The Little Ships (Alexis Carew Book 3)

by J. A. Sutherland

  If that small figure was Artley …

  The boy’s not dead. True, I’ve failed to teach him as I should these last weeks, but he’s still alive. Even the accident with his suit was more his stepfather’s doing than mine. She scrubbed her face with her hands and rested her head against the bulkhead. What’s enough? And what does it mean?

  She had a sudden dread that it did mean something, that it meant Artley would die.

  “That’s foolishness,” she muttered, standing. “Utter foolishness.”

  She slid open the drawer under her bunk and pulled out fresh clothes. Her cabin was much the same as those she’d had as a midshipman aboard other ships. Two meters square with a bunk along one wall and a desk that folded down in the corner. It even had a second bunk above hers and a second corner desk, both of which were folded up against the bulkheads. An advantage of being a lieutenant was that she had the cabin all to herself. The extra bunk was there in case circumstances, such as unexpected passengers, forced some of the lieutenants to share a berth.

  At least I’ve privacy, so no one can hear me when I have that bloody nightmare.

  She checked the time on her tablet. It was just shy of six bells in the middle watch, not quite three in the morning. The morning watch would start in an hour and she’d have to be up and about anyway. She grabbed a towel along with her clothes and made her way to the wardroom heads. Another advantage of her lieutenant’s commission was a larger water ration than she’d had to make do with as a midshipman. Not as much as she could wish, but enough so that she wasn’t feeling forever itchy.

  A hot shower usually washed away the remnants of the nightmare, but her concerns over the small figure lingered. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was Artley, and it frightened her no matter how she told herself it was foolishness. It meant that she was going to fail him and cost him his life.

  She told herself it was impossible to know such a thing, but stories her grandfather told came to mind. Stories of the grandmother she’d never known — a proud, fiery Scots from New Edinburgh — and her claims to have what she called the Sight.

  If New London’s founders, with their hereditary aristocracy and insistence that the shilling and farthing were fine ideas, had been eccentric, then New Edinburgh’s founders had been barking — they’d seemed intent on bettering every bit of New London’s insanity.

  Where New London’s aristocracy was relatively small, relative to the population, New Edinburgh seemed to have decided that noble rank should be the norm, not the exception. The head of every family styled himself a lord. New London might have instituted a rather liberal code duello to settle grievances, but New Edinburgh had elevated the feud to an art form all its own.

  Her grandmother had come from that environment. Fiery, proud, short-tempered, and fiercely protective of her clan — her grandfather’s stories had painted quite a picture, and Alexis had always regretted that she’d never known her grandmother. Those tales, also, had made it clear that her grandmother was only half-joking when she teased her grandfather about having the Sight.

  Alexis shut the water off and dragged her thoughts back to the ship.

  “Foolishness and rubbish,” she muttered. “The dream’s misplaced guilt and Artley, if it is him, is in it because I’m worried for the boy.”

  She dressed and dried her hair, thinking once again that she should cut it short so that it would dry faster. Instead she pulled it back into a ponytail and checked her uniform in the mirror.

  Well, I can fix the worry, I suppose.

  If Artley was stuck in the Navy, and it appeared he would be, then she could do her best to give him the tools he’d need to survive, possibly even thrive if he could resign himself to his new life.

  There are worse ways for him to make his way in the world, if he can’t go home.

  She dropped her old clothing back in her cabin, balling up her bedclothes as well. Isom would see to laundering the lot for her and arrange for fresh bedding.

  She lay down on the bare mattress and waited until the ship’s bell sounded eight times over the speaker. Loud enough to wake the men and not muted and dim as it was overnight. That was the end of the middle watch and start of the morning. The men would be up and about soon and set to cleaning the ship after a brief time for their necessary business.

  Alexis left her cabin and made her way down to the hold. At the purser’s office, she waited while Plant, the ship’s cook, and his assistants gathered supplies for the crew’s breakfast. For the men it would be bread and eggs, though the eggs would be from powder reconstituted with the ship’s water. Alexis wasn’t sure which of the two benefited least from the association.

  “Good morning, Mister Grayson,” she said as the others left.

  “And to you, Lieutenant Carew, sir. What can I do for you this fine morning?”

  Alexis glanced away from the purser’s counter after the departing cook. She’d learned to have a healthy skepticism of ship’s pursers and Grayson’s cheerfulness so early in the morning made her wary.

  Likely he just got away with shorting the cook on the breakfast breads and looks forward to pocketing the difference.

  “Midshipman Artley’s had a mishap with his suit,” she said. “I’m to see about him using one of the crew’s spares for a time.”

  Vacsuits were expensive and far beyond the means of a common spacer. At between ten and twenty pounds for a decent suit, they could cost a year’s pay for a spacer. Officers, of course, purchased their own, but the crew were issued theirs by the purser — and charged a usage fee against their pay. When a man mustered out of the Service or the ship paid off after its commission he returned the suit to the purser — and was charged a fee for any unusual wear and tear, of course.

  “Aye, I’ve some spares, I’ll allow,” Grayson said, “but is the lad’s suit not up to repair? I heard what happened of course, but —”

  “Mister Artley’s suit is entirely inadequate.” She nodded toward the storage cabinets behind Grayson’s counter.

  “It’s only that the boy’s so small,” Grayson said, spreading his hands. “Once it’s cut down for him, who’ll we ever have aboard again to wear it?”

  “I have every confidence in your ability to find some use for it once we reach Nouvelle Paris and can obtain a proper suit for him.” She frowned. There was still the question of how Artley might pay for a new vacsuit once they reached that system.

  “It’s only that —”

  “Mister Grayson, a vacsuit for Mister Artley, if you please.” Alexis kept her voice level, though she found dealing with pursers and chandlers tiresome. “One of your newer ones, as it’s for an officer.”

  Grayson scowled, but said, “Aye sir,” and turned to his cabinets.

  Alexis accepted the vacsuit he selected and looked it over briefly. It wasn’t what she considered new at all. It was scuffed, stained, and showing more than one place where it had been repaired after a tear from either work or enemy action.

  Some, perhaps many, of those repairs would mark where the suit had come back into Grayson’s stock with its previous owner marked DD, for Discharged Dead, in Shrewsbury’s muster book.

  Still it was sturdier protection than what Artley had come aboard with. She suspected Grayson had something better back amongst his shelves, possibly even one or more suits new in the box.

  Pursers, unlike the other warrant officers aboard ship, paid Admiralty for their warrants and received no salary. They made their wage on the difference between what they paid to supply the ship and what Admiralty would reimburse them for. As such, they were notoriously parsimonious with their supplies and often suspected of dishonesty by the crew.

  As Shrewsbury had come from the Core, Grayson had likely had the opportunity to buy in new items like vacsuits at a very low price and could trade them at a profit in the Fringe. If he were to trade a new, Core-built vacsuit to a Fringe ship for an older suit and some other supplies, he’d be able to pocket the profit for himself.
/>   Alexis ran a finger over a particularly long patch in the vacsuit’s arm.

  “And when Mister Artley steps onto the quarterdeck in this, we’ll tell Captain Euell it’s the very best we have aboard, yes?”

  Grayson opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed hard. Without a word he gathered the suit up and went off amongst his shelves for a moment, returning with another vacsuit.

  This one was better, though still not new. Alexis examined it carefully. She considered pushing more, but Grayson was correct that it would be no use to anyone else aboard once it was cut down for Artley’s use.

  Well, I suppose I could likely fit in it. Her own first vacsuit had been one of full size that was cut down by her first ship’s carpenter. Since then she’d been able to replace it with one that was better made to her own small frame.

  She nodded and gathered up the vacsuit.

  “Thank you, Mister Grayson.”

  “And Mister Artley will be visiting me to sign for it, will he?”

  Alexis sighed and nodded again.

  “I’ll see that he does.”

  Grayson would likely see that the cost of the suit was deducted from Artley’s pay and he’d get no credit for returning it. Perhaps he could keep it as a spare, as Alexis had with her first vacsuit.

  She took the vacsuit across the hold to the carpenter’s berth. Grummer was already hard at work fabricating parts for the repairs and replacements that would be done on Shrewsbury that day. Behind him a half dozen materials printers hummed and spun, laying out layers of plastic and metal to build up the requested parts.

  Grummer met her at the counter and she passed over the vacsuit.

  “For Mister Artley?” Grummer asked as he spread the suit out on the counter to examine it.

  “Yes,” Alexis said. She wrinkled her nose in distaste as Grummer opened the suit and the scent of its previous wearers wafted up. No matter the suit liners that could be removed and washed, the nature of crew’s hard work had them sweating right through into the suit itself. Her own smelled no better, but at least it was all her own.

  “I’ve repaired his old one as best I can,” Grummer said, “but this will be a sight better.”

  “Might it be ready by the start of the morning watch tomorrow?”

  “Oh, aye, no problem at all.”

  Chapter 12

  The next morning saw Alexis awake early again, though the night had spared her any shadowy dreams.

  She retrieved Artley’s new vacsuit from the carpenter’s shop and made her way to the main gundeck, then aft to the gunroom where the midshipmen and warrants berthed. The gunroom was a bit of a madhouse in the morning. The warrants were already up and about the ship, leaving the midshipmen to ready themselves for the day. Alexis stepped through the hatchway to be narrowly missed by a sopping wet towel thrown at Trigg, a lanky boy who’d dodged past the hatch just as she opened it.

  The towel struck the bulkhead beside her and drops of water spattered her uniform.

  “Gentlemen!” she yelled.

  The horseplay ceased immediately at her call, leaving the dozen or so midshipmen who were present scattered about the compartment in various states of dress, all staring wide-eyed at the compartment hatch. Alexis flushed as she caught glimpses of hastily covered bits, but held her ground at the hatchway.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d caught sight of something she’d rather not have, but that was a part of life aboard very crowded ships. At least she encountered such things less as a lieutenant in Shrewsbury’s wardroom than she would if she were still a midshipman.

  Alexis had never served in a ship of the line as a midshipman, so had never had to deal with a berth so crowded with young men. Her first ship, Merlin, had been a sloop-of-war, with only herself and two others. Hermione, her second ship, had a complement of six midshipmen, but they were a surly, cruel lot, mirroring the ship’s captain. Shrewsbury was generally a happy ship and it was reflected in her crew and officers.

  She’d often wondered what it might be like to have served in such a berth, but a quick glance around the gunroom convinced her that she might be better off for lacking that experience.

  Apparently she’d interrupted some sort of towel battle, as half the midshipmen held towels twisted into whips and the other half stood near those they’d hastily dropped. She looked down at the soaked towel piled on the deck beside her. They must have taken the towels into the head’s shower with them, given the low daily water ration midshipmen received.

  At least it wasn’t a waste of the water. Ships were a closed system. No matter if it went down the drain or evaporated into the air, the water would eventually make its way to Shrewsbury’s recyclers.

  Face impassive, she scanned the assembled midshipmen but didn’t see Artley amongst them. With a glance down at the towel that had almost struck her, she walked to the gunroom table and set Artley’s new suit on it.

  “Is Mister Artley about, Mister Trigg?” she asked the hapless midshipman who’d been the target of the towel that almost hit her.

  Trigg was pale and wide-eyed. While a certain amount of horseplay was acceptable in the midshipmen’s berth, or even a bit of skylarking through the rigging, it was best kept out of sight of lieutenants and certainly not to be done around the captain. If she’d been struck by the towel, no matter their intent, she could have ordered dire consequences. Even on a happy ship such as Shrewsbury, some lieutenants wouldn’t abide such an act.

  If anything, Trigg went paler at her question and she wondered why.

  “I —” Trigg began.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Champlin, the senior midshipman, said. “Mister Artley’s in his cabin … may I pass your request on to him?”

  Alexis frowned. She looked around the gunroom and each of the midshipmen suddenly found the deck or bulkhead quite fascinating as her gaze passed over them. Not a one would meet her eyes, including Champlin. They were up to something, no doubt. She had a sudden worry for Artley, then forced that thought down. No, none of Shrewsbury’s midshipmen were cruel or would harm the lad, but still …

  “Is the boy sick, Mister Champlin?”

  “No, sir,” Champlin said, still looking down at the deck.

  “Then I should wish to speak to him.”

  Champlin’s shoulders slumped.

  “Aye sir.”

  He nodded to two of the others, who went to one of the cabin hatches and slid it open. A pile of towels almost as tall as them toppled out to the floor and they bent to pick it up. It was only as they got the pile upright that she saw it wasn’t all towels. There was a thin slit at the top, through which she could see a pair of eyes peering out at her.

  Thin, towel-wrapped appendages stuck out to either side and two more below, and the entire mess was wrapped round and round with vacsuit repair tape, the sort one could wrap around a holed suit in an emergency.

  “Mister Artley?”

  The pile shuffled forward, its legs and arms unable to bend. A muffled sound emerged. Alexis was torn between laughter and concern. She fought to keep her face impassive.

  “It weren’t but a game, sir,” Champlin said quickly, quieting when Alexis glared at him.

  “Are you quite all right, Mister Artley?”

  More muffled sounds emerged.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Will one of you not free his mouth?”

  One of the midshipmen who’d opened the hatch hurriedly tugged at the towels around Artley’s head until his mouth was visible. This had the unfortunate effect of covering Artley’s eyes, however, and he began slowly swaying back and forth as though unable to keep his balance.

  “I’m fine, sir!” Artley called out.

  “Hold him steady, will you?” Alexis said. “So that he doesn’t topple over.” She turned to Champlin. “What exactly is the meaning of this, Champlin?”

  “It’s as Mister Champlin said, sir!” Artley called out loudly. He shuffled forward again and turned, whacking his toweled arms into the midshipmen around him
. “Naught but a game!”

  “A game?”

  Champlin stepped forward. “It’s, well, you see, sir …” He trailed off.

  “Go on, Mister Champlin, I am all a-tingle to gain acquaintance with this new game.”

  “They all raised the coin to buy me a new vacsuit!” Artley yelled.

  “You do not need to yell, Mister Artley, I can hear you quite well.”

  “What?”

  “Gentlemen, can you uncover his ears, as well?” Alexis turned to Champlin again. “Out with it, Mister Champlin.”

  Champlin squared his shoulders. “Sir, after we saw the real state of Artley’s suit, well, we took a bit of a whip-around … the whole berth put in, you see, even the bosun gave a bit.” He shrugged. “It’s a tidy sum and’ll go most of the way toward a proper suit.”

  Alexis nodded, happy to see that the gunroom had rallied around Artley in that way. He might not have fit in perfectly since coming aboard, but she was pleased to see she’d been right about Shrewsbury’s midshipmen. They were a good lot at heart. Still, there was the whole matter of Artley’s current state.

  “I remain singularly unenlightened, Mister Champlin.”

  Champlin cleared his throat and scratched his neck. “Well, then someone said —”

  “It was me, sir,” Trigg said, stepping forward. “It was just that, well, we were looking at that sum — and it’s a tidy bit of coin — so I mused on as how we should just build Artley a new vacsuit and spend the lot on a bit of fun when we get to Nouvelle Paris.”

  It was all Alexis could do to keep from laughing.

  “And so you built him a suit out of towels and sealant tape?”

  “Aye sir,” Champlin said, flushing and looking around the berth. “Things deteriorated a bit after that, though.”

  “So I see.”

  “I’m quite all right, sir!” Artley yelled, still apparently unable to hear properly. “It weren’t but a game, really!”

  He waddled forward a few steps, then toppled over to rest on the deck, limbs waving feebly.

  Alexis closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. She rested her hand on the vacsuit she’d brought.