Winds of Change & Eye of the Storm

by Lee Rowan

  It was only after the battle that things got worse. An hour after the last shot was fired, exhausted and terrified, Will found himself standing on the deck of l’Esperance, watching the Valiant set off for Kingston with the convoy trailing along, while he and his prize crew set about making the captured corvette fit to sail. Even before the other ship passed out of sight, Will was assessing the damage, issuing orders, and considering what he needed to do to get this tub under way as quickly as possible.

  Davy was still alive but unconscious, lying in the Valiant’s sickbay with a pistol ball lodged in his vitals. He was bleeding slowly but persistently, and Dr. Curran said that his only chance for survival was to get the bullet out. The bullet’s location made the doctor loathe to operate on a moving ship; he strongly recommended that they get his patient to solid ground.

  With Kingston less than two days away, the Captain had set sail as quickly as possible. Although he had been reluctant to leave his First Lieutenant as part of the prize crew, l’Esperance was too big a responsibility for a midshipman, and for some reason, Lieutenant Humberstone was not to be given this task. Will privately suspected it was because the Captain was not quite certain he would be up to it—and he also suspected the Captain was right. If Carter had not suffered a broken leg—but “ifs” were useless; the only thing he could do was work—and hope.

  L’Esperance. He would literally be sailing to Kingston on hope. Hope, not prayer; he could hardly be so hypocritical as to expect a God he was not sure he believed in to grant him the life of a lover whose very existence was an affront to the religion in which he’d been raised. Not that his father had been one of the hellfire-and-brimstone sort; the Reverend Mr. Marshall had been far more inclined to do unto others and judge not. Will wondered what his father would say to him about his overwhelming feelings for another man.

  A foolish notion. Even if his father were still alive, that was one thing they would never have discussed. But he thought his father would have liked Davy—how could he help it? Nearly everyone liked Davy.

  Except, of course, the man who shot him. Will hoped that Captain Adams would choose his most trustworthy Marines as guards in the sickroom—because none of those three French ships had ever been within pistol-range of the Valiant. Davy had been shot by someone already aboard ship—most probably their traitor, which meant he had seen the man and could identify him, and the bastard knew it.

  And unless the traitor had somehow—please, God!—been killed in the battle, he was still on board. And no one but Davy knew who he was.

  Will thrust aside the mental image of Davy’s still, white face, the last he’d seen of his lover before he was called away. Davy would live. He would live. He had to live. The whole stupid charade would be useless otherwise.

  And just how many stupid, senseless deaths had he seen since he joined His Majesty’s service? Best not to think about that. Better to get this infernal lead-bottomed French hulk into Kingston.

  He pushed his worries aside once more and turned to the man acting as petty-officer of the prize-crew. “Korthals, get the jeers rigged. I want a new yard swayed up first off, we can complete some of the repairs once we’re underway. Put some of the prisoners on the pump, under guard—they won’t want to sink any more than we do. I’ll be in the Captain’s cabin, looking through the ship’s papers.”

  Yes. He would look through the papers, see whether there might be anything that would point to a member of the Valiant’s crew as a French agent. He did not expect to find such information—if it existed at all, it would certainly be in code—but he had to do something or he would go mad.

  MARSHALL BROUGHT l’Esperance into Kingston less than three days later. The convoy rode at anchor in her harbor, and from his perch high atop the corvette’s mainmast, Will spotted the Terrier, with her crew at work repainting her sides where the carpenters had apparently finished repair. Beyond her lay the Valiant, but there was something wrong with her masts, and it wasn’t damage from the battle. Whatever had they—

  “Oh, no,” Will whispered aloud. “No.”

  The Valiant’s yardarms were all a-cockbill, set at irregular angles from the masts. It threw the whole ship out of balance, but it was not sloppiness. It was deliberate, like black crepe hung over the doorway of a house where a family member had died.

  It was a ship in mourning.

  Chapter 10

  A FRANTIC couple of hours must have convinced the men at the Kingston navy yard that the Valiant’s first lieutenant had run mad. But Marshall held his composure sufficiently to discharge his duty. He sent his prize crew back to the Valiant, turned l’Esperance in to the Port Admiral’s office, signed the forms he needed to sign, and went off to search for Captain Smith where the sympathetic clerk at the office told him to look.

  He found the Captain and most of the other ship’s officers in a little cemetery on the edge of town, only a short walk but exhausting in the tropical heat. He arrived just in time to stand at attention, his bicorne held over his heart, while the Marine honor-guard fired off a twenty-one-gun salute for the Valiant’s fallen Second Lieutenant.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the fresh earth on Davy’s grave. A moment. Forever. Time ceased to have meaning. He was numb with the overload of grief and pain and exhaustion. He had not even been able to say good-bye.

  The pain closed his throat. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees at the foot of the grave. How could this have happened? Davy, so alive, so warm and passionate, held close in his arms just days ago. It was unthinkable that Davy could be lying cold and dead beneath this foreign soil. It was wrong. There had to have been some mistake—

  Someone touched his shoulder. “Your pardon, Lieutenant.”

  The Captain. Duty reminded him he should rise and reply with courtesy. Half-blind with unshed tears, he rose on legs unsteady as a newborn colt’s. The Captain, kind as a father, had an arm around him, leading him away from the barren, flower-strewn earth.

  His teeth began to chatter, and he suddenly realized he was cold and shaking, even in the humid heat of the afternoon.

  “Let’s get you out of here, Mr. Marshall,” Smith said at his elbow. “Come along.”

  He surrendered command to his Captain, grateful for the small mercy. Barrow was there too, and some of the others, forming a sort of guard around them as they left the cemetery. The glare of the tropical sun blinded him, the smothering blanket of heat sapping what little strength he had left. A headache began to throb behind his eyes.

  Somehow they passed through the bustling streets, passed dark-skinned natives in blinding white attire. Smith took him to an inn a short distance from the Admiralty building, installed him in a room, then vanished. Marshall sat in the chair where he’d been placed, staring out the window, looking at the cloudless blue sky but seeing only a cool gray day in Portsmouth, a towering ship, and a sunny smile beneath a spotless midshipman’s bicorne.

  “Welcome to the Titan, Mr. Marshall!”

  The first sob racked his body like a consumptive’s final cough, and the dam broke wide open. Weeping uncontrollably, he caught the edge of the table, tumbled onto the bed, and curled into a knot of misery. It isn’t fair, it should have been me! Why did they all die instead of him? All those men who’d served with him, served under him, weathered old sailors and midshipmen too young to shave, all the others who died while he kept on living. The one special “other” who had become his reason for living. It isn’t fair. How can I go on without him? Why am I still alive?

  Thought stopped. Time stopped. He took in breath only to pump out more grief, his soul so raw he felt torn in two. Gradually his nose stuffed up, and his eyes ached, and his throat, and still there were more tears. He had not wept like this for his mother. He had not wept at all, and they had praised him for being such a strong little man. But now that he had started, he did not think he would ever stop. How could a wound like this ever heal?

  It would have been different if only he cou
ld have been there. If he could have at least held Davy’s hand, said good-bye…. He told himself that would have been easier, but he knew he was lying. He didn’t know where the tears were still coming from. Wasn’t there a limit to the amount of water in a human body? He was making a mess of the pillowcase.

  At last sheer exhaustion pulled him under. He jerked awake to find Barrow standing beside him.

  “Sir?”

  You have a duty to your men, Mr. Marshall. “Yes—” He levered himself up, coughed. Barrow handed him a glass of water. Bless you, Barrow. The water helped a little. “Yes, Barrow, what is it?”

  “It’s Lord St. John, sir.” Barrow’s eyes were somber, and today his seemingly ageless face looked old. “Mr.—Mr. Archer’s cousin, he’s askin’ to see you, sir—”

  “No.” He had completely forgotten Davy mentioning, early in the cruise, that his cousin had a sugar plantation in Jamaica, and might actually be in residence. Will had met Lord St. John—more properly, Baron Guilford—twice before. The first time was when the Baron and his bride-to-be were rescued by the Calypso. He had seen them again after the birth of their daughter, when he and Davy had visited the extensive Archer-St. John family after his lover had been promoted to Lieutenant. St. John was a fine man and his wife was a sweet, lovely Frenchwoman. But St. John bore a powerfully strong resemblance to his cousin, and if Will had to look at that familiar face—

  I cannot do it. I cannot. “Barrow… please….” He took a deep breath, forced himself to speak calmly. “Please convey my regrets to his Lordship, but I am… indisposed.”

  “He says it’s urgent, sir.”

  “Nothing is urgent anymore, Barrow.” He said it very softly, almost to himself. I don’t care if the place is on fire, damn you, leave me in peace! “Unless I am ordered to leave, I intend to remain here for just a little while. Please convey my regrets to—I said that, didn’t I?”

  “Aye, you did, sir.” Barrow shifted from one foot to another. “Mr. Marshall— Klingler an’ me, we just wanted to say how sorry we are about—”

  “Yes.” He held up a hand, not even wanting to hear the name. “Yes. Thank you, Barrow. Now—can you please just let me alone?” He was mortified to hear the quaver in his voice, but Barrow showed no sign he’d heard it; he nodded and took his leave. Marshall felt a surge of gratitude and immediately suppressed it. No. Barrow was a good man, that was all. Best not to feel any affection. Too dangerous. For him, and for Barrow.

  Everyone I care about dies. And the solution to that problem was obvious. He must do his duty: treat the men fairly, and decently, and act in such a way that they would want to follow him into battle. But for their own safety, best not to feel too much. For his own safety and sanity, best not to feel at all. It hurt too much, losing what one loved. If one did not love, one would not hurt. The pain could be kept at arm’s length. Logical.

  He’s gone.

  Not just missing for a time; gone forever. No more old jokes that only they shared. No more reading Shakespeare aloud on the off-watches, no more Davy there at his back when he needed someone he could trust, no irrepressible good humor dragging him from the bog of his own somber moods. Davy was gone. Dead. Forever. Marshall had no great faith in a hereafter, no hope of a resurrection, whatever the Book of Common Prayer said. There might be a God, and there might be a Heaven, and if they existed, Davy was there. He deserved to be; that was where angels belonged. But I won’t be. If he had deserved punishment for his hubris, for taking that stupid risk with Davy in the carpenter’s walk, this was punishment indeed. But it should not be Davy lying in the cold ground. He did not deserve death.

  He is gone.

  I will never see him again.

  The tears started in afresh. It felt as though someone had cut his heart out with a handspike and he had inexplicably failed to die. He couldn’t even finish the job himself; he had a duty to his men, to his ship, a duty to honor Davy’s memory.

  A soft knock at the door. Oh, please, can’t you leave me alone? He mopped at his face with his bedraggled handkerchief. “Come in.”

  It was Captain Smith. “As you were, Mr. Marshall.” Without further ado, he took the hand-towel from beside the basin on the chest of drawers beside the door, poured a bit of water on it, and handed it to Marshall as if he were a little squeaker of a cabin boy.

  “Thank you, sir.” He tidied himself as best he could and tried to look alert.

  “Mr. Marshall, I would like you to accompany me on a short visit.”

  Oh, no. He didn’t want to leave this room. It was not fondness for the room, but aversion to moving, to any movement or thought not absolutely required. “May I—may I ask where we are going, sir?”

  “You may. But I am not able to tell you.” He frowned at Marshall, apparently assessing his state of disrepair, and wordlessly handed Marshall his own clean handkerchief. “Now, Mr. Marshall, if you please.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He followed like an obedient spaniel as Captain Smith led the way downstairs, out to the heartlessly sunny street, into a canopied carriage with a dark-skinned driver who took them to a lovely manor house on the outskirts of town. Mercifully, the Captain did not require conversation of him.

  Marshall managed to contain most of his grief, but anything further was beyond him. His eyes would not stop leaking. That was embarrassing. But he had heard that even Nelson wept when his casualties were put over the side, sewn in their hammocks with round shot at their feet. If Nelson cried for his midshipmen, it could not be so very wrong for a mere lieutenant who had lost the love of his life.

  At last they pulled up at the head of a circular drive, the door was opened by a coachman, and the carriage drove away. The Captain led him up the steps of the mansion, where a liveried servant granted them entrance and ushered them into a parlor.

  Marshall settled uneasily on the edge of a damask-covered chair and waited. Dull curiosity finally prompted him to ask. “What is this place, sir?”

  “It belongs to the St. John family, Mr. Marshall. Baron Guilford invited us to stay here—”

  “No!” He was on his feet, heading for the door, without conscious thought.

  Smith caught him by the arm and halted his flight. “Mr. Marshall! Will you please compose yourself, sir!”

  That note of command would have had his obedience even if he were unconscious. “Yes, sir.” He returned to the chair and sat very, very still. Why the Captain would torment him like this, he did not know. Nor did he care. Not really. He probably deserved it. But the Baron would find him, at best, a dismal guest.

  “Forgive me, gentlemen. We have been preoccupied.” It was Lord Christopher St. John, Baron Guilford, in a light-colored suit of tropical-weight clothing. At close quarters, he was clearly not David; his collar-length hair was light brown, not bleached golden by sun and salt air, and he moved like a landsman. But the uncanny resemblance, especially about the eyes—

  Marshall took St. John’s offered hand, his own eyes focused somewhere about the middle button of the man’s coat. He mumbled some polite response, and once again followed when his lordship bade them come along without explaining where. He tried to pay attention to what his host was saying as he trotted up the front stairs.

  “Lieutenant Marshall, I wish we could have met again in better circumstances. Zoe is in London with the children, but she remembers you fondly.”

  Was a response required? St. John didn’t seem to need one.

  “I thought you might enjoy meeting my cousin, who has recently returned from Canada,” he went on. “He was in a fierce battle with privateers and has come here to recover his strength—and perhaps to stay on for a time.”

  Marshall nodded, looking at his shoes, at the floor—anything to keep from enduring the sight of a face so like the one he would never see again. What was wrong with this chipper, chattering idiot? What was wrong with Captain Smith? Did they feel nothing? Davy was dead, for God’s sake. Why choose this time to haul out a pirate-fighting Canadia
n?

  But he had no energy to sustain the anger. What difference did it make? St. John had given Davy a hero’s burial; it was little enough for Will to cater to his whims. Very well. Show me your cousin. Show me your horses, your dog, your chamberpot, anything. Only, please, do not ask me to look at your face, I cannot bear it.

  He followed St. John and Captain Smith down the elegant Turkey carpet that lined the paneled hall. They entered a sitting room and proceeded through it to the bedroom that formed part of a guest suite. A small figure in the blue coat of a naval surgeon blocked his view of St. John’s cousin.

  The figure turned, and Marshall was astonished to recognize their own ship’s surgeon. “Dr. Curran?”

  “At your service, sir!” The doctor seemed quite pleased with himself, Marshall noted absently. “Is your heart sound, Mr. Marshall? Are you well?”

  My heart is broken, thank you. It doesn’t matter. “I suppose so,” he said automatically.

  “That’s a relief,” said Curran’s patient. “I was afraid I might have given you palpitations.”

  Marshall heard the voice; he didn’t believe it. Dr. Curran stepped aside and Will saw a cap of blond hair over a beloved face, drawn with pain and much too pale, but undeniably alive.

  “Davy?”

  “That’s ‘St. John,’ if you please. David St. John, late of the Canadian colonies. And I suppose you must be Mr. Marshall.” And then Davy’s face split wide in that familiar grin, only to dissolve in a haze of tears and gray mist.

  Chapter 11

  WHEN MARSHALL came to himself, he found that he had been draped into a chair beside Davy’s bed, and Dr. Curran was apologizing. “Mr. Archer assured me that you would be up to the strain, sir. I am very sorry—”