“I am bored because of the war,” Walker continued.
“What war? The treaty of Amiens was signed less than a week ago,” said Harrison.
“My point exactly! I am a bird without wings!” howled Walker. “The Danielle is in dock for repairs, and once seaworthy, I have no prospect of doing anything but escorting merchants to India and back. Not even a trip to the blasted colonies to harass them!”
“They are no longer colonies, William,” Admiral Moore stated as he chose a second fish. “They are a sovereign nation—”
“For now, yes, but we shall see,” interrupted Walker. “The point is, even though we have peace with France, Spain, and the whole lot, it will not last. We all know that. We must remain ready, not sit idly by while Napoleon strengthens his army.”
A voice came from the doorway.
“I am not sitting idle,” said Marine Captain Gorman as he entered the room. He wore his splendid open red jacket, with large white facings, a golden sash, and white breeches. In his hand was his black bicorn hat. He looked very much the part of a captain of His Majesty’s Marines—even his face, weathered with a deep tan and with facial features as if chiseled out of stone. With him was Sean Flagon, resplendent in his red uniform—with short jacket, white crosshatched sash, and white breeches—though his face had the look of exhaustion, like a worn-out soldier twice his own age.
Both were greeted warmly by all. Sean and Gorman both lost no time taking up temporary flanking positions next to Jonathan and attacking the bacon-wrapped dates with enthusiasm. Sean seemed to liven up as he devoured the delicacies, causing Jonathan to quickly grab two of the prizes, knowing it would now be more than difficult fighting off the marines.
Once all the dates had been spoken for, Gorman stood and moved to the hearth, searching for something he knew to be there but most certainly hidden.
“Now, Midshipman Jonathan Moore,” the marine said, “it seems we have not been on a mission together in a while. Hopefully we can descend into the waves yet again someday. In the meantime, I have a special espionage assignment for you.”
“Of course!” said Jonathan happily, licking the sugary goo off his fingers from the last date he had consumed.
“Assist me,” he said in a mock whisper, “in locating Captain Walker’s hidden
trove of chocolate-covered cherries. He keeps them in here, I know. I can smell them.”
“Good luck,” laughed Walker. “I have taken great care in hiding them from you.”
“As I was saying,” said Gorman as he continued looking under every lid on every knickknack, jar, and container on every shelf, “not everyone is idle in our effort to defeat the French.”
“Are you commenting on your surveillance activities?” suggested Admiral Moore with a smile.
“Unofficially? Possibly. My point is that the active military may be at rest, but my men are always watching, always looking—as I am for those blasted cherries!”
Gorman was known as a master spy to a small community of English acquaintances, but somehow, as he aged, he was able to pass some of the more dangerous activities off to his less-known subordinates. He did occasionally handpick a mission for himself—usually when he could enlist the help of friends he trusted. He became fast friends with Captain Walker during a mission to Isla Pasaje in the Caribbean, and they had since been through much together, their successes known to all, even the king.
“What does your network think of the truce? Is it true there is to be no war?” asked Harrison.
“Oh, there will be war, I can assure you of that,” answered Gorman. “This truce can’t last more than a year or two at most. Many are still fighting: the Russians unofficially against the Turks, and the Americans are fighting with the Barbary States in Tripoli. No one is ever really satisfied. Never can be. But an interesting fact is that the influx of Frenchmen into our country makes life both difficult for me and, in a way, easier.”
“How so?” asked Walker, silently laughing as Gorman continued to overturn everything except the furniture as he searched for his prize.
“There are French spies now in London, Chatham—everywhere. We know many of them, but they task us with new suspects. That is the hard part. However, the easy part is that I have my men in Paris and all points about the French countryside. The amount of information coming in is unmanageable. It is hard to discern what is worthy of attention and what is not.”
Walker laughed. “I wish I were as busy as you, Captain.”
“Blast it! I give up! Where are the cherries?” Gorman finally exploded, sending Jonathan, Harrison, and Sean into hysterical laughter.
“I will tell you,” said Walker, “for a bottle of the wonderful port you brought me last February.”
“W-what? Are you honestly suggesting I pay for the information?” asked Gorman, shocked.
“You pay for information often and handsomely, I am told, in your line of work!” defended Walker.
“Yes,” added Admiral Moore. “That was excellent port. Please pay immediately.”
“Thieves! Villains!” cried Gorman. “All right, all right! A bottle for the location of the cherries!”
Walker stood and walked over to the sofa where the boys had just finished the last of the dates. He lifted the plate, and under it, in a bowl, were revealed a dozen or so chocolate-covered cherries.
“Right under your nose, Gorman,” announced the captain.
“Ah!” said Sean, reaching for a handful, “Under my nose, literally, as well!”
“Halt! Unhand those berries, Flagon! That is an order!” cried Gorman.
The rest of the evening was pleasant enough. Dinner was wonderful and the conversation was lively. Claise had prepared several hens, with a ginger glaze and sesame seeds sprinkled on the lightly browned skins. Peppered potatoes with burnt butter roux and a side dish of the famous anchovies, lightly fried and salted. A blond beer was also served, and though it looked tasty and cool, Jonathan, Sean, and Delain were not allowed to partake. Instead, they enjoyed a sweet tea made by Miss Thompson after an American recipe that mixed it with lemons and extra sugar. The youngsters were satisfied.
After many toasts to commemorate the promotion of Lieutenant Thomas James Harrison to commander, and even more salutes to his appointment as captain of the Paladin, he announced his orders.
“As commanding the most excellent ship HMS Paladin will be exciting enough, I can only guess that the Admiralty thought that a simple mission to deliver mail and packets to Gibraltar would be a sufficient task. Our orders are to act as a packet.”
“No action for you either,” mumbled Walker.
“Good luck, Thomas. And you as well, Jonathan,” said Miss Thompson. She paused for a moment and then stood, quickly excusing herself from the room. Nathaniel, seeing that she was upset, followed.
“Barbara,” Nathaniel said softly as he came to her, “what is the matter?”
She had walked almost all the way down the hallway to the front door, and stood looking out a thin window that ran alongside the entrance. She had her back turned to him, her arms wrapped about herself. Nathaniel could see that she was trying to regain her composure. He gave her a moment. As she faced him, there were tears in her eyes.
“My dear,” he said, and he put his arms about her shoulders.
“Oh, I am being silly,” Barbara said. “I should not act this way. But I will miss them so. I—I know I have no right to be so attached, but they are like my own, Jonathan and Sean. I can’t really bear the thought of them going hundreds of miles away—”
“Actually thousands,” said Nathaniel.
“You are making it worse!” cried Barbara. “What if they find trouble and need us? What then?”
“Well,” said Nathaniel thoughtfully, “that is why Harrison—Commander Harrison—will be there. And though they might appear young to you, think of what they have accomplished already.”
“Thomas is still a boy,” she said, sobbing slightly.
“One that has been literally battle-tested. He has seen half the known world and even commanded a prize ship from the Horn of Africa all the way to London. He is no novice.”
“Don’t you worry about them, Nathaniel?” she asked.
He thought for a moment.
“Always, my dear. I worried about Jonathan for the years I remained in prison in France. I worried as I fought my way to return to these shores. But I have faith in their abilities. I rely on that for strength. Thomas will look out for them, I can assure you. Patrick Jenkins is also going aboard the Paladin. He’s been at sea since he was a lad.”
“Jenkins? Yes, I remember him. Yarn in his beard.”
“A tradition of some sailors,” said Nathaniel. “He is a good man and more than capable of managing Jonathan and Sean.”
Nathaniel and Barbara returned to the others, possibly a little more at ease, though both had moments of doubt and concern.
“Exquisite meal, Claise. You have outdone yourself again,” said Walker as Claise and Steward began clearing plates from the table. “It will be some comfort to me knowing that you will remain under my command and are not going aboard the Paladin tomorrow.”
“Oh!” cried Delain, now realizing that her time with Jonathan, Sean, and Harrison was at an end. She had dreaded the date, April the fourth, knowing that they would be setting out to sea once again. Her heart sank. London now held nothing but boring tea parties, social calls, and endless books.
Seeing her discomfort, Barbara Thompson patted her hand. “Delain, I will make sure you and I have some adventures of our own.”
“That would be…nice,” she answered, unable to hide her melancholy.
“Well, then. The hour is late!” announced Admiral Moore. “The Ladies Bracknell and Dowdeswell must be returned to their mansion, and the navy men need a good night’s rest before they sail tomorrow. One more night of comfort.”
All stood and said their good-byes, then walked the long hallway from the dining room to the front door. Admiral Moore seemed to delay his parting as he stood close to Barbara and slightly behind the others. All watched—while not watching—as they shared a short embrace and a light kiss on the cheek. This caused the children to giggle and Lady Bracknell to sigh with favor.
As the guests waved good-bye and began to enter their carriages, Har
rison was awarded a dainty kiss from Rebecca, after which she joined the Moores, her aunt, and her sister in the admiral’s carriage. The horses were driven slightly more than three miles to Van Patten Wood’s western edge and the estate of the Bracknells, arriving within a half hour. Jonathan and his father escorted Delain, Rebecca, and Lady Bracknell to the door. Before following inside, Jonathan and Delain paused at the doorway for a moment.
“A wonderful evening,” said Jonathan to Delain.
“And the entire day,” Delain said, turning to face him. “I will…miss you, Jonathan. I-I have grown quite accustomed to y-your company. Please take care. Without me to assist you, your adventures could be dangerous.”
Jonathan smiled and looked down to Delain’s hands. They were petite and beautiful. She had somehow taken her dolphin necklace and wrapped it about her delicate wrist. He took her hands in his.
“I will be careful,” Jonathan said. “And you as well. London can be harsh, Delain.”
She knew he spoke from experience. When she thought of how miserable his young life had been, living on the streets for years, it weighed on her heart. She imagined how difficult it must have been—and how lonely. Her breath skipped, exposing her grief.
“A tear, Miss Dowdeswell?” Jonathan asked softly.
“Just when I think of your hardships…”
“Ah,” Jonathan said with a smile. “I am all right now, Miss Dowdeswell. And remember: without my life as it was, I never would have met Sean, never would have been set aboard the Poseidon, and therefore…I never would have met you.”
Delain turned up her face to him and smiled, her deep green eyes glowing above her silken cheeks.
“Well, that makes it all worthwhile then,” she said, extending her fair hand to him. In it, she held a small gift box wrapped in white paper. “For you,” she said.
Jonathan considered Delain and the box, a look of curious confusion painting his face. He opened the wrapping slowly, as if each sheet of paper were sacred and valuable. The box had a simple lid of paperboard, and as he opened it, he could see Delain’s face blush a faint rose.
