The Admiral's Wife

Chapter One

This week's art work: Royal Navy Men of War in Harbour.

March 1805

Admiralty House, Halifax, Nova Scotia.

It was an unsettled time, a time of conflict, war, and change. In Europe, Napoleon—self proclaimed Emperor of France—was causing destruction and havoc wherever he turned his armies, threatening even the shores of Britain herself. The subjects of that country lived in daily fear of invasion by French troops.

Though all of this seemed a comfortable distance from the colonies in the Americas, still it had the ability to affect and trouble those loyal subjects of the Empire most deeply. After all, if Britain were taken by Napoleon, what would become of her peoples, even here on this far side of the world?

Sir Aaron Morton, Commander in Chief of the North American station, Knight of the Bath and Admiral of the Blue, felt the weight of this upon his shoulders most heavily. On this day, he would himself dispatch his own men to the shores of England. The threat was great, and every available ship must be rallied to her defense.

He stood with large capable hands at his back and gazed solemnly out the window of his office. He was a man who carried himself with dignity and an air of authority, and who cast—albeit unconsciously—a most intimidating presence, dressed as he was in the full navy blue and buff uniform of his rank. Gold vellum naval lace glittered, and highly polished gold buttons gleamed in the few rays of early morning sun that dared to shine through the mottled glass of that pane.

His back was turned to the room and although he was a man in his mid forties, a straight and broad-shouldered back it still was, and most certainly a reflection of the character of the man himself. He held both the affection and respect of all those who served under him. He was known as a fair man of great humanity and a brave, experienced officer who had been much celebrated and decorated for his many accomplishments in battle.

The admiral's office was located in the upper rooms of the Admiralty House in Halifax, Nova Scotia. The window at which he stood afforded him a view from where he could oversee the goings-on at the Royal Naval dockyard. A number of the war ships under his command were lying at anchor at intermittent positions in the harbour. The sun's warmth was quickly melting the snow that yet remained, and the harsh Chebucto winter was surely coming to a welcome end. Jolly boats plied busily back and forth laden with supplies from the pier to the ships in the harbour. On board men were doubtless following his orders, readying the vessels for the season ahead and preparing for sail—perhaps just a little sooner than first intended.

He did not relish his present task, and it certainly was something he ill-wished to do. Resolutely, however, he turned around and faced the four officers seated across from his desk on the other side of the room. They were some of his best men. All four were exemplary officers—post-captains in command of some of the largest vessels stationed in this portion of the Empire.

The four, Captain George Bennett, Captain William Hargreaves, Captain Timothy Elliot and Captain Harry Knight, watched him calmly and expectantly. All four knew full well that they were about to receive their orders, and all had also surmised and could very well sense that, for reasons yet unbeknownst to them, the Admiral did not find pleasure in the issuing of them.

If that fact alone should have caused them even the slightest note of apprehension, there was not the blink of an eye, nor even the twitch of a jaw to betray the slightest hint that this was the case. They were young men held in high esteem by their Commander, all being in their early to mid-thirties, all supremely brave men of superior intelligence, skill, and strength of character. Admiral Morton knew, without doubt, that all four could be relied upon to carry out their duty to their country and their King, even to the death, and that of course was the thing that oppressed him most.