Page 87 of Unlikely Heroes
“Another half inch…” He stopped took several deep breaths and did what she knew he had to do, what he had probably held in for days. He tried to turn away but she didn’t allow that.
“My darling, why am I here if not to hold you and mourn, too?” she asked.
He cried into her breast as quietly as he could,. She rubbed his back, making soothing sounds she knew he liked. He sobbed until her nightgown was damp across the front.
When he could speak, he told her what happened, how his father had leaped between him and sharpshooters on thePluton, drifting close. “I took the first ball, and he took the next two from others in the rigging,” Able said. “Before he died, he told me it was a father’s duty to protect his child, something he had yearned to do.”
“I would think he died peacefully then.”
“Oddly enough, I believe he did,” Able replied.
“How can that be odd? I know you would gladly die for Ben.”
“I would, and for you, as well.” He seemed to consider her words. “You’re right.”
“Where is he? Did you bury him at sea?”
“He’s in theMercury.”
“What?”
“That’s one reason we were longer returning to Portsmouth. Admiral Collingwood ordered us to deliver dispatches to the blockade off the northern Spanish coast, acquainting them with the sad news of Lord Nelson’s death.” He spoke calmly. “There was a carpenter’s mate I knew aboard one of the frigates. He made a coffin, and we put my father in.” His arm went around her shoulder and he tugged her closer. “It’s a rough coffin, but what is that to anything? He was a sailor. We will have him interred in our family plot.”
“A thousand times yes,” she said. “I wonder…could you and Mrs. Munro go to Dumfries and bring Mary Number 134 home?”
“Let us visit my grandmama tomorrow,” Able said. “I have not time to make the journey with her – too much to do here – but Mrs. Munro is a woman of some persuasion. She can bring her daughter south to lie beside the count.” He kissed her shoulder. “That was all my parents ever wanted. Good Lord, but I am tired.”
Silence. Meridee heard his even, deep breathing.My love, you are home, she thought. The news of Headmaster Croker’s death would keep. Before anyone else was up, he might like to hear her predictions about Captain Ogilvie and Grace St. Anthony. Ben would be delighted to see his Papa when he bounded into their bedroom, although Meridee suspected he would complain of poor treatment dished out to a small, earnest child. A visit to Mrs. Munro would take away some of Ben’s sense of ill-usage, because his great grandmama knew how he felt about crème buns.
Meridee composed herself for sleep, content to lie beside her sleeping man, home from war. She rested her hand on his chest, enjoying the steady beat of his heart. He slept so soundly that she moved closer and rested her head against his heart.You are my heart of oak, she thought,my summum bonum, my nonpareil, my lover, my husband.
She yawned and heartily wished Napoleon to the devil. She thanked all the heroes of the Royal Navy still at sea, those iron men in wooden ships, guarding their homes and families.You are my hero, Master Six, she thought, and closed her eyes.Never forget it.
“I won’t.Sumum bonum, eh?”
Epilog
June, 1806
Jamie MacGregor, acting sailing master, raised port after a lucrative Pacific voyage which had added his first prize money to his pocket. He fretted because he had missed the monstrous fleet action simply called Trafalgar. He and Able took their usual walk by the stone basin in late afternoon.
“It chafes me, sir, that I missed the fight,” Jamie exclaimed. As an earlier Gunwharf Rat, he knew enough of humility to follow that outburst with a shake of his head. “Like a fool, I complained about the matter to Captain Pettibone.”
“Whereupon he told you…” Able knew David Pettibone. He could almost hear the man’s pithy reply.
“… don’t be an ass, Mr. MacGregor,’” Jamie said with a smile. The smile faded. “Still…I know you had a hard time of it, sir. My sister told me about your father and also your mother.”
Able heard the longing of a workhouse boy who felt a pang that he and his twin sister had been abandoned by their parents. “Jamie, my parents now lie at peace next to each other in the Six family plot,” Able told him. “That was more than I ever expected.” He broke the solemn moment, because it was still tender. “And our Ben has a great-grandmama who spoils him outrageously. We have been blessed, Jamie.”
They were in no hurry. Able told Jamie about the state funeral for Admiral Lord Nelson, whose body had been preserved in a vat of brandy and returned to England eventually. “What a funeral! I’ve never seen such pomp and circumstance,” Able said, “or so much gold lace and epaulets. He was interred in the crypt at St. Paul’s, a fitting place.”
Able also told him of William Pitt’s death this year in January. “He lies buried in Westminster Abbey. What a man,” he said quietly, remembering his first and only visit to 10 Downing Street, where the prime minister took such care to see that he was kept safe from any consequences of the Conde de Quintanar’s surreptitious visit to Portsmouth.
“What a career he had,” Jamie noted as they strolled slowly. “Will there ever be another prime minister like him?”
“Not in our lifetimes. I miss him,” Able said. “At his funeral, his physician told me Mr. Pitt died of old age at forty-six, as much as if he had been ninety. War and governing are both hard businesses. Taken simultaneously…” He shrugged. “Who can say?”
“Forty-six?” Jamie questioned. “Lord Nelson was forty-seven, wasn’t he?”
