by David Healey
Alexander had been no great student, but he liked the stories of the ancient Greeks well enough. It was reading the stories in the original Greek that gave him a headache. On the dullest afternoons, sleepy after lunch, both he and the tutor sometimes nodded off over their books.
The classroom aboard Resolution was nothing more than a space that had been cleared on deck, never mind the biting wind or the fact that sailors were busy hauling and shouting all around them—even in the rigging overhead. The noise and cold assured that there would be no napping in this classroom. Instead of chairs, the students sat on benches or small casks, tucking their hands deep in their cloaks to stay warm. One or two swiped at their noses with their sleeves, a reminder as to why ensigns had been given the despised nickname "snotty."
At the back of this makeshift classroom, occupying a bench of their own, sat Fowler, Sweeney and Lloyd, all in a row. Fowler looking particularly well rested, and no wonder, considering that Alexander had taken his watch. His own eyes felt red and itchy from lack of sleep. Fowler saw him watching and gave Alexander a crooked, knowing smile. Alexander looked away.
In addition to the ensigns of Resolution, the class also contained half a dozen flyers. These boys sat all in a group off to themselves, their bright blue uniforms making a splash of color on the deck on what was an altogether gray and overcast morning. Lord Parkington was among them, and Alexander tried to catch his eye, but the boy was too busy chattering with the other flyers.
While the Royal Navy ensigns ran the gamut in size and shape, from hulking thugs like Sweeney and Lloyd to mere waifs like the Irish boy Liam Fitzgerald, the flyers were smallish and compact like gymnasts. Their size was dictated by necessity, for sometimes two or three flyers climbed aboard a single gryphon if they were making a pass to drop bomblets or aerial caltrops. In battle, there was generally a flyer who piloted the gryphon and a stern rider. Alexander was relieved that the flyers had left their gryphons chained safely below. Despite the fresh air, his nose seemed to detect a whiff of the gryphon smell—a bit like wet cat—on the flyers' uniforms, unless it was only his imagination.
And then there was the teacher. Although Alexander had seen him come aboard, he hadn’t gotten a close look at him. Alexander had expected a young man, much like his previous tutors. But the man who hurried toward them across the deck, leaning into the wind, was much older—well into his thirties, at least. He was extremely tall and thin in a hungry way. There was a bump high up on his forehead that very well may have come from forgetting to duck through a hatch. He wore round, wire-rim spectacles that gave him a scholarly appearance, softening the piercing glare of his hawkish eyes as he looked around at the ensigns. He cleared his throat to get their attention, even though they were all staring at him.
"I am Professor Hobhouse," he announced, slightly out of breath. "We will begin our lesson this morning with mathematics in general and the determination of speed and distance in particular."
He grasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. As he did so, he appeared to stoop over, as if the air itself was rather heavy for his narrow shoulders. "Now, here is the situation. Two ships start from the same harbor at the same time, but they are traveling in opposite directions. One vessel moves two knots per hour slower than the faster vessel. At the end of a ten-hour period, they are twenty leagues apart. How many leagues had the slower ship traveled at the end of the ten hours?"
All the ensigns and flyers were equipped with small blackboards. There soon came the sound of chalk clicking on slate. It was a relatively simple problem, but Alexander struggled a bit with the division. How many times did six go into twenty?
Professor Hobhouse paced in front of their group. He seemed to be humming a little tune to himself, the way that impatient people sometimes do when they are put upon to wait. Alexander noticed that up close, the teacher's coat was worn to the point of being shabby, but it was clear from the cut and fabric that it had once been elegant. He could make out several places where the coat had been painstakingly patched or repaired with a few stitches. The coat seemed to have all of its buttons, but several did not match.
"Time, gentlemen! Let us see how you did, shall we?"
Some of the ensigns grumbled, and the bits of chalk made a few final clicks against the slates. One by one, the teacher took up an ensign's slate to look at the answers. Some he returned with a nod, while others received only a sigh and a shake of the head. There seemed to be more of those. Fowler, Sweeney and Lloyd all earned looks of exasperation.
"We have some work to do, I fear," Professor Hobhouse remarked to no one in particular.
When he got in front of Alexander, Professor Hobhouse grabbed up his slate and squinted at it. "Your handwriting leaves something to be desired, Mr. Hope," he said. "Though you do see to have the right answer, if I can decipher your chicken scratch. Do work to improve that, Mr. Hope. A neat hand is a sign of a gentleman, or of a Royal Navy officer."
"Yes, sir."
Hobhouse moved on to the row of flyers. Mostly, he seemed pleased with their work. He paused in front of Lord Parkington and took the flyer's slate. "Nicely done, my lord," Hobhouse said. "There does seem to be promise for some of you, at least."
Fowler muttered something, but the wind snatched the words away before Alexander could quite hear it. On either side of Fowler, Sweeney and Lloyd snickered.
Professor Hobhouse stalked over and stood in front of them. "Do you have something to say, Mr. Fowler?"
Fowler seemed to think about it for a moment, then blurted out: "We're sailors! We need to know the winds and tides, and how to aim a thirty-two pounder! I don't see the point of all this schooling." He paused. "And I don't like being ordered about by a civilian."
Alexander held his breath. He hated to admit to himself that he and Fowler agreed upon something, but he had been thinking much the same thing, though he never would have said it directly to the teacher. Hobhouse only clasped his hands firmly behind his back and walked in his stooped way back to the front of the class, where he straightened up to his full, rather impressive height and cleared his throat to speak.
"It is true that I am a civilian. But I would remind you, Mr. Fowler—and everyone else—that on this ship I carry the courtesy rank of lieutenant. Just as does the surgeon, who is also a civilian. So you see, I do outrank you. If that does not satisfy you and you perhaps want to take up this issue with Captain Bellingham, then I would encourage you to do so." Professor Hobhouse paused as if considering that point. "I might add that the captain does not have a great deal of patience with ensigns who don't wish to study. He would surely consider this to be shirking one's duties. Now, if anyone would like to go speak to the captain now, I shall gladly dismiss you from class."
At that suggestion, no one moved, and not a single ensign would meet Professor Hobhouse's owlish glare.
He cleared his throat again.
"Now, would anyone care to tell me the answer to the following question: You are in port and wish to purchase two books and new socks. You have five pounds to spend. If you buy two books for three pounds, eight shillings how many pairs of socks can you buy for sixty pence apiece?” The teacher then went on to explain how, exactly, one might determine the answer. Alexander found it somewhat difficult to concentrate, considering that they were surrounded by the busy crew, who regarded the foundering class of ensigns with open amusement.
They struggled through another problem, this one having to do with the trajectory of cannonballs, with more of the ensigns getting the answer right. Professor Hobhouse nodded with something approaching satisfaction, but he could see that he was losing the attention of the young officers.
"Perhaps we have gotten off to a poor start in studying mathematics first," Hobhouse announced. "Though I suppose we have many more painful hours ahead of us, judging by the dismal showing. I can only hope some of you shall make better sailors than scholars, else-wise we shall set out for Dover and end up in Madagascar, I dare say. In any case, I believe w
e shall change our course of study for the remainder of this class."
Alexander was fully expecting that they would now embark on something as scintillating as Latin or grammar, and he just barely managed to suppress a yawn. Beside him, Roger wasn't as successful, opening his mouth wide enough to catch swallows, let alone flies, which earned him a sharp look from Professor Hobhouse. "Do try to stay awake, Mr. Higson."
They watched the teacher go to a sea chest that had apparently been brought up earlier and placed on deck. Alexander assumed it was full of textbooks. But to his surprise, Professor Hobhouse opened the lid and took out a sword. Roger had been in the middle of another yawn, but instantly his mouth snapped shut.
"One of the skills the captain has asked me to teach you is fencing," Hobhouse announced. The teacher was a gangly man and did not appear particularly athletic, but he held the sword easily enough. He swung the blade and it made a singing sound in the winter air. "If you are called upon to board an enemy ship, you could certainly take up a cutlass and hack away at the enemy—which is what most of our sailors do—but your chances of success and survival will be substantially better if you have a few basic sword-fighting skills."
He had each of them come forward to take a sword. These were practice weapons, pitted from the salt air, with stains that may have been rust—or old blood. The gouged blades and worn grips showed that they were well used, and they did not have especially sharp edges. But the sword points were real enough, and the blades could certainly do damage.
"I've been handling a sword for years," Fowler muttered to Sweeney and Lloyd. He swung the sword impressively. He snorted. "I don't need a schoolteacher to show me how to skewer a Napoleonist."
Hobhouse gave no sign of having overheard. "Now pair off," he said. Alexander had meant to team up with Roger—whom he doubted would try to kill him right off—but in the ensuing shuffle he somehow found himself face to face with Lord Parkington. Alexander noticed that unlike some of the other ensigns, there was nothing awkward about the way the flyer held a sword. He supposed that a lord might have had some lessons with a blade.
"Too bad for you," Parkington said. "Your second day on the ship and I'm about to carve you up like a roast beef."
The flyer's blue eyes glittered in his handsome face, and Alexander wasn't sure if the other boy was smiling in amusement or in anticipation of serving Alexander up like Christmas dinner. As he faced his opponent, Alexander couldn’t help but notice that his lordship’s uniform was richly made and immaculately clean. It seemed unfair that one person should have so much—nobility, wealth, and good looks—and Alexander fought down the urge to slash outright at that perfect face. It was some consolation that the other boy was shorter than Alexander and thinner—though he seemed to have a great deal of confidence for a relatively small boy.
"Balance is key when fencing," Professor Hobhouse said. He struck a stance that he wished the ensigns to imitate. "If you slip or lose your footing, you've likely lost your life in an actual fight. Keep your chin up. Keep your other arm behind you. It keeps it out of harm's way and helps improve your balance. You don't want to swing your blade wildly—you're not chopping wood or swatting flies. Keep it out in front of you."
Professor Hobhouse might have said more, but he was interrupted by Lieutenant Swann, who had ambled over with some of the crew. Mathematics wasn't much of a spectator sport, but sword fighting lessons were something else altogether. "I see that you are finally teaching these young gentlemen something useful," he said. "Might I be able to assist you in the lesson?"
"By all means, Mr. Swann." Hobhouse nodded politely as the lieutenant drew his sword and struck an en guarde position.
The blades slithered together as the two men tested each other. Alexander saw that Lieutenant Swann could barely suppress his confident smile. Clearly, he thought he was about to look good in front of the ship's young ensigns.
Something unexpected happened next. Hobhouse struck the lieutenant's sword hard, then stepped back quickly. Lieutenant Swann rushed to fill the gap, but as he did so the teacher sprang forward to meet him, using the momentum to swirl his own blade around the lieutenant's sword, which was suddenly no longer in his hand. Professor Hobhouse caught the sword in his free hand and pointed both glittering blades at the lieutenant's chest. Astonished, Lieutenant. Swann could only stare helplessly at the sword points.
"It's all in the footwork," Hobhouse said. And in one smooth motion he reversed the captured sword and offered it back to the lieutenant with a polite bow. "Thank you so much, Lieutenant Swann. That was an excellent demonstration.”
"Why, of course." The lieutenant seemed flustered as he took his sword back and sheathed it. He then hurried off, announcing as he did so: "I must return to my duties."
"Now you, boys," Professor Hobhouse said.
The clash of metal soon rang out across the deck. Lord Parkington came right at him, but Alexander beat the flyer's sword aside and lunged. His lordship managed to step back just in time to keep from getting a very nasty poke. He circled Alexander more cautiously now as their two swords clicked against each other.
Suddenly, there was a cry of pain. Alexander glanced over to see that Fowler had cut a gash across Liam’s face. The Irish boy did not drop his guard, but gripped his cheek with his free hand, circling Fowler warily. Blood ran between his fingers. Fowler was smiling. Liam didn’t make another sound, even though the wound must have been painful.
Hobhouse stepped between them. "Come lad, press this against it," the professor said, giving the Irish boy a clean handkerchief. "The surgeon will need to sew that up, I fear. I will take Mr. Fitzgerald below. Mr. Higson, do run ahead and fetch the surgeon."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"The rest of you, don't even think of touching those swords until I've returned!"
With that, Hobhouse was gone, gripping Liam’s shoulder in a reassuring manner as they made their way to the surgery.
Fowler walked over and used Liam’s coat to wipe clean the bloody blade. "Ugh, but this smells like rotten potatoes. I can tell an Irishman’s been wearing it. It could use with a good washing!" He then speared it with the sword and started toward the ship’s rail. Clearly, he intended to pitch Liam’s coat into the sea. Alexander suspected that it was the only coat Liam owned.
"Stop!" he cried, and stepped in front of Fowler to block his path.
"Mr. Hopeless," Fowler said. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
"Put down that coat."
"Make me." Fowler took a step forward, and Alexander raised his sword.
"You want to fight me?" Fowler smiled. "I suppose then that you'll soon be joining your Irish friend in the surgery." With that, he threw the coat at Alexander and lunged forward.
Alexander barely managed to knock the sword aside. Fowler struck at him again and Alexander retreated. The other ensign was older and stronger, and clearly more experienced with a sword. His next thrust caught Alexander in the shoulder. The sword was dull and he dodged at the last moment, but the blade still struck him a glancing blow, ripping his coat. Fowler's face was so close that Alexander could smell his breath. It reeked of grog and onions. "You fight worse than a Frenchman," Fowler said. "I'm going to put this sword right through your lungs, snotty."
Alexander remembered how Professor Hobhouse had stepped back to throw his opponent off balance, and he mimicked that same movement now. Fowler had to overreach to bring his thrust close to Alexander, who brought his sword down on Fowler's, forcing the other ensign even further off balance. Alexander's sword was turned the wrong way to strike, so he swung his fist instead and smashed Fowler in the chin with the wide iron hilt. The other ensign went down in a heap.
"Mr. Hope! Mr. Fowler! Belay that this instant!" Lieutenant Swann shouted at them in his full command voice, clearly angry. He hurried toward them, red faced and puffed up like a storm cloud. Considering that the lieutenant was generally calm, the sight of him so clearly angry was even more frightening. He looked as if he mi
ght rip them both to pieces. "What is the meaning of this?"
Alexander wasn't about to turn tattler regarding the fact that Fowler had been about to pitch Liam’s coat into the sea, and the other ensign was too busy picking himself up off the deck and rubbing his bruised chin to reply.
"Speak up!" Lieutenant Swann's face was very red indeed. When neither boy answered, he continued to shout. "Have it your way then, by Neptune! But you'll both be serving extra watches. And perhaps a good caning will serve as well! We shall see! What utter fools you are! Is it any wonder it's against orders for ensigns to go about armed with swords!"
Lieutenant Swann berated them both for a full two minutes in front of the other ensigns and most of the crew, who had gathered around to watch. When he finally let them go—snatching away their swords first—Alexander wandered back toward the classroom area. Professor Hobhouse still had not returned from the surgery, but Roger was already back.
Roger was now staring at him, open mouthed, as if Alexander had just done something incredibly stupid or very brave—perhaps a little of both.
But it was Lord Parkington who spoke up. "Very cheeky of you, for a sailor," his lordship said, and smiled. "I thought that only flyers were that reckless."
Alexander didn't have time to answer. A marine had appeared, looking very tall and intimidating, and asked for Mr. Hope. "Captain Bellingham's orders, sir," the marine said, once Alexander had been pointed out. "He wants to see you in his cabin in ten minutes."
CHAPTER FIVE
It was only natural to think that being summoned to the captain's cabin was not a good turn of events. Even Roger—usually so positive—was not sure what it meant.
