A Different Sort of Perfect (14 page)

Or at least that was what it sounded like.

"Well, well. Carry on." Captain Fleming took the
half-step and stopped in front of Wake. "Good job with my clerk's
uniform, Wake. Well done."

The old fo'c'sleman nodded as he removed his hat,
dignity belied by his satisfied smile. "In course, captain. In
course."

Another half-step. No detailed, piercing inspection
for these sailors, but then, they were all at least in mid-life and
must comprise an amazing lot of nautical experience between them.
And they seemed to have a history with their captain. He called
each by name, either gave them a casual greeting or said something
to the point, and moved on. Well, they wore no formal uniforms,
designed to impress, merely neat, clean white slops. But his eyes
did glance over their shaved cheeks, their hair, if any, and their
overall presentation, so the inspection wasn't entirely a
sinecure.

In the next section, the more fashionable foretopmen
with their be-ribboned trousers and neckerchiefs, he also thanked
Mayne for his work on her sweet little sailor dress; otherwise he
carried on as before. Not until they reached the third group, the
waisters, did he fully stop.

This was in front of one of the new sailors, a
slack-jawed young farmer who managed still, even here, to look as
if he should be herding cows or harvesting something. Captain
Fleming eyed the neat straw hat the ex-farmer crushed in his broad,
rough hands, and glanced over the clean but somewhat askew white
slops.

"What's your name?"

After a silent, awkward moment, an elbow whipped out,
seemingly from nowhere, and poked the ex-farmer. He swallowed.
"John Smith, sir."

"John Smith," Captain Fleming repeated. His
expression sharpened and his gaze fastened on the man's wary face.
"Where are you from, Smith?"

"Fredley, sir. Near Box Hill."

"And you're a farmer, Smith?"

The broad face wagged. "Lost my lease, I did, so I
had to do somewhat else."

"Well, I'm sorry for it, Smith." Captain Fleming's
voice was kind. "But it's good that you're here and you're young
enough to learn a new trade. Carry on."

Another nod, another half-step, and the brief
interview was over. Smith unfurled his crushed hat with slow
deliberation, as if thinking over what they'd said, then crushed it
again onto his head.

The little meeting added another layer to the
inspection's pattern. In front of each new hand, Captain Fleming
stopped and asked similar questions. And each time, he repeated the
man's name with each question he posed, as if driving the name and
face into his memory with the words.

There had been almost fifty new hands listed on the
muster roll when she'd checked them off. He didn't think he'd
remember them all, did he? But whether or no, she couldn't help but
be impressed with the effort he made.

It slowed the pace of the inspection. As the morning
sun rose higher, casting a spider web of shadows across the deck
from the rigging, they wound their way past the gunners, the
mainmast and mizzenmast hands, the standing officers, the
master-at-arms and ship's boys, and finally the afterguard. And
even then, they weren't quite done. At the captain's nod, the bosun
stepped forward.

"On end clothes!" he bawled.

The sailors grabbed the waiting seabags and pulled
out their contents, which proved to be their slops, some newly sewn
and others well worn. Chandler and Staunton again walked down the
lines, checking each hand's pile, before reporting to Mr. Abbot,
who turned and removed his hat to the captain.

"All in order, sir."

"Very creditable, Mr. Abbot." Captain Fleming poised
atop the for'ard ladder. "I think we're going to have a trim
fighting ship." He started down the ladder. "Come along, captain's
clerk. We must inspect below decks."

As soon as her head vanished below the ladder's
frame, voices broke out in gossipy murmuring above. The cool air
suddenly felt too warm. At least the crew had enough courtesy to
wait for her to leave before they began discussing her; the timing
could mean nothing else. Deep breaths settled her. Gossiping on a
Sunday, no less. They should be ashamed, not her.

More footsteps followed them down two flights, and at
the foot Mr. Abbot stepped up beside her. They trailed Captain
Fleming across the berth deck's dim, low cavern to a cabin in the
for'ard-most wedge of the bows. Mr. Abbot pulled the curtain over
the doorway aside and ushered them in.

Hammocks were slung in two clumps, a larger group of
a dozen clustered around the door's ventilation and another of four
in a back corner. The ship's surgeon stood between them, wearing a
rusty-black frock coat and sober grey breeches, the hair on the
right side of his head combed over the top of his shining pate
until it met that on the left. "Captain, Mr. Abbot," he nodded to
each, looked at her, and stumbled over his tongue. "Mi— I mean,
captain's clerk."

She couldn't help it; she reddened again.

"Good morning, Dr. Eckhart." As if he'd heard nothing
provoking, Captain Fleming bestowed another nod and glanced about
the sickbay, stopping almost immediately at the first hammock
inside the door. "Ah."

Clara eased closer and started. The hammock held a
motionless man, his shocking green face providing an unholy
contrast to his ash-colored hair. His deeply sunken eyes, high
forehead, and somewhat large nose gave him the look of an
absent-minded, interesting intellectual, should he ever recover
from whatever dangerous malady had seized him. But as he neither
moved nor seemed to breathe, poor man, no recovery seemed
likely.

"Lady Clara," the captain drawled, in his first hint
of Sunday-inappropriate levity, "meet our second lieutenant, Mr.
Rosslyn."

She blinked. That half-dead lump of humanity was
conscious?

It seemed so. Mr. Rosslyn's lips curved up at the
ends. If it was meant to be a smile, though, it managed instead to
look even more like a death mask.

She had to force herself to reply. "Pleased to meet
you, I'm sure."

The attempted smile faded within a moment, and all
traces of life vanished once again.

As Captain Fleming moved to the next hammock, she
edged toward Mr. Abbot, standing nearby with his hands clasped
behind his back. She whispered, "Is he dead?"

"No," the first lieutenant whispered back. "He just
wishes he was." His smile was thin, sadistic, and entirely
inappropriate for Sunday or any other civilized day. "Mr. Rosslyn
is always seasick our first week out."

Seasick? A professional sailor, and an officer to
boot? Astonishing. She hadn't even considered such a possibility
and hadn't felt a single qualm herself. How could anyone be seasick
with
Topaze
's gentle motion? It was as soothing as a rocking
chair.

But now she'd surely seen Mr. Rosslyn at his worst.
And she had to yank her horrified fascination away from
contemplating his greenness.

Perhaps her Sunday wasn't going to be as uplifting as
she'd hoped.

The captain had reached the four hammocks slung in
the sickbay's corner, and any levity left his expression. He
straightened until his hair brushed against the rafters. "Taylor,
Swift, Dendridge, Biddle. Here you are. Again." His words thudded
into the quiet, weighted with heavy dissatisfaction.

The four looked at their toes, the ceiling, the
doctor — anywhere except at him. One glanced across, met her gaze,
and looked sharply away.

As if he'd seen something indecent.

"If someone had told me," Captain Fleming continued,
"that four experienced, sober crewmen such as yourselves would have
behaved in such a manner, I'd never have believed it. Not after
what happened last time. And yet. Here you are. Again."

By now, all four had turned a mortified shade of
brick. Another glanced at her but only for a second. The first one
muttered something in a voice that didn't reach across the
sickbay.

"Well, if you believed that," the captain said in the
same stern voice, "then you aren't the experienced, sober crewman I
thought you."

The first lieutenant wasn't her first choice as a
source of information, but Staunton wasn't there and she had to
know. In the quietest whisper she could manage, Clara asked Mr.
Abbot, "What's wrong with those men? I can see no bandages nor
signs of illness."

Mr. Abbot cleared his throat. Were his ears turning
pink? Impossible.

"They have a French disease, Lady Clara."

Which left her no wiser. What on earth was a French
disease?

* * * *

Whatever possessed him to take her into the
infirmary, where she'd see the ingenious sailors who'd managed
somehow to sneak ashore in Plymouth and contract syphilis —
whatever had possessed him, Fleming couldn't imagine. Hopefully
she'd no clue what it meant. Her expression seemed bewildered, but
Abbot's flush told its own story. He should feel badly about
subjecting his first officer to such a trial; Abbot was lost around
the so-called gentler sex; but Fleming felt nothing but relief.

Someone else got to answer her questions.
Excellent.

But as they emerged from the infirmary back into the
berth deck, Fleming realized where they were and what loomed ahead
of them. A chill seeped through him, not terror nor even fear, but
a cold-sweat dread. He knew what was coming, it was going to be a
disaster, and he was helpless to prevent it.

The birds.

Those ruddy, fornicating, outrageous birds, the ones
the waisters had picked up during their stopover in Recife last
cruise. Bad enough, listening to the little pepperpots when only
men were aboard, but now—

If he could have finagled an excuse to turn back,
leaving the berth deck uninspected, he'd have swiveled on his heel
in a heartbeat. But if he wanted her to be truly considered a
member of the crew, she had to fulfill the job. And the crew was
watching, oh yes, they were watching. He had no choice. Fleming
steeled himself and soldiered on, ignoring Lady Clara's puzzled
glance.

A quick look about the berth deck showed everything
to be shipshape and Bristol-fashion, not that he'd expected
anything less. Mess tables and benches had been cleaned, chests
wiped and polished, and the deckboards swept spotless, as proved by
the brilliant squares of sunlight falling through the hatchways and
checkered by the gratings. Nothing was out of place, everything
looked tidy and innocent.

And as if they'd been conjured by the thought, there
they were, atop Hardwick's sea chest: three green parrots.

At first glance they seemed triplets. It needed a
second, longer look to notice that one wore red spectacles about
its beady, evil little eyes; another hid behind a red-and-yellow
mask; and the third blushed, not a wholesome red, but a strange
light blue on its cheeks. They squatted in an insolent line,
staring avidly, opening and closing their wicked beaks without
making a sound, and for one brief moment Fleming dared hope they
would stay that way. But no, at sight of Lady Clara, the one with
blue cheeks squawked, "Ladies."

She hesitated at the word, rocking back on her heels
as she glanced about. Then she spotted the trio of twisted avian
conspirators and gasped, a delighted smile spreading across her
naive face.

Fleming felt no such cheer.

Red Spectacles took up the chant. "Ladies.
Ladies."

Blue Cheeks and Mask joined in like a Greek chorus.
"Ladies. Ladies. Ladies."

Oh, no.

Oh,
no.

Not that song.

A shiver of dread coursed through him. But they
weren't watching. Nor listening.

Again Blue Cheeks led the way. "Ladies of
lubricity."

Lady Clara's face blanked out in puzzlement. Her
eyebrows drew together and her expression turned inward, as if she
sought to comprehend the meaning of the phrase.

Spectacles and Mask added a sing-song note. "La-dies
of lu-BRI-ci-ty. La-dies. La-a-dies."

Blue Cheeks filled in the background harmony. "Oh
la-dies. Oh yes."

An awareness began deep in Lady Clara's dark, dark
eyes. Not a pleasant awareness, either. Fleming gritted his teeth
and wondered how parrot stew tasted.

All three chirped together at full volume. "Oh
la-dies of lu-BRI-CI-TY."

Mask started the next line. "Who dwell." The other
two chimed in. "Who dwell. Who dwell." Spectacles bobbed his
despicable head in time to the chant. "Who dwell in the
bor-DEL-lo."

Broiled, maybe. Or grilled on sticks.

The parrots stood straight, flapping their wings for
balance, and crowed out the rest, their words tumbling over each
other, perfectly and horribly clear. "Ha ha, hee hee (tee-hee!),
for I am, I am, I am, that kind of FEL-LOW!"

Stone. Her face could have been carved from outraged
stone. But the curve, the tiny, infinitesimal curl at the utmost
edges of her lips, gave her dead away. Abbot looked as if he'd
choked on his tongue.

If he threw all three of them into a sack with a
cannonball and tossed them overboard some dark night, would anyone
even notice?

Who was he hoping to fool? The grass-combing
twaddle-heads belonged to the waisters; if the parrots vanished,
they'd be indignant at best.

Fleming stamped a foot, the sudden sound echoing
through the berth deck. The parrots squawked and scattered, wings
flailing. Mask vanished up the aft ladder. He'd only go to the
upper rigging, more's the pity.

Fleming managed a smile for Lady Clara. It felt
closer to a dying grimace. "The crew like to keep pets. They had a
sort of spider monkey for a while, until it began drinking spirits,
but birds are always popular. And of course it's an entertaining
challenge for them, training them and— and so on." And keeping them
alive once they'd earned the captain's ire.