Chapter One
It had been far too long since Captain John Beattie, Royal Navy, Mediterranean Fleet, had last laid himself down in his rack. Every single muscle in his body protested when he did so, perhaps considering it their right and privilege to keep him upright and moving.
21st October 1805, standing on the quarterdeck of his ship,HMS Swallow, he had absorbed Admiral Nelson’s flag message: ‘England expects that every man will do his duty’.
Every member of his crew then engaged on deck had looked to him, needing to know his feelings. Such was leadership; he accepted it.
‘That’s it, my lads,’ he had said. ‘To your posts. Master and lieutenants, a word here.’
They’d known what to do before he commanded anything because John trained his men well. Without a murmur, they dodged cannon fire from both sides, and falling masts, and French and Spanish snipers firing from their own riggings.
He stared into the dark as he swung in his wooden-sided bed, the prerogative of a man of rank, instead of a mere hammock. He knew full well that were he to die at sea, his swinging bed wouldbecome his coffin, weighted with cannon balls, nailed shut and slid into the water.
Trafalgar had been no mere fleet action. Nay, by God, not this one, this hammer blow administered to the combined fleets of Spain and France outside of Cadiz near a headland named Trafalgar. This was far more, and memorable.
After the battle, he watched littlePicklebravely raise more sail, even under stormy conditions, and start for England, delivering the message of a momentous battle won, even at the terrible cost of Admiral Nelson himself, killed by a French sniper.
The rest of the wounded fleet had struggled to stay afloat through four days of the storm, as if the gods of war were French and determined to keep the battle raging. From his quarterdeck, John had missed his promising First Lieutenant Fontaine, sent below deck with a small but nagging wound. John and his second lieutenant had kept a round-the-clock watch on overworked crew, and any drift towards other ships, battened down as they were.
At comparative rest now, this was John’s time to second-guess his decision to send his surgeon to Admiral Collingwood’sRoyal Sovereignto help with the many wounded.Swallow’sonly wounded man was Lieutenant Fontaine, and it had seemed a trifling matter. A bit of wooden splinter from a Spanish ship had sliced through Will’s neck, giving him a wound that appeared minor. Will himself had insisted that Surgeon Woodlawn go to theRoyal Sovereign.
Now Will was dead, the little wound turning into a big one that had festered and bubbled in a tiny space and killed him.
John turned carefully onto his side, well-trained to avoid hasty movement in his swinging coffin. He wanted to weep, but he was too thirsty and had no tears. He closed his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see Will’s trusting expression in his mind, as hegazed at his captain, the man who could do no wrong in his eyes, then sighed, as if in apology, and died.
Lieutenant Fontaine had been shrewd, even when he’d known his fate. He made it clear to John that he would sign over to his captain his funds and prize money at Carter and Brustein Counting House in Plymouth. ‘See that my sister gets this, sir,’ he said.
John countersigned under his first lieutenant’s feeble scrawl. ‘Will, your sister will be dealt with fairly. I promise.’
When death came, John couldn’t bring himself to throw Will’s body overboard, especially when they were so close to Gibraltar, that entrance to the Mediterranean Sea.Swallowanchored close toHMS Victory, waiting her turn for enough repairs to struggle back to home port in Plymouth.
During the long wait, his carpenter had prepared a coffin for Will. John and his crew walked their first lieutenant to the burial ground, interring him next to others from the same battle. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, God be praised. They then prepared to sail homeward with theVictory, which bore the body of their admiral. Not forthishero the raw cemetery at Gibraltar.
It would be a rough journey of twelve days, time for Captain Beattie to plan his next step, giving Anna Fontaine, spinster, the grim news about Will’s death and hopefully smoothing her path to receive her brother’s funds. He had met her once, but couldn’t remember much beyond a serene expression.
He would promise to accompany her to the counting house and then go to his own house to see Allan, his son, now in the capable hands of a nursemaid, a cook and a scullery maid. His dear Cathy dead these three years from consumption, he had chosen his Plymouth staff as carefully as he’d picked his crew. Maybe there would be enough time to reacquaint himself with his boy—six, almost seven now—who so resembled Cathy.Drydock in Plymouth might buy him two weeks to become a father again, before duty called him back to sea.
He could do no more; exhaustion claimed him. Captain Beattie damned Napoleon, closed his eyes and slept.
The early January seas were unsettled off Plymouth and Captain Beattie was a prudent seaman, biding his time offshore and sending a dinghy ahead to inform the harbourmaster of their imminent arrival. He knew Will’s sister would be at the dock.
He knew that, because the letter he’d sent with thePicklewas one of many letters from otherSwallowcrew members. ‘Anna loves a dockside welcome,’ Will had assured him, before his wound had started to fester. ‘She’ll be glad to see me.’
And here they were. He nodded to Second Lieutenant Marsing to take theSwallowto her dockside anchorage. As captain, John maintained a calm air on the quarterdeck, even as his insides writhed with the task ahead. He had given bad news before, but not after a family member had received such a cheerful letter from a now dead man.
He scoured the dock for a barely remembered face, reminding himself it had been three years since he had done that, when he’d last sought out Cathy’s lovely, pale face. He looked now for Anna Fontaine.
There she was. He was right, remembering that serene expression, part of an eager sea of faces looking for their man, or son or brother. He dreaded that expression changing, once he delivered his message.
He started down the steps to the main deck, only to be stopped by the harbourmaster’s mate, a nervous fellow who seemed to always deliver bad news himself.
‘Captain Beattie! Grand to see you!’
‘And you, sir,’ he replied, his eyes looking beyond the man. ‘I have a message for…’
‘Just a moment, sir. Our drydocks are full up with you heroes. You’re to sail tomorrow for Portsmouth Drydock.’
Damn, he thought.Maybe I can take Allan with me. He held out his hand for the orders thrust his way, then handed them to his second. ‘Your voice is louder than mine, Lieutenant Marsing. We’re sailing on tomorrow’s tide to Portsmouth.’
