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Chapter SixWentworth read over the letter. It was addressed to John Wilson Croker, First Secretary of the Admiralty; this was the standard method of explaining an action to their Lordships. When the letter was published in the Naval Chronicle, a reader might then infer that their Lordships were a great deal too busy with vital affairs of state to bother themselves with something so ordinary as correspondence. However, Wentworth knew that everyone in the upper echelons of the Admiralty would read the letter as well as his fellow officers. I wish to especially commend the actions of Lieutenant Robert MacKenzie, who led the mission to recapture the Louisa Maria and capture the Mirabelle. Mr. MacKenzie performed his duty with the utmost dispatch and courage and at all times demonstrated the best qualities of the Service. Wentworth smiled to himself; that last part was for Mrs. MacKenzie. A naval wife must have some compensation for that tax of quick alarm she paid when she sent off her husband to the sea. Midshipman Whitcomb appeared at the door of his cabin. "Mr. Briggs's respects, Captain," he said, "and there's a signal. Captain Merriam will be on board shortly, and then you're to report to the port admiral at your earliest convenience, sir." "Thank you, Mr. Whitcomb." The young gentleman disappeared. Wentworth looked around at the now-familiar great cabin, his for only a little longer. Merriam would read himself in, and Frederick Wentworth's commands would then have no legal bearing upon the crew. He had enjoyed the latter part of the journey from the West Indies; he had the full respect and admiration of the officers and the ratings, and the merchant masters, frightened and shamed by the capture and recapture of the Louisa Maria and the taking of the Mirabelle, no longer strained against their leads. They kept to formation, and did what they were told, and the rest of the voyage passed off uneventfully. They ran into some contrary winds, but had arrived in Portsmouth that morning, the twenty-first of December. Wentworth's sudden nostalgia for the Minerva was not as strong as his wish to hire a post-chaise and be on the road to Newbury Oaks. The prisoners were off his hands, at any rate. A detachment of Marines had collected them as soon as Wentworth informed the port admiral of their existence. The leader of the pirates had been killed in the boarding action, shot in the heart by Mr. M'man Murphy as the pirate raised his sword against MacKenzie, who had slipped on the deck of the Mirabelle. As a reward for defending his commanding officer, Wentworth had put Murphy in command of the Louisa Maria. The pirates had not killed Vernon, her master--they considered him too good a source of information about the convoy--but Wentworth could not trust him to follow instructions, despite Vernon's protests and oaths. With a Royal Navy officer in command, Wentworth could be sure of no further trouble from the sloop, and the gleam of pride in the young man's eyes upon first being addressed as "Captain Murphy" was a true pleasure. Wentworth had been fortunate in his commanding officers while he was rising through the ranks, and he was always glad to repay those favours by helping deserving young officers in his turn. MacKenzie, of course, had command of the Mirabelle. He had won her; it was right that he have command of her. Wentworth had made sure to praise MacKenzie highly in his letter, hoping that their Lordships of the Admiralty would see fit to reward the first lieutenant as well. Whitcomb appeared at the door once again. "Captain Merriam's boat is approaching, sir." "Very good." Wentworth went out to the quarterdeck. The sideboys had gathered by the entry port, and within a few moments the shrill salute of the bosun's calls rang across the deck. Merriam came over the side; he was not a tall man, but carried himself in such a way that no one would dare suggest otherwise. His hat, when he removed it to the quarterdeck, revealed greying hair, and he looked around proprietarily and approached Wentworth. "Captain Merriam," said Wentworth, "welcome back to the Minerva." "Thank you, Wentworth. Looks as though you've looked after her well enough while I was away." He looked around and added, "I shall have the brasswork polished up in no time; you needn't consider it." Wentworth knew that there was nothing wrong with the brasswork, but he ignored the sally; he had a better. "I regret that Mr. MacKenzie is not on board to welcome you, sir. I daresay you've heard by now that we took the Mirabelle." Indeed, if Wentworth knew anything at all about Portsmouth, the docks were buzzing with the sight of the glamourous clipper. "I gave him command of the prize, of course." "Aye, I saw MacKenzie at the port admiral's. Pretty action you pulled, Wentworth, very pretty. Daresay we'll all read about it in the Chronicle soon enough." He sniffed, glanced around, and said, "You'll oblige me by calling all hands, Captain?" "Of course." The command was given,and the men raced topside. Merriam pulled out his commission, read it aloud, and said to Wentworth, "I relieve you, sir." "May I have the use of a boat to transfer my dunnage ashore, Captain?" "Of course, of course." He nodded to Briggs, who immediately called away the ship's boat, and Jenkins, who stood forward with Wentworth's sea chest and other luggage, supervised their transfer to the boat. Several of the seamen, busy about their duties, stopped as Wentworth passed to smile and salute him in the way of sailors, by touching their knuckles to their foreheads. Wentworth, truly appreciative of the gesture, nodded to them kindly and went over the side and down to the boat. "Extraordinary story, Captain Wentworth, simply extraordinary." The port admiral, a balding man named Morton, shook his head in disbelief. "Cut her out with a couple of boats! And the leader killed, eh? Too bad. I'd like to see his body hanging in chains at Graves Point; it might have discouraged anyone thinking of following his lead. Of course, the scrub was well paid for his cheek--picking off the Louisa Maria with nothing more than a by-your-leave." A lieutenant came in and handed Morton a folded note. He read it, and then said, "I telegraphed Whitehall as soon as you came into Spithead this morning." The telegraph was an ingenious system of signal towers between Portsmouth and London, which could relay signals from one end to the other in a few hours via the same system of flag signals used by ships at sea. "I have just received an answer. Their Lordships wish to see you at your earliest convenience." Wentworth's earliest convenience was sometime in January, after he had a good, long reunion with Anne, but he knew that in the language of the navy, "your earliest convenience" was synonymous with "directly." Admiral Morton confirmed this when he said, "You have an appointment at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning." Wentworth glanced down at his dress uniform, which after two months at sea was in worse shape than when he had departed, and knew that Jenkins was going to be as disappointed as he. "You should depart directly, if you wish to get to town by tomorrow," added Morton, consulting his watch significantly. Jenkins had worked some magic with his captain's uniform, and Wentworth presented himself in Whitehall looking enough like a successful post-captain that the porter was not above angling for a tip. A guinea was received with a polite bow, and the porter led Wentworth down the hallway toward the First Secretary's fiefdom. He was not entirely surprised to see MacKenzie walking toward them. The porter stood at a discreet distance as Wentworth greeted MacKenzie. "Well?" he asked. "I've been promoted to Commander," said MacKenzie with a smile. "I'm to have the Mirabelle. They are buying her into the service and putting her on the Bermuda station. Dispatch work, mostly, and some scouting." It was not necessary for him to add, better than convoy duty. "I must thank you, Captain Wentworth. Your letter to the First Secretary was generous. I was only following your orders, sir. Your plan was brilliant and daring." "And brilliantly executed, Captain MacKenzie. I am glad to hear you are employed on a regular station. Will Mrs. MacKenzie be joining you?" "Aye, after the babe arrives." "I am glad of it. Please give her my regards." "And give mine to Mrs. Wentworth." MacKenzie held out his hand. "It has been a pleasure serving with you, Captain Wentworth." "And with you, Captain MacKenzie." MacKenzie smiled again, and moved off down the hallway. The porter opened the door and showed Wentworth into the First Secretary's private office. "Captain Wentworth," said Mr. Croker. "A pleasure to see you again." "It is very good to see you again, Mr. Croker." "I have given a report of your voyage to their Lordships, and they are very impressed, sir, very impressed indeed. Mirabelle has been a thorn in our side for years. She is being bought into the service, and with her superior speed, their Lordships feel she will serve them well on the Bermuda station." Wentworth did some quick mental calculations; she would bring him a few thousand pounds in prize money, all told. A pretty Christmas gift to take home to Anne, if he ever got there. "We are finding ourselves needful of more ships on the Bermuda station, Captain Wentworth, and some thought has been given to recommissioning the Laconia." Wentworth was all astonishment. "The Laconia, Mr. Croker? She was my command at the end of the war." "I am aware of that, Captain. The next step of your career should be a ship of the line, or perhaps a flag captaincy." Wentworth could imagine nothing less appealing, except perhaps more time on the convoy, but managed to keep his expression one of composed interest. Croker continued to speak. "Their Lordships were hoping that you would forgo advancement in the name of the service, and take command of the Laconia should the decision be made to recommission her. Fast ships and experienced captains are needed on the station. Would you consider accepting such a command, Captain Wentworth?" Caught between Scylla and Charybdis, Wentworth thought ruefully. Croker was offering him precisely the sort of command he desired, and yet to take it, he must leave Anne again. Yet there was only one answer he could give. "Certainly I would consider it, Mr. Croker. I hope that their Lordships will see fit to give me command of the Laconia once again." To say anything else would mean he might never receive any command again, even if another war were to come. He would find a way to explain it to Anne. "Very good, Captain." Croker gave him a wintry smile; clearly he had received the response he sought. "You do understand that their Lordships have not yet reached a final decision as to the disposition of the Laconia, but your recent actions will certainly have a bearing. Their Lordships like to reward good service. Incidentally," he added, turning away, "Lieutenant MacKenzie--I should say, Captain MacKenzie--will be on the same station. 'Tis a pity you can no longer serve in the same vessel, though any admiral would be pleased to have two such fine officers under his command, I dare say." "Thank you, Mr. Croker. I cannot speak highly enough of Mr. MacKenzie's actions in the capture of the Mirabelle and his conduct as an officer." "So you said in your letter. High praise from a distinguished captain such as yourself will always be interesting to their Lordships. Very well, Captain, their Lordships have directed me to thank you for your recent service, and I shall contact you if your attendance is required here. You are still in residence at--" he consulted a slip of paper--"Newbury Oaks, near Crewkerne, in Somerset?" "Yes, Mr. Croker." "Very good. I look forward to speaking with you again." Wentworth understood the First Secretary's words to be a dismissal, and he left the building. Jenkins waited for him outside with a hired post-chaise, Wentworth's sea chest and other possessions already lashed to the top. "Home now, Captain?" "I have one stop to make first here in town, Jenkins." The post-chaise barrelled toward Somerset for three days almost without stop, except to change horses and occasionally for a meal, quickly bolted. The postilions complained, but Wentworth simply gave them more money, and their inclination for speed was always suitably increased. However, money or the approbation of the Lords of the Admiralty could not bring Newbury Oaks any closer to London, and it was not until a little past noon on the twenty-fifth of December that the post-chaise pulled into the semi-circular drive in front of the house. Wentworth climbed out unsteadily, aching in every muscle. Jenkins paid off the post-boy and went around back to fetch the man-of-all-work of the household to assist him in unloading the Captain's dunnage. The housekeeper opened the front door and stared at Wentworth as though he were an apparition. "Merry Christmas, Johnson," he said genially. "Where is Mrs. Wentworth?" Mrs. Johnson found her tongue. "In the drawing-room with Mrs. Smith, Captain." He moved toward the drawing room and threw open the double door. The two ladies, who had drawn chairs close to the blazing fire, looked around and exclaimed in surprise. "Merry Christmas," he said. "I said I'd be home for Christmas, and I am." Anne stared at him, her brown eyes wide in her pale face. Wentworth spread his hands wide. "What, no greeting for the returning sailor?" he asked, laughing. "I suppose you are angry with me for missing morning service, but--" And then Anne, his demure and elegant wife, always proper, always modest, ran across the room and flung herself, sobbing, into his arms. ~
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