LATER THAT MORNING Delancey made his report to Captain D’Auvergne. The duel had taken place and his opponent had been wounded. This was no news to D’Auvergne, who had been told about it already, but he listened patiently.
“Mr Watkins is in no danger,” said Delancey, finally. “He has a flesh wound from which he will recover in two or three weeks.”
“It is all most unfortunate,” said D’Auvergne. “You are in no way to blame, however. I should say, rather, that you have behaved very well; not least so in sparing the bellicose Mr Watkins. I question whether you could have acted more properly in this wretched affair. But the fact remains that the officers of the 42nd are still in an ugly mood. Nor will they be satisfied with the result of this morning’s meeting. I must do what I can to improve the relationships here between the two services. . . .”
There was a pause and D’Auvergne rose to his feet and paced the room for a minute or so before continuing:
“You knew, Mr Delancey, when you accepted your recent mission that another officer commands the Royalist. He is an elderly man who has seen much service but was not, in my opinion, the right man to land in darkness on the French coast. I sent him on special duty to Jersey and gave you the temporary command. You did very well and Lord Moira has assured us that your mission was a success. The French are making great efforts to improve the defences of Cherbourg. Jersey is no longer threatened and the summer will be over before they can pose any new threat to our territory. I had hoped to be able to reward you for good service, having you posted to some other vessel in my squadron. This is no longer advisable, nor would it be in your best interests. I shall have vessels based on Jersey and am to move my headquarters there. Unfortunately, however, there is a company of the 42nd in Jersey and the same bad feelings would be aroused.”
D’Auvergne sat down again at the table and looked almost apologetic as he came to the point: “My orders are that you return to Portsmouth in the sloop Cormorant. She sails this afternoon. You will go on board at once—that is an order—and Bassett will have your sea-chest and other gear sent over from the Royalist. You will remain on board the Cormorant until she sails. I shall give you a letter of recommendation—it is here before me—to Admiral Macbride. You have had more than your share of ill-luck, Mr Delancey, but it is my belief that you will have a successful career in the service. I wish you better luck in your next ship.”
D’Auvergne signed the letter before him and called Bassett in to seal it. Delancey saw that D’Auvergne had turned his attention to the next problem, a report which had just come in, and would soon have forgotten his existence. Having pocketed his testimonial, Delancey made his bow and withdrew. Bassett came with him to the quayside and to the Cormorant’s boat which was waiting for him. “Good luck!” said Bassett and the coxswain pushed off.
As the gig pulled away from the stairs and headed seawards, its course led near the southern pier head where there were the usual idlers to be expected there on a fine morning. Apart from the longshoremen stood a small group of ladies out for a stroll and with them Delancey glimpsed the scarlet of military uniforms. As the gig drew nearer he recognized Captain Hilliard and Mr Huntley. An instant later they recognized him and turned to each other with openly expressed amusement. They were too distant for Delancey to hear anything that was said but their gestures were plain. He was seen to be running away! The story would be round St Peter Port by midday, round the island by the evening and would have reached Jersey and the mainland within the next two or three days. Technically he had received no other challenge but gossip would have it that he had refused to fight. There was only one remedy. He must go ashore again and appear publicly at the Golden Lion. His best plan would be to invite Captain Bastable to dine with him before the ship sailed. The thought of the probable sequel made him feel slightly sick but no other course was possible. This time it would have to be pistols. . . .
Delancey was greeted at the gangway by Saunders who said, “Welcome aboard.” Determined, however, to do the right thing before his courage failed him, Delancey asked at once to see Captain Bastable. He was shown below and Bastable greeted him kindly. Delancey asked at once for a boat to take him ashore. He had one or two calls to make, a debt to pay, his laundry to collect.
“Unfortunately, Mr Delancey, I have strict orders that you are to remain on board until we sail.”
“But I have business ashore, sir, and hoped indeed that you would do me the honour of dining with me.”
“You can send a midshipman to attend to your business in St Peter Port and I will put the gig at his disposal. As for your kind invitation, I am not free to accept it. For me to go ashore with you would conflict with the orders I have received.”
“But I am sure, sir, that Captain D’Auvergne would condone a slight departure from the letter of his orders. He would understand a case of necessity.”
“He would understand perfectly. In case of your offering to disobey my order I am to put you under close arrest. Is that sufficiently clear? I hope you will spare me the trouble and embarrassment.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Have I your word, then, that you will not attempt to go ashore?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With that point settled it is now my privilege to invite you to dine with me on board this ship. The fare may not be quite equal to what we might have had at the Golden Lion but it will be better than I could offer you after three months at sea.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
The dinner was excellent and Bastable took the opportunity to drink the health of his guest. “To a notable swordsman!” Delancey bowed but protested that the toast should have been, “To a barely acceptable fencing instructor.” There was no other reference to the morning’s affair and the party ended on a very friendly note.
The ship sailed soon afterwards and Delancey admired the way in which the trick was done. At one instant the sloop was at anchor, an instant later she was under sail and on the right course. The wind was rising and the sea with it, the Cormorant being close-hauled with spray breaking over her forecastle. Guernsey slid to the windward but the features he could recognize were soon lost in the mist as the sloop headed once more for Portsmouth.
As on the outward voyage Delancey found himself pacing the deck with Lieutenant Saunders.
“What will you do now? Will you return to the Grafton?”
“I am no longer posted to her or to any ship. I was here on temporary duty. All I have now is a letter of recommendation addressed to Admiral Macbride.”
“But didn’t you know? He is no longer at Portsmouth. I hear that he has gone overseas to a dockyard appointment.”
“If that is so you behold the picture of a half-pay lieutenant. Where stationed? On the beach.”
“Your luck will turn, I feel sure of it.”
“With the reputation of one who has refused a challenge?”
“But that is nonsense. You fought and I was your second. Captain Bastable was a witness to the meeting and you were not challenged again.”
“There was another officer ready to challenge me and everyone knew it.”
“You received no challenge, however, and you left the island under orders from your superior officer.”
“All that is true but will the soldiers believe it? You know as well as I do what the story is going to be.”
In his cabin that night Delancey asked himself where he had gone wrong. Should he have made more of a fight at La Gravelle? Should he have chosen to meet young Watkins with pistols? Should he have made the coxswain of the Cormorant’s gig put him ashore again? Unfair it might be but the stain on his reputation was going to be permanent. But was it altogether unfair? D’Auvergne had ordered him to leave Guernsey at once but that was an act of kindness. He knew that this was what Delancey wanted. God knows he had obeyed orders with a sigh of relief. Who wouldn’t? But the real test was coming and he knew that he would fail it. Having reported back to Macbride—no, to the Port Admiral now—a real hero in his position would take the next packet back to Guernsey. He would then be a half-pay lieutenant no longer under D’Auvergne’s orders. A genuine hero would go back to the Golden Lion, ready to be insulted by Captain Hilliard, ready to fight again on the headland and ready, finally, to die with a great reputation for gallantry. But Delancey knew that he would do nothing of the sort. He would rather live with his courage still in question. He might have to quit the navy but what of that? There were other ways of earning a living. He was still thinking of alternatives when he fell asleep.
Next morning the Cormorant came into Spithead after rounding the Isle of Wight. There was a fleet of merchantmen there awaiting convoy, smart West Indiamen having pride of place but slave ships looking rakish and fast. There were ships of every kind at anchor but the craft that caught his eye was a Post Office cutter, almost a twin of the Royalist, his first command—and perhaps his last. She was on her outward passage and came out through the anchorage with the sunlight on her sails and the white foam parted by her stem. Yes, that was just the way the Royalist had looked. He would have liked to possess a picture of her, a watercolour perhaps. Given time, he might have made a drawing himself, for he had taught himself how to use a pencil and believed that the skill of recording what he had seen was proper to his calling. There had been no leisure for that and he found himself wishing that the whole Royalist episode was still to come. But how could he have acted differently? Still wondering what else he could have done, he said goodbye to his friends on board the Cormorant and was rowed ashore soon after the ship had anchored. He took a room at the Star and Garter for the night and left his gear there before reporting to Rear-Admiral Hewett. The Port Admiral was not at his office but the prince’s letter of recommendation was opened without ceremony by his flag lieutenant, a brusque young man called Fothergill.
“Captain D’Auvergne speaks highly of you,” he commented, handing the letter back. “I wonder why he did not retain you on his staff.”
“There was some bad feeling, sir, in the army as a result of our landing in France.”
“I see. What was your last seagoing appointment before you went on this mission?”
“I was fourth in the Artemis, sir.”
“In the Artemis? Under Captain Fletcher?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see. I remember now. . . . Well, I think your best plan is to apply at the Admiralty in the usual way. Your vacancy in the Grafton had been filled and there is no other appointment presently available on this station.”
Without much hope of success, Delancey set off for London by coach. He had been to the Admiralty before and found his way without difficulty to the waiting room on the right of the approach to the main staircase. On the second day after he had sent his name in he had a brief interview with an elderly clerk who promised rather wearily to let him know of any opportunity that might offer. What was most depressing about this visit was the sight of the other applicants. The country was at war, ships were being commissioned each week and officers appointed every day. Those still haunting the Admiralty were the misfits, the drunkards, the blind, halt and lame, and he could have wept to know he was one of them. Back in Portsmouth he found an attic room in Ropewalk Lane. The house belonged to a shipwright called Finch whose wife kept the place clean and whose small boy, Ned, brought him his hot water for shaving. Portsmouth was the place for a half-pay lieutenant, almost the only place where he would not have to explain who he was and what he was doing.
After a few days in the dockyard town Delancey fell in with Harris of the Warspite who asked him into the George, where captains again glanced suspiciously at the two lieutenants who had no business to be there.
“Well?” asked Harris, “How did you fare with the secret mission? Was I right about it, hey?”
“You were quite right, sir, It had ‘failure’ written on it from the outset. I am lucky to be alive.”
“Or were you careful, hey? I heard something about you t’other day. What was it? Some army captain called you out and you refused the challenge. Don’t blame you! I should’ve done the same.”
“It wasn’t like that, Mr Harris. I did fight one of them and wounded him but I’ll confess that I wasn’t prepared to fight them all.”
“You should have laid them all out with a capstan bar. Waiter!”
For weeks to come Delancey’s mind was continually on his career. After another year ashore he would not be a seaman. But his luck might change. There might be a battle with heavy losses and empty berths. He might still be promoted. But, somehow, just then, it seemed unlikely. He was a commissioned officer in wartime but without prospects of any kind. To the story that he had almost been guilty of mutiny was now added a story—not entirely false—that he had since been found wanting in courage. When news came of Lord Howe’s victory his hopes revived for some weeks but such vacancies as were caused by this battle were filled by the promotion of juniors rather than by seeking ashore for officers whose merits had so far been overlooked. The mere length of time Delancey had been on the beach would evidently tell against him.
In other circumstances Delancey would have been tempted to give up his naval career and return to Guernsey. That door was closed, however, by the presence there of the 42nd Regiment. He resolved to wait for his luck to turn and was encouraged in this resolve by a chance meeting with an old officer called Fanshawe, one of a small group of veterans who played whist together. “Study the lives of the great admirals,” said Fanshawe. “Read books on shipbuilding and naval tactics. Learn all you can,” he would emphasise, “and read the gazette letters, hear the gossip and study the news. Be ready to take your chance when it comes!” Delancey followed this advice, borrowed books, argued over technical problems and knew the name of every ship in port. He also made a fourth at whist whenever asked to play and found, to his surprise, that the game had a certain fascination. The day came when Fanshawe had to admit that Delancey was as good a player as any in his circle.
It was a matter, he had found, of concentration and memory and he could imagine that the same qualities of mind might often be needed by senior officers. It was at this time that he developed his small talent for painting in watercolours. He began by making copies in pencil of the illustrations he found in books of travel. Then he took to colouring them and finishing the outlines with pen and ink. He resolved, when the weather improved to make sketches from life. In the meanwhile he drew several pictures of the Royalist from memory. At this time he took to wearing civilian clothes so that his uniform should remain presentable. On fine days he would walk on the quayside and look at the ships in harbour, learning all he could about them. There were odd days that winter when he felt confident and almost cheerful, convinced without reason that success might still be his. On other days—on days which became more frequent as the months went by—he felt that his case was hopeless. He had been ashore for longer than he cared to remember. It looked now as if he might well be ashore for good.