by L. A. Meyer
I notice the lookout did not report the light, so it must be a common occurrence, not worthy of mention. But I wonder about it, and my suspicious nature is aroused. Nobody gets up at one in the morning to flash bothersome nonsensical messages. More study is indicated, of that I am sure.
I go back into my usual posture, but after a short while, Mr. Smythe takes mercy on me. Perhaps he thought I did well at casting the log. I don't know. All I know is that he says to me, "Take an inspection tour about the deck. Check the fastenings on the hatches. Make sure the lookout on the bow is attentive. And if, on your way back, you pass through the mess and happen to find a cup of coffee, then you may bring it to me."
"Yes, Sir!" Joyously, I skip forward, delighted to be freed from standing there all motionless and bored. I head down the port rail toward the bow. I put my hand on various lines, but all is taut, as I knew it would be. I come upon the lookout standing in the bow, his foot up on the rail, looking out forward.
"All clear?" I ask as I come up so as not to startle him. It is a seaman I haven't yet met and he turns and regards me with amazement. "I am Midshipman Faber, the Junior Officer of the Watch, and I am making an inspection tour. What is your name, and what is the bottom like here and where are the nearest rocks?"
He stammers out that his name is Gates and that the bottom is sand and mud, which is what the anchor has pulled up so far every time they've dropped it, and the rocks of a jetty are about a half mile off to starboard. "We generally pulls out to sea a bit at night, Miss, especially if we've got an onshore wind, 'cause—"
"I know. Because we don't want to have to try to claw off a lee shore, is why," I say, not to show off but just to let him know. The wind tonight is alongshore, which is good for us—we go up wind, close-hauled on the northern leg of our patrol and run with the wind on our quarter on the southern one.
"Even so, Miss."
"Well, very good, Gates." I say in leaving, "Carry on."
Going back aft, I reach the foremast and look up into the gloom and figure I'll go check on the lookout there and then go down to see about the coffee. I put my hands on the ratlines and up I go.
He either saw or heard me coming for he is standing, leaning back against the mast, arms crossed and looking at me as I step onto the platform. He does not move but continues to regard me in a most self-assured way. The moon is well up in the night sky now and I can see that he is a man of some height, well proportioned about the shoulders and hips. His waist is slender, and his belly is flat, and, I am sure, well-muscled. His hair is curly and light brown and his face has a straight nose and firm chin and good cheekbones. He is most pleasant to look upon, I must say, the very picture of the bold British Tar. He has a merry glint in his eye, and I see his teeth gleam as he smiles at me in an almost insolent way.
I react to this show of disrespect by slapping the Look on my face and saying, "I am Midshipman Faber, the Junior Officer of the Watch, and I am making an inspection tour." I say this in my haughtiest tone, but it doesn't have much effect.
"And I am Joseph Jared, Captain of the Top," he says, and then with the slightest of pauses, "Miss Faber."
This takes me a little aback. This is the other man that Harper said was one of the leaders of the belowdecks men. What's he doing here?
"And why is the Captain of the Top standing a watch that would ordinarily be stood by a common able-bodied seaman?" I demand.
"One of my mates was sick, and so I took his watch."
"That was commendable of you," I say, realizing I'm coming out the worse for this conversation. This man is not going to be an easy one to be won over by my dubious charms. I turn away from him and look out over the sea toward France. "Do you have anything to report?"
"It is a beautiful night, Miss Faber." Is the man mocking me?
"Is that all? What about those flashing lights? Why did you not report them down to the quarterdeck?"
"I have been told not to bother with them, and so I don't."
"Do you think they could be smugglers' signals?"
He gives a low chuckle. "Smugglers ain't got no trouble from us. They get right through every time."
"What? Why don't we take them?"
"We always seem to be in just the wrong place to do that, Miss. At the end of our patrol leg, they slip through at the other end. They are quite good at it. They don't even bother to go at night."
"In broad daylight they do it?"
"Even so." He pauses, as if choosing his words very carefully. "It's said that the Captain has ordered that we are on patrol to blockade warships and not common smugglers. 'Course I don't know, just bein' a common seaman and all." Again the merry smile.
Hmmm.
"You know, Miss, I was in charge of the boat that brought you back the other day, when you made a run for it. I was the one with the boat hook. You put up quite a fight."
He is perhaps being a little over familiar, but somehow I don't mind. I feel my face reddening in remembrance of that boat hook dragging down my pants. This man must have gotten a real good look at my bare tail.
"But not quite enough of a fight," I say.
"Thanks for saving Billy. He's one of my mates and I would have been sorry to lose his company."
"Well, all right," I say, completely flustered now.
"You won't try another run? None would blame you if you did. You do know what kind of ship you are on, do you not?"
I nod and say, "I am listed on the ship's company now. To run again would be desertion and I will do my duty. I will take what comes."
I go to the edge to go back down.
"I am glad to have met you, Jared," I say in leaving.
"You be careful, Miss," I hear him say. "Do you know what the men call the Wolverine when no officers can hear?"
"No. What?"
"The Werewolf. You watch your back, Miss."
That's not all I'll watch, Jared, but thanks, I think, descending.
There is a cook's helper there in the galley tending the banked cooking fires so they don't have to be relit in the morning, and soon the coffee is brewing. I have a bit of a chat with the man and learn how to make coffee. It is good to know things and I find that people like sharing with you what they know. Makes them feel good and closer to you, like.
I see Muck and his cronies off in a dark corner, muttering amongst themselves. They see me and mutter some more, but I pay them no mind. Gives me the creeps, though—every time I see him, my flesh crawls.
I quickly down a cup and take one up to Mr. Smythe, and as I do, I hear the ringing of Four Bells.
Ah, halfway through, and that bed will feel good, I'll own.
"Robin. Psst! Robin," I say outside his cabin, lantern in hand. He doesn't stir, so I go in his room and hold the lamp up over him. He is on his back and his face is turned to the side and his breath stirs a lock of hair that has fallen over his cheek. He really is a lovely boy, so innocent and boyish looking all asleep like that.
Seems to be your night for encountering beautiful males, Miss Intending-to-Live-Single-All-of-Your-Life, I think, ruefully. I put my hand on his shoulder and give him a shake.
"Robin. Come on. It's your watch. You must get up."
His eyes fly open and he looks at me, confused, and he plainly hasn't yet come to his senses because he lifts his hand toward my face and says a word and that word is Angel.
"Angel?" I snort. "Hardly an angel, mate. Up with you, now. If you think for one moment, Mr. Raeburne, that I'm standing one minute of your watch so that you can slumber blissfully on, you are mistaken." It's probably the lantern light on my face that made him think that angel stuff.
Then his mind clears and he puts his hands to his face and rubs his eyes. "All right," he says.
A short time later, after we have passed the watch, me telling Robin our course and condition, and him saying he has the watch and Mr. Pinkham watching astounded, I crawl gratefully back into my bed for another three hours of sleep.
My last thoughts are of t
hose lights on the shore.
Chapter 9
Morning comes early. Very early.
I roll out in my nightshirt to make sure my watch schedule is observed, and sure enough, there's Robin waking Tom for the Morning Watch. He glances over at me, but I just yawn and wave him away, as if I am not yet fit for viewing, as, indeed, I am not. Still, he is slow in leaving the berth until I go back into my room to get ready for the day.
When I come out, Robin is back and Georgie and Ned are at the table and our steward, Weisling, is serving breakfast, keeping himself just this side of surly. This is much more like it, I think. Hot tea and oatmeal porridge with maple syrup. I dive in, without ceremony.
When I am done, I pat my mouth and rise. "I'm off to see my division. While I am at it, I will try to see that all of you are assigned to divisions as well. Be back here at ten o'clock for academics. We will all meet at quarter till noon in front of the quarterdeck to take a sun line." And I am off.
When I come on deck, I first check on Tom, to see how he's doing on watch. He's standing there sweating bullets at Parade Rest, and Mr. Pelham, the Officer of the Deck, is pointing out the sails to him. Apparently, Tom had the courage to tell Mr. Pelham what would happen to him at the merciless hands of Senior Midshipman Faber if he did not have the names of all the sails by sundown, as I had ordered.
"And if that is the Foremast, what do you think that sail might be called, Mr. Wheeler?" asks Mr. Pelham, his hands clasped behind him and looking up at the Foresail.
"The Foresail?" quavers Tom.
"Very good, Mr. Wheeler, and the next one up would be called..."
"The Next Sail, Sir?"
"Alas, no, Mr. Wheeler," sighs the Second Mate, "it is the Fore Topsail. And the one over that is the Fore Topgallant, and the one way up there is the Fore Royal. Do you have that?"
"Yes, Sir," says Tom.
"Good. Repeat them back to me."
"Foresail, Fore Topsail, Fore Topgallant, and Royal," says Tom.
"Fore Royal, Mr. Wheeler. There are several Royals on this ship," says Mr. Pelham, severely.
"Sorry, Sir. Fore Royal it is, Sir," says Tom, miserably. I can see his knees shaking. This is probably the first time he has spoken directly to the second officer.
"Good," says Mr. Pelham. He turns to the Bo'sun's Mate of the Watch and says, "Acquaint Mr. Wheeler here with the rest of the square sails and make sure he knows them. Then on to the fore-and-aft sails. We must ensure that Senior Midshipman Faber will not have our young Mr. Wheeler lashed to the grating and whipped for not having yet mastered the principal sails and all the attendant lineage by nightfall, as she has promised would befall him."
I step up on the quarterdeck, salute, and say, "Good morning, Sir. I hope you are well."
"Yes, Miss Faber, I am quite well," he says drily. "What do you want now?"
"Sir, I would like the other midshipmen to have assignments for Quarters, Special Sea Detail, in fact all the Special Conditions on the Watch, Quarter, and Station Bill."
"And that has not yet been done?"
"No, Sir. The midshipmen have not been aboard that long," I say, to cover up any officer's negligence in not making those assignments. I know how things go here. If there is no direction from the top, then there is no direction.
"Why is it, Miss Faber," he says with a heavy, theatrical sigh, "that I am sure that you have some suggestions concerning this?"
"Well, Sir, I think it would be well if Mr. Raeburne was made head of Division Two, the after four port guns, just aft of my Division One, so that I might be able to pass on to him any small knowledge of gunnery that I might have, such that we might get to such a level of competence that Mr. Smythe could give us some real instruction in the art of gunnery, Sir." There, I've covered Smythe's tail, too. He really should have been doing that all along. But then, if he's not given the powder, how can I blame him?
"And just where did you learn this rudimentary gunnery?"
"On the deck of HMS Dolphin, Sir. The quarterdeck was my station in all the Special Conditions, and I was able to observe much."
"Ah, yes. I forgot. 'Bloody Jack,' and all that. So that book is true?"
"Some of it, Sir."
"All right. What of the others?"
"Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Barrows would serve well as Fire Snuffers. It is a common midshipman billet. As for Mr. Piggott, I would like to keep him close to me, as he is young and has much to learn."
I see Tom's chest rise in a bit of pride at being given a real job and not lumped in with little Georgie. Males are so transparent, whatever their age.
"Consider it done, Miss Faber. Join me below in the gun room after my watch and we will pen them in."
"Thank you, Sir," and with that I salute, do an About-face, and head for my division.
"Harkness, I was much pleased with yesterday's drill. We will carry on in the same way today. Stations, everyone! On my signal ... Now!" Tucker and Georgie dash off for the powder and the drill is on.
After an hour, we have got the turnaround time down to two minutes. Not quite good enough, but better than yesterday's mess. I leave Harkness in charge and go to help Robin set up his crew. They have been observing my crew and it goes well. So well, in fact, that Robin is able to assign a good man, one Seaman Merrill, to conduct the drills and follows me to the berth to start on the boys' academic education. Robin will do the math, and I will do the reading and writing.
I believe Robin is standing up somewhat straighter today.
The boys are certainly not lacking in some education, being nobs and all, compared to the Dread Brotherhood of the Dolphin, us bein' street scum and all. Except for Jai—Never you mind.
At the ringing of Seven Bells in the Morning Watch, which means eleven thirty, I get up and say, "That's it for today. Take up your slates, lads, and I'll meet you on deck and we'll do a sun line for longitude. Briskly, now. I must go see Mr. Harvey for some equipment."
I knock on the door to the gun room, the place where the officers hang out and take their meals.
"Enter."
I go in and look about. I see the doors leading to the officers' rooms. I see a long table, no doubt where they dine. I see books and charts. I see Mr. Harvey seated at the table, engrossed in writing in what appears to be a journal. He has a glass containing some brown liquid in front of him. He looks up and sees me. He doesn't groan out loud, but I know he wants to.
"What is it, girl?"
"Midshipman Faber," I say, correcting him. "I would like to borrow a quadrant and a local chart to take a sun line with the other midshipmen."
He barks out a short, bitter laugh. "Of course. A Child Shall Show Us the Way. Right over there in that cabinet."
I follow his gaze and go to the oak box and begin to bend over and then think better of it. I kneel down in front of it instead. The less I wave my tail around in the air, the better, I figure, no matter which male is in attendance.
The quadrant is lying on a velvet cushion and I gently take it up. As I rise, Mr. Harvey hands me a rolled-up chart.
"And a parallel rule, too, if you would, Sir, and then I will bother you no more."
He reaches back on the shelf behind him and slides it over to me, smiling in a strange sort of way. "Oh, but you have bothered me, you have, Miss. But think nothing of it," he says.
As I leave, I'm thinking it's a little bit early for him to start in to drinking.
"Mr. Pelham, may I borrow Mr. Wheeler for this exercise?" I ask.
"What? And give up the indispensable Mr. Wheeler? Oh, very well. I imagine we shall survive his absence." There are some snickers from his watch. Mr. Pelham is a man who hugely enjoys his own wit, I have seen, but I like him anyway.
"Thank you, Sir," I say as Tom joins Robin, Georgie, and Ned by the starboard rail. "And, Sir, if you will tell us the time when we say, 'Mark,' I will thank you for it." He nods and pulls out his watch.
"Now, lads, here's the way of it. Robin will take the quadrant here and find the
sun in this little smoked mirror here on the bottom. No, you idiots! Don't look directly at the sun. You'll go blind! You three just look at the scale here while Robin rocks the quadrant back and forth, making the mirror image of the sun swing back and forth, this image of the sun's lower edge just touching the horizon, and read out the degrees on that scale right there. They will get bigger and bigger until the sun reaches its apogee and that will be the Local Apparent Noon, and then the degrees will get less, and you'll say, 'Mark!' when that change happens and Mr. Pelham will mark the time on his watch and then we'll be able to figure out our degree of longitude by comparing the time here with Greenwich time to which Mr. Pelham surely has set his watch. Simple but elegant, don't you think?"
"I can't see the horizon, Miss Faber," says Robin, squinting through the eyepiece. "France seems to be in the way."
I look out and see the truth of that. Damn! Every time I get full of myself I get slapped down!
There are guffaws from the quarterdeck.
"Come up here, all of you," says Mr. Pelham, laughing. "Try shooting it off the fantail where you have a horizon to the south. You ought to know, Miss Faber, that, unless you have willed it otherwise, the sun does rise in the east and sets in the west, so the south would be the place to take its apogee."
My cheeks are burning. The whole ship has seen my stupid mistake. I meekly take my place with the other boys as Mr. Pelham explains the procedure much more clearly than I did, and soon they are reading the numbers as Robin swings the quadrant back and forth, now making the sun's image just touch the knife-edge horizon.
"Sixty-eight degrees, two minutes, seven seconds ... eight seconds ... nine seconds ... eight seconds. Mark!"
