Noble Duty

26. Across the Atlantic

After dismissing the hands, I turned to Jensen and said, "I will be below, Master."

"Aye, sir. This course should see us past the point with few, if any, adjustments."

As I assisted Gillian down the steps to the great cabin, she said, "Camilia and Michael are increasingly close."

"Michael? Oh, Master Evans. Yes, I noticed the way she seemed to worship him with her eyes while he took us from the wharf. Then I saw his frequent smiling glances at her whenever he was unbusy."

"Yes, but all the while, maintaining his duty. His focus on the ship."

"Indeed, he did not waver from it." I paused a moment to think. "Do we need to speak with them?"

"I think they are both aware that I know – that we know. He may approach you, and she may approach me. But until then, Jarvis, we should only observe and ensure she does not distract him from his duties."

She giggled, then took my hand and led me toward our quarters. "As I have resisted distracting you for the last long while. Shall we?"

Tuesday, 15th July 1718 – Scilly Isles

The following seas and winds gave Atlantica a gentle, predictable motion as days turned to weeks. Hints of dawn lit our bed on the twelfth day of July, when a call came down the voicepipe, "Captain, sir."

I unwrapped from Gillian and replied, "Good morning, Master Evans."

"A very fine one, sir. We have raised land from aloft."

"Excellent. Only a few hours behind our DR."

"The lookout reports the isles well risen, so we should soon see them from here, and we will do a series of running fixes."

"Very well. I shall be up after breakfast."

"Aye, sir."

As the sound of the tampion being reinserted echoed down the pipe, Gillian asked, "Are you not concerned? What if it is not the Scilly Isles?"

"Our latitude was confirmed by yesterday's Polaris sights, both morning and evening, as well as by merpass, and we are within hours of a three-week DR. Unless new land was created in our absence, it can be nothing but Scilly."

I chuckled and rolled her atop me. "Besides, with them not yet raised from the quarterdeck, we have well over an hour, closer to two, before we pass them. Shall we luxuriate?"

An hour and a half later, the lingering richness of the cookery's morning fare was a welcome warmth against the damp air. I could still taste the faint tang of the rich, butter-fried cod with fine Jamaican spices.

I assisted Gillian through the companionway hatch onto the quarterdeck, the crisp morning breeze of the English Channel hitting our faces. Then squinting against the glare of the midsummer sun breaking through the haze, I called, "Good morning, Master."

"Good morning, Captain," Evans replied, stepping away toward me from the binnacle. He pointed a weathered finger off the port bow, where the low bank of Atlantic mist was rolling back under the heat of the rising July sun. "They are re-emerging now, sir. We lost them in that fog bank a while back."

I followed his point to see the Isles, breaking through the gray haze like a cluster of jagged teeth rising from the white foam of the rolling Atlantic. Then turning to Gillian, I said, "Since ancient times, these have been the sentinels marking the entrance to the English Channel."

"And there, sir," Evans said. "We raised the white-water wash over Bishop's Rock a quarter-hour past. The Atlantic is boiling over the ledge, but we have a safe berth."

I stepped to the rail, shielding my eyes against the morning glare. Fine off the port bow, amidst the deep blue of the rolling swells, a patch of brilliant spouts of white foam marked the hidden rock. I guided Gillian's eyes to it and said, "Eleven years ago, the Royal Navy suffered its worst peacetime disaster here. A navigational miscalculation ran Admiral Shovell's fleet into those hidden rocks, sinking four warships and drowning over 2,000 men."

As she raised a hand to her mouth, I turned to Evans and said, "This is a fine background to explain to the midshipmen as we begin teaching them the vital necessity of frequent fixes whenever near land. Remind them that it is not the sea which is the danger; it is the land."

For the next two hours, the quarterdeck became a quiet workshop of navigation. Gillian stood near the taffrail, watching in silent fascination as her young Manhattan cousins worked in unison with our sun-baked veterans. The ship moved past the perilous rocks on a calculated line of safety, converting the hidden granite teeth of the archipelago into a series of clean geometric points on our charts.

By mid-morning, the treacherous skerries of the Scillies had faded into our wake, and Atlantica officially entered the great, bustling highway of the English Channel. The gentle westerlies that had carried us across the Atlantic remained squarely at our backs, but the open, empty horizon was gone.

Over the next days, our safe passage along the southern coast of England became a continuous exercise in vigilance. The midshipmen maintained their watches without complaint, tracking our position against the visible landmarks of the mainland – the rugged cliffs of Cornwall, the dangerous Eddystone reef, and the high white chalk of Dover.

With every league we ran east-northeast, the sea grew increasingly crowded. The deep, solitary blue of the Atlantic vanished beneath a chaotic swarm of sails. We found ourselves weaving through a dense gauntlet of global commerce: massive, lumbering East Indiamen riding high on their outward journeys, endless fleets of dirty Newcastle colliers carrying coal to the hearths of the capital, and agile French fishing luggers that darted across our bows like gulls. 

Twice, we passed within hailing distance of towering Royal Navy frigates patrolling the narrows, their gunports a silent reminder of the crowded kingdom we were re-entering. Every hand was kept at the braces and sheets as the wind shifted erratically near the straits, the veterans and the green New York recruits working in absolute alignment to protect our deeply laden hull.

By the third morning, the transformation was complete. The crisp, clean air of the open sea died away, replaced by a thick, heavy mist that smelled of woodsmoke and low tide. The deep coastal green of the Channel water suddenly gave way to the murky, brackish brown of the Thames approaches.

I stepped to the rail to watch the low, muddy banks of the Kent shoreline begin to creep through the haze. Then I said to Mister Martin, "The sands of the Estuary shift with every summer gale, and our dawdling for the past few hours has positioned us to ride the flood from here all the way to the docks. The tide is at the bottom, so the channels show, but we are drawing too much water to gamble. Man the chains. Uninterrupted reporting."

"Aye, sir," Martin shouted back, his voice cutting through the damp chill of the breeze. "Swing the lead. Report soundings without stop."

The rhythmic cry of the sailors casting the lead-lines soon echoed along the hull of Atlantica, still visibly scarred from the attack and emphasised by replanking with pale Manhattan oak. After a tense transit, we finally left the shoals and reached the mouth of the river, heading home to London.