Free Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars by Jay Worrall Page B

delightful, was also awkward. He had spent almost all his adolescent and adult years at sea. His principal interactions with women, and these were rare, were confined to ladies he encountered at various ports of call: ladies of a singularly basic and commercial inclination. He became acutely conscious that he had none of the easy talk or social graces with which to steer a conversation from a naval battle to a more personal discussion of other shared interests. In fact, he thought, he had very little idea what respectable women expected from him or how he might relate to them.
    It was also during this time that his nightmares returned. The deafening roar of the cannon, the cloying smoke, the deaths, and a paralyzing, terrifying helplessness replayed itself most nights. The dreams were more than unsettling. He did not know what to make of them except that they must be the result of his own moral weakness and lack of courage. He spoke to no one about them.
    After several days in the city he called on Mr. Edwards of Threadneedle Street, which he learned was practically adjacent to the Bank of England and just up from the Stock Exchange. “T. Edwards, Agent and Counselor,” read a small, brightly polished brass plaque beside the doorway. An elegantly liveried servant responded to his bell. Charles stated his name and presented the card Jervis had given him. The servant ushered him into a foyer lit by an impressive candelabra and disappeared into the depths of the house. A moment later, a short and somewhat plump man in his late thirties or early forties appeared.
    “Commander Edgemont, this is indeed a pleasure. I have heard something of your successes off St. Vincent. I am Thaddeus Edwards,” he said, extending one hand and gesturing toward an inner parlor with the other. “Tea, or something stronger?”
    “Tea would be fine,” Charles answered a little nervously, glancing at the exquisite furnishings and hangings in the room. The two men talked about inconsequential things until the tea had been poured and the maid departed.
    “Now, how may I help you?” Mr. Edwards asked. “I assume that it was Sir John who gave you my card.”
    “Admiral Jervis, yes. He suggested that you might represent me in the matter of prizes taken at Cape St. Vincent that will presently be up for condemnation before the Admiralty Court.”
    “I see,” Mr. Edwards said, removing a small notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket. “And which prize do you speak of?”
    Charles hesitated, then said, “The Spanish warships San Ysidro, San Antonio, and San Nicolás. ”
    Mr. Edwards’s eyebrows shot up. “Two seventy-fours and an eighty-four? Are any of these prizes in dispute?”
    “No, sir. I don’t believe so,” Charles answered.
    “And you were the officer commanding when they were taken?”
    “I think so, I’m not sure,” Charles said. He explained how he came to be in command of the Argonaut, how the three Spanish warships were actually boarded, and his conversations with Collingwood, Nelson, and Jervis. “Perhaps the captain’s share would go to Captain Wood’s estate,” he concluded.
    “No, I don’t think so,” Mr. Edwards said, scribbling some figures in his notebook. “The Admiralty won’t want to do that. They’ll want a living hero, not a dead one. In any case, Wood had a reputation as something of a reluctant warrior.” Charles suddenly understood why Jervis’s first signal to engage the enemy had specified the Argonaut and only the Argonaut. Wood couldn’t possibly evade such a direct order, and Jervis would know that the other captains needed no such encouragement.
    Mr. Edwards wrote a number on a fresh page, tore it off, and handed it to Charles. “If everything you have told me is true, and if there are no complications at court, this is the minimum amount I think you may expect to receive.”
    Charles looked at the number and his eyes widened. He knew about prize money of course, but had little