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  Dedicated to my own crew of Formstones, along with many friends and advance readers for putting wind in the tale and tending the lines.

  First Voyage

  The Sea Lord Chronicles, Book One

  by David Healey

  Intracoastal Media

  digital edition published 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by David Healey. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation for the purpose of critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Nick Deligaris

  www.deligaris.com

  BISAC Subject Headings:

  FIC009030 FICTION/Fantasy/Historical

  FIC032000 FICTION/War & Military

  FIC047000 FICTION/Sea Stories

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was not a promising day for Alexander Hope to begin his career at sea. Snow had fallen during the night, leaving the wharves at Spithead Harbor blanketed in white. Cold had swooped in from the distant steppes of Russia, making the air so crisp that iron turned brittle and rang like crystal. The stevedores loading the ships for the war against the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte stamped their feet in the snow and muttered about the whims of admirals and kings.

  Out where the fleet lay at anchor, some beast roared and the sound seemed amplified in the arctic air. He wondered if it might actually be a gryphon. Alexander's heart skipped a beat and he shivered, not just from the cold.

  “Quit your daydreaming and watch out!” growled a man carrying a heavy sack over his shoulder.

  Alexander dodged out of the way. Otherwise, no one paid any attention to the boy staring out at the harbor. The smell of salt was so sharp that it stung Alexander's nose after the warmth of the tavern where he had spent the night— along with the last shilling allotted him by his tight-fisted uncle, a man so penny-pinching that he sometimes dried out his tea leaves to use them again.

  His new Royal Navy uniform and heavy wool cloak—another grudging investment from his uncle—felt stiff, but he was glad for the added warmth this morning. The cloak was secured with a beautiful silver cloak pin in the shape of a sea horse. He was surprised when one of the servants had given it to him, explaining that it was a Hope family heirloom.

  “This ought to be yours, seeing as to how you’re going to sea,” the old man had said. “A lot of good it will do your uncle. But it will bring you luck. And kindly don’t tell your uncle I gave it to you.”

  He touched the cloak pin now, hoping for some of that luck. But as he stared at the frozen harbor, Alexander had never felt so utterly alone. Days of traveling by himself and sleeping in strange taverns among rough men had jangled his nerves. He knew he should be excited about going to sea, but he felt instead that his life had somehow come to an ending rather than a new beginning. He already missed the empty, rambling rooms of his uncle's country house and the wide open fields he explored every summer. But there was no turning back now.

  "You there, get in the boat!"

  Certain that whoever had shouted must have meant him, Alexander looked down to see a skiff containing three sailors, obviously as miserable as he was from the cold. They glared up at him with surly expressions.

  "Are you from the Resolution?" Alexander asked. He had meant for his voice to sound strong and confident, but it had come out weak and stuttering from his shivering lips.

  "No, lad, we're from the bloody moon," the biggest of the sailors grumped. "Now get in the boat before we all freeze to death or get crushed in this ice."

  He saw that the sailors had cracked the ice with their oars to get in close to the wharf, but there was enough of a swell off the harbor to make the small skiff bounce and bob like a bit of fruit in a punch bowl. Alexander's stomach promptly mimicked the motion of the boat. He had been raised among woods and country fields, and the sea was alien and strange. The spark and glitter of morning sun off the choppy open water hurt his eyes.

  "It won't tip, will it?" Alexander asked, looking with not a little trepidation at the uninvitingly cold and icy water. He regretted asking the question the moment it left his mouth as the sailors exchanged an incredulous look.

  "The ship is set to sail on the tide, young master, and the captain is waiting for you. If you make the captain miss the tide, I wouldn't give a brass farthing for your chances on the Resolution. The captain will have my hide, and then I'll have yours, ensign or not! Now scurry down that ladder there and get in the boat, if you please!"

  Alexander needed no further encouragement. He struggled to lift his oak-bound sea chest and handed it down awkwardly to the man in the boat. He saw now that the man was quite large and took the sea chest as if it weighed no more than a hat box. The sailor settled it in the bottom of the skiff with a thump.

  As he started to descend the ladder, Alexander felt weighed down by his new coat and numb from the cold. He had no gloves—his uncle was far too miserly to waste money on something so luxurious as gloves—and so Alexander's hands going down the ladder to the skiff were like frozen claws.

  "Sit down, sit down there at the bow, or you'll have us all in the drink!" commanded the sailor.

  "Which way is the bow?" Alexander was forced to ask.

  "Neptune save us," the sailor said with an exaggerated eye roll, clearly disgusted. "If this is what we're being sent these days to man our ships, we'll all be speaking French within the year." He jerked his chin toward the front of the skiff.

  Alexander settled there, feeling miserable, cold, and not a little seasick already. It occurred to him that the sailors should have been addressing him with a bit more deference, considering that an ensign was—technically speaking—an officer. But at the moment he was not in a position to argue the point.

  "Twenty years at sea and I'm wet nurse to a land-lubber," the sailor muttered. The man's hands were so large that the oars appeared thin as broomsticks as he gripped them. His companions at the oars grinned.

  "That's the King's Navy for you, Jameson," said one of the other men. "We'd best get a move on or the captain really will have our hides for jib sails. We're late enough as it is."

  Alexander shrugged deeper into his enormous greatcoat, hoping he might disappear into it altogether. He supposed he should feel this was the start of a great adventure and a new life as an officer in the Royal Navy, but he only felt inconsequential—and slightly scared. He was not a little boy, but neither was he a man—at least not in the way that these burly, scruffy-faced sailors were. No, he was something in between, and the thought made him uneasy.

  He looked out beyond Spithead Harbor at the gray ocean waves and tried to summon every scrap of bravery within him, but it felt a bit like shaking an empty cup. The truth was that he had never felt so alone. He had a wild thought of throwing himself into the cold sea and swimming back to shore. But he knew that nothing awaited him there.

  His uncle certainly would not welcome him back because he had treated Alexander's departure with an ill-concealed pleasure, saying, "Goodbye, nephew" in a manner that had a ring of finality to it. No, his future lay with the sea and the Royal Navy, and he would just have to make the best of it.

  As the sailors rowed, broken sea ice slushed against the sides of the wooden skiff. An offshore wind cut at his exposed face like a cold blade. None of the sailors seemed interested in further conversation as they concentrated on working the oars. It was probably just Alexander's imagination, but the chill water seemed thick and syrupy as the oars dipped and flashed in the winter sun. Alexander felt
even more ill as the shore fell farther away.

  "Still in the harbor and he's looking a bit green about the gills!" the big sailor muttered to his companions, who glanced at Alexander and grinned.

  Alexander glared at them. Jameson considered himself a good judge of men and boys after years at sea, and there was a fierceness in this lad he hadn't noticed before. The boy had hollow cheeks and wild dark hair, but it was his eyes that caught Jameson's attention. They were hard and dark gray, like two stones wet by the sea. Given a little power and authority, a lad with eyes like that could be determined and strong, or he could be cruel. The sailor looked away, wondering what sort of officer this boy might become.

  Slumped in the belly of the skiff, Alexander thought back to how all this had come about. It had not been his choice to go to sea, but his uncle had decided that fourteen was a good age to start on the path of a suitable career.

  "A young man must make his own way in the world," his uncle had sniffed, adjusting his dingy and well-worn cravat. "I promised your father I would provide for you, and so I shall. I have found you a position in the Royal Navy. I sent a letter to an old friend of the family's, a Captain Bellingham, and he has kindly agreed to take you into service of king and country aboard his ship. It is most generous of him."

  Alexander was sure he had never heard anyone mention Captain Bellingham. Not that he put much thought into recollecting the name. He was still reeling from the idea of going to sea.

  His uncle had continued: "How very fortunate that a boy such as you—without prospects or promise, I might add—should be given such a position."

  "The Royal Navy?" Alexander had sputtered. The thought of a life at sea was so strange that his uncle may as well have told him that he was about to be turned into a badger, or that he was being sent to a tea plantation in China. "I’ve never even been swimming in the ocean!"

  "Then you should endeavor to say out of the water," his uncle had concluded, then stalked away to poke at the little coal fire that struggled in vain to heat the entire feudal hall at Kingston.

  Alexander's family had once been rich and important, descended from Sir Algernon Hope, a powerful sea elemental who had almost single-handedly saved England from the Spanish Armada two hundred years before by conjuring a storm that wrecked the enemy fleet. Since then, his ancestors had never risen to become earls or barons or anything terribly illustrious. However, many had been officers who proudly served the king.

  Whenever Alexander asked about his famous ancestor, his uncle waved off the subject.

  "Don't fill your head with stories, boy! There's no such power in your veins. That was a different branch of the family altogether, and it was a long, long time ago. An elemental, indeed! Ha! Now, lad, go fetch some coal for the fire. Just a lump or two will do, mind you. Coal costs money!"

  Alexander was too used to doing chores to complain, but lugging the coal from the cellar was simply another reminder that a proper gentleman would have servants to fetch the coal and stoke the fire. Instead, his uncle had him.

  His uncle owned a country estate that was mostly overgrown and weedy, but the woods and fields made an excellent place for a boy to roam and daydream. The ancestral home, known as Kingston Hall, was cold and drafty, with rooms that had been closed off and furniture covered with tarps or sheets. His uncle had sold the more valuable pieces and even the swords and shields that had once covered the walls.

  All in all, his uncle's home was an empty, cold place where one's footsteps tended to echo in the halls and stairs. Aside from a couple of ancient servants too old to work elsewhere—and too frail to carry coal up the stairs—they lived alone.

  But it hadn't always been that way. Alexander could dimly recall when his father lived there with them. There had been laughter then, and roaring fires in the hearth. That had been a long time ago, on the dim edge of memory, and Alexander had shut away most of those recollections, much like the forgotten rooms at Kingston Hall.

  His uncle had made Alexander's new career known to him scarcely a month before, hardly time enough to have a uniform made, and now Alexander found himself utterly miserable in the belly of this rowboat in Spithead Harbor. The air stank of fish. His stomach churned.

  "There she is, boy!" the big sailor named Jameson announced, rousing Alexander from his wallow of self pity and uncertainty. The man's voice had a tone of awe mixed with fondness. "There’s the Resolution!"

  When his uncle had said that Captain Bellingham was a friend of the family's—meaning a friend of his uncle's—Alexander had fully expected to find himself aboard a garbage scow. His treatment at the hands of the three sailors had done nothing to dissuade him of that notion. But the ship that he saw now took his breath away.

  H.M.S. Resolution rose a full two stories above the harbor, its massive oak sides resembling a floating fortress. Gun ports lined the sides with cannons peering out like watchful eyes. The masts reached yet higher, seeming to pierce the heavens. From the topmost mast fluttered the British flag; its red, white and blue stood out brilliantly against the winter sky. Impossibly, or so it seemed to Alexander, men and boys worked high up in the rigging.

  “What kind of ship is it?” he asked.

  “Ha, he is a newbie, ain’t he, boys!” Jameson said with a laugh. But his voice was proud as he explained: “You are looking at a Royal Navy frigate, thirty-two guns, sixth rate, eight hundred tons, two hundred men, gryphon squadron. In other words, enough men, devil-beaks and firepower to strike proper fear in the heart of the Napoleonists.”

  As Alexander watched, the crew unfurled a massive sail. The wind filled the canvas, and the Resolution began to stir in the water like some sleepy giant brought to life.

  "Just in time, boy," the big sailor said. "I'll wager you wouldn't want this ship to sail without you. Or maybe you would? Ha!"

  With a few final pulls of the oars, they let the skiff glide against the Resolution. Beside the massive bulk of the ship, the skiff seemed no larger or sturdier than a floating leaf. The three sailors sprang into action, grabbing Alexander's new sea chest and fastening it to a line. No sooner had the knot been tied than the chest was hoisted away.

  Alexander looked up and caught sight of a winged shape circling high above the rigging. He blinked, just to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

  "What's that?" he asked, pointing at the winged creature.

  "Ain't you never seen a gryphon?" The big sailor shook his head. "Nasty creatures. Never will get used to the sight of 'em. Now, up you go. Can you climb the ladder, lad, or shall we have you hauled up like your luggage?"

  "I can manage," Alexander answered after a moment, distracted by the sight of the soaring gryphon. He had heard of these creatures, of course, and of how they were used in defense of the realm, but he had never actually seen one. The flying beast was large as a horse, had a tawny yellow hide, a tail and feathered wings that caught the eddies of sea wind as it circled high above the ship. To Alexander's astonishment, a rider sat astride the gryphon, perched on a saddle strapped between the beating wings.

  The big sailor gave him a slight push, and Alexander grabbed hold of the rope ladder and began to climb. It was harder than he had expected. His hands were stiff with cold and the heavy sea cloak seemed to weigh him down and dull his movements. The ship swayed with motion as it got underway and the sudden movement made Alexander realize how easily he might have pitched into the icy waters below.

  Scaling the tall oak sides was a bit like going up a mountain. His heart hammered in his chest, but he forced himself to climb. This was his new career. He was an ensign in the Royal Navy now, not a land-lubber anymore. Besides, he wasn't about to give those surly sailors in the skiff the satisfaction of calling for help. With a final burst of energy and willpower, he reached the gunwale and climbed aboard Resolution.

  Another boy in the uniform of an ensign had been watching his progress. He took Alexander's hand and helped him step onto the deck.

  "Welcome to the Resolution
," the boy said. "I'm Roger Higson."

  Alexander took a few unsteady steps. His legs felt rubbery.

  "Takes some getting used to," Roger said with a laugh. "You'll get your sea legs soon enough and then you'll walk funny when you get back on land again."

  "If you say so." Alexander already felt queasy from the motion of the ship. He was in no mood to argue, but would have agreed with Roger if the boy had claimed that Alexander had two heads.

  "Oh, I do," Roger said. "Now, let's get you squared away. Jameson!" The sudden shout made Alexander jump. "Take Mr. Hope's sea chest below."

  The sailor gave the ensign a nod—a bit grudgingly, Alexander thought—and then hefted the chest. It was strange to see a boy ordering around a big sailor like Jameson, but Alexander reminded himself that this was the Royal Navy, a place with its own rules.

  Roger turned back to him and said, "Now, let's give you a tour of the ship, gryphons and all."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Look lively, snotty!"

  Alexander heard the shout, and just had time to throw himself to the deck as a pair of giant claws raked the air overhead. He heard the beat of massive wings and the snap of a beak. He looked up to see that Roger hadn't so much as ducked. Around him, the sailors were laughing at the new ensign who now lay sprawled among the coiled lines, his fancy new bi-corn hat tumbling away in the sea breeze. Roger grabbed it up and handed it back as Alexander regained his feet.

  "What was that?"

  "Gryphon." Roger shrugged. "Don't worry, you'll get used to them."

  "Do they always swoop about the deck like that?" The gryphon made another sweep overhead, dodging among the masts, and as Alexander ducked again he heard the boy in the beast's saddle laughing wildly.

  "Flyers," muttered Roger. "They're a disorderly lot. They can't resist making a fool out of an honest sailor. They have this idea that they are somehow superior."