by David Healey
CHAPTER 6
Alexander gripped the reins tightly as the gryphon circled high above the fleet at anchor. His white knuckles had less to do with riding on the back of a gryphon than with mixed excitement and apprehension at returning home—for that was how he now thought of the Resolution. Would Roger and Liam act differently toward him? Would Captain Bellingham? It was hard to imagine that they might not, considering that the last time he'd seen them was when Alexander had raised his hands and summoned enormous waves to crush the three Napoleonist ships attacking them.
Lemondrop screeched a greeting, and far below, two or three gryphons cried out in answer. Perhaps the gryphon was just as eager as Alexander to return to the ship.
His thoughts and worries evaporated as Lemondrop went into a dive, following Ember toward the ship. Alexander tried to make himself streamlined against the gryphon's back as the wind tore at him. To his surprise, he realized that Lemondrop was not only diving, but also flapping his wings to increase speed. He was trying to keep up with his sister, who shot toward the ship below not like a stone, but an arrow. He was dimly aware of Biscuit and Professor Hobhouse on his gryphon, struggling to keep up.
While Biscuit and Gimcrack veered off toward the gryphon port to make a proper landing, Ember and Lemondrop swept in low over Resolution's deck, causing the men working there to duck in alarm. Everywhere Alexander looked, he could see the crew working to make Resolution shipshape—and then some. Men were doing the backbreaking work of holystoning the decks to make them bright and white. Lines were neatly coiled. Another crew was lowered over the side with buckets and brushes to make the latrine area more presentable. Yet another crew had paint and was freshening the stripe of blue that ran around Resolution like a belt, just above her gun ports.
Then Lord Parkington sawed back on the reins, causing Ember to come to an almost abrupt half in midair and land with a great flurry of wings and claws on the quarterdeck. Lemondrop pulled up beside her, somewhat more gracefully, but making the quarterdeck quite crowded with gryphons alongside nervous officers and ensigns.
"You two do know how to make an entrance!" Roger shouted, taking off his bicorn hat and waving it. He grinned from ear to ear at the sight of his friends. Liam stood beside him, but he was busy keeping out of Ember's way as the gryphon found its footing on the unfamiliar deck of a ship at sea. Even moored, there was a slight roll from the waves. Old Cullins stood at the wheel, although there was no need for him to do any steering at the moment.
"Reporting for duty, sir!" cried Lord Parkington, slipping off Ember's back and landing to salute the captain. Alexander struggled to unbuckle the straps holding him in the long-distance flying saddle. Although it was clear he was having trouble, no one stepped forward to help. Most Navy men, though they might be accustomed to the sight of gryphons, would rather swim with a shark than get within range of a gryphon's beak and talons.
On a Navy ship, the quarterdeck was the slightly elevated section of deck toward the stern where the ship's wheel and compass were located. It was off limits to enlisted men—it was, in fact, guarded by two red-coated Royal Marines—and junior officers generally understood that all deference should be given to the captain when he was there. Captain Bellingham looked somewhat baffled—and nervous—because of the gryphons now sharing his quarterdeck.
It was Captain Amelia who spoke up. "This is highly improper, Mr. Parkington! You need to get these gryphons below!" For all her devotion to King and Country, Captain Amelia had a well-known disdain for aristocrats and made a point not to call him "lord." Her voice was as sharp and angry as it had been for weeks. Her eyes, however, betrayed her, because she couldn't seem to take them off the gryphon. "Mr. Parkington, you have a new gryphon."
"Captain Amelia, I'm afraid you are mistaken. You are the one who has a new gryphon." He handed her the reins. "This is Ember. How is your Welsh?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Mostly, she knows Welsh, you see. She's a proper raptor gryphon from the ancient hills, still half wild, not one of those overbred pet gryphons with watered down bloodlines that one sees coming out of Sussex nowadays."
"What an extraordinary beast."
The gryphon studied Captain Amelia with interest, fixing her with those red-gold eyes. It was hard to tell who was sizing up whom. The gryphon's wings flickered, causing a stir on the quarterdeck.
Lord Parkington tried to get Ember to sit. "Eistedd!" he commanded, using the Welsh, but she only shifted, trying to get her sea legs. Her tail whipped round and almost knocked Liam down.
Then Captain Amelia stepped forward. Putting her hand on the gryphon's rump, she pushed down, almost whispered the command, and the beast sat. The sigh of relief on the quarterdeck was audible. Captain Amelia turned to the earl and smiled. It was the first smile anyone aboard Resolution had seen cross her face in weeks. "Perhaps it's your pronunciation of the Welsh? I daresay it sounded almost French to me."
"I can assure you that my Welsh ..." Lord Parkington's indignant voice trailed off as he noticed Captain Amelia's smile, and realized she was only needling him. "I see. Well. In any case, you should take her up and see how she does."
"Truly, I should. It would also make this deck far less crowded." Captain Amelia took the reins from the earl and looked into the gryphon's eyes. "What say you to that, Ember?"
The gryphon got back to its feet and Captain Amelia swung gracefully into the light riding saddle. She turned to the young earl. "You do me a great kindness, my Lord Parkington."
"It is good to have Ember in capable hands."
Captain Amelia winked. "We shall see.”
She had barely climbed into the saddle when the gryphon sprang forward on its powerful hind legs, launching gryphon and rider above the railing and into the sky as Amelia leaned gracefully into the rush of wind. The powerful wings beat once, twice, three times, and then Ember was rocketing high above the Resolution, corkscrewing through the air as she climbed. She was soon just a speck in the clear blue sky, and then she was gone altogether.
Lord Parkington took Lemondrop's reins from Alexander. "Not bad, Alexander. You flew all the way from Bancroft Hall without falling off or becoming a snack for Lemondrop."
Alexander grinned. His friend knew very well that Alexander was actually a good gryphon pilot. In fact, it hadn't been so long ago that Captain Amelia had tried to recruit him for the Royal Flyer Corps. "You flyers can keep your gryphons! I'll take the deck of a ship any day."
"Suit yourself." The earl led Lemondrop away. The gryphons and flyers had their very own quarters below decks, next to the Royal Marines. The two berths were separated by a stout iron gate, just in case the gryphons developed a craving for Redcoats.
Watching his friend go, Alexander felt an almost overwhelming sense of exhaustion. The marathon flight from Gibraltar, combined with the flight from the Parkington estate, would have been tiring for anyone. It didn't help that weeks later, Alexander still felt the lingering effects of having wielded his full power as an elemental. Considering what the episode had cost him physically, he didn't plan on repeating it anytime soon. In fact, he would have been reluctant to summon so much as a ripple on the surface of a cup of tea.
"Mr. Hope!" Now that Captain Amelia's new gryphon had been delivered and the quarterdeck was cleared of anything but sailors, Captain Bellingham turned his attention to Alexander. He actually clapped him on the shoulder in hearty fashion, the way a father would greet a son. Alexander tried not to stagger. "Welcome back, Mr. Hope!"
Alexander couldn't help but smile. Of all adults, even Professor Hobhouse, it was Captain Bellingham's approval that mattered most to him.
"It's good to be back aboard the Resolution, sir."
"Well, you are just in time! We are to set sail at high tide—once our passengers arrive, of course."
"Passengers?"
"Yes, yes, did no one tell you? We are to be a sort of passenger ship. Imagine, a Royal Navy ship hauling passengers like a Bombay clipper! But I am ass
ured these are not just any passengers, but rather important ones." The captain lowered his voice to a rumble. "Americans."
"Oh?" Alexander was curious now. He had never seen an actual American. To him they sounded like an exotic species, like zebras or orangoutangs.
"We are ready for them, I daresay. The question is, are they ready for us, ha, ha! We shall see." The captain looked serious again. "Now Mr. Hope, if you are up to it, I should like you to command a gun division."
"Of course, sir."
"Your old men are assigned to one of the gun crews, Jameson, Wilcox and Kineke. They are a lively bunch, but you can handle them, I should think."
"Yes, sir."
Although every ensign was generally expected to command at least one gun crew, being assigned a division—four gun crews together—was a great deal more responsibility. He hadn't been sure that the captain would think he was up to it after basically being bedridden these past few weeks. Alexander welcomed the opportunity because in some ways he felt he had to prove himself all over again.
"Take your things below, Mr. Hope, and get yourself settled. Perhaps Mr. Higson can assist you."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Roger was more than happy to leave the quarterdeck, where one always had to be on good behavior with the captain present. Grinning, he made his way across the deck beside Alexander. Of course, Alexander had very little to take below, other than himself. The only clothes he had brought along were the ones on his back. In the rush to leave Gibraltar and then Bancroft Hall, there had been no time to pack, and precious little to bring.
Roger seemed to read his mind. "Don't worry, Alexander. I saved your old sea chest with your things. Although I have to say that new uniform is an improvement. Your old one was getting a bit shabby."
It was typical for an ensign's uniform to look tattered and ill fitting, considering that a boy can sometimes grow an inch or two in a single month. Roger's family had some means and made sure that he received a new uniform every few months, whereas Alexander hadn't had that luxury.
Alexander realized that he hadn't seen Thomas Fowler yet. Just thinking about Fowler cast a shadow across all his thoughts of returning to the Resolution.
"What about Fowler?" he asked. "I haven't seen him. Still up to his old tricks, I'd expect."
"He's been put ashore," Roger said. "Transferred. Old Belly finally got word of what a pest Fowler had been making of himself, and got tired of it."
Pest was not the word Alexander would have used to describe Fowler. He would have chosen something stronger. Bully. Thief. Enemy. The news that Fowler was gone made his homecoming that much sweeter.
But it soon became clear that while Alexander was glad to return to the Resolution, not everyone was glad to see him. As they made their way across the deck to the companionway that led below, they passed the crew that Alexander had come to know so well. Several would not meet his eyes, pretending that they did not see him. Others touched their knuckles to their foreheads to salute him, but they looked at him with something like fear—or even suspicion. After all, it wasn't every day that an ensign conjured a wave and sent it crashing down to smash three Napoleonist ships into matchsticks.
Finally he spotted Jameson, who was busy stacking cannonballs beside one of the deck guns. Jameson was the big sailor who had first rowed Alexander out to the Resolution all those months ago, and laughed when he had been seasick while still in the harbor. Since then, he had become a believer in the new ensign and was very loyal to him.
Normally, a man needed two hands to handle each cannonball, but Jameson picked up one in each huge hand as easily as if they were grapefruits. He added the cannonballs carefully to the stack, and then saluted Alexander.
"Hello, Jameson!"
"Hello, sir, it's good to have you back," he said without a great deal of feeling, and his eyes flashed something that was not entirely welcoming. It was similar to the look that had been in his eyes those long months ago when he had first seen the landlubber Alexander, shivering at the dock in Spithead.
"It's the same old me, Jameson," Alexander couldn't help adding. He already felt his heart sinking. If Jameson doubted him, what of the others?
"If you say so, sir." Jameson went back to stacking the heavy cannonballs.
Alexander and Roger moved on toward the companionway. If others saluted or greeted him, Alexander scarcely noticed. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the richness of the salt air and the dazzling diamonds of light sparkling across the choppy sea. They went down the stairs into the gun deck, where it was stuffy and dark. The sudden change made Alexander lightheaded, and he stumbled. Roger caught him by the elbow.
"What's the matter?" Roger asked, sounding more than a little concerned. "Aren't you feeling all right?"
"I just have to get my sea legs back, is all," Alexander said. But he found himself leaning heavily on Roger for support. Otherwise, he might have tumbled over.
"You gave us all quite a scare that day, the way you simply collapsed," Roger said. By "that day," of course, he meant the day when Alexander had summoned the sea, but he couldn't bring himself to actually say that. "You went down like you were shot. You were barely breathing."
"Well, here I am again," Alexander said. "Roger, what's wrong with the men? They look at me like I'm some sort of Jonah."
Roger looked around uneasily, as if to make sure that no one else was within earshot. He replied in a lowered voice: "You can't expect them not to see you differently, Alexander. You're an elemental. Captain Bellingham won't let them talk about it—he keeps trying to explain it away as some sort of weather phenomenon, but the men know better. The kind of power you have—well, it scares them. You know sailors. They are a superstitious bunch. You would think they would be happy to have you on the ship, but some are saying you are bad luck, that you're cursed, that you're a witch."
"A witch?" Alexander's eyes widened. "Those are old ladies with big warts on their faces!"
"Not that sort of witch, you lump of gryphon bait, but the equivalent of one. A warlock. Maybe a wizard. What matters is what sailors do to warlocks and witches."
"They throw them overboard when given the chance."
"Now you're getting the picture."
With Roger's help, Alexander reached the ensign's berth where the ship's officers in training ate, studied, played cards, read books about naval tactics, history and Lord Nelson, and slept. It was a cramped space lit by smoking lanterns and a tiny window, and it smelled a great deal like the changing room of a boy's cricket team. Everyone was up on deck, making ready for the passengers and the coming voyage. The empty hammocks swung gently as the ship rolled in the harbor chop. For Alexander, who suddenly felt so weary, a hammock was a welcome sight.
Roger dragged a sea chest over to the foot of one bunk. "That one is yours now."
Alexander climbed into a hammock without bothering to shuck off his sea boots. "Roger, do you think I'm a warlock? You don't think I'm cursed, do you?"
"Get some sleep, Alexander," his friend said. "You're going to need it. It's like you're starting all over again on the Resolution."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alexander was awakened by shouts on deck. He had planned to rest a few minutes in his hammock; to his surprise he had fallen into a deep sleep. He must have been more exhausted than he realized.
Half alarmed, half curious, he jumped from the hammock and ran up to the deck. The brightness immediately made him feel dizzy again, though he had slept long enough for the shadows to grow much longer. It was already late afternoon and the high tide would be running out soon—perfect to carry the Resolution out to sea.
"Look lively there!" shouted Captain Bellingham, who was personally overseeing the final preparations for the arrival of their passengers. "Look sharp! Higgins, coil that line there! This is a proper Royal Navy frigate, not a sloppy, barnacle-encrusted channel groper!"
The lookout shouted that a boat was coming; that would be their passengers. Alexander looked; he could just
see the launch being rowed out from shore.
An order was given for the crew to form up. Sailors for the most part are a good-hearted, respectable lot, but their appearance often left something to be desired. But they had put on their best clothes for the ceremony of welcoming a diplomat aboard. Instead of their usual ragged slops, they now wore bright white shirts and striped breeches. They stood in a line on deck, except for those assigned to help the party come aboard. The ship's officers, wearing their best uniforms and bicorn hats, had formed up. The Royal Marines stood at attention, resplendent in their crisp red coats, bayonets fixed and gleaming. Even the Royal Flyers were grouped together to one side in their sky blue coats. Alexander could see Lord Parkington in his finely tailored uniform, standing beside Captain Amelia. Fortunately, they had left their gryphons below. As the only civilian, Professor Hobhouse stood well back from everyone else. He had on the plain brown, rather shabby coat he always wore.
Alexander felt that he looked disheveled because he had left his boots and hat below. There was no time to get them now, so he slinked to the back of the group of officers, hoping not to be noticed. Roger caught sight of him and rolled his eyes.
Just as the launch grew closer, everyone seemed to notice at once that someone had abandoned a mop and bucket on the deck, just where their passengers would come over the side.
"Belay that mop and bucket!" the captain said in a voice that, if not quite so loud as a cannon going off, was certainly equal to a blunderbuss.
A sailor ran out and grabbed the offending cleaning implements, and moments later the first passenger came over the side. One of the sailors tried to help him with the last step, but the man waved him off. He seemed quite capable on his own. He was a tall, distinguished looking gentleman with long gray hair that curled a bit as it reached his collar and shoulders, and a neatly trimmed beard. He was very well dressed in an expensive suit and a long oilcloth slicker that would keep out the sea winds and damp. He carried a cane in one hand and a pair of kid skin gloves in the other. On his left hand was a large gold signet ring. He was hardly the rotund, pompous diplomat Alexander had expected.
