by David Healey
On the ladder they passed old Stagg, struggling with a pot of salt beef for the other ensigns' dinner. "You two, try not to fall into the sea on your way," he grumped, and then laughed so hard he nearly dropped the pot.
• • •
Alexander and Roger seemed to be the last to arrive, which earned them a quick, disapproving look from the professor, but Captain Bellingham didn't seem to notice. He was deep in conversation with the sailing master, Mr. Drury, about the dangers of hoisting full sail in rough weather. The captain's Great Room was much larger than any other quarters on the ship, big enough that some of the guests had chosen to stand or walk about. The captain's room was also the only quarters on board with a row of glass windows, and light from the fading day filled the room, although the watery winter light had to be supplemented by several candles. Without doubt, it was the most elegant room on the ship, and Alexander immediately felt that he had to be on his best behavior, a feeling not unlike stepping into a church.
But it was still something of a tight fit, and most of the guests had already seated themselves around the large table, complete with a tablecloth, chinaware, and silver engraved with the captain's initials. It was all very grand and fancy. Alexander felt awkward in that he had never dined with anything other than pewter plates—not even at home, because his uncle had insisted that the good china be saved for company. Not that anyone ever came.
Magruder, who was the captain's orderly, seated the two ensigns side by side, farthest from the captain. Alexander wondered why two chairs were still empty, one next to him—and one closer up near the captain. He had his answer a moment later when the final three guests arrived. They all wore flyer uniforms, and as they came in, Alexander saw with pleasure that one of the new arrivals was Lord Parkington. He was given the chair next to Alexander, who was happy to see the flyer's face light up.
"If I must sit next to a sailor, I suppose you'll do," Parkington said, but the flyer was smiling as he said it. "It's good to see you up and about, by the way. I thought you had drowned. Leaping into the sea like that—it was outlandish. More like just the sort of thing to expect from a flyer, not a sailor. You're the ones who are supposed to have good sense, mind you."
Parkington introduced the other flyer, whose name was Thirwall. Like most of the young flyers, he was a slightly built boy. Too much weight would slow down a gryphon.
While the arrival of the two flyer ensigns was barely noticed, conversation dribbled to a halt as the third flyer officer approached the empty seat. Even Alexander couldn't help but stare.
Captain Bellingham leaped to his feet. "Amelia, my dear, so glad you could join us," he said, his voice booming like cannon fire.
"Why thank you, Bellingham. It worked out very nicely having to fly in a message from fleet headquarters. I always do try to arrive in time for a good meal."
Bellingham laughed, and he seemed genuinely pleased to see the flyer officer. The other men didn't seem so sure, and they appeared very glad when Magruder set about refilling their wineglasses. They were all very hale and hearty about it, and Alexander detected a sense of relief that they had something else to focus upon.
Even Alexander was not immune to the tension caused by the flyer captain’s arrival. She had clearly just flown in, because a smell of fresh salt air hung about her, along with a whiff of wet cat, that peculiar odor that gryphons had. He could smell it, too, on Lord Parkington, even though the boy was wearing his best uniform and hadn't just arrived by gryphon. The smell of gryphons seemed to permeate everything about the flyers.
But it was not the gryphon commander's smell that he noticed most of all—it was the jaunty air about her. The flyer captain was tall—taller than some of the men, though not as tall as Bellingham or as Professor Hobhouse. She was also willowy and lithe. She wore a heavy flying cloak against the cold, and Magruder helped her off with that, revealing a sky blue flyer's coat and riding breeches that hugged her curvy hips and shapely legs. Several of the men gulped at their wine.
"I believe all of you are acquainted with Amelia Blackburn—popularly known as Captain Amelia," Bellingham said. He smiled with what could only be described as fondness. "She is, of course, quite famous throughout the fleet."
"Oh, posh." Captain Amelia plunked down into the empty chair at the captain's elbow. "Magruder, pour me a generous glass. None of that namby pamby white there, but a nice deep port to get the chill out of my bones."
"Amelia, I think you in turn know everyone here, except our two more recent additions to the Resolution. Ensigns Higson and Hope."
Captain Amelia’s gaze passed over Roger with barely any acknowledgment and then settled upon Alexander. "Hope, do you say?" She looked at the captain. "Not Arthur's son?"
"One and the same."
"Arthur Hope. Now there was a man." The gryphon commander sounded almost dreamy.
"Indeed," Bellingham agreed, with a tinge of sadness in his voice. "There was a man."
Alexander perked up at that, and yet he was unsettled. How could this woman possibly have known his father?
He might have asked, but at that moment Magruder entered carrying a large silver tray on which there were three roasted chickens, surrounded by broiled potatoes and carrots. A general cheer went up, and Alexander's mouth watered at the smell. For the next several minutes, the only sound was the click and clatter of silverware and appreciative noises. Alexander spooned gravy over his potatoes and joined in. After a steady diet of ship's biscuit and boiled salt beef, he had almost forgotten how good real food tasted. He wolfed it down with relish.
Captain Amelia had taken a smaller portion than the men, and she only picked at that. She did have a second glass of port, however. The ensigns had been allowed a single, very small glass and Alexander found it to be a strong red wine, laced with brandy. He was not used to drinking wine, and only sipped at it. Everyone also had a goblet of water and mostly that's what he drank.
"What ho, Mr. Drury," the gryphon commander said to the sailing master, and raised her glass. "You're not keeping up."
The sailing master was already apple cheeked, but with a smile he held out his glass and Magruder refilled it with port wine.
When the general shoveling down of food had abated somewhat, conversation picked up again. "How did you fare in that gale?" Captain Amelia asked. "The entire gryphon flight was grounded for days. We couldn't launch in that wind. The only saving grace was that the Napoleonist gryphons couldn't fly, either."
"Truth be told, it was a close thing, Amelia," the captain said. "These winter storms that blow up on the channel are not to be taken lightly. In fact, we damn near lost Mr. Higson and Mr. Hope over the side."
"Oh?" She looked at the two ensigns with genuine interest. "Do tell."
"I was up in the rigging when one of the men lost his footing and ended up dragging me down with him," Roger explained. "It wasn't his fault, really. We would have drowned in that sea, if Alexander hadn't jumped in after us."
"You sailors always did have trouble with heights," Captain Amelia said.
"Damnedest thing I ever saw," said Mr. Drury, who was now positively red faced. "It was as if a wave picked them up and set them back on board. None the worse for wear, I might add, except for Ensign Hope, who promptly passed out."
"I'm sure it was a great shock to Mr. Hope's system," Lieutenant Swann seemed compelled to point out. "His actions were quite brave."
"Yet undeniably foolish," added Professor Hobhouse, who until then had been unusually quiet.
"Oh, Hobhouse, you always were such a one for gloom and doom and caution," Captain Amelia said. Then, without warning, she picked up her goblet and hurled the water within it across the table at Alexander.
Without thinking, in a fraction of an instant, he willed the water to stop. And so it did, hanging suspended over the table. The officers around the table stared. Under the table, he felt Lord Parkington grab his knee. Suddenly conscious of what he had done, Alexander let the water splash onto the now-empty silver platter.
The sailing master was staring at the greasy puddle. "What in the world—"
"The boy is an elemental, of course," Captain Amelia said. "I wouldn't expect anything less from the son of Arthur Hope. Now, what sort of pudding do you suppose Magruder has made?"
CHAPTER NINE
When Alexander woke the next morning, he was very glad to find himself in his own hammock in the ensigns’ berth, rather than the one in the sick bay. He vaguely remembered crawling into his hammock last night, extremely sleepy and full from Captain Bellingham's dinner.
There was no sleeping late on a ship of war. The ensigns’ berth was not a quiet place, and he realized that everyone around him was already up. Roger's hammock was already rolled up and stowed.
Alexander had gone to sleep fully clothed, though he had managed to kick off his shoes, and he now swung his bare feet toward the deck. The first thing he saw was Thomas Fowler at the table where the ensigns normally dined. From the mugs of coffee, biscuits and pots of jam, it looked as if they were having breakfast. Fowler was in the midst of a group of other ensigns and seemed to be telling a story that was funny enough to have them all laughing. Alexander was a little surprised because he had not thought of Fowler as much of a storyteller—unless the younger ensigns thought it was wise to laugh because Fowler wanted them to. Sweeney and Lloyd sat on either side of him like large bookends, snickering and casting looks in Alexander's direction.
"Don't pay him any mind," whispered Roger, who was nearby, sorting things in his sea chest. "It's just what he wants you to do."
"You there, Hopeless!" called Sweeney. "I hear you're allergic to saltwater. Makes you swoon like a girl, does it?"
Several boys looked in Alexander's direction. Some wore idiotic grins, and he realized that the story Fowler had been telling with such evident hilarity was about how Alexander had passed out on deck after being thrown back aboard Resolution by that rogue wave. He felt a flash of anger, then pushed it aside. There was a burst of laughter from the table. They evidently found his silence hilarious. He busied himself putting on his shoes.
"What watch have you got?" asked Liam, who plunked onto an empty sea chest, mug of steaming coffee in hand. He looked at Alexander. "What's wrong with you?"
"Fowler," Roger answered for him. "He's telling stories about Alexander fainting during the storm."
The Irish boy snorted. "That's not how I heard it. You should hear the men talking. They say you've got some sort of powers or magic, like a necromancer." He laughed. "Some are even saying you might be an elemental, like old Algernon Hope. They are a rather superstitious lot. They'll believe any old story. There are more than a few going around, including Fowler's over there."
Roger and Alexander exchanged a look. Roger had been there in the sea with him and knew how the wave had swept them back aboard the ship. More importantly, he had witnessed Captain Amelia's stunt last night with the hurled water. There was definitely something strange going on that Alexander didn't yet understand.
"Don't listen to Fowler," Liam muttered.
"You're not the one who passed out on deck," Alexander said.
With that, he stood up and walked over to the table. He could barely hear Roger whisper a warning after him. "Alexander, don't."
The laughter didn't quite die away as he walked up. The boys gathered around Fowler watched Alexander expectantly, wondering what he was about to say or do. There was nothing like a good fight to interrupt the boredom at sea. Fowler, who was much taller and older than Alexander, watched him approach with the sort of amused expression with which a cat regards a mouse.
"Good morning," Alexander said, then poured himself a mug of coffee. He was so angry with Fowler and the others that his hands shook, but he hoped they didn't notice. He was determined not to let them see how their taunts ate at him. He grabbed a couple of biscuits to stuff in his pockets, then headed for the stairway.
"Careful there, Hopeless!" Fowler called after him. "We wouldn't want you to faint dead away at the sight of the sea this morning!"
Roger clapped Alexander on the shoulder, and Liam fell in behind them. He felt a little better knowing that not all of the ensigns found him to be a laughingstock—at least not the ones who mattered.
The morning had started badly, even sullenly. The grayness of the winter day and the thought of watching the dull sea for hours did not help his mood. But in the next moment, everything changed.
They had just started up the gangway when the drums began to sound “Beat to Quarters.” They could hear cries on deck of "All hands to action stations!" They flew up the ladder and emerged onto a deck in turmoil. This did not have the feel at all of a drill. There was a tang in the air of danger and anxiety, and yet Alexander could see no sign of any ships on the horizon. Then he looked up and felt his blood run cold.
It was a sight unlike any he had ever seen. In the distant sky he could see a formation like a "V" of geese, but this was no flock of migrating birds. They were larger and flew much more swiftly, pointed like an arrow at the Resolution. Alexander stood there, mesmerized.
"Are they ours?" he wondered out loud.
"Are you daft, boy?" a sailor replied, racing past with a bucket filled with loaded pistols. The small arms such as pistols and cutlasses were normally kept locked away to prevent mutiny, but now the sailor passed them to eager hands. He paused in front of Alexander. "Those are French gryphons! You'd better take a pistol, young sir—in point of fact, you ought to take two."
Alexander did just that, stuffing them into his belt as many of the men were doing. The sailor rushed away to arm other crew members. He felt better having a pair of pistols, though the gryphons soaring overhead seemed hopelessly beyond reach of a pistol shot. And if the French beasts were as large as Lord Parkington's gryphon, it would take more than a pistol to bring them down.
He could hear Lieutenant Swann shouting orders to the other officers and to the sailors. "Mr. Higson, see to your division! You there, belay that and fetch more powder!"
Alexander had not been on board long enough to be assigned a proper division, and so he did not have a task other than to make himself generally useful. Most of the other ensigns were in charge of divisions—detachments of sailors who operated several of the ship's cannons. He could see Roger getting his men in order, and also Fowler, who seemed to have one of the larger divisions. As Alexander watched him direct his men, he had to give him some grudging respect because Fowler appeared to know what he was about. He also looked much calmer than Alexander felt at the moment. When Fowler gave an order, his men jumped to it.
Alexander had never been in a battle, and didn't know what to expect or how to act. He was surprised to find that he felt more confused than afraid. He just wished his first fight had involved another ship, rather than the terrifying enemy gryphons. How could a ship defend against an attack from the air?
From the talk he had heard, he knew that a gryphon attack was much feared. A ship at sea was in the open with nowhere to run and hide. The Resolution's massive guns could defend against another ship, but they were almost useless against gryphons because the guns could not be elevated to shoot straight into the sky. For defense, a ship mainly had to rely on the marine sharpshooters in the rigging. Only their rifles and muskets had the range to reach the beasts. Alexander had heard that a swooping and flying gryphon was a notoriously difficult target to hit. A marksman had to be quick, and a good shot. And there was always the danger that a gryphon would simply dive down with claws and beak to snatch a man from the rigging.
To make matters worse, gryphon flyers carried spiked bomblets to rain down on deck, along with small explosive grenades. The beasts themselves were trained to shred the ship's sails with their claws, rendering a ship immobile.
The best way to fight back against a gryphon attack was to send the ship's own cohort of gryphons against it. The flyers—and the gryphons themselves—would attack each other in the air. At home, Alexander had sometimes seen hawks or birds fig
hting in the sky, and he expected something like that.
Almost as soon as he thought it, he heard a great thud come from below. He leaned over the rail and saw that Resolution's gryphon port had been lowered, and one by one the ship's gryphons sprang off the flight deck, riders clinging to their saddles. Some had clearly just tumbled out of their hammocks and hadn't put on their coats; one rider went barefoot. When scouting or flying messages, a flyer usually went alone, but for combat, there were two flyers aboard each gryphon—a pilot and a stern rider. He wondered if this might slow down the beasts, but he soon understood why two flyers were better than one.
Sweeping in from the sea, the Napoleonist squadron was now close enough for Alexander to make out the individual riders, who wore the elaborate uniform of Napoleon's famed cavalry, the cuirassiers: high black boots that went above the knee, gleaming white breeches, blue coat with red epaulets. Each French flyer wore a metal cuirass—armor that protected the chest and back. They wore helmets topped with horsehair that streamed behind them in the wind. The gryphons had armor plating shined to a mirror finish as well as saddle blankets in pale blue trimmed with gold. The French might have looked gaudy if they hadn't been so terrifying. In comparison, the English gryphons and half-dressed flyers resembled a motley flock of pigeons. Overhead, a horn sounded the Napoleonist attack, and Alexander felt his legs turn to jelly.
The enemy gryphons were upon them like a gust of wind. The marines fired a volley, the sound of cracking muskets filling the air. One vaguely red-tinted beast swept through the rigging and clawed at the marine snipers, causing two of them to fall. They spun through the air, flailing and screaming, then landed on deck with a sickening thud. Alexander stared in horror at the broken lumps that had once been seemingly invincible marines.
The Resolution's own gryphons were just getting airborne, and a pair of French gryphons ripped through their formation, scattering them in all directions. Alexander groaned. He couldn't tell which flyer and gryphon might be Lord Parkington and Lemondrop, but he hoped they would be all right.