The powder monkey

London and the Channel Islands, 1880

I'm no hero.

But, I am the proud possessor of a large and rather good nose for news (I scribble for a wretched daily in London) that sometimes leads me to the very edges of peril. I had now the whiff of a cracking good story in my flared nostrils and was doggedly pursuing a most promising lead. Nearing my intended destination, in a freezing downpour, I had the ever‑stronger sensation of an appointment with destiny.

At minimum, I believed, this latest venture might have a most happy result, namely, an influx of shillings to feed my woefully depleted coffers.

No, it was not some fleeting sniff of fame or any such nonsense that propelled me forward across that forbidding island's slippery scree. Rather, it was the fervent hope that I might soon possess sufficient funds to escape a grim warren of offices above Blackfriar's Tavern in Fleet Street. This was the joyless home to a tawdry little tabloid called the Daily Guardian.

It was there, under the mean and watchful eye of my editor, an ink addict named Mr. Symington Fife, that I pecked out my meager existence at tuppence a word. My accounts reflected my life's station, I suppose, for I currently had the princely balance of seven guineas, sixpence in the strongbox 'neath my bed. But, salvation appeared to be at hand.

As it happened, the Guardian's chief competitor, a yellow broadsheet called the Globe, had last month announced a new subscription contest in honor of the upcoming seventy‑fifth anniversary of Admiral Lord Nelson's great naval victory at Trafalgar. And, by Jove, I meant to win it!

The contest rules were straightforward enough. Any person who submitted a heretofore‑unreported tale pertaining to the victory was eligible. The three most surprising and entertaining stories (they had to be historically accurate, of course) would be printed. The best would win a grand prize of seventy‑five quid. A king's ransom in my humble view.

All I needed was a smashing tale of the battle and some proof as to its veracity. Of course, for the price of a pint, such rousing stories were easily come by in any pub or tavern. Proving them was another matter entirely. And so it was, with a heartful of hope and my nose twitching madly, that I had set out from London to Trafalgar in search of my liberation.

As you may have suspected, I am a city dweller. I am not, by any stretch, what one might call an "outdoorsman." No, I am hardly one of those stouthearted, broad‑shouldered chaps one reads about in the penny novels, off felling trees in the Wild Yukon, scaling Alps or shouting "Sail, ho!" from a pitching masthead. Rather, I'm one who likes his creature comforts and his books.

I reminded myself of this simple fact tripping over a smallish boulder I hadn't even noticed in my path. I suddenly pitched forward at a dangerous angle. Luckily, I managed to break the fall with my outstretched hands, and came away with only minor abrasions and another lashing of wounded pride.

Every passing minute on this blasted island, it seemed, was meant to test my resolve. The footing was treacherous. Needles of horizontal icy rain stung my face; nonetheless, I pressed on. I stumbled and fell again. I got up. I walked on.

You see? By my lights, a cozy armchair by the fireside is a far, far more suitable environment for adventuring than traipsing across the hostile plains of a frozen wasteland. Yet my trusty proboscis would not be denied, and so I pressed onward. The rain did ease a bit on toward evening, I must say. But, soon, the visibility dropped considerably when tendrils of fog nearly obscured the low‑hanging sun. It was now merely a hazy yellow wafer sliding toward the sea.

Such dangerous terrain and weather as I encountered only served to fuel my misery and sap my confidence on that trek. Slipping and sliding across the island's rocky headland, I grew ever more tired and bone cold. Late in the day, more serious doubts about this adventure inevitably crept round the edges of my mind: one truly nasty fall and my frozen carcass wouldn't be found till next morning.

Still and all, I was determined to reach the old Greybeard Inn before nightfall, for I had arranged a meeting with the proprietor there, a Mr. Martyn Hornby, at the hour of eight o'clock.

At quarter past the hour of seven, I was still on my feet, my face a mask of ice. Uncertain of my next turning, I dug my stiff fingers inside a pocket for my map, but it was soggy and ruined and came away in pieces. My course being westerly, with only the setting sun as my guide, I still believed I might arrive before darkness fell. Time would certainly tell.

The godforsaken place to which I had recently journeyed by sail is a tiny link in an archipelago located off the coast of France. This particular island, by far the smallest of the lot, took its name from the thick, pea‑soupy fogs that persistently haunted the place.

It was aptly named Greybeard Island.

The place reminded me a bit of the Skelligs, if you know those two forbidding spires. I once chased down the rare Skellig tern there, the bird flitting about those two rock cathedrals set in the royal‑blue Atlantic off the southwest shores of Ireland. The Skel‑ligs are remote places, potent in their discomfort. One visit is enough for most, and more than enough for your faithful armchair correspondent.

But I kept putting one boot in front of another that frigid and gloomy evening for one reason. I fervently believed Mr. Hornby could alter the pitiful circumstances of my life.

Martyn Hornby, I had recently learned from his lovely daughter, Cecily, was one of a very small number of Royal Navy veterans of the Napoleonic Wars still alive. He was, as far as I could determine, the sole living survivor of the crew of the HMS Merlin.

This small forty‑eight‑gun English man‑o'‑war had fought a courageous and‑I'd come to believe‑pivotal naval battle against a massive French seventy‑four‑gun frigate back in '05. When I say pivotal, I do not speak lightly. I mean I believed that the Merlin's victory had changed the course of history.

And no one, to my knowledge, had ever heard tell of it!

Miss Cecily Hornby, a most charming woman in my eyes, had waxed eloquent in her discourse regarding this sea battle. Here, briefly, is what I know of the matter.

Seventy‑five years ago now, back in the summer of 1805, a huge French frigate, Mystere, was lurking off this very coast. The reasons for the enemy's presence here at Greybeard Island were unknown. I did know she sailed under the command of the infamous Captain William Blood, an Englishman and a traitor of the first order.

Old Bill was an infamous rogue who had betrayed Admiral Lord Nelson, not for political reasons, mind you, but for a very large sum of capital offered by the French. Captain Blood's formidable services were now at the disposal of Napoleon and his Imperial French Navy.

William Blood was Admiral Lord Nelson's nemesis in those years. And it was only the purest of luck that put that villain at last in British gun sights.

England's very fate was in HMS Merlin's hands that day. Sometime in early July, the heavily armed Mystere engaged in a vicious set‑to with the much smaller British ship. As I understood the thing, had not an obscure English captain named McIver and a mysterious passenger aboard Merlin known only as Lord Hawke eked out a victory that fine summer's day, we might all be speaking French.

Surely, I thought, this dramatic encounter, long lost in the swirling mists of history, was the prizewinning tale. For now, I could only dream it were true and hope to prove it.

Subsequent to Cecily's revelations, I commenced a feverish research at the Royal Navy College down at Greenwich. And, finding no record of the engagement, I had determined that, should Martyn Hornby's tale prove credible, I, Pendleton Tolliver, lowly chronicler of church bazaars, tea parties and missing felines, might soon be a wealthy fellow. And, one rewriting the history books in the bargain.

My mind was understandably excited.

Distracted by such thoughts, I slipped then, and nearly lost my footing on a sharply angled escarpment, at the bottom lip of which I spied a cliff, one that dropped some four hundred feet to the sea. Well, I clung to a vertical outcropping of glistening rock and paused, trembling on the edge of the precipice. Once my heart slowed to a reasonable hammering, I pressed on.

Darkness was fully upon me now, and I despaired of not bringing some kind of torch to light my way.

Historians, I was rapidly learning, need an adventurous streak. Tracking down and conversing with far‑flung witnesses to history is neither for the faint of heart nor weak of limb. The would‑be chronicler of forgotten events must be possessed of a degree of zealotry seldom found outside the pulpit or the sacristy. These, then, were my musings as a sudden thunderclap boomed behind me and lightning strokes danced on the far horizon.

Sodden, hungry, but still determined, I reached a fork in the road. In the gloom, I could make out no stone marker to guide me. To the left, a middling road of crushed stone led off through rain‑swept fields to where the halo of a lighthouse shone in the far distance. To my right was a narrow, hard‑surfaced pathway that angled sharply down. Below me, I heard the rush of unseen waves bursting themselves repeatedly upon jagged rocks.

The kindly ferryman at the village docks had told how the inn stood on a lower western bluff by the sea. So I chose the harder road descending narrowly along the towering cliff. There was little width to be had on this path, and in some spots it was little more than a shaley rock‑cut ledge about ten inches or a foot wide.

The sheer face of rock to my right seemed to bulge, animated, as if it wished to push my body out into space. A trick of mind? Frightened well enough by heights, I inched along, trying to ignore the rising bile of panic and the agitated sea far below my feet. Not once, but now twice, I considered turning back, but quickly realized I had passed the point of no return.

Soon, but not soon enough I'll warrant, I came to a spot where could be seen a jutting arm of rock protruding into the black ocean. At the far end, a warm glow of yellow lights in the rainy gloom. The beckoning two‑story house was aglow with promised warmth and food, and my steps quickened.

Realizing what a pitiful sight I would present, I paused outside beneath the pitched eave of the inn and tried to compose myself. I'd worn my one good woolen suit, threadbare but ser‑viceable‑at least when dry. My poor shoes, heretofore worn only on Sundays, were now ruined. Ah, well, I thought, pulling myself erect and wringing out my hat, I would just put the best face possible on things and hope for a miracle.

I pushed inside the inn's heavy wooden door and found the old Jack‑Tar himself, clay‑piped and pigtailed, sitting in silence by the fire. I pulled up a chair and introduced myself. Had I the good fortune of speaking to Mr. Martyn Hornby? I inquired with a smile.

"Aye, I'm Hornby," he said, removing his pipe. After a long silence in which clouds of geniality seemed to float above the man's head, he spoke.

"Weather slowed you up, I reckon," he asked, looking me up and down.

I admitted as much, apologizing for my tardiness, and, when the barman looked in, I ordered a pint of ale for him and a half of bitter for myself. I shed my oilskins and put my two numb feet up on the hearth. The fire felt welcome and the proprietor seemed a fellow who might warm to a story if well supplied with grog or ale.

He was a sturdy, handsome figure who looked to be in his late eighties. He wore faded breeches and a ragged woolen fisherman's sweater, much mended. He had a full head of snow‑white hair, and his fine, leathered features were worn by years of wind and water. But, in the firelight, his crinkly blue eyes still held a sparkling clarity of youth, and I was glad of my perseverance on that final narrow ledge.

"Ye've come a long way, Mr. Tolliver."

"Indeed, sir, I have."

"My daughter's letter mentioned something about the old Merlin. And some newspaper contest you hope to win, I believe?"

I nodded. "I've a keen interest in your encounter with the French off this island, Mr. Hornby. I'd appreciate your recollections on that subject, if you'd be so kind. It might help my chances greatly, sir."

"Cecily said you saved her cat."

"I penned a short, albeit sympathetic, piece on the plight of foundling cats for my newspaper. Your devoted Cecily, a cat lover of the first magnitude, features prominently in my feline article and the story occasioned much favorable comment. We've since met a few times, she and I, and found each other's company most congenial. Just last month we learned of the contest and she shared the story of the Merlin. Fascinating stuff, sir. I decided I'd best hear the tale for myself."

"Aye," Hornby said, and then he fell silent. "I'm the last one…so I suppose I should tell it, if it's to be told at all. If my memory's up to it, of course." He gave a hearty shout for his barman in the next room.

The drinks soon arrived, along with a steaming meat pie for me, and we both sipped, staring into the merry blaze, each alone with his thoughts. Mine, at the moment, were solely of my poor tingling feet, more painful in the thawing than the freezing.

Suddenly, without warning, the man began to speak, eyeing me in a curious manner.

"How much do ye know, then, Mr. Tolliver?" "Scarcely enough to suit me, sir."

"Well. You've come to the right place then. I seen it all, Mr. Tolliver. I was one of Captain McIver's powder monkeys, y'see, back in those glorious days, and‑"

"Powder monkeys?" I said, unfamiliar with the term.

"Boys who would ferry black powder from the hold up to the gun crews when things got spicy. Listen. I'll tell you how it all started, Mr. Tolliver, if you want to start there at the beginning."

I nodded, smiling encouragement, discreetly pulling my pen and a well‑worn leather notebook from my pocket.

"We had a fair wind home to Portsmouth en route from our station in the West Indies where we'd recently captured a Por‑tugee," Martyn Hornby began. "A spy."

"A spy."

"Aye, one much encouraged to speak his mind to avoid the tar pot and cat‑o'‑nine‑tails during the crossing. We eventually learned from his lips of a wicked plot, hatched in the evil brain of Billy Blood, the turncoat captain of the French frigate."

"That would be Captain William Blood?"

"Few alive today have heard the name, sir. But Old Bill was a holy terror in his day. Gave Lord Nelson fits at every turning, he did. His plot was this‑our natural enemy, the king of Spain, and the scurrilous French meant to join their naval forces and surprise Nelson en route to Trafalgar, and send the outnumbered British fleet to the bottom. It would have worked, too, had it not been for the heroism of our captain. And a few ship's passengers." "Passengers?"

"Hawke was his name. A peer of the realm, but an adventurous sort, being descended directly from the pirate Blackhawke. Him and a boy named Nick."

"Lord Hawke, you say?" I was scribbling furiously now.

"Long dead now."

"How did this Lord Hawke come to be aboard the Merlin, sir?"

"His young son, Alexander, had been kidnapped and held for ransom by the French. It was Bill's way to kidnap children of the aristocracy and extort great sums for their release. Hawke had learned Blood had his child aboard the frigate Mystere and Hawke was of a mind to rescue him. There was some mystery surrounding his lordship's presence on board, but Cap'n McIver gave him permission to come aboard at Bermuda, as I recall it."

"So, you were actually seeking out this frigate, Mystere, for more than military reasons?"

Hornby nodded in the affirmative. "See, we'd extracted from that blasted Portugee where Blood's ship might lie. And more. We knew he had geographical details of his scheme etched on a golden spyglass, and‑"

"I'm sorry‑etched on a spyglass?"

"Aye. And not just any glass, mind you, but one Bill stole from Admiral Lord Nelson himself the night of the mutiny! According to that damnable Portugee, the location of the intended naval ambush was so secret, Bill had scratched the longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates right into the metal barrel of his glass. Now, since Bonaparte himself had a hand in the planning of the thing, it was likely a cunning trap. We had to get our hands on that glass before Nelson and the whole British fleet sailed from Portsmouth…and, by God, we did!"

"But how?"

"Therein lies the tale, don't it, Mr. Tolliver?"

I took a quick sip of my drink and said, "This Lord Hawke, it was he, wasn't it, who saved the day? I mean to say, I know he figured prominently in Cecily's account of the action."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but it was the boy who accompanied him who carried the day. A scrappy one, he was, only one year older than myself," the old fellow said, tilting his chair suddenly backward at a precipitous angle against the wall. He was now much excited by the telling, and I feared a tumble and broken limbs.

"Another powder monkey, was he?" I asked, scribbling. "Aboard the British man‑o‑war?"

Another long silence as he gathered his thoughts and sipped his ale.

"No, not young Nicholas. Lord Hawke's fair‑haired ward, he was, came aboard at Bermuda with his lordship. Nick and me became fast friends soon enough, our ages being so similar. I was nine or ten, he was eleven, I believe. When we laid alongside that frigate after a vicious exchange of rippling broadsides, young Nick and myself secretly boarded the Mystere and found ourselves right into the thick of things, grapeshot and all. Never saw the like of such bloody struggle in all my years before the mast."

The old fellow was warming to his tale, waving a sloshing tankard of ale in one hand and a long thin bone of a pipe in the other. Somewhere, a ship's bell struck. The wee hours drew nigh. A fresh blow had rushed up to haunt the eaves, and the fire had died down somewhat, lending a discernible chill to the room.

"Please continue, Mr. Hornby," I said, getting to my feet and throwing another log or two onto the embers.

"Well, Nick had promised his guardian that he would remain belowdecks with me on the Merlin for the duration of the battle. I'd suffered a nasty head wound and was ordered by the ship's surgeon to stay out of things. However, a fire was raging below, one as was threatening the powder magazine, and it had made any notion of staying below problematical. So we sprinted up three decks and arrived topside only to find ourselves face‑to‑face with Snakeye himself."

"Snakeye?" I said, scribbling furiously. "First I've heard of him."

"A French pirate, had tattoos of snakes round his eyes and up his nose. Fearsome creature who was Old Bill's bloody right hand. He'd boarded us during the melee and he chased Nick and myself up into the rigging. We scrambled up our mizzenmast and out onto a yardarm. When the pirate followed, dagger in hand, we jumped. The two boats weren't more'n six feet apart and we both dived through a window opened on the French boat's stern quarter."

"This is quite good stuff," I allowed. "Then what?"

"Well, it was strangely quiet when Nick and me emerged from the aft companionway. We looked around Mystere's aftermost deck and saw that it was near deserted, save the dead and wounded. The cannons on both vessels had ceased their thunder and for'ard we could see a press of sailors from both vessels gathered on her quarterdeck, with an occasional cheer in French or English, rising from their midst. We heard, too, the vicious sound of two cutlasses clanging against each other. A brutal swordfight from the sound of it.

"Anyway, I looked aloft and saw the Union Jack still fluttering from our maintruck. And, the battle‑torn French flag was still flapping at the top of the enemy mizzen, so I knew Old Bill had not surrendered. This, despite the volume of lead we'd poured into him. Nick and I each took a cutlass off a dead sailor and we crept for'ard and climbed atop of the pilothouse so as to look down on the quarterdeck unobserved. We inched ourselves along on our elbows until we could just peek down and see the action not ten feet below. The crews of both vessels were pressing aft, trying to get a glimpse of the fight taking place at the helm and‑"

"The main fighting had stopped?"

"Aye. A great sea battle had come down to a two‑man war. Captain William Blood and Lord Hawke were locked in a death struggle. What a sight! Old Bill was a spectacle, wearing what must have been magnificent finery, white silk breeches and a great flaring white satin captain's coat, but now all this flummery was torn and soiled with blood and black powder. He had Nelson's spyglass, all right, jammed inside his wide belt. Hawke had a terrible gash down his right cheek and his shirtfront was soaked with his own blood. Still, he had his left hand rigidly behind his back, fighting Blood in classic dueling fashion, but with more fury in his eyes than I ever thought possible. Another drink, sir?"

"Yes, of course! Keep going though…"

Hornby called out for another round and continued.

"Hawke parried Blood's wicked blows each and all and thrust his cutlass again and again at the darting pirate. But, despite Hawke's genius‑like finesse with the sword, it was immediately clear to us boys that this was the fight of his life, as Blood brutally laid on three massive resounding blows in quick succession.

"'It's finished, Hawke‑surrender!' Billy cried, advancing, 'There's not a swordsman alive who can best Billy Blood! I'll cut yer bleedin' heart out and eat it for me supper!'

"'I think you shall go hungry then, sir!' Hawke replied, slashing forward. 'No, it's the brave kidnapper of small children who's finished, Blood.' Then, in the nick of time, Hawke deflected with his sword a tremendous cut that would have surely split him to the chine.

"'Look!' Hawke cried, 'Even your own crew has little stomach left for you, Billy Blood. See how these Frenchies stand idle, waiting to see their turncoated English captain's blood run in the scuppers?'

"Hawke, in a dancing parry and lunge, laid on a powerful blow and a great clang of iron rang out over the decks. It was true. Blood's men had all fallen silent, weapons at their feet, watching the battle with rapt attention. Our own Captain McIver, having dispatched the last pockets of resistance on deck, had now ordered a number of our marines to keep their muskets leveled at the few remaining French who hadn't yet thrown down their arms, in case they had any rash notions of coming to Billy's aid.

"'Lying dog!' Billy screamed, his face flushed furious red. He charged Hawke then like a wounded rhinoceros, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Hawke raised his cutlass to defend the ferocious blow, but Billy stopped short at the last instant and spun on his heel, whirling his body completely around and striking with huge force at Hawke's upraised blade. The sword was brutally ripped from his lordship's hand and went clattering across the deck."

"No!" I cried, finding myself right in the thick of the battle. I took a swig and leaned forward, eager for more.

"Aye," Hornby continued. "A cold hand gripped our young hearts as we watched Hawke retreating, completely defenseless against that murderous scalawag, and stumbling backward, tripping over wounded men lying about the decks awash with blood until he fell down.

"At that point, a young Royal Marine leveled his musket at Bill's heart, but Captain McIver pushed his barrel aside, shaking his head. It was Lord Hawke's fight, win or lose. Honor dictated that he finish it.

"'Captain Bonnard!' Billy cried, pausing to shout at his own Imperial French Captain of Marines, 'Why have your men ceased fighting? To watch this pitiful coward die? I order you to attack with vigor! Kill these English dogs.'"

Hornby paused, then stood and turned his back to the fire, warming himself.

"And there the battle turned, Mr. Tolliver. 'I'll take no more orders from you, Monsieur Blood,' the Frenchman Bonnard said, stepping forward and drawing his own blade. A cheer went up from his tattered crew. 'We've hardly a soul with a will left to fight, a fire rages amidships, and we are grievously holed below our waterline. Any fit French captain would have seen this mighty ship to victory this day, sir, but you have precious little fitness in that regard. We had no chance under your hand. We have suffered you long and long enough, sir! Enough! You are unfit to command this vessel, and I intend to negotiate her surrender on behalf of this crew. Throw down your sword, Captain Blood, you are under the arrest of the Imperial French Navy! Bo'sun, strike our colors, we are surrendering Mystere to‑'"

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Hornby," I said, "but there were children held captive below, were they not? What was to become of‑?"

Hornby eyed me then and I lowered my head, most sorry for my interruption.

"'Mutiny, is it then?' Billy said, and he threw back his head and laughed. 'I'll slit your mutinous French throats 'afore I'm done, but I'll begin with this English swine!' He swung his gaze round on Hawke, then lunged forward, his blade tip aimed at Hawke's heart. Rapt, I was, and barely aware of young Nick climbing to his feet beside me.

"'Lord Hawke! Up here!' Nick shouted, and everyone turned to see him standing atop the pilothouse. He pulled the cutlass he'd borrowed from his belt and threw it down to the empty‑handed Hawke. Nick's toss was short and the sword fell to the deck at Hawke's feet. I saw my new hero bend to retrieve it, but Bill was using the moment's distraction to circle in toward Hawke, his sword poised for a murderous blow.

"Hawke and his blade were coming up as Blood's blade was coming down. The flat of Billy's sword caught Hawke hard across the shoulder blades, driving him back down to the deck. His head thudded hard and I could see he was stunned. His sword had landed a good fifteen feet away. Nick looked at me, and I could see in his eyes what he had in mind.

"It was only about ten feet from our perch down to the quarterdeck, and Nick timed that jump perfectly. He came down squarely on the shoulders of Captain Blood, straddling his head and clamping both hands over the enraged pirate's eyes. Blinded and snorting, Bill whirled about, staggering over the bodies of the dead. He shook that tenacious boy clinging to him, tormenting him, but Nick held on.

"Nick saw me then, peering down from the rooftop, and cried out, 'Down to the brig with you, Martyn Hornby! See if you can find Lord Hawke's boy and the children! His lordship and I have this well in hand.' Nick had somehow snatched the prized spyglass from Bill's waist.and then I saw Nick flying through the air as Billy had finally ripped him from his shoulders and flung him like a rag doll hard upon the deck.

"Well in hand, I thought, disbelieving. But I did as Nick said, and slid backward down off the roof, much as it pained me to leave that grave drama and then‑"

"Wait!" I said, leaping to my feet and banging my shin on the hearthstone. "For all love, Mr. Hornby, you didn't leave your ringside seat at that very moment?"

"Mr. Tolliver, I was gone only a short while, and what I missed was filled in enough so's I feel I've seen what happened with my very own eyes, sir," Hornby said, seeming startled by my outburst.

"Well, then, please don't stop the tale there, sir," I said, returning to my seat. My pen hovered above the page, quivering to inscribe the conclusion of the adventure.

"'I'll have that glass back!" Blood roared, planting one of his gleaming Hessian boots squarely in the middle of Nick's chest. Bill poked the tip of his razor‑sharp blade at him, prodding Nick's jacket. Then he slashed the boy's thin blue coat right through and the gleaming spyglass spilled out onto the deck, rolling away as Nick tried desperately to grab for it. In a flash, Blood's hand shot out like some inhuman claw and clutched it, raising it aloft where it shone in the sun.

"'No!' Nick shouted. 'That's Nelson's glass!' He was clawing at Blood's leg, trying to rise from the deck, but Billy still had him pinned with his boot pressed painfully in the boy's stomach and Nick could only twist frantically like a spider impaled. Then Nick reached inside his jacket for a bone‑handled dagger Lord Hawke had given him for protection. He plunged that blade deep into the fleshy part of Old Bill's calf. Roaring in pain, Blood didn't see Hawke approach from behind.

"'The boy said the glass belongs to Nelson,' Hawke said, the point of his cutlass in Billy's back. 'I'll thank you to return it to him. Now.'

"'Your tongue has wagged its last,' Bill said, whirling to face Lord Hawke. They eyed each other. Bill lunged first, his blade going for Hawke's exposed gut, but this time it was Hawke who spun on his heel in lightning fashion, whirling his body with his flashing cutlass outstretched. And then an awful sound, the sound of steel slicing through flesh and bone. The sound of steel through flesh and bone!

"There was an enormous howl of pain, and Billy held up a bloody stump of his right arm.

"On the deck lay Blood's still‑twitching hand, bloody fingers clenched round the shining golden spyglass."

I stood again and looked down at old Hornby, who was staring into the fire with gleaming eyes.

"Ho! Hawke had Nelson's glass?"

"Aye, we had it, for all love. The longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates of the ambush, scratched into the gold in code. But the Portugee spy, he'd given up that code long ago. Hawke read off the numbers plain as could be and a marine wrote 'em down."

"And that's the end of it?"

"Not quite, sir. A bit remains to be told."

"What, then?" I asked, almost pleading, for surely I could already see his story appearing under my byline in the Globe. "Please continue, Mr. Hornby, I beg you."

"Ah, well, I suppose I should finish it, shouldn't I? Because, you see, I myself reappear in the story." He chuckled, threw back a swig, and got on with it.

"On the quarterdeck, the French captain Bonnard went down on one knee and presented the sword of surrender to Lord Hawke. Hawke took it and spoke, but there was no trace of pride about him.

"'Captain Bonnard, on behalf of the Merlin and His Majesty's Royal Navy, I accept your surrender. I will present your colors and sword to my captain forthwith. You are a gentleman and it has been my honor to do battle with you, sir.'

"The French struck their colors and every English heart lifted as the Union Jack rose against the blue sky at Mystere's topmast.

Hawke stepped to the binnacle and raised the surrendered flag of France into the air.

"'My brave shipmates and comrades,' Hawke began, 'I hardly know how to express my gratitude for your gallant‑'

"'Father! Father!' came a tiny voice that pierced the silence in a way that made Hawke's heart leap up into this throat so quickly he could scarce get another word out.

"And then Hawke saw the sailors part and a small ragged boy racing across the deck toward him, followed by a grinning powder monkey who was living his finest hour. I was a bit bloodied by my most recent encounters with Snakeye and his men standing guard below at the brig. But I had done my duty and I was smiling, sir, believe me, as all the wee children came pouring up onto the decks, laughing and gulping the sweet air.

"'Oh, Father, it's really you!' the small boy cried, and Hawke leaped down from the binnacle, falling to his knees and embracing his boy, Alex, as if he'd never let him go."

A silence fell then, only a patter of rain on the roof could be heard.

"A marvelous tale," I finally said, looking over at Hornby. He seemed a bit overcome.

"My tongue hasn't wagged so in years," he said, looking a might done in. "My apologies."

"You do yourself credit, sir. Is there more?"

"Soon enough, the barky was under way again, and she had a fine heel to her, and, looking aloft, I saw clouds of billowing white canvas towering above, pulling hard for England. A corps of drummers dressed with magnificent battle drums launched into a stately military tattoo that rolled across our decks. Merlin was a fine, weatherly ship and I recall thinking that, if this breeze held, we'd have no trouble completing our do‑or‑die mission. We'd reach Portsmouth in time to personally warn Nelson of the intended ambush."

"And you did, did you not?"

The old fellow leaned forward as if he had a further confidence to impart, and I saw his eyes welling.

"We did, sir, and I was honored to be present at St. James's Palace on the occasion. Afterward, Lord Hawke himself came over to me, Alex in his arms. He bent down and looked me straight in the eye.

"'Magnificently done, young Mr. Hornby,' he said, and handed me a canvas packet, but my eyes were too blurry to know then what it was. Years later, I hung it there, on the wall there beside the hearth. D'you see it?"

I rose from my chair and went to inspect the item, glinting in the shadowy firelight.

"Yes, I see it, Mr. Hornby," I said. I reached up and fingered the old leather strap, careful lest it crumble under my touch.

Lord Hawke's gift that day to the young powder monkey, Mar‑tyn Hornby, once a shining treasure, was now a tarnished memory of glory hung by the hearthside. It was Lord Nelson's spyglass.

"Go on, Mr. Tolliver, put it to your eye. That's history there in your hands, sir!"

I lifted the glass from the nail where it hung, and that's when it happened. The strap parted and the glass slipped from my fingers and smashed against the hearthstone. The lens popped into the air, spinning like a tossed shilling, and I reached out and snatched it.

"Sir!" I cried as I bent to retrieve the dented tube. "I'm dreadfully sorry!"

"No worry, Mr. Tolliver," he replied kindly. "It's seen far worse. Look closely, you can see Bill's inscription there by the eyepiece."

But something far more intriguing had fallen from the tube. A thin, yellow roll of parchment, tied with a black ribbon.

"Mr. Hornby," I said, trying to control my emotions, "there appears to have been a message of some kind inside. Were you aware of it?"

"A message, sir?" he said, getting slowly to his feet. "Let's have a look."

I untied the ribbon with utmost care and spread the letter upon a table. We both looked down in utter disbelief. The letter was signed and dated by Napoleon himself! Here is what it said:

Captain Blood,

Make for Cadiz at once under a full press of sail. Once our fleets are united with Spain's, England is ours! Surprise Nelson en route to Trafalgar and all will be over. Six centuries of shame and insult will be avenged. Lay on with a will! His Majesty counts as nothing the loss of his ships, provided they are lost with Glory… N.

I said in a daze, "Astounding, sir. And proof of the tale!" "Yes. Proof enough, I should think."

We were both silent, staring down at the remarkable document. "How much is the Globe's prize then?" Hornby asked, puffing his pipe in a contemplative fashion. "Seventy‑five pounds, sir." "A goodly sum."

I took a deep breath and said, "Mr. Hornby. There is one last piece of business I must discuss with you. Cecily and I‑well, Cecily and I are to be married. Sorry. What I mean to say, sir, is that I've come here because I should very much like your permission to ask for your daughter Cecily's hand in marriage!"

He stared into the embers and made no reply. I was sure he found me, shabby as I was, a poor match for his beautiful daughter. It seemed he couldn't even summon the energy to deny me my hopes. I got to my feet and stretched my weary bones. I closed the notebook and slipped it inside my breast pocket, patting my jacket, finding some measure of hope and reassurance for my future there.

I was about to head upstairs in search of an empty bed, for I was sorely tired, when Hornby got to his feet.

"You're a good man, Penn Tolliver. An honest soul. Cecily said as much in her letter. I told her I should like to find that out for myself. It was I who suggested you make this long journey in fact." "Well, sir, I don't‑"

"Take the Napoleon letter, lad, as your proof. You'll win the prize, all right. It's yours. I've always wondered these many years whether or not it was worth anything. Now I see that it is worth a great deal, indeed."

"You knew of the letter?"

"Of course. It's how Captain McIver and Hawke proved the existence of the plot to Lord Nelson himself!"

"But, Mr. Hornby, this letter is worth thousands of pounds! Ten thousand at least! Perhaps more! I cannot possibly accept it."

He put the battered glass into my hands and closed my fingers around it.

"Take it, lad."

"And, about Cecily, sir? I don't mean to push, but‑I do love her very much, sir, and I can only pray that in time you could come to accept me as someone who only has her best‑"

"I'd be honored to have you in the family, Mr. Tolliver."

The old man put his head back against the cushion and was fast asleep before I was halfway up the stairs, flying up them, a happy man, determined to get a bright and early start next morning.

After all, I was a young man with a future.