by David Healey
At a few minutes before midnight, Alexander slipped from his hammock and made his way through the frigate toward the hold. While it was quieter, and many of the men snoozed in their own hammocks, the crew of a ship never all slept at the same time. One of the watches would always be on deck, ready to trim the sails. Those on deck now were especially wary because there seemed to be more than a little concern about a storm. Some of the old timers said they could feel it in their bones.
But Alexander had more immediate concerns, such as a mysterious meeting to learn who had stolen the colonel’s ring. He decided on a candle lantern to light his way. Below the gun deck there would be no light. He also decided against taking any weapons other than his wristling. Whoever had left the note was offering him information. When and if the time came to arrest the thief, he would go armed with a pistol.
Alexander descended the companionway into the hold of the ship. The candle cast a soft glow, but beyond that it was so dark that the air seemed to absorb light like a sponge. He also felt very alone. While the ship always bustled with men, all the activity was on the gun deck or the deck itself. The hold was deserted. The real purpose of this part of the ship was storage, and it was filled to overflowing with coiled ropes, spare sails and barrels. He reflected that it would be easy enough for someone to hide down here.
Something scurried away from the light—one of the ship's rats, no doubt. The sailors joked that the rats down here grew so big that the ship's cats were afraid of them. Alexander peered into the darkness, his heart thumping, but saw nothing.
This storage deck of the ship was a place he rarely visited, and so it was as unfamiliar to him as the surface of the moon. He crept along, guided by the flickering light of his candle lantern, one eye out now for rats, and tried not to trip over anything.
Finally, he found himself peering down a hatch that led to the very bottom level of the ship. It was too dark to see anything in the candle's feeble flame, but he could hear water sloshing. It was normal for some water to collect down here because the sea tended to seep between the oak planks of the ship. The smell of foul water drifted up.
A puff of air seemed to come out of nowhere and snuffed the candle flame. He found himself enveloped in darkness so complete that he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He wondered how he would ever find his way back to the ladder. At least he knew about the opening in front of him, though one wrong step would send him into the bowels of the ship. It was enough of a fall to break a leg or break one's neck. Worst of all was the thought of the ballast and foul water below.
Groping around him in the dark, he tried to get his bearings. Then, he heard a noise. Rats? No, it was something much bigger than that. It sounded like footsteps creaking across the decking in the hold.
"Who's there?" he cried out.
In the next instant, someone shoved him from behind, and Alexander pitched forward into the deepest hold.
He was falling.
His hands flailed wildly around him, searching desperately for some grip. At the last instant before he plunged into the pit, he remembered: the wristling. Instantly it glowed blue on his arm. He reached toward the foul water below—which was easy, considering he was tumbling toward it—and found a whipcord of blue plasma in his hand. He snapped the whipcord overhead and somehow managed to wrap the end of the whip around a beam. He stopped falling with a tremendous jolt that almost pulled his arm out of his socket.
He was now dangling at the end of a glimmering blue whipcord. It would have been fascinating to watch, if he wasn't in such a predicament. He grabbed hold of it with his left hand. To his surprise, the whipcord felt cool and solid to the touch, like water that hadn't yet frozen, so that it had nearly the density of ice but the fluidity of water.
Slowly, he began to pull himself up. Anyone who has ever tried to climb a rope knows that it's no easy task. Already, Alexander's arms burned with the effort. His weeks in bed had cost him a lot of muscle that he hadn’t yet built back up. But he had no choice but to keep going. Inch by inch, he pulled himself upwards. When he finally reached the level of the decking, he let go of the glowing coil and got his hands on the solid wood. Panting, his arms trembling, he flopped onto the deck like a fish that has just been pulled from the sea. The whipcord glowed with just enough light to see by.
He worried that whoever shoved him could still be around. But there didn't seem to be so much as a rat about. Using the light from the wristling and whip, he edged through the crowded hold, concerned that at any moment he might be attacked again.
When he reached the stairway, he let go of the whip and the coil collapsed into a puddle on the wood floor.
Shaken and angry, he started up the ladder. Someone had lured him into the hold to injure him—or worse yet, kill him. He was just lucky his attacker hadn't decided to stab him or shoot him. Chances were that they had wanted it to look like Alexander had fallen—they wanted it to look like an accident, in other words.
What had been their motivation? Did some suspicious sailor believe that he was a warlock? Perhaps. Alexander could only think that the attack concerned the investigation. Whoever had stolen the ring was worried. He must be getting closer to finding the thief.
CHAPTER 13
Just as Old Cullins had predicted, the weather turned ugly by morning. It wasn't yet a full-blown storm, but it was rough weather. The captain ordered the sails trimmed—too much canvas in high winds would create tremendous strain on the masts. Resolution sailed more slowly, but with enough headway to meet the oncoming waves.
"Not rough enough yet to cancel dinner tonight yet, I dare say!" exclaimed Captain Bellingham, up on the quarterdeck. He had invited the ship’s officers and their passengers for dinner in his cabin.
The captain loved a good storm. Bad weather made him rather jolly. The wind blew froth and foam from the peaks of the growing waves, drenching anyone on deck. The captain wore a heavy oilcloth slicker, making him look even more like a bear than usual. He frowned down at Alexander. "See if you can do something about that ripped sleeve, Mr. Hope. I don't know how you manage to be so hard on your uniform, considering that you are on limited duty."
"It is a mystery to me as well, sir."
"Well, do try to look presentable this evening, Mr. Hope."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Alexander had caught the sleeve on a nail when he fell in the hold, but he didn't tell the captain. In fact, he had not yet told anyone about the incident in the hold. While part of him wanted to let everyone know out of simple indignation and anger, he decided to keep things to himself for now. If someone let slip a comment about what had happened, he'd know they'd had something to do with the attack—or that his attacker had told them something.
The circle of people Alexander trusted aboard the ship seemed to be shrinking. He tugged at his ripped coat sleeve and considered himself lucky that he hadn't gotten worse. Down in the gryphon deck there were some shipmates he could trust—along with just the person to mend his coat before dinner. Some officers had more than one uniform, while others like Alexander had to make do with one uniform for regular duty, then clean and mend it as best they could for formal occasions like dinner at the captain's table. He reflected that if it hadn't been for Toby, he might not have a uniform at all.
The gun deck was divided into set living areas. At one end was the wardroom where the officers had their quarters behind a thin bulkhead that gave them some privacy. Then came the living area for the sailors, who strung up their hammocks between the massive guns. Next was that portion of the gun deck where the Royal Marines hung their hammocks and stowed their sea chests. While there was no actual divider between the sailors and Marines, the two groups did not mix—in part because it would be the job of the Marines to put down any mutiny aboard the ship. At the far end of the gun deck was another divider, an iron gate and bars like a prison cell—or a zoo. This last area was the gryphon deck.
On more than one occasion, Toby had reassured Alexander that the iro
n bars were really just for show and made the men sleep easier at night, knowing that they would not become a midnight snack for a hungry gryphon. The gate was not locked, and Alexander went in. Immediately, the smell of gryphons enveloped him. Just as a horse stable had a certain smell, so did the gryphon deck. It smelled a bit like straw and leather and wet cats—big, feral ones—as if you were walking into a lion's den. The gryphons preferred it to be dark because it reminded them of their ancestral caves. Alexander hadn't gotten far, however, before a gryphon stirred in a stall he was passing and a pair of yellow eyes glared at him menacingly.
"Easy boy," Alexander said, hoping that Lemondrop remembered him well enough not to eat him. Sleepy gryphons were notoriously crabby and tended to wake up ravenously hungry from their naps. Though roughly the size of a horse, their talons and sharp beak made them quite formidable. An angry gryphon could bite off a hand or an arm with no more effort than a boy bit a chunk from an apple.
A smaller figure appeared beside Lemondrop. "Trying to sneak up on us, Alexander?"
"Toby! You know there's no sneaking up on a gryphon. How are you?"
"We've been busy with training. Some of us are a bit rusty with our formation flying after being away from the ship for so long. Did you come down to see if you could abandon that nautical folderol for a bit and go up on a gryphon to have some real fun? You may have to wait if that's the case—unfortunately, the weather is turning nasty, and Captain Amelia has grounded us."
"Actually, I came down to see if Rigley could mend my coat."
His lordship smiled and shook his head. "Really, Alexander! You haven't had that coat a week and you've already ripped it!"
"I didn't do it on purpose!" Alexander said defensively. He lowered his voice. "I had an accident down in the hold last night. Someone gave me a shove in the dark, hoping that I’d fall and break my neck."
"You do always manage to make more than you share of enemies, Alexander. Who was it this time? Not Fowler again?"
"I'm not sure. I think it's someone who doesn't want me to find out who stole our esteemed passenger's signet ring."
"I heard that you were put in charge of investigating that." Toby turned away and scratched Lemondrop's ears until the yellow eyes drooped contentedly and the beast purred like an oversized cat. "You haven't figured it out yet?"
"I thought I was getting close because I received a note to meet in the hold at midnight if I wanted to find out the name of the thief. What I got was shoved down the stairwell."
"Next time, you might want to take Lemondrop with you. Gryphons are useful in many situations."
"I'll keep that in mind. Speaking of gryphons, how is Ember coming along?"
"Splendidly. She and Captain Amelia were made for each other. They're both stubborn, erratic, and possibly mad."
"That sounds about right." They both laughed. "So, do you think Rigley is around? I've got to get this coat fixed before dinner with the captain tonight. Were you invited?"
"Does a gryphon have wings?"
Alexander hid a smile; it was an uncharacteristically colloquial response from his friend. Clearly, Royal Navy life had been rubbing off on him. Of course, it almost went without saying that the Earl of Parkington would be in attendance at the captain's table. There was no better dinner guest to impress the American passengers than a genuine English aristocrat.
They found Rigley napping and prodded him gently awake. Flyers were seen with some envy by other members of the ship's company because aside from tending to the gryphons, they had no other duties when not in the air. When the weather was nice, they tended to loll about the deck and sunbathe, or even read books, much to the annoyance of sailors and officers who were busy tending to one of the hundreds of tasks that kept a ship at sea running smoothly. In the eyes of the crew, flyers enjoyed a soft, charmed life.
Though he was a masterful flyer, Rigley was also known for his skill with a needle and thread, oddly enough, considering that he was on the rough and tumble side. Flyers tended to come from wealthy backgrounds because they often brought their own gryphons with them into service—and only the very rich could afford a beast as rare and expensive to feed as a gryphon. His skill in sewing came from the fact that his father had been a tailor, and expected Rigley to follow in his steps—or was that seams? In any case, Rigley had run away to sea instead.
"I'll fix that right up," Rigley said. "One of these days you'll have to get yourself a second coat."
"We'll need some prize money for that," Alexander said.
"That we do!" Rigley agreed, rummaging in his sea chest for a needle and thread. "Some of us do like a bit of wine and female comfort when we're ashore, and a flyer's pay don't buy much of that. Do us both a favor, Alexander, and try not to sink the enemy's ships next time, ha, ha! Those ships would have fetched a pretty penny in prize money. Just something to think about next time before you go smashing the Napoleonist Navy to matchsticks. Now, give me that coat."
Rigley sewed it up in no time, then gave the coat a once over with a brush. When he was finished, it actually looked presentable. "I know you don't want money, Rigley, but what can I trade you for sewing that?"
Rigley waved him off. "Don't worry about it, Alexander." He winked. "I always believe in staying on the good side of an elemental."
• • •
Dinner in the captain's cabin was served promptly at seven o'clock. Normally, Alexander timed things to arrive just five minutes early—he didn't particularly enjoy having to make small talk with Lieutenant Swann or the sailing master. But this evening he arrived well ahead of schedule, in hopes that Scarlett Beauchamp might be there early as well. Unfortunately, he was disappointed, and wound up trying not to yawn while taking part in a discussion of which English mills made the best sailcloth.
The weather made for far more scintillating conversation, particularly because it was getting rougher. Wind and waves had been blowing all day, building up to something serious by nightfall. And yet old Bellingham hadn't seen fit to cancel dinner.
"I daresay we shall have a full-on gale by midnight," Bellingham remarked almost happily, gazing out the huge stern windows at the darkening sea.
"It will give the landsmen a new experience," agreed Lieutenant Swann. While most of the Resolutions had sailed aboard the ship before, a handful were new to the sea and had never experienced a real storm. Alexander himself had only been in one bad blow before, and he found the thought of a real storm more exciting than terrifying.
There were also some concerns about the sail that had been trailing them all day, yet again. It was too far away to tell just what ship it might be. But Bellingham and most of the officers were convinced it was the Napoleonist ship they had skirmished with off the coast of Ireland. So far, the enemy vessel seemed content to lick its wounds and keep its distance, apparently watching Resolution all the while.
"I don't like it, I tell you," Captain Bellingham said. "It makes me damn uneasy having them trail after us like a lone wolf, waiting for their chance. I should like to go after them and put an end to their skulking, but we have our orders to deliver our passengers."
"The storm will keep them at bay, sir," Lieutenant Swann said. "They won't be up to any mischief if the weather turns rough."
"Indeed, Mr. Swann." Bellingham clapped his hands with such force that the noise was like a cannon shot in the cramped quarters. "With any luck a proper blow will sink them, ha, ha!"
The flyers came in next, both Captain Amelia and Lord Parkington. Toby's impeccable sky blue Royal Flyer Corps uniform looked as if it had straight from a London tailor's shop, which it probably had. He could afford a trunk filled with spare uniforms.
"I hope there's something good on the menu, Old Belly," Captain Amelia said, clapping her hands together happily. "I'm hungry enough to eat a tub of eels if it comes down to it."
"I assure you that eels are not on the menu," Captain Bellingham said. "Although I do enjoy a properly smoked eel now and then. But tonight we are having a
particularly delicious ham."
He smiled fondly at the flyer, which was lucky for Captain Amelia. Alexander had a hard time imagining anyone else calling the captain "Old Belly" and living to tell the tale. It was clear to everyone except Amelia that Bellingham had a schoolboy crush on the flyer. She took the chair to Bellingham's left.
Ever since the arrival of her new gryphon, Amelia had been in a good mood. She also had a reputation at dinner for being a bottomless pit, though she somehow remained thin as an oar. A flyer either had to be small or skinny—gryphons could only carry so much weight aloft.
The colonel arrived with Mrs. Pomfrey and Scarlett, who looked quite radiant. She wore an evening gown and a simple gold chain that looped down into the topmost folds of her dress. The captain's quarters already felt crowded, but the tall American helped to thoroughly fill the room. Captain Amelia's tub of eels came to mind as everyone squirmed past one another to their seats. As the guest of honor, Colonel Beauchamp was seated to the captain's right. Alexander had hoped that Scarlett would occupy the empty chair beside him, but he was disappointed when Mrs. Pomfrey sat down instead. Scarlett was seated beside Lieutenant Swann, who was a thoroughly polite gentleman and capable officer, but rather a dull conversationalist for a young lady. Of course, the chair to the right of the first lieutenant was reserved for honored guests—just one person could sit beside the captain, after all. Being seated next to an ensign wasn't nearly so illustrious, which Mrs. Pomfrey seemed to understand right away.
"Mr. Hope," said Mrs. Pomfrey, sounding disappointed. She looked him up and down with something like distaste. Her gaze lingered on the tear in his coat, which for all his skill, Rigley had sewn up hastily. "You are looking well."
