Third Week
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair
Friday, 16 April 1779
“Stop your vents!” cried Lieutenant Liam Talbot. “Sponge out! Load! Run out! Prime! Cock your Locks! Fire!” Sapphire’s starboard broadside crashed out on a thunderous roar.
“Again!” Talbot yelled as the sweating men worked swiftly to reload the battery. I was watching from the quarterdeck rail as the crew went through the gun drill once again. They had been at it since early morning with only a short break at noontime. None the less they were up to the challenge. For the last week our concentration had been on gun drill and the reload time was steadily dropping. The gun crews were becoming more experienced and with that experience had come speed. On the 12th we had reached two broadsides in two minutes and were now rapidly closing on three.
The third broadside in the series thundered out. As the gun smoke swirled about them the crews turned expectantly aft where Jones stood with his watch. The first lieutenant looked over to me, his eyes told me what I needed to know and I nodded to him. He stepped up to the rail and pronounced.
“One minute and fifty-nine seconds!” The decks erupted in cheering. I waited for it to die down and then turned to the Purser.
“Mr. Ford,” I called loudly enough for all to hear. “A tot of rum to these fine lads, they have more than earned it!” Whatever Ford said in reply was drowned out be the fresh eruption of cheering. Again I waited for it to die down.
“Tomorrow we shall start drilling for accuracy, Lads. It is not nearly as much heavy work but rather a more exacting skill. Enchanté will drop empty casks overboard for us to shoot at as we pass. It shall be the larboard battery competing against the starboard with the losers providing the night’s entertainment.”
“Secure the guns, Mr. Jones.” I said turning to the first lieutenant. “Then dismiss the hands below.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “Do you think Mr. Cross has reached England yet, sir?”
“More than likely.” I answered. “Why do you ask?”
“With him gone we’re short a master’s mate. With your permission I’d like to examine some of the senior hands to see about filling the vacancy, sir?”
I had hoped to make due until an experienced man could be assigned in New York but Jones was right. We were too short-handed with the prize-crew aboard Enchanté.
“Very well, Mr. Jones.” I nodded. “See to it. Have a list ready for me by tomorrow noon.”
He touched his hat to me and I went below.
Excerpt from the Diary of William Mason
Friday 16 April 1779
In and amongst all the al fresco picnics, walks in the grounds, musical evenings after dinner, fencing lessons downstairs, nursery teas, visits to the barn, and today a tour of the old Tudor Manor house nearby, we have managed to get some work done towards solving the financial mess that Benjamin Willis left behind. It is still a mystery to me how he was able to do so much damage in such a short time – when I left England after Christmas the firm was one of the most prosperous in the West Country, I can only imagine that he began his perfidity far earlier than any of us suspected. In any case, the deed is done and now we must repair the damage. Bill’s legal training has been invaluable, since we still do not know if Benjamin Willis is alive or dead. All of us wish that we would hear reports of his death by fair means or foul simply so we can get on with our lives. Certainly Willis has lost all claim to ownership of the business by his many crimes, including embezzlement and fraud, and we have all lodged formal complaints against him with the local magistrate on behalf of our wives, who were really the injured parties. In the meantime, we have set plans in motion to ensure that the family and the business will both survive and eventually even flourish.
Bill brought a clear summary of the situation with him when he came, as well as the firm's books – the real ones, not the false set that Willis had been showing him to conceal his crimes. These were found in a secret drawer of Willis’s desk, along with the incriminating letters and bills. Over the course of the week we have looked at where we are – deeply in debt on all sides - where we would like to be – free of all debt – and what resources we have to get from one to the other.
“We owe you thousands of pounds, Will.” Bill said ruefully. “The remainder of Jennifer’s dowry, to start with, plus her inheritance and the money owed Mason Shipping. Helen and Winifred’s dowries were paid when they married, so they were to receive only a token sum, hardly enough to be reckoned with in the grand scheme of things – Willis actually paid it, at least Helen’s share.”
“Winifred’s too.” Michael said.
“To cover his tracks, no doubt. He paid two installments of Jennifer’s legacy, so you owe me five hundred pounds less than this figure.” I made a quick correction. “And the money is owed to Mason Shipping, not to me personally, but I will be responsible for that debt as part of the partnership agreement. I will square that with my brother.”
When they first arrived, I had explained how my Father had been so deeply shocked by Mother’s death that he could no longer function in the real world, so that my oldest brother Richard was now in charge of the business and doing a very good job of it.
“Then your family is more fortunate than ours,” Bill had remarked bitterly. “It is a shame that Mr. Willis could not even trust his own nephew, a man he had taken in as a child and raised as his own, to do the right thing.”
The negotiations continued. “Now this is the figure we need, are we agreed on that?” They nodded. “This is what you can afford to spend, Michael, and this is yours, Bill. Here’s what I propose: Michael, would you be willing to sell the cottage and move into the town house and share it with Alice at least for the next few years?”
“Of course, it’s a big house and we get along well. She and the children will be company for Winifred once I go back to sea.”
“Good. Then I suggest that the firm buy the house from the bankers, and you lease it back from the firm. Use the proceeds of the sale of your cottage to invest in the firm, along with what prize money you can spare. Bill, I understand your resources are limited. Can you contribute this much?” I wrote down a figure, and he agreed.
“Then what Michael can spend, plus what Bill can spend subtracted from what we need leaves just under two thousand pounds left. I will cover that.” I said calmly. This would leave me with fifteen hundred pounds of my current prize and reward money left, plus my income as a shareholder of Mason Shipping – enough to buy a small estate here in England when one became available. Once the mill began turning a profit again I would have money from that as well, of course.
“If you invest two thousand and we add what we owe you as the representative of Mason Shipping plus what we owe Jennifer your share of the business will be fifty-two percent, Will, and Michael and I will split the other forty-eight percent proportionately. It looks like you are in the wool business, brother-in-law!”
“Why not? I think it will be a good investment for the future. At least if I’m ever stuck on the beach on half-pay I’ll have a job waiting for me as a wool merchant,” I joked.
There were details to be worked out, of course, but that was the essence of the agreement. “If all goes well, sometime in the next month or so we should be able inaugurate the new Mason-Gilmore-Rolland Mill.”
“I don’t see why we should change the name, Bill. Willis Woolens is an old and respected firm.” I protested.
“It was,” Michael interjected. “It's under a cloud now. Best start afresh. You’re the majority partner, the managing director if you will. Mason-Gilmore-Rolland is best.”
“You know, for a sea officer, you’re a damned fine businessman, Michael.”
“You know, for a sea officer, you are too, Will.”
Bill just looked at the two of us, shook his head, and grinned.
From the Diary of Jennifer Mason
Friday 16 April 1779
William’s sister Tara has been with us here in New York for most of a week. When Dick Mason brought her on Sunday night we were shocked at how thin and pale she was; she fainted and then slept for the better part of two days, with Mary Stewart to watch over her. Given Mary’s age – mid-thirties - and her history of miscarriage, I am determined that she not do anything to compromise this pregnancy, so I have given Tara entirely into her care and made other arrangements for the cooking and cleaning. We have Maisie Hollis, of course, but her advancing pregnancy makes doing the ‘rough’ unwise, although when I told her so she looked at me in some considerable surprise.
“I done all that right up until the last one were born, mum. Weren’t no choice.”
“Well now you have one, and I want this baby to be as healthy as possible. Do you have a friend – someone who isn’t expecting, at least not at the moment - who could help you with the rough?”
As a result of this conversation we acquired the services of Lucy Mays, whose husband is also a sergeant in the North Gloucestershires. Between the two of them, they see that our home is clean, our food well prepared, and our fires maintained. As to wood, once a week a regimental supply wagon appears with another load. No payment is every accepted and Hollis will say only, “Colonel’s orders, mum.”
Dick left us plenty of money to buy food, so Mary has not stinted us on good things to eat, although she can still make a pound stretch farther than anyone else I have ever met. Maisie and Lucy take turns seeing what culinary delights they can produce to tempt ‘Miss Tara’ to eat, and they are beginning to see some results, if only because Mary gently coaxes, cajoles and even dragoons her charge into eating. She is starting to put on some flesh and look less pale, but there is still a long way to go. Dick will be gone for several months to England, so we have set as our goal having her healthy and hearty by the time he returns.
Last night, after she had gone to bed with one of Maisie’s good suppers in her, thanks to Mary’s persuasive efforts, Mary came back into the sitting room and took up her mending. Her hands are never idle – mending, knitting, or some other sedentary task, she is always busy. I am just glad that she is content to do those things and not insist on chopping wood or scrubbing floors.
“Tara is eating better, don’t you think?”
“Yes’m. That she is. Takes a bit of doing, but she eats. No, I think I can put the flesh back on her bones right enough, though it will be a slow road. I'm more worried about her mental state. That child has had so much to bear, it’s like she shut herself off from all feeling because it hurts too much. She’s like a doll, she’ll do what you ask, but there's no life in her, no spark, and no wonder. You and me, Miss Jen, we’ve had to bear a lot, but we had our men to hold us up. Since Tim Atwood was lost two years ago she’s had nobody. Her brothers love her, but it ain’t the same as having a man of her own to love her and care for her – and give her someone to care for in return.”
“She’s barely nineteen.”
“Makes no difference. She’s been carrying a woman’s responsibilities for years, maybe it’s time she found a woman’s love. Besides I was fifteen when I married Daniel Morgan, and he was twenty years older. It was the makin’ of me. I wouldn’t be what I am today but for Daniel, and Nicolas knows it.”
“You think Tara would be better with an older man, someone even twenty years her senior?”
“Yes’m, I do. Be the makin’ of her, I think, like it were for me. With the right man, mind you, not some dried-up old stick or some old reprobate looking for a young wife to get a son on. Someone who would love her for herself, who knows how to cherish a woman like these young tearaway officers we see around here never could understand.”
She glanced at the clock above the mantel. “Bedtime for all of us, Miss Jen. You go on ahead, I’ll lock up and bank up the fire.”
I went into the room where Tara was already deeply asleep and began to prepare for bed. Mary had given me a lot to think about.
Excerpt from the Diary of William Mason
Saturday 17 April 1779
It has been exactly two months since my injury, and nearly two weeks since we arrived back in England. Much has happened; Leveque has been executed for his crimes, I have got to know my wife’s family very well and found that I like them immensely, and I have even bought a controlling interest in a woolen mill into the bargain. Thanks to approved exercise, plenty of rest and Mrs. Sommersby’s good food, and the special ‘whirling water’ tub Sir David invented, I feel better than I have in months, and so I told Harmon.
“Very well, sir, I release you from care, but with the proviso that you not go to sea for at least another week and that you cut back if the leg starts to give you the slightest bit of trouble,” he said.
“As I have no orders, I hardly think going to sea is likely, Harmon. Have I your approval to go for a horseback ride?”
“A ride, yes. A steeplechase, no.”
“No fear, Harmon. It’s not foxhunting season for months yet.”
I chose one of the fine blooded horses in Captain Sinclair’s stables and off we went, Michael, Stephen, Bill and I. Harmon volunteered to stay and keep the ladies - read Alice Willis - company, and Stewart, who makes friends wherever he goes, was elsewhere on the estate. We had a wonderful ride, invigorating but not too tiring, and we came home with heightened appetites and cheerful faces. I was just getting off the horse in the stableyard when Stewart appeared as if from nowhere – something he does so often I have learned not to start when he does so.
“Visitor for you, Captain.”
“Oh? Anyone I know?”
“You might recognize him, sir. It’s young Andrew Cross, used to be in Sapphire. You might have seen him when we visited aboard last month.”
“Indeed? He’s a long way from his ship. How does he come to be here?”
“He told me the story, Captain, but it’s really his to tell. He has a letter for you from Captain Sinclair. He’s in the library.”
“Tell him I’ll be with him in ten minutes time, as soon as I get the worst of the dirt off myself.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Andrew Cross is a fine, well-set up young man a year or two older than I, a native of Wiltshire, he tells me, and a veteran of Sinclair’s former command, Goshawk. He had proven his worth to his captain in more than one action, so much so that Sinclair had promoted him to master’s mate two years before. Despite the difference in their ages, it was obvious that he and Stewart had got on like a house afire. He rose when I descended the library stairs from the upper floor gallery and knuckled his forehead.
“Cross, sir, formerly of HMS Sapphire. I’m to give you this letter, sir.”
I scanned it briefly. “You come very highly recommended, Cross. It’s a bit of a step down, going from a fast frigate like Sapphire to a sloop of war, but if you'd like to cast your lot in with us, there’s a berth for you aboard Paladin. My master, Mr. Boyd, is one of the best in His Majesty’s Navy, so I’m sure you’ll find the experience beneficial.”
“I’m certain I will, sir, and thank you. What are your orders, Captain?”
“Well, no point in traveling to Portsmouth over the weekend, especially not Easter weekend. Stay here, I’m sure we can put you up for a few days, unless you’d rather go home to your family? Wiltshire is just the next county over, after all.”
He declined the offer with a smile, saying he had seen his family in February and it would be just as easy to visit them on the way down to Hampshire as not.
“Very well, then, I’ll have Stewart see to it. Now, I want to hear all about this battle you had with the French frigate and how you brought this little brig into Bristol. At least you hadn’t far to travel to get here, much easier than coming overland from Portsmouth…”
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair
Friday, 16 April 1779
“Stop your vents!” cried Lieutenant Liam Talbot. “Sponge out! Load! Run out! Prime! Cock your Locks! Fire!” Sapphire’s starboard broadside crashed out on a thunderous roar.
“Again!” Talbot yelled as the sweating men worked swiftly to reload the battery. I was watching from the quarterdeck rail as the crew went through the gun drill once again. They had been at it since early morning with only a short break at noontime. None the less they were up to the challenge. For the last week our concentration had been on gun drill and the reload time was steadily dropping. The gun crews were becoming more experienced and with that experience had come speed. On the 12th we had reached two broadsides in two minutes and were now rapidly closing on three.
The third broadside in the series thundered out. As the gun smoke swirled about them the crews turned expectantly aft where Jones stood with his watch. The first lieutenant looked over to me, his eyes told me what I needed to know and I nodded to him. He stepped up to the rail and pronounced.
“One minute and fifty-nine seconds!” The decks erupted in cheering. I waited for it to die down and then turned to the Purser.
“Mr. Ford,” I called loudly enough for all to hear. “A tot of rum to these fine lads, they have more than earned it!” Whatever Ford said in reply was drowned out be the fresh eruption of cheering. Again I waited for it to die down.
“Tomorrow we shall start drilling for accuracy, Lads. It is not nearly as much heavy work but rather a more exacting skill. Enchanté will drop empty casks overboard for us to shoot at as we pass. It shall be the larboard battery competing against the starboard with the losers providing the night’s entertainment.”
“Secure the guns, Mr. Jones.” I said turning to the first lieutenant. “Then dismiss the hands below.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “Do you think Mr. Cross has reached England yet, sir?”
“More than likely.” I answered. “Why do you ask?”
“With him gone we’re short a master’s mate. With your permission I’d like to examine some of the senior hands to see about filling the vacancy, sir?”
I had hoped to make due until an experienced man could be assigned in New York but Jones was right. We were too short-handed with the prize-crew aboard Enchanté.
“Very well, Mr. Jones.” I nodded. “See to it. Have a list ready for me by tomorrow noon.”
He touched his hat to me and I went below.
Excerpt from the Diary of William Mason
Friday 16 April 1779
In and amongst all the al fresco picnics, walks in the grounds, musical evenings after dinner, fencing lessons downstairs, nursery teas, visits to the barn, and today a tour of the old Tudor Manor house nearby, we have managed to get some work done towards solving the financial mess that Benjamin Willis left behind. It is still a mystery to me how he was able to do so much damage in such a short time – when I left England after Christmas the firm was one of the most prosperous in the West Country, I can only imagine that he began his perfidity far earlier than any of us suspected. In any case, the deed is done and now we must repair the damage. Bill’s legal training has been invaluable, since we still do not know if Benjamin Willis is alive or dead. All of us wish that we would hear reports of his death by fair means or foul simply so we can get on with our lives. Certainly Willis has lost all claim to ownership of the business by his many crimes, including embezzlement and fraud, and we have all lodged formal complaints against him with the local magistrate on behalf of our wives, who were really the injured parties. In the meantime, we have set plans in motion to ensure that the family and the business will both survive and eventually even flourish.
Bill brought a clear summary of the situation with him when he came, as well as the firm's books – the real ones, not the false set that Willis had been showing him to conceal his crimes. These were found in a secret drawer of Willis’s desk, along with the incriminating letters and bills. Over the course of the week we have looked at where we are – deeply in debt on all sides - where we would like to be – free of all debt – and what resources we have to get from one to the other.
“We owe you thousands of pounds, Will.” Bill said ruefully. “The remainder of Jennifer’s dowry, to start with, plus her inheritance and the money owed Mason Shipping. Helen and Winifred’s dowries were paid when they married, so they were to receive only a token sum, hardly enough to be reckoned with in the grand scheme of things – Willis actually paid it, at least Helen’s share.”
“Winifred’s too.” Michael said.
“To cover his tracks, no doubt. He paid two installments of Jennifer’s legacy, so you owe me five hundred pounds less than this figure.” I made a quick correction. “And the money is owed to Mason Shipping, not to me personally, but I will be responsible for that debt as part of the partnership agreement. I will square that with my brother.”
When they first arrived, I had explained how my Father had been so deeply shocked by Mother’s death that he could no longer function in the real world, so that my oldest brother Richard was now in charge of the business and doing a very good job of it.
“Then your family is more fortunate than ours,” Bill had remarked bitterly. “It is a shame that Mr. Willis could not even trust his own nephew, a man he had taken in as a child and raised as his own, to do the right thing.”
The negotiations continued. “Now this is the figure we need, are we agreed on that?” They nodded. “This is what you can afford to spend, Michael, and this is yours, Bill. Here’s what I propose: Michael, would you be willing to sell the cottage and move into the town house and share it with Alice at least for the next few years?”
“Of course, it’s a big house and we get along well. She and the children will be company for Winifred once I go back to sea.”
“Good. Then I suggest that the firm buy the house from the bankers, and you lease it back from the firm. Use the proceeds of the sale of your cottage to invest in the firm, along with what prize money you can spare. Bill, I understand your resources are limited. Can you contribute this much?” I wrote down a figure, and he agreed.
“Then what Michael can spend, plus what Bill can spend subtracted from what we need leaves just under two thousand pounds left. I will cover that.” I said calmly. This would leave me with fifteen hundred pounds of my current prize and reward money left, plus my income as a shareholder of Mason Shipping – enough to buy a small estate here in England when one became available. Once the mill began turning a profit again I would have money from that as well, of course.
“If you invest two thousand and we add what we owe you as the representative of Mason Shipping plus what we owe Jennifer your share of the business will be fifty-two percent, Will, and Michael and I will split the other forty-eight percent proportionately. It looks like you are in the wool business, brother-in-law!”
“Why not? I think it will be a good investment for the future. At least if I’m ever stuck on the beach on half-pay I’ll have a job waiting for me as a wool merchant,” I joked.
There were details to be worked out, of course, but that was the essence of the agreement. “If all goes well, sometime in the next month or so we should be able inaugurate the new Mason-Gilmore-Rolland Mill.”
“I don’t see why we should change the name, Bill. Willis Woolens is an old and respected firm.” I protested.
“It was,” Michael interjected. “It's under a cloud now. Best start afresh. You’re the majority partner, the managing director if you will. Mason-Gilmore-Rolland is best.”
“You know, for a sea officer, you’re a damned fine businessman, Michael.”
“You know, for a sea officer, you are too, Will.”
Bill just looked at the two of us, shook his head, and grinned.
From the Diary of Jennifer Mason
Friday 16 April 1779
William’s sister Tara has been with us here in New York for most of a week. When Dick Mason brought her on Sunday night we were shocked at how thin and pale she was; she fainted and then slept for the better part of two days, with Mary Stewart to watch over her. Given Mary’s age – mid-thirties - and her history of miscarriage, I am determined that she not do anything to compromise this pregnancy, so I have given Tara entirely into her care and made other arrangements for the cooking and cleaning. We have Maisie Hollis, of course, but her advancing pregnancy makes doing the ‘rough’ unwise, although when I told her so she looked at me in some considerable surprise.
“I done all that right up until the last one were born, mum. Weren’t no choice.”
“Well now you have one, and I want this baby to be as healthy as possible. Do you have a friend – someone who isn’t expecting, at least not at the moment - who could help you with the rough?”
As a result of this conversation we acquired the services of Lucy Mays, whose husband is also a sergeant in the North Gloucestershires. Between the two of them, they see that our home is clean, our food well prepared, and our fires maintained. As to wood, once a week a regimental supply wagon appears with another load. No payment is every accepted and Hollis will say only, “Colonel’s orders, mum.”
Dick left us plenty of money to buy food, so Mary has not stinted us on good things to eat, although she can still make a pound stretch farther than anyone else I have ever met. Maisie and Lucy take turns seeing what culinary delights they can produce to tempt ‘Miss Tara’ to eat, and they are beginning to see some results, if only because Mary gently coaxes, cajoles and even dragoons her charge into eating. She is starting to put on some flesh and look less pale, but there is still a long way to go. Dick will be gone for several months to England, so we have set as our goal having her healthy and hearty by the time he returns.
Last night, after she had gone to bed with one of Maisie’s good suppers in her, thanks to Mary’s persuasive efforts, Mary came back into the sitting room and took up her mending. Her hands are never idle – mending, knitting, or some other sedentary task, she is always busy. I am just glad that she is content to do those things and not insist on chopping wood or scrubbing floors.
“Tara is eating better, don’t you think?”
“Yes’m. That she is. Takes a bit of doing, but she eats. No, I think I can put the flesh back on her bones right enough, though it will be a slow road. I'm more worried about her mental state. That child has had so much to bear, it’s like she shut herself off from all feeling because it hurts too much. She’s like a doll, she’ll do what you ask, but there's no life in her, no spark, and no wonder. You and me, Miss Jen, we’ve had to bear a lot, but we had our men to hold us up. Since Tim Atwood was lost two years ago she’s had nobody. Her brothers love her, but it ain’t the same as having a man of her own to love her and care for her – and give her someone to care for in return.”
“She’s barely nineteen.”
“Makes no difference. She’s been carrying a woman’s responsibilities for years, maybe it’s time she found a woman’s love. Besides I was fifteen when I married Daniel Morgan, and he was twenty years older. It was the makin’ of me. I wouldn’t be what I am today but for Daniel, and Nicolas knows it.”
“You think Tara would be better with an older man, someone even twenty years her senior?”
“Yes’m, I do. Be the makin’ of her, I think, like it were for me. With the right man, mind you, not some dried-up old stick or some old reprobate looking for a young wife to get a son on. Someone who would love her for herself, who knows how to cherish a woman like these young tearaway officers we see around here never could understand.”
She glanced at the clock above the mantel. “Bedtime for all of us, Miss Jen. You go on ahead, I’ll lock up and bank up the fire.”
I went into the room where Tara was already deeply asleep and began to prepare for bed. Mary had given me a lot to think about.
Excerpt from the Diary of William Mason
Saturday 17 April 1779
It has been exactly two months since my injury, and nearly two weeks since we arrived back in England. Much has happened; Leveque has been executed for his crimes, I have got to know my wife’s family very well and found that I like them immensely, and I have even bought a controlling interest in a woolen mill into the bargain. Thanks to approved exercise, plenty of rest and Mrs. Sommersby’s good food, and the special ‘whirling water’ tub Sir David invented, I feel better than I have in months, and so I told Harmon.
“Very well, sir, I release you from care, but with the proviso that you not go to sea for at least another week and that you cut back if the leg starts to give you the slightest bit of trouble,” he said.
“As I have no orders, I hardly think going to sea is likely, Harmon. Have I your approval to go for a horseback ride?”
“A ride, yes. A steeplechase, no.”
“No fear, Harmon. It’s not foxhunting season for months yet.”
I chose one of the fine blooded horses in Captain Sinclair’s stables and off we went, Michael, Stephen, Bill and I. Harmon volunteered to stay and keep the ladies - read Alice Willis - company, and Stewart, who makes friends wherever he goes, was elsewhere on the estate. We had a wonderful ride, invigorating but not too tiring, and we came home with heightened appetites and cheerful faces. I was just getting off the horse in the stableyard when Stewart appeared as if from nowhere – something he does so often I have learned not to start when he does so.
“Visitor for you, Captain.”
“Oh? Anyone I know?”
“You might recognize him, sir. It’s young Andrew Cross, used to be in Sapphire. You might have seen him when we visited aboard last month.”
“Indeed? He’s a long way from his ship. How does he come to be here?”
“He told me the story, Captain, but it’s really his to tell. He has a letter for you from Captain Sinclair. He’s in the library.”
“Tell him I’ll be with him in ten minutes time, as soon as I get the worst of the dirt off myself.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Andrew Cross is a fine, well-set up young man a year or two older than I, a native of Wiltshire, he tells me, and a veteran of Sinclair’s former command, Goshawk. He had proven his worth to his captain in more than one action, so much so that Sinclair had promoted him to master’s mate two years before. Despite the difference in their ages, it was obvious that he and Stewart had got on like a house afire. He rose when I descended the library stairs from the upper floor gallery and knuckled his forehead.
“Cross, sir, formerly of HMS Sapphire. I’m to give you this letter, sir.”
I scanned it briefly. “You come very highly recommended, Cross. It’s a bit of a step down, going from a fast frigate like Sapphire to a sloop of war, but if you'd like to cast your lot in with us, there’s a berth for you aboard Paladin. My master, Mr. Boyd, is one of the best in His Majesty’s Navy, so I’m sure you’ll find the experience beneficial.”
“I’m certain I will, sir, and thank you. What are your orders, Captain?”
“Well, no point in traveling to Portsmouth over the weekend, especially not Easter weekend. Stay here, I’m sure we can put you up for a few days, unless you’d rather go home to your family? Wiltshire is just the next county over, after all.”
He declined the offer with a smile, saying he had seen his family in February and it would be just as easy to visit them on the way down to Hampshire as not.
“Very well, then, I’ll have Stewart see to it. Now, I want to hear all about this battle you had with the French frigate and how you brought this little brig into Bristol. At least you hadn’t far to travel to get here, much easier than coming overland from Portsmouth…”
