*A Kingston Carol*

Part One - Clayton’s Ghost

As far as Commodore Sir Edward Pellew was concerned it was definitely not going to be a good Christmas.

Barely arrived in Kingston, and he was confronted with this Renown business. The ship was not yet in harbour, but report of events aboard had preceded the docking and most certainly provided material for a Court of Inquiry and, if Black Charlie had his way, for a court martial. The news had arrived on Christmas Eve, and was without doubt the most unwelcome Christmas present of his life. He had spent a most disagreeable three hours wrangling over it with the only other captains currently in harbour. Or rather wrangling with Hammond. Collins had consumed a large amount of port, made inappropriate jokes, then gone to sleep and snored. Hammond, however, was more than capable of providing enough wrangle for three other captains.

Hammond was set on a court-martial, and, by implication at least, a conviction. And it really was very hard to find adequate reasons to argue with the man. Certainly Pellew wanted Captain Sawyer’s reputation maintained. Certainly he wanted Naval discipline preserved. Certainly he did not want a court-martial, but it was very hard to find a way of saying that without laying himself open to accusations that would be extremely awkward for a man in his position.

Evening found Commodore Pellew in his own quarters suffering from bad temper, indigestion and heat rash. Naval uniforms were not designed for southern climes, but of course it was quite inconsistent with his dignity to remove more than his coat, and even that could not be shed in front of the common sailors. Dear me, no.

So he was not at all in a patient mood when he became suddenly aware of a strange midshipman standing in front of him. Definitely not one of his, so presumably sent with a message from one of those two fools, er, captains, he had been speaking to earlier.

“Haven’t you learned to knock before entering a cabin?” he barked.

“I do apologise, sir.” With that the strange midshipman quitted the room, knocked smartly on the outside of the door, and re-entered. Pellew failed to bid him enter because he was too busy trying not to choke. He had quite clearly seen the man pass through the door, twice.

Without opening it first.

Pellew, however, was not a commodore for nothing. “Who the devil are you, sirrah, and what do you mean by walking through my door?” he barked in a voice only slightly less fearsome than it had been a moment earlier.

“Midshipman Clayton, sir,” the man replied smartly, “formerly of HMS Justinian.”

Justinian? Justinian? There had been no Justinian in the service for more than eight years. Pellew hastily poured himself a glass from the brandy decanter that stood on his desk and took a large gulp. It made no difference. The stranger was still there. What was more he was most definitely slightly transparent. Pellew could make out the outline of the door frame through his person. He felt that there ought to be something in the Articles against midshipmen being transparent, but could not think of anything at that particular moment.

“What do you want?” he snapped. “I’m sure you are breaking at least six regulations.”

“Very possibly, but I don’t think Captain Keene will raise objections. You and I have never met, sir, but we do have some acquaintances in common. The fact that I died a notably noble death has made it possible for me to arrange a certain intervention. You are on the brink of making a mistake, sir. A very grave mistake. I am here to prevent that.”

“I do not take lectures from midshipmen!” Pellew rasped. “Especially not dead ones.”

“Tonight is Christmas Eve,” Clayton went on, “the borders are very thin, and that, sir, has made this intervention possible. You will be visited, sir, by three spirits, one after the other.”

“My time is limited. Surely they could make an appointment to all see me at once?”

“The spirits who will visit you are the spirits of Christmas Past, Christmas Present and Christmas Yet To Come. They are here to remind you of things you have forgotten. For you are not a bad man, Sir Edward, you have merely got in the way of thinking like a politician rather than like a sailor. You need to remember that that way is not always either better or wiser.”

“Impudence!” Pellew fumed. “How dare you speak to your superior in such a way?”

“Being dead, sir, does alter one’s perspectives. The first spirit, sir, will visit you at midnight tonight.”

“A deuced awkward time for a visit. I see him at nine tomorrow or not at all.”

But Midshipman Clayton had left the room before the sentence was finished. This time he walked through a wall, which Pellew found even more annoying. He drained his glass and made haste to pour another. By the time that one was halfway consumed he was convinced that Clayton’s appearance had been a figment of his indigestion. Transparent midshipmen absolutely did not appear in commodore’s quarters. He must get himself a new steward, the heated climate appeared to have sent his present one completely to pieces. Perhaps he could bribe Collins’s steward away from his current master?

With that thought in mind Commodore Pellew betook himself to bed and was rapidly asleep.

Part Two - The Spirit of Christmas Past

He was woken by a light shining directly onto his face, and started upright using some decidedly below-decks language. As his eyes became used to the brightness he made out a figure standing beside his bed. In outward appearance it was that of a seaman, rather small, no longer young and both hard-bitten and basically decent in appearance. A man of much the same type as that fellow of Hornblower’s, what was his name? Mayhew? Manners? The same type, but not the same man. Three things alerted Pellew to the fact that this was no ordinary sailor. First, the fact that he was in Pellew’s cabin at all, an intrusion no ordinary seaman would dare to make. Second, his clothing which was black, not the normal blackness of cloth but an absolute black, like a window onto infinite night. Third the lantern he held, which shone, not from a candle within, but with its own white and brilliant light which illuminated the cabin as clear as day.

It has been said that Pellew was not a commodore for no reason. He was quite capable of grasping that the assumptions with which he had gone to sleep had been severely overturned. Having learned from his encounter with the ghost of Clayton he did not embark on futile expostulations now.

“I assume,” he said, with commendable steadiness, “that I am addressing the Spirit of Christmas Past?”

“That’s quite right, sir,” the ghost replied cheerily. Pellew was obscurely disappointed by how normal it sounded. He’d expected something a bit more sepulchral. “Come to show you the past, I have.”

“And if I do not wish to be shown?”

“Oh, you don’t get a say in the matter, sir. The past is what I’m here to show you and the past is what I’m going to show you. That’s the way it works.” The spirit reached out and grasped Pellew’s wrist with a hand that felt firm as a mortal’s, and only slightly colder. He knew that resistance would be both futile and embarrassing, but did open his mouth to demand that he should at least be allowed to dress. However he was given no time, for his sleeping cabin had already dissolved around him. A rush of cold air, a few seconds of a sightlessness that did not seem dark, and he was standing in his nightshirt and bare feet on a snow covered slope.

Pellew’s first reaction was fury at his undignified garb. A nightshirt, even a navy blue nightshirt with gold braid on it, was a sadly inadequate garment in which to visit the past. Or anywhere else for that matter. His second reaction was to realise that he did not feel cold, which under the circumstances was extremely strange.

He was too taken up with these factors to perceive anything else, until the spirit said, “You’ll be knowing this bit of country, of course, sir.”

Pellew gazed around him at the snow covered landscape. “Why yes,” he said slowly, “Yes, this is my home.”

The Cornish countryside where he had spent his youth, and still spent his leaves. However the site of the old vicarage nestling amongst the trees told him that something was awry with time. The old vicarage had burned down some twenty years ago.

They passed over the snow covered ground at a speed faster than walking, and entered, without the formality of opening any door, a pleasant stone house. Pellew could not keep from exclaiming in recognition.

“A nice place,” the spirit said, “and a fine Christmas dinner waiting.”

“It’s all just as it used to be,” Pellew murmured, “just as it was when I was a boy.”

The silence was shattered by eager voices, the family, returned from morning services and shedding warm outer clothes in the hall. A woman’s voice floated through, in tones which caused Commodore Pellew to look down and shuffle his feet like a schoolboy.

“Really, Edward, of all the things to do! And on Christmas Day.”

“He deserved it!” A ten-year old Edward Pellew bounced into the drawing room, sporting an eye that was rapidly blackening. “Didn’t he, Father!”

“I respect your spirit, Edward,” Samuel Pellew said gravely. “But you must learn to when and how to stand up for things a little more carefully. The churchyard on Christmas morning was hardly an appropriate occasion to pick a fight.”

“Tell him to apologise, Father!” urged Sam, the eldest of the family. “Or that wretched worm’s father will stop us fishing on his land for sure.” There was a chorus of support from the two youngest boys.

“I’m not going to apologise just for some rotten fishing!” ten-year old Edward announced. “I’ll say sorry for hitting him in the churchyard, if Father thinks I should, but I’m not going to say sorry for anything else. Father’s always saying we should stand up for what’s right and I was!”

“You’d make a good lawyer, Edward,” his father smiled. “You should indeed make a stand for what is right, no matter what the pressures others put you under. Yes, I do ask that you apologise for brawling in the churchyard, but I will not ask that you retract the spirit of your opposition to that young man’s peculiarly unpleasant remarks – even if it does cost some fishing rights. You need to learn a little discretion, Edward, but your instincts are very proper.”

“Speeches to children,” the adult Pellew muttered, “The right way to talk to young minds, but adult ones know better.”

“Well, I won’t argue, sir,” the spirit said, cheerfully, “It’s time we were moving on in any case.”

The scene changed, almost in an eyeblink, and now Pellew found himself on the deck of a ship in midwinter. Evening was just drawing in, and the sky, though clear, had a pale tinge which spoke of a cold Pellew himself still could not feel. They were standing upon the quarter-deck, and not far away stood the captain, the gold braid of his uniform just visible beneath his cloak.

“Why,” Pellew exclaimed, “It’s Captain Pownall! Philemon Pownall, just as he used to be! All the best of my naval knowledge I learned from him. To think of seeing him alive again, after all these years!”

“He died in action, did he not?” said the spirit.

“Yes,” Pellew said huskily, “he died in my arms.” He blinked and wiped at an eye. “How this cold makes one’s eyes water! Philemon Pownall.… I called my eldest son for him.”

“Pownall Pellew,” the ghost shook its head gravely, “Quite the tongue-twister you contrived there. Your son may sometimes have wished that your captain had borne a different name.” Fortunately Pellew was not attending to this speech.

“I suppose… could I speak to him?”

“Afraid not, sir. That would be far too difficult to explain. That is to say, the you that I’m talking to now can’t speak to him, if you follow me, sir.”

Pellew was about to say that he did not, when he caught sight of the officer of the watch and was instantly silenced. For the lieutenant on duty was none other than his own younger self, presently blowing on his hands to try to get some warmth into them.

“Season’s Greetings, Lieutenant Pellew.” Captain Pownall’s unexpected voice made the younger Pellew jump violently.

“Oh. Ah. S-Season’s Greeting to you also, sir.”

“A cold watch, Lieutenant, but you have the cheer of a Christmas meal to look forward to this evening.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” the younger Pellew hesitated, evidently trying to summon up the courage for some utterance of great moment. “Sir, have you, that is, I know some dispatches came yesterday. Would it be grossly impertinent if I were to ask, did they contain any matters arising from the court martial?”

“No, Lieutenant, they did not. Had you a particular reason for asking?”

“It’s only, Lieutenant Trimmer seemed to think your evidence would count against you, sir, with the Admiralty.”

Captain Pownall frowned at the younger man. “I believe I will be frank with you, Lieutenant. When it became known how I intended to testify, there were certain, well I hesitate to say threats, but it was implied to me that such testimony might be against my own interests. So far there have been no consequences. Perhaps there will not be, I will admit to hoping so.”

“But your testimony was true, sir. We all knew it.”

“It was true, yes, but truth is often not what the men at the Admiralty wish to hear. The vice-admiral is an exceedingly well connected man. And he is also a fine sailor in the normal way of things. I do not doubt that his lapse of judgement was due to the fever from which he has been suffering.”

“Lieutenant Trimmer, sir, said you should not have given the evidence you did,” the younger Pellew said, in a tone of deep unease. “He said that the public shouldn’t know that the vice-admiral had made a great mistake, they might lose faith in the service.” He hesitated, “I told him, sir, that what you said was truth, and that should be an end.”

Pownall smiled. “That was a loyal act, Lieutenant. I believe the views of Lieutenant Trimmer may have been somewhat coloured by the vice-admiral being his second cousin. But you should know my concern in this case was chiefly for a good man being made scapegoat for a disaster that was none of his fault. Truth, Lieutenant, can sometimes be concealed without sin, but injustice is injustice on all occasions. I am only thankful Captain Garnett received no worse a penalty than dismissal from the service. And he has private means, but the injustice remains. And I believe I had the true welfare of the service more at heart than those who made Garnett their victim, that a man of greater influence and reputation might escape unscathed.”

“The Navy, Lieutenant, asks great loyalty from those who serve her. But it is of no profit to simply demand loyalty: it must be earned. We who are officers must display loyalty not just to those above us, but to those beneath. A captain who treats his men fairly and defends them from abuse will get three times the service of a man who is neglectful of their interests. The same applies higher up the ranks also. To so mistreat a loyal and able man undermines the whole fabric of the service. Few indeed are the men willing to display loyalty to an institution which deals only injustice in return. And most of those are not such as I would care to have serving beneath me.

“Moreover, I think it a bad principle that men can escape the consequences of their own mistakes by laying the blame upon an innocent subordinate. That leaves them with less reason to be responsible. I have said that I believe the vice-admiral was ill. But he made a mistake attempting to command in such a condition. If the illness comes on him again, will he attempt command again? Will other men in his shoes? The court-martial gave little reason not to do so.

“That court-martial was corrupt, and the Navy is the worse for it. Injustice and disloyalty are never the right path, and to pretend they are does our country nothing but bad service.” Pownall paused, and gave a half-rueful glance at the younger man. “I am sorry to have preached you a sermon, Lieutenant, but this affair has left a most foul taste in my mouth. I fear I have used you to purge a little of the poison.”

“I am glad you did, sir,” the young Pellew said earnestly, “most glad.”

“I remember that night,” the older Pellew whispered.

“Of course,” the spirit said cheerfully, “Captain Pownall is only a captain. A simple fighting man. He would hardly understand the political side of things.”

“I’ve heard enough,” Pellew said abruptly. “I wish to leave this time.”

“If that’s what you wish, sir.” Again the hand around his wrist – and there was darkness.

Pellew could tell this was the hold of a ship. The motion, the creaking, above all the smell of damp. Quite a strong smell. This must be an old ship, in poor condition.

“I’ve no memory of spending Christmas in a hold,” he said in puzzlement.

“Oh, it’s not just your own past we’re visiting, sir.” The spirit’s voice sounded loud in the dark. On its heels came other sounds, someone was entering the hold, someone who was taking care to make as little noise as possible. Then from a different direction another noise, a scuffle in the dark that might almost have been a rat, but was not.

“Horatio?” the soft word came from the direction of the newcomer. “Horatio?”

“Archie?” another low voice, more unsteady than the first and from the same direction as the scuffle of the not quite rat. “Is that you?”

More sounds, Pellew could just detect a shifting in the darkness as he heard someone move uncertainly past him, towards the second voice.

“I’ve got a hot brick in a cloth here,” matter-of-fact now, although still cautiously low. “Clayton said you’d most likely feel the cold for days after that spell in the riggings.”

“How… how did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t. I just tried the places I go when I want to get away.”

More low sounds of movement. Pellew’s eyes ached with straining at the dark. “Thank you,” one of the voices said, a little awkwardly, then he heard a sharper movement, joined by a sound between a gasp and a moan. “Sorry, did… are you all right?” No answer. After a few moments a bleak “He’s beaten you too, hasn’t he?” More silence. “He… why did he do it?”

“He doesn’t need a reason.” Unnatural flatness in the voice now. “It… it’s not as bad as the beating he gave you.”

“How often does he…?”

“I don’t know. He’s… not predictable. Can we not talk about it, please?”

Pellew swallowed hard. He had no need to wonder who they were speaking of, having long since concluded Jack Simpson must have been the worst type of bully, but there was a difference between knowing a thing and confronting it directly.

There was a pause before the next words, spoken with forced steadiness, “I brought these as well. Raisins in brandy. Left over from the wardroom dinner, last night.

“Archie, how did you–?”

“I didn’t steal them, Horatio, if that’s what you mean. The cook always sells the leftovers. He let me have these cheap because it’s Christmas.”

“So it is…. Christmas Day.” A slight pause, then, a bit stiffly “I’ll repay you for my share, of course.”

“No need. I’d be sick if I ate all these myself.”

“And you don’t want to join me by being sick in Spithead?”

“Quite frankly, Horatio, no. Do have some. I don’t want to have come down here for nothing.”

There was quiet then. Pellew could have stood in the dark for an age, but once more the spirit’s grip was firm upon his wrist, and the hold was gone in an eyeflicker.

He blinked in the sudden light that streamed in through a small, barred window. The room was a cell, and a young man in a worn uniform was sitting on a bunk with his knees drawn up and head tipped back against the wall. Midshipman Kennedy.

Quick footsteps outside, and Horatio Hornblower came in, carrying with him a kind of eagerness that Pellew had never seen in his grave young lieutenant. “Archie, the Don’s sent over Christmas food from his own kitchens. The men are getting up a celebration. Do come out.”

Kennedy seemed to make a visible effort to shake off whatever mood had gripped him as he rose, “He has, has he? I’m surprised Massaredo didn’t invite you to have dinner with him.”

“He did,” Hornblower said, a bit awkwardly. “I told him I would prefer to spend Christmas with my ship-mates.”

“Generous, but you might cast a damper over the annual belching contest.”

“The – you think so?” Hornblower looked truly worried. Kennedy sighed elaborately.

“That was a joke, Horatio. Your lamentable sense of humour has deteriorated still further in my absence. Shall we go and join the throng?”

It was the first Christmas dinner Pellew had ever witnessed in which the diners sat on the ground in a dusty courtyard arranged in a loose imitation of a formal table. Someone suggested an Admiral of the Day should be appointed, Oldroyd was picked by universal acclamation, and sat at the head of the mock table wearing Hornblower’s hat, with some pieces of an unidentified plant stuck in it in lieu of a cockade. Shy at first, he soon got into the swing of the part, stuck his chest out pompously and issued a string of absurd commands, most of which were pointedly ignored.

Dinner was polished off with relish, despite some loud speculations by the men about the exact content of some of the dishes. Afterwards Oldroyd (prompted by a discreet whisper from Matthews) sprang to his feet and announced that each man should take it in turns to entertain the company. Hornblower looked decidedly alarmed, but when his turn actually came he produced a chunk of Gray which seemed to please the men. Kennedy sang a raucous ballard, made the funnier by the contrast between the words and his demure expression – Pellew would never have suspected the well-mannered young gentleman of housing such depths. Styles produced an impressive display of gymnastics, Matthews told a quite hair-raising ghost story and the other men acquitted themselves successfully.

They embarked on a kind of charades afterwards and Matthews and Kennedy brought the house down by impersonating a parliamentary debate on whether it was true that the French had resorted to using trained catfish against the British fleet. To his astonishment, Pellew realised it was the first time he had ever seen young Hornblower laugh. Watching him holding his sides like a schoolboy Pellew wondered what other sides of his young protégé he’d never seen.

“You know, Archie,” Hornblower said, rather breathlessly, in an interval caused by Styles and Oldroyd having a hasty discussion about their next performance, “I think this is the best Christmas that I can remember.”

“How did you celebrate at home?” Kennedy asked, looking surprised.

“We didn’t, really. My father would usually have a dinner invitation, but…” he broke off what he was saying, and a couple of moments later was distracted as the game got underway again.

“Time to be going, sir,” the spirit announced.

“Must we?” Pellew could hardly having had more fun if he’d been joining in the sport himself.

“One more visit to be got through, sir.” The courtyard was gone.

Once again Pellew stood upon the deck of a ship, but this time he needed barely a glance to know what ship it was. The quarter-deck of HMS Indefatigable was beneath his feet, and not far away Horatio Hornblower, in full lieutenant’s uniform, was keeping watch. Pellew was not at all surprised to see the ship’s captain come up behind the young officer and stand beside him, much as Captain Pownall had done.

“A cold Christmas night, Lieutenant.”

“Ah, er. Yes, sir.”

Captain Pellew seemed to be meditating further speech. At length he said, “It has been a difficult year for you, I am aware. But your own conduct has been beyond reproach. That you should never doubt.”

Hornblower looked acutely embarrassed, after a few moments struggling in silence he burst out, “If I can ever do for my men the half of what you do for yours, sir.… Your coming back for us at Muzillac.…”

Captain Pellew gazed at the horizon. “Would you understand me, Lieutenant, if I said that I knew when I made that decision that, whatever the consequence, I would never regret it?”

“I think so, sir.”

“A wise captain once told me that loyalty must be given to those below, as well as those above.”

“I- I hope you know, sir, that it means a great deal, to all your men, to have a captain whom they can rely on, absolutely.”

“No!” Commodore Pellew shouted, turning on the spirit, “No! I know why you are doing this! I will not be swayed from my course by such means. I demand this foolery cease at once!”

“As you order, sir.” Without seeming at all disturbed, the spirit opened the door to the lantern it had carried all through, and extinguished the light. All light. For several moments there was utter blackness, then dim light returned, and Pellew was standing once again in his own cabin.

Part Three - The Spirit of Christmas Present

For a few seconds he stood alone, and disoriented, there was not much light in the room. Barely had he got his bearings when the door surged open and a vast, though dimly seen, figure strode in as though he owned the place.

“Well don’t just stand there, man!” the figure boomed in tones which, if they had not been supernatural, would undoubtedly have woken the whole ship. Let’s have some light on things!”

The tone of command was so absolute that Pellew found himself fumbling with a candle. It flared up with much more than the usual light and he stared up at a towering figure in full admiral’s rig-out, with a broad, red face and a rather overpowering air of good humour. Authority was so firmly stamped in every line that Pellew found himself as tongue-tied as he had been on his first day as a midshipman.

“Hmm. Yes, I see, I see,” the figure looked him over in a way that made Pellew feel like a midshipman who had just failed to know the difference between a bowsprit and a sternsheet. “Well, better not waste time, man. We’ve only got one Christmas Day in hand. Follow me and step sharp!” Reduced to complete subordination, Pellew followed the Spirit of Christmas Present from his cabin without a word.

And found himself standing in his own front hall. His home front hall, back in Cornwall.

In wonderment he passed thorough the hallway, and, hearing voices stepped through the door of the dining room. A fond smile came to his face as he looked upon the family gathered within. Susannah, his wife, in her accustomed place, and all four of the boys gathered around, tall Pownall and Fleetwood, little George, and Edward the baby. Their dinner was already well underway.

“Will Father be having a Christmas dinner?” Fleetwood wanted to know.

“If his duties allow,” Susannah replied.

“I bet you can’t get proper Christmas food out there,” George said, and applied himself again to his plate. After a moment though, he emerged again to say, “They ought to let him come home for Christmas.”

“It’s much too far away,” Pownall said loftily. “Anyway there’s a war being fought. The French don’t stop for Christmas, silly!”

“Father’s got his duty to do,” Fleetwood seconded. “He’d always do the right thing, wouldn’t he, mother.”

“I hope so,” Susannah said, then looked as though she regretted the words. There had been some… disagreements between husband and wife over Edward Pellew’s increasing involvement in the political side of the Navy. “Your father is a good man,” Susannah Pellew said firmly. “George, don’t lick your plate.”

After that the conversation lapsed, except for occasional requests to pass the salt and other exchanges of young boys with healthy appetites. At length the spirit said firmly “Time to be going.” Pellew had forgotten he was not alone, and the longing to stay must have been evident on his face, for the spirit added, “Home leaves must be cut short when there is work to do.” With a final backward glance, Pellew slowly left the drawing room in the spirit’s wake.

They stepped outside, and into a different world. A great cabin, with tropical sunlight streaming through the windows, and two captains, coats discarded, relaxing over cigars and port. Hammond and Collins.

“Now that the business of eating has been completed,” Hammond was saying, “I wish to be sure I can count on you to take the proper line over this Renown affair.”

Collins leaned back in his chair. “Now, Charles, you know I never take any kind of line if I can avoid it, and certainly not over court-martials. That sort of thing can get you into real difficulties.”

“But you have, at the least, no intention of hindering me?”

“I never argue with you, Charles, it’s far too fatiguing.”

“And the commodore?”

“That’s your difficulty. But I don’t think he’ll give you any real trouble. I know the signs. Once captains start dabbling with politics they end up tacking before the wind so much they forget how to sail a straight line. And his admiral’s promotion is due soon, he won’t want to jeopardise that. You may be his junior, but we all know who has more friends in higher places.”

“Young Hornblower was one of his.”

Collins swirled the port in his glass. “One can always find another lieutenant to mentor, Charles, supposing that to be your idea of amusement, but an admiral’s gold braid is quite another matter. Not that I imagine Ned Pellew puts it that way to himself. These virtuous men are all skilled in self-deception.”

“Do you consider me a self-deceiver, Augustus?”

“You are no virtuous man. I wonder, I very much wonder, what your game is here?”

“The good of the service, of course.”

“You don’t fool me. Pious men like Ned Pellew may twist their minds into believing that black must be white, because white seems so simple that it must be black, but I never tried to be a good man, and I know the service needs no deaths in this case. What are you up to, Charlie? Revenge on Pellew for being made commodore when you were not?”

Hammond took a hard pull at his cigar and said nothing.

“Well, keep your reasons secret, if you will, but don’t believe I’m fooled.”

“Tell me, Augustus, do you have any care at all for the outcome of events?”

“As long as I’m not expected to exert myself, not the slightest. You see, I have never attempted to be a man of principle. But in my small way, I am a student of human nature and I expect to enjoy quite a pretty comedy.”

“And the fact that deaths are at stake does not concern you?”

“You can string them all up, if you want. Good Heavens, Charles, you look quite shocked. But I’m no different to most men, you know. What does not happen to me does not concern me. I’m simply more honest about it than most.”

Pellew swung on his heel and strode from the cabin.

He stepped straight into the stench of blood and death. The cockpit on a man-of-war, a scene he knew too well, a dark place full of wounded men. He noticed that the spirit moved through them gently, stopping every now and then to stoop over a man racked by especial suffering, place a hand on a contorted brow. It seemed to him that those touched seemed to grow a little easier for the contact. So the two of them came to the place where a dark haired young man in lieutenant’s dress stooped over a comrade who lay with bloody bandages swathing his lower chest. He recognised Hornblower at once, but it took a little longer to identify Kennedy in the drawn and ashen face of the badly wounded man.

“Try, Archie,” Hornblower was saying, “You need to keep taking water.”

Eyes closed with effort, Kennedy managed to swallow a little from the cup that was held to his lips.

“A little more?” Hornblower urged.

“Can’t,” Kennedy whispered. “Horatio… need to rest.”

“And so you shall.”

“Not me. You.”

“There is time enough for that.”

“No. Horatio… the men. Must stay strong for them.” The effort seemed to have exhausted him, but after a few moments he forced some more words out. “Just you … and Buckland now. They… need you. Can’t collapse. Rest.”

“He is right, Mr. Hornblower,” another voice rasped. Pellew, looking round, saw it came from a man he did not recognise, an older man than Hornblower and Kennedy, also wounded. “You cannot exhaust yourself here. You need to save your strength for your duties.” Hornblower’s eyes were on Kennedy still, his face an agony of indecision. “We will be well enough,” the older man insisted, “Go and rest.”

“Yes,” Kennedy whispered, “Rest.”

Hornblower turned abruptly and left, with an open determination not to look back. Pellew started, instinctively and involuntarily, after him, but he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, for he ended up in a quite different part of the ship, where two men were sorting through damaged sails. He recognised both, though their names escaped him for the moment.

“T’ain’t right” with the big man with the scarred face was saying insistently.

“That ain’t f’r us to say,” his smaller, older colleague insisted.

“Well, who else is goin’ to? It was a madman caused this an’–”

“Shut up, you fool! Gettin’ yerself arrested ain’t goin’ ter to do no manner of no good.”

“Ain’t nothin’s goin’ ter do no good, I reckon,” the voice boiled with rage. “But, I’ll tell yer this, if they try an’ put the blame on one of our lads, there’s men ‘ere as won’t stand fer it!”

“ ‘Old yer ‘ush, fer Christ’s sake!” The older man’s voice dropped to a frantic whisper. “What yer thinkin’ of? They wouldn’t want yer makin’ trouble, yer know that!”

“They didn’t want any of this stuff that ‘appened. But that didn’t stop it, did it? Yer want us ter stand fer it an’ do nothin’?”

Pellew backed hastily from the room, overcome by the need to turn a deaf ear before the conversation became even more mutinous than it already was. The spirit seemed to have been expecting him.

“Step sharp, now, time is running short.”

In the hours that followed they visited many places. Pellew saw Christmas celebrated aboard ships in freezing northern waters and amongst homesick exiles in Indian service. They penetrated the darkness of the prison hulks and attended an officers’ ball at Gibralter. Briefly he even glimpsed the Prime Minster, taking an hour for paperwork even on Christmas Day.

It was listening to carols being sung on Portsmouth streets that Pellew realised his companion had grown stooped and the hair was fallen from his head.

“My time of command is short,” the figure said, as though having registered his gaze. “It lasts only a single day, a day that must be well used.”

Pellew, however, had been distracted by a pair of skulking figures who, unlike any others he had seen in these strange journeyings, appeared to have seen both himself and the spirit.

“Ah, I knew they would be lurking somewhere, they never go very far away,” the spirit exclaimed, “Step out you villains, and let the man see you face to face.”

The men who stepped forward were two of the worst specimens Pellew had ever encountered, filthy, slouching, mouths slack and sneering both together, gaze shifty and truculent. “Take a good look and be sure you will know them both again,” the spirit commanded, “for you have encountered both many times. Every naval officer is asked to ship them aboard at some point in his career. This man,” a skinny, greasy-haired figure, “is Expediency. And this,” a squat, sallow man with missing teeth, “is Callousness. Mark them well, for my time with you is done.”

On the last words came a sound like a clap of thunder, and Pellew found himself, not this time in his cabin, but on ship’s deck in the dead of night.

Part Four - The Spirit of Christmas Yet To Come

Barely had he caught his breath before a hand descended on his shoulder. He spun around rapidly, prepared now for anything at all.

The figure behind him stood bathed in a pool of unearthly light. It was dressed entirely in crimson: crimson coat, waistcoat, shirt and neckcloth, breeches and stockings, even crimson shoes and gloves, and a crimson hat of old-fashioned style with a broad brim that covered much of the head. The only contrast was provided by the mask it wore, which was gold in colour and covered the whole face, although with holes above the eyes and mouth. The mask showed an ordinary human visage, with features beautifully modelled but quite expressionless.

“I assume that I am addressing the Spirit of Christmas Yet To Come,” Pellew said steadily, by this time the appearance of a performing bear would not have shaken him unduly.

The spirit did not answer, but merely beckoned him forwards with one gloved hand, the other rested upon a gold-topped black cane. And this silence, strangely enough, Pellew did find most unnerving. Yet he mastered his nerves with an effort and stepped forward, the scene at once dissolving around him in a now quite familiar way.

The room in which he stood was small, bare and shabby. Beside the grimy window Horatio Hornblower sat in an uncomfortable looking chair. There was a book open on his lap, but he was not reading. He looked underweight and tired and his uniform jacket was badly worn, but Pellew felt great relief at seeing him at all. The scenes of Christmas Present he had seen had aroused in him a great, although unspoken, anxiety.

There was a hesitant tap at the door and a young woman entered, and stood twisting her hands shyly.

“I thought, seeing as it’s Christmas Day you might like to eat with mother and me, sir?”

Hornblower looked at her as though recovering his mind from a great distance. Then he said, “Does your mother think that too, Maria?”

“Well, I, I asked her, sir, and it is Christmas.” Pellew was wise enough to guess that ‘asked’ was a euphemism for ‘persuaded’. “I thought you might be seeing some more of that friend of yours, but as you’re not….”

“What friend?” Hornblower asked, not sharply, but as if the matter was of no great importance.

“The one who came visiting you here the other week.”

“He wasn’t a friend,” Hornblower said, “I’d never met him before. He just, well, he thought I might give him some information. I had to tell him I could not.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the young woman said, inconsequentially, “But will you eat with us, sir?”

Hornblower closed the book and stood up, unsmiling. “Yes, Maria, since you are kind enough to invite me, I will.”

“She’s got her eye on him,” Pellew muttered, as they went out together, “but he hasn’t seen it yet. Silly boy, he could get caught that way far too easily.”

But it was no use trying to gossip with the spirit, which merely beckoned as inexorably as it had before.

Another plain room, somewhat larger and far more cheerful. A man in lieutenant’s uniform who seemed familiar; after a few moments Pellew realised it was the second wounded man he had seen aboard Renown. Two women, not in the first flush of youth, and like enough to the man for it to seem probable they were his sisters. It seemed they had just concluded a meal.

“Will you propose the toast, William?” one of the women asked, in tones that made it clear this was a customary formality.

“To… Christmas, I suppose,” the man said, receiving surprised looks, but the toast was drunk obediently.

The next minutes tried Pellew’s patience rather. The clearing away of the meal and attendant domestic trivialities hardly seemed worth the visit, but he could not summon the nerve to say that to the silent spirit. It was increasingly worrying him that he could see nothing of the personage beneath the clothes and mask, not even the glitter of an eye.

The domestic matters done at last, the party moved into a smaller room, which had a look as though it was kept only for the best occasions. At least two of them did, one of the women had disappeared.

“What is wrong, William?” the remaining woman asked her brother.

“What makes you think that anything is wrong?”

“Always before, ever since you first left home, always you have proposed the toast to the Navy in one form or another. Why not this time?”

“I admit,” the man called William said slowly, “that I am not very content with the Navy at present.”

“Because of being out of work?”

“No. Nothing to do with that.”

“Because of something that happened in the Indies, then? Was it anything to do with what that gentleman who came here looking for you wanted?”

“Yes. Yes it was. Always before now, Anne, I have been proud of what I do. I have felt that there was honour in it. But in the Indies something happened that made me ashamed of the Navy, that made me feel it not worth serving.”

“Will you tell me what?”

“There’s no point in raking it all up again. I would rather forget, if I can. I’ve already gone through it once these last few weeks.”

“For the gentleman who came here?”

“Yes. He… wished to hear about his brother. I told him the truth, as far as I knew it. I think he’d got far more of an earful from some of the men, but I can’t find it in me to be sorry.”

“Yet you mean to go back, if you can get a ship?”

“What else can I do, Anne? I’ve tried the merchant service without success. And you and Jane need the money – if she hasn’t noticed anything, don’t tell her. I daresay this will pass. But today – I did not feel like drinking to the Navy.”

Pellew was not sorry to find the spirit once again beckoning him from the room.

For the second time in what must be but the space of a few hours he was back in his own home. There was a difference, however, and that difference was that he was present, not just in his visiting form, but in the scene before him. The other Edward Pellew stood before a blazing fire, in informal conversation with festively dressed Susannah.

“I am very sorry he refused the invitation,” the other Pellew was saying.

“Does it surprise you?” Pellew knew that note in his wife’s voice and it seldom boded good.

“Well, no. He’s very independent, young Hornblower, perhaps too much so for his own good. I am afraid he would look on it as charity.”

“What else should he consider it?”

“That which it is, a mark of affection.”

“And why would he believe that after you left him to the wolves in Kingston?”

“Really, my dear,” the other Pellew said, “You do not comprehend the circumstances,” (oh dear, thought the visiting Pellew, when am I going to learn not to patronise my wife?), “I have a very sincere, indeed I might even say paternal, affection for that young man.”

“Do not attempt to pull the wool over my eyes, Edward. I have not been your wife all these years without learning something of the Navy.”

“Now, my dear–”

“Don’t try to soft-soap me. I’m not a bit surprised that young man doesn’t want to visit. And as for paternal affection – if you allowed one of our sons to be treated as he was in Kingston, to be victimised in that appalling and completely unnecessary way, then I swear, Edward, I would leave you.”

The man who faced her opened his mouth, then closed it helplessly. There was silence for several moments, then, with an air of business done, Susannah Pellew walked away.

“Spirit,” the visiting Pellew said hesitantly, “is this a picture of things which must be, or only of things as they may be?”

But the inexorable beckoning of the hand was his sole reply.

A large room, and a formal assembly of men and women attired in their best. This gathering must have been further in the future, for Pellew could see himself not far away, somewhat greyer of hair and wearing full rear-admiral’s rig-out – despite all that he had seen he felt a stab of pride at that.

A woman strode across the room towards that older self. She was rather heavily built and not particularly handsome, but there was a visible force about her. “You are Sir Edward Pellew?” she demanded.

“I am, madam,” the older Pellew said. “And I have the honour of addressing?”

“Mrs Carruthers. But my maiden name was Sawyer.” With that the woman drew back her arm and hit Pellew across the face, hard enough to send him staggering.

“Madam!” he gasped “I don’t –”

“You destroyed my father’s reputation! You and the rest of your tribunal!”

“Madam,” the older Pellew pleaded, “the desire to protect your father’s reputation was our first concern.”

“Balderdash! You could have hushed up events aboard Renown. I know well my father was no longer the man he once had been, but without you it need never have been proclaimed. There was no necessity to hold a court-martial! What did it do to my father’s name to tell the world that an officer of previously good reputation had attacked him? Did you not consider that people would ask why?”

“Madam, I consider that without unforeseeable events….”

“Unforeseeable!” Mrs Carruthers shouted. “Unforeseeable that a young officer’s family would attempt to defend his name! Unforeseeable that the family of a man of aristocratic birth could raise a worse stink than the family of Christian did over the Bounty?”

“I much regret that the book published by Lt Kennedy’s brother has caused you such distress, but….”

“The book and the questions in the House of Lords and the writings in the papers and too much more to list! My poor mother has never been the same. My father’s name is dirt, he is proclaimed to the world as a lunatic, he is remembered by everyone as the captain who forced his officers to turn upon him to protect their ship. And you caused that!”

“Madam, I had only the best interests of the Navy at heart.”

“You are either a liar or a fool,” Mrs Carruthers said. “And my father, in the days when he was his true self, would have hated to see good men persecuted under circumstances such as those. Even without concern for his own name he would have hated it. My father was a good man.

“But tell me one thing, Sir Edward. Upon your honour tell me. There have been many who suggest that young man’s confession was not even true, that he made it so that your tribunal should be satisfied. Tell me, do you believe that he was guilty?”

The older Pellew’s eyes flickered downwards. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Captain Sawyer’s daughter said, “Then God rot your soul in hell!” And strode away.

“It didn’t work.…” the Pellew of the present whispered, “All that… and it didn’t even work. The truth about Sawyer was exposed… horribly exposed.”

The way of the politician is not always either better or wiser, Clayton had said.

“The court-martial rebounded, the Navy was denounced… it didn’t work….”

Clayton had said he had come to prevent a mistake.…

“Surely,” he whispered, “surely it can be changed. I will change it…. Tell me, Spirit, can it be changed?”

The beckoning hand was his sole response. “No more. Please. I wish to see no more.” Still the hand beckoned, he could not refuse to follow.

A handsome room, furnished as a gentleman’s study. A large desk, with a silver haired man, dressed in rather odd looking clothes, seated behind it, writing. At first Pellew thought he was a stranger, then in the hard, lined face he picked out the features of Horatio Hornblower.

There entered another man, much younger. He wore what looked like the uniform of an expensive regiment, although the cut was somewhat different to any used in Pellew’s own time. In appearance he was not very like Hornblower, but there was something in his expression and bearing that reminded Pellew of his former lieutenant.

“Father. Is it true? That they’ve made their minds up about Stanton?”

“Must we discuss that today, Richard?” Hornblower asked in an irritated tone.

“Yes! I could not rest without knowing.… Is it true?”

“Yes. It’s true.”

“Can’t you do something? Can’t you intervene?”

“I have no intention of attempting anything of the sort. The choice was right.”

“But he is innocent! I know he is.”

“That is beside the point.”

Richard Hornblower looked stunned. “Beside…? Surely that is the point?”

“No. The point is which solution will cause least damage.”

“What on earth can you mean? Stanton.…”

“I am sorry about Stanton,” Hornblower said. “But the decision is necessary. The good of one man cannot be allowed to weigh in this matter.”

“It is wrong. You know it is wrong.”

“Morally perhaps. In other terms…,” Hornblower put down the pen he had been toying with. “You need to learn this lesson, Richard, if you are to rise in your profession. You must, at times, be prepared to ignore truth, deny justice and see good men destroyed through no fault of their own, when your country demands it.”

“A country I wish to belong to,” the young man exclaimed, a little incoherently, “would never make such a demand.”

“Richard.” For the first time Hornblower spoke with a note of some gentleness, “I know this is painful. I felt as you do once. But I saw a man who I respected above all others, whom above all others I wished to be like, act in a way that was… unpleasant. Unjust, even. Yes, unjust. But I knew it must be right, because he would not do it otherwise. So I accepted what he had done – and what came of it – although it was hard for me. Very hard. I have known since that time that justice is a luxury that must not weigh with practical men, and innocence is of no importance compared to expediency.”

Richard Hornblower was shaking his head. “No,” he said in denial, “No. I will fight this.”

“That would be foolish,” Hornblower said, as one humouring a child. “You cannot win. I will not help you, do not expect me to do so. You will only harm yourself.”

“I don’t care! And I want no help from you!”

“Richard,” Hornblower sounded a little alarmed now, “Richard, listen to me….”

“You have said quite enough.” The young man crossed to the door and opened it. “I have always been proud to be your son. Today, Father, I am ashamed!”

With that he was gone, Hornblower’s attempt to call him back being cut off by the slamming of the door. Horatio Hornblower made as though to rise, then seemed to change his mind, sighed, and again took up his pen.

“No!” Pellew exclaimed. “No, this will not be. I will not permit that this will be! Spirit, tell me I can prevent this! Why else did you come to me? Tell me this can be changed!”

Still no word escaped the unmoving mask, but the Spirit took a pace away from Pellew, raised the staff that it had carried throughout, and with an apparent lack of effort, snapped that staff in two.

All was dark, and he was falling, falling, he could feel that he was falling. But when the landing came it was not painful. The feel of a mattress was beneath him, and when he opened his eyes it was to find the grey light of dawn, filtering in on his own sleeping cabin. It was morning.

“Greetings of the Season, sir,” his steward said, bustling in. And was amazed when Pellew seized his hand and wrung it hard.

Part Five - The End of It

Pellew was humming as he strode into the chamber, and the beam he sent his colleagues seemed to mildly disconcert Hammond, as he noted with some satisfaction. He was not worried about the coming encounter. Hammond did not have the Christmas Spirits on his side.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted cheerfully, earning an outright suspicious stare from Hammond. “Now that Renown is finally in harbour, we can get down to business.”

“Naturally,” Hammond said with a confidence that didn’t quite ring true, “we should make arrangements to hold the court-martial as soon as possible.”

“Good heavens, we don’t want a court-martial!” Pellew gave Hammond a ferocious smile. “A court-martial is the absolute last thing we want!”

“In the interests of naval discipline….” Hammond began.

“In the interests of discipline we need to avoid revealing the fact that Captain Sawyer should have been relieved of command long since.” Pellew said firmly.

“Precisely so, and that is why….”

“That is why we must avoid a court-martial. It would only lead to gossip, to rumour, to speculation as to why a captain of Sawyer’s experience should have been mutinied against by officers of previously good record. At best.”

Hammond drew himself up, “Do you propose we should let them get away with mutiny?”

“Come, come, Charlie,” Pellew said jovially, “You know as well as I do there was no mutiny aboard Renown, merely officers striving to protect their ship. The only way this business can possibly damage the Navy is if we insist on making a mutiny out of a molehill. Do you want a repeat of the Bounty affair?”

It was Collins who said, “The Bounty affair? What has that to do with anything?”

“You cannot have forgotten the lengths Christian’s family to which went to try and claim his actions were justified? The reputation of Captain Bligh has never recovered. In the Bounty case there was no choice but to declare mutiny, for mutiny it was. Here we do have a choice. If we make the wrong one it will rebound far worse than the Bounty affair, for any attacks will be levelled, not just at the one captain, but at the conduct of the three of us also. Were you aware that the Renown’s fourth lieutenant is a very well-connected young man? His family could make worse trouble than Christian’s – if they so chose.”

That did appear to unsettle Hammond, but he was an obstinate man, and after a few moments said, “From what I have discovered there is little against the fourth lieutenant in this business.”

Good try, but not good enough, thought Pellew. “He is also a young man with a marked sense of loyalty towards his shipmates.” He let that sink in.

“And you, Commodore,” Hammond said, “have an old connection with both the fourth and the third lieutenants, have you not? There could be awkward questions asked on that issue.”

Tut, tut, Charlie Hammond was plainly rattled if he was resorting to such arguments as that. “The same could be said of you,” Pellew informed him. “If this matter rebounds against the Navy questions will be asked as to why you were so eager for a court-martial. It may be remembered that you came into contact with the Renown’s third lieutenant on an occasion where he distinguished himself and you, shall we say, exercised your swimming skills.” He noted with satisfaction that that shot had gone home. “Of course I would not suggest there was personal malice behind your attitude, but there might be those who would.

“Consider the questions that might be asked, in newspapers, in the House of Lords even. Of course, I am sure that damage to your career is something you are prepared to risk,” he beamed happily at Hammond, who glared back, “but you must consider the risk to the Navy if any such accusations are made. No, no, Captain, I cannot reconcile it with my duty to allow you to make such a gross mistake!”

“Are you really so sure you can prevent it?” Hammond snarled. “If I were to make an application for court-martial….”

“That,” said Pellew, “would only prolong matters in a most undesirable way. And believe me, I will oppose any such application, Captain.” He stressed the last word, rubbing in his own higher rank, “I would oppose the action on the grounds of the good of the service. A court-martial conducted fairly, along the proper lines, would either result in acquittals or severe damage to Saywer’s reputation, and by extension the reputation of the Navy. A court-martial conducted on improper lines is likely to cause even more damage in the long-term. Such things seldom go unprotested. England is no tyranny, to suppress free speech. Consider the effects of an attack on the Navy for making a mockery of the rule of law.”

Hammond glowered in silence. Collins, eyeing Pellew with something that might have been surprised respect said, “And what do you propose instead of a court-martial?”

“Naturally there must be a Court of Inquiry. But I foresee no difficulties. Captain Sawyer suffered an accident of a kind common on shipboard, which prevented him from taking any active part in the taking of the fort. However he made a most courageous end. That is the thing to stress. We may need to criticise the first lieutenant for that prisoner uprising, but I foresee no problems there. The others performed well at the fort, we should make mention of that also.”

“Pats on the back all round,” Collins murmured.

“You agree?” Pellew pressed him.

“Oh, certainly.” Collins bowed willingly before the prevailing wind.

“Well, Captain?” Pellew said to Hammond. “Are we in agreement, or must I tell the Admiralty you were bent on a course liable to bring the Navy into grave disrepute, result in the loss of loyal and promising officers, and cause grave disaffection aboard HMS Renown?”

“Have it your own way!” Hammond was an ungracious loser. “But I wish it placed on record that I was against the decision.”

“Certainly!” Pellew beamed. “Anything you chose!” In fact Hammond might yet prove awkward but – what was it his younger self had said to Hornblower? Whatever the outcome this was one decision he would never regret.

~~#~~

One year later Sir Edward Pellew leaned back in his chair, watching with interest as his two youngest sons took unwonted liberties with Horatio Hornblower. Both had taken a rapid liking to that young man, possibly due to the absolute seriousness with which he treated them.

His gaze slipped over to Lieutenant Kennedy, still a bit thin and drawn looking, it had been a long road back from that terrible wound he had received in the Indies, but at least there was no doubt now that he would make a full recovery. Pellew congratulated himself inwardly on the stratagem of inviting Kennedy first, and leaving it up to him to convince Hornblower to come. It had worked excellently. He believed that in the past he had underrated the strength of the attachment between those two.

Matters in Kingston had worked out perfectly well in the end. All that had been needed was a bit of firmness.

Something stirred, at the roots of his memory, something about Christmas, and peculiar visitors. When he tried to pin it down it was gone, yet he was conscious of a great sense of relief, a conviction that he had had a very narrow escape.

Something seemed to move in the glass of the great landscape picture that hung on the opposite wall. For a moment Pellew thought he glimpsed a slight, brown haired man smiling at him. A man who seemed oddly familiar.

On impulse he raised the glass held in his hand. “To Christmas Spirits,” he said aloud

~finis~

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