Read Online My Lady Pirate by Danelle Harmon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Danelle Harmon
Tags: Romance
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down toward us. There’s hardly any wind, those ships are barely moving—’twill not be so difficult to haul ourselves up onto Victory's rudder chains, gain the quarterdeck, hide on the mizzen chains, then sneak through a gunport and down into the admiral’s cabin. Now let’s go. We haven’t got all night.”
###
Nelson was usually in bed by nine, but tonight he was up later than usual, concluding his
interview with Sir Graham Falconer’s flag-captain, Colin Lord, while Victory plowed an unerring course toward Tobago, Trinidad, and—Nelson hoped—a glorious battle with the French fleet that would immortalize him forever in the eyes of England, Lady Hamilton, and of course, posterity.
The Fleet had found nothing in Barbados except Falconer’s handsome flagship, the sugar
convoy he was to have escorted back to England, and information from a brigadier general
named Brereton, who’d sighted Villeneuve’s mighty fleet off of St. Lucia. General consensus on Barbados held that the enemy had gone to attack Tobago and Trinidad, though why Villeneuve would bother with coal when the diamonds of Jamaica and Antigua were at hand was a puzzle that Nelson could not solve. His every instinct told him the information rang false, but an officer on Barbados, assuring him Brereton’s word was sound, had lent him some two thousand of his own troops in support of it, and now, less than twenty-four hours after anchoring in Carlisle Bay, the Mediterranean Fleet was headed south in hot pursuit of the enemy.
Dinner had long since ended, and now Nelson and Colin Lord sat in the quiet splendor of the cabin, sipping champagne and indulging in a fine white cake while Nelson’s beloved Emma
Hamilton looked down at them from her portrait on the bulkhead.
Nelson, of course, had positioned himself so that the portrait was in direct line with his eye; he had only to look above the top of Captain Lord’s fair head to see it.
In his mid-twenties, the young officer was tall, spare, and steady as a first rate in a gale. His cheeks were round in the English way, his brow intelligent, his eyes sensitive and of the clearest shade of purple-gray. The barrage of questions Nelson had fired at him was enough to shake even the stoutest of hearts—but the captain, son of an admiral himself, seemed well used to the demands of authority and did not quail beneath Nelson’s penetrating eye, answering his queries in a frank, forthright way that brought a twisted smile of approval to his lordship’s tired face.
“I’m grateful for the truth, Colin,” Nelson said, shrewdly watching the man across from him.
“I did question Captain Ben Warner upon reaching Barbados yesterday, but had a feeling that he, in his eagerness to protect Falconer’s name, was not being quite honest with me.”
Carefully, Captain Lord said, “Admiral Falconer created his own Band of . . . uh, Brethren, sir. We were all very loyal. Warner is not to be blamed for trying to protect our admiral’s reputation, if I may be so bold as to voice my opinion.”
Nelson looked at him sharply. Brethren, the captain had said, not brothers. The significance of that fact did not escape him.
He smiled wryly. “Any commander who earns the love and loyalty of his men is to be
praised. Your Admiral Falconer, eccentric as he was, was a fine sailor and a fierce fighter, and that is all that matters to me. I care not what he did in his spare time, but should the gossips in England get wind of this, they’ll have a fine day of sport indeed. Damn them all to hell. Damn them all to hell and beyond!” The solitary little fist crashed down on the table. “Upon my life, Captain, this shall go no farther than this cabin!”
The younger man flushed beneath the sudden outburst and gazed down into his glass.
“Besides,” Nelson snapped, petulantly tightening his mouth, “my own conduct has given the gossips enough fuel for their damned fires. D’you think I intend to give them any more?
###
Nelson was usually in bed by nine, but tonight he was up later than usual, concluding his
interview with Sir Graham Falconer’s flag-captain, Colin Lord, while Victory plowed an unerring course toward Tobago, Trinidad, and—Nelson hoped—a glorious battle with the French fleet that would immortalize him forever in the eyes of England, Lady Hamilton, and of course, posterity.
The Fleet had found nothing in Barbados except Falconer’s handsome flagship, the sugar
convoy he was to have escorted back to England, and information from a brigadier general
named Brereton, who’d sighted Villeneuve’s mighty fleet off of St. Lucia. General consensus on Barbados held that the enemy had gone to attack Tobago and Trinidad, though why Villeneuve would bother with coal when the diamonds of Jamaica and Antigua were at hand was a puzzle that Nelson could not solve. His every instinct told him the information rang false, but an officer on Barbados, assuring him Brereton’s word was sound, had lent him some two thousand of his own troops in support of it, and now, less than twenty-four hours after anchoring in Carlisle Bay, the Mediterranean Fleet was headed south in hot pursuit of the enemy.
Dinner had long since ended, and now Nelson and Colin Lord sat in the quiet splendor of the cabin, sipping champagne and indulging in a fine white cake while Nelson’s beloved Emma
Hamilton looked down at them from her portrait on the bulkhead.
Nelson, of course, had positioned himself so that the portrait was in direct line with his eye; he had only to look above the top of Captain Lord’s fair head to see it.
In his mid-twenties, the young officer was tall, spare, and steady as a first rate in a gale. His cheeks were round in the English way, his brow intelligent, his eyes sensitive and of the clearest shade of purple-gray. The barrage of questions Nelson had fired at him was enough to shake even the stoutest of hearts—but the captain, son of an admiral himself, seemed well used to the demands of authority and did not quail beneath Nelson’s penetrating eye, answering his queries in a frank, forthright way that brought a twisted smile of approval to his lordship’s tired face.
“I’m grateful for the truth, Colin,” Nelson said, shrewdly watching the man across from him.
“I did question Captain Ben Warner upon reaching Barbados yesterday, but had a feeling that he, in his eagerness to protect Falconer’s name, was not being quite honest with me.”
Carefully, Captain Lord said, “Admiral Falconer created his own Band of . . . uh, Brethren, sir. We were all very loyal. Warner is not to be blamed for trying to protect our admiral’s reputation, if I may be so bold as to voice my opinion.”
Nelson looked at him sharply. Brethren, the captain had said, not brothers. The significance of that fact did not escape him.
He smiled wryly. “Any commander who earns the love and loyalty of his men is to be
praised. Your Admiral Falconer, eccentric as he was, was a fine sailor and a fierce fighter, and that is all that matters to me. I care not what he did in his spare time, but should the gossips in England get wind of this, they’ll have a fine day of sport indeed. Damn them all to hell. Damn them all to hell and beyond!” The solitary little fist crashed down on the table. “Upon my life, Captain, this shall go no farther than this cabin!”
The younger man flushed beneath the sudden outburst and gazed down into his glass.
“Besides,” Nelson snapped, petulantly tightening his mouth, “my own conduct has given the gossips enough fuel for their damned fires. D’you think I intend to give them any more?
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