Young Writers Society

I'm not familiar with this era. Actually I'm not sure where in time we are? I only know that Robbins spoke of the year '79'. So, I'm guessing we're in 1879 or least the 1800's? Can't be 1979 because automobiles were obviously invented already, lol. And it mentions in the story about horse drawn carriages, or at least I think so? I'm positive it's not 1779 because you describe their uniforms; Jenkins and Roberts. So, it seems we're not in the 18th century. Anyway, back on track, lol. The father seems to have died or suffered an extreme injury since his mother, who is usually mentally strong, cried.

It's 1779 ... why would it not be? I'm confused as to what you mean about their uniforms (??) The present day of the narrative is 1792. His father died in 1782, at the Battle of the Saintes, where a British Fleet met a French Fleet in the West Indies.

This just seems so final. If Robert is not meant to be permanently on the ship, between 'him' and 'now' place a 'for.' So, you'll have - But there was nowhere else for him for now. With that one extra word, the sentence suggests that until Robert's transferred again, he's home is on the Pegasus until then. It just come off as a final decision where Robert is doomed to spend his remaining years on this boat.

That sentence is a bit melodramatic. I don't really like it either. Thanks for the tip.

-Hmm... Being raised on the ocean (father was a Captain) it has been a while (But exactly how much time has passed since Robert was last on a boat?) since he was last at sea.
-A great deal of time away from the ocean (If Robert says he's out of practice, for someone who was raised on ships, then I'm guessing he's been away from the sea for somewhere around a decade possibly? It's difficult to determine because it's not mentioned in the story. Although, I'm certain he still remembers the basics - masts and locations of a ship.
-Doesn't care for a hard-to-please Capt. at all

Hmm ... this is from the first chapter of the story -

"The envelope was from the Admiralty. Robert had been on half-pay for a year, when his former ship Inflexible was decommissioned. Now, over six months after Britain had joined the First Coalition, six months of surviving on low income and a bored soul, would Robert been given a ship at last. He had served briefly on a sloop that patrolled the south coast, but he had been deemed surplus to requirements and put in reserve again. A similar story for the thousands of Lieutenants in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy. "

So his last ship was about a year ago (not including the sloop). I didn't mean "out of practice" to mean he couldn't sail anymore, so I suppose I should clear that up. I meant that he was out-of-practice in leading mean and making decisions, living on the sea and all the life that comes with that.

Have to ask, but where it's bolded, what do you mean? Why doesn't Robert have much time to adjust to knew surroundings? Sorry. Moving on...

'Cos Robins is a tough Captain and doesn't allow for incompetence. So Robert is worried that the fact he hasn't been on the sea recently will mean that he has little time to readjust to the Pegasus.

Thanks for the crit ... very, very useful. You've picked up on a few things I'll need to edit, where the meaning isn't so clear. I like these analyses because it shows how someone else understands my story. When I look at it from my perspective, with my own knowledge, I perhaps understand things others don't or write them in a way that isn't very good. Or it's just bad, lol. Thanks again! Will do some editing this week.

It's 1779 ... why would it not be? I'm confused as to what you mean about their uniforms (??) The present day of the narrative is 1792. His father died in 1782, at the Battle of the Saintes, where a British Fleet met a French Fleet in the West Indies.

This is my fault for critiquing something so late in the night. When I started yours, I had just did some editing on mine and I guess I just got mixed up - lack of sleep and all. I'm guess I'm fixated on laced collars and wrists, breeches etc that I didn't differentiate between the two clothing attires last night. Although, the West Indies were mentioned, I should have made a minor connection, seeing how in '73' the Indies were responsible for supplying the tea to the colonies.

I'm also not familiar with the Battle of Saintes, nor heard of it. Sorry. Maybe it'll be explained what the battle entailed later on?

Hmm ... this is from the first chapter of the story -

"The envelope was from the Admiralty. Robert had been on half-pay for a year, when his former ship Inflexible was decommissioned. Now, over six months after Britain had joined the First Coalition, six months of surviving on low income and a bored soul, would Robert been given a ship at last. He had served briefly on a sloop that patrolled the south coast, but he had been deemed surplus to requirements and put in reserve again. A similar story for the thousands of Lieutenants in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy. "

So his last ship was about a year ago (not including the sloop). I didn't mean "out of practice" to mean he couldn't sail anymore, so I suppose I should clear that up. I meant that he was out-of-practice in leading mean and making decisions, living on the sea and all the life that comes with that.

I'll reread chapter one. I must have missed it because I was critiquing so late. Sorry about that but thank you for clearing that up! Very imformative.

Also, thanks for clearing up Robert's adjustment on a new ship and how Robin's demeanor will directly affect him.

Thanks for the crit ... very, very useful. You've picked up on a few things I'll need to edit, where the meaning isn't so clear. I like these analyses because it shows how someone else understands my story. When I look at it from my perspective, with my own knowledge, I perhaps understand things others don't or write them in a way that isn't very good. Or it's just bad, lol. Thanks again! Will do some editing this week.

lol. Such as mine too. We both have a ton of knowledge but it's hard to determine if readers are actually following the plot itself and especially when a dash of history is thrown into the mix. You're very welcome. I apologize again for getting the naval uniforms mixed up with my fatique.

Best of luck with your novel.

Thanks, fishr. No problemo about everything. The clothing probably needs more detail anyway.

I couldn't read it all but I have a few comments, not all of which are demonizing.

He turned his face to the side to take away the worst, and stumbled onwards.

This is a good sentence. It's a term editors use called fluid.

There are other problems though. Dry use of grammar. I saw a proper noun, those are bad, you want to avoid those. For instance: "The house of bitter ghosts." "A night of wind and rain." That 'of' is bad, bad news.

I read about 1,000 words. At your age your writing is mediocre, which is very good, because there are too many writers out there who can't write no matter what they do.

It is kind of sad, I'm going to college for editing but this lazy, hot summer is keeping me busy in my boredom. I'll take a closer look when I get the chance.

Yes... I am finally getting to my stack of stuff to critique. Amazing, isn't it?

And the invisible enemy had taken the love of his life from him barely five months ago, on a night similar to this one, albeit [s]it[/s] warmer, where the darkness meant the sea and the sky were blended.

Get rid of the "it."

I think that's all the grammar I really want to cover. Otherwise, this is remarkably well-written. You did good, Jack.

Robert hurried along the snow-covered, cobbled street. The cold air made him shiver. He pulled his muffler scarf tighter about his neck. At this time in the evening, the town was mostly empty: a few others traversed the wintered ground, and the continuous heavy snowfall that clouded the dark air, but they were rare, and for the most part he travelled alone. But he had no need for company right now.

For some reason, I think the second sentence is a little out of place. When I see the first sentence, I want more description of the street. Why? Because it sounds interesting. Cobbled means old, and what other delights are on the street? What do the houses or buildings look like now, clothed in their white garments? You say there are a couple of other people there. Who are they? How do they react to Robert?

So I would love some description of the setting before you introduce the main character. I think it makes it more like a movie. Imagine the camera, just zooming over the town, looking at every possible angle before finally setting down on one man who is struggling through the snow. I think it's cool.

Robert was eager to get back to his lodging and before a fire that would warm his frostbitten skin. The weather just mimicked to the coldness of his emotions, the deadness of his soul. The emptiness. It had been five months since the accident and he still hadn’t forgiven himself.

Frostbitten? He may be cold, but unless his skin is truly frostbitten, then you're not going to want to use this description.

The future seemed a bleak place to walk into, just like the rest of the street that was masked in darkness and swirling snow particles. There was no favourable wind, nor the superstitious luck every sailor wished for. It was either the storm or the just as terrifying calm, where there was no one there for him. There’s nobody here for me now.

This paragraph is right after a brief tidbit of information, and I think it's awkward because you jump from the past to the future all of the sudden. It's not bad, mind you. I just did an insanely careful reading of it, because I thought/hoped you would like it. Still, one of the things that I think is awkward is that you're constantly trying to draw analogies to the snow and Robert's feelings. You don't need to do this.

Finally, by setting up the scene meticulously, you create a backdrop for Robert's feelings so you don't have to go in to them and keep repeating that he's lonely and he messed up his life. You're relying too much on the analogies... instead, be a poet. Allow your imagery to hold up your feelings.

...and yes, your imagery is good enough that you can do that.

Just like they taught a King’s officer to act. Even when the bullets were flying, and the cannons firing, and the smoke rising, you were taught to act like nothing was wrong. Even when a man was cut brutally apart in front of you, blood and guts and all spilt half over you and half over the deck, you must show nonchalance. His love had been cut brutally apart from him, and his tears had wetted the grass.

The last sentence contradicts the entire rest. If he must show nonchalance while the bullets are flying, he isn't going to cry. I'm not, for a minute, suggesting that he shouldn't cry, but still. I would rather see something like:

"His love had been cut brutally apart from him and he hadn't been able to cry. Until he was alone."

Once again, I think you're trying to hard for a compare/contrast story than is necessary. Just calm down and let the words do their work.

Anyway, some REALLY good stuff in this as well. The description is marvelous (I want more!) and I can picture the image quite clearly... always good.

Anyway, good luck. AND KEEP WRITING!!!

*

His first encounter with the Captain had made him feel wrong-footed and unconfident before he had even begun his duties. At harbour, the work was little, but he was expected to keep watch at regular intervals and keep control of the men who got rowdier as the ship lay anchored for longer. Some longer for shore or freedom, others just for something to do.

The stocks were replenished and the ship checked over, cleaned and made ready for sailing. Not that it was ever achieved. The Pegasus just sat in the harbour, waiting for the orders that never came and the mission that was never issued.

Robert’s first impression of the Pegasus was apathetic. From Lieutenant Jenkins-Hall’s words, she seemed like she would be a magnificent vessel, superbly built. Instead she was just another medium-sized, modest frigate. Robert hoped that his examination would prove unfounded when they left port and sailed, for he was told she was light to handle and flew like a bird across the open seas. But here, tied to the Plymouth waters, she was nothing to excite.

He stood, motionless, on the quarterdeck, leaning over the bulwark. Pegasus had her topsails unfurled to dry, after the month’s heavy rainfall. The air was warmer, but that brought darker clouds too, and Robert looked unhappily up at the grey sky. Since meeting the Captain, he had seen so many names and faces, many which escaped him. Lieutenant Jenkins-Hall, the snobbish short man, stuck in his memory, along with the completely opposite First Lieutenant Gray, a tight-lipped, tall thin man with a contemptuous look nearly all of the time. In the wardroom they were the reverse of the other. Robert was somewhat in the middle, and found himself attempting to balance an unstable camaraderie. Then there was Mr. Sullivan, the crazy gunner, with his untamed beard and feral appearance. And the unforgettable Mr. Raven, the ship’s boatswain, a giant of a man with a voice so loud Robert swore it could splinter the very keel of a ship. One of the young midshipmen had had an impact on him, as well: the young, gentle-spoken David Fawcett, a lonely boy, bullied by the rest the young gentleman, but a boy that reminded Robert of his young self.

He looked at the David who stood at the forecastle at his watch station. Over the past week Robert had developed a sincere fondness for the naïve lad. He had almost taken him under his wing. He remembered Captain Robins calling the blond-haired fifteen-year-old “weak” and felt pity for him. Robert thought there could be only one reason why he had ended up in the navy. Abandoned. His mother had probably seen no better place, save an orphanage, to dump her unwanted child. She’d then of run off to some far-flung corner of the world. The result was an undernourished young boy who was expected to command grown seamen. Robert remembered his days as a midshipmen being scary and confusing. At the same time that you were learning about the world, you were being put under pressure to command and impress your superiors, while still being able to grow a beard. Not even men.

Seven bells were rung, the sound reverberating from the belfry on the forecastle. The timekeeper, a reliable seaman, turned over his half-hour sand glass. Robert had another thirty minutes on watch duty. His stomach was rumbling and he highly anticipated supper in a couple of hours.

“Boat ahoy?” called the Midshipman of the Watch from the poop deck, and Robert turned to see a shore boat on the starboard side, battling the steep waves, with two oarsmen rowing hard in unison.

“No! No!” came the answering call. Robert knew at once the boat must carry some junior officers from the response. Possibly some more midshipmen to fill the empty hammocks?

The boat escaped his view as it came alongside the Pegasus, by the poop deck’s gangway. Two small figures stumbled with all the dignity they could muster as they attempted to clamber onto the ship. They retained some balance and walked towards Robert. They were both small and gangly, but one had long, wild brown locks, while the other had similarly untamed hair but they were coloured a light blonde. They were like brothers except for the hair. And there was something about the brown-haired one, something familiar …

They both raised their hand to their hats. The blonde-haired one, the senior Robert supposed, said, “Come aboard, sir. Alexander Gerrard, sir, Midshipman and this is Martyn Oliver, sir, Midshipman.”

“Very good, Mr. Gerrard, and Mr. Oliver. You’re the last of them, it seems. Make your way down to your berth, and I’ll see it to your possessions are taken below. The Captain would like to see you as well, so you can clean yourselves up and make yourselves known,” Robert replied, formally.

They nodded and made their way toward the main hatchway.

A flash of recognition hit Robert like a wave. His Father’s wife, Catherine, marrying a churchman from Hampshire; the man’s untidy wavy strands of unmistakable bright blonde hair; the Reverend Oliver being his name, there being a young boy, his cousin …

“Wait … you, Midshipman Oliver was it?” he asked, staring at the young adolescent suspiciously.

Oliver stopped in his paces and swung round, with a mixed expression of surprise and fear tinged on his cheeks. “Yes, sir?”

“Do I know you?” asked Robert, although it didn’t sound like a question as he said it, but rather a semi-conscious, dreamy conjecture.

“Umm …” the boy started, obviously puzzled. “I don’t think so, sir.” The other Midshipman was watching the exchange, switching his glances between Robert and then Martyn, as if there was something he had missed.

Robert frowned. “Never mind, then. Carry on.”

The two boys disappeared down into the ship. But the brown-haired Midshipman’s face stuck in his mind. There was something about it, something that reminded him of someone he knew … maybe he just had one of those faces. Robert shook himself mentally and concentrated on the task in hand, even though it seemed needless in a harbour, where action was rare. Robert felt the familiar emptiness digging at his midriff. He almost wished they were on the sea, chasing the enemy, the blood rushing to his head … everything else was forgotten. It was what he needed. An escape.

“Mr. Shaw!” said a man with a hard tone.

Robert knew who it was before he turned. The ever-vigilant first Lieutenant.

“Yes, sir?”

“Come here if you please,” he commanded, standing on the larboard gangway. Robert had no idea when he had appeared.

He drew alongside Lieutenant Gray, and looked into his dark brown eyes that lay deep within his skull and looked large against his thin, withered face.

“Is there something wrong, Lieutenant?” he said with a hushed voice, though still stern in its pronunciation.

“Sir?”

“I said: is there something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Robert had heard him perfectly well the first time. Having no idea what was irking the pedantic second-in-command, he shrugged unsatisfactorily. From first time he had met the first Lieutenant, he had never once said Robert’s first name, and instead addressed him exclusively as ‘Lieutenant’ or ‘Mr.Shaw.’ It was the same the other way round too. “I don’t understand exactly what you’re implying, sir.”

Gray sighed forlornly. “Mr.Shaw, we are on a man of war, a running, living ship that holds over two hundred men, and some women while we’re at harbour. While we sit here, anchored, there is no chance of prize money or reward for these men. Do you understand?” Gray was talking very condescendingly, as if he were explaining to a young boy.

Robert nodded. “But what does this have to with me?”

Gray sighed again, but heavier, his whole chest collapsing several inches with the apparent effort of explaining to a third Lieutenant. “You walk around the deck with the largest frown I have ever seen. You’re supposed to set an example to the men. They see you looking glum, and they know something is wrong. They need you to reassure them.”

“So you want me to grin pleasantly on the course of my duties?” Robert replied, and was half-sure the response created a faint smile on the hard formations of Gray’s face.

“At least pretend to, Robert,” Gray replied, speaking his name for the first time. “Very good. Carry on,” he added louder, so the men could hear, and made his way aft to go below.

Robert felt suddenly alone, and in the wrong. It had been a long time since he had last stepped foot on a ship. And a long time since he had commanded men. It looked like he would have to learn all over again.

*

The wardroom was notable in its lethargy.

Robert sipped some of his claret to fill the awkwardness he felt in his stomach. The conversation was dead. Even the normally loquacious sailing master Mr. Talbot had his lips closed. The surgeon, Jeremy Tracey, who Robert had only met recently because the man had been onshore, seemed content to allow the bad air to remain untouched. Robert himself almost felt a duty to revive the place as the newcomer, feeling that it may be his fault in the first place. That or the obvious bad blood between the third and first Lieutenants. When they decided to part words with each other, they were constantly antagonistic, despite the fact Jenkins-Hall was one of the most genuinely kind fellows Robert had ever met.

He looked between Gray and Jenkins-Hall swiftly, noting that both the officers were looking determinedly down at their food and not anywhere else. Robert’s patience was thinning. Though he knew both of them little, he felt some sort of moral obligation to force a conversation out of them just because it was making him feel very uncomfortable.

He slammed his claret down on the table. Gray looked up coldly at him.

“Sorry,” Robert said, baulking under the glare. “Didn’t mean to drop it so hard. Must be getting to me already.” He grinned nervously. Talbot smiled at him. Jenkins-Hall hadn’t moved.

It was the surgeon who decided to break the silence. “Tell me, Robert, how have you found the Pegasus so far?”

They all looked at him, even Jenkins-Hall. Robert reddened a little under the attention but hardened himself. “She seems like a good little ship. I haven’t seen her under sail yet, but I’m sure she’ll impress me.”

“I suppose you find her a little, er … cramped after the Inflexible? We’re no ship of the line,” asked Gray, but it sounded almost like he was forcing himself to be cordial. His last words though were laced with bitterness that wasn’t a result of the harsh-tasting fish they were eating. Robert thought Gray probably desired a more powerful ship than Pegasus.

In truth, Robert was simply delighted to have a berth in any ship, be it brig or a three-decker. “I’m happy to have anything, to be honest,” Robert replied. He still didn’t know Gray’s first name.

“Ah,” Gray said, his mouth forming into what seemed a mix between a victorious smile and Gray’s ordinary hard expression. “But, of course, you’d been left dry by the Navy, hadn’t you?”

Robert felt his cheeks hotting up, and looked down at his food, embarrassed, and began to play with it using his fork. Gray had a talent for ending conversations.

“Well, our most gracious superiors at the Admiralty don’t always make the best decision when it comes to selecting officers, it would appear,” Jenkins-Hall spoke, looking directly at Gray as the words left his throat.

A cough came from the end of the table. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. I think a toast ought t’be in order.” Talbot had finally entered the talk. “To Robert, for bein’ a lucky un, and all the rest of the poor souls left wretchedly on land, may their futures be better!” He raised his glass in a gesture. Robert joined him. Gray did it half-heartedly, but Jenkins-Hall, maybe to irk the first Lieutenant, grandly clicked his glass to Talbot’s and Robert’s, and then Tracey’s as the surgeon lifted his own.

The gesture seemed to alleviate some of the deadness that had earlier accompanied the meal. Different conversations emerged. Gray and Talbot began to speak about the recent outbreak of war, and revolutionary France as a political body. Robert, who was interested in affairs of state, looked to make a comment, but Jenkins-Hall interrupted his proposed attempt.

“I have something to ask you, my dear Robert, although do pardon my bluntness,” he said, with his typical grandeur. “I was wondering, has your mind ever wandered what Pegasus will be assigned to next?

Robert frankly had no supposition. “I remember you mentioning the West Indies.”

“Ah, indeed, my good man. It is rumoured somewhat-” he paused, and changed the loudness of his speech to a faint whisper, “that we are to join a small band of frigates bound for the Caribbean to protect the colonies. Jump to it before the Frenchies get other ideas! We might even be called on to seize a few of their possessions. Make ourselves useful, eh?”

Gray was arguing with Talbot and Tracey over the strength of France in her new state. Robert had never seen Gray so hotheaded amongst other officers. He noted inwardly that the man had a quick turn to anger. Something to watch out for. He looked back at Jenkins-Hall and saw him eagerly awaiting an answer, or perhaps a thank you for the information provided.

“How many times have you seen action on Pegasus?” Robert wondered aloud to the rotund Lieutenant. His mind was thinking about possible fights in the future, and whether the crew was experienced and whether he would be found out to be a complete novice in the cruel arena of war.

“Not many. We seized a pirate brig off the coast of West Africa a few months back. That was quite possibly the only time we’d seen an enemy, such as it was, head-on. Otherwise we’ve been in a few chases, but the luck of the weather always turns against us.”

The other conversation had seemingly dissipated and the other three seemed to have caught on to the last statement by Jenkins-Hall. Robert considered it. He’d heard Pegasus was a fast ship, one of the speedily built frigates.

“She’s not cursed, William, for godssakes,” Gray stated angrily.

Robert warily looked between them.

“Whether you believe it or not, she is. Every time we see a sail there’s something that turns against us. Wind, water, rain. It doesn’t matter,” Jenkins-Hall replied fervently. “I know it, Robert. There’s something about the Pegasus that Our Lord just doesn’t approve of.”

Robert looked around. Gray’s face showed scorn, his eyes narrowed. Talbot shrugged. Tracey looked faintly interested.

It was Tracey that broke the temporary lull in conversation that followed Jenkins-Hall’s last statement. “There’s a theory going round, Robert, that luck has abandoned ol’ Pegasus, or God has, or something we need has. One of the men on our last mission blamed Captain Robins: he was flogged raw. No one points at the Captain anymore surprisingly. A few picked on a Midshipman because he was young; he was so upset by the ordeal that he was transferred. Now the men just don’t know. Either way, Pegasus has never won any prize money or anything.”

A shock for a frigate of this speed and agility. Frigates were renowned for being liberated of the constraints of a fleet, or slower ships. They were free to catch their prey. They were faster than pretty much anything on a good day, and had the guns to match anything but a ship of the line. So it was surprising a ship like the Pegasus had never caught anything in her service. Maybe Captain Pears was unaccustomed to such a command. Maybe the officers were bad. Maybe the men were. These explanations and a thousand others broiled in Robert’s mind, but none came closer to allowing him to understand.

“Stop filling the man’s mind with your theories,” Gray said strictly. “The ship’s not cursed.”

Robert didn’t know whom to believe. But the word moved around in his mind, and wouldn’t leave for days afterward. Cursed.

Chapter 3

The days after were empty of action, or direction. There had been no news of Pegasus’ purpose, but two more frigates joined the ship in the waters at Plymouth, which gave the men and the officers the only talk and excitement during the dull period. It was debated to and fro in the wardroom; with the general consent being three frigates congregating at the same time must indicate some sort of important mission. The important questions were to why and where, but no answers came until a few days later.

The decks of the Pegasus were almost at full complement, as more midshipmen had arrived from the mainland, and men from in and around Portsmouth had been impressed, willingly or unwillingly, into the ranks of the Royal Navy. However, Captain Robins expected and desired perfection, and to him an almost-full ship was an affront to his reputation. In the last few days he had thus sent out a large number of men and officers to the Impressment Service, that rendezvoused in the same inn Robert had stayed before being introduced to the Pegasus.

Robert was once again watch officer on Pegasus, a duty almost as boring as it was unnecessary, as the frigate lay still in the Plymouth dock. He had been a little insulted by the menial task, believing a senior warrant officer such as Mr.Talbot could have easily performed the duty. He slowly realized it may be the consequences of his poor introduction to the Captain, or perhaps because he wasn’t trusted to do anything more complicated. Lieutenants Gray and Jenkins-Hall were both leading press gangs ashore, something far more glamorous. Robert figured that if was at least given a chance he could impress Captain Robins.

The wet weather had subsided, but had been replaced by powerful gales that led to a cold, biting atmosphere. The waves below Robert, swept into action by the winds, crashed against the hull of the Pegasus. He looked out at the two new frigates that had anchored just a few days previously. They were both of similar size. They sat impressively against the grey, stark background; the sails and masts were black in the dim light but still contrasted with the sky. Robert had found out in discussion in the wardroom they were HMS Ghost and HMS Incontestable, both of 38-guns.

“They’re both fairly new,” Jenkins-Hall had said in the wardroom one evening. “And not too successful, just like us. They’re collecting all the not so triumphant frigates for some sort of public execution. I feel almost like I’m waiting for the gallows.”

Robert had seen the smile on his face, and knew he was joking; on the other hand his comments had hit home and he discussions explored exactly what three frigates were doing awaiting orders in Plymouth. Without a commander or a mission, everyone, including Robert, were suitable perplexed.

He held his bicorne as the wind increased. There was serenity upon the docks, despite the wind that whipped through the sails, and Robert appreciated the calm. In his first week upon Pegasus he had struggled to become used to the constant movement and business on a ship that had at first been almost oppressive. Such moments that allayed this were welcome indeed, so as he stood, holding his bicorne, he smiled despite the weather. Since his arrival on the Pegasus and his rebuke from Lieutenant Gray, Robert had tried hard to conceal the emotional turmoil brewing inside of him. Luckily, he had been kept busy and his mind had little time to wander. Here, though, stood watching the ocean waves, he could see the clear nighttime again, and the deadly silence broken by his anguished screams. The empty look on Kate’s face as they dragged here from the rocks. Your life ended that day.

He looked out to the ocean. Where minutes before it had been empty, the horizon bare, he swore he could see the vague outlines of a ship. Feeling his mind drifting away from the pain, he felt glad to be distracted. He withdrew his telescope and focused it. His instinct was correct, the eyepiece clearly showing the foresails and bowsprit, which rose and dropped, battering against the waves. It was a ship coming to dock at Plymouth, and Robert’s curiosity heightened. Immediately he checked himself, knowing full well it was most probably a merchant ship, as many came and went from the harbour. His telescope remained trained on the figure, however. As it approached, he began to see more and more details – he watched as the blurs became visible, and at once knew his instinct had been proved correct – she was undeniably a man-of-war, a large one by all signs. Robert had been raised around ships and as the ship was pushed sideways by the waves, he noticed gun ports on her starboard side.

Robert heard footsteps behind, and lowered his telescope and looked behind to see the small figure of Mr.Talbot walking toward him. The man had a crippling limp on his left leg, and it made him almost drag it along the deck to walk properly. He rested against the weather rail.

“Seen somethin’, Robert?” he asked. Robert felt the bridge between him and the sailing master had been breached, for they were on first-name terms and got on well. He didn’t feel the lack of proper courtesy was a lack of respect, and appreciated the man’s friendliness. Robert welcomed the company he brought.

He nodded in response to the question. “A man-o’-war on the horizon. Doesn’t look like another frigate.”

“May I?” Mr.Talbot asked.

Robert nodded again, and handed him the bronze telescope. Talbot held it to his right eye and watched in the direction Robert had indicated for a few moments.

“Ah. I’ve seen ‘er before, I ‘ave indeed. Can tell by the cut of ‘er fores’ls. It’s unmistakable. Gotta be the Defence, that ‘as.” He noticed Robert’s confused expression, and added hastily, “I served on ‘er about ten years past. She’s a third-rate, 64-gun, Defence. Good crew, happy. Captain MacGregor, if he’s still around, commands ‘er. A stubborn man, but skilled all the same.”

“What’s she doing back here on her own?”

“Now that’s a question, Robert! Maybe she’ll solve our mysterious frigate collection. A third-rate and a few fifth-rates almost constitute a convoy, if I was t’say.” Talbot looked through the telescope once more, studying the ship again. “She’s definitely the Defence, no doubt about it. I’d swear my life upon it.”

“I can’t see much other explanation why a ship that size would be without a fleet or squadron, unless she was separated from them by a storm or some such,” Robert added.

“Exactly, Robert. Maybe ol’ MacGregor was under orders to return to Plymouth by the Admiralty. It’s all too secretive, this. The Cap’n hasn’t been seen or heard from for days, and nobody knows what’s going on. You know what that says t’me? It’s important. If it weren’t, we’d have set sail a week ago.”

“But what about full complement?”

“Robins has never tried this hard t’find seamen. It all smells rather funny. Important, like I said. Maybe Pegasus ‘as some good t’do after all, rather than patrol African coasts for weeks upon end. With the French as they are, maybe we’ll be called on to protect some far-off colony.”

“The second Lieutenant mentioned the West Indies,” Robert stated, rather more formally than the conversation had been heading, but he thought a subtle hint of regulation might reinforce his position.

Talbot laughed at that. “Don’t listen t’the nonsense of the second Lieutenant, Robert, advice you would do well t’heed.”

Robert looked quizzically at him. “You don’t like William?”

“Of course I do! What a jovial fellow he is. Impossible not t’like! But he does tend to lean t’ward the nonsensical. We may go to the West Indian colonies by all means, I don’t doubt that – ‘cept maybe a few convoys ‘ave already departed in that said direction – it’s just anything said by our friend William should be received with a hefty wad of salt.”

“How did he come to be on a ship, anyway? Seems out of place for a man like that – almost imprisoned. I’d have expected to see him entertaining guests at some expensive dinner party.”

Talbot laughed again, a frequent habit of his. “Quite so, Robert. You might not be so off the mark, so t’speak. But now ain’t the proper the time to discuss it,” he said in his confusing myriad of dialects. He always sounded like a man of two worlds, rich and poor, and his sentences were so often an amalgamation of both speech.

Robert started to speak, but a stern look from Talbot stopped him in his tracks. He felt somehow his power was being usurped, and he could order the man to tell him, but in the same moment he realised there was something else at play, and whatever it was about Lieutenant Jenkins-Hall that Talbot had hinted at was a private matter and this wasn’t the place or the time.

“The Cap’n is eatin’ tonight, thought you might like t’know.” The statement was voiced casually, yet with a hint of tentativeness.

“I thought Robins never came to the wardroom? Who invited him?”

“The first Lieutenant, but by all probability it was by the suggestion of the Cap’n himself. There’s something he wants t’tell us, that’s all I can say.”

Robert peered out again at the sea, and the distant sails on the horizon, and reckoned whatever it was would have something to do with the arrival of the 64-gun Defence.

*

Midshipman David Fawcett was tired, cold and above all embarrassed. The day’s work had been a mixture of rebukes, shouting and bullying from all corners; from the ice glare of the brooding first Lieutenant, to the constant insults of the older young gentleman, especially Betteridge, the most senior. David stole a glance toward him, looking over his large body fearfully. He used his seniority to be a tyrant and Midshipman Fawcett, one of the younger ones, and the most inexperienced, was easy prey for his traps.

He longed for the comfort of bedding, or a warm fire at the least. They had been tracking the countryside for a good half-day, looking for suitable hands to fill the hammocks of Pegasus. The results had been disappointing. Four men had been discovered, two of which had never sailed before, and Betteridge had said they were probably outlaws looking to escape the hangman’s rope; the other two were experienced seamen, but the grey hairs in their beards far outnumbered the others. One had a misshapen left arm that hung awkwardly at an unnatural angle. When David saw the man it made him feel sick.

Their bad luck meant that the first Lieutenant had become angry, and had blamed Betteridge for their misfortunes, while Betteridge transferred this onto the younger Midshipmen, like Fawcett and Oliver. David struggled to stand up to his belligerence and became accustomed to meekly accepting the treatment and avoiding him as best he could. Betteridge was taller and stronger. David was a boy who felt like he had been placed in the wrong world.

It hadn’t been his choice. His father, a clerk, had died when he was a young boy, and despite leaving a fair amount of money to his mother and his two sisters, they had struggled to hold down a permanent residence. His mother was never a strong woman. He didn’t blame her for what happened. Not anymore. She had run to the American colonies, dreaming of marrying a rich settler, and took his two sisters with her, thinking they could marry too. David, however, was an obstacle to be moved: a weak boy with little talents. With a little money she entered him into the Royal Navy and David was forced into a life he had never wanted. Better get used to it.

They trundled along the country lane; dusk beginning to set in, the last fragments of sunlight fading behind the horizon. His feet were ragged and his muscles aching. Betteridge had laughed constantly at his tiredness, saying that once they made it to sea he would collapse from the effort it took. Perhaps he’s right.

David suddenly recalled the incident but three days ago, as Betteridge had attempted his bullying in front of the new Lieutenant and failed miserably. He smiled at the memory. Betteridge had made a casual comment about Fawcett being ‘not up to the job’, and instead of ignoring it, like the others did, Lieutenant Shaw turned on him, telling him to say his comments to somebody who cared more. It was a subtle gesture, but David had felt a friendly warmth from the new Lieutenant, a certain camaraderie; two people feeling like they didn’t belong.

“What are you smiling about, huh?” Betteridge’s deep, aggressive tone broke the quiet.

David didn’t answer. He had learnt quickly that a response to Betteridge’s anger simply furthered the engagement. He had no desire for a fight. Instead, he tried to concentrate on other things – the ocean in the foreground, the masts of the ships swaying slightly.

“I said, what are you smiling about? You haven’t got anything to smile about.”

David managed to mumble, “Nothing.” It was an attempt to gain a respite from the expected bullying. He’s just a tyrant.

“Quiet back there!” growled a bitter Gray.

David sighed in relief as Betteridge’s anger interrupted for once.

One of the other Midshipmen brought for the press gang was Martyn Oliver, and he moved aside David as Betteridge walked off, annoyed he wasn’t able to torment David further. In the brief time they had known each other, David had been friendly toward Oliver and vice versa; they had both found each other’s company a way to survive the grueling introduction to the Pegasus.

“What did he say this time?” Martyn inquired, whispering, so they didn’t attract Gray’s potentially murderous attention.

“Nothing because of the Lieutenant. I think he just wanted a target for his anger.”

“I can’t wait to get back to the ship. My very bones are shivering.”

David nodded, and the conversation ended there, each boy unwilling to say more which could attract either Betteridge or Gray, and both were too exhausted and cold to spare more energy.

He thought back to Lieutenant Shaw, the quiet-spoken, but not unfriendly new officer. He silently wished he had been given the responsibility of the press gang. Betteridge had boastfully said it was because the man was incompetent and useless, but he was still hurt from Shaw’s berating. Even David, a novice in the customs of the Navy, had found it odd Gray was given the task, first Lieutenants rarely stooped this low. He didn’t understand, but he shrugged off the confusion as he had with countless other things during his first week. Being on a new ship was like arriving in a new country. The customs and the unspoken laws you had to learn.

David heard the pounding of footsteps ahead of them, a man running in the half-darkness, speeding toward the party of men.

“Lieutenant Gray, sir?” came a shout.

“Who is it?” Gray shouted back viciously, unwilling to be disturbed without need.

“I’ve been searching all over for you. The Cap’n requests your immediate presence on the Pegasus, sir.”

“By God, man! What took you so long! Lead us back to the boat, then, and hurry up about it!” His screams were livid with anger, and David was happy he wasn’t the man on the end of it.

They upped their pace suddenly, and David wondered what was so important that required Lieutenant Gray’s presence in the immediate. The other Midshipmen had talked about the arrival of the two new frigates with excitement. David had simply listened. He had no real opinion, but he picked up information quickly, and soon learnt the commonly accepted view was that three frigates in Plymouth meant some sort of mission. Now, with the Captain wanting the Lieutenant back so quickly, it made it sound like whatever it was would be revealed soon enough.

He yawned heavily as they half-walked, half-ran back to the dock. He quickly forgot about his musings on the mission, and the two frigates, and soon he only dreamt of a warm brandy and comfortable bedding.

*

Captain John MacGregor felt the coastal winds blew behind him lightly. He stood straight and tall on the quarterdeck, watching the land carve itself out of the horizon in front of them. He wondered what each man was thinking, even though he knew full well they would be dreaming of land and home. Guilt weighed on his conscience. If they knew what he knew, there wouldn’t be the silent expectance that dominated the decks.

The masts and spars creaked as the wind picked up a little and the topsails strained forward. They made steady progress, and he began to pick out the details of the dark land and the oncoming docks – the mastheads of the many ships, a building here and there, outlines forming in the distance. The sun was just about to set, but its last light still illuminated the air enough to see without hindrance.

There was little action upon the main deck. The helmsmen waited patiently at the wheel; the boatswain by the mainmast, looking to Captain MacGregor for the order. Seaman stood by the lee braces, watching the boatswain for his command. There was no relaxed atmosphere; instead it was quiet and tense.

He took a few steps to the side toward the rail. Nine days ago, in Gibraltar, he had received orders from the Admiralty from a cutter bound from England. The letter had been brief and to the point, the way it always was. They weighed anchor and made for Plymouth with all due speed, as was required. Here, about to anchor in the familiar surroundings of Plymouth docks, which he had seen hundreds of times before, he wondered whether he had acted correctly.

They don’t need to know yet. Even to his closest friend, if a Captain could have friends, the first Lieutenant Gilbert, he had kept quiet. He had asked, and John had been forced to avoid the questions. The crew assumed they were going home. Full stop. Shore leave. To homes, and families, and a well-earned break. A deserved break. If only it were that simple, he thought, making sure his expressions didn’t betray his feelings to his men.

The news would benefit him, and only him; for the rest of the crew, it would be like chainshot to a mast – destructive. Captain John MacGregor, the orders had read, master & commander 0f His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Defence, of 60 guns, will hereby by given the temporary rank of Commodore. The first rungs of the ladder toward flag rank, he mused, yet his allegiance to his crew made the guilt outweigh the joy. He was to control a convoy containing Defence, and three small frigates, escort a merchant convoy traveling to the colonial possessions in the West Indies, and reinforce the fleet there. So simple, and yet so difficult.

Morale would be the worst hit; the crew was expecting to be released from their sea prison, while the reality was different. They would be forced to make the gruelingly slow journey escorting a convoy across the Atlantic, where they would then be left in the West Indies, where disease was rife and the heat insufferable. Unlike some Captains, John cared deeply for the feelings of his sailors, too much sometimes, some would say. My promotion is at the expense of them.

He looked out and saw the guard boat marking the anchorage spot. The ship creaked and moved forward in the wind. There were few ships in the harbour; he spotted the outlines of what he assumed would be his three frigates and one seventy-four flying a white ensign, but otherwise it was mostly deserted; the fleets, he assumed, were patrolling the seas after war was declared upon revolutionary France. They drew closer to the guard boat, which looked frail and vulnerable on the waves.

Lieutenant Gilbert looked at him. John knew instinctively it was time. “All hands wear ship, Mr. Gilbert.” His voice was emotionless, empty.

The answering calls came and went. The boatswain was in his element, striding to and fro, barking commands. Seaman strained on the lee braces, pulling the yards and with it the ship’s topsails. Two marines, clad in their contrasting red, ran forth to support the fore braces.

Captain MacGregor, satisfied with the work, nodded his head to his first Lieutenant and made his way down the steps and turned aft toward his cabin. He smiled at the helmsmen as he passed them, their hands grasping the large wooden handles.

“Helm a-lee!” came the shout.

The helmsmen swung the wheel over, and Captain MacGregor paused in the doorway.

The ships turned across the water, cutting through the waves. The hulking ship pulled away from the wind into the allocated spot, beside an anchored frigate, where figures watched and perhaps analysed the entry. The bowsprit pointed defiantly forward, the jib canvas rippling above it.

“Let go!”

There was a great splash as the heavy anchor smashed through the surface water, carrying the liquid high into the air, wetting the edges of the forecastle. John watched as the sail drill commenced immediately, the topsails being neatly furled by the nimble topmen. Lieutenants checked to see if the work was carried out efficiently. The guard boat was making its way aside the Defence, its oars rising and disappearing with regularity. The officers and the men breathed sighs of relief, and finished the formalities, such the raising of a fresh masthead pendant, bright compared to its ragged, worn-out predecessor.

The flag rose a little in the wind, but still fell. There are no ends, John whispered to himself, only new beginnings.

*

“I double the stakes. Do you accept?” Robert asked.

In the situation his question seemed preposterous. Jenkins-Hall, already red in the face from several glasses of port, looked at him with wide eyes and a noticeable frown across his brow. Tracey, the surgeon who always seemed to be away from the ship, was viewing the encounter with some degree of confusion as well.

“My dear Robert, you cannot seriously begin to think th-that you could actually win from this position?” William Jenkins-Hall’s words, while an attempt at incredulity, actually came out in a disbelieving stutter. Robert looked across at his opponent and smiled a little. William had offered him a match a little earlier in the evening, to stave off boredom. He had said he had been unable to play since nobody else in the crew was a suitable player. Robert had accepted with enthusiasm. His father had played Backgammon with him when the Navy allowed him back, and as a young boy he had thoroughly enjoyed the games.

The atmosphere was tense; the wardroom was badly lit by a solitary lantern, shadowing the whole area in a half-darkness. Tracey, the only other inhabitant at this time, had paused his reading, to watch. Jenkins-Hall was still unable to belief Robert’s request. If William accepted, it would mean the game would count as two games for whoever won, and because William was currently leading 3-1, would hand him the match, since they had decided on the best of 5. It might have been a brave attempt to level the scores; the problem being, as William saw it, was that he had almost all his checkers in his home table, while Robert had only a few, with two in the bar.

“The request is there. Reject if you will, and hand me the game.” Robert’s smile remained, and behind it laid a quiet confidence. He was willingly manipulating William, knowing he was in a losing position.

“I’m three-one up, and I’ve almost filled my home table! This is madness. If I win, the match is mine. Unless you’ve been holding back on me?

“I profess sincerely this has been played to the best of my ability.”

“Well then … why throw away the match? You could lose this one and still have an outside chance of coming back!”

Robert offered no answers. “Do you accept or reject?”
William spluttered and coughed, then took another sip of his glass to calm his throat. “Accept, accept of course. The stake is doubled.” He eyed Robert suspiciously, the seeds of doubt growing in him suddenly. He turned the doubling die from 1 to 2 to indicate what multiple of the original stake was now being played for.

It was Robert’s turn, and he rolled two fives. Luck on his side, this enabled him to hit William’s blot into the bar and meant he could move both his checkers back into the game. The double gave me double movement, and he moved them both to the same place, protected. William muttered something about luck of the dice. His turn bore less fruitation; the dice gave him only a four and a one, which were the only two spots in Robert’s home table covered by multiple checkers, meaning his checker remained stuck in the bar and he could do no more. The game continued in this vein for some time, William’s advantage undermined by Robert’s luck, which allowed him to cover all but one of his home table points. William, frustrated by the dice, began to turn redder in the cheeks, but this time it wasn’t because of his drinking.

“Damned luck,” William cursed, as he got a 2 and a 1, still unable to move his checker from the bar.

Robert rolled a double 6, and was able to move the last four of his checkers into his home table. Suddenly the whole direction of the game had changed; Robert held the advantage, William was still trapped and unable to press home.

“Tracey, sir! What do you make of this game? I had our man Robert trapped, and now he’s escaped like a rabbit and almost won! It belies sense.”

The surgeon was busy in his book, but he peered over his spectacles to see the proceedings. “I must admit Backgammon passes me by.”

William laughed, his first for a long time, and took another sip. He seemed now more amused than annoyed by Robert’s sudden turn-around. A few minutes later, Robert managed to bear off all his checkers much before William, who had still been obstructed by the imprisonment of his checker.

The scores lay at 3-3. Robert was still smiling. The hours of playing with father have paid off, he thought.

They started another game, William taking first turn. He still seemed confident of victory, and in his boisterousness began to make small mistakes. He didn’t notice of them, but multiple times Robert thought he could have made safer moves. He was stretching his checkers, and had left a couple of them on their own when such a position could have been avoided.

Jenkins-Hall, on the other hand, was completely unaware. Such was his confidence, in all probability fuelled by the port that repetitively graced his mouth, that he offered to double the stake, making this game the decider for the match. He had no great advantage in the game; so far it had been mostly even.

Robert nodded at the raise, and once more the doubling die was turned to 2.

In his turn he rolled a double three, and was able to hit not one, but two of William’s checkers in an expert move, while also being able to safely transport two more of his pieces into his home table. William spluttered again, suddenly noticing how close he was to defeat, and how Robert had now almost overturned a 3-1 deficit into a victory.

Robert somehow rolled another double, this one of fours, and safely moved four more pieces into his home table, meaning all fifteen of his checkers were home and he was ready to bear them all off and win the match. A couple of minutes later, this happened, and Robert happily took the small number of shillings and pence that had been betted earlier in the evening.

“By God,” he exclaimed. “Although He seems to have abandoned me. How can one man have such luck with the dice! It’s not natural. I shan’t bet with you readily again, Robert. I happen to like my shillings.”

“It seems Robert has a killer sense under all that nice externals, should I dare to say,” Tracey added, looking over as the match was completed.

“I’m glad you’re here, Robert, my good man, luck is exactly what the Pegasus needs.” Jenkins-Hall looked at Robert in all seriousness, no shadow of sarcasm etched on his features.

“I daren’t suggest my luck with backgammon will transcend to watery superstitions, unfortunately, William,” Robert replied modestly. “Besides, if you didn’t like your port so much, you might of won yourself!”

(unfinished)

Ok, this is from TSR, so forgive me if there are any mixups. The chapers probably don't match up.

Chapter One

I thought it was okay, I liked the different aspects and things you were adding into the story, like how Robert felt and everything, but I think it was a little weighed down by your word choice and sentence structure. Read over it, out loud and in your head, and maybe you'll see what I'm talking about. Also, sorry I can't find it but you write Everybody has a duty. I think it should be Everyone. Sounds better for this piece.

Also, Donovan? Haha, the name rings a bell.


Now, Chapter Two

Definetly better than Chapter 1. I liked it. Don't have anything to complain about. I liked the crew members you introduced, especially the gunner. I pretty much liked all of chapter two.

Keep up the good work, and 3 & 4 will be read and critiqued soon.

--MH

Now, Chapter three and four

Nice installment. Not really anything wrong with it. Maybe you should take a character out though, this early in the story I'm already trying to keep track of people. But yeah, I liked the talk of curses concerning the Pegasus. Cool stuff.

Ever Onward.

-MH

Anyways, it's so loooooong! What's with that? I like some of the new stuff going on here, and how all the ships are gathering. Nothing much to say except...well, it's moving quite slowly. Some action would do good right about now. Maybe some shorter installments also.

*Locked*

This draft has been abandoned. For all who are interested, see my blog, a new draft will hopefully be in the making soon, with a fancy name change and all that.