Meri, trying to be man and wife at such a time when nations war against each other and I must do my duty, and no one cares about us except us, he thought.
If the worst happened, there wouldn’t even be a grave for her and Ben to visit and leave flowers. Meri knew that sailors were buried at sea. He would never tell her what it looked like in battle, when corpses were simply tossed into the water to clear the decks, without the comfort of a prayer.
He steered his course, watched the stars, longed for his wife, and did his duty in the silence of that middle watch, when prime ministers dreamed of better worlds, and women and little ones at home slept in safety, because captains sailed to war.
The more immediate blessing was one he and his whole crew shared. Like him, they had become fond of the Count of Quintanar, courtly, gregarious and generous with his affections. Able marveled at his father’s sure touch with boys, even as he regretted that he had only come into this charming man’s orbit a scant month ago. The Count had a way of leaning forward and drawing all closer as he told stories of his life in Spain. What a father he would have made.
As the Mercury cruised closer to Spain and their inevitable parting, Able found himself wanting to slow the yacht’s passage. He knew his father felt it, too. As the count took turns helming the yacht with Able through the middle watch, he told other stories. The count spoke of his love for Mary Carmichael that had never left him. “Son, when I returned to Spain so devastated, your grandfather nagged at me to find a wife among our own,” he said one night. “I tried, but no one came close to touching my heart as she did.”
“You’ve told me you have two sisters and no brothers,” Able said. “Who will inherit your land and title?”
“It should be you, but you see the impossibility of such a thing.”
“Por supuesto,” Able replied. “English law doesn’t allow bastards to inherit titles. I doubt you Spaniards are of a different mind. And besides, we are enemies, are we not?”
They both laughed at that. The count sobered first. “I have a nephew, a supercilious tonto, who will inherit.” He shrugged. “I am reconciled to the matter. I will be dead, after all.”
“It is enough to know you, Father,” Able said, and it was.
There was no slowing the Mercury. In fact, the wind grew stronger when they rounded Cabo de São Vicente, Portugal’s furthermost point into the Atlantic, and turned more east by southeast toward the coast of Spain. The count secreted himself below when the Mercury hailed the frigate Discovery, one of a line of vessels that like a barbed necklace kept Spanish and French ships prudently hugging their coastlines.
“Where away?” the captain asked through his speaking tube.
“Dispatches for the Mediterranean Fleet,” Able called back. “What news?”
“We’re hearing rumors,” the captain returned. “One of the fishing smacks from Rota near Cádiz said the tall ships are setting their yardarms.”
Able felt that familiar tightening of his gut, the one that every man in the Royal Navy probably understood, with news like that. He hadn’t felt it since the Treaty of Amiens turned to dust in 1803 and war came roaring back.
“We’ll mind our manners,” he shouted. “D’ye have dispatches for the fleet?”
The Discovery’s captain laughed. “Tell them to rescue us from boredom and let us join the fight!”
“Aye, sir.”
When he set down the speaking trumpet, he turned around to see all the Rats on deck, and the count. “Sounds to me like the Combined Fleet is coming out to play,” he said, trying to keep his tone conversational. “Count, we won’t be landing you a moment too soon, from the sound of it.”
The wind held that day as Able directed Smitty to edge closer to the Spanish coast. He kept Smitty with him through the middle watch that night, quietly instructing him what to do this time, when they arrived at the landing site. “I will row my father in, and you will hold a steady course.”
“Aye, sir,” Smitty said. He cleared his throat, and sounded surprisingly young when he continued. “Wi…will we be going into battle?”
“Hard to say. The Spaniards and Frogs constitute a huge fleet, and some have been bottled up in Cádiz for months. After we finish our business, we’ll sail immediately to England, as Mr. Pitt intended. We’re