Preview of Persuaded to Sail #3

Preview of PERSUADED TO SAIL, selections from Chapter 5

Greetings, everyone. Jack Caldwell here. Holy mackerel, I did it again. What happened to Chapter 4?

The purpose of these previews Is to give you a taste of PERSUADED TO SAIL. I believe I have accomplished that. While Chapter 4 is a very interesting one, as it sets up a major sub-plot, I’m going to keep that information close to my vest. What can I say? I’m evil.

The first posting may be found HERE, the second one HERE.

I’ve cut out some the chapter below. It’s marked as [FUN JUMP]. Why did I do that? Because I can. I have to leave some surprises. You’ll have to wait for the book to see what I skipped. Hehehe.

And now, on with the show!

From Chapter 5

London

THE LONDON COBBLESTONE STREETS rocked Captain Wentworth’s hansom cab as it made his way to Whitehall and the Board of the Admiralty. Frederick had made good time to the city after leaving his bride in the affectionate and capable hands of Admiral and Mrs. Croft back in Portsmouth and had found lodgings to his liking very near his club. In his full-dress uniform with his Number One hat, he sat in perfect stillness in the cab, unwilling to touch the sides of the vehicle, lest it somehow dirty his hard-won splendor.

At last we will solve this mystery, he mused. The Navy was not one to send riders all over the countryside for its amusement. Why send an express if there was no emergency? What is this all about?

Frederick tried not to breathe too deeply on his ride to the center of naval power. A near half-lifetime at sea had given him an appreciation for the clean salt smell of the ocean. The countryside was different, but agreeable too, with the pleasant fragrance of fresh cut grass and clean air. London, like most cities, had a far different aroma. The largest city in Europe smelled like mud, garbage, soot, waste and too many animals and people. It was too hot, except when it was too cold—and it was always too dirty.

The sounds of the bustling metropolis were offensive to his ears. Cries of human and animal, of effort and slothfulness, construction and destruction—what were they to the sounds of the birds at sea, as the ship slipped though the waves, the wind causing her to moan and creak most agreeably? Give Frederick Wentworth a heaving deck under his feet, or if not, then a small country village with a comfortable house and land to work.

Purgatory was the city, and its capital was London.

The cab soon pulled to a stop before the portico of Admiralty House in the heart of Whitehall. As Frederick exited the cab, the driver asked, “Should I be waiting for ye then, gov’nor?”

Frederick was tempted. The ride was as good as ever he had in London. “No, thank you, my man,” he said as he paid him. “I know not how long I shall be.”

The driver tipped his hat, thanked him and drove off. Frederick strode confidently through the archway to the front door, taking the salute of the Marine guard there. Entering the relatively modest building (for a government building in London), he ascended the main staircase, passing other officers loitering along the way. He never gave them a glance. He was afraid to see his own hidden apprehension in their faces. Soon he was before the secretary who acted as gatekeeper to the Joves sitting in judgment behind a maze of doors.

“What is your business, sir?” the elderly man inquired, barely looking up from his work.

“Captain Wentworth. I have an appointment.” He handed his dispatch to the clerk. He was not offended by the gentleman not using his rank; it was not the first time he had been through the petty games at the Admiralty.

The secretary peered at the document as though he had never seen the like before, studying it carefully before pulling another paper from a pile and looking hard at it.

Finally, he announced, “Yes, Frederick Wentworth, Captain—it is here. You will be called when all is ready.” He then spoke quietly to a midshipman, who turned and left the room.

~~~

[FUN JUMP 1]

~~~

Frederick found himself again waiting in an anteroom in the Admiralty. Apparently, Sir Carson was occupied, which gave Frederick a chance to ponder the mystery in his head.

He had heard of Sir Carson Oxblood and knew he served on the Committee. The Committee freed the Lords of the Admiralty from managing many of the mundane activities of the navy, allowing their lordships to focus on strategy. They oversaw the Armory Board, Victualling Office, and the like.

Exactly what Sir Carson’s position on the Committee was not clear, but there were rumors. Most thought his interests were of a scientific nature. That he was very influential was commonly agreed. All else was speculation. What was troubling to Frederick was he knew of at least one officer who lost his command because of a row with Sir Carson.

At that moment, a rotund, middle-aged gentleman of average height made his appearance. “Captain Wentworth, I must beg your pardon, sir—these meetings can take longer than expected. I am Sir Carson Oxblood. Pray step into my office, Captain.”

Frederick rose and entered Sir Carson’s small and cramped room. Books on every subject under the sun lined the walls and covered the floor, along with a collection of strange, unknown instruments propped up on one shelf. To Frederick’s fastidious naval character, it was a descent into chaos.

“Well, sir,” Sir Carson began, his chair groaning as he sat down, “thank you for coming. You left the Laconia in good hands, I assume?”

Frederick paused a bit. “The Laconia shall be ready to sail, never fear.”

“Excellent, sir. Mrs. Wentworth is excited about traveling to Bermuda, I dare say. And while I do not know much about armament, those whose judgment I trust say your choice of long twelves for the quarterdeck is very sound, seeing your mission is to ferret out pirates and the like.”

Frederick tired of the games. “Thank you, m’lord. May I be so bold as to inquire as to why I have been summoned?”

“Ah, straight to the point—excellent. There is something to be said for bluntness, sir. Yes, well, I must ask of you a small favor. Not much, really. We need you to transport a passenger—a government official—along with you on the Laconia.”

You summon me from Portsmouth for this? “I believe we can make the room, sir. We are transporting a marine officer to Bermuda.”

“Yes—Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton. But this gentleman will not be going to Bermuda. No, he is to the port of Funchal in Madeira, to sail on from there. The gentleman is the Honorable Mr. Rohan Aiken, younger son of Baron Killgrian, and a secretary with the Foreign Office. Have you met him, sir?”

“I have not had the pleasure.”

“Yes, of course. He must continue on to a posting in Europe. It is a little out of your way, to be sure, but I am certain you would be agreeable to aid one of His Majesty’s diplomats.”

“I would be honored,” Frederick lied. “To Madeira, you said? I would be happy to do so, once the proper orders are issued.”

“Ah … there is the difficulty. There will be no written orders.”

“No orders?” Frederick blurted out. “But I am to make for Bermuda under best sail! I cannot take a detour to Madeira without official blessing—m’lord.”

Sir Carson said nothing; he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his rotund belly. The look he gave Frederick sent the hairs rising on the back of the captain’s neck. An alarm sounded in his mind, such as when he could sense a lee shore in the fog—dangerous shoals ahead. In that moment Frederick knew that his career was in the balance.

Sir Carson blinked, a decision was made, and he leaned forward.  “Captain Wentworth, your record shows that you have been a brave, resourceful, and cautious officer. Men I trust say we can have confidence in your discretion. I must entrust you with some vital and secret information.”

He toyed with the papers before him. “We cannot take much longer here. Your visit to this office might be noticed by those who should not know. You understand my meaning, sir?”

“I … I am afraid that I do not.”

Sir Carson sighed. “We have men in the various services that are more than they seem. They keep their eyes open; they report to the highest levels. Need I say more?”

Frederick fought a gasp. Good God, the rumors are true! Sir Carson is head of British Intelligence! “No, sir.”

“I am cautious because the other side is active, as well.  Their men are everywhere.”

“Surely not here, m’lord!”

Sir Carson gave him a rather pitying look. “Were that were so. I can assure you that there are Englishmen who would be just as happy to sell out king and country for gold as the French traitors we bribe to spy on Bonaparte. It is the oldest game in the world.

“You must understand. You never find all the traitors, no matter how many you flush. We must assume they are here.”

He glanced at the clock in the corner with disgust. “Blast, we have tarried too long! I must meet with you later. Some place quiet where, if we are seen together, it will not raise suspicion. We are the members of the same club, are we not?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Excellent! You shall be my guest for supper. Will you join me tonight?”

It was not an invitation. “I would be happy to, Sir Carson.”

~~~

[FUN JUMP 2]

~~~

The small private dining room was decorated in the same style as the rest of the club. Whitewashed walls covered in portraits or paintings of landscapes and hunts. The oak woodwork was stained dark, as was the floor. A round dining table with six chairs was the extent of the furniture. It was dark and gloomy, the table candelabra’s three tapers inadequate to fully illuminate the room.

“Well met, sir,” said the older gentleman as they shook hands. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, m’lord—I have been enjoying the fellowship of an old comrade and his friend.”

Sir Carson eyed him with an unreadable expression. “Who are they? The younger man in blue looks familiar.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam and Colonel Brandon, the officer in red. I can vouch for them.”

The portly gentleman relaxed. “Ah, yes—Matlock’s boy. I thought I knew him. And Colonel Brandon has been a member for years. Yes … Well, shall we eat?”

To Frederick’s chagrin, Sir Carson refused to speak of anything other than the latest innovation in sea clocks until their dinner was served. After the servant left the room, the older man looked at the door. “I have known old Saul for years—perfectly reliable.”

“That is good to know,” returned Frederick between bites. As a sailor he had learned to let nothing spoil his appetite.

Sir Carson then dug into his own meal, trying Frederick’s patience further. It finally occurred to the sailor that the government official was testing him. Well, let him. I shall not be found wanting.

Finally, Sir Carson renewed their conversation. “As I said before, we employ men who do far more for the Crown than it seems. Mr. Aiken is one of those men.”

“I see. And the enemy knows of him?”

“They suspect, but Paris does not know for certain. I also shared with you that there are men here who accept the Tyrant’s gold and betray their king. Some we have captured, others we watch. These traitors, for reasons I cannot go into, have cause to suppose Mr. Aiken is of most effective help to the kingdom. Bonaparte would pay handsomely for Mr. Aiken’s delivery to Paris for interrogation.

“For several reasons, we would normally not allow Mr. Aiken to leave the country, but this mission is vital, and he is the man entrusted with it.”

“You said you have men watching some traitors, m’lord,” Frederick pointed out, “but not all of them?”

Sir Carson’s smile did not reach his eyes. “You have an excellent memory, sir. No, we do not have all of the traitors under surveillance. Should the French know Mr. Aiken is being transported to a certain place at a certain time, they would surely try to intercept him—with overpowering force.”

A vision of a French squadron bearing down on a hapless Laconia chilled Frederick to the bone. “M’lord, you know Mrs. Wentworth is to sail with us.”

“Captain Wentworth, it is crucial to the nation that Mr. Aiken reaches Madeira.”

Frederick looked at his plate, hand tightly gripping his fork, the phrase “Subject to the Demands of the Service” ran through his head. He had lived most of his life according to that credo. He gave a low sigh and relaxed. “Very well. I will have Mrs. Wentworth take the packet to Bermuda.”

“No!” Sir Carson’s hand gently slapped the table. “My dear sir, you must not make any changes to your intentions—none at all!”

Frederick looked disbelievingly at Sir Carson. “M’lord, are you suggesting—? My wife, sir! You said the danger is great!”

“The danger would be great if we gave any notice to the enemy.” Sir Carson’s voice was softy cajoling. “That is why there shall be no orders, no changes—nothing to alert the French or their agents. As far as the world knows, Captain Wentworth, famous for claiming never to have a woman aboard his ship, shall sail for Bermuda with his lovely bride as planned.”

Frederick paled as the older man continued. “There will be a diversion, of course. A gentleman resembling Mr. Aiken will be seen boarding a ship bound for Antwerp. This is the normal route to Mr. Aiken’s ultimate destination. French eyes will be turned to the north while your ship makes a secret run to the south. I assure you, Captain, that our efforts shall keep you safe.

“Now, this is most important. Secrecy is vital. Mr. Aiken and his servant shall come aboard only at the last moment and in disguise. You shall not inform your crew of the change in destination until you are safely at sea. Sealed orders will be sent to Bermuda in the packet ship, confirming your detour to Madeira. Ten days, a fortnight at most, and you shall be on your way to your new posting, having done good service for your King.”

Frederick mulled over the outlandish scheme. “Sir Carson, I cannot say that I wholly like this plan.”

“But you will do it.”

There really was no choice. “Yes, m’lord.”

(DUM DUM DUM!)

MAP OF THE NOVEL

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…