None But You (Frederick Wentworth, Captain: Book 1) Read online

  “Yes, we have more than established that I am the most proper man for the job. I will give you a full report when I return.”

  Harville shook his hand. It was obvious he wished to say more, but they were in public and knew the proprieties. Harville would do nothing to compromise the position of the Captain in the eyes of his crew.

  It was indeed painful to watch Harville manoeuvre down the accommodation ladder. Michaelson knew he was being observed and took every care in seeing him settled in the stern of the small boat. Watching them pull away, Wentworth put his mind to the unpleasant task at hand.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  “So ya stayin’ at the Crown?” asked the driver, Mr. Gordon.

  “Yes.”

  “The Blue Booby’s a fine establishment. Close to the docks, and the weemin, if ya knows wha’ I mean.” The driver gave him the toothless grin the Captain had come to abominate. Three days and nights of bad roads, horrid food, and even worse company had turned his normally sanguine temperament to one of bloody-mindedness. “I’ll ship ya right over, free uh charge.”

  “Thank you for the offer. I am sure the Blue Booby has every convenience, but I am for the Crown.” Wentworth was hard pressed to be very angry with the driver. The fellow could hardly be blamed for nearly inedible food at the coaching stations, though he seemed to be on very intimate terms with all the innkeepers. It would be unfair to blame him for the quality of the passengers he hauled, though many of them were his near and distant relations. The roads probably were not his fault, but Wentworth thought it barbarous to place paying customers at the mercy of a carriage whose seats were little more than tanned hides stretched over boards. The springs had long ago lost their temper. The Captain felt as though he had been beaten day and night with a belaying pin. No, for the abominable condition of his carriage, he could be doubly blamed.

  As for the Blue Booby, the man undoubtedly had a deal with the keep and would get a bounty for every customer he steered that way. Considering how many family members Mr. Gordon hauled it was more than likely an additional family enterprise. It might also be the sort of establishment where a man woke up sans his money and valuables, or worse. He gave the man a few pence, in hopes he would take himself and his odious smile away.

  Seeing he could not deter the Captain from rooming at the Crown, he said, “Suit yaself,” and shoved the coins in his waistcoat pocket. He hauled down the Captain’s bag and dropped it unceremoniously at his feet. Without a word, he turned, mounted his death machine and drove off.

  “An appropriate beginning for my sojourn in Portsmouth,” he said under his breath. As he bent to retrieve the bag, a small, young hand reached out and took it.

  “Let me get that for ya, sir.” Struggling to lift the case with both hands stood a sturdy man-child of indeterminate age, but obvious good humour. “I see you didn’t fall for Gordon’s offer of the Booby. Might I offer you a place at the Crown?” When he made a sweeping gesture towards the building, the case pulled him off balance. He quickly righted himself, hoisted the case off the ground and waited for the Captain’s bidding.

  Were he not already bound for that place, the earnest face would have made a refusal nearly impossible. Such good-willed enterprise should always be rewarded. “Lead on, sir.” He allowed the boy to struggle, offering no assistance. He had found that honest toil could be the making or breaking of a young man. It was clear from each small grunt issuing from this one; he was improving by the minute.

  Setting the case by the bar with as much grace as he could muster, the boy called out and was answered by an older man with cloth over his shoulder and five pints in his hands. “I’ll be right wi’ ya, sir.”

  The boy looked up at him, as though the Captain might change his mind concerning the accommodations. “The Crown’s the best beds and the best beer in all of Portsmouth.”

  Wentworth was keenly drawn to the boy. For one so young, he was wonderfully bright and better spoken than most of his officers. Moreover, he was obviously not afraid to step into an advantageous situation. This was just the sort of boy a captain longed to see come aboard his ship. He could help steer him away from foolish mistakes that so often befell a young man with no patronage. This boy could rise as far as he liked in service to the King.

  “Now, what might I do fer ya?” the keep asked, glancing up as he began to wipe the bar. At first, he offered Wentworth the customary smile of a man of business looking to please a customer. When his eyes dropped to the Captain’s shoulders, his smile widened, and he began wiping his hands on the towel as he gave him his full attention.

  “The Captain will be wanting a room, sir. There’s one in the back open. Nice and quiet like.”

  “George.” The man was stern of voice and expression. “Let the good Cap’un speak for hisself.” His compliment was genuine enough but was also to gently belabour the esteem being paid to a man of his rank.

  Glancing at the boy, then looking at the man, he said, “I think George here is right. I would like the room in the back, all nice and quiet like.”

  The keep gave a slight nod of his head to the boy, and he hared off.

  “He’ll check and see that ever’thing’s sound.” As if to punctuate the tranquillity of the room he had rented, a roar of male voices from behind the curtain of a private dining room raised every head in the place. It continued for a time and then sank back to a manageable hubbub.

  Fearing the outburst might dampen the captain’s enthusiasm for staying at the Crown, the keep said, “Just a few of yer fellows celebratin’ their return to the comfort of good English soil.” His worried expression begged a reply.

  Another roar delayed Wentworth’s answer. “No one with a drop of loyalty in him would ever begrudge sailors their celebrations. Besides, I will be out most of the evening.”

  Relief spread over the man’s face. “I figure a little high spirits is in order. As long as they don’t break up the furniture, I’m happy to provide the place.” Satisfied that Wentworth was not going to take his business elsewhere, he named the room’s price.

  Wentworth handed over the coins and said, “Your son is quite persuasive. Very well-spoken for one his age.”

  “Aw, that’s the truth. George can talk like a lord to a lord, or better. But George, he ain’t mine. He jus’ showed up one day and before I could run him off, he made hisself more than a little useful. He’s worth his bed and board.”

  “Has he ever said where he hales from? Does he have a second name?”

  “Tuggins. George Tuggins. Other than his given name, he’s tight-lipped about ever’thin’ else. All I know is, no one’s ever come makin’ enquiries about him.”

  Wentworth assured the man that he would not need George’s assistance in carrying his case and asked directions to his room. As he made his way down the hallway, he decided if he were ever in Portsmouth again and with a place to put the lad, he would have a word with Master George Tuggins.

  The evening was warm. The walk to the docks was longer than he remembered. Having no memory of ever having seen the Grappler, he surveyed the ships at anchor. Since there were several sloops from which to choose, he would have to wait until he got aboard to appraise her further.

  He began to look for a boat to take him out when fortune smiled. A wiry young man dressed in his finest going ashore clothes was carving on a fist-sized chunk of wood while chatting with a little boy of similar dress. Wentworth continued to survey the ships, but eavesdropped on the animated conversation.

  “…now the Post Cap’un’s the money-hungriest of ’em all, Billy. Why, most of ’um will sail right into a hurricano without blinkin’ a eye if they thinks there’s prize to be got. That’s why ya want to get onboard a good frigate with one of them crown and anchor fellas. Ya can come away with thirty or forty pounds when they pays ya off.” The younger boy was all agape at the idea of such wealth.

  Smiling to himself, Wentworth had to agree with the fellow about the greedy nature of men of his rank. There was
once a time that description would have fit him very well. But now, he would rather have a hurricano blow up and have to sail precisely into the middle of it than take the short pull out to Benwick’s ship. His one consolation was that in a few hours it would all be over, and he would be free of the obligation.

  The fellow was going on about a new subject when Wentworth inspected more closely the embroidery on the band of his cap.

  “You there, Grappler, I am looking for your captain.”

  Looking Wentworth over, his eyes took in all the braid of his dress uniform and fixed particularly on his golden shoulders, adorned with the very crowns and anchors he touted a moment before. Motioning for the youngster to stay put, he rose and quickly approached the Captain. He tugged on his forelock and began. “Well, sir, as we’ve just experienced one of the most unlucky sails of all history, I’ll have to ask which captain you might be inquirin’ about? We got poor Captain Luden. He made it to Gibraltar and no more. Bad fever took ’im. Then there’s Captain Halliwell. He succumbed to an unknown illness just the other side of the Cape. That left our fate to the newly made Master and Commander, James Benwick.” He lowered his voice. “The scuttlebutt is that Commander Benwick owes a great deal to the bad moral habits of Captain Halliwell.”

  Sailors rivalled any group of women for their fondness of gossip. Ordinarily, the Captain would have little to say about this base slander concerning the late Captain Halliwell, but the young boy was listening closely and he wished him to have a lesson.

  “What is your name?”

  The man’s eyes grew large. “Towrey. Henry Towrey, acting coxswain of the HMS Grappler, sir.”

  “Mr. Towrey, it is one thing to gossip among the members of your gun crew while taking your grog. It is quite another to impart such a…delicate communication to strangers. I would hate to see you lose the confidence of your captain when word returns to him that his coxswain might not be the most trustworthy.” Glancing at the boy, he hoped the lad had acquired a bit of circumspection that evening. Perhaps Mr. Towrey had as well.

  Referring no more to the incident, he said, “It is Commander Benwick that I seek. He is not expecting me, but I come on a matter of some urgency. Please take me to him.”

  Relief overtook Towrey and he said, “Well, sir, I would most gladly do that, only he’s at the Crown bein’ feted by his friends. Some of his Portsmouth mates come and insisted they wet the swab good and proper.”

  “The Crown?”

  “Aye, sir. One of the finest houses in the town. The best tap around, as far as Grapplers are concerned. They’ve been at it a while. Even so, I don’t expect him back for quite a spell.”

  “I see. Well, thank you.” He was about to walk away when he turned and said to the boy, “And you, Billy.” The boy started at his name. “He’s right about a frigate. If you’re aching to be rich, find a frigate.” The little boy’s startled look made him smile as he turned to make the walk back to the Crown.

  While he walked, he rehearsed the words, turning them to suit any of the possible responses Benwick might make. The most difficult words had to do with the death itself.

  “Miss Harville has died. Miss Harville has passed on. Miss Harville is in a better place. I must certainly say something to the effect that she has left us for a better place.”

  Dead. Passed on. Gone. Left us. These were the best consolations he could manage concerning a woman. Any others were best left to describing a departed sailor. He determined also to describe for him her lack of suffering and that the Harvilles shared his pain and despair.

  With the Crown in sight, he stepped up his pace. He wished to be free of his burden quickly so he might have a chance at a decent rest. Since Harville’s visit, he had had no sleep worth considering.

  As he was about to enter, the door burst open and several men came blundering out, hooting and laughing as only drunken men can. He stood aside and hoped that these were the foundation of the loud group in the private room. He had no desire to try to impart such dreadful news in the midst of Bedlam.

  Surveying the room, he did not see any sign of Benwick. Perhaps his friends had procured something more private. Despite his grim errand, he could not help but be amused by the idea of Benwick and a few of his studious mates endeavouring to engage in pleasant, but intelligent conversation while the rout carried on in the next room. The idea was entertaining for only a moment. He knocked on the bar to get the attention of the keep.

  “Sir, might you help me? I am looking for a friend.”

  “Oh, yer back, Cap’n. Who might I find fer ya?”

  “I’m looking for a Commander Benwick. James Benwick.”

  “Ah, yes, Benwick. Well, he’s in there with a few of his friends.” He pointed to the curtained room. The roar was no quieter than before.

  Glancing at the room, Wentworth said, “No, no, you must be mistaken, he would never go in for anything like that mob. He is a very quiet, retiring fellow. Roundish face, dark hair, about this tall.”

  The man winked as he brought glasses from under the bar. “Well, Cap’n, I know they’re wettin’ the swab of a James Benwick, who just made Master and Commander. I know the ranks, sir.” It was the keep’s turn to be amused. “It’s amazin’ how a little touch o’ superiority, not to mention quite a lot o’ drink, can make a man so tolerant.”

  Wentworth smiled. “Very good point, sir. Thank you.” He stood for a moment and thought. It would be agreeable to celebrate Benwick’s good fortune, regardless of what might come later. It was always agreeable to be in the company of other officers, even those inferior to him.

  He pushed off the bar and went to the private room. As he reached to draw the drape aside, an older midshipman came stumbling through. When he extricated himself from the curtain, he caught sight of Wentworth and stuttered to his uniform, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see you—” Just then he thought to salute and this sent the glasses he carried down his own front, slopping the remainders of wine and ale over his white waistcoat. The glasses crashed and broke at their feet. He bent to pick up the glass and then straightened to apologize to the Captain. The young man had the look of a marionette bobbing and bending.

  “Here, sir, let me help you with that.” The keep was in the midst of them, shooing the midshipman away. “He didn’t mean no harm, I’m sure.” He had no desire that one customer should do anything to aggravate another.

  “No, I’m sure he did not,” Wentworth agreed.

  The keep stood with the glass in his towel. Surveying the Captain, he said, “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you’ve got some wine on your fine coat. Let me get ya a towel.”

  Another burst of laughter came from behind the curtain. After the reaction of the midshipman, the abject fear of facing so much gold braid on one coat, he wondered if his presence might not cause the party to wither and die prematurely. It would be cruel to Benwick to ruin this last happiness for a time.

  “Here you are, sir.” A towel appeared and began dabbing at his coat.

  “Thank you, but might I just take this to my room and return it later?”

  “Certainly. There’s no hurry, sir.” The man then busied himself with a broom, working the remaining glass into a small pile.

  In his room, Wentworth wiped at his coat, deciding that the keep’s attentions had been an over reaction. There was very little of anything on him, but he did take the opportunity to change.

  His undress coat, sans the epaulettes, would lend itself to becoming one of the mob, allowing the junior officers to forget a Post Captain was in their midst. He carefully brought the shoulders together on his dress coat and was about to toss it on the bed, when the dash of red of the crown caught his eye. Drawing it back, he examined the epaulettes more closely than ever before.

  “They are beautiful,” he said softly. For something made of nothing more than a small sheet of metal, a bit of gold coloured silk, wool and gold thread, they rivalled any work of art. Their beauty was derived from what they represented as much
as for how they looked. The gold thread, some woven for the background and the others twisted into the bullions, did not glitter, but had a dignified glow from the light of the lamp. His thumb followed the curving “S” of the rope fouling the anchor. It looked smooth, like silver, but was rough from all the tiny stitches. He then felt the crown, the symbol of his allegiance to his sovereign and country.

  These were the objects that proved his worth more than anything else in his life. Not even the generous numbers in his bank accounts meant more. These weighty bits of decoration made most men kowtow. Some, like the innkeeper, gave him due deference; the few that were left gave grudging respect, if nothing else. As for women, this symbol of rank was a prize to be won, and in his experience, most women were not too particular about whose shoulders they rested upon.

  However, a woman like Fanny Harville had not cared about epaulettes or rank. She had waited for love of Benwick. Now that she was gone, his new bit of finery would have little meaning. Wentworth feared that the weight of Benwick’s promotion would now carry with it the depth of his very great loss.

  Perhaps if his own life had been different, he mused, he would not have these beauties now. Perhaps he would have something more. He tossed the coat on the bed, changed, and went down to face Benwick.

  Chapter Three

  Wentworth’s plan was to take Benwick aside as the party broke up. They would bid the others farewell, and with the pretence of a friendly drink, he would take the man to a quiet table and tell him. The plan was set firmly in his mind as he drew back the curtain.

  When he looked over the room, he knew the plan was doomed to failure. The party was already losing strength; men were weaving and bumping their way around the table to leave. The most obvious difficulty was Benwick himself. Wentworth could not recall ever seeing James Benwick intoxicated. The man had been his First Officer some time ago and he could not think of a single instance of drunkenness. Perhaps the man was so quiet that even when he was in his cups it was not noticeable. In any case, there was no ignoring it tonight.