Just after Christmas, Tom Seagrave sailed out of his anchorage at Spithead under sealed orders. He was instructed to open his packet only upon achieving a certain position near Lisbon; but having progressed so far as Corunna, some leagues north of the Portuguese port, he fell in with the Manon. The French frigate possessed only thirty-two guns to Seagrave's forty; and moreover, her gunnery was not equal to our Captain's, who soon had the satisfaction of seeing four gaping holes below the Manon's waterline. With the French ship taking water fast, and her mainmast carried away, Seagrave brought the Stella Maris across the Manon's bows, and prepared to board her.

Seagrave led his men, including Chessyre, into the French frigate, and fought his way to the quarterdeck at great risk to himself. There he discovered the French captain lying as though dead, and approximately one hour and forty-three minutes after the commencement of action, the French colours were struck. But prior to the moment of this glorious capitulation, an event occurred which greatly disturbed the crew of the British frigate: a small boy perched high in the shrouds— where no Young Gentleman should be during the heat of battle — plummeted with the Stella Maris's roll to the deck below. Upon examination, the child was found to have been shot through the heart by a French marksman mounted in the Manon's tops; and the rage this deliberate injury caused among the seamen was impossible to describe.

The savagery of the boarding party, and its success in carrying all before it, may thus be credited to a desire for revenge; but revenge may be carried beyond reason. Certainly Lieutenant Chessyre would have that this was so. When the Captain of Marines undertook to secure the survivors of the French ship's crew, for conveyance as prisoners of war back to Portsmouth, it was discovered that Porthiault, the French captain, had been stabbed through the heart by a British dirk — and the blade was certainly Tom Seagrave's own. Seagrave expressed astonishment at the fact; owned that he had missed his dirk from its scabbard in all the confusion of the boarding party, but could not say how it came to be found in the corpse of the French captain.

It is customary, after the taking of a prize, to send the enemy ship home to port under the command of a junior officer. Seagrave appointed Lieutenant Chessyre commander of the Manon, and ordered him to return to Portsmouth with the French prisoners, while Seagrave pursued his appointed course south towards Lisbon; and so the two officers, and the two frigates, parted company. Seagrave despatched with Chessyre a letter to Admiral Hastings, his commanding officer, describing the action and detailing the British casualties; he also enclosed a letter intended for the mother of the dead boy, which Chessyre swore solemnly to deliver.

It was only upon Seagrave's return to Portsmouth some weeks later, that he learned he had been charged with a violation of Article Nine of the Articles of War, for the murder of the surrendered French captain, Victor Porthiault. Chessyre had laid charges with Admiral Hastings within moments of achieving Portsmouth; and he claimed, moreover, to have witnessed the murder himself.

“And what motive does he ascribe to Captain Seagrave, worthy of so brutal an action?” I had enquired of Frank.

“Chessyre would have it that Tom blamed the French captain for the death of the Young Gentleman. The lad was a great favourite, it seems, and no more than seven. Chessyre claims that Tom Seagrave forgot himself in a rage at the Young Gentleman's murder; and that he stabbed the unfortunate Porthiault at the very moment when the Frenchman gave up his sword.”

“But how dreadful! And Seagrave?”

“—Denies it. He is convinced that Porthiault was already dead when he and Chessyre discovered him on the Manon's quarterdeck.”

“But the dirk, Frank!”

“The dirk is a problem,” my brother agreed. “Seagrave, in boarding an enemy ship, should have brandished his sword. He claims that the dirk — a smaller blade altogether — was pulled from its scabbard in a moment of confusion during the fight with the French; and that he neither knew the person who seized his dagger, nor how it came to end in Porthiault's chest.”

“And how does Captain Seagrave account for the Lieutenant's charge?”

“He is charity itself in speaking of Eustace Chessyre. Tom will have it the fellow mistook him for another, in all the smoke and madness of the boarding. Chessyre was mistaken in his account, Tom believes, and will own as much during the course of the proceedings.”

“Is a recantation likely, Fly?”

My brother sighed heavily and dashed a spate of rain from his cockade. “Certainly Seagrave's superiors do not live in expectation of it. There was that in Admiral Bertie's looks, when he spoke of posting me into the Stella, that cannot urge me to be sanguine. The Admiral should never have imparted so much of a confidential nature did he not find the case against Seagrave compelling in the extreme.”

“But surely there must be someone besides the Lieutenant who might testify as to what occurred!” I cried. “I cannot believe the two men to have stood alone on the French quarterdeck!”

“The rest of the boarding party being engaged in hand-to-hand combat, Jane — or in striking the colours — there was naught but confusion. You cannot have a proper idea of such an action, my dear — the great clouds of black smoke from the guns, carrying across the decks and obscuring sight; the cries of the wounded underfoot; the shouting of men made savage by death, and spurred into ferocity. When all is conducted on a platform that is constantly pitching, from the wash of the sea and a lower deck fast taking on water, you may understand that no one among the boarding party can swear to what might have happened. They were taken up with the business at hand — averting a pike in die gullet or an axe in the skull.”

“Of course,” I murmured. “And so it is Seagrave's word against his lieutenant's.”

“So it would seem,” Frank replied grimly. “But I mean to learn from Chessyre what cause he finds, to fire such a shot across Seagrave's bow! His commanding officer, and an old friend, too! He should be stripped of his rank and his uniform!”

I HAD NO DOUBT THAT FRANK SHOULD SWIFTLY SECURE the Lieutenant's direction, from among his naval acquaintance in Southampton, and that the morning might find him in full possession of Chessyre's history before it had grown very much in the telling. But I hoped, as I drained my tea, that Frank had not gone in search of the man alone. The Lieutenant's actions argued for a desperation of character — and if Tom Seagrave had not murdered the Frenchman, it seemed entirely possible that Chessyre had.