‘Let me lay this before you, Captain Beattie. I need you and theSwallowhere in the Mediterranean. It’s roving duty, and one that I know suits you. But you need a land base.’ He pointed to Anna’s letter. ‘I am more and more inclined to Port Mahon on Menorca.’
John nodded, dreading the letters he had to write to both Grace Fillion and Anna.I will never be home, he thought despairingly.
‘Very well, Admiral,’ he said, knowing there could be no other reply. ‘I am yours to command.’
‘Wise of you!’ He thumped John’s knee. ‘You’re going to do one more thing. It’s something I long to do, but I have been sentenced to parade about the Mediterranean Sea and show the flag.’
Silence. ‘Admiral, to what are you referring?’
‘Simple. I am ordering you to Plymouth first, to see your son with your own eyes. Do one thing more, if you wish. I cannot order this or, by God, I damn well would.’
‘Sir?’
‘Marry that good lady and take her and your boy with you to Menorca.’
John sucked in his breath. He couldn’t have heard the man correctly. ‘Aye, her letter was kind, but she must be seething inside! I have made her an object of ridicule and shame in Plymouth.Marryher?’
‘Find out what she thinks of the idea. You might be surprised. Let your new first luff take theSwallowto a Gibraltar anchorage. You will take a Fast Dispatch Vessel leaving from my flagship for Plymouth tomorrow.’
‘But sir, I can’t just… What about my late wife?’ What was his admiralsaying?
Collingwood’s demeanour softened. ‘From what you have told me, she must have been a lady after your own heart.’
‘Aye, she was,’ John said quietly.
‘Napoleon doesn’t care, however, and we must continue to fight.’
‘But…marriage? I know how Miss Fontaine feels about my son, but not a clue what she thinks of me.’ He gave his admiral an exasperated stare. ‘Marriage, sir?’
‘Damn the war,’ Collingwood told him almost cheerfully. ‘Go and find out.That’san order.’
Chapter Fourteen
The FDV sailed for Plymouth in the morning, after John had writhed all night in his rack, wondering how he could possibly make Anna’s life any worse.
When he emerged on deck that morning, bleary-eyed and feeling every second of his thirty-eight years, Tom handed him what he knew were official orders to Gibraltar or more likely Port Mahon, as conditions warranted, and a private note from Admiral Collingwood.
‘I must say, Captain, you’re keeping rare company,’ the Welshman joked. ‘I am to proceed to Gibraltar and wait there.’
John said something he should have regretted but didn’t, and took the letter. There wasn’t time to read it now, not with the Fast Dispatch Vessel already waiting beside the flagship. He stuffed it and the orders in his duffel, daring to hope he might actually have a little time to read them on the FDV, where he wasn’t in command.
There was time.
His orders were an echo of Old Cuddy’s comments yesterday. They appealed to him, mainly because he wasn’t sentenced to more blockade tedium. TheSwallowwas to rove about the Mediterranean Sea. The orders came in formal Royal Navydiction, but he understood the underlying message:Thrash any French or Spanish vessels that weren’t sufficiently cowed at Trafalgar.Look about, see what the French might be up to, and keep an occasional eye on the Americans.Fair enough; he could do that.
He worked up his courage to read Collingwood’s letter, and learned something about that great, quiet man, who had willingly lived in the shadow of Horatio Nelson’s genius. He had paid his own price, the price the entire Royal Navy had paid, from able-bodied seamen to admirals, which was time away from loved ones.
John read, blinking back tears:
I want you to have the chance denied to me.I know you have suffered loss. Find all the joy you can, John Beattie. Bring your boy and a bride back to the Mediterranean, if you can convince her. We’ll think of something. Yours sincerely, Cuthbert.
There they were, official and highly unofficial orders. Of the two orders, he knew that sailing the Mediterranean with the bliss of unfettered command was a captain’s dream. The second order, not so much. He doubted even Romeo could have convinced Juliet to get spliced and sail with him in a month or less, and more likely never.
During six days of sailing, Captain Beattie enjoyed the bliss of no command at all. The FDV was someone else’s ship. His worry commenced again about three days out of Plymouth, when another dispatch vessel from Gibraltar hailed them and handed off an additional letter addressed to him.
Oh, no. Something else from Old Cuddy. He took it below deck and sat on his lightly swinging bed. What he read made his head ache:
If you are brave enough to attempt a marriage proposal,go to Portsmouth (not Plymouth) andthen Winchester, to save time.You need a licence for a prompt wedding, something I doubt the Bishop of Exeter will issue, if that miserable worm of a curate has tattled to him.In Winchester Cathedral, hand Bishop North this note. I did him a great favour once. He will authorise a common licence, which will cost you two or three pounds. You can use it anywhere, even in Gibraltar or on my flagship, if you can convince Miss Fontaine to marry you. Godspeed, Cuddy.
