Chapter 24
The USS Allegheny
The Atlantic Ocean
Thursday, August 18th, 1803
God, Dominique needed a smoke. She stared at a soft-boiled egg on a crystal pedestal, yolk gleaming like melting wax. A night in the cabin retching did little for her appetite, but the embarrassment of eating in front of the crew did even less. Buttery brioche, fresh cream, orange meringue, and coffee with a lump of chocolate—all spread across a table draped in linen. Frigate quarterdeck turned sidewalk café—just for her. The sailors forward of the wheel, who lived on stale bread and leathery pork, could only drool with envy. It felt cruel to flaunt such extravagance above decks, but Aubert insisted their lifestyle was no concern of subordinates. She sighed, the wind blowing threads of hair across her face, and raked her fork over whipped meringue.
“Is something not to your liking, Madame Aubert?” asked Chef Jean-Christophe in a courtly accent. Aubert had searched the Americas for a French chef of the highest skill. What he found was a portly gourmand cooking for ungrateful fur trappers. “Perhaps I could bring something else?”
“It’s fine, Jean-Christophe,” said Dominique, dabbing her chin with a napkin. She looked past the empty chair across from her, allowing her eyes to drift with the peaceful waters of the Atlantic. The snapping of the fore-and-aft sail overhead lulled her into a trance. “My stomach’s still a bit off.”
“‘Fine,’ she says,” muttered the chef, thick white mustache twitching. “Try the meringue. I used an infusion of syrup, in the Italian style.” His shadow loomed over her as he pushed the confection closer. “Very gentle on the stomach.”
“Lieutenant,” said Dominique to the gangly twenty-two-year-old standing near the taffrail. “Where is Richard?”
“Ma’am?” stuttered the Allegheny’s First Lieutenant Kimble. His polite Georgia drawl made him sound like a pious altar boy. “Uh, the captain wanted to join you but said you ought to go ahead. On account of his work—charts, logs, and such.”
“Madame,” fussed Jean-Christophe. He picked up her coffee. “The chocolat has just melted to perfection. Won’t you take a sip?”
“Thank you, Chef, but I’m finished,” said Dominique. She stood and smoothed her dress. “Will he be in his cabin all day?” she asked Kimble.
Jean-Christophe muttered to himself as he began stacking the plates. “That was my last Seville orange…”
“Captain Aubert asked not to be disturbed, ma’am,” replied Kimble, hands fidgeting behind his back. “On account of—”
“His work,” griped Dominique. “Too sensitive for the prying eyes of his wife.”
“I…uh…”
“Mr. Kimble, I’m holding up your day.”
“I beg your pardon?” Kimble replied.
Dominique looked out along the deck of the small, three-masted warship. Her gaze chased away several askance looks. The sailors on deck or in the rigging acted as though too busy to notice her presence. But she knew better. The men of the fleet called her “The Duchess”—as if she were an aloof heiress on a pleasure yacht. God, one pipe. Surely Aubert could forgive her that.
“You must have more important duties than attending to me,” Dominique said to Kimble. A snapping sound and the yelp of a sailor drew her eyes forward. The Allegheny’s bosun, a middle-aged man with thick sideburns and a short top hat, was yelling curses. He swatted at a group of seamen with a segmented cane. “Why is that man whipping the others?”
Kimble stood beside Dominique. “Mr. Toule, ma’am? He’s the bosun, you see, and it’s his duty to keep the crew from idleness. Captain Aubert expects our torn mains’l repaired before eight bells.”
“Get up that shroud you lazy puppy!” shouted Toule. Thick brows and weathered lines gave the man a permanent scowl. He whipped a teenage seaman, and the boy scrambled to climb the rope latticework. “Slothful wretches, the lot of you!”
“The captain wants Allegheny ready for sail before Philadelphia,” explained Kimble.
Dominique looked north, a mile or so to starboard, toward the flagship. The black and gold hull of USS Philadelphia shimmered in the sun. Like the Allegheny and the other three U.S. ships, she was hove-to—half her sails faced backward to the wind, preventing her from making headway. Bainbridge wanted the squadron to hold position for repairs. And Aubert was beating his men like dogs just to best Bainbridge. So typical. “Is it necessary to whip them so?”
“Uh…you see, ma’am,” stuttered Kimble. “Naval discipline may offend feminine sensibilities, but a captain must be stern. If he were to indulge indolence or ill-discipline, the men could become mutinous. Better a few taps of the cane than a dozen from the cat.”
“Indolence?” said Dominique. “They haven’t had a moment’s rest since the storm.” The unpleasant sight of a man’s back cut to bloody ribbons ran through Dominique’s mind. She remembered the terrible snap of that nine-tailed whip, each stroke tearing off flesh. Aubert had already ordered several floggings. Yet another arena in which he seemed determined to outstrip the squadron commander. The most recent unfortunate had touched Dominique’s arm. She had slipped on a puddle of sea spray, and the sailor moved to catch her. Try as she might, she couldn’t convince Aubert of the man’s innocent intentions. After that, the crew hated “the Duchess” more than ever.
“Chocolat at ten pence an ounce,” muttered Jean-Christophe as he walked by with a stack of dishes, “only to feed the fish. What do I care?”
“Captain Aubert’s orders were clear,” added Kimble. “If the men fail in their repairs before noon, each division is to name their slowest man, who shall have a dozen lashes. You see, ma’am, in the Navy—”
“Jean-Christophe,” said Dominique, holding up her skirts as she followed the chef down the steps of the quarterdeck. “Have you supplies for more brioche?”
The chef lit up. “Why, madame, fear not! I could serve fine bread to you, your husband, and his senior officers thrice a day from here to Gibraltar. Shall I bake a fresh loaf?”
“Yes. In fact, I want you to bake all that you have.”
Jean-Christophe gave a churlish laugh. “Madame must have found a large appetite indeed!”
“Not for me,” said Dominique. “For the crew. I want fresh brioche for every man aboard. And butter and coffee—from our private reserves.”
“But Madame Aubert,” whined the chef. His stack of plates began to wobble. “Those reserves are for the captain and the lady of the ship. I couldn’t possibly…”
“Right. I am the lady of the ship, am I not?”
“Well, of course, but I—”
“Then your lady is giving you an order.” Her voice carried over the deck, and she felt more than a few curious glances. “The men preserved us through a terrible storm, and they’ve earned a good breakfast. Now snap to it.”
“But—” Jean-Christophe’s mustache started to tick. He sighed, shoulders slumping. “As you wish, madame.” And he trudged below.
“Mr. Toule,” said Dominique, steering the bosun’s scowl in her direction. “Please pass word to the men. I wish to—”
“Mrs. Aubert,” Kimble whispered to her. He shifted from foot to foot as though trying to hold his water. “I’m not sure it’s entirely proper. The captain’s orders were clear. The men aren’t to bother you, and they’ve important work…”
“Very well.” Dominique pivoted toward the captain’s cabin. “I’ll just take the matter up with Aubert.”
“Erm…” stammered Kimble, skipping in front of Dominique. “No need to bother the captain.” The young officer cleared his throat. “Ahoy, there, Bosun. The lady of the ship has a request.”
“As I was saying, Mr. Toule,” Dominique went on, “pass word to the men. When repairs are done, the captain and I shall treat them to breakfast as thanks for their fine work. Along with the usual rations, they shall have fresh buttered bread and coffee.”
Toule’s eyes slid to Kimble. Kimble nodded sheepishly. Toule’s eyes slid back to Dominique. “Aye, madam.”
Before the grumpy bosun could turn away, Dominique added, “And inform each division: If their repairs are done before eight bells, I shall thank their fastest worker with a kiss.”
Bosun Toule curled his lip. “Madam?”
“You heard me. Pass the word.”
With a suspicious look at Kimble, Toule replied. “Aye, madam.”
Over the next few minutes, Dominique smiled as she watched the word reach each sailor. The most common expression was disbelief, followed by a curious look at her, and finally a silly grin. The crew sparked to life. Within an hour, the doldrums vanished, replaced by vigorous action. Soon, the broken spars were replaced, new canvas raised, and parted deck planks resealed, all by seven bells. A flurry of industry inspired by a few words. For Dominique, it was a new kind of thrill.
As she walked from man to man along the spar deck, holding a tray of steaming brioche, it was hard to decide what gave her more pleasure. Each man smiling and tipping his hat as she handed him a roll. Or Jean-Christophe’s chagrin as he poured them coffee. For the first time in a month, the crew didn’t look at Dominique like a black cat crossing their path.
When she came to a middle-aged sailor with a long, craggy face, the man touched his forehead in salute. “Thank you, miss,” he said as he accepted his share of brioche.
“How are you, Mr?” said Dominique.
“Able Seaman Avery, miss,” replied the sailor. “And I’m just fine, thank you kindly. And this here…” Avery pulled a timid young man forward, laying a hand on each of his shoulders. “…Is Mr. Chauncey.”
“Ah, and he’s your fastest worker?” she smiled. Chauncey flushed and stared at his feet. His mates, all older than him, were smiling or chuckling.
“Never seen him tie a stopper so fast,” said Avery, laughing with the others. “You’ll have to pardon his shy nature.”
Dominique smiled, raising his chin with her finger. “Very impressive, Mr. Chauncey.”
Chauncey smiled back. “Th-thank you, miss.”
The lad’s eyes went wide as Dominique leaned forward. Her lips lightly brushed his cheek. She handed the rigid sailor a piece of bread.
Avery slapped Chauncey’s back. “I think he’s liable to faint, boys.”
The rest of Chauncey’s division broke into chuckling. A few of them clapped his shoulder. One tousled the grinning sailor’s hair.
When all the men had been fed, Dominique slipped off to a quiet spot near the bow. The gunner generously provided her a slow-burning match for her pipe. She puffed on the tobacco as she looked out across the water. She could hear faint voices carrying over from Philadelphia. She watched the tiny figures climbing the rigging.
Aubert’s voice cut through the high-spirited chatter of the Allegheny crew. “Lieutenant Kimble, your report.”
Kimble was too far away for Dominique to make out his reply to the captain, but she could hear the tension in his voice. She took one more drag, then spilled the tobacco into the ocean. She hid the pipe behind her back.
“And who gave that order?” Aubert was demanding.
Dominique faced toward her husband. On the other end of the ship, Aubert stood outside of his cabin, frowning in her direction. She tried her most charming smile, hoping to diffuse his irritation. Aubert looked around at his crew, all trying to appear busy. His frown deepened, and he marched back into his cabin.
A pit sank in Dominique’s stomach. It had been a gamble either way. Either Aubert would be pleased with the crew’s improved work ethic or incensed by her meddling. No luck today.
Before she dragged herself back to the cabin to smooth things over, she stole another glance at the flagship. He’s over there right now, thought Dominique. She pictured Sully in his handsome midshipman’s uniform, his face clean shaven again. That ridiculous brash smile as he stood on the rail, a hand on a halyard. His confident, determined eyes, never flinching from what he desired. Dominique wondered if, at this very moment, John was looking at her.
Captain William Bainbridge
Chapter 25
The USS Philadelphia
The Atlantic Ocean
Thursday, August 18th, 1803
“Eight bells and all’s well, sir!” said Eric Long. The ten-year-old had just tapped out the time on a brass bell engraved “USS Philadelphia, 1799.” He looked up at John, his grin revealing a broken front tooth. Add his unruly black curls and snub nose, and his pride couldn’t be more endearing. Had John ever been so young?
“Very good, lad. Hourglass turned?” John asked like a captain demanding a report.
“Aye, aye, Midshipman Sullivan.”
“Then we stand relieved,” said John. Another boy a little younger than Long took up the post at the ship’s bell. For the Philadelphia’s youngest, duties usually consisted of swabbing, fetching, and stowing. Only a lucky few had the honor of keeping time. “Off to the mess with you for some breakfast.”
Long saluted and dashed off. John smiled to himself as he walked aft. The officers of the forenoon watch had already taken over, and he was looking forward to some time in his hammock. Especially after sacrificing his last four hours of sleep for brag. He only made it two steps down the main hatch when a voice stopped him.
“Midshipman Sullivan.”
It was First Lieutenant Stephen Porter strolling along the starboard rail, hands clasped behind his back. A tall man of twenty-seven, he always spoke with a calm disinterest—as though too deep in philosophical thought to be bothered with duty.
“Sir?” replied John.
“Captain Bainbridge’s compliments and he will see you in his cabin.”
“Aye, sir.” John saluted. Porter passed by and rubbed at a smudge on the bell.
John descended the main hatch steps into a cloud of steam. The galley fires filled the gun deck with the smell of leaven and wood smoke. A line of sailors waited for their share of pork, peas, and hardtack. He started down the hundred feet stretching toward the captain’s cabin. His eyes roamed over the rows of black iron guns, each heavier than a horse-drawn carriage. Spare shot, horns of primer, and a barrel swab hung beside each. He stepped around rows of idlers scrubbing the deck, cleaning the cannons, or plugging a seam with oakum. Judging by the chatter filling the room, the men were in high spirits. He nodded to the Marine outside the cabin and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” came the reply.
It was the second time John had entered the cabin. The skylight overhead and the row of stern windows filled the room with sun. Bainbridge sat on the port side, writing in his log. A candelabrum with long beards of wax occupied one corner of his desk. A sculpture of a skull—a prop from Hamlet—sat on the other. A mannequin between the cabin’s two long guns wore Othello’s kaftan, complete with a blunted scimitar. Playbills decorated the bulkheads, mostly from Shakespeare. The billing for Richard III at Philadelphia’s Chestnut Street Theater adorned the beam over Bainbridge’s head. The captain never tired of telling how Thomas Abthorpe Cooper, his favorite actor, had autographed it over dinner.
“You sent for me, Captain?” said John.
“Yes,” said Bainbridge, still writing. “I wanted to commend your quick thinking in the squall. Easing the lee rigging to save the mast—spot on. I expect no less of a young officer.”
It was an unexpected compliment. Bainbridge had been cool, if even-handed, toward John since he joined the crew. Given Aubert and Pritchett’s application of pressure, John wouldn’t have been surprised if Bainbridge took affront to the new midshipman. John’s mission was to save his family, not impress his betters, but he couldn’t deny his pride. The commanding officer of a forty-four was paying him a compliment.
“Thank you, Captain,” said John. “I was only doing my duty.”
“As do we all.” Bainbridge dropped his quill and clasped his hands over his waist. The twenty-nine-year-old captain had a meticulous appearance. Gold buttons polished, collar starched till adamantine, curly hair shining like obsidian. “In honor of your heroics, I wondered if you might join me for breakfast.”
“Of course, Captain,” John said, embarrassed to hear his voice crack. “It would be my honor.”
“Excellent.” Bainbridge sprang from his chair. There were three domed trays and two place settings on the captain’s long table. Neat rows of silverware flanked the plates. The captain gestured to a chair on his left. “Please.”
John sat and watched Bainbridge pull the domes. Steam rose in plumes. There were glazed ham steaks, poached eggs, and fluffy biscuits. These would have come from the captain’s private stores—luxuries not to be frittered away. As Bainbridge served each dish, John’s eyes wandered over a compact piano between the guns on the starboard side. Above it, there were sheets of music instead of playbills. One read “Sonata Number 3 in G Minor” and was signed “J.S. Bach.”
“Do you like them?” asked Bainbridge, nodding to his framed music.
“Yes, very impressive.”
“I collect signatures of all the greats,” said the captain, settling into his chair. He poured coffee for John and himself. “Music and theater are the finest achievements of Man. I keep them as a reminder—of what we fight to preserve.” Bainbridge gestured to John’s plate. “Please.”
John dug into the ham, relishing a break from the ship’s stale fare.
“Try the plum sauce,” said Bainbridge, pouring a dollop on John’s plate.
The first bite was exquisite. John chewed with his eyes closed, the ham melting on his tongue. The sauce added a tang, then turned sweet in the finish. “Delicious, sir.”
Bainbridge smiled. “My steward’s been with me for years. No man better.” The captain looked thoughtful as he sliced off a strip of ham and drew little circles in the sauce. He plucked it off the fork, chewing loudly. “You and Lieutenant Ryland seem to be fast friends.”
It was no secret that Bainbridge and his other senior officers disliked Ryland. Among the lower ranks, however, Ryland enjoyed wide popularity. Even John couldn’t deny Chester Ryland had a certain charm. Like a champion drunk on victory, but always gracious to his admirers. Depending on the man, the fourth lieutenant was either loved or despised.
“I’m not new to the sea, Captain,” said John, “but I am new to the Navy. I’m eager to become the best officer I can be, and Mr. Ryland has been a mentor.”
“Naturally,” Bainbridge said, daubing his chin. He sat back, jaw working on a morsel. “And how do you find our Lieutenant Ryland? Your impression of the man. His character.”
John chewed on his biscuit, stalling for time. Finally, he said, “I wouldn’t feel right to speak on a man behind his back.”
“A captain is responsible for the conduct of all under his command. You would do well to remember that, Midshipman. I mean for my junior officers to learn from the best example. Come man, out with it.”
“Mr. Ryland seems an honorable sort,” said John. “He shows a competent hand at seamanship. The men respect him. I admit, his sense of humor is sometimes…indelicate.”
“Crass, more like,” snapped Bainbridge.
“But in the short time I’ve been aboard, he’s shown himself to be an honorable man.”
“Has he?” muttered the captain.
John still didn’t know why Ryland had lied to him. He took the chance to gain some insight. “I prefer to judge a man by his actions, but I’ve heard rumors about him.”
“Word travels fast on our little wooden world. What manner of rumors?”
“That the lieutenant is given to excessive drink. Gambling.” John’s ears turned hot as he thought of the secret brag game he had organized below decks. “I also heard mention of an embarrassing incident in Algiers.”
Bainbridge looked sharply at John. “Embarrassment? What embarrassment?” Something in the captain’s tone suggested personal affront—as if he were being accused of something. John couldn’t imagine why.
“Concerning Mr. Ryland,” John hurried to say. “Something about his possibly being involved in a theft?”
“Ah, of course,” said Bainbridge, his tone softening. “The Silver Hand incident.”
John felt his pulse rise. “Silver Hand, you say?”
“Three years ago, I had the ignominious task of delivering tribute to the dey of Algiers. I was assigned command of the USS George Washington. Mr. Ryland served as my fourth lieutenant, then as he does now. It was a matter of great diplomatic delicacy. I tasked Mr. Ryland with transporting several chests of gifts from the docks to the dey’s palace. On his watch, a chest containing a good deal of silver and jewels went missing. The dey was furious. He accused the United States of breaking her word to Algiers—we could have gone to war right then.”
“A difficult position for any captain.”
“Most difficult,” agreed Bainbridge. “But a good captain doesn’t lose his wits. I investigated the scene and discovered a handprint inside an empty cash box. It was in a curious color of paint, as though a man dipped his hand in silver and pressed it to the box. I showed Dey Muhammad the handprint, and he agreed it was the work of the Silver Hand. Apparently, this thief has irritated the Barbary princes for many years.”
“Fortunate for us you were there to represent our country,” said John. A little flattery never hurt.
“Yes, fortunate indeed,” agreed Bainbridge. “A lesser leader might have panicked. Still, Mr. Ryland was alone with the stolen boxes for nearly two hours—ample opportunity to assist in a theft and collect a share of the take. And the man’s had a smug look in his eye every day since.”
“Why would Ryland help a thief steal from his own ship?”
“I am loathe to speculate,” Bainbridge said, straightening his coat. “But if I’m to be candid, it’s obvious Ryland is jealous of his senior officers. Especially me. Some men are without honor. I believe Chester Ryland arranged the theft to subvert my command.”
“That is…serious, Captain.”
“Quite serious, Midshipman. It is, however, a charge without proof. So, Mr. Ryland remains an officer in good standing for the time being. But beware his charms—and his associations. Any of his mates might have been complicit. Especially that sailor friend of his—Mr. Sawyer. The pair of them are thick as thieves indeed.”
John drowned his discomfort in a gulp of coffee.
“You come to us with something of an unusual background, don’t you, Mr. Sullivan?” said Bainbridge. “There are more rumors circling you as well. Rumors of smuggling. Dueling…Gambling.”
“Captain, I assure you—”
Bainbridge put up a hand. “Please, Midshipman. You are not under interrogation. Every man has something questionable in his past. On land, you’ve been a man of questionable character. But at sea, you can prove yourself a gentleman. I believe every man should have a chance to start anew. I see great potential in you, Mr. Sullivan. The question is, will you rise to the challenge?”
As much as John liked Ryland, he’d be lying if he didn’t relish the chance to win the captain’s respect. “I certainly will, Captain.”
“I am a stern leader, but a fair one. Show me honor, and I will show you the same. Should you come across any evidence of dishonorable conduct on the part of Mr. Ryland, I trust you’ll do the right thing.”
“You can count on me, Captain.”
“Good man. Now then, how was your meal?”
“Exceptional, Captain. The plum sauce—I’ve never had anything like it.”
“Indeed. A Bainbridge secret family recipe. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my duties.”
John stood. “Of course, Captain. Thank you for your hospitality, sir.”
“You’re welcome, Midshipman. Dismissed.”
John saluted and started for the door.
“And Mr. Sullivan…”
John looked back at Bainbridge.
“I can forgive a discreet bit of cards after a long journey, but I better not hear of gambling in my surgery again.”
John swallowed, biting back his surprise. He raised a salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Chapter 26
The USS Philadelphia
The Atlantic Ocean
Tuesday, August 23rd, 1803
One ratline at a time.
Gabriel Sawyer closed his eyes. His heart whirred in his ears. Sweat slickened his palms. So far down. It didn’t matter that his eyes were closed. Sawyer knew exactly how high on the shroud he was. He knew exactly how far below him lay the deck. How much farther still, the ocean surface. So very far down.
Just one ratline at a time. He could do it.
But he couldn’t. In his mind, he imagined every horrifying second of the fall. It would start with a slip of his sweaty hand. Then, this once, his other hand would falter. Now he would plunge through space, the final seconds of his life reduced to a jumble of flailing and screaming. What would he think about on the way down? His poor mother in Cardiff who would never know his fate. How sad that he never tasted roast duck. The beautiful despair on Chester’s face. A plea to God for his immortal—Crack! And that would be that.
“One ratlin’ at a time, son,” said a fatherly voice.
Sawyer opened his eyes. He stared through the rope latticework of the shroud, halfway up to the maintop. Nothing but white billowing mainsail, the trunk of the mast, and so much terrible empty space. His eyes traced up to the topsails, above them to the topgallants, and up to the red-white-and-blue pennant trailing above the royals. He looked down, watching the deck lurch back and forth. To his left, Able Seaman Matthew Meadows perched on the shroud as easily as a sparrow on a branch.
“Meadows…I can’t,” stammered Sawyer.
“Come now, lad,” Meadows coaxed, keeping his voice low. “We’ve been through this. A man taking his time to get aloft looks like laziness. What if the captain happened by? You don’t want to end up at the grating.”
A cold chill ran through Sawyer. Aside from the prospect of being flogged, he realized he needed to piss. What if I piss myself in the rigging? “I’m not…it’s not,” stammered Sawyer.
“Son, there’s naught to do but climb. Keep your mind on the next ratlin’, then the next. Like we’ve talked about. One hand for yourself, one for the ship. You’ll be fine.”
Sawyer closed his eyes. “I can’t. The fear…what if it causes me to slip?”
“You won’t. The fear makes sure of that.” Meadows’ voice became stern. “Come along, Sawyer. We’ll make the climb together.”
The young seaman took one last moment to gather his nerve.
“Come on up, Woodchuck!” cried Michael Dufort. Sawyer looked up to see the boyish grin of his messmate. Dufort straddled the maintop yard like a horse, his black hair poking beneath his hat brim. How could a man—half Sawyer’s height, not a whisker on his chin, seasick his whole first week—scramble through rigging like a monkey in a tree? “What with all these ropes everywhere,” Dufort added, “it’s not even a real climb. You’d have to be a swooning princess to fall!”
Oh, God, realized Sawyer. What if I swoon?
“Mr. Sawyer,” called a voice from the deck.
Sawyer looked down to see Midshipman Sullivan. “Yes, sir?”
“Come down for a moment,” said Sullivan. “I need a word.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Sawyer called back.
The moment Sawyer’s feet touched solid planks, he felt his stomach caught in a tug of war. The relief of solid ground battling the fear of a beating.
“You all right, Sawyer?” Sullivan said. He looked the picture of confidence and authority in his officer’s coat. The forward point of his bicorne hat cast a shadow over his face like the hand of a sundial.
Sawyer straightened his posture and faced the leader of his division with as much poise as he could fake. “Aye, Mr. Sullivan. Fine, sir.” The knot in Sawyer’s stomach tightened as he awaited his inevitable punishment.
Sullivan clasped his hands behind his back and started walking. “Lay forward, with me, will you?”
The two walked toward the bow. They passed Seaman Prince sleeping between two guns near the galley smokestack. How Sawyer envied the peaceful off-duty sailor. They came to the rail below the bowsprit. For a moment, Sullivan squinted across the rippling water. Pillow-like clouds drifted across the horizon.
“Still struggling with heights, I see,” said Sullivan.
“Aye, sir,” Sawyer said nervously. “Sorry, sir. I’ll do better. I promise.”
“At ease, Seaman,” said John. “You’re not in trouble. A lot of men struggle with it at first. I did myself, as a lad on my father’s merchant ship. I can let this incident go, but the other officers won’t be as lenient. You can’t keep on like this.”
“I know, sir, and thank you, sir.” Sawyer felt a drop of sweat run into his eye. He was on the verge of despair. “What do I do?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Sullivan replied. “Some fears are near impossible to conquer. But I may have another solution.”
“What, sir?”
“What would you say to idler duties, with the other landsmen? It’s not glamorous work, but—”
“Idler work! Why that would be…!” Sawyer could barely contain his excitement. “That is, deck duty would be fine by me, sir.”
Sullivan smiled. “Good. Report aft to Midshipman Merrick on your next watch. It took some convincing, but Captain Bainbridge came around.”
“It’s already done, sir? Really?”
“It’s done,” Sullivan replied.
“Thank you! Oh, really, Mr. Sullivan, thank you very much indeed.”
“You’re welcome,” said Sullivan, adjusting the angle of his hat. “Now that’s done with, I thought we might have a chat. Not as officer and seaman, but as men.”
“Of course, sir. What about?”
Gabriel looked into Sullivan’s eyes. They turned gold in the afternoon light. There had always been something inspiring about the Philadelphia’s mysterious newcomer. An infectious energy and confidence. Add this rescue from the rigging, and Gabriel wanted to bask in Sullivan’s warmth all day. He made himself look away.
“Twenty years old is a late start for a midshipman,” said Sullivan. “My father taught me seamanship, but there’s so much more I have to learn. Chester Ryland has helped me a great deal, and it’s meant the world.”
Sawyer had seen Ryland and Sullivan chatting and laughing together many times. Their budding friendship was obvious. Despite his relief at escaping the rigging, Sawyer couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. “Chester—er, I mean Mr. Ryland, is a good officer. I suppose you’d know better than me.”
“Really?” said Sullivan. “I’d heard you and Ryland are good friends.”
“I…suppose we used to have an occasional chat.” Gabriel looked up at the spritsails, white as the clouds. He didn’t want Sullivan to see the regret in his eyes. “But he’s a senior officer, and I’m only a seaman. I wouldn’t call us friends, exactly.”
“Mr. Sawyer, I understand your misgivings about discussing Ryland, but I’m coming to you out of concern. I had breakfast with the captain yesterday, and he’s convinced that Lieutenant Ryland participated in a serious crime. He doesn’t have proof, but he’s looking for it. He asked me to spy on him.”
“He did?” Sawyer said, hearing the worry in his voice too late.
“It’s all right,” John said quietly. “I don’t aim to, but you understand my concern. Chester Ryland is my friend, and if I’m to look after him, I’ll need your help.”
“Me? What could I do?”
“The thing is,” Sullivan continued, “I’ve noticed Ryland drinking expensive spirits. Betting big at cards. Flaunting wealth he shouldn’t have on an officer’s salary. There’s nothing I hate more than America paying tribute to the Barbary Pirates, so if Ryland stole the dey’s treasure, all to the good. But if someone loyal to Bainbridge finds the Silver Hand’s loot in his possession, he’ll hang. I said as much to Ryland, but he denied everything.”
“And you…don’t believe him?”
“I don’t. I think he’s underestimated Bainbridge. Mr. Sawyer, if I’m right, you know him better than anyone. You’ve got to find that evidence before the captain does.”
Sawyer wanted to trust Sullivan. Only now that he considered confiding his secrets did he truly feel their weight. But he had to be careful. The midshipman could indeed be spying for the captain—or greedy for gold. “If you found such loot in Chester’s possession, what would you do?”
“Send it straight to the bottom, of course.”
Sawyer considered a moment. Movement tugged at the corner of his eye. He saw Michael Dufort creeping towards the sleeping bully Prince with a bucket of water. Dufort and Prince’s rivalry was about to escalate, but Sawyer had his own problems. “I…if there was any treasure, Ryland wouldn’t have told me. I’m afraid I can’t help.”
“Sawyer, listen to me. Bainbridge won’t rest until Ryland hangs from a yardarm. If you care about him at all, you have to help me. Or find the evidence yourself. We have to save him from himself.”
Sawyer sighed, watching a gray-feathered tern dive for a fish. Sullivan wouldn’t find any treasure—that much Sawyer knew. But he would find something worse. Something Chester was a damn fool to keep. But how could he trust Sullivan? He had promised Chester. They could never tell a soul. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan. I know of no evidence. I wish I could help. I really do.” Please believe it and go away.
There was a splash and a flurry of curses. Aft of them, Dufort had tossed the bucket of water on Prince. Dufort laughed hysterically as Prince jumped to his feet. It might have come to blows, but Sullivan said, “Dufort, Prince—that’s enough! Get back to work.”
Dufort and Prince looked at Sullivan, then exchanged one last glare. They grudgingly went separate ways.
Sullivan sighed and looked back at Sawyer. “I understand, Mr. Sawyer. It was worth a try.”
Sawyer released a sigh.
“Mr. Sawyer,” said Sullivan. “One other thing.”
“Sir?”
“You’re relieved for the remainder of this watch, but don’t be late for idler duties. Best to make a good impression.”
“Of course, sir,” said Sawyer with a salute. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t,” Sullivan said with a warm smile. He returned the salute and started aft.
Sawyer closed his eyes. He took in a deep breath. “Wait.”
Sullivan turned around.
“I might know something that could help you.”
###
“One more,” Ethan Auldon soothed. He hooked the last suture through his patient’s sliced palm. “You’re doing great.”
Matthew Meadows mopped a rag over his curly white hair. “Christ. A little needle and I’m liable to faint like a girl.”
The fifty-eight-year-old able seaman had been on deck supervising the effort to hoist a spar. When a block broke, and the crew lost their grip, Meadows caught the rope and held it for a full five seconds. The sailors were able to get out of the way just before it fell. Meadows was a tough old salt, but like all men, he had at least one private fear. Needles.
“I don’t know about that,” said Ethan, as he tied off the thread. “I happen to know one very tough girl.”
Meadows winced as much as chuckled. “Haven’t you got a bloody wit.”
“Done,” smiled Ethan.
“That’s it?” said Meadows, looking at the bruised track of stitches across his palm.
“Aye. Unless I sewed your thumb to your forefinger!”
“I wouldn’t tell if you did,” laughed Meadows. He worked his wounded hand opened and closed for a moment. “Thank you, Mr. Auldon…for keeping this discreet.”
“Fear of needles is common, Mr. Meadows. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
Meadows patted Ethan on the shoulder. “All the same, you’re a good lad.” The moment the veteran sailor got to his feet, he started to wobble.
Ethan threw an arm around Meadows to steady him. “Easy, now.”
“I suppose the laudanum left me a mite groggy. It’s all right, son. I’ll be fine from here.”
“Off to the hammock, with you,” said Ethan. “Get some rest.”
“Aye,” nodded Meadows with drooping eyelids. “I think I’ll go above decks and take the air first.”
“A fine idea, Mr. Meadows,” agreed Ethan.
Meadows hobbled off, and Ethan couldn’t resist feeling a little pride. To put his medical talents to use, and spare a man’s dignity in the bargain, made for a bright day. He had just begun to clean his tools when the sick berth door snapped open.
“Look alive, mate!” John Sullivan sauntered in and clapped Ethan on the back. “Saw any bones? Dispense any leeches?”
“Nah,” said Ethan. “Not even a little bloodletting. Just a few boring stitches.”
“Good!” John straddled the bench Meadows had been laying on. He bounced his legs like a nervous boy. On deck, he walked with the stiff posture of an officer. When it was just him and Ethan, the real John shone through. A man brimming with energy. Always in need of a hill to climb, a game to win, a clock to race. “I need your talents.”
“I see. Lie down and I’ll get my saw.”
“Musical talents,” John corrected, jumping up. “How would you like to play Bach for a full house?”
Ethan’s smile fell away. “John, what did you do?”
“Don’t look so worried, mate. This is a great opportunity.”
The knot twisted tighter in Ethan’s stomach. He turned away from John and busied himself putting away tools. “What opportunity?”
“I had breakfast with Captain Bainbridge last Thursday, and wouldn’t you know it? He’s a music lover. Bach. We had breakfast again this morning, and I may have mentioned your skill with the violin. Wouldn’t you know it? The captain’s yearning for a good concerto. He wants you to play for the officers, in his cabin, tomorrow night!”
“You didn’t!” said Ethan, scowling at John.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” John said, his smile falling away.
“And you didn’t bother to ask me first? I don’t want to play concertos for the captain or anyone else.”
“Why not?”
“Forget it.” Ethan turned his back again. He went back to running a cloth over each medical instrument. “It won’t matter, because next, you’re going to tell me it’s part of your plan.”
“I’m so close, Ethan,” said John. “Sawyer told me where to find the evidence. I need to swipe Ryland’s sketchbook, and he’ll talk. Problem is, he carries it everywhere.”
“And a concert is the perfect distraction.”
“Bainbridge and Ryland can’t stand being in the same room,” confirmed John. “Ryland will be alone.”
“And then what?” Ethan sighed. “You’ll rap him on the head?”
“I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”
“Good God, John,” said Ethan. “Are you mad? Striking an officer is a hanging offense. Besides, a blow to the head could render him deaf or insensible—or dead.”
“You have a better idea?”
“No, but…” Ethan folded his arms. “There’s got to be a better way, John. Let me at least think it over.”
“There’s no time, Ethan. We’re a day from Gibraltar. I’ve made arrangements with Pavia’s contacts there. Ryland’s got to tell me how to find the Silver Hand before we make land. I’ll take the risk.”
“Of course. For Kaitlin.”
“Yes, for Kaitlin. Why else?”
An inhuman cry fills the night. Ethan launches out of bed, panting. His heart pounds as he searches the darkness. The howling creature isn’t outside. It’s in the bed across the room.
John Sullivan twists and writhes in his sleep. His muscles are taut, his fingers gnarled. He’s an animal held under the brand.
John never remembered having those terrible dreams. Never remembered the things he whispered in the night. On so many mornings, watching John slurp down porridge and coffee, Ethan would almost tell him of what he became in his sleep. But then Judith and Ansel would hear John’s impression of a clurichaun, or some other mythical Irish character. His little brother and sister would be giggling too hard to breathe, and Ethan would feel better. Everyone had nightmares, after all.
“John,” said Ethan, “I watched you chase Pierre Laffite through a burning building.”
“We came out all right, didn’t we?”
“I saw the look in your eyes with Clyde Tindall.”
“Oh, not this again.” John paced between a pair of sick hammocks. He hooked his hand on a beam overhead.
“Look what you’re about to do to Chester Ryland. A man you admire.”
John stared at the bulkhead.
“Others may not see it,” Ethan continued, “but anger is consuming you. Every time you betray your conscience in Kaitlin’s name, you lose another piece of your soul. You think only of the day Katie and Nora are rescued, but what of the day after? What will be left of John Sullivan?”
“I’ve made sacrifices to save my family,” whispered John. “And there’ll be more to come. If my soul is the price for their freedom, tell me where to sign. That’s a bargain I can live with.”
“Really?” Ethan pointed at John’s right hand. “Then why are you bleeding?”
John looked down. He puzzled at what he saw. His sister’s coin, the Islanded Lion, was pressed between his fingers. He’d been rubbing the jagged edge so hard, blood was swelling on his thumb and falling in fat drops. They added to a red jot on the planks.
Ethan picked up his surgical bag and started out of the sick berth. He stopped at the door. “Part of saving your family is saving yourself.”
Ethan stepped out, leaving John to empty hammocks and the smell of old wounds.