Preview of Persuaded to Sail #2

Preview of PERSUADED TO SAIL, selections from Chapter 3

Greetings, everyone. Jack Caldwell here.

For your reading pleasure, I am posting selected passages from my long-awaited sequel to Jane Austen’s Persuasion. PERSUADED TO SAIL begins immediately after the wedding of Captain Frederick Wentworth and Miss Anne Elliot. It also takes place after Napoleon Bonaparte’s shocking escape from Elba, triggering what we now call the Hundred Days Crisis. If that sounds familiar, it’s because this work is the third book in my Jane Austen’s Fighting Men Series and is a companion novel to THE THEE COLONELS and THE LAST ADVENTURE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL. Sorry, Buford-babes—Sir John does not make an appearance in this novel. But a couple of others do. You’ll just have to wait and see.

The first posting may be found HERE.

What happened to Chapter 2? Nothing. I’ve jumped ahead a bit to get to the plot. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Anne is sailing on HMS Laconia with her new husband to Bermuda. And now, on with the show!

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From Chapter 3

Portsmouth

THE COUPLE JOURNEYED THROUGH Wiltshire throughout that day, stopping only a few miles from Hampshire for the night. There, to Mrs. Wentworth’s delight, Captain Wentworth kept his promise of retaliation for her teasing. The next morning, the coach entered the county and crossed over to Portsea Island and Portsmouth by mid-day.

The driver asked his destination.

“The Navy docks, if you please,” returned Frederick. He looked intently out the window, which was a source of amusement to his wife. But before Anne could utter any remark, Frederick started.

“Here! Stop here, driver!”

Before the carriage could lurch to a stop, Frederick threw open the door and leapt out. “Mrs. Wentworth,” he grinned, “would you like to see your new home?”

“With all my heart, Captain.”

Frederick helped Anne out of the carriage. There before them, hard against the dock, lay HMS Laconia. It was one hundred forty feet long, not counting the bowsprit, with three masts, and a single deck of main guns. Much lower to the water than the great line-of-battle ships, it appeared fast and deadly.

At least it should have appeared as such, but what Anne beheld was bedlam. The masts were struck down to the deck, rope and cordage were everywhere, cannons were unfastened, the sails nowhere to be seen, and crawling over the mass, like ants, were at least a hundred men. A din of hammers, saws, and curses filled the air.

Anne shuddered. Was she to go to sea in that? She could not conceive the ship capable of even leaving the harbor and remain dry. She turned to her husband to ask whether his command had been attacked by the French, when she saw a singular look on his face. She had seen it only once before—on their wedding night. It was at that moment that Mrs. Wentworth knew she had a rival for her husband’s affections.

Frederick was in love with the Laconia.

“Is she not beautiful, my dear?” he cried.

“Oh yes,” she lied, “I have never seen the like.” She? Oh yes, of course. Sailors refer to their ships as a female, for some reason.

“To be sure, she looks a bit shabby, with her yards all which way, but see her lines!” His eyes were bright. “She’ll do fifteen knots, ballast set right, or I’m a Spaniard. Not any leeway to speak of. Dry as a bone—and she being near twenty years on! Get her trim and ship-shape, with a spot of paint and a shine on her brass—why, she’d be the Beauty of the Ocean!”

Anne looked askew at her husband. Before she could ask why his language was so rough, there came a voice from the chaos.

“Ahoy, Captain!”

“Ahoy, Mr. Price!” Frederick returned. “Report, sir!”

Aboard the Laconia a tall, fit-looking young officer crossed over the gang-plank, dressed in a worn blue coat with one epaulette on the right shoulder and buff trousers. About five and twenty, his open face wore what was to prove a habitual grin. He wore his long hair in a queue.

“My dear,” said Frederick, “allow me to present the First Lieutenant of the Laconia, Commander William Price. Mr. Price, Mrs. Wentworth.”

Mr. Price bowed. “Your servant, madam. Allow me to wish you joy.”

Anne curtsied in return. “Thank you, Mr. Price. You are very busy, I see.”

“Oh, yes ma’am.” Mr. Price returned his attention to Frederick. “Captain, the guns are all aboard, and the powder and shot, too.”

“Excellent. I see you got the long twelves for the quarterdeck.”

“Yes, sir. They wanted to give me smashers, but I recalled your preference and held out.”

“Good, good. I’ve no desire to fight from pistol-range with a lot of scurvy pirates. You got the extra powder?”

“Yes, sir—enough to practice from here to Hamilton.”

“Make sure the bill goes to my agent.” Frederick squinted. “What’s the trouble with the fore topgallant mast?”

“Carpenter says she’s sprung. Would you come take a look?”

“Yes, yes.” Frederick turned to Anne. “I beg your pardon, my dear. Please excuse us. We will only be a minute.” The two quickly made their way onto the ship.

The minute turned into a quarter-hour, but it did not signify to Anne. She was still attempting to clear her head. The nautical terms discussed by the two gentlemen had quite confused her. Long twelves? Smashers? Fore topgallant?

Soon her husband and his subordinate returned to the dockside. “I’d like to see that mast set right before sunset tomorrow, Mr. Price.”

“Aye aye, sir—as long as the supply yard comes through with the replacement.”

“Any trouble, use Admiral Croft’s name. He will be here in four days.”

Mr. Price grinned. “It’s handy to have an admiral in the family, sir—if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Frederick’s expression showed he did mind, but did not correct his subordinate. “Well done, Mr. Price. I shall see you in the morning. Carry on.”

Mr. Price touched his forelock, the naval version of a salute. “Yes sir. My complements, Mrs. Wentworth.”

Anne was saying farewell to Mr. Price when a marine rider pulled up beside the party. “Excuse me, but is Captain Wentworth aboard?”

Frederick stepped forward. “I am Captain Wentworth.”

The marine dismounted, pulled an envelope from his saddlebag, and saluted, palm out at his eyebrow. “This dispatch is for you, sir.”

Frederick frowned deeply, thanked the marine, and then opened the envelope. “Please excuse me, my dear …” he murmured as he turned to read the communication. He stared at it for a full minute, clearly puzzled, before turning back to the rider.

“Any reply, sir?” asked the marine.

“Only that I shall be there at the appointed time.”

“Yes, sir.” The marine mounted his horse and rode away.

Frederick turned to his companions, who were looking at him expectantly. “A dispatch from London. I am to report to the Admiralty.”

Mr. Price’s face lost all good humor. “Is it urgent, sir? Have our orders changed?”

Anne held her breath.

Frederick shook his head. “No, we are still for Bermuda, at least for now.”

Anne began breathing again.

“But it is very strange,” Frederick continued. “I am to report a week hence.”

Mr. Price hesitated before responding. “Singular, sir.”

“Singular indeed. Very well—until the morrow, Mr. Price. Come, my dear.”

Anne and Frederick climbed into the carriage and set off for the rented rooms. “Frederick,” asked Anne tentatively, “is there something wrong?” It was obvious to Anne he felt stronger than that about the mysterious order.

Frederick paused a moment too long. “No, my dear. Nothing at all to worry about.”

~~~

“Name?” asked Lt. Mumphrey.

A large, brutish-looking man with short hair stepped forward with a frown. “Jeremiah Pyke, sir.” He spoke with a Northern English accent.

“Where’re you from, Pyke?”

“London, but I was born in a village in Yorkshire.”

Stokes added, “He was pressed in Town, sir.”

Mr. Mumphrey did not look apologetic. “Show Mr. Stokes your hands, Pyke.” After a moment, Pyke extended his hands to the boatswain, who seized them and turned them over palm-side up. “Well, Stokes?”

Stokes looked at the palms with an experienced eye. “He’s done hard work, but none recently.”

“Was a farm hand back home. Came to the city to make me fortune.”

Mr. Mumphrey turned to the purser. “Put him down as landsman. How are we for idlers?”

The purser studied the register. “We have plenty. We need a few hands for the larboard watch.”

Mr. Mumphrey turned back to Pyke. “You scared of heights, Pyke?”

The man hesitated again. “Don’t know, sir—never been high up.”

Mr. Mumphrey chuckled. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough. Sign here, or make your mark. You’re a landsman on the larboard watch. Work hard and keep your nose clean, and you’ll be ordinary seaman before you know it.”

Pyke shrugged as he drew an X at the spot pointed out to him.

“Stokes, take him below,” Mr. Mumphry ordered as he made a note. “Show him his mess and where to store his kit, then put him to work. Pyke, go with Mr. Stokes and do as he tells you.”

Pyke nodded and followed the bosun. A few minutes later, Stokes and the new crewman approached a group of sailors.

“Radle, got a new man for your mess,” said the bosun to short, broad chested man with greying hair. “Name’s Pyke, landsman.”

Radle stood up and looked over the newcomer. “Been at sea before, Pyke?”

“No—damned press gang jumped me in London.”

Radle snorted. “Well, you could be on a worse ship, mate.”

“Take him in hand, Radle,” ordered the bosun.

“Aye aye.” Radle pointed out the men about him. “Pyke, this here’s Eades, Lauck, and Utley—all right seamen. My name’s Radle—I’m Captain of the mess. You just do what we tell you and all will be well.”

“All right.”

“Good—you see a rope that needs haulin’ you do it, or you’ll feel the bosun’s starter on your shoulders. The Captain’s a good man, but he don’t take to idleness. Just keep your eye on me.” Radle wore a satisfied grin. “Aye, you could be on worse ships, matey. I’ve been at sea these twenty years, and seven of ‘em on the Laconia. When that short, French bugger slipped free an’ the call went out, I signed up again with the Captain, an’ so did me mates.

“Ole Fightin’ Freddie Wentworth’s got his share o’ prizes and more besides. Heh—you won’t think I got me own house in Portsmouth, would you? And he don’t waste men neither. The Captain ain’t shy, you understand, just careful like.

“No, I don’t think Wentworth’s scared o’ anything. Eades, you remember—back in the Year 10 when …”

Eades and Lauck began talking about their experiences at sea, but Pyke only paid half a mind to it. Inside, he was still cursing his luck.

He had escaped the dull back-breaking labor of Yorkshire, and the sheriff too, for easier money in London. There he had fallen in with some fellows who knew a thing or two. They had a nice little racket, offering protection in the street where they lived. Oh, it was grand! Walking up the lane, proud as princes, women for the taking, and shopkeepers falling over themselves to pay up.

Then the damn Bow Street Runners showed up, and Pyke had been lucky to escape with the clothes on his back. A couple of weeks later, Pyke figured everything had died down. Walking on the street, looking for what remained of his comrades, he had been set upon by a press gang.

Now here he was, stuck on a ship, doomed to the kind of hard labor he had tried so hard to escape. Pyke decided that if he did not have bad luck, he would not have any at all.

He looked over the side and saw an officer speaking to a gentleman and lady next to a carriage. Radle noticed what had caught his attention.

“That there’s Cap’n Wentworth now—in his civilians—talking to Mr. Price.”

“Who’s the lady, Radle?” asked Utley.

“Don’t rightly know … Say, didn’t the Captain get married recent like?”

“Aye, he did,” answered Eades. “The carpenter’s been making changes in the captain’s quarters.”

“You mean he’s taking her on board?” asked Utley.

Radle snorted. “The Captain taking a lady on board? Have you been in the rum, Eades? Wentworth would no sooner take a woman on the barky than turn Papist!”

“You say what you like,” retorted Eades. “I know what I was told.”

“The Laconia a hen frigate! Never thought I would see the day!” Lauck laughed.

“And you still ain’t yet—you mark me words!” cried Radle.

Pyke didn’t follow the argument. He was too busy studying the woman at the captain’s side as a marine rode up to the group onshore.

Look at that piece, would you! Some men have all the luck.

~~~

“Mr. Price,” said Stokes, “he’s back.”

William Price inwardly groaned. “Thank you, Stokes. Alex, take over.”

Mr. Mumphrey said in a low voice, “Will, why not have Greengard run him off?”

“No, he’s no bother. I shan’t be long.” William put on his hat and again walked off the ship. Waiting on the docks was a shabby-looking older man squinting hard at the activity aboard.

“Well, Billy, what the devil are those fools up to now?” demanded Mr. Price. “I’ve never seen a ship look so fucking arse-backwards in me life!”

William ignored his father’s crudeness. “Carpenter says the butt on the fore topgallant mast is sprung. We’re fishing her out to put a new one in its place.”

“Is that so? And it takes half the crew to do it? This modern navy! Why in my day …”

William’s father was formerly Lieutenant Price of the Royal Marines, paid off as a cripple fifteen years prior due to an injury received in a minor skirmish with the Spaniards. While he and his son shared the appellation of lieutenant, they were not the same rank. William was actually a Commander, equivalent to a Lieutenant-Colonel in the marines. However, his father amused himself by overlooking that fact and advising his son.

William waited patiently as his father ranted on. At least he’s half-sober today.

Finally, when he ran out of steam, his son answered. “We are in a bit of a hurry, Father. Captain wants the replacement up as soon as may be. The more hands on the job, the quicker it’s done. We’re in port, so no harm done—it’s not as though we’re under sail.”

“Are those 12-pounders I see on the quarterdeck?” he said pointing to the ten cannons visible.

“That they are.”

“Are the bastards in the armory out of smashers? Holding out on you, the sons-of-bitches! You mark my words, there’s money changing hands!”

“No, Father. Captain wanted long twelves.”

The older man squinted at his son. “What? Instead of 32-pound carronades? Is he touched in the head?”

“You know carronades are only good at short range.” William’s patience with his father came from long practice. “They’re fine if we’re going toe-to-toe with the enemy, but we’re after pirates and blockade runners this time. They won’t stay to fight—we’ll have to run them down. The long twelves, used as chasers, will let us reach out and touch them.”

Mr. Price was not giving up yet. “Not much weight—won’t do much to their hull at all.”

“That’s so, but we’ll be aiming at the rigging.”

Mr. Price waved a hand in dismissal. “Bah! French tricks! Is that what the navy’s coming to? No wonder the colonials kicked your arses.”

William grimaced at his father’s reference to the devastating defeats the Royal Navy had suffered against the Americans’ superb 44-gun frigates. The big 44’s were larger and better armed than their British counterparts and just as well handled, if not better. The effectiveness of the American ships had sent a shock through the navy and panic in the Admiralty. Now that the war against the United States was over, the Royal Navy was quickly making new 38- and 40-gun frigates with 24-pound guns, or converting older two-deckers into razee frigates by cutting away the upper gun deck.

“That’s not how Nelson would do it, by God!” his father ranted on. “Never mind maneuvers, just go straight at ‘em. That’s how an Englishman fights! But now, they’re all a bunch of worm-eaten whore-sons—”

“Father, I have to get back to work.”

“Uhhh … Oh, yes, got to keep his lordship happy.” Mr. Price always referred to ships’ captains as Your Lordship whether they were titled or not. “Billy, why don’t you come by home? Your mother misses you.”

“As Captain Wentworth is not aboard ship, I cannot sleep off her. You and Mother know that.”

Mr. Price cackled. “Hah! He’s too busy warming up some other bed. I eyed his doxy.”

“Father!” William cried. “That was Mrs. Wentworth!”

For the first time, Mr. Price showed some contrition. “Oh! Uhh … Well, beggin’ your pardon. But, how was I to know? It’s not like she were wearin’ a sign, for Christsakes! There’s plenty of your captains that are sleeping on the wrong side of the bed, you believe me—”

“Father—”

Mr. Price capitulated. “All right, I’m sorry!”

William sighed. “Thank you. Was there anything else?”

The older man shuffled his feet. “Well, now that you bring it up—”

William steeled himself. Here comes the real reason he’s here.

“We are a bit tight just now. We don’t need much, you understand.”

William sighed. He sent a quarter of his meager pay to his mother each month, and yet it was never enough. “How much?”

Mr. Price’s eyes gleamed. “A sovereign would set us up just fine, son.”

William handed the coin over, thankful he had his purse on him. It would be mortifying having to retrieve the money from his berth.

The sovereign disappeared into his father’s pocket. “Thankee, son. You come to Sunday dinner, mind.”

“I’ll be there. Goodbye, Father. Give my love to Mother.”

But by then Mr. Price was already walking away, waving over his head. William returned to the Laconia.

Once on deck, Mumphrey patted his shoulder. “He’ll just spend it on drink, Will.”

William could not look him in the face. “I know, Alex, I know.”

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Until next time, this has been the Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles.

It takes a real man to write historical romance, so let me tell you a story…