The Portrait (free review copies available, just message me!)

Chapter 1

Gibraltar, November 1799

"There are those who feel that your—er—neck isn't worth saving."

"Yes, sir."  The admiral waited politely, but no explanations or excuses followed the terse reply.  He nodded approvingly.  Hated excuses.  It wasn't—gentleman-like, as it were.

"But I have taken responsibility.  And I want you to go home."

At this, the dark shadow in front of him raised its head.  Beyond was the blinding light reflected off the turquoise of the Mediterranean.  The back-light was so powerful that the admiral could not make out any features on the shadow's face.  He squinted.

"Home, sir?"

The admiral paused.  An odd response, he thought.

"Home, young man, home.  Back to your people.  Take some time.  Do some shooting, break in a new horse—whatever it is that you do.  In any case, the whole mess will blow over if you are not around to remind everyone of what happened.  Perhaps in a year, or a little longer."

There was a silence.  A bit nettled, the admiral said, "Given the circumstances, it could have been a great deal worse."  He toyed with the miniature ship on his desk—carved out of wood, it was a replica of his own first command, the H.M.S. Worthy.  God love her, she was still afloat, somewhere in the West Indies.

He jerked his mind out of its wandering reverie to deal with the subject at hand.  Avebury.  Damn it all, he'd stuck his neck out for the man.  But he liked him.  He had that certain something, the grittiness that bespoke a man who had risen through the ranks, but with an edge of gentlemanly refinement.  He didn't know too much about his people, save that his entry into the navy was helped along by a distant cousin who was secretary to a well-placed admiral.  But he was an impressive commander, well-liked, and ran a ruthlessly orderly fighting ship.  Not to mention all that prize money—

He cleared his throat to try again.  "Avebury, you're a fantastic sailor.  A real leader of men.  One of my best.  I wouldn't go this far for just anyone, you know."

"Yes, sir."

"But I don't want to lose you.  And my influence will only go so far.  Go home.  You're a rich man.  Enjoy the social world.  Take a bride.  Do the things that normal men do."

"Normal men, sir?"  He said it in such a low voice that the admiral had to lean forward to hear him.

"I say, it's not meant as an insult, boy," the admiral said impatiently.  "Merely a figure of speech."  He leaned back in his chair and nodded dismissal.  For a moment, Avebury didn't move.  But then he slowly backed away from the huge desk and took his leave.  The Admiral sighed deeply and shook his head.  The quicker Avebury was out of the Mediterranean and out of active duty, the better.  Bright boy, a born sailor, but this latest mess had almost been too much—and it still might return to haunt him.  Better he went back to England, where surely his own stature and position would protect him from—whatever it was that might happen.

***

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