H.M.S Honour

This thread is closed to myself and Seranova ~ we hope you enjoy our tale

3rd March 1805

Today I truly feel as if my world is coming to an end. If someone had told me a year ago what would have come to pass I would never have believed them. All I had is either lost or about to be taken from me. I am too young to feel such sorrow and yet that is the lot that has fallen to me.

Stephen has not been seen for almost a year now, after that awful business with the Smythe girl and those terrible accusations he fled. I am certain he went to sea, although Mama insisted he wouldn’t have gone so far away. I think it was clinging to the dream that she would one day see him again that kept her going after Papa left us. And now, it is just me. Mama’s heart finally gave up and now she and Papa are reunited once again.

As if all of this were not enough, my dreadful cousin, Geoffrey is now laying claim to our home. The will states the property should pass onto Stephen but in his absence, he believes he has a rightful claim. I cannot stand the thought of him living here, it makes me feel quite ill. Something must be done, but I cannot for the life of me begin to imagine what that might be.

*~*~*~*~*​

5th March 1805

I am running away. Even now as I write I am riding the stage bound for Portsmouth, the jerking is bound to affect my handwriting but I shall try to maintain my control. Yesterday everything changed, a letter came.

A letter from Stephen.

My suspicions were correct, he did go to sea. He went to Portsmouth and joined the navy, hence that town being my first port of call. He had been fighting the forces of Napoleon all over the world, by all accounts. His letter was full of assurances that he was well and happy but with no indication that he was thinking of coming home. And so my idea was born. The postage mark on the letter showed he was in Portsmouth not two days ago. If I can get there and talk to him, try to convince him to come home and claim his birth right and clear his name of those ridiculous charges that were levelled at him, then all might not be as lost as I first thought.

And so to Portsmouth go I. I have his letter and the name of his ship, H.M.S Honour. It is a start and I can only pray I will get there before it sets sail once more.

*~*~*~*~*​

6th March 1805

I saw him. I actually saw Stephen. Although if the truth be told at first I didn’t recognise him. The year has changed him, he seems taller, stronger. His skin is tanned and hair longer. He also looked happier than I had ever seen him. He and some of his ship mates were walking back towards the harbour but when I tried to follow them back onto the ship I was stopped, rather roughly I might add, by a particularly swarthy looking chap who told me in no uncertain terms I was not to be allowed on board. I asked if a note could be given to one of the crew but he just laughed in my face and made some unrepeatable comment about ‘tarts’. I am quite sure he thought me a woman of ill-repute.

Nevertheless, I did manage to discover that the Honour is due to leave port in two days. That gives me two days to somehow get on board, find Stephen and convince him to return with me.

I have no doubt that if I wish to get on board I may well have to disguise myself in some manner and so tomorrow, I will see if I can purchase some suitable clothing and a cap to hide my hair. I confess the idea terrifies me as much as it excites me to think that soon I may well have my beloved brother back and that my troubles might at last be over.

*~*~*~*~*​

8th March 1805

I don’t know where to begin, my cheeks are still wet with tears and my heart racing with alarm.

My plan did not work quite as I had hoped.

I managed to find some male clothing and, with some careful wrapping of my bust, I managed to give the outward appearance of a young lad, my long hair tied back with a strip of ribbon. I made it onto the ship but was stopped before I had gotten very far. I lowered my voice a little and said I was hoping to sign on, to work as a cabin boy. At that time I didn’t even know if such a role truly existed. I found myself hauled before the ship’s doctor who checked my teeth and eyes, worked my arms –checking my strength one would imagine – and asked if I could read. I replied that I could both read and write before I could stop myself. Within moments I was informed I would one of the ship’s boys. A very low ranking role by all accounts, fetching and carrying for the Captain and higher ranking officers. Not that I cared at that moment. A large tome was placed in front of me, for me to ‘make my mark’. So overwhelmed was I that I even went so far as to write ‘Charl-‘ but managed to stop myself before I continued and finished my name, changing it to Charles at the last moment.

I was shown to the sleeping quarters, which I must say smelt better than I was expecting but still far from pleasant, and then left to my own devices. I made short work of finding Stephen and managed to find a private space in which we could talk. At first he didn’t recognise me either but oh it felt wonderful when he embraced me as he used to do. I explained to him about Mama and Papa, and the impending problem of cousin Geoffrey, but to my confusion he flatly refused to come home. All he kept saying was that he’d changed, that he actually enjoyed this life – something I find hard to believe. Nothing I said could move him, he apologised but his decision was made. He was a sailor now, a man in his own right and that was the life he wanted.
I returned to the sleeping quarters, intending to collect my things and leave the ship as quickly as possible but my head was such a swirling mass of confusion I wasn’t watching my footing and I must have walked straight into a low hanging beam for the next thing I knew, I was in my hammock with a pounding head…and the ship was rolling.

I scrambled up on deck and am ashamed to say I vomited over the side of the ship when my eyes saw nothing but blue stretching out to the distant horizon.

We were at sea.

I have yet to find Stephen and alert him to my presence here.
I am sure he believes me back in England, safe.

But we have left English soil behind and onwards we sail, God only knows what we may encounter. I fear I may have made a grave error and the true consequences of it are yet to be discovered.

Captain’s Log, March 1, 1805

I, Captain Jonathan Wesson, have arrived at Portsmouth and have taken command of the H.M.S. Honour, due to leave port in a week’s time. The process of supplying the vessel are underway. Foodstuffs, medicines, gunpowder, canon shells, and generals have begun to be stowed belowdecks in preparation for this tour. We sail for the Pacific, a routine patrol, yet I fear that with the recent boldness of the French forces as of late, the ship and its crew will be tested ere the voyage is through.

This is my last tour as a Captain. Upon my return, I will have to decide whether or not to accept the Admiral rank offered, or simply retire His Majesty’s service. It is a decision that cannot be made lightly, and shall require much deliberation.

After seeing the manifest, my heart is filled with doubt over this final voyage. The Honour is a maiden vessel herself, and her crew is largely unknown to me. The only name that is more than a passing familiarity is her first officer, a burly dog known as Barnes. The man is shortsighted, but fiercely loyal and will follow his Captain and King. But most importantly, he is a veteran on the seas, and has worked with me several times past. Having a familiar face to help lead the crew will be a blessing ‘fore this tour is completed, of this I am sure.


March 6, 1805

The crew has begun to arrive to port, and I have seen several of them during my time on board today. Young faces, lads barely old enough to stand, running around decks without a clue. Barnes and I will have our work cut out for us. The senior staff seems competent enough, though alarmingly few have actually yet to set sail prior. This does not bode well for the voyage. I shudder to think of what may come if the French find us ill prepared.

Two days, and we leave Portsmouth. Our first test will be navigating French waters on our way to Northern Africa. If we run into trouble there, we will have had no time to mesh as a crew, and as a ship. Fresh-faced lads will die a mere day or two from port. My only prayer is that the blockade holds.


March 8, 1805

We have set off for King and Country. Even now, Portsmouth has disappeared at our backs, and a fair wind guides us swiftly to whatever God wills. The ship is fast, which may yet serve us well in the coming months. Even Barnes has made note of her speed. Navigation estimates two weeks for the African coast.

The crew itself is rough, as I feared. Even in the first morning of casting off, we had a lad standing at the railing and losing his constitution into the wake below. I guess boys aren’t something to be concerned of, but what does grant me pause is that a shoddy knot came undone and nearly claimed three lives when the support beam came loose. The lad responsible has been reprimanded and confined to quarters for two weeks.

I fear the incident is an omen.


March 23, 1805

Africa. We have reached its waters and continue to sail true. The crew has begun to perform aptly enough, with only the one marred incident just out of port to claim as ill. As helm predicted, we have made good time. She is a fast ship; Barnes states her faster than anything bearing the French colours. I can tell that the Honour has the potential to live up to her name, if only her crew can rise to any challenges. Her canon compliment is well enough, but I should think that we will rely on her speed more than firepower in a pinch.

Barnes and I have begun the arduous task of instilling proper discipline in the lads. Most of my peers do not agree with my methods. They jest me cold and calculating, by the book, is what they claim. I work hard to keep my temperament in check. The last thing a crew needs is a lack of respect for a wildly emotional Captain. As a note; I have been forced to fiercely reprimand a few of them for shoddy work. Such things will only serve harm in the coming weeks and months, and may prove disastrous if we find the French.

I have, however, allowed the crew to dress down as we reach warmer waters. There is no sense crushing morale with overbearing heat. It is the one discipline I have let slide for the moment. They understand that this is a privilege that can and will be taken away if it proves detrimental. I remain in full uniform when on duty. It is not fitting a Captain be seen in naught.

There is one who has refused himself even the slightest dressing down. A cabin boy, by the name of Charles. Something peculiar about his voice, but I have dismissed it as youth. He has excellent penmanship, and has such, been chosen by myself for all dictation, save these personal logs. He is vastly untrained at sea, probably a run-away from home, trying to escape his family for some reason or another. If he has a family anymore. I have yet to broach the subject, as such would be improper fraternization.

We continue to sail south.


April 5, 1805

We are passing through the equator, as the charts tell us. Somewhere to our port side lies the vast dark continent of Africa. A few mild storms have come and gone, but we have remained fortunate enough to not cross anything even remotely deadly from the weather. I hope that the crew will not grow lax from such fortune.

The temperature is growing hotter, as it is now April, and we are sailing through the equator. As such, it is now a common sight for the crew to work in trousers and naught else, with the occasional undershirt thrown on as protection against the sun. Even Barnes has loosened his uniform, albeit only slightly. He knows that I do not approve of senior officers being out of regulation, but I cannot fault him for the work he does on this ship. Only Charles, the peculiar cabin boy, and I remain fully clothed at all times.

Charles. He has taken to his duties well enough. He is one of the few with legible handwriting, and he has served aptly in the menial tasks. I may be showing him a slight favoritism. He reminds me of myself at his age. I sense the crew resents the boy for this. I shall have to squash any ill will towards the boy.

Nearly a month into our voyage, and trouble already threatens our ranks from within.

15th March 1805

I do not think I will survive this voyage. The weather, the constant rolling of the ship, all make me feel most unwell. When combined with the sheer levels of manual work I am expected to undertake, I think I may well collapse of exhaustion before we even reach Africa, let alone the distant destination of the Pacific. My skin is already turning browner in the sun, my hands blistered from cleaning the deck and hauling yard after yard of rough rope again and again. My only relief comes at night, when I can rest.

This is the first opportunity I have had to write, the first chance I have had the slightest amount of unused energy to spare. I did manage to find Stephen shortly after leaving British waters. I suggested we tell the Captain the truth but he forbid me. It is a crime for a woman to be on board, not to mention the penalties for stowing away. I explained that I have, in a way, signed onto the role call of this ship so I’m not a stowaway as such but that is little consolation when considering that to be found as a woman on board carries the strictest of penalties. I have managed, thus far, to conceal my sex. The wrapping around my chest has hidden my natural shape and thanks to the grime and the effects of the sun, my pale features look less feminine than they did but a week ago. That said, I make a conceited effort not to look anyone directly in the eye for very long. Luckily, the nature of my position on the ship means I address all officers with a bowed head. A small mercy indeed.

*~*~*~*~*​

28th March 1805

This voyage has barely begun and already in the last week I have seen more bare flesh than I have in my entire life. Africa lies not far from our position and the weather grows ever hotter. The men have been granted permission to relax their state of dress. I took this to mean the opening of shirt buttons and the rolling back of sleeves. Oh how wrong was I. There are men, tens of them, at this very moment working naked from the waist up on the deck. Flesh is everywhere I look and I find myself saying my prayers that little bit louder every evening that my soul not be corrupted by what it has already witnessed. I know that there is little offensive about the male form but for my eyes to see so many men in that state without having a wedding band upon my finger is just…wrong.

This is not to mention the conversations that take place in the bunks on a night time. Talk of women and of copulation that make me feel nauseous. I have been asked for my opinion on such things several times but as yet have managed to evade the questions, blaming my youth ~ for I am sure they believe me to be little more than a child. Thank the Lord they don’t know my age…nor my sex.

I can’t begin to imagine the scenes and conversations I will be forced to endure before this journey is through.

There is one who doesn’t bend to the temperature or act in such brutish fashion, besides myself, and that is Captain Wesson.

The Captain is a good man. Stern and driven, I can easily see why the men admire him so. He is principled, from what I have seen of him in more private settings, and while I am sure it is just a fleeting fancy that stems from the perils of my situation, but I find myself drawn to him in a way I don’t quite understand. I have spent a large amount of time with him in the last few days, engaged as a writer of sorts. Writing up notes from his own slightly sprawling hand, copying letters and taking down dispatches to be sent back to England when we call into our next port.

*~*~*~*~*​

8th April 1805

I have finally managed to start making some friends amongst the crew, not many admittedly. They had heard that I can write and so a few have come to me to ask for my help in writing letters to their loved ones. This also allows me a little more time write in here, the men leave me if they see me writing, assuming it must be somebody’s letter…perhaps even their own. Although I know I must be careful not to become complacent. Should this journal be discovered then all will be…


The journal was pulled from her hands and it’s disappearance accompanied by a loud laugh.
“And what’s this then…?”

“Can I have my journal back please…?” Charlotte asked bluntly, holding out her hand and trying not to let her anger boil over unnecessarily. Convincing her ship mates that she was a boy wasn’t easy at the best of times, she was all but certain she’d fail miserably if she allowed herself to get upset. She stood up, her head only reaching the chest of the sailor who held her precious journal in his grubby fingers. “You and I both know it’s of no use to you, you can’t read!” She taunted. “So do the sensible thing and give it back before we both get into trouble.” She moved forward to take the book back but his other hand shot out and took hold of the top of her head, holding her back at arm’s length.

“You want it, shrimp, come and get it.” The massive sailor bellowed, dangling the book just out of her reach. “Not so clever now are we?” His name was Jameson and he was something of a bully. Charlotte sensed this was the result of not having had a decent education in his youth but she had so far managed to avoid his attentions.

“Everett, he’s spoiling for a fight, just ignore him!” one of her fellow cabin boys whispered, using her surname as was the common practice on board.
“Just leave it, Charlie,” called one of the other men from his hammock. Using the nickname those that she spent time with had given her. In truth, she didn’t mind it, Stephen himself used to call her Charlie in their infancy. “It’s not worth it, let ‘im have it if he really wants it.”

“Give it back…” She continued as she tried to prise his fingers from her head, all the time straining to reach the book, to propel herself forward. “Give my back my property!” She twisted and fought before lifting her foot and driving her heel into the top of his foot. Using his shock and fleeting pain to her advantage, she pushed forward and grabbed the book. Turning she ran the length of the bunk room to try and stow her journal in its hiding place before he could get to it again. She didn’t make it.

A meaty hand snatched hold of her arm and dragged her back. She swung with her free hand, nails catching his face.
“Let me go!” She yelled. Then cried out as her scratch earnt her a back handed slap that spilt her onto the floor, along with her journal.

“Alright you two, break it up. Break it up!” Came a new voice. Different hands took hold of her and hauled her easily to her feet. It was Mr Barnes. The ship’s first officer. Charlotte felt her stomach drop. She knew that in order to remain undetected she would have to stay out of trouble and with the metallic taste of blood leaking from a cut on her lip she knew she had just failed on that score. He held a handful of her shirt in one hand and her book in the other.

“’E jumped on me!” claimed Jameson, pointing to the small, bleeding, scratches on his cheek.
“It wasn’t me, he stole my property!” She tried to explain, finding it hard to keep her voice as low as it should be. She needed that book back before anyone had chance to discover the truth about its contents. “Please, can I have my journal back…?”

“I don’t care who started it, I’m finishing it!” Barnes’ voice was loud and final. “Brawling is a punishable offence, Jameson you should know that by now and Everett, I’m surprised by you. Both of you, to the Captain’s cabin. Now!”

The Captain's quarters. Located at the stern of the ship, and with hatch opening to the main deck, the quarters doubled as an office. A large sold oak desk stood against the backdrop that the large window astern that offered a view of the vessel's wake. Charts and maps lay sprawled upon the circular center table, along with compass, protractor, pencils, and various navigation tools. Stacks of notes were piled neatly upon the desk itself, the tidiness a stark contrast to the navigation table. Hung along the bulkheads of the stately room were various medals, commendations, and paintings; the sea, vessels, and a portrait of Jonathan Wesson himself in full Royal Navy dress uniform. Along the opposite end of the room was the bunk, or rather, large bed, with the dressings folded down to near perfection. The man who called this area home was obviously proud, orderly, and considered duty and honour above all else.

That man now stared silently out the window from behind his desk. He rocked on his heels twice, his hands clasped behind his back, chest thrust outward, head held high, and shoulders back. Upon his clean-cut and scar-free face was a look that was obviously displeased, bordering on clear, cold anger. His brow furrowed above Roman nose, and thin lips pursed together as if he were biting his tongue. There he stood in silence while trying to find his center of calm.

Finally, he turned to regard the three men that stood near the hatch to his quarters. Correction. Two men and a boy. His eyes narrowed. The two in front couldn't be further opposite in body type. In fact, Barnes, who stood patiently behind the pair, was also completely different from the boy. Charles Everett: the boy who had showed so much promise. Standing with a ruffian like Jameson? It was a shame.

Wesson circled around the desk slowly and trailed a hand along the solid oak polished surface, until fingers came to and stopped atop a small leather-bound journal. Never in his life had he seen two men fight over something so trivial. Green eyes stared down the journal as the seconds ticked by in silence.

Suddenly, the captain looked up and gave a short, curt wave of his hand. "Dismissed, Barnes. I will take it from here." The first officer snapped slightly stiffer, nodded, and turned to duck out the hatch. The wooden door slammed shut behind him. Now the seething Captain of the Royal Navy's Honour stood alone with the pair of belligerents. More silence, as the seconds turned into minutes. Jameson shifted, his boots creaking the planks below his feet.

"You..." Wesson's voice was quiet and masked the underlying rage building within him. "Would jeopardize the integrity of this ship... of her crew... for a book? A journal?" His hand grasped the faded volume by the spine and held it aloft. The man's voice began to raise gradually while he continued. "Of what consequence is this book? Is it really so important as to be at each other's throats? Look at your face, Jameson!"

When the substantially larger of the pair opened his mouth to speak, Wesson spat out a harsh reprimand.

"I don't give a damn about your quarrel!" Book slammed on desk, then was picked up again. "Do you think I have nothing better to do than solve the problems of children? The French are out there, and they would love absolutely nothing more than catch us too busy fighting amongst ourselves to put up a decent resistance!"

Captain Wesson began to pace back and forth in front of them, the journal waving in his hand dramatically with every enunciated syllable, and noisily flapping as delicate pages flung about within the binding. His green eyes burned as they stared at Everett and Jameson, sizing each up in turn.

The man took order on his ship seriously. Mishaps like this were unacceptable in his view, and even though it was a minor incident in the grand scheme, Wesson knew that it had to be dealt with swiftly and precisely, so that the situation did not escalate ever further. "You're both confined to quarters for a week," he growled. "And if I find ou-"

"But Cap'n!"

"Do not interrupt me, Jameson!" The journal was flung between their heads, hit the hatch with a sick thud, and fell pathetically to the floorboards. "If you ever interrupt me again, I will have you hoisted on the mainsail and left to rot. Is that clear!?" Wesson's normally composed features glowed bright red as he nearly screamed into the larger man's face. All Jameson could do was stutter out an acknowledgment.

The Captain sighed and strode around them to pick up the journal, which lay open at his feet when he arrived. Fingers grasped the binding and picked it up. He held it out, and paused for a moment, as if to say something else, but stopped short. Something... something had caught his eye.

Fingers trembled slightly as they separated page from page. Eyes widened, and he poured over the words for several moments. Finally, his head snapped up. He was behind the pair now, so none of this would have been witnessed by them. But the composed man felt sick to his stomach. His face went pale. Green eyes were fixed on the smaller of the two: Everett.

Could it be?

The next words were quiet, barely above a whisper, and seemed to surprise at least the larger of them. "You're dismissed, Jameson..."

The man looked around, obviously confused, then made a hasty retreat out the door and back to the general quarters. Only Wesson and Everett remained now. The Captain slowly paced around to his desk as if in a state of shock. He gingerly placed the leather volume on the oak top and stood stock still for several moments. There was another whisper.

"Why..?"

Another pause, and this time louder. "Why?" The single-worded question was repeated as he whipped his head around and glared at Charlotte Everett. "Why!?" Heavy footsteps as he raced across the room. He didn't know what he was doing. He was just acting. Hands reached out and grabbed fabric of shirt, a heavy yank in both directions, a tearing sound.

Green eyes drifted ever so slowly from face, neck, and what lay below, now exposed from ripped shirt. Wrappings. Fingers gripped at them and tugged violently, and face went pale with shock.

Captain Jonathan Wesson took a step backwards, stunned into silence for the first time in his distinguished military career.

During her time on board, Charlotte had lost count of the amount of times she had entered the Captain’s quarters to work, but this was the first time she felt such uncertainty when her booted feet stepped inside. Such trepidation. As the first officer explained what he had witnessed below decks she kept her gaze on the floor. She could almost feel the Captain’s disappointment rolling off of him when her name was mentioned. She felt tiny in amongst the men, all of them tall and broad shouldered. Even on her toes, her head would scarcely reach their shoulders.

"You...would jeopardize the integrity of this ship... of her crew... for a book? A journal? Of what consequence is this book? Is it really so important as to be at each other's throats? Look at your face, Jameson!"
All the while that he spoke, Charlotte’s eyes were trained on her journal, watching it with hawk like focus as he moved it around during his speech. Terrified he might open it to try to understand for himself the reason for their petty argument.

"I don't give a damn about your quarrel! Do you think I have nothing better to do than solve the problems of children? The French are out there, and they would love absolutely nothing more than catch us too busy fighting amongst ourselves to put up a decent resistance!"
Every word he spoke was true. While Charlotte never intended to enter into a situation like this, the importance of Navy’s supremacy was vital to every man, woman and child in Britain. Without it, Napoleon and the French would no doubt make short work of invading and life would never be the same for any of them.

"You're both confined to quarters for a week, and if I find ou-"
Charlotte began to sag in relief, confinement whilst unpleasant was survivable.
"But Cap'n!"
"Do not interrupt me, Jameson!"
Charlotte managed to supress the squeak that rose up inside her as her journal flew towards them and hit the doors.
"If you ever interrupt me again, I will have you hoisted on the mainsail and left to rot. Is that clear!?"
The Captain moved to pick up the book behind them and Charlotte dared to allow herself a long exhale of relief. He would return her journal, no doubt remind her of his disappointment and allow them to go. She waited with baited breath for him to speak. But the words never came.
At least, not the ones she was expecting.

"You're dismissed, Jameson..."
Charlotte remained where she was, wincing a little as Jameson slammed the hatch behind him, leaving the two of them alone. Captain Wesson moved away from her, his mood visibly changed. And not for the better.
"Why..?"
“Captain…?” Charlotte dared to ask after a pause, her voice lowered as it had been since she’d stepped aboard in Portsmouth.
"Why?...Why!?"
It all happened too fast for her to comprehend, for her to stop. He charged across the cabin, his hands pulling apart her clothing, fabric renting under the force, then the bindings beneath, his fingers yanking them away from her body just enough to see the secret beneath.

As the Captain staggered backwards Charlotte clutched at the torn remains of her shirt, pulling them closed, trying to cover the swells of flesh beneath. Her insides trembled like a leaf in the wicked winds of winter. Anxiously, she raised her eyes to look at the clearly shocked man before her. Guilt stabbed her hard, to see the usually composed Captain in such a state, followed swiftly by panic.

“I…I can explain, Sir…” She began in her own tone, wincing at how pathetic those words sounded in reality. “I didn’t mean for things to go this far, really I didn’t. It was just…I had no other choice.”
She reached up to remove the cap that covered her hair, pulling out the ribbon that held her long tresses closed and allowed the waving strands to fall forward and frame her face. Should anyone walk into his cabin now there would be little doubt of her sex. Even the dirt on her skin and the drying blood on her lip did little to detract from the honey coloured curls and warm brown eyes that were now undeniably feminine in their shape and expression.

“My name, Sir, is Charlotte Everett and I came onto this ship to try and find my brother and nothing else. Our parents have both left this world and I was alone, and about to be turned out of my own home unless my brother could come and claim his rightful property. I’m unmarried and as such dependent on him. But he…he didn’t want to come…” Tears began to fall down her cheeks as the reality of her situation came crashing down around her. “And then I hit my head…and the next thing I knew, Sir, we were at sea…
“Please believe I never meant to deceive anyone…especially not someone as noble as yourself…”

Charlotte wet her lips, daring to take a step towards the stricken Captain.
“The choice is yours, my fate is in your hands, but I have worked well, Sir. I have done all that you’ve asked of me and more. I have the clearest hand of all the men on board, Sir, and I promise that if you let me stay on board until we reach port, keep my identity secret until then, I will not let you down. I will work all the hours God sends, I will write every log, transcribe every order…” Her eyes were wide and beseeching.

“Then if you wish it I will leave, I swear…I won’t make a fuss, I’ll just go…see if I can find a British family at the next port who might be able to assist my passage back home. None of that responsibility will be yours. If you let me stay, I promise I will work harder than any man on this ship.”

She paused, knowing he had several choices before him, and many of them doubtlessly unpleasant for her. He could punish her for breaking a serious naval law and have her arrested at the next port, he could also choose to punish Stephen for helping her maintain her deception. She knew he was an honourable man, she had come to admire him in the time she had spent with him, so she was almost certain her virtue was safe. This was not a pirate vessel where she could be thrown to the crew. If he were to drop her off at the next port, the chances of making it back to England were virtually non-existent. A girl of her age with such obvious naivety wouldn’t last five minutes, a fact they both knew. Nevertheless it was his ship and it would be his decision was happened to her.

She took another couple of small steps towards him, the distance between them now little more than a couple of feet. Fighting back another wave of tears, Charlotte fell to her knees, one hand clutching her ruined clothing to her chest, the other holding on tightly to the cap that had hidden her face and helped her maintain the illusion of boyhood.

“Please, Sir…I throw myself upon your mercy…”

Green eyes remained wide, in shock, and the usually eloquent and controlled Captain of the Royal Navy found himself speechless as she tried to explain her situation. He found that he didn't really much care. While he let her continue, for the sheer cause that he didn't have words to interrupt or offer in return, his anger seethed and rose to a near boil.

Her brother, Stephen, had chosen to escape his family, for what reason remained a mystery, but one that Wesson didn't care to focus on. She had been trapped on this ship as a mistake. But how did that explain her name, in her very clear handwriting, as part of the willing roster of this crew? She had lied. She could very well be lying now. A French spy? No... if the French wanted to insert intelligence onto a British vessel, it wouldn't be a woman. Too many chances for her identity to be ascertained. Then why? Why join the crew to just find her brother? Did she really feel that had been the only way?

His thoughts rolled and shifted when she spoke of being dropped at the nearest port of call. And even though he still had no words, his mind was a bit more clear now, and regardless of the heavy feelings of betrayal, it knew all too well that her chances of ever seeing British soil again dwindled to near none if she ever stepped foot off of this vessel. The world was a frightfully large place, and she would have to rely on the kindness of strangers, strangers who had already migrated from the Isles to Africa, India, and wherever else she might be dropped. So far from home. Her chances would not be promising.

But would this be an option he would consider? After all, she had joined his crew under deception and thrown her lot with them. Was it his responsibility to ensure her safety? Deep in his heart, he knew his oath, and therefore... knew the answer.

Even that train of thought was interrupted by what happened next. She was moving too fast. Everything was happening before he could even get a grip on the first idea. And here she was now falling to her knees before him, claiming to be at his mercy.

His anger boiled over, his jaw set, and green eyes burned with passion. Wesson prided himself on being in control of everything that could possibly happen aboard a ship, every situation that might arise. But this... This was something nothing in his experience could ever have prepared him for. And he hated the feeling of complete and total helplessness. All because of this girl. She had lied. She had deceived. She had abused his trust. These facts were the catalyst to his rage. His muscles shook visibly beneath his perfectly maintained uniform, hands clenching and flexing at his sides. Lips quivered in anger, teeth nearly grinding against one another now. His voice, when finally found, was low, threatening, and spoke of tones that were not to be questioned or trifled with.

"Take it off. Everything. You don't deserve that attire, or what it represents." The man breathed deeply, trying to compose himself, then suddenly spat out, "Every stitch of it! You have betrayed me, this ship, its crew, and your King! You don't deserve mercy! You deserve to be thrown overboard, naked, and left to swim or drown! Take it all off!"

His rational mind would have said that forcing the girl to be completely nude wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't fix what had happened, nor would it help with the decision as to what to do with her. But his rational mind was drowned out completely by his need to embarrass her just as much as he had been, to hurt her even more, and return to her ten-fold the betrayal he was feeling.

"I trusted you," he whispered harshly. "I gave you every opportunity to succeed, and it was all a lie? You used me... you took advantage of my kindness. You don't deserve this ship. I have half a mind to drag you out of here and tie you to the mast. I don't know what the crew would do to you, whether or not you would survive the night... but I would do nothing... absolutely nothing... to stop it."

The words hung, as he watched her.

"Every stitch of cloth. Till you are as naked as the day you were born; as God himself created you." With these words, he circled around behind his desk and opened one of the heavy drawers. Located within were several items. Among them were a single shot pistol, ceremonial items, and a five-tailed flogger, whose purpose was to inflict corporal punishment for the most severe of crimes. Shaky fingers withdrew the leather flogger slowly.

This was the most severe of crimes, as far as his mind was concerned.

His rage was obvious. Body tense, large hands balling into fists, jaw set. Charlotte felt the atmosphere in the cabin grow heavier and heavier.
"Take it off. Everything. You don't deserve that attire, or what it represents."
Delicate features creased into a brief frown of confusion as she looked up at him. Surely he couldn’t mean for her to disrobe in front of him.

"Every stitch of it! You have betrayed me, this ship, its crew, and your King! You don't deserve mercy! You deserve to be thrown overboard, naked, and left to swim or drown! Take it all off!"
Charlotte winced, his words hitting her as surely as if he had struck her. She shook her head, mouth moving silently. Terror, cold and sharp, stabbed her deep inside. She knew at least part of what he said was true, she had betrayed him and everyone on board the ship but surely that didn’t warrant such embarrassing treatment.

"I trusted you…”

At those words she hung her head. Terror turning to guilt, bitter in her throat as it stung the pit of her stomach. Those three words were punishment enough, although she didn’t doubt her torment would rest with them. Rising to her feet she took a slight step backwards before lifting her hands to the ruined front of her clothing and began unbuttoning the tunic that covered her shirt, fingers trembling as they pushed the fastenings apart.

“I gave you every opportunity to succeed, and it was all a lie? You used me... you took advantage of my kindness. You don't deserve this ship. I have half a mind to drag you out of here and tie you to the mast. I don't know what the crew would do to you, whether or not you would survive the night... but I would do nothing... absolutely nothing... to stop it."
Charlotte held back a sob. It was not what he was threatening her with that upset her so, it was that she had clearly hurt him. The last thing she had wanted to do to anybody.

"Every stitch of cloth. Till you are as naked as the day you were born; as God himself created you."
“Yes, Sir,” She replied softly, eyes downcast as the tunic dropped to the floorboards. Slender fingers made light work of unbuckling and withdrawing the belt from its loops in her breeches, which were then pushed down over rounded hips, revealing smooth legs beneath. Charlotte’s cheeks began to glow with embarrassment as she stood up to unbutton the remains of her shirt. White fabric parting, sliding back from shoulders, to reveal the bindings beneath that had kept her identity a mystery until now. Save for those strips of cloth and, the only feminine clothing she had kept, a pair of bloomers she was all but naked. Biting her lip, she began to unwind the material that contained her shape, round and around until the soft swells of her chest came into view. The strips of cloth fluttered to the floor as suddenly the sounds of the ship, its constant creaking and groaning against the waves outside, seemed to fade away.

Pale skin, apart from her forearms, face and the top of her chest which had tanned a little from her hours spent outside, covered her feminine figure. A narrow waist had been well hidden beneath the billowing shirt, giving way to the natural flare of her hips and upwards to her ribcage and her bosom. Pale pink nipples graced the mounds resting proudly upon it. Cheeks now crimson, her fingers hooked into her undergarments and pushed them down her legs, revealing the pale, downy hair that covered the apex between her thighs as she stood. Instinct made her arms move, one curling around her chest, the other moving to cover that most intimate of areas that until that moment had never been seen by another person save Charlotte herself. She felt humiliation at being revealed in such a way, and disappointment that the first time she should stand before a man without the barrier of clothing should be in circumstances such as these. She, like all women, had dreamed that the first time her body was looked upon it would be met with something akin to admiration or approval at the very least. And yet she was sure that in the Captain’s eyes was little besides anger and loathing, detestation.

“Please believe I…I am sorry, Sir,” Brown eyes rose and widened slightly to see what was resting in the Captain’s hands. “I…I know I must be punished, what I have done is beyond the pale. I would do anything I could to try to take it back but I know that I cannot. I have let you down, my family down. Everyone.” Charlotte swallowed anxiously. “I am more sorry than I know how to express, I…I didn’t think how my actions would affect those beyond myself. I was selfish, I see that now.” Cautiously, she dared to raise her eyes to his face. “I am sorry, Captain, truly I am. And I will take my punishment without argument, for I am sure it is well deserved.”

She knew the consequence of the instrument. She was to be flogged. A fate that made her feel sick to her stomach. Stephen had told her of grown men, strong men, turned into mewling babes by the vicious kiss of the leather upon their skin, heard tales of others taken almost to the brink of death by a heavy handed Captain. Charlotte had to hold onto the hope that the Captain might at least take her sex into account and beat her accordingly. She had to hope.
And so she stood, heart hammering out a rapid beat in her ears, arms trying to afford her a degree of modesty, waiting to learn the form her punishment would take.

The flogger, known commonly as the 'boy's cat', rested heavily in his hands, as he listened to the recently revealed woman spout her apologies and acceptance of what she knew was to come. Wesson shook his head slowly, as he stared at the leather in his grip. His anger, which was usually kept in check, was far passed the point of boiling over, and was evidenced by the constant clenching of his jaw, the muscles quivering in his neck, and the subtle shaking of arms and hands as they flexed over the handle of the flogger.

His booted feet carried him ever so slowly to stand directly in front of the girl, who stood nude in her shame, trying in vain to cover for some sense of decency. He cared not about such things at this point. His voice was low, barely above a whisper, as eyes bore into hers.

"You have betrayed me..." he said, before swallowing heavily, a slight tremor in his tone. "You have betrayed this ship... your family... your country... This cannot go unpunished."

His hand gripped the leather hard enough to cause the material to shift audibly in his palm, as his other reached forward and roughly snatched one wrist after the other, pulling each to her sides in turn. Then, with a savage motion, his fist caught hold of her hair and wrenched her head forward, dragging her into the only position he could think of at that moment; bent over the large, solid oak desk in front of the window. A growl left his lips, which barely parted over gritted teeth, a wordless warning that she was not to move. Then he stepped back, and hefted the flogger a few times to test the weight.

"Count them aloud." The command was simple, and no sooner had it left Wesson's mouth, had the first heavy strike landed across naked derriere, upturned by the position over the Captain's very own desk.

Ten seconds went by, as near as his fury-fueled mind could tick off. Enough time to cause the sting and burn to spread evenly across the woman's punished backside. In those moments, Wesson couldn't help but stare at the exposed womanhood between the apex of her thighs. So fascinating, it was. A sheer contrast to the rage he was processing at the moment, was the sight before him. But he shook his head and forced himself to focus on the task at hand. It would be improper for a man of his rank to take advantage of a woman in such a state.

Even if she had betrayed me...

The second strike landed with a loud noise, which seemed to echo in the room. The Captain realized with a passing thought that there was probably too much noise outside to hear the flogger landing on bared flesh, yet it wouldn't be wise to have her screaming, so in the moments between this strike and the next, he placed his hand on her back and whispered harshly. "If you cry out, I will have you thrown overboard... after the boys have their way with you, of course."

The threat hung in the air for some time, before he stepped back and landed yet another fierce lash across already pink cheeks. Once again, as he waited the customary time, his eyes drifted to exposed venus. But this time, they didn't leave, even as his hand raised and dropped a fourth blow to her behind. The Naval Officer didn't even try to fight the desire to stare any longer, and actually found himself more fully considering the prospect of taking this woman, using her body to quell his anger in ways never before afforded him. The fifth lash struck home savagely. He deserved to take his vengeance from her. Didn't he?

But what kind of thoughts were these? Was this any way for a Captain of the Royal Navy to behave?

The truth was, Jonathan Wesson was having a harder and harder time figuring out the answers to those questions as each of the next five strikes landed in the same methodical manner, as with each, his own loins stirred ever more. By the time the tenth lash of flogger had fallen, her rump was severely reddened, and his manhood pressed painfully against trousers.

What am I doing?

The Captain lowered his head so their eyes met and Charlotte felt herself unable to hold his gaze. His fury threatening to burn a hole clean through her.

“You have betrayed me... You have betrayed this ship... your family... your country... This cannot go unpunished."

A short sound of surprise left her lips as her arms were unceremoniously moved to her sides, revealing her body to his furious gaze but before she could respond she was hauled forward, whimpering as her blonde waves were harshly pulled by the Captain’s hand. In a way she was relieved that the position hid her face from his view, so that he wouldn't be able to see the humiliation that shone out of her eyes at being bent over his desk like an errant child. Her heart rate was rapidly increasing as the moments passed, waiting for the inevitable.

"Count them aloud."

“One...!” Charlotte all but screamed as the first strike hit, the soft tissue absorbing the entire force, sending it ricocheting up her spine. Her fingers flew above her head to try and hold on to the desk's far edge. The sheer size of the table meant she could barely reach and in stead had to settle for curling the nails of her fingers against her palm.

“...two...” Her voice faltered as the second blow stole her breath. The edge of the desk jammed against her hips as her body's natural reaction to what was happening drove her harder against it in a futile attempt to move away.

"If you cry out, I will have you thrown overboard... after the boys have their way with you, of course."
His hand was large and warm as it lay on her back.
“I...I won't,” Charlotte's tone was earnest although she wasn't genuinely sure she would be able to obey. Her stomach churning at the thought of what ''the boys' way'' would entail.

“...three...four...” Tears began to fall upon the fourth strike. She had never, ever, been punished in such a manner. Neither her nor Stephen had been struck in their childhood.

“...five!” This blow was harder, more vicious, and almost made her go back on her promise to stay quiet. The skin of her rounded behind was almost pulsing with hot, angry, discomfort and as the blows continued to fall Charlotte found it harder and harder to stand still, almost impossible not to cry out for help. The only thing that stopped her was the thought of Stephen and the trouble that would certainly find them both if she did.

“Six, seven, eight...” The worst part was the gap between the strikes. If they had rained down on her one after the other at least it would be over, she could have held her breath and just tried to bear it as best she could. This waiting gave the pain chance to spread, to have a deeper effect on her, and to increase her body’s tension. The uncertainty, knowing another kiss from the flogger was coming but never knowing quite when. The brief whistling of the leather passing through the air the only warning and even that was very little.

“Nine!” She barely had time to draw a breath before the air was driven from her lungs and her fingers curled tighter into fists. Nails digging into her palm, drawing blood.

“...ten...” She whimpered as, what she hoped was, the final blow fell. The desk and her cheek were wet with tears, her rear burning hot and aching constantly with pain.

“I'm sorry,” Charlotte murmured, body trembling as it fought to deal with the agony of the beating. “I'm so sorry.” She was glad of the desk as she sagged against it, unable to hold herself up any longer. Aware of little more than the pain.

A trembling hand hovered close enough to the tortured, bare rump, that Wesson could feel the heat pouring from its surface. Eyes widened, then narrowed, as his flesh battled with his mind over what to do next. In truth, he wasn't sure he could resist the blatantly exposed womanhood before him; desires to simply plunder quickly rose beyond what he felt controllable. Seconds ticked by as the hand hovered, before he finally mustered up the will to snap it back, as if repulsive. Or dangerous. Indeed, giving in to such a small temptation would only lead to further degradation and deprivation with this deceitful woman.

It has been so long...

The thought rolled through his mind as the only real tangible one available through the anger devouring his very being. It really had been a long time for the dedicated bachelor. As a Captain so concerned with career, his only true love had been the sea for as many years as he could remember. He'd never had time for more than passing romances and reoccurring flings with various ladies in England. None ever lasted, however, as none captured his heart quite like the call of the sea.

And now, his lack of any real satisfaction in the area of sexual endeavors caused him pause when presented with such a tempting offer. Her words and apologies barely registered to his mind, as the battle between desire and duty continued to wage in his soul. Fingers poised once more, eyes wide and staring unabashedly at her nether regions. Inches away now. So close. Loins stirred and ached against fabric cut in a manner not designed for much room, which only seemed to intensify the need within him.

I must not... I must not... I must not.

The rolling rhetoric in his thoughts didn't seem to be helping, as fingers edged even closer. The heat was intoxicating. Senses were on overdrive. Even her scent was beginning to engulf his being. Didn't he deserve this? Wasn't this a gift from the heavens themselves for his faithfulness? Could he really pass up such an offering?

Suddenly, he gasped and jerked his hand away, then turned on his heel. Without looking back at the newly-discovered woman, he sighed heavily and tried to clear his swimming head. Eyes closed as he began to focus on calm. When he finally found his voice, it came out shaky at first.

"There is..." He cleared his throat. "A medical supply kit in the closet to your left. Inside is a supply of bandage cloth. I suggest you wrap up those..." he trailed off and breathed deeply again, as if searching for the correct word. This caused the mental image of her bare breasts to once again flood his mind. "...and get dressed. Sunset will be upon us soon, you will use the opportunity to make you way back to your sleeping quarters."

No movement was made by him for several moments, as he kept his back towards her. What was he going to do with her now? He couldn't very well turn back to England, and he knew what her chances of survival would very likely be if he put her off the ship at port. He needed time to think, to clear his head. And he couldn't do that with her hear, especially nude and whimpering. Heavy footsteps sounded across the deck as he finally strode towards the exit. The sunset and fresh air would do well for him.

Before opening the door, he gave one last long look over his shoulder, studying her for several moments before finally exiting the cabin and slamming the door shut behind.

He would leave her to her own devices for now, while he made his way towards the stern of the ship and breathed the salty air deeply.

Charlotte’s shivering body lay over the desk for what felt like a small eternity. There were no words spoken, just something hanging in the air. She knew the Captain hadn’t left, could hear his laboured breathing not too far away. All the while her injured behind throbbed with uncomfortable heat. Eventually the silence was broken.

"There is...a medical supply kit in the closet to your left. Inside is a supply of bandage cloth. I suggest you wrap up those... and get dressed. Sunset will be upon us soon, you will use the opportunity to make you way back to your sleeping quarters."

Her cheeks glowed almost as brightly as her rear as he made reference to her chest.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
The words were quietly delivered as she pushed herself up off of the desk and stood meekly beside it. Arms curling about her nakedness as the Captain headed for the door. He looked back once, his gaze unreadable, before leaving her alone.

It was only when the door closed that Charlotte allowed herself to cry. Hot tears of anger towards herself fell rapidly down her cheeks. Everything that had happened was her own doing. She had brought this on herself. She had come in search of Stephen to try and make things right. All she had succeeded in doing was ruining everything. Their home would be lost with neither of them there to defend their claim to it. And now the only thing that she had on her side was lost. She thought she had found a possible friend, of sorts, in the Captain. But now he knew who she was, what she was, she was almost certain he now despised her.

Eventually she managed to regain control of herself and set about redressing herself. Hisses of discomfort left her lips time and again as she pulled her bloomers back over her hips and followed them with the breeches. Fresh tears stung the backs of her eyes as she buckled her belt and the pressure upon her buttocks was almost overwhelming. Trying to ignore the burning pain she found the medical chest and the bandages that the Captain had spoken of. Carefully she rebound her chest, winding the cloth tightly around and around her torso. Flattening and concealing the swells upon her chest until her silhouette was far less feminine. Picking up the shirt from the floor Charlotte tutted to see that the font was rather badly ripped. She wouldn’t be able to wear it to go back below decks, everyone would see the truth that had been hidden beneath it.

Teeth latched onto her lower lip as she looked around, seeking inspiration. Then she spotted the Captain’s personal wardrobe. She could borrow one of his shirts and return it as soon as she had managed to fix her own. With trembling fingers she opened the door and began to look through the carefully hung shirts inside. She tried to ignore the masculine scent that permeated the wardrobe, working quickly and selecting a rather old looking shirt from near the back. She knew she should ask, but she couldn’t wait. The Captain had made it clear she was not to be in his cabin when he returned.

Pulling on the shirt, which was far bigger than the one she had worn previously, Charlotte buttoned up the front and added the tunic. Snatching up the ruined shirt from the floor she moved swiftly to the door. She opened it a crack and looked out. The deck was fairly quiet. Pausing she went back to the desk and finding a small scrap of parchment she wrote a single word before sneaking out of the cabin and heading back below decks.


Several days passed before Charlotte was summoned to the Captain’s cabin. She’d spent the time making sure to keep her head down and out of his way. She’d also been careful to avoid being around Jameson too. Once or twice she had seen Stephen but she had refrained from telling him what had happened. The fewer people that knew the truth the better. Her rear was healing fairly well, at least she could sit without wincing now.

Her shirt was mended and she took the Captain’s shirt with her, intending to return it and apologise for borrowing it, being sure to explain she’d only borrowed it to allow her to leave safely. She knocked on the door and waited until she was called inside, heart fluttering in her bound chest as she waited to find out why she had been summoned. Not daring to look at him. She hoped he had some task for her to do, some log that needed copying or a dispatch to dictate. She hoped.