On A Lee Shore Page 9

  “Some of us see your strong young body, clean skin,” he continued, his voice very soft, “and wonder what it would be like to do what Denny did tonight and see you turn to us with a smile. We’ve been long from home and there’s little love to be found without gold to buy it, and then we pay again in pain from the pox or the clap. To see someone so fresh and clean, that mouth, those shoulders, that fine, tight arse, well it’s as much as a man can do to keep his hands to himself.” Kit caught his breath as the captain moved again, his knee shoving roughly against the back of Kit’s thigh. “And some of us wonder what it would be like to fuck an English naval lieutenant…”

  The man’s voice cut off as Kit bucked, trying to break free. He cried out as he felt the joint in his shoulder begin to give, but his wrist was released and the captain grabbed the scruff of his neck and pushed his head down onto the table again.

  “Be still, damn you,” the captain snarled. “As I was about to say—nobody will find out because I won’t allow anyone on my ship, man or maid, prisoner or crew, to be so abused. I will not have it, sir.”

  The pain in Kit’s shoulder was gone, and the pressure on his belly had eased. While he was still held, the grip was now a reminder that he should be still and just listen. But the captain hadn’t moved away, and the soft unhurried huff of his breath still stirred Kit’s hair.

  “I will not have it,” he repeated. “Not like that—not by force.”

  Kit let out the breath he had been holding then blinked as something dark dripped on the chart right in front of his nose.

  “Oh—damnation,” the captain said and let him go.

  Kit pushed himself off the table and across to the larboard gun in an undignified scramble. He stared at the captain, his heart still beating uncomfortably fast, and was startled to see his smile.

  A lopsided smile, because one side of the captain’s mouth was cut and bleeding. He had stepped behind the table and was using the sleeve of his shirt to mop the drop of blood off the chart. “Touché,” he said. “You caught me with your elbow. You really are a bullpup, aren’t you? Ah, no harm done to the chart. There’s nothing but sea there anyway.” He refilled his glass, picked it up, and took a careful sip. “I insist that you will apologize to my bo’sun. Wigram is a bully, but as an officer of the ship he is worthy of respect. Can you humble your pride to do that?”

  “I—I can,” Kit whispered, too shaken to argue.

  “Then that’s agreed. I don’t insist on noon, because it may take him longer to come round, but today, while the memory is still fresh.” The captain rolled another sip of brandy around his mouth and swallowed it with a grimace. “You’re too free with your fists. It’s not our way. If you have to settle a dispute, bring it to me. If it’s a matter of honor, you and your opponent will be put ashore with pistols and cutlasses and will settle it like gentlemen according to the code duello, not like schoolboys. No more fighting.” He smiled again. “It would be interesting to see what you look like without bruises.”

  “No more fighting, sir,” Kit murmured. “M-may I go?”

  “You may,” the captain said and turned to look out of the window.

  Wigram was not available at noon, so Kit put off his apology until sunset. It was a very public apology observed by every man who could be spared and by all the officers of the ship. Kit had always believed that if you were going to do something unpleasant it should be done in the most straightforward manner possible, so he spoke up loudly.

  “I should not have hit you and I am sorry for that,” he said. “And I am also so very sorry for hitting Denny.”

  Denny grinned and scurried forward to shake the hand Kit offered, but Wigram hooked his thumbs through his belt and scowled. Most of the crew were more interested in the captain, who was watching to make sure it was all done properly. His cut lip was obvious and had caused an awed murmur once it had been spotted. He caught Kit’s eye, and his lips quirked into a lopsided smile as he gave an approving nod. The men, too, seemed to appreciate an admission of fault delivered without excuse in a clear ringing voice, and Kit felt that, of the two, his apology had won more palms than Wigram’s very grudging acceptance.

  Once the unpleasant little duty was over, Wigram and his cronies went to their usual spot forward of the mast. The captain didn’t speak to Kit but nodded again, thumb caressing his own lip in acknowledgement of blows exchanged. Kit felt his cheeks heat as he recalled the reason for his blow and the way the captain’s crippling grip had eased to something equally firm but far from unpleasant. Possibly the captain remembered it too. He grinned as he made his way to the doctor’s side and murmured something to him that made Saunders laugh.

  Kit scowled, wondering if he was being mocked, but his attention was drawn by Valliere, who came over to slap Kit’s back. He was stocky with a broad grin and salt-and-pepper hair. Once a slave on Martinique, something Wigram wasn’t inclined to let him forget, Valliere was one of the most capable men on board and would, everyone agreed, have been in charge of the larboard watch if it hadn’t been for the color of his skin. Kit accepted that this was the way of the world, but regretted it. Valliere’s direction, couched in terms of friendly advice, was so much more pleasant to follow than Wigram’s terse commands.

  “Wigram needed his lights blacked,” Valliere said, his accent, an amalgam of Bristol and French, at odds with his black face. “Especially if he hit the old man.”

  “That was me,” Kit admitted. “Mostly by accident.”

  Valliere shook his head. “Man—you are brave. And stupid—let’s not forget stupid.” He grinned. “I’m on the tiller tonight, and I think it’s going to blow.”

  “And you could do with someone stupid enough to volunteer to spell you?” Kit asked with a grin.

  Valliere chuckled as he turned away, and Kit cast an eye at the sky then hurried after him.

  The steady winds they had enjoyed for the past week began to veer and fail. One moment the sails were full, the Africa leaning over as Valliere and Kit strained at the tiller to keep to their course, the next the wind fell off, leaving them rocking on a choppy sea.

  “You better tell the old man and O’Neill. Saunders too. We might be needing the sawbones before the night is out.” Valliere looked to the northeast where banks of clouds were blanking out the stars. “You ever see a hurricane, Kit?”

  “No, thank God,” Kit said. “You don’t think that’s what that is, do you?”

  “Can’t say yet,” Valliere said. “It might just be a storm, but that can be bad enough at this latitude. I was born in a hurricane, Kit, and I don’t want to die in one.”

  Kit found the surgeon already dressed, braced in a corner with a lantern swinging wildly overhead. He had a book in his hands, and it was the very first time Kit had seen him without a bottle.

  “I know,” he said before Kit had a chance to speak. “Call me if you need me, until then I’m staying in the dry.”

  That seemed sensible to Kit, so he went off to try and find O’Neill. He was in the fo’c’sle arguing with Wigram.

  They stopped hissing at each other and stared at him. “What do you want?” Wigram demanded.

  “Valliere sent me. I’ve roused the surgeon, and Valliere asked me to warn you and the captain.”

  “Well, do it then,” O’Neill said. “I’m busy here.”

  Kit had half hoped that O’Neill would accept this task, but he braced up and told himself not to be so childish. He cut back up on deck to check the state of the weather and to take Valliere an oilskin then went to the cabin.

  The door opened as soon as he tapped on it.

  “Penrose.” The captain stepped back from the door to give himself room to swing an oilskin around his shoulders. “Who’s on the tiller?”

  “Valliere, sir. He sent me to warn you that we’re in for a blow.”

  The captain nodded. “Thank you. If he says it will be bad, it will be bad. I would imagine that Pollack has put the galley fire out, but it would ease my mind if s
omeone would go and check. Is that all you have to wear?”

  Kit glanced down at his shirt and waistcoat. “Apart from my uniform coat, yes,” he said. “I intended to replace my belongings in St. Kitt’s once I had been paid.”

  The captain grunted and reached behind the door for another waterproof. “You may borrow this,” he said, pushing it into Kit’s hands then stepped out and closed the cabin door.

  On deck the veering wind had settled to a steady blow and the Africa was butting through heavy seas. In the galley, Pollack was already stowing all the loose items away.

  “I don’t want my brains bashed out with one of my own kettles,” he said as Kit helped him secure them. A flicker of lightning made them both jump and Pollack sighed. “Here we go. I’m going to find somewhere safe to sit it out. You need both legs for weather like this.”

  Kit agreed. He was thrown from his feet twice before he managed to get back to the tiller. The captain and Valliere were discussing what to do in polite bellows as the wind shrieked in the rigging, and a few of the hands took down the sails and lashed them tightly. The wind was such that the mast was shuddering with the strain already.

  “Look out!” O’Neill was at his elbow, and they both grabbed onto the shrouds as a wave washed over the deck. The flickering of lightning was continuous, and now they were beginning to hear the first faint rumbles over the sound of wind and sea.

  “Dear God,” Kit swore, shaking spray from his eyes and O’Neill laughed.

  “You know any good prayers, son, you’d better say them. It’ll get worse before it gets better. Ah, fuck, here comes the rain.”

  Kit turned to reply to O’Neill, and a wall of rain dashed into his face, choking him. He coughed and spat, then followed O’Neill to the tiller.

  The discussion was ending with the captain slapping Valliere on the shoulder. He turned to Kit and pointed to the compass then gripped his collar to put his mouth close to his ear.

  “We’ll do it turn and about,” he shouted. “O’Neill and I, and you and Val. Try to keep her heading but don’t force it. This should blow through. It’s early for a bad storm.”

  Early it may have been, but it was bad enough. They had split the watches, and the men who were on deck could do little more than trim the remaining sail when instructed and hang on for dear life.

  Valliere and Kit clung to the tiller, leaning on it to keep Africa’s head into the huge seas. They couldn’t speak but communicated with shouts and gestures to the compass and sent runners to pass along orders to the men. It was exhausting, but Kit could feel how the little ship answered to her helm and knew that she would weather the storm.

  Unless, of course, there was something out there he didn’t know about. He recalled with misgiving the little Isabella, part of the great flotilla of ships heading home in the wake of the flagship, Association. Kit had overheard the anxious discussion of the captain with his first lieutenant as they compared their readings with that of the sailing master.

  “But surely they realize,” Lt. Payton had been saying.

  “Maybe my calculations are wrong?” Captain Redall said, his tone hopeful and his face worried. “The fleet sailing master signals we’re off Ushant, and I have to trust his judgment.”

  And that of the admiral, they all thought but didn’t say as they watched the flagship flying down the wind to where, Redall had calculated, Scilly’s ferocious rocks and shoals lay waiting.

  Later, Kit had seen the spouts of spray that marked the sharp teeth waiting to rip the heart out of Isabella and had joined with every hand aboard in cramming on what sail they could and praying that it would be enough to carry them round the Western Rocks.

  They had made it, but others hadn’t, and Kit remembered Redall sitting in his shattered cabin with his head in his hands as he tried to find the words to express what had happened.

  “By the grace of God,” Redall had written in the logbook.

  “By the grace of God,” Kit murmured now, his shoulder hard against Valliere’s as the Africa reared up, bowsprit to the sky, then plunged over the crest of another huge wave.

  After a while—it felt like half the night but was probably no more than two hours—he was told to go below, and the captain took his place. Kit didn’t go far but took off his oilskins and wrung the water from his hair and shirt. He sat on the stairs, closed his eyes for a moment…then Wigram was kicking him awake. “You’ve had your time, so get your arse back on duty,” he said. “Curse this game leg o’ mine.”

  Kit wasn’t sure where it was worse, on deck in the driving rain straining every muscle to keep the ship and her crew safe, or below where it pitched and rolled, and he had to trust that others would save him. Eventually he gave up thinking and just did what had to be done.

  A subtle graying of the eastern sky held a promise of dawn before the strength of the wind began to abate. Kit had been below, and Saunders had provided him with a drink hot with rum and spices. It warmed Kit from the inside, and when it was his turn to go back up to the exposed position in the stern of the ship, he took a measure for the man on duty. When he arrived, one of the two swathed figures grunted a word of gratitude and went below. He offered the cup to the other.

  “Drink,” he said and took over the tiller.

  “Thank you, Kit,” the other man said, and he saw the captain’s profile against the growing light as he raised the cup to his lips and drank.

  A narrow flush of ugly yellow was spreading to the east. Now Kit could see the seas they were weathering, he was filled with awe for the gallantry of the little ship, and of her captain and crew, because without their strength applied to tiller and sheets she would have gone down in the first hour.

  He checked the compass and made a little adjustment to the tiller. Someone was waving and calling from the hatch. Hands converged on it, and after a moment Davy Forrest came running, clinging to the safety lines as another sea swept across the planking.

  “O’Neill fell down the stair,” he said. “The last pitch shook him loose.”

  “Is he hurt?” Kit asked, his voice chiming alongside the captain’s deeper enquiry.

  “Knocked hisself silly,” Davy replied, sparing a hand to wipe the rain from his face. “But he landed on Val. We think Val’s wrist might be broke. Saunders’s seeing to ’em now.”

  “Damnation,” the captain said. “Well, Penrose, can we do it, do you think?”

  Kit looked at the yellow tinged waves and the cloud overhead. “I’m rested,” he said then grinned. “No choice is there? Of course we can do it.”

  And so they did, taking brief turns to warm chilled hands and drink more of Saunders’s throat-searing grog before returning to their posts.

  At noon by the clock, for the sun had not been seen since that faint yellow glow at dawn, the seas had subsided to the point that they rarely wet the deck with more than spray, and the wind, while strong, was no longer so strong they didn’t dare risk a little more canvas.

  By then Kit was back in his ‘doing what must be done’ state, and the captain had spoken to him three times before he looked round and apologized.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I didn’t hear.”

  “I said I think we’re done,” the captain said, adding, “Kit—Kit, you can go below.”

  “Who’s taking over?” Kit asked, frowning as he tried to remember being warm, oh and sleeping!

  “Wigram,” the captain said. “And O’Neill is with us again, though he has a bit of a headache.”

  “I’ll wait until they are here,” Kit said quietly, and his lips twitched as he heard a growl.

  “Insubordinate. Do you really want a thrashing?”

  “The sea’s done that, sir,” Kit said then sighed with relief as O’Neill approached followed by Wigram, who was exaggerating a limp.

  “Come, Kit,” the captain said and gave him a shove to start him in the right direction.

  On the stairs Kit stumbled. “Sorry,” he said as he felt a hand fasten on his col
lar, but the captain was no steadier on his feet as they lurched to the cabin door and inside. Saunders was waiting to push another cup into his hands urging him to drink. When he had drained the cup, Saunders helped him strip off his oilskins and shirt and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Heavy-eyed, Kit looked across to see Denny doing the same for the captain.

  “Lie down before you fall down,” the captain advised, and Kit took a step to where more blankets had been laid out and lowered himself to the floor.

  “Thank you, captain…” he began then snorted. “God’s cods—what is your name? Nobody will tell me.” His eyes were closing, but he could just make out the captain getting into his cot, the skin of his bare chest and shoulders looking as blue and chilled as Kit felt his own to be.

  The captain lay back with a sigh before replying. “Major Yestin Griffin, late of the Honorable Artillery Company, temporarily a prisoner of the French brigantine Garonne, now Garnet, more recently captain of the sloop Aphrodite.”

  “Africa Ditty,” Denny corrected him.

  “Africa Ditty,” the captain repeated, his voice almost inaudible yet Kit could still hear the smile in it.

  “Thank you, Major Griffin,” Kit murmured, then a thought struck him and his eyes opened. “Griffin. You’re La Griffe!” He began to laugh.

  “Half of him,” Captain Griffin said. “The better looking half. The half with the brains. Kit, if you don’t stop laughing I’ll maim you. Go to sleep.”

  “With a good will, sir,” Kit replied, and honestly he couldn’t have kept his eyes open any longer.

  Chapter Seven

  From the even swing of his hammock when he awoke, Kit had supposed he was in his usual place in the fo’c’sle, until he opened his eyes and saw white painted boards swimming with reflected light a couple of feet above his head. Kit frowned. He remembered lying down on a damp blanket on the floor and seeing the captain slumping back into his cot looking exhausted and beaten. Denny had been holding their drenched oilskins away from his body with an expression of disgust on his wizened face, while Saunders was busy pouring a measure from a bottle into a small glass.