Colonel Brandon's quest chapter 1

Chapter 1

The black clad man sat alone at the table in the saloon, with a well-deserved drink and a pipe.  He was the sort of man whom most law abiding people might take at first glance to be a lawyer or a business man; until they looked into his eyes.

  Those narrow, almost almond shaped eyes were devoid of any emotion but watchfulness; they were eyes that had gazed on death so often that they almost held an echo of the grave in them.  The face was bland and gave little away; but the discerning might note that not all the lines about the eyes were from squinting at the bright desert landscape; some were emissaries of humour in a man who had known laughter, as the faint lines by his mouth told a similar story.  Some might say that his humour was as dark as the death that looked out of his eyes; others that he had buried it six feet under.  But those who had most cause to complain about his humour were themselves beyond complaining in the land of the living.

He was a man who, once they had looked into his eyes, the law-abiding avoided as dangerous.

He was a bounty hunter.

Unlike many of his profession he chose to maintain a level of civilisation in his appearance, in an impeccable morning suit and damask vest, and a neat hat, all in unrelieved black; and he kept his appearance immaculate.

 He was aware of the light step behind him and used the mirror behind the bar to ascertain that it was not the barmaid as he had initially guessed  but a youth who could be no more than a boy. 

There was no apparent change to his demeanour; but he was ready.  Even for a boy.

The sable-clad man had never seen this boy before.  But that did not mean that the boy was not trouble.  And the boy made his way purposefully, threading through the rickety tables to approach the only currently occupied one, lithely making his way across the room. Unhurriedly the older man tapped out the dottle of his pipe with one hand; his other hovered near the butt of a gun, out of sight, under the table.  The boy swayed through the encumbrances with some grace. He came up to the older man’s table.

“Colonel Brandon ?” the boy spoke softly.

“Mm’Mm?” said the colonel. It was a grunt which might have meant almost anything.

“May I join you?” asked the boy.

“It’s a free world,” said the Colonel.  His tone was not encouraging.  He gave his attention to his pipe, filling it carefully; seeming not to even look at the newcomer.

Seeming.

The piercing eyes missed nothing though they seemed to concentrate only on the pipe as though that was the only thing in the world he cared about.

It did not seem to deter the youth – he did not even shave yet, thought Brandon  – who sat down opposite. The youth was slender to the point of being almost emaciated, pale of complexion, with crisp golden hair which looked as though it wanted to curl if it was permitted to get too long. It curled at his collar. His clothes were good quality if rather sober and more suited to an older man.  His tie was badly tied and it irritated the colonel, who frowned at it.  The colonel’s own string tie was impeccably tied, and his own pale locks cut short and neat, like his well-trimmed moustache and goatee beard, a gentleman’s style of facial hair.

The youth studied him, carefully.

“I was looking for you,” said the boy. “You are Colonel Brandon  aren’t you?  You didn’t exactly confirm it.”

Brandon  looked up from his pipe and regarded the boy.

“I am,” he said.  “I believe you have the advantage of me.”

The youth flushed.

“Robert,” he said. “Robert …Lee”

“Well if you claim a middle initial of ‘E’ I can’t say I’d be sure I’d believe that,” said Brandon.

“I was named for General Lee; plenty of people were,” said the boy. “Most people call me Bobby.”

Brandon  grunted.

“It’s a little boy’s name.  You appear to be just a little boy.  What’s a little boy doing in a bar talking to a bounty hunter?” he laid down the pipe and took a pull on the liquor in his glass. “I am not the sort of person nice little boys should be talking to.”

Bobby smiled shyly. It made a pair of dimples appear.

“I wanted to ask if you’d take me as your apprentice,” he said.

Brandon almost choked on his drink.

“Boy, you are insane,” he said. “It’s not the sort of thing a young kid like you does by choice.  Go back home to your mammy and pappy.”

“That I cannot do; I have no home.  I’ve nowhere to go,” said Bobby. “And I figured that in this world, one is either predator; or prey.  I don’t want to be prey.  A predator has to be either against the law; or working for it.  And a criminal is a slave to his need to stay out of gaol; and a lawman is a slave to Uncle Sam.  The bounty hunter has the precarious freedom to starve or eat well in his own sweet way.”

Brandon  regarded the youth through his narrow almond shaped eyes as he struck a match on the table and set it to his pipe.

“Well you’ve not got too many illusions,” he said. “You’re a sickly looking brat.”

Bobby shrugged and waved a careless hand.

“I come from out east.  Easiest way to travel without too many questions asked was to claim to be taking something akin to the Prairie Cure.  A consumptive gets left alone.  So I have been careful not to let my skin darken yet.  I dare say it will and if I have someone to work for I shall be eating more regularly and lose the skinny look.” He scowled as if to dare Brandon to find pity for him. “I had to husband my resources until I found you. It took a while.”

Brandon  regarded the boy malevolently.  He disliked being made to feel driven into a corner. He would maybe give the kid a square meal and tell him to get lost……. He regarded the thin, nervous hands playing with the empty glass the youth had picked up. Their fingers were long and delicate. They bore no calluses and were not used to hard work.  Gently-nurtured, and a tenderfoot.  Why would this youth seek him out to ask for a lifestyle so far from what he was used to?

He grunted.

“What makes you think I want or need an apprentice?  I manage perfectly well on my own.” His eyes bored into Bobby.

The youth did not flinch, which was a mark in his favour, thought the colonel.  Grown men had been known to quail before one of his hard looks. The soft curves of the boy’s mouth hardened slightly, and the little chin raised and the shoulders squared.  Brandon was impressed despite himself.

“I should think I could make myself useful to you,” said Bobby.  “And you could always give me a trial to see if I am of any use.”

“I doubt you’ll be much use without training,” said the colonel.  “You couldn’t spend a day in the saddle and then fettle horses and cook an evening meal. You have the hands of a youth used to servants to do everything for you. How could you possibly manage in a world where you have to do everything for yourself?” he let a little contempt into his voice.

A touch of colour spread across the youth’s face.

“Perhaps I cannot do much as yet, sir, but I could learn. I have had to learn to live without servants coming West; and I have managed well enough so far.  I believe I could manage most of the fettling of the horses and the cooking, even if I am unused to spending the day in the saddle. Was there not a time when you were new to such hardiness?”

No angry denial, nor declaration that he was up for any trial; a statement of what he could do, and what he was concerned about.  Brandon nodded slightly.  That was good. He was amused to have his own tenderfoot days thrown up at him.  Maybe there was something in the brat.  He took a long pull on his pipe and released three smoke rings slowly one after the other before he spoke again. Bobby watched them rise, fascinated.  Brandon nodded slowly.

“Well maybe we’ll give it a trial; you fetch and carry for me and saddle up the horses – do you have a horse?  Do you know how to care for them?”

The boy flushed. It showed more on so pale a skin.

“Of course Colonel, sir.  We’ve always had horses ... Before I had to leave you understand,” he added. “I came with my mare.”

The colonel nodded.

“Very well; I’ll check her over in the morning.  I’m in no hurry to leave so we can take our time.  I was about to order supper; I take it you’d like to eat?  I’ll pay you with board and you sleep wherever I sleep and when I take a man in I’ll pay you a proportion according to how well you earned it.  Suit you?”

“Yes sir; suits me just fine,” said the boy.

Brandon signalled for the girl.

“Feed the brat,” he said, when she came over, a seductive smile pinned on her face. “Steak and onions and whatever else comes with it; plenty of good red meat.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.  “And whiskey?”

“The boy will do better on milk until he grows up,” said Brandon.

Bobby flushed.

“I drink wine at home,” he said.

“And while you’re with me you’ll drink milk until you’re a darker colour than it is,” said Brandon. “You look like you need it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, resigned. “I don’t like beer anyway,” he added.

“I don’t suppose it would like you either,” said Brandon.  “I don’t need to be clearing up your puke.”

Brandon watched Bobby eating when the food arrived.  The lad ate with the concentration of hungry youth but with a delicacy that spoke of a gentle upbringing.  Well, the boy bore watching.  And that was why he had taken this strange youngster under his wing; because there was a story there.  This place was no place for a child who knew nothing of the world; the evenings brought rough customers and a kid like this might easily accidentally cause offence and find himself shipped back east in a wooden box.  Brandon  sighed.  Sometimes having a conscience was a serious problem.  Well, first of all there was much to find out; and then he might make decisions. 

And it would be as well to get the child above stairs and into his private room before the evening’s rough customers began to arrive.  The girls here who provided entertainment, whether dancing on the floor or horizontally in rooms, were a bit too much of an education for a gently-reared child like this.  And the men who came to watch them and more would not take into account youth and inexperience.

“If you’ve finished, you’d better come with me,” said Brandon.  “I don’t think you want to be here when it gets lively.”

“No, I do not like it too lively,” said Bobby.

cover reveal, Chauvelin and the League

Chauvelin and the League chapter 1

this follows directly from the end of 'The Redemption of Chauvelin' in which the defection of Chauvelin is a severe blow to the despots ruling France and they want him back ... whether to reinstate him or to place his head on a charger is not immediately apparent.
The background is of the attempted re-invasion of France by sundry emigrés, confident that the peasantry will be pleased to see their old masters back.  Some people just can't take a hint ... even thought the guillotine is a fairly heavy one.

Chapter 1

The news was of war!

War against France, this time an attempt by the émigrés living in England to regain the lands that had been lost to them.  Many a nobleman, grateful to the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel for their safety, turned his gaze to the lost land of his birth, grimly determined to seize it back, and re-instate the Bourbon Monarchy.

“And they are fools,” said Armand Chauvelin, to his bride when she silently handed him the newspaper to read of the endeavour.

“Undoubtedly, they are fools, Armand, but what can one do?” Peter, or properly Petronilla, said.  “I cannot see this venture being successful.”

“And then, ma mie, I suppose we shall have to rescue the poor fools from their folly,” sighed Chauvelin.

Chauvelin had fallen madly in love with Peter when she deputised for her brother, the Viscount Frogham, after he broke his leg. Dressed as a boy, she had assisted the Chief in the rescue of a former arch-enemy, all on the entreaty of Chauvelin’s daughter, Fleurette.  He had grudgingly admitted that the League held the ideals he had originally had before being dragged down by the monstrous terror of Revolutionary France, becoming one with the worst of its dictators.  And with Froggie’s blessing, he had married Peter, and moved into their own little house.

It was not a large house, nor was it one in a fashionable part of town; but it was theirs!  And if the décor was not entirely what they might have chosen, it was at least not objectionable and new curtains, carpets and upholstery went a long way to making it tolerable.

In the middle of the season, any house was hard to get hold of; and Jimmy Holte, Viscount Frogham, had used all his contacts to find one for his sister and her new husband so they might be private, and not have to start their married life in his house. Although  Peter had said that she and her Armand had no objection to living in a couple of rooms in the orphan asylum they had set up in the old Frogham property. Froggie had put his foot down.

“I know you, Peter,” he said. “You’ll get involved in the problems of your blasted foundlings rather than enjoying a decent honeymoon; and it’s not right.”

Peter chuckled.

“Well at least we’re not spending our honeymoon in France on business of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel,” she said.

“Yes; though I fancy there’ll be émigrés to rescue after the invasion attempt,” said Froggie.

Peter nodded soberly.

The invasion of France to restore the monarchy might be close to the hearts of some of the League – not that Peter shared such ideals – but the way it had been organised, or as Sir Percy said, disorganised the chance of success seemed low, even with the use of two or three ships of the line and a number of frigates besides to back up the efforts of the scratch army of émigrés. 

Armand Chauvelin, who was as staunch a republican as ever,  refused point blank to have anything to do with it; and pointed out sarcastically to any of the more enthusiastic émigrés who would listen that the emptying of the prison hulks of French prisoners to swell their ranks was nothing short of lunacy since most of them were going to be good republican patriots.

The aristos however refused to listen; the call to duty of their betters would sway the seamen they felt sure.  Armand threw up his arms and told them they deserved to be murdered in their berths, or betrayed to the Republican Army. He preferred to throw himself into making their little house into a home.

Peter declared that she had no intention of doing tapestry work to cover chairs or footstools, and for a wealthy woman to do so was an act of supreme disrespect to those who made their living undertaking upholstery.  Armand tended to agree.  His wife had more useful skills, like first aid, firing a pistol and playing a part as a full member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel as no other wife of its members managed. Armand was proud of Petronilla. She was cool in a crisis, perhaps even more so than the redoubtable Marguerite Blakeney!  That this extended to domestic crises was a bonus, and Peter turned not a hair to hear George, the stableboy, occasional tiger and boy of all work commenting.

“Shiver me timbers, you lubberly pilot o’ the northwest passage!” when taken by surprise by the arrival of decorators; in his defence he had tripped over a ladder he was not expecting to be where it was.

“George,” said Peter, “Where did you pick up that inappropriate idiom?”

George was used to his employers using jawcrack words.

“From Mr. White, Missus Peter,” he said.  Peter and Armand had given up trying to break him of calling them ‘Missus Peter’ and ‘Mr. Armand’

Peter sighed.

‘Chalky’ White was their new groom, recommended by their equally new butler, Hodges.

“George, Hodges may be used to rather salty language, having been a captain’s servant until he lost his arm fighting France, but I am not, and I do not intend to become used to it.”

“No, Missus Peter, I’m sorry,” said George, who was genuinely contrite. “Cuh, you wouldn’t think Mr. White had lost a leg, though, the way he gets around on the wooden one, he’s almost as bang-up as Mr. Hobbes in Mr. Froggie’s stables.”

“I am glad he is efficient,” said Peter.

“Now I knows why Mr. Armand cuffed me for talking naval like,” said George. “It is so ... exciting,” he added, regretfully.

“Too exciting,” said Peter. “Mr. Armand permits you to act as his valet at times but he won’t do so if you sound like a marine under fire.”

“Nossir, I mean ma’am,” said George. Peter decided to ignore that slip; she was accustomed to dress as a man at times, and it was not worth calling him over such nomenclature.

She spoke to Hodges. 

“Please do not permit George to pick up too much Naval vernacular,” she said.

“No, ma’am, I am sorry,” said Hodges. “Chalky don’t mean nothin’ by it, but the boy will look on ‘im as an ‘ero.”

“He is, but his language is still too ripe for the drawing room.  What he teaches the horses I don’t care, as they aren’t likely to pass it on,” said Peter.

Hodges chuckled.  He had fallen on his feet here! He had been wounded on the Glorious First of June, and had been invalided out to starve, not being covered by a pension the way a rated seaman was.  And he did not want to jeopardise his position! Still, at least Mrs. Shoveling, as he rendered Chauvelin, wasn’t demanding the removal of his friend, nor of himself for recommending him.

George enjoyed working for the Chauvelins too, and never even attempted to pronounce their name. He and his young friend, Liza, rescued from a thiefmaster, would do anything for Peter and Armand, as would Lucille the French girl rescued from a nasty predicament to become Peter’s abigail..  And the disruption of having decorators in was outweighed by the excitement.

George did not mention how much extra cant he learned from the paper hangers as they nailed the paper to the wall, in the pretty Chinese pattern Peter had chosen. He had a feeling that it would be as unpopular as naval language. However he watched, and learned, in case he ever needed to put up paper for the missus, if she did move to God-forsaken-Essex where paperhangers might be in short supply.  George had no very great opinion of the countryside; he had a vague suspicion that it was like Green Park, with cows, only messier.

It was, however, a relief when the decorators had finished, and the noise of hammering was over, both from the paperhanging and from the tacks re-upholstering the chairs.  Peter did not believe in doing things by halves, and obtained the services of a company which printed both papers and matching or toning fabrics for upholstery, and installed them all.  It meant less disruption.  And the chairs were in a chintz of the same blue as the background as the  the paper. However, where the paper had flowers and birds intertwined, the upholstery had  only a light stripe in the pink of the same colour as the  bell-shaped flowers, and curtains matching. 

Armand had chosen brown, cream and gold for his study, in a swag pattern which he declared was ageless; and Peter liked it well enough to suggest the same for their bedroom, but with less brown and more cream. 

They were ready to entertain, and invited Sir Percy to give his opinion.

Sir Percy regarded the decor through his quizzing glass.

“Exquisite taste, Peter,” he said.  “I am glad you did not pursue the fashionable course of matching upholstery to paper.”

“They tried to persuade me, but I thought it was too much of a good thing,” said Peter. “Birds and flowers on the walls is one thing, sitting on them makes one feel strangled by jungle, and I don’t think I’d like the tropics.”

“By Jove, no, fever and all that sort of thing,” said Percy.  “I like Armand’s study too. Restful.”

“I thought so,” said Armand.  “And not distracting. Not that I have much to do save the books for the orphanage at the moment.”

“I notice you did not involve yourself in the intended invasion of France,” said Percy.

Sir Percy had also held aloof from the projected invasion; the divided command, the rivalry within that between Joseph de Puisaye and Francois de Charette being a serious problem.  It was Puisaye who had been deputised by the Comte d’Artois, younger brother of the technical Louis XVIII, but there was precious little intelligence or consultation with him either.  Indeed the date and place of the invasion was something that was a matter of uncertainty; which as the Comte d’Artois was supposed to time the attack with his older brother’s organising of attacks from the Alps and the Pyrenees set up conditions that were, as Percy said, doomed to failure before they began.

Armand Chauvelin sniffed.

“Those who embark on so mad a venture without thought for consequence, without considering how mismanaged it is, will die; which to my mind merely rids the world of a few more of the stupider and less realistic aristos,” he said. “The realists recognise that the ancien regime  is dead and buried.  I consider that those who have dragged their women and children along to be insane, and moreover wicked; there have been changes in the rulership of France since the overthrow of Robespierre and three of the five rulers of the directory are Jacobins; and Jacobins of the most radical kind.  They will not be in any wise forgiving to aristos who use foreign aid to invade La Belle France, and frankly I cannot see why they should be.  The Bretons may be generally opposed to any government decree because the Bretons are opposed on principle to anyone not a Breton who tells them what to do; but that does not mean that they will necessarily flock to the banner of the aristos when they land on the Quiberon penninsula as Puisaye hopes.  It will I fear just kill good honest Breton peasants who are fool enough to be talked into a Bedlam-run bumble broth.  The aristos who die will be of no great loss.”

Percy shrugged.

“We shall disagree on that; I salute their bravery though I question their wisdom; and their ability to plan.  I half considered joining them, but the level of mismanagement was such that I felt that unless I could find a way to take command, my presence would be futile.  I have not forbidden any of the League to go along; but I have done my best to warn all that I feel it unlikely to be of any success.  You and Peter should enjoy your honeymoon however; because I cannot see that any who survive to be captured should not be treated as prisoners of war.  I should not need your aid to rescue survivors.  Prisoners of war, unless ill-treated for some reason, are outside the purview of the League.”

Chauvelin nodded.

“Good; it would try my honour to rescue those I consider acting contrary to the good of France.  I despise the way that France is run, but I continue to hope that there will be a time that her officials learn to run a democracy efficiently.  Barras may remain in power but with Fouché and Merlin no longer in high office, perhaps things will improve, even with Jacobins; Jean-Francois Rewbell is a shrewd man and able; unscrupulous of course but perhaps that is no bad thing; and to balance him Lazare Carnot is a moderate and he is a man of integrity and honour.  I am grateful that the smugglers you know get the Moniteur  so readily and not too long out of date to keep up with affairs in France.”

“And I am glad of your insights into the people you know,” said Percy.  “You think then that the aristos will not be treated as prisoners of war, that this might rouse the Jacobin members of the Directory to a resumption of the Terror?”

“I fear so, Percy,” said Armand. “I fear it is the worst possible thing for France.  I recognise that England fights France partly because France is expansionistic, and expansionistic England resents others having colonies; but to my mind the situation in France could be better dealt with by recognising the Republic and sending advisors.  But I know that is not likely to happen; all other monarchies feel too afraid that republican ideals will rouse their peasantry to revolt, because they have failed to grasp the fact that it was the tyranny of an absolutist monarchy that drove the people of France to revolt in fear of their lives.  It’s something you smug complaisant English with your smug complaisant peasantry cannot understand; because your people are not a peasantry and they expect justice across the board of society. The idea of being chattels is so alien to them that they cannot conceive of it.  To hell with politics anyway; go away Percy, I’m on honeymoon.”

Sir Percy laughed and left them to it; slightly disturbed that his one time adversary thought that the invasion would lead to more stringent measures; but hoping that he might be wrong.

It may be said that Armand and Peter were content to enjoy their honeymoon as adjured; and the way they preferred to enjoy it was in spending time together, debating long on a variety of topics, and continuing any discussion in a non verbal way in their chamber; and in adding to the little touches that made the house a home.

The good dog Citizen Rateau was more than happy to make it his home if his master and mistress were contented there, and added his mite to the décor in terms of the pale hairs he left in his favourite places.  It was one of the tasks of the boy George, boy of all work, to brush Rateau daily but as George declared, Rateau  might as well be spinning new hair on his back as soon as it was brushed off.

3 William William goes nor'east

Chapter 1

William saw no reason to drag Amelia back to London when word came that his presence was requested and required by the Lords of the Admiralty, so he took himself to ‘Crown’ Inn to await the coach for the ‘Spreadeagle’.  William decided to lay at the inn overnight to be roused by its staff for the early start.  He wanted all his wits about him if the admiralty wanted to brief him in person on his mission rather than merely send written orders. Doubtless it was the sort of mission an expendable but unconventional officer might be sent on, but William had no intention of being talked into agreeing to anything without listening to every word carefully.

“Just in from London, sir?” asked the ale draper, as William settled in the bar for a pint after dinner.

“No, the reverse; looking for a coach to set a Nor’Easterly course, to set sail on the ebb tomorrow first thing,” said William, humorously.

The tapster laughed and drew William his pint.

A rough looking man came over to William and sat down beside him.

“Clever words, them,” he said.

William regarded him with disfavour.

“Just a passing jest, nothing clever,” he said, coolly.

“Don’t be so sniffy, mate, you ain’t got no cause,” said the man. “It’ll be on your bed.”

And then he had moved away again, leaving William blinking in confusion.

“What an odd fellow,” said William to himself.

William had taken a single room, and when he went up, there was a packet on his bed, sealed with an ornate seal.

“I dunno what vat’s abaht, but some sneakin’ little feller come in an’ left it,” said Walden.  “’E didn’t see me, and I weren’t abaht ter show meself.” William had asked Walden to come to London with him as his man rather than his Coxwain, Dempsey, as Walden knew every trick in the book.

“Yes, I had an odd encounter in the bar,” said William.  “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you can charm off a seal and put it back as neatly as Adam Peacock?”

“Wodjer tike me for, a fule?” said Walden, indignantly. “I can do it a sight more neatly than Adam can, fancy fevver work o’ his or no.”

William hid a smile.  Adam Peacock was well known for turning feathers into beautiful flowers, or miniature furniture to delight the younger daughters of the sailors,  as well as covering boxes cut from packing cases with beautiful patterns, varnished into place.

“Well, I will leave it to you, then, and will watch to see how it is done,” said William.

Mollified, Walden heated his pocket knife in the flame of the candle.

“’Ave ye got a kerchee I can wipe it on?” he asked.

With a muttered apology to Amelia for so misusing the fine linen she insisted on him using, William handed his handkerchief to Walden. The sailor skilfully wiped the soot from the blade with a nod of approval over how the fine linen removed it swiftly and cleanly. It was a matter of boldness; being tentative would never work.

He slid the knife under the seal and it lifted clear away, and passed the papers inside to William.

Inside there was a list of names which looked to be ship names, dates, and against some the name of a man.

“Most curious,” said William.  “And whatever it is, it is decidedly clandestine.”

“Packet boats?  Mails?” suggested Walden.

“‘Tom and Nancy’; ‘Philip’s Fancy’; ‘Skimmer’; if it ain’t packets or mails, it almost has to be race horses,” said William.  “And as horses don’t run by the ebb on particular dates, I would say you are probably correct. What it means, however, I can’t guess.”

“Why don’t you make a copy, sir, and I’ll see if I can catch the mailcoach to send it on to Sir William Wickham?” suggested Walden. “Leaves at eight it does, if we shift I should get it orf ready for ‘is nibs ter spile ‘is breakfast wiv it.”

“I had been going to take it to him, but yes, a better idea,” said William, getting out the beautiful writing slope he had purchased.  It meant he had with him better quality paper than was generally found in inns, and his own steel-pointed pen and good quality ink for fast, accurate writing. 

“I’m almost tempted to copy out the original slightly wrongly to carry on until someone demands it,” he said, regretfully, “But I cannot copy handwriting and it might alert someone to my substitution.  There, I am done; if you will reseal it, I will write a covering letter to Sir William whilst you do so.”

Walden grinned. He worked his magic with the hot knife, holding it under the paper to re-seal the wax, as William wrote.

“Dear Sir William,

I was accosted in the bar of the ‘Crown’ in Portsmouth by a fellow who seemed inordinately interested in a feeble joke I made about setting a course north-east to London on the morning ebb tide, and he left a sealed package on my bed. Please find enclosed a copy of what was written, which I found most strange.

It is probably nothing, in which case I apologise for wasting your time, but in case it is something of interest, I felt I should let you have it soonest, and Jeb Walden suggested the Royal Mail. In haste,

Wm Price.”

Walden took the letter and slithered off like an eel out of a trap. He was back within a few minutes with a pleased grin.

“Caught the mail, and she’s gorn, sir, so not hardly likely to be stopped,” he said.

That was true enough; the mail was heavily guarded.

“And now we need to be sure not to be assaulted in our beds when whoever sent it realises that it has been given to the wrong person,” said William.

Walden scratched his nose.

“Well, it so ‘appens that there’s a swell cove,  name o’ Withimere, which if I recall was the name o’ the viscounty o’ the pa o’ our Mr. Perceval,” said Walden. “Carryin’ on somethin’ awful about not havin’ the best room, that bein’ this one.”

“Jeb, I have no intention of permitting the Viscount of Withimere to be murdered in his bed in mistake for me,” said William.

“Oh, ‘E won’t be,” said Walden.  “’E ‘as ‘arf an army o’servants to sleep by ‘is door and whatnot, an’ ‘is own linen.  I sent a boy wiv a message to the ‘Thetis’ for Mr. Perceval to lay low.  ‘E weren’t stupid enough to say what ship ‘e was on when ‘e wrote. So we’re packin’ an’ movin’ account o’ how I told the viscount  I might persuade my orficer to do so, makin’ like I was askin’ for a vail, see, so ‘e’ll be ‘ere ‘narf a minnit.”

“Damn your eyes, Jeb,” said William. “I hope he vailed you well.”

“Dropped me two guineas,” said Jeb, shamelessly.

It was less comfortable to be sharing a room with two other naval officers, but less uncomfortable, William suspected, than being assaulted in his bed.  Walden made up a bed on the floor with the cheerful insouciance of a man who can sleep standing up if need be.

The other officers were also lieutenants, but they deferred to a man with the single epaulet of a master and commander.  William was secretly amused, since both were older than he was, and possibly had more seniority.  But then, command was never about mere seniority, it was about Interest, and though well-connected relatives were a part of what constituted Interest, so was having your name in the Gazette, or impressing someone. Or being sufficiently apparently reckless to be considered both expendable, and willing to take on impossible tasks. 

“Hoping for a new command, sir?” asked one. “George Ebden.”

“I have a command, but I’m off to London to be given orders,” said William.

“What ship?” asked the other.  “I’m Tallis Beckham; I suppose you have all your lieutenants?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I do,” said William. “‘Thetis’ only gets two lieutenants in any case.”

George Ebden whistled.

“That pretty schooner?” he said.  “So that makes you Mr. Price, who took her from pirates?”

“Goodness, is the tale so well-known?” asked William, taken aback.

“Oh, you’re the darling of all the ladies, hadn’t you noticed?” said Beckham. “You’ve not been to any of the assemblies here?”

“I’m content to be the darling of my wife,” said William.  “And I’m going to sleep; I don’t mind talking in the coach to while away the journey, but I’m as grumpy as a midshipman in the mornings if I don’t get my sleep.”

There was a disturbance in the night, and a lot of shouting, and William devoutly hoped that the howls of anguish came from anyone trying to steal a packet rather than from the viscount.  Jeb was not going to be popular with the viscount if ever that worthy found out that not only had Jeb kidnapped his son, mistaking him for a rich man’s carpenter, but had also set him up for this nocturnal disturbance.

William shrugged and went back to sleep. There was not a lot else he could do.

Eating bacon and eggs at four thirty, William did ask the sleepy girl who served him,

“What was all that noise in the night?”

“Oh, some thief or other tried to roll milord the viscount,” said the girl. “Only fancy, the brazen cheek of it!  Well his man threw one of them out of the window, and the other is locked up in the cellar waiting for the watch to take him away.”

“Good gracious!” said William. “I hope that doesn’t happen often.”

“First time I ever knew of it,” said the girl. “And thank you kindly, sir,” as she pocketed a groat.  “Reckon they was drunk.” She moved on, pleased with a small vail, but it was not so large as to be memorable. William mostly vailed her as a sop to his conscience over the disturbed night of the unfortunate viscount. Doubtless that worthy would take it out on the staff in the inn.  He finished his breakfast, used the necessary offices, and found himself in good time to board the coach.  Walden was riding outside with a couple of midshipmen and someone who looked to William to be a ship chandler; he shared the inside with Ebden and Beckham, and a widow of about thirty years old who looked quite broken. By common consent, the men gave the widow as much room to herself as possible. In all likelihood she was the relict of some other officer, and due respect.

“Let us know if there is anything we can do to help, ma’am,” William said, politely. Her eyes filled with tears.

“So kind,” she said.  “I’m going to be with my married sister. I can be the unpaid governess, to pay my way, and I do not regret marrying my Thomas, even if the sea isn’t any great living.”

“Oh dear, did your sister marry for money and her jealousy of your love makes her rub it in?” said William, and then wondered if he should have stayed silent, for she was staring at him.

“Oh!” she said. “Jealous! Why ... it had not occurred to me, but you know, I think you might be correct.  I think Joshua has mistresses, and Eliza has always been sharp tongued to cover regrets.  Thank you, sir; I was dreading it, but now I will manage with fortitude, knowing that I have been happy, even if for such a short time.”

“And you can subvert all her sons to want to go to sea,” said William, his unruly tongue misbehaving again.

She managed a slightly hysterical giggle.

“Now that would be unkind, but I will tell them tales of their uncle,” she said.  “Thank you. I prayed for strength, and my prayers have been answered by your kindness, Captain?”

“Price, ma’am.”

She nodded. 

Her whole demeanour had changed, with a firmness of purpose.

“I will live, and keep Thomas’s memory alive,” she said.

William wondered how often a few words could make a difference to other people, one way or another.  Colin’s words about Mr. Stackfield had won him an excellent schoolmaster, rather than seeing a man hanged for thoughtlessness. His irritable words to the erstwhile midshipman, Cornelius Coare, had seen that youth resigning his warrant, to enter university under his own recognisances, and not at the behest of his father, having a legacy from an uncle which permitted it. 

How many lives might a man change, just for a few words?

William was still pondering this when he was startled out of his reverie by the sound of a shot, and the coach pulled to a halt.