On a Lee Shore (11 page)

The cabin of the sloop Africa was another one he would always remember. It was small and low, lit dimly by a hanging lantern, with two great guns, each with a chest for powder and shot and a rack for the tools. A hanging cot swung gently above one gun, a demountable cupboard was fixed to the wall above the other. Through the glazed panels of the doors Kit could see the dull glint of pewter and brighter sparks reflecting from glass. Painted oilskin was under foot, the scrolls and curlicues scuffed and stained despite scrubbing. A table and chair stood in the small space in the center. On the table lay a chart weighed down by compasses, pen and ink, a logbook, a bottle and a baluster-stemmed glass with an inch of amber-colored liquid slanting to the sway of the ship.

Kit must have taken all that in, because it came back to him so clearly later, but at that moment—as he stepped over Wigram’s legs and felt O’Neill close the door behind him—he could see nothing but the man standing by the table, rubbing his right hand’s knuckles with his left hand and giving him an unfriendly smile.

He was dressed in the usual loose breeches and his shirt was open at the front, clinging slightly to perspiration damp skin in the heat of the cabin. His expression gave nothing away, but his eyes were cold as he inspected Kit from his disheveled hair to bare feet. Kit saw his lips thin.

Kit’s righteous anger began to fade, and he took a deep breath to try and quell his—he forced himself to be honest—fright.

“You hit Denny,” the captain said and folded his arms. “Why did you do that?”

Fright was a pointless emotion, Kit reminded himself, unless it could be tempered into healthy caution.

“I woke from sleep and hit a shadow who had just grabbed my cods,” Kit replied. “I hit him once. As soon as I realized my mistake, I hit the man who needed to be hit. I…I apologize for hurting Denny. It was unfortunate and unnecessary. I won’t apologize for punching Wigram.”

The captain had taken this terse explanation in with an increasingly bleak expression, his position under the lantern throwing shadows on his face that brought the fine strong bones into relief but made him look even more grim and haggard.

“I think you will,” the captain said. “Denny is easily soothed. You sang with him and he liked that. Take care to do it again and we’ll say no more about it. But Wigram—you will apologize publicly for the blows exchanged in public.”

Kit stared at him and, as their eyes locked, he felt a familiar surge of excitement. Kit enjoyed a fight, he was good at it, and his healthy caution suggested that this man might be a very testing opponent.

“I will not. The man is a coward and a bully.”

“And you are insubordinate. You will apologize to Bo’sun Wigram at noon today or face my extreme displeasure.”

Kit didn’t need to reply. The captain must have read the denial in his face because his eyes widened with shock and anger. Kit was already moving to avoid the punch he expected, so he stepped right into the left-handed slap that made him see stars. A hard fist took him under the ribs, robbing his own blow of power and his lungs of air. He had never been hit so hard by a man. All he could liken it to was the occasion he had walked into a swinging boom and had almost been tossed overboard. That had left him with the same breathless terror he felt now as his attempts to defend himself, to retaliate, were brushed aside. Another slap rocked his head back, and the captain’s hand fastened on his throat. The man grunted as Kit punched, Kit’s fist landing squarely on a rock-hard gut that jarred his wrist. He punched again, felt his wrist caught, his arm twist.

His cheek impacted against cool smooth wood. His vision cleared, and his free hand scrabbled, sending the pen flying and grabbing at the compasses.

“Oh no you don’t.” The growl was almost in his ear as the captain’s hand came down on his, pinning it to the chart. He almost sounded amused. “Damn you, Penrose. If you spill my brandy I will throw you to the sharks. My word upon it.”

An empty threat because Kit couldn’t have moved had he tried. The railing at the edge of the table was cutting sharply at his waist, the minor pain of that nothing to the warning twinge in his shoulder, both increased by the weight of the man holding Kit still. Kit gasped in a breath and lost it again as more weight was applied.

“You’re going to listen to me,” the captain said, almost whispering, his mouth so close to Kit’s ear he could feel the warmth of his breath. “You, Lieutenant Penrose, are walking a fine line and you don’t even know it. Let me tell you how the men on board this ship see you, shall I? No, be quiet, I don’t want to hear your voice.”

His voice—Kit fixed his attention on that to block out the weight and heat of the body so close to his—it was educated, well spoken, with a faint familiar burr under it. Devon, maybe, or North Cornwall? He tried to think of that and not of the hands holding him, the heart he could feel beating against his spine.

“Some of us see a gentleman,” the captain said, “with fine clothes and fine long words, just like the justices that sentenced us to the gallows or to servitude. Some of us see an Englishman, the old enemy imposing a foreign religion and taking away our rights and our languages.” His voice was calm but filled with bitterness and Kit wondered if he was speaking of himself until he shifted again, pressing more closely, and Kit was sure of it.

“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 someone 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.