After months at sea, Patrick stood feet braced on the afterdeck, hands behind his back, as the Royal Charles dove and rose through the churning waves of the Mediterranean, angry waters that presaged the storm to come. A dangerous one. Their flotilla was a beast, a commanding one, yet he sensed the storm would be vicious.
He signaled Banby to join him, and his steward strode to the afterdeck.
“I do not like the looks of this, Captain.”
“Nor do I, my friend.” Patrick leaned against the taffrail. He grinned. “We shall meet the challenge.”
Banby raised his field glass. “We are far enough from shore.”
“Would that we could heave to and batten down the hatches. I wish you to have the sails reefed and the bloody cannons checked yourself, for I have little confidence in Midshipman—”
“I am aware,” Banby said. “It shall be done, as well as Cook’s galley fire.”
Sea spray lashed them as they peered into the heightening waves. A peel of nearby thunder shook his bones, the surrounding flotilla disappearing and reappearing in the mist, like specters from a ghost story.
Hours later, the crew weary, Patrick cursed as they swooped downward on yet another immense wave, and the Royal Charles surged upward, attempting to scale it.
The fallen night, the driving rain made it impossible to see the flotilla other than the few lights winking in and out as the ships strove against towering waves. The Royal Charles crested yet another, but an immense gust of wind sheered across the bow, followed by thunder, then a loud gunshot.
Except that was no gunshot. Patrick raised his lantern, rain lashing him. Across the bridge…Disaster. A crack in the main mast.
Shouts, stomping feet, men running to different positions. Patrick boomed commands, changed one sailor’s trajectory, then a midshipmen’s, to see Banby race toward him.
Another gust. A louder crack.
A boy ran past him to preserve a loosening stay.
Lightning struck again. The mast!
Splinters flying! The main mast bending…toppling!
A boy directly in the falling mast’s trajectory.
Men screamed, ran, leapt as Patrick streaked across the deck toward the boy, fighting through bodies, rain, and wind, running…running.
He peered through the torrent. A crack boomed, the mast teetering.
The boy… Henry!
Patrick sprang, shoving away the child as the mast thundered downward.
Patrick regained consciousness with pain so brutal he wished to scream. He clamped his teeth tight. Royal Naval captains did not scream. Beyond the agony, waves rolled beneath him. He cracked his eyes to see watery light filtering in from cabin portholes.
The pain spiked, his back arched, and he collapsed, a bloody sweating mess. How…
He remembered. The mast falling, his leap to save the boy…
Had the boy been saved?
His uniform smelled of dried blood, and his breath hitched, trying to comprehend his situation. He was onboard a ship. But it was not the Royal Charles, though Patrick couldn’t explain how he knew that.
He was alive, at least, though that shocked him, for he had been certain the falling mast would end his life.
When he widened his eyes, light momentarily blinded him, and he rubbed them. Even that simple movement caused pain.
His eyes adjusted to see two owlish ones, the color of blue frost, peering down at him. Patrick blinked, yet he could not recognize the face.
“Would you like some water, Captain?”
The voice was young, very young. He nodded.
Cool glass touched his parched lips, and when the glass tilted, blessed water coated his tongue. He swallowed.
More came into focus, the cabin belonging to an unknown officer. But the boy…
“You…boy… Are you well?”
“I be good, Captain,” the boy said.
“Your name?” His words sounded slurred. He should recall the boy’s name.
“I’m Henry, sir,” the lad said, his freckled face and dark blue eyes filled with worry. “I’m all right, Captain. You saved me.”
The boy stretched to give him another sip of water, a hand resting on Patrick’s thigh. Patrick saw it with his own eyes.
Except, where Henry’s hand rested, he felt nothing at all.
Sleep took him once again.
Charlotte was penning letters, a stack of them, for she had been consumed by her work, dreading a maid delivering that day’s post, which would only make the pile higher.
Her eyes drifted through the windows to the day outside, with a searing blue sky and early summer flowers abloom. She’d planned a walk with Claire and…
A knock and their butler entered with yet more letters. After thanking him, she rifled through the stack.
One from Patrick! His were her favorites, so entertaining.
Dear Lady Charlotte,
I hope you and your family are well and thriving. I have had little time to write, and as we prepare to leave port in Menorca, a Spanish port once in British hands, I finally have a moment to post my letter.
Impressive towers protect the harbor and the sea is near blue as the Caribbean. You would be charmed by the town, with its pristine white homes and public buildings, the sky a searing blue. Most days. This week, the weather has turned foul.
My stable visit to see the Menorquín horses was a highlight. Some say they have Arab blood, others claim them to be of Berber stock, and still others, mid-European. Whatever their source, these beasts are agile and stand a solid fifteen hands. All are black, with gleaming coats, and appear friendly and eager to work. I found myself enthralled.
The Menorcans claim their horses’ fiery temperament is coupled with steady nerves, and I have observed their riders practicing Doma menorquina, a Menorcan riding style based on dressage. Their athleticism is unparalleled. Upon my return, I shall investigate purchasing a dam and a stud.
I do not know when I shall be able to write again, for as we set sail, the seas seem unhappy with our flotilla, the skies gunmetal gray, the waves churning.
What is your latest novel? One you might recommend? I have found no time to read while I assured our ship repairs complete, the Royal Charles now shipshape and sound.
I found a few moments to work on a new model ship, managing to build the frame and lay down the planks. A British frigate.
How goes your painting for the Royal Academy’s exhibition? Five feet wide sounds immense, and I hope you are making good progress.
I have assigned Henry to post this letter. I am rather confounded by the barnacle’s adulation, yet his cheeky words amuse me. The boy has a good heart.
Once our business in the Mediterranean is complete, we sail for home. I am eager for it.
Have you had the opportunity to dissolve our engagement?
Yours truly,
Captain Patrick Lansdowne
Charlotte lifted her pen to write Patrick, to tell him of Titian’s passing, of her newest novel, The Maid of Killarney, and of her progress on her exhibition entry. Charlotte bit her lip, Patrick’s question nagging. He had again asked about their engagement. Well, no, she had not cried off yet. Soon, she told herself, aware her hand was stayed by her increasing fondness for Patrick and her dislike of the commotion reneging would produce. Which was absurd. She must send the announcement to the papers. Soon. Charlotte would do it soon.
Opening his eyes, Patrick was near blinded by white. Walls, bed, sheets, floors—all white. Where in God’s…?
Pain reminded him that all was not well, yet it was less severe than his previous awakening.
Lieutenant Banby sat to his right, and on his left, the boy, Henry.
As the bed did not move from the rocking waves, the soothing motion absent, they must be ashore.
“Greetings, Captain,” Banby said. “Good to have you back, as you have been insensate for days. We are in the port city of Barcelona at the Hospital de la Santa Creu i Sant Pau. You are recovering from your accident aboard ship.”
“How fares my ship?”
Banby shook his head. “I am grieved to report that the Royal Charles is lost.”
“Our men?” he said with a rasp.
“All but three survived the sinking, and were taken aboard the Lady Mary.”
Even three were too many to lose. “Who?”
“Lieutenant Proudfoot, Seaman James Tarlow, and…” The man sighed. “And Cook.”
Cook had been with Patrick since before Trafalgar. An honorable and brave man. All of the three pained his heart, but Cook had been Banby’s and his good friend. For no reason whatsoever, he remembered Cookie’s incident and smiled. “Remember Cook’s affair with the escaped chickens?”
Banby grinned. “How could I not?”
Patrick turned his face away. “Christ.”
“He shall be greatly missed,” Banby said. “I believed you done for, too, Captain.”
“I thought the same,” Patrick said, turning to the boy in the room. “Why are you here, Henry?”
Rather than answer, the boy looked to Banby.
“He will not leave your side,” Banby said.
Patrick processed Banby’s words, but the emotion felt too complex to untangle. “My prognosis?”
Banby’s stoic demeanor never changed but his eyes darkened.
“Banby, report!” he demanded, his voice as stern as he could make it. Which wasn’t much.
“The doctors believe you are paralyzed from…your thighs down, Captain.”
Patrick’s world trembled. “And shall I walk again?”
“They have not speculated.”
“I see,” he said. “I would prefer to be alone.”
Banby and the boy saluted him, the pair wearing pained expressions, and Banby quit the room.
Useless legs. Useless bloody legs. How would he possibly go on?
He sighed.
Henry, that pesky boy, remained and now stood tight against a corner of the room staring down at his boots.
“Why are you still here, Henry?” He hadn’t meant to sound so agitated. Bollocks.
Henry’s face whitened.
“Well?”
“I figure you might need somethin’, Captain. I dunno, a drink of water, a bit ta eat.”
Patrick didn’t laugh. Christ, he had nothing to laugh about. Yet he found his barnacle amusing.
“So you plan to simply stand there until I need something, young man?”
“Yes, sir!” Henry saluted, touching his clenched fist to his brow.
“Then prove yourself useful. I wish to sit up.”
Henry scurried to the bed. “You sure?”
“Henry!”
The boy saluted again but didn’t move.
Christ! He spoke in a quiet but stern voice. “Am I your captain or not?”
The boy’s expression turned pensive. “Well…As we’s on land, I don’t rightly know.”
A barnacle with a mind.
Heaven help him.
Charlotte stood at her easel in Halafair Hall, her favorite place to be. Her current painting was of Roddy and Dolce, Rhys and Rose’s two beloved foals, the work to celebrate the couple’s first wedding anniversary. When the Marquess and Marchioness celebrated in a month, the portrait would be ready.
The delicious light from the window caught her engagement ring, a beautiful bouquet of emeralds and diamonds that sparkled in the sun. Patrick had posted the ring from the West Indies, a surprise. Charlotte cursed, for she had once again forgotten to remove it whilst working. She shook her head, returning to work.
Charlotte cleaned her brushes and moved on to a second painting, a stormy seascape thirty inches by four feet. She had much yet to do on the work, but was pleased how it was coming along.
She left that easel and crossed the room to focus on her Royal Academy of Arts’ Summer Exhibition painting. Entrants to the prestigious show did not have to be members, and though they accepted very few women into the exhibition, she hoped her seascape at dawn would do the trick.
This seascape challenged her—the most difficult painting she had yet to execute—a large piece more than six feet wide.
As she raised her brush to the restless sea, thoughts of Patrick intruded. Her fiancé. The time was long past for her to declare an end to their engagement.
She had hesitated again and again, pushing off the announcement of their engagement’s dissolution. She was not sure why. Perhaps due to the ensuing stares and gossip? Charlotte cared little other than needing the ton for the sale of her father’s paintings.
A more powerful reason lurked in her mind’s recesses. Or was it her heart?
Perhaps because Patrick’s offer of marriage had been noble? She must call herself a liar to claim that the reason.
She should be honest at least to herself—she found his correspondence lively and intriguing, his perceptions intelligent. In truth, Charlotte had begun liking the man far more than she could have imagined.
How surprising.
Patrick’s carriage was loaded, the trunks with new clothes stowed atop, while Lieutenant Banby checked the horses. Within the carriage, Captain Patrick Lansdowne, Viscount Hawthorne since the Battle of Trafalgar, lay on a specially constructed bed for the journey to Germany.
He was anxious for their leave-taking, yet he could do nothing to speed the process along. Out the window, the barnacle trotted to the front of the carriage.
Why was the child still here?
Had Henry’s parents been contacted? Did Henry even have parents?
Many cabin boys came from naval families, but others were orphans from The Marine Society or the Foundling Hospital, while others with a criminal bent were conscripted. He fervently hoped this boy was amongst the former and would be collected soon.
“Banby!” Patrick hollered.
In seconds, the side door was flung open. “How can I help you, Captain?”
God’s blood! Patrick wanted to scream. How many times had he heard those words over the past month? He was sick to death of them. Sick of the pain. Sick of his useless legs. He should have died beneath that mast aboard the Royal Charles, rather than lived as a useless hulk of a man.
The barnacle materialized beside Banby.
“Why are you not on your way home, Henry?” he asked.
“The Royal Charles were my home, Captain,” Henry said.
Fury, frustration, exasperation filled every pore. Yet he must not release it onto the boy. “Do you have another home back to England, one with your father and mother?”
The boy stood straight, hands tight to his sides, though his lower lip quivered.
“Henry?” Patrick said.
“I ain’t got no home, Captain, leastways not one as you described.”
“You are an orphan?”
The boy’s cheeks pinked. “I am. I were const…conscrp...”
“Conscripted?” Banby said.
Henry nodded. “I were in the orphanage and someone took me. That’s how I landed on the Despoina.”
Why hadn’t the boy told them thus when he had come aboard? The blistering curses circling Patrick’s head were not suitable for a child. Barnacle, indeed. “Then you shall come home with us.”