Free Tide of War by Seth Hunter Page A

step on a ladder that could make him an admiral, if he did not fall off it and break his neck—and his mother’s heart.
    But Coyle was a different case. He had been cabin boy on the
Speedwell
when Nathan first took command of her. Just turned twelve. A by-blow of the mate, it was said, who had jumped ship—orbeen taken by the press, it was not entirely clear. Either way he had left young Frankie to fend for himself, though he was in the way of becoming a ship’s mascot even then. An engaging lad. They both were: he and his new friend. Willing and able. But Nathan could not look at them without thinking of Alex—and remembering the look on his face when Nathan told him he was going back to sea and leaving him at Windover.
    â€œTake me with you,” he had begged, fighting back the tears. “Please,
monsieur,
I will try not to trouble you.”
    But Nathan could not take a seven-year-old into the Navy.
    â€œI will be back soon,” he said, with no means of knowing if it would be this year or next, or ever. “And you will be a good boy while I am away and apply yourself to your studies so that your mother would be proud of you.”
    Feeling that he had deserted him. And betrayed Sara.
    He had left early the next morning, before Alex was up, and he did not dare look back for fearing of seeing his desolate face in the window.
    Three bells into the afternoon watch. Nathan turned at the stern rail, braced against the sharp cant of the deck as the barque leaned into the long Atlantic swell. And the unknown figure at her bow—Diane the huntress or some lesser deity?—hurling the spray from her flowing locks as she hurried back to her home waters.
    Nathan would be sorry to see her go. She and all her dissolute crew. He watched them now as they lounged about the deck. He knew them all by name and character, though he might flatter himself as to the latter for they were born smugglers and dissemblers: blockade runners who had almost certainly been running contraband into France when they were taken by a British cruiser off La Rochelle. Most were from Salem or Marblehead, a few from Boston, all Massachusetts men and some old enough to have fought against the Crown during the Independence War—yet they had been willing enough to serve King George, if only for the bounty it paid them. And they appeared well-enough disposed to the thirtymarines the
Speedwell
had taken aboard at Portsmouth, in as much as any seaman could tolerate so alien a species.
    The marines had been accommodated in the hold—with hooks rigged for their hammocks and gratings to give them light—much to the amusement of the Americans who said they had never shipped redcoats before, though they did not call them guffies or jollies or Johnny-toe-the-liners as a British crew would. In fact, with Nathan’s consent, the marines had shed their coats and wore their chequered shirts or seamen’s slops, mixing freely with the hands on deck, far more freely than would have been tolerated on a British man of war where they might at any moment be called upon to assist the captain and officers against a mutinous or even mildly subordinate crew.
    Nathan was perfectly aware that this service might be required of them if and when he assumed command of the
Unicorn,
for the death of her previous captain remained something a mystery, and if members of the crew had been involved, an extra contingent of marines would prove useful.
    He wondered if Imlay knew more of the affair. But Imlay had remained below decks since shortly after leaving harbour, his presence announced by the sounds of one in the throes of violent sea sickness. For the last two days he had been quieter—sleeping, Gabriel had assured Nathan when sent to ensure he had not expired. But he had slept long enough. It was time he took some air.
    â€œMr. Place,” Nathan raised his voice so that it carried to the boy in the maintop. “When you have