False Colors (28 page)

Guilt or innocence hardly seemed to matter beside the wish that they would at least treat him with the respect that—
damn it!
—he had earned. He stood to attention, and fixed his zealous gaze on Admiral Lord Rodney, daring him to object.

Rodney gave no reaction whatsoever, except to pat his forehead with a white silk handkerchief before the sweat ran into his eyes. He had on his full dress uniform, and the criss-crossing patterns of gold braid on coat and waistcoat would have looked overdone on other men. However—as slight and thin as he was—he wore them as the sword wore its tassel—effortlessly elegant.

“I do not know when I have presided over a more extraordinary case,” he began, with a gleam of amusement about the corners of his mouth. “It appears from the evidence of the witnesses that the
Britannia
was an exemplary ship and her captain a model of decorum. I have rarely heard such universal praise as has been here poured upon the accused.”

Looking up without warning, he returned Alfie’s gaze. It felt like being skewered on icicles, and Alfie froze from the heart outwards. So it was to be death. The
Britannias
had overstated their defense. Whatever Bentley said in private had proved decisive, and the Admiral knew he was being lied to by everyone else. Alfie’s throat closed for a moment, as though the noose was already around his neck, squeezing. But then he caught a snatch of song from a passing skiff. He noticed the fascinating patterns in each pane of window glass. The dying flowers were still giving out a round, fruity scent, and the deck beneath his feet heaved comfortably with each wave. If this was all he had, he wasn’t going to waste an instant of it with panic.

He smiled. Rodney gave a chilly little smirk in return, straightened the edges of his papers, and said, “I hesitate to accuse an entire ship’s company of deliberately conspiring to pervert the course of justice—a circumstance all the more unlikely when one considers the universal abhorrence of this particular crime. A crime
more pernicious
and more likely to lead to the unraveling of the bonds of society than any other. A vice, indeed, so
vile
it may not even be named in public. Since, as I say, all reasonable men detest this sin with a repugnance that does them credit, it seems unlikely that every witness in this trial is being willfully deaf and blind.

“That being the case, I am prepared to accept that Dr. Bentley, in bringing this charge, was taken in by the malice of one Bert Driver—now absconded—and to accept his plea for the charge to be withdrawn. Take back your sword, Lieutenant Donwell. It seems no one is accusing you of anything. My regrets for the inconvenience you’ve suffered, and my compliments on the extraordinary loyalty of your people.”

Alfie, plunged from ice to fire, could scarcely tell for a moment which was which. It took the marines unbolting the shackles from his wrists to make him stir, and he stepped forward to receive his sword like a sleepwalker. But its hilt in his hand was real enough, so warm from lying in the patch of sunshine it was almost painful to hold. He buckled it on with clumsy fingers.

As marines cleared the decks of disappointed, disgruntled spectators, Captain Bentick rose, heading for the door. Then he paused and returned to shake Alfie’s hand. “I won’t treat you as a guilty man,” Bentick smiled a rather anxious smile, as though he was not sure if he could afford to pay what this generous gesture would cost him, “since you are none. I hope you find the same treatment from others.”

It was a noble act—an act that John Cavendish had not been capable of—to be seen by all the town’s gossips being kind to a man accused of sodomy, the verdict of innocence notwithstanding. Alfie hoped the kindness would not put Bentick’s own reputation at risk.

“I am…obliged, sir,” Alfie managed, a wave of trembling beginning in the pit of his belly, trying to force its way up through the rest of his body. He had to get away before it became obvious; had to find somewhere to go to accept this, to reforge the links between body and spirit. Taken unawares by life, the necessary lies he had once been comfortable with felt like new chains. “But I am satisfied that my name is clear of dishonor. I know how to behave toward any man who wishes to challenge that.”

Bentick nodded, beat a hasty retreat. Admiral Rodney, looking unheroically weary and gray, paused to murmur, “You are a fortunate young man, Mr. Donwell. But you will not work the same miracle twice. I should take this opportunity to amend your life, if I were you,” before leaving, taking the other captains with him.

Alfie stood in the empty space, grasping the hilt of his sword for reassurance, until his friendly marine gave him a nudge. “This is where you goes home now, sir.”

If a newborn child could have wandered through the streets of Kingston, it might have been in the same frame of mind as Alfie’s as he left the ship; overwhelmed by the richness poured out before him. His head hurt with the day’s colors and all the suppressed thought. The smell of bammies cooking over charcoal—hot, greasy, sweet—enraptured him. He bought a couple from a street vendor as he passed and filled his mouth with the taste of cassava and coconut.
Oh, that is good!
Life
is good.
But it would be better somewhere cool, somewhere he could wash away the stench and the memories together.

Captain Gillingham of the
Albion
shuddered minutely at the sight of the court martial flag. His feet ached from the walk down to the harbor, and he was sure that the smell of fish and sewage carried the effluvium of every tropical disease straight into his nostrils. How Cavendish could stand it, particularly given the severe blow the man’s health had taken recently at the hands of those pirates, puzzled him. It seemed indelicate to enquire too closely as to what exactly they had done, but certainly Cavendish had left for Tobago like one of those angels from the last judgment—all pure, cutting beauty and righteous fury—and returned as frail as an eighty-yearold. Yet every day he did more, walked further, found some new task to undertake to make the ship run more efficiently.

It was rather exhausting, to be honest, and Gillingham felt it to be something of a veiled rebuke. However, having so diligent a lieutenant meant less work for Gillingham himself. And that— given that the
Albion
was finally re-stocking in preparation for a lengthy scientific voyage into the Arctic—could only be a good thing.

“What did you want to speak to me about, Lieutenant?” he asked the man beside him, therefore, genially enough. “And can it be done in the ale house? I don’t wish to miss my dinner.”

“Of course, sir.” Cavendish turned from his unblinking scrutiny of the
Britannia
and gave a small, depreciatory smile. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us a beefsteak at the St. George, if that is convenient to you.”

It was. More than convenient. Gillingham did not like to be reminded of the excuses he had had to make in order to not sit on this particular tribunal.
Such a bore!
And besides, courts martial in their very essence made Gillingham nervous. He often dreamed of them; of some terrible, energetic Admiral taking his sword and banishing him to a life in which he should have to depend on the largess of his older brothers—neither of whom was known for generosity. Though he woke from these dreams determined to get stuck in and make a name for himself, and he tried, he did try, very hard, for weeks at a time, the wind always went from his sails before the destination was achieved.

As he sat down at the table and noted, approvingly, the cleanliness of the place—cobbled floor washed rosy pink, and the glassware sparkling—he reflected that it was useful to have officers who could provide the necessary impetus themselves. Even if it meant putting up with an uncomfortable level of zeal.

“This is very satisfactory.” He tucked his napkin into his collar to protect the Belgian lace on his cravat. “I’m to gather you’re feeling much recovered then, Lieutenant?”

“I am, sir.” As always, Cavendish was spotlessly turned out. Though Gillingham was reliably informed that the man had no valet, he still managed to give the impression of starch. “Though I cannot, unfortunately, say the same of Lieutenants O’Connor and Giles.”

Gillingham took a reviving sniff at his handkerchief, perfumed with orris root, and shuddered again.
What a place this was indeed! Pirates. And the French. And the Spanish.
And slaves everywhere, looking at one with justifiable but frightening resentment. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, there were the plagues. Despite every effort to fumigate the ship with brimstone and vinegar, fully a quarter of his men were dead from the yellow jack. He was tempted to lock himself in his lodgings and not come out again until it was time to return to England. Indeed, had he been in politics, he would have been strongly behind the notion of letting the slaves have the entire Caribbean, and bringing all the poor settlers home.
They could not possibly wish to live here, could they?
Trade could supply what force now extorted.

“I am shocked, and grieved naturally, but I cannot say I am surprised,” he said. “I only hope that we will leave these troubles behind in the cleaner air of the North.”

“I’m sure we will, sir.” Cavendish had a light, deferential, young man’s voice, and Gillingham felt he used it to good effect in wheedling his superiors around to his own point of view. “But nevertheless, we are lacking in our complement. Lieutenant O’Connor is not expected to recover. So I wondered if you would consider taking on Lieutenant Donwell as a replacement.”

“The
sod?
Surely not, Mr. Cavendish! We are not quite
that
desperate.”
Cavendish gave another of those small smiles that stretched the skin over his cheekbones. He had lost a great deal of weight since the pirate incident, and had not been exactly heavy before that. If he was a skeleton, however, he was a very elegant one. “Sir, if he’s found guilty he will be hanged. I am not suggesting you employ him after that. But if he is found innocent—”
“There is no smoke without fire, Lieutenant.”
“And so the mere accusation is enough to lose an innocent man his livelihood? That’s monstrous! I know you to be a kind man—and more, a man concerned with justice. Consider, sir, some malicious mind has laid this accusation against an officer of extraordinary zeal and talents. Is he to be shunned by all society now, simply because he had the misfortune to make an enemy? It is not
right
.”
“John,” Gillingham said, polishing off the last bite of mashed yam, and feeling pleasantly full and pleasantly patronizing, “you expect too much of human nature.”
“But, sir,” John replied, raising those strange gray eyes of his pleadingly, “Mr. Donwell is known to me as an exemplary officer—you recall he was my first on the
Meteor
. If there was anything to the rumor, I would know about it. But I assure you, you will not find a better officer in the fleet. And if Admiral Rodney finds him innocent…”
“Then who are we to question?” Gillingham laughed, though the thought of arguing any more was tedious. Cavendish was quite capable of nagging him for hours and hours until he gave up from sheer ennui. “I will think about it.”

After the over-large dinner, John paid the bill and sat on a while over the claret. On a good day he found Gillingham’s indolence amusing and oddly touching; it aroused a desire to protect the man, as one would protect an unpromising child. On a bad day, however, he found it infuriating that merely because this helpless creature had a wife and seven children back in England he should be thought of as more manly than Alfie.

Or himself.
The ramifications of his nature had unfolded gradually like a leaf, emerging crumpled out of a hard bud into the sun. So many things he had taken for granted now needed thought. So many assumptions were proved unsound. Though this path had led him into needful lies, he still felt as though he more nearly approached a true understanding of himself and the world. Unexpectedly, he found himself thanking God in his daily prayers for leading him out of darkness into light….
Dread and anger stabbed through his musings.
Sitting here with the glass untouched for half an hour. What a coward!
But, once he went outside, he would have to look up at the flagship. And when he did so, he might see Alfie hanging there. Limp by now, not kicking and clawing the air with his face turning blue and his eyes and tongue protruding—John had carefully given them plenty of time so he did not have to watch that. But still dead, still hanging there dead—that would be calamity enough.
“You want more?” The barmaid appeared out of the darkness like a banshee. Taken unawares, John scrambled to his feet, pressed his back into the corner and stood, shaking, while the candlelit room became a dark clearing, and the flames roared like bonfires in his ears.
An eternity later he emerged out of nightmares with a start, grasped for a chair and sat before he could fall. She, black angel that she was, had not retreated, nor had she made any move towards him, practiced in weathering the storms of a Jamaican alehouse. Now she whisked away, returning unasked with a tot of rum. “Thank you,” he said, hoping that conveyed the feeling of rescue, his shame and gratitude. “I am…”
I am what? ‘I am plagued by devils’? ‘I am splintered to pieces within, and may not rebuild them, though I try’? ‘I am not as insane as I seem’?
“I am very grateful.”
Sitting down beside him, she leaned forward to put a hand on his knee, a gesture which brought an abundant cleavage more clearly to view. “I help you chase them dreams right away.” And he reflected that some things at least had not changed. Now, however, he found the offer oddly reassuring. In the midst of death, life went stubbornly onwards as it always had.
“Can you tell me,” he said, taking the offer on its face value, “if they hanged the young man being court-martialed this morning? If you would step to the door and look… I can not quite bring myself to it.”
She gave a disappointed pout, flounced off to the door, then came straight back with a frown and an out held hand. “No one hangin’ out there. That be a penny for the drink and another for the errand.”
The news that the coast was clear enabled him to get out of the place. Bracing himself, he looked at the flagship, and indeed there was no body dangling from its yard arm, nor any sad little grouping of hangman and assistants tarring the body for display, or wrapping it in sackcloth for disposal.
He hardly dared allow himself to hope, in case the hope was brutally dashed, but perhaps, just perhaps, it had worked?
If that is so, now what?
Where would he find a man who had barely been long enough in Jamaica to acquire lodgings before he ended up with no need of them?
Hiring a horse outside the tavern, John rode up along the coast road. If he had been long in darkness and confinement, he would have sought out the sea as soon as he was released. The sea washed away all ills. Danger and death one might find out there, but dirt was confined to the land.