“Christ Almighty!” Marlowe gasped. “Bosun, fetch a tot of rum right smartly!”
The Bosun took to his heels and Malcolm managed to choke out, “No, no, I’m all right … actually a rum would be … would be grand.” He saw Marlowe’s lips moving and knew he was being shaken but his ears were not hearing anything above the pounding of his heart and then he felt the wind on his cheeks and the sound of the sea returned.
“Here, sorr,” the Bosun was saying, holding the glass to his lips. The rum slid down his throat. In seconds Struan felt better. He began to grope to his feet. “Better take it easy, sorr,” the Bosun said uneasily, “looks like you seed a ghost.”
“No ghost, Bosun, but I did see an angel, your Captain!” Marlowe stared back blankly. “I’m not mad,” Malcolm said, stumbling over his words. “John, sorry, Captain Marlowe, is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
“Of course. Here.” Uncomfortably Marlowe motioned to the Bosun who left the bridge. Only the helmsman and signalman remained. “Signalman, go for’rard. Helmsman, close your ears.”
Struan said, “My peculiar request is: I want you to sail out of sight of land for a moment, and marry Angelique and me.”
“You what?” It was Marlowe’s turn to be disoriented. He heard Malcolm repeat what he had said. “You’re insane,” he said.
“No, not really.” Malcolm was in control now, his future in the balance, with the Admiral’s words, you may, if you wish, grant it, carved on his brain. “Let me explain.”
He began. A few minutes later the steward came up and went away and a little later came again with “Cook’s compliments, sir, lunch is ready in your cabin,” but again Marlowe waved him away, concentrating and not interrupting.
“That’s the reason,” Malcolm finished. “The why of the Admiral, me, you, my mother. Now, please, will you grant my peculiar favor?”
“Can’t.” Marlowe shook his head. “Sorry, old boy, I’ve never married anyone and I doubt if regulations’d allow it.”
“The Admiral’s given you permission to do what I ask.”
“He put it rather bloody carefully, old boy: ‘grant it if I wished.’ My God, that’s putting my head in the old yardarm noose, old boy,” Marlowe said, his mouth running away from him as he foresaw all kinds of future disasters. “You don’t know Ketterer like I know him, my God, no, any senior officer for that matter! If I choose wrong here he’ll have my balls in the wringer, my career’s up the bloody spout …” He paused for breath, shaking his head and mumbled on. “No way I could do that, no w—”
“Why not? Don’t you approve of us?”
“Of course I approve of you, for goodness’ sake, but your mother doesn’t, I mean she says no to the marriage, Sir William’s got his finger stuck in the pie, the Church won’t, other Captains won’t and, dammit, you’re both legal minors, so if I did it wouldn’t stick and she’s … Dammit, you’re a minor and so’s she…Just can’t risk it …” A sudden thought and he glanced shorewards. “Not unless I signal Ketterer. I’ll ask permission.”
“If you do that you’ll lose face with him forever. If he wanted you to do that he would have said so.”
Marlowe glared back at him. He reread the Admiral’s exact wording and groaned. Struan was right. His future was in the balance. Christ Almighty, why did I invite them aboard? The first thing in his life he remembered his father saying was, “In the Navy you run your ship by rules and regulations, by the bloody book, except if you’re bloody Nelson and there’s only ever been one of him!”
“Sorry, old boy, no.”
“You’re our last hope. Now our only hope.”
“Sorry, no.”
Struan sighed and eased his shoulders, playing his ace. “Angel!” he called out. She heard the second call and came back with Lt. Lloyd and stood beside him. “Angel, how would you like to be married today, right now?” he said, loving her so very much. “John Marlowe can perform the ceremony if he wants. How about it?”
The wonder spread over her and she did not hear Marlowe begin to say that he was so sorry he could not but he was stopped by the passion of her embrace and kiss, and then she did the same for Struan again and him again, “Oh, yes … oh, yes…John, how wonderful, you will, won’t you? Oh, thank you, thank you, how wonderful, please please please,” begging with another irresistible snuggle and he heard himself say, “Yes, of course, why not, glad to,” saying his doom words as underplayed as he could, though inside feeling more heated than he had ever been and still meaning to say no.
The helmsman sealed the matter with a joyful shout, “Three cheers for Cap’n Marlowe, we’ve a weddin’ aboard!”
Lunch was a hilarious pre-wedding feast, just two or three glasses of wine to test and taste the rare quality, not too much food, the rest put aside for later, all of them too excited and too anxious to begin. Once he had made the decision Marlowe ordered the ship out to sea under full sail and became their most enthusiastic supporter, wanting the ceremony to be memorable and perfect.
But before proposing a prenuptial toast at the end of the meal, he said gravely, “God knows if it’ll really be legal, but I can find nothing in Naval Regs that says it won’t be, or it can’t be done. Nothing refers to the age of the persons, only that both must formally agree before witnesses that they freely give their consent, and they sign an affidavit that’s entered by me in the ship’s log. Once we get ashore, all hell and/or congratulations will break out and you may have to, perhaps should, go through a church ceremony—both Churches will scream bloody murder at our effort anyway.”
Angelique heard an undercurrent. “But, John, it’s all right, isn’t it? Malcolm’s told me about oppositions and as to Father Leo …” Her nose crinkled with distaste. “You won’t get into trouble, will you?”
“Perish the thought, Admiral’s given permission,” Marlowe told her more grandly than he really felt. “Enough said, here’s to your healths, and to future generations!”
Angelique began to get up to drink too but Struan stopped her. “Sorry, darling, it’s bad luck to drink your own health, just an old custom, and aboard Royal Navy ships you drink toasts sitting down.”
“Oh, sorry.” Her sleeve caught a glass, tapped it against another and a bell-like ringing began. At once both Marlowe and Struan reached over and stopped it.
Malcolm said, “Sorry, darling, just another old seafaring superstition. If you let the ringing of a glass die of its own accord somewhere in the world a sailor drowns.”
“Oh.” Her face lost its glow. “I wish I’d known, so many times in the past …”
“Not to worry,” Marlowe said quickly. “If you don’t know, then the superstition doesn’t count. Right, Malcolm?”
“Yes, you’re right again. I would like to propose a toast, Angelique, to John Marlowe, Captain, Royal Navy, gentleman and the best friend we have!”
The small cabin was filled with animated talk and laughter and then Lloyd announced that all was ready on deck. A last kiss, so tender between them, and they had gone aloft and stood there, hand in hand, both committed.
The ship was into wind, her sails and spars trembling. Those of the ship’s company who could be spared were lined up, slickered and spruced, facing the quarterdeck where Malcolm and Angelique stood before the Captain. He was flanked by an honor guard of two marines. He opened Navy Regs to the right page and motioned to the marine bugler who sounded a clarion call, the Bosun blew on his pipe and the company came to attention. “We are gathered here as witnesses to the marriage of these two people in the sight of God …”
The swell of the sea did not touch them, nor the wind that was gusting more than before. Around the horizon were nimbus clouds, not yet threatening but potentially dangerous. Overhead the sky was still clear, and Marlowe wondered, briefly, if the weather was an omen. No cause for alarm yet, he thought. The ceremony was quickly over, strangely fast for all of them, for Struan almost an anticlimax. He had used the signet ring from his little finger as the weddi
ng ring. It was too big for her but she held it solidly, staring at it with disbelief. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
As they kissed there were three rousing cheers. Marlowe called out, “Splice the mainbrace!” the order for a tot of rum for all the company, to more cheers.
“Mrs. Struan, may I be the first to congratulate you.”
Angelique threw her arms around him passionately, tears of joy on her cheeks. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Nothing,” Marlowe said, embarrassed, then shook Struan’s hand. “Congratulations, old man. Why don’t we—” A short gust crackled the canvas. “Why don’t you two go below and I’ll join you in a moment,” he said, then turned away and forgot them, tending his ship. “Let her fall off the wind, Number One. Set course for Yokohama, under sail until further orders. We’ll steam to our moorings—we may be in for a wetting. Signalman, give me your pad. When we’re in range of the flagship, send this.”
* * *
Edward Gornt sat comfortably in the bay window of the Brock Building, his feet propped on a chair, idly watching the bay. The rim of clouds had spread and promised a storm, though at this time of the year they could as quickly evaporate. Behind him Norbert Greyforth sat at his desk, engrossed in paperwork. They had seen Pearl sail off over the horizon but put no special meaning on it. “Part of their trial, suh, I suppose,” Gornt had said. “Still can’t figure what could be aboard that’s so important.”
Norbert had nodded, secretly amused, and returned to signing and checking documents and manifests. A Brock freighter was in the harbor, due to sail in a few days and the last of her cargo from Japan had to be accounted for: fifty pounds of silkworm eggs for the French market—thirty to fifty thousand eggs to the ounce—bales of raw silk, and silk cloth for the London market, lacquer goods, barrels of saké they were trying to introduce into the English market, and also for Japanese in the Philippines, cheap pottery as ballast, coal—anything and everything that could find a market, together with the remains of her inbound cargo that had not been sold and would be traded on her return journey. Some guns and opium in special cases.
“Cigar?” Gornt asked.
“Thanks.” They lit the thin cheroots, enjoying them.
“I’ve made a date with McFay to finalize arrangements for tomorrow, suh.”
“Good.” Norbert blew a cloud of smoke and signed the last of the documents. He rang a bell. In a moment his chief clerk and shroff came in. “This is the lot, Periera.”
“Yes, Senhor.” This small, fair man with slightly oriental eyes, was—as with most companies—Eurasian from Macao. “What about the specials, Senhor?”
“They stay off the manifest and in the Captain’s care.”
“There’s a rumor that the Navy is going to board and check cargo at random.”
“Let them. None of our specials are illegal, by God, whatever the hell the fool Struans do.” Norbert dismissed him, then gave his full attention to Gornt. Something had made him suspicious. “Edward, perhaps I should call the duel off, tell Struan tonight I’ll accept his compromise, the trap’s baited, isn’t it? I let him go to Hong Kong to get deeper in the shit, thinking he’s won. Eh?”
“You could. But why spare him a night of fear? He has to be afraid—why comfort him? Would he comfort you?”
Norbert looked at him and saw the thin upper lip and how it seemed to curl slightly with malicious delight. He laughed to himself, thinking about how special tonight could have been for Struan if Ketterer were a different man, and that, now more than ever, thought of the duel will take away what remained of Struan’s sleep. “I didn’t think you’d fit in with us, the Brocks. Revenge is sweet for you too?”
“Me, suh?” Gornt’s eyebrows soared. “I was thinking of you—I’m to serve you, wasn’t that the idea?”
“It was indeed.” Norbert hid his smile deep inside. “Tomorrow then, but now we’ll …” His sharp eyes caught a smudge on the horizon through the window behind Gornt. “Is that Pearl?” He got up and went to the window, also training his glasses. It was the frigate all right.
“Steady as she goes,” Norbert said softly, and Gornt wondered what he meant. Pearl was in the process of furling her sails, black clouds behind her. “Wind’s picked up out there,” Gornt said, and trained his own binoculars. Her smoke was pulled at right angles to her path.
In the bay the rest of the fleet and merchantmen were at anchor. A few whitecaps. Norbert’s glasses went to Prancing Cloud. Nothing untoward there. Then the flagship. Nothing. Back to the frigate. They waited. Pearl was coming in quite fast, bow wave churning. Again the flagship, nothing. The frigate. Norbert could just discern Angelique standing next to a man who must be Struan.
“Look,” Gornt said, his voice picking up excitement. “There. Can you see the signalman?”
“Where? Ah yes.”
“He’s semaphoring the flagship. First flags are the standard opening,” Gornt said quickly. “Captain of HMS Pearl to Admiral. Message reads … Message reads: A-G-R-E-E-D T-O R-E-Q-U-E-S-T.” Perplexed, he stared at Norbert for a moment. “What does that mean?”
“Watch the flagship for any reply!” Gornt obeyed. “Where the hell did you learn to read Navy flags?”
“In Norfolk, Virginia, suh. When I was a kid I used to watch the ships, ours and the British. It became like a hobby. Then my pa acquired a book, one American and another British, with most of their standard phrases and some of their codes. I used to win bets for my pa when he would entertain officers, usually at cards. He, my mother and him, he used to entertain a lot, lavishly, that was before the cotton crash and he lost most of his money.”
“Can you read any flags? Any codes?” Norbert asked quickly, wondering if he could use Gornt’s knowledge. “Could you read Struan flags, ship to ship or ship to shore?”
“If they used standard international flag codes, but probably, like Brock’s, they have special…Just a moment, message from the flagship: Standard opening: ‘To Captain of Pearl from Admiral Ketterer.’ Next standard: ‘Return to your moorings at once.’ Next: ‘When tied up and sea safe, report to the flagship at once,’ adding the letters ‘W-I-T-H H-I-M.’ Last standard: ‘Acknowledge.’” Gornt glanced back quickly. “‘With him,’ Mr. Greyforth? Would that be Struan?”
“Bull’s-eye.”
“Standard acknowledgment.” Gornt put down the glasses and rubbed his eyes, the concentration had given him a headache. “Bull’s-eye? You know what it all means?”
“What’s aboard Pearl that’s so important? Captain bloody Marlowe, R.N.” It took Norbert no time at all to explain.
“Married?” Gornt burst out. “You’re brilliant, suh!”
“Never thought Ketterer would agree but it seems he has. Why? He gains nothing.” Norbert was puzzled, then smiled spitefully. “Unless…unless he’s ordered Struan and Marlowe aboard to mat Marlowe and undo the deed right smartly—to jam the knife further into Struan, to torture him some more.”
“Can he?”
“That bugger can do what the hell he likes, if the truth be known,” Norbert said, and spat into the spittoon, then threw the butt of his cheroot into it as well. “Every man jack aboard the fleet’s duty bound to obey him, and they would!”
“You mean he could order them to go against the law?”
“Let’s put it this way: they’re to obey immediately or suffer the consequences—which range from the cat to hanging to keelhauling. If he wanted he could hang you from one of his yardarms, then plead he’d been misled by juniors—he’d beat any court-martial. Meanwhile you’re dead.”
“Then how could you be so … so opposed to him, to his face, Mr. Greyforth?”
“Because Ketterer’s law-abiding; they breed ’em like that for the Royal Navy, special, to obey orders from the next above, but mostly because we’ve Wee Willie—that feisty little bugger’s the one above. He’s our real protection from Ketterer, the General, Jappos and every other bloody enemy—but that won’t protect young Struan from Kett
erer’s phlegm.”
“So, Captain Marlowe, Mr. Struan’s peculiar request was for you to go out of sight of land—and to marry him to Miss Angelique Richaud?”
“Yes, sir.” Marlowe stood at attention unable to read the Admiral’s face. Ketterer was flanked at the table in the great cabin aft by the flagship Captain. Behind them, his aide-de-camp, the Flag Lieutenant, stood equally frozen.
“And you did, knowing them to be minors?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please give me a report, in writing, by sundown, specifying your reasons, exactly, and what occurred, exactly. Dismissed.” Marlowe saluted and began to leave as Ketterer turned to the Captain, a weathered, craggy, ugly man renowned for the toughness of his discipline and worship of Naval Regulations. “Captain Donavan, perhaps you’d research the legal position, eh?”
“Yes, sir.” His blue eyes were merciless.
“Good, that’s all then—for the moment.” This was the last thing Marlowe heard before he closed the door and his heart seemed to begin again.
Struan was waiting in the anteroom outside. Two marines stood guard suspiciously. “Christ, did you get stick?”
“No, not at all.” Marlowe tried to sound calm. “The Admiral, correctly, wants a written report, that’s all. I’ll be getting back to my ship. See you later.” Before he could leave, the cabin door opened and he died a little more. Captain Donavan brushed past, hardly acknowledging him or his salute. At the doorway, the Flag Lieutenant said, “Mr. Struan, Admiral’s compliments, would you kindly step in, please.”
Struan hobbled into the cabin. Flag did not follow, but closed the door and waited within shouting distance. Before leaving, Marlowe caught his eye but that told him nothing—of course neither would say anything in front of the marines.
Ketterer, now alone in the cabin, motioned Struan to be seated. “On the one hand may I congratulate you,” he said with grim formality, and put out his hand.
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