First Voyage Page 6

  "I come from a long line of ruthless people," Parkington said. "As the tenth Earl of Parkington, I like to uphold family tradition."

  "I am in your debt, my lord."

  "If you feel that way, Mr. Hope, then someday I shall ask you to repay it."

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next few days passed in something of a blur as Alexander tried to fit into the busy rhythm of life aboard the Resolution. Bells rang, hourglasses turned, sails went up and down and up again, hurried meals were eaten, school lessons were endured, and it all seemed punctuated by a few precious hours of sleep. He felt as if everyone else was in on some secret that he didn't understand. It didn't help that the crew lived in constant fear of a Napoleonist attack, leaving them edgy and impatient with a newbie.

  One good change that had come about since the confrontation on the deck with Fowler was that the bullying ensign and his cronies now left him alone. Fowler still cast a threatening glance or two in Alexander's direction—a sort of you'll get yours someday—but he kept well clear of Alexander. Lord Parkington had been extremely convincing. And Fowler wasn't so much of a fool not to understand that while Parkington was only a boy, he came from a rich and well-connected family. One word in the right ear, and Fowler might find himself serving out the rest of his naval career on a garbage scow.

  Alexander had not seen much of the flyer since that night. The ship remained in reach of the shore-based French gryphon squadrons and the captain was always on alert for a surprise aerial attack, so that he kept the flyers aloft day and night on almost constant patrol.

  Even with Fowler reined in, it was hardly all cozy and friendly in the ensigns' mess.

  His swinging hammock was now his favorite place of all on the ship. Whenever he crawled into it, he promptly fell into a dreamless sleep, which was a welcome relief. If he had any thought at all, it was how much he missed home. At such times, in the darkness in the vast belly of the ship, he felt utterly alone. Most of the other boys had been at sea for years already, and it was hard to strike up a conversation with them, let alone a friendship. They considered Alexander a newcomer and therefore a boy who must still prove himself. Even the Irish boy, whose coat Alexander had saved during fencing class, had been standoffish—almost as if he feared that Alexander would expect friendship in return.

  It didn't help that Fowler had made an enemy of him; instead of siding with Alexander, the other ensigns seemed afraid that Fowler might target them next. So far, Roger was the only real friend Alexander had made aboard Resolution.

  It was also Roger who clarified something about Fowler that Alexander had already suspected. They were both in their hammocks, side by side, talking quietly. "You see, it's like this. Fowler is getting a bit too old to be an ensign. He’s like a piece of fruit that's overripe, or better yet, milk that's gone sour!" Roger laughed so hard at his own comparison that he nearly tumbled out of the hammock. "By all rights, he should have made lieutenant by now. That's the natural order of things. But he's taken the examination once and failed. It can't help when he sees fresh new faces like yours. That's just more competition for the likes of him. Fowler's only real hope is that Captain Bellingham might make him an acting lieutenant, but that generally only happens after there's been a battle."

  "Why is that?"

  "It's usually because one of the officers has been killed."

  That seemed like a terrible path toward promotion, but Alexander decided it was just another aspect of navy life that he hadn't yet come to understand.

  Thinking about battles, he finally drifted off to sleep.

  • • •

  The confrontation with Fowler overshadowed something else that had happened that same night. It had to do with how Alexander had seemed to manipulate the sea while he and Lord Parkington were talking. Alexander might have thought he had imagined it, but Parkington had noticed it too. The other boy had been taken back, even afraid, which seemed out of character for the flyer.

  By the light of day, it seemed impossible that Alexander had made the cold ocean water do anything. The sea had a power and a will all its own that was beyond any human influence—with the exception of a sea elemental. And the last time there had been one of those was two hundred years ago.

  Of course, the great sea elemental Sir Algernon Hope had been Alexander’s great-great something or other. Where did that leave Alexander? Feeling like a fool, he thought, standing at the ship’s rail a couple of days later as he worked up the nerve to attempt it again. This time it was daylight, and Alexander was alone. He made sure that no one was paying attention, then reached out his hand toward the sea. Nothing happened. He wasn’t sure what he even wanted to happen. He closed his eyes tight and tried again. When he finally opened them, he saw that the sea was unchanged.

  No ripples. No whirlpools. No splashes. Just the vast empty ocean. He felt a bit relieved, but also disappointed. He also felt silly. What did he think he was playing at? He was being childish, like a little boy, dreaming that he could control the sea.

  He studied the waves for a while. The day was dark and overcast, with a brisk, cold wind blowing that filled the sails and moved the ship easily through the waves. Hardly a pleasant day to be standing at the rail for any length of time. He was about to turn away and find a warmer place more sheltered from the wind when he thought he might give it one more try. He reached out one hand toward the waves and willed two of the them to join together. Nothing.

  "You there, Mr. Hope!" It was Lieutenant Swann, who seemed to have eyes in the back of his head for wayward ensigns. Since the incident with the fencing lesson, he had also kept those eyes carefully upon Alexander more than the others. "This is no time for dawdling, young Mr. Hope! Go join the sailing master at the forecastle, and perhaps you shall learn something yet."

  Only later, when his watch had ended, and he had, indeed, learned from the sailing master—Mr. Drury—the difference between the mizzen staysail and foretopsail, did he think more about what had happened that night with Lord Parkington looking on. Surely the two of them hadn’t imagined that Alexander manipulated the sea. Something had happened that night, even if he hadn’t been able to repeat it today. There was always someone about who could do little tricks with water or fire. Maybe enough of old Algernon Hope’s blood had filtered down to him for that much, at least. Perhaps he had just been going about it the wrong way.

  And so he sought out the most knowledgeable person he knew aboard the ship, save for Captain Bellingham, whom he most certainly could not approach on the subject. The captain had more important things to worry about.

  He found Professor Hobhouse in his cramped cabin, reading by the dim light of a candle lantern. Several books were spread on the little table, sitting beside a mug of coffee. Professor Hobhouse, like the ship's officers, had his own cabin, though it was so small there was only room for the table, a single chair, a large sea chest whose open lid showed it to be overflowing with books, and a hammock. The cabin did have a tiny porthole that let in a pale winter light that was open to the sea air, but it still smelled damp and salty in the cabin, with an underlying odor of musty books. Alexander took it all in as he stood at attention in the cabin doorway.

  "Mr. Hope," Hobhouse said, peering at Alexander over the rim of his glasses. "Did you have a question about mathematical proportions?"

  "No, sir."

  "Fencing tactics, perhaps?" Hobhouse took a sip of the coffee, Alexander suspected, only in order to hide a smile. Hobhouse wore a pair of gloves with the fingertips clipped out, making it easier for him to turn pages and take notes while still keeping his hands warm.

  "Not that either, sir."

  "Oh? Well, are you planning to enlighten me, or shall I read your mind?"

  "I'm here to ask you about elementals."

  Hobhouse sat up straight in his chair and put down his coffee. "What an interesting subject. Those who control the elements with nothing more than their minds. These men and women have been some of England's greatest heroes, an
d her worst enemies. I must ask you, Mr. Hope, what could possibly be so important about elementals at the moment?"

  Alexander considered how to answer that, and then evaded the question with another. "Have you ever met one?"

  "You had better sit down, Mr. Hope. You are making me nervous standing there. Here, close the lid on that chest and have a seat. There's a good lad."

  Alexander did as he was told, though the space was so tight he could barely get his knees between the chest and table. He had thought Professor Hobhouse might be annoyed with him for having interrupted his reading, but he noticed that as the ship's schoolmaster closed the book he did so with something that bordered on relief. Alexander hadn't thought about it, but aside from teaching the ensigns, Professor Hobhouse had no other real duties aboard Resolution. It seemed an odd life for a civilian to choose, teaching young gentlemen at sea, but it was certainly no easier eking out a living on land as a teacher. Some lucky few scholars received posts at a university, but many who loved books and learning had to scrabble for a living as best they could. It was also common knowledge that the schoolmaster was a good friend of the captain's, and that the two of them had made many voyages together.

  "Don't you ever get bored down here, sir?"

  "A boring day at sea is a good one. It means you are not riding out a gale, fighting the French, or making some desperate repair to keep the ship from sinking or foundering on the rocks. It's been my experience that boring days are few and far between. Ha, ha! Indeed. But I thought you were interested in elementals."

  "And so I am, sir, so I am."

  "It's curious that you wish to speak of it now." Professor Hobhouse gave him a knowing look—the schoolteacher had a way of making his pupils aware that he was one step ahead of them. "Has something happened, Mr. Hope?"

  "Not at all, sir. I was just wondering."

  Hobhouse gave him a sideways glance, as if he didn't quite believe Alexander. After a long pause he said, "Very well. Elementals are a rarity, Mr. Hope, and always have been. The power seems to be passed down through families—though there are exceptions, or maybe latent power that's lurking somewhere from some distant branch of the family tree. That’s mostly the explanation for parlor and circus elementals—the ones who can do amusing tricks with a candle flame or a water glass. You have an ancestor who was an elemental, of course.”

  Alexander knew the stories about his famous ancestor. It was usually Sir Francis Drake who got most of the credit for defeating the armada intent on invading and conquering England. That was not the whole of the story. It was Alexander's ancestor, Sir Algernon, who had summoned the storm that wrecked the armada on the Irish coast. It was the final blow to the King of Spain's hopes of adding England to his crown.

  “A distant ancestor,” Alexander said.

  “Actually, you are a direct descendant.” Professor Hobhouse raised his eyebrows at Alexander’s surprised expression. “Oh, I thought you would have known that.”

  “My uncle never wanted to talk about it.”

  “I’m sure he had his reasons. For the most part, elementals are concentrated in your great noble families—in the past, it was their ability to manipulate the elements that brought them power and wealth." Professor Hobhouse lowered his voice. "That is why, from time to time over the centuries, the king or queen became jealous and purged the great elemental families. When Oliver Cromwell came to power, he hunted them down as witches. The lords of earth, sky, fire and water have never had an easy time of it. That is one reason elementals are so few today." Hobhouse paused. "You might say we killed most of them off. And here we are without so much as a single sea elemental in our greatest hour of need, when England struggles for its very survival."

  Hobhouse did not have to explain that those with the power could control just one element. That was common knowledge. "Are all elementals from noble families?"

  "Not at all, Mr. Hope. Not at all. You and I both know that Napoleon Bonaparte is himself a fire elemental—an utterly terrifying thought—and he has somewhat humble origins. No one really knows where such power originates." Hobhouse took off his eyeglasses and polished them, as if to be sure he didn't have to look Alexander in the eye as he added, "Though some say the power originates in the old Roman gods."

  "We have a fire elemental. A fire lord, I should say. Everyone knows that."

  "Yes, we do. Lord Wellington, Neptune be praised. England has rarely had a greater hero. He holds Bonaparte in check and keeps him from unleashing his full power, for fear of what Wellington might do in return. But at least one of Bonaparte's marshals is a sky elemental, Marshal Michel Ney. He can rip our gryphons from the air with a wave of his hand. So it would seem the Napoleonists already have us outnumbered, two to our one. The Russians have a sky elemental and three earth elementals—though one is a count with a fondness for vodka. They say he wrecked one of the Czar's own fortresses during a drunken fit in which he caused an earthquake."

  Alexander asked the next question as nonchalantly as he could. "What of a water elemental?"

  "You speak of a sea lord, Mr. Hope. There has not been a sea lord in an age. Not since the threat of the Spanish Armada."

  "That was two hundred years ago," he remarked, half to himself.

  "Perhaps we are lucky in that our enemy also lacks a water elemental. Can you imagine what it would mean to our navy if there was such an enemy?"

  Alexander thought of the Resolution, its many guns and sailors, plus the flight of gryphons. Taken together, it was an awesome force. "One water elemental could not stop the navy."

  "No, but he could turn the tide of a single battle and perhaps even of the entire war by giving the Napoleonists an advantage."

  "If a person were an elemental, how would they know? How might they increase their powers?" Alexander blurted out the rest of what was on his mind before he could stop himself. He could see from his teacher's raised eyebrows that he had said too much.

  "One is either an elemental, or one is not. It is not something that one can practice or develop, like skill at tying knots. Is there something you wish to tell me, Mr. Hope?" Hobhouse stared at him intently.

  "No, sir."

  Hobhouse went back to regarding his coffee cup. "I tried it, you know, when I was a boy. Ha, I suppose every boy has. Stared at a candle flame and willed it to burn brighter." He smiled. "Or tried to get up a gust of wind. I should think that if you were an elemental, you could make the liquid in this cup form a perfect whirlpool."

  Alexander sensed that it was a trap somehow. "That's impossible, sir. You yourself said there hasn't been a sea lord in an age. Why should we have one now?"

  "Perhaps it is time for a new age to begin, Mr. Hope. The war against our enemies is desperate. All the world sometimes seems arrayed against us. If you come across a water elemental, I do hope you'll tell me." He paused again. “It would be a great burden for someone to bear alone.”

  At that, Hobhouse reopened his book, and Alexander went to find his hammock. In the few minutes it took him to drift off to sleep, he wondered if he had made a mistake saying anything at all to the teacher. England might welcome a hero, but there had been a warning couched in what Hobhouse had said. An elemental might have a gift that made him powerful as an ancient Roman god, but it was a power that made him many enemies. Alexander felt better after talking with the professor. It seemed highly unlikely that he was any sort of elemental—at least, not a real one. That was a relief in a way—so much power would be a terrible burden as much as a gift. Even if he had such power, he would be reluctant to use it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Alexander woke the next morning to find that his hammock was pitching and rolling. He thought that maybe he was having a bad dream, but even after he opened his eyes wide, he could see the beams of the Resolution swinging wildly above him.

  "All hands on deck!" someone shouted. "All hands on deck to shorten sail!"

  Alexander rolled out of his hammock and promptly fell on the steeply pitched deck. Th
e Resolution seemed to be tilted at an impossible angle.

  "Ow." He rubbed his head where he had banged it against a post, then cried out, "What's going on?"

  "It's a gale!" answered Liam, who turned out to be the one who had done the shouting. "It's come out of nowhere and caught us sideways, and if we don't reduce sail we'll be going over!"

  Like most of the other ensigns, Alexander had taken to sleeping in his clothes—not only to stay warm but because it was hard to pull on clothes when one was rushing to his duty on the watch. No one wanted to waste time getting dressed when every minute of sleep was so valuable. The downside was that his clothes never really dried out but stayed damp and salty—he hated to think how he must smell. Fortunately, everyone else smelled too. He tugged on his shoes and coat, then rushed up to the deck.

  The gray dawn that greeted him was wild and windy. He had almost begun to think that all the stories about storms at sea were legends or exaggerations, but the sight that greeted him now changed his mind. The sky toward France was slate gray and the clouds hung so low they nearly touched the pennants snapping in the gale. Yet it was the sea itself that took Alexander's breath away and caused his heart to hammer within his chest.

  The ship rose up the side of the wave, then dropped into a trough, so that the sea seemed almost even with the ship's rail. The very tops of the waves were churned by the wind into a white, blowing froth.

  "Great Neptune!" he cried.

  "Aye, young sir," agreed a sailor who overhead him. "And it's Neptune we'll all be goin' to meet if we don't get them sails down."

  A wave broke over the deck, flooding everyone and everything with foaming saltwater. He grabbed at a hatch cover to keep from being swept away. He saw that every third or fourth wave crashed into Resolution, threatening to wash men and gear over the side. Many of the men were roped together and when one was washed down, then others were able to pull him back to his feet.