Mutineer

by Sutherland, J. A.

  “Fine on the port quarter, sir, down fifteen,” he said.

  Alexis nodded and patted his shoulder. “Good work, Youngs.”

  She returned to the navigation plot and sighed. It was two bells into her watch, the Middle Watch again, and she’d just been starting to relax. She knew that Captain Neals considered it a punishment, but she rather enjoyed the quiet hours late in the ship’s night, followed by the bustle of the crew waking, cleaning the ship for the day, then going to their breakfast at the start of the Morning Watch. Neals himself rarely left his cabin before well into the Forenoon Watch, and Alexis was quite willing to give up a few hours’ sleep for the pleasure of some hours without the other officers about. She could almost, for a time, pretend it was the quarterdeck of some other ship entirely.

  But not with a sail sighted.

  “Wake Captain Neals,” she said, not taking her eyes from the plot, “the lieutenants, and the sailing master.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Alexis brought the image of the other ship up on the navigation plot and expanded it, studying the fuzzy blob of light in the distance. Behind us and below. She switched back to the plot that showed their course. Hermione was close-hauled, running as close to the wind as she could, with her keelboard fully extended. The other ship seemed to be on a similar course.

  Could be three masts, she thought, studying the image of the other ship. A large merchantman or another frigate. She’d spent a good deal of time studying images of other ships at varying distances and angles, working to improve her ability to identify them and to pick out their signals. She narrowed her eyes at the plot, thinking of the size of the other ship’s sails and its course, so close to the wind. Another frigate, I think.

  With Hermione to windward of the other ship, she had the option of continuing on as she was or dropping back to close. The strange sail, on the other hand, would find it near impossible to close with her upwind — even another frigate would be unable to sail closer to the wind or faster. She heard the quarterdeck hatch slide open and footsteps as Neals entered, followed closely by Lieutenant Dorsett — the others would not be far behind. She half-smiled at the image of the other ship before closing it and leaving the navigation plot for the captain. And so we’ll never know for sure what you are, will we? For we’re about to run.

  “Sail, sir,” she said, turning to face Neals. “Youngs spotted it — fine on the port quarter and down fifteen.”

  Neals grunted acknowledgment and crossed to the tactical console without looking at her. A moment later the two other lieutenants, Williard and Roope, along with the sailing master entered the quarterdeck.

  “Thank you for finally joining us, gentlemen,” Neals said. He stepped to the navigation plot.

  The others joined him there and Alexis stepped back, hoping to go unnoticed.

  “Mister Carew,” Neals said, giving her a narrow look. “You’ve had the most time to study this Sail, what do you make of it?”

  Alexis felt her stomach sink. She looked from the plot to the captain. What I think or what he wants to hear? She bit her lip — there’d been so many compromises to make aboard Hermione that she constantly questioned what was right.

  She squared her shoulders. “A frigate, sir.”

  Neals looked back at the image. “Lieutenant Dorsett?”

  Dorsett leaned over the plot, staring intently. “I am … unsure, sir.”

  Neals straightened. “Yes, it is a difficult identification — and one should not speak until one is sure. A lesson Mister Carew would do well to take to heart.” He tapped the image. “This is a merchant vessel.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dorsett said. “I see it now.”

  “Do you other gentlemen concur?”

  Alexis shared a glance with Youngs, the spacer at the tactical console, then he looked down, face blank and impassive.

  The two other lieutenants and the sailing master all nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you see it now, Mister Carew?”

  “I … defer to your experience, captain. Thank you for correcting me.”

  “Man the signals console, Mister Carew. I will remain on the quarterdeck and we shall maintain our course. This merchantman is too far behind to pursue — she would take us on a long stern chase into Hanoverese territory and to little benefit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dorsett said.

  Alexis took the place of the spacer at the signals console. The other ship was too far away for signals, but she brought up its image anyway.

  “Pass the word for the bosun, Lieutenant Dorsett, let us have the royals bent on,” Neals said.

  “Aye, sir.”

  * * * * *

  Alexis watched the sequence of images again, wanting to be absolutely certain of what she’d seen. There’d been no call from the spacer on the tactical console. She looked over at him and saw that his shoulders were hunched and tense. Captain Neals was engaged in conversation with Lieutenant Dorsett, neither of them watching the navigation plot or its inset image of the other ship.

  She ran the sequence again, looking carefully. It was there, a thin, brief line of light flashing away from the other ship on the far side, the leeward side. It could be nothing but the firing of a single gun — the distinctive, bolt of a laser, behaving so different in darkspace than it should. She turned toward the plot and started to speak, but Lieutenant Williard caught her eye and gave his head the smallest of shakes. Not entirely sure she’d understood his meaning, she opened her mouth, and he, quite clearly, mouthed the words “do not”.

  Confused, she turned back to her console. Could she truly be the only one on the quarterdeck who’d seen the ship fire a gun, and a single gun to leeward, at that? It was a sure sign that the ship was both a warship, not a merchant, and of the enemy. It was a challenge to come out and engage that even she recognized.

  “This merchant’s lookouts must be blind to have not seen us and turned away,” Neals said loudly.

  “Yes, sir,” Dorsett agreed.

  Alexis turned and stared at the officers in shock and sudden realization. She’d noticed early in her time aboard Hermione that Captain Neals preferred to engage the Hanoverese merchant shipping, rather than their warships. In fact, Hermione had not fired her guns in anger, save a warning shot or two across a ship’s bow, in all the time she’d been aboard.

  Thinking back, though, she realized that even those merchant vessels had all been much smaller than Hermione. Sloops, pinnaces, cutters – never a ship of similar size, and no warships whatsoever. There was always a reason, of course, supplies low, poor conditions for a chase, and more.

  Alexis had thought Neals simply greedy and lazy, preferring the easy prize money of a merchant and her cargo to the effort of engaging another ship of war. Now, though, with another warship not only pursuing them, but throwing a challenge in his face, he maintained some fiction that he hadn’t seen.

  He’s a coward.

  * * * * *

  The other ship had been losing ground for some time and was barely visible. Whether Hermione was more lightly-laden or had more sail area or for some other reason, Alexis didn’t know, but it was clear now that Hermione would soon be out of sight of the other ship.

  Alexis watched as the image of the other ship changed as it turned aside and then away, taking the wind on her stern and sailing almost directly away from Hermione’s course. There was a larger flash and lines of light streamed away from the other ship’s sides, shot after shot in quick succession.

  Both broadsides – emptied her guns.

  It was a clear gesture of contempt, a message that Hermione wasn’t worth even the precaution of keeping the guns loaded and ready.

  Surely he can’t ignore that?

  “Put us on the port tack, Lieutenant Dorssett, and make for Penduli Station, I should like to resupply.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And I’ll have the royals brought down at five bells.” Neals paused and Alexis could sense the tension on the quarterdeck as the crew a
nticipated his next words. “I am displeased with the men’s speed in raising them – see that they’re brought in more quickly and twelve lashes for the last man down from the yards.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The streams of people parted and passed Alexis on both sides. The corridors of Penduli Station were filled, with seven Navy ships in-system and enumerable merchantmen delivering stores to the station. Stores that would be taken on by the warships and, thence, back to the border systems and the war.

  She noted that the marine sentry posted outside the hatch to the Port Admiral’s offices was staring at her. She couldn’t blame him, she supposed, with that she’d been standing in the corridor for some time. Her realization of Neals’ cowardice and the subsequent flogging of Brownlee, a skilled topman, but the last man down from the yards after Neals’ order, had resolved her to do something, and speaking to the Port Admiral was the only thing she could think of to do.

  I can barely count the number of men he’s flogged just since I’ve come aboard. Surely they’ll not want a man of his cruelty and cowardice in command of a Queen’s Ship?

  She straightened and stepped forward, just as a hand grasped her elbow and spun her to face down the corridor.

  “Ah, there you are, Mister Carew,” Lieutenant Williard said, keeping a tight grip on her arm and fairly dragging her away. He leaned close and whispered, “Not a word and come with me, Carew.”

  Without another word, he was off, dragging her alongside. She was too shocked by his sudden appearance and actions to protest, and could do nothing in any case. Though she was certain she could break his grip on her arm, he was still her superior officer, both in rank and in Hermione’s chain of command.

  Williard led her through the crowd and up several levels until he finally guided her into a small pub. Or, at least, she thought it was a pub until they entered and found a liveried servant waiting to greet them behind a podium of dark wood. The man raised an eyebrow at Alexis, then looked enquiringly at Williard.

  Williard tapped his tablet to the podium and the man glanced down.

  “Ah, Lord Atworth, a table for you and your guest?”

  “Perhaps,” Williard said. “But first someplace for a private conversation. The library?”

  “Of course, sir.” He stepped away from the podium and motioned them to follow him. “This way.”

  They followed him, Williard still not releasing his grip on her arm and she staring around in wonder. The narrow corridor they were walking through was lined in paneling with the distinctive purple swirl of varrenwood from her own home on Dalthus, and it appeared to be real. The cost of so much varrenwood, even were it a veneer, would be quite high.

  They left the corridor and entered a large room, large for the limited space of a station, in any case, with low lighting and groups of heavy, leather-covered chairs. The walls were lined with glass-fronted shelves and behind the glass were books. They look real – must be a fortune in antiques there.

  The man leading them stopped at a pair of chairs in the room’s corner and raised an eyebrow to Williard. “Refreshment, sir?”

  “No, thank you … yes, in fact, now I think on it.” Williard glanced at Alexis. “Scotch, two. Something decent.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  When he’d left, Williard shoved Alexis toward one of the chairs and sat himself in the other. The library was empty, save for them. Alexis looked around, fascinated.

  “Are you a fool, Carew?”

  She returned her gaze to Williard and found him staring at her.

  “I do not believe so, sir, no.”

  “Standing around the Port Admiral’s office as though you had some business there? You don’t find this quite a foolish thing?”

  “I …”

  “No, don’t tell me what you intended. I can quite imagine, but I don’t want to hear it. Were I to hear it, I might have to act.”

  Seems you’ve acted already, dragging me in here.

  “What is this place?”

  “Dorchester’s, it’s a gentleman’s club. No,” he said as her eyes widened, “not the sort the midshipmen speak of. It’s a club for actual gentlemen.”

  “And you are a gentleman?” Alexis asked, rubbing her arm where he’d gripped it.

  Williard had the good grace to look uncomfortable at that. “Lord Atworth, Baron, at present, through an accident of birth and the untimely death of my brother — Earl of Iota Talis, should I outlast my father.” He paused as a servant arrived with two glasses. “Thank you.” When they were alone again, Williard raised his glass and took a sip. “I will suggest to you a … hypothetical situation, Mister Carew. An entire phantasm of events, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, then. Suppose an officer, a very junior officer — a sniveling snotty of a midshipman, perhaps — aboard a ship were to approach a far more senior member of Her Majesty’s Navy, a Port Admiral, for the sake of argument, about some … things which concerned him aboard ship. What do you suppose might happen, Mister Carew?”

  “I …”

  “She’d be bounced out on her arse and her impertinence reported to her captain, you naive, bloody fool!”

  Alexis stared at him in shock. “Sir, I …”

  “Do you not know how the Navy works, Carew? Well, I shall tell you. A captain is the representative of Her Majesty’s Government in space. Do you understand what that means? It means his actions are those of Her Majesty. There is a reason a ship’s captain is referred to as the ‘sole master after God’ — and God, Carew, seldom bothers Himself with frigates.”

  “But …”

  “Drink your drink, Carew, and listen closely, without interrupting me.”

  Well, and I wouldn’t, if you’d stop asking questions. She raised her glass and took a small sip for courtesy’s sake, then widened her eyes and took another. She’d never really enjoyed liquors, but this was quite good. It set her tongue tingling and drew a line of warmth down to her belly.

  “The Navy will only acknowledge a captain’s misdeeds in the most grievous and public circumstances … or if they have need of a scapegoat, of course,” Williard went on. “And anything that can be covered up, will be. To do otherwise would destroy the discipline required to man our ships months from home. And they do not take a kind view of those who try to force their hand. So, to return to our little hypothetical, the junior officer who reports a senior is likely to find herself in a much worse position than she was before.”

  “But he’s a coward, sir,” she said in a rush, “surely they must care about that.”

  Williard took a deep breath. “Prove it.”

  “The ship’s logs …”

  “Yes, the logs. Again, our hypothetical captain and aboard our purely speculative ship, of course. What would the logs show, if such a man were careful? A series of entirely justified decisions, perhaps? Ships misidentified, but the identification concurred to by his senior officers? Pursuits not quite on the best point of sail, so that a Chase gets away? And, yet still, a not embarrassing string of Prizes – small, I grant you, but still ships taken from the enemy.”

  Alexis stared at him. That would, indeed, be what Hermione’s logs would show, now that he pointed it out to her. She raised her glass again, surprised to find it empty, but before she’d even set it back on the table the servant had appeared again with fresh glasses for her and Williard, whisking the empties away and withdrawing. Alexis raised this new glass and drank. The warmth filled her and loosened some of the tension.

  “The men, then, sir?” she asked. “There’s not a Captain’s Mast goes by that some man isn’t flogged. The flimsiest of reasons and the number of lashes.” She closed her eyes. “Sir, the regulations allow for no more than two dozen to be ordered by a captain, and yet Captain —”

  “Carew …” Williard said warningly.

  Alexis bit her lip. “And yet … I have heard of some captains ordering as many as four dozen. And that men have died of it aboard … som
e ships.”

  Williard nodded. “Admiralty cares that a captain is successful, Carew, not a bit about his methods. Punishments go into the log, but when that log is reviewed at the end of a cruise … assuming it actually is, of course … well, one does not argue methods with God when He’s successful, does one?”

  “The Devil, rather.”

  Williard shrugged. “Aboard some ships, they’re one and the same.”

  Alexis drained her glass, grateful for the sting and burn of the drink.

  Williard smiled. “I should warn you, Mister Carew, that’s an expensive taste to cultivate.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Alexis said, setting the glass down.

  “I wasn’t complaining about the reckoning. Only that I’d not start a fellow officer down the dark path of fine Scotch whiskey without fair warning.”

  Alexis picked up the glass again and smiled as she took a sip. “I’ll consider myself warned, sir.” She studied the glass for a moment, the dim light sparkling amber through the liquid and the crystal of the glass. “So there’s nothing to be done, then?”

  “Come,” Williard said, standing. As soon as he stood, the servant appeared. “We’ll go in to dinner now, if you please.”

  “Of course, sir. Follow me?”

  They followed the servant down another hallway and into a large dining room, again appointed in rich woods and leathers, the tables set far apart for privacy. Only a few of the tables were occupied, and those by older men, most in uniform and most of those had sleeves bearing the four narrow gold bands of a Post Captain. She was, Alexis noted, not merely the only woman in the room, but by far the most junior officer. A second servant appeared and held a chair for her at a table in a secluded corner.

  “Should I really be here, Lieutenant Williard?” Alexis asked, sitting.

  “I feel there may be unplumbed depths to that question.”