## Chapter 102: The Blue Ensign Flies High!
The bow of the HMS Beagle was a flurry of activity. Sailors clambered up and down the masts like monkeys, their movements as agile as the wind that billowed the three sails. The blue ensign, symbol of the Royal Naval Reserve, rose proudly, a stark contrast against the clear sky.
Under the command of Colonel Fitzroy, the Beagle roared through the Thames estuary, its whistle echoing a defiant challenge to the merchant vessels that shared the waterway.
The sudden surge of the Beagle, a warship in a hurry, naturally drew the ire of the slower-moving merchantmen.
“Bloody hell! Are you blind?!”
“You bastards, are you rushing to hell?!”
Some even hurled rotten rats and fermented herring in the Beagle’s direction.
“Screw you, you stinking fools! I’ll stink you out!”
The sailors on the Beagle ignored the insults, their focus on the task at hand. They expertly lifted the wooden covers from the ten gun ports on either side of the ship, revealing the menacing black muzzles of twelve-pound cannons.
The foul-mouthed merchant sailors, when confronted with the reality of the Beagle’s firepower, suddenly transformed into meek, demure ladies, their voices hushed and their insults forgotten.
Normally, sailors weren’t overly enthusiastic about going out to sea. But when they heard the mission was to chase down the “Blackthorn,” their spirits soared, their bodies buzzing with an almost insatiable energy.
“I knew it! Justice still exists in this world,” Tom exclaimed, his voice thick with emotion.
However, Eld, his cynicism unyielding, quickly poured cold water on Tom’s idealism. “Don’t be a fool, Tom. Maybe the sailors have a sense of justice, but I think the main reason they’re so eager is because the target is a slave-trading ship.”
Tony, ever the confused one, scratched his head. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Before Eld could answer, Arthur, ever the pragmatist, took a drag from his pipe and spoke. “For the Royal Navy, since the Convoy Act was passed in the 18th century, it’s rare to come across such a lucrative opportunity for legal plunder, wouldn’t you say?”
Eld winked at Arthur, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Indeed! I just took a peek at the Blackthorn’s registered displacement. If we haul it back, even being conservative, it’ll fetch us five to six thousand pounds!
“According to tradition, Colonel Fitzroy gets a quarter, and since the Beagle doesn’t have a fleet commander, the rest is split among the crew. With a hundred men on board, each of us will easily get 45 pounds.
“And that’s not to mention the potential rewards and honors from the Admiralty. Anyone who doesn’t put in their best effort is simply missing out on a good life.”
“45 pounds?!” Tom gasped. “That’s more than a year’s wages for me!”
Eld chuckled. “That’s just the value of the ship itself, not including the other unknown income sources. Throw those in, and the final figure will be even more mind-boggling. Do you think I’ve been yearning for a fight with the French for nothing?
“Ordinary merchant vessels are so expensive, imagine if we dragged back a French first-rate ship of the line. That thing costs a whopping hundred thousand pounds to build.”
Tony, his eyes wide with wonder, murmured, “No wonder so many people become pirates. The money they make is insane!”
“Tell me about it,” Eld sighed. “The good times are gone! The issuance of privateer licenses is so damn strict now. Back in the Napoleonic Wars, you could legally plunder for eight thousand pounds. Now, even with money and connections, it’s not guaranteed.”
Just as Eld finished his lament, Darwin’s voice cut through the air.
“Arthur, Eld, Colonel Fitzroy wants you both in the officers’ mess for some food.”
Eld, his face serious, turned to Arthur. “I’m putting my neck on the line for you, Arthur. Don’t screw me over with this Blackthorn thing! If Colonel Fitzroy doesn’t hold it against me, my uncle will skin me alive.”
Arthur glanced at him, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Don’t worry, brother, you won’t be left out. I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this.”
“Good,” Eld muttered, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
The two men followed Darwin down to the officers’ mess in the ship’s bowels.
Perhaps due to the Beagle’s limited size, the mess was small, barely large enough to fit a table for four and a cupboard for cutlery.
Colonel Fitzroy, impeccably dressed, was already seated, meticulously slicing a lamb chop with his knife and fork.
He acknowledged Arthur and Eld’s arrival with a nod and a smile. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
As soon as they sat down, their meals were brought by the burly cook.
The officers’ breakfast was a feast, consisting of not only lamb chops but also peas and fried eggs.
Fitzroy noticed Arthur’s pale complexion, a result of the sea breeze. He chuckled and asked, “Would you like a cup of ‘Nelson’s Blood’?”
Arthur tilted his head, confused. “What’s that?”
Before anyone could answer, the cook placed a glass of wine in front of Arthur.
“Nothing special, just Royal Navy-style rum,” he said, fanning the air with the serving tray. “Try it, you’ll like it.”
Eld, his arm resting on the back of his chair, picked up a pea and popped it into his mouth. “Yeah, give it a go.”
Arthur picked up the glass and took a sip. He savored the taste, finding it indistinguishable from ordinary rum.
As he was about to put down the glass, he noticed the cook, Eld, and Colonel Fitzroy all staring at him with an odd mix of amusement and mischief. Even Agareus, who had remained silent, couldn’t help but stifle a laugh.
Arthur felt a chill run down his spine.
“You…”
The cook, his mouth full of food, grinned. “Young man, do you know why this is called Nelson’s Blood?”
“Why?”
Eld, unable to contain his laughter any longer, pounded the table with his fist.
“Because when Admiral Nelson died at Trafalgar, to prevent his body from decaying, the Royal Navy preserved it in a barrel of rum. But when the fleet returned to England, the Admiralty discovered that the rum in the barrel had been completely drained! Now you know where the nickname ‘Nelson’s Blood’ came from!”
The cook joined in the laughter. “But don’t worry, the barrels on our Beagle are clean. I washed them with fresh water before we set sail. However, I can’t guarantee what they might have contained before.”
Arthur, wiping his mouth with a napkin, chuckled. “I’ve heard stories about the weird things that happen on ships for a long time, and now it seems like those stories are true.”
“That’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Eld said, turning to the cook. “Allen, did we bring any sheep? Go get a lamb for my good friend.”
Colonel Fitzroy, hearing this, tossed his white gloves onto the table, his voice sharp with annoyance.
“Eld! Enough! You’re already embarrassing me enough! Are you going to tell everyone everything? Sea training is only a week, if you can’t even hold your tongue for that, go catch a fish from the net and solve your problem!”
Eld, chastised, mumbled, and continued eating his lamb chop.
Fitzroy, satisfied with Eld’s submission, turned to Arthur with a smile.
“Mr. Hastings, I’m not saying I don’t trust you about the Blackthorn. But for the sake of caution, I need more information from you. If it’s truly a slave-trading ship, it must have a certain level of firepower.
“This means I have to consider what tactics to use to approach it.
“And if it’s just a regular merchant ship, I must inform you that while I have no problem ordering the Beagle to intercept it for a boarding search, firing upon it is a different matter. You may not know this, but firing on a domestic merchant ship is a court-martial offense…”
Arthur understood the colonel’s concerns.
He pulled out his Scotland Yard inspector’s badge from his pocket. “You should have seen my name in the newspapers, Arthur Hastings, Inspector of the Greenwich District of the Metropolitan Police in London. Colonel, you don’t want to risk your career, and I’m in the same boat as you. Now do you believe me?”
Colonel Fitzroy took the badge and examined it. “I knew it! How could an ordinary person be reported on by the newspapers? No wonder your family didn’t want you on board. They’ve already planned your path after you left the army.
“You became an inspector as soon as you joined Scotland Yard. Seems like the position of Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police will be yours soon. Work a few years in Scotland Yard, build up some reputation, and train your skills. Then get yourself elected as a Member of Parliament, and then get assigned to the Home Office.
“If you’re lucky, you might even be in the Cabinet by the time you’re in your forties. Becoming Prime Minister isn’t impossible.
“This path is definitely better than joining the Royal Navy. Young man, you should listen to your family. Your future is bright!”
Eld, his head down, continued chewing his lamb chop. He was shaking with suppressed laughter.
Arthur, unfazed by Fitzroy’s bold predictions, merely nodded. “Thank you for your good wishes.”
His non-denial was taken as confirmation by Fitzroy, who was already picturing Arthur as the future First Lord of the Admiralty.
The thought of this young man potentially becoming his superior filled even the usually calm colonel with a sense of excitement. He imagined himself being appointed First Sea Lord and Chief of Naval Staff by Arthur.
In a daze, he stood up, almost saluting Arthur. He stopped halfway, realizing his mistake.
He looked at Arthur and Eld, who were staring at him with curious expressions. He awkwardly lowered his hand, then patted his chest, assuring them.
“Please be assured, the Blackthorn will not escape my grasp. I will fully cooperate with Scotland Yard in this pursuit.”
With that, the colonel grabbed his gloves and rushed out of the mess. Moments later, his booming voice could be heard on the deck.
“Helmsman, go eat! You’re steering so slowly, I’m going to teach you what real steering is today!”
The Red Devil, glancing at the colonel’s retreating figure, leaned towards Arthur, whispering. “Did you see that, Arthur? That’s the allure of power. Even imagined power can make a Royal Navy colonel lose his mind.”
(End of Chapter)