First Voyage Page 16

  Liam's observation did little to dampen Alexander's spirits. The sailors around him were acting as if they felt the same way, their smiles all the wider and the whites of their eyes that much brighter in faces blackened by the gunpowder and smoke. Even Lieutenant Swann looked quite pleased and swaggered about the gun deck with his chest puffed out. The acrid sulphur smell of burned gunpowder stung the back of Alexander's throat. He truly felt now like part of the crew in a way that he hadn't before. Was this what being in a real sea battle was like, not just an aerial skirmish against enemy gryphons?

  He knew he had been given his first real responsibility aboard the Resolution—command of a gun battery. The looks of approval—even pride—from Jameson and the other men in the gun crew told Alexander that he had done well.

  And yet he found that he could not be completely happy. Something gnawed at him and he knew at once what it was—Captain Amelia's suggestion that Alexander consider a transfer to become a gryphon flyer. The idea was exciting and he wasn't entirely ready to give it up.

  At the same time, even considering a transfer made him feel like a traitor. Captain Bellingham had done him a great favor by taking him aboard Resolution as an ensign. Was he willing to be so disloyal as to abandon Bellingham and the Resolution in order to take to the air?

  Then there was the question of his power—or whatever he might call it. This troubled him most of all. He had seemed so close to having some strange command over water. Maybe it had been in his imagination, thanks to a lucky coincidence or two. He might not be a true elemental at all, but merely one of those not uncommon individuals graced with a few parlor tricks.

  He reminded himself that he had rescued Roger and Jameson during the storm—or had he? Some rogue wave may have saved all their lives. It may not have been Alexander’s doing at all.

  He had tried to save Chloe's little sister when she fell into the mill stream, but had failed. He had not felt so much as a ripple of power. If it had not been for the girls' father, little Celeste would have drowned. Alexander knew he was foolish for even thinking that he could manipulate the water and he hadn't dared to try it since. Whatever power he'd had, he feared that it had abandoned him.

  "Some shooting!" Roger shouted in his ear as they splashed at the bucket to wash off the worst of the powder grime. They were all somewhat deaf from the roar of the guns, and their ears rang. "I can't wait to try that on the Napoleonists!"

  Dinner in the ensigns' quarters had a festive air, helped by the fact that Fowler was away on watch and that Captain Bellingham had ordered up extra rations for the entire ship. While the guns had been firing, the ship's cooks had been busy roasting beef and baking pies. Alexander crawled into his hammock feeling bone tired, filled to bursting, and happy. And yet his one nagging thought before falling asleep was this: A flyer? Why not!

  • • •

  Four hours later he was on deck for the midwatch. It was usually dull, cold duty that deprived him of sleep. Tonight the stars were out, the weather was warmer, and the Resolution left a phosphorescent wake in the Atlantic. The sight was so strange and beautiful that he almost forgot how much he missed his hammock.

  Two saucer-sized yellow eyes stared at him out of the shadows on deck. Startled, Alexander jumped back. Then he realized just whose eyes those were. "Lemondrop! What are you doing up on deck?"

  "He's keeping me company," came a reply, and Lord Parkington materialized to stand beside the gryphon.

  "Toby! It's good to see you. Lemondrop must be much better."

  "He's almost ready to fly again, praise Jupiter. By that I mean real flying, not the kind we did to escape the French. That was desperate—truth be told, I didn't think he would make it. We can't get back in the air soon enough, as far as I'm concerned. I'm sick of skulking about on deck. I don't know how you sailors stand it!"

  "I suppose we manage," Alexander said weakly. He didn’t bother to point out that sailors actually worked when on deck. How much longer would he be a sailor? He decided to change the subject. "You picked an unusual time for a stroll on deck. It is the middle of the night, you know. I suppose it's just like a flyer to keep odd hours."

  As soon as he said it, Alexander felt a pang. He could be a flyer. With Captain Amelia's backing, all he had to do was put in for a transfer.

  "The gryphons have been out of sorts all day because of your gunnery practice," his lordship explained. "Actually, there was another reason I came up on deck, Alexander. I had hoped to find you on watch. You see, I came to warn you."

  "Warn me about what?"

  "I overheard some of the crew talking. It's sailors' gossip, I know, but they said Fowler has it in for you. He's out to get you, Alexander. You had better watch your back. I know I told Fowler that I would have Lemondrop devour him if anything happened to you, but either he's forgotten or he thinks I won't make good on the threat. Fowler is sadly mistaken in that regard, but I'd much rather have Lemondrop eat him before something bad happens to you at his hands. The trick is, I don't have an excuse yet."

  "Fowler." The name even tasted bad as he said it. Alexander wasn't exactly afraid, but he knew Toby was right—he would have to be on guard. "Thanks for the warning."

  "Don't mention it," his lordship said. "It's the least I could do for the sailor who got me out of France."

  With that, Lord Parkington and Lemondrop melted back into the shadows. It amazed Alexander that something as big as a gryphon could disappear so quietly. He suddenly felt very alone on deck, and more than a little defenseless. A few weeks ago he might have been afraid and intimidated by Toby's warning about Fowler. Now he was angry—and apprehensive. Fowler was a bully, and desperately close to being a failure in his naval career if he wasn't advanced to lieutenant soon, but he was cunning. Dangerously so. He also had the assistance of his two thuggish cronies, Sweeney and Lloyd. That made it three against one.

  On board a ship at sea, it would be terribly easy to arrange for an accident to befall Alexander. It was likely that no one would question it twice if Alexander suffered a nasty tumble from the rigging or apparently slipped and hit his head in the dark of a night watch. Captain Bellingham and the other officers would accept that the fault lay with Alexander's unfamiliarity with the ways of the ship and the sea. Toby was right; he must watch his back.

  The marine sentry turned the hourglass and rang the brass bell to mark the time. Alexander stood at the rail and stared glumly at the dark sea. His thoughts were interrupted by the helmsman at the ship’s wheel calling his name.

  "Ensign Hope, come over here now and let me give you a proper lesson in how to steer the ship."

  "All right, then." He moved to stand beside the helmsman, a salty older sailor named Cullins, who had his long hair in a gray queue down his back and a cutlass scar across one cheek. Alexander asked uncertainly, "You want me to steer?"

  "Aye, lad, and who better to teach you than ol' Cullins, eh? I done sailed ships through tempests with the waves so big they had to lash me to the wheel to keep from washing overboard. Now, go ahead and take the wheel. Go on now. Get a good grip. That's eight hundred ton of frigate in your hands."

  Alexander took the wheel. The wood felt polished and smooth from many hands. It felt natural in his grip. Overhead, wind filled the sails as the stars shined down. "Ah," he managed to say.

  "Turn her a bit to port," Cullins directed. "Feel how she responds? Aye, I see from your face that ye do. That's the compass there and we follow the course set by the captain. South south west. There's just enough light from the lantern here to read it. On a clear night such as this a true sailor can navigate by the stars."

  Then something curious happened. Through the wheel, Alexander seemed to sense the whole ship in his hands—the canvas sails gently straining, the wooden hull slipping through the water, the rudder creaking as it kept the ship on course. Most of all he felt the sea surrounding them, like something alive.

  Cullins laughed gently. "Oh, I see that you have the feel of her already, Mr. Hop
e. Ha, ha! Maybe you have saltwater in your veins after all, like some on board be saying."

  The sigh of the wind in the rigging and the gurgle of the bow cutting the sea was like a song. His heart soared. He realized now how much the idea of becoming a flyer had eaten at him, like a rip current just beneath the surface. Something about it hadn't felt right. This felt right. With Alexander at the wheel, Resolution sailed toward dawn.

  • • •

  In the morning, they had a chance to exercise the guns again. Only this time, it wasn't for practice. After manning the wheel for most of the night under old Cullins's watchful eye, it seemed to Alexander as if he had only just crawled into his hammock when he was awakened by shouts and drumbeats.

  "Beat to quarters!" registered dimly in Alexander's sleep-fogged mind. Then he heard someone shout, "Sail ahoy!"

  Sighting another sail in the open sea often meant danger. The other ship might be French or Spanish—both dangerous enemies. But this morning, luck was on their side. Captain Bellingham stood on the quarterdeck, studying the distant ship through a long brass telescope. When he lowered the telescope, he was smiling.

  "A Spanish merchant sloop, not a navy vessel," he announced. Then Bellingham's powerful voice boomed out, "All hands make sail!"

  Dozens of men swarmed into the rigging. Yet more canvas soon billowed overhead and the Resolution surged forward. The merchant sloop had spotted them as well and was making a run for it. The chase was on.

  "Will they get away?" Alexander asked anxiously, hardly realizing he was speaking out loud.

  "Not a chance of it, young sir," answered Jameson, who happened to be standing nearby. "The Resolution is an awful fast frigate when she sets her mind to it."

  In time of war, it was customary for Royal Navy ships to capture enemy merchant ships. This was known as taking a prize. The practice had a double benefit. One was that it denied the enemy of ships and supplies. The other benefit was experienced directly by the crew and officers in that captured ships and their cargo were taken into the nearest British-held port and sold for a profit. This was done by sending a small crew to sail the ship. A lucky captain and crew could grow rich from these spoils of war. In a single day, it might be possible to earn a lifetime's wages if the captured vessel held some precious cargo.

  An enemy man o' war or privateer would do the same to any English vessels. By gentlemen's agreement, the crew of a ship that surrendered was treated fairly—not invited to dinner but not forced to walk the plank, as pirates might do. The objective was to capture a merchant ship, rather than sink it.

  Jameson was right. The chase lasted no more than ten minutes before the Spanish sloop seemed much closer. The little Spanish sloop had not been able to outrun the frigate. They came close enough to finally read the name Honora on the stern.

  "I do believe we shall scoop her up," Bellingham said. "Mr. Fowler, give the Spaniard a shot across the bow when you have the range."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Fowler ran forward and oversaw the firing of what was called the "bow chaser," a smaller cannon designed for just this purpose. He gave the order to fire and the ball whistled past the sloop to splash into the waves just ahead of her bow. It was clear to all that if she tried to run, she would be blown out of the water. The sloop lowered her sails and waited for the Resolution to come alongside. Professor Hobhouse knew Spanish, and he shouted back and forth with the sloop's captain long enough to determine that the ship was heavily laden with a cargo of wine.

  "A rich prize, I daresay," said Captain Bellingham. He smiled broadly. "Not bad at all for a morning's work. Hmmm. An ensign's command, I do believe. Mr. Fitzgerald! Take six men and go across to take possession of the sloop. Sail her into the nearest English-held harbor and report back when you can."

  "Aye, aye, sir!" Liam grinned from ear to ear, and Alexander was pleased for his friend. Others in the crew touched a knuckle to their foreheads as he passed, which was a traditional sign of respect. Fowler stood at the rail, looking on and scowling. As the senior ensign, he would have been the natural choice to take the prize ship into port, but the captain had chosen a younger boy instead.

  "Sometime today if you please, Mr. Fitzgerald!" Bellingham shouted, sounding slightly annoyed. "We are bound for Gibraltar in the king's service, I might remind everyone, and we haven't a moment to lose!"

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When Alexander and Roger came off duty a few hours later, they climbed down the ladder to the gun deck, feeling bone weary. The capture of the Spanish sloop had made it an exciting day. The sailors did nothing all afternoon but figure their share of the prize money and how they would spend it in port, which was entertaining, to say the least. There were outlandish schemes that involved everything from buying taverns to starting a zoo. The boys looked forward to a good meal and a long sleep in their hammocks.

  "Liam is the captain of his own ship tonight," Roger pointed out. "No sleep for him, or very little. He'll have quite the job running the Honora into port under the noses of the enemy."

  "Somehow I think our Liam is up to the task," Alexander said. "He's descended from Irish kings, you know."

  "Our Liam? Irish kings? Fancy that!" Roger frowned. "There's a lot of bad blood between the Irish and the English. Those Celts are a hot-headed bunch. I hope he remembers whose side he's on."

  That thought hadn't crossed Alexander's mind. Then he recalled that Liam had seemed a bit put out by King George. He was glad that he hadn't told Roger that Liam also had a bit of Spanish Armada survivor mixed into his family tree, thus making him "Black Irish." That would make him doubly suspicious. Yet Liam was now somewhere on the star-flecked sea tonight, guiding a captured merchant ship into port in the name of King George. He doubted that Liam had failed to notice the irony of that situation.

  Alexander sighed. He was too tired to worry much about Liam's complicated family tree or to explain it to Roger. They crossed the gun deck toward the ensigns' berth tucked at one end, and suddenly the only thoughts he had were of food and his hammock. He followed Roger through the doorway.

  A large hurricane lantern swung gently to and fro from the overhead beams and lit the narrow room, joined by several beeswax candles. The remains of dinner were still on the table and Alexander's mouth watered at the sight of a loaf of bread, butter, and a hunk of cold roast beef crusted with salt, pepper and herbs. Several ensigns sat around the table, which was presided over by Fowler, flanked as usual by his two henchmen.

  Fowler's eyes flicked immediately to Alexander and he smirked. A flash of silver caught Alexander's attention. He was astonished to see his wristling on Fowler's wrist.

  "Pretty, isn't it?" Fowler asked, smiling smugly at Alexander.

  "That's mine!"

  "I don't know what you're talking about, snotty. I found it lying about."

  "Found it in my sea chest, you mean."

  Ignoring him, Fowler held the wristling up to the lantern. The woven silver wire glittered in the soft light. "It would be a curious thing for someone who doesn't even own a spare uniform to have," Fowler mused. "Quite valuable, I should think. Quite old. And very mysterious."

  "Captain Bellingham gave it to me," Alexander blurted out, wishing instantly that he hadn't said it. He did manage to stop short of adding that the wristling had once been his father's.

  "You must be the captain's pet."

  "You stole it from my sea chest!"

  "Call me a thief, will you?" Fowler nodded at Sweeney and Lloyd. "Bring him here."

  Alexander had been so intent on Fowler that he hadn't noticed his two thugs sliding along the wall behind him. They grabbed Alexander and dragged him toward the table. He strained to get up, but Sweeney and Lloyd had arms like oak trees. He glanced at Roger, silently pleading for help, but his friend seemed frozen in place.

  Fowler stood up and swept the table clear. The plates and platters clanged to the floor, spilling Alexander's dinner with them. But food was suddenly the furthest thought from his mind a
s he found himself pinned down on the table, staring up at the low ceiling. He struggled, but Sweeney and Lloyd held him firmly down.

  Fowler's face hovered over him. "Captain's pet, eh? We'll see about that." He reached down and yanked up Alexander's shirt, exposing his belly. Then the long dagger Fowler had been toying with the other day was back in his hand. "There's no softer part on your body. I've seen men cut across the belly in a fight and have their guts fall out, like slitting open a sack of eels. They were cut just here."

  With the very tip of the knife, Fowler began to etch a red line across Alexander's exposed skin. He did not cut deep, but the sharp point of the knife dragged painfully across Alexander's stomach, leaving a bloody furrow.

  Alexander tried hard not to give Fowler the satisfaction, but a gasp of pain escaped his lips.

  "Hurts? Well. Tell me, snotty, why would Captain Bellingham give the likes of you a wristling such as this?"

  "I'll see you in Hades first," Alexander said through gritted teeth. The scratch on his belly hurt like fire.

  "That can be arranged." Fowler slipped on the wristling. It was too big for his wrist and hung loosely. A disappointed looked crossed his face. He took off the wristling and set it on the table. "Pity it doesn't fit. Otherwise I might have kept it. Now, you never answered my question."

  He reached for a burning candle.

  "Stop it!" cried Roger. "You go too far!"

  "The imp speaks," Fowler said.

  Roger had seen and heard enough. He was standing next to Lloyd, and gave him a shove. It was enough for Lloyd to loosen his grip on Alexander, who broke free. He snatched the wristling off the table.

  "You're going to pay for this, Fowler." He slipped on the wristling, mainly to keep it out of Fowler's clutches. Alexander had never put it on before, but it seemed like the safest place for it at the moment.