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"My good men." It was always a good opening, and much desired. Captain Aubrey had practised his speech for almost a week since his previous orders to remain put had dampened his enthusiasm. Now his men stood before him, assembled once more on the main deck, with undisguised anticipation. And at last Aubrey could slake their thirst for action.

"My good men," Aubrey repeated. "At last our day is upon us. We are to depart this day through the Channel." He allowed the information a chance to filter through into their consciousness before continuing.

"We are to join the flagship, the Victory," he continued, glancing to his right at his temporary surgeon, Thomas Hardy. His habit of avoiding Aubrey's crew as often as he could had caused Aubrey much annoyance and, whether it had been the wharfing of the Surprise for so long or no, he had taken to insisted that every soul aboard be present whenever he addressed the men. This had caused much ire in the ship's kitchens but, levelled with the opportunity for a variety of fresh, unadulterated food purchasable from Vlissingen town on a regular basis the cook had much less grudgingly co-operated.

"We are much honoured in our mission: our Lord Admiral chooses only those ships worth of flanking her. We are much prepared and that is down to your hard work. It is hoped that our work now will end the war with France."

"Hurrah!" yelled a couple of voices. "Hurrah!"

Hurrah indeed, thought Aubrey. He had a vague idea that Lord Nelson would be toying with Villeneuve in some way. If it had been to clear the Victory's bilge-hole Aubrey doubted he would have cared – they would have something to do. The competition he had arranged had occupied his men as predicted; the Meerschaum pipe having been won by their Coxswain Barrett Bonden, much to his delight but this event had now passed on into recent memory.

"Quick is the word then, and sharp is the action. Ship-shape and Bristol-fashion! Asail the tide!"

At his word, the crew resumed their duties, readying the Surprise for immediate sail. Aubrey turned away and looked over the prow from the quarterdeck. He had spent most of the last fortnight wishing that he himself had been the Captain of the Thorn: the ship which had been berthed adjacent Surprise before being given, presumably, orders to sail. Now…

….something about the orders this time made him feel uneasy. Perhaps it was because the orders had come direct from Admiralty House rather than the flagship. But…orders were orders and just now Aubrey was grateful for any function at all.

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The letter was signed by "Captain Jack Aubrey". More than just a letter, Wickham mused as he examined the original letter sent to Aubrey from his wife and the one sent to her from Cicely Maturin. A pamphlet, more like, the spymaster thought and wondered what Maturin would have made of the wealth of information he had in his possession.

At last, William Wickham had a legitimate reason to hand over this entire matter to the Navy and he knew exactly who would be most delighted to receive such a tangle of information. Or rather, he would not.

The room in France's capital was roomy and he knew the loyal landlord from previous business on behalf of British intelligence. Open to ideas as well as money, the landlord owed Wickham more than one favour for dragging him out of revolutionary trouble and he only wished he had the time to indulge his leisure therein.

Folding the ever-growing tome in two, Wickham removed a clean sheet of Bond paper from his belongings and spends a few moments penning a note to Lord Nelson's private secretary who would curse him to seven hells for giving him such a mess to deal with.

But of course I've done the right thing, thought Wickham, in mock-response to Gordon's imagined anger. Such is no longer in my sphere of responsibility, especially as I must oversee the redesignation of Maturin's work, of course…

…at least the words he had last spoken to Buckley before he had left London would have a measure of truth in them now. And it wouldn't be long before Nelson would be in full disposal of the facts. Officially, anyway. Whether the Lord Admiral of the fleet would actually know in the actual sense of the word, that was unclear.

Looking down onto the street where traders were beginning to assemble under dark brown canvases to hawk their wares, Wickham sealed the wad of paper, addressing the outer paper to Henry Gordon at Admiralty House.

At last, Wickham thought again. No longer my problem. And now?

Stephen Maturin's face flashed before his own. It was unlike Wickham to be needled by his conscience but ever since his top spy's redeployment the Doctor's contorted features would resurface unbidden, and unexpected, in his mind at the very moment he had pulled the trigger. It had to be done, Wickham had told himself each time…even if other men in his situation might not have been so merciless.

Perhaps because Maturin's challenge to his own skill in espionage was now no more and he had regained his undisputed position as the best…perhaps because of personal pride the doctor was haunting him.

Pushing the fat paper into his inside coat pocket, Wickham picked up the thin back containing his meagre belongings. The bulging letter had made quite a journey, all in all, and now it would be making its way back to England.

Just like him: Wickham had his own journey to make, and whether Nelson would succeed at Trafalgar and Wellesley on triumph on land, those would depend on his swiftness and dexterity. And he was already pushed for time.