On A Lee Shore Page 11

  “Well, it wakes you up sure enough,” Kit agreed. “But all ships need a little ballast.”

  “I’ll do it,” Pollack grunted. “Can’t promise he’ll like it, but I’ll do it.”

  Pollack was as good as his word and even managed to find a tray from somewhere. Kit was amused to see Lewis carrying the tray carefully while Protheroe, his inseparable companion, accompanied him.

  “To do the knockin’ and open the doors, see,” Protheroe explained.

  “Carry on, gentlemen,” Kit said, grinning. Lewis was massive with a gap-toothed smile and hands like shovels. Protheroe was short and stocky with an aggressive brush of black curls. Both were happier speaking Welsh and both were bristling with weapons. “I don’t think anyone could wish for better footmen,” Kit added. “If ever I set up my establishment would you consider taking the position?”

  “Ah, but we’re free men, we are.” Lewis grinned. “When we set up ours, you’ll always be welcome to take first cut of the joint and second pull of the bottle. Make a leg, cariad.”

  Protheroe bowed and then they were gone.

  Kit followed their progress by the muffled thumps and comments until he was diverted by the need to trim the sails and ensure that the deck was as clear and tidy as such a ramshackle crew would allow.

  Captain Griffin arrived with the sun and inspected his domain. “I take it that you are trying to conduct your watch according to naval principles?” he said. “Good luck, you’ll be needing it.”

  Kit grinned at his back as he raised his glass. The island lay dark on the water for the most part, though the sun was catching the green of it to the east, a pleasant sight after so many days so far from land.

  “Spot on,” the captain said. “Soon we’ll be able to see into the lagoon. I don’t want any surprises, so if there are any masts we’ll keep on going and anchor off the west coast until we find out who they are. I don’t want to sail into trouble.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Kit remained by the tiller even when O’Neill came to take over and admired the calm and laconic way the captain and helmsman communicated. This was obviously a drill they had practiced many times before.

  When it came time to choose whether to carry on past the entrance to the harbor or to commit to entering, the captain raised his glass again.

  “Just a few pirogues,” he said. “We can chance a short visit I think.”

  Kit had visited Barbuda before, briefly, and had been impressed with the lovely natural harbor. Sheltered from the easterlies by low, tree-clad hills, the northern entrance opened out into a long, shallow lagoon. Last time he had been here the water had been clear and undisturbed. Now it was murky and bobbing with the detritus of civilization. Kit inspected the new buildings that dotted the shore and smiled to see the progress that had been made.

  As they dropped anchor near the settlement, the Africa was mobbed by a dozen small boats whose crews offered nets of vegetables and bundles of sugar cane. From the shouted conversations it was clear that the Africa was a regular and welcome visitor. Kit leaned on the gunwale and observed the interchanges with interest.

  “Ah, pretty as a picture,” O’Neill said, leaning beside him. There was a girl with the biggest brown eyes, and she was handling her little boat with admirable seamanship. Kit grinned at her then flushed as she dropped the neck of her blouse to let him see the goods. O’Neill laughed at his expression then even harder when she rolled her eyes and made a rude gesture.

  “Penrose, O’Neill,” they both shaped up as the captain hailed them. “What are you—ah.” Captain Griffin doffed his three cornered hat to the lady then gave Kit a measuring look. “What are you staring at?”

  “Oh nothing, sir,” Kit said. “You look very—fine, that’s all.”

  Captain Griffin was as well dressed as Kit’s good friend Tristan, but with far more restraint. In a sober and very well cut coat over an opulent waistcoat, dark small clothes and white stockings, the captain cut quite a dash. He wore no wig, but his hair was past his shoulders and neatly combed. The hat had panels of lace in the French style, and he smiled as he put it back on.

  “O’Neill, I will require my boat,” he said.

  “Aye, sir,” O’Neill said, tugging his forelock to the finery before running to select a boat crew.

  Griffin chuckled as the inevitable bickering broke out then turned to Kit. “They will all have an opportunity to get ashore, as they know very well. But you, Penrose, I require to remain aboard. This is not because I suspect you of trying to escape—there is nowhere to hide and the island is small enough for us to find you in half a day—but to spare my hosts the embarrassment of having to deal with you. Will you be good enough to give me your word that you won’t try to leave the ship? Saunders will remain to keep you company, and I would as soon not return to find you gone and him broken and bleeding in the scuppers.”

  Throughout this speech Kit had felt his face getting redder and redder as he became more and more outraged.

  “Sir, I would never injure Dr. Saunders anyway, with or without giving my parole. To suggest that I…”

  “Kit!” The captain’s voice was sharp, though he looked amused. “I was joking. In any case you will remain aboard. Is there anything you require?”

  Wrong footed, Kit muttered an apology and raised a hand to indicate his face. “A razor?” he said.

  “My God.” The captain grinned and stroked his own neat mustache. “I’ve been assuming that it was soap you lacked, but now I see that that shadow is a beard—of sorts. Indeed you must have a razor.”

  “I would be much obliged, sir,” Kit said. “Though I fear I may have to owe you the price of it. I find myself a little short of funds this month.”

  “You may repay as is convenient,” the captain said with a gracious wave of his hand. “Your parole, sir? Or would you prefer to be locked in the powder store?”

  Kit took a deep breath and let it out with a scowl. “You have my word,” he conceded. “I will not try to escape.”

  “Very good. The ship is yours, Lieutenant Penrose. Take good care of her.”

  Chapter Eight

  Kit watched Griffin step down into his boat, seat himself with a flip of the coattails, and give the order to make for the shore. Now he knew, he could see the mannerisms of the military man masked by the dash of the pirate. In Kit’s experience, soldiers were never as spick and span as sailors, but he recognized the proud acuity of mind that he admired and aspired to himself.

  “Not that I have been very acute lately,” he sighed.

  “Mournful, Kit?” Saunders appeared at his elbow. “That won’t do. Just think about all the interesting diseases you won’t be catching! Come, have a drink with me.”

  Saunders’s company was always good, but Kit took his responsibility to look after the Africa seriously, so he insisted that they do their carousing on deck. He obtained a chair for Saunders, setting it on the highest part of the deck near the tiller, and when their mealtime came found a box to act as a table. It was much like looking after Sir George again, even though Saunders had a very different style about him. He was far more worldly, impressing Kit with the breadth of his knowledge. That he had done his best to heal old hurts by crawling into a bottle was clear, and Kit wondered what could have happened to cause that in him. He couldn’t believe the glib explanation of having allowed the wrong man to die—such experiences were common, if tragic, for naval doctors. But toward evening, when Kit felt they were easy enough together for him to chance broaching the subject, Saunders distracted him with such a scurrilous story about the late King William that he abandoned Saunders’s history with a howl of laughter.

  As if in response another laugh drifted across the water. One of the boats was returning. The oarsmen were bending to their work and talking animatedly to the captain, who was seated in the stern with a heap of packages around his feet. The few crewmembers who had remained on board the Africa were lining up at the gunwale. Kit excused himself to the doct
or to help get the cargo, such as it was, aboard.

  “Careful with that,” the captain said as he passed him a box that weighed heavy for its size. Kit set it down carefully before accepting a sack of sweet potatoes and another of some kind of fruit. The captain came aboard a little unsteady on his feet. He picked up the heavy package before going aft to speak to Saunders. Kit helped get the rest of the packages, mainly food and drink, stored away then came back on deck to discover the boat pulling away again with Saunders seated in the stern, encouraging the oarsmen.

  “Ah, there you are, Kit,” Griffin said. He raised a hand to wave to Saunders, who waved back. “An exchange of jailor. Captain for surgeon. I hope that won’t be too onerous for you. Of course, at this hour you can always take to your hammock should you find yourself getting bored.”

  Kit, startled at the acerbic tone, shook his head. “I very much doubt that you could bore me, sir,” he said. “This is a very big world, and I feel that you have seen more of it than I.”

  “That is true.” Griffin took his hat off and ran his hand through his hair. “Come, I have something to show you. Bring that box, will you? Is that bottle worth bringing, too? Oh, no matter, I have more in my cabin.”

  Kit picked up the box and followed, his bare feet almost silent, though the captain’s shoe heels rang on the scarred planking of the stairs. Trading the fresh warmth of the deck for the more enclosed heat of the cabin seemed foolish to Kit, but the habit of shutting himself away, of keeping a distance from his crew, seemed ingrained in the captain. He never seemed to be on deck for the fun of it, but paid brief, efficient visits that kept the ship running smoothly and the crew on its toes, then retreated to his small, neat sanctum again. Kit knew that the responsibility of command often brought loneliness, especially to the young lieutenants who had been used to having someone to share their troubles. A first command was a frightening thing. But Kit hadn’t really expected to recognize the same detachment here in this barely ordered crew.

  It was different for Kit, of course. It was what he had been trained for, but he wondered how difficult Griffin found it, how much of his detachment was deliberate, and how much the man’s own personality.

  In the cabin it was hot but not unbearably so. This far from the shore they were untroubled by insects so could set all the windows open. There was already one lantern lit, the wick guttering in a pool of wax, and Kit followed orders to light another candle from that stub, the night breeze sending the flame bobbing until Kit shaded it. The soft glow of the candlelight was augmented by the golden blaze of a rising moon that put a bright track on the water, and gleams from the edges of table and chair—and from Griffin’s sleek skin as he changed from his finery into his more usual linens.

  Kit took pains to give him what privacy he could while he changed but wasn’t able to prevent himself from taking a glimpse or two of that lean and magnificent body. Kit was feeling uncomfortable with himself for looking. No blame to the captain. It wasn’t his fault that every time Kit entered the cabin he remembered that first time and what had happened. Captain Griffin had no idea that Kit sometimes dreamed of the way his warm breath had stirred the hair on the back of Kit’s neck, and Kit was determined to keep it that way.

  When he was dressed, Griffin smiled. “That’s better. One must give society its due, but the trappings chafe.”

  “When I left London,” Kit said, “men were wearing high heels to their shoes. To no good effect I might add. I think we’re better off at sea where such things are not just undesirable but impractical.”

  “Indubitably,” Griffin said. He took a bottle from the cupboard and two of the baluster-stemmed glasses then slumped in the seat at the table. “Kit,” he said. “You may relax, you know. I may be your jailor, but I’m not going to insist on your presence if you can’t bear it. I just hoped that you might stay for a while and talk to me. Sit on that chest and share the bottle—unless you have something you would prefer to do elsewhere?”

  “No, sir, thank you, sir,” Kit said. He sought for a subject of conversation and nodded toward the box. “Did you manage to get the whole list of stores?”

  “Yes.” Griffin nodded as he poured their drinks. “Including your razor. That’s in the box too, but there’s another item in there that might amuse you. Would you care to open it?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kit said.

  It was a wooden box, once well wrapped with oilskin and tightly sealed with wax. Now both wrapping and seals had been opened, just a couple of neatly tied cords preserving its secrets. Kit undid the knots to open the lid. The razor was in a fold of waxed paper, and Kit opened it to test the edge. It was in need of stropping but was sharp. The simple wedge-shaped blade fitted neatly into a metal handle with bone grips on either side.

  “It’s made on the island and holds an edge well,” Griffin said. “I have a similar one myself.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kit said. “How much do I owe you?”

  Griffin shook his head as he filled their glasses. “Think of it as an advance on your wages,” he said. “I would be interested to hear your opinion on the other item in the box.”

  Beneath the razor was a disordered nest of straw with a thick bag of oiled silk at its heart. Kit removed the bag, raising his eyebrows at the odd angular feeling of the contents. He set it down on the desk to undo the drawstring at the top of the bag.

  “What do you think?” Griffin asked. “Have you ever seen anything like that? You may pick it up. It’s more robust than it looks.”

  Kit frowned as he handled the instrument, a sturdy object of ebony trimmed with brass and ivory, with arcs neatly calibrated. “Oh,” he said. “This—it looks like part of a quadrant.”

  He raised it to his eye, sighted along part of it then turned it around and looked along it in the other direction.

  “There is a letter with instructions in the box,” Griffin said with a smile.

  Kit fished out the letter and tilted it to catch the best possible light from the lantern. “Octant,” he said, after a moment puzzling over the crabbed hand. “Oh, yes—I see.”

  “Do you want to try it?” Griffin asked. “Come on, let’s see how it works. I have been corresponding with an old friend who has been trying variations on a quadrant for years. He has high hopes for this device and has sent it to me to prove. Imagine, Kit, something almost small enough to slip in a pocket instead of a yard of wood and metal. It would bring in a whole new era in navigation.”

  As he had been speaking Kit had followed him up on deck. They spent a few minutes fiddling with the instrument then took turns in making readings on various celestial objects. For the first time since joining the Africa Kit felt that what he had to say was welcome, his thoughts valued. Griffin was a mathematician, right enough, and impressed Kit mightily with his ability to do the necessary calculations in his head and in the blink of an eye. But he had learned navigation in a hurry from books. Kit had ten years of practical experience that put him ahead even though the captain was a decade older.

  “I can see how it might work,” Kit said once he had familiarized himself with all the octant’s moving parts. “But I’ll reserve judgment until after the sea trials. True, it’s lighter and easier to carry than a back-staff or cross-staff, but that lightness might be a disadvantage on a heaving desk in the midst of a storm. Also,” he tapped one of the screws, “the more separate parts the more likely it is to get bent or broken. Never underestimate the ham-handedness of Jack Tar, or Jack Tar’s officers come to that, when they’ve been awake forty hours straight in a howling gale.”

  “As we were earlier this week,” Griffin said. He reached out and took the octant from Kit and weighed it in his hand. “Of course, useful though this will be, it doesn’t solve the really big problem.”

  “Longitude,” Kit said. “Did you know? Last year—or was it the year before, I forget—the Royal Society put up a cash prize for whoever works out the best way to solve it. Twenty thousand pounds.” He shook his head at
the thought of so much money.

  “Four years ago now, and no closer to solving the problem as far as I can see. Twenty thousand and worth every penny.” Griffin shook his head. “The lives that have been lost. The ships.”

  Kit looked up at the sky where the moon was putting the brighter stars to shame and tried not to think of the Isabella and her less fortunate sisters, driven before the storm. Or the Malvern, come to that. “It’s a prize worth going for even without the money,” he said. “What do you think will turn the trick? I have spoken to officers who have high hopes of lunar tables.”

  “The solution will be mathematical,” Griffin said. “A reliable time piece…”

  “Oh surely not,” Kit scoffed. “Heat and cold, damp, hard wear, a clock wouldn’t serve. I think we should put our faith in the stars and trigonometry. We just need some incredible brain to work out the formula.”

  “Nevertheless, Kit,” Griffin said with a chuckle. “I’m prepared to put money on the solution being mechanical rather than geometrical. What say—five guineas?”

  “Done,” Kit offered his hand. “And if it’s not solved in our lifetimes, I’ll pay you in ambrosia in the next.”

  Griffin shook his hand. “In the unlikely event we both make it to heaven, done. Failing that I’ll…interpose myself between you and the devil’s bo’sun’s starter.”

  “A very generous stake,” Kit said, following as Griffin returned to the cabin.

  There the captain poured more drink, though Kit had barely touched his and asked a question about the war in the Mediterranean that Kit was barely able to answer. “The Windsor was on blockade duty most of the time,” he explained. “I rarely had any idea what was going on. It was my first proper ship, so I was still missing my mother and trying not to annoy too many people.”

  “How old were you?” Griffin asked.

  “When I joined the Windsor? Twelve, almost thirteen,” Kit said. “But I already had my sights set on being an admiral.” He took a sip of the brandy and set the glass down with care for the slender stem. “And did you wish to be a General?” he asked with a smile.