Chapter 8

Melchior and de Hogue returned to the mainland by the post boat, sailing up the River Medway, past the moored shipping to Chatham docks from where they made their way to the fortress up on the hill. Here they delivered Bailey’s report to the port Admiral’s secretary who listened to their accountants with a look of impassive disbelief before accepting the written documents and bidding them good day. Neither man had expected to be taken seriously though, at least certainly not by the Royal Naval authorities in Chatham so in good spirits they sauntered down the hill into Chatham town. They made their way to the nearest cab stand and hired a Brougham to take them out towards Gravesend where they were to meet up with the HMS Pegasus the following day.
There they took rooms in a public house and ordered a fine meal of roast chicken with oyster sauce, and drank a tepid glass of wine before settling in the snug, each with a mug of ale. For a short while they spoke together, but within half an hour both men were sound asleep.

The next morning, de Hogue awoke in the strange bed and for a while he lay on his back staring at a crack which ran along the length of the ceiling.
The events of the last few days played in his mind as he remembered them and he let McKee’s words run freely in his mind. After a while he struggled up and faced himself in the mirror.
After shaving he made his way down to the tap room and sat with a mug of hot coffee to wait for Melchior.
Five minutes passed before a young man in a second lieutenants uniform entered the inn and looked about at the few patrons before approaching the bar. The bar tender pointed towards de Hogue and as the lieutenant approached, de Hogue waved him to be seated. He introduced himself as Johnson, sent by Captain Fellows of the Pegasus to escort de Hogue back to the ship.
“Where is she now?” de Hogue asked.
“She’s already moored and waiting.” Johnson replied as the bar maid hurried over.
“When did you arrive?”
Johnson accepted a mug of coffee from the shy red faced girl, oblivious to her charms and replied. “We came to on last nights tide Sir. Captain Fellows thought it best to wait until this morning before rousing you up.”
“I shall have to remember to thank the Captain for that” de Hogue smiled. “I’ve seldom slept as sound as I did last night,”
Melchior appeared with a sleep creased face and de Hogue moved aside for him to be seated at the table. Immediately the bar maid returned, but although she diligently took Melchior’s orders, her eyes were reserved for Johnson.
Again, de Hogue noticed Johnson’s lack of interest in the girl, but used to the ways of the navy he shrugged it aside as of no importance. Instead he introduced Melchior and requested some more coffee.
Melchior had also noted the girl staring at Johnson with a moon struck expression and he chuckled to himself as he tucked into his breakfast. He listened to de Hogue’s nautical questions regarding the tide with a loose disinterest and let his eye wander over the other occupants of the inn as he ate.

An hour later they made their way down to the river bank where the Pegasus was moored out in mid stream.
“There she is” de Hogue muttered and Melchior followed his eyes out towards a large ship, painted in the black and yellow pattern of the Nelson chequer.
Standing on the quarter deck was a tall imposing man in a Post Captains uniform. Catching sight of their approach he began to issue orders, and a small tender which had been moored along side immediately pushed off and made its way towards them. De Hogue cast his eyes along her near perfect rigging with a critical eye, knowing full well that every man jack aboard would quickly be aware of his rank, and eager to show the ship in all her glory.
As the tender approached, rowed by several hands in fine white duck frocks and sennit hats, each carrying a long blue ribbon with HMS Pegasus in bold white lettering across the brow, Johnson turned to Melchior and de Hogue with a shining red face of pride.
“Well, there she is” he beamed at them. “What do you think?”
The tender was already in earshot and de Hogue caught the sudden stiffening of several backs.
“What a wonderful boat!” Melchior declared, oblivious of his gaff. “Such pretty colours.”
The Tender came alongside the dock and a short close cropped man came up the ladder to salute Johnson.
“Sir. The Cap’n sends his regards and requests ye all repair aboard.”
“Very well Seymour” Johnson replied. He turned to Melchior and took his bag. “Follow me Mr Melchior, and remember, always keep one hand for the ship and one had for your self.”
“Oh I will” Melchior smiled at him, disproportionately pleased by the sight of the ship, and failing to take note of the disapproving eyes which regarded him with some hostility for calling the ship, a ‘boat’. De Hogue followed him down into the tender, and made sure to sit at the rear so that the rowers could take note of his face as they approached the ship.
Looking up at her long slender lines, he nodded slightly, wearing a begrudging frown, and knowing full well that his reaction would please the hands. He was well aware of the pride with which the British mariners regarded their ships, since he was himself of that profession. Indeed by the time they reached the black and yellow, well painted hull and the bosun hooked on. His face had taken on an expression of pure delight and this did not go unnoticed.
Even as he made his way on to the quarter deck, the word had passed along the gun deck that they had both a poxy civilian and a right sea man aboard.
It didn’t take much for the crew to recognise de Hogue for what he was, with or without a uniform. By contrast, Melchior’s beaming, ignorant smile was regarded with indifference.
“Who’s that grass combing bugger?” the Carpenter asked the Gunner.
The Gunner spat a long brown quid over the side and shrugged. “just another civilian tha knows” he replied in a broad Lancashire accent.