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"What is that fellow playing at!" Thomas Johns, private secretary to Prime Minister stood before Henry Gordon, clearly trying to maintain his composure. The man had been sent by William Pitt (the younger) to demand an explanation for the letter that Gordon had drafted on behalf of the Lord Admiral informing the government of a change in military strategy.
"He…he goes against the express agreement of the Cabinet; he risks British ships for…what?"
"Results," replied Gordon, stepping towards his desk. The brusque tone of Johns was interspersed with doubt – magnifying the uncertainty of Charles James Fox himself no doubt; the former opposition minister had a deep dislike of Nelson and Thomas Johns had been sent by Pitt to seek firm clarity in the Lord Admiral's strategic plans.
"Lord Nelson is charged, is he not, to fight the French to the best of his command, under terms agreed with the Third Coalition Alliance, is he not?" Having failed to make an appointment with Gordon, Thomas Johns had arrived unannounced demanding answers from him. Under such difficult circumstances Henry Gordon was having difficulty keeping his ice-cold demeanour.
"He is to use whatever wit, skill and ability in his arsenal to defeat the enemy?"
"He is!" Johns exhaled sharply and looked away from Gordon. Clearly whatever meeting he had just come from at Downing Street it had been fraught…difficult and the tension was spilling over into his office. From a Wedgwood teacup Gordon sipped India tea, watching Johns over the rim momentarily as the man tried to hold his composure under such obvious duress.
The pause was enough to underline Johns' own reply to Gordon's question but the Lord Admiral's private secretary felt sorry for the man: it was hardly the fault that Honest Billy had got himself into such a political tangle and as such, into a corner regarding Lord Nelson.
And it was a change to speak to a man of similar role about his master, rather than the frequent irrelevant interruptions he had had to spend his time over recently. Not least, the regular demands from Toby Hamilton as to an update on the Cicely Hollum business, who had, in turn, been sent a man called Buckley directly from Wigg himself.
It had interested Gordon at the time, all those months ago, when the desire to locate Miss Hollum would have suited both the needs of Wickham and himself. It was his responsibility to prevent scandal in the Royal Navy and he was at pains to make sure nothing dishonourable would be brought against the service.
Yet, the spectre of shame which had threatened to hang over the Navy with the scandal of Miss Hollum being married to another man rather than the one her father had intended had long since passed and the situation was to him a little more than an inconvenience that was brought to his door every two or three weeks.
"The Prime Minister demands only the best from the First Sealord," Gordon added. "We all wish the swift end of Bonaparte. Perhaps you could report back to the Prime Minister that he should trust his own instincts." He watched as his words found their target. It had been the younger Pitt who had put his faith in Nelson in the first place. Johns' face seemed to relax a little.
"He does go against the grain, Gordon. He plans to sail out into the Atlantic, for what? To play a game of chase with the French Navy? His style has to be said is unorthodox."
"Indeed," agreed Gordon. It was unorthodox. But precisely who had said it to be, Henry Gordon was unsure. Of what he was sure, it wasn't Johns, or even Pitt where Johns' words originated and a lot of politics was bound up in the answer that Gordon was to give.
"We are dealing with a military genius in our enemy," he continued carefully, taking a seat behind his desk and offering the seat opposite to Johns, who either ignored or did not actually notice the gesture. "Bonaparte has brazenly trounced several strong countries, causing our alliance with several of them. What we need now is unorthodox in order to triumph."
Again, a further couple of moments were needed for his words to be absorbed by Thomas Johns, perhaps to allow his mind to interpret Gordon's words into those more acceptable to those in the Cabinet whose interest the man was really representing.
"Indeed, indeed," nodded Johns. "We need to fight Bonaparte as best we can – the threat of invasion is all too real." There. That was Pitt talking.
"Is there anything else which is concerning you, Mr. Johns, regarding my Lord Admiral?" Gordon got to his feet. "Feel free to return if you have anything you wish to ask in the future. There is no need to make an appointment." Because you didn't this time, he added, but to himself.
"No, no. I believe your answers are more than sufficient." Johns concluded, nodding solemnly to Gordon. And, deft turn, Pitt's private secretary left as swiftly as he had arrived.
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Cicely lay in hammock and examining the planked ceiling above her. In a few minutes four bells would be rung and she would have to be up and to her station.
She breathed out with relief again, something she had done several times since "Victory" had departed Portsmouth harbour. The flagship had not tarried in its task of landing the officers and men of rank. Scores of men flooded onto the quayside and not just from the Victory - Cicely remembered her heart hammering in her chest as she looked at the people descending the port. From other ships women and children were disembarking too, being organised and, it appeared, being counted and recorded by the officers there.
Cicely wondered just how many prisoners the French had taken, and how many they had kept. How many they had shot…
Then the flagship had hauled anchor and had sailed out into the Solent. Once afloat, the middies of the Victory had set to work redistributing those men, including Cicely, who remained and integrating them into the fleet.
How easy it had been to remain aboard! Had she had known in advance, would Cicely have worried so much? She had been concerned that, were she made to disembark too, that she would not be able to reboard, or even get back to any ship at all. Then she would have had to lie to the quayside officers and hope another cover would hold up to scrutiny. But now she hadn't to worry – by luck or fortune, she had, with very little effort on her part, become a member of the Victory's crew.
The Isle of Wight had been in her edge of vision as the tall, mean-faced midshipman who had berated her lack of effort in scrubbing the deck had collected the new men's names again, cross-referencing them with the original, hastily compiled list which had been made on the quayside at Yport.
The new men had been made to line up, had their height and stature assessed and recorded. The rest of the crew had gone about their business and those who had been seen by a lieutenant and a shorter, rounder-faced middie were sent immediately to their new positions.
Cicely could determine what information she needed to come up with as she listened to the midshipman talk to the men in the line before her: name, place of birth, previous ships of service. She had already given her name as Stephen Maturin and it occurred to Cicely as the men neared that she knew relatively little about her husband.
She knew, for example, that he had spent his early life in Catalonia, being cared for by his grandmother before being sent to Ireland as a young man and training in Dublin as a doctor. In which places these might have been however Cicely did not know and she had brazened out the brief questions that the lieutenant had asked her and she had claimed confusion when she had been asked which on which ships she had previously served.
Thankfully the physical examination was brief and vague; her posture was a source of comment as was her height, but the midshipman simply recorded the information given and moved to the next man, directing her to the ropes under the mid-mast. The lowliest role aboard the flagship. Cicely smiled to herself. She had become a mizzenlad again and as such invisible.
And now she was on her feet again, five days since their departure from Portsmouth. The work had been steady; Victory was heading west and seemed to be ahead of a couple of dozen British warships. Where they were going was uncertain, at least to the lowly seaman who was only supposed to follow orders but to Cicely it felt as if something was rising – slowly, infinitesimally slowly, on the path to somewhere…something.
She made her way onto the deck, trying to avoid the officers as she scuttled to her place above the sails. Unlike on the Surprise the Victory didn't run a pair system – all the mizzenlads were expected to be able to operate in any of the roles in the masts high above the deck, pulling in sheets or tying in sails; letting out or hauling ropes.
Victory was far larger than any of the ships Cicely had ever worked on too and she had had to learn quickly above this first-rater her place as well as her role. As such she had given very little thought to her actual role there – to locate the former French captain and stop him from assassinating Lord Nelson.
Looking up into the bright October sunlight she paused momentarily as she waited for the other mizzenlad who would be assigned to work below her that morning to appear next to her. She would be climbing up and down the rigging on this shift and she couldn't get started until she knew who he was – Cicely would have to be able to communicate with him from a could of hundred feet above the deck so she would have to know who she was to communicate with.
A small, lithe lad who had boarded the Victory with her prisoner group from Yport stood next to her. Bill Gibbons. Cicely had worked with him before, the first day after leaving Portsmouth. Bill had his hammock close to hers and he worked deftly and accurately despite his size, unlike his friend, Philip Dixon, who had been assigned the bowsprit that morning.
She had worked with Dixon the day before and Cicely knew from that day's experience that wouldn't be long until poor Philip was on the deck. Despite their short time afloat Philip Dixon had earned himself a reputation for clumsiness.
A whistle sounded which marked the start of their shift. Cicely smiled as Bill looked up the length of the main mast.
"Morning, Bill." Cicely smiled briefly at her mast-partner.
"Mornin' Stephen," said Bill in a hushed whisper, as was his manner. "You should be OK up there today, it doesn't look too windy."
"Hope so," Cicely replied as she gripped the wood of the mast with her hands. Behind Bill she glanced as James Fillings walked by on his way to the deck duties he was carrying out that morning. She turned back and jumped towards the mast, using her knees to make it up to the first spar of the mast.
"'ere!" shouted Bill, throwing her the first rope which she needed to tie through the bottom of the first sail. Cicely caught it deftly and laced it through the eyelet. Her heart was pounding but not from the work. Her friend, someone she had shared so much on the Surprise was there.
Ciclely wanted, as she had wanted since she had known he was aboard, to tell him she was there, to seek the comfort she had known when they had been each others' pair. But could she? Should she? And if she did, did she trust herself not to tell James her reason for being aboard? For the moment, Cicely resolved not to.
Another whistle roused her from her thoughts and she looked down at Bill who was pulling the excess of the rope that she was securing through its rowlock. She would have to move fast if she were to peg out the rest of the sail so it could fill with as much of the wind that was behind them.
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