Cross of Fire by Mark Keating

query what the joke was, and still managing to pass the port to Coxon on his left after pouring for young Thomas Howard at his right.
    Coxon’s glass was as full as he intended and he sailed the carafe on to Lieutenant Manvell, who topped up and offered the toast: Monday, so the glasses raised to their ships at sea. The table repeated with a rap to the wood, no glasses clinked for that would cause the death of a sailor, and no standing – for the beams overhead and several dead soldiers of wine might cause unfortunate injuries. Even the sovereign had to deign to permit his captains to sit when saluting his health as per the tradition. Coxon, not privileged to ever have been in a king’s presence, wondered if such a right was ever asserted and voiced this to test what company his table had kept before he came. But this sitting was not wide enough. There was Howe, a sot of a doctor, no doubt only aware of the blue and the black draught that settled most problems or at least stopped men coming back for seconds. Thomas Howard, no dissatisfaction there, but Coxon knew his own weakness for sentiment. Judge him by his actions. He had thought Devlin as loyal as a dog once but carried a star-shaped scar on his forearm from when the pup had bit the hand that fed him.
    Sailing-Master Richard Jenkins. Quiet, another one in his fifties creaking towards pension like Howe. God, how will I fight with these men? He looks like his hair is that of a horse stuck on with glue of the same. No captain for the dozen marines, only a sergeant, so no seat for him here.
    Manvell then. Feign a giddy openness due to the Oporto you have only sipped. Coxon put down his glass.
    ‘I should like to know how you entered the service, Mister Manvell.’
    Manvell cleared his throat as he dabbed at the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, sir, I must admit it is not the most honourable of appointments.’
    ‘Explain.’ The humour fallen from Coxon. He sat back with his hands entwined across his waistcoat and stretched his feet beneath the table until they touched Manvell’s. He felt Manvell’s pull away as he hemmed again.
    ‘My stock is not the greatest, Captain. My father is a Deal publican, but a tremendous man with a sword. I have fenced by his instruction since I was seven. I know not where or why he acquired such a habit and I thought it ordinary for all boys. Fortunately, due to my father’s humble nature, I have not boasted of this aptitude, which I’m sure has led me to be a modest and healthy sort.’
    ‘No shame in being an honest publican’s son, Mister Manvell. I myself am a parson’s second. Had one pair of trousers until I was twelve and the queen gave me another. Go on. When did your service begin?’
    ‘I am afraid I am a bit of a late bloomer, sir. Not that I should wish for the Standard to consider me less for it.’
    Coxon shook his head and Manvell gave up his journey like a confession.
    At eighteen he had fallen into a romance with the Duke of Beaufort’s daughter. This was not to the duke’s pleasure and the prospect of his dearest and his lineage living with a tavern-keeper’s son was beyond the pale.
    Coxon winked to all the table: ‘ Both, Dove-like, roved forth beyond the pale to planted Myrtle-walk .’
    Manvell saluted with his glass and carried on.
    He had fortunately relieved the duke of this embarrassment by providing him with another scandal to remove it completely. Foot followed foot and Alice, seventeen, tripped and fell pregnant, which surprised everyone except the birds on the bough who witnessed the act beneath their tree.
    At first the duke considered a duel until he considered better the advice given that young Manvell could peel the skin off an apple while it was still in your pocket with any strip of steel you gave him.
    So marriage then, and a commission for Manvell so that he might at least have some future.
    ‘Unfortunately our daughter was not born, sir, but, as is the way, the Lord is apt to plan these