“And, now to Mr. Burton, I think,” said Yorke, looking Neville straight in the eye. “Do you expect to continue to act as a midshipman aboard my ship?”
Surprised by such a question, Neville began by stammering, “Aye, Sir. Aye, or no, as you wish, Sir. I was promoted to ‘acting’ aboard the Espion – a prize, Sir – for lack of officers, and have just come straight across, Sir. My proper rank is midshipman, of course, and I should not expect more here, Sir.”
To his astonishment, Captain Yorke said, “Perhaps you should. I have seen your dossier already.”
“Sir?” he said, wondering how that could possibly have happened.
“You have already had a busy few years in the Navy. Four ships in three years? And, none were idle cruises, I see.”
”Not all assigned by order, Sir … They … just by happenstance, Sir.” He decided to add no more.
“With your luck, we’ll hope for more ‘happenstance’ here. With all the ships we are trying to get out against this new Batavian threat, and so many officers being held hostage by the Admiralty, we were one officer short. I’ve just filled that with you. You’ll serve as acting lieutenant – third, of course – larboard watch. First Lieutenant Tonyn will give you further orders.”
Doing his utmost to stifle something involving choking sounds and a spontaneous grin, he replied only, “Aye, Sir.”
Before he could add anything, the captain admonished him in a tone that held no merriment, “Don’t let me regret this.”
Turning then to Foster he suggested, “A toast to our success in the North Sea, if you please.”
“Great confusion to Dutchmen and mutineers,” offered Foster, holding up his glass.
“Hear him,” asserted Captain Yorke, as he and Neville joined in.
“I must confess, Lieutenant Foster,” said Neville, “this is a new world for me.” The two were taking a moment on the poop deck to collect their thoughts after a dinner with the captain.
“The North Sea, you mean, Acting Lt. Burton?” Foster asked.
Neville was not sure if there was some meaning behind Foster’s intonation of his new title. He had been there with the captain when it had been bestowed, but what he thought of it remained unspoken. Was he concerned about working with such a young man as his peer? Did he think it just another unfairness of the Navy that this upstart reached the level of lieutenant while he himself had taken years?
“Oh, the North Sea is certainly new to me. I’ve never been north of Ipswich. However, my meaning is the world of the officers’ mess. I have a cabin by the gunroom, for all love. I have set my kit in officers’ cabins before, but they were aboard prizes, and the cabins were only mine for the passage home. They were not symbols of my authority. Neither did the mess contain a community of seasoned officers.” Officers who showed something of their personal natures - their likes, dislikes, and quirks, his mind added.
“Ah, yes. It’ll be a change for you. You haven’t seen your cabin yet, then, have you? Ha, ha. I remember when I passed for lieutenant. I was assigned to the old Leopard under a Captain Aubrey. She was a fifty, and I was fourth. I played the part of the mouse in the corner for months. It may not be so bad for you here. The smaller ship is an advantage. And, the captain indicated that you are familiar with a frigate.”
“Aye, Sir, I am – and I’ve seen the cabin. Even as it is, it’s a luxury I’m not used to. I still imagine that I should not feel too secure, however – that I might find myself back in the midshipmens’ mess.”
“Such a thing could always happen, but I suggest you don’t spend your time worrying about it. Verily, such thought will detract from your performance.”
I’ll still keep my mouth shut until I know them better.
A red-coated soldier stepped into the gunroom and saw him sitting as the group assembled for supper on Neville’s first day aboard. “Ho, ho! What have we here?” queried Marine Lieutenant Simmons. So much for remaining quiet. “What phantom appears to sit before its betters?”
Neville jumped to his feet to a rousing chorus of jeers that he quickly realized were not aimed at him, but at the now-laughing Simmons. “Come now, phantom, you mustn’t be so jumpy if you are to take sustenance with this lot. Ho, ho! Nice to meet you. Simmons, I am. You’re Burton, yes?”
“I’ve a limerick for this,” interjected Fries.
“Oh, you would, wouldn’t you, Mr. Fries,” said Lt. Tonyn, turning to Neville and commenting, “He’s pusser.”
Fries began unabashedly:
“There once was a phantom from Stanton,
That sat with his betters in Canton,
They’d not seen his hands or his feet or his face,
But they ran when he lit up the lantern!”
“Thankee, Mr. Fries. We can always count on you.”
After the poetry, and more such similar disparate conversation throughout most of the meal, Neville collected his courage sufficiently to ask a question: “Whither do we go, and why?” The room fell silent a moment until First Lieutenant Tonyn explained: “At our meals, we do not speak of religion, politics, or our orders but, as you are new here, you obviously didn’t know that. I suppose we can deviate a bit here and talk some history. That’s often an amusing distraction. I will go so far as to say that we are to protect English shipping. That much normally goes without saying, yes? The answer, is ‘trees’.”
“Trees, Sir?”
“Verily, Mr. Burton. Trees,” interrupted Dr. Morgan. “To build ships. Five ‘undred at least, in the last five years of war. We’ve chopped all our old oaks and tall pines down at home, haven’t we?”
“Well, not all,” continued Tonyn, “but most of the tall straight ones for spars are gone. So where do you think they come from then, Burton?”
Before he could speak, it was Foster who chimed in: “Scandinavia, Lieutenant Burton.” He said ‘lieutenant’ without bothering with the ‘acting’ part …“Norway and Sweden and Russia and such. The Baltic.”
“Ahhh,” said Neville, “the Skaggerak.”
“Very quick, this fellow,” said Simmons. “For your education, then, give us the toast. I’ll give you a hint. It’s Tuesday, and we are a traditional ship.”
Neville very self-consciously raised his glass. “To …” he hesitated. “Our men?”
The table was quiet until Foster asked, “It’s a question?”
“To our men,” declared Neville.
“He’s got it right, gentlemen. Ha, ha! Hear him!”
“Hear! Hear!” Neville heard, to his great relief, and the meal concluded after the cheese went ‘round. He escaped to the deck, as the others returned to their duties or personal diversions.
HMS Stag returned to England in March of 1797 for much-needed provisions and repairs. She was ordered to Yarmouth in the Solent, where she would rejoin Admiral Duncan’s North Sea Fleet gathered at anchor. With Sir William Mulholland’s help, Neville had managed to arrange several weeks’ shore leave. As the war escalated, any shore leave was nothing short of extraordinary. Neville had a few pangs of guilt about his use of ‘political connections’ to do something his peers generally could not do, but his homesickness had been strong of late. His return to Bury St. Edmunds would be unlike the previous. He had left just over eleven months ago – a short cruise for the wartime navy. He was alone. His friend Daniel was still at sea on the Orion, probably back on the Channel blockade. Nobody would expect him at home.
It was doubtful that his loved ones would have received his letters. He would probably beat them home. They would have news of battles, though. The Gazette did their best to keep the public informed. They had reported the killed and wounded aboard the ships that Neville, Daniel, and Edward had served in. He had seen the paper in London, and there was more there. They would worry at home, not knowing whether their men were survivors.
Neville traveled on the coach-top with the baggage, again to save a few pence. Sir William had somehow managed to cause the Clerk of the Cheque to part with a bi
t of his pay. Nothing was said of the prize money from the Formidable or Espion, however. The prize courts did not act in great haste.
Nevertheless, it was a fine English spring as he began the reverse of his original journey. For most of the four days that his coach took to jounce and sway back to Bury St. Edmunds, the sun was out, the birds all a-chirp, and the smell of the farmers’ freshly turned earth wafted in the breeze. The March roads were reasonable, as there had been little rain, and the dust nothing like it would be in summer. The coach eventually rattled to a halt in front of the Angel Hotel, and Neville climbed down to the cobbles this cool afternoon with a feeling of trepidation. He had not kept his promise to write in a fashion he knew was expected.
Now, to find Mum’s new house on Garland Street …. He had the address from a letter. Since it was only a few blocks from the Angel, it didn’t take long to walk there. At mid-day, there was no problem to go ‘round and ring the bell.
The house he found bore almost no resemblance to the place he’d grown up. There was no garden in front, or trees, or even a hedge. The façade was a flat, two-story stone wall with a pair of windows downstairs and two up, and a door that opened directly on to the street, save a two-foot sidewalk. There were flower boxes but, at this time of year, nothing was growing there. One dreary stone house sat chock-a-block to the next in this neighborhood.
Neville’s first thought was of his mother’s misfortune that she had come to this, but then remembered that it was what she wanted – a home in town with none of the work of maintaining the grounds, with shoppes and friends and even family very close by. The thoughts cheered him remarkably, and he turned the bell handle. He heard the bell jangle inside. A dog began to bark within.
A dog? Mum have a dog? Mebbe I’ve the wrong address? Oh, no. Here’s her nameplate at the side. In addition, he thought he also heard laughing within – women laughing – and then voices approaching. Soft slippers, I guess. None of the tramping of marines.
He could feel his heart beat faster than normal, and the barking didn’t stop as the knob began to turn.
“Oh, stop it, would you please, Saidie,” commanded a voice he recognized as his sister’s. The door opened wide enough for a white snout to poke out, but a woman’s hand grabbed the collar before the diminutive beast could lunge at him. She was bent over to catch the dog and, before standing, said “I’m sorry, Mr. Blake. I’ve got the rascal. Please come in. We’ve got everything ready.” When there was no familiar movement, she hunched down to hold the small, white Cairn terrier, and looked up at the visitor.
A sound came out of her mouth that was neither scream nor actual words, and she leapt up at him, flinging her arms around his neck and releasing the dog, which immediately clamped its teeth onto his stocking and began pulling.
“Ooowww!” Neville hollered, as the sharp teeth sunk in and the weight of his sister hanging on his neck slammed his shoulder against the door jamb.
When Elizabeth screamed in his ear, “Mum, come quick!” followed by, “stop it, Saidie! Stop it!” he recoiled.
“Watch it, there. Watch it! Mind the cart!” came from behind him. Turning, he tripped over something other than the dog that was behind him. With his sister on top of him, Neville crashed backwards into a wheelbarrow of unsold onions returning from the marketplace.
A general ruckus followed, as the onion vendor began yelling about his cart, the dog continued barking, and his mother and Mary came out the door, crying “Are you all right? Can’t believe it’s you!”
“Don’t stand there braying, you horrid thing – help Elizabeth up,” his mother yelled at the onion vendor.
“Let go, Sadie! Go inside, Saidie; inside, I said!”
Windows and doors were opened in curiosity. Two neighbors came out either to help with defense, or to meet this young navy officer their mother had told them so much about. Mr. Blake strode up and began blaming the vendor for his carelessness. It was a full ten minutes before the hullabaloo was done, and Neville helped the onion vendor set his carts to rights – while taking any glance he could get at Mary.
“I would have preferred to make a better appearance,” Neville said to the group, once inside.
“Now, I’ve a bloody stocking, street dirt on my uniform, and I stink of onions.”
“Not a one of us minds, Neville. We’re so happy to see you. It’s been what? … two and a half years since we’ve laid eyes upon you. You’ve grown more handsome, if that’s possible,” said his mother, “and to know you’re all in one piece, except for what the dog’s done, is joyous. How long will you be home?”
“Three weeks, maybe. One can never tell when they’ll get around to issuing new orders.”
“Well, come over here and sit down. We’ll look for a bandage. What’s happened to your cheek, now? There’s a scratch, but it doesn’t look new.”
He’d forgotten the swivel gun pellet that had torn a gash in his cheek some years ago. It seemed impossible that he hadn’t been home since then.
“It happened during the capture of Espion two years ago,” he said. “I would not have mentioned a mere cut, but I’m certain I wrote of that from London before I shipped out in the Stag, however.”
“But not much more,” complained Elizabeth. “I certainly hear more from Gage than we get from you.” All three women stared at him coldly for a moment after that, but they said nothing. It is difficult to admonish someone you are happy and relieved to see.
“He’s on land, Mum. There’s no wondering where he’s gone this week.”
“Get that stocking off,” said his mother. “I’ll mend it.”
The quietest one of all was Mary, who sat demurely across the room, saying barely a thing and looking a bit sheepish, as though she were not sure what she should do. Her light brown hair fell to her shoulders just as Neville had remembered it, and her blue eyes did sparkle at him. She was older, of course. He remembered a very sweet little girl, but this creature was a beautiful grown woman. A bloom of bashfulness overcame him. How could he hope to compete for her against some young man who was readily available?
This gathering was obviously both a routine event here, as well as something a bit special for, while the gathering included Mary and Mr. Blake, none was dressed to go shopping or even Sunday church. To the contrary, the ladies were in their second-finest, and Mr. Blake wore his more formal business attire. Mary’s dress was a pale yellow that set off her white skin perfectly. Neville’s impression was one of a ripe peach; he then realized he had not noticed what either his mother or sister was wearing. Even this much was difficult to think, what with Mary there and all the others talking nonstop nonsense.
A tiny whimper emanated from another room – a small child? The group fell instantly silent; Elizabeth jumped up and hurried toward the back rooms.
“You must have got our letters. Gage, Jr. will be two in another two months. You’re an uncle, you ancient thing,” his mother added with a snicker.
“Yes, Mum, but reading a letter is one thing ….”
“Andrew, will you help me bring out the tea tray while Elizabeth is engaged, please,” said his mother, departing for the kitchen.
Everything is obviously well here, but she can’t afford servants, he thought. He didn’t have long for the thought, though, because as soon as Mr. Blake had crossed the kitchen threshold following his mother, Mary fairly flew out of her chair at him, knelt down, and planted a kiss full on his lips. She held both his hands and whispered, “Oh, Neville, I am so glad to see you. You can’t even imagine. Life has been truly wonderful here with your mother and Elizabeth as friends but, with your mother about to be married, it has made me all the more anxious to see you.”
“Mother, what?” he stammered.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve spoilt the secret. They’ve just decided last week, or you would have had letters from each of us. Mine is half written even now. That’s part of the reason for this party. Wednesday’s market day, as you might remember. We four usually get toge
ther to play at whist. Sometimes Angelica joins us – you remember Angelica? – or Mrs. Watson when Mr. Blake’s too busy.
“But we’ve dressed special for this occasion. It’s …. Oh. How’s Daniel? Do you see him?”
To his wonder, she leaned forward and kissed him again. “It’s really you. You’re here.”
She suddenly rose, fluffing out her skirt and flashing a bit pink as she detected a rustle from the kitchen. “Hello, here it is,” she said a bit loudly. “I’m getting the serviettes.”
“I see,” said Ellen with a twinkle of understanding. Neville had never been able to put anything past his mother. “The lace ones, please. This is a very special occasion, indeed.”
“Daniel? No, Mary, I’ve had no letter.” He was surprised at the thrill of just saying her name aloud. “Has Angelica or Mrs. Watson? What of Watson senior? Do you hear of him? I have been more concerned of late, though it is probably only the postal delays.”
From there, the afternoon became a blur.
“I am disappointed that the secret of our chosen day has leaked out,” Ellen said to Neville, “but my day will not be the worse for it – not with you home.”
“I am pleased for you to no end, Mother. Your Mr. Blake seems as fine a man as I remember him from Elizabeth’s party. He’s kept up with war events, particularly naval things, it seems. We have agreed to spend more time together whilst I’m home.
“Who’s this then?” he asked as the baby was brought forward.
Neville really had no idea how he should act around a baby, but the small creature minded its manners and, at any event, did not smell as strongly as Neville’s onion odor. In honor of the celebration, the tea went to a bit of wine, with brandy for the men as the afternoon wore on.
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 28
