Winds of Change & Eye of the Storm

by Lee Rowan

  But to sail only as a means to bringing other men to their end? That no longer held the attraction it once had. After a few months of watching his cousin’s painstaking efforts to reform an operation based on the slavery Kit despised into something he could take pride in, Archer found his own priorities changing. He knew that so long as Bonaparte was trying to take over the world, he was honor-bound to oppose that empire, but he had come to the point where glory seemed pretty hollow in comparison to the devastation wrought in winning it.

  It wasn’t fear; at least, he did not think it was fear, even though he sometimes woke with the memory of smoke erupting from a pistol, and a blow to his side, and darkness. It wasn’t that. Having come so near to death, it was somehow easier to accept its inevitability. But where was the meaning in a life dedicated to bringing death? Surely there were better things a man could do with the time he was given.

  Nothing could be that simple, of course. If it had only been a matter of philosophy, he could have walked away from the Navy without a second thought. But if there was one constant left in Archer’s life, it was Will Marshall. He could imagine life without war; he could imagine life without the Navy—he had, after all, only joined to avoid being sent to serve in his brother’s Army regiment. But life without Will—no. It was unthinkable. And Will still wanted him, so for the moment, he had both purpose and direction and would let fate carry him where it would.

  Hands on his hips, Archer made one last survey of the austere room. He lifted up the pillow, in case there might be a book or anything beneath, but there was nothing. And there should be. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he knew he was missing something. They’d be far away soon, and no way to nip back and retrieve—Oh, of course.

  He knelt and peered beneath the bed, grinning when he saw a pair of worn felt slippers and a small wooden box that he recognized from their days at sea. The keepsake box—Will kept his watch in it, and a ring that had been his mother’s, and a few other personal things.

  This was what he’d been looking for—he knew Will would not have abandoned it. Archer looked inside, just to make sure everything was there. It wasn’t prying; Will had shown him the box’s contents ages ago. And there, lying atop the handful of souvenirs of a sailor’s life, were the dozen or so letters Archer had sent him over the past few months, neatly folded, their sealing wax… intact.

  Unopened.

  He’d never even read them.

  Archer swallowed, then closed the box quickly and placed it, along with the slippers, into Will’s sea chest. He wrestled the thing outside and into the cart, led the mare to the house, and found the stout, pink-cheeked Mrs. Merriman back in command of her kitchen. Archer delivered Will’s letter, paid his week’s rent, and added his own thanks for her care of his friend.

  “Oh, ’twas nothing,” she said. “Poor lad, with no family nor friends to go home to. You tell him he’s welcome here any time, and we’ll remember you both when we pray for the ships at sea.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Now, if I might impose upon you further.” He smiled apologetically. “I realized on my way here that I could not return your horse and cart and also return Mr. Marshall’s sea chest to him in Portsmouth. Might there be anyone in the household who could drive to town with me and bring the rig back?”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “If you’ve tuppence to spare, I’m sure Roger, at the livery stable, would jump at the chance. His sister, Rachel, helps me here, days, and like as not, their mother will send him to fetch her home. I believe he’d be happier to come in the cart than afoot.”

  That settled, Archer left a few shillings for the poorbox, knowing there was always need in the families of sailors set ashore without a penny. Glad to be on the last leg of the journey, he turned the patient mare toward town once more.

  He had time to think on the drive back, and decided at last to just leave well enough alone for now. There were all sorts of reasons why Will might have left his letters unopened. It wasn’t something Archer could have done; curiosity would have driven him to open the first, and once he’d read the letter, nothing could have kept him from writing back. That was probably just as true for Will. And Will had obviously decided not to communicate, no matter what it cost, so, of course, the easiest way would be to not even look.

  He might bloody well have asked me first!

  Archer sighed, giving himself a mental thump. There was no point fretting over the past. Will’s reaction to his return had told him everything he really needed to know. Will had been a fool, yes—and he’d admitted that readily. It would be cruel to hound him further.

  But after all those months of loneliness, it was hard not to feel hurt—and just a little angry. “No family nor friends to go home to,” indeed! Only someone who loved him more than life itself. Yes, very well, Will had that harebrained notion of saving Archer from the Evils of Sodomy, but that was just a little outside of enough melodrama. Ah, well. That was Will, love him or leave him. And how could I leave?

  Archer’s mood lifted when he drew close enough to town that he could smell the sea. This had been his choice, every bit as much as Will’s; he had engineered it, after all. They would be together again, just as they’d always wanted, at least for the present. The future…. Well, the future would have to sort itself out, and that was beyond his control in any case.

  The lad at the livery stable turned out to be none other than Roger, who accepted the errand to Merriman’s with alacrity and was more than willing to haul Will’s sea chest to the Sally Port while Archer ran his errand to the tailor. That last chore was easier than he expected—a few officers had sold their spare uniforms for ready cash, and the tailor found one of fine wool broadcloth that could easily be altered to a landsman’s coat by the end of the day. He could tell Will it was a late birthday present, or that he’d bought the new clothing for the pleasure of admiring him in it—and helping him out of it. That was certainly true, in any case.

  Archer took great pleasure in giving presents, and he was smiling when he left the tailor’s and walked down to the Sally Port. It was too easy, in these hard times, to find a boatman willing to row him out to where the elegant Mermaid floated at anchor. He picked the thinnest-looking man, in a weathered boat whose larboard oar was handled by a scrawny boy who barely looked big enough to man it. He turned his collar up against the biting wind off the water and settled himself on the hard wooden seat.

  “Shoreboat ahoy!” someone called out as they drew near. He recognized that voice—their old bosun, Barrow, one of the few among the Valiant’s crew who knew that Lt. Archer had survived the gunshot he’d suffered aboard during that final skirmish. Will had found him, then. That was one thing less to worry about, and Archer found himself smiling at Barrow’s incorrect greeting. Strictly speaking, that phrase was only used to greet a boat bearing an officer, and the Mermaid was a civilian vessel.

  Still, it was good to see an old shipmate, and he could not resist returning Barrow’s salute once he’d scrambled up the side and onto a deck swarming with busy sailors. “It’s only Mr. St. John, Barrow,” he said under his breath.

  “Aye, sir, but it’s good to see you lookin’ so well.” The older man, who’d known both him and Will since they were midshipman, smiled with an almost fatherly affection. “Back from the dead, and there’s few I’ve seen so sorely missed.”

  Archer wasn’t easily embarrassed, but he was now. “Yes, well….” Glancing around the deck, he said, “I see Klingler, Jules Owen—is Sam Owen aboard too?” He was not surprised to see Barrow nod; the Owen boys were twins and alike as two peas. “Spencer as well….” But not Will, oddly enough. “Are there any other old Calypsos aboard?”

  “McClain and Korthals, sir. They’re still ashore, seein’ if they can fetch a few more good ’uns. Our boys all know your name, never fear. We won’t forget—we’re that glad of a berth, we’d call you Queen o’ the May if you wanted. Captain Marshall’s below, sir.”

  “I’ll look for him there,
then. So, what do you think of our Mermaid? Will she do?”

  “Oh, aye.” Barrow squinted up at the rigging, all sails neatly furled along the yards. “She’s a bit fancy for the likes of us—sails white as a French whore’s bottom—but she’ll do till we get back on a proper man o’ war.” That was high praise, for to Barrow, no vessel could ever live up to their old frigate, Calypso.

  Archer nodded and went below. The stern cabin was empty, but he could hear Will’s voice echoing from the starboard bow. It sounded as though he was instructing some crewmen on how best to arrange ballast—no one else ever did that chore to Will’s complete satisfaction, and his rebalancing cargo always seemed to eke out just a bit more speed. There’d be no point going forward to greet him and stumbling into the middle of that chore. This sleek, narrow hull had no room to spare for spectators while boxes and barrels were being slung about.

  He debated whether to go back on deck, but decided it would be best to let the crew settle in under Barrow’s watchful eye. He went on into the cabin and made himself comfortable on the bench seat built under the stern window. As titular owner, the best berth on the ship was his by right, but this was properly the Captain’s cabin. Since the Mermaid was so small, it was only logical for him to share quarters with the man commanding the vessel. He’d stored some of his own possessions in the cupboards beneath the bench, but left half of them empty for Will’s belongings—a superstitious act, perhaps.

  He didn’t know what Will’s plans were for the rest of the day—hunting for crew, most probably. But in the meantime, what was there for him to do? He wondered, again, if he had made a mistake in arranging this. Yes, he would be with Will—that was important, of course it was. But in what capacity? He had no real role on this vessel. He had a packet of gemstones and the names of some men to contact in France, but for the moment, he had no tasks to complete nor any idea of what Will would want him to do.

  Still, he was the ship’s owner, was he not? He could stroll about on deck if he chose. Or he could stay below out of the weather and let Captain Marshall establish himself as the one in command.

  That seemed the better course of action, all in all. Archer hung his greatcoat on a convenient hook and fished in the pocket for the book he’d been reading the day before, a suitable tale for a man taking ship with no notion of what the future would bring. And a bit of wishful thinking too—he’d rather be on an Uninhabited Island with Will at this moment than on the finest ship ever built.

  Archer smiled, glancing at the title: The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York. Mariner; who lived Eight and Twenty Years, all alone in an Uninhabited Island on the coast of America, near the Mouth of the Great River of Oroonoque; Having been cast on Shore by Shipwreck, wherein all the Men perished but himself. With An Account how he was at last as strangely deliver’d by Pyrates. Written by Himself.

  He suspected Mr. Defoe had missed Shakespeare’s injunction naming brevity the soul of wit.

  Chapter 3

  “SEA-FURL the squaresail,” Marshall said, squinting into the mix of fog and snow that surrounded the Mermaid and cloaked the distant shore of Normandy in a bone-chilling mist. “We can make it pretty when the weather lets up.”

  “Aye, sir.” Barrow took a step away on the tiny quarterdeck and shouted Marshall’s instructions up to the topmen clinging to slippery footropes as they wrestled the wet, icy sails into a neatly furled row. They could expect filthy weather at this time of year, but it hardly seemed fair for it to come on so suddenly.

  The day before had been bright and unseasonably warm for early December. Their unscheduled meeting with a merchant vessel bound for England with her hold full of wine had given Davy the chance to trade a ham for a few bottles of unusually palatable burgundy. Getting into his role, Davy had even inquired whether the ship’s captain had any interest in a great bargain on nicely cut amethysts. Although he expressed polite admiration of the stones, the Frenchman had shown no interest in buying any. He’d advised Mr. St. John to go to Paris, the only place anyone was likely to have the money for such luxuries.

  Whether that little exchange added any credibility to their mission, Marshall had no idea, but it did no harm and Davy seemed to enjoy it.

  It was still a bit strange to hail French ships and have lunch with their captains as opposed to opening fire, but there was far less wear and tear on the schooner, and he felt rather protective of her. The Mermaid was everything Sir Percy had promised: clean, well-constructed, sailing close enough to the wind to suit even the most demanding captain.

  But he was learning that the lady did not care for snow, particularly the sort that blew in like needles thrown by a capricious wind and turned a warm, sunny afternoon into a damp, icy cloud. Every time the wind shifted, the slightest movement of canvas broke the thin coating formed by half-melted snowflakes freezing on the sails, and the deck was pelted with flakes of shattered ice. He’d taken in sail twice now, and even with only stays and the main course—and that with two reefs—she still seemed skittish.

  Marshall tried to be philosophical about discovering his lady’s foibles. They were lucky the weather had hit them when they had time to spare in their schedule and could learn how the Mermaid behaved in winter without endangering a mission.

  “At least we’re far enough offshore that we needn’t worry about running aground,” Davy said behind him.

  “Not unless you decide to put in and peddle those trinkets,” Will replied. “You were quite convincing.”

  “That’s the point of the game, is it not?” Davy said equably. “I draw the line at going to Paris, though. When the peace fails, the last place we’ll want to be is on French soil, and it’s a long run from Paris to the sea.”

  “I don’t want you going ashore at all,” Marshall said. “I know you must, in the trade ports, but with luck you’ll be able to do most of your dealing ship-to-ship. You should not take any unnecessary risks.”

  “Of course not. Really, Will, unnecessary risk is not part of the job.”

  “Not yet.” If he were to be honest, Marshall would have admitted that the cruise thus far had been singularly lacking in danger or risk of any sort. They had sailed around the Bay of Biscay, observed the coast of Normandy, and occasionally met with another small vessel to receive instructions from Sir Percy or to pass along the record of their observations. Their first mission, despite the urgency with which they’d been sent, had turned out to be nothing more than a delivery of much-needed gold to an agent awaiting funds before he was smuggled into Spain.

  If there was anything important going on with the French fleet, it would be on the other side of the country. Wasn’t Nelson in the Mediterranean, watching Toulon? That was where Bonaparte’s naval forces would be now, in weather warm enough to make repair and refitting an easy task. This was necessary work, he could not doubt that, but it was not the sort of job he was trained for. It was ridiculously easy.

  But this new mission was different, and not just because it would involve someone they knew. This time they’d have to go right in to the French shore and send a boat to pick up a passenger.

  “I wish your cousin had been able to persuade his father-in-law to stay in England.”

  Davy shrugged. “I don’t think he means to return after this, but I can understand why Dr. Colbert would want to finish old business in Paris. He left so suddenly, and for all he knows, his house might have been burned down or seized by the government.” He rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet against the cold. “I hope he’s found somewhere to get out of this bitter weather. He must be nearly sixty. It’s natural enough that he’d want to go back and sell the house, if he can.”

  “I suppose so. I hope he isn’t picked up as a spy.”

  “Why should he be? Will, hundreds of civilians have been thrown off-course by war. Dr. Colbert and his daughter were on perfectly innocent business, traveling home from a scientific conference, when their ship was captured by the Calypso. The govern
ment gave them leave to go. They had no control over what happened.”

  That was true, from what the government of France knew of the affair. “Yes, but they could have gone back—and they did not.”

  “True, they were left at liberty in England—they could have returned to France through a neutral port, if they chose. But it was sheer chance that his daughter met and married my cousin. Once the grandchildren started coming along, it would’ve been foolish to take the family back to France—especially since their father’s an aristo.”

  “You’ve embroidered that tale out of all recognition.” In fact, the conference had been a long-planned escape for the Colberts, and it had been Kit’s good fortune that they were willing to smuggle a seriously ill Englishman out of France. As fugitives from the Reign of Terror, they had never intended to return. Dr. Colbert had supported the democratic reforms of the French Revolution, but when the mob went mad, he realized his country had only traded one sort of misrule for another. He’d been planning their escape since before Kit had the luck to stumble across Zoe Colbert at a friend’s party, and if he had not, Davy might be poorer by one extremely congenial cousin.

  “It sails near enough to the truth that no one can prove otherwise,” Davy said. “And it’s not as though he’s the only expatriate returning to attend to personal business, or a visitor who wants to see France again. Half the ships we’ve passed have been English sightseers.”

  “And the other half merchants, I know.” Marshall was not reassured. “But if we’re out here, so will Frenchmen be—and I expect they’re as innocent as we are ourselves.”

  “Very likely,” Davy agreed. “That’s why I made such an ass of myself peddling trinkets, you know—that merchantman seemed unreasonably interested in our itinerary.” He rested a hand on Marshall’s shoulder. “Come below and warm yourself for a few minutes. I can light the spirit lamp and make tea—you’re chilled through.”