First Voyage

by David Healey

  "Tie on, lad!" the sailing master shouted above the roar of the wind, and shoved a rope at Alexander. He quickly looped it around his waist and tied if off with a bowline—the new knot he had been taught. It was designed never to slip loose or tighten, but to hold a loop fast.

  As he took in the sights around him, Alexander reflected that Professor Hobhouse had been correct when he stated that a dull day at sea was a good one. Soon, Alexander was wishing for a dull day again.

  The English Channel was notoriously stormy in winter. The waves did help to create a barrier between England and her mortal enemy, but the storms made it devilishly hard on the Royal Navy ships and crews who found themselves at the mercy of the weather.

  Resolution was caught in a gale that had blown up surprisingly fast. Even a land-lubber like Alexander could see the problem, aside from the rough sea: the wind was coming at the ship sideways, catching the sails and forcing the ship too far over. Resolution was riding out the storm, but if the waves grew heavier or the wind howled yet harder, the ship might lean so far into the sea that she swamped. There was an additional danger that the force of the wind might carry away a mast, leaving Resolution doomed and helpless on the heavy sea.

  "Hands aloft to shorten sail!" called a booming voice, which Alexander recognized at once as Captain Bellingham's.

  Alexander looked up and saw that the captain had one arm hooked around a mast to keep from being swept away. He saw a wave crash into the captain, leaving him soaked as a wet cat. Bellingham didn't seem to notice. He pointed to some men trying to tie down a loose cannon. "Belay that and get aloft!"

  Roger and Liam rushed past Alexander and swarmed up the rigging to join the hands who were already struggling with the sails overhead. Alexander moved to join them, but had to untie the safety line first. He was just starting to climb when a large figure elbowed past him, nearly causing him to lose his grip. It was Jameson, the big sailor Alexander had reprimanded for drinking on watch. He wondered if the man had nearly stepped on his hands on purpose.

  It was not his first time aloft, but no matter how often he climbed the rigging, he was not sure he would ever get used to it. He had heard some sailors say they never did. Fortunately, he was not afraid of heights, though he didn’t care to push his luck. One lesson Alexander had quickly learned was never to look down. That might cause you to freeze—or possibly even to fall. In a way, the gale was a good distraction. Alexander was so busy trying to climb as the ship rocked wildly, all the while being lashed by wind and salt spray, that he didn't even bother to look below.

  The challenge was in climbing out over the yard to hoist the sail. The mast was vertical and the yard was the horizontal wooden crossbar from which the sails were hung. Several men had to shimmy out onto the yard, high above the deck and the churning sea. In calm weather, some men made a game of it and stepped lightly across this wooden version of a high wire. But in this gale, the men moved slowly and deliberately. One slip and it was all over—falling to the deck far below would leave a man crushed and broken, while the chances of rescue were slim if a man plunged into the roiling sea. It took many hands to pull up a wet sail—in a driving wind no less—and secure it to the yard. It was the job of the ensigns to direct the men's work. Alexander wasn’t sure how he could tell these hands to do a job that they had done many times before and knew better than he did.

  He followed Roger's example and worked his way out onto the yard, then shouted encouragement to the men as he tugged and pulled at his own section of sail. The wind grew even more powerful, seeming to whip Alexander's words away as soon as they left his mouth. The gale howled through the rigging and tugged at Alexander's very fingers as if trying to work them loose. It didn't help that at this height the masts carried them in a wide arc. At one point, the masts swung so far over that the yardarm—the outermost tip of the yard—very nearly dipped into one of the mountainous waves marching toward Resolution.

  It was madness. Alexander clung to the handholds for dear life, watching in amazement as the sailors continued to work as best they could.

  Then the wind shifted, snapping at them like a whip. The sudden change in direction threw several sailors off balance and they lunged desperately for handholds and footholds.

  There was a terrified cry, and Alexander saw the big sailor Jameson begin to fall. The man's eyes grew wide in amazement as he snatched desperately at empty air. For a fraction of a second, it almost seemed that the wild pinwheeling of his arms would keep him in place like some ungainly bird. But then he began to go over backwards. At the last instant, Roger tried to catch the sailor and grabbed hold of his hand. But the man weighed too much, and Alexander watched in horror as the other ensign was yanked into thin air.

  "Roger!" he cried. He lunged for his friend, but he was too far away.

  Warning shouts went up all around him as the two fell. Their tumbling bodies just missed being broken on the deck. They plunged into the stormy sea like giant stones.

  "Men overboard to larboard!" someone cried out to Alexander's left, but he doubted that anyone on deck could hear. The sailors in the rigging were helpless to do anything—the sail was finally all brought in, but one wrong step in this wind could send someone else plummeting into the sea.

  Below, he saw several sailors rush to the rail. One threw a line, but the man was throwing against the wind, and the line fell well short of the two figures flailing in the water, obviously swimming for their lives. No matter how hard they swam, the ship seemed to be increasing its distance from them due to the wind and the current. Soon, the men were being swept up the side of a massive wave, being carried yet farther away.

  Alexander had never felt so hopeless and useless. Here he was, high above the sea, watching two shipmates being swept away to their certain deaths. He did not know the sailor very well, but Roger was a good friend—the only one he had really made aboard Resolution.

  Hot tears stung his eyes and burned his cold cheeks. A moment ago he had been terrified, trying to keep his balance in the rigging. Now he just felt angry. Angry at the gale, this ship, the miserable way he had been cast into this new life as an ensign. Angry that he was watching his friend drown.

  He didn’t think through what he did next. He simply did it. The mast swung down again and one of the huge waves loomed. Alexander dove from the rigging and rocketed into the sea. Just before he hit the water, he could have sworn he heard someone on deck shout, "The damn fool has jumped in!"

  The cold of the winter sea was so shocking that it nearly stopped his heart. In a panic, he fought his way to the surface. He glimpsed the slick black sides of the Resolution looming above. The wind and waves pummeled him.

  It was easier swimming underwater, so he held his breath and swam with powerful strokes in the direction where he had last seen Roger and the sailor. Though Alexander had never seen the sea before arriving at Spithead Harbor, he always had enjoyed swimming in the local ponds and streams around his uncle's estate. Those still pond waters were nothing like this. For one thing, they were much warmer than the wintry English Channel.

  He finally came up for air, emerging from the silent world underwater to the howling of the wind and spray whipping so hard against his face that he could scarcely catch his breath. He spotted Roger and Jameson nearby and swam toward them.

  "Alexander!" Roger cried. "What have you done? Now you'll drown too! The Resolution can't reach us. The wind and tide are against her."

  He could see that Roger was sputtering seawater and struggling to stay afloat. He looked exhausted and afraid. It didn't help that he was trying to keep the sailor from going under. Big as the man was, he couldn't swim very well, but kept slapping ineffectively at the waves. Roger let go of him momentarily and Jameson went under.

  "I've lost him!"

  "I'll get him!"

  Alexander took a deep breath and dove. His wet wool clothes were like lead weights and he kicked harder as the heaviness dragged him down. The sailor was just underwater, struggling
feebly. Alexander got under him and pushed upward, helping the man toward the surface. A second later Alexander surfaced beside him. The Resolution seemed to have moved even farther away.

  "We're doomed," Roger said. "There's no way we'll ever get back to the ship. We can't swim against this wind and this current."

  Alexander knew that Roger was right. They would die here on the open sea.

  That thought nearly overwhelmed him with its unfairness. But he did not feel afraid or regret jumping in after Roger. He felt himself growing angry at the waves.

  Something seemed to clench inside him, the way a muscle does when you lift something extraordinarily heavy. Only this flexing wasn't in his arms or his legs or his torso, but in Alexander's mind. He felt something flow through him, something he had never felt before and couldn't even begin to describe. It wasn't an emotion like anger or fear, or a sensation like hot or cold or pain. He had felt this before in a much milder way that night when Lord Parkington had caught him absently playing with the ripples on the calm sea. Something primitive in Alexander's brain—back in the uncivilized corners where we understood the value of fire or a good, sharp stick— recognized the force flowing through Alexander for what it was. This was power. He held the feeling in his mind, keeping it there like one might cup a flame from the wind.

  "Both of you grab hold of me and hold tight!"

  "You can't keep us both afloat," Roger protested. He sounded even more tired than before and his strokes had grown more sluggish.

  "Just do as I say!"

  Roger and the sailor took hold of his shoulders. It became considerably harder to swim, but Alexander ignored that. He focused on whatever force it was now roaring through his very veins. Instinctively, he knew what to do, even though he had never done this before.

  He concentrated on the water all around him—grew angry at it like a dog that wouldn't obey—and summoned a wave. He could feel it wrapping around them.

  "What's happening?" Roger cried out, clearly terrified.

  Alexander did not break his concentration to reply, but reached out with his mind into the sea around them. The wave rose, growing higher and higher, then began to roll toward Resolution. Instead of the three of them bobbing up one side of the wave and down the other, the wave seemed to have caught them in its grip, like a fist closing around them.

  The wave built speed even against the wind and rolled toward the ship. Someone on deck shouted and pointed, then another man, and another. Their cries became tinged with awe and terror as the wave towered over the Resolution. In another moment, it would crush the ship.

  Alexander willed the water to disperse. At the last possible instant, when the wave would have broken against Resolution and swamped it, the water instead subsided. One last burst of energy propelled Alexander and the two others forward, hurling them onto the deck, where they landed in a wet heap.

  "Help those men!" Captain Bellingham shouted.

  On his hands and knees on the deck, Alexander felt cold and exhausted. The full realization of what he had just done—leapt into a stormy ocean and bent the sea to his will—washed over him like another wave. He felt hands reaching for him, and felt a heavy blanket being draped around his shoulders. He tried to stand up, tried to tell them he was all right, but his knees buckled beneath him and Alexander fell down into darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Alexander woke up with a splitting headache. When he looked at the low ceiling, it seemed to swim in front of his eyes, and for a moment he feared that he was still under water. Then he realized he wasn't in his own hammock at all, but in the ship's surgery. He was confused, though it all came back to him in a rush—the storm, the wave, being washed up on deck. The memory of it made his head ache more sharply.

  "You do seem to have a knack for getting into trouble, Mr. Hope."

  Alexander turned toward the sound of the voice and saw Professor Hobhouse sitting in a chair with a book. He was looking at Alexander over his spectacles. Almost at the same time, Alexander noticed that something wasn't quite right. He realized that the ship had stopped pitching and rolling with the storm. Bright sun streamed through the portals that illuminated the ship's surgery.

  "Is the storm over?" he asked. "How long have I been here?"

  Professor Hobhouse closed his book. "Three days."

  "Three days!" Alexander struggled to sit up, but the room suddenly spun out of control. He groaned and let the hammock swallow him again.

  "Don't let the surgeon hear you doing that or he'll want to bleed you. Relieving the miasmas of the blood, I believe he calls it. He's rather eager to use that lancet at every opportunity, but I'm afraid I threatened to use it on him in a rather nasty way if he came near you."

  "I can't believe I've been sleeping here for three days. Why didn't someone wake me? I imagine the captain will be disappointed that I've been absent from duty."

  "You are a curious boy, Mr. Hope. Considering that you saved the lives of an ensign and an able seaman, I don't believe the captain will begrudge you a few days to recuperate."

  "What happened?"

  "I was going to ask you the same thing." Hobhouse paused. "But a word of caution, Alexander. It may be wise to say little of what happened, or feign ignorance. That may be for the best until you really understand your actions. There are many forces at play here, and the less said, the better."

  Alexander was a little taken aback that the schoolmaster had called him by his first name. It was one of the rare times that had happened on the ship—other than with Roger, who really didn't count. Alexander also couldn't help but notice that the schoolmaster's voice had taken on an ominous tone of warning. He wanted to ask him what he meant, but at that moment the surgeon walked in.

  "Ah!" he said. "I see you're awake, Mr. Hope. Feeling better?"

  "Yes, thank you, sir. I do have a terrible headache."

  "You probably hit your head when you leapt from the rigging, or when you landed on deck," the surgeon said. "Perfectly normal."

  Alexander would have liked to ask the doctor just what was perfectly normal about anything that had happened during the storm. But he noticed the schoolmaster give him a barely perceptible shake of the head. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

  The surgeon studied him with professional interest. "You do look a bit pale." He tugged at his chin. "Perhaps I should bleed you—"

  "Come now, that won't be necessary," Professor Hobhouse said in his stern schoolmaster's voice. It had the effect of stopping the surgeon in his tracks as he reached for a razor-sharp lancet.

  Any debate over the need for bleeding was halted by the arrival of Roger, who came barreling through the door like a puppy, full of his usual energy. "You're awake!" His smile was so genuine that Alexander felt a rush of warmth toward the ensign. It didn't lessen much even when Roger grabbed Alexander's shoulder and shook him, causing his head to ache all over again. "It's good to have you back, and I'll bet your hungry. Good thing, because the captain is hosting dinner in his cabin tonight, and you're invited."

  All at once, Alexander did feel starved. His stomach rumbled as if he had a cannonball rolling around in what felt like an empty, cavernous space. "That sounds perfect."

  • • •

  Alexander might have skipped dinner altogether, as overwhelmed as he was by the conversation he'd had with Professor Hobhouse. The professor was full of cautions and warnings. But as the sun began to set over the wintry sea he realized that he was ravenously hungry. The captain’s table seemed like the best place to get a decent meal.

  Most of the time, the ensigns took their meals together, all seated around the same table. The food was plain—ship's biscuit, salted beef and boiled potatoes—and not especially plentiful, cooked up rather indifferently by a sailor named Stagg. He was an old sailor who would have been lost on land, but he was far too ancient for regular duty, so Stagg had been made to cook for the ensigns' mess. The captain had taken pity on Stagg, but he did not take pity in turn on the ensigns or their vict
uals. Stagg could boil water, make tea, and take the raw out of meat, but he was not a real cook or chef in any sense of the word.

  The older ship's officers—including the surgeon and schoolmaster—ate in the gunroom. (So named for the guns that stood ready just beyond the dining table). The captain ate best of all because he received the choicest provisions, employed the most capable cook, and had money enough to set a table that fairly groaned—plus there was wine or cider instead of grog, a marked improvement. All of which made being invited to the Great Cabin to dine with the captain a very welcome event.

  A short time before dinner, Alexander left the sick bay and went below to put his uniform in some kind of order. After just a short time at sea it was battered and stained, not to mention stiff with salt from being dunked in the channel. The coat hung a bit loosely on him—the meals on board were hardly filling him out.

  Roger had been invited to dinner as well and was busy rummaging in his own trunk for a clean shirt. He looked Alexander up and down as he came in.

  "You're a sight." He tossed Alexander a blindingly white, folded shirt. He grinned. "I suppose the least I owe you is a clean shirt. You did save my life, after all."

  Alexander grinned back. He had never had a brother or anyone to wander the woods and fields with him. The estate where he had grown up was a lonely place, with no one to talk to but the servants and the itinerate tutors. He realized that Roger was his first real friend. "Thanks, Roger."

  He stripped off his shirt and washed up in a basin of water that sloshed with the ship's motion, then slipped on the fresh shirt. He pulled back his hair into a tight queue. He snapped the coat a couple of times to get the stiffness out of it, then put it on. It was the cleanest he had felt in weeks.

  "Ready?" Roger asked.