The Fog of Forgetting
Read The Fog of Forgetting Online
Authors: G. A. Morgan
THE FOG OF
FORGETTING
  THE FIVE STONES TRILOGY â BOOK 1 Â
HE
F
OG OF
F
ORGETTIN
G
G.A. MORGAN
Islandport Press
PO Box 10
247 Portland Street
Yarmouth, ME 04096
Islandportpress.com
[email protected]
Copyright © 2014 by G. A. Morgan
All Rights Reserved. Published in the United States by Islandport
Press. International copyright reserved in all countries. No part
of this book may be reproduced in any form without written
permission from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-939017-29-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013901201
Printed in the USA by Versa Press
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dean L. Lunt, publisher
Cover and book design by Tom Morgan, Blue Design,
www.bluedes.com
Endpaper map illustration by Alex Ryan
Cover and backcover artwork by Ernie D'Elia
For the children on Kinfolk Laneâthen and nowâ
but especially Graham and Wyeth
.
Other young adult titles from Islandport Press:
Uncertain Glory
by Lea Wait
Billy Boy: The Sunday Soldier of the 17th Maine
by Jean Flahive
Cooper and Packrat: Mystery on Pine Lake
by Tamra Wight
Mercy: The Last New England Vampire
by Sarah L. Thomson
THE FOG OF FORGETTING
Â
THE ISLE OF AYDA
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
.
T. S. E
LIOT
THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, 1806
C
annon shotâat least a 24-pounderâjarred the boy awake at the same moment a blistering starburst of tar and timber ripped through the hull above the officer's cot. The ship lurched sharply to port; the boy hurtled out of the shallow box that served as his bed onto the sawdust-covered floor. He pulled down his nightshirt and tried to grab whatever clothes he could reach from the pile at the bottom of the box. Another searing explosion sent him ducking for cover. The box flew up and smashed into the cabin wall, breaking into pieces.
His trousers wafted down to him in a haze of sawdust and splinters, backlit by a stream of afternoon sunlight. He jammed his legs into his pants, sat up, and was astonished to see a hole in the hull twice as large as his headâthe source of light illuminating the formerly dim interior of the cabin. Outside, the din of war escalated. Thundering blasts from the big guns reverberated through the air, punctuated by the tinnier-sounding report of a pistol volley. His ship, the HMS
Cavalier
, was under attackâbroadsided by the look of it. The enemy was getting bolder, taking advantage of the holes in the British blockade. The French emperor, Napoleon, was forcing open engagement for control of the trade routes to his colonies in North America.
The boy was curious. He had never seen a French battleship up close. He jumped on the cot and craned his neck to look out the blast hole. An imposing sight met his gaze: a multistoried hull with a line of cannon mouths pointing directlyâor so it seemedâat him. It must be the new class, the boy thought, a Teresaire, equipped with seventy-four cannons. The
Cavalier
had only thirty-two. He dropped back, his heart pounding. Another raking explosion somewhere midship, followed by a boat-wide recoil, shook him to the floor again. He crawled back to his officer's trunk and dug around, trying to figure out what to salvage. He'd been assigned to keep the cot and cabin tidy for his officer but never thought about what the man might like to save if they were boarded or burned.
Three more cannon rounds went off, followed almost immediately by a whining groan and an ominous crack. Rigging clanked and whistled as something bigâone of the masts, perhapsâslammed into the sea. The ship rolled hard to starboard and the boy was hurled into the wall, chased by the cot, trunk, and anything else not moored by floor anchors. He hit and slid to the ground. The rest of the contents of the cabin followed, pinning him painfully against the wall. The sound of the ocean grew louder in his ear. The boy closed his eyes and thought of his mother, the day the captain had come for him to set sail. She argued against it. Her son was too young to be pressed into service, but Father made his mark on the paper and it was official. He was to be a cot boy in the Royal Navy. The family would receive fair trade: a monthly wage and a lifetime annuity should the boy die at sea. The boy snuffled, wiping his nose on what he thought might be the corner of a bedsheet, but he couldn't stop the tears from leaking out his eyes. At least his eight years on Earth would not be for nothing; his family would never starve. A whimper escaped him.
“Is that you, boy? I've been looking for you! Keep blubbering so I can find you in this mess.”
The cot was roughly yanked aside and a pair of strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders. He saw blue coat sleeves, and the knuckles on the hands were bruised and cut. The officer was bareheaded; he looked much younger without his hat. He patted the boy.
“Well, lad, we're done in, but I'm thinking Old Boney shouldn't have our necks to stretch. What do you think?”
The boy gave him a quick nod. The officer lifted him off his feet and wedged him under an arm; the brass-and-leather pommel of the officer's cutlass dug into his hip. He noticed that the sword was still in its steel scabbard.
“Both masts gone ⦠ship scuttled ⦠They'll set her alight for sure. Those hellions would rather roast then play fair. I'll be damned before I swab decks for a bunch ofâ”
The officer's tirade was replaced by grunts as he carried the boy up the ladder, through the shattered belly of the ship, to the deck. Warm liquid seeped from the officer's side as he moved. The boy touched it and saw blood.
On deck, the sun shimmered, oblong and orange, as it flattened against the horizon. A yellow haze of smoke hid them from view. The white flag of
parlé
flapped overhead: The surrender of the ship was being negotiated. Shouts of protest rose up above the murk, then the sound of scuffling. A pistol shot fired, then another, followed by a loud
splash
.
“That's the kind of amnesty you'll receive from that lot,” the officer grumbled. “A quick
merci
, thank you very much, and then a gunshot to the headâhere, boy, keep your head downâthat smoke may save our biscuit.”
He was fumbling with one of the stays that fastened a lifeboat to the side of the ship. Mercifully, it had remained untouched through the attackânot one of the ship's mates had tried to escape. A sudden sense of shame fell over the boy. Should they not face the same outcome as the others? Or at least try to save a few? He cast his eyes around wildly, hoping to catch sight of one of the other cot boys. He was not the only one aboard. The line suddenly gave way and the lifeboat's bow swung sharply from the ship hull.
“Blast it!” the officer swore, flinging an arm over the side to intercept the small craft before it crashed back into the ship. “Hang on!”
He leapt over the side and tossed the boy into the boat; the force of their joint landing snapped the remaining stays. The lifeboat torpedoed, stern first, past the smoking, shredded hull of the
Cavalier
, landing with a smack on the surface of the water. The boy bit his tongue and tasted blood. The officer winced in pain. A raspberry-colored bloom spread along the front of his tunic, staining his coat and sleeves. He was shivering. The boy looked away from the wounded man and out across the empty carpet of water. A thick, gray mist muddied the horizon, creeping toward them in long, wispy fingers, as if it sensed they were there and was reaching for them across the seas.
Fog
.
Fear swept over the boy like a bucket of cold water being thrown in his face. Soon it would overtake them and they would be lost. He would never see his home again.
The officer groaned loudly, raised himself up on his good elbow, and bellowed.
“For all that you hold holy, lad, quit your gaping and ROW!”
