by David Healey
The man had a military air about him, and he surveyed the gathered Resolutions calmly with flat gray eyes, seeming to size them up, before he turned and helped the next passenger over the rail.
It was a girl about Alexander's age. She looked around her with wonder, and something like dismay flashed across her face at the sight of so many sailors, who were doing their utmost not to stare back at her. The diplomat then turned to help the last passenger aboard. It was a woman who seemed a bit old to be the girl's mother, and who did not seem to be the diplomat's wife, judging from the perfunctory way in which he helped her aboard, and then turned away. The woman was respectably dressed, but not in clothes that looked as expensive as the girl's.
Several trunks quickly followed them aboard, and sailors hurried to get these stowed out of the way.
Captain Bellingham stepped forward. "I am Captain Bellingham. Welcome, sir, to the Resolution."
"A fine ship, with a fine crew, I am sure," the man said. The way he spoke made the words seem drawn out, almost lazy. He offered his hand to Bellingham. "Colonel Beauchamp, at your service. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Scarlett. This is Mrs. Pomfrey, her governess and tutor."
The daughter made a polite bow, while the governess offered her hand to shake in a businesslike manner.
Bellingham then introduced his officers, starting with the first lieutenant. One by one, they bowed to the colonel, his daughter and the governess. Alexander was last, at the back of the group. The colonel raised an eyebrow at him.
"Can't the King afford shoes for you, boy?"
"Mr. Hope hasn't been well," Bellingham offered. "Please forgive his appearance."
"What's wrong with him? Foot rot?"
"He was hit in the head by a spar," Bellingham said. "He's still recovering, poor lad."
Colonel Beauchamp peered closely at him. "That would explain it."
"I've made arrangements for you to have a cabin in the wardroom," Bellingham said. "Your daughter and her governess shall have the cabin adjoining yours. The three of you shall dine with me, of course. I do hope the arrangements are satisfactory. The cabins are a bit small, you see, but this is a ship of war, not accustomed to accommodating passengers."
The colonel laughed. "Sir, I've slept on the hard ground for many a night on the frontier. I believe I will find the accommodations to be just fine."
"That is good to hear. With your permission, I will have the men bring your things below."
"Aye, aye," the passenger said.
With the passengers received, the neat ranks of sailors, officers and Royal Marines were dismissed. Bellingham gave the order to weigh anchor and raise sails. "Not a moment to lose, if you please, Mr. Swann," he said. "I want us to get the most out of this tide."
Just then, a shout went up.
"Boat ahoy!"
In the distance, another skiff was rowing desperately toward Resolution.
• • •
"Who in the name of Neptune’s trident is coming out to us now?" grumped Captain Bellingham. He already felt put upon being assigned to carry passengers—American ones at that—rather than fight Napoleonists.
They did not have long to wait. The rowers in the skiff, seeing that Resolution was already taking in her anchor and hoisting sail, doubled their efforts. The little skiff seemed to skim across the waves. "Whoever it is doesn't want to be left behind," Alexander noted.
"Indeed, Mr. Hope. Let us see who it is."
A minute later, the skiff was alongside Resolution, and its lone passenger was climbing up the frigate's side. They had a glimpse of a new officer's coat with the plain insignia of an ensign. Then a fox-like face turned toward them.
Fowler.
He quickly made his way across the busy deck until he reached Captain Bellingham, and saluted. Alexander stood to one side, quite surprised. He had been relieved to hear that Fowler had been transferred; the ship seemed to ride lighter upon the waves without him.
"Ensign Fowler?" Bellingham was clearly puzzled. "Someone tell that skiff to wait! They will be taking their passenger back to shore! I am sorry, young man, but we have a full complement of ensigns."
It was not a warm welcome, but Fowler did not seem perturbed. He reached into his coat and produced a packet, which he handed to the captain. "I have orders, sir. Also, I've been promoted to Senior Ensign."
The paper was of a very fine quality, and as Bellingham broke the seal he saw that the wax bore the stamp of the Admiralty. He raised an eyebrow in surprise as he read. "This is most unusual, Mr. Fowler. But welcome aboard." The captain turned to Alexander and frowned. "I'm afraid we shall have to give Mr. Fowler your gun crew, as he is more senior."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Bellingham was called away, and began to shout orders as the sails caught the wind.
Left to themselves, Fowler turned to Alexander. "Hello, snotty."
The ship surged forward as the sails caught the wind. Perhaps it was the motion of the ship, or simply his world tilting once more. Alexander swayed, feeling dizzy all over again.
• • •
If Alexander suspected that their troubles with Fowler were only beginning, what happened next proved him right. It didn't help matters that Fowler had been promoted to Senior Ensign. Though it was a rank that was rarely used, it did officially elevate Fowler over the rest of the ensigns. It would have been more conventional to promote him to lieutenant or even acting lieutenant. It was as if the Admiralty didn't quite accept his abilities—or somehow knew that Fowler would be a thorn in his side.
The real question was how on earth had Fowler managed to receive orders directly from the Admiralty? It ranked right up there with the mystery of just how Fowler had managed to obtain a fine new uniform. These new developments hinted that he might have friends in very high places, indeed. This seemed strange, because Fowler never had hinted at that before, but if that was the case, then they were all in trouble. Fowler wouldn't hesitate to lord it over them.
At the same time, Alexander was not the same boy he had been months ago when he had first come aboard Resolution. A great deal had changed. He was far more confident about his own abilities as a sailor. And he was an elemental. Seen from the outside, it was a powerful combination. On the inside, however, Alexander, still felt weak and worn out, like a signal flag tattered by the wind.
Once the ship was underway, Alexander went down to the ensign's berth for the evening meal. Because they were just setting out on their journey, there was still plenty of fresh food—roast beef, roasted potatoes with rosemary and gravy, and Brussels sprouts—the last were not exactly Alexander's favorite, but they were roasted with butter and sea salt, which made them somewhat palatable. His mouth watered at the smell, but what he saw next quickly took away his appetite. There were a few new faces gathered around the table, but the only one he really noticed was Fowler's.
Fowler installed himself at the head of the table and was carving the roast beef, giving slabs of it to the boys he liked or that he was trying to win over. His goonish sidekicks Sweeney and Lloyd sat on either side of him as he dished out a few compliments along with the roast. Grudgingly, Alexander acknowledged that Fowler was a good manipulator. He could be charming when he wanted to be, even though his heart was blacker than a charred sausage.
Fowler gave the fatty ends to those boys he didn't like, such as Liam, who stared sadly at the gristle on his plate.
"Mr. Hope, you are almost late for dinner," Fowler said. "I doubt there will be any left for you." He shared a knowing look with some of the other boys, as if they were in on some private joke.
"There will be plenty for everyone, and give Liam another slice of that roast, Fowler," Alexander said, surprised at the tone that had crept into his voice. It was, he realized, disdain.
Fowler stopped carving the roast. "That's Mr. Fowler, sir."
Liam Fitzgerald spoke up. "Oh come off it, Fowler. You're an ensign just like us."
"Shut it, Irish, or I'll stuff a potato dow
n your throat. Of course, that may make you feel right at home."
"I'd like to see you try."
Fowler stood and took a step toward Liam, who wasted no time in getting to his own feet. Liam had a fierce temper and a burning sense of injustice, but he was a small, thin boy. Fowler was much bigger. Also, it didn't help that he still held the carving knife.
Alexander spoke up. "Look here, Fowler. I have an idea." Alexander found a piece of the white chalk that they used to mark on the slates that Professor Hobhouse gave them for their lessons. Bending down, he drew a line on the floor from one side of the room to the other. The dining table was more or less divided in half. "This side is yours and this side is ours."
"Why should I listen to you, Snotty?"
Alexander winced at the nickname. It came from the habit young ensigns had of wiping their noses on the sleeves of their uniforms. "Why? Because we all need to live and work together down here," he said.
"Hmm. Not a good enough reason," Fowler said.
"Then how about this one? You don't want me as an enemy."
To Alexander's ears, the words sounded much tougher than he felt. Fowler, however, seemed to weigh what Alexander had just said. "I believe it's already too late for that, Snotty."
"Then all the more reason for us to have an understanding."
Fowler seemed to think about it. Taking the carving knife he still held, he scored a new line across the floor, this one a good three feet to one side of Alexander's chalk line. Instead of dividing the ensign's berth in half, the new line divided it into two-thirds and one-third. "This seems like a better boundary," he said, beginning to rub out Alexander's chalk line with the toe of his shoe.
Alexander could have protested, but all at once he felt too weary to argue. "Fine," he said.
They quickly rearranged the berth according to the boundary. Only Alexander, Roger and Liam were on the one side; everyone else was on the larger side presided over by Senior Ensign Fowler. They moved their hammocks and their sea chests, then sat back down at the table, of which a third was their own. In the meantime, the other ensigns had eaten most of the roast—as it turned out, Liam's fatty bit was better than what Alexander or Roger ended up getting.
"Mmm, that was quite delicious," said Fowler, grinning like a Cheshire cat from his end of the table, as he ate the last of his roast beef. "I think I'm going to like this new arrangement."
• • •
That night, Alexander had a strange dream about waking up and seeing Lemondrop, Lord Parkington's gryphon, crouched over him as if guarding him. In his dream, Lemondrop seemed to be speaking to him in a deep dreadful voice, warning him. That was impossible, of course, because gryphons could not speak, but dreams were dreams, and the gryphon's words sounded urgent and filled with dread. Something very bad seemed to be coming toward them, but Alexander was unable to move, frozen in place. Was he wounded? Looking around him, he saw that they were on a vast battlefield. Everywhere he looked, men lay wounded or dying. Others still stood and fought, a swirl of red and blue uniforms mixed with the flash of bayonets and muskets. Strangely, there was no sound.
A figure appeared at the edge of the battlefield, coming toward them. Deep in Lemondrop's throat, there was a warning growl and the gryphon uncurled its talons and raised one forearm protectively above Alexander's prone body.
The fighting soldiers seemed to clear a path for this man, and Alexander soon understood why. He held a ball of flame in his hand, but did not seem to be burned by it. He was an elemental. A fire elemental.
The figure continued toward them until Alexander could make out a tall man with wild dark hair and dark eyes. He was looking right at Alexander. He lifted the ball of fire over his head —
That's when Alexander woke up. He was relieved to find himself in his hammock, swaying gently with the roll of the ship. Lemondrop was not there. And how could he be? A gryphon would not fit into the cramped ensign's berth.
But it was such a vivid dream that it wasn't like a dream at all. It was like something that had already happened or soon would. Had it been a premonition?
The fire elemental in the dream had not been Napoleon himself. But he had definitely been a Napoleonist. Who had it been?
He climbed out of the hammock and saw Roger sleeping in the hammock beside him. Roger opened one eye.
"If you don't mind, I'm trying to get some sleep."
"Sorry. I've been having a very odd dream."
"Is it about that man holding a ball of fire in his hand?"
Alexander felt fear run through him. "How could you possibly have the same dream?"
"I only know because you've brought him along into the ensign's berth. He's right behind you."
Alexander whirled and snatched at the lantern that hung from its hook nearby, trying to see the man from his dream. There was no one there. He turned back to Roger, and saw that he was sound asleep.
Alexander shook his head to clear it. He found that he was still in his hammock, not on his feet. When had he been dreaming, and when had he not been? Somehow he had managed to have a dream within a dream. And even if he did not yet understand who the fire elemental had been, the man was definitely the stuff of nightmares.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day's weather was so fine that it put everyone aboard in a good mood. It helped that they were barely out of sight of England; the coast of Ireland was a dim shadow on the horizon. This close to their home waters, there was little reason to fear the Napoleonists. Enemy ships generally didn't venture so close. The atmosphere aboard Resolution felt more like that aboard a pleasure yacht rather than that of a frigate at war.
Professor Hobhouse had scheduled a lesson, gathering the boys on deck to review the speeches of Seneca in the original Latin. He announced that they were all woefully behind in their studies and had them take turns reading passages aloud, artlessly murdering Seneca's oratory.
The weather being so fine, Scarlett Beauchamp was also taking her own lessons on deck from her tutor. It was hard to determine if she was studying history or mathematics or a foreign language, but whatever the case, she did not seem to be getting it right because her governess kept making exasperated noises. It didn't help matters that Scarlett kept looking over her shoulder to see what the boys were up to.
After thirty minutes of the boys fidgeting and daydreaming as they looked up at the blue sky, Professor Hobhouse gave up in exasperation. "Into the rigging with the lot of you," he said. "Perhaps some time aloft will do you good. If you're going to strangle your Latin, then you may as well practice your seamanship."
They agreed upon a game of Stone Angels and swarmed up the ropes. Alexander had never suffered from any fear of heights—it was partly what made him such a strong gryphon flyer—and he climbed right up the mainmast. Looking down, he could see the whole of the ship's deck surrounded by the deep blue sea. The length of the mast amplified the roll of the ship so that Alexander seemed to swing far out over the ocean with a movement that on the deck below would barely have caused you to shift your feet.
There on the quarterdeck was Old Cullins at the wheel, his bald pate shining. Captain Bellingham must be below, but Lieutenant Swann had command of the quarterdeck. Alexander looked around him at the empty ocean. Not so much as another sail was in sight. The sun felt good on his back and shoulders, the wind fresh on his face. He would happily have skylarked in the rigging all day.
He saw Scarlett come back out on deck wearing riding clothes instead of a dress. To his surprise, she began to climb the rigging. She did not shimmy up a ratline as some of the boys had, but she did credibly well climbing one of the rope ladders. Her governess emerged to scold her.
"Scarlett, get down this instant! Your father will be most displeased."
Alexander climbed down to meet her as she came up. "I daresay you have the makings of a sailor," he said.
"You think so?" She look up doubtfully at how much higher the rigging reached, then almost as doubtfully to the deck below, where
her governess stood, hands on hips.
"I don't think your governess is very happy with you," he said.
"Oh, she's such a bother," Scarlett said. “She never lets me have any fun.”
"I'll take good care of her!" Alexander called down. This did not seem to reassure the governess, who now glared up at him. Finally, she shrugged in exasperation and went below. He turned to Scarlett. "Come on, let's climb a little higher."
"I don't know—"
"We'll go side by side, just to the first cross tree. You can do it. The view is quite spectacular."
"All right, I'll give it a try if you say so."
Slowly, they resumed climbing. "Let me know if you feel dizzy," Alexander said. "We can stop."
"I'm fine," she said a bit huffily.
While she concentrated on managing her handholds and footholds, Alexander took the opportunity to give her a closer look. Scarlett was not nearly so pale as an English girl of her class would be, but of course, she was an American. It was only natural that she would spend more time outside. Climbing, in the warm sun, she smelled vaguely of girl sweat and perfume, which was distinctly different from how a sweaty ensign smelled. She had dark hair, faintly greenish eyes, and long eyelashes.
She was the first actual American girl he had seen up close and Alexander was somewhat disappointed. He had hoped she would look more exotic, like an Indian. As it was, she looked rather like an English girl who had been in the sun more often.
When they reached the first cross tree, Alexander announced that they had climbed high enough.
"Oh, I wouldn't mind climbing all the way to the top," Scarlett said.
"Maybe next time," Alexander said. "It's not the climbing up part that's hard, you know. It's the coming back down. A lot of people see how far down it is and get dizzy."
