Watch-and-watch until Penduli? Seven or more days, then, of having to be up and on duty every other watch. She’d have a bare three hours sleep now, until the end of the Morning Watch, then back on her feet to serve the Forenoon? Four more hours sleep through the Afternoon, and then up again for the shortened First Dog Watch and a choice between supper or sleep in the Second Dog? A week or more of it on top of the exhaustion she felt now.
She looked around the small space of the midshipman’s berth for a moment. A bare two meters square, with two bunks on the wall opposite the hatchway. Two triangular desks in the corners, now folded up flush against the bulkheads. So much the same as the berth she’d shared with Philip Easely aboard her first ship, H.M.S. Merlin.
Not the same. She turned off the light and closed her eyes, feeling them burn with fatigue. At least that’s what she told herself the burning was. Nothing aboard this ship of the damned is the same.
Alexis speared another piece of the ship’s beef, grown in the purser’s vats from nutrient solution, and crammed it into her mouth, chewing rapidly to get it down with as little time tasting it as she could manage. She grasped her glass of wine to wash some of the taste away, though the wine was not much better than the beef, being the sweet and sharply alcoholic ship’s wine the spacers referred to as Miss Taylor. Though still preferable to the thick, syrupy port they called blackstrap. She’d prefer to have a more palatable wine, of course, along with a meal made of something other than ship’s stores, but she’d found that was simply not possible for her aboard Hermione.
Bushby, the senior midshipman, filled his glass from one of the bottles on the table. Bottles that they’d bought in, not from the ship’s stores.
“More wine, gentlemen?” he asked, refilling everyone’s glasses at their nods. Everyone’s but hers, she noted. Also at the gunroom’s table were two of Hermione’s other midshipmen, Timpson, her berthmate, and Canion. The sixth, Brattle, had the watch and would eat at the start of the Second Dog Watch. The midshipmen were alone, the junior warrant officers and others who shared the gunroom, such as the captain’s clerk, marine sergeants, and surgeon’s mates being busy with other duties and would join Brattle for dinner in the Second Dog.
Bushby sat back in his chair, and brushed dark, unruly hair from his forehead. He shared a smirk with the other three at the table, before returning his gaze to Alexis. She followed his darting looks to the others, the little Ledyard, whose innocent face, she knew, hid a disturbing cruelty with the hands, Timpson, a fat, unpleasant boy of sixteen, and Canion, the oldest of the midshipmen at nineteen, but not the senior. That honor went to the absent Brattle. Alexis met Bushby’s eyes.
“No bottle to share with us, Carew?” he asked.
“None,” she answered.
Alexis missed the comforting surroundings of her previous ship, Merlin. On the much smaller sloop, there had been no separate wardroom for the lieutenants and senior warrant officers as there was here on Hermione. Here, alone with the other midshipmen, she felt things sometimes got out of hand and the presence of senior officers would cut some of the barbs and slights. The marines’ presence, at least, would have put a bit of a damper on them, for Alexis had continued her habit of working out with the marines in an effort to improve her combat skills. Despite the traditional rivalry between the spacers and the marine complement, she felt oddly quite at home with them.
Bushby cleared his throat and waited for silence. “Is no one curious?” he asked.
“Is it good news, then?” Timpson asked.
Bushby’s face broke into a wide grin. “Passed!” he announced to cheers and congratulations. Bushby had stood for lieutenant when last they’d stopped at Penduli Station, and news of the results must have reached him via the last packet ship they’d encountered.
Alexis raised her glass in turn when toasts were called for, not because she felt glad for the young man, but because not doing so would leave her singled out again. In truth, she was a little glad for him, but only because his passing the lieutenant’s examination might see him promoted off of Hermione and some new midshipman brought aboard.
Bushby waived their cheers down with what Alexis knew was false modesty. “Now, gentlemen, I’m only passed, not promoted. Have to find ourselves in-system with some ship needing a newly-made lieutenant before I can hope for that.” Until then, Bushby would remain a midshipman. But should Hermione encounter another ship that was short a lieutenant and had no midshipman aboard that her captain felt could act in the role, Bushby would likely be sent aboard. Or if one of Hermione’s lieutenants were killed in action, Bushby would find himself promoted without the need for Captain Neals to name him ‘acting’.
“To a bloody war or a sickly season!” Ledyard called out cheerfully in the traditional gunroom toast naming the two things that most led to promotion.
“We’ve the one, at least,” Canion said.
Alexis closed her eyes and sighed. They were such … children. Parroting the toasts of the lieutenants without understanding their import. None of the midshipmen around the table had faced a real action, even with the war and Hermione’s role as a free-sailing frigate, tasked with seeking out the Hanoverese warships and merchants. Thus far, they’d engaged no warships and the only merchants they’d closed with had been much smaller, striking their colors and surrendering as soon as Hermione came into range.
They’d, none of them save Alexis, stood on the gundeck while incoming fire struck the man next to them, burning straight through vacsuit and man to exit the other side. And won’t care one bit for the men when they do — only so long as they themselves aren’t harmed.
“Yes,” Bushby said. “It won’t be long before I’m promoted to commander, and a ship of my own. Then a short hop to be made Post and my name on the Captains List.”
“Then you’ve only to live long enough and you’ll be Admiral Bushby,” Canion said. He grinned and took a slow sip of his wine. “Of the Yellow, most like.”
Bushby snorted and the other midshipmen shared a laugh at his expense. Alexis looked down at her plate, not wanting him to think she was joining in the laughter. When a captain reached the top of the Captains List and was promoted to admiral, it was to the Fleet’s Blue Squadron, then to the White and Red Squadrons in time. To be ‘yellowed’, or promoted without distinction of squadron, was effectively to be retired — placed in a squadron that did not exist, with no ships, and left on half-pay.
“Bugger,” Bushby muttered, but he shared a grin with the others.
“Did you see we’ve gotten the latest Gazette from that last packet, gentlemen?” Canion asked.
“Yes,” Bushby answered. “And loads of mail, as well.”
“Did you get news from home, Carew?” Timpson asked. “Know you’ve been waiting for it.”
“No,” Alexis admitted. She regretted having asked, after some weeks aboard with no messages, if any of them knew how long it would take for hers to catch up. Now, with so much more time passed and still nothing, she’d only given them something more to use against her.
“That’s too bad,” Bushby said, a look of what she knew to be false sympathy on his face.
“Do you think they’ve forgot about you?” Ledyard asked.
“Mister Ledyard!” Timpson barked in mock outrage. “Your manners, sir.”
Ledyard raised his glass to take a sip of wine, eyebrows raised in innocence. “Only meant, well, out of sight and out of mind, don’t you know?”
Alexis clenched her jaw tight and returned to her meal. She was well aware that anything she said would only prolong their game and entertain them more. As it was, they’d be about it for a quarter hour or more — all of them cackling at each other’s latest riposte.
“Well, she is quite forgettable,” Timpson said. “You may have a point after all.”
“Perhaps the Navy’s come around and realized their mistake, Carew,” Bushby said, “and your family’s expecting you home any day?”
“Yes, Carew,” Ca
nion said. “Are you sure you didn’t miss orders to return to your proper place? Some kitchen, perhaps?”
“A proper husband’s bed?” Ledyard asked.
“Mister Ledyard!” Bushby said. “Now you do forget yourself!” Ledyard hung his head, but Alexis knew this outrage was false as well, which was proven as Bushby continued, “Apologize at once!”
Ledyard leapt to his feet and doffed his beret, face composed in contrition. He faced an empty chair that Alexis supposed was to represent her figurative husband.
“I do apologize, sir,” he said, eyes wide and downcast. “And I implore you to forgive my wishing such a fate upon you.”
“Fair enough,” Bushby said.
Alexis took another, large gulp of the Miss Taylor, wrinkling her nose at the taste. Oh, they were on a tear now and she could tell it would get much worse before the meal was over. If she’d realize none of the warrants would be dining with them, she’d have skipped supper altogether and stayed in her bunk, or gone Outside to watch the darkspace clouds that so fascinated her. Anything to avoid having to sit here helpless and take their abuse.
She’d tried everything she knew early on, but nothing worked with this group. There were too many of them and all cut from the same vulgar, bullying cloth. Anger made them laugh, sly ripostes were shouted down, and the few times she’d resorted to striking them … well, no matter how much time she spent training with the marines, outnumbered four or five to one and all of them but Ledyard bigger and stronger? No, that only got her beaten bloody and bruised, with the captain taking note of any marks she left on them and sending her to the masthead, or worse, for fighting.
“Hell!” Canion said with an exaggerated shudder. “Married to this tit? Can you imagine?”
“Tits’re the one thing you wouldn’t have to worry about! She’s certainly a dearth of that!”
“Now there’s a thought!” Bushby exclaimed as the laughter died.
He leaned forward and Alexis had no choice but to look up and meet his eyes, else they’d accuse her of being sullen and disrespectful to him as the senior. Mentioned in the captain’s hearing would give him yet another excuse to punish her, not that he seemed to lack them.
Bushby’s mouth curled up. “Not to play matchmaker, Carew, but I’ve an uncle might take a shine to you … of course he’s a Windward Passage sort of fellow and likes them smooth-chested.” He looked around at the others as they roared laughter. “What? Be all the same to him from behind, wouldn’t it? And no fear of hair sprouting out all over to ruin it some day!”
He turned back to Alexis, grinning, but his grin faltered as he met her eyes. Never in life had she so regretted the Navy’s prohibition against dueling. She’d always been a fair hand with a pistol, and her work with the marines had made her more than proficient with the Navy’s heavy bladed cutlass. She’d even turned her hand to the longer swords reserved for duels. The image of Bushby lying bleeding on a field some morning made her smile.
Bushby’s grin faltered at the look on her face, he looked away from her, then back, his grin falling even more. He lowered his gaze, cleared his throat, and raised his glass to drink.
The others’ laughter finally died away and their talk turned to news from the Naval Gazette and speculation about when the Prize Court might release the funds from their latest captures, small though they were. Alexis applied herself to her plate, allowing herself the hope that they might be done with her.
“Would you like the last of the chicken, Mister Bushby?”
“Why, yes, I would, Mister Ledyard, thank you for the offer.”
Alexis watched as Ledyard handed the platter of roast chicken across the table to Bushby. No, not done. She knew what was coming next, from their tone and the elaborate formality of the charade they’d just started.
“I’d offer this last bit to you, Carew,” Bushby said, scooping the chicken thigh onto his plate and pouring the last of the sauce from the platter over it. “But I note you’ve once again contributed no stores to our meal.”
Alexis kept her head lowered, eyes on her plate as she cut yet another bite from the hunk of ship’s beef. She raised it to her mouth, grimacing at the soft, mushy texture, and chewed. She’d lost weight, she knew, her already slight form becoming even more so in the time she’d been aboard Hermione, but she could only stomach so much of the ship’s provisions.
“I’ve none to contribute, Mister Bushby,” she said. “As you’re aware.”
“A shame,” Bushby said. “I’d have thought you’d bring more aboard last we were in port.”
And if you’d told me aboard Merlin that I’d one day wish for Stanford Roland’s company at dinner …
“I didn’t see the point, Mister Bushby, as it would simply be pilfered again, as all my other stores have been.”
“Pilfered, Carew?” he straightened in his chair. “That’s a most dire accusation. Point the culprit out to us, if you please, and we’ll see him done for you!”
Alexis sighed. This was quite the same conversation he’d been attempting to engage her in for weeks, ever since she’d first noticed that her personal stores were disappearing at an alarming rate. At first, she’d thought it was the gunroom steward, Boxer, but the amount of goods missing had quickly grown past anything a member of the crew would dare.
“I’ve no one to point to,” she said. And no one who’d listen if I did.
She had, in fact, spoken to the second lieutenant about the matter, as the midshipmen were his responsibility. Williard had sighed and shaken his head.
“A bit of food and wine, Mister Carew?” he’d asked. “Is this not something you lot should settle amongst yourselves?”
“It’s more than a bit, sir,” she’d told him. “Nigh a full pound’s value, all I brought aboard last port. And the port before that, as well. I’ve no objection to sharing, sir, but …”
Williard had closed his eyes and hung his head. He’d seemed tired and resigned.
“Do you know who’s done it?” He’d held up a hand to stop her speaking. “Know, mind you, not suspect. And can prove it, as well.”
“No, sir.”
“If I pursue the matter, Mister Carew, it will become known to Captain Neals.”
And that had been the end of the matter for Alexis, for she’d learned already that there was nothing she desired aboard this ship so strongly as to be unnoticed by Hermione’s captain.
“Then you should refrain from making idle accusations, I think,” Bushby said with a wide grin. “Theft is quite a serious matter aboard ship, you know.”
Alexis couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing as the day’s fatigue and the absurdity of Bushby’s words washed over her. Oh, yes, a serious matter. Among the crew it was quite serious, she knew, and might result in the offender mysteriously disappearing one watch Outside. If the matter were brought before the captain on any ship, it would likely result in the offender facing a gauntlet of his mates, forced to walk slowly between two rows of them, as they kicked and pummeled him for his offense.
Among the officers, it was unheard of. Even the most destitute of midshipmen would have more honor than to steal from his messmates, and the consequences for one who did would be dire. In the unlikely event that he weren’t disrated or dismissed from the service, no fellow officer would ever trust him again.
Unless you’re so confident the captain himself wouldn’t believe it, nor care if it could be proven to him.
“You laugh, Carew?”
“I do, Mister Bushby, I do, indeed.” She looked up and met his eyes, knowing it was a mistake to engage him, but not caring. After a day and night atop the mast, she wanted the satisfaction of lashing out at someone herself.
“You should not make light about so serious a charge, Carew,” Canion said.
“Oh, I do not make light of it, Mister Canion. Not light at all. It would be a serious charge indeed to make and I would not do so frivolously. To make such a charge would be to say that the man had no honor at all.” S
he met each of their eyes in turn. “That he was a weak, useless excuse for an officer, indeed, and unfit for the company of respectable men. That he was a disgrace and embarrassment to the Queen’s Service and should be ashamed to walk the deck of a Queen’s Ship. No, sirs, I would not make light of such a charge. Were I to make it.” She raised her glass, suppressing a grimace at the taste. “Which I do not, of course.” She smiled and rose. “Good night, gentlemen.”
Alexis Arleen Carew, you are a fool. Sure as certain, they’ll find a way to make you pay for that.
But it was worth it. To watch their eyes as she spoke, seeing that they knew she was speaking to them, about them — but they couldn’t object, couldn’t call her out for what she said — not without admitting that she was speaking about them, what they’d done, and that every word she’d said was nothing but the truth.
She lay back on her bunk and pulled out her tablet. The news that there’d been mail and the Gazette was welcome, but her anticipation quickly waned when she saw that no mail for her had arrived. Nothing from any of her former shipmates, nor even from her grandfather, back at home on Dalthus. I’d have thought at least Philip would write to me — and certainly grandfather’s written something in all this time. It’s been months, I do wonder if the Navy’s forgotten where I am.
It wasn’t at all unusual for mail to take weeks or even months to travel the vast distances between stars. Longer if the message’s destination was a ship that was constantly in motion itself. But it had been so long and Alexis was certain that something should have arrived at Penduli and been waiting for Hermione’s last port-call.
With no mail, she turned instead to the Naval Gazette. A quick search turned up news of her old ship and shipmates, the first of which made her exclaim with delight. There on the Captain’s List, only fourth from the bottom, but still on it, was the entry: Captain William S. Grantham, made Post the seventeenth of October, into H.M.S. Camilla (20).
Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3 Page 31