And James Pendexter, making his way as quickly as he was able towards the waterfront, cared not in the least about any of it. He was James Pendexter, and not Lord Pendexter, due to the bad luck of being the second of three sons. But at least he had the satisfaction of being, at twenty-one years of age, Lieutenant Pendexter, R.N., with every reason to believe that he would end his years as Adm. Sir James Pendexter, or perhaps Adm. Sir James Pendexter, M.P. It could have been much worse; his younger brother had been made to enter the Church. And Lieutenant Pendexter still had out hope that his older brother would die young.
He pushed his way down King Street, between two officers of the Royal Regiment of Artillery, ignoring their cries of protest as he barged past. The blue and red uniforms of the artillerymen were far more elaborate and colorful than Pendexter's modest blue coat with white facings, white breeches and waistcoat, the trapping of a mere lieutenant. This despite the fact that Pendexter's uniform had been made by London's most fashionable tailor, and the gold buttons on the coat and the gold buckles on his shoes were worse more than any ordinary sailor in His Majesty's service could expect to collect in two years of wages and prize money. Still, Pendexter was just a lieutenant, of average height and unremarkable brown hair and pinched, aristocratic features, virtually indistinguishable from any of thousand lieutenant in the Royal Navy. The fact that he was the nephew of the admiral in command of the North American squadron did not change that. He did not stand out on the streets of Boston.
King Street turned into the Long Wharf, leaving the city behind and jutting out half a mile into the harbor. Pendexter hurried along, peering over the edge of the wharf as he walked. He was to have met the flagship's gig forty-five minutes earlier, and now he found himself in the familiar position of having to rush to an appointment while simultaneously concocting an excuse for being late.
And then he remembered, and the realization was so startling that he stopped in his tracks. A sergeant of the Fourth Regiment of Foot bumped into him from behind, muttered an obscenity, and continued on, but Pendexter did not even notice. A smile spread across his face, and it turned into a laugh. Why was he rushing? He was not trying to catch a boat that would take him to a ship aboard which he was serving, there to be lambasted by some idiot first officer about being late. He was rushing to meet the gig from the flagship Preston, his uncle's, Admiral Graves's, flagship, and the boat was taking him to his own command. He had no need to rush, they could wait for him.
He continued on, still smiling, strolling at a leisurely pace. He stopped to inspect the wares of a pie cart stationed on the wharf, but the offerings were rubbish, as was most American fare. He crossed over to the edge of the wharf and looked out toward the anchored man-of-war, trying to pick out the Icarus, the brig Icarus, his first command. He had not been down to the harbor in three days, not since the interview with his uncle aboard the Preston, and he was unable to identify the Icarus among the many small vessels at anchor. It did not matter. The midshipman in the Preston's gig would know which vessel it was.
Pendexter thought back over the interview with his uncle in the Preston's spacious day cabin. His uncle has served Madeira, a fine Madeira that he had insisted, in his philistine way, on calling 'blackstrap.'
"There is a brig, just come in from West Indies with dispatches," his uncle said. They had been discussing the military situation in the colonies, and Pendexter found the subject an absolute bore, but now they were moving on to considerations of his carrier, and Pendexter once again gave the admiral his full attention. "She is the Icarus. have you seen her?"
"I haven't been down to the harbor in almost a week, Uncle, so I am afraid that I have not had the pleasure."
"Her commander, Bleakney, a most able young officer, is to be made post. I have a mind to promote you as commander into her."
Pendexter smiled, quite involuntarily. "That would be most agreeable."
"Now, there are some things that I wish to discuss with you," said the admiral, spinning his glass between his fingers and staring into the red wine. "I know that for most of your time as midshipman you were carried on ship's books while you were in school. Now, I am not saying that there's anything wrong with that, most mids do it, but you don't have a great deal of time at sea."
Pendexter snorted. "Please, sir, you act as if you were posting me into a first rate! I should think that I can handle a silly little brig!"
The admiral eye's narrowed as he stared at Pendexter, and the lieutenant felt suddenly uncomfortable, afraid that he had gone too far. "Don't mistake me," said Graves, "I do believe that you're ready for this command. But bear in mind the great responsibility that command carries. Even the command of a 'silly little brig.'"
Pendexter saw that it was time to mollify his uncle. "I apologize for that, Uncle, and I am aware of the responsibility with which you're entrusting me. Please be assured that I will always endeavor to do my duty."
Graves leaned back and his expression softened. "Very well. The Icarus has on her a very experienced sailing master, a Mr Charles Dibdin. Knows the West Indies as if it were Piccadilly. A good man, we sailed together back in '62. Turned down more than one offer of a commission."
"I shall mostly certainly call upon his expertise, Uncle."
"Now of course we can't give you a lieutenant with more seniority than you. This might be a problem as you've only been passed for lieutenant for a year... No doubt my clerk can find someone with sufficient experience to be your first officer."
"That would be of great benefit, indeed."
Graves sat for a moment, looking at Pendexter, then stood and extended his hand. "Congratulations, James. This is the first real step up the ladder to flag rank. I have no doubt that you will do our family great honor."
"I thank you, sir, and pray that I shall live up to your expectations."
"You will, son, you will... Greenhurst!" This last was directed towards the small office partitioned off on the starboard side. A harried nclerk stuck his head out of the door.
"Sir?" he said, but Admiral Graves ignored him and continued to direct his words to Pendexter.
"Greenhurst here has your orders and will see about getting you a first officer with some experience. I would like to invite you to dine with me, but I fear that you won't be in port long enough. Good luck, James." With that Graves stood and shook Pendexter's hand, then turned and walked aft into the great cabin, the meeting over.
Pendexter stepped over to Greenhurst's tiny cubicle where the clerk was shuffling through a stack of papers, searching, apparently, for Pendexter's orders.
"Greenhurst," said Pendexter in a low voice, "I am going to write down a name for you."
He reached across the desk and pulled Greenhurst's pen from its stand and scrolled a name on a blank sheet of paper." Lt John Smeaton," he said as he wrote, "currently forth in the Asia, an excelent seaman and a gentleman of the highest breeding. I would be most obliged if you could see that he is posted to the Icarus as first officer." Pendexter blotted the ink, laid a five-pound note on the page, and folded it in two, handing it to Greenhurst. "Do you think that that could be arranged?"