Page 1 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
A CHRISTMAS HOUSEGUEST
Carla Kelly
Dedicated to parents everywhere who seem like islands
of calm in a chaotic world. We, their children, learned
later that they were only picking their way through life,
hoping for the best, the same as we are.
Chapter One
Not long before Christmas 1811
An orphan of many years, Sailing Master Andrew Hadfield, Royal Navy, never expected much mail. From his earliest days at sea, he expected nothing except official directives as his career advanced. A warranted officer, he waited for such a letter now from the Navy Board, assigning him to another ship, once he was cleared to depart from hospital.
Safely ashore at Stonehouse Hospital in Devonport, he was several months into recovery from two hungry years captive of the French in a Spanish prison overlooking the Bay of Biscay. The bosun’s mate died soon after their arrival at the naval hospital, and Captain Tate had been released from the officers’ ward in another block. Four remained.
Before he left, Captain Tate promised to invite Andrew to spend Christmas with his family in Kent. ‘I owe you my life, Master Hadfield,’ he told Andrew as his son helped him from the ward.
He did. Captain Tate had been too weak to survive under his own power after they tied a rope made of every rag they wore, and shinnied naked down the outer wall of their prison. Two of their number fell to their deaths. When the makeshift rope ran out, Andrew grabbed the captain and jumped into the ocean.
It had been the effort of Andrew’s life to swim toward an alert Fast Dispatch Vessel sailing for England. Exhausted by even the skinny weight of Captain Tate on his back, Andrew barely survived. The FDV hauled them aboard and sailed back to the blockade to transfer them, the captain deeming them in too desperate a situation for even the short dash to Portsmouth.
Reeking and filthy, the escapees suffered further as buckets of sea water were poured on them on the blockader’s deck. Andrew took cold comfort in knowing any who died ofthatshock would be buried at sea, and not dumped in the prison’s hog pen.
Captain Tate must have forgotten about the invitation once he left Stonehouse; no letter came. No matter. Andrew prepared to spend Christmas in the ward, assisting the tough-as-nails matron. That Navy Board letter would come soon, announcing his next ship.
As he ate and rested, Andy Hadfield discovered another healing property of Stonehouse Hospital: The constant stress of his naval calling rested more lightly upon him there. Because of his special gift with nautical mathematics, he had become a sailing master. From the captain down, every tar knew Andrew’s value, and with value came unending stress.
As a master, he was responsible for a ship’s trim, the weight balance from bow to stern and optimizing of sails to keep a ship afloat and dangerous to the enemy. Every lieutenant on a frigate outranked him, but all deferred to his quarterdeck command in battle. Sailing masters knew their killing trade.
Last night’s gathering after the evening meal gave him food for thought. The bosun was a wise man, and everyone listened when he spoke. ‘Lads, I’ve been thinking: Christmas is nearly upon us. Just for fun, if you could ask for any present, what would you like?’
First there was good-natured laughter from men who never received gifts, and who had probably been at sea for all Christmases since King Louis lost his head and Napoleon set Europe ablaze with his ambition.
Silence, then a foretopman spoke. ‘My gift to myself? Passage to America. I’ll become a Yankee.’
Hoots and laughter followed. The cook wished for a sponge cake with gooey icing, which brought enthusiastic applause. The carpenter’s mate wanted his tools back, left behind when their frigate sank and they had no choice but to swim to Spain and surrender.
‘What would you make?’ someone asked. The carpenter nudged the foretopman. ‘I’ll build you a nice cabin in America!’
They looked at him. Andrew tried to shrug off their attention. ‘It’s nothing,’ he attempted to answer, but the others were having none of it. ‘Confess, Master Hadfield,’ the bosun bellowed in his official loud voice.
‘Very well, you miscreants,’ Andrew said, which brought smiles. ‘I have no family.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Just once, I want someone pretty to see me off from the dock before a voyage. Oh, and be there when I returned.’
Trust the bosun. ‘Master, they’re not pretty, but any number of terrified midshipmen would be happy to see you off, provided they could stay behind!’
‘I have frightened some,’ Andrew admitted, when the good-natured laughter died. ‘Some—I call them successful—probably never put a feather in the hold without making sure the weight won’t affect the ship’s speed.’
‘Good for them,’ the bosun said, then yawned. ‘’Tis late, lads. Here’s one more Christmas gift to think on—what gift would you like togive?’
Then it was time for more food—they could never get full—and final rounds from the overworked surgeon. The matron made her last round; quiet reigned.
Andrew thought of the bosun’s question. Last week, a wife had arrived at the hospital, letter in hand. ‘Marshall? Marshall?’
The other surviving foretopman gasped. He held out his left arm, the right severed at the wrist during that first year in prison. Now he had a hook. ‘My love, you came! I wrote and you finally came.’
