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Rain. Though it was the height of summer cumulonimbus clouds jostled one another to be the next to throw down their precipitous precipitation. The showers had been occurring at annoyingly regular intervals drenching the men who were extending the canal basin; coating the machinery and tools with a thin, oily film which made them difficult to use; causing the ground to ooze treacherous mud and making life even more unpleasant for Cicely Maturin.

The camp in which the navigationals lived was fast becoming a bog. Their employ was carried out mainly in the summer taking advantage of long daylight hours and as such the living areas were much exposed to the weather – too much in such conditions. The navvies' pace of work had slowed in their effort to keep as much of the sleeping parts of their rough, wooden shacks with large stones placed over canvas to prevent their bedding getting too wet and expensive food having to be purchased in the nearby pubs of Stourbridge for the evening weather was too inclement to keep a fire burning long enough. Even those men who traipsed long miles to the canal did so disconsolately.

A month since absconding from the Mount and the generous hospitality of the Darwins and Cicely had moved with the canal thirty miles away. She had hoped they would be nearer south by now and at first the crippling work had kept her almost stationary just outside Shrewsbury. The pay-off of staying under cover and knowing that Magistrate Wigg would have the militia and possibly even the King's men out looking for her was a constant worry to her at night in the first few weeks.

But now they were progressing and Cicely had changed companies twice; navvies in canal-building often changed employers a dozen times in a year meeting the demands of the owners and managers. Almost as soon as warrants were granted canal managers on behalf of the landowners through whose property the canal would run scouted other managers' camps looking for fitters, hauliers and diggers, especially those with experience. The second company, depending upon the progress of their own waterway, may be keen to sell on the labourers, reducing their costs. Canal managers barely knew the names of those whose hands they bought, nor indeed cared.

As long as you kept your head down and worked hard in appalling conditions for your meagre pay that was all that mattered. A very effective way, Cicely had found out, of traversing England if you were desperate enough. It was the very method she had used to escape her father's home in Gloucestershire almost three years before.

Water dripped down Cicely's face as she pushed yet another barrow of black earth up thin oak planks, trying not to slip as she had done several times before. The work was as tough as what she was used to aboard "Surprise"; filthy, hard, onerous. Nothing physically she couldn't cope with after her life at sea.

But the difference, even to her previous experience on the Kennet and Avon, was shocking –all of the men were treated little better than slaves. Those with more experience and skills fared better as the managers knew that they needed the cutters and diggers to work efficiently. But carriers like her who ferried the cut dirt to the top of the embankments were treated foully. If any camaraderie did exist between the men, changing as often as they did between companies, none was fostered by the managers of the canals. Even at her lowest ebb, detained below decks and awaiting a flogging, even then Cicely had felt freer…happier…

Such conditions here, as a canal navigational made you soiled, sore and lousy within days and kept you like that for months; knowing that half of your paltry wages were deducted for wear and tear on your tools; that the time off you were supposed to have for Sundays was quietly ignored for even if you were to attend the local church in whichever town you happened to be working you probably would have been hounded out by the locals, perpetual outsiders that navigationals were, travelling as they did from town to town. Through knowing such things it was therefore inevitable that rough-cut whisky was commonplace in the navvies' squalid camp and probably the only thing that held their sorry community together. It was better than being with Wigg, but only just.

The first night she had slept in the encampment - and many nights after that - Cicely had cried silently to herself. It wasn't just the incessant sodden ground underfoot, or the sickening stench, the squalor, the working from the first glances of dawnlight to the failing light of dusk, or the men around her at night coughing consumptively or shouting blasphemes or brawling. It wasn't even that she needed to keep in her clothing anything she didn't want stolen, as was wordlessly commonplace around the makeshift village.

Cicely had prayed to God every night as she tied her bindings a little tighter to keep out the cold (lack of proper food had made her thin since she had took up her old disguise). She prayed for forgiveness for the unkind way she had left Dr. and Mrs Darwin, and Mrs Aubrey too. For that sorrow she had managed to pay a lad to post a letter in the previous town to Mrs Aubrey expressing her sorrow and hoping to at least put a little of the woman's mind at rest.

Any time she caught her mind wandering to the Captain's wife, in whose lap she had left the most ignominy, she worked herself harder. The war against the French would be won by Britain's military forces but it was through the trade of the country's manufactured goods to the world, Cicely had long ago surmised, that victory would be secured. And her guilt was usually assuaged.

Then she prayed for the Surprise and that it had docked in Calais safely. It surely must have. When she could Cicely had scoured the alehouses for scraps left behind by the better off the diggermen she occasionally chanced on a newspaper. Though it tended to report mainly provincial news the war was always covered.

Cicely prayed for the souls of her brother and her stillborn son too and asked for hope that they were safe with Him in heaven. If she had a baby with her now…or a month ago…? He would have been declared illegitimate at the very least…and at the very most…?

A prayer for her husband, that he would listen to her and forgive her what she had done to his reputation and...his friendship with Captain Aubrey…she wanted so badly to be in his arms, to talk to him, to explain. And then there was her unspoken, almost unthinkable fear…that Stephen…

And even to God on one occasion Cicely had asked for forgiveness for her father and Wigg, and for her less than honourable, daughterly actions. Cicely had never done it again though for, once her guilt to her duty had been thought, other thoughts had crept into her mind that had surely been temptations and she had reflected on the general hubbub of the navvies, fighting and cursing…and her sorry, self-imposed situation. Would she to walk to the nearest town and tell her tale to the local magistrate and she would be in luxurious surroundings within days…

Perhaps, if it was as her mother said, that it was God's will that ill-fortune should come about, that it was for a reason. Perhaps she could atone for all her misdoings against God and the King by her presence with these men doing this work. Until things came right Cicely knew her duty was to work very hard and shield herself from comfort. Surely God would know her heart, her shortcomings, her longing, her love.

"You! I say, you!" A large, burly manager who Cicely knew could be especially hard on the carriers screamed in the direction of the man in behind her. Boy, corrected Cicely to herself – the lad was barely as old as William Blakeney, and was in far worse physical condition. "Faster," the man cajoled. "If you don't get it done faster next time, you're for it!" Cicely shuddered inwardly as the young boy picked up the pace, trying to go faster up the boards.

"Slow down!" hissed Cicely under her breath, "or you'll come a cropper." But either the boy hadn't heard Cicely or refused to listen and he tried to pick up the pace. Ten minutes later Cicely tipped her load of earth onto the bank, raking it into a pile and wincing as the boy was being thrashed for slipping and knocking the three men behind him back down the slope, barrows and all. Another company comes tomorrow, Cicely thought as she heaved her now empty barrow back down towards the basin, wincing a little – the boy's fate today had been hers a week before.

Somehow she had to get across the Channel to Calais. The "Surprise" would dock there, she knew, once provisions and refitting work had taken place in Portsmouth. If it had already sailed she could find out where it was headed.

Cicely sighed into her shovel as she drove it into the pre-dug earth, bitter wind whipping past her on this an August day. Perhaps the "Grand Union" would want carriers tomorrow and perhaps they'd be heading south.

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The long process of refitting "Surprise" was almost over. Soon Captain Jack Aubrey would be sailing the high seas, carrying out Naval commands to the best of his ability and perhaps, even to the better of his ability. He could feel the wind in his hair now on this bright summer's day; taste the salt in the air as the spray whipped against the side of the ship – he felt alive again, with fire in his stomach: how he always felt when he knew he was about to command his ship to honour and glory.

Repairing the vessel had taken almost three weeks – his men had done their best with limited resources at hand in the South Americas and that had got them to Europe. But to bring up to the standard of a warship – something Aubrey suspected was to be crucial in the months to come – that was a task worthy of the best shipyards in Europe. Not that England's harbours weren't up to the job, far from it. Great Britain needed the loyalty of Italy's nobility, isolated as they were and fearful of their own heads, or rather, lack of them. Britain paid Italy's noble houses so the men in their employ could to what was necessary for its fleet, thus keeping ideas of revolution, as had happened prior to Napoleon, far from the minds of the lower classes.

Things would soon be the same, mused Aubrey as he oversaw the last few touches to "Surprise." The men, working as hard as they ever would under sail, were looking forward to their last day of rest before the ship set out to Portsmouth harbour. And from there, Jack knew, orders would be delivered to him; orders which he suspected would see his ship as part of the flagship Victory's fleet. He remembered similar arrangements under his old captain when he was a midshipman aboard this very ship – refit the decking, new sails and rigging – before the Battle of the Nile. That was thrilling; that was what every naval captain wanted, ultimately: to play their part and lead their men to glory. To be another nail in old Bonaparte's invasion plan; to win the day.

Not exactly the same, though. As Maturin had predicted, Hardy had been piped aboard almost a week before to replace him as ship's surgeon, the same day that his friend had left. The crew had accepted him readily enough, he was efficient and of course and Aubrey at least had a companion. Though the man was likeable, he really was not Maturin, the companion, friend and confidante he had spent so many years with. Presumably then, his friend would be aboard "Victory" at some point, carrying out Hardy's duties for Nelson's fleet, to continue, he supposed, further espionage work.

Regardless of the incomparison however, Hardy was clearly used to grander things and was clearly used to saying so. He gave Aubrey the distinct impression that the "Surprise" was not nearly as grand as he was used to, clearly baulking inwardly at the size and equip of Maturin's old quarters and making his feelings about cleanliness of the crew, their quality and diet plain. Within days Hardy had managed to annoy the midshipmen however, Blakeney especially, to whom Dr. Maturin had been so dear and Aubrey had to remind the youngster that Thomas Hardy was not with them forever and to give the man an opportunity to show his commitment to them. Such aspersions towards his beloved "Surprise" merely willed both the men, middies and Aubrey too to make bolder efforts in the mending of the ship, making it gleam as it did so now, like the gem of the oceans that it was.

At Portsmouth too, "Surprise" was to meet with the "Acheron"; Jack's initial orders had been since superseded and he was to meet his former First Lieutenant, who he himself had made Captain of the French-won ship, under her new name, "Charlotte". That was something Aubrey could not quite understand – not that he was to question the Admiralty and, of course, he was just to follow orders to the best of his ability, like his men with his.

Perhaps it was Hardy's presence – clearly being surgeon to Admiral Nelson had left its mark – or the lack of familiarity he had with his new surgeon. At least this doctor would not require "Surprise" to stop every so often to investigate the natural marvels of some island or other, something that Jack Aubrey had come to expect and anticipate from his surgeon. Whatever it was, something did not sit right, and for the life of him, Jack Aubrey could not tell what.

Another pacing of the deck set this quandary to the back of his mind. His men had worked hard, very hard and Jack suspected he could sense the mood. Anticipation and uncertainty. It was always there in the air of a battle ship whose crew were waiting like coiled springs to fire into action. They would be ever more in the mood when "Surprise" sailed tomorrow, and they knew that evening they could relax into raucous merriment.

"Good morning, Sir." William Mowett smiled a smile you could warm your hands on. "It'll be good to be under sail on the morrow, will it not?"

Exhaling, Aubrey smiled back to his First Lieutenant, formerly his Second Lieutenant to Pullings prior to the latter's promotion to Captain aboard "Acheron".

"Indeed, Mr Mowett, it will indeed. I'll wager we'll reach the Straits before the third day is out, and be at Portsmouth before the end of next week, with a good wind behind us."

"Yes, sir. Sir," enquired Mowett, walking the deck with Jack Aubrey. "May I ask, my promotion, Captain. I was wondering, sir, whether – "

" – whether it is to be permanent?" Aubrey looked at the older man, whose point had been conveyed eloquently enough for its meaning to be understood without seeming too uncouth. "I have, William, sent my report many months ago to Admiralty House. Unless I hear otherwise before we receive our outgoing orders, then we are to assume that my recommendations for promotion have been accepted. Captain Pullings, I expect, will not wish to return to his former rank – "

A look of uncertainty crossed the man's face and Jack Aubrey concluded, " – barring high water or hell, the position is yours, William." He clapped the man on the back, to reinforce his point; he knew as well as Mowett that this was probably the last chance the man would have at such a rank. "And I do not believe Mr. Blakeney would be so willing to give up your former rank either. So unless you feel the need to tell him yourself – "

" – no, sir," confirmed First Lieutenant Mowett. "I don't think I could bear the responsibility of that task. Thank you, sir," he added. The men continued their procession across the foredeck.

"The men are happy with the provisions currently. We are lucky to be detained in such a civilised port."

"Indeed so," replied Mowett. "I have made arrangements for as much fresh as we can adequately carry be aboard at dawn. Salted meat too and ale," he added proudly.

"Very good," nodded Aubrey. The Lieutenant was efficient and knew his job well. Had it not been for his age through the prior misfortune of missing out on promotion in his youth Mowett ma well have developed into a fine captain by now

"How do you feel Dr. Hardy is settling in?" Aubrey glanced sidewards towards Mowett, who laughed aloud. "Do you think we suit him?" he added.

"No indeed," replied Mowett, "I believe we are a little too humble for the good Doctor. He is efficient, nonetheless." Aubrey nodded in agreement.

"Indeed he is. Three wounded men in a week and he has treated them most professionally."

"His manner is indeed a little different to Dr. Maturin though, if you don't mind my saying, sir."

Yes, he is, thought Aubrey. Very little connection between himself and the men. Stephen's manner towards the crew had been personable, almost instructive and it had won him the respect of all. What would it be like now had he still been with them? Taking in Stromboli, or inquiring into other natural phenomena.

"Not at all, William. Now, can you tell me why Second Lieutenant is not attending his duty?" He watched Mowett examine Blakeney's erratic procession across the deck, his neck inclined with interest at the planks.

"Sir, I do believe he has being particularly thorough with the handling of the new men we picked up in Jeddah, if you don't mind my saying so," replied the man. "A real raggedy bunch if ever I met 'em sir. I think every warship in the fleet got there before we did to pick from the best."

Aubrey affirmed his Lieutenant's sentiments and Mowett added, "I'll enquire to his behaviour. Blakeney?" Mowett made his way over to his slight subordinate, waiting for the teenager to look back. "Why are you not supervising your squad?" Will Blakeney smiled back to the older man pointed to the deck.

"I've found a train of beetles." He gestured to the deck, his wide in youthful naivety before darting his glance between Aubrey and Mowett. "The men have all finished their duties. I've overseen them and – I was about to continue checking," he added.

"Then about to it," Aubrey commanded. "The sun will soon be setting and we will be asail in the morn. You will be able to complete your…naturalistic research when we stand down."

"Yes sir," nodded Blakeney, whose interest in naturalism had only increased with the passing of time. "Of course. Shall I show you, Lieutenant?" Mowett returned the youngster's smile.

"Yes, Lieutenant," Mowett confirmed.

"Oh, before I forget Captain – " Blakeney handed Jack Aubrey two letters. "They arrived just now from Genova. I was meaning to given them to you." As Second Lieutenant any mail that arrived was his responsibility. This had been the first delivery for almost two years, in the port of Sao Paolo in Brazil. The men were all eager to hear from loved ones and the like, not least Jack himself.

"Thank you, Will." Jack Aubrey held out a hand, waiting for the boy to give them to him.

"One of them looks like it's from Mrs Aubrey. It's very pretty…" Rather than handing them over Blakeney examined the one face up, it's lettering neat and curved. "

"Thank you Will," Aubrey repeated, keeping his arm extended.

"Her writing is very nice – "

"Mr. Blakeney – " But Will Blakeney was analysing the second.

"This is from Admiralty House." Mowett's brow creased a little and Aubrey gave him a short glance. "Probably orders for you, sir."

"Mr Blakeney!" exclaimed Aubrey in exasperation and the ex-midshipman looked startled.

"Mr. Blakeney," Mowett interjected softly. "Perhaps you'd like to give the Captain his letters then you can show me the work of your men?" Blakeney nodded.

"Yes, sir," he replied allowing Jack's hand to close at last around his mail. Leaving the two Lieutenants to amply cover the very last of the preparations Aubrey made his way to the quarterdeck, inspecting the outers of the two letters. One indeed did appear to be from Sophie; its girth indicated that she had sent him quite a missive. The other, Admiralty House. Clearly his interim orders before he reached British waters.

They were to sail adjacent Spain home to get back to Portsmouth, of course, which wasn't without its perils now the King of Spain had offered his allegiance to Napoleon. Aubrey presumed that he was to meet "Acheron", that had always been his presumption and, upon opening it found that he was correct. He was then to rendezvous with the flagship fleet and await further instructions at Calais.

Hm, Aubrey mused. Calais. Despite a stronghold of French resistant to Bonaparte, thus making the docks relatively safe for short periods, Jack had never been so sure. Nevertheless, these were his orders.

Tucking away the letter from his wife into his jacket pocket, Jack Aubrey made for the mizzendeck inhaling the warm, sweet air laden with the promise of action. He would read it later, perhaps in a day or two. For now, they were to be away.

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Before the rows of navigationals two managers from another canal company stood. It was highly unusual for the men to be allayed from their work and, in the increasingly hot day to which the miserable rain had yielded, the canal-men stood, blinking silently as one of them spoke.

"What we need are men who want to earn more money." He was rather tall, thinner than the other man who stood next to him, both of whom representing the "Grand Union", and spoke with a north-westerly accent. They had come before, almost a fortnight ago. Cicely had stood in line to volunteer to go with them, to go south, but she had been overlooked for more experienced navvies, stronger and bigger. Presumably this company had had enough general labourers and Cicely had been disappointed but, knowing other companies would arrive kept her hope.

Now she was getting desperate. Life had gone from bad to worse - the baking heat of mid-August had brought foul, putrid air to the navigationals' camp; drinking and brawling had become worse and pillaging of the camp had become a daily occurrence. In addition, the local militia had been regular visitors, arresting men and taking names and descriptions as thefts which had occurred in the surrounding villages were being blamed on the navvies.

Cicely had been close to being one of those questioned but had managed to slip away from the back of the group that was being herded away from the camp. Somehow she had to get to the South Coast and over the Channel, to find the Surprise once more.

"We need men who want to learn so's they can earn even more money." As the words of the canal company manager faded murmurs rose amongst the men. What did they want men so badly for? Cicely's silent question was answered by the muttering men around her: explosives…cutting…blasting…that was what the job was, and why it was important enough for the Shropshire Union, their present company, to have halted work. On nights when drink flowed less freely and some men were happy to talk to others, the very dangers of blasting rock to cut canals was spoken of, and spoken of gravely, for Cicely knew as well as any of the others that the life expectancy for men who went with companies who used explosives could be drastically reduced.

"Do you want more money?" demanded the manager adjacent the other one who had spoken. Clearly their offer had not produced the desired response.

"Ar!" came a half-hearted reply; amongst the workers other mutterings abounded.

"Ar, more money, but it's gunpowder and copper dowsers," yelled a man, a carrier, one who slept close to where she did. A few nights before he had, in a drunken state, kicked out at her when she had been crying too loudly, cursing and swearing at her before swaggering off. "Yow carr spend money when you'm dead!"

Cicely looked up to see the managers exchanging questioning glances. Clearly their only incentive to get the hands they were looking for, namely financial, had not been entirely successful.

But not entirely a failure either. A few of the more experienced men; some who Cicely recognised had been questioned by the militia; some younger boys with whom she worked shoulder to shoulder tipping earth – they were forming a small ragged group before the managers.

"Yes, the work'll be dangerous," confirmed the larger man, clearly happier now at having a few willing workers. "But yer'll be well paid fer it! And yer'll get yer food and – better shelterin's than them thereabouts – " he cast his arm towards the shacks in which the navvies lived, any unity between himself as a canal manager and that of the "Shropshire Union" going to the wall in a bid to recruit more. "And you'll have Sundays to yourself." As he spoke, a trickle of further men joined the group at the front. "We head to the Capital, to London herself."

Cicely felt a burden lift from her shoulders as she too made her way forward. She could see now how her actions were foolish, shameful, ungodly. She should have stood up to Wigg herself and declared what she was. Her only hope was to get to Stephen somehow and explain; hope he would forgive her. And might only be a matter of time for the militia men to discover her. That, all of that, was worth so risky an endeavour. The men were right; you had to be desperate to cut canals with explosives.

There was now a good two dozen men between her and those who had been tempted by the "Grand Union" managers. As she pushed her way ever forward Cicely could see the managers looking approvingly at those who had been convinced by their pitch.

As if for one last push, the thinner manager added: "Anyone else wish to volunteer?"

"Me!" shouted Cicely silently to herself, as she pushed past the last of the "Shropshire Union" stalwarts. "I volunteer!"

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