“A joy, sir, and that’s the truth.” The grin seemed planted in place. “So we’ve survived the blow. Had me worried there, I don’t mind saying.”
“Aye.” Falconer did not wish to say more, both because his mouth felt gummed with weariness and because the boy was within earshot. “Help me with my boots…that’s a good lad.”
Matt took hold of one foot and then the other, making a game of pulling off Falconer’s sodden boots. Falconer protested mildly but let Soap unwrap his bandaged hand. The steward probed the skin. “Rope burn, by the looks of things. I’ve seen worse. I’ll just go ask Cook for some grease and we’ll wrap that proper.”
Matt asked, “Shall I sing you a chantey, Father John?”
“That would be fine, lad.” Falconer lifted his legs one by one onto the mattress. He smiled briefly at his son and was asleep before he’d drawn a second breath.
The lieutenant himself came to escort them to dinner. “Captain’s compliments, sir. He requests your presence in the cuddy.”
Soap had already informed Falconer of the captain’s intention to invite them to dine with the ship’s officers. Falconer had bathed off the crust of salt, washed his hair for the first time since coming on board, and helped Matt don clean clothes. He was in the process of tying his hair back with a bit of blue ribbon supplied by Soap when the lieutenant appeared in the doorway.
Falconer eyed the young man’s tightly wrapped shoulder. “How is the injury?”
“Harkness is a fair hand with shipboard ailments—better than most navy surgeons. He’s certain there’s no break, sir. Claims by landfall I’ll be using it again.” Bivens glanced at Matt, then added, “You saved my life out there, sir. I’m forever in your debt.”
“Shipmates who survive such a storm are not bound by obligations, Lieutenant.”
“This one is, and I’d be ever so grateful if you’d call me Rupert.”
“My own first name is John, though it is seldom used. You may join my friends in calling me Falconer.”
Soap, standing against the cabin wall to make as much room for Falconer’s girth as possible, said to Matt, “The entire ship’s crew is talking of nothing but how your da saved both their senior officers.”
Falconer felt his face grow warm. “None of that now, please.”
“Won’t do you no good to complain, sir. The crew counts Harkness as a hard but fair man. And Lieutenant Bivens here is a favorite belowdecks. They saw what you did, and they are grateful for the deeds.”
Matt’s eyes were round and wide. “Are you a hero, Father John?”
The lieutenant replied somberly, “He is in my book, young lad.”
Falconer cleared his throat and ruffled Matt’s hair. “We shouldn’t keep the captain waiting.”
“Ah, Falconer. Do come in, though with your bulk we’ll scarce have room to breathe.” But his welcoming smile belied the words. “And, young lad, how shall I call you?”
“My name is Matthew, sir. I’m Matt Hart.”
The captain took his time over the lad, which raised him further in Falconer’s estimation. “You do not share your father’s name?” he asked, bending down to Matt’s level.
“My first father was named Hart, sir. Father John says I should honor his memory with how I am called. And my mother too, of course.”
“God keep her blessed soul in eternal peace,” Soap intoned, his expression and raised eyebrows sending his meaning.
“Of course. Of course.” The captain’s gaze was thoughtful as he patted Matt’s shoulder. “My steward informs me you survived the storms with your courage intact.”
“And his voice,” Soap added. “I almost forgot the blow, he sang so sweet.”
“Then perhaps you will honor us with a song later.”
Matt cast a glance at Falconer, who nodded. “If you wish it, sir.”
“Always did enjoy a tune following supper. Do you know hymns?”
“Oh yes, sir. Back in Salem town I sing with the unmarried men’s choir.”
“How very interesting. Every one of your answers provides another door I’m eager to enter.” He straightened and turned to Falconer. “But first there are several matters regarding your father to which I must attend.”
Falconer started to object, foreseeing the direction the conversation might take. But at that moment, Lieutenant Bivens managed to catch his eye from his station directly behind the captain. Bivens shot him a warning glance and gave his head a fractional nod.
Falconer held his peace.
Harkness came to attention before Falconer and spoke with somber formality. “Before setting sail I greeted you with less than proper hospitality. You responded with honor. Twice in the night watch I appeared on deck to find you there first, alert as any officer I’ve ever served with. You were first to sight the coming storm. In so doing, you may well have saved the ship and all who sail her, including the company’s owner.”
From his place by the rear window, Reginald Langston said, “Here, here.”
“Were that not enough,” Harkness continued, “you added your own considerable strength to steering our ship through what was the worst blow I have ever encountered. You saved the life of my trusted first lieutenant. You risked your own life in doing so, and then again when you went for the lieutenant’s blade and helped free us of the trapped rigging. And finally, you saved my own life.”
Falconer felt awkward, both from the compliments and the need to remain silent. Not to mention the fact that Matt was watching him with a face glowing with love and pride.
Harkness paused for breath. “John Falconer, I must apologize for my response to your presence on board. And I salute you as a fellow officer. One of merit. One worthy of both praise and trust.”
As the surrounding company applauded, Harkness bowed low, and Falconer returned the courtesy. He was most grateful when the captain turned to the group and announced, “Gentlemen, our meal awaits.”
There was smoked fish to start, with real oat bread and cheese sliced so thin it might have been mistaken for butter. This was followed by a leg of goat boiled to submission and spiced with cloves and pepper. For dessert they enjoyed fresh orange slices nearly drowned in syrup. Matt’s three portions left him so overfull that when the captain asked him to sing, he piped the words like a leaky calliope. But the ship’s company smiled him through, then bade him a warm good-night as his eyelids drooped upon what had been a truly momentous day.
Harkness bade Falconer remain as Soap steered the lad back to the cabin. He then suggested the other officers retire, all but Bivens, saying their watch would soon begin and they needed their rest. When the door shut behind them, the captain said, “What a truly remarkable young lad you have there.”
“His voice is far more winsome than what you heard tonight, sir.”
“No doubt, no doubt.” But the captain had no continuing interest in such things. “One storm is behind us, another ahead. I would be amiss in denying that I had hoped to lead the charge to rescue Mistress Lillian’s son.”
Falconer glanced at Reginald, who had remained strangely silent throughout dinner. “I could not possibly object if you insisted, sir.”
Harkness fiddled with his dessert spoon. “I awoke this evening to a realization, sir, one that came to me as a prayer gifted from beyond myself. Do you know of what I speak?”
“I have on occasion sensed prayers spoken through me,” Falconer told him. “I count them as a true gift.”
“Just so. In this case, I saw how you had saved me and my ship by your strength, your experience, and your selfless acts. You were the one who had the knowledge I lacked.” Harkness had eyebrows that protruded like gray feathers above an intense gaze. “No doubt you also have familiarity with such pirates as Ali Saleem.”
“To my great shame,” Falconer agreed, his voice low.
“The Lord of heaven makes good from the worst we carry, if we only seek His will. And I feel the best that can come of my foul greeting is to accept your leadership
in what lies ahead.”
“I am honored by your trust, sir.”
Harkness motioned to where the lieutenant occupied the table’s far side. “Young Bivens is more than a fine officer. He is my proteégeé. I would suggest you trust him as do I.”
Falconer nodded in the young officer’s direction. “Thank you. Yes, of course.”
A communal peace settled upon the four men—Falconer, Harkness, Bivens, and Reginald Langston. Two silver candelabra bathed the cabin in a warm glow. The cuddy, the ship’s dining area, was an alcove off the captain’s day cabin. The plank flooring was covered in stiff canvas painted a pattern of white and black squares. The wood of the walls gleamed richly in the candlelight, as did the furniture—a table strewn with maps and instruments, a leather sofa, a revolving tray crammed with books, a violin case, a master’s chair. Two lanterns swung gently with the ocean’s rise and fall. Beyond the rear windows glinted a moonlit sea.
Reginald Langston cleared his throat and spoke at length for the first time that night. “I have a confession of my own to make. When Falconer first determined to eat with the crew and steerage, I intended to confront Captain Harkness and order him to invite Falconer immediately. But there came to me an inner warning as clear as the prayers you describe. So I held back, instead delivering the message as Falconer had wished. When the captain simply accepted Falconer’s desire…”
“As odious a deed as any I have committed.” Harkness’s voice was low as he stared into the candlelight.
But Reginald waved it impatiently away. “That is behind us now. The apology has been offered and accepted. I bid you good gentlemen to heed my words. When you responded as you did, sir, I again started to issue an order of my own. Once more I felt the divine warning, and remained silent.”
Reginald peered across the gleaming light at Falconer. “The Bible speaks of David’s three mighty men. His most trusted officers, who risked their lives to bring him a gift of water in the desert. I now can see that Falconer’s deed has drawn you together into more than just three fine officers. You are a powerful band.” Reginald nodded slowly. “Whatever happens, I know with utter certainty that I am gifted with the finest and most trustworthy force available to me on this earth.”
Harkness let that settle for a long moment, then turned to Falconer. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to close the evening in prayer.”
Falconer leaned over his hands. He stared at the fresh linen bandage wrapped around his right palm. Another scar to add to his vast assortment. But never for a finer reason than this. He closed his eyes.
“O Lord, our God, we give you thanks…”
At that point, his throat and chest clenched up tight. He could not continue. He bowed further still, until his forehead came to rest upon his hands.
It was the first time since Ada Hart had become ill that he had said those words. Thanks be to God. Spoken them, and meant them as well.
He had not wept at her passage. He had not wept at her funeral. Now, as he crushed his forehead into his hands, he felt his face scalded by the rush of tears.
The silence held a good while. Finally Harkness thumped the table with both fists. “As fine a prayer as any I have ever heard. What more do we need to hear tonight than thanks?”
“Amen,” Reginald Langston intoned, his voice shaky and tight. “I say again. Amen.”
Chapter 8
They made landfall at Portsmouth in southern England on a Wednesday. The very same storm that had threatened their survival also shortened the standard journey by six full days, for a solid wind had stayed off their beam the entire voyage. Seventeen days from Chesapeake Bay to England, a time that missed the record by less than thirtysix hours. The pilot who took charge of their final sail into port insisted upon seeing their master documents from the American docks before believing them, then took it upon himself to trumpet the news. Harkness was the toast of the harbor.
He and Lieutenant Bivens remained in Portsmouth while Reginald arranged a swift carriage to London. A new train line was being laid from London to Brighton and then on alongside the coastal road. But it had not yet been completed as far as the port, and Falconer still held serious reservations over the safety of trains. After surviving such an Atlantic storm, he did not wish to lose his boy to a metal beast that ate coal and belched fire and black smoke.
Falconer feared London would be full of painful reminiscences. He had not yet even met Ada when he had resided there with the late William Wilberforce and his young staff. Still, any glance into his past risked raking his heart over the burning coals of regret, sorrow, and lost love. However, he scarcely had time to remember much of anything, for they remained in London only seventy-two hours.
They stayed in the Aldridge residence bordering Grosvenor Square. Samuel Aldridge, who formerly served as a high-ranking diplomat to the court of Saint James, was now Reginald Langston’s partner overseeing their European affairs. The two dinners in the Aldridge home were long and crowded affairs, with as many as twenty guests filling the dining hall and cramming the long table to overflowing. Erica Powers, Reginald’s sister and wife of the famous pamphleteer Gareth Powers, was in constant attendance. Their entourage filled two entire carriages as they made their way to a variety of official meetings. Though everything was arranged in great haste, seldom were they refused entry. Such was the combined influence of these friends and allies.
They stopped by Bond Street and bought clothes off the rack for Falconer and his lad. They attended a session of Parliament. They met with both the French ambassador and the Spanish, as these nations’ Africa holdings were rumored to harbor pirates. They were granted letters of introduction and letters of marque. The documents were signed with great flourishes, dripped with sealing wax, stamped with gold seals of office, and affixed with flowing royal ribbons. Both ambassadors were well aware of the Langston family’s power.
Everywhere they went, Matt Hart was agog. He had never seen a big city before. Never seen such grand buildings. Never entered an official residence. Never seen Parliament or a palace or even a museum. The Powers’ daughter, Hannah, slipped away from her private school for the first dinner. She and Falconer had become the best of friends during his first foray in England. She was growing into a young woman whose beauty mirrored her mother’s. Matt fell head over heels in love and later mourned her departure for two whole hours.
Falconer took time out the second afternoon to go exploring with Matt. They took in the British Museum and the royal Portrait Gallery. They walked along the Serpentine and tossed bread to well-fed swans, all of which were owned by the king. They squandered an hour in a theater which Mrs. Aldridge had assured Falconer was safe and appropriate for children. Matt shouted his delight, while Falconer enjoyed the child’s amusement far more than what occurred upon the stage. They dined at the famous chop house on Fleet Street, where Falconer paid extra for the table by the upstairs window, from which they could watch young runners carry sheets of wet typeface from the journalists to the printing shops. Matt was so enthused by it all that he scarcely blinked. He kept a twofisted hold on the carriage window the entire way home. But when the carriage turned back into Grosvenor Square, he promptly fell asleep. Falconer easily carried him upstairs and put him to bed.
At dawn the next morning, they were off again for Portsmouth.
They ate an early meal from hampers supplied by Lavinia Aldridge and Erica Powers. Gareth Powers, a former army officer, had desperately wanted to join them on their rescue mission. But his pamphleteering efforts, raising public awareness of slavery’s inhumanity, had grown into a daily newspaper, one with a national readership. He chafed at his desk and complained loudly at the unrelenting responsibilities, even though all could see he was a man born to the task.
Portsmouth lay at the base of the South Downs, a series of steep hills that rose a few miles inland. The air was clear the morning of their return, the fields emerald and afire with spring blossoms, the sunlight gentle in a very English manner. Chu
rch spires and ships’ masts heralded their arrival. And beyond the harbor’s rocky arms, beyond the lighthouse and the harbor fort, the sea beckoned.
When they arrived alongside the ship, a thoroughly unexpected scene came into view. The midshipman assigned duty at the top of the gangway was stubbornly refusing entry to a very agitated woman. The middy stood with the sullen frown of a young man whose temper was held in check only because he was so ordered. The woman’s voice carried down the plank walkway and about the stone jetty. Crewmen wrestling hogsheads of fresh produce cast wry grins in the direction of the middy. Falconer did not need to hear their chuckled comments to know they were very glad not to be on the receiving end of this tirade.
“Make way, I pray, madam.” The middy did his best to motion the woman aside. “Officers coming aboard.”
“I will do no such thing.” She wore such a tangled assortment of garments it was hard to judge her stature or her age. A dress, frayed and stained, was topped by unkempt red hair spilling in a tousled mass from beneath a bedraggled hat. Her shoulders were wrapped in a shawl as discolored as a captain’s sea coat. Her face was so tanned she might have been mistaken for an Arab or Indian, save for her hair, voice, and eyes. When Falconer grew near, he thought they were the lightest blue he had ever seen, a color one shade off the sky at high noon.
And she was very angry. “There is not one soul upon this earth who has a more vital business on this vessel than I!”
Not even the day’s urgency to launch could keep Reginald Langston from offering her a courteous greeting. “Madam, I beg your forgiveness. Might I ask your name?”
“She won’t say, sir,” the middy replied. “Which is half the problem.”
“My name is my own, and my business is with the captain!”
“He’s been sent for, sir,” the middy added. “But he’s been tied up with the chandlers since dawn.”
“Then I insist upon waiting in his quarters,” she announced in tones boding no argument.
“Madam,” Reginald said soothingly, “I fear that is impossible.”
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