Mutineer

by Sutherland, J. A.

  “Yes, Carew,” Canion said. “Are you sure you didn’t miss orders to return to your proper place? Some kitchen, perhaps?”

  “A proper husband’s bed?” Ledyard asked.

  “Mister Ledyard!” Bushby said. “Now you do forget yourself!” Ledyard hung his head, but Alexis knew this outrage was false as well, which was proven as Bushby continued, “Apologize at once!”

  Ledyard leapt to his feet and doffed his beret, face composed in contrition. He faced an empty chair that Alexis supposed was to represent her figurative husband.

  “I do apologize, sir,” he said, eyes wide and downcast. “And I implore you to forgive my wishing such a fate upon you.”

  “Fair enough,” Bushby said.

  Alexis took another, large gulp of the Miss Taylor, wrinkling her nose at the taste. Oh, they were on a tear now and she could tell it would get much worse before the meal was over. If she’d realize none of the warrants would be dining with them, she’d have skipped supper altogether and stayed in her bunk, or gone Outside to watch the darkspace clouds that so fascinated her. Anything to avoid having to sit here helpless and take their abuse.

  She’d tried everything she knew early on, but nothing worked with this group. There were too many of them and all cut from the same vulgar, bullying cloth. Anger made them laugh, sly ripostes were shouted down, and the few times she’d resorted to striking them … well, no matter how much time she spent training with the marines, outnumbered four or five to one and all of them but Ledyard bigger and stronger? No, that only got her beaten bloody and bruised, with the captain taking note of any marks she left on them and sending her to the masthead, or worse, for fighting.

  “Hell!” Canion said with an exaggerated shudder. “Married to this tit? Can you imagine?”

  “Tits’re the one thing you wouldn’t have to worry about! She’s certainly a dearth of that!”

  “Now there’s a thought!” Bushby exclaimed as the laughter died.

  He leaned forward and Alexis had no choice but to look up and meet his eyes, else they’d accuse her of being sullen and disrespectful to him as the senior. Mentioned in the captain’s hearing would give him yet another excuse to punish her, not that he seemed to lack them.

  Bushby’s mouth curled up. “Not to play matchmaker, Carew, but I’ve an uncle might take a shine to you … of course he’s a Windward Passage sort of fellow and likes them smooth-chested.” He looked around at the others as they roared laughter. “What? Be all the same to him from behind, wouldn’t it? And no fear of hair sprouting out all over to ruin it some day!”

  He turned back to Alexis, grinning, but his grin faltered as he met her eyes. Never in life had she so regretted the Navy’s prohibition against dueling. She’d always been a fair hand with a pistol, and her work with the marines had made her more than proficient with the Navy’s heavy bladed cutlass. She’d even turned her hand to the longer swords reserved for duels. The image of Bushby lying bleeding on a field some morning made her smile.

  Bushby’s grin faltered at the look on her face, he looked away from her, then back, his grin falling even more. He lowered his gaze, cleared his throat, and raised his glass to drink.

  The others’ laughter finally died away and their talk turned to news from the Naval Gazette and speculation about when the Prize Court might release the funds from their latest captures, small though they were. Alexis applied herself to her plate, allowing herself the hope that they might be done with her.

  “Would you like the last of the chicken, Mister Bushby?”

  “Why, yes, I would, Mister Ledyard, thank you for the offer.”

  Alexis watched as Ledyard handed the platter of roast chicken across the table to Bushby. No, not done. She knew what was coming next, from their tone and the elaborate formality of the charade they’d just started.

  “I’d offer this last bit to you, Carew,” Bushby said, scooping the chicken thigh onto his plate and pouring the last of the sauce from the platter over it. “But I note you’ve once again contributed no stores to our meal.”

  Alexis kept her head lowered, eyes on her plate as she cut yet another bite from the hunk of ship’s beef. She raised it to her mouth, grimacing at the soft, mushy texture, and chewed. She’d lost weight, she knew, her already slight form becoming even more so in the time she’d been aboard Hermione, but she could only stomach so much of the ship’s provisions.

  “I’ve none to contribute, Mister Bushby,” she said. “As you’re aware.”

  “A shame,” Bushby said. “I’d have thought you’d bring more aboard last we were in port.”

  And if you’d told me aboard Merlin that I’d one day wish for Stanford Roland’s company at dinner …

  “I didn’t see the point, Mister Bushby, as it would simply be pilfered again, as all my other stores have been.”

  “Pilfered, Carew?” he straightened in his chair. “That’s a most dire accusation. Point the culprit out to us, if you please, and we’ll see him done for you!”

  Alexis sighed. This was quite the same conversation he’d been attempting to engage her in for weeks, ever since she’d first noticed that her personal stores were disappearing at an alarming rate. At first, she’d thought it was the gunroom steward, Boxer, but the amount of goods missing had quickly grown past anything a member of the crew would dare.

  “I’ve no one to point to,” she said. And no one who’d listen if I did.

  She had, in fact, spoken to the second lieutenant about the matter, as the midshipmen were his responsibility. Williard had sighed and shaken his head.

  “A bit of food and wine, Mister Carew?” he’d asked. “Is this not something you lot should settle amongst yourselves?”

  “It’s more than a bit, sir,” she’d told him. “Nigh a full pound’s value, all I brought aboard last port. And the port before that, as well. I’ve no objection to sharing, sir, but …”

  Williard had closed his eyes and hung his head. He’d seemed tired and resigned.

  “Do you know who’s done it?” He’d held up a hand to stop her speaking. “Know, mind you, not suspect. And can prove it, as well.”

  “No, sir.”

  “If I pursue the matter, Mister Carew, it will become known to Captain Neals.”

  And that had been the end of the matter for Alexis, for she’d learned already that there was nothing she desired aboard this ship so strongly as to be unnoticed by Hermione’s captain.

  “Then you should refrain from making idle accusations, I think,” Bushby said with a wide grin. “Theft is quite a serious matter aboard ship, you know.”

  Alexis couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing as the day’s fatigue and the absurdity of Bushby’s words washed over her. Oh, yes, a serious matter. Among the crew it was quite serious, she knew, and might result in the offender mysteriously disappearing one watch Outside. If the matter were brought before the captain on any ship, it would likely result in the offender facing a gauntlet of his mates, forced to walk slowly between two rows of them, as they kicked and pummeled him for his offense.

  Among the officers, it was unheard of. Even the most destitute of midshipmen would have more honor than to steal from his messmates, and the consequences for one who did would be dire. In the unlikely event that he weren’t disrated or dismissed from the service, no fellow officer would ever trust him again.

  Unless you’re so confident the captain himself wouldn’t believe it, nor care if it could be proven to him.

  “You laugh, Carew?”

  “I do, Mister Bushby, I do, indeed.” She looked up and met his eyes, knowing it was a mistake to engage him, but not caring. After a day and night atop the mast, she wanted the satisfaction of lashing out at someone herself.

  “You should not make light about so serious a charge, Carew,” Canion said.

  “Oh, I do not make light of it, Mister Canion. Not light at all. It would be a serious charge indeed to make and I would not do so frivolously. To make such a charge would be to sa
y that the man had no honor at all.” She met each of their eyes in turn. “That he was a weak, useless excuse for an officer, indeed, and unfit for the company of respectable men. That he was a disgrace and embarrassment to the Queen’s Service and should be ashamed to walk the deck of a Queen’s Ship. No, sirs, I would not make light of such a charge. Were I to make it.” She raised her glass, suppressing a grimace at the taste. “Which I do not, of course.” She smiled and rose. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  * * * * *

  Alexis Arleen Carew, you are a fool. Sure as certain, they’ll find a way to make you pay for that.

  But it was worth it. To watch their eyes as she spoke, seeing that they knew she was speaking to them, about them — but they couldn’t object, couldn’t call her out for what she said — not without admitting that she was speaking about them, what they’d done, and that every word she’d said was nothing but the truth.

  She lay back on her bunk and pulled out her tablet. The news that there’d been mail and the Gazette was welcome, but her anticipation quickly waned when she saw that no mail for her had arrived. Nothing from any of her former shipmates, nor even from her grandfather, back at home on Dalthus. I’d have thought at least Philip would write to me — and certainly grandfather’s written something in all this time. It’s been months, I do wonder if the Navy’s forgotten where I am.

  It wasn’t at all unusual for mail to take weeks or even months to travel the vast distances between stars. Longer if the message’s destination was a ship that was constantly in motion itself. But it had been so long and Alexis was certain that something should have arrived at Penduli and been waiting for Hermione’s last port-call.

  With no mail, she turned instead to the Naval Gazette. A quick search turned up news of her old ship and shipmates, the first of which made her exclaim with delight. There on the Captain’s List, only fourth from the bottom, but still on it, was the entry: Captain William S. Grantham, made Post the seventeenth of October, into H.M.S. Camilla (20).

  Only twenty guns and a sixth-rate, but still a frigate and he’s made Post!

  Formerly holding the rank of commander, though called “captain” by virtue of commanding Merlin — a bit of naval semantics that still made her head hurt a little bit — Grantham was now a full Post Captain, his name on the Captains List that dictated seniority and promotion. He’d now move steadily up it as those above him were promoted or died.

  She moved on to the next result from her searches and found another name she recognized on the list of those promoted to lieutenant. Good for you, Roland, it’s about time.

  Certain that there must have been an action to result in the two promotions, she searched for the ship’s name and found it. Merlin and another sloop, H.M.S. Vulture, had worked in concert to take a Hanoverese frigate. She read the account of the action eagerly for any news of her former shipmates, but for one name in particular.

  Upon making fast to the enemy ship’s port side, Midshipmen Stanford Roland and Philip Easely led the boarding parties. While Midshipman Roland’s party forced the quarterdeck and with few injuries or deaths demanded the colors be struck, Midshipman Easely and his party so occupied the enemy that they were unable to fight their guns to either side, allowing the men of Vulture to board from starboard.

  Alexis scanned the rest of the article and hurried on to the list of those injured or killed in the action, though the Gazette named only officers and gave but a count for the regular crew. Three dead and eleven injured of the crew — and how I wish they’d care enough to give the names. Now I’ll be forever worrying about the lads until there’s some news. But Philip and Roland are both all right, and must be so proud to be mentioned in dispatches.

  She satisfied herself that the Gazette contained no more about her friends and sighed. She opened the latest letter she’d started writing to her grandfather and read.

  Grandfather,

  I know I should see things through and persevere, but I cannot. Life aboard Hermione is too hard. It is a living hell that you could not comprehend and I cannot bring myself to describe to you.

  I’ve decided that I must leave — for my sanity and safety, for I fear what will happen if I remain.

  When next we make port, I will resign my position and take passage upon some merchant vessel back to Dalthus.

  The prize money I was awarded aboard Merlin will certainly cover the cost of my passage home and allow me, even should I never hold our lands, some modest life. It will surely be enough and must be better than this.

  There was a soft knock at the hatchway. Alexis set the tablet aside and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bunk.

  “Yes?”

  The hatch slid open and Boxer, the gunroom steward, entered. He glanced once at Alexis, then down at the deck.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” He held out a cloth-covered plate to her. “But I’ve brought you some’at.” Alexis hopped down from the bunk. “It’s not much, sir, but …”

  “Boxer,” she whispered, reaching out to raise the cloth. Underneath was a bit of chicken and a ship’s biscuit covered in gravy.

  “It’s my bit, Mister Carew,” he said quickly. “No more’n would be my due, you understand.”

  Alexis stared at him. There was an unwritten rule that the men who did extra work as servants for the gunroom, wardroom, and captain would pilfer a small amount of each meal, as a bit more compensation than the few extra coins they earned for the service.

  “Not right what they doin’ to you, sir.”

  She laid a hand on his forearm. “Nothing aboard this ship is right.” She gently pushed the plate toward him. “But you can’t do this, Boxer.”

  “My bit, sir,” he insisted, his face set and stubborn. “Can do what I like with it, I ‘spect.”

  “No. I’m grateful, Boxer, I truly, truly am, but if they find out …”

  “Checked, sir. They’s all left the gunroom and —”

  “They’ll find out, Boxer. If I accept this once, you’ll do it again, and one time they’ll find out and they’ll see it goes hard on you. I won’t have you lose your place over me … or worse.” She nodded toward the hatchway. “Off with you now. Enjoy your bit yourself … and thank you.”

  Alexis waited until he’d left, then slid the hatch closed and climbed to her bunk again. She took up her tablet and reread the words she’d written, then erased them as she’d written and erased similar words so many times over, and started again.

  Grandfather,

  I wish you to know I am well and hope you and all those I love at home are as well.

  I have not received any messages from you since boarding Hermione, but we have been traveling and patrolling so widely that I suspect they have simply not caught up to us yet. My own to you, I am certain, have a much surer route to travel, as Dalthus does not move about nearly so much as a warship.

  Hermione is not so happy a ship as Merlin, and Captain Neals is certainly not so kind as Captain Grantham was, but I am determined to persevere. As with my time on Merlin, my time aboard Hermione will pass, as well. I am given to understand that she is due to pay off in some six months or a year, at which time her officers and crew will be disbursed to other ships while she is refitted. This is no more than twice or thrice the time I have already been aboard, so it can be no greater hardship to wait out my time on this ship.

  The men have a saying they use when facing even the most trying of times:

  ‘You shouldn’t have joined if you can’t take a joke,’ they say.

  I often feel that, for all their roughness and the violence of their trade, the crews of these ships must certainly be the most tolerant … and kindest … of men. I truly hope that I will one day be worthy of leading their like.

  Despite the war, please do not concern yourself as to my safety. Hermione has seen little in the way of action, and that still only with lightly-armed merchantmen, all much smaller. Captain Neals is quite clever in that regard.

  All my love,
<
br />   Alexis

  She sent the message off and lay back to try and sleep. She should, she sometimes thought, be grateful to Captain Neals for the time he gave her on the mast. At least when she’d slept earlier, there had been no dreams. Ever since she’d come aboard Hermione, she’d been haunted by dreams of the pirate leader Horsfall. Merlin had taken his ship and Alexis had been sent aboard to head the prize crew, but a storm had come up and the pirates had retaken it.

  Alexis and the remainder of the prize crew had managed to surprise the pirates and take the ship back, but not without great cost, as all but Alexis and a single spacer had been killed or severely injured in the fighting. Horsfall had demanded she negotiate with him, as there was only himself and one other pirate who could pilot the ship. But Alexis, furious at the deaths of her men and knowing Horsfall would never negotiate in good faith, had shot him.

  Defenseless and in cold blood, she admitted to herself. She would, she thought, always remember the feel of the trigger and the way his head had jerked backward. The fine mist of blood that had covered the bulkhead and the other pirates behind him. Oddly, she could not remember the sound of the shot — in her memory, the entire thing played out in absolute silence.

  At the time and immediately after, she’d had no regrets, and no one had even suggested that she’d not done the right thing. She’d gotten the rest of her crew home. But the cost came later, and she’d come to question whether she wouldn’t have been able to do it some other way.

  Please not tonight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Sail, sir.”

  “Where away, Youngs?” Alexis turned from her place at the navigation plot, a large, round table at the center of the quarterdeck, and stepped over to the tactical console. The spacer there pointed to a bright spot on his monitor. The spot, blurry and indistinct after being brought inboard through a series of optics, the path protected by a series of fine gallenium mesh to protect the interior of the ship from darkspace, was small and clearly far away.