Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3

by J. A. Sutherland

  “I’ve some stores being delivered, Boxer, and I wanted to speak to you before they arrived.” She kept her voice low, so as not to be overheard if anyone entered the gunroom.

  “That’s good, sir, weren’t right. I’ll watch ‘em close — mayhap I’ll speak to the carpenter about a locking box fer ‘em.”

  “No, Boxer, I want you to treat them no differently than before, do you understand? Save in one very important way.” She caught his eye to be sure he was paying attention. “You’re not to serve me, nor give to the cook for sharing, any of these stores save what I’ve given you directly. Do you understand?”

  “Not rightly, no, sir.”

  Alexis laid a hand on his arm. “You don’t need to understand the reason, just the order, yes? Nothing to me, the cook, nor even for your bit that you haven’t had from my hand directly. Do you understand that?”

  “So if there’s a chicken needed?”

  “I’ll pull him out of the freezer myself and hand him to you. Can you do that?”

  “Aye, sir. Seems a bit of trouble, though.”

  “There’ll be more trouble if you forget, so follow me on this, will you?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Good.” She turned to go, then spun back. “Oh, but there’ll be a bottle of something called bourbon in my things. That you can find a hiding place for, can’t you?”

  “One bottle? Of course, sir. Be nothin’ ter hide that. Safe as houses.”

  “Thank you, Boxer.”

  She slipped out of the pantry and back to her berth. She quickly stripped out of the dress uniform she’d worn onto the station and donned the simpler ship’s jumpsuit, glad that Timpson wasn’t yet back aboard. He never said anything and he was subtle about it, but he watched her change with a look that made her uncomfortable.

  She settled on to her bunk with her tablet. There were still no messages for her, which was a disappointment, but there were more articles from the Naval Gazette that told of several ships taken from the Hanoverese. Little about the cause of the war itself, though, which she was curious about. She’d studied little of the wider universe while at home on Dalthus, but felt she should gain some knowledge of more than the ships themselves now that she was in the Navy. Finished with the Gazette, she moved on to her studies.

  There were always ever more complex navigation problems to go through, ship’s systems to learn about, and tactical simulations to run through. Not that the captain nor any of the others will ever ask me about them. While Captain Neals grilled the other midshipmen more ruthlessly even than Captain Grantham had, he’d never once included Alexis. It wasn’t that she wanted to face the brutal quizzing — having scenario after scenario thrown at her with demands for what orders she would give — but it was designed to prepare the midshipmen for their lieutenant’s exam. An exam where three or more captains would demand answers to whatever they could dream up before finally passing the applicant to lieutenant or sending him back to the pool of midshipmen.

  So Alexis was reduced to studying on her own and keeping her own answers to herself when Neals quizzed the others. That she felt she came to better decisions than the lot of them was small comfort when it couldn’t be confirmed. Likely, though, if Neals ever did include her, he’d not accept anything she said, so perhaps his indifference was preferable.

  She was almost done with yet another treatise on navigation when she heard the other midshipmen begin to arrive back aboard, talking in the gunroom outside her hatch. Timpson came in to change his own uniform, ostentatiously stripping out of his dress uniform and underthings before pulling fresh clothing from the drawer beneath his bunk. It was one of the reasons Alexis didn’t mind, in fact preferred, having the upper bunk aboard Hermione, even though its height made it more difficult for her to get into. Taking the lower bunk would have put her right at eye level with things she honestly preferred not to think about.

  “Saw you got some fresh stores, Carew,” Timpson said, pulling on his boots. “About time, that.”

  “Yes, I received some good advice about giving up.”

  Timpson stood up and faced the bunks. “What’s that mean?”

  Alexis shrugged, never taking her eyes from her tablet. Timpson left and she returned to her studies.

  There was a loud scream from the gunroom and she quickly locked her tablet and slid off the bunk. She rushed through the hatch into the gunroom to find Timpson, Brattle, and Ledyard staring at Bushby in shock. The senior midshipman was staggering around outside his berth, eyes watering profusely and spitting on the deck. Well, then, that didn’t take long.

  “Bushby!” Brattle yelled. “What the devil—”

  Bushby spat once more and looked up at them, his chin was covered in streaks of brown and bright red spittle that leaked from his mouth. Alexis covered her mouth and tried to look concerned. Bushby looked around wildly and his eyes widened as he spied the wine bottles the others had on the table. Oh … I’d not recommend that, Alexis thought, doing her best to keep from laughing outright.

  Bushby rushed to the table and grasped a bottle, throwing his head back and draining it. He lowered it finally, looking relieved, but then his eyes widened. He gasped and clutched at his throat, then his chest.

  “Surgeon,” he croaked, rushing toward the companionway. “Where’s Rochford?”

  “Should we help him, do you think?” Timpson asked.

  “He can find the orlop deck on his own, I suspect,” Brattle said. He went instead to Bushby’s berth. “What was the man doing?”

  Alexis went to the pantry and examined her stores. She noted that a box of her chocolates was missing and took one of the others, carefully noting the discrete marks she’d made on the packaging. She returned to the gunroom as Brattle was coming out of Bushby’s berth with a similar package, this one opened.

  He held it at arm’s length, his eyes squinted and watering, as he carried it to the table. He set it down and stepped back, as did all the others. One of the chocolates had been bitten in half and a viscous, bright red fluid seeped from it. It gave off fumes that didn’t seem to have a scent, they simply stung the eyes and nose viciously.

  “What is that?” Timpson asked.

  Alexis stepped over to them, squinting and sniffing as she opened her own box of chocolates. “I believe it’s a sauce of Shimea reaper chilies. I’ve noted the men challenging each other to try the stuff — quite soluble in alcohol, I’m given to understand.” She looked at each of the others, eyes wide. “I do hope my own chocolates don’t have the same issue.” She took one from the box in her hand and popped it into her mouth, feeling a bit of anxiety as she bit down that she might have grabbed the wrong package. “No,” she continued, chewing. “These are quite fine.” She held the box out to Timpson. “Would you like one? I’m quite happy to share, of course.”

  Six

  The shadows were closing in on her from every side. Dark, flowing masses, reminiscent of the darkspace clouds all around her.

  Alexis knew what was next — dreaded it, but knew.

  She turned and the shadows began to come together, solidifying into a figure. Head and face a mass of darkness, with barely the hint of features, but she could imagine them well enough. Dirty, pockmarked skin, long greasy hair, and a mouth filled with half-rotted teeth — the face of the pirate captain, Horsfall. Her last real sight of him vivid in her memory. His gloating, confident smile as he told her that she needed him to pilot the ship, Grappel, with its sabotaged navigation plot.

  The pistol had bucked in her hand, not even leaving time for his confident grin to falter before the bullet she’d fired struck him, punching a neat, dark hole just to the left of his nose. The part of her horrified that she’d killed a man warred with the part that was disappointed she’d been off-center at less than five meters distance. Followed quickly by a roiling sickness in her belly that she could even notice her aim when a man was dead, and fear of what that meant about her.

  The shadowy figure raised an arm, hand ex
tended to point at her in accusation. Behind Horsfall, more figures formed. Only a few at first, but then dozens, hundreds more. One by one they raised a hand to point at her. Some she knew, though their faces too were lost in shadow. Hadd, a topman lost in the Dark when she’d failed to save him as she should. Corsey and Bays, two marines the pirates had killed when she’d failed to divine their intent to retake the ship. Robert Alan, who’d saved them all aboard that ship — and died for his trouble when she’d failed to see his intent. Even the pirate, young Brighty, whose last days had been filled with terror — terror of her and her threat that she’d put him over the ship’s side to die alone in darkspace while she watched. Terror she’d put in him by telling him she’d do that very thing unless he obeyed her. Then, when he’d done what she demanded and piloted the ship for her, she’d let them hang him as a pirate without even trying to stop it. If she had thought to speak on his behalf, perhaps he could have been saved.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  The figures she didn’t know, though, were the worst. There were so very many of them, forming and crowding forward to accuse her. Who were they? Had she wronged so many? Failed so many? She didn’t see how that could be … there were hundreds of them now, and she was but sixteen-years old. Or did she not recognize them because she had yet to fail them?

  That thought drew a moan from her as it always did.

  The figures drew closer, merging into a single, rolling mass.

  “I tried!” Alexis cried out.

  The mass rolled over her, consuming her like the darkspace winds.

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Oh, for all that’s holy, Carew, will quit your moaning!”

  Alexis’ eyes flew open in the darkness of her berth as a pillow swung over the edge of her bunk and slapped her across the face.

  “Could I get a fortnight without you carrying on at all hours some night?” Timpson asked from the lower bunk. “Is that so bloody much to ask?”

  Alexis took a deep, shuddering breath. Her heart was racing and she was drenched in sweat — as she always was when that particular dream came. She slid her tablet from its pocket next to her bunk and checked the time. A bit past six bells of the First Watch, so she had the better part of an hour before midnight when she’d have to be on the quarterdeck to take the Middle Watch — but no sense in even trying for a few more minutes sleep, she knew. Not after the dream came.

  “Or if you must go on with your noise,” Timpson continued, “slide yourself in here with me and I’ll give you something to moan about.”

  Alexis sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bunk. “Touch me again, Timpson, and your breakfast’ll be nutmegs and sausage.” She shuddered at the memory, from her first week aboard Hermione, when she’d woken to find Timpson standing beside her bunk, one hand slid under her blanket and what he must have felt was an inviting leer on his face. “One touch and I’ll have them off you and into a pan to fry with bloody onions and garlic, you just see if I don’t.”

  Timpson grunted, but she knew he was a bit afraid of her in that regard. The threat of punishment from Captain Neals made her take their bullying comments and even beatings on those rare occasions that she fought back and it turned physical, but she’d made it clear from that first incident that touching her in that way would mean someone would die and damn the consequences. They’d seen her at work with the marines, and knew she could take any one of them individually.

  Acting solely by touch in the pitch black compartment, she slid off the bunk and opened the drawer below it to grab a clean jumpsuit, sliding it on quickly and taking up her boots and beret. She paused with her hand on the hatch.

  “Turn aside, Timpson, I’m changing my underthings,” she said, knowing that he wouldn’t. In fact, he made a point of staring at her even when she was just changing her jumpsuit. She knew it was ingrained in the lecherous prat that he’d turn and look, even in the darkened berth. When she heard the rustle of his bedclothes, she flung the compartment’s hatch open wide, letting in the bright light from the gunroom.

  “Argh! You ruddy bitch!” Timpson cried, rolling to face the wall and cover his head with a pillow.

  Alexis smiled to herself and made her way through the gunroom to the heads, leaving the compartment hatch open so Timpson would have to crawl out of bed and close it himself. It was a petty thing, but she was feeling petty this morning. Night, really, as it lacked but an hour until midnight and the start of her watch. The watch-and-watch schedule Neals had ordered ended when they’d reached Penduli, but he’d still scheduled her to take the Middle Watch, midnight to four, nearly every night.

  She locked herself in the head and studied her image in the mirror. Despite the lack of a normal night’s sleep taking the Middle Watch entailed, she rather enjoyed it usually. The ship was quiet, with most of the hands and officers asleep. If the darkspace winds were calm and steady, then there’d be no need to change the sails — meaning no need to wake Captain Neals and ask his permission, for his standing orders demanded that he approve any change to the sail plan. No, the Middle Watch was, perhaps, the only time of peace she’d found aboard Hermione.

  When I’ve not been woken by that horrid dream and feel like I’ve not slept at all, that is.

  She splashed some of her precious water allotment on her face, hoping it would both help her to wake up and reduce some of the swollenness under her eyes, then brushed her hair so that it could be pulled back into a tight ponytail instead of shooting off in all directions.

  “I have the deck, sir,” Alexis said as the eighth tone of the ship’s bell sounded over the quarterdeck speakers.

  “You have the deck, Mister Carew,” Lieutenant Williard said, nodding. He started for the companionway, but paused and looked back at her. “Are you entirely well, Mister Carew? You appear a bit off.”

  “I didn’t sleep well, sir,” she said. “It’s no real matter.”

  Williard came back to the navigation plot to stand beside her. His brow was furrowed and he was frowning. “Have you recovered from your … distress aboard Penduli Station?” he asked quietly.

  Alexis frowned. No matter how quietly they spoke, the closeness of the quarterdeck made it certain the men there would overhear. Williard’s position as second lieutenant made him most responsible for the midshipman, so it wasn’t unusual for him to ask after their welfare, but this seemed a public place to do so.

  “I believe I have, sir, thank you for your concern.” She grinned. “And for the introduction to Scotch. Too dear a ‘dark path’ for me just now, I fear, but I’ve made a fine foray into bourbons.”

  Williard chuckled. “That’s better,” he said. “All’s not so dark.”

  Alexis nodded, though she didn’t really agree with him. Williard must have seen the doubt on her face, for he frowned again.

  “Have you noticed,” he asked, “that you and Mister Bushby are the only midshipmen to stand a watch alone?”

  Alexis nodded. “I have, sir.”

  “Does that suggest nothing to you, Mister Carew?” Williard asked, voice even quieter.

  Putting her on watch-and-watch? Disrupting the established watch schedule to place her on the Middle Watch night after night? It suggested a great deal to her, none of which she could voice — certainly not on the quarterdeck to another officer. Criticism of the captain could be considered mutiny if Neals found out, and she’d not give him that opportunity.

  “Much as a captain may dislike one of his officers,” Williard went on, clearly choosing his own words with care, “he will always love his ship more. No captain would trust his ship to an officer he felt would endanger her.” Alexis’ eyes widened and Williard nodded. “Think on that a bit,” he said, leaving the quarterdeck.

  Alexis did. The darkspace winds outside the hull were light and steady, leaving her with little to do but call for the log to be thrown every half-hour and run her navigation plot, so she had plenty of time to do so.

  Williard’s observation wa
s quite true, now it had been pointed out to her. Of the midshipman aboard, only she and Bushby stood a watch alone. The others always had a lieutenant or the sailing master on the quarterdeck with them. What did that say of Neals’ true opinion of her skills?

  Even with my navigational difficulties, she thought, adjusting her plot to match the computers after the last throw of the log. This one had not been too far off.

  What did it mean that Neals constantly derided her abilities and wanted to drive her out of the Navy, yet still trusted her with Hermione? Could the man be so spiteful and derisive of women that he’d want her out of the Navy even knowing that she was more competent than some of the male midshipman?

  “Sail!” the spacer on the tactical console called out, pulling Alexis from her thoughts.

  “Where away, Askren?” she asked.

  “Two points abaft the port beam … up a bit, though not much at all.”

  Alexis examined the navigation plot as he transferred the information to it. The strange sail was some distance away, barely visible even at the highest magnification, and just a bit behind Hermione on the port side. She studied the blurry image for a moment. There seemed to be three lobes to the blob of light, so it was likely a decently sized ship with three masts, but one of the lobes appeared less bright than the others. That could be the result of angle or even a strong bit of darkspace wind distorting the view, but it could also be from a worn or malfunctioning particle projector causing one of the sails to not fully charge.

  That would make the ship a merchantman and not a warship, for a warship would have more stringent maintenance. It would also slow the other ship, making her easier prey for Hermione.

  Alexis hesitated. She had a sudden urge to ignore the other ship and sail on. The standing orders said to alert Captain Neals to any strange sail, but she was reluctant to do so. Neals would see the ship as easy prey as well, and add her to the list of merchantman prizes awaiting adjudication with the Prize Court on Penduli. Hermione had taken so many merchantman, all much smaller and weaker than the frigate herself, that there was a great deal of prize money owing — or would be, once the Prize Court got around to it. The Court tended to hear the cases of captured warships first, leaving Hermione’s prizes always at the bottom of the list, but they’d get around to them eventually.