Chapter 2

The dawn was cold and unwelcoming and yet it was with a shiver of excitement that Lady Lorna Hammond opened her eyes. A shaft of weak light shone through the cracked panes of the small, unshuttered window. She climbed out of bed with no distaste at the time the light showed it to be and went over to the clouded glass, opening the catch and pushing the window open. Leaning on the sill she gazed outwards: Spithead. The salt air was cool on her face as a light wind whipped through the streets.

It was still quite dark and few souls were abroad so early – all were safe in bed or just awaking. The most activity, she saw, was around the dockyard, where the few early rises were gathered preparing for their daily labours. She smiled. The great, wooden Ships-of-the-Line were an impressive sight to greet her, as they rolled gently at their moorings. Their huge hulls rode the waves as comfortably as a jockey would a horse and the towering bare masts cut up the horizon in a mass of rigging. The frigates too, though not as large, looked like sleeping monsters on a rippling grey bed.

She'd never seen so many ships before. Of course she been on board her father's ship, Calypso, once or twice and the small, private schooner in Ireland was a second home, but this? Her breath caught at their rugged beauty. Ever since she had been old enough to read and write she had striven to learn all there was to know about the proud giants of the sea. Even nautical history and law. Lorna was confident – she knew enough not to be found out.

A humoured smile played on her lips at the thought of her situation: The youngest daughter of The Lord Charles Hammond, known to every seafarer in His Majesty's Navy as Black Charlie Hammond, of His Majesty's frigate Calypso, was going back to her roots, and joining the navy.

The grey eyes slipped to clock high in the tower across the water. 5 o'clock. She was due at her first post in 3 hours time. Lorna's smile broadened with anticipation as she turned back into the room. It was bare and Spartan with her dunnage standing forlornly at the foot of the rickety bed. She opened it back on its hinges.

Her hair was coarse and matted from sleep so she reached in for the battered silver brush and began to smooth it back. It was with deft fingers that she plaited it and once more fixed it with the old ribbon. The rough, linen man's nightshirt scratched her bare skin as she pulled it over her head.

She picked up the roll of white bandage and remembering Fanny's advice, began to wind it steadily around herself. Her fingers were steady though fumbling slightly as she was unsure of what to do. After tying it securely at the base of her bosom she began to don the dark-blue uniform.

It was a strange freedom, being able to move without the billowing skirts around her. After the brocade gowns the stiff naval uniform was strangely comfortable. She tied her neckerchief and pulled the jacket to, carefully drawing the golden buttons home.

Lorna made one final inspection of herself in the mirror leaning unsteadily against the far wall. She saw her self as young James Saunders, cheeks slightly flushed at the prospect of his first post on a frigate. Perfect. Nothing in her appearance was out of place to give her away. She took a few deep, steadying breaths, surprised at her own nervousness. She had never been anything less than confident – this wasn't the time to lose her nerve. What's real life got that I can't handle, that's worse than my Da? She asked herself silently. The face in that mirror was Mr Midshipman James Saunders and if anyone thought otherwise she would soon know about it. The first day would tell whether her disguise was successful.

Lorna left her room and made her way downstairs to the tavern. She paused at the first floor landing, cleared her throat hesitantly and then beginning again, jaw set and shoulders square, attempting a longer, more masculine stride. She entered the dinghy room without ceremony and seated herself at one of the window tables. Smoke from the previous night's revelries in rum still hung in the air as a haze and she wrinkled her nose at the festering stench.

A few lingering glances and a raised eyebrow or two greeted the strange young man's entry, but if anyone saw anything too amiss they were extremely adept at hiding it and nothing was mentioned. A portly man in a yellowing apron, with a mop of greasy, white hair waddled over to her table and asked her pleasure for breakfast. She answered him, taking great care to make her voice lower and huskier. It hit her then. What could possibly attract her unwelcome attention more than an Irish accent? Friendship between England and her homeland was wearing thin and Irishmen were distrusted.

She had been trained in an English accent from birth – that was no difficulty – but… the prospective loss of her native tongue was something that touched her more that she might have thought. Brought up as the daughter of a proud Irish lord, her loyalty to her country and national identity that was in the blood of every Irishman since time was time wasn't so easy to give up as her name and background… She couldn't stop over such a small thing! The idea was insufferable. With a sigh at all she was losing, while gaining her dream she started on her meagre breakfast.

She took her time eating and before returning upstairs to her room, she walked outside onto the, by now, slightly more crowded port.

"You boy!" She winced. The accent was sharp after her natural brogue. It felt strange. She hailed one of two youths of about 12 years of age, who, whistling, were walking down towards her. It was the smaller of the two she addressed. He had dirty blonde hair, which fringed over his eyes like a curtain almost to touching a small, stubby nose. At the sound of her voice he halted their progress and they both walked up to her. The smaller boy looked at her with surprised curiosity for a moment before saying:

"Yes sir?" She breathed an inward sigh of relief. That odd look on his face had been unsettling. She had almost been sure he had figured her out, but no, her disguise must still be holding true. But will it work on a crowded vessel of around 200 souls? She asked herself. She returned to reality with a thump.

"For a shilling will you and your friend carry a sea chest to the port?" She stopped herself from wincing for a second time. She would not get anywhere if unable to bear the sound of her own voice.

"For a shillin' we'll carry it t' France!" The taller boy, his face a battle field where acne and freckles waged continuous war, piped up with a cheerful cockney accent. Lorna repressed a grin at the sound.

"Come with me then."

***

The salt air whipped at her coat and hair and her eyes were almost shut against the blinding spray. What had previously been a light breeze had matured into a fierce gale. The black oilskin was wrapped tightly around her frame – a weak attempt to keep the elements at bay. Her cocked hat, worn "for and aft" over her black hair was doing nothing to stop rivers of freezing seawater running down her neck.

Where in God's name had this wind sprung from? The day may have begun as cheerless and grey but it had held no portends for this onslaught. A storm wind of this magnitude was rarely seen in Spithead's sheltered anchorage. The tiny row boat was tossed roughly on the waves as it made its slow, laborious, jerking approach to the majestic bulk of His Majesty's Frigate Indefatigable – M'man Saunders' first post.

Lorna could see her smooth green keel as the ship pitched and rolled on the waves and thanked God and St. Patrick that she did not suffer from seasickness. Even here on storm churned waters, she felt strangely at home – no trace of fear. The boat was lurching alongside the Indefatigable now.

With a nimble tread hindered by the heavy oilskin, she swung up the frayed rope ladder and over the side, still being whipped by spray. The wind seemed to lessen in its fury slightly and the roaring of the sea was a little more distant. Lorna straightened up and looked about her.

The slippery deck surface was almost clear. The crew, smartly, being below deck in reasonable comfort. The dark, crowded spaces with low ceilings that were found below decks were a haven of warmth in comparison to above. The only thing she could see was a blurry figure standing in forlorn solitude on the quarterdeck.

She had come aboard at the stern, nearly at the fo'c'sle, so her passage to the bows was slow and unsteady, having not found her sea-legs yet. She was still used to the firm, even feel of land beneath her feet, but she was not disconcerted at her unsteadiness. Soon she would move with the roll of the ship, though there is only so steady one can be with the conditions they were experiencing at present. Clutching at the neck of the oilskin with one hand and with the other jamming her hat onto her head she climbed onto the quarterdeck and reported.

"Midshipman Saunders reporting to His Majesty's Frigate Indefatigable." She saluted the figure, who nodded in recognition.

"My name is Lieutenant Ecklestone. Welcome aboard. You're the last of the Midshipmen. I'll refer you to the Captain in person – get us below decks, eh?" She smiled and followed him bellow

***

"Enter!" The gruff command came in prompt reply to the Lieutenant's knock. Lorna felt her palms grow moist with sweat as fear began to raise its head. She bit it down: She was not going to be afraid! Ecklestone opened the door and stepped in smartly. Swallowing, almost to dislodge her heart from her mouth, she stepped in behind him.

"The new midshipman, just come aboard, sir."

Sir Edward Pellew, renown for his benevolence, wisdom and keen sense of justice, captain of the 64 gun Frigate Indefatigable, looked up from the nautical chart he had been examining with a pair of dividers to see a strange sight.

Standing before him, the door shutting behind him from Ecklestone's swift departure, was an alert looking, if not slightly sodden youth in an oversized oilskin, dripping sea water onto the floor. But that wasn't the strange thing…