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George Washington's Ghost

“Getting yourself shot up was a bit careless?” He guffawed to the airmen.

“You should see what the other fellow looks like!” Ted Forest retorted, much to the mirth of all within earshot.

However, the circus was clearly beginning to tell on the injured man who slumped gratefully onto his chair on the small presenting stage erected in front of the big hangars, where a veritable hydra-like profusion of microphones awaited the welcoming speeches.

Presently, after much fanfare and hyperbole, which Abe and Ted – sat either side of Kate, cradling a surprisingly quiescent Tom – bore stoically, despite neither of them having slept for thirty-six hours and ached to luxuriate in the privacy of the circle of their friends, family and old comrades.

Abe rose, a little stiffly, to his feet and turned to offer his hand to his friend to help him stand up. Together they advanced slowly to the microphones, where they paused, their clasped hands raised high.

“This is all a bit overwhelming,” Abe started. He had tried and failed to memorize the script handed to him on the flight from St Augustine to Virginia Beach.

It was all nonsense, anyway.

He glanced over his shoulder to where Kate rocked his now, for the first time, restive infant son in her arms. He exchanged a tight-lipped smile with Melanie Cowdrey-Singh, guilty to have been unable to bring her any news of her husband.

“There are so many things that I want to say,” he shrugged, “and some I can’t say because they are secret. As you can imagine, there are a lot of people I would like to thank for saving Ted and I, people without whom we would both have been goners. Again, for the moment secrecy means that I cannot thank them properly at this time. Ted and I are both aware, painfully aware, actually, that so many of our shipmates on the Achilles will never be, cannot be reunited with their families and friends; today, it is with them that our thoughts must be, and will always be. All I can say is that if Ted and I, our standing here in front of you proves anything, it is that one should never, ever give up hope.”

Now that he was home a great weariness was falling upon Abe’s soul; and all fear, dread, anger was draining away.

“After this afternoon Ted and I will be disappearing from sight for a while. My colleagues in the medical fraternity will be giving us a good going over, and I know that the Fleet Intelligence Staff will want to properly debrief us about our adventures. So, I apologise in advance; but for the next few days at least, neither of us will be making further public appearances or statements. I understand that an account of the last few weeks is to be issued shortly, covering the events around the Battle of the Windward Passage and our escape to Little Inagua Island,” he grinned, momentarily baring his teeth as would a predator, “where we had further dealings

with the King’s enemies. However, for the time being I cannot speak of the circumstances of our rescue. You will understand that neither Ted, nor I, want to risk giving the enemy any information which might be of assistance to the Triple Alliance.”

Belatedly, probably a sign of his mental exhaustion, he registered the breadth and depth of the sea of faces before him.

“I don’t want to say much more. The important thing is that so far as Ted and I are concerned, this is a day to think of what Melanie and the wives of the men of the Achilles have gone through, and continue to go through. There is always a lot of attention on the chaps at sea and in the air; but just remember those we leave behind, without whom none of us would be any use to man nor beast, let alone our King and our country.”

That was when the clapping started.

Abe put his arm about Ted Forest’s shoulders, worried his friend was about to fall over.

They leaned into the microphones and chorused, hoarsely: “Remember Brave Achilles!”

Behind them Lord Collingwood motioned for Alex, Kate and the Cowdrey-Singhs to join the two flagging aviators, joining arms as the applause reached a tumultuous crescendo and the chant was picked up by the crowd.

REMEMBER BRAVE ACHILLES!

The television pictures were beaming across New England, and via Empire Broadcasting Corporation relay stations, around the whole world.

There would be no other story on the front pages of newspapers throughout that quarter of the land surface of the planet that was painted imperial pink on maps of the globe.

How odd it was that two of the three sons of the traitor Isaac Putnam Fielding now stood before the whole Empire, rehabilitated and lionised, like prodigals returned heroes both.