If I live to see it work, Davy thought. Suddenly, he felt extremely foolish. I wasted an entire six hours off. I could have gone into town with the others, seen a little of Boston. Well, at least of the pubs along the wharf. He managed to keep that from his uncle James, and somehow the two of them managed to convince the sprite it would look terribly odd for him to walk across the dock with a spiral of pale green light above his shoulder. “And I cannot trust you to stay unseen,” Davy added sternly. The corner went very dark and still.
A replacement bottle for himself—he considered that as he went up the gangplank and he heard his uncle’s carriage drive away. He could have made one similar to the one John created for him. He rejected the thought after a moment. No one else aboard ship had such a thing. And if there were evil things about—in the water, aboard an enemy ship—he wanted to know.
* * *
Four days later, the Constitution sailed back into the Atlantic; there were wagers cast all across the decks and into the rigging as to just how many hours they’d beaten orders to remain in port, and, in actuality, it later emerged that sealed Navy orders arrived a mere eleven hours after they cleared the harbor.
* * *
It was different, this time: Davy was accepted as part of the crew, friends with the other members of his mess. He belonged, he realized, perhaps for the first time in his life. It was a good feeling. He felt comfortable enough now to bring out his sketching materials during his off hour’s; he drew his mess-mates, various parts of the ship; his captain draped over the rail, earnestly discussing something with the boatswain; Marines drilling; one of the powder boys sitting with his back to the rails, laboriously copying his letters on a flat piece of wood.
Different, too: The Constitution was far enough at sea this voyage that he could scarcely see land, even from high in the mainmast. But he wasn’t cut off as he had been last time. It wasn’t as though he could bespeak anyone, even if he’d wanted to. He knew they were there, though, and once, hovering on the edge of sleep, he was nearly certain he sensed the sprite.
Away from land once again, he knew he wanted nothing to do with the family Talents—it was expedience that forced it on him in Boston, that was all. Whether he’d accomplished anything besides temporarily soothing his own worries remained to be seen. In the meantime, he had well over two weeks asea, learning knots, how to climb the mizzen in a stiff breeze and take in sail while seated on a swaying cross member, ankles crossed so a sudden plunge into a trough wouldn’t send him flying—heady stuff, frightening at first, but exhilarating, too.
Constitution came across a few small prizes during that period: two open boats the British had taken from the Americans, a shipload of fruit from the Caribbean; several impressed American sailors being rowed from Halifax to a point north. By the time they headed southeast once again, Davy felt as though he’d been aboard for the better part of a year.
Mid-afternoon; he and his mess had just finished reworking the lashing on the bowsprit—hard work in a high wind—and were about ready to head below when a voice came down through the sails: “Ship on the horizon, to the north!” And, not long after, “British ship!” Along with the rest of the men, Davy ran toward the rail and peered into the distance. All around him, men gabbled excitedly: “Which, d’you think?”
“Flying her colors? Big one, then, spoiling for a fight.”
“Found the ones to give her a fight, hasn’t she?” The boatswain shouted them down finally, and in the ensuing silence came a cry from above: “Look at the sails, look at her topsail! What it says! It’s Guerrière!”
It had to be fate: Guerrière had been one of the five ships that nearly trapped them off new Jersey; Guerrière, whose captain had written a challenge across his topsail, “THIS IS NOT THE LITTLE BELT,” after that 22-gun sloop of war was mistaken for Guerrière and severely crippled.
Guerrière, which carried someone who was using, if not Crafter magic, then something very similar. Davy felt a familiar sensation; whoever that someone was, he was aware of the young alchemist-by-blood-and-not-choice on the American frigate. “Davy, come on.” Andrew had hold of his elbow and was tugging at his arm. “Buckets, remember?”
“Buckets,” Davy echoed dutifully. His mess had the job this watch of scattering sand and ash all across the main deck in case of battle. To keep footing safe, whatever else spilled on the deck. Blood, he thought as he ran for the main companionway with the others. Perhaps my blood. He buried the thought then. Not a good way to be thinking just now. Besides, if that other could somehow hear his thought ... .
Ash and sand were scattered; guns moved into position and ports slid open; powder was loaded and boys stood ready with full buckets. Dead silence. The British ship, near enough now so that every man aboard the American frigate could read the arrogant message on the sails, was not yet near enough to engage.
Davy’s legs were beginning to ache from standing so long in one place. The ships were jockeying for position, and now the British were beginning to fire. Shot tore through the mainsails, ropes slithered down to the deck. Four of Davy’s mates swarmed aloft to fix them once again.
Davy caught hold of ropes, passing them to those who would reattach them along the rails; he was working automatically, thinking furiously as he went back and forth between main mast and rails. There wasn’t any way he could get to the Guerrière. He couldn’t be certain the man he thought of as his own adversary was being useful to the British at this moment, but he didn’t want to chance that happening. If there were only some way of getting that powder from where he stood to where the other was!
The sky, already gray, grew darker. Surely they could not be more than fifty yards apart now! Through the ringing in his ears, Davy heard a ragged-sounding Lieutenant Morris beg the Captain to let them fire; heard the Captain’s calm denial. Nearer; nearer; Davy was certain he could have thrown a knife from where he stood and buried it in the other ship’s mast. Suddenly the Captain bellowed out an order, Constitution turned broadside, and every gun on the near side spoke as one.
The Guerrière seemed to explode into splinters; another round and yet another, her mainmast fell. Andrew, balanced above the deck on the rack that held boarding pikes against the mainmast, gleefully shouted out, “We’ve made a brig of her!” and someone shouted back, “One more shot to the foremast, and we’ll make a sloop of her!”
More firing, and Guerrière nearly staggered into Constitution; Davy thought he saw the Marine Lieutenant who’d first taken him about the ship leap to the railing and fall back; saw a sword-waving officer on the other ship fall wounded or dead. And then, somehow, the Constitution was free, sailing into open water—dragging the other ship’s mast with her.
Andrew shook his arm, hard. “Pay attention; we have repairs to make before we can go back and take them. Didn’t you hear orders?” Davy blinked, nodded. He hadn’t heard anything but the roar of cannon for what seemed a lifetime. Suddenly, it was still again, the only sounds the creak of rigging and the clatter and bang of gunners reloading; the slap of rope against the sanded decks, bare feet against sandy hardwood as someone ran back from the bow. Someone nearby groaned; men were carrying a wounded Marine below, and someone else covered Lieutenant Bush with a spare piece of canvas.
Davy caught rope, handed fresh-cut ends on; the little ball around his throat seemed warm. Happen you might get a bit of wood from that ship and dust it. Symbol is referent, remember? He jumped as the tart little voice filled his mind. Sprite? he thought nervously. No response. “I’m going mad,” he whispered. But it made sense, didn’t it? John’s little lecture on symbols and referents—well, why not? There were pieces everywhere, long, deadly looking splinters of mast, bits of gold and white-painted stuff that must have come from the figurehead. And not far from his foot, what looked like a chunk of railing. He bent down and caught it up, turned away as though fighting a sneeze, and quickly pried the little ball apart, caught powder be
tween thumb and forefinger and dusted it over the chunk of wood. He coughed, hoping that would cover what he’d just done, shut the ball and dropped both it and the wood down his shirt. No one seemed to have noticed, fortunately. Nothing felt different, either. Must have dreamed the nasty little being, he thought. Happen you didn’t, came the sharp reply. Happen this is no place for such as myself, it added, and all sense of it was abruptly gone.
* * *
Rigging and sails once more in proper working order, the very few wounded sent below, his crew at the ready, the Captain had Constitution turned and brought back against what was left of Guerrière. The arrogant British topsail was soon gone, along with all her masts; her Captain dying, over a hundred of her sailors dead. Men worked frantically to bring over the wounded, and then the rest of Guerrière’s crew, when it became clear she could not be saved.
Davy managed to get himself stationed at the rail, where he could watch the British as they came across. Thus far, he’d seen a handful of impressed Americans, the badly wounded Captain, a heartrending number of bodies, hurt and bleeding men everywhere. No one who might constitute a sorcerer. He was beginning to wonder if he truly had imagined the entire thing—if he’d imagined anything which wasn’t this ship, this time and place.
A tap on the arm aroused him; Captain Hull stood by the rail.
“You, boy; you’re my artist, aren’t you? David Holywell, you see, I remember. Think that name would look good on a series of canvases to commemorate this battle, don’t you? But—well, we can speak of that later.” He gestured and his voice became grave. “We’re going to have to burn her; Captain Dacres says before we do, he’d like the Bible from his cabin. Think you can fetch that for him?”
“Sir.” Davy bobbed his head and scrambled onto the rail before the Captain could change his mind. As if he knew what I wanted, one chance at that ship. The Captain’s cabin was aft, of course. It took him several moments to find it, and then to find the Bible; the chamber was all velvet and fancy furnishings. He caught it up, staggered as the ship rolled.
I’ll take one quick look, just one, he thought. This deck only.
He swallowed hard, then started toward the companionway, peering into open doorways as he went. Two beyond the Captain’s, he found what he was searching for: a small, well-lit chamber, low-ceilinged. It reminded him of the comer where John kept his tools and chests. A table ran the length of the bulkhead, closed cabinets from edge to edge. Several bottles lay on the floor, and from a shattered tube came a coil of ruddy smoke. He nearly missed the man who lay half in shadow beneath the table. He knelt, gazed into a stranger’s set and unseeing eyes. It could have been family; he couldn’t tell. It no longer mattered. If there was a book, it was locked inside one of those cabinets, and would go to the bottom of the sea with the rest of the ship. With the dead British alchemist.
“With me, if I don’t hurry,” Davy whispered. He stepped back out of the room and ran for the companionway.
Much later, he and his mess-mates stood against the rail and watched as flame shot toward a cloudy night sky. All over the ship other men watched in silence as the Guerrière burned and finally sank beneath the waves.
Davy touched the little ball through his shirt, then quietly freed the bit of dust-treated wood and let it fall into the sea. Happen you might regret that. The tart little mind-voice again.
Doubt it, Davy replied tersely. Somehow he wasn’t surprised the sprite was back with him.
John’s mind-speak, however, took him by surprise. At least you stopped them this time.
Did I? I doubt that, John.
I don’t. You blocked someone using power the way we do. He might have—John hesitated.
Might have what? I don’t know that he did anything that might have harmed us. I don’t know that I did anything worthwhile, either. Silence.
Happen you have us to speak with, the sprite reminded him. Because of him, others like him. Something worthwhile, isn’t it?
Pleasant in its own way, I suppose, Davy responded. Behind them, the last flames faded and sky and sea merged into one utter blackness.
And under pressure, John put in finally. Just think, once you’re free of that ship and home again ...
Davy nearly laughed aloud. Home? Oh, John, I’m sorry. But—don’t wait for that, don’t count upon it. This—this here, this ship, these men—for the first time I can remember, I’m happy. I’m at home here.
After all this? Two mind-voices demanded incredulously.
After all this.
But, brother, I do beg you, think if you did so much under such circumstances, consider what a fine master of the family craft you could become!
Dear brother John. Whatever I’ve done, I still fail to see any real point to it all. Besides, if I find I ever do want something else to do, Davy added happily, I won’t lack. You’re not the only Crafter to take a commission from Captain Isaac Hull, you know. I think it will take at least four full-sized paintings to do justice to today’s battle, don’t you?
Boston
Anno Domini 1821
Most of the Crafter family spread across America. One group chose to stay in the growing, vibrant port city of Boston, where, it should be noted, life was not any less perilous than along the frontier. Perhaps among all the Crafters in this group was the most adept at remaining inconspicuous and concealing their power. Sometimes this isn’t east, particularly when a great evil threatens.
“ ... Providing Instruction in Deportment, French, Embroidery, Latin, Astronomy, Algebra, and Cooking,” read the discreet brass plate next to the door of the large house on the edge of Boston. “Miss Amanda Crafter, Headmistress.” A school cousin Davy’s prize money had helped to open.
Within the study in the front of the red-brick and white granite building, the same Miss Amanda was going over the advertised agenda with the parents of a prospective pupil. A straight-backed woman of thirty-five with severely coiffed black hair, Miss Amanda exuded confidence and the deportment she promised to imbue in her students.
“I assure you, Mrs. Gentry, your daughter will receive instruction here which will ensure her warm reception among the very best people. We intend to fit out our girls to grace any room, and to excel in any walk of life in which they may find themselves.”
“I do not doubt the quality of the education, Miss Crafter,” Mrs. Gentry said, delicately. “I only doubt whether you’ll succeed in getting any of it into Madeleine. She’s ... resistant to outward influence.”
“She’s a willful hoyden,” the Reverend Mr. Gentry grumbled. “She’s driven away six tutors and governesses in as many years. I’ve got a business to run, imports and exports, you know, beside my duties to the Church. I cannot continue to be called away to reason with people she has offended.”
“Ours is not a large institution,” Miss Crafter pointed out. “Therefore we are able to give close attention to the needs of each girl. At present we have seventeen pupils. Your daughter would raise that number to a most pleasing total of eighteen. I and two other teachers serve as their schoolmistresses, their chaperones, and occasionally their confidantes. I would be happy to make available to you their references.”
“Well ...” Mrs. Gentry considered, “that is a rather better ratio than Mr. Grimes’s school ... .”
“My dear,” Mr. Gentry said, “the man’s a Roman Catholic. I told you I wouldn’t consider him.”
“But my dear,” his wife countered, “his is the best school in Boston.”
A gentle ‘hh-hhm’ distracted them from their argument and back to the present. Mrs. Gentry realized with horror that she had made a breach of manners in making such a comparison aloud. “Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Crafter. I didn’t mean to imply that your institution was in any way wanting.”
Miss Crafter smiled. “I find it entirely natural, Mrs. Gentry, that you would want the best of everything for your only daught
er. Would you care to have a tour of the school before making a decision?”
“No, thank you so much, madam,” Mr. Gentry said, rising.
“It isn’t necessary. What appurtenances you have will be of no interest to us. We shan’t be attending. I believe Madeleine will be happy here, don’t you, my dear?” He assisted his wife from her chair.
“I agree. Miss Crafter, thank you. When may we send Madeleine’s things?”
“Tomorrow or thereafter,” Miss Amanda said, after a moment’s consideration. “I make it a policy to have the girls room by twos. We will have to prepare her room and choose a roommate for her.”
“She has always had a room of her own,” Mrs. Gentry began, affronted.
“Pray, Mrs. Gentry,” Miss Amanda said, interrupting her smoothly, “consider the pleasures and responsibilities of coexistence with a girl of her own age and class to be one of the first lessons she will learn.”
* * *
Madeleine Gentry arrived two days after her luggage. A tall girl with a thick mass of honey-colored hair and the promise of an attractive figure, Madeleine was accustomed to ruling a situation. Her, dainty features had fooled more than one governess into believing she was sweet and tractable. Madeleine prided herself on being daring, willful and unmanageable. Arriving in the room first, she had taken the only comfortable chair, a deep green velvet armchair, and drawn it close to the small fire, She regarded the slim, dark schoolmistress who came to meet her in the parlor with open disdain.
“Well, Miss Gentry, I hope you had a pleasant drive,” Miss Amanda said, sitting down in the straight-back chair next to hers. To Madeleine’s annoyance, the schoolmistress seemed not at all upset that Madeleine had disposed herself in the green armchair. In fact, it would appear that the stiff, unpadded ladderback was her usual seat. Though her delicate bones might rue it, Madeleine vowed to take that one the next time she was summoned into the headmistress’s presence.
The Crafters Book Two Page 23
