Historical Nautical Fiction: The Uncommon Valour duology

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction' started by Duncan MacLeod, Aug 23, 2019.

  1. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    When I first wrote Uncommon Valour 17 years ago. Yes, it's really been that long. I had my own ideas of which actors would best fit the characters. Not all of them but but the major ones at least.

    My cast was impossible to assemble as several of them were no longer with us, or had aged out of the roles I wanted them for. For example I always considered John Cleese to be the perfect Fred Bassingford, unfortunately even then he was really too old, Fred was 43 and Cleese was 20 years older. Still the casting helped me visualize.

    Later on I picked younger actors that could carry the roles if I was ever able to sell the screen rights. Settling on Henry Cavill for Sinclair and Lindsey Pelas for Tara. But to be honest they were both really stand-ins.

    So allow me to present my original casting choices for Captain John Sinclair and Miss Tara Mason. Gone but never forgotten. Guy Williams and Marilyn Monroe.

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    Last edited: Aug 16, 2020
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  2. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    When choosing actors for Will Mason and his older brother Dick I had a couple of additional problems. They had to look like brothers, more to the point they had to look enough alike to pass for each other at a quick glance. In the end I chose Jude Law for Commander William Mason, and Ewan McGregor for Merchant Captain and Secret Agent Richard Mason III.

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  3. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    These next two were set before I ever started writing. I saw the faces and heard the voices in my mind right from the start. Doctor Alfred Bassingford as played by John Cleese. And Admiral of the White Sir Donald Vincent, Earl St. John, KB, Second Lord of the Admiralty, and Head of His Majesty's Intelligence Service as played by Sir Sean Connery, Kt, CBE.

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  4. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    The next two were not introduced until Volume Two Broad Pendant. In spite of their later start they quickly became two of my favorites. Captain Patrick Franklin of the little 20-gun HMS Predator as played by a young Ian McKellen, and his beloved Doña Cristina Avila de Ontiveros, Condessa de Ontiveros, as played by a very young Selma Hayek.

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  5. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    Two important characters in volume one, although less important in volume two were the wives of Will Mason and Nicolas Stewart. So I present Kathryn Leigh Scott as Will's wife Jennifer (Willis) Mason, and Marcia Cross as her friend and companion Mary (Drummond)(Morgan) Stewart, the wife of Will's Cox'n Nicolas.

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  6. StarCruiser

    StarCruiser Commodore Commodore

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    Some of these casting choices are instantly changing the attitude and voices of those characters in my head...
     
  7. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    As long as it helps you it's all good. Although I should point out it was only Cleese and Connery that I was specifically using the voices for.

    Anyway here are two more Lieutenant, later Captain, Bartholomew Jones as played by Guy Pearce, and The Great Hebridean Mountain himself Ian MacGregor, Sinclair's friend and Coxswain since he was posted as a Captain nearly 20 years earlier, played by the late Edward Mulhare with his hair and beard dyed a dark red.

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  8. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    Can someone explain to me why the pics are disappearing? They're fine for a while and then they vanish. I have no idea why.
     
  9. StarCruiser

    StarCruiser Commodore Commodore

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    Seem to be fine to me... I think they are hosted on Facebook so..? That by itself may explain it.
     
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  10. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    I'm seeing this: [​IMG]
     
  11. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    I've noticed that there seem to be people reading this again. Following along with the calendar which this year at least has matched up the days and dates from 1779.

    I do have an outline and about 8,800 words of volume three A Show of Confidence written if anyone is interested.
     
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  12. StarCruiser

    StarCruiser Commodore Commodore

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    I'd say - go for it!
     
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  13. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    Okay. The story picks up on the 30th of October, but I'll give you the Prologue a month early on the 30th of September.
     
  14. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    And here we go.

    Uncommon Valour
    Volume III

    A SHOW OF CONFIDENCE


    Prologue

    White Oaks, Thornbury
    Saturday 30 October 1779

    For nearly half an hour the metallic clash of sword on sword had echoed through the sports room at White Oaks, John and Tara Sinclair’s estate not far from Bristol. The home’s owners, as they had for the last three weeks, were down, even before breakfast this morning, honing Tara’s skills with foil, sabre and rapier. Certainly, one could ask for no better teacher than the man matching blades with her – her own husband, Commodore Sir John Sinclair. John’s goal in teaching his lovely young bride to fence had been two-fold – first, to train her to protect herself against attack, and second, to keep himself physically fit. Unlike most men of his age – he had celebrated his forty-fourth birthday the month before – he was still broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, easily able to outfight men even a generation younger.

    Tall and statuesque in the simple bodice and skirt she had, had made for these exercises – fighting in skirts was a talent she was determined to master, since if she were called upon to use her skills it would probably be at a time when she was wearing a gown - Tara Sinclair proved herself a good match for her tutor, parrying his thrusts with grace and agile skill. Her long blonde hair had been pulled on top of her head and almost nailed to her scalp with dozens of hairpins, but it was the only way to keep it out of her way. Her husband was wearing breeches and a shirt, now open to the waist as a result of his exertion.

    “It’s really not fair,” she commented as they circled warily, buttoned foils at the ready.

    “What’s not fair, my love?”

    “You can open your shirt and cool down. I can’t”

    “I wouldn’t object if you did, my love. It would certainly raise my temperature several degrees,” he grinned, eyeing her full breasts under their thin linen covering.

    She blushed. After five weeks of marriage – five weeks of an extended honeymoon in this lovely, almost idyllic setting, much of it spent exploring the pleasures of the connubial bed – she still blushed much too easily for her taste; John found it absolutely delightful.

    They fought on in silence. Finally, with one lighting stroke, she brought her foil up and John’s went sailing out of his hand, leaving him defenceless. He applauded enthusiastically and she dropped her foil to run into his arms for a celebratory embrace and a passionate kiss.

    “I did it, I did it!” she exalted with all the unselfconscious joy of a child. At times like this John remembered anew that she was only nineteen, this fascinating young woman he had claimed for his own.

    “So you did, my love, and you know I promised you a reward the first time this happened. What is it to be?”

    She whispered in his ear and he grinned mischievously down at her. “Here? Right now?”

    She nodded and began to slide long-fingered hands up his bare chest, feeling his body react to her seductive touch almost immediately.

    “Your wish is my command, mistress of my heart. Thank God for floor mats. I’m not getting any younger, you know!” he warned, before promptly disproving his statement, to her supreme satisfaction.

    On the other side of the closed and locked door, Mrs. Sommersby, the couple’s housekeeper, linked an arm through that of her husband of thirty years and smiled. “It looks like breakfast is going to be late again, Sommersby,” She commented, as they went toward the kitchen. “I must say it’s good to see joy in this house again after all these years.”

    ***** ********* *****

    Two very contented lovers donned their clothes – some of them, at least, John had only his breeches on in case they encountered one of the servants – and took the spiral stairs from the sports room to the upper floor, passing the library on the way. Tara rang for a bath and emerged fresh as a daisy an hour later, after Jill Sommersby, who had been selected as her maid, helped her dress. She went down to breakfast where John was reading the newspapers and his post, dropped a kiss on the top of his head and then sat down to eat, her manner somewhat preoccupied.

    “My love? Are you well?” he asked, as she only nibbled at a piece of toast instead of eating her usual hearty breakfast of eggs, ham, and hotcakes with maple syrup, the latter imported from Canada.

    “Yes, quite well, John. No, just thinking.”

    “About what?”

    “I looked at the calendar today and I realized something. I’ve … missed. Twice. The first time was right after the wedding and under the circumstances I was glad, but a second time – and I was doing so well too. Even with the awful cramps it meant my body was healing from all the stress I went through after Mama died. Damn.”

    “My love, had you not thought that there might possibly be another, very reasonable explanation?” He said, even as he tamped down rising excitement with a firm hand.

    “You mean – already?”

    “Tara, have you let me out of your sight for more than a few moments since we were married five weeks ago? No you have not. And where have you insisted we spend our time, eh?”

    “Why right here in the house, John,” she said, playing along with him.

    “All over the house. The servants would be scandalized if they weren’t so well trained. Last month you seduced me in the keep for God’s sake!”

    “It’s not seduction if we’re married, John.”

    “I don’t know what else to call it. You lured me there on the pretence of touring the building, and before I knew it…” He was protesting, but he was grinning at the memory. It had been a delightful afternoon, just a few days after their gala wedding celebration.

    He went on. “At least the manor house is off limits, with your father and three of your brothers living there. I suppose I can be thankful it’s fall, or even the woods wouldn’t be sacred.”

    “I never thought of the woods,” she said slowly as an impish smile spread across her face.

    “Well don’t think of them now! It’s nearly November and I’m forty-four. You’ll give me rheumatism, woman.”

    “You keep harping on your age, John. I don’t notice,” she said mildly.

    “You will when you’re forty-four,” he ruefully replied.

    “But by then you’ll be sixty-eight, and I can push you around in your Bath chair and make sure you’re warm enough and that you have nice, soft foods that don’t hurt your teeth,” she said comfortingly.

    “Bath chair! Not a chance in hell, woman. Let me show you what I think of your damned Bath chair!”

    He stood up abruptly and came around to her side of the table, scooping her up and heading for the stairs with long, purposeful strides. Tara, who had learned in the months she had known and loved this man just what to say and when, smiled a secret smile and put one graceful hand on her flat belly. If it hadn’t happened yet – and it seemed that it had – it certainly wouldn’t be much longer.
     
  15. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

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    October 1779

    Fifth Week


    From the Personal Log of Sir John Sinclair, KB,
    Commodore of the Second Class, RN,
    Senior Post Captain – HMS Sapphire, 36



    Saturday 30 October 1779

    “Well? Is she?” I demanded as soon as Alfred Bassingford came into the master study where I had been nervously pacing for the last half hour. Fred had come over this morning at my insistence. I was sorry to interrupt his own honeymoon as he had wed Pat Franklin’s Aunt Juliette but a week after Tara and I had married, but quite frankly I do not trust most physicians. Far too many of them cling to their old ways and the wives’ tales that they grew up with to suit me. Doctor Alexander Fleming would not have been like that, of course. But Bath was a long ride, even in a fast coach, while Fred was less than half an hour away. Also, although I was not as mulish as I had been five months ago at the prospect of other men seeing my dear Tara even slightly dishabille, I still wanted to keep that sort of thing to a minimum, and, as Fred had already treated her once during that harrowing affair at Pollepel Island, I was most comfortable with the idea of him tending to her again. Besides if I couldn’t trust my oldest friend then truly whom could I trust?

    Ignoring my intent stare, Fred crossed the room to the liquor cabinet. Carefully he poured two glasses of brandy from a square, cut-glass decanter that sat on a silver platter atop the waist-high cabinet. Picking up the crystal goblets he held one out to me, keeping the other for himself. Wordlessly I took it from him but my eyes were pleading for release and he kept me in suspense no longer.

    “Congratulations, John,” he said with a smile. “You’re going to be a father.”

    I could say nothing as I struggled to take the news in. It was hardly unexpected as I myself had voiced the possibility to Tara only an hour and a half ago, but still it somehow managed to be a shock. I supposed that I had given up on the possibility of children for so long that even though Tara and I had been wed for little more than a month that, unconsciously at least, I had viewed the idea of children as unlikely. But at nineteen Tara is still in the earlier of her child-bearing years and in fact shall not reach her prime for several more years according to Doctor Fleming’s monograph on child-bearing. I was aware from Fred that many men are able to father children well into their sixties or more. So it seemed that barring any unforeseen emergencies Tara and I could look forward to several more children in the years to come. But this first child, this first creation of our love, boy or girl it did not matter, would be particularly special to us.

    With an almost conspirative smile Fred touched his glass to mine reminding me of the undrunk brandy it contained. With a single swallow I drained the goblet, feeling the brandy run like fire down my throat.

    “I’d estimate that she’s about a month along,” he continued. “Should be due sometime around the end of June. Fast work you old rascal.” I smiled at him.

    “Well I didn’t do it alone you know. Tara had more than a hand in this. When I’m with her I feel like a man of twenty-five again, in fact I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not.”

    “Let yourself be twenty-five again, John, you’ve both earned it,” Fred suggested.

    But I was looking over his shoulder at the painting on the wall. The last one painted of my Angelique before her murder at her own half-brother’s hand. She was smiling sweetly at me, one arm protectively cradling the bump across her middle that was our child, her golden hair framing her head like a halo. Sixteen years ago our happiness had been shattered by the single pistol shot that had snuffed out both their lives. The light had gone out of my life that long ago day, oh I made a show of happiness on the outside but deep down there had been nothing but a yawning, black emptiness. Then I walked into a little flat in New York just six months ago and Tara entered my life. And what an entrance it had been, almost a perfect twin for my dear Angelique and as we later learned a blood cousin, she had taken me so completely by surprise that I was rendered practically speechless. We had both fallen deeply in love within days of that first meeting and in spite of the obstacles arrayed against us, not the least of which was a twenty-four-year age difference, had wed just a little more than a month ago.

    I wondered what Angelique would have thought of all this. Up until my first meeting with Tara I had always felt her spirit with me, one tiny source of comfort along that long, dark road I had been travelling. But then I had felt her last goodbye and she had receded away, like a fallen leaf carried on the wind, until I could sense her no longer.

    “I’m sure she’s very happy for both of you.” Fred had followed my gaze and forty years of friendship had allowed him to guess the chain of my thoughts. I nodded to him for once more my oldest friend had proven how well he knew me. And he was right; as her presence had faded away last May I had sensed her happiness that I would not be alone. Angelique could not help but be pleased with Tara’s pregnancy.

    But even as these happy thoughts ran through my mind so too did a cautious note of danger. Some trace of it must have been evident on my face for Fred picked up on it.

    “What? Is something wrong?” He asked. I turned away and stepped over to the portrait as I tried to bring my thoughts into a semblance of order before answering.

    “Montaigne.” I said quietly.

    “What about him, John? Washington sent him back to France in disgrace more than four months ago”

    “Yes, and he considers me to be the cause of that disgrace; even if in truth he has no one to blame but himself. Do you think that he would have any compunction against striking at me through Tara? You know what he threatened to do to her at Pollepel Island.” Fred blanched at the memory of Montaigne’s threat to feed my beloved to his dogs and shook his head in denial.

    “But surely that was just an empty threat meant to frighten. He couldn’t have actually intended to go through with it.”

    “Perhaps. But I’ll be damned if I’ll take that chance, Fred.”

    “Well what do you plan to do?” He asked, the concern quite evident in his voice.

    “I’m not sure yet.” I replied slowly. “With all of us here at White Oaks I expect she’ll be safe enough, for now at least. But we’ll be returning to sea soon, the last of the repairs should be finished within a month. Then perhaps another month more to finish our recruiting and working up. We should be back at sea once more by the first of the year at the latest.”

    “Well she became a fair hand with a pistol a few months ago you know. And you are teaching her how to fence now, of course. How are the lessons going, if you don’t mind my asking?”

    “Quite well, actually. This morning she managed to disarm me for the first time. If she can do it again in the next day or two I think we can safely say that she’s mastered the basics. Then we can move on to the next stage. With luck I should have her well into the intermediate lessons before we’re ordered back to sea.”

    From above I heard the door to the private stairs that led to the master suite open and the tap of footsteps on the polished marble as Tara began to descend. Quickly I whispered to Fred.

    “Not a word of this to anyone, Fred, alright? I don’t want Tara to worry.” He nodded wordlessly and we turned as Tara burst into the room, a radiant smile lighting her lovely features making her even more beautiful than ever, if that was possible. As she rushed into my embrace and our lips met in a passionate kiss I swore anew that, Montaigne or not, no man would ever harm her again. Not as long as there was breath in my body to prevent it.




    From the Remembrances of Tara, Lady Sinclair

    Sunday 31 October 1779

    We sat beneath the soaring rafters at the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, one of Thornbury’s central fixtures since the reign of Edward IV. John and I were in the front pew and were accompanied there by Papa, Dick and Lucy, and Will and Jennifer, with Doctor Fred and his Julie bringing up the far end. Behind us were Pat Franklin and his Dona Cristina, my brothers Robert and Stephen, Ian MacGregor and his lady friend Jennie Uxbridge and Nicholas and Mary Stewart, she now perhaps a bit more than a month away from delivering their child and showing every sign of it.

    Looking at her brought my thoughts back to my own pregnancy, not that that was very difficult for it had seldom been out of my thoughts since yesterday when Doctor Fred had confirmed the hopes that John had first voiced little more than twenty-four hours ago. We had first discussed children at Lennox House, the estate that Papa had leased for our stay in New York, just after the birth of little Nicky to our friend Maisie and her husband Sergeant Hollis. At the time it had seemed like a far away fairytale, now I could scarcely believe that the time had come so quickly. For all his protestations of age my dear John is truthfully an extremely virile man and the most wonderfully passionate lover I could possibly want.

    I glanced over to see him smiling down at me then reached out to link my arm in his and pulled myself close alongside his long, powerful body, settling myself comfortably against him before returning his smile. Quickly he reached down to plant a tiny, butterfly-soft kiss on the end of my nose. We both grinned at one another but dare not let things continue, as the Church of St. Mary’s was not the place for such. Thus with some reluctance we turned back to the pulpit.

    From that pulpit the Reverend Mr. Peter Bassingford, younger brother of our dear Doctor Fred, was just finishing his sermon. I had been more than a bit surprised at that. Considering Doctor Fred’s sexual escapades I half expected his siblings to be ‘cut from the same cloth’ as it were. But such was not so, his sister, Marie Bassingford, had married his father’s former apprentice, Jeremiah Ashton, who had taken over the law practice when the elder man had passed away; both she and her husband were well-regarded in Thornbury and indeed much of the county. Peter Bassingford had only recently returned to his old home parish following the passing this summer of old Parson Wilkes who had served as St. Mary’s vicar for more than twenty-five years. It was whispered that he had given up a much larger parish in order to return to Thornbury. Although John and I had visited him and his wife, the former Miss Kathryn Bellemy, on two occasions since we had settled into White Oaks last month, the subject had never come up in conversation and I had yet to verify or disprove the rumour.

    Soon the sermon came to a close followed by the service and after a final amen we rose to leave. Outside we were gathered in little knots of conversation. It was a bright morning although we could see the approach of darkening clouds in the distance bringing with them the promise of rain during the afternoon and evening.

    “Don’t worry, Taree, it will have stopped by morning,” Papa, who had noticed my gaze at the western sky, said gently. I smiled for I was well aware of my father’s ability to accurately predict the weather. John and I would be leaving on a short trip to Bristol tomorrow morning and the trip wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant if it were pouring rain.

    “I’m sure you’re right, Papa.”

    “You know, my love, that you really don’t have to come at all?” John said, the concern evident in his voice. “I’ll only be there overnight and under the circumstances perhaps it would be best for you to stay at White Oaks.” Papa had cocked an eyebrow at the phrase ‘under the circumstances’ but said nothing. John and I had yet to tell anyone about my pregnancy and were planning to do so when the family gathered at White Oaks this afternoon for Sunday Dinner. But sometimes even the best laid plans can be rent asunder and so it was with these for it seemed that we had both forgotten to tell Doctor Fred to keep the news under his hat. I opened my mouth to respond but before I could utter a word Reverend Bassingford stepped over and blurted out,

    “Congratulations, Sir John, Lady Tara! Fred just told me the news, I couldn’t be happier for you both.” We looked at him with what must have been rather dismayed expressions, which clearly ‘took him aback’ as John would say. “Did I say something wrong, sir?”

    “No, Peter, not at all,” John said banishing the dismayed look and replacing it with a warm smile. “It’s just that we had planned to make the announcement at dinner today.” Then he raised his voice so that it would carry to where Doctor Fred stood in conversation with Julie, Pat and Cristina.

    “Fred, a moment of your time if you please.” Doctor Fred was all smiles as he stepped over to us but quickly sensed that something was amiss and asked,

    “Is something wrong?”

    “How many people have you told?”

    “Five or six I think. What’s the problem? It’s hardly going to be a secret after all.”

    “That’s true, Doctor Fred,” I interjected, “but John and I had been planning to tell everyone together this afternoon.”

    “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, dear girl,” he said with a crestfallen expression, “I just hadn’t realized. Please accept my sincere apologies.” John smiled over at him and said,

    “Of course, Fred, ‘C’est la vie’ as they say in France. ‘Such is life.’ No real harm done.” Then he turned to Papa, Will and Jen who had stood silent through the entire exchange.

    “As you’ve probably guessed by now, Tara is with child.” The three of them smiled knowingly leaving me wondering if there was something more than met the eye going on. They glanced at one another for a brief moment, then before either John or I could ask Jen smiled and said,

    “Actually we already knew.” John’s eyes darted over to Doctor Fred who frowned and gave his head a quick shake.

    “No, not Doctor Fred, John,” my brother said with a smile. “Although I’m sure we were on his list, he hadn’t gotten around to us yet.”

    “Who then?” I asked.

    “Mary,” Jennifer replied with a smile.

    “And who told her?” John asked.

    “Nobody,” said a voice behind us. We all turned to see a very pregnant Mary Stewart standing next to her husband, as if summoned by magic. “I took one look at Lady Tara at Mr. Will and Miss Jen’s anniversary dinner on Thursday and I just knew, Sir John.”

    “Your ‘second sight’, Mary?” John said with a smile. Mary grinned back.

    “Yes, sir, I reckon so.” He threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter.

    “Well I can see that there’ll be no keeping of secrets in this family!”
     
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  16. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

    Joined:
    Feb 24, 2002
    Location:
    New England
    November 1779
    First Week

    From the Journals of Doctor Alfred Bassingford, MD,
    Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians,
    Surgeon - HMS Sapphire

    Monday 1 November 1779

    Julie came back from the village, where she had volunteered to oversee the altar flowers - today being All Souls’ Day - fair bursting with news. In my experience with my remarkable, wonderful wife, this almost certainly involves children, in some way, shape or form. Julie loves children.

    When Julie proposed on John’s wedding day, I knew I would have no peace until I married her, though we did not wait for His Grace of Canterbury to perform the ceremony as John originally suggested. As a matter of fact, we got a special license the next week and were married very quietly in Thornbury parish church by my brother Peter, with only a few of our dearest friends in attendance, and John as my best man. When I apologized for interrupting his honeymoon, though they did not go anywhere special – Tara says she has done enough travelling to last her for at least a year and would just like to stay home for a time – John just looked at me and said something to the effect of ‘he wanted to be at the wedding to make sure I didn’t get cold feet and leave my bride at the altar’. To which Julie replied, “I’d have his guts for garters if he did, John. This is the first man I’ve met since Martyn died that was worth marrying, you know. Well, there’s you, but as you were already attached when I met you…” she finished outrageously, provoking a smile and a merry laugh from our precious girl Tara.

    Since my old family home, the house that my parents had built almost fifty years ago, is not far from where Pat and Cristina are living with their twins, Julie can go over and coo at them every day. Since the Franklin contingent moved here in May Julie has, as always, managed to make herself indispensable and dearly loved in the community, acting as a sort of parish ombudsman to make sure that the needy of the parish are taken care of, as well as turning her hands to flowers, pew cushions and altar cloths. About the only thing she doesn’t do is sing, which is probably a good thing, given that her voice resembles a “rusty hinge that needs oiling in the worst way” - her words, not mine.

    I put down the treatise on obstetrics I was reading – written by my friend Doctor Alexander Fleming – and went downstairs to greet my Julie with an embrace and warm kiss. John decided months ago that my string of illicit liaisons had to stop – and Julie has certainly stopped them, not because she is so formidable, though that is certainly true, but because I love her so very much – and because she is more than capable of keeping a man satisfied in the carnal sense. I just happen to be that very lucky man. I would be foolhardy in the extreme to leave a veritable feast for the meagre fare offered by some of the affairs I have had in the past, passionate though they were. Julie not only satisfies my body, she satisfies my soul – and that is of infinitely more value.

    “What news, Juliette Bassingford?” I questioned when we had come up for air and were on the way upstairs to our bedroom, where a pleasant afternoon’s dalliance often ensued.

    “First, little Barbara and baby John are growing like weeds – or flowers, in Barbara’s case. Pat and Tina are all excited about the christening later on this month at the church in Blackpoole. John and Tara have agreed to stand godparents, you know, along with the two of us, so we’ll all be going back to Lancashire together. Tina wants to do it there because our vicar, the Reverend Mr. Masters, was so good to her when she first came to England last spring.”

    “Yes, I had heard something of the matter. It sounds an excellent idea, I think. But that’s not all the news.”

    “You know me too well, Fred Bassingford,”

    “In every sense of the word, madam wife, including the Biblical one, and may I say I have never been happier,” I said, reaching to caress her provocatively.

    “Fred. Behave yourself, and get your mind out of the bedroom!”

    “Why, when the rest of me is in the bedroom? And may I point out, my dear, that, that bed behind us is getting cold for want of use?”

    “It can get cold a little while longer. Do try to control yourself, Fred.”

    “Why? We’re married, there’s no reason to. Not that I did before we were married, but…”

    “Fred Bassingford, if you so much as look at another woman I will hang you by your thumbs,” she threatened. “Now listen to me. You remember at Tara and John’s wedding that ‘Preacher’ Boyd was telling us about this orphanage his brother, the Reverend Mr. Abraham Boyd, runs for the foundlings of Bristol? Well, Peter told me today that he’s had to send two new children down there to be cared for. He told me prefers to send children there and help pay their keep out of parish funds because he knows they will be taken care of better, for all that Boyd is a nonconformist. Very broad-minded attitude for an Anglican vicar, I must say. But then again he is your brother so I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised. Anyway, these two children, a boy of about two and newborn little girl, were found by a neighbour just a week or so ago. The father, Thompson, was a farm labourer who was killed in a harvest accident earlier this fall and the mother died in childbirth, alone in a wretched cottage but for that terrified little boy. When they were found the baby was just an hour or so old, still in its blood, and near starving, and the little boy was wearing nothing but a little shirt – not even a nappy. The neighbour cleaned the baby up, found someone to wet nurse her temporarily, and called for Peter. The Choirmaster, Mr. Nunnally, remembers that old Parson Wilkes christened the boy Martyn, though the family weren’t regular in their church attendance, and of course the babe hasn’t been named yet. Once they were strong enough to travel Peter and Kathryn took them down to Providence House.”

    “Martyn. That was my father’s name – Martyn Bassingford. And now that I think of it I believe I can recall Peter mentioning it to me the other day. Well, I’m glad that they were rescued, and I know Boyd and the matrons at the home will take good care of them. Now can we go to bed?”

    She slapped my roving hands away, but playfully, and then said, “I wasn’t finished. I want to go down to Bristol and see them.”

    “Why? We know they are in good hands, and I am sure the matron will send Peter regular reports, if only to let him know how his funds are being used,” I asked. Silence stretched for a few minutes as my Julie smiled at me, and then the light finally dawned.

    “Oh, no. You aren’t thinking – Madam, the answer is no! I am too old, they are too small, I’ll be going back to sea in a few weeks at most, and this house…”

    “Has a perfectly adequate nursery floor. And as for your being too old, you’re the same age as John Sinclair and you just told me yesterday that Tara has conceived their first – and he will be forty-four when the child is born.”

    “What about you – how are you going to handle two that young, at your age?” I knew the minute I said it that it was the wrong thing to say.

    “So I’m too old, am I? Well, then, Doctor Bassingford, if I’m too old to care for children, then I certainly must be too old for certain pleasurable activities that often result in those children, so I guess that bed will have to stay cold awhile longer, won’t it!” She said in exasperation, though I know Julie well enough by now to know she is no more capable of living a celibate life, now that we have found each other, than I am.

    “Fred, just go look at them, will you? That’s all I ask. Just look at them. We can hire a wet nurse for the baby, the boy is already two and weaned – and it’s not like we can’t afford a nursery maid!” she concluded, referring to the nearly three thousand pounds of prize money I have saved over the years.

    “All right, Julie,” I sighed. “We’ll go and look at them. But I make no promises beyond looking.”



    From the Papers of Patrick Franklin,
    Junior Post Captain - HMS Jaguar, 32

    Tuesday 2 November 1779

    “Considering how severe the damage was, I really can’t complain, sir.”

    We were standing on the quay overlooking the dry dock in which His Majesty’s Frigate Jaguar, now formally christened under that name following the approval of Lord St. John, sat upon her blocks even as the dock was being flooded. It had been just under three weeks since she had entered that dry dock to repair the below the waterline damage she’d suffered at the Battle of St. George Channel, now nearly two months in the past. Even the frigates of Commodore Sinclair’s Flying Squadron had, had to wait their turn for the use of Bristol’s dry docks, and Enchanted as the most severely damaged following Zamora’s rake of her stern had been given priority for the first one available. Jaguar and the Commodore’s own HMS Sapphire had followed her ten days later taking the places previously occupied by a pair of sixty-fours.

    Six days ago Sapphire had left her dry dock and was even now completing the repairs to her rigging and bulwarks. Her place there having been taken by Will Mason’s 26-gun HMS Vanessa, while the little sloop-of-war Sandfly had not needed to be dry-docked at all, the majority of her damage having been above her waterline. Jaguar would not have needed as much time here had Sir John not prevailed upon them to copper her bottom once the repairs had been completed. I found myself looking forward to seeing how well she would sail once we returned to sea. The coppering combined with her exemplary hull promised to make her a supremely fast sailer if properly trimmed.

    “No, the dockyard have done a surprisingly fast job this time,” the Commodore said in reply. “I have to agree with you there, Pat.” Neither of us had taken our eyes off the frigate’s lithe hull. Even naked as she was without her guns, masts and rigging – these having been removed in order to lighten her for the blocks – she was a thing of beauty. My father had more than once remarked that the French built excellent ships and in the time that I have held command of Jaguar I have discovered just how right he was to say that. But at the same time I have also learned that they seem to perform best for English masters. Indeed, even with a complement a full thirty percent below optimum, Jaguar had managed to capture a far larger and more powerful Spanish ship, which was sailing under a highly experienced captain as well.

    But such thoughts brought my mind back around to the casualties we had suffered since my dear old Predator, now lying at the bottom of Machias Bay, had upped anchor for America last Spring. We had arrived in England a month and a half ago with 139 men aboard a frigate with a normal complement of 215, and of those more than two-dozen had been wounded. These had largely been men that I had known for years, first as Predator’s senior, then her Captain and finally as captain of Jaguar. They were more than just crew. In many ways they were almost family. Most of her officers had been my friends in the wardroom once upon a time. Ross Martel had been a fine young man whom I had watched rise from midshipman to second lieutenant, while I would always remember little Charles Oxley at the moment just as battle was joined when he plucked my sleeve to get my attention and then realized how greatly he had offended naval etiquette. Perhaps Their Lordships were right to rarely post a man to command the same ship that he’d been serving on as a lieutenant. There were fewer ghosts about him that way.

    “There was nothing more you could have done, sir,” Jeffery Gordon had said to me one night toward the middle of last month when he’d come to visit Tina, the children and I. “We all know the risks when we sign on. We accept it.” Perhaps they did. I know that I have accepted the possibility of sudden death in battle, but it didn’t make the aftermath any easier to bear.

    Gordon and Mr. MacMillian were ashore with the recruiting parties right now trying to round up the additional seventy-six men that we would need to bring us up to full complement. In the meanwhile the remainder of the crew was ashore under the watchful eyes of the bosun, Harry Keane, and his mates.

    “How goes your recruiting, Pat?” The Commodore asked echoing my thoughts.

    “Slowly I’m afraid, Sir John. We had very little luck here in Bristol. There are far too many able seamen with exemptions here. One would almost think it a crime to serve your King.”

    “Even those with exemptions serve, Pat, albeit not in the way that seems obvious.” He smiled at my puzzled expression then explained. “One of our greatest strengths is our merchant vessels and our trade. The constant flow of raw materials into Britain is as vital to our cause as any fleet or army. It is those seamen that are exempt that keep those raw materials flowing. It would do us all well to remember that. Still, I can understand your frustration.”

    I could not help but be struck once more by the kind of man that John Sinclair is. Even faced with the same problem of manning his ship as I, he had not allowed that to colour his perceptions of the myriad of elements that together made Britain the power that she was. While I, unfortunately, had allowed my personal difficulties to obscure the larger issues. I resolved not to do so in the future.



    From the Journals of Doctor Alfred Bassingford

    Friday 5 November 1779

    Julie won. Julie always wins. John thinks it’s hilarious – I have finally met my match, in more ways than one. We went to Bristol, I fell in love at the same moment Julie did, and we came home the next day with papers granting us temporary custody, pending formal adoption proceedings, of little Martyn Bassingford, aged about two, named for Julie’s lost love Martyn Graves and my father, and Miss Tara Bassingford, aged about two weeks. The boy even looks a bit like me, poor little fellow, and as for the baby, she has the bluest eyes I have ever seen and a head covered with fine brown fuzz that promises to turn into a head of luxurious curls. Martyn, my son - how wonderful that sounds, my son - is very protective of her, despite his lack of years. If she so much as peeps, he runs for me, or Julie, or one of the maids, saying ‘Baby cwy. Huwwy. Baby cwy,’ and will not stop until someone makes the baby stop crying, usually by feeding her, changing her or bringing up her wind. The first time John and Tara came over to visit, they brought a silver rattle for little Tara and a toy boat for Martyn, complete with sails and rigging. Martyn took one look at John, in all the glory of a full dress uniform, and pointed to his gold-laced hat.

    “What dat?” he asked peremptorily.

    “What, my hat?” John said, taking it from under his arm and putting it on Martyn’s head, where it rapidly slid down over his eyes. Martyn peered out from under it, said, “Hat” and gave it back with an order, “Put hat on.”

    “Well, I see you have trained him well, Fred. He’s been in this household two days and he’s already telling me what to do, just like you.”

    “Must start them early, John. Only way to do it, you know.”

    “I suppose.” John looked over to where Tara was holding her tiny little namesake and murmured. “She looks wonderful, Fred,” and I knew he wasn’t talking about my little girl, adorable though she is.

    “It’s a dream come true for both of us, isn’t it, John? Marriage to a wonderful wife, and now children,” I said, referring to Tara’s pregnancy, which would not be evident except for the sparkle in her eyes for some months to come. “She looks so natural holding a baby.”

    At that moment, tiny Tara turned her head to Tara’s breast and began to nuzzle. Tara coloured just a bit, laughed, and said, “I’m sorry, poppet, but I can’t help you, not just yet. Best give you back to Polly,” she said, smiling at the wet nurse, a young farm labourer’s wife from the village whose milk supply seemed more than adequate both for her own sturdy boy and our Miss Tara. In short order baby Tara was feeding greedily, even as John reached out a hand to beckon his wife to his side. Whatever it was he whispered to her, the look she gave him told Julie and me that they would be lucky to make it home before passion overtook them. Too bad the woods are damp and cold at this time of year.
     
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  17. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

    Joined:
    Feb 24, 2002
    Location:
    New England
    Fourth Week

    From the Papers of Patrick Franklin
    Junior Post Captain, HMS Jaguar, 32

    Saturday 27 November 1779

    It wasn’t that long ago – only last March – that my ship dropped anchor off the Lancashire coast and I went ashore in search of men. Now, I was coming for a different reason – to see my darling twin children christened in the parish church where I grew up as a boy. Given the babies’ age and the difficulty of travel overland, the Commodore suggested that we request the assistance of Mr. Richard Mason, who readily agreed to transport all the wives and children in his big Indiaman, Resolute Star. We of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy would take our own ships, now that they’re finally out of the various dockyards after the damage suffered in the Battle of the St. George Channel has been repaired, with the triple purpose of patrolling England’s coastline, showing the flag and escorting them to our destination, as well as doing a bit of recruiting – something that would not be too difficult, given the reputation of Commodore John Sinclair and his frigate captains – Bart Jones, Will Mason, and I.

    We were a numerous bunch, almost as numerous as the group that gathered two months ago to see the Commodore married to his lovely Tara. Michael Gilmore, my friend and mentor, brought his wife and baby son Peter; Will and Jennifer Mason were there, with Jennifer’s pregnancy just beginning to show; Commodore Sir John Sinclair and his Tara, who seems to have escaped morning sickness altogether, much to the envy of her friends and sisters-in-law; and of course my dear Aunt Julie and her new husband, John’s friend and physician Doctor Fred Bassingford.

    The makeshift nurseries aboard Resolute Star would be crowded, to say the least – Winifred Gilmore will not travel without Peter, Tina and I have our two, and even Dr. Fred and Aunt Julie have their adopted son and daughter, Martyn and Tara. Mr. Mason himself offered to command Resolute Star, saying that he wanted to “keep his hand in”, as if this canny merchant seaman needed to learn anything more about ships and the sea, with his eldest son Dick as first mate. This meant, of course, that Mrs. Lucy Mason came along, ostensibly to keep her sisters in law Jennifer and Tara company. “Though the real reason is so that they talk about babies, morning, noon, and night,” Will said with a grin, referring to the fact that his child and his brother’s are to be born only about two months apart, with Tara Sinclair’s due two months after that.”

    “Well, we won’t be there to listen to them, after all, Will,” I pointed out. “Your father and your brother can always retreat to the smoking room and blow a cloud when the talk gets too embarrassing. It’s enough to make a sailor blush!”

    “They may have to. And of course Mary Stewart is so close to delivering that I tried to convince her to stay home, but Stewart won’t let me go anywhere without him and I hadn’t the heart to separate them right now. So she’s on that ship too, surrounded by all those women who are worse than any doctor about making sure she doesn’t lift a finger. I’m surprised they let her go to the head by herself!”

    “After the stunt Tina pulled at the Commodore’s wedding, do you blame them? They’ll be watching her like hawks, and the first sign of any thing resembling labour they’ll have Fred, Joe Bryce, Eric Harmon and any other surgeon they can signal over there!”

    We laughed, but secretly, much as we love our wives, I think we were glad not to be in the midst of the hen party.

    We made it to Lancashire without incident. No one gave birth – which is good, since only Mary is anywhere near her due date – no children were lost overboard, though Martyn Bassingford, that imp of mischief, gave his mother a bit of a scare when he started climbing the rigging once - and no one got seasick.

    Father and Mother welcomed us all, though we chose to sleep aboard the ships since there simply is not enough room for us all in the tiny village where Father and Mother settled all those years ago. Father’s dream of finally meeting John Sinclair came true, we all crammed into our tiny parish church, and with Fred and Julie and the Commodore and Lady Sinclair as godparents my children were baptized into the Church of England by our dear friend, the Reverend Ralph Masters, who had been so kind to Tina when she first arrived last spring. As far as we know, the old Conde is still alive, so Tina and I are still not able to marry, but the children are mine legally and legitimately, by virtue of adoption. Tears ran freely down Tina’s piquant little face as Father Ralph turned first to John Sinclair and then to Aunt Julie, asking them to name little John and baby Barbara in turn. The water must have been cold – both of them squalled, and the assembled crowd, many of whom take this a sign of good fortune ahead, laughed and applauded. After the ceremony, we all adjourned to the Guildhall for a reception, it being the only building in the village large enough to hold us all. The proud godfathers insisted on paying for it; I protested, but I was overruled.

    In a fairly quiet moment, Father came up to me and remarked, “It’s quite a gathering, Pat.”

    “The wedding in September was bigger. It’s incredible – just in a few short months, John Sinclair has melded this group of captains from very disparate backgrounds into a fighting force that’s second to none in the Navy – and the wonder of it is the wives all get along! Lady Sinclair and Jennifer Mason have been so good to Tina. I don’t know how things are in Sir Malcolm’s other Flying Squadrons but when you join this one you join a family – most of whom seem to be named Mason at one time or another! This isn’t even all of them. There are three more boys – James runs the woollen mill in Cirencester for the family – the one that Jennifer’s cousin almost ruined, I wrote and told you about that – Robert was a lieutenant in the Navy but he lost his right forearm in the action off Cape Sable Island and is now Dick’s first mate on Firebrand and overseeing her outfitting, and there’s another son, David, who’s a captain in the Dragoon Guards in Scotland.”

    The party was winding down, in fact many of the women, especially the pregnant ones, had already retired to my parents’ house, when Sam Pasco came hurrying back into the room, looked around, spied out Nicholas Stewart, and crossed the room as fast as his peg leg would carry him. He said a few succinct words and led the way to the door, followed almost immediately by Surgeons Harmon and Bryce and Doctor Bassingford.

    “Beat to quarters, clear for action, load and run out,” my father said with a chuckle. “Looks like your lady is about to be upstaged in the annals of the Band of Brothers, Pat. I think Mrs. Stewart’s baby is either here or about to arrive very shortly.”

    He was right, of course. The party broke up and we all went back to the house to wait. Upstairs, there were what seemed like dozens of chattering women, including Mother and Aunt Julie. Downstairs, it was brandy and pipes, with rum for Stewart to fortify him, as we waited for the good news. He had started off in the room with his wife, but had become so woozy that Fred Bassingford threw him out to the tender mercies of his Captain and his friends. I think after a time he would have preferred to be dizzy, so largely did we tease him, but he stayed with us manfully. Finally, Aunt Julie came down the stairs and, without a word, moved over to the sideboard to pour a stiff tot of neat rum.

    Stewart looked worried. Why was she pouring rum? Was it bad news, and would he need the rum to strengthen him?

    “Don’t give him any more rum, Julie,” John Sinclair said. “He’s already about half-seas over as it is!”

    “This ain’t for him, John, it’s for me. We did it, Stewart - or I should say your Mary did it. Give us a few minutes to make them presentable and you can go up and meet your son.” She took a sip of the rum and smacked her lips appreciatively.

    Stewart, that battle-scarred veteran of many battles, the man who has forgotten more about sailing and seamanship than most of us will ever be able to learn, fainted.

    “Now, what did he have to go do that for? That’s supposed to be my bit. I’m the one who’s pregnant, after all – at forty-six!” she commented, as if thinking aloud. The news stunned us all to silence. We were frozen in tableau - Stewart passed out on the floor, Julie with a tot of rum in her hand - and just at that moment a voice we all knew as Fred Bassingford’s thundered, “Juliette Bassingford, put the bloody drink down, NOW! You know spirits aren’t good for the baby!”

    She put the drink down. She didn’t drop it, she placed it very carefully on the nearest ledge, and then she fired back.

    “Thank you, Doctor Blabbermouth! I was going to tell them in my own sweet time, starting with Elaine and James here, but oh, no! You had to blab it to all the world. Here we have two adopted children under the age of three and you have to go and get me pregnant – at my age!”

    “Julie, you were the one who mentioned it first,” Father said gently. “You really can’t blame Fred for this one.”

    “I can’t? Then who the hell else can I blame? I’m not loose, James, and you know it!”

    “Not the baby, Aunt Julie, we know it’s Doctor Fred’s baby. Father means you said you were pregnant when Stewart first fainted,” I explained.

    “I did?” She asked pausing for a moment with a puzzled expression on her face before continuing sheepishly, “Oh yes, I guess I did. Sometimes I say what I’m thinking – well most of the time I say what I think, but sometimes I don’t realize I’m saying it out loud, if you see what I mean. Well, anyway, now you know. Doesn’t seem possible, after all these years, but there it is. It must be something in the water at Thornbury. If you and Elaine come to visit us, James, I warn you I won’t be responsible for the consequences!”

    “No, Julie, I will,” my father said, echoing her earlier comment, and we succumbed to general laughter.
     
  18. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

    Joined:
    Feb 24, 2002
    Location:
    New England
    And that's all I had written when the bottom fell out. But here are the intended plot points for the rest of the story. They were subject to change of course but this was how I intended to proceed.

    Plot Points for A Show of Confidence

    Tara’s pregnancy through the birth of Thomas Sinclair

    Birthday Party for Stephen Mason, turns 14.

    Fred and Julie adopt then Julie is pregnant.

    Nicholas and Mary’s son Richard is born the day of John and Barbara Franklin’s baptism.

    Robert is fitted with a replacement hand. Designed and built by Sir David it has several screw-on attachments that allow him to regain much more use of the limb than is normal with an ordinary hook.

    The officers of the squadron have all been awarded a medal struck to honour their defeat of the Spanish at the battle of St. George Channel.

    Charles Neil, Captain Archer’s former senior, takes over Sandfly

    Stephen goes through a crisis of confidence caused by the death of his friend Tom Kennedy in the Battle of St. George Channel. His fear grows with every engagement finally culminating at the battle of Dominica, but he is able to conquer it and saves Will’s life in that battle although he is wounded doing so.

    Sinclair learns about Gwen’s affair with St. John.

    Will and Jennifer become friends with Mrs. Elvira Carlyle, an elderly widow who lives about 6 miles northeast of White Oaks. When she passes on over the winter she leaves them her estate of Birch Grove.

    Andrew Colby and his frigate Persephone join the squadron

    Squadron assigned to support Rodney’s fleet, by the end of the story Sinclair is largely running things.

    Will must deal with prejudice against his American origins from one of Rodney’s captains. Eventually he must fight a duel with the man in the Caribbean.

    Sinclair defeats six Spanish frigates in the Moonlight Battle off Cape St. Vincent, Rodney engages the ships of the line and gets the credit for everything.

    At Gibraltar, Pat learns that Christina's husband the old Conde has died and his older sons have disappeared.

    Christina’s little boys are rescued from the filthy brothel they had been sold to by their half-brothers by the Coxswains.

    Pat takes the boys home to England and marries Christina

    Sir David gives Dick some new gadgets (matches). St. J orders him to make contact with one of our agents in France who may have a lead on French naval movements.

    Jennifer miscarries the baby, complications

    Sinclair fights Don Felipe Jose de Ontiveros and sees him banished from Gibraltar, turns the Ontiveros estate into a home for orphans and foundlings. From his Rancho in Spain Don Felipe plots his revenge.

    Sinclair buys Rodney’s debts and uses the threat of debtors prison to gain a free hand with his squadron, by the end of the story Rodney’s attitudes toward subordinates has changed and he is willing to listen to their ideas without being forced to.

    Lucy gives birth to Richard Mason IV. Dick’s inquiries regarding Lloyd come up empty but he learns that a French fleet has been sent to the West Indies and gets the information to Sinclair who, through Rodney, orders the Fleet to quit Gibraltar and set sail for the Leeward Islands.

    Montaigne and Trent meet in neutral Holland, Montaigne offers Trent 2,000 pounds to see that Tara Sinclair is killed. Trent bargains him up to 5,000 and they strike a deal that includes a Captaincy in the French Navy if Trent is forced to flee England.

    Trent kidnaps Tara and tries to rape her before killing her but she turns the tables on him and defeats him in a sword fight that leaves him emasculated and bleeding to death. (He threatens to kill Snowflake unless she spreads her legs for him though disgusted at the prospect of being penetrated by him she can’t bear to let the cat be killed. Just as he prepares to penetrate her she manages to get hold of her stiletto and plunges it into him, pining him to the mattress by his manhood as he lets out a shriek of pain. To keep his men from entering she impersonates his voice, a trick she learnt from Lucy, and tells him “Shut up Bitch!” and cold cocks him. Then she gathers her clothes and his pistols and sword and shoots her way out killing two men with the pistols pinning the third to the wall with Trent’s sword. Trent dies four days later from the infection of his severed organ.)

    The fleet arrives in the West Indies, as confusion rages among the British at the Battle of Dominica it is up to Sinclair to stave off defeat at Admiral de Guichen’s hands although Sapphire, Jaguar, and Persephone are badly damaged in doing so.

    Sinclair and Mason lead a raid on Martinique that puts several ships damaged at the battle of Dominica to the torch while temporary repairs are made on his own ships at Antigua. Persephone is condemned as a hulk.

    The squadron sails for England were major repairs can be made to Sapphire and Jaguar; Antigua’s facilities are needed to repair Rodney’s ships of the line. They arrive in time for the birth of Thomas Sinclair in June.
     
  19. Robert Bruce Scott

    Robert Bruce Scott Commodore Commodore

    Joined:
    Jun 18, 2021
    Stories like this really don't have an end - just a stopping place. To quote Peter Jackson, great art is never finished, only abandoned.

    Looks like you have more writing to do. Thanks!! rbs
     
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  20. Duncan MacLeod

    Duncan MacLeod Fleet Captain Fleet Captain

    Joined:
    Feb 24, 2002
    Location:
    New England
    From the London Times 28 March 1825

    Passing of a Legend

    His Grace Admiral of the Fleet Sir John, Lord Sinclair,
    1st Duke of Avon, 1st Earl of Severn, 1st Viscount Thornbury, GCB,
    1735 - 1825


    28 March 1825

    It is with deep sadness that we must report the passing yesterday evening of His Grace the Most Noble Sir John, Lord Sinclair, 1st Duke of Avon, Earl of Severn, Viscount Thornbury, GCB, Admiral of the Fleet retired, and former First Sea Lord of the Admiralty at the age of 89.

    We are informed that His Grace passed quietly attended by his personal physician, Doctor James Bassingford, and with Her Grace Tara, Lady Sinclair, Duchess of Avon, his wife of forty-five years, at his side and in the presence of two of their children: Lord Andrew Sinclair and Lady Vanessa Sinclair-Armstrong. His eldest son, to whom his title will pass, the Most Honourable Lord Sir Thomas Sinclair, Marquis of Severn, KCB, Captain of HMS Furious, 84, is at sea, however is expected to return for His Grace’s interment. In addition His Grace is survived by six more children and seventeen grandchildren, his brother’s-in-law: Admiral of the Red the Honourable Lord Sir William Mason, Baron of Cirencester, GCB, Sir Richard Mason III, KCB, the Very Reverend Professor Robert Mason, D.D., and Mister James Mason of Cirencester; their wives and fifteen nieces and nephews.


    His Grace’s life in retrospect:

    Born at the Sinclair family estate of White Oaks on 12 September 1735 as the first son of Andrew Sinclair, Royal Magistrate of South Gloustershire, and grandson of pirate turned privateer Sir Thomas Sinclair, Knight Bachelor. His Grace first rose to prominence during the Seven Years War when his heroism earned him post rank at the age of 24; he rapidly followed this with the classic frigate action known as the Battle of the Ladies. He was married to Miss Angelique Leveque on 11 April 1761. Both Mrs. Sinclair and the child she was to bear were murdered on 21 March 1763. Her half-brother, Gerard Leveque, an agent for the French Government, was charged with and convicted of the crime.

    During the years following the Seven Years War, His Grace commanded the frigates Argo and Arethusa, of 28 and 32 guns respectively, on missions across the globe. Of particular attention is the action on 31 August 1768 off the Falkland Islands in which His Grace single-handedly defeated three large Spanish pirate vessels in addition to recapturing a British sloop-of-war which the pirates had taken some months earlier. A disagreement with Lord John Montagu, the Earl of Sandwich and First Lord of the Admiralty, in 1774 saw His Grace removed from command of HMS Arethusa and beached for a period of eighteen months. But in December of 1775 His Grace was once more given command of a King’s ship, HMS Goshawk of 32 guns, and sent on a mission to Spanish America.

    On 18 July 1778 His Grace was badly wounded in action with a pair of French frigates off Erris Head in Ireland and consequently spent nearly seven months recuperating ashore. In 1779 he was given command of what was to be his final ship, the frigate Sapphire of 36 guns, and returned to the Americas where he met Miss Tara Mason and subsequently won her heart. In July of that year orders reached His Grace appointing him Commodore over a small squadron, consisting of four frigates and a sloop-of-war, and charging him with the destruction of a similar enemy squadron. His success on that mission coupled with the defeat of a Spanish squadron attempting to foment a rebellion in Ireland saw him invested as Knight of the Bath upon his arrival in England.

    His Grace married Tara Mason shortly after their return in a lavish ceremony at White Oaks on 24 September 1779. After a short period ashore His Grace returned to sea, still a Commodore, but now subordinate to Admiral Sir George Rodney. He took part in the Moonlight Battle and the Battle of Dominica, winning high praise from Admiral Rodney in the latter action.

    Over the next several years His Grace saw action a number of times notably as a Commodore of the First Class at Dogger Bank against the Dutch in 1781 and in the East Indies in 1783 as Rear-Admiral of the Blue against the French at the Battle of the Sombrero Channel which won him a peerage as Viscount Thornbury.

    In 1785 His Grace was appointed Ambassador to the United States to deal with the question of compensation of loyalists for property seized or destroyed by the Americans during the revolution. Even in this diplomatic role His Grace managed to see action when an unscrupulous official attempted to abscond with the reparations aboard three de-commissioned frigates, forcing His Grace to give chase with his flagship HMS Ruby, 36, HM Sloop Firefly, 18, HM Brig Dart, 14; and accompanied by former General and future President George Washington with the American sloops Liberty and Franklin, both of 16 guns under Captain John Barry. This marked the first time that British and American naval forces have fought side-by-side. His Grace was later to remark his sincere hope that it would not be the last; thus far, however, that hope has gone unanswered.

    After two years ashore His Grace re-assembled his old squadron for a mission in the Baltic where he was called to protect British merchantmen, which were being attacked there supposedly by Russian warships. His Grace was able to uncover the truth at the Battle off the Skaw on 16 April 1789, when he defeated and captured a French Squadron flying Russian colours; learning that the plot to embroil England and Russia in war had been orchestrated by His Grace’s old enemy – the French Spymaster Henri-Albere Montaigne.

    After nearly four years on half-pay His Grace was called back to duty late in 1793 as Vice-Admiral of the Blue and given a squadron of five of the line, four frigates, and a sloop. He arrived in the Mediterranean following the debacle of Toulon and managed to evacuate approximately one thousand Royalists that had been under siege at Saint Tropez, destroying seven French warships in the process. A year later His Grace defeated a numerically superior French fleet at the second Battle of Minorca before bringing his squadron home in November of 1795. For this later victory His Grace was created Earl of Severn.

    With his squadron reinforced to a small fleet of nine sail of the line, five frigates and two sloops His Grace, then sixty years of age and still in superb condition both mentally and physically, set sail for the Mediterranean once more, to support his friend Sir John Jervis, the future Earl Saint Vincent. His Grace commanded the forces in the Eastern Med while Admiral Jervis commanded the Western half. Unfortunately when Spain suddenly switched sides in August 1796 Jervis was forced to quit the Mediterranean. For more than seven months His Grace led the enemy on a merry chase back and forth across 3000 miles of ocean, re-supplying where he was able, decimating shipping, and striking enemy men of war whenever he could. Eventually he was able to trick the Spanish fleet bottling him in the Mediterranean, out of position and his fleet made a dash through the straits of Gibraltar trailing over a dozen prizes behind them.

    Returning to White Oaks, His Grace remained there for two years while his ships were repaired. He granted his crews extended leave at their homes, much to the concern of many at Whitehall. These same officers were stunned when every man jack returned two years later to take up their posts once more. But His Grace had not been idle during this time. At his own expense, His Grace designed and built a ship of the line that made use the, then revolutionary, technique of diagonal bracing to strengthen the hull and eliminate hogging. This allowed her to mount eighty-four guns while still maintaining the speed and manoeuvrability of a much smaller ship. She was named Excelsior and when she was completed and joined the fleet in 1801 she became the model for the way ships would be designed to this day.

    In 1802 His Grace, then Admiral of the Blue, defeated a powerful French fleet in the Aegean Sea. This victory was marred by the loss of his friend Rear-Admiral Sir Patrick Franklin, KB. Following the short-lived Peace of Amiens, His Grace accepted command of the North Sea Fleet. One month prior to the battle of Trafalgar, the North Sea Fleet intercepted and defeated a superior Dutch fleet that was enroute to Cadiz with the intent of joining the French and Spanish there. Had His Grace not managed to stop them, in an engagement off the Shetland Islands, it is entirely possible that Trafalgar would have had a very different outcome.

    His Grace served as Commander-in-Chief in the Caribbean from 1806-1807 basing his squadrons out of Kingston, Antigua, and Barbados. It was here that he first fought Maréchal suprême de la mer Sebastien Allais, whom Bonaparte had commanded to destroy him. Although this attempt, made with a fleet comprising twenty ships of the line and eight frigates and corvettes, was unsuccessful, Allais learned much and did not give up. It was shortly after returning to England from this deployment that His Grace was created Duke of Avon.

    Shortly thereafter His Grace was appointed as Commander of the Western Approaches Fleet based at Plymouth in 1808-1809, a force of some twenty-one of the line, six frigates, and two sloops-of-war. Changing tactics the wily Maréchal Allais used subterfuge, slander, and His Grace’s old enemy: the spymaster Henri-Albere Montaigne and his network of agents, to strike at His Grace. Together the pair very nearly succeeded in their aim, killing several of His Grace’s people including His Grace’s cox’n – Ian MacGregor, who had been with His Grace for more than fifty years and whom he considered a personal friend. This was the final straw as far as His Grace was concerned and he struck back using Montaigne’s own network against him before slaying Montaigne in personal combat.

    Between November 1810 and November 1812 His Grace held his final command at sea, serving as Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet, flying his flag from the 110-gun HMS Queen Anne and supported by twenty-two ships of the line, ten frigates, and three sloops-of-war. It was in December of 1811 that His Grace’s seniority elevated him to Admiral of the Fleet. As a mark of the esteem in which he was held, Their Lordships permitted him to finish the second year of this deployment before recalling him to London. It was well that they did so, for, under relentless pressure from Maréchal Allais, the French Ministry of Marine had built a new fleet and Allais was able to break out of Toulon with twenty-nine of the line and over a dozen frigates inflicting no small damage to Vice-Admiral of the Red Lord Sir William Mason’s Toulon Squadron before disappearing into the night.

    Over the next several months the two fleets jabbed and feinted at one another like well-matched pugilists before coming together for a final, decisive embrace in the third Battle of Minorca. His Grace broke the French line only to have to break it a second time when the French were able to re-form it. For nearly seven hours the opposing fleets pounded at one another as both commanders exploited every opportunity available to them. In the end the French fleet was destroyed with most of their ships taking a final plunge to the bottom rather than surrendering. Maréchal Allais was among those who chose death. With their newly built fleet destroyed and their finest admiral dead, the French never again seriously challenged British mastery of the seas.

    But many British ships were also battered into hulks and more than four thousand had given life or limb for King and Country, among the dead was Captain Sir Stephen Mason, KB - His Grace’s brother-in-law.

    Returning to England in December of 1812, His Grace took up the administrative duties more commonly associated with the Navy’s most senior admiral. That he was tired of all the blood and destruction is a matter of public record. Less well known is His Grace’s opposition to war with America. Both as Admiral of the Fleet and as First Sea Lord, when he took up that post at the request of the Prime Minister, His Grace did much to try to avert a collision of British and American interests, but to no avail. After that conflict had dragged on for three years there were some in London that began to whisper that His Grace had not pursued victory with sufficient vigour. In response His Grace tendered his resignation and retired to his estate. It was a mostly symbolic act, as the Second American War was, by that time, over.

    In the ten years following his retirement, His Grace had continued to use his influence to guide promising young officers up the ladder of responsibility in His Majesty’s Navy, as well as setting up a school for aspiring sea officers and working to improve the lot of the common seaman. Although not unexpected, given his advanced age, His Grace’s passing has been a very real blow to all who knew him and to His Majesty’s Navy. We have no doubt that His Grace’s legacy, as both a sea officer and a man, will be with the Royal Navy for many years to come.
     
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