For five nights, the Winchelsea had dropped anchor off the French coast, but the mysterious passenger never arrived. Harry knew that they might have to wait another week or two, and he was anxious. He didn’t like being so close to the French coast without the protection of his squadron, which was waiting for him and his passenger off the English coast.
First Lieutenant Braxton Hardcastle, Harry’s second-in-command, came up to the quarterdeck and approached Harry. “Good evening, Captain Hastings,” he said.
“Good evening, Mr. Hardcastle,” Harry replied, glancing at the Lieutenant. Hardcastle was a tall man – much taller than the average Englishman. At six feet four inches, he was the tallest man onboard the Winchelsea. Harry noted the way Hardcastle’s uniform jackets never seemed to fit properly. It was loose around the left arm owing to an injury Hardcastle sustained two years earlier in a skirmish with a French Privateer in the Mediterranean. A cannon ball had grazed his arm, removing skin and muscle. The arm still worked, but there was a permanent indentation between the elbow and the shoulder.
“I have the watch now,” Hardcastle stated. “Why don’t you go below, sir? I’ll alert you if our passenger arrives or if the French get too close.”
Harry nodded and left the quarterdeck for his cabin. He knew he wouldn’t sleep as long as his ship was in French waters, but he decided he’d at least try to relax until it was time to relieve Hardcastle. He closed the door of his cabin slowly and looked around the room. The moonlight reflected off the water and shone through the windows, giving him enough light to see without having to light a candle. He walked over the table in the center of the cabin, picked up the small crystal decanter, and poured himself a drink. He raised his glass in a silent toast to his king and then emptied the glass in one gulp. He felt it warm him immediately as he drank it, but he resisted the urge to pour a second drink. Discipline.
Harry was a handsome man with a rugged look that was typical of someone who had lived most of his life at sea. He had light brown hair with reddish streaks, a strong jawline, and deep blue eyes. Most of the time, he had a very serious and determined expression on his face; but Harry had a great capacity for humor, and when he laughed, his expression gave the appearance of a man without a single care.
At 32, Harry was one of the younger post captains in the Blue Squadron. Like most officers in the English Navy, Harry descended from the English aristocracy. The class system prevalent in England was perpetuated in England’s military: the aristocratic classes commanded and the peasant classes served. However, unlike the English Army, which often sold commissions to men who could afford them, naval officers had to earn their commissions based on merit.
Harry had gone to sea at an early age and had moved up the ranks quickly. His father and grandfather had been Navy officers who had served with distinction, and Harry had inherited their skills. But he had also inherited his Irish mother’s unpredictable manners, making him a dangerous adversary on the seas.
The French had grown accustomed to English tactics in naval warfare, which had become somewhat predictable over the years, but a number of French ships never saw home again because they underestimated the kind of adversary they faced in Harry Hastings. He employed the conventional and unconventional with equal success, leaving the French captains confused and dismayed as their ships sank beneath them.
Harry had been the first lieutenant of the Chester, a 50-gun 4th Rate ship, off the coast of Portugal when a cannonball from a French 90-gun ship cut his captain in half while standing right next to him. Harry immediately took command and, rather than making a run for it, turned to attack a ship out of the Chester’s class and with twice the Chester’s guns. Before the captain of the French ship knew what was happening, the Chester had shot away his ship’s bowsprit, foremast, rudder, and mizzenmast. Harry ordered the Chester to approach the French ship at odd angles, which prevented the French from firing an effective broadside. After exchanging fire for almost an hour, the Chester’s guns hit the French powder stores, and the French ship exploded, killing everyone onboard. Harry brought the Chester back to Portsmouth with only minor damage and immediately gained the notice of his superiors. He received his promotion to captain soon after and was given the Winchelsea as part of Admiral Leicester’s squadron.
He sat down in a nearby chair and leaned back, propping one leg on the seat of another chair. He saw his logbook on the table. He picked up a quill, dipped it into the ink well, and quickly jotted down the latest entry.
11 October 1699 – dropped anchor off the coast of Normandy. No sign of our passenger. No contact with the French Fleet.
Harry held the quill and re-read the entry. The logbook was filled with entries regarding the French since he had taken command of the Winchelsea. Harry had seen his share of action against the French Navy over the years, but this was the first time he had been sent into French waters with orders not to attack. Harry put down the quill and closed the logbook, deep in thought. He looked out the windows of his cabin at the moonlight reflecting off the water.
Where is our passenger?
John Sinclair crept quietly through the dark and deserted halls of the palace, making sure that none of the guards or servants heard him. Even though he was dressed as a servant, the guards knew that no one was authorized to be in that part of the palace so late in the evening. The sudden sound of a guard approaching sent him diving under one of the small couches that lined the corridor. He held his breath as he heard the guard pass his hiding place without stopping. When the guard turned down the hallway leading to the kitchens, Sinclair continued creeping toward the far end of the corridor.
He paused when he reached the hallway where the guard had turned. The guard was nowhere to be seen, but Sinclair didn’t relax. He moved quickly past the hallway, focusing on his mission and the need to avoid being captured. He knew the fate of English spies in France, and he didn’t want to end up hanging on the end of a French rope.
Ever since James II had been deposed as King of England in 1689 by his son-in-law, King William III, English spies had been keeping a close watch on their former sovereign. James II and his eleven-year old son, James Francis Edward Stuart, were living royally in a palace outside Paris as the guests of King Louis XIV of France, and William III wanted to know if his father-in-law were planning anything with the French that might impact the current peace across Europe.
Several English spies had been captured and hung, and others had successfully made their escape but had obtained no information that would help the king know what James II was planning. Sinclair was an accomplished spy, and he was determined to return to England alive and with the information he had been sent to obtain.
Sinclair knew, as did the other spies sent to Paris, that James II would never be content to live out the rest of his life in exile. No one had any doubt that James II was planning a massive military expedition to regain his throne, but so far no one had managed to secure any proof of this.
For weeks, Sinclair had seen James II and several high-ranking members of the French court meeting in the palace, but he could never get close enough to the meeting room to overhear the conversations taking place. James II’s private secretary had been taking detailed notes of the meetings, but Sinclair had not been able to break into the cabinet where they were kept at night. This was the last night for Sinclair to find those notes before he had to leave the palace and return to England.
I will not leave France empty-handed.
As he approached the end of the corridor where the private secretary’s office was located, Sinclair saw light coming from underneath the door and knew that someone was still inside the office. James’ secretary must still be working. Looking around, Sinclair noticed a darkened alcove across the corridor and decided to hide there until the office was empty again.