Chapter Forty-one
The ironclad HMS Hephaestus was a three-masted, steam-driven frigate of thirty guns, the equivalent of five artillery batteries, and before the introduction of the Dreadnought, was one of the most powerful warships afloat.
But to Mr. Chang she was an intimidating sight.
“I think it best that Mr. Latimer stay away from warship,” he said. “It looks like gray ghost.” He shook his head. “You enter ship, you never come back.”
John Latimer smiled. “It’s just a ship. You stay here on the dock, Mr. Chang. Wait for me.”
“I gladly wait. British navy has no love for Chinese.”
Latimer stepped to the marine sentry at the gangway and gave his name, rank, and reason for being there. The young marine seemed confused and said he must talk to the officer of the day. After a while, the officer of the day, also looking confused, yelled down to Latimer to come aboard.
After observing the protocols, saluting the ensign, saluting the officer of the deck, requesting permission to come aboard, and when this was granted, only then did Latimer step onto the quarterdeck.
“The captain will see you in his cabin,” the deck officer said, a fresh-faced young lieutenant, and then after a pause, a hesitant “sir.”
* * *
“Damn your eyes, Captain Latimer, no one wants anything to do with you, including myself,” Commander John Pickering said, his weathered face red. “The War Office can’t be bothered, the Royal Navy can’t be bothered, and the army sure as hell doesn’t want you back under any circumstances. You’re a damned pariah, an outcast, a leper. More tea?”
“Please,” Latimer said. “It’s been a long time since I enjoyed navy tea.”
“Biscuit?”
“No, thank you, sir. The tea will be fine.”
“As things stand, you’re a bloody nuisance, Captain,” Pickering said. “And I’ve landed with you.” Then, sugar tongs poised, “One lump, I think it was?”
“Yes, sir. One lump.”
“After all, I can’t clap you in bloody irons, can I?” Pickering said, dropping the sugar cube into Latimer’s cup. “That’s what I told . . . what’s his name? Ah yes, Captain Bentley-Foulkes.”
“Rupert Bentley-Foulkes is here in New Orleans?” Latimer said, surprised.
“Yes, he is, and he badly wants you to be stood up against a wall and shot. It seems that he blames you for the death of his brother.”
John Latimer absorbed that and said, “I won’t trouble you with the story of how Lieutenant Bentley-Foulkes died.”
“Please don’t. Save it for the court-martial, if that’s what you really want.”
Latimer sipped his tea, deciding not to comment.
Pickering in turn seemed exasperated. “No one cares about the bloody Afghan War any longer. The queen, God bless her, thinks it was an embarrassment and wants it forgotten. No one remembers Bentley-Foulkes, a junior lieutenant who died in some obscure skirmish. The generals are all retired and busy attending regimental balls, and the last Afghan army of any size was crushed two years ago at the Battle of Kandahar. You’re a relic, Latimer, an anachronism, and demanding a court-martial will upset the bloody applecart. Your trial will be disposed of quickly, you’ll get a swift kick up the arse and dishonorably discharged, and then where will you be? Right back where you started, a disgraced officer without a pension who’ll die in poverty, probably of starvation.” Commander Pickering was silent for a few moments and then said, “Is that what you really want?”
“I thought it was,” Latimer said. “I very much wanted to restore my reputation.”
“You won’t. You’ll have inconvenienced the War Office and the British army, and that they won’t forgive. Generals hate inconveniences.” The commander made an effort to soften his tone and said, “Captain Latimer, can I give you a piece of advice?”
“About now, I can use some, sir.”
“Don’t even think about returning to England,” Pickering said. “There’s nothing there for you. Make a life for yourself here in America and forget you were ever an officer in . . . what the bloody hell were you in?”
“The Fifty-first Lancers.”
“Ah, then there it is . . . forget you were ever an officer in the Fifty-first Lancers.”
“It’s bitter pill, sir,” Latimer said. “A bitter pill to swallow.”
“I realize that, Captain . . . or should I now say Mr. Latimer? I’m a blunt sailor, and I don’t know how to soften the blow,” Pickering said. “Just go in peace and become a bloody American and make your fortune.”
“I’ll think over what you said, Captain,” Latimer said.
“Not for too long. The Hephaestus sails in three days,” Pickering said.
Latimer stood. “Thank you for your hospitality and advice, sir,” he said.
“I’ll have the officer of the day escort you off the ship,” Pickering said. When Latimer stepped to the cabin door, he added, “Latimer, do you consider yourself a coward?”
“No, sir, I do not,” Latimer said.
Pickering nodded. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you are, either. Well, good day to you, Mr. Latimer. And jolly good luck.”