Winds of Change & Eye of the Storm

by Lee Rowan

  His own arms tightened until Davy let out a little “whoof.” Will loosened his grasp but did not release him. Could not. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “We might have been transferred away from each other at any time. You know that. I cannot see you discard your gifts only to keep us together. For you to waste your life doddling around on some little trader would be like hitching a prize hunting stallion to a plow.”

  “Hardly a prize.” He would have said hardly a stallion, but Davy’s hand was putting the lie to that, an unfair distraction in this discussion.

  “The hunt is not over. And you would miss it, Will. You belong on the quarterdeck, with the ship yours to command. If you threw that away for me, you would feel pulled apart every time you saw a Navy sail. And I would know. Eventually, it would destroy what we have.”

  “Never.”

  “Yes. It would. It might not matter to most men, but it does to you.”

  “You matter to me.”

  “Then stay alive.” There was an edge in Davy’s voice. He seemed to catch himself and went on. “Stay alive, so someday when the war is over, we can be a couple of old gaffers sitting by a fire, swapping yarns and playing with each other under a blanket.”

  He was already doing that, his nails scraping lightly up Will’s thigh, augmenting distraction with little licks and nips along his neck. No, David would not waste time quarreling—but he was not conceding his point either. And his diversionary tactics were masterful. Will could feel the pain of their imminent parting transmuting itself into desire. “Twenty years, do you think? How will we ever wait that long?”

  “Don’t wait. Just stay clear of poxy tarts.” He rose on hands and knees, hovering over Will. There was light enough, now, to see the outline of his face, the intensity in his eyes. “And don’t forget me.”

  “Never.” Will pulled him down for a kiss that became the first of many, until Davy slipped away to work his way down, leaving a wet tingling trail. Incredible that he could be so aroused again, so quickly. He could not restrain a moan as Davy’s mouth closed around him.

  WILL SAT before the mirror, watching the reflection of Davy’s face as his lover brushed back his hair, pulling it into its queue. Davy was taking his time, smiling faintly, running his fingers through the strands. But at last he gathered it all back, wrapping it in its black ribbon as he had so many times on Calypso. Another little ritual remaining from their lives as shipmates, performed for the last time.

  Davy sighed and smoothed his hair, and their eyes met in the mirror. “I shall keep yours always,” Marshall promised.

  With a brave attempt at a smile, Davy wrapped his arms tightly around Marshall’s shoulders. “I don’t want to let you go,” he said. “But I cannot keep you.”

  The truth of it was sharper than a blade. He disentangled himself from the embrace, took the razor lying beside the washbasin, and, almost without thinking, reached back and awkwardly sawed off his own pigtail.

  “Will—”

  “There,” he said. He folded the razor and put the pigtail in Davy’s hand, closed his fingers around it. “You can keep a bit of me, anyway.”

  Davy blinked rapidly, then grinned through tears. “Thank you. But your hair—it’s all crooked now.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Mr. Marshall, you’re a ship’s commander. You must see a barber before you go aboard, or you’ll be a laughingstock.”

  “Oh, very well. I suppose there is one in town.” He touched the back of his neck. It felt naked, incomplete, as though he had lost a part of himself.

  Well, he had, hadn’t he? Perhaps the best part. The part that had once believed there could ever be justice in this world. He knew better now. There was no fairness, no justice: only Duty, a greedy, heartless, insatiable deity that demanded honor, loyalty, life, and even those one loved more than life, all to be offered up in return for even harsher demands. I cannot. I cannot face this ever again.

  If he stayed any longer, the pain would break him. “Davy, I must go. Now.” He lurched to his feet and seized his love in a tight, almost brutal embrace, crushed that golden body against his own, kissed him deeply through a haze of longing, and left.

  He felt his heart slam shut as the door closed behind him.

  Chapter 17

  DAVID WATCHED Will walk down the broad white steps, shoulders bowed under the weight of his responsibilities, and for a moment his vision blurred. Will’s first command! How they both had dreamt of this day, thinking they would be standing together on some quarterdeck. It would never happen, now; never in this life. Even if he did recover enough to return to the service—and that was still in doubt—he had had his fill of war.

  His lover turned back once, lifting a hand in farewell, and David answered in kind. And then Commander Marshall turned away and climbed into the carriage. The coachman clucked the horse into motion, and Will disappeared down the drive of crushed seashells. He did not look back again. In a moment he was out of sight.

  David St. John watched a moment longer, then left the window and opened the door of the wardrobe. The little apothecary bottle was where he had hidden it. He picked it up and shook it. Still nearly full.

  Dr. Curran had been very generous in the matter of laudanum, even as he warned of the possibility of addiction. David had been fearful of taking it even when necessary. But the pain had seldom been unbearable, and he had saved a little of his medicine nearly every day. Some days he hadn’t needed it at all; some days were bad. He had saved the extra for those days.

  Today was worse than any of them, even though the pain was not physical. His body still held the memory of Will’s touch, and there would be some of his scent left on the pillow. That would last a night or two. Then nothing, maybe nothing ever again.

  The medicine would stop the pain. It always did. And he had enough to stop it forever.

  He rolled the little brown bottle between his palms, like a conjurer preparing some illusion. Exit David Archer. Exit David St. John. Exeunt omnes.

  It would be so easy. To sleep… to dream no more.

  Give me this cup: let go; by heaven, I’ll hav’t.

  If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart

  Absent thee from felicity awhile

  And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain….

  THEN HIS own sense of the absurd pointed out that he would have put people he loved through a great deal of trouble only to murder himself in comfort. He could not do that to his mother and sisters, it would be a poor thanks for Kit’s enormous kindness, and what would become of Will when he heard? He would do something heroic and stupid and get himself killed.

  Besides, Will could hardly “draw his breath in pain” to tell the story of this little escapade—not without asking to be hanged for revealing state secrets, which was hardly the point of the exercise. Shakespeare might have been a genius, but he had never had to contend with the twisted machinations of Naval Intelligence.

  David smiled wryly and put the bottle back on the shelf. Easy enough, if he were to change his mind… but he knew he would not. This love of drama may be the death of me yet. But not by my own hand.

  And at any rate, what he had told Will was true. They might meet again someday, not necessarily as old men. It was a big world, and the war would not last forever, though if fate were kind, Will might be Post Captain before France finally admitted defeat. After that, this charade would no longer be necessary. Perhaps Will might find employment as captain of a merchantman, after the war, and David could be his perfectly titled First Mate. To sail in peacetime—what a lovely idea. That was something to hope for. Or perhaps Captain Marshall might visit Drury Lane now and again, spend a little shore leave with a ne’er-do-well actor.

  Or… he might not. He might not ever come back, or even write.

  There had been such terrible finality in Will’s leaving, perhaps it really was the end. He had, after all, come to David’s bed only through a very improbable circumstance. David ha
d been his first and only lover of either sex. Having made the break, Will might reconsider the whole notion and see what the female of the species had to offer. He might revert to convention and wed the first likely girl he ran across. He might lock himself away in his pain and refuse to let anyone in ever again. He might live like a monk, or he might fuck himself senseless at every opportunity without ever letting it touch his heart. And David could do nothing about that; it was Will’s choice to make.

  But it is his choice. I know that he loves me. And if he lives…. God, if he lives… he might come back to me.

  Was that enough?

  It would have to be. They were both still alive, at least for now. That counts for something. Where there’s life, there’s hope.

  And a stitch in time saves nine. I am becoming a fountain of epigrams.

  What would he do, if Will did not return? Perhaps he could become a playwright. Alter these past months enough to obscure identities, cast himself as a fair damsel, make the Valiant a merchant ship… write a future for them both, together. Cast their mole as a traitor diverting British supplies to France…. It would be a way of speaking the truth, even if he could not speak it plain.

  I could do that, truly. There are things I can do. I must go on, even without Will. If I expect that of him, I can do no less myself. I must. Even if we never meet again.

  He was suddenly very weary. Even if we do, it may never be the same. All those weeks of struggling to recover, holding out the hope of this reunion, these days together, like a prize… and now the time was gone. Dear God, where did it all go?

  So tired…. He shed his dressing gown and climbed back into bed, stretching himself out over the imprint Will’s body had left in the feather mattress. He pulled a pillow against himself, but it was not enough. He dragged the sheet up over his shoulders and let himself imagine arms around him, his lover’s breath in his hair, the warmth against his back. He might awake alone for the rest of his life, but Will would be with him still in dreams.

  As he drifted away, he saw a ship in the far distance, white sails vanishing over the horizon as William sailed off to find his life’s destiny. It was right, somehow, and he felt a strange sense of comfort, as though this life were nothing more than a very long play, and in this act, he had acquitted himself honorably… and after the play, they would reunite, and remember the joy and the pain, and laugh again together. It was all right. It would be all right. Our little lives are rounded by a sleep. Good night, sweet prince….

  Good-bye, my love.

  Chapter 18

  Portsmouth, 1802. An uneasy peace holds between England and France.

  “THANK YOU, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure.” Marshall nodded to the three men with whom he’d spent the evening, as he gathered up the money he’d won at whist.

  His latest partner expressed his own satisfaction as the other two gentlemen made polite noises. The three were from the same Army regiment and had managed, temporarily, to overcome their natural rivalry with the Navy, since a beached sailor had been the only one in the tavern willing to wager a few shillings. Although the Army men were officers, two were younger sons on allowance, so their stakes were within the limits Marshall set for himself on those evenings when the solitude of his cottage on the Downs became more than he could bear.

  “Another night, then,” one said. “So we have a chance to even things out.”

  “Of course.” He smiled, nodded, and excused himself into the cold darkness outside with a sigh of relief. Two of those gentlemen were moderately skilled players, but one was an idiot and had an irritating habit of humming as he played. His friends tolerated him, however, so Marshall was willing to do the same.

  This strange life was not what he had imagined when he had taken command of the Palometa, with orders to act as a fast courier and transport for Intelligence operatives. But he had barely received confirmation of his promotion when the rumors of a treaty between France and England, perennial rumors that never seemed to bear fruit, proved true. A treaty was signed in Amiens in March of 1802, and Will, like thousands of other seamen, was put ashore. As an officer, he was better off than most. He was paid half the salary of an active-duty commander, which was just the same as his regular pay as a lieutenant, so his income now was what he had been used to. It was more expensive to live ashore, but he had never been a spendthrift; a rented cottage on a parson’s land, a few additional shillings to share evening meals prepared by the parson’s wife—the arrangement worked for all of them. It was in some ways a return to his boyhood, and for now it was enough.

  Will had nearly a mile to walk to the place where he habitually stayed during his monthly visit to Portsmouth. Well inland, it was one place that he and Davy had never frequented, which was the main reason he stayed there. He steered clear of those memories as much as he possibly could. He had driven into town from his rented cottage on the Downs mainly to collect his monthly half-pay, but also to remind himself that he was still among the living. Tomorrow he would attend to a few errands for the parson in exchange for the loan of the pony and cart, and then he would go back to his books and his walks.

  Circumstances would improve, eventually. Everyone knew the peace would not last. Sooner or later, he would be back aboard a ship, any ship, and he would regain the chance to die in a blaze of patriotic glory.

  Some small part of him pointed out that he was making a martyr of himself to no good purpose, and if he succeeded in his plan, Davy would be not only grief-stricken, but furious. But what, after all, did he have to live for? His father would have said he should help the less fortunate—well and good, he would do that. His prize-money, still gathering interest in the bank, would go to Davy with instructions to use it for his own benefit or pass it on to the Sick and Wounded hospital at Greenwich. He knew what Davy would do with the money. The sick and wounded would be overjoyed.

  And once he was gone, Davy would have the chance for a life of his own. Every day Will fought the temptation to write to him, and every day he won. He did send one note just after his ship was paid off, telling David that he was well and advising him to read Shakespeare’s thirteenth sonnet.

  Davy had given him the collected sonnets as a birthday present the year before, with ribbons at certain pages. He had blushed at those, but when he read them all, there were a few that made him wonder at his own selfishness in keeping Davy to himself. The thirteenth sonnet was to Shakespeare’s friend—Davy claimed it was to his lover—telling the young man to marry and have children, to preserve his beauty on the earth. The words marched unbidden through his memory:

  O, that you were yourself, but, love, you are

  No longer yours than you yourself here live;

  Against this coming end you should prepare,

  And your sweet semblance to some other give.

  So should that beauty which you hold in lease

  Find no determination; then you were

  Yourself again after yourself’s decease

  When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

  Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

  Which husbandry in honour might uphold

  Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day

  And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?

  O, none but unthrifts! —Dear my love, you know

  You had a father; let your son say so.

  WILL THOUGHT he had done quite well, letting Shakespeare speak for him, and when he was feeling his most objective, he believed that Shakespeare was right. There was too much beauty in David Archer for him to leave the earth without passing it on. It was not right for one man to keep that all to himself. Davy had told him to love again… well, that worked both ways. Davy should love again. In time, he would recover from the break. He might even be grateful to Will, once he was back in a life ashore and free of this unnatural connection. David Archer was a loving man, and no matter where life took him, he would find someone to love.

  Will knew he himself would not. One
such loss was all he could survive.

  He told himself the amputation was healing over, forming a scar. Some men lost arms or legs; Will Marshall had lost his heart. He would never again gaze into blue-gray eyes sparking with wit and affection, never lose himself in a hot sweet kiss, never feel Davy’s strong fingers digging into the back of his thighs—

  The force of the memory made him stumble. No. Stop. Don’t look back. It’s madness.

  He had not read the letters that had arrived so regularly from Jamaica, though he kept them; he could not even think of throwing them away or destroying them. Eventually they had stopped coming. One part of his mind said, “Yes, that’s best,” while another part howled like a lost soul. When he was younger, he had never understood how anyone could commit suicide. Now he knew.

  But that escape was closed. To kill himself would be the ultimate selfishness, a denial of the joy that had been. He did not regret a moment of the time he’d had with Davy, did not want to leave a bitter, hurtful memory. But the past was just that. The future was existing only until he could find an honorable way to stop.

  He thought that it would be a great relief to die. But he came to realize, as the weeks passed, that this deep loneliness was no more than he deserved for letting his base desires put Davy at risk. Their last time together on the Valiant had been proof of that. Such hypocrisy, to speak ill of that stupid midshipman Gannon’s lack of self-control and then make love to Davy on the carpenter’s walk, where anyone might have come barging in. If he could do that once, he might do it again… and again, until they were caught, and Davy hanged. If the laws had been different, if the world could view their love as the beautiful thing it truly was, things might have been different. But a man had to live with what was, not the way he wanted things to be. So long as he was Davy’s lover, Davy was in mortal danger.