Free Devil to Pay by Parkinson C. Northcote

chance meeting with an old officer called Fanshawe, one of a small group of veterans who played whist together. “Study the lives of the great admirals,” said Fanshawe. “Read books on shipbuilding and naval tactics. Learn all you can,” he would emphasise, “and read the gazette letters, hear the gossip and study the news. Be ready to take your chance when it comes!” Delancey followed this advice, borrowed books, argued over technical problems and knew the name of every ship in port. He also made a fourth at whist whenever asked to play and found, to his surprise, that the game had a certain fascination. The day came when Fanshawe had to admit that Delancey was as good a player as any in his circle.
    It was a matter, he had found, of concentration and memory and he could imagine that the same qualities of mind might often be needed by senior officers. It was at this time that he developed his small talent for painting in watercolours. He began by making copies in pencil of the illustrations he found in books of travel. Then he took to colouring them and finishing the outlines with pen and ink. He resolved, when the weather improved to make sketches from life. In the meanwhile he drew several pictures of the
Royalist
from memory. At this time he took to wearing civilian clothes so that his uniform should remain presentable. On fine days he would walk on the quayside and look at the ships in harbour, learning all he could about them. There were odd days that winter when he felt confident and almost cheerful, convinced without reason that success might still be his. On other days—on days which became more frequent as the months went by—he felt that his case was hopeless. He had been ashore for longer than he cared to remember. It looked now as if he might well be ashore for good.

P ART T WO

Chapter Five
T HE R EVENUE C UTTER
    A SMART FRIGATE was leaving Portsmouth harbour, watched by a small group of idlers collected at the Point. One of these, a well-dressed and elderly gentleman, had borrowed a telescope from a one-legged seaman who stood beside him and was watching the way in which sail was made. “What a splendid sight!” he exclaimed, finally, returning the telescope to its owner. “But a common spectacle, I suppose, in time of war.” He was told by the other bystanders that the port was busy enough. As they watched, the frigate heeled to the stiff breeze, foam at her stem and her pennant streaming to leeward. A fleeting gleam of wintry sunshine lit her canvas for a moment as she passed Block House Fort. In a few minutes she vanished from sight and the shivering spectators began to disperse. It was a cold February afternoon, to be followed by a colder and stormier night.
    â€œWhat ship was that?” asked the elderly gentleman but the one-legged sailor had gone. His question was answered, instead, by a much younger man in civilian clothes whose eyes had followed the frigate until the last moment.
    â€œShe is the
Thalia
of 36 guns, commanded by Captain Manley, launched at Bursledon in 1782.”
    â€œWhither bound?” asked the elderly gentleman as they turned away from the Point.
    â€œFor Jamaica, sir, as I understand.”
    There was something about the younger man’s appearance and still more about his manner—clipped, decisive and exact—that attracted the old gentleman’s interest.
    â€œYou seem to be well-informed, sir, in naval matters.”
    â€œI hold a commission, sir.”
    â€œBut without an appointment, perhaps?” Delancey’s grim expression was answer enough and the old gentleman tried to retrieve the situation by adding, quickly: “No offence, sir—not my intention to pry—forgive my bluntness—but I know something of the service from my nephew. Promotion is often difficult to achieve in your profession and especially for those without interest.” Delancey assented briefly and his elderly