Mutineer

by Sutherland, J. A.

  Alexis smiled. Well, he’s not nervous, then. “We’re here, then,” she said, stopping short of the pub’s hatchway. “You’re quite clear on the way of this, Mister Tapscott?”

  “Absolutely, Miss Carew!” The man actually rubbed his hands together. “A spot of intrigue, yes?”

  “But important, Mister Tapscott. Please do remember that.”

  Alexis thought she’d found a solution to the men’s prize certificates, but it would take a bit of deception. She knew they’d not accept any funds from her — a pint of beer, perhaps, but nothing more. She’d likely even have to hide that she planned to pay for their berthing while on the station from her own funds, or they’d march themselves straight to the Assize Berth on their own. No, they were proud men and looked poorly on what they considered charity from anyone, even officers they liked.

  The amounts of the prize awards, even at a bit over ten pounds each, were too small for most reputable agents to bother with. In fact, her own accounts, at well over a thousand pounds now, were smaller than what Cupples, Beesley, and Stokes would normally handle, and it was only Captain Grantham’s referral that had gotten her an account. Luckily for her, their resident agent, Mister Tapscott, was enamored with the intrigue of her request and willing to go along with her.

  “I will, Miss Carew. Have no fear.”

  “All right, then,” she said, sliding the hatch open and entering.

  The pub was small, barely large enough to hold the two dozen spacers of her division. Nabb had chosen it well, since it made keeping an eye on the men easier and the large crowd would keep the pub owner happy. Tapscott followed her in and Alexis made her way to the center of the room. The men had been loud when she entered, but they quieted quickly and looked at her.

  “Had a good wet, lads?” she asked. When they’d settled down again, she pulled a free chair from underneath a table and stood on it so they could all see her. “I’ve news of the prize submission, so settle in and listen well.” The room was suddenly dead quiet, with only the gentle clink of the pub tender washing glasses. “They’ve submitted Sittich at a thousand pounds value — moreover, they’ve said our boat was the only ship In Sight for the action. Hermione isn’t in it.” She waited while those who realized what that meant cheered. “Yes, the whole lot’s to go to us in this room.” More cheers and she held a hand up. “But—”

  “Quiet up, you lot!” Nabb yelled.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling at him. “But, and you know there’s always a ‘but’ with the Prize Court, isn’t there? Captain Neals could still challenge it for Hermione and all her crew.”

  “Quiet!” Nabb yelled again into the shouts.

  “Nothing’s set, lads,” Alexis said. “But the certificates are out and yours are each quite a bit — ten pounds even.” She waited a moment for the new cheers to be silenced. “So I’ve your certificates here and you can take them out to some sharp who’ll give you, what, one or two of ten? Well, that seems a poor bargain when you mean to give some lubber a full eight pounds you risked your lives for, doesn’t it?”

  She gestured Tapscott forward. The little man looked around at the spacers and raised one hand to give a shaky wave. “This is Mister Tapscott of my own prize agents. A proper prize agent, one that officers, even my last captain, use, right? Tell them the offer, Mister Tapscott.”

  Tapscott cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable being the center of so much attention. “Yes, so, the offer is that my firm will hold your certificates for the fee of ten percent—”

  “What! We can get ten on the bloody corridor out there! Make it twenty!”

  Tapscott looked around bewildered.

  Nabb made his way through the tables and smacked the spacer on the back of the head. “Allmond, ya stupid git, it’s him what gets the ten!”

  “Who gets the rest then?” Allmond asked, rubbing his head.

  “We do!” Nabb shook his head in disgust.

  “But —” Allmond furrowed his brow, then his eyes opened wide. “That’s nine tens, that is!”

  “Ah, yes,” Tapscott said. “So, a ten percent fee and we will hold the certificates until the Prize Court makes its final determination, but we will advance you two pounds now and indemnify you against any loss should the Prize Court’s final award be less than that.”

  There was silence for a moment, then, “What’s that mean, then?”

  Isom stood up. “It means,” he said, “that it’s two pounds for each of us now, the rest, less his ten percent, when the Prize Court finally decides, and he’s the only one gets buggered if they send it sour.”

  “Well that’s all right then!”

  “More’n all right! Let’s hear it for Mister Tapscott, lads!”

  Tapscott looked around, grinning and eyes wide at the sudden cheers.

  Alexis smiled too as Tapscott pulled out his tablet for the men to sign over their certificates and receive their two pound advance in coin. Smiled, at least, until it was Isom’s turn and she watched as he carefully read the contract then looked up at her in surprise. She shook her head, willing him to remain silent. Of course it would be Isom, the legal clark, who’d be the only one of the crew to actually read the thing and see that it’s my money for the advance and me taking the risk. Ten pound accounts were far too small for Cupples, Beesley, and Stokes to bother with, but they’d manage just about any sort of arrangement for a fee.

  Isom signed the contract, accepted his two pounds, and stepped aside for the next man. He paused by Alexis. “Thank you, sir.”

  Alexis squeezed his shoulder gently, then hopped back onto the chair. “All right, lads! One last round here, then it’s off to find a berth for you. Nabb, do you have any thoughts on that?”

  * * * * *

  Alexis stood in the crowded civilian corridor, uncertain as to whether she really wanted to do this. The smaller corridor branching off this one was much as she remembered … as much as she could remember it, given her state the last time she was here. Where the main corridor was clearly commercial, with well-lit storefronts and signs for each establishment, the side corridor was narrow, narrower than she remembered, with no signs, only numbers, above each hatchway. She clenched her hands tightly, running her thumb over the smooth glass of the bottle she held and wondered at her nervousness.

  Her lads were all off carousing with their newfound coin and the inn Nabb had found for them was empty. Well, pub, really, for they’d discovered that none of the inns in the Naval section of the station would cater to common spacers, only to officers. Spacers were rarely granted more than a watch or two stationside and then expected back aboard their ship — if they were between ships the Navy housed them in the Assize Berths to keep them from running.

  They’d had to settle for a pub that offered a few sleeping pods available for those who merely wanted a quick nap before resuming their carouse. Ten pods between them, so Alexis had assigned one each to herself, and the pilot, Hearst, then placed the lads onto three watches to split time in those remaining. But with so much coin in their pockets, none had felt the need to sleep or relax the first night, so the pub was empty and Alexis left at loose ends.

  She’d realized suddenly, sitting by herself in the empty pub, just how alone she truly was. Not just on the station, where she knew no one but her lads from Hermione — and an officer certainly couldn’t simply sit and talk to them, they wouldn’t stand for it — but even aboard the ship itself.

  The hatchway she was watching slid open and a woman in a merchant ship’s uniform came out. She ducked her head and hurried to the main corridor, quickly easing herself into the flow of people. Alexis shook her head in wonder.

  The lads make a visit to a bawdy house and it’s a public event, with three cheers and slaps on the back, but I’ve yet to see a woman leave there with her head up. She hesitated, realized she was doing the same by hanging around uncertainly, and squared her shoulders.

  Alexis strode across the corridor, down the narrower side corridor, and tapp
ed her finger to the hatchway’s call button. In a moment, the hatch slid open and Alexis recognized the woman who opened it from her previous visit.

  “Navy?” the woman said, then her eyebrows went up and she stood aside. “Come in, dear, I remember you. Six … eight weeks, has it been?”

  Alexis entered, flushing a bit and clearing her throat at being remembered. She nodded, uncertain what to say, and realized that she didn’t recall the woman’s name from her first visit.

  “And what can we do for you tonight, dear?”

  “I …” Alexis swallowed hard. “I was wondering if Mister Blackmon might be available?”

  The woman smiled. “‘Mister Blackmon’, is it?” she asked, causing Alexis to flush more as she realized patrons of the establishment would almost certainly be on a first name basis with its inhabitants. The woman glanced at the screen of red and green circles. “As it happens, ‘Mister Blackmon’ is indeed available for you.” She raised an eyebrow again. “Will it be all night in again, then?”

  Alexis felt as though her face might burst into flames at any moment, but nodded. She fished in her pocket for the coins, not wanting the transaction to appear on her accounts, even though she was the only one who reviewed them. “One pound …” She cleared her throat again on hearing an odd catch in her voice. “One pound seven, yes?”

  The woman nodded and took the coins. “Room seven, dear.”

  Alexis climbed the stairs and paused outside the hatch to the room, then clutched her bottle tightly and rapped softly on it. She flushed again, remembering how she’d simply walked in the last time, thinking it would be an empty room. What if he’d just been standing there in …

  The hatch slid open wide and Alexis realized her nervousness had her gazing down at the deck, which was not such a demure thing to do when a man opens the hatch to his room wearing only a very short silk robe that barely covered his … Does he own any trousers at all, I wonder?

  She jerked her gaze upward to his face.

  Cort Blackmon’s face broke in a wide grin. “Alexis?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, I …”

  “Come in, lass,” he said, standing aside. “Come in.” Alexis hurried inside and he slid the hatch shut behind her. “Ha’ye been well, lass?”

  “I have, I suppose,” Alexis said, then hurried on, wanting to make herself clear. “I thought we might … talk again? That is to say, the last time … you said it was not uncommon.” She bit her lip. “To talk, that is.”

  “Aye, talkin’s common enow,” Cort said, his lips twitching. He reached out and took the bottle from her hand. He held it up and raised an eyebrow. “Bourbon? An’ ‘ere it was the Scotch whiskey y’were goin’ on aboot so, last y’were here. Been a fair bit since I was home an’ tasted it m’self.” He took two glasses from a nearby table, gesturing to a chair next to it, and opened the bottle.

  “Perhaps a bit too much, last I was here,” Alexis said, accepting a glass and taking a small sip, barely wetting her lips.

  “Y’were a bit jaiked up.” He seated himself on the edge of the bed, glass in hand. “An’ what’s on yer mind tonight, lass?”

  * * * * *

  Alexis came awake slowly. She clenched her eyes shut and burrowed her face into the warm body next to her. Cort’s arm tightened around her, pulling her close.

  “D’ye sleep well, lass?”

  However does he do that? Does he lay awake waiting for one to wake up?

  “I did,” she said, realizing it was true. She felt quite rested for the first time in quite a long while.

  “Nae bad dreams?”

  Alexis smiled. “None,” she said. Whether from their talk or simply from the comfort of being with someone she could talk to, Horsfall hadn’t come to her dreams that night. She hadn’t even had the anxiety of dreading it before falling asleep.

  She felt a wetness against her cheek and sat up abruptly, wiping at her face.

  “Oh …” She stared at the wet spot of drool staining the chest of Cort’s silk robe and grimaced.

  “Aye, lass, an’ y’snore nae a little bit.”

  Alexis smoothed her jumpsuit, tugging things into place — anything, really, to avoid looking at him.

  Cort laughed and reached out to take her hand and squeeze it. “Trust me, lass, a man’ll put up w’both drool an’ snorin’ fer you.”

  Alexis felt her face grow hot, both from his touch and his words. She glanced up and met his eye, lip caught between her teeth. She had a feeling she might one day regret doing no more than talk with Cort Blackmon. Especially if he’s as skilled at … other things as he is at listening.

  For he was remarkably good at listening, giving her his full attention and just letting her speak, without forever trying to interject solutions. Occasionally he’d prompted her with a comment or question, but for the most part had let her work her thoughts out on her own.

  Though he had answered her questions readily enough regarding those matters she was curious about. Such as the workings of the houses and the ladies who worked the naval port. She had a better understanding now, she thought, of the men who’d send most of their pay home to wife and family then spend the rest on a portside bawd. A bit of comfort’s welcome, far from home.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, frowning at how rumpled her jumpsuit was.

  “I should be getting back to check on the lads,” she said.

  Cort nodded and stood, retrieving her beret from a corner of the compartment. Alexis paused in pulling on her boots, remembering the rather obscene rant she’d been on about Captain Neals when she’d thrown it there. He rounded the end of the bed to hand her the beret.

  “Droolin’ an’ snorin’ an’ profane oaths,” he said with a teasing grin. “Powerful lot o’ bad habits fer sich a tiny package.”

  Alexis pulled her boot on and accepted the beret. She stood and grasped the mostly empty bottle of bourbon from the table. “You’ve left off the drinking,” she said, answering his grin with one of her own.

  “Drinks nae a bad habit, lass. The bloody Navy sails on it.”

  * * * * *

  Alexis made her way back to the pub, uncomfortably aware of her appearance.

  A midshipman roaming the corridors in the station’s early morning with a rumpled jumpsuit and tousled hair all astray, for she’d lost the tie for her usual ponytail at some point, and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey clutched in her hand. I’ll be lucky if I’m not taken up by the Station Patrol before I get there.

  She managed to make it back, though the looks she received from other officers made her cringe, and almost sighed with relief as the pub’s hatch slid closed behind her. Nabb and a half dozen or so of the crew were up and about their breakfast.

  “Are y’ all right, Mister Carew?” Nabb asked.

  Alexis smiled at the concern in his voice. “Quite all right, Nabb,” she assured him. “I’ve just had a fine evening out.” She cleared her throat seeing a couple of the lads look from her to their breakfasts and back with raised eyebrows. “Everything all right with the lads?”

  “No troubles, sir. All back by the start o’ the Morning Watch an’ time in the sleep pods is settled.”

  “Thank you, Nabb.” She bit her lip at the implication. She herself was returning almost five bells into the Morning Watch, though as an officer she wasn’t strictly required to be adhere to the schedule she set for the crew. Still, she wondered what the lads would think of it. She crossed to the bar and set the bottle of bourbon on it.

  “Would you keep this someplace safe for me?” she asked the publican. At his nod, she turned back to Nabb and ran her hands over her hair, trying to get it into some sort of order. “I’ll just …” She headed for the hatch to the sleeping pods and heads. “I’ll just freshen up a bit and we’ll see what needs doing today.”

  “Aye sir.”

  Alexis slid the hatch to the pods and heads closed behind her, ignoring the comment she heard one of the spacers, Scholer, make.<
br />
  “‘at’s a proper spacer, her.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Are you Carew?”

  Alexis looked up from her tablet and the plate of breakfast, the pub they’d found for their berthing served a respectable plate of sausage and beans, to find a lieutenant beside her table. She’d been reviewing the ships in-system. There were but five days left on Admiral Piercy’s promised fortnight and she was beginning to allow herself to hope that Hermione would not show. She hadn’t said anything to the men about the chance of being sent to another ship, though, as she didn’t want to get their hopes up.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” she said, standing. She caught sight of the Station Patrol insignia on the lieutenant’s uniform and her shoulders slumped. “Drunk or fighting?” And, please, let it be one of those and not the third over breakfast.

  In the nine days they’d been on station, not a one had gone past without the Station Patrol dragging some of her lads back to the pub. It was an expected thing for ships in port, but Alexis had never had to deal with the aftermath directly. She began to understand why some captains would keep the men aboard ship, or at least limit the time they had for liberty.

  The most common reason was drunkenness — meaning so implausibly drunk that the spacer had actually stopped drinking, for no pub owner would think to call the Patrol on an active patron. A distant second was fighting — distant not because the lads got into few fights, but because fights were so common that the Patrol simply wasn’t called unless the pub owner felt the property damage was excessive and couldn’t be settled up privately. Those two were the most common reasons for the Patrol to ask for her, but she held a special dread for the third. Six times now a spacer had been brought back over a contract dispute with one of the station’s ladies of negotiable virtue. ‘Negotiable’ being the sticking point, and Alexis found it rather uncomfortable to stand there with a Patrol lieutenant and no few marines while one of her lads explained exactly what he felt he’d negotiated and not received. The sheer variety was enlightening, though.