First Voyage

by David Healey

  "Here we are!" the shepherd called in a distinctly English voice, much to Alexander's surprise.

  Alexander thought he recognized the voice, but it was like a dim memory.

  "Bring them close, Mr. Rigley, and we shall jump down on their backs."

  Rigley! He was one of Resolution’s flyers. But why was he disguised as a shepherd?

  One gryphon was much larger than the other. That big one would be Biscuit. The other beast was Gimcrack.

  Rigley led the gryphons right beside the house. From the roof to Biscuit's back it was a drop of roughly six feet—Alexander thought he could manage that even in his weakened state.

  From the room they had just vacated, they could hear someone pounding on the door, trying to force it open. Alexander looked back and could see the door pushed open a crack.

  "Jump!" Professor Hobhouse shouted.

  Alexander hesitated, which earned him a shove that sent him tumbling into space. He landed in a heap on Biscuit's back and managed to scramble into the stern saddle. Hobhouse was already off the roof and taking the reins of the other gryphon. Rigley, who was a short and agile fellow as befitted a Royal Flyer, leaped into the pilot's saddle a moment later. Above them, a dark figure appeared in the window they had crawled through, and leveled a pistol at them.

  "Huzzah!" cried Rigley, and Biscuit sprang forward on his powerful hind legs. They hurtled into the sky. The rush of speed was exhilarating and dizzying all at once. The gryphon did not fly straight, but at an expert tug of the reins veered to the left. As it turned out, Rigley knew just what we was doing in changing Biscuit's direction. From the corner of his eye, Alexander saw the flare of a pistol shot from the window and heard the crack of the weapon, but the assassin's bullet went wide.

  Rigley reached back and handed Alexander a pistol. Over the wind he shouted, "Take this, lad, just in case someone comes after us. Can you manage it?"

  Alexander nodded, deciding that if it came to it, he would need two hands to fire the weapon.

  Beneath them, the dark ground dropped away and overhead stretched the boundless sky. Off to their right was Professor Hobhouse, clinging for dear life to the back of his own gryphon. Hobhouse never had been much for flying, and his tall figure seemed too big for the gryphon, but Gimcrack seemed content to follow Biscuit's lead and needed little actual piloting.

  The house was soon just a tiny dot below them. Satisfied that they were not being pursued by any hostile gryphons, Rigley allowed Biscuit to ease off and stop climbing. They flew now at an almost leisurely pace, in a squadron of two.

  Alexander saw that they were flying into a gray dawn rather than twilight, because to the east he could see the sun beginning to outline the mountains in the distance. Wind whistled in his ears. Biscuit's wings beat rhythmically, and he could smell the gryphon's strong feline odor—gryphon's were, after all, close relatives of lions, and when flying smelled very much like a large, perspiring house cat. It was not a pleasant smell, but one got used to it.

  Though morning was on its way, it was still dark, and he fumbled around in the gloom until he found the speaking tube.

  "Rigley, who were those men back at the house?" he asked. "And why were they trying to kill me?"

  "You'll have to ask Professor Hobhouse that particular question," Rigley said. He laughed. "And right now, it looks to me as if he's got his hands full trying to stay on that gryphon, ha, ha."

  "Then can you at least tell me where we're going?"

  "Indeed I can! We're on our way to see a good friend of yours," Rigley said. "Although I have to say it's quite a flight. These are strong beasts, but it's going to take us at least three days of flying to get there."

  "Who are we going to see?" Alexander's mind was still too foggy to think straight.

  The sound of Rigley's laughter boomed through the speaking tube. "Let's just say we don't want to keep his lordship waiting!"

  CHAPTER 2

  The admiral was in such a foul mood that he made a North Sea gale look friendly by comparison.

  "Damn your eyes, but you ought to know better than to bring me cold coffee!" he stormed at his secretary in a voice accustomed to being heard on the deck of a Royal Navy ship at sea. He was loud enough to actually rattle the china cup on its saucer. Like any good sailor, Lord Jervis preferred coffee to tea.

  "Of course, my lord," the secretary said, and the man hurried to take away the offending coffee.

  Lord Jervis no longer commanded a ship, but from his desk at the Admiralty he now directed much of the Royal Navy fleet. The Admiralty was both a place and a power, an imposing building on the street known as Whitehall in London. In some ways it was the most powerful military headquarters in the world. Hundreds of ships, many thousands of men, all received their orders from the Admiralty. And yet the Admiralty, the city of London, even the Kingdom of England were under the dire threat of invasion by the Emperor Napoleon. Lord Jervis was well aware that a cold cup of coffee was the least of his worries, yet it was the only one he had any real control over.

  Take this report, for instance. He was reading the official report of the sea battle that had taken place just three weeks before between HMS Resolution and three Napoleonist ships. Everything about the report seemed off kilter and unbelievable, and yet it had been written by one of the Royal Navy's most capable and trusted commanders, Captain Bellingham.

  As his secretary poured him another cup of coffee, piping hot this time, then slipped out of the room, Lord Jervis started to read the report again from the beginning, just in case he had overlooked something.

  In deep fog, Resolution chanced to encounter a struggle between two ships, one being a Napoleonist corvette, the other a smaller apparent merchant vessel flying British colors. Upon going to the vessel's aid as was our duty and right, it became apparent that this was a trap meant to dupe us, for the vessel struck its friendly colors and ran up the French tricolor. Both vessels then engaged Resolution ....

  Here the First Lord of the Admiralty paused. Lord Jervis was a stickler for detail, for keeping to the facts, and yet at the same time he possessed the vivid imagination of any good military commander. In his mind he could easily transport himself to the scene of confusion aboard Resolution as the French colors appeared on the second ship. He had to smile. The French would have thought they had won already, and perhaps with another Royal Navy frigate that would have been the case. But they had not encountered the likes of Captain Bellingham. The man was a tiger, made to bite and claw and fight. He was utterly fearless. If the enemy captains had anticipated an easy victory, they had underestimated their opponent.

  He read on:

  Several broadsides were exchanged, Resolution standing toe-to-toe against her dual adversaries. It was, not to be too bold, a hot action that if not going in favor of Resolution could not be said to be going against her. As the fog began to clear and gave way to blue skies, however, the crew of Resolution was much distressed to spot the arrival of a third French vessel. This vessel also engaged Resolution. One ship against one would have been equally matched, but the three now against one created a situation of unfavorable odds. Greatly distressed, the crew of Resolution fought boldly, but in good faith let it be said that a favorable outcome was unlikely.

  Again, Lord Jervis could well imagine the impossibility of fighting not two but three Napoleonist ships. He had experienced his share of sea battles—he was no political commander, but a veteran officer who had come up through the ranks from ensign to lieutenant to commander to captain and admiral. As a result, Lord Jervis did not suffer fools or reports that hid the truth. But as always, Bellingham had neither embellished nor shied from the truth. Bellingham had known he was in serious trouble, and said so. But the paragraph that followed was outrageous. He read it now for the fourth time.

  ... Providence and good fortune arrived with the most propitious timing, for a great wave suddenly surged up and swallowed two of the enemy ships. A second wave also appeared as if by chance and destroyed the la
st French ship. From the arrival by providence of this irregular storm thus Resolution saved from certain destruction or surrender.

  Lord Jervis scratched head and sipped his coffee. He did not believe a word of the report. It was complete folderol. Waves did not spring up in blue sky weather to devour three enemy ships and somehow spare one's own. Yet otherwise the destruction of the French ships was inexplicable. He believed that there had been two tremendous waves, and he believed that they had destroyed the enemy ships—or Resolution would not have survived. He knew that Captain Bellingham was not one to bend the truth. If he wrote that the enemy ships had been destroyed by waves, then so they had. But Bellingham had not offered any real explanation for the waves.

  What possible explanation could there be? He set the report aside. Long before Captain Bellingham's report had reached his desk, rumors had reached his ears. There were stories of how a young ensign aboard the ship had summoned the waves and crushed the French ships. Sailors loved rumors and stories the way other men loved to eat—it was their meat and potatoes against long days of dull duty—so Lord Jervis was willing to wave them off and believe Captain Bellingham's official report, which made no mention of such an ensign.

  And yet, and yet ... there was cause for concern. What the rumors indicated was an elemental, a game changer, a wielder of power that had not been seen in two centuries, just at a time when England needed one most as it faced the threat from Napoleon. Not since—

  The great doors opened, and his secretary entered. "My lord, there is someone here to see you."

  "Do you have seaweed in your ears? I gave orders not to be disturbed!" Lord Jervis again used that thunderous voice that had once carried above the din of battle on a ship of the line. The secretary seemed to stagger under it and he actually put up an arm the way one did in the face of a raging wind storm.

  "Indeed, sir, so you did," the secretary agreed timidly, his arm still up as if to ward off a blow. "But this is an ensign who recently served aboard HMS Resolution. I believe you are reading that action report now?"

  "An ensign?" The admiral was a bit incredulous; he rarely dealt with anyone who ranked lower than post captain.

  "Yes, my lord. His name is Thomas Fowler."

  "Fowler? Fowler?" Mentally, he ran through a list of influential families that had sons in the service. The name Fowler did not come to mind. "Very well. Send him in."

  The admiral's first impression was that Fowler was rather old to be an ensign. He was a boy well into his teenage years, not some trembling snotty. His uniform was the sort that was worn daily, not a dress uniform at all, and while it was reasonably clean—there was a smear at the elbow that looked suspiciously like tar—it showed signs of use and little stitches where it had been repaired. A battered bicorn hat was tucked under his arm. His hair was a bit scraggly as if he might already be going bald or had suffered a bout of scurvy. His long face resembled nothing so much as a hatchet.

  "Ensign Fowler at your service, sir."

  "So I have heard." The admiral did not bother to get up. "You have information for me, Fowler?"

  "I have news for you, my lord, about the action that Resolution undertook against three Napoleonist ships."

  "Indeed?" The admiral said. "What could you possibly tell me that was not in Captain Bellingham's detailed report."

  "Did the report mention waves, sir?"

  Briefly, the admiral considered informing the ensign that it was none of his business what had been written in the report. But Jervis was curious. He also felt that he was sailing blind in turbulent waters.

  "It did, Mr. Fowler. Two waves, in fact, that arose out of a sudden storm."

  Fowler looked surprised. "What storm? There was no storm, my lord."

  "How else might one explain the sudden appearance of rogue waves large enough to crush three enemy ships, Mr. Fowler? Of course there was a storm, although it may have been a distant one. That is what Captain Bellingham wrote in his report. May I remind you that Bellingham is a most esteemed captain and I trust him immensely. Have you come here to contradict his report?"

  Fowler seemed to waver. He looked away from the admiral's glowering face, as if to take a moment to rally his thoughts. Fowler spoke carefully, "I would never think to contradict Captain Bellingham, sir."

  "Oh? How good to hear that you are a loyal young man. Then why are you here wasting my time?"

  "It's possible that the captain overlooked some detail or did not see everything that took place that day," Fowler said carefully.

  "And you were more observant than Captain Bellingham?"

  "Yes, my lord." Fowler seemed to go forward now with more confidence, the way a man charging into an enemy battalion will run faster, knowing that he will either succeed, or die trying. "Did the captain's report mention the actions of an Ensign Hope?"

  "I will tell you what the captain's report said when I am ready to do so, Fowler. Where was this Ensign Hope during the battle?"

  Fowler barely suppressed a smile. "He was standing on the quarterdeck next to Captain Bellingham."

  "I am sure that Captain Bellingham had his reasons for leaving out the actions of this ensign. Generally, an ensign's chief concern is to keep his head out of his arse. What, pray tell, did this ensign do that had such a bearing on the battle?"

  "He summoned the waves, my lord."

  The admiral managed to spill hot coffee on his desk. "He what?"

  "He raised his arms like this—" Fowler lifted his own arms over his head, dropping his hat in the process "—and the sea rose up around us, my lord, in a magnificent column of water. Then Ensign Hope brought down his hands and the sea smashed the enemy ships."

  The admiral was speechless for several moments. He finally thundered: "Has our beloved Royal Navy fallen so low that it now accepts witless boys who tell such outlandish stories? Preposterous!"

  "It was Ensign Hope, my lord," Fowler insisted in a quiet, but determined voice. "He commanded the sea. He is an elemental."

  The admiral rose, preparing to hurl this foolish ensign from his office with the fury of his voice alone. But something nagged at the back of his mind. The admiral stroked his chin. Names and connections were like the coin of the realm. "Ensign Hope, you say? Hope? Where have I heard that name?" The admiral's eyes grew wide. "The Hero of the Armada!"

  "Yes, my lord, you have probably heard of Sir Algernon Hope. He was the one who sank the Spanish Armada in—"

  The admiral pounded the desk. "I am well acquainted with the legend of Sir Algernon Hope! There is no need to instruct me in the tale that every schoolboy knows, Mr. Fowler!"

  "Then, my lord, you may know that Ensign Hope is his direct descendant." This time, a sly smile formed on Fowler’s thin lips.

  The admiral sank slowly into his chair. "To whom else have you told this?" he demanded.

  "No one, my lord."

  "Then we must keep it this way, Mr. Fowler. These are dangerous times for rumors and half truths to give false optimism. The admiralty must proceed cautiously in such cases. I would say that this Ensign Hope bears watching. If you are serving with him aboard Resolution, perhaps you could report periodically to me. Directly to me, I might add."

  "It would be an honor, my lord. Unfortunately, I am no longer assigned to Resolution. Captain Bellingham made a change in the roster that has put me ashore in a most inconvenient way."

  The admiral knew that the "inconvenient" aspect probably had to do with the fact that Ensign Fowler was now on half pay and out of the running for any prize money. Judging by the state of his uniform, it was likely that Fowler sorely needed his Royal Navy pay. Of course, there were families who kept their sons in fine fettle, but Fowler did not appear to be one of them.

  "I am sure Captain Bellingham can find room for you on his ship."

  "Perhaps Bellingham won't want me, sir."

  "Indeed? We shall see about that." The admiral took pen and paper, and in his own hand, wrote orders. He began to hand Fowler the sealed packet, took
stock of the ensign's uniform again, and wrapped a twenty pound note around it. Quite a considerable sum. "Here. You are now promoted to Senior Ensign. This should settle matters with Captain Bellingham. And perhaps a new coat would set you right in his eyes."

  Fowler took the orders and the money. "Thank you, my lord."

  "Keep me informed, Mr. Fowler. That will be all."

  • • •

  Lord Jervis was both excited and troubled after his meeting with the ensign. He wasn’t much concerned with Fowler, who seemed to be nothing more than an opportunist and toady—but one whom the admiral could put to his own uses.

  No, it was this Ensign Hope that troubled him.

  Lord Jervis had not been exaggerating when he said that every schoolboy knew the legend of how Sir Algernon Hope had destroyed the Spanish Armada and saved England from invasion. He sipped his coffee and reflected on that tale.

  In 1588, the King of Spain had sent hundreds of ships and thousands of soldiers to invade England. The Spanish were wily sailors and fierce soldiers who had conquered an empire in the New World. Now, they had set their sights on England, which was outnumbered in every way.

  Aboard the Armada were no less than three fire elementals, including the savage Duke of Castille. The English had none, because Henry the Eighth had exiled or put to death any elementals for fear that they might pose a threat to the throne.

  Algernon Hope had only been an unknown boy, about the same age as an ensign. While Sir Francis Drake was doing what he could at sea and with Queen Elizabeth herself leading troops on land, this mere boy rowed out in a skiff and summoned the sea to crush the Armada.