quigonejinn

In the space of a few short years Pellew had made his mark in the world, rising from an obscure nonentity involved with the most notorious British defeat of his generation, to a post-captain with a reputation as a fine seaman. Though he had no prentensions to good looks -- he bore the scars of infantile smallpox -- he was nevertheless physically imposing, tall and well built. Immensely popular with his crews for his unorthodoxy, he was as fearless in action as at sea and thought nothing of of going aloft with the men and laying on a yard to take in a sail or, even as post-captain, of standing a four-hour trick at the wheel. Indeed, he revelled in these energetic pursuits, and such was his reputation that in later years he rarely had trouble manning his ship from his native Cornwall.

Pellew married in May 1783, as hostilities ended, and became a magistrate. He might have settled down to a life of comparative ease on his farm, but htat was not Pellew's way, even in peacetime. His brother Samuel was the Collector of Customs at the Cornish port of Falmouth, and Pellew took command of the local revenue lugger and continued his pursuit of the misguided individuals who sough tot evade King Goerge's taxes by tree trading in dutiable goods. Nor did the Admiralty neglect him, appointing him to command the 32-gun Winchelsea in 1786, and sending him acrsso the Atlantic to join the squadron of Commodore Eliot at st John's Newfoundland. Arriving in a calm, he warped his ship into port, sliding down a hawser himself to shift it from one holdfast to another. These apparent breaches of social and naval etiquette on the part of a post-captain notwithstanding, Pellew ran his ship with the strict but fair hand of a martinent. The instant obedeince required of eveyr officer and man enabled Pellew to handl his ship wth the consummate skill of a master. In this, time was only to improve him.

[blah blah blah, stuff, stuff, stuff about the La Cleopatre, but this is what made me sit up in bed at 1AM in the morning]

As the tricolour fluttered to the deck and the French second lieutenant surrended his sword to Morris, the victors stumbled on a pitiable sight.

Captaine de Fregate Jean Mullon lay mortally wounded upon his quarterdeck, sodden in his own gore and chewing a piece of paper. A round shot had ploughed up the wretched man's back and carried away most of his left hip, yet in his agony he was attempting to prevent the secret French coasting signals from falling into the hands of the enemy by eating them, as he thought. But the signals were later found intact in his pocket: the gallant captain had been eating his own commission.

IN SHORT:

1. Pellew is fucking badmotherfucking ass.
2. I want fic about the year that Tough Sea Bastard Bush spends under Tough Sea Bastard Pellew's command.
3.

thehappyreturn has returned-ish. Chapter 8 of Close Quarters is up, and my God, do you know what it takes for me to love "R THEY GOING TO GET 2GETHER OR NOTTT?" HORNBLOWER/KENNEDY angst? My GOD.

Chapter 1.