Rank and Respectability

- Chapter 18 -

Off the hot and breezy coast of Trinidad the white sails of The Victory glowed in the sun. Admiral Lord Nelson stalked over the boards of the deck, watching in impatient anticipation as they cautiously approached the Gulf of Paria.

The British fort on shore was alerted of the approaching ships. Upon closer inspection it was determined the ships were their own and shouts rang out as men rushed to signal accordingly. "'Tis a British fleet!" "Ships to harbor!" "Send the signal, safe entry!" A red coat hurrying on his way slammed into another who ambled along in leisure, clutching a bottle of ale. The latter stepped unsteadily to the side as the young redcoat snapped at him impatiently "watch where you step you drunken fool" and rushed on.

Back on The Victory, the fort's signal was received and the Vicory's flagman rushed to the Admiral in a sweat. "What do they say??" Admiral Nelson asked in apprehension.

"They signal the presence of the French My Lord!"

"How is it possible?!" He gripped the taffrail, white-knuckled in grim excitement "No matter, we've chased these damn frogs far enough, if they're in the gulf now they won't be able to escape our grasp this time!"

On land, the drunken soldier leaned against the weather-beaten walls of the fort and watched barrels of gun powder be unloaded from a cargo vessel. His mumbling song was interrupted as another red coat waved him over and ordered him to help them unload the barrels. With furrowed brow and an unintelligible mumble of defiance he rose and swayed over, smashing his bottle against the stone docks in anger. Fragments of glass tinkled across rock and the reek of alcohol followed the trickling streams of ale as it followed the narrow cracks in the stone docks towards the growing pyramid of powder-barrels. In a ill-timed act of chance, a passerby lighting his pipe discarded his flaming match amid the shards of the drunkard's bottle.

A bellowing boom reverberated over the Gulf of Paria, echoing over the sails of the approaching fleet. A great ball of flame bloomed above the treetops, glowing in the eyes of the Admiral and his men. They were now, they believed, without a doubt heading into battle.

~~~

"You mean to say the gulf of Paria was empty??" Betsey cried in astonishment while Eliza and Cecilia gaped in shared amazement at their informer.

"Not a French ship in sight!" Mr Harding returned in confirmation "You see, it turns out it was all a matter of mishap and miscommunication. The Fort saw Nelson's fleet approaching and by some unfortunate coincidence, their signal of English ships approaching was the same as our signal for the presence of the French. The explosion then, which served to confirm their fears, turned out to be naught but a freak accident."

"How unfortunate!" "What a turn of events!" cried Betsey and Eliza in unison.

"How frustrating for the Admiral." added Cecilia.

"I dare say it was!" Mr Harding agreed, "Nelson has been chasing Villeneuve for nearly over a year; but word is, from our mutual friend, Routley, the French have plans to attack Grenada. That is where Nelson will make sail for next."

"Oh, Eliza look!" Betsey pointed suddenly off the path as they passed a clutch of flowers, "These are the exact shade of that pelisse we saw in the shops a few days past; oh no need for you to look Celiea dearest for you did not see the pelisse." she waved Cecilia away. "You and Mr Harding go ahead, we will catch up."

Cecilia pinned her conniving sister with a glare and looked to Eliza for help. Eliza was no help, merely grinning and adding "True. Mr Harding has no care for lady's conversation, and you do not know of what we speak. Do carry on without us."

Not wanting to cause a scene, and also finding no displeasure at all in the prospect of Mr Harding's undivided attention, Cecilia joined him and they went on ahead alone.

~~~

Brandon Routley strode down the dark streets of Chatham with collar up and shoulders hunched, scowl shadowed by his gleaming wet top hat. His mood as gloomy as the weather that currently drizzled onto the already muddy ground. He pulled a letter from his coat as he neared the post station. Another man looked up quickly from where he stood at the post box, allowing Mr Routley to recognize him as John Gray. Mr Gray tossed the letter in the box with haste and hurried away. Routley moving to post his own letter, watched as a man peered from an adjoining alley and hailed the fleeing man. Routley dropped his letter in the box and strolled down the path towards the men, who's voices had begun to raise.

"She told me that's where you wanted them, nothing can be done now! It matters not, they won't make it in time, and I'll send another."

"Shut up you bloody idiot!" the man hissed to Gray with a heavy accent as Brandon passed. "Just fix this!"

Brandon continued as though he had heard nothing, though his mind was suddenly busy. He would keep an eye on John Gray from now on, though his suspicion may prove to be just that, mere suspicion. Time sped into late June, his personal project to follow Gray brought him often to Gray's most frequently visited pub. Sitting in a dark corner he watched Gray flirt with the petite French prostitute who seemed to be a favorite of his. "Rosy, come to daddy." he growled with a grin as he sat her on his lap and bit her ear, causing her to giggle and squirm. Brandon sneered in horrified disgust and rose to leave, he was getting nowhere here. He had other things to worry about now that the Victory was headed back to England.