children and pontificated about beaks and wing-tips to anyone who would listen and Coxon had listened to them all, could remember their faces and names. Distant or dead sons now.
‘Captain Coxon? Will you give me the honour of carrying your bag for you, Captain?’
The voice startled him out of his musings. He braced at the pale face of a striking youth – no – a man , but the boyish face topped with coppery hair now revealed as he whisked off his modest hat.
His dress was wonderfully new but not extravagant, perfectly perfunctory for the work ahead, less to polish, to be brushed rather than cleaned. Coxon had yet to locate his ship. The familiarity required to be recognised had thrown him.
‘Do you know me, sir?’
The man grinned. ‘It is I, Captain. You may yet recall.’ He stepped back, as if the act would move him back in time and stature to be remembered like an etching in a book.
His voice chimed like a bell. ‘Thomas Howard, sir. Lieutenant Thomas Howard I should say. At your service and proud to serve.’ His grin faded but the eyes carried it still. ‘I was on the Starling , Captain. Midshipman. I acted Lieutenant . . . for the day.’ The eyes dropped. ‘On The Island, Captain.’
Coxon had grey hair now amid the black but it darkened as he brushed memories away from his eyes like dust from a painting’s glass and he saw again the mottled, nervous-brave face of Midshipman Howard, sixteen once again and handing him his quarter-bill for the hour against the pirate. A tearful child recounting how he had found the murdered body of Edward Talton. The first act of betrayal from Lt Guinneys, who did not live to see the end of the day. But Howard had survived. One of the pirates had protected him when the demons had boarded and killed. The yellow-coated barber-surgeon had shown some compassion – to Coxon’s mind just to save his own hide if all went wrong. The pirate doctor had hugged Howard close to his chest, surely to protect himself, and had stared down the axes and cutlasses that swung across the faces of Coxon’s crew. Perhaps some sodomite plan for the boy that was never realised.
So Thomas Howard had sailed back to England with the crippled Starling and Coxon. Howard had been there, fought there, and the officer’s reticence left Coxon as he dropped his sack and clasped the man’s shoulders and laughed at the new height and breadth of him.
‘Bless my soul! It is Thomas Howard so it is! Lieutenant Howard now, is it?’
‘It is, Captain,’ Howard glowed and picked up the hemp sack without demur. ‘When I heard of your return I begged myself from my Bristol packet to see you proper. Especially when I heard of your purpose.’
He put out a hand for them to continue and they walked abreast; the carriages and their passing click-clack over cobbles and the discord of the dock were unable to drown their words, not when seaman can throw their voices like ropes when they wish.
‘So it is the pirate then? That is true?’ Howard asked.
‘Aye,’ Coxon tugged at his nose. ‘But chasing after the Swallow and the Weymouth first. There is a man, a Roberts, who is more vital since I was called.’
‘Ah,’ Howard sighed. ‘The pirate Roberts is doing terrible harm to the right people. Thank the Lord that the Royal African Company keeps us all in her debt so we may keep busy.’ Howard stopped, pointed out into the bay.
‘ There she is!’
Coxon followed the arm as Howard drew his head in close to his captain’s.
‘The Standard ,’ Howard declared and Coxon walked to the edge of the seawall so his toes peered over; nothing but a straight line of sea between the tips of his shoes and the black freeboard.
‘Mister Howard,’ he called behind, ‘what of her? She is a two-decker?’
The Standard . Of the 1706 Establishment, Howard informed. That would make her the youngest ship Coxon had ever sailed. A fifth-rate frigate. She would have had some use in the Mediterranean during the
‘Captain Coxon? Will you give me the honour of carrying your bag for you, Captain?’
The voice startled him out of his musings. He braced at the pale face of a striking youth – no – a man , but the boyish face topped with coppery hair now revealed as he whisked off his modest hat.
His dress was wonderfully new but not extravagant, perfectly perfunctory for the work ahead, less to polish, to be brushed rather than cleaned. Coxon had yet to locate his ship. The familiarity required to be recognised had thrown him.
‘Do you know me, sir?’
The man grinned. ‘It is I, Captain. You may yet recall.’ He stepped back, as if the act would move him back in time and stature to be remembered like an etching in a book.
His voice chimed like a bell. ‘Thomas Howard, sir. Lieutenant Thomas Howard I should say. At your service and proud to serve.’ His grin faded but the eyes carried it still. ‘I was on the Starling , Captain. Midshipman. I acted Lieutenant . . . for the day.’ The eyes dropped. ‘On The Island, Captain.’
Coxon had grey hair now amid the black but it darkened as he brushed memories away from his eyes like dust from a painting’s glass and he saw again the mottled, nervous-brave face of Midshipman Howard, sixteen once again and handing him his quarter-bill for the hour against the pirate. A tearful child recounting how he had found the murdered body of Edward Talton. The first act of betrayal from Lt Guinneys, who did not live to see the end of the day. But Howard had survived. One of the pirates had protected him when the demons had boarded and killed. The yellow-coated barber-surgeon had shown some compassion – to Coxon’s mind just to save his own hide if all went wrong. The pirate doctor had hugged Howard close to his chest, surely to protect himself, and had stared down the axes and cutlasses that swung across the faces of Coxon’s crew. Perhaps some sodomite plan for the boy that was never realised.
So Thomas Howard had sailed back to England with the crippled Starling and Coxon. Howard had been there, fought there, and the officer’s reticence left Coxon as he dropped his sack and clasped the man’s shoulders and laughed at the new height and breadth of him.
‘Bless my soul! It is Thomas Howard so it is! Lieutenant Howard now, is it?’
‘It is, Captain,’ Howard glowed and picked up the hemp sack without demur. ‘When I heard of your return I begged myself from my Bristol packet to see you proper. Especially when I heard of your purpose.’
He put out a hand for them to continue and they walked abreast; the carriages and their passing click-clack over cobbles and the discord of the dock were unable to drown their words, not when seaman can throw their voices like ropes when they wish.
‘So it is the pirate then? That is true?’ Howard asked.
‘Aye,’ Coxon tugged at his nose. ‘But chasing after the Swallow and the Weymouth first. There is a man, a Roberts, who is more vital since I was called.’
‘Ah,’ Howard sighed. ‘The pirate Roberts is doing terrible harm to the right people. Thank the Lord that the Royal African Company keeps us all in her debt so we may keep busy.’ Howard stopped, pointed out into the bay.
‘ There she is!’
Coxon followed the arm as Howard drew his head in close to his captain’s.
‘The Standard ,’ Howard declared and Coxon walked to the edge of the seawall so his toes peered over; nothing but a straight line of sea between the tips of his shoes and the black freeboard.
‘Mister Howard,’ he called behind, ‘what of her? She is a two-decker?’
The Standard . Of the 1706 Establishment, Howard informed. That would make her the youngest ship Coxon had ever sailed. A fifth-rate frigate. She would have had some use in the Mediterranean during the
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