andy cannon

The original plan for the epilogue was to have several characters write letters to close out their stories, but taking the spotlight away from Jamie and William just didn't feel right. The one letter I just can't let go of, is this one from my favorite minor character, Alfie O'Brien. Clonmore Cottage County Cork Michaelmas 1824 My dear Jamie, You’ll laugh when you read this, for we’ve a new hand aboard the O’Brien crew. Our Brigid, a ruddy-haired lass with a voice that could summon the watch from the fo’c’sle to the masthead. She’s no more than a fortnight old and already gives commands like a commodore. Mam says it’s the family gift, and I fear she’s right. I pity the poor swains who’ll come one day to court her. Mam swears she’ll be rocking in her chair cackling while I sit on the step with a brace of pistols across my knees to test their courage. Now, you must come and see her soon. Molly has graciously approved the visit, not that I require her leave, but still, “a happy spouse, a happy house,” and I’m not fool enough to argue against it. Mam reminds Molly of the poitín mischief when you were here for the wedding, and for that she decrees you and I shall have the barn for our quarters next time, lest the womenfolk lose their sleep again. Our wee Jamie is three now and giving me grey hairs faster than powder smoke. He’s as adventurous as his namesake, scrambling through ditches, climbing everything but the rafters, and tormenting the hens. We were mending the chicken coop last week after a storm, and when he tired of chasing the chooks into the garden, he came to help me. Serious as a bosun, he held nails in his little fists while I hammered. I sang one of the old shanties to pass the time, you remember the one about the old maid of Havana and the lusty midshipman. Wouldn’t you know, the lad marched into the parlour and gave a near word-perfect recital for Molly and her tea guest, Mrs. McKittrick. Molly near died of shame, Mam cackled till she wept, and I, poor innocent, was banished to the settee for three nights. And all for a song I never sang in that or any other parlour! It startles me, sometimes, how the years are racing on while I’m busy laughing; with Brigid in the cradle, wee Jamie already three, and you not here beside me to see it all. I puzzle a bit over you and Mr. Pitt in Lymington. Mam says it’s not my place to wonder at another man’s hearth, but I’ll say only this: you’ve spent your life looking after others, Jamie, and I hope wherever you are, you’ve someone who minds you in turn. I'll say no more lest Mam clip my ear for meddling. Still, I’d rather see you here, with rain dripping through our thatch and Molly ruling the kitchen like an admiral. Come soon, Jamie. Bring your stories, your laughter, and your appetite. Your friend always, Alfie O’Brien, Gentleman Farmer, Guardian of the Jug P.S. Do not teach my son any more verses when you come, or Molly will set on you with the broom. P.P.S. If you arrive muddy, she’ll have you swab the yard like the midshipman you once were. Boots off at the door, mark me. P.P.P.S. And what of this Mr. Pitt, then? Does he scowl as fiercely over his porridge as he does a compass? If he’s to come with you, tell him Molly will brook no long faces at her table. P.P.P.P.S. No poitín this time. (Or at least, none where Molly can find it. If you smuggle it, share fair, but hide it well, or Mam will find it and start the trouble herself.) P.P.P.P.P.S. Should you bring a gift for wee Jamie, let it not be a whistle or a drum, or I’ll send you packing back to Lymington in disgrace. P.P.P.P.P.P.S. If Brigid learns to bawl in time with the hens, I’ll pack her in your sea chest and send her off for the King’s service.

Epilogue In the Wake of Silence The years went on. Blake rose to lieutenant the next year, Admiral Rowley’s pen writing the commission that his patronage had promised and at last could secure. His promotion to post-captain came five years later, under the colours of a different admiral and in the smoking aftermath of a hard-fought action against a French frigate near Martinique. Pitt read about it in a London dispatch. Pride and grief twisted together in his chest. So

"Today's special, *Royal Navy Blend*. wink, wink.

An Epilogue still to post.

What Fire Demands Captain Pitt left the officers’ dayroom cursing the stack of unnecessary documents that had cost him his last chance to see Jamie Blake before departure. They could have waited—until morning, next week, or any damn day but this one, but the chance to bid farewell to Jamie Blake had slipped through his fingers like sand. He climbed with a tallow candle flickering in hand. The quiet was heavy. Judgemental. The windows on the staircase were opened, and the buildi

Well, I wish that I had thought of al fresco sex on the grounds of the Jamaican Naval Command grounds, but I opted for a much less incendiary scenario.

This is a breezy, quick-paced story about Midshipman Granger's adventures in the Royal Navy of the late 18th century, especially recommended to readers who would normally avoid historic fiction. Well researched, yet it does not bog down in period details, and the 21st-century language and vocabulary keep it fresh for modern readers. For readers in search of a more erotic experience, I would hazard a guess that young George has more sex in these chapters than the rest of the Royal Navy combined!

What a great story! I look forward to catching up with the rest of the series!

I was prepared for months of separation, but boom! back together (even if only temporarily).

It's good to have friends in high places!

All kinds of developments. Bertie off to 'Injah', Travers and Granger promoted, War on the horizon. Very exciting!

Bertie? That is an unexpected development.

All kinds of warm fuzzy feelings in this chapter, from the attention Granger pays to Winkler, to the gracious reception by George III to the son of a traitor.

A great chapter that shows Granger's heart, that he is more than just hormones run amok.

The Quiet that Remains Stern of the Longboat, Late Afternoon The longboat pulled steadily toward shore, oars dipping in perfect time, the sun casting long streaks of gold across the water. The sails of Absolute receded behind them, her silhouette crisp against the sky, still as a monument in the swell. In the stern-sheets, Pitt and Blake sat shoulder to shoulder, each keeping his silence longer than the other might have liked. Their posture was formal, their uniforms immac

Excellent battle scene. Our George with royalty? Is the Wilcox situation resolved? I wonder!

I like that Wilcox is sidelined temporarily, no doubt scheming for revenge somewhere. I also like that George and Bell welcome Clay into their berth. I wonder at this Travers/Labouret interaction. That bears watching,

Further randy adventures as well as a new conquest. I do worry how this business with Wilcox will shake out.

What a thrilling conclusion to the chapter! And after George negotiated treacherous waters with Travers and Iggy! I need a tot of grog.

Granger is young and new to the ways of the Navy. but he is quick to spot and correct his errors. I suspect that after dinner, Lord Calverton will quickly atone for his earlier sins.

Alas! the yearned-for tryst with Mr. Travers cruelly interrupted. Next time, Granger!

"Don't talk to me about Naval Tradition. It's nothing but rum, sodomy, and the lash,"

A great start to this story. All kinds of possibilities are open, and I look forward to catching up!

The admiral and Vane's brother-in-law, the baronet, have been in custody in London long enough for the news to make its slow way to Jamaica. By the time Vane crosses the Atlantic, the co-conspirators will have had four or five months to sing him into the noose without him ever having a chance to condemn them or buy himself clemency by revealing the "rot" on the Absolute. The Crown Persecutor may even have that trial wrapped up before Vane steps foot on British soil. Makes no difference since as the admiral taunted, Vane's signature is the only one on the documents. Lay out the black cap, a death sentence is imminent.

The Weight of Names Quarterdeck of HMS Absolute, Afternoon The manacles struck the deck, and silence followed, absolute and immediate. It held for a long moment before breaking apart into low murmurs that spread in a ripple, uneasy and incredulous. From below came the sound of footsteps on the companionway. Captain Huxley emerged from his quarters, composed as ever, his coat immaculate, his hands clasped behind his back. The lieutenant of marines from Port Royal followed cl