Prologue: India, 15 years previously (circa 1711)

Lieutenant James Norrington, RN, twenty-one years old and fourth lieutenant on board Her Majesty's Ship Southampton, surveyed his handiwork in the small hand mirror and sighed. It was adequate, he supposed, but he would never be able to tie a cravat as neatly as Johnson, or as flamboyantly as Blakely. Still, as Blakely had told him repeatedly, he was lucky to be stepping ashore at all, since the captain hadn't quite forgiven him for an excess of alcohol and youthful exuberance in Bombay. Even if their current port was only Fort St George, with a small population comprising merchants and soldiers, it was still an enclave of England, and he was looking forward to some civilised conversation that didn't strain his hopelessly inadequate command of the Dutch and Portuguese tongues. If they were lucky, there would be some accommodating young matrons as well as pretty girls to dance with. If not, they'd sneak off later on and see what Madras had to offer in the way of whores and strumpets.

He patted his waistcoat pocket, making sure that the small pouch that contained his condom was there - he'd seen too many men afflicted by the ravages of disease to contemplate dallying with a strumpet unprotected. God grant that he would remain free of the clap and the great pox (1) on this voyage and all the ones to come.

He went up to the main deck, where the ladder down to the masulah (2) boat was rigged. Blakely was already there, complaining loud and bitterly about the lack of a suitable dock. Norrington tried to ignore him - he'd heard it all before, when they were getting ready. Blakely was a fool to repeat it all in the open, but then even after many years in the navy, he had no tact and no ability to see anyone's point of view but his own. The irony was that he was already first lieutenant and would be in line for promotion to post-captain very shortly, as he reminded them at every available opportunity (3).

Norrington sighed. God help the sailors serving under Blakely as captain. They'd be lucky to survive.

The journey ashore being marred by nothing worse than sea-spray on their clothing (to Blakely's voluble disgust), they arrived at the president's mansion in good time and ascended the stairs to the large reception room, where a corpulent official announced them in stentorian tones to the room at large. Norrington felt the eyes of all the company turn towards them, and tried not to feel self-conscious. Many of the factors, and all of the women, were as pale as if they had just stepped out of a London drawing-room, while their clothes were embroidered, befrilled and bejewelled to the point where the base cloth was barely visible. In comparison, he felt that he and his fellow-officers were brown-skinned and weathered-looking, and none of them (except for the Captain) were wearing wigs, just their own hair tied back and lightly powdered. Their dress coats, which he usually thought so smart, were plain and uninteresting next to the peacocks of the East India Trading Company.

President Fraser stepped forward, greeting them with enthusiasm. "Ah, Captain Carruthers. You are very welcome."

Carruthers bowed. "Mr Fraser. I am sensible of the honour you do us. May I present Lieutenant Lord Blakely - Covington's eldest, you know - and Lieutenants Norrington and Johnson?"

"So these are your officers? Fine-looking gentlemen, all of them. Our girls will be all agog to dance with them, eh?"

"Indeed, Mr Fraser, I hope to see them gracing the dance-floor as soon as the music permits."

"Shouldn't be long, now. Still, they've got time to get a glass of wine before they step to." He beckoned to one of his staff, a boy of nineteen or twenty, who hurried over.

"Captain Carruthers, gentlemen, this is Cutler Beckett, one of our newest factors. He's already showing his mettle, eh, Beckett?"

Beckett flushed slightly, saying, "I am merely learning my way, sir.

"Well, Beckett, learn your way around these fine officers and make sure they get introduced to all the prettiest girls."

"Of course, sir."

Fraser nodded dismissal, and the three young officers and Beckett wandered further into the ballroom which, though small, was of pleasing proportions. It certainly wasn't a fashionable squeeze, but given the humidity - which he found affected him much more than the temperature - Norrington could only be grateful that the rooms were relatively thin of company. He could see a few girls gathered together, looking at the three of them and giggling madly. He wondered if any of them would be able to stop giggling for long enough to ask them to dance. He wouldn't mind a dance or two, with the chance to put his hands on a warm body. He wouldn't mind a bit more than that - he wouldn't mind a lot more, in fact - but he knew he wouldn't get it from them. They were gently-brought-up girls, and he had a need for riper charms if he was to get any relief from the almost-permanent erection he'd had for the last week.

Beckett signalled to a native, who hurried over with glasses of wine for them. He was a pretty boy, very easy on the eye, and there was something about him that made Norrington wonder, idly, if he might possibly meet the requirements of "riper charms". He didn't often feel this way about men, but it certainly wasn't the first time he'd wanted to pull down a pair of breeches instead of lifting a skirt. He wondered if Beckett was of a like mind, and if so, whether he'd be amenable to the suggestion of a tryst after the ball had concluded. Perhaps he could request that Beckett show him the sights of Madras by moonlight, or perhaps his lodgings.

With that thought in mind, he studied the boy in more detail. He was shorter than Norrington by some six inches, and pretty rather than handsome, with long eyelashes, soft, full cheeks, a sweet bow of a mouth, and a full set of teeth. He was neatly turned out, his dress far more elaborate than theirs, but like them he wore no wig, his hair being tied back neatly with a black riband. His waistcoat, lavishly embroidered, betrayed a keen interest in the fashion of the day, while his breeches were a sop to the climate, being of linen rather than velvet. His hands were pale and finely-kept, with no marks or calluses from manual work, and he wore two rings - a large ruby on one hand, a plain gold signet on the other.

Oh yes, thought Norrington, he's a fine-looking lad. He'd make a fine bedfellow. He sipped his wine, which was tolerable though not outstanding. Whatever else he might be, President Fraser was certainly not a judge of wine - or didn't care to waste his finest vintages on the Royal Navy.

Once they were all supplied with wine, Beckett appeared to relax a little. "Welcome to Madras, gentlemen," he said, civilly. "I hope that you have enjoyed what you have seen so far."

Blakely looked down his nose. He was tall and blond, with regular features that set the girls a-swooning, but his face was marred by a somewhat disdainful expression, as if he found the smell of money and trade too much to bear. "It's a fair trading post," he drawled, in a tone that implied exactly the opposite, "but loading the ship by lighter is very slow, especially when we have to compete with the merchantmen."

Beckett looked upset, and Norrington stifled an urge to apologise on behalf of his colleague. It was something he had complained of, too, but since then he had learned that the harbour was simply too shallow to allow ships to approach the shore, and they had not yet been able to dredge a channel deep enough to make the construction of a dock worthwhile.

"I'm sure there are many aspects of the town that will make up for the inconvenience," he said. "I noticed that many of the houses seem to glow in the sun, like marble - how is that achieved?"

Beckett almost fell over himself in his eagerness to embrace the change of topic. "It is a remarkable sight, is it not? I noticed it myself when I first arrived, and enquired as to the cause. It appears that the natives make a sort of lime from crushed shells. They call it chunam, and apply it to the walls like whitewash."

"It is quite striking."

"Indeed."

There was a pause while they all sipped their wine and considered what next to say. Beckett was the first to speak. "Have you had the opportunity to ride out to Chennai and the outer villages?" he asked.

Norrington opened his mouth, but Blakely spoke first. "Unfortunately, the business of re-victualling the ship is taking us longer than we had anticipated, and we have had little leisure for excursions. But I am sure that your people are doing all that they can." The words were unfriendly, the tone was forbidding, and Beckett appeared to give up on the idea of any polite conversation. He sipped at his wine, allowing the tip of his tongue to touch the rim of the glass, and Norrington had to exert the utmost control to stop himself from dragging him behind the nearest curtain and plundering that mouth.

The orchestra was tuning up, and Beckett took the officers over to a group of women by the side of the room. He introduced them and stood by as first Blakely and then Norrington and Johnson asked the maidens for the honour of the first dance. He didn't catch the name of his partner, and he didn't really care. He knew he'd never see any of them after tonight, and the steps of the dance precluded any but the most desultory conversation, so he allowed himself the indulgence of watching Beckett dance whenever he was able. Their eyes met, once or twice, and he thought that he might have seen the hint of a sly smile on the boy's face, but he couldn't be sure of the meaning.

An hour and several dances later, Norrington looked around the ballroom, ostensibly searching for his next partner, but found his gaze returning to Beckett, who was escorting his most recent partner back to her mama.

"The boy's quite luscious, isn't he?" Blakely said, in a confiding tone.

Norrington started. "He is very good-looking, and has an agreeable manner. I imagine that all the girls swoon over him."

"Not just the girls, eh? Look at that mouth. I wonder where he went to school?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Come on, Norrington. We're all men of the world here. Don't tell me you've never looked at a handsome lad and wondered what he'd be like to fuck."

Norrington felt himself blush. He'd thought himself beyond embarrassment after seven years in the navy, and was annoyed that Blakely, of all people, could disconcert him so easily. He tried to pass it off as a joke. "After so many weeks at sea, I'd be prepared to fuck almost anything that moves."

Blakely guffawed. "That's the spirit!" He downed half his wine in one go and leaned over, his fume-laden breath at least sweeter than normal. "What say we have a small wager on the subject?"

"How?"

"I'll wager you twenty guineas that you can't fuck him before the ship leaves."

Norrington swallowed. Twenty guineas was an enormous sum to him – three months' salary – and a lot more than he could afford to lose, but it mattered much more that the subject of the bet was abhorrent. He opened his mouth to refuse, but Blakely forestalled him.

"Come on, Norrington. You don't have to play the innocent here, you know. Do you not think you can do it? Or is it that you can't afford a simple wager? Pay or play, man, pay or play. Or maybe I should make it a little more sporting? Yes, damme, that's what I'll do! I'll wager you twenty guineas that I can fuck him before you can. I'll even give you until the supper interval before I make a move. Can't say fairer than that."

Norrington felt a flash of anger. Blakely was everything he loathed in the nobility - he was arrogant, proud and rude, with no talent or skill to make his failings tolerable. The thought of him buggering Cutler Beckett was so offensive it was nauseating, and Norrington found himself saying, "I'll play, Blakely, and by Jupiter, I'll win."

"That's the spirit!" Blakely upended his glass, and appeared somewhat disappointed to find it empty. He wandered off towards the drinks table. "Hop to it, Norrington. Only another hour until supper, you know."

Norrington watched him go, furious with himself for accepting such an expensive and distasteful wager. As fate would have it, he turned and found himself face to face with young Beckett again. He bowed slightly and said, half-apologetically. "I'm afraid that you might have formed the impression that we don't like Fort St George, but that isn't the case."

"I'm sure it isn't," replied Beckett, courteously. "Though Lord Blakely appears to have taken umbrage at the lack of a wharf."

"Don't take his words to heart, lad," he said. "It's not as if we're unused to loading stores by boat. We are all worn down by the heat and humidity here. Give us a strong gale and plenty of sea room and we'll be happy where most others would be prostrate. It's all a matter of what you're used to."

Beckett spoke in a low voice, somewhat mollified by the apology. "The pity of it is that I can understand his sentiments. I am but newly arrived from England myself, and I feel the lack of conveniences that I always took for granted. Who would think, for instance, to specify which items of laundry require starch and which do not? In England one's valet would attend to all, but the servants here do not always understand our customs, and one spends almost as much time in explaining why things must be done so, as one would spend in doing the things oneself." He sighed, then visibly forced himself to make light of it. "But I am sure that things will improve with time. With every ship comes some new comfort from home. Only last month, for example, we received some very fine wines for the public table."

Pity they didn't find their way here, thought Norrington, but aloud he said merely, "How long have you been here?"

"Three months only. I am still learning the business, but my aim is to advance as far in the Company as my talents will take me."

"What brings you so far from home? Was it your aim to travel from childhood?"

"Heavens, no! That is," he went on, hurriedly, appearing rather embarrassed by his admission, "my father thought that there would be more opportunities for me abroad than in England, and when my uncle arranged a position for me with the company I found that I was not averse to travel."

Norrington realised that his question had been rather personal, and apologised. "Forgive me; it was rude to pry."

Beckett's smiled gratefully. "It's understandable, lieutenant. After so much time with a small group of people one must develop a hunger for new acquaintance."

"Indeed, one does," murmured Norrington, wondering if the boy had any idea how delicious he appeared when he smiled shyly like that. He took another sip of his wine and grimaced at the taste of it.

"Would you care for some better wine than this? President Fraser is a fine man, but his palate is indiscriminating. I have a decent claret and some cognac if you would care to step around to my lodgings."

Norrington hesitated, and Beckett flushed. "I'm sorry if I appear too bold. The truth is that there are few single men here of gentle birth, and I sometimes want for company myself."

Norrington felt his breeches growing tight. Could the boy be even more enticing? Did he know how well he was falling into his trap - Blakely's trap? And yet, if they went to Beckett's lodgings, he'd be able to seduce the boy and secure the wager for himself this very night. It wasn't just the thought of twenty guineas, he told himself, it was the sheer repugnance that he felt at the thought of Blakely getting anywhere near this exquisite boy. It couldn't be allowed.

"I would be honoured to be your guest - though would it not appear somewhat singular to leave before the ball concludes?"

Beckett smiled. "Not at all - though I shall inform the President that I am taking you off to see some rare manuscripts I found a few weeks ago. He'll understand that a little better, I think."

Norrington acquiesced, and they made their way out of the President's house with no hindrance. The night air was relatively cool after the heat of the ballroom, and they strolled along the streets of the white town until they came to Beckett's lodgings - a suite of rooms in a large house owned by the Company and used for their junior and unmarried staff. The rooms were surprisingly large, with high ceilings and slatted shutters for the windows instead of glass. A native servant appeared at the clap of Beckett's hands, and nodded repeatedly as Beckett demanded a bottle of brandy and two glasses. While they were waiting, he showed Norrington out onto the balcony that extended the length of the apartment, accessible from both parlour and bedchamber.

They leaned over the balustrade, glasses in hand, and looked out over the harbour (4), at the lights twinkling from the houses around the bay and the ships at anchor.

"This is as fine a brandy as I have ever tasted," offered Norrington. "Is it French?"

Beckett smiled. "Of course. The company sees no benefit in carrying inferior goods, regardless of the vicissitudes of war. (5) We have an excellent commissary and general store here in the fort, and of course the native markets can supply almost anything you want, besides the usual trading goods."

"Almost? You disappoint me."

"Ah, but there are always things that one cannot buy."

"Precious little, in my experience," said Norrington, morosely. He shrugged and tried to change the subject. "This is an exceptional view, Mr Beckett."

"It is. I was lucky to be able to secure this particular set of chambers a sennight after my arrival. I believe that one of the other factors had had his eye on it for sometime, and was somewhat chagrined to find that I had beaten him to it. Fortunately for me, I was able to exert some small influence and made sure that my man had my belongings moved in the moment it became available.

"Did your colleague not complain?"

"Of course he did! But possession is nine-tenths of the law, after all, and a discreet distribution of largesse took care of the remaining fraction. My case prevailed, and here I am." He smiled ingenuously, and Norrington shook his head. He was intimately familiar with the principle, having been on the losing end numerous times, but he felt he could have borne the outcomes a little better had all his opponents had such winning ways.

He sipped his brandy, and leaned over the balcony. He was reminded of the many times he had leaned over the balustrade on ships, looking down into the sea, knowing that countless fathoms lay between the ship and the sea bed. The brandy was making him philosophical, and he said, "Have you ever stood on the deck of a ship and looked down into the measureless depths of the ocean? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to drown? - to fall to the bottom of the sea, to feel the last of the air escaping from your lungs, and then the cold, heartless inrush of water?"

Beckett laughed. "I can honestly say that I never thought such a thing. What melancholy humours you sailors have! Do you not hear the myriad laughter of the ocean waves?"

"Myriad laughter?"

"Aeschylus (6). But I forget - you wouldn't have studied the classics."

Norrington bristled at the patronising tone. "I studied Latin when I was young. Once I went to sea my studies were taken up with navigation, mathematics and geometry, leaving little time for more frivolous subjects."

"Oh dear, I seem to have hit a nerve. Please accept my apologies, lieutenant."

Norrington bowed, but did not speak.

Beckett tried again. "I have often wondered what it must be like to sail for weeks on end without sighting land. It must cause great hardship."

"Did you not travel here by ship yourself?"

"Oh, yes," Beckett was dismissive, "but we were hardly ever out of sight of land - never for more than two or three days. I would like to know what it's like to sail across the ocean, never knowing if one will sight land that day or the next - or ever."

Norrington shivered. Though the fear of being lost in an endless ocean was something that every sea-faring man had experienced at some stage, it was not one that was generally spoken aloud, sailors being among the most superstitious creatures. "It's best not to talk of such things," he said.

"What shall we talk about then?"

Norrington hesitated. To be truthful, he wanted to stop talking and start shagging, but although he suspected an ulterior motive in Beckett's invitation, he was not yet sure of the boy. "I am yours to command," he said with a wry grin and a bow. "I believe you said something about some rare manuscripts you had acquired recently."

Beckett set his glass down. "Mine to command, indeed? Hmm..." he mused as he came a little closer, "I may have to take up that offer ... assuming I was right about you."

"In what way?" Norrington asked, not even realising that his own voice was soft and husky, betraying his own desire. When Beckett leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, he was momentarily taken aback at the suddenness and at the boy's confidence that he would take his advances in the right way.

His arms went around the boy of their own volition, and he surrendered himself to the embrace, tilting his head and opening his mouth to Beckett's questing tongue. Heavens! He tasted as good as he felt, and Norrington gasped as he was flooded with desire.

Their kisses quickly changed from passionate to frantic, and they scrabbled with their hands, trying to insinuate fingers under coat, waistcoat, shirt and breeches.

"I've been wanting this all night," panted Norrington.

Beckett pushed his hips forward. "I can tell."

Somehow, they managed to move from the balcony to the bedchamber, where the sheets were turned down and a lamp burned brightly on a side table. Coats and waistcoats were discarded onto the chairs, shoes were kicked off and linen shirts dropped to the floor as they hurriedly made their way towards the bed. They kissed again, bare-chested now, and the heat of skin on skin inflamed their passions further.

Beckett licked the delicate skin under Norrington's ear. "You taste of salt," he murmured.

"You taste of spices," replied Norrington, nibbling his way down Beckett's neck.

They could scarcely bear to pull away long enough to get their breeches off, but finally they were naked, lying on the fine linen sheets, looking at each other in the candlelight. Beckett's eyes were dark and luminous, his mouth swollen from kisses, and he looked more beautiful than ever. Norrington ran a hand down the length of his body, noting how Beckett shivered at his touch, and leaned forward to kiss him once more. This time he was more deliberate, commencing a thorough and detailed examination of Beckett's mouth, while his hands roamed freely over heated skin.

"I think we can progress beyond kissing, don't you think?" whispered Beckett a minute later, as he reached a hand down to take hold of Norrington's cock, eliciting a gasp and a shudder. "What do you want to do next?"

"I want to suck you."

Beckett rolled back, his smile reminding Norrington of a very pleased cat. "Be my guest," he said, indicating his rock-hard erection, which stood proud from his body, taller and thicker than might have been expected from the boy's stature.

Norrington eased his way down the bed, planting kisses over the boy's chest and stomach, before pausing in front of the truly magnificent erection. He felt as if he were kneeling in worship, and gave it a firm, slow stroke with his hand. "Truly a marvel," he whispered.

Beckett smiled even more broadly. "Much as your words please me, I would prefer that you put that mouth to better use."

Norrington swirled his tongue around the head, and had the satisfaction of hearing Beckett groan and fall back onto the bed. He opened his mouth and slid down over the shaft, as far as he could reach without gagging.

"Oh, that's good," Beckett lifted a hand to caress Norrington's neck. "Don't stop."

Norrington didn't. He licked, and stroked, and sucked, feeling himself grow even harder as he heard Beckett's voice moaning and gasping nonsense words. He could taste the fluid that was leaking from the boy's cock - sweet and salt - and readied himself for the climax, which followed soon after.

He pulled himself up, looking at Beckett's flushed face, his skin warm and sheened in sweat, his limbs sprawled over the sheets. It was a good minute before Beckett moved and then it was to smile and say, "Lie down so I can do the same for you."

Norrington shook his head. "I want to fuck you."

Beckett frowned. "I'd rather -" he began.

Norrington silenced him with a kiss. "I really, really, want to fuck you. I'll make it good for you. You'll enjoy it too - I promise."

Beckett hesitated, and Norrington wondered for a moment if he might be a virgin. "Have you done this before?" he asked gently.

"Oh yes," Beckett replied blithely. "That's not the problem. It is merely that I object to men assuming that I'll play the woman's part simply because I'm short. I like to fuck as well."

Norrington shook his head. "It's not that you're short," he murmured. "It's that you have the sweetest lips, the softest cheek, and the smoothest, fairest skin I've seen in man or woman in a long, long time. Added to that, you have the most delectable bottom that simply begs to be buggered. You drive me wild with lust. I want to bury myself in you as far as I can reach. I want to feel you come with me inside you." He punctuated his speech with kisses and caresses, to the point where Beckett lay back and smiled.

"Your eloquence prevails, lieutenant. I'm yours for the taking."

"Do you have any oil?"

"Mmm, let me get it." He reached into a small drawer in the table beside the bed and brought out a small stoppered vial.

Norrington smiled. "That's convenient."

Beckett grinned back. "I indulge myself at least twice a day, sometimes more. In this hot climate I need the lubrication or I'll chafe."

"Oh, that would be a tragedy."

"Of course it would. Now, put a little on your fingers, and place them where they'll do the most good."

"I have done this before, you know," Norrington said, even as he complied.

"I thought you might. Mmmm ... that's nice. I could see you looking at me in the ballroom - you looked like you wanted to ravish me then and there."

"I did. I was hoping that my breeches were loose enough not to give me away."

"A vain hope, I'm afraid - but I think that most of the company would choose to believe that your amorous thoughts were directed to the pretty maidens you were dancing with." He squirmed. "Oh, yes, that's good."

"Is that enough?" Norrington asked, having worked three fingers into Beckett's arse. He could see that the boy's cock was starting to revive already, and bit his lip, trying to calm himself down.

"I think I'll manage. Just put plenty of oil on your cock."

Norrington was about to reach for the oil when he thought of the sheath. It was still in his waistcoat pocket, somewhere between the balcony and the bed, but he couldn't remember where.

"What's the matter?"

"I have a sheath," he explained.

Beckett raised himself on one elbow, looking indignant. "If you think you're going to wear some filthy leather monstrosity that you've poked inside every whore from here to the Americas, you can think again! I don't have the pox or the clap, and I don't want them either."

"Neither do I."

"Then let's lie with each other naked and to the devil with the consequences."

Norrington frowned at that, but he told himself that he shouldn't be so superstitious - he was as keen as Beckett to fuck naked, providing that they were both clean.

He poured a little more oil into his hand and coated his cock liberally. It felt so good that he had to pinch the sensitive skin near the head to stop himself coming.

"Don't you dare come before me," warned Beckett. "I want a good strong fuck."

"You'll have to wait a minute, then. I'm too close now," muttered Norrington. He took a few deep breaths and decided to apply his mouth to Beckett's cock again before entering him. There was a little more musk, but otherwise no difference in taste, and he took the whole cock into his mouth, licking it gently, rolling it around in his mouth until it stiffened and lengthened and he had to draw back. Beckett was panting again, and Norrington had to put an arm across his hips to stop him squirming. He rolled his oily fingers over Beckett's balls and the sensitive skin behind, and was gratified to hear Beckett reduced to whimpers and moans.

Finally he judged that the time was right. "Roll over," he ordered, and the boy obediently rolled over onto his stomach, sticking his bottom into the air and spreading his knees.

Norrington nearly moaned himself at the sight before him - the plump round buttocks, pushed up and eager for him, the skin oiled and shining in the candlelight, and the puckered skin at the centre - soft and relaxed, just waiting for him. He bit his lip and gently pressed a finger in.

"I think we've established that I'm oiled and stretched, lieutenant. Try putting your cock in there. Once you've mastered that, you might try moving it in and out. That generally works for most people."

Norrington laughed. The boy was feisty and not afraid to challenge him - he liked that. He readied himself and pushed in gently, increasing the pressure as he felt the resistance in the flesh. Both of them groaned as he slid inside, and Norrington paused, letting them both adjust. Then he started to move - slowly, wanting to make it last, wanting to make it as pleasurable as it could possibly be. It was an effort to keep his movements slow and rhythmical, but it was worth it.

After only a couple of minutes, they were both approaching their climaxes. Beckett was grunting with each thrust, the pitch getting higher and higher. Norrington nearly bit through his lip as he struggled to maintain some sort of control over himself, as he tried to put off the inevitable. Suddenly Beckett gave a strangled cry and Norrington felt his muscles contract around him as he came. The added stimulus pushed Norrington into his own orgasm, and they shuddered together before collapsing onto the sheets.

"Godsblood, that was good!" breathed Beckett, some time later. "I don't think I've been buggered so well since I left school."

Norrington nodded. He was still too exhausted to speak. He felt Beckett roll over on to his side, looking at him, and wondered how the boy had the strength to move. He turned his head slightly and smiled. If he lived to be a hundred, he didn't think that he would ever see anyone as beautiful as Cutler Beckett after being thoroughly debauched: dark eyes, flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips all combined into one intoxicating picture.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked.

"When are you due back on board?"

"Not till midday."

"Stay here, then."

"What about your man?"

"What about him? Oh, don't worry. I've already told him that he'll be well-paid for not gossiping - and well-punished if I find out he's been telling tales."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm always right."

Norrington laughed. "Always? Such confidence."

Beckett grinned. "Well, nearly always right." He rested his head on Norrington's shoulder and draped an arm over his chest. "And, besides, I want to do this again in the morning."

"An admirable plan."

They lay in silence for a few minutes, listening to the distance roar of the surf, feeling the light breeze drift over their skin. Norrington could hear the sound of people in the street and wondered if the ball had finished yet. He was glad he could lie there for a while yet. It had nothing to do with the way that Beckett's fingers were idly stroking his belly, or the soft, contented sigh he made with every other breath. It had nothing to do with the way his legs had intertwined with Beckett's, in a way that was paradoxically as comfortable as it was discomforting.

He knew better than to let emotion get the better of him. It was just a fuck, after all. But it had been a good fuck, he admitted. More than that - it had been a truly outstanding fuck. He wished that the ship were staying for more than the few days it would take to load water and victuals, so that he could look forward to another night in Beckett's bed. His last thought before he drifted off to sleep was that he should ask Johnson if he could swap a duty.

* * *

It would all have ended quite happily - or, at least, not unhappily - if it hadn't been for Blakely. When Norrington confronted the first lieutenant the next day, stating that he had completed the terms of the wager, Blakely demurred.

"How do I know you actually fucked him?" he asked.

"Are you saying that you won't take my word for it? You saw me leave with him!"

"I'm saying that twenty guineas are twenty guineas - and you wouldn't be the first to exaggerate a claim of conquest."

"You - you -" Norrington was actually speechless with rage. That his word should be questioned was the worst possible insult, and that Blakely should accuse him of lying for financial gain was the last straw. He stepped forward with the intent of blackening the man's eye, when Johnson intervened.

"No, Norrington!" he said, actually stepping between the two protagonists. "You can't strike him. You mustn't!"

Norrington took a deep breath. Johnson was right. Although they were all the same rank, Blakely was senior to him, and was therefore a "superior officer". To strike him meant a court martial, and he had no doubt who would come off worst. He allowed himself to be drawn back a few paces, and half-listened to Johnson as he reasoned with Blakely. The end result was that Blakely handed him a small purse with the promised twenty guineas, then turned away, his face red with fury.

Norrington sighed. He imagined that the next few weeks at sea were going to be somewhat fraught. Ironically, the best he could hope for was that Blakely was promoted soon and sent to another ship.

* * *

It wasn't until the following day - their last in Madras - that Norrington was granted leave once more, and he hurried through the Fort to the offices that Beckett had pointed out that first night. A few enquiries soon led him to the office he sought, in one of the company's factories, (7) and he was announced and bowed in by a Hindoo servant who stood by the door.

"Good afternoon, Mr Beckett," he began formally, conscious that there was an audience. "I hope you don't mind my intrusion, but I've been granted leave and wondered if you would care to continue the conversation we began the other night?"

Beckett looked more annoyed than pleased, dismissing the servant with a curt gesture. "Lieutenant Lord Blakely visited me yesterday afternoon," he said, and looked up from his desk.

Norrington's heart sank. If Blakely had meddled, the result would not be happy for anyone.

Beckett continued, his voice purposefully dry and flat. "He had a most amusing tale to tell - or so he viewed it, and he assumed I would find it equally entertaining. It appears that naval officers are in the habit of making wagers on their chances with the local belles - and beaux. It also appears that you and he made a wager on which one of you would succeed in bedding me. I would like to think that his story was a complete fabrication but he was quite adamant that he had given you twenty guineas."

Norrington couldn't speak. He felt nauseated.

"So am I to suppose that the story is true? You seduced me for twenty guineas?"

"It wasn't like that," Norrington tried to explain. "It was either him or me, and I couldn't bear to think of him touching you."

Beckett looked disgusted. "Do you honestly think that I'm anyone's for the asking? He wouldn't have had me, no matter how sweet his words."

"You don't know Blakely."

"You don't know me."

Norrington looked at the set of his mouth, and remembered the feel of his shoulders and thighs. Perhaps he would have fought Blakely off - and then again, perhaps Blakely would have used other means to overcome his resistance. He tried again. "I wanted you anyway - before he even suggested it."

"Is that supposed to make everything better?"

"It's supposed to make you realise that the wager had nothing to do with the way I felt about you. I wanted to lie with you - I wanted it since the moment I set eyes on you." He shrugged. "The only regret I have is that we sail on the morning tide. I wanted to spend my last hours in Madras with you."

"I'm overwhelmed but I'm afraid I must decline. As a junior factor here I have to be careful of my reputation - and Blakely has already done his best to ruin it. I'm going to go far in the Company, and I won't have my progress impeded by involvement in some tawdry game played by sailors."

"It wasn't a game."

"It wasn't exactly honest dealing either, was it? You used me for financial gain."

"Don't make it into a tragedy. We fucked, that's all. You enjoyed it as much as I, and everything else is immaterial."

"Twenty guineas are hardly immaterial."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Norrington pulled out the purse and threw it on the table. "There they are. Take them! And may they bring you more joy than they did me!" With that he turned on his heel and stormed out, through the narrow streets of the fort and the gate that led to the shore and the masulah boats.

It wasn't until he got back to the ship that he realised that he'd given away three months' salary in a moment of temper. Stupid of him. He could have used the money twice over, he knew ... but then it had never been his, not really. It was Blakely's money, and tainted by association. He was better off without it.

Ah well, he mused as he climbed up the ladder to the ship's main deck, tomorrow they'd put Madras behind them, and in all likelihood he'd never see Cutler Beckett again, so what was the point of brooding over a minor detail? He'd drunk some excellent brandy, he'd had a great fuck, and, as far as he knew, he hadn't caught the clap. So far, so good.

He lifted his head, smelled the salt air and laughed as he crossed the brow onto the deck of the ship.

Footnotes:

(1) The "clap" is gonorrhoea and the "great pox" (or the "French pox") is syphilis (so called because it left large pock-marks on skin). It was only after the introduction of syphilis to Europe at the end of the fifteenth century that "the pox" became known as smallpox, to distinguish it from the newer disease. Back

(2)Masulah boats were used to convey passengers from ship to shore in Madras harbour. They were specially designed with outriggers to cope with the three waves of surf, which would sink a normal boat. Back

(3) In the early eighteenth century, all ships' officers apart from the captain and the midshipmen were lieutenants. "Rank" inside the wardroom was determined by whether one was first, second, or third lieutenant, and so on, which was itself usually determined by seniority. While promotion could not be bought openly, as it could in the army, patronage and family influence counted for a great deal. Back

(4) This is actually a bit of artistic licence. From maps I've seen of Madras in the early eighteenth century, I don't think that any house in the white town would have a view over the walls of the fort. Back

(5) The English were at war with the French (and Spanish) from 1702 until 1713. During that time, of course, it was very difficult to import French brandy into England. I imagine, however, that the EITC managed to obtain their supplies through a neutral party. Back

(6) Aeschylus. Prometheus Bound. Back

(7) In the eighteenth century, the term "factory" was used for what we now call a warehouse, while the term "warehouse" was used for a shop or store. Back

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