“Does she now!” Jeremy smiled. “Well, at least I'm in good company up there. It's where you've been perched ever since the day she met you.”
Jeremy's effusive greeting dispelled any tension or unease Richard might have felt before meeting his in-law as quickly as the fog had earlier dissipated in Algeciras Bay. Gripping Richard's upper arm gently with his right hand, Jeremy guided him toward two blue-on-yellow wingback chairs set this side of the small desk where he had been sitting, near the edge of a deck covered with a decorative black-and-whitecheckered canvas carpet.
“May I offer you a glass of sherry?” he inquired. “It comes from Jerez and is really quite excellent. I do credit the Dagos for producing such a fine spirit.”
“I'd welcome a glass, thank you.”
As Jeremy fetched two cut-crystal glasses and a decanter of sherry from the selection of spirits available in fitted racks directly above an ornately carved mahogany sideboard, Richard glanced around him. During his years at sea he had been privileged to witness the splendor and dignity of a British captain's after cabin, as far removed from the stench and squalor of the crew's quarters forward in the forecastle or the roughand-tumble of the midshipmen's berth four decks below on the orlop as Kensington Palace was from the slums of East London or the carnival air and whores of Southwark Fields. This cabin was as opulent and commodious as any he had seen, simply because this was the largest British
warship he had ever been aboard. A large, rectangular ebony chart table dominated the center of the room; beyond it, on the starboard side, was another sitting area with a brocade couch and chairs set beneath another set of gallery windows just aft of a 12-pound gun bowsed up against a closed gunport, the blood red of its carriage and truck a bold complement to the gleaming black of its muzzle. A formal dining alcove beyond was balanced on the larboard side by the captain's sleeping alcove, its door closed. In between, in the stern windows, thick glass panes afforded a blurred view of the Tower of Homage at sunset. Arrayed upon the walls of the day cabin were a number of nautical paintings as well as an impressive number of books arranged on shelves specially designed to prevent them from falling out during rough weather.
Jeremy walked over with a glass of sherry in each hand to where Richard was standing. “So tell me,” he said as he handed a glass to Richard, “how is my darling sister? It's been too long since I last saw her.”
“She's well, Jeremy. She sends her love to you.”
“And my two nephews, whom I am sad to say I have never met?” He clinked his glass against Richard's. “Cheers, my good man.”
Richard sipped his sherry and took a moment to savor the delectable taste. “They're just what you'd expect of two strapping lads,” he replied. “Full of mischief and a constant worry for their poor mother. And I'm pleased to report that you now have a niece. Her name is Diana, born just before I sailed. She'd make you proud. A lovely little lass.”
“No surprise there, if she takes after her mother.”
“Which, praise God, she does.”
“Then I believe congratulations are in order.” He raised his glass. “To Diana Cutler: may she forever serve as the apple of God's eye and the pride of her mother's fleet.”
“To Diana Cutler,” Richard said, raising his own glass. “But if you don't mind, Captain, I'd prefer the word âsquadron' to âfleet.'”
Jeremy laughed. “Done, Commodore, by your leave.”
Each man took the measure of the other as they sipped their sherry. As Richard had expected, Jeremy was as physically striking as his siblings: as tall as Hugh and as graceful as Katherine, with Hugh's wavy brown hair and finely chiseled features, and an easy air of authority about him that seemed more a birthright than anything gleaned along the pathway to the quarterdeck. Only his eyes, ice blue and piercing, seemed uniquely his own, inevitably drawing one in toward him. Like his brother Hughâand, Richard had to admit, like their fatherâeverything about Jeremy Hardcastle exemplified how the British Admiralty desired its officers to appear and act in public.
Before Jeremy sat down on one of the wingback chairs, as if sensitive to their stark difference in dress, he removed his uniform coat and hung it on a hook by the door leading into his sleeping cabin. Richard took a small canvas satchel from a side pocket before removing his own coat. With both men now similarly clad in white trousers, shirt, waistcoat, and navy blue neck stockânotwithstanding the more elegant cut of clothes fitted by a London tailorâthey at least appeared to be equals.
Richard placed the satchel on the small round table between them. “I have several letters with me,” he said. “One is to you, from Katherine. Another is to her parents. A third is from Lizzy Cutler to her parents. I am hoping you can have the two letters to Fareham sent by naval courier. I also have letters from me and my crew to our families back home in Boston. Might I ask you to see to them as well?”
“I will attend to them personally, Richard. And I have a package for you, which you must remind me to give you later this evening.” Without further explanation, Jeremy steered the conversation back toward family news. “I heard that Lizzy is in America. I must say, I have felt sorry for that poor girl during all these years. So much to live for, so lovely, yet never truly happy. She is a living tribute to Jamie, but I fear it's a sacrifice offered for no real purpose. It's not what my brother would have wished for her. It's certainly not what
I
might wish for her.”
“No,” Richard agreed. He thought he detected in Jeremy's tone a sentiment for Lizzy that went beyond brotherly love or concern, and offered nothing further.
“So,” Jeremy interrupted his own thoughts, “to the business at hand. You are sailing to Algiers. As you are aware, we have chests of gold and silver waiting for you in the hold, sent here by your uncle. In value, it is roughly £7,500. That sum does not include another £2,500 worth contributed by my father. If my math is correct, that totals $45,000 in American currency.”
“Your
father
?” Richard exclaimed, stunned to his core.
“Yes, my father,” Jeremy confirmed.
“But . . .” Richard hardly knew what to say. “Was this Katherine's doing?”
“No. Not directly. Your uncle informed my father about your plan to rescue Caleb, and my father offered to help. It's that simple.”
Richard shook his head. “Forgive me, Jeremy, I mean no disrespect, but it
can't
be that simple. Your father has had it in for me since the day I first laid eyes on his daughter.”
“That is true,” Jeremy admitted. “But I suspect there are things you don't fully understand about my father, Richard. He's a proud man, and
he's Royal Navy to his core. Perhaps saltwater does run through his veins, as some people say. But be assured that he loves his daughter. He loves her very much. And he was quite clear in his own mind what he wanted for her in life and in marriage when the two of you fell in love.”
“Whatever it was, it did not include me.”
“No, it did not. You were, after all, a colonial. Admittedly, a colonial from a good family with good English connections, but a Jonathan nonetheless who would deny his daughter her rightful place in English society.”
Richard grimaced. “Did love never enter his equation? Did he not care who Katherine might actually
desire
for a husband?”
Jeremy chuckled. “Never, Richard. In my father's view, if love comes about, it does so as the result of doing one's duty. It is not something to be sought out or coveted, such as a title bestowed by the king. Yes, I can see you don't agree with that perspective, but think on it: is his view so outlandish? Whatever his social class, every father wants his daughter to rise a notch or two as a result of marrying well. I should think your father would want the very same thing for your sisters, Anne and Lavinia. You will want the same for Diana someday.”
“Well, if it's fancy titles your father admires,” Richard blurted out, “you should remind him that I am master of an American schooner.” Instantly he regretted uttering something so inane.
Jeremy chose to ignore it. “What my father may have believed back then, Richard, is not necessarily what he believes today. Old age tends to mellow a man. He is retired, as you well know, and could hardly be considered wealthy. His gift to you and your family is his way of saying that perhaps he was wrong about you, that he recognizes the joy and comfort you have given his daughter. So really, in a way, it
is
Katherine's doing. Her letters home speak volumes.”
Richard struggled to accept the incomprehensible. “Your father is
apologizing
to me?”
Again Jeremy chuckled. “Don't press your luck, Commodore. In his prime, my father would have told the Almighty to sod off did He try to force an apology out of him. I daresay, though, that what we have here is as close to an apology as you or anyone else is ever going to get.
“Now then,” he continued, his tone turning serious, “tomorrow, or whenever it suits you, we will need to transfer the chests we hold here on
Invincible
over to
Falcon.
I have detailed some men to help. I also have a lighter standing by to supply you with water and victuals.”
The first warm glow Richard had ever felt for his father-in-law was suddenly doused by a cold, sinking sensation. Jeremy's words hit him like a thunderbolt.
“Excuse me, Jeremy. Perhaps I was misinformed, but I thought it would be the other way around. I thought that we would be transferring chests from
Falcon
onto
Invincible.
You're escorting me to Algiers, are you not? I had understood that we would sail there together.”
Jeremy shifted uneasily in his chair. For several long moments he contemplated the glass he held at his lap. When his eyes came to Richard's, they were filled with regret. “You were not misinformed,” he said softly. “That was both my plan and my most devout wish.”
“But plans have changed.”
“I daresay they have.”
“Orders from Whitehall?”
“Quite so. His Majesty's government now deems it inadvisable for a British warship to be seen escorting an American vessel anywhere along the Barbary shore.”
“I see.” Richard drained his glass and set it carefully on the table, drawing out the process to consider the ramifications and consequences of
Falcon
going it alone. Nothing that came to mind was in any way encouraging. In fact, he
did
see. It was, after all, the way of the world when it came to America. But still he was unprepared for it.
“I had not looked forward to telling you this, Richard,” Jeremy said after another lengthy pause. “Please try to understand my position. I'm at an absolute stand here. My hands are tied.”
“Apologies are not necessary, Jeremy,” Richard said. “I do understand.”
Just then the door to the cabin opened and the captain's steward stepped inside, pushing a wooden cart on wheels before him. He was the one person aboard
Invincible
free to enter the after cabin at will, and he did so this evening with a considerable flourish.
“Good evening, Captain,” he said cheerfully as he strode aft from the pantry toward the dining alcove. “Supper will be ready in twenty minutes, at 8:30 as you requested. May I bring you anything at the moment?”
“Yes, thank you, Bowen. Please bring over a bottle of Bordeaux and two fresh glasses. Leave another bottle open on the dining table.” He glanced at Richard. “I believe we shall have need of both bottles this evening.”
“Very good, Captain.”
Twenty minutes later Bowen ushered Richard and Jeremy into the dining alcove. The stylish Chippendale table there could comfortably seat ten people, which Richard assumed it often did when the captain was entertaining other officers or officials from ashore. Tonight the captain's steward had set places for two, one at the far end of the table, the other at the corner beside it nearest the hull. Toward the middle, the flames of three candles in a silver candelabra flickered in the gentle sea air wafting through a stern window hooked slightly ajar.
Once seated, and with a generous portion of what appeared to be some sort of fowl placed before him, Richard allowed the steward to ladle fresh peas, roasted potatoes, and cooked carrots onto his plate, leaving room for an assortment of olives and nuts and slices of freshly baked bread laid out on separate plates nearby.
“Will there be anything else, Captain?” Bowen inquired after halffilling two glasses of red wine and expertly wrapping the base of the bottle in a white napkin.
“Thank you, no, Bowen.”
“Very well, sir. I shall return in half an hour.”
“This is delicious,” Richard remarked after he had consumed a forkful of the meat. “What is it?”
“A local partridge,” Jeremy replied. “It's a favorite dish of mine, and one I thought you might enjoy. Gibraltar is full of birds. Most of them are migratory, but these birds prefer to stay.”
“And be eaten.”
“Yes. Rather accommodating chaps, aren't they?”
They engaged in small talk, with Richard continuing to make a show of enjoying his supper though in truth he no longer had much taste for food. His appetite had been struck down by his brother-in-law's thunderbolt. Ultimately he asked: “Have you met the dey of Algiers, Jeremy?”
“Bin Osman? Yes, on several occasions.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
Jeremy took a sip of wine and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “He's no fool, I can tell you that. And despite his diminutive size, he's as proud a man as any I've met. He might humble himself before Allah, but there the list ends.”