by Amelia Smith
“Do tell me more about the ship, Captain Hotham,” Hyacinth prompted as they began the first course.
“I’d be much obliged,” he said. “She’s a fine frigate, and the navy has kept me out of the main line of fire this past year, for Mrs. Hotham's sake. Before my marriage, I was a mate on the Bellerophon.” He gestured out the window to the Victory and the Bellerophon lumbering beside them through the Strait of Gibraltar.
“I am also grateful that you didn’t see the heat of that battle,” his wife said.
Captain Hotham chuckled. “Not with you aboard, dear, but the time will come when I'll sail on a ship of the line again.” He turned to Mr. Smithson. “This is my first command,” he explained, “and I’m delighted to have such a fine ship. Last spring we made the journey from Portsmouth in only three weeks, despite being becalmed for five days straight off the coast of France.”
“That is quite good time,” Hyacinth said. “Even with fair winds, few ships would make that journey so quickly against the trades.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting many ladies in my recent travels,” Mr. Smithson said. “Is it usual now, in England, for young ladies to be knowledgeable about such matters?”
Hyacinth straightened in her seat. “I would hardly know,” she said. “I am not entirely familiar with customs at home, having lived my life here in the Mediterranean.”
At the foot of the table Mrs. Hotham giggled. “Mr. Smithson! You must apologize to Miss Grey. That had every hint of a set-down.”
“There’s no need,” Hyacinth said hurriedly. She had gotten things off on the wrong foot, but at least Mrs. Hotham would see that there was no budding affection between them. “I understand that you, Mr. Smithson, have been in the colonies and cannot be expected to move faultlessly into polite society.”
That was too much. The men around the table exchanged uncomfortable glances and Mrs. Hotham covered her mouth with a delicate hand, her eyes going wide. Hyacinth wished the floor would swallow her up.
“It’s I that have gone too far now,” Hyacinth said. “Please, Mr. Smithson. Do accept my fervent apologies.”
He looked at her, his eyes an intense blue, so pale that they almost made her shiver. Then a smile spread across his face for the second time that day and he laughed.
“Not at all,” he said. “It is quite true that I have been in India for many years, but although I was a callow youth when I was last in England I was familiar enough with society then. I have not entirely forgotten how to speak to a lady, though it might seem so at the moment. I don't mind being reminded.”
Hyacinth blushed. The closest she'd come to society had been that summer with Aunt Celia, when she was too young to learn the finer points of social ritual, and too steeped in mourning to care. If they continued this banter of unveiled set-downs she would certainly lose.
The navigator, Mr. James, came to her rescue. “Do tell us, Mr. Smithson, what you know about the ships of the east,” he said. Hyacinth’s father had spoken well of Mr. James. She was relieved that he had stepped in to save her, even if his oiled hair smelled of too much pomade and he leered a bit.
“I would be glad to, though it is not a subject I’ve studied in great detail,” Mr. Smithson said. He leaned back and cast his eyes around the table. The officers were listening politely.
“Perhaps instead, I might tell you about their interpretation of the stars,” he suggested.
“Oh!” Mrs. Hotham said. “That would be delightful!”
“Astrology?” Mr. James’s eyebrows shot up. He was in his middle thirties, but had a serious demeanor which made him seem older. “That’s hardly a topic for rational conversation.”
“Well,” Mr. Smithson said, “the natives of India consider astrology a serious matter, and hold its practitioners in high regard. I cannot even begin to broach that subject. It is far too arcane for me. However, I did learn how they class the stars and group them into constellations, which are quite different from the ones we know here. Would that subject be more palatable?”
Mrs. Hotham sighed. “I would have liked to learn you could tell fortunes, Mr. Smithson, but I will be content with constellations.”
“And you, Miss Grey?”
Hyacinth blushed. The talk of stars had made her think of her father’s lessons in navigation. “I have always been interested in navigation,” she said. “I am sure there is much to learn from these other constellations.”
“Interested in navigation?” Mr. James said. “How very unusual for a young lady.” He leaned towards her with an insipid smile.
Hyacinth smiled back, lips tight.
“Well then,” Mr. Smithson said, leaning in front of the navigator. “If the ladies are content, I will tell how the Hindus named the star we call Aquila after one of their gods, Garuda.”
#
Hyacinth returned to her cabin that night dazzled by tales of the East, of gods she had never heard of whose stories rivaled the legends of the Greeks. She tried to think of those tales, not the man who told them, as she lay in her bunk rocked by the gentle haw of the ship, sailing north, on to the country she was supposed to call home.
#
Thomas couldn’t settle to sleep, that first night aboard the Whistler. Every time he was about to drift off to sleep, a whistle of wind in the rigging sounded like a woman’s sigh and his whole body tensed as if she were still out there somewhere.
He had chosen to tell the story of Garuda largely because it was a rollicking adventure with hardly even a hint of sex about it, unlike so many Hindu epics. It would not offend the ladies – if that stern Miss Grey could be offended at all after living her life in navy outposts – and more importantly, it would not make him think too much of what he’d left behind.
But even Garuda’s exploits were too close to the tropical hills of his adopted home. He’d been sixteen when he’d gone out to India, older than some young men who signed on to the Company, and had felt like a grown man beside them. Looking back, he’d been little more than a boy. He had planned to stay forever in the East. He should have known that his childhood world would summon him back someday.
England would be new to him, governed by the once-familiar rules Miss Grey had alluded to. He wondered if society’s matrons would still wag their tongues at him as they had over his youthful escapades. Still, he thought, even without his parents' title and estate, the fortune he’d amassed in the east would smooth over his inevitable missteps. Although his mother was Baroness of Lawton in her own right, his father was brother to the Duke of Windcastle, and it was his father who had always ruled Lawton, for as long as he could remember. The letter had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to take his father's place, both at Lawton and as his uncle's heir.
The Lawton estate would tie him to England, and it seemed that he was to be heir to the duchy of Windcastle, too. The thought of stepping into his uncle's shoes sickened him. It didn't bear thinking about. He turned over again in his bunk and watched the moonlight until, after what felt like many hours, he drifted off to sleep.
#
Every night at dinner, Mr. Smithson told tales of India: of things that he’d seen himself, and of legends. Hyacinth noted that his tales never touched on his own life, and she began to watch for hints of what had led him to these places. She found almost nothing. Even when he had been present at an event, he downplayed his own role, making it impossible to discern much, except that the man could spin a yarn and was an astute observer.
It was easy enough to stay away from him at other times. Hyacinth established a routine which kept her occupied for most of the day. She could command George’s attention at his books for a few hours after breakfast, then he would scramble off to help raise the sails and hear old sailors' tales. In the afternoon, she and Mrs. Hotham embroidered or read to each other.
The seas stayed calm, with scarcely a breath of wind to speed them north. A week into their journey, they were still creeping up the coast of Portugal when they ought to
have been approaching Brittany. Mrs. Hotham had recounted every scrap of society gossip she could remember, and Hyacinth scoured her memory for any tales of interest from Gibraltar. She finished embroidering a border that she’d been working on since spring, and resorted to empty chatter about the weather. There was little occasion to dawdle on deck where she might cross paths with Mr. Smithson, but she began to wish for something to relieve the monotony.
Then, one afternoon off the coast of northwest Spain, the seas grew rough.
#
Chapter 3: The Storm
Thunderheads blew in from the south, whipping up the waves and dimming the midday sun.
George threw down his books. “A storm!” he exclaimed. “Finally, some adventure.”
Hyacinth tucked the books into their cubby. They'd finished the day’s lesson. George hoped to join the sailors for the afternoon, doing whatever bits of work they could find for him, but Hyacinth worried that he would be in the way or worse, with a real threat on the horizon. She reminded herself that George had weathered another storm at sea recently, so perhaps it would be all right.
Crackling energy hung in the air, lightning waiting in the thunderheads. Hyacinth’s pulse quickened in anticipation. She could hardly blame George for his excitement. On deck, the sailors scurried, checking latches, tightening knots.
“Can I help reef the sails, Hy?” George asked.
“The storm could be dangerous,” Hyacinth said. “You must stay out of the sailors’ way. We could all be smashed on the rocks.”
As George sulked off, Hyacinth observed that they were closer to the rocky shore than usual. The Whistler sailed at the rear of the flotilla. Up ahead, the ships of the line turned their courses away from the coast.
Hyacinth wondered how Mrs. Hotham was faring in the rough weather, and went to look in on her. She found her in her bunk, holding a basin.
“How are you?” Hyacinth asked. The ship’s motion had already changed. It heaved erratically, no longer moving with the steady sway they’d grown accustomed to.
“I am holding on,” Mrs. Hotham said. “The sickness isn’t so bad yet. You ought to go on deck and take the air while you can.”
“But I’d be happy to sit here with you, Mrs. Hotham,” Hyacinth offered.
“It’s quite all right. If you’re concerned, though, perhaps you could send your maid in to me,” she suggested.
Hyacinth considered that. “Maria might welcome the change from keeping George company.”
Mrs. Hotham smiled. “I suspected as much. She can mind the invalid while you make sure your young charge doesn’t do anything foolish,” she said.
“It will be refreshing if I don't get blown overboard,” Hyacinth said. Although prudence might have kept her inside, she was glad of the excuse to be out in the air, instead of inside the stuffy, storm-tossed cabin.
Hyacinth wrapped on her woolen cloak. The weather had been unseasonably warm since they’d left Gibraltar, and the storm had blown up from the tropics, bringing more warm air with it. She didn't want the cloak's warmth, but it would keep her dry through anything but a true downpour.
Out on deck, the breeze had stiffened into a brisk wind and the storm clouds were closing the gap between themselves and the Whistler. Hyacinth knocked on the door of George and Maria’s cabin.
“Maria?”
“Yes?” Maria said. “That George…”
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll watch out for him. Mrs. Hotham asked if you would sit with her through the storm. I think she misses having a maid of her own, and she’s not in the mood to talk.”
Maria nodded. “I will go there. You will find George?” She was making an effort to speak English more often, but she still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the language.
“Yes, and I’ll lock him in the cabin if he doesn’t behave!”
She startled at the sound of a laugh just behind her. It was Mr. Smithson. He hadn't really crept up on her; it was only that his cabin was next to George and Maria's cabin, and the door must have been open when she arrived. “Do you always keep the boy so close?” he asked.
“I didn't until recently,” Hyacinth bristled. “He stowed away into that battle, though. It became clear to me that he had no sense at all. I think it best that he be kept out of harm’s way.”
“I believe I might have done the same if I were a boy,” Mr. Smithson said, as if it were all quite amusing.
“I had the impression you were more fond of self-preservation than that,” Hyacinth said, wondering where the thought had come from.
“You are mistaken, Miss Grey. But then, boys never linger long over the choice between safety and adventure.”
“I have to go find my…” Hyacinth started, “to go find George. Excuse me, Sir.”
Mr. Smithson stepped aside, bowing in a way that Hyacinth felt sure was meant to be satirical.
#
Thomas watched Miss Grey storm off as the thunderheads closed in around them. Her skirts swayed briskly and she held her dark blue cloak tight around her shoulders, arms locked over her chest. She was quite pretty. It was a shame she wore such dour colors. Seated across from her at the dinner table, he’d stolen many glances when she wasn’t busy glaring at him. Her eyes would look much more lively set off by one of the colorful scarves or saris that the women of India draped…
He stopped himself. There was no point comparing her to them. She was, as he’d observed from the first, far too slender to match their ideals of feminine beauty. He wondered what Sarita would be doing now, if she had lived. She might be braiding her hair, or walking in the garden, or eating ripe mangoes, sliced on a silver platter.
“Sir!” Captain Hotham said, snapping Thomas out of his reverie. “If you would go to your cabin! The storm will be on us in minutes.”
“My cabin?” Thomas said. He looked at the approaching storm. “Might I not be of use?”
“I don’t see what you can do, Mr. Smithson,” the captain said. “My men have the ship well in hand.” He nodded to Thomas then started to walk away towards the bridge. He turned back suddenly. “I presume that the other passengers are safely inside?”
Thomas’s answer came clear on his face.
“Where the deuce are they, then?”
“I don’t know, Captain.”
“Well find out then! And lock them in when you catch them!” He strode away, no doubt cursing the young boy, and perhaps the lady, too.
#
The ship bucked under Hyacinth’s feet. She clutched a nearby rail for balance. The wind made the lines snap against the masts. A sailor clutched at his cap as he ran to secure a loose rope.
“Get below!” he yelled as he passed her.
Hyacinth shook her head. “George!” she called.
She crept the length of the upper deck, moving towards the bow. The waves grew, crashing into the sides of the ship. A spray of foam flew over the rail. She was drenched. Hyacinth moved hand-to-hand along the deck, never letting more than one limb move at a time.
“Get below!”
She didn’t even turn to see who shouted. A sail was coming down on the upper cross-trees of the foremast. The sailors scampered, lashing sails to their booms and holding on for their lives. Hyacinth looked aloft between them. George was nowhere to be seen. Gritting her teeth, she descended to the gun deck.
She could scarcely see for all the swinging hammocks and crowding of men and guns. She worked her way aft, back towards their cabins, hoping that George had seen sense for once and gone inside. Then she saw him.
#
“George!” Miss Grey screeched.
Well, he’d found one of them, Thomas thought. He hurried down the deck. A wave broke over the rail, sending a river across the boards. Thomas grabbed onto a bit of line that wavered from the beams above, praying it would hold. Then he saw the boy.
George balanced at the rail, stripped to the waist and barefoot.
“What are you doing?” Miss Grey shouted.
“Going back to Spain!” the boy replied. With that, he crouched and jumped out through the gun port, into a crashing sea.
The gunners’ jaws dropped. None of them had ever seen anything so foolish in their lives.
Thomas pushed and sprinted to the end of the deck. He grabbed Miss Grey roughly by the arm. “Can the lad swim?” he asked.
“Yes, very well,” she answered, “but in this…”
Thomas didn’t wait to hear more. He stripped off his own shirt and shoes and leaped overboard, strong strokes bearing him towards the disappearing boy, whose thin brown shoulders were dwarfed by the white-capped waves.
Thomas kicked forward and looked ahead from the crest of the next wave. He wondered if this were some kind of suicide, but he saw that the boy could swim, probably better than any of the sailors back on the ship. The coast lay at most a half-mile away. It would be an easy enough swim – in calmer seas. With the storm coming down, it was another matter. Whatever had prompted the boy to dive off the ship? Could the fate that awaited him in England seem that bad?
His own fate there was none too inviting, Thomas thought. Then a wave crashed over his head, driving him under, driving the air from his lungs and all thought out of his head. Only the search for the surface could command his attention now.
He came up, gasped for air, and dove again. He had no idea where the boy was. He’d been a fool to leap in. A wave carried him up to a point where he could see around. He glimpsed the last of the sails being reefed in another notch, and the captain storming the deck. Over his other shoulder, the small dark speck of the boy’s head disappeared behind another wave.
Then he was in the valley of the waves again and the rain poured down harder, hard as an early monsoon rain, driving up the seawater like dust into his eyes. He swam on, on towards the boy, not along the more sensible course, back to the ship with its bells clanging the alarm: man overboard.
The captain would do well to leave them there, Thomas thought. The lad had risked the ship by making it change course this close to shore, but he wouldn't have thought of that. He must have some childish delusion of freedom, or worse, some kind of perverse loyalty to Spain.
