by Lee Rowan
“It’s my fault, Will—I’m a damned fool.” Davy stretched out a hand to him, wincing at the movement, and Will struggled up to take it. “I couldn’t resist the dramatic revival.”
Marshall shook his head, half-convinced that he truly had gone mad. “Davy. My God, please don’t misunderstand me, but how—why—?”
“I surprised our traitor when he came to get the key—and all hell broke loose above.” Short of breath, Davy looked at the Captain. “Would you explain, sir?”
“Certainly,” said Sir Paul. “Mr. Marshall, our traitor was the ship’s purser, Thomas Dowling. In the confusion on deck, he shot Mr. Archer, and believes him to be dead.”
“He has not been arrested?”
“Unfortunately, no. After consultation with the Intelligence people and politicos here in Kingston, it was decided that since our traitor thinks himself safe, we will learn more by allowing him to continue his activities and keep a close watch on where he goes and with whom he communicates. This can only be done if he believes Mr. Archer to be permanently out of the picture.”
“The Secret Service thinks I’m better off dead,” Davy said. “At least for a time.”
“Easy for them to say that,” Lord St. John interjected.
Davy raised an eyebrow at him. “They can say anything they like. It was I who spotted the bastard for them.” He rested his head against the pillow, closing his eyes.
Dr. Curran frowned and checked his pulse. “For my part, I have never seen anyone so very hard to kill. But I am glad of it.” He persuaded his patient to drink something from a small cup.
In a moment Davy’s color improved, and he resumed his explanation. “You know how I love the theater, Will. The edict had its appeal. I’m sorry no one had time to get a message to you.”
“But you look like—you look—terrible.” No. He did not look like death. He looked like life, like resurrection. Like a miracle. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Captain Smith spoke up at last. “Mr. Archer is still not out of danger, if I understand the doctor correctly. Barrow was in on the secret, but I gave him strict orders not to speak of it to anyone, even you. I was unwilling to tell you he was alive and inflict another cruelty if he had not recovered from the journey here.”
Davy grinned faintly. “But I did. And I plan to stay alive!”
He was so pleased with himself, Marshall could not help but smile. But he sounded so weak. “How do you feel, after all that?”
“Dr. Curran tells me I must follow his every command,” Davy said, not quite answering the question. “As he saved my life, I am inclined to obey. It will be some time before I’m anything like well again.”
Dr. Curran clucked. “Which reminds me, it is time for you to rest. I will do what I can to find a local physician, and make it clear to him that if he attempts to bleed my patient, he will lose a pint himself for every ounce you shed. There is still the probability of infection,” he said to Marshall, “but what we have here is a very healthy young man with a strong constitution and a tremendous will to live.”
“Yes,” Marshall agreed, delighting in the simple sight of his friend. “But—” He turned to Captain Smith. “What of Mr. Archer’s career? Surely they cannot leave him in limbo forever.”
The Captain cleared his throat. “Mr. Archer will receive the highest commendation for his part in this matter,” he said. “Unfortunately, we have no idea when the honor will be bestowed. So long as Dowling is unaware that we know his identity, he is a valuable link to his colleagues and perhaps even his masters. While he is aboard the Valiant, Mr. Archer cannot return. Once Intelligence has learned all it can, Dowling will be arrested on a charge of murder.”
“Found him?” Davy asked. He didn’t need to say the name.
“Yes, in the bilges. He’d been strangled.” Will’s sigh of relief went unnoticed. The Captain continued, “Mr. Humberstone has an affidavit that he will send over for your signature. It will, of course, be dated before your alleged death.”
Davy nodded. Will met his eyes again, saw the resignation there, and realized that he was not going to have everything back, after all. They still had reached a parting of the ways.
Davy smiled sadly. “Yes,” he said. “I fear David Archer is dead, Will, for now, anyway. He’s had a splendid funeral.”
Marshall smiled back, but his heart sank. They might never again sail together… not as shipmates, not in the Service.
But that also meant he would never again have to see Davy cut down by an enemy. Not so great a loss as he had faced mere hours ago. He would have given his very soul, then, for this reunion. He would miss Davy, terribly, but suddenly the separation was a burden he could bear. The knowledge that “David St. John” was safe here in Kingston, or England, or even Canada… yes, far better than a tombstone, however nobly carved. “Your family, Davy—what of them?”
Davy gave a minute nod toward his cousin. “Kit, here, has a trustworthy friend with a fast ship. Sir Percy can carry a message to my parents before official word reaches England. They will keep the secret. My father….” His mouth tightened. “His Lordship may have been happier with a dead hero.” He tilted his head in wry acceptance. “I expect he will be sorely disappointed when I finally resurface.”
“If so, he’s a fool,” Marshall said. “Who else knows?”
“Apart from a few members of Intelligence, only we five, and two others,” Captain Smith said.
David’s cousin nodded. “Since the war began, my friend has been using his yacht as a fast courier for the Admiralty, for covert operations. He has already left with confidential dispatches, bound for England, to share the news with the Secret Service and learn their will in the matter. I also have a servant who left the Navy under… well, under circumstances I can hardly discuss in front of His Majesty’s officers. He will keep silent. The rest of the household know this gentleman only as my Canadian cousin. The fewer who know otherwise, the safer it will be for us all.”
“And at this point, I must take my leave,” Captain Smith said. “Mr. Marshall, I have business with the Governor. I will see you back at the Valiant in three days’ time.”
“Three days, sir?”
“I want to see you aboard in decent repair, sir. You are ordered to take a few days off and recover.”
“I—yes, sir. Thank you, Captain!”
After Sir Paul had departed, Will turned to his lover. “So, Davy. What are your plans?”
“At this point, I want to heal. Beyond that… I don’t know.” He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath, clearly with difficulty. “Fulfill my ambition to grow a beard, as quickly as I can. It will make me look more like a wild North American.”
“Never,” Will said. “You’re far too civilized.”
Davy gave his head a single shake in the negative. “I’m sure this charade will be over long before I could start a new career. Once I recover, depending on whether I’m at all fit for duty, I might see what I can do to help Kit with his business here. If sugar cane is too dull, Kit’s seagoing friend is apparently doing his best to foment unrest in the French colonies… and you know I speak excellent French. I’m sure there’s some way to make myself useful, even as a colonial upstart with questionable origins.”
“What?”
“Kit’s idea,” Davy said. “Cousin David isn’t in the stud-book, but you have only to look at him to realize he’s obviously one of the family.”
“There are some advantages to being Lord of the Manor.” St. John smiled. “If I decide to accept this gentleman’s proofs that he’s the son of my cousin Lancelot, who went to the colonies a couple of decades ago and vanished somewhere in Virginia, what business is it of anyone else to question his identity? He worked his way to London on American ships—he is well acquainted with the sea—and served as a helmsman for a time on a private yacht sailing in government service. Quite heroically too—he was injured when privateers tried to seize the Daydream.”
Marshall nodded.
A well-constructed identity. And having someone outside their circle to vouch for Davy’s new identity—Sir Percy, a man of substance, and no relative at all—would make Davy that much more secure.
“An excellent role, sir. I am impressed.”
“Gentlemen,” Curran said, “I regret interrupting you, but Mr. St. John needs his rest if he is to recover.”
Davy was still smiling, but he did look worn.
“Of course.” Marshall took his hand once more, marveling at the touch and warmth and reality of it. “I don’t know how to thank you, Doctor. Davy—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Will.” Davy frowned at him. “Do try to look mournful when you leave. If you go out grinning like that, they’ll think you’ve gone round the bend. When you go back to the Valiant, mope for a while. I expect a black armband, at the very least.”
“You’re right, of course.” But it was not easy to take the smile from his face. “May I visit again?” he asked St. John.
“As long as you have shore leave, I would be honored to have you as a guest,” St. John said hospitably. “Wherever the Navy sends you, I’m sure it will take at least a bit of preparation. My footman can fetch your baggage from the inn.”
He nodded, lightheaded with relief. “Thank you, my lord. For everything.”
“Out, gentlemen,” Curran repeated. “Mr. Marshall, I strongly suggest you have a moderate meal, no meat, and at least six hours sleep. Now, Mr. St. John—” He turned his attention to Davy, and the others filed quietly out.
Giddy with joy and fatigue, Marshall followed St. John to the guest room next door, and remembered only to remove his shoes before collapsing on the sumptuous feather bed. He was still not sure he was awake; it felt so like a dream that he finally pinched himself, hard. And welcomed the merely physical pain.
He wrapped the edge of the counterpane around him and nestled down into the pillow. Despite all the deception, all the danger, against all odds, Davy had survived. And soon he himself would be off to war again, to live or die.
Well, death came eventually to everyone, and it was just as well that no one could say when it would arrive. But for now he allowed himself to hope that it would be later, rather than sooner. And he found himself smiling, as he drifted off to sleep, at the notion of Mr. David St. John declaiming Shakespeare in a theater on Drury Lane.
Chapter 12
ALL THE luck that had forsaken Marshall’s personal life was heaped in generous measure upon his naval career as the Valiant continued her cruise around the Caribbean. In the course of defending those ships she escorted, she took part in some highly successful actions, which meant commendations and prize money. The officers of the Valiant and Terrier earned several years’ pay in the space of a few weeks.
None of it mattered anymore. Will did his duty, moving as though in a dream, making the correct replies when spoken to, receiving orders in a respectful manner, passing them along in a way appropriate to his rank and the station of the man receiving the order.
He was no longer wholly alive. He had been, for those three days he spent with Davy at his cousin’s estate. But then duty called him back to sea and something within him had ceased to live. He looked out on the world as though his eyes were two thick windows, letting through no touch, no scent, no breath of air. He functioned. That was all he could have said for himself.
Will kept himself sane by focusing his entire attention upon his duty—a duty slightly reduced when Captain Smith acquired two additional lieutenants in Kingston. One of them had an earlier service date, so Will was now only a Second Lieutenant. That was all right; it was a lesser demand, one he seemed able to fulfill. He took the opportunity to move his dunnage into the cabin that had been Davy’s, a tiny comfort. He had long since appropriated Davy’s pillow, and had nearly broken down when he found two golden hairs caught on the ticking. He carried them folded in a bit of parchment next to his heart.
It had been his own fault. He should have stuck by his guns and refused to take part in Humberstone’s charade. He should have kept his hands off Davy—not only during this cruise, but from the start. Once they were off that damned pirate’s ship, he should have refrained from indulging in the physical aspect of their friendship. If he loved Davy—genuine love, not just carnal desire—perhaps he should end it.
But not immediately. Not until Davy was well and strong again, and able to see that they needed to set limits to their friendship. That would be for the best, wouldn’t it? And in the meantime, he had the chance to practice being alone. He didn’t remember it being so hard—the terrible emptiness. But he had to be alone in any case, so why not prepare for a lifetime of it?
One thing Will found himself unable to do was sit at table with Thomas Dowling. He had never been on good terms with the man, but now he found ways to be elsewhere when meals were served in the gunroom. Dr. Curran was most sympathetic and made certain Will ate at least once a day. Will’s odd behavior was easy enough for the old Calypsos to understand; he was mourning. Most of his shipmates had lost close friends at one time or another, and they knew that he and Davy had been closer than brothers. They understood his grief. One time he even heard Barrow whispering to a Valiant that it was “like as if Nelson was to lose Hardy.”
At last something happened to break him out of his fog. They were cruising near the coast of Florida, keeping an eye out for slavers, which Captain Smith despised. Their path was crossed by a neat little sloop sailing under Portuguese colors, and the Valiant hailed her to stand and show her papers. She seemed perfectly amenable, but while her ship’s master was coming aboard with his documents, Will noticed that Dowling was standing near the railing in the waist, gesturing to someone on the sloop’s deck.
A discreet word to Lieutenant Humberstone, and the sloop’s papers were given a close scrutiny that they proved unable to withstand. Within a few minutes, the Portuguese crew had been put aboard the Terrier as prisoners bound for Jamaica. Will was given replacements from the Valiant and command of the Palometa, with orders to sail her back to Kingston as well, where a gentleman on the Governor’s staff would examine her with a fine-tooth comb and a carpenter.
Humberstone suspected the Palometa had a secret compartment somewhere in her well-constructed hull, but he did not have the time to hunt for it—nor did he wish Dowling to observe him searching; it was their mole who was under observation, and Humberstone the chief observer.
All that was quite in the usual way of things, though a vessel so small would not normally require a lieutenant commanding the prize-crew. But after Humberstone had a short conference with Captain Smith, the Captain called for Lieutenant Marshall.
Half in a daze, Will absorbed what the Captain told him regarding special duty, the Palometa’s suitability as a fast courier, and a temporary command, to be made permanent as soon as Humberstone—who was apparently no mere lieutenant, but Captain Humberstone of Naval Intelligence—was able to have the assignment confirmed.
“Of course, Mr. Marshall,” Captain Smith said, smiling, “all this will mean that you may be forced to spend a few days in Kingston—probably no more than a week, at most—while the sloop is being examined in minute detail. But I should think that will give you the chance to visit Baron Guilford once more and see how his Canadian cousin is coming along.”
Will stared at him stupidly. “Sir, the risk—?”
“The risk is aboard this ship,” Smith said, his voice low, “but I believe Mr. Humberstone and Lieutenant Waters have it contained well enough. It is not the risk I am thinking of, but the loss to this vessel! I had not expected you to see your own command so very soon, but I could not be prouder if you were my own son. In fact, my eldest boy is twelve now, and if I had not already badgered Ned Pellew into taking him on, I would be hinting that you might be in need of a midshipman. Congratulations on your first command, Mr. Marshall!”
His first command. Will felt frozen. “I—thank you, sir!” He forced a smile, accepted the proffered drink, thanked the Captain
profusely, and expressed his gratitude for all that he had been taught and the opportunities Sir Paul had provided. And then, almost before he knew what had happened, he was aboard the Palometa, charting a course for Jamaica.
His first command. He should have been thrilled, delighted, ecstatic. But without Davy beside him, it meant nothing but the chance to be away from the temptation to strangle Thomas Dowling. And going back to Kingston—at the very notion, the thought of ending it with Davy went out the window. He could hardly deal such a blow to someone he loved while Davy was still recovering. That could wait for another day, a day that might never come.
Chapter 13
MARSHALL BLINKED in the bright bustle of Kingston port. The sunshine, the flowers blooming everywhere, the dark-skinned porter who collected his dunnage and carried it to the carriage Baron Guilford had sent to meet him—it was too much, overwhelming. The last time he had arrived here, it had been under a terrible weight of fear, and today’s arrival was hardly different.
Was Davy still alive? He had been recovering when Marshall had last seen him, but his survival had not been assured. As they’d said good-bye, weeks ago, Davy had whispered a promise to ask his doctor when he would be fit for physical intimacy. That had been, and still was, the least of Marshall’s worries. Men died from wounds less serious than those Davy had suffered. And it had been more than two months, with no word.
No. No, if Davy were dead, St. John would have found some way to let him know. He might have come down personally….
“Commander Marshall!”
Marshall’s heart nearly stopped when he saw Davy—no, his cousin—approaching the carriage. It had to be St. John. Davy would not be walking about Kingston so freely; Davy would be in hiding or disguised. But the smile on His Lordship’s face was not what one would expect on a man in mourning. Dear God, why did he have to look so much like his cousin? Marshall forced his face into a pleasant expression and took St. John’s outstretched hand. “Good morning, my lord—”
