Read sample Dockyard Dog

Chapter One

The sway of the mast got worse the higher he went. Much worse.

"Bastard," he swore under his breath, although it mattered little as no one could hear him and the insistent strength of the wind carried his voice away anyway. Cursing his Captain yet again the young officer risked a glance upwards, hoping the remaining distance would seem less daunting the closer he got to the maintop and the tiny perch already occupied by a lookout.

Mistake. The masthead, still over ten feet away, swayed in a steady arc back and forth against the high, thin cloud in the sky. Had the ship been at a standstill the mast would still have swayed in the wind; with the ship under way at almost nine knots the mast was a living thing. This time the officer cursed himself, as he knew better. Pausing to settle the churning in his stomach, he clutched the rope ladder hard.

"Get on with it, you idiot," he muttered.

Climbing well over a hundred feet to the top of the mainmast of a warship at sea was a terrifying experience and he knew it mattered not how many times you had done it before. Most sailors found it frightening, but he knew a few fools made light of it and usually ended up being dead fools. Anyone serving on a British Royal Navy warship with any sense soon learned one simple lesson. All tasks required absolute caution and respect, and paying attention to small details was essential. The officer shook his head; a warship held far too many ways for the unwary to get killed.

With effort he took several deep breaths and focused on the thick mast in front of him. The churning finally subsided and he resumed his climb, thankful yet again at learning to master the nausea touching at times even the most experienced sailors. The officer smiled as he resumed his climb, knowing he could still do it. The alternative was vomiting from his current perch, which would guarantee a wide splatter on the deck and people below. The wrath of his furious Captain wouldn't bear even thinking about.

Twenty-two year old Lieutenant Evan Ross already knew his wrath well, having borne the brunt of it on many occasions. A rebellious spark deep inside kept the thought alive, though. Doing something to precipitate a way out of his current harsh situation was tempting. Evan had been ecstatic when word came he would replace the former third Lieutenant of HMS Wind three months ago after the man succumbed to fever, but the euphoria didn't last. Being assigned to a frigate, the swift hunters of the Royal Navy, should have been a dream posting. In reality they were the worst three months of his young life.

Right from the start the Captain seemed bent on venting his anger over anything going wrong with his ship on the new Lieutenant, and nothing Evan did worked to change his mind. The Captain's puzzling, irrational behaviour toward him was a frustrating mystery until the Second Lieutenant George Paxton took pity and pulled him aside for a quick moment after one manifestly unfair episode where Evan took the worst of the blame.

"You know, Mr. Ross, it may seem like it, but Captains don't always get their way."

Wary and alert, Evan risked a swift look around to ensure they were unheard before turning back to the Second Lieutenant.

"I take it that means the Captain was thwarted in some way recently, sir?"

Paxton took his own quick look about before replying. "Hmm, you wouldn't know this, but our senior mid Walsh is the son of our Captain's sister. The Flag didn't approve the Captain's request. Seems the Flag already had lots of unemployed Lieutenants around."

A brief, weary smile creased his face. "Thought you might want to know that." With a quick nod and one last look around he walked off to busy himself elsewhere before anyone noticed the two in deep conversation.

With the truth behind his situation much, much clearer Evan sighed as he considered the implications, knowing patronage was a huge part of advancement in the Navy. Midshipman Walsh was excellent at his duties and ready for greater challenges such as an acting Lieutenancy. Evan could see his Captain in a much different light as a result, because in putting Walsh forward for promotion the Captain was only doing what was expected of him, to find and promote talented people. No one would question the propriety of a family relationship being involved; Captain Woods was not the first and wouldn't be the last officer to push forward a relative for promotion. Making his new Lieutenant's life hell wasn't expected of him, but doing so was a backdoor way to get what he wanted. The Captain in reality wanted some excuse to clap him in chains or beach him and promote his favourite. The Captain owed Evan nothing.

And Evan could do nothing about it, knowing The Articles of War governing the lives and behaviour of people on board a Royal Navy warship gave the Captain enormous power over the ship and its people. His word was law.

Reaching the maintop with relief, Lieutenant Ross shoved aside his frustration. Eight years in the Royal Navy, serving since he was thirteen years old, had taught him patience was key to dealing with a demanding Captain. Bland responses and painstaking attention to duty was the only way to combat the abuse. This, and a firm resolve he wasn't going to be beaten.

Climbing onto the platform he squeezed his body in beside the seaman already sitting on the perch. The sailor gave him a quizzical look for a long moment, before a look of panic appeared on seeing the stony look he got in return.

"Sir," said the sailor, offering a hasty salute.

"Report, Smith," said Evan. "What have we got here?"

Another brief flicker of confusion crossed the sailor's face, but this time he responded quickly. "She's a Yankee, sir, like I called when I spotted her. You can see that from the trim of the ship. Sails, too. No one else has them cut like that. Pardon for asking, but is that what you came up to find out, sir?"

"Smith, you know bloody well why the Captain sent me up here is none of your concern," snarled Evan, although he quickly relented and told himself it wasn't fair to take his frustration out on the sailor.

"I presume he wants to know as much as possible about the situation well in advance of getting there," said Evan as he pulled out his telescope.

But even as he turned attention to his task Evan knew the sailor was probably still curious and raising a skeptical eyebrow behind his back. The man was right, too; sending a ship's officer to the top of the mainmast to scout something was most often a waste of time, as an officer would be unlikely to see more than an experienced lookout. Evan knew too the man was smart enough to realize this was also the likely source of the Evan's gruff responses. But as a professional seaman Smith would never openly criticize an officer, let alone the Captain. Doing so would bring a swift and brutally harsh response.

Evan studied the situation as he trained his telescope on the ship they were fast bearing down on. The Captain had shifted course as soon as the hail from the lookout came, but gave no indication of what he was concerned about. The French and the Americans were still active all over the Caribbean, so breaking the ship's homeward voyage to check out what this strange sail was up to wasn't anything anyone on the ship would deem odd. The Treaty of Paris signed in September 1783 formally ended hostilities between the combatants involved in the American Revolutionary War, but this certainly didn't mean the hard feelings and suspicion were gone.

The ship being in this place was indeed odd, though. The lookout did well to spot the strange ship, anchored in one of the many small bays dotting the coastline of the Caribbean island of Antigua. From a distance it would be challenging to see a ship against the background of palm trees and dense undergrowth.

"Pardon me for asking again, sir," said Smith. "What do you think she's up to? Maybe they're smuggling something, sir?"

Evan grunted in response, still peering hard through his telescope. "I'd say you're right, Smith. Looks to me like they’ve been offloading cargo on the beach. Yes, there's a big pile of stuff and a bunch of people around it. Looks like a sloop and they're Yankees all right. That's their flag. Hello, they've finally woke up and spotted us," he added with amusement. "There's a jolly boat pushing off from the beach like they've got the hounds of hell after them."

"Maybe the Captain will teach them to pay attention, sir," said Smith.

Evan took one final, close look at the American ship before glancing over to see a wolfish grin on the sailor's face.

"Could be," said Evan with a smile, allowing a hungry look to grow on his own face. "One last bit of action before we go home would be good."

Heeding the lesson the Americans were learning Evan gave the horizon a scan in all directions to make sure he wasn't missing anything, but the ocean was otherwise empty. He couldn't resist pausing for a few brief moments to drink in the view. Climbing to the masthead was unquestionably terrifying, but the reward was always an incredible view and a sense of exhilaration. Evan felt the same way every time; every cell in his body was keenly alive.

"Right. Carry on, Smith," said Evan, pocketing his telescope and swinging himself off the platform to begin the long descent back to the deck. A rush of top men climbing the mast to attend to the sails slowed his passage down.

Finally reaching the deck he straightened his uniform on his way to the quarterdeck where a knot of officers were clustered, all staring intently at the ship they had found. Captain Woods, as was his right, was standing by himself on the windward side, equally focused on the scene before him.

"Report," grunted John Harder, the ship's First Officer, not even bothering to glance in Evan's direction.

"Sir," he replied, saluting as he came to a stop. "Strange sail is definitely a Yankee. Appears to be a trading sloop. I think they may be smuggling—"

"You think, Mr. Ross?" said the Captain, his voice oozing sarcasm, as he came over to join the little group. "I had no idea you could. Of course, I didn't ask you to think, I asked you to check the situation and report back in a timely manner. You've dawdled so long about it what they're doing is already plain for everyone to see. It's obviously a trading sloop and they're obviously smugglers! Unless you actually have something else to report?"

"Sir, very little else, sir. There's a large pile of crates and goods stacked up on the beach. There are no other sail about, sir," replied Evan, maintaining a consciously bland look on his face.

"Sir, very little else, sir," mimicked the Captain, shaking his head. "Bloody useless."

"Captain," interrupted the First Officer, still training his telescope on their target. "From all the bustle on yonder sloop I'd say they are clearly thinking about getting underway."

Evan was grateful for the interruption as Captain Woods strode back to the windward side of the quarterdeck and turned his attention to the American ship.

"Mr. Harder," said the Captain with a grim snort of amusement moments later. "Explain to them they aren't going anywhere."

"Sir," replied the First Officer, turning to the waiting group of officers. "Mr. Ross, pass the word for the gunner to put a shot across his bow."

Evan found the gunner already working to obey the command. The ship's gunner Johnson, a warrant officer with over twenty years experience, had anticipated the order and wasn't about to be caught unprepared. He and the ship's bosun had already brought together a gun crew ready to leap into action when the order was given. A well-trained gun crew could load and fire a gun in less than three minutes, and it wasn't long before one of the forward six-pound chase cannons roared out. The round dropped into the bay and raised a geyser of spray less than a hundred feet in front of the American's bow, right off his starboard side.

"Well shot, Mr. Johnson!" called the First Officer. He studied the ship before him for a few moments before snapping his telescope closed. "They appear to be standing down, Captain. Orders, sir?"

The Captain paused a moment in thought before turning to offer another grim smile to his First Officer. "Well, we need to see what these buggers are up to, don't we? Take a boarding party and check them out, Mr. Harder. I think they're trying to get around that Navigation Order in Council I mentioned when we spoke a while back."

"Bloody cheek smuggling in broad daylight, if that's what they're doing, sir."

"Greedy, grasping, arrogant shits. No respect for tradition. We gave them everything and they— Gah! Don't get me started. Right, any nonsense from them and you smile and tell them the July 1783 Order in Council concerning Navigation says they're in trouble. They'll pretend to know nothing and want to keep their contraband, but that’s not going to happen. While you're dealing with them I'll have Mr. Paxton here take a party to the beach to pick up everything they've offloaded. If we let it sit there too long I'm sure it'll all sprout legs and disappear."

"Uh, so I fully understand in case they argue some point I know nothing about could I get a little more background on this Order in Council, sir?" said the First Lieutenant.

"Hmm, yes, you should have a little background. Before the war the Yankees were thick as the goddamn mosquitos in these islands trading their goods. The greedy damn plantation owners on most of the islands out here are always in need of proper timber and food they can't get here, and especially things like salt fish, which they feed to their slaves."

The Captain paused to give a disapproving grunt and shake his head. "Slavery, I ask you. Anyway, the Yankees get goods like rum, sugar, coffee, spices, and coconuts in return. Well, you get the picture."

The Captain paused once more to let a savage smile crease his face while nodding his head in the direction of the ship awaiting them. "What these Yankee rebels are about to learn is they can't have it both ways, right? They can't expect we're going to let them continue trading to their hearts content because we had to kiss and make up. The Order in Council specifies all trade with the Americans to and from our islands must be on British registered ships with British crews. Of course, that also means our good King is able to collect the appropriate customs duties."

Instant understanding appeared on the faces of everyone listening. The duties were notoriously heavy and universally disliked by everyone involved in trade.

"I know what you're thinking, gentlemen, but make no mistake here. This may seem a bit beneath the regular duties of a King's ship, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I think the treasury, which pays the bills for all of us to be here and do our jobs, is seriously depleted. Enough, I'm sure you understand now so let's be about it, shall we?"

"Thank you, Captain. I think we all understand much better now. I may take who I want with me, sir?"

The Captain waved an indifferent hand. "As you see fit. And make sure you check everyone's papers on that ship. I won't be surprised if half of that damn crew is Royal Navy deserters. You know what to do. I'll be in my cabin."

He gazed about with disinterest. "It's too bloody hot out here today. Let's get this sorted and be on our way. Three years out here is long enough. I'd like to be home in Kent before the end of July."

"Amen to that, sir," nodded his First Officer in reply, before issuing a flurry of orders.

As the ship came to anchor Evan was commanded to join the party as backup for Harder. Squeezing into the cutter already lowered into the water was a party of eight Royal Marines and their commanding officer, Lieutenant Fulham. Another half dozen sailors rounded out the group. As soon as everyone was aboard they began rowing smartly toward the American ship.

Several angry looking faces lined the rails of the sloop. A few were more inscrutable, but they all shared one common feature. No one looked happy.

"Right," said Lieutenant Harder. "Everyone armed? Weapons loaded everyone? I don't think this lot is going to give us trouble, but we'd better be ready for it."

The cutter hooked on to the sloop at the boarding ladder and he looked at the waiting, tense faces around him one last time.

"Marines, follow me smartly."

By the time Evan reached the deck the First Officer was already in heated conversation with a grizzled, scruffy looking older man who was presumably the Captain. Evan took a quick look at his surroundings to assess the situation. The crew was mostly clustered behind the older man and looked as scruffy as their leader. Their ship, however, was decidedly not scruffy. A little touch up paint wouldn't hurt, but any ship in steady service always needed some touch up. Everything about it spoke of professional care and attention, certainly as good as any Royal Navy ship afloat.

"This is an outrage, I tell you!" shouted the old man. "You have no right to impede our passage, let alone board anybody you feel like. We're honest traders doing our job! Haven't you got some privateers you can go chase?"

"Oh, please," groaned the First Officer. "Sir, you are in British waters and are therefore subject to our laws. You are clearly flying an American flag and you are obviously smuggling goods to unknown parties resident on Antigua. You are in clear violation of the Order in Council concerning Navigation."

"But I've never heard of this damned Order of yours!"

"Not my problem," barked Lieutenant Harder, his patience gone. "Your cargo is forfeit. Right, I want to see your ship's papers and I want them now, sir."

The Captain of the sloop visibly deflated, knowing the pointlessness of continuing. "Damn you. Our families will go hungry because of you. Your consul in Boston shall be hearing about this outrage. This isn't over, because we'll sue if we have to. Come on, then, they're in my cabin."

Harder turned to Ross and the Marine officer Fulham. "Mr. Ross, take a party to search the ship thoroughly." He gestured with a flick of his hand towards the cluster of still visibly angry American sailors. "Mr. Fulham, have your men guard this lot and keep them from interfering. Check their papers while I deal with the Captain."

Evan turned and gestured to a tall and lanky, light brown skinned sailor standing nearby, one of the master's mates on the Wind. To find a black sailor on a Royal Navy warship was not unusual. The Navy was always in need of men due to attrition from death, desertion, or illness and as long as a man did his job, no one cared what he looked like.

"Mr. Wilton, you're with me. We'll search forward."

Turning, he looked at the bosun standing nearby. "Jackson, take Payne and search aft. Report back to Lieutenant Harder. Anything suspicious you call for help."

Ten minutes later Evan and the sailor Wilton compared notes on what they'd found once they worked their way back to the deck. The hold was mostly empty except for the usual stores a ship would have in place for a long voyage. The sailor's berths also held only the small personal effects one would expect. Unless something was found aft, Evan surmised they had caught the smuggler having already unloaded their cargo, but still in the process of loading for the return trip home.

Coming on deck they found the First Lieutenant deep in discussion with the Marine officer Fulham. The two sailors Evan had detailed to search aft were already back, standing a respectful distance away from the First Officer's side.

"Ah, Mr. Ross, here you are. Report, please."

It took only moments for Evan, with Wilton at his side, to detail the little they had found.

"Hmm, well, the two that searched aft found much the same, except this lot did in fact start loading goods for the homeward trip. A few casks of rum and some molasses were already stored away aft. Papers confirm they are who they say they are, traders out of Boston, so we've got them red handed. Lieutenant Fulham has checked the paperwork on the crowd we found on deck and they all seem to be in order. If they're forgeries they are quite good ones. It seems they really are American born. On the other hand, Jackson and Payne didn't find only cargo aft. They found two more hands doing their best to stay out of sight."

Harder paused to grunt with annoyance at some papers he held up for Evan to see. "They claim to be innocent and swear they weren't trying to hide from us. Their papers don't look legitimate to me, but I can't put my finger on why."

"Could I take a look, sir?” said Evan. "I had to look over a lot of Yankee paperwork in my last ship."

Wordlessly the First Officer handed Evan the paperwork. After a few moments scrutinizing them, Evan looked up at Harder.

"Sir, it's the stamps of the town seals on their birth certificates, I think. Forgers won't have access to the real stamp, of course, so they have to try to either hand draw it or make their own forged stamps. The paper itself looks rather cheap, too. Some forgeries are better than others. Where are these two men? I'd like to question them."

"Over there, behind Jackson and Payne. Go ahead."

Turning, Evan walked toward the two sailors as they stood aside and pointed at the two men they had found. As they came into view Evan's jaw dropped open. The two men reacted with equal surprise and shock on their faces.

"Cromwell? Anderson? You bloody— Sir, these men are deserters from my last ship!" shouted Evan.

The two men overcame their shock fast. Both punched the men guarding them and wrestled their weapons from their grasp.

"Back off, the lot of you! You bastards aren't taking us back!" shouted the one called Cromwell as he waved a sea pistol about.

Recovering from his shock Evan stepped forward, pulling out his own gun in turn. "Give it up you fools, there's nothing for it—"

The sharp report of Cromwell's gun galvanized the rest of the men on deck into action, paralyzed momentarily by how fast the situation had changed. Evan gasped in sudden pain and surprise, clutching his left arm. Blood was fast staining his uniform above his left elbow where the shot had struck.

The rest of the British crew was already rushing forward. A Marine wielding his musket like a bat hammered the sailor Cromwell hard on the head and he dropped to the deck bleeding from the force of the blow. The second deserter, Anderson, was aiming directly at Evan when the black sailor Wilton brushed past trying to enter the fray with his cutlass. Anderson's gun barked just as another Marine jostled his arm and deflected his aim.

Anderson's shot found a target in all the confusion. Wilton gasped in pain and fell clutching his right thigh as the blood began seeping through his fingers. A millisecond later Lieutenant Fulham shot Anderson point blank in the chest. A flash of surprise crossed his face as a dark red stain blossomed on his shirt and he crashed to the deck. The shock of being shot finally overcame Evan and he fell to one knee beside Wilton.

A few of the remaining American sailors were already involved in support of their mates, scuffling with several of the Marines. The fully galvanized Marines soon took command of the situation, using their muskets as clubs. Knowing they would lose the American Captain shouted for attention, loudly ordering his men to stand down. By the time they finally complied three of their number were crumpled on the deck, holding bruised and bleeding heads, while the remainder were clustered together. All of them were scowling in mute anger.

"Idiots," growled Harder as he shook his head, glaring at the two deserters on the deck.

"You call them idiots, you murdering shits?" shouted one of the American sailors, holding his side in obvious pain where a musket butt had been hammered into his ribs. "Maybe if you didn't flog people for bloody nothing they wouldn't desert!"

"We beat you buggers before and we could do it again," growled another American sailor.

"Shut your goddamn mouths, all of you, or they'll be shut for you!" growled Harder in obvious frustration. With a sigh, the First Officer frowned as he assessed what needed to be done.

Evan groaned in pain and shock as he and the sailor Wilton were tended to by one of the older and more experienced sailors. The man finished tying off tourniquets on both and looked up as the First Officer stalked over.

"Permission to get these two over to the ship for the surgeon right away, sir? They've already lost a fair bit of blood and need attention soon, sir."

Lieutenant Harder grunted agreement and signaled to a group of the remaining British sailors. "Get them to the ship and then get back here right away. Tell the Captain what happened and that I'll return on board shortly with a full report. Mr. Ross, Mr. Wilton, we'll get you some attention right away."

Evan grimaced, clutching his arm, and mumbled his thanks to Harder.

"What about the deserters, sir? Should we take them with us?" asked another of the sailors.

Harder turned and walked over to the two men still lying on the deck.

"No," he said, surveying the scene before him with a grim smile. "Mr. Fulham has ended any need for urgency over the one he shot. This other fool is still out cold. Better for him if he doesn't wake up. The Captain will probably have him dancing with a rope around his worthless neck real soon anyway. No, we'll bring him over with us once you return."

Harder surveyed the scene one last time and offered another bleak smile to the waiting men. "If I can find some chains I'll load him down with them while we're waiting. Now be off with you."

Evan and Wilton were already lapsing in and out of consciousness from shock and blood loss as they were manhandled into the boat and rowed quickly across to the Wind. Captain Woods waited, drawn on deck from the sound of the gunshots. He wore an inscrutable look on his face as Evan was helped past on his way to the surgeon.

"Sir," gasped Evan, unable to salute as he was still holding his shattered and bleeding arm. The Captain's expression didn't change as he watched the two men disappear below, listening to the report of what happened on the American ship.

By the time they were dropped onto the surgeon's tables in his space on the orlop deck the two men were groggy, but still conscious from the painful jostling endured in getting there. The surgeon, a grizzled older man, looked them over with a professional eye. Evan was conscious enough to realize where he was and what was about to happen.

"Mr. Manley," said Evan, in what was a bare whisper with his strength fast disappearing. "I beg of you, sir. Please don't take it off."

The surgeon paused a few moments more before responding with a sigh. "I wish I could agree to that, Mr. Ross. I think the ball may have shattered the bone of your arm beyond hope and if I don't deal with this I fear you will lose more than your arm. I will assess you carefully, but I will also do what is necessary, sir. Be happy I am as skilled a surgeon as I am and that there are few in the Royal Navy better than I. Now drink this rum my surgeon's mate has for you and I will be back to you shortly."

As the surgeon moved to look over his other patient his assistant stepped forward without asking and insistently made Evan drink a large dose of rum. Rough and heady, the standard issue Navy rum on Royal Navy warships packed a heavy punch. As shock and the strong rum overcame him Evan still retained enough focus to realize the surgeon was talking about the unconscious, injured black sailor lying on the other table beside Evan in the surgery.

"Hmm, well, this one is lucky. The shot went right though his thigh and how that missed a major artery I'll never understand. Looks like a clean wound, too. He doesn't seem to have anything inside his wound to fester. Right, he won't be much of a problem. We'll come back to him in a bit. Blackwell, help Mr. Wilton enjoy another nice big tot of rum. That should make him oblivious while I deal with Mr. Ross."

As the rum continued to carry him into his own oblivion Evan retained enough awareness to realize the surgeon was back at his table and probing the wound, enough to give him twinges of pain even through his drunken stupor.

"Sorry lad, I had to do that to be sure. Don't want to do this, but there is no choice. Blackwell, give him a little dose of that laudanum I've been hoarding. He's going to need it."

Manley busied himself organizing his tools, waiting several minutes to ensure the drug was taking effect. He knew Evan was doubly fortunate to have both a surgeon good at his job and to have one with some of the most precious, effective pain killing medicine available anywhere on hand. As Manley waited he let his thoughts drift and he shook his head, marveling for the thousandth time at his personal downfall. But he knew if it had not happened he never would have joined the Navy and come to appreciate life at sea.

A successful practice serving London's high society had once been his reality. Manley knew his undoing had been naively thinking people would understand his desire to help the poor on the side through political advocacy and action. A newsman with unsympathetic political leanings noticed his work helping prostitutes unable to afford skilled services when their precautions didn’t work. Soon, clever stories implying his relationship with the underworld of London involved far more nefarious activity began appearing. The ensuing scandal and attention was crushing.

Manley shrugged it off, knowing he was far too late to be complaining about fleeing to service in the Navy in order to save himself. Turning his attention back to his patient, a quick check showed Lieutenant Ross had slipped into complete unconsciousness. With a sigh he shook his head and turned to his assistant.

"Blackwell, bring my saw over here, please. I'm afraid it's time to put it to use again."

Chapter Two

The young Captain scowled and clenched his fists in impotent rage as the forward chase guns roared yet again, adding to the acrid smell of spent gunpowder drifting back to the quarterdeck. Like the others, the shots fell far too short.

"We need better armament, damn it," he muttered to himself.

But this was a thought for another day, as a hard decision was at hand. Darkness was falling fast enough to save the mystery ship they were chasing. All his prey had to do was not light his night lanterns, wait till full darkness, and change course. By dawn they would be far away and their hunter would find only empty seas in all directions.

With a sigh the Captain turned, stalked over to a waiting knot of officers and addressed his Third Lieutenant. "Order the gunner to stand down, Mr. Fleming."

"Sir," the officer replied, saluting as he left to pass the order on.

"This is downright annoying, isn't it, sir?" said his First Officer.

"Indeed, sir," grumbled the Captain. "He was lucky we came across him so late in the day. Even an hour or so earlier and we'd have had that bugger, whoever he was."

The Captain lapsed back into silence, thinking back on the last few months. Both he and crew of HMS Boreas, a swift frigate bearing twenty-eight guns, were anxious to prove their mettle. Commissioned March 18, 1784 with a young Captain only twenty-five years old and new to the ship, they had sailed from England to Barbados in the Caribbean to report for duty as part of the Leeward Islands Station.

On reaching Barbados their orders were to sail when ready for the island of Antigua and to base themselves henceforth in the British naval base and Dockyard at English Harbour, south east of the capital St. John’s. As Post Captain of the largest warship based in Antigua it meant the young Captain would be in overall command of the Northern Division of the Leeward Island Station, answerable only to his Admiral in Barbados.

He knew his tasks would be many and varied once in place. London wanted intelligence reports on the activities of French warships in the area. Diplomats on the various islands in his domain needed the flag and, most importantly, British sea power to be on regular display. British merchant shipping needed assurance they would have protection from privateers and occasional piracy still plaguing the area when opportunity arose. Most such activity had long since been stamped out, but predators were always on the lookout for the unwary. The Navy also desperately wanted the naval Dockyard at English Harbour expanded and strengthened faster than the current pace of work.

But his biggest and most difficult task was to enforce the Navigation Order in Council and eliminate smuggling from the area. His orders from the Admiralty in London were emphatic he was to do everything in his power to achieve this.

The First Lord of the Admiralty, Richard Howe, was a patron of the young Captain. Thinking back to the meeting sitting with the First Lord, his orders in hand, the Captain knew his patron was making extra effort to ensure he understood exactly what he was to accomplish.

"Your orders don't say this, but you need to understand how vital your mission is to the nation."

The young Captain remembered letting his eyes widen as he watched the First Lord give him a smile without warmth.

"What I'm about to tell you is for your ears only. The sugar islands account for a quarter of the entire trade of our country. We need the wealth they generate to help replenish our coffers, sir. The country is almost bankrupt. Yes, it is that bad and we are that desperate. And we need to deal with this soon. Mark my words, sir. We are not done with the bloody French yet. Not even close. Yes, Admiral Rodney thrashed them at the Isles de Saintes and that gave us much to bargain with at the end of the war, thank heaven, but the frogs are only rebuilding. They have their own problems to deal with so it won't be soon, maybe even a few years, but they will be back to plague us. So you understand, sir? You have many tasks, a Captain always does, but crushing these smugglers is the priority."

As the First Lord paused for a moment the young Captain realized he was being scrutinized, but he was used to it and knew what kind of picture he presented. Slim and relatively short, the young Captain was not an imposing physical figure. But everyone noticed on first meeting him the aura of strength and energy he consciously radiated, along with an air of command only true leaders carried. When walking into a room he made deliberate effort to project the strength of his presence, enough to instantly demand everyone's attention.

"Yes, we have need of someone with energy and drive to take charge in Antigua, Captain. Are you that man?"

The Captain smiled. "You know I am, sir."

Shaking his head to bring himself back to the present, the Captain turned to his First Officer once again. "Enough. Let's get back on course to Antigua."

After issuing orders to this effect the First Officer turned back to his Captain. "Sir? What do you think that was all about? Why did he run when we challenged him, if you don't mind my asking, sir?"

"Hmm. I can't be sure, Mr. Wilkins, but one of our tasks out here is to put a stop to smuggling in the area. He wasn't flying a flag, but if that wasn't a Yankee trader then I'm no sailor. He's probably learned we're serious about dealing with this and knew well he had to run."

"Isn't he pushing it, sir? There's still some time, I suppose, but we're at the beginning of hurricane season now and it's not safe out here."

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Wilkins. But being a trader is all about making money. He's probably trying to make one last fat profit off people wanting to stock up on his goods so they don't run out. He takes a risk and they pay a premium, right?"

"I see, sir."

"Speaking of risk, we too are taking one being out here this late. So it's off to the safety of English Harbour until the hurricane season is over for us." Pausing for a moment, the Captain frowned into the dim distance where his prey had all but disappeared.

"As for him, he'll be back and so will we. The deck is yours, sir. I'll be in my cabin."

Minutes later the Third Officer returned to the quarterdeck, and seeing the Captain was gone, he approached the First Officer.

"Lieutenant Wilkins? So what did the Captain think that was all about?"

The First Officer smiled and explained. In their short time serving with this relentless, aggressive new Captain both men had learned much about him. They had no doubt he would find whoever had escaped them today and deal with them.

"Not to worry, Mr. Fleming," said Lieutenant Wilkins with a predatory grin. "I think we both know this Captain will be absolutely unyielding in pursuit of prey. Let's hope we have plenty!"

And most of all, both men knew with utter certainty Captain Horatio Nelson hated losing.

They approached the island with a greater press of sail than Nelson liked, but the winds were light. Both he and his sailing master had been to English Harbour before and neither was looking forward to it. Nelson knew he had to approach with caution and be absolutely certain to stay in the deepest part of the channel as they sailed past Fort Berkeley on the point into Freeman's Bay. Even with the presence of the local pilot taken on board before they began their approach this was still a daunting task, even for skilled sailors. Charlotte Point and the Pillars of Hercules rock formations on the other side of the entrance loomed less than a thousand feet away. Once past the point an immediate course change of almost 180 degrees was required to get into the safety of the anchorage, but the maneuver was notoriously difficult. Nelson was well aware the wind almost always disappeared when entering the bay, right as the ship was struggling to either tack or wear onto a new course.

Either way, without fail attempting the entrance was a dangerous nuisance sure to make the day far less pleasant. Nelson knew even the best sailors were sometimes reduced to sweating with fear and helpless cursing as they struggled to safety.

But Nelson also understood the struggle was worth it. English Harbour became a desirable location when the Navy discovered what a truly safe haven it could be from the dread power of the devastating hurricanes plaguing the Caribbean every year. September was the worst month, but they were known to occur as early as July and even as late as November some years. Several years prior a particularly brutal storm saw every ship anchored in ports around Antigua drag their anchors and suffer major damage while those in English Harbour suffered little if any. Seeing the clear benefit, the Navy began clamoring for its further development as an anchorage.

With the winds light Nelson feared they would have to be warped into harbour, but this time they managed to avoid it. With everyone entirely focused on getting the ship anchored they paid little attention to the details of their surroundings. Finally freed from the demands of sailing the ship, the relieved officers began looking about.

Within moments of being anchored a swarm of rowboats with black men at the oars surrounded the ship. Sugar, molasses, coconuts, all manner of local fruit, and fresh fish were all on sale. Varying sizes of jugs and hollowed out coconuts filled with rum were featured prominently. Several of the boats also held black women who made it clear they were for sale too. A number of the crew were already hanging over the side of the ship and beginning the bartering process.

The midshipmen were all clustered at the railings too, salivating at the prospect of trading some well-fed ship rats they had captured for fresh victuals. Catching rats to supplement their diet was a long-standing tradition for midshipmen throughout the fleet. The technique was remarkably simple; a baited hook lowered on a line into the hold soon got results.

"Mr. Fleming," said Nelson, looking them over with a wary eye. "Keep that lot at bay until we get ourselves sorted out here. We're going to be here a while and I will be able to offer shore leave, but I need some time to make arrangements for that."

A number of ships of varying sizes and shapes dotted the harbour. A schooner was careened over on the far side of Freeman's Bay on Galleon Beach with a few workers busy cleaning its exposed bottom. Not far from their anchorage the largest of the ships in the harbour, a brig, was moored directly to the wharf in front of the main Dockyard buildings. Past the Dockyard was the inner harbour where yet more small ships were moored.

Nelson was still looking about for what had changed since his last visit to this station when his First Officer interrupted, his voice conveying an odd mix of puzzlement and concern.

"Captain? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I understood you to be the new senior officer on station here, sir?"

Nelson gave him a quizzical look. "Yes, of course. That is my understanding. Why?"

"Hmm, well, there's not much wind today so I could be wrong, but unless I am very mistaken that brig moored at the wharf has a commodore's pennant flying at the masthead."

Nelson whipped about to stare hard at the ship. As he did a stronger puff of wind fluttered the flag, leaving no doubt about it being a commodore's pennant. Anyone with this rank would automatically be Nelson's superior officer on the station. Nelson's eyes bulged in stunned surprise for a brief moment before he exploded in anger.

"What the bloody— Mr. Wilkins, what's the name of that ship?"

"Uh, looks like it’s the HMS Latona, sir. That would be Captain Sands, I think. But he's junior to you, isn't he, sir?"

"He certainly bloody well is," growled Nelson as he recovered his composure. "And he is certainly not a commodore. I don't know what he thinks he’s doing, but he'd better have a good explanation for it. Mr. Wilkins, have my coxswain ready my gig. We'll sort this out right now."

With his First Officer appearing very glad someone else would be on the receiving end of the dressing down sure to follow Nelson stalked to the side of his ship, climbing into his gig with icy determination.

The Captain's impatience was obvious and the boat crew pulled hard to get Nelson the short distance to the shore. Within minutes he was standing on the deck of the brig. The surprised ship's crew did their flustered best to accord him proper honours as required for a senior officer, but Nelson could see they were caught off guard. The ship was clearly out of discipline as no one was wearing anything remotely resembling a dress uniform.

The anxious First Officer stepped forward to greet their visitor and introduce himself. If he hadn't done so Nelson would never have picked him out as an officer. The man was wearing a baggy old pair of trousers and a loose white shirt with stains too numerous to count.

Seeing Nelson's frigid stare at his clothes, the young Lieutenant tried a sheepish smile. "Sorry for our attire, sir. I am Lieutenant Hill. The ship is out of discipline and we weren't expecting you. Our dress wear is on shore being laundered."

Nelson continued to glower at him and the smile melted away. "Captain Sands has been made aware you have come on board and should be here—"

"I am here now sir," interrupted a young officer still pulling on his uniform coat as he strode up while his First Officer breathed an audible sigh of relief to no longer be on the spot. "Captain Nelson, sir, it has been far too long. Welcome to Antigua."

"We'll get to that," said Nelson, a warning tone in his voice putting everyone on edge. "I am here for an explanation, sir. Why is that flying at your masthead?" Turning to the side he pointed at the pennant fluttering limply in the light breeze.

Captain Sands was puzzled as he looked where Nelson was pointing and, still appearing confused, he finally looked back at Nelson. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't— Oh! You mean the commodore's pennant, sir?"

Seeing the acknowledgement in Nelson's eyes, he gathered his thoughts for a moment before continuing. "Is this a concern, sir?"

"Of course it's a bloody concern, sir!" barked Nelson. "I don't know what you think you're doing flying that but you'd better have a good explanation. Captains, even senior Captains on station, do not have the right to pretend they have a higher rank than they do."

The worried look on Captain Sands face cleared a little. "Of course, sir. The pennant is not my doing, sir. I was ordered to fly it by Captain Moutray, the Commissioner and senior officer in charge of the Dockyard, sir. It is he that is performing the role."

Nelson sucked in his breath and his eyes widened to the point the men on deck all braced for the explosion of anger sure to follow, but Nelson quickly mastered himself and shook his head.

"What bloody nonsense. That flag must come down, sir."

Captain Sands gave him an anxious look in return. "Sir, Captain Moutray is our senior by over twenty years as a Captain. I—"

"I don't care if he's been a Captain for a hundred years!" he said with heat, before pausing to calm down again.

"Sir, do you not understand? You and I are active service, commissioned sea officers. Captain Moutray is a civilian, in charge of an administrative, support arm of the Navy. You and I do not under any circumstances take orders from civilians. It is the other way around. And in fact, as of right now, there is only one person in overall command here and that would be me. So, Captain Sands, since I am not a commodore, that flag comes down, now, sir."

"I understand, sir," replied Captain Sands, turning to nod at his First Officer. Within moments the flag was down and being stored away as Sands turned back to Nelson.

"Um, I assume you will be briefing Captain Moutray? Would you like me to attend with you, sir?"

Nelson offered him a grim smile. "Not necessary, sir. I will ensure the good Captain understands where things stand."

Nelson turned to leave, but paused as he glanced at the scruffy attire of the officers around him. "I'm sorry to have had to disturb you and your men on what I'm sure is a well deserved day off. We must dine together soon, though. Good day, sir."

Back on shore Nelson paused and straightened his uniform. During his short time on shore the wind had dropped even more and the sticky heat was stifling. A trickle of sweat was already running down his back and the shirt under his uniform felt like it had melted to his skin. As he began walking toward the main Dockyard buildings he paused with a hand to his head. Detouring quickly back to his gig and the waiting crew he could see them fanning themselves in the sweltering heat.

"Anderson," he said, addressing his coxswain. "I am remiss. My haste to find out what in blazes was happening has left you and the men forgotten and sweating here in this vile heat. My God, it's only just past noon and the heat will get worse, too. You have my permission to take them to the shade of those palm trees over there and to roust up some water for them. I don't think I will be away long here, but I can't be sure."

Nelson turned to leave, but stopped himself once again. "And Mr. Anderson? Let's make sure it really is only water, shall we? I don't want to be smelling rum on anyone's breath on the way back to the ship."

The grateful men quickly began climbing onto shore as several called out thanks to the Captain, but he was already on his way to the Dockyard.

The men were soon settled in the shade, greedily slurping water from a small tub offered to them by workers in the Dockyard. The coxswain smiled as he looked at the building Nelson disappeared into on the other side of the Dockyard. Anderson had served in the Navy almost twenty years on several different ships, with many different officers. Royal Navy Captains were a diverse group and no two were alike. Each had their unique characteristics and ways they approached their role.

Anderson knew this Captain was different in some most interesting ways. He was both firm and fair right from the start, and he had stayed this way, always a good sign. Some Captains were notoriously inconsistent in how they did things. Captain Nelson also knew what he was doing. The coxswain was aware the Captain had gone to sea when he was thirteen years old and had the crew's respect as a sailor, a real 'tarpaulin man', as experienced professionals were called. More than a few Captains were promoted for reasons of patronage long before they were ready for such a role.

The crew also noticed the energy and strength of purpose the Captain radiated. Even the ship's sailing master, a grizzled professional with twenty-five years experience to his credit, had learned to pay close attention when the Captain made a suggestion.

What had everyone's attention, though, was the way he led the men under his command. The crew soon realized this Captain actually respected even the lowliest common seamen and the work they did. He also cared about the welfare of the men. The simple act of stopping to care for the boat crew when much weightier matters were on his mind spoke volumes to the men. Numerous examples of this kind of care had convinced even this hardened crew of the Captain's sincerity and his respect for them. This was what made this particular Captain a rare creature indeed.

"Here, mate," said one of the sailors lounging in the shade, interrupting Anderson's thoughts. "What say we go together on one of those coconuts filled with rum? The Captain will never notice."

Anderson laughed and merely shook his head. Sailors would do anything for a drink.

Reaching the entrance to the main Dockyard building Nelson made his way to where he knew the main offices were located. The Dockyard commissioner's clerk saw him coming and glanced up from where he sat at his desk, a puzzled look on his face. Nelson paused a moment in front of him.

"Is Captain Moutray in?"

The clerk looked Nelson up and down a moment before replying. "Well, yes, but he's busy. The rest of his day is already occupied. I'm afraid you'll have to make an appointment for another day."

Nelson's eyes widened for a moment before he leaned closer to the clerk.

"Say 'sir' when you talk to me."

The clerk leaned back in his chair, flustered. "Sir, I'm sorry. It's just I wasn't expecting anyone else, sir."

Nelson grunted and walked around the desk toward the door to Captain Moutray's office. The appalled clerk leapt from his chair and stepped in front of the door to block his way.

"Sir! Please! Captain Moutray gave strict instructions he wasn't to be interrupted!"

Nelson scowled at the clerk. "Tell me, fool, have you ever felt the touch of the lash?"

The clerk's face fell in fear as a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. "Sir, no sir."

"Well, what you need to know is with my arrival I am the senior in command here and if you don't get out of my way immediately, you will learn what it's like soon enough."

Nelson entered the office as the clerk stepped aside in haste. Inside two men were seated on either side of the desk commanding the room. Both wore loose fitting shirts open at the neck and they appeared relaxed in conversation. A partly filled decanter was on the desk between them and the rich scent of amber rum permeated the room. Both men held full glasses in their hands. The men looked up, appearing surprised at the interruption as Nelson walked up to the desk.

"Gentlemen."

The younger of the two men was the first to react, getting to his feet. "Who— what do you think you're doing barging in here?"

The much older officer seated behind the desk also stood, but he offered his hand in greeting. "Stand down, Mr. Burns. Captain Nelson, it has been far too long. This is my First Officer here in the Dockyard, Mr. Gerald Burns. What brings you to Antigua, sir?"

Nelson smiled as he shook hands with both men. "Orders, of course. This is my new command, sir."

"Command? You mean station under my command, do you not? I am after all your senior."

Nelson's smile hardened. "Captain, you know how this works. You are a civilian appointment in this role, and active commission sea officers do not take orders from civilians. Tell me, did you actually have direct orders to fly the commodore's pennant?"

Captain Moutray seemed momentarily confused and paused to think a moment before responding. "Well, no, if you must know. I am senior on station, though, and there are several vessels stationed here. It's only right I signify presence of an overall command officer. Admiral Hughes is aware, of course. He had no problem with it."

Nelson gave a tiny snort of amusement. "Captain, we know each other too well for this. Since I am now senior in command of this station and I am not a commodore, Captain Sands has been informed and the pennant has been hauled down. I will inform the Admiral of my decision."

"Well, I disagree, Captain Nelson, but as you say, we know each other too well. Far be it for me to interfere with the doings of active sea officers. But enough of this trivial nonsense, you simply must dine with us. My good wife Mary will be so surprised and happy to see you again. Perhaps I could invite the Governor and a few locals? Mr. Burns, you and Mr. Long must join us. Mr. Long is my other Lieutenant, Captain Nelson. He is out and about on the business of the Dockyard right now. We are a busy place."

Nelson glanced down at the decanter of rum and their glasses. "Yes, I see that."

"Would you care for a drop, sir?"

"Hmm, a bit early for me, sirs. And yes, I'm sure the Dockyard is a busy place, but it’s going to get busier, sir. Among other things my orders direct me to expand the facilities here at a rather faster pace than we've had up to now."

Captain Moutray wore an inscrutable look on his face as he responded. "Fascinating. I think many people will be interested to hear more about your orders. How about three nights from tonight? That will give us time to get word out and prepare. Can I send my servant around to pick you up for dinner, sir?"

"Yes, I would welcome that. We must ensure we all have the same understanding. And yes, I would very much welcome seeing your good lady once again. Until then, gentlemen."

Lieutenant Burns turned to his commanding officer as the door closed behind Nelson and the two men sat down once again.

"Sir, forgive me, but I confess I am shocked. Perhaps I am missing something, but it seems to me that man's arrogance knows no bounds. He has no respect for you or our work."

Captain Moutray laughed. "Gerald, you really must learn to deal with things as they come. Of course he's arrogant. There's no lack of that in the Navy. And, trust me, this man is not stupid."

The Captain paused a moment in thought before looking intensely at his officer. He knew the shortcomings of his First Officer well and smiled at the thought of what was to come. "Yes indeed, I know one thing for certain, Mr. Burns. I think things are going to get most interesting around here."

The evening was warm, almost to the point of being stifling. Fortunately, Captain Moutray's home was on the side of a hill near the capital St. John's, affording at least some breeze to give relief.

The number of people at dinner grew to over twenty seated at the long table. The island's Governor, Thomas Shirley, was present along with four local plantation owners, a senior officer from the local military garrison, a senior customs official, and all of their wives and escorts. The group filled the room to capacity. Captain Sands from the Latona had also been invited to attend and was joined by John Collins, Captain of the smaller HMS Rattler, returned from a patrol with barely sufficient time to change into his dress uniform.

Conversation was light as they mingled before dinner and then later around the table as they were all starved for the latest news from home. Nelson knew he would be pumped for information and won gratitude for having thought to bring several extra newspapers from home for the locals to devour.

The Commissioner's wife, Mary Moutray, was the sun around which the younger men in the room revolved. Over twenty years junior to her middle aged husband she shared the vibrancy of youth with the young Navy officers. She was also strikingly good looking and seemed to have a genuine affection for the young naval officers, who were all intent on finding ways to make her smile. Nelson's two younger Captains, Sands and Collins, enjoyed their alcohol and the more they drank the more gregarious they became. A stiff competition for her attention quickly developed.

The real business of the dinner came afterwards, as the men retired with their drinks to the main sitting area of the house, leaving the women to their own devices. Captain Moutray looked around the room as everyone settled in.

"Well, gentlemen, are we all comfortable? Drinks refilled? Excellent." Turning to Nelson, he offered a brief smile. "Captain, you have our undivided attention. We'd all like to hear about your orders and your plans to achieve them."

Nelson smiled in return as he looked at the watching faces. Most gave no indication of their thoughts, but they all had one thing in common. None of them were smiling.

"Gentlemen, I look forward to working with all of you. My orders are straightforward. As I mentioned to Captain Moutray the other day the Admiralty desires the Dockyard facilities expanded and they want it done soon. Antigua and English Harbour are strategically well placed in this part of the Caribbean to meet the needs of the Navy now and in future. It is in everyone's best interests that this need be met, of course."

Two of the plantation owners reacted with grunts of disbelief while a few others in the room groaned openly, allowing grimaces to flash across their faces before they all mastered themselves.

"I will of course be doing my utmost to protect shipping and trade in the Northern Leeward Islands. I intend to make our presence felt on and around all of the islands. The number of privateers and pirates operating in the area has dropped considerably from what I understand, but we must be vigilant. We need to show the flag to keep our diplomats happy. The Admiralty also wants the usual regular reports on, hmm— naval matters in the area. I have some surveying duties to perform, too."

Keeping a deliberately bland look on his face, Nelson paused and looked around the room.

"And, I have been tasked with enforcing the Order in Council regarding Navigation which I'm sure you're all aware of."

"And we've never seen such a pile of rot, sir," said John Roberts, one of the plantation owners, in a burst of anger. "These fools in London are going to ruin us, sir. Ruin, I tell you! They'll kill our businesses with this nonsense and then where will they be?"

"I can't believe the Navy has the bloody gall to intervene in what is a purely commercial matter, sir," said another of the owners, his irritation clear in his voice. "The Customs tariffs and their collection is not your affair."

"Captain Nelson," said Governor Shirley, interrupting before Nelson could respond. "As you can see, there are strong feelings on the islands around here about this, so let me help you understand. The islands do not produce everything needed to run the plantations, so the owners have no choice but to trade with the Americans. These gentlemen need the free ability to trade without onerous duties burdening them in order to get back on their feet. Damage from hurricanes the last few years has been widespread and crops have suffered significantly in the area. They are only now getting back to where they were even five years ago and they need our support, sir."

"Governor Shirley, have you not made representations to London about this?" asked Nelson.

"Of course, sir, of course. I have not met with much success yet, it is true, but I continue to make efforts to help them understand. I am hopeful they will come around. Making the owners use only British crews and ships angers the Americans. They know we need them and have already threatened to add their own ridiculous duties in retaliation. And making the owners here pay even higher duties will bankrupt them all. Do you see, sir? I ask you, what is your intent? In light of this, I hope you will be circumspect about your orders? All we ask is take your time about following them while we sort this out."

Nelson sighed and took a sip of his drink. "Gentlemen, I understand your issues and I have some sympathy. We all have our jobs to do, don't we? But I simply cannot agree to what you ask. My orders are clear and the understanding I was given is they come from the highest levels of government. I can only assume your representations have been heard and dismissed, sir."

Several men in the room groaned and a number tried to speak. The Customs man, George Lawson, managed to shout them down and turned to Nelson.

"Sir, as His Majesty’s senior Customs Officer here I confess I am shocked the Navy is involving itself in an area that is so clearly the domain of Customs. It has always been our role to enforce collection of duties and to ensure attempts to circumvent the rules are kept in check. I really don't understand why your involvement is necessary."

Nelson regarded the Customs official with barely disguised contempt. "Well, perhaps, sir, the government thinks you need some help."

The Customs man's eyes widened, but he pressed on, unwilling to concede. "Captain Nelson. Surely you see this is really in the domain of the Customs Office. If you must do this you should at the least be operating with the authority of a deputation from Customs. I recommend you request such from London before you take action. I'd be happy to assist with preparing it if need be."

Nelson could no longer contain himself, offering a laugh as he shook his head in wonder. "Sir, the only 'deputation' I require is what my orders say. And they are very, very clear."

Several of the men in the room groaned once again and, as one, the four plantation owners looked at each other and got up to leave.

"I've never heard such nonsense," said one, pulling on his coat, his face flushed with anger.

"Bloody Navy. Same as ever," growled another.

"Well, sir, you've made yourself understood," said the owner named Roberts. "So let us be understood. Good luck getting everything you need done in the Dockyard without our help. Good luck getting anything done with anything. You'll not have our support. Captain Moutray, our thanks to you and your good wife for a fine dinner."

Several of the others began leaving as well and the next few minutes were occupied with farewells as they climbed into their coaches for the journey home. Captain Moutray pulled Nelson to the side and begged him to stay a few moments, so Nelson agreed.

"Sir, a word of advice if I may," said Moutray as they stood on the porch watching the last of the guests leave. Nelson nodded in reply.

"We know each other well, don't we? We've had our disagreements in past and still do, but we have always been friends, have we not? So I offer this with that in mind. The plantation owners take this issue quite seriously and their needs are real. They, and their supporters you saw tonight, will actively throw roadblocks in your way. These men have resources you cannot hope to match."

Nelson smiled and shook his host's hand in departure. "Well, we'll see about that."