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The man who had fought with the green jacket rifles when they were under siege from loyalist Spanish was indeed seeking the HMS Surprise. But this wasn't the ship he was to board nor his prime objective. He had managed his secondary mission well – many regiments had amalgamated in the north-east region of Spain. The Catalans would welcome them, he knew, and Wellesley would soon locate them.

He had slept overnight in a small tavern snuggled away in the centre of the port-town. His flawless language coupled with his Castilian accent had sold him as, if not local, a loyalist, and he had been able to gather information vital to his mission by merely sitting in the inn and listening to the men talk away. How rich a mine was a roomful of half-inebriated men for the details he sought were mundane and basic to the common ear.

Looking into the morning sunlight the spy knew he had to wait for dusk. To board the ship in board daylight was not only folly but a death sentence. Besides which he had several means to embark using, bizarre, incongruous yet highly effective means. That would be the easy part. To carry out his plan with so many ever-changing variables was a situation best dealt with it when it occurred.

For now, the plan to board the flagship was enough to occupy his mind. That and other gentlemanly pursuits would occupy his time until night fell. A small measure of freedom. He smiled at the autumnal sunshine and thanked the maker for such a clement day.

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It was early in the morning and Henry Gordon felt light on his feet as he made his way across London. The mile between Cheapside and Whitehall, where Admiralty House was located passed swiftly and it felt to Gordon that no time had passed since his booted feet pressed onto the cobbles outside one of the grander houses in the misnomered Cheapside than he had reached the outside door behind which the stairs led up to his office.

Raymond Cope had been invaluable to him. He had known Cope when they had been young men working in the offices of Government. They had spent many long hours in taverns, alehouses and coffee shops bemoaning their seniors and the arduous expectations that they pressed upon the juniors (and which Gordon and Cope, in turn now pressed upon the young in their employ).

He had visited the man unannounced the night before and Cope had welcomed him as if he had only seen Henry Gordon the day before, as a long-held, close acquaintance. He had explained the difficulty, implications and possible consequences for both the Lord Admiral and the Royal Navy as a whole and the two of them, buoyed by both the intellectual academic challenge and warming liquor had spent the night tussling with the dilemma until an answer had been sought.

Half an hour later and the information that Gordon had obtained in copious note form (which would duly be filed in the Admiralty records) had been reworked into a letter for his superior. Admiral Nelson would be pleased, Gordon knew, that the fragment of grit in the shoe of the service had been removed before severe damage could be done.

It went like this: a woman was her father's property until she became her husband's property through the institute of marriage in principle. In practice it was her worldly possessions which became the property of her husband and if she were the only descendant of her father, were he to die anything of his would automatically cede to her husband. That is where her father consented to the marriage by the signing of the marriage certificate.

Were a woman to marry without consent however, the practicalities of their marriage should still be upheld however, and this is where Gordon had found himself guffawing loudly in Cope's study as his belated friend had relayed it to him, if her father (and she were the only family descendant) had not signed the marriage certificate and he were to die the woman's husband would gain nothing.

So Hollum had no call on the validity of his daughter's marriage however he could bring the issue to the courts as challenge and offer evidence that Cicely Emma Hollum had married under duress, or other mitigating circumstances of invalidity; that she had been out of her wits, or mad, for example and such lines of discourse, especially in the caballious world in which Marquess Sir Richard Hollum, KG. As he had predicted however, Gordon knew that Cicely Maturin would have to be present in an English court of law for it to be proven.

Marquess, thought Gordon as he looked over his neat, succinct missive. Hollum had full knowledge of the unlawful death of his son, Edward Hollum, by his own hand and so, Mrs Cicely Maturin would therefore be his only lawful descendant. She would inherit the title of Marchioness of Gloucester.

It was no wonder that the debt-ridden man was fighting for a decree of invalidity on his daughter's marriage to Dr. Stephen Maturin and no wonder too that the rich Benjamin Wigg, of common birth, was seeking nobility. Wigg would inherit more than a title, he would break into the peerage system and sit in the House of Lords. With many scandals and indiscretions both in and out of his closet this would allow Wigg, who had inherited vast sums from his now-deceased first wife's family and appropriated yet more, had a stranglehold on legal matters surrounding his enemies.

Oh yes, thought Gordon, as he dripped dark red sealing wax onto the join of the fold of the letter. What a union between Wigg and Hollum. He pressed the official seal into the now-cooling oily substance. That was the measure of it.

Henry Gordon rarely despised anyone. His father had been wealthy enough to allow him a decent education which had led him to the desk behind which he was sitting. Gordon knew that to get on in life others were needed to give you a push up. In his book, this was acceptable.

What he loathed was the opposite – the active pursuit by gentry and the like of advantage and indluence in order to press people down, to leave them broken, blackmailed, in a stranglehold for the sake of greed. This mutual agreement, with no consideration for those around them, not least the Royal Navy and Lord Nelson, who would likely be disgraced, were this to fall wrongly, irked Gordon. He had seen so many people he knew and cared for be-heeled, cast aside, denied promotion all for the whim of corrupt aristocracy. There were times when even the most order-loving Henry Gordon felt himself empathising with the French republicans.

Had that woman, for whose wellbeing Gordon would not otherwise have cared, not displayed her opinion of the union in her subsequent actions with respect to her father's and intended husband's plans?

The Admiral would be free of it now, Gordon thought, as was he. As long as the girl never returned to the country while her father lived, so she was – and everyone else involved too. And to know it would scupper the plans of two utterly contemptible men made the result of his effort ever the sweeter.

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The preparations for the impeding battle on HMS Surprise were progressing well. First Lieutenant William Mowett, his hat pressed back on his head and his neck bent back into the best rays of an autumn sun oversaw the precise preparations. Hos route took him across the main deck to the mizzen, where yet more fresh linen was being hoisted, stays and rollers oiled with whale-grease and ropes attended.

The ship, as all the other ships adjacent thereof, was carrying out their well-practised, well-organised routines. This, Mowett – and every officer – knew, was what gave the Royal Navy the edge over their enemies. The men handled their sails and fired their guns more quickly than their rivals; their ships were cleaner which helped to reduce losses to disease.

The crews were well organised, well drilled, coherent teams. They followed orders to the letter – even the lowliest Ordinary knew their role was important and in the heat of battle, when chaos and destruction was all around, such a man would stamp upon his terror and use it as a step to courage and bravery, such bravery, that he never dreamed possible. It was that extra step, that conscientiousness, instilled in every jack by the rigid hierarchy, by the patriotic fervour and gloriousness of victory, which was lacking in their French counterparts. No, concluded Mowett, the French were unlikely to succeed at sea.

Like him. Climbing the steps to the mizzen he looked aloft at the top-mastmen who were tying in the linen. An able seaman, Johnson, lowered his head and saluted. Mowett nodded brusquely, as was custom. Not that he was a failure – William Mowett had come to his current rank under Captain Aubrey legitimately – but his rising was not due to his own skill or prowess – Pullings had been promoted Captain of the ill-fated Acheron – even though he knew Aubrey would not have promoted him unless he was sure that he was capable.

Not that it bothered him: William Mowett was an unlikely seaman and he had risen far. No, he mused contentedly as he did the final wheel to the other set of steps which led back down to the main deck, not for him the burden of promotion to Captain – retirement from the service would come before that.

A deck hand saluted Mowett as he descended. He was pleased to see the men were good spirits as the battle drew near. They would spend the day making good and the night making merry, with grog and rum, with song and with women. Mowett himself had shooed off the last of the weak-moralled women at dawn though he knew that most of them, local girls making money to top up their wages as cleaners and housekeepers, would be back that night.

More probably, Mowett contemplated as he surveyed the quay below. In an hour or so, once the sun was high, Lieutenant Blakeney would be bringing aboard much needed hands chosen from the throng. He had been a little put out that it was not he who was to choose the men – as next in rank it was usually the 1st Lieutenant's privilege. William Blakekney had expressed his enthusiasm for the task and Aubrey had allowed him.

Another man, Mowett realised, may well have been rankled by this. Blakeney was a born leader, he would inevitably be a captain, if not higher in rank, whereas Mowett, though he was good, whether through age, confidence…something always held him back from making the leap forward and now he was waiting out his final years of service. He didn't begrudge the young man's emphatic enthusiasm. Not that his lack of ambition hold him back; this realisation of a pressure-free service comforted Mowett, made him feel free as the wind. Perhaps when he retired he could make real his ambition to publish his poetry.

"Looks like plenty for Lieutenant Blakeney to choose from." His inspection took Mowett next to Captain Aubrey who was also scrutinising the potential crew below. It was one of the processes he liked least in service, especially when so many ships required more hands. Such was the case many men, especially those least appropriate to the task, vied with one another for selection.

Below them a group had been bunched together by the Surprise's Royal Marines as the calls from the ships around them beckoned men to choose their potential vessel. The men who wanted to serve had to choose carefully – they had to either know the skills that the ship required for an edge over others (especially amongst numbers that thronged on the quay that day) or be prepared to fight over unskilled positions for which the competition was much higher.

"I'll have to look at any chits of course," continued Aubrey as Mowett looked down at the men. "You'd've been the one to do it, William, if you'd been selecting of course." Any men who had expressed a desire to be a part of a ship's crew and produced a letter of recommendation would automatically be put ahead of the rest.

"Indeed, sir," nodded William. He picked out William Blakeney below, ably carrying out the selection procedure. "He's coping rather well, sir."

"He is," nodded Jack, looking back at Mowett. "You should be congratulated for standing aside for him." William Mowett noticed Aubrey's eyes narrow for a second. He knew him well enough to know that the question was a weighted one, designed to delve further than just the surface.

"It's quite all right, sir," Mowett replied, deliberately avoiding the unspoken question. "My tenure as lieutenant is close to. Six years will be up once we get back to England." Jack smiled and Mowett returned it. He seemed about to say something else when Barrington, one of his newer midshipmen, begged his forgiveness for interrupting. He had some papers for the Captain.

"All will be well, sir," continued Mowett, scanning the main deck. "Dr. Hardy is good with the men." Now, thought Jack to himself. The trouble was, no matter how good he was at his job he wasn't Stephen. He was a brass player, for a start, not string. Had Stephen Maturin to be found on the Victory the night before Jack would have had his viewpoint, invaluable that it was to him. So often it was sound, so often it was accurate. Were he there, perhaps Surprise would be where she should have been, in one of the fighting lines. He sighed. There was no point wishing for something that could now never be.

When Mowett had made his move towards the fo'csle, inspecting the men as he went, Jack glanced at the dozen or so memoranda before looking back at his First Lieutenant. Some captains in his position would doubt Mowett's commitment, that his lack of ambition meant carelessness and unassiduousness but Jack knew that Mowett, coming late in life to the service, was proud of his progress and loyal to boot. Were he in a similar position, wouldn't he take a comfortable retirement and return to his first love? That of the literative variety.

He looked past Mowett and at the general making-ready. He may well have been shamed before his counterparts the previous night but unprepared his ship was not going to be – he couldn't, he wouldn't shame his men so. He was to flank the flagship and not engage: those were Jack's orders and he would damn well see that they were carried out as effectively, promptly and honourably as he could possibly see that they could be. It was a bitter tonic to swallow but, Jack reminded himself, Nelson could well, for the shame, left the Surprise out of the battle altogether.

Jack looked down at the assortment of paper types and sizes written as they were by a diversity of hands using a variety of inks. Some of them were in Portuguese – many of Portugal's fighting men had crossed the border so as to make it known their country's loyalty, despite that of their neighbours. Even local Cadizians were there. Technically they were Spanish and would be fighting their fellow countrymen once they engaged the combined enemy fleet but down here the loyalty extended only to the nearest nugget of gold.

Some were in English, though. Several were old recommendations which led Jack to wonder what they had been doing since their previous service. An eruption of sound below curtailed Jack's reading of the advocations and he looked down at a surge of men pushing their way through the line which Blakeney was examining. He leaned forward, looking for Blakeney. Shouts came from the quay and then rifle-fire. The crush had subsided almost as quickly as it began and further shouts travelled upwards.

"…no more, no more…!" Howard, captain of the marines seemed to be shouting towards the unsuccessful line-breakers, "…hold…hold…"

Between the men that Blakeney was examining and those desperate to be considered the Marines had formed a barrier. To the left though, some of those rebuffed however weren't taking the warnings from the Marines. Aubrey shook his head and turned back to the

"Excuse me sir." William Barrington, his pale blue eyes shimmering, earnestly bearing another couple of letters. "More for your consideration."

"Thank you," replied Aubrey, turning back to the crowding below.

"No more I say, no more!" Captain Howard's voice rang through again and he discharged his weapon. This time however the unsuccessful men did retreat, slowly back towards the harbour. He looked back to the half dozen of the letters. The Portuguese ones he was unable to read but he would accept them anyway, loyal that they were and determined to demonstrate their autonomy to Spain.

"Sir." A breathless Barrington stood before him again, yet another letter in his hand.

"No more, Barrington," Aubrey replied but the middie did not lower his hand.

"Lieutenant Blakeney, sir," he continued, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. "He told me you should read this, sir." Narrowing his eyes momentarily Aubrey as he eyed the brief reference. The other letters fluttered out of his hand and landed softly on the deck by Jack's feet. Then they widened, flashing past Barrington and back down to the quay, searching out a redcoat. When he could not find such a figure he thrust the letter back into the midshipman's hand.

"Tell Blakeney to bring – " Losing his words, he flapped his hand towards the letter, jerk ing back round to the quay. When he realised Barrington was still standing there he wrenched his neck back and shouted at the confused midshipman.

"Now, Barrington! Go! Go!"

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