by David Healey
"Have you got a name?" asked the ensign with the knife.
"Alexander Hope."
"Mmm. You shall be Mr. Hopeless then." The other ensign was now buttering the roll with the knife, which was much too large for the task, but he seemed to manage it well enough. "I am Ensign Fowler. Well, we do have a few rules, Mr. Hopeless. First, you should know that I am the senior officer here."
Alexander gave the other boy a closer look and saw that he was older than most of the others. He glanced over at Roger, and noticed that his tour guide was not smiling, for once.
"As such, I get a levy from the more junior officers that includes you taking one of my watch duties each month, half of your daily rum ration, clean shirts—and anything else that I decide."
Roger spoke up. "Now see here, Fowler—"
The two thuggish-looking ensigns sitting beside the older boy shifted as if preparing to get up, and Roger fell silent.
"You were saying something, Higson?"
"Oh, never mind."
"That's what I thought. Now, do take a seat, Mr. Hopeless. Our serving man here has found you a clean plate, I see, so that's something."
Alexander didn’t move. He stood up straighter, bringing himself to something like attention. Fowler stared at him with a look of amusement. “Oh, we have a proper ensign for a change! It’s about time, I can tell you.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I don’t see how outranking me gives you a right to my food or possessions.”
Fowler’s grin faded. “Snotty, since you’re new here I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you question me. Just this once, mind you.” He used the big knife to neatly slice an apple. “Now, I do believe I told you to sit down.”
Their eyes met and locked. For just a moment, Alexander had a glimpse into the other boy’s heart. There was something pale and grotesque there that hid from the light, like one of those strange weeds one sometimes finds growing under a stone. It was clear he had the other boys bullied. Alexander disliked him instantly. He could see from the look in Fowler’s eyes that the feeling was mutual.
Alexander realized that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Fowler. As he moved to take his seat, a sudden lurch of the ship caused him to bump heavily against the table. A mug of grog slid off the edge of the table and spilled.
Alexander reached out to catch it, but the mug was too far away. All at once, the liquid seemed to hang suspended in mid-air.
He heard someone exclaim: "What the—"
Startled, Alexander looked up, and in the next instant the liquid splashed to the floor. It all happened so quickly that no one was sure they had really seen what they thought.
"That was odd."
"What's in this grog? Must be something tropical."
"Too bad for Hopeless here," Fowler said. "He'll be giving up his ration for a week—to me."
Alexander didn't care so much about the grog—the sailors’ customary drink of water, rum and lime juice—but he didn't like the idea of being ordered about. Roger was clearly too easygoing to put up much of a fight, and the Irish boy, while outspoken, seemed to know better than to cause trouble. Conversation resumed at the table, but to Alexander's ears the talk sounded stilted and wooden. He had the impression that no one else much liked Fowler's rules, either.
As he ate the warm food and felt his belly grow full, he found himself actually growing sleepy. His head had suddenly begun to throb. It had been an eventful day, to say the least, and he had not slept well the previous night in the tavern, in strange surroundings with the darkness punctuated by the snores of other sleeping travelers.
Roger saw him nodding off, and took him by the elbow before Alexander managed to slump into his soup. He had never felt so tired. Waves of exhaustion seemed to wash over him.
"Long day, eh? Let's get you to your hammock."
Roger wasn't the only one who had noticed Alexander's weariness. "Mr. Hopeless can take midwatch," Fowler said from the head of the table. "You'll wake him, Mr. Higson, and make certain he's aware of his duties."
"Aye, aye," Roger said. He did not look happy—maybe even a little cowed. Clearly, he was afraid of the older boy. He took a firmer grip on Alexander's arm. "Come on, then."
Roger led him to a hammock that was already strung up in the narrow space at the end of the room. Apparently the ensigns lived, ate and slept in the same cramped area. It was a step up from the sailors and the marines—who had to make do among the cannons on the drafty gun deck—but only just.
Alexander eyed the hammock with more than a bit of trepidation. It was a flimsy-looking thing, like a corner of sail or a shroud in which you might wrap a dead man, not like a proper bed at all, which in Alexander's experience had four legs and a mattress.
"It does take some getting used to," Roger said with a laugh. "The trick is not to roll right out again. Don't worry, though, because you'll get the hang of it, and then this hammock will be your new best friend—when you get to spend time in it!"
Carefully, Alexander managed to edge his way into the hammock. The fabric swayed and stretched beneath him, but it managed to hold his weight. The hammock was also surprisingly comfortable. All of a sudden, shutting his eyes seemed like the most important thing Alexander had ever done before.
"Roger, I don't know what's come over me," he whispered. "I'm so tired and my head aches."
"Dealing with Fowler has been known to do that."
"You've been very kind to me. I hope that I can be a good friend to you."
"Don't mention it, Alexander. Now get to sleep." His smile slipped a bit as he looked back over his shoulder at the table where Ensign Fowler presided. "Your watch will be here before you know it."
• • •
It seemed he had hardly fallen asleep when someone was shaking him awake.
"Alexander! Wake up!"
He jolted upright and would have rolled right out of the hammock if Roger hadn't been there to steady it. He had been dreaming of home: sunshine, fields to walk upon, and of his big, soft bed. In the mixed-up way of dreams, he had somehow imagined there were tiny gryphons flitting about the empty rooms at Kingston Hall. He opened his eyes to see the dark ensigns' cabin and smelled the stale air. The dream slipped away, and he realized that this hammock was now his bed and this ship was now his home.
"What is it?" Alexander groaned.
"Time for your first duties." Roger seemed cheerful despite the hour. "You must have been having a good dream. I practically had to dump you on the deck to wake you."
"I was dreaming about gryphons."
Roger grimaced. "Well, it's a good thing I woke you, then. I'm not sure I'd trust a gryphon not to eat you in your sleep, whether you dreamed him up or not."
"That's not exactly a reassuring thought." He recalled Lord Parkington's gryphon, Lemondrop. He thought about the beast's bright, yellow eyes and shuddered. He couldn't imagine why the flyers would want to ride a beast that was better suited to a nightmare.
Alexander rolled awkwardly out of the hammock and shrugged into his stiff new sea cloak. He'd been so tired that he hadn't even undressed for bed. All around them were strung the hammocks of the other sleeping ensigns. As silently as they could, they slipped from the ensigns' quarters.
But as he made his way through the ship and up on deck, he soon discovered that the Resolution was never truly silent or sleeping. Because the ship sailed on through the night, a portion of the crew was required to be on duty to trim the sails and perform dozens of other duties that kept the ship running. A certain number of men also had to keep a lookout at all times for enemy ships. England's enemies never truly slept, either, and there was always a danger of encountering a Napoleonist patrol or a raiding flight of gryphons that in an instant could tear the ship's sails to shreds with their razor-sharp claws or strafe the deck with bomblets or pistol shots. Tonight, however, they were still very close to English waters and so it was doubtful that the Napoleonists would be so daring on a cold winter's night.
"You have mid
watch," Roger explained as they made their way on deck. "Each watch is four hours, and midwatch is midnight to four o'clock in the morning. Those aren't anyone's favorite hours—not if you like your sleep, and who doesn't—but at least you'll be early for breakfast."
"Four hours doesn't seem too bad."
"It doesn't seem that way at first, but on a night like this the cold soaks into your bones. Plus the ensigns have classes tomorrow morning, and word is that our new teacher is a good friend of the captain and fancies himself something of a scholar, which is bad news for us. He'll actually want to teach us something, so that means more work for us."
"I reckon this was supposed to be Fowler's watch."
"As a matter of fact, it was. But as the senior ensign he is within his right to assign the watch to someone else. I suppose he wants to break you in a bit after you stood up to him at dinner. Fowler isn't one you want to cross, and his friends Lloyd and Sweeney aren't much better. Keep your head down and do what he says, Alexander, and you'll be fine."
"I thought we were here to fight the French and that usurper Napoleon, not each other."
"If I were you, I wouldn't raise that particular issue with Fowler." Roger snorted, then seemed to grow thoughtful. "You know, that was a funny thing at dinner, how that splash of grog just seemed to hang in the air. I thought it was just me, but the others saw it too."
"After the day I had, I wouldn't trust anything my eyes saw." He had forgotten all about the episode, but now that Roger mentioned it, it had been strange. "Here I am starting my second day after a few hours of sleep in a hammock, and lucky you gets to be my guide again."
"I don't mind so much. Most of the officers are sleeping, so there's no one watching your every move and correcting you every step of the way. You'll see that during the day they all do that, trying to impress the captain with how sharp-eyed they are."
"And is he impressed?"
"Let's just say Captain Bellingham isn't easily impressed by anyone—or anything, for that matter. But a word to the wise, Alexander. The captain doesn't sleep well—I don't know that he sleeps at all—and sometimes he'll come up on deck to keep an eye on things. Like as not, he throws an old cloak over his shoulders so you can't tell it's him."
Roger explained an ensign's duties on midwatch. On a ship the size of the Resolution, he would not be officer of the watch—the officer in charge. That duty fell to a lieutenant or one of the more experienced ensigns. Alexander would serve as second in command. He would observe the helmsman and make certain that he followed the course on the ship's compass set by the captain. He would also be expected to walk about the deck to make certain that none of the sailors or the marines posted as sentries were sleeping. Here in the English Channel, there was always a danger of running into a Napoleonist ship or a sudden aerial attack by enemy gryphons.
"That doesn't sound like much," Alexander said, feeling a bit disappointed.
Roger clapped him on the shoulder, though Alexander barely felt it through the thick cloak. "Not to worry, but if we sight the French, you'll take command of a gun crew."
The thought made Alexander a little excited—and sick to the stomach. He really hoped that the Napoleonists would not show themselves tonight.
The officer of the watch was Lieutenant Swann, the same officer Alexander had met when he first came aboard the Resolution. Swann was busy working out some arrangement of the sails with several of the crews, and he only acknowledged Alexander with a hurried nod. Roger wasn't on duty, so he wished Alexander good luck and went below to try to get more sleep.
Alexander found himself without a great deal to do. The truth was that he didn't have the first idea of how to run a ship, or what was really required of an ensign. He was an officer, so he was in charge ... of what? He lingered for a while within sight of Lieutenant Swann, just in case the man should need him or have orders for Alexander. But the lieutenant and the rest of the crew seemed to have everything in hand and paid Alexander no mind. He tried to puzzle out what they were discussing, but he kept overhearing words like "mizzen" and "topsail" that may as well have been French.
He noticed that near the massive ship's wheel was a large hourglass. Every half hour, a Royal Marine came and turned the timer just as it ran out of sand. He then gave the brass ship's bell a quick tug. Alexander had been hearing this bell continually all day, without really realizing its purpose. Now, he realized the bell was how the officers and crew measured time. The bell gave rhythm to life aboard the Resolution, much as the clock might in a town square or the crowing of roosters at dawn in the country.
After watching the hourglass being turned and the bell being rung several times without being called upon by Lieutenant Swann, Alexander decided to spend some time exploring the deck on his own. He was also afraid that if he stood in one place much longer, he would either fall asleep—or freeze. It was still bitterly cold.
Although there were a few men about on deck, it wasn't nearly as populated as during the day. Alexander soon found himself far toward the front of the ship, where no one else seemed to be. He hooked an arm securely through the rigging near the forward mast to keep his balance as he gazed up at the night sky.
The stars had come out, and the air was so clear and cold that the celestial points of light shimmered and sparkled. It was hard to believe that they were distant suns, perhaps with planets all their own. The thought made Alexander feel very alone as the Resolution slipped through the vast and empty sea. His nose was suddenly runny, and his eyes teared up. He tried to tell himself it was only on account of the cold. Alexander resisted the urge to wipe his nose with the sleeve of his coat. As he stood looking up at the sky, he became aware of voices nearby.
"Come now, give us another drink."
"You've had enough, you have. Share it, why don't you!"
The voices startled Alexander, and it took him a moment to locate the men in the darkness. He now saw that three men stood in the lee of the forward mast, seeking what shelter they could from the winter wind.
"I won this bottle fair and square, and I mean to drink it."
"Hush now! If we get caught, the captain will have us in irons."
Now Alexander was certain the men had not seen him. There was also something familiar about the voices. He chanced a look between the ropes, and in the starlight he could make out the men's faces. He recognized the three sailors who had rowed him to the Resolution. He gulped, hoping that they hadn't seen him. The big one had made no bones about the fact that he gladly would have thrown Alexander into the harbor, given half a chance.
He wondered what to do. He might be able to slip away before the men saw him, or stay hidden. Maybe he should report this to Lieutenant Swann. He had half made up his mind to do just that, when he had a thought. I am a ship's officer. Me. If the men were doing something they should not, it was his duty to stop it, and stop it now—not go running to the lieutenant like some tattle-tale schoolboy.
Alexander took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the mast. The three men gave a start—obviously they had thought themselves alone on this section of the deck.
"What's going on here?" Alexander demanded. His voice sounded brittle and angry in the winter air—older somehow—and that gave him confidence, though his heart was pounding. These were grown men, veteran sailors, and the biggest one towered over Alexander.
"Just having a bit of fun," the big one said. He didn't seem all that worried about Alexander's arrival. In fact, Alexander couldn't be sure on account of the darkness, but something in the man's voice made him think the sailor might be smiling. "We didn't think anyone else was about."
"Well, I am about. And you seem to be drinking on duty."
The big one squinted at him. "You're the new ensign, ain't you? Mr. Hope. The one who looked green about the gills before we left the harbor, ha, ha! Let me tell you how it is, young sir. This is usually Mr. Fowler's watch, you see, and he don't mind—"
"I am not Mr. Fowler!" Anger boiled up in Alexander
at the mention of the bullying ensign, whom he suddenly suspected was not a very good officer. "I remember your name. You’re Jameson, aren’t you?"
"Yes … sir."
"And you?" Alexander looked at the other men.
"I’m Wilcox and this here’s Kineke, sir."
"I want you to toss that bottle in the sea."
"You what?"
"Do it now!"
The big man didn't need to be told twice. He hurled the bottle overboard. He looked back at Alexander, clearly unhappy. "There," he said. He wasn't smiling now.
"I want to see you three working. Coil those lines there, and keep a sharp eye on the horizon. There are Napoleonist ships about, and they would like nothing better than to catch us unawares. And no more drinking on duty, or by Neptune, you'll have more than me to answer to next time."
"Yes, sir."
Alexander clasped his hands behind his back so that the sailors wouldn't see that they were shaking—and it wasn't from the cold. He waited to make certain the men got to work, and then turned to leave. As he walked away, he noticed another figure standing quietly in the shadows just a few feet away. The tall, bulky figure wore an officer's great coat, but he was bareheaded in the cold, his long dark hair tied back in a queue. Alexander hadn't seen the other officer standing there, and he was sure the sailors hadn't either, but the man had been close enough to hear everything that had just happened. The man's face was shrouded in darkness, but he gave Alexander a nod.
As he continued walking back toward the wheel, it took Alexander a moment to realize that he had just met the captain.
CHAPTER FOUR
The classroom aboard Resolution was unlike anything Alexander had expected. Mostly, his schooling at Kingston Hall had involved a series of tutors, most of them not much older than Alexander, who taught him Greek history and mathematics and Latin in exchange for room and board, plus whatever small sum his uncle had been willing to pay. Alexander almost always took his lessons in the library, surrounded by richly bound leather volumes. This was the room where his uncle retreated in the evenings to smoke his pipe and drink brandy, and the soft leather chairs were the best in the house—most of the other furniture had long since been sold off or crated up.
