Golden Dragon (Code Black Book 1)

by V. E. Ulett

  “You and Baron Van der Capellen have put into my hands a great trust, and given me much to consider. I am obliged to you for that confidence, Lord Exmouth. And thank you, Captain Dashwood, for the excellent supper and hospitality. Though I have questions yet, I believe I shall reserve them and retire. The better to think on what I need to know.”

  Both gentlemen stood up.

  “Good night, Miss Miriam, and God bless,” his lordship said, an affectionate sparkle in his eyes. “Is there anything you could wish for, either pertaining to to-night’s discussion or otherwise?”

  Miriam took a moment to consider. “A Chinese scholar, sir, or someone to educate me in the Malay and Eastern languages—of which I am completely ignorant.”

  “That, Dashwood,” said Lord Exmouth, after they had bowed Miriam out of the great cabin, “is quite a girl.”

  They were distantly related on Dashwood’s mother’s side. It was not much of a connection, yet enough for Dashwood to be considered a fortunate son in the Navy, where influence was concerned.

  “Woman, sir, I think you mean,” said Dashwood, in a distracted tone. “I’d like a private word, sir, if I may. Before your barge is called.”

  Lord Exmouth sat down with a little harrumph, the older generation cannot like being brought up by the younger.

  “I know what you will say, that it is a deuced ugly thing to pitch a girl, er, woman like that, in among savages and pirates.”

  “No, sir, that is not what I was going to say, though it is a fine point come to think of it.” Dashwood frowned and pursed his lips. “What I wanted to speak of is my desire, my long hoped for chance, to be posted aboard the crack ship.”

  “Valentine, you astonish me! Are you so much in love with her already, that you would follow her into a crack ship? Where you would be a mere lieutenant again, let me remind you.”

  An exasperated expression passed over Dashwood’s face, those of Lord Exmouth’s generation really were a romantic set of beings. He pitched his voice low. “Sir, Miss Blackwell is a remarkable woman, and not unblessed with the charms of the fair sex to a great degree, but I haven’t known her near long enough to form an attachment. I regret to say my request is purely a selfish one. It has always been the greatest desire of my heart to serve aboard a crack ship.”

  Lord Exmouth leaned back, staring in amazement. “Really, you cannot have thought this through, and as your mother’s second cousin’s cousin I feel it my duty to tell you so. You are a well-looking man, fit, young, your whole career ahead of you. Would you exchange all that for a few years of glory?” Lord Exmouth paused, and took a great swallow of his port. “I was not accounted timid in my day, not behindhand in the way of taking prizes and harrying the French, but I should have hesitated, I should have hesitated very much indeed before putting myself in an air-ship.”

  “It is a modern, more scientific Service today, Sir, if I may be so bold,” Dashwood said. “One in which I hope to find the rewards more than compensation for the danger to life and limb. As I told you, sir, it has been the greatest desire of my heart since ever so long ago.”

  “Long ago, is it?” Lord Exmouth grumbled. “And you such an oldster, Dashwood. Well, this discussion is neither here nor there. If you know about crack ships, you will understand they are somewhat autonomous vessels, loosely under Admiralty and Lord Q’s control. A crack ship’s captain has the final decision of who he will take aboard his ship, the risks being what they are, and I can do no more than suggest—”

  “Oh, Sir!” Dashwood cried. “Thank you very much, sir.”

  “Do not thank me, if you please. I cannot feel that I will be doing you any great turn by putting you in Maximus Thorpe’s way. Wait until you meet Captain Thorpe, then decide how much it is your heart’s desire to be aboard a crack ship. Some call him crack-headed, and most agree he is a frightening beast on his best days.”

  The ship heeled and creaked, straining at her anchor with the wind in the West. Dashwood grasped the edge of the table. “Can it be right to send Miss Blackwell under the protection of such a person?”

  “Right? There is nothing right about this business, and as far as delivering Miss Miriam to the scene of action, what choice do we have? In any case, I am not concerned about Captain Thorpe’s acceptance of our young lady aboard the Nonesuch. He is a man, after all, and she is...not without charms. I more than half suspicion, your protests notwithstanding, that this desire of your heart to be aboard a crack ship has to do with that charmer, and I am here to tell you it will not do. Miss Miriam Kodio Blackwell was raised in a seraglio, she is a Muslim. She is not one of us.”

  Lying in an officer’s cot in the coach, with only thin pine boards separating Miriam’s apartment from the great cabin, she heard every word of the gentlemen’s conversation. In this second hand way Miriam learned more of her fate and future. What she’d done for Lord and Lady Elgin had not been enough, not nearly enough to be sent to England to take up a respectable quiet life. Miriam admitted to a certain feeling of relief on that score, on any number of others her mind was anything but easy.

  One cause of unease was this crack ship, that the Navy men spoke of in such odd terms, and her equally extraordinary captain. The mission in the South China Sea Miriam avoided considering too deeply, it being at such a distance and the thought of putting herself into pirates’ hands so foreign and appalling. She was infinitely glad to have requested a Chinese teacher. A woman had mainly her wits to protect her, and it was hard to be witty without language. But learning she should be considered no fit match for a man like Captain Valentine Dashwood hurt her, as did admitting she cared about it at all. It kept her from sleeping. How long was she to be part of them, and not one of us?

  Chapter Four

  Captain Maximus Thorpe stood on the quarterdeck of His Majesty’s Hired Vessel Nonesuch with the late afternoon sun in his face, hands clasped behind his back and feet planted apart, watching the approach of Admiral Lord Exmouth’s barge. Sir Edward Pellew had called upon Maximus the evening before, almost as soon as Nonesuch hove to in the Bay of Algiers, rather than making the ship’s number and summoning her captain aboard the flag. In the breast pocket of Maximus’s jacket was the letter from Lord Q that Sir Edward brought him, requesting and requiring Maximus to take on board Nonesuch three individuals who were, to his way of thinking, questionable characters.

  The lieutenant he would almost certainly accept, the ship being down to one officer. Mr. Hermes Dodd, the officer of the watch, stood not far from Maximus, glaring at the barge through slitted eyes. Nonesuch’s first officer had dropped out during the last cruise, a hazard peculiar to crack ships. But a hoyden, a preening female agent of Lord Q’s he would not have aboard his ship, and so he’d told Sir Edward the evening before. His lordship returned him a sly, knowing smile that rather disconcerted Maximus, though he’d not let the smug Sir Edward see it. The China scholar, of course, went as a pair with the female, so if he was not to have one, he would not be burdened with either.

  “In the case where you will allow aboard the young Miss,” Sir Edward said, “and in responding to this Code Black, gratify Lord Q as well as ensure cordial relations with our allies the Dutch, should you prefer the scholar be a seaman as well?”

  “Eh?” Maximus was struck by Sir Edward’s coolness, his assumption. “What do you mean?”

  “Should you prefer a lascar, or a dyak? A man thoroughly familiar with the sea and a ship’s business, as well as the languages of the far East?”

  Mr. Dodd stepped toward Maximus, recalling him from his reverie. “Now, sir?”

  Maximum nodded. Mr. Dodd called out. “Boat ahoy! What boat is that?”

  “Queen Charlotte!” came the immediate reply.

  Maximus gave the necessary orders, and the bosun took up his station prepared to pipe the Admiral aboard. There were neither marines nor young gentlemen aboard Nonesuch, no sideboys in white gloves or smart looking soldiers. His crew was in attendance on deck, looking neither smart nor p
articularly white.

  Lord Exmouth came aboard, followed by a sprightly young fellow who fairly leapt on the deck. No Merry Andrews, if you please, Maximus thought. And then the female was handed up, and all other considerations fled from his mind. Astounded, Maximus came forward and exchanged salutes and handshakes with the officers.

  “Captain Thorpe,” Sir Edward said, “may I present Miss Miriam Albuyeh Kodio Blackwell. Miss Miriam, Captain Maximus Thorpe.”

  “Servant, ma’am,” Maximus managed. With one last glance round the deck of Nonesuch and the surrounding sea, where ash and debris from the battle still floated in a sad and dirty scum, he invited his guests below to the great cabin.

  What struck Maximus was how much this young woman was the opposite of his expectation. She was clad in a plain gray morning gown, a neat trim little person no more than a decade his junior, with a shawl completely covering her hair. It was the shawl draped over her head in that manner, shielding her face from scrutiny, that reminded Maximus so forcefully of the countrywomen of his native Scotland. He felt almost tongue-tied before her. Miss Miriam Albuyeh Kodio Blackwell was no more a hoyden than Maximus himself was a cur.

  In the great cabin, Sir Edward stood rubbing his hands together in delighted fashion. Maximus ushered them to seats on chairs or stern lockers.

  “Saramago!” Maximus shouted to this steward. “Wine and cake, if you please.”

  The young lady was startled by his calling out.

  “Forgive me, Miss Albu...ah, Kodio, that is to say Blackwell?”

  “Perhaps it would be simplest if you called me Miss Miriam, sir.” She’d pushed back her head scarf on entering the cabin, so that a ring of brilliant black hair framed her face. “As his lordship and Captain Dashwood do.”

  “Aye, well, ah, how kind, Miss Miriam. Welcome aboard Nonesuch, ma’am, that is all I wished to say.”

  Sir Edward chuckled aloud, and while Maximus tried to glare him down, the young spark Dashwood leaped into the breach.

  “You will forgive me, I hope, Miss Miriam, if I speak out of turn. But it is no longer Captain Dashwood. Since leaving Prometheus I am plain Mr. Dashwood again. Happily so, if Captain Thorpe will have me aboard.”

  Dashwood blushed at that last, as well he might.

  At least this put Maximus into known waters. “As it transpires, Mr. Dashwood, Nonesuch is in need of a lieutenant. Your service in Prometheus and elsewhere, I had your detailed history from his lordship I may assure you, speaks well for you. Yet all your fine experience may not fit you for service in a crack ship.”

  “Sir, I attended all Doctor John Herschel’s lectures at the Royal Astronomical Society, and studied the catalogues of double stars by him and his honored father. It has always been the sincerest desire of my heart to serve aboard an air—”

  “Yes, Mr. Dashwood, I heard about the wishes of your heart at length as well, I thank you. I hope you will be allowing me to pose what may appear an unseemly set of questions, so I may better judge your fitness for service.”

  Maximus frowned as his steward, Saramago, entered the cabin with the side tassels of his ever present knitted cap swinging. Saramago set the refreshments down on the table, stole a glance at the young lady, and grinning in a way that revealed more gum than tooth he slipped away.

  “Miss Miriam,” Maximus said, “in the questions I put to Mr. Dashwood, I hope you will think on your own history and speak up if you can answer aye to any of them.” Maximus wished she might not consider him indelicate, about his crew he had no hopes. “Now Mr. Dashwood, do you or does anyone in your family, most particularly a mother or father, suffer from apoplexies, vapors, flutterings, or irregular rhythms of the heart?”

  “No, sir, not that I am aware.”

  “Do you feel nauseated, when in the topgallant crosstrees? You served in Ganges, Mr. Dashwood, a 98-gun ship. When in her foremast topgallant crosstrees, let us say? And ma’am, if you were ever on a summit of great height?”

  “No, sir,” Dashwood said.

  “No, sir,” Miriam echoed. Her eyes gleamed with lively interest, as though she’d questions of her own, but good manners kept her silent.

  “Well, then, that is a start.” Maximus clapped his hands down on his knees. “Very well, indeed. We shall finish our wine, and then I will show you both round the ship. After which, Mr. Dashwood, I’m sure you will be wanting to change into working clothes, and make yourself known to Mr. Dodd.”

  “Oh, sir!” Dashwood cried. “Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Mr. Dashwood, I find I have to take you on as first lieutenant, but I tell you this frankly and before his lordship, that if I had my way Mr. Dodd would be first lieutenant and you the junior. By which I mean no disrespect to you, no far from it, it is only that Mr. Dodd has served in Nonesuch three years. A considerable time in a crack ship.”

  “Mr. Dodd will have much valuable knowledge, sir,” Dashwood said, “that I hope he will share with me.”

  Maximus smiled. “That attitude does you great credit, Mr. Dashwood. Ma’am, if you are quite ready let us begin our inspection.”

  Mr. Dashwood jumped up with alacrity at the invitation to tour the ship, but Lord Exmouth begged to be excused. Moving through the cramped between decks, where she could mostly stand upright but the men could not, Miriam understood why Lord Exmouth shouldn’t wish to squeeze his bulk through the—to him—familiar innards of a small ship of war.

  The odd Captain Thorpe, whose appearance at first surprised and almost frightened Miriam, led them through the officers’ quarters, the gun room, and then down a ladder stair to a lower tier where rested the great smelly anchor cables of the ship. Captain Thorpe and Mr. Dashwood walked rapidly back and forth, Miriam trailing them, talking of proper stowage of flotation, ballast, and trim.

  The officers sent Miriam first up the ladder to the deck they’d just quitted, averting their eyes as she climbed. Captain Thorpe led them forward past where Miriam knew a row of cannons should have been. In this vessel there were gun ports but no great guns. There were seamen about, the off watch below, who fell back out of Captain Thorpe’s path, knuckling their foreheads.

  Miriam tried not to appear too much agog. In the same way some girls were fascinated by horses growing up, she’d been in love with ships and read all she could about matters maritime. Consequently Miriam was deeply curious about Nonesuch’s differences from other vessels, but she would never make herself conspicuous by vulgar questioning of the Captain.

  One of the greatest oddities about Nonesuch, Miriam couldn’t help but notice, was how many of her crew were missing fingers, and more disconcerting, parts of their noses. Some of the seamen had strapped to wrists or elbows strange leathern and metal appendages, pinchers, hooks, and claw like arrangements, where once had been a hand, fingers, or arm.

  The men with disfigured faces, however, could do nothing about it, just as Captain Thorpe couldn’t help the fact he had one brilliant green eye and one pale, washed out blue eye. The combination of those strange eyes and flame-colored hair gave Miriam something of a start. Like Judas Iscariot, was Miriam’s initial thought. When she was ten she remembered the American woman Mercedes, who’d lived with them for a short time in the Dey of Oran’s harem in Ceuta, telling her the Spanish believed the betrayer of their Lord had red hair.

  Miriam fancied she was not squeamish, missish, or any of those ish’s, nor was she ignorant of the world. She read Fanny Burney’s Evelina, and knew all about the rough characters given seamen. This set of men though, were not a great number lame in some way? Miriam followed the tall frame and red hair of Captain Thorpe forward along the deck, shuddering ever so slightly. Glancing back at Mr. Dashwood, Miriam discovered, rather than showing apprehension at the state of his new crew, he was fairly dancing on his toes.

  Captain Thorpe held back a heavy canvas curtain, and motioned them into the foremost part of the ship.

  “This area of the ship is the cockpit, Miss Miriam,” Captain Thorpe said, “wher
e the wounded are treated in battle. Except in a crack ship, where it is more the command center, just as the quarterdeck is to a frigate. With your leave, ma’am.”

  Captain Thorpe bowed, and then hastened over to prevent Mr. Dashwood upsetting a beautiful circular object set into a table in the manner of a globe, in such a way that its many discs could spin on various axis.

  “A most beautiful piece...of art is it, Sir?” Miriam asked. Jewel like rounded balls dotted the face of one disc, suspended from its surface in concentric circles.

  “It is a Mechanism,” Mr. Dashwood breathed reverentially.

  Captain Thorpe tugged at his stock and glanced sideways at Miriam. Giving a little ahem, he said, “The Mechanism is an ancient device, ma’am, of a particular nature to do with celestial positioning and weather prediction.”

  “These are the planets in the heavens.” Mr. Dashwood pointed. “Do you see, Miss Miriam?”

  “I should be most interested to understand its functioning.”

  “Mr. Dashwood,” Captain Thorpe interposed, “may I call your attention to some of the other features of the cockpit?”

  “By all means, Sir.”

  Miriam was left feeling snubbed, as Captain Thorpe led Mr. Dashwood round his command center. This was their professional world. She’d momentarily forgotten she had no place here, where she was decidedly not one of them.

  All the way forward the men were discussing two oversized and heavily reinforced port hole windows, like great insect eyes, shuttered by wooden gun port lids.