The Wistful Voyage
The seal on the envelope was red wax, cracked down the middle like a dry riverbed. You count the hours until Portsmouth: four, perhaps five, depending on the wind. The Vanguard cuts through the grey Channel water, the deck planks slick with salt spray that stings your exposed forearms. You are Herbert Carmichael, forty-two, a captain stripped of his commission, and you are carrying a forged...
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