First Voyage Page 18

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  Alexander found himself invited to dine in the captain's cabin for the second time. He suspected Captain Amelia had had a hand in that—she probably wanted to embarrass him some more. Fresh from his swim, he dressed himself in his one and only uniform—which he feared was beginning to show signs of hard use—and reported to dinner. An invitation to dine with the captain wasn't delivered so much with an "if you choose" but with the air of an order about it.

  "You again," said Lord Parkington, who was already seated at the table. He said it in an off-hand way, but he could see from the smile playing at the corners of Parkington's lips that he was glad to see him. Or had the flyers been having a good laugh over him down in their quarters with those smelly gryphons?

  "Me again," Alexander agreed.

  As usual, Lord Parkington was impeccably dressed, with a crisp white shirt and spotless neck scarf, along with a light blue flyer's coat that looked as if it had just been flown in from a London tailor. His tall boots gleamed with a mirror-like finish. Glancing around the table, it was clear that Lord Parkington was the best-dressed person there. Captain Bellingham was imposing as usual, but he was not wearing his best uniform coat. The one he wore was far from shabby, but somewhere in his sea chest was stowed his very best uniform, saved for meetings with admirals and dinners more important than a gathering in his cabin.

  Alexander noticed a stain on his own elbow he hadn't seen before and felt that much shabbier. Then he tugged his sleeve down to make certain it covered the wristling, noticing in the process that his shirt sleeve was becoming rather tattered. The only person at the table who was possibly dressed worse was Professor Hobhouse, who wore a threadbare shirt and an old brown coat with long swallowtails that was so obviously out of date it looked as if it had been made in the reign of the previous king. And yet the professor managed to be shabby in a way that was entirely becoming a scholar. Eccentric might be an apt description of the professor, he thought.

  “There you are, Mr. Hope,” Professor Hobhouse said. “I wanted to warn you against swimming so far from the ship today. I feared that you might be devoured by Carcharodon carcharias. The Great White Shark. They are known to frequent these waters.”

  Before he could answer, Captain Amelia came in, wearing her tailored flyer's coat with her tight-fitting riding breeches. Alexander tried to think of a word for how she looked, and found himself blushing.

  Bellingham nearly jumped to his feet. "Why, Amelia, there you are!"

  "Here I am," Amelia agreed.

  Captain Bellingham took her hand and kissed it, keeping it grasped for quite a while, it seemed to Alexander. He noticed Lieutenant Swann and Professor Hobhouse exchange a look. This was not how captains typically greeted one another.

  "We have been watching the skies for you, Amelia," Bellingham said.

  "You are very kind to say that, James."

  He saw Hobhouse and Swann exchange another look. Everyone called the gryphon commander Captain Amelia—she was quite famous for it around the fleet. No one ever called the captain of a Royal Navy ship by his first name at the dinner table of his cabin.

  Captain Bellingham smiled. "It is my pleasure. And how are things in London?"

  "Oh, I should say they were confounding, deceitful, back-stabbing and expensive. The butcher wanted a guinea for a lamb to feed Desdemona. In other words, London was about the same as always."

  "Did you really pay a guinea for a lamb?" Hobhouse couldn't seem to help wondering out loud. It was an outrageous amount.

  "Heavens no. I explained that a hungry gryphon wasn’t very particular about what it ate—sheep or shopkeeper made little difference—and he came down quickly on his price. It helped that Desdemona had him cornered and happened to be growling at him."

  "Ha, ha!" Bellingham laughed with delight. "I should have liked to have seen that!"

  "Come down to the gryphon deck later and I shall be happy to corner you, James."

  Alexander began to get that uncomfortable feeling he did whenever he saw old people flirting. Toby kicked his foot under the table and muttered, "This is gross."

  Fortunately, Lieutenant Swann chose that moment to raise his glass and announce a toast, "To our friends in the Flyer Corps!"

  "Here, here!" Bellingham said, and they all drank to that.

  Bellingham had saved the seat of honor to his right for Captain Amelia. The adults at the table all drank port that had been liberated from the hold of the captured Spanish sloop, while the boys enjoyed a much watered-down version.

  The food soon followed, preventing any further awkward conversations. They began with steaming bowls of creamy crab bisque, then the main course of roast beef crusted with rosemary, pepper, salt and garlic, served with potatoes and carrots roasted in the same pan as the beef, alongside boiled red cabbage dressed with bacon drippings—truly green vegetables being hard to come by on a ship at sea—and all topped off with a rum-raisin pudding served with coffee.

  It was all so delicious that hardly anyone spoke until the last raisin had gone down the hatch. Then Captain Bellingham produced a bottle of French brandy—also captured—and poured small measures for the boys, but much more generous ones for the officers.

  He raised his glass. "To the king.” He took a sip and smacked his lips appreciatively. “At least the Napoleonists manage to do something right."

  Captain Amelia took a drink. "Mmm. By Nelson's hat, but that's delicious. I daresay it might even put hair on Ensign Hope's chest." As Alexander choked on his brandy, his sleeve pulled away and the wristling glittered in the candlelight. He tugged his sleeve back up but it was too late—Amelia had seen it. "Is that your father's wristling?"

  "Yes." He was surprised that she knew about it.

  Captain Amelia raised her glass. "To Arthur Hope. So promising, and yet he threw it all away."

  "Amelia," Captain Bellingham cautioned. "You speak of the boy's father."

  "Then why shouldn't he know? Your father was a rising star in the Royal Navy. Some say he had power—real power, not trifling parlor room tricks like some circus elemental. He resigned his commission to go off on some adventure in the Americas." She sighed. "Never to be seen again."

  "Impetuous," Lieutenant Swann said.

  "Some might say he followed his heart." Amelia gave Alexander an appraising look. "I imagine your father was much like your famous ancestor who crushed the Spanish Armada. Destroyed an entire fleet with a wave of his hand. Think of it! But he would not do the queen's bidding and help her exact revenge by counter-attacking the Spanish. He followed his heart."

  "Come, Amelia my dear, let us have another toast," Bellingham said.

  But the flyer captain was not finished. "You know, I spoke flippantly before about being home. When I was in London, it was in truth a city wrapped in fear. Uncertainty shrouds it like the nighttime fog. We are surrounded by enemies. It is said the Spanish have an earth elemental, and we know the French have not one but two elementals. Napoleon himself commands fire. What power!"

  "Our only defense is vigilance and discipline," Lieutenant Swann said, pounding the table for emphasis. No one seemed to hear him as Amelia went on.

  "Two hundred years ago, a single Englishman destroyed an entire enemy fleet," Amelia said quietly. "What sort of boy are you, Alexander Hope? Are you your father's son and your famous ancestor's heir, or are you just another rule-following sea-lubber? I may have seen you bare-arsed today, but I have yet to see your soul."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Alexander was up early the next morning because he was expected on deck. This would be his first time as ensign of the watch, which meant he was second in command after Lieutenant Swann. The lieutenant still seemed skeptical about Alexander, but he kept his opinions to himself. Being ensign of the watch meant Alexander had served long enough aboard the Resolution to be entrusted to take command if Lieutenant Swann became indisposed.

  That seemed unlikely this fine morning, with the smell of coffee and cooki
ng bacon swirling about deck. Alexander's stomach grumbled, but his breakfast would have to wait until after his watch. He made do with a biscuit and a hot mug of coffee laced with milk and sugar that Jameson brought him.

  "Can't have our new ensign o' the watch starvin', now can we?" he explained.

  The sun was just peeking above the horizon. The weather today promised to be somewhat more hazy, for all around the Resolution lay thick banks of fog or "sea smoke" as the old salts liked to call it. The fog rolled in and out on the light breeze, revealing patches of sunshine and open water.

  "I'm going below to talk to the captain, but I shan't be long. Take the glass, Mr. Hope, and keep a sharp lookout," said Lieutenant Swann, handing Alexander his long brass telescope. "A day like this plays tricks with the eyes. Whatever you do, don't cry mermaid and make the hands interrupt their breakfast running to battle stations. They won't thank you for it."

  "Cry mermaid, sir?"

  "It's the same as crying wolf on land, you see. Haven't you read your Aesop's Fables?"

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Lieutenant Swann gave Alexander another one of his searching, narrow-eyed looks that indicated he wasn't quite sure about Mr. Hope, and then moved off toward the ladder that led below.

  Alexander did as he was told and kept his eyes on the sea around them. Captain Bellingham had warned that they were now in dangerous waters that swarmed with Napoleonists. The trouble was that the shifting fog, backlit by the rising sun, swirled together at times to resemble an enemy ship. Or so it seemed to Alexander's eyes. Then the next moment what he had thought was a ship evaporated in the shifting breeze.

  Old Cullins called out from where he manned the wheel. "This sea smoke is worse than a storm, young sir. You know that a storm is wind and rain and waves." He chuckled in a way that made Alexander wonder if the old man was a bit daft. "Aye, but what does the fog conceal? It deceives the eyes, does the fog."

  Alexander tried to ignore Old Cullins and studied the fog all around them. The minutes passed and the sun rose higher. Lieutenant Swann had not returned. There. Was that a sail? He put the glass to his eye. Where had it gone? He screwed his eye tightly against the telescope, but all he could see now was a wall of gray. Had his eyes been playing tricks on him again? No, this was not the same. There had been something tangible about that sail.

  "Cullins, I think I saw something."

  "Aye, did you now?" Old Cullins seemed quick to laugh, but he was very serious now. "If you saw sea smoke and beat to quarters, the men will just think you a foolish ensign. If it's a Napoleonist ship and she gets the first broadside, she might sink us. Which would you say is worse, young sir? But I can't tell you what to do, seeing as to how you be the ensign of the watch."

  Alexander knew what he had seen. "Beat to quarters!" he shouted.

  At Alexander's command, the marine drummer on duty pounded out the alarm. Shouts of "Beat to quarters!" echoed across the ship. Below decks, the Resolutions abandoned their breakfasts and swarmed up the ladders. Guns were unlashed and run out. Marine snipers climbed into the rigging. The surgeon set out his bandages, flensing knives and bone saws.

  In less than two minutes, the sleepy dawn-touched deck was transformed into a ship ready for battle. Alexander watched nervously as Captain Bellingham appeared on deck, tugging on his coat and looking unhappily at the empty fog all around them. Lieutenant Swann was right behind him.

  "What is your report, Mr. Hope?"

  Alexander brought himself to attention. "I think I saw a sail, sir."

  "You think you saw a sail? Mr. Hope, either you did or you didn't."

  "It's this fog, sir," Lieutenant Swann said quietly, so as not to be overhead. "I believe it has played tricks on Mr. Hope's eyes. I shouldn't have an ensign on deck alone—"

  Boom. There was no need to explain himself further. Guns roared off to starboard and the fog was punctuated by muzzle flashes.

  The men began to shout and point, but Captain Bellingham's powerful voice squelched them. "All quiet on deck! They'll have a devil of a time seeing us, so let's not let them hear us."

  The silence was filled by several more deep booms. The shots came close together, but were of a slightly different sound. "What do you make of it, Swann?" the captain asked.

  "They aren't firing at us, praise Neptune, or we'd all be treading water already, sir."

  "Then who are they firing at, pray tell?"

  That was the question on the minds of all the men on deck. Nearly every pair of eyes was peering into the fog toward the sound of the guns. They soon got their answer as the fog shifted, revealing two ships battling on the open sea. The larger ship was clearly a French frigate, flying Napoleon's banner. The ship was every bit as large as the Resolution. The French ship was firing at a smaller sloop that flew the British flag. A ripple of indignation ran through the crew when they saw the smaller British ship under attack.

  "She's attacking one of ours." Bellingham sounded deeply offended.

  Lieutenant Swann had the telescope to his eye. "I can see the name on the stern of the French ship, sir. She's called Chasseur. I make her out to be a thirty-eight gun frigate. The sloop likely carries fourteen guns and half as many men. She's terribly outclassed."

  "Let's even the odds, shall we? Make sail! Mr. Fowler, ready those forward guns."

  Captain Amelia had come on deck. Her hair was astray and her hat was off. "What is it, Bellingham?"

  "French ship, from the looks of it."

  "I'll go below and get the gryphons ready. You may require aerial support."

  Captain Amelia went to harness Desdemona and the other gryphons. The men flew into action. They knew just what to do. Sails were hoisted to catch the thin breeze—the wind was barely enough to move the fog around, but it did push Resolution closer to the sea battle. Within two minutes, they were within range. No one on the French ship seemed to notice them. Then the fog rolled back in.

  "Curse this sea smoke!" Bellingham roared. "Steady men. We can't fire blind or we might hit our own."

  The Resolution crept through the fog toward the sound of the guns. The wind suddenly shifted as it will at sea, blowing harder, and scattered the fog.

  "There they are!" someone shouted.

  The fog had swept aside and the rising sun sparkled on the water. Ahead of the Resolution lay the two ships, which suddenly stopped firing as the Resolution appeared. As they watched, the British flag over the sloop seemed to tremble for a moment in the breeze, and then it began to come down.

  "They're striking their colors!" someone cried out.

  "Are they? Indeed," Bellingham said.

  It appeared that the sloop had surrendered and taken down its flag. But then another flag was run up and unfurled in the breeze. Alexander gasped along with the rest of the men. It was a French tri-color.

  "It's a trap!" Bellingham shouted. "Hades take these Napoleonists!"

  And then the sloop that they had rushed in to rescue opened fire. The enemy’s broadside was well-aimed. The noise was like a dozen thunderclaps at once. Shots ripped holes in the Resolution's sails and tore a chunk out of the mainmast. Flying splinters left several men writhing in agony on the deck. The Resolution was coming at the sloop head on. At the wheel, Old Cullins was working desperately to bring the ship around so that their own broadside would face the two French ships.

  But the ship did not turn fast enough. Before Resolution's guns could be brought to bear, the second Napoleonist ship opened fire. Twice as many shots now struck the Resolution so that the ship shuddered with the impact. One of the yardarms was shot away and came crashing down, bringing an avalanche of sail with it. Men were buried under canvas, cordage and broken wood. More shots ripped the length of the deck.

  Moving at supersonic speed, the iron cannonballs made a high-pitched whine that made his skin crawl. Alexander felt the wind and heat of one passing between him and the captain. It missed them both but destroyed the stern rail of the quarterdeck. Others were not so lucky. Cannonb
alls tore off arms, legs, heads. In an instant, the air was filled with screams and the deck was stained with men's blood.

  Alexander felt frozen in place, too terrified to move.

  Captain Bellingham's hand on his shoulder snapped him back to the present. "Mr. Hope, I need you at your guns. When we come about, fire as they bear. Then have your men fire at will."

  "Aye, aye, sir!"

  Alexander ran for the ladder leading down to the gun deck, slipping at one point on something he didn't want to think too much about. Below, everything seemed in confusion. Two or three of the enemy’s cannonballs punched through the oak sides of Resolution, showering the gun deck with deadly shards of wood. A couple of guns had been knocked over by the impact and men struggled to right them—it was a nearly impossible task considering the weight of the cannons. Alexander saw Jameson and ran toward him. The men knew what to do—they were peering anxiously over the barrels of their guns, waiting for the order to fire.

  They didn't have to wait long. Up at the wheel, Old Cullins had finally got Resolution turned around so that the guns on this side of the ship now pointed at the larger French vessel.

  "Fire!" Alexander shouted. The tremendous broadside with all the guns firing at once rocked Resolution back on her heels. Looking out through the gun port, he saw with satisfaction that several shots had struck the Chasseur. The men cheered and set to work reloading. They were old hands at this and didn't really need Alexander telling them what to do. Mostly, he stayed out of the way.

  Their sense of victory was short-lived, however, because the French ship got off another broadside. Shot and shell whistled all around them, but no shots struck the gun deck. They felt the impact as the ship was hit elsewhere. The Resolution seemed to tremble. There was an ominous creaking sound from the mainmast, the base of which ran down through the gun deck into the bowels of the ship.