Eye of the Storm (3 page)

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.

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 promptly 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 delight in giving Will 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 midshipmen, 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 Joey 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?”

“Bentley 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. “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 job 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.

Archer 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 and it was only logical that he’d be sharing it 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 Surprizing 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 Three

“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 onto the single yard. 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 a staysail and the least possible canvas stretched fore-and-aft, 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, where they had no business going, 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 government 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.”

“Soon,” Marshall said. “When this wind drops.”

Davy glanced up at the crackling sail, and sighed. “I’ll bring it up for you, then. This feels as though it’ll blow all night.”

Marshall nodded absently, his mind on the ship. Night was coming on fast, and Davy was right about the weather. The sensible thing to do would be to find a sheltered cove, furl the sails, and stay put until he could see where they were going. He would have to go below, after all, to have a look at the chart.

He called Barrow over to give him the helm, and was surprised to find his gloves frozen fast to the wheel, held in place by a thin coating of ice. It broke easily enough, but he had no feeling in his fingertips. “I’m going below to see if I can find a place for us to put in for the night. Call the men down and send them below a few at a time to warm themselves. I don’t want any broken legs or broken heads. We’ve no hands to spare and no doctor aboard.”

“Aye, sir, thankee.”

Marshall went below, relieved to be out of the biting wind. As he reached for the latch of the cabin door, it swung inwards to reveal Davy, with his right hand on the door and two tin mugs in his left.

“Come in, Captain! You look quite thoroughly chilled—but I am amazed you changed your mind.” He held the door open just long enough for Will to enter, then closed it against the draft.

“I d-did not.”

The warmth of the cabin set him shivering, and Davy set the mugs down on the folding table by the window, unbuttoning Will’s ice-coated coat and wrapping him in a warm embrace.

“I only came in to look at the chart,” Marshall protested.

“And so you shall, when you’ve thawed.”

He wasn’t about to argue. Davy’s body made him think of tropical sands; being in his arms like this was the warmest he’d been all day. When the shivering stopped, he stepped back reluctantly. “There’s no point trying to sail in this muck, not so close to shore,” he said. “We’ll spend the night at anchor and hope the weather clears tomorrow.”

Davy handed him his tea. “Good. Drink this, I’ll get out the chart.”

Will wrapped his cold hands gratefully around the cup, letting the heat seep in and restore sensation. He watched over Davy’s shoulder as he unrolled the chart and ran a finger along the coastline. “We should be near our rendezvous already, I think—ah, here it is. Not far.
”

“Yes…I thought it would be best if we were to arrive the same day he’s due to signal, but with this weather I believe it’s better to put in a day early. There’s not much of a town there, from what Sir Percy said in our orders—we’d have no good reason to hang about.” He pointed to a curve in the coastline some miles away from the village. “This should serve. We can be there by dark, and that spit of land will block the worst of the wind.”

Standing close, Davy leaned against him, the curve of his arse brushing against Marshall’s thigh. “Do you think the wind will be noisy enough to give us some privacy?”

Marshall’s body arched toward his lover with a will of its own and his heart wanted to follow, but he caught himself. “No, I’m afraid not. In this dirty weather I think one of us should be on deck, or at least awake, as much of the time as possible.”

“I wasn’t talking about
sleeping
, Will.”

“I know, but you’re the one who said we’d need to be on best behavior.”

Davy nodded reluctantly. Letting his head drop back against Will’s shoulder, he said, “Yes, I did. But I didn’t expect you’d set the bar so high.”

“I’m in command now, Davy. I can’t—it doesn’t seem right—to do things I might have chanced as a lieutenant. If one of the men were to come in…”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Davy’s eyes close, and his lips tighten. “I see. You’re right, of course.”

Marshall leaned down, and gave him a small but lingering kiss. “Soon. I promise.”

“Of course.” His face composed and unreadable, Davy stepped back from the table. “I’ll go above for a bit, while you work out the navigation.” He lifted his greatcoat from the hook by the door, and settled his hat upon his head. “Shall I tell the cook to hold our supper until just after sunset, then?”

“That would be good, yes. Davy, I’m—”

“Not at all, Will, you’re absolutely right. With any luck, we’ll be taking Dr. Colbert directly back to England, so perhaps we can manage a night ashore once we’re there, and if not…” He shrugged, and left the cabin before Will could think of anything to say.

Davy wasn’t being fair. No, that was a lie. He wasn’t being fair to Davy. They’d had only that one night together. They were still in port the night after their reunion, but since the
Mermaid
needed to go out with the tide and that meant leaving before dawn, they had simply slept aboard, in hammocks a little more comfortable than Navy-issue, but separate nonetheless. Will wished now that they’d kept their room at the inn, but as Captain it was his duty to put the mission first, no matter what his personal desires might be. They had completed their mission, the first mission of his new command, successfully and in good time. That ought to count for something.

And he’s the one who arranged all this! He’s no fool—he must have known it wasn’t going to be a pleasure cruise!

But far from justifying his self-righteous attitude, Will’s memory threw back the times he had been willing to take chances—dangerous, foolish chances, in situations far more uncertain than this. And he did not even want to think about the chances Davy had taken for him, because that would be a reminder of the time their luck had failed. Not to mention the danger that lay in wait as soon as France and England resumed hostilities.

Marshall wasn’t used to fear—not for himself, at any rate. He went into every battle knowing he might die, hoping that if he did, it would be quick. But this new fear came close to swamping him if he looked at it too closely. It was damaging him as an officer and even as a lover. He was becoming afraid to take chances.

Do you really believe that if you don’t touch him, fate will somehow keep him safe?

He had no answer. Perhaps there was no answer. With their lives always dependent on the whim of wind and water, it was no wonder that sailors were known as a superstitious lot. Marshall had always thought of himself as a man of logic, an officer above superstition, but he wondered if he had developed a delusion all his own.