A Sea Unto Itself by Jay Worrall

What boat?” a voice from the frigate’s quarterdeck called as it became evident the barge intended to come alongside.
    “Cassandra!” Charles shouted back, announcing that the ship’s captain was approaching and intended to board.
    The familiar figure of Daniel Bevan, his friend and first lieutenant, appeared almost immediately at the railing. “Hello, Captain Edgemont,” he called down through cupped hands. “I suggest you come aboard as quick as you can.”
    This was not the welcome Charles would have expected. He had a premonition that all was not well on his new command. The barge hooked onto the main chains. “See that the chests are swayed up if you will, Augustus,” Charles said. Turning to Jeffers, he extended his hand. “You have my thanks for an agreeable passage.” He reached into his pocket and came up with an appropriate number of coins. “Something for you and your men’s efforts.” So as to cut short any prolonged good-byes, he took hold of the manropes on the frigate’s side and started to climb the sidesteps. Just before the tumblehome he glanced upward and saw three topmen on the mainsail yardarm eying him narrowly.
    Charles climbed up through the entry port and looked around him, taking in as much as he could. Two marine privates with bayonets fixed to their muskets stood at attention on either side. Bevan’s sturdy form hurried toward him from the quarterdeck with a noticeable limp, a reminder of an encounter the previous summer. Additional marines with their red coats and black-lacquered hats stood guard at the ladderway to the gundeck and at intervals along the gunwales. In the waist he saw a body of men along with a half dozen or so women staring up at him warily. There was none of the busy work of men preparing a ship for sea. The stationing of so many marines was peculiar; the presence of the women—‘wives and sweethearts’ as they were loosely termed—was not. There didn’t seem to be very many though. From the look of them he guessed they might be actual wives, or something close to it. There was none of the drunken whoring that was common enough when a ship was in port. It was possible, he supposed, that the men had already exhausted their pay and the prostitutes had gone away.
    “Welcome aboard, Charlie. All is well at home, I trust?” Bevan said. His expression was not one of happy reunion.
    “Hello, Daniel. Penny sends her affection,” Charles said curtly, not wanting to be reminded of the parting from his wife. “What … ?” he began, intending to ask about the presence of the marines and the lack of working parties, when he noticed a commotion at the head of the ladderway from the waist. One of the women, being prevented from entering the quarterdeck by a marine guard, called out to him. “Captain, Captain. Please, sir.”
    Bevan frowned. “For Christ’s sake,” he said angrily. “You there, get back down to where you belong.”
    Charles looked more carefully. She wore a patched shawl over a threadbare dress, frayed at the hem. “I’ll hear what she has to say,” he said. The marine stood with his musket across his body pushing the woman back so that she nearly stumbled and fell on the ladderway. “You there, stand aside and let her pass.”
    With some trepidation the woman pushed past the marine. She was no longer young, Charles saw, but not yet old. Her eyes widened with respect or fear as she stopped in front of Charles with his tailored uniform, its glittering gold epaulette and trim. “I do beg yer pardon, sir,” she said with an effort at a curtsy. “But it ain’t right, what my Tom bein’ just back from one cruise and now to be away on another wif nary a day’s leave nor a farthin’ paid.” Her lips quivered; her courage nearly spent. She continued in almost a whisper, “Us what’s left behind, we ain’t got nuffin’. My little ones, they’ll starve. Please, sir.”
    “Do you mean to tell me that your husband hasn’t been paid off