Part 26


Jonathan was glad to bid farewell to Teneriffe, glad to help weigh anchor and turn once more for the open sea. Perhaps the wind and the salt and the sun could clear the rum induced confusion from his head and he could think straight again.


It was the steady diet if grog and illicit rum that was to blame for this sorry state of affairs; Jonathan was sure of it. For the first few weeks at sea, he'd been happy to drown his sorrows and deaden his pain in the daily allowance of spirit which was far more than he had received as a Midshipman. But in a moment of crystal clear clarity, when he had awoken in Ben Flower's arms, hands sticky with the younger lad's semen, Jonathan had seen the error of his ways. How could he have made such a terrible mistake? Not only with Flower but with Peter also. How could he have said such things to Peter yesterday? Poor Peter, who had only ever offered his help and never expected anything in return other than simple friendship.

And Ned! It was unthinkable that Ned could possibly be interested in him. Thank God he hadn't made a fool of himself there as well. Now it was time to set the rest of it to rights.

Sheepishly, Jonathan sought out Ben Flower, unable to look the younger man in the eyes. "Ben, about last night."

Flower laughed, sounding almost like a girl. "Yes? Want to do it again?"

"No, we can't. We can't do it ever again. It's...not right. It's...dangerous."

"Oh," Flower could not hide the disappointment in his voice. "Yeah, yer right, I know it. But it was so good, the kissing, I mean."

Jonathan finally looked up. "I know, but we'd only be making trouble for ourselves, you see."

Flower nodded. "We're still mates, though, aren't we?" he asked, hopefully.

Jonathan smiled. "Yes, of course. Who else can I get to do my hair like you do?" He reached out and tugged at the long plait in Flower's hair that he had braided just that morning. It was a sorry imitation of the one that Flower had done for him. Flower laughed and tugged Jonathan's hair in reply, proving there was no ill feeling between them.

Jonathan let go a sigh of relief. His next confrontation could hardly be expected to go as easily. It was not until after gunnery practice, that Jonathan found the opportunity to speak to Peter Crittenden. He waited respectfully until Peter acknowledged his presence then said, "Sir may I have a moment to speak to you please?"

Peter pursed his lips and looked around, noting who was within earshot. "Yes, very well then. Over here." He led Jonathan to the bulwark and stood with hands behind his back looking out to sea. "Let me guess, you want to apologise?"

Jonathan felt himself blush. Of course Peter wasn't going to make this easy for him, "Yes my words the other day were uncalled for and I am sorry."

"And now you expect me to forgive you?"

"Well...yes, that was what I hoped." Damn Peter, does he expect me to beg?

Slowly Peter turned, his eyes catching Jonathan's and holding them, looking long and hard before he spoke. "My...friendship with Captain Bell is of no concern to you. You have no right to criticise what you do not understand. I am sorry if now you feel I interfered in your personal...affairs in London. At the time I thought I was helping you, but perhaps I was mistaken. From now on I will leave you to your own devices, and I trust you will do me the same courtesy."

Jonathan was dumbfounded, not only by the words, but by Peter's icy manner. He'd
hoped for a warmer reception.

Peter was waiting, chin raised definitely, daring Jonathan to come back with a hasty reply. Jonathan took a breath, calming his own temper and nodded. "Yes you are right and I am sorry. I just thought that you..."

"That I what? That I was interested in you?" Peter laughed, a flippant sound as he tossed his head, hair swishing over his shoulder dramatically. "I wouldn't touch you with a boat hook at present, Jonathan. You're probably poxed along with half the crew after your effort in Santa Crux!"

Poxed? Dear God! Jonathan resisted the urge to start itching. Surely you couldn�t catch it from just one fuck? Besides, wasn't Pike supposed to check the whores for that beforehand?

Peter laughed again, "Oh don't look so surprised! You really don't think at all, do you Jonathan?"

"But I am going to from now on. I'm going to think before I act. I...promise."

Peter rolled his eyes in disbelief. "That will be the day!"


Part 27

Jonathan had to admit that Peter knew him better than he did himself. Despite his best intentions he found it far harder to refuse Ben Flower than he had expected. Not that it happened often, but over the next few weeks as the nightingale sailed southwards, Jonathan became accustomed to the occasional late  night visit from Flower, slipping silently into his hammock when most of his fellow ratings were snoring. Crabtree still pursued the younger ratings from time to time, and although he had left Jonathan alone since their confrontation in Teneriffe, Flower was still his favourite target. Most times Flower wanted nothing more than the security that sleeping with Jonathan offered. As they settled sleepily into the warmth of each other, Flower would sometimes ask for a kiss. And that's all it was, a swift, soft show of affection between friends.

But once or twice, while his head had cried out in warning, Jonathan let it go a little further.

"No harm done," Flower would whisper afterwards, while Jonathan fretted and worried. "It's not as if we're fucking, yer know. They'll only flog us for being unclean if we're caught."

That wasn't Jonathan's main concern, although he did fear punishment. What troubled his conscience most was the fact that he seldom even thought of Flower as they lay locked together in each others arms, groping their way to silent release. It was visions of Jack Kerrison or, worse yet, Ned Grayson that fired Jonathan's imagination. Visions and fantasies that were as fruitless and sterile as the harried fumbling he shared with Flower. Afterwards, it often left Jonathan feeling even more frustrated.

It was a frustration that grew steadily as they neared the equator; grew and was echoed by the rest of the crew as they sweated and laboured in the increasing heat. Shirts were discarded as they worked on deck and even the Officers put aside their broadloom coats in favour of practicality.

Jonathan was startled when Lieutenant Macquarie approached him early one morning as he finished his watch.

"A word with you Riley," he summoned as Jonathan pulled on his shirt. His shoulders had burnt and peeled and burnt again and were now covered heavily in freckles.

"How are things going with Crabtree and his cronies? Are they still causing trouble for the younger lads?"

Jonathan couldn't hide his surprise. Macquarie explained, "We were made aware of what was happening and Captain Bell took some steps to... rectify the problem, but I thought it well to find out the present situation." Macquarie's face was serious. "I understand it was you who brought this to the Captain's attention so I thought you would be the best one to speak to."

Jonathan was touched by Macquarie's concern. It pushed the First Officer up considerably in Jonathan's estimation.

"Crabtree leaves me alone now...I had a small...run in with him in Teneriffe. I stood up for myself, we exchanged...blows, but I got the better of him." Macquarie raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "As for the other lads, well I know it still goes on. Crabtree and his friends pursue them."


Macquarie nodded. "We need to catch these men in the act, but that is harder than it sounds. I've spoken to the bosun and asked him to patrol the usual places, but he claims he hasn't seen anything untoward." Macquarie looked slightly away, his eyes fixed on something in the distant. When he spoke again his voice was very low.

"Do you think the bosun or some of his mates might be in on this too? Could they be part of this ring of pederasts?"

"I don't know," Jonathan replied, his heart suddenly hammering. "I know that even the oldest tars seem to be in awe of these men. Names are never mentioned and they lure you into the dark so you can't see their faces. I picked some of them out by their voices alone." Jonathan swallowed as Macquarie's suggestion about the bosun suddenly began to make sense. "Now that I think of it, Crabtree is too foolhardy to be the real ringleader. If the bosun was involved then that would explain the general reluctance to speak out."

"Hmmm, that�s what I am afraid of." Macquarie looked back to Jonathan, his eyes bright. "We cross the equator soon and I suspect that the sodomites may take advantage of the laxity in discipline and general drunkenness to play a few games of their own. The last thing they will expect is to have anyone watching in wait for them. What I need from you Riley is your help."

"Of course, Sir," Jonathan replied without thinking.

"Good," Macquarie tilted his head slightly as he considered Jonathan. "I will have a small band of men that I can trust watching for anything out of the ordinary. I hope I am wrong, but if what you told me is correct, then I suspect Crabtree at least will be waiting for a chance to even the score with you. Unfortunately, there may be others wanting to do the same. Although your name was not mentioned, it IS generally known that it was you who reported this to the Captain."

Jonathan swallowed. Macquarie's veiled warnings were suddenly becoming all too clear. "You will be protected of course, but we have to have evidence to convict them; indisputable evidence. Do you understand?"

"You have to catch them in the act..." Surely Macquarie didn't expect Jonathan to just lie down and let them rape him?

"Precisely. Of course I would not expect you to...co-operate with these men and I suspect they would find it a little suspicious if you suddenly did so, but I know you mentioned that some of these other lads don't fight back, so perhaps..."

Macquarie let his unspoken suggestion float away with the wind.

Jonathan shook his head. "I couldn't ask them to go along with THAT. They are my friends." He thought of Ben Flower. "You don't know what you are asking."

"I know that this might be the best chance we have to catch these men who have been let run loose for too long. If what you say is true, then their victims are not going to suffer any more than they have in the past. Perhaps THEY might think it worthwhile if it gives them their only chance at striking back at the bastards who abuse them. Think about."

Macquarie turned and walked away. In some ways the first Lieutenant's words made sense, but they left a sick feeling in Jonathan's stomach. Belatedly he wondered if Captain Bell was party to this operation. And did Peter know? Surely Peter would have spoken to him personally if he knew what Macquarie would be asking.

The sick feeling grew, turned cold and Jonathan found himself shivering despite the searing heat. He really had no choice if he wanted to see an end to what was going on below decks.

As she sailed onwards slowly nearing the Equator, the Nightingale became a simmering cauldron of expectation as it's Officers and crew prepared for the age old ceremonies of crossing the line.



Part 28

The ship was a flurry of activity. Since the commencement of the morning watch, when a voice proclaiming to be King Neptune himself had announced its intentions to visit the ship at noon, the ratings had been working diligently to secure the ship and prepare for the festivities to follow.

Captain Bell had assembled his two lieutenants on the quarterdeck, leaving the rest of the ship to his crew. Peter Crittenden sighed and pulled at his silk stock and cravat. On any other day they would both have been discarded by now, convention giving way to practicality as the hot tropic sun rose, searing the deck, melting the tar and turning the sky almost white with it's glare. But with the impending arrival of the God of the Sea, it would seem that all common sense had been thrown overboard. Peter was left to fret in the trappings of tradition.

His gaze wandered back to the activity below him where ratings laboured to snug down the ship; reefing the topsails, hauling up the courses and furling the topgallants. As always, it wasn't long before Peter's traitorous eyes sought out Jonathan Riley where he was worked with a small group of men, lowering the Captain's barge and securing it to the booms. He was stripped to the waist, his lean, hard body glistening with sweat as he hauled on the ropes, his red hair pulled back tightly in a long plait. He would need help to do his hair that way, thought Peter with a stab of jealously. A plait like that needed a tie mate, someone to braid it tightly, someone to run their fingers though those lovely curls. Peter dragged his gaze away aware that his face was flaming. Damn Jonathan for still being able to cause such feelings.

"And I have had a word with Riley, he knows what to expect and is willing to help. With any luck he'll be able to draw it out long enough for us to catch the culprits in the act."

"What that's?" Peter asked, swinging around and glaring at Macquarie who was speaking quietly with Captain Bell. "What's that about Riley?"

Macquarie put his hands behind his back and waited for his Captain to explain.

"Nothing to concern you too much, Mr C. Mr Macquarie and I have planned a small trap for anyone who might think to take advantage of the frivolity today."

"You are referring to those...men, aren't you? The ones who..." Peter waited, aware that the blood had left his face.

Bell nodded. "Keep your voice down," he said quietly, leaning closer. "We suspect at least one Petty Officer may be involved."

"And you want to use JONATHAN as bait?" For one shocking moment Peter thought he might faint. The heat, the cloying smell of hot tar and the ghastly vision of Jonathan, helpless in the hands of those tyrants, was almost overwhelming. But he rallied himself, took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his brow and spoke. "And Jonathan agreed to this? You made him aware of ALL that it entails?"

It was Macquarie who answered. "Yes, I spoke to him myself. And if you claim to be his friend then you know for yourself that he is not one to cower from his duty. He has courage."

A strangled little laughed escaped Peter's constricting throat. "Oh yes, Jonathan is brave. Foolishly brave. I dare say it will be the death of him one day."

"But not today. We'll see to that." Bell declared. "Mr Macquarie, with the help of Sergeant Ferguson, has selected a trustworthy group of marines who will catch these men in the very act of their crime."

"And why wasn't I informed of this?"

Bell raised one eyebrow. Peter's words were close to insubordination. "It was thought best to keep this from anyone not directly involved. Even Ferguson has not told his men what they will be doing this evening, only that they are not to partake of the extra rum ration. The less who know, the less likely it is that the parties involved will be warned."

But surely you trust ME, Peter wanted to scream, YOU know I am not party to this? Of course Bell knew, Peter realised, but he also knew of Peter's attraction to Jonathan. Perhaps THAT was what Bell did not trust; that Peter would not try to dissuade Jonathan from this foolery. But was there still time?


"May I be excused, Sir?" Peter asked, his pulse racing, his breath becoming short.

Bell turned and looked over the main deck and forecastle. Already, those who were to undergo the ceremony of crossing the line were being escorted below. In moments the gratings would be put on the hatches and a marine sentry stationed to ensure the initiates did not escape. Jonathan was among their number. Peter saw a flash of red hair disappear into the darkness and knew he was too late.

"I am afraid not Mr C," Bell replied. "It would appear it is time for us to go below also, shall we adjourn to my cabin for a glass of sherry?"

Sherry; the very thought turned Peter's stomach.


Part 29


At precisely noon, as the ships bell chimed the change of watch, King Neptune together with his consort Amphitrite and their offspring Triton made their entrance from behind a screen across the forecastle. Captain Bell assembled his Officers and crew and everyone paused to hear the Father of the Sea's address.

Just below the grating, huddled with his fellow shipmates, Jonathan Riley listened intently as Captain Bell offered Neptune a glass of wine which was raised in salute to the tars of Great Britain.

"It's bloody Flemming, I'd know his voice anywhere," Flower declared. He looked a little disappointed as if he were hoping for the real Neptune to make an appearance. "Bloody Flemming," he said again and started to giggle.

Bell was negotiating with the Sea King for the ransom of his Officers. There was much haggling over the amount of spirits needed to buy their exemption from the Great Shave. Macquarie had crossed the line previously, but it was the first time for Crittenden, Grayson, Golding and Hislop.  Bell finally conceded that Neptune could have both Hislop and Golding, but managed to secure the ransom of Peter and Ned Grayson. The latter he ordered to climb the main mast and keep a look out while the frivolities proceeded. Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief. It was doubtful Ned would see the spirit of fun in what was to follow. Both Hislop and Golding were shrieking and squealing, something about not needing a shave and piss and other muffled expletives until their calls for help were cut off dramatically. Silence descended, only to be broken moments later by the grating being raised. Ben Flower turned worried eyes towards Jonathan and opened his mouth to speak, but Sergeant Ferguson's large hand grabbed Jonathan by the plait and tugged.

"Up you go lad, be brave now." 

Jonathan climbed out of the darkness, squinting in the brilliant sunshine. Suddenly a blindfold was tied across his eyes and he was ushered across the deck. Laughter rang out around him. A voice in front asked, "What's your name, lad?"

"Flemming?" Jonathan asked.

A second voice answered. "That's King Neptune yer speaking with, show some respect."  Jonathan bobbed his head, trying to hide his grin.

"Sorry," he began to say, but a large hairy brush, coated with something foul smelling, was wiped across his mouth before he could finish.

"Spah!" he spluttered, spitting out the remains. Tar, certainly, and something that smelt like the sweepings from the chicken coops. And piss, there was definitely piss in there too.

"What's your name lad?" Neptune asked again.

"Riley!" Jonathan spat out only to be accosted by the brush and its unwholesome burden a second time. Was this the reason for Hislop's and Golding's sudden silence? Had they chocked on the stuff? The brush swiped at his face and mouth again.

"Have to get you ready for the Great Shave, cully." That was Starling, close by his side.

"I don't need a, umph," Jonathan received a mouthful of something akin to shit. He spat it out.

"Bring him up then, we'll cast him overboard." The words did not strike the terror that was hoped for. Jonathan tried not to grin. He could swim and so the water held no fear for him, not like it would for some of his ship mates. So that's why they'd lowered the barge earlier...to fish out the unlucky ones.

Jonathan was led to the bulwarks, where the hammock nettings were lashed. He was turned and place on a handspike that jutted over the side of the ship. At the last moment the blind fold was torn away and Jonathan took in the remarkable tableau. Flemming was regaled in a long grey wig and beard, his face, arms and legs were blackened. He was dressed in a frilly shirt that would have been at home on Peter Crittenden. Two swabs were attached to the shoulders in place of epaulets. A tin crown and trident completed the disguise. Beside him, the young rating Crawford, impersonating Amphitrite, stood demurely in a lace petty coat and some sort of corset or stays. A white lace bonnet sat jauntily on his head. He winked and blew a kiss to Jonathan. The infant Triton, formally ordinary seaman Peters, swaddled in nothing more than a white sheet, sat between them, holding a miniature trident and a dead fish. The happy family were seated on a gun carriage, thankfully devoid of its usual deathly burden.

Jonathan opened his mouth to laugh just as Starling tipped the handspike. He toppled backwards, sky and sea spiralling for a moment and splashed into chilly water. Strangely enough he did not sink far before his feet touched canvas. He stood, seawater lapping about his chest. Around him was a sail, strung from the hammock nettings to the gunwale of the barge, filled with water to form a pool. Jonathan laughed loudly and splashed water onto his face, cleaning away the last of the filth. Behind him Hislop and Golding were laughing from the barge where they sat in nothing but their breeches. He waved at them and they waved back, then put fingers to their lips as the next unsuspecting victim was brought out.



Part 30


In the end just about everybody got wet. The day was hot and the chance to cool off proved too much of a lure for even for the most fearful of the crew. Between the makeshift pool and the gentle swell of the waves the ratings could be found splashing and cavorting in a rare show of carefree abandon. Clothes were cast aside, modesty forgotten. Even the two midshipmen, Hislop and Golding eventually stripped off their breeches and swam in nothing but their underdrawers until they were summoned back aboard by Mr Macquarie to dine with the Officers in Captain's Bell's cabin.

Jonathan felt sorry for them. There was a freedom in not having to uphold a position of authority, a simplicity that he only now appreciated. It was magnified when Peter Crittenden appeared at the bulwark, stiff and formal in his uniform, clearly uncomfortable in the heat. He gazed at Jonathan in the water and waved, a small sad smile on his lips. The longing in his eyes and the sweat on his brow was a clear indication that Peter would have been quite happy to cast aside his clothes and join Jonathan in the water. Jonathan waved back and beckoned, but Peter simply shook his head and turned away. For once Jonathan was glad of his demotion.

By late afternoon the older ratings retired to the forecastle or below to partake of the ransom and get merrily drunk, leaving only the youngsters, reluctant to the last to leave the water.

Crawford, now devoid of his pretty petticoat was floating in the sail pool extolling the virtues of salt water. "It's the best thing for it, I tell you. Hell, that bloody mercury that Dawson keeps spurting into us doesn't seem to be working." There were murmurs of disbelief but Crawford persisted. "I tell you salt waters the thing for it! Have you ever heard of a mermaid with the pox?"

Outside in the waves, Jonathan spluttered with laughter but added a silent prayer of thanks that he had not succumbed to the infection that seemed to be raging through the crew. Beside him, Ben Flower timidly trod water, a newly acquired skill thanks to Jonathan's instructions. He peered down through the murky green waves. "Do you think I've got it? Do you?"

"No Ben. You'd know by now if you did. Don't worry about it."

"But I went after Crawford and HE has it."

"Yes and Crawford had several different women too. There's no telling when he got it or from whom. Besides there is no use worrying about it." Which was exactly what Jonathan had told himself when the first cases of Pox started to appear. He decided to change the subject. "Anyway, there is no such thing as a mermaid."

Flower frowned. "But Jack saw a mermaid once. He told me about it. He even got a tattoo to prove it."

Jack Kerrison and his tattoo. Jonathan sighed and looked away. The long lost master's mate had been on Jonathan's mind all afternoon, his presence washing around him like the touch of the waves. The tingle of the sun on his skin, the taste of salt on his lips all helped to transported Jonathan back to another time when he had played in the water and wished the day would never end. And with the memory came an ache for Jack and things long missed; strong arms around him, a hungry mouth against his own, a long hard body, the giving and the taking of pure sex, and the bond of belonging, of friendship, of love. It seemed an eternity since he had known such happiness, such pleasure. His soul echoed like a vast empty chasm, yearning for something, someone to fill the void, even if it was only for one night. He looked at Flower now floating on his back, quite unselfconscious of his nakedness. Flower would be willing, Flower would do anything that Jonathan asked, whether he wanted to or not. He'd follow Jonathan down into the dark and turn his back and slip down his trousers and let Jonathan have his way.

But it wouldn't be right.

Jonathan looked at Flower, suntanned and smiling, innocent and trusting and put aside his fantasies vowing he'd not let Flower into his hammock tonight, no matter how much the boy pleaded.



Part 31



It was growing dark when they were finally summoned aboard. On deck, the ratings were singing and dancing, happy but orderly. The ransomed rum had been just enough to wash away their cares without making them careless.

Jonathan and Flower dried and dressed and headed down the hatchway.

"There's still one thing I want to know, Jonathan, and that's what would have happened if the REAL King Neptune had turned up and seen old Flemming all dressed up like that. I don't think he would have been too pleased, yer know."

Jonathan suppressed a smile. In many ways Flower was very much like a child.  Once off the ladder Jonathan opened his mouth to reply only to have a piece of cloth pushed into his mouth. Strong arms caught hold of him and something was slipped over his eyes so that he could not see. There was much snickering and laughing. A moment later Flower's muffled squeak announced the boy had met with a similar fate. Jonathan struggled, Macquarie's long forgotten warning racing back to his mind.

"Enough of that, keep still, now. You didn't think you were going to miss out on the Great Shave did you?"

Jonathan hesitated, one voice belonged to Starling another to Perkins. Neither were known as pederasts. There was more laughter, but it was good natured, not malevolent. Was this just one more ritual to mark the crossing of the line? Jonathan relaxed a little and let himself be led to the hold.

"Who's got the razor?" Starling asked when they finally stopped. From the lack of echoes Jonathan could tell they were in a small space.

"I do," a new voice answered. That was Crawford, so perhaps there was no need to worry. "Set that glim over here."

"Now lads," Starling addressed Jonathan and Flower, "It's called the Great Shave because you'll never have another like it. Drop your trousers and keep real still or you'll loose more than your little curls."  So that was it; a harmless enough prank but still not one to accept without some show of defiance. Jonathan began to struggle again when his trousers were pulled down and he felt cold air on his groin.

"What goes on here?" A new voice intruded and Jonathan caught his breath. Was this one of Macquarie's men come in search of sodomites? If so, then they were about to arrest the wrong men. Jonathan tried to spit out his gag.

But something else was wrong. Starling and Perkins and Crawford had all gone strangely silent. One set of hands fumbled with Jonathan's blindfold but a second voice interrupted.

"Leave 'em where they are, just like that. We'll take care of 'em now, so clear off." Jonathan began to move only to be grabbed and pushed to the deck. Someone placed a foot on his chest. "Don't move," a voice growled at him. Crabtree.

There were quick movements, the sound of feet retreating, men disappearing. One lingered.

"Get out of here now if you don't want to join them, Crawford." Someone threatened. "And leave the razor."

"I'm sorry Riley, Flower," Crawford said before the sound of his retreating feet signalled abandonment.



"Take off their blindfolds." 

Jonathan blinked in the candle light, taking in the faces around him. Finch and Longfellow, two of the bosun's mates. Tibbits the quartermaster's mate; Harper, Bell's own coxswain; Crabtree, Jackson, Browne, Smith, Larson, and several more who lurked in the shadows. Finch grinned, "Yes, we want you to see us this time, we want you to watch what we are going to do, and when we are finished you can scream all you like to the Captain because no one will back you up and you will have no evidence to show him."

Jonathan struggled and fought, but the hands holding him were too strong. Finch peered down at him, laughing. He turned to Crabtree and handed him the razor. "Here, have some fun and finish shaving him while we see to little Flower."

Jonathan froze as Crabtree squatted beside down. Beady eyes centred on his groin and Crabtree placed the cold blade against Jonathan's penis, flicking it back and forth. "Shit, I reckon Flower's prick is bigger than this," he spat. Jonathan squirmed away and he felt the sharp sting of the razor cut his skin.

"Don't fight them Jonathan. You'll only get hurt." Flower was on his knees, looking towards Jonathan. His gag was gone and Tibbits stood before him, cock in hand, waiting. "It will be all right, they won't take long and then they will let us go."

Let them go...somehow it didn't make sense. Jonathan's mind whirled. God, where was Macquarie? They'd have to catch them in the act, for there would no evidence of penetration. It would come down to their word against ten or more men. MY word, Jonathan corrected, seeing the frightened look in Flower's eyes as he submitted to Tibbits. Jonathan kicked at Crabtree only to feel a hand grab his balls roughly and pull hard. "Move again and I cut 'em off." The razor scrapped along his skin, shearing away hair, coming dangerously close to more tender flesh. "I'll have you Riley, one way or another."

Would they remove his gag and force him to satisfy them too? Or was he to suffer by watching Flower's abuse, helpless to do anything? Crabtree's rough hands pushed his legs apart and Jonathan felt the point of the razor scrap down along his skin.

"No marks, Crabtree," someone warned. Crabtree just laughed and reversed the razor. "Rather have this end Riley?" he asked holding the smooth bone handle up for Jonathan to see.  Jonathan shook his head.


"This is taking too long Finch!" Crabtree declared. "Let me have him now."

"All right, all right..." Finch's attention was all on Flower's mouth.

"Hold him for me." Someone pulled Jonathan to his knees and held his hands behind his back. Crabtree held the razor at his throat. "Open your mouth, now."


Jonathan turned his head away, mouth pursed, teeth held firm. Dear God, where was Macquarie? Surely Finch and Longfellow were not foolish enough to think they could get away with this.

"Open your mouth or I'll cut your throat now and throw you overboard."

Was that what these men planned? To kill them when it was all over and throw their bodies out a gunport? The razor pricked at his throat and Jonathan opened his mouth. But he'd be damned if he would die without putting up some sort of fight.

Crabtree wasted no time. Jonathan's senses were assaulted by a mixture of sour tastes and smells. His stomach heaved but he fought the wave of nausea, held still while Crabtree's cock swelled and hardened in his mouth. Then he bit down with all his might.

Crabtree's scream shattered his ears, the razor dropped. Something struck him hard in the head and Jonathan dropped to the deck.

"Don't anyone move!" Scurrying, men filling the small space, bayonets glistening on the end of muskets, Macquarie's voice. Jonathan squinted as a lantern was thrust in his face. "Are you all right?"

Jonathan nodded, unable to speak for a moment. He could taste blood in his mouth.

"Clap them all in irons. They'll all hang under Article 29."

"You've got no evidence." Finch shouted. "It's not sodomy unless there's penetration."

Suddenly Flower, still on his knees, spat on the floor. "There's your evidence. Have a look at that." The small pool glistened in the lantern-light.

"Sergeant Ferguson, have one of your men stand guard over that if you please. You, corporal, find Mr Dawson and ask him to come here and examine this. Have the rest of these men drop their trousers so that their members may be examined before the evidence is rubbed away."

Macquarie walked over to Flower and helped him up. "Open your mouth lad and let me see." He beckoned for a lantern and examined Flower's mouth and face. "Note this, Sergeant Ferguson, here and here." He pointed to spots on Flowers chin. Finally he turned his attention to Jonathan. "Open your mouth, whose blood is that?"

"Crabtree's"

"Sergeant Ferguson, would you say they are teeth marks on Crabtree's member?"

Ferguson bent low over the now unconscious Crabtree and squinted. "Best have Mr Dawson confirm it Sir, but it sure looks like someone tried to bite it off. I think he's fainted from the pain."

Macquarie spoke to Jonathan. "I'll need a written statement from you and Flower but they can wait until Mr Dawson has seen to your cuts." He indicated Jonathan's throat and groin.


"They're nothing, just a few scrapes."

"Best have them cleaned."

"Do you think there is enough to have them all convicted?" Jonathan asked as he pulled up his trousers. He suddenly felt sick.

"That remains to be seen, but there is certainly enough evidence to convict some of them. You did well."

"Thank you Sir." His stomach heaved and Jonathan knew he was going to be sick. "May I be excused?" He didn't wait for Macquarie's leave.



Part 32


"You have to let me go along too, Robert. You MUST!"

Robert Bell pursed his lips and frowned. "No Kitten, you are staying right here. I can't afford to have you interfere with Mr Macquarie's operation. And you WOULD interfere, I know you."

Peter Crittenden paced the room in frustration, wondering what tactic to try next. Begging hadn't worked, neither had demanding. Perhaps he should try practicality. "I just want to help, that's all. I am sure they could use an extra pair of hands."

Bell was wise to his ploy. "You may see Riley afterwards, if it's that important to you. It won't be long now."

Peter's temper gave way in one brilliant fiery explosion. "Afterwards! AFTERWARDS!" he shouted, his voice rising with his growing anxiety. "So that I can hold his hand, and ease his hurts and say I am sorry? Dear God, Robert, they might kill him!"

"Will you keep your voice down!" Bell's own fierce temper joined the fray.

"WHY? NO one is out there," Peter waved a frantic hand towards the gunroom. "Ferguson is with Macquarie and Dawson is probably waiting in the infirmary for his chance to look at their arses!"

"Enough of this." Bell strode across the room and grabbed Peter by the arms, pinning them to his side. "They will hear you on the quarterdeck."

"Good, let them! If that's what it takes then I will scream so loudly that..."

Bell's big hand flashed out, delivering a backhanded blow. Peter's nose dissolved in pain, blood spraying everywhere. In the stunned silence that followed both men stared at each other.

"You hit me..." Peter gasped in disbelief as blood flowed from his nose. "You hit me," he said again, one hand coming up to wipe at the sticky gore that was dripping from his chin onto his white lace shirt.

"Oh God. Peter, I am sorry. I didn't mean to..." Bell reached for a napkin, still lying on the table. "Here, use this."

Peter blinked, too shocked for a moment to comprehend the words. His face throbbed. It must be serious for Robert to use his name; Robert seldom called him Peter. He made no move to take the napkin and Bell commenced to wipe at his face.

"Oh Peter...Peter, why do you do this?" Bell was patting away, his big hands shaking. His voice sounded unsteady. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to...but you...provoked me...it's your fault. If you would only learn to LISTEN!"

"My fault?" Peter raised a trembling hand and took the napkin from Bell. He looked at Bell, white faced and guilty; looked at the napkin, soaked in blood. He whispered again, "My fault?"

Bell looked away. "Perhaps I should send for Reggie. I think your nose is broken."




Part 33

"And you should have heard Crabtree screaming and seen his prick all mangled and bloody," Ben Flower said to Surgeons Mate Pike with a grin. "Lord it was worth it all to hear that!"

"Well I only did the obvious, Ben," Jonathan replied, smiling. "Your actions were rather...original too. I think Mr Macquarie was rather impressed that you had enough... presence of mind to save the...evidence like that."

Flower laughed. "I just can't stand to swallow the stuff, that's all."

Surgeons mate Joseph Pike halted in his ministrations to look sideways at his charge, Jonathan Riley.

"It's all bloody well to laugh about it now, but next time you might not be so lucky!" Pike shot a scowl at Flower. "Either of you!" He finished bathing the cuts on Jonathan's throat and gestured towards his trousers. "Drop 'em and let me see what damage they did."

"It's nothing, just a few nicks, that's all," Jonathan protested.


"I was told to clean yer cuts and that's what I'll fuckin' well do. That's unless yer'd rather have Dawson himself look at yer prick. He'd like that, he would! I can send for him. He's with the captain."

Jonathan shook his head and dropped his trousers. He'd caught Dawson's eyes on him one too many times to ever feel comfortable with the man. It was a look that Jonathan knew well. It reminded him of Eversleigh and Cavanagh.

"Here." Pike handed Jonathan the sponge and basin. "Just wash it over with salt water. Yer can do that yourself, I'm sure. Can't do nothing for the hair, though. You'll have to wait for it to grow back."

"Yes, thank you, Mr Pike." Jonathan paused. "Could I ask you one more thing?"

Pike raised one eyebrow and Jonathan continued. "Well, I was just wondering if Crabtree or," he looked across at Flower, "Finch or Tibbits had the pox and if so could Ben and I catch it. In our mouths?"

Pike's look softened. "Crabtree didn't have it. He never had much to do with women. As for the others, they were treated for it after Teneriffe, but only the once." Pike bent closer, his voice low. "I'll make sure to find out if they are clean now though. Don't you worry about it."

"Thank you, Mr Pike."

Pike bobbed his head and nodded towards the Captain's clerk who was waiting in the doorway. "Wiles is here to take Flower's statement seeing as how the lad can't write. Captain left orders for you to go on up to the wardroom and write yours out yourself when you are finished." Pike glanced once more at the cuts and scrapes on Jonathan's groin. "I'll leave you to it, but make sure you bloody well do it right or I'll come back and do it meself!"

Jonathan dipped the cloth in the basin and swirled it around. He'd been lucky to escape with so little damage. The whole incident seemed strangely unreal as if everything had happened to someone else. Even the memory of Crabtree's cock in his mouth seemed like a faded nightmare. Perhaps it would hit him later.

"Jonathan?" At the door stood Ned Grayson, pale faced, wide eyed. "May I speak with you?"

"Yes," Jonathan put the basin down and quickly pulled up his trousers. Ned Grayson was the last person Jonathan wanted to see. Briefly he wondered why Peter had not paid one of his famous infirmary visits. Peter always managed to cheer him up and his presence gave a sense of comfort. But Ned? Jonathan sighed. Ned was more likely to be in need of comfort himself.
 
"I heard...what...happened...to you." Ned began, his voice wobbling. "And I just wanted to say...that...I understand...and that it will...get better...in time...you see." Ned hesitated, his breathing was coming in shallow gasps, the fingers of one hand plucked at the seam on his coat. He looked faint. "Jonathan, you have always been a good friend to me...and if there is anything I can do..."

This was unexpected. Jonathan reached out and caught the long fingers. "Thank you Ned." He squeezed them tight and was rewarded by a small smile. Poor Ned; Jonathan wondered just what version of events had begun circulating through the ship to make Ned overcome his own fears and drive him down here on his mission of mercy. Jonathan was quietly impressed.  He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, not wanting to shatter Ned's new found courage. "It was rather minor really, frightening, but over quickly." Ned nodded but his eyes showed disbelief. And from the other side of the room Flower began his statement for the clerk.

Jonathan continued quickly, "Ned, I appreciate you coming down here, I truly do, but you had best leave now." It might be best not to expose Ned to too much at this fragile stage.

But Ned cast a glance towards Flower and the clerk and shook his head. He sat down. "It's all right Jonathan. I'm not afraid. I'll stay with you a while."

Jonathan nodded and smiled in thanks. Perhaps it would be better for Ned to hear the true details, rather than exaggerated rumours. His company would be good to, Jonathan suddenly realised as the memories came flooding back on the tide of Flower's soft voice.

Later, Ned walked with Jonathan most of the way to the gunroom, a quite comfortable presence at his side. They had spoken little while Jonathan had bathed his wounds to the accompaniment of Flower's narration. Word's were unnecessary for Ned's company was proof enough of his acceptance. To Jonathan it seemed unfair to trade on Ned's compassion when the incident had hardly been traumatic. But in Ned's eyes it was as he related it to his own ordeal. For that reason alone Ned's actions should be encouraged, for by offering comfort to Jonathan, Ned was healing himself.

They parted at the doorway to the gunroom. "Jonathan if you need to ...talk or anything, just ask for me."

Jonathan smiled. "Thank you...Sir," he added for appearances sake before knocking on the door.

Part 34

All he wanted to do was lie down and rest but Macquarie kept drowning on with his report and now Dawson was speaking, saying something about stitches in Crabtree's cock. Peter Crittenden raised his hand to his face, finding the movement difficult. It was the laudanum of course; the laudanum that made every movement seem so hard and the pain in his face seem a hundred leagues away.

"Sir, I would like to make one further recommendation concerning Riley." Macquarie added.

Peter sat up and tried concentrate.

"In light of his courage and actions in this matter I wondered if you could not find room to put him on the books as Midshipman?"

From behind his desk Bell cleared his throat. "Yes, I was thinking the very same thing Mr Macquarie. A young man of Riley's character is being squandered below decks. Enter him onto the books as of this date. You may tell him the good news."

"Thank you Sir, I'll see to it."

"Good, good." Bell looked around the cabin before folding his arms on the desk in front of him. "I think that is all then, Gentlemen. Good evening."

Macquarie and Dawson departed, leaving Peter alone with Bell once again. He'd been there for what seemed like hours. It was a time he would rather forget; a time of pain and pleasure, of brandy and blood and shouting and sex. By the time Dawson arrived after inspecting the sodomites and their victims, Peter's nose had swelled terribly and he had required a dose of laudanum before the surgeon could straighten it. And all that time he had fretted over what was happening to Jonathan. It was only after hearing Macquarie's report confirming that Jonathan was unharmed that Peter had finally given in and let the laudanum and brandy take hold of his slowly diminishing senses. Now he hovered on the verge of consciousness, waiting for oblivion to carry him away.

"So are you happy now?" Bell voiced roused him. Peter raised his heavy head and blinked trying to concentrate. "Are you happy that I made Riley Midshipman again?"

"Yes," Peter replied, his voice sounding slurred even to his own ears.

"I did it for you, you know." Bell did not sound happy. "For no reason other than I knew it would please you. I feel bad about what happened, you see. All of it, not just the fight, but what happened afterwards."

Peter hesitated. "Thank you." He really didn't know what Bell expected him to say. And he was too tired to play games.

Bell grunted and turned away. "Go to bed. I'll see that someone covers your next watch."

Slowly Peter climbed to his feet and navigated his way to the door. He paused there, wondering which bed Robert had meant; Peter's or Bell's own. But Bell's back was turned while the Captain poured yet another glass of brandy, a clear indication that he was dismissed.

A lantern was burning in the wardroom, and there, seated at the table was a pale red headed angel that looked like Jonathan Riley. Peter smiled at the apparition hoping it might open those strong arms and carry him away to his cot, but the angel frowned, its beautiful blue eyes going wide in shock.

"What happened...Sir?"

Macquarie's voice shattered the dream and brought Peter plummeting back to earth. "It would seem Mr Crittenden had an accident, Riley. One too many brandies coupled with high heels is a dangerous combination." Macquarie explained. The look he threw Peter was one of disgust. "Isn't that right Mr Crittenden?"

"Yes," Peter replied, grabbing onto the back of a chair to hold himself upright. His vision was swimming at an alarming rate.

Macquarie picked up his coat and headed for the door. "Don't forget I want to see you in the morning Riley," he muttered as he left the room.

Jonathan was on his feet, pulling out a chair. "Sit down before you fall over, Peter." Peter sat down with a thump. "What happened to you?"

"Jonathan, are you all right?" Peter slurred in reply.

"Am I all right?" Jonathan's voice rose to a squeak. "Peter I am fine, but you...you look...Are you drunk?"

Peter tried to shake his head, but it only served to make the cabin spin more. "No, I don't think so, at least...I drank some afterwards and had some laudanum.  My nose was broken, you see."

"This has nothing to do with brandy, does it? You didn't fall, did you?" The stern sound of Jonathan's voice helped to clear Peter's thoughts.

"It was accident, just an accident. I was worried about you, but I couldn't get to you."

Jonathan dropped his voice. "Peter, did Bell do this to you?"

"It was my fault Jonathan."

Jonathan snorted. "You're a fool if you believe that and an even bigger fool if you let him treat you this way."

Peter tried to smile. "Come now, you can think of better names to call me."

Jonathan turned away but not before Peter saw the flare of anger in his blue eyes. Peter put his head in his hands. Drowsiness was overtaking him again. "You don't understand, Jonathan. It was an accident. Robert didn't mean to hurt me. He didn't."

"Listen Peter, listen to me." Jonathan's hand was pulling at his arm. "I risked my life and Flower's life tonight to help Macquarie stop those bastards who thought they were above the law. Is Bell really any different from them? Did he fuck you afterwards?"

It was Peter's turn to look away. He tried to stand but the wardroom swayed around him. It was only Jonathan's strong arm that stopped him from falling.

"You should be in bed."

Peter laughed, a high strangled little sound. "Yes, that's what Robert said."

"I'll help you." Peter leaned against the strong shoulder as Jonathan pulled back the partition to his small cabin. Carefully he eased Peter into his cot. Warm hands began to loosen his clothing.

Peter gripped one wrist. "No! Just leave them, I'll sleep like this."

The blue eyes narrowed, blinked. "What did he do to you?" Peter looked away, not wanting to see the accusation there.

"Nothing, I swear to God, nothing. I just want to go to sleep."

A blanket was pulled up and gently tucked in around him. "Thank you Jonathan," Peter whispered as he sunk into the warmth. Sleep beckoned but something nagged at his mind. "Take your coat with you."

"What coat Peter? I don't have a coat."

"Your blue coat," Jonathan would need it again now. "Your midshipman's coat."

"What? You are not making any sense, Peter. It's the laudanum."

"Didn't Macquarie tell you?" Peter opened his eyes and tried to sit up.

Jonathan hovered above him, his suntanned face concerned. There was no trace of childhood left there now, the last remnants had been swept away by the sea and the salt and wind and time. It was a young man who looked down at Peter; waiting, worried.  Jonathan's face was hardened, toughened, but to Peter's eyes, still very beautiful. The angry scar along his cheekbone only highlighted the planes and angles of his face. The broad shoulders had felt so good to lean against, the strong arms, the solid chest. One hand, calloused yet surprising gentle pushed some stray hair from Peter's face.

"Peter? Are you all right?"

Peter blinked, taking in the transformation, feeling the world reel on its axis, as their roles reversed and time came full circle.

"Jonathan, Captain Bell has made you midshipman, again. Hasn't Macquarie told you yet?"

The startled blue eyes blinked. "No, he said he wanted to speak to me first thing in the morning." Jonathan's face lit up in a smile. "Is it true? Are you sure?" His joy was unmistakable.

"Yes," Peter murmured, content to bask in the warmth of Jonathan's happiness.

"Oh Peter." Jonathan shook his head, laughing. "But why? Why now?"

Peter's heart sank. He hated lying Jonathan, but what good would the real truth serve? For despite what Bell had told Macquarie, Peter knew the Captain's generosity had only one real reason; to make amends to Peter for his actions.

"Both the Captain and Mr Macquarie were impressed by your courage tonight Jonathan. They can see that you are wasted below decks."

Jonathan closed his eyes and smiled. "This is almost too good to be true," he whispered.

"Congratulations Jonathan. You deserve it."

Suddenly Jonathan bent over and kissed Peter on the forehead. "Will you be all right now?" he asked.

Peter's heart began to flutter. "Yes," he whispered as Jonathan stood up. Perhaps things were about to change between Jonathan and himself. Perhaps after all that they had been through, they had finally found common ground.

"Good, I'll go then," Jonathan pulled back the partition and grinned. "I can't wait to tell Ned," he added. "He will be so pleased."




Part 35

"So how big is Crabtree's cock and where did he stick it?"

Nathaniel Hislop looked up from the letter he was writing to Angelique and blinked. Rumours had been rife all over the ship since Riley first appeared in his ill fitting Midshipman's uniform, the day after they crossed the line. The rumours told of heroics below decks and there were ten men in irons awaiting trial to prove the stories true. But as to the details of what happened, well they ranged from the gory to the lurid with each detail becoming more and more outrageous. Riley had said nothing, merely moved his sea chest into the cockpit and set about letting down the sleeves on his blue jacket. Golding had been bidding his time and what was about to happen might just prove interesting. Nathaniel put down his pen and waited.

William Golding, always eager for an audience, smiled at Nathaniel, snickered and continued. "It's all over the ship, Riley; just how the captain used you as bait. No wonder he had to make you a mid again. Is your arse still sore?"

Jonathan Riley, seated at the mess table with his sewing kit spread before him continued his slow even stitching giving no indication that he had heard Golding's words.

"So what did they do? Did they bugger you? Did it hurt? Why'd you go along with it? Like it do you? Like pricks? Big dirty pricks?"

In the silence that followed, the snap of cotton as Riley tided off his thread was clearly audible. Nathaniel held his breath as his new berth mate rose from the table and pulled on his newly altered midshipman's coat. The sleeve length was better now, but the coat still strained across his shoulders. Riley had grown in their time at sea.

Nathaniel shot a look of warning at Golding who was still sneering and snickering and throwing taunts.

"How many of them were there? Did they all bugger you?"

When would Golding learn? He'd clearly underestimated his opponent this time. Riley was not a snivelling frightened boy like Grayson. He'd hardly start crying or shaking in the corner. No, more than likely he'd break Golding's foolish head.

With deliberate movements Riley packed away his sewing kit and opened his sea chest that had been serving as his seat. "What about you, Golding," Riley said, looking over the lid. "Do you like cocks?"

"ME?" Golding squeaked, clearly taken back by the question?

"Yes you! You seem uncommonly interested in the details. Do you want to know what happened? Do you want me to show you?"

Before Golding could reply, Riley straightened. In his hand he held a shaving razor, small and a little rusty. It caught the light of the lantern and twinkled wickedly. Golding blinked and back away, but Riley was too fast. "They held a razor to my throat, Golding." His actions mirrored the words. "They made me kneel in front of them," Riley continued, pushing the stunned Golding to the deck. "Like that. And they told me to drop my trousers."

In the silence that followed, Golding started weeping. Gone was the strutting bravados, the cruel mockery. All that was left was a frightened little boy. "Nathaniel," Golding cried out. "Don't let him do it. Please!"

Nathaniel opened his mouth to protest, but Riley spoke first.

"Scared are you, Golding? I thought you wanted to know what they did? Don't you want to see how they shaved my groin with their razor, how they cut me every time I protested?"

All Golding could do was blink his teary eyes in reply, too afraid to move with the razor still resting against his throat.

"And when they had finished, they pulled down their own trousers and made me open my mouth, just...like...this..." Riley's spare hand went to the buttons on his breeches and Golding dissolved in a puddle of terror.

"Nooooooo," he wailed. "I'll tell the Captain, I'll tell Mr Macquarie, I'll tell my father!"

Riley started laughing, slowly at first, small escaping hiccups that put an end to his charade. They grew until he could hold back his mirth no longer and had to put the razor down to wipe at his eyes. As the tension evaporated Nathaniel found himself joining in too.

"Get up you little toad!" Riley said when he finally caught his breath. "Next time don't ask a question unless you really want the answer!"

Golding scrambled to his feet and made for the door. "You'll be sorry, you bastard!" he snivelled. "Bastards!" he added with emphasis as he glared at Nathaniel.

In the aftermath of their laughter, Nathaniel spoke up. "I know Golding is a little turd at times, but you wouldn't have really...done that to him, would you?"

Riley looked shocked by the question. "No! But I wanted to teach him a lesson. He has no idea what he is talking about, no idea of the pain and hurt he could cause by saying such things."

"No, I guess he doesn't. Neither of us do."

Riley nodded. "Look, I did what I had to do to spare some of the ship's boys from suffering at the hands of those bastards. They left me alone because of who I was, but the others had no one to stick up for them. Captain Bell and Mr Macquarie needed evidence if they wanted to convict those responsible, do you understand?"

Nathaniel nodded although he didn't really understand at all. How could Riley sit there so calmly and talk about such a thing?

"I did it because there was no one else." Riley exclaimed, smoothing back his unruly curls and wiping at his eyes again. "I didn't enjoy it and I would rather not be reminded of it daily."

"No, of course not...I"

"And most importantly," Riley continued, "Ned doesn't need reminding of it either. Hopefully my little display has put an end to Golding's curiosity."

But not to his animosity, Nathaniel mused. That much was certain.



Part 36

Everything had to be altered; everything from his shoes to his place in the hierarchy of the authority. Despite longing for this moment, Jonathan found his return to the rank of midshipman beset with difficulty. For one thing, his clothes no longer fit as they should and it was no easy task to become accustomed to wearing shoes with such foolish heels again. Jonathan found himself longing for the freedom of bare feet. There were loose ends leftover from his days as a rating too; relationships that had to be ended and remade. His friendship with Ben Flower was just one.

Although Flower was genuinely pleased at Jonathan's good fortune, there was no denying the sorrow in the young man's eyes when faced with what the change would mean.

Jonathan didn't want to hurt Flower, but the familiarity they had shared would have to end. Not just their physical relationship, but their friendship as well. He explained all this to Flower at the first opportunity, making sure the younger man understood.

"You may always come to me if you have a problem or if you are in trouble Flower, but we can not continue with our...friendship as such. It would be unseemly. I will however continue to look out for you as we have been through so much together," Jonathan paused, trying to soften the blow with a smile. "I hope you understand my position Flower?

"I understand...Sir," Flower replied, slipping back into his accustomed role with no apparent difficulty. His looked away but not before Jonathan had caught the glimmer of tears in Flower's eyes.

Later Jonathan sought out Flemming and asked him to keep an eye on Flower. There might be ten men in irons awaiting trial, but that did not mean there were not others ready to step into their shoes. Flemming consented, but Jonathan still felt a nagging guilt.

"I suppose I could always ask Mr Macquarie if I could have Flower as our cabin servant in the cockpit," Jonathan mused as he stood with Flemming on the main deck.

The old rating frowned and shook his head. "You wouldn't be doing him any favours, Sir. Ben's good at his job, he�ll make a fine seaman. Don't spoil his chances just because you have a guilty conscience...Sir." Jonathan started at the weathered seaman, amazed that he had read his heart so easily. "Ben'll be fine and you have nothing to worry about. Yer did us all a service by ridding us of those bastards and it won't be forgotten, I can tell you!"

Jonathan wished it COULD be forgotten, or at least that HE could forget it. The trial was still to come and he was not looking forward to relating the whole incident in front of a panel of Captains when they reached St Helena.

So he tried to put the incident behind him as there was no use worrying. Besides, he had plenty other things to occupy his mind. He wanted to speak with Peter Crittenden about the incident that resulted in Peter's broken nose but did not know how to begin or even what to say. To make it harder, Peter seemed to be avoiding him. When they were together, Peter was uncommonly subdued, showing none of the flippant gestures or flirty behaviour that usually accompanied any conversation. It was so unlike Peter that Jonathan began to wonder if something was seriously wrong with his friend. But what to do? Dawson, the surgeon would be useless to go to for advice and if he spoke to Macquarie he'd be damning both Bell and Peter. Yet who else would hold enough authority to intervene if Peter was somehow caught in a situation not to his liking? 

It was these thoughts that ran through Jonathan's mind as he waited with his fellow midshipmen in Bell's cabin while the captain checked their calculations and journals. Jonathan watched Bell, noting the big hands, the strength in his forearms and shoulders that not even the elaborate blue coat could disguise. He stood at least a foot taller than Peter and would be close to double his weight. Jonathan bit his lip as his anger simmered. Peter would not stand a chance against a man that size, regardless of whether their fight was playful or serious. And how could Bell use his superior strength against someone who was obviously no match for him? How could he be so careless when it came to Peter's well being?

"Mr Hislop, you seem to have us somewhere near Italy!" Bell said as he handed back the journals. "And you, Mr Golding, must rewrite the last three pages. I can not read them for the jam stains that cover the paper. You will have rats eating your journal!"  Bell rose from his chair and stared at the midshipmen for a moment before shaking his head in disgust. "Dismissed. Mr Riley, please wait behind."

What now? What could Bell possibly want him for? Jonathan ground his teeth, clenched his fists at his side and tried to swallow his anger.



Part 37

Robert Bell studied the red headed young man before him whilst he waited for the other midshipmen to leave. There was something about Jonathan Riley that demanded attention. Perhaps it was his appearance. The pale red hair was striking enough to catch anyone's eye and those frank blue eyes would certainly hold your interest. The scar across his cheekbone had put an end to whatever prettiness he may have once had but his beauty was undeniable, if now a little too rugged for Bell's tastes. He had a fine physique too, something Bell had not failed to notice during the long hot days while Riley toiled bare-chested on deck or swam naked. But there was more to Jonathan Riley than just his physical appearance. There was something about the young man that refused to be ignored. Something that made a man want to know more. Like now as Riley met his eyes and stared back almost defiantly; almost but not quite. The boy was no fool, despite what Peter thought about his bravery.

Peter...Bell resisted the urge to sigh. It was for Peter's sake that he was conducting this interview; making sure Riley had settled back in to the cockpit with no problems. For Peter; in an attempt to appease whatever troubled him. Since their strange fight several days ago things had been strained between them. Bell had apologised again and again for he knew he was in the wrong. He should never have raised his fist in anger, never have struck out in fury, yet it was not his own actions that worried him the most. It was what had taken place afterwards that haunted him now. And THAT was Peter Crittenden's fault entirely. Admittedly he'd gone along with it, let himself be seduced while they were both reeling from the shock and the violence and the blood. Let himself be carried away on the rush of aggression and arousal even while some small sane part of his mind cried out in protest.

And afterwards when the heat and the shock had worn off, he had looked at Peter, at his bloodied and bruised face, and asked 'why'. The smug smile, the casual shrug of the narrow shoulders had disturbed Bell more than all the blood that covered them both. For the first time Bell was truly afraid of the power that Peter held over him and what that power had led him to do.

Instinct told Bell that in some way Peter's relationship with Jonathan Riley was tied up in his total lack of regard for his wellbeing. Did Peter hold some sort of masochistic wish to harm himself because he could not have Riley as a lover? Or was it more simple? Had the loss of Riley's friendship simply robbed Peter of his own common sense? Whatever the reason, it was a hard admission to make, for if it were true then it left Bell in no doubt as to where he himself stood in Peter's affections. Bell was a realist. He'd never dreamed there was anything more to their relationship than the purely physical, but lately he had begun to wonder if there might be a chance of something more lasting. Of all the lovers who had graced his bed, Peter was unique, and Bell knew the value of what he held so fragilely in his hand. He had come to feel far more than he ever intended for his wayward young lieutenant and it was that emotion that now spurred him to try and set things to rights with Jonathan Riley.

"So Mr Riley, have you settled back into the cockpit?"

"Yes thank you, Sir." Riley's lips were pressed in a tight line. He did not look comfortable.

"And your new division? Are they giving you the respect that you deserve?" That would be the hardest thing for Riley, to command men who had once outranked him.

"Yes Sir," Riley replied again. Bell took a small breath and let it out. This was harder than it had seemed. He tried a different tack.

"I want you to know that if you have any...reservations...about the upcoming trial and your testimony, then let me reassure you that the matter will be kept quite. Your name...and your reputation, will not be jeopardised in any way. I'll make sure of it."

Riley's blue eyes narrowed slightly. "Like you do with your own reputation, Sir?"

"What?" Bell stuttered. Had he misheard?

"You think you are above recrimination, don't you." Riley's voice was low and deadly. "You think you don't have to answer to anyone for your actions! DO YOU!"

"Why how dare you..."

"How dare I?" Riley cut in, sharp as a knife. "How dare YOU treat Peter that way! If you ever so much as lay a hand on him again I will make sure you answer for it. You won't get away with it again!"

Bell was speechless. And yet Riley's audacity, his courage in speaking up for Peter, demanded respect.

"Do you know what you risk by speaking to me this way?" Bell asked. "I could have you turned before the mast or put ashore at the next port!"

Riley nodded, his eyes hard. "Yes, I know exactly what I risk. But Peter is my friend and I won't see him treated this way."

Bell turned away and looked out the casement windows at the sparkling waves. Never in his life had he expected to hear a midshipman speak to him so. Then again, he had never expected there to be cause and from Riley's point of view there certainly was that. How had things become so complicated?

Bell turned back to face his accuser. "I would suggest to you Mr Riley, that you do not know the full story. If you did you would not be so forthcoming with your accusations." Riley made to interrupt but Bell raised a hand. "Let me finish. The wellbeing of my Officer's and Crew has always been a priority with me and will continue to be so. The incident involving Mr Crittenden was an unfortunate and regrettable accident, one that will not happen again, I assure you. Mr Crittenden is a dear friend of mine and I too am concerned for him. However I do not think that accusations of this kind are going to help him in any way. Do you?"

Riley blinked. The colour was slowly draining from his face as if he had suddenly realised the consequences of his headstrong actions. Perhaps Peter was right - Riley WAS prone to foolish behaviour. Someone was going to have to teach the boy a little caution.

"Now I am willing to overlook this..." Bell waved his hand around searching for the right word, "overreaction... because of what you have just been through. It is understandable in these circumstances and after what you have just experienced, that you might be suspecting ...abuse... everywhere you turn. However I will not be lenient if this should ever happen again. Do I make myself clear?"

Riley licked his lips nervously. "Yes Sir." Bell let him stew a little longer.

"Good, then I suggest we do not speak of this again, to anyone." He'd certainly not be mentioning it to Peter, but would Riley be as circumspect? "You are dismissed."

Riley beat a hasty retreat and Bell was left to ponder the exchange. No wonder Peter was attracted to Riley, he certainly had an assertiveness about him, an edge of aggression that would draw Peter like a moth to a flame. Would he be as fiery in bed? Bell sat down in his chair and let his imagination wander, conjuring up images and fantasies based upon seducing Jonathan Riley; dangerous and exciting no doubt, but too much of a struggle. It was doubtful Riley would accept bottom billing for long and Bell wasn't about to relinquish control to any man.

And besides, Peter would never forgive him.


Part 38


Jonathan was right, Peter Crittenden chided himself, he was a fool; not for the reasons that Jonathan meant, not because he had let Robert beat him. No, he was a fool because he had left Robert no option. He had acted recklessly, screaming and shouting like some hysterical shrew and he had paid the price. He was doubly a fool because he had let his attraction to Jonathan deprive him of all common sense, causing him to risk not only his own life but Robert's as well. He was lucky to get off with just a broken nose.

Well he wouldn't be a fool twice, at least not for the same man. It was over with Robert, this time permanently. He just had to find the courage to tell him so. Then all he would have to do was tame his traitorous heart and give up this pathetic longing for Jonathan Riley.

Peter raised his chin and surveyed the main deck below him. They were anchored in St James Bay and the crew were at the bulwarks eagerly awaiting the arrival of the women. After the last debacle, Captain Bell had refused to allow any women on board until all work was completed. The crew took the announcement in their stride and had worked diligently the previous day and most of this morning loading fresh water and supplies whilst no doubt dreaming of what awaited them. Now a steady stream of bumboats was making its way towards the fleet, waiting the signal to approach and board. 

Peter pulled out a lace handkerchief and gingerly dabbed at a bead of sweat running down his nose. His face was still a rainbow of bruises, but at least Dawson had set his nose straight. Hopefully there would not be too much of a bump once the swelling went down. He wiped the sweat from his brow before secreting the handkerchief away in his coat. It was hot and Peter knew it was likely stay that way as they sailed southward into the oncoming summer of the southern hemisphere. By the time they reached Cape Town and were ready to sail north again the weather would be changing and once again they would follow the sun, an endless summer voyage that should have held such possibilities. Instead, here he stood at a cross roads, for once unsure of what to do and it was all Jonathan Riley's fault.

The culprit was oblivious to Peter's stares as he cavorted in the crystal clear water with Hislop and Golding, several of the ship's boys and few younger crewmen who found the lure of a cold swim more appealing than the approaching women. Peter watched them play, watched the way the others looked to Jonathan as a natural leader. Did Jonathan have any idea of the following he attracted? Did he not see that the men would willingly rally to him should the need arise?

Peter shook his head and turned away from the image of suntanned limbs and naked flesh. After today there would be one less blind fool tagging after Jonathan. It was over, this love-sick behaviour that had robbed him of all reason. Jonathan would never be his. And if in some drunken or desperate moment they did somehow find themselves in each others arms, then Peter would look no further than a night of sex and bitter practicality in the morning.


A shriek and a splash drew Peter's attention back in time to witness another miracle. Ned Grayson, clad like the others in only his under drawers, was being pulled atop the water by Jonathan. What was the boy doing, jumping in like that? It was obvious from the way that Grayson spluttered and floundered that he could not swim. Yet he was laughing like the rest of them as Jonathan held him afloat in his arms.

"Nice view?" Captain Bell's voice startled Peter and he cursed his own inattentiveness. He had not even heard the Captain come on deck. Peter sniffed and turned away.

"Not really, I was merely waiting to see which one would drown first. Aren't there supposed to be sharks here?"

Bell ignored the remark. "Listen Puss, Macquarie is going ashore for the night so why don't you come down and have a brandy with me later. There is something I need to speak to you about."

Another apology? Peter rolled his eyes. Since the fight, Bell had gone out of his way to reassure Peter he would never strike him again. But forgiveness did not come easy. Oh, not that Peter had trouble forgiving Bell his momentary loss of control, he'd pushed Bell close to that edge enough in the past to know it was only a matter of time before that hard won control snapped. No, it was his own irrational behaviour that Peter could not condone, his actions afterwards. He'd seduced Robert, ensnaring him in a rough and bloody frenzy that had put them both in danger. What would have happened had they been discovered? Bell the obvious aggressor; himself, the beaten and bloodied and buggered victim. Oh the irony of it; that Macquarie was below hunting sodomites whilst the captain debauched his junior lieutenant in the great cabin!

And afterwards Robert had asked him why. Why...The word still echoed in Peter's head. And the answer? Was it to get the upper hand again; to show Bell who REALLY held control of in their relationship? Or was there a darker reason, one that Peter was loathe to admit even to himself; that violence, real violence was like an aphrodisiac to him even if it left him full of self disgust afterwards.

"Kitten, Puss, we need to talk about what happened."

Peter sighed, how could he explain these things to Robert when he didn't understand them himself? "Robert, I don't think it would be wise for me to be alone with you at this time. We took a grave risk and we need to let things settle a little longer."

"Puss, please, I am worried about you."

It hurt to hear Robert so near to begging. Peter sighed and turned to face the big man beside him. He saw the pain in Bell's eyes and the shadows beneath that spoke of sleeplessness, the lines on his face that echoed worry and concern. Suddenly he rued the hasty declarations of love he had made in Teneriffe. He had never intended to hurt this man.

"All right, I'll come." Peter conceded, watching Bell's face light up. How was he ever going to tell him that this had to end?

Peter turned away and looked back at the red headed figure playing like a merman in the water, the perfect picture of male beauty. Something else stabbed at Peter's heart. All the time in the world would not cure him of Jonathan Riley.

Part 39

"Gentlemen, a word if you please." Lieutenant Macquarie said as he approached the group of young midshipmen drying themselves in the sun. Ben Flower and several other youngsters heeded the note of dismissal in Macquarie's voice and scampered away, leaving the First Lieutenant alone with the Midshipmen.

Jonathan spun to attention, grateful for Macquarie's timely intervention. He'd been conscious of Ned's eyes on him and their near nakedness since the younger midshipman had thrown himself heedlessly into the water. He'd had no option but to show Ned how to stay afloat and had been fighting the effects of their intimate contact ever since. Ned had seemed unworried by their close proximity as they played in the waves, but after a while the casual touches of arms and legs as they trod water had become something of a trial for Jonathan. Now, he hastily pulled on his shirt over his still wet shoulders and waited for what Macquarie had to say.

Macquarie smiled, taking in each of the four midshipmen. "I have just come from speaking with Captain Bell and he wishes me to inform you that you are all to be granted time ashore tomorrow." He looked at Jonathan, adding "After the trial."

Hislop and Golding looked at each other and grinned. Ned Grayson stared at the deck. Jonathan answered for them all. "Thank you Sir."

"You will also be issued a portion of your allowance." Macquarie continued. He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. "I would caution you to use it wisely. The pox is rife amongst the whores here and I am sure none of you want a repeat of what happened in Teneriffe!"

It was Golding's and Hislop's turn to look down. They shuffled uncomfortably. Jonathan hid his smile. By all accounts he was lucky not to have succumbed to the malady that had afflicted most of the crew. The two younger midshipmen had not been so fortunate.

"I know an establishment in St James town that is reputable. It will cost you a little more, but the women are clean. The ladies there usually cater to Officers and Gentlemen only but I will write you a letter of introduction. I know the proprietress quite well."

"Thank you Sir, that's very...kind," Jonathan stuttered. Dear God, was it always to be assumed that all that midshipmen wanted to do was find a woman when in port?

"Do they serve food there too?" Golding asked eagerly. Well, women and food, Jonathan amended.

"No Mr Golding, but if that is what your appetite demands then there are a number of eating establishments close by." Macquarie straightened. "Now I suggest you all visit Mr Dawson one last time to be certain that you are...clean. I wouldn't want my reputation tarnished because I sent along a young Gentleman who was...sullied. Good day Gentlemen."

When Macquarie was out of earshot Golding spoke up. "Bloody Hell, not Dawson again. I hate the way he rubs his hands together every time he tells me to drop my breeches!" he wailed.

"He doesn't do that when he treats me!" Hislop replied.

"Go down together if you are concerned." Jonathan advised. He looked at Ned who had wandered over to the bulwark and was staring towards land. "I don't know about tomorrow though. I might pass...I am not sure Ned will be...keen."

Nathaniel leaned closer. "It'll be the best thing for him." His voice was pitched low. "Take his mind of everything." Jonathan looked at the younger man beside him. Hislop smiled and nodded.

Jonathan wanted to believe him. "I'll have a word with him first, just to make sure. Ned's still only young. I am not sure if he's ever..."

"He's older than Golding! And it's his birthday next month, he'll be fifteen. Golding read it in his journal."

Jonathan frowned. How quickly this last year had passed. November next month...then December when he had taken Jack Kerrison home with him...

Catching Jonathan's frown, Hislop bent to pull on his breeches and continued. "Oh don't worry though. I boxed his ears when I caught him. He won't do it again."

Jonathan shook himself back to the present. "Well I hope Dawson thinks the little toad needs another shot of mercury! Go on, take him down now."

Hislop and Golding went below and Jonathan joined Ned as he stared towards the waiting town.

"About tomorrow, you don't have to...go...if you don't want to. You and I could just look around the town, or something."

Ned shook his head. "No. It's alright, I have to do this."

"No, you don't..." Jonathan began, but Ned turned, a sad smile on his lips.

"Yes I do," he said softly. "For Charlie's sake."



"Charlie? Charlie Witherspoon?"

Ned nodded. "On that last voyage, before...well... you remember how Pip and Charlie told us over and over again of what they had done in Portsmouth?" Jonathan nodded. Those visions still kept him awake some nights.

"Well I was envious because it sounded like they'd had so much fun together...and so Charlie promised that next time we were in port...that he would take me to a brothel...just he and I." Ned looked away again and was silent for a time. "Do you know I never went to see him after our rescue? I never visited him, not even when we got back to Portsmouth." His voice trembled. "I don't even know if he is still alive."

"Ned," Jonathan laid a hand on Ned's arm. Charlie would not have known who had come to see him as he was heavily dosed with laudanum and Jonathan doubted it would have done Ned any good to see his friend swaddled in bandages, the air full of the smell of burnt and rotting flesh.

"So you see I have to do this for Charlie...and for myself. Especially for myself." Ned turned suddenly, his hand coming up to cover Jonathan's where it lay on his arm. "Will you come with me? Please" The blue eyes were desperate.

Jonathan could only nod and answer, "Yes."

"Thank you." Ned turned and picked up his shoes and stockings. "I won't be afraid if you are with me."

Jonathan watched him go, tall and slim, fair hair shining in the sun. He sighed. This was not a good idea. Although it was unlikely to be a repeat of what had happened with the whore below decks in Teneriffe, Jonathan could not muster much enthusiasm for the exercise. He simply wasn't that interested in women. Was Ned? If he had read the signs correctly today, then Ned was far more interested in him than some doxy. Was this to be Ned's way of trying to exorcise the feelings that he had for Jonathan; feelings that must be both confusing and frightening given what had happened to him in the past.

Is he doing what I tried to do, Jonathan wondered, seeing if women would erase the urges and longings that he feels for a fellow midshipman? It had not worked for Jonathan, would it work for Ned?

In any event it was not wise for Jonathan to go with him, if Ned meant what Jonathan thought he meant. Go in with him, share the whore...he'd heard talk of that before. Jack had even mentioned it. But perhaps that was not Ned's intention at all. Perhaps he just wanted to know that Jonathan was there, somewhere, doing the same thing and that he would be waiting when it was all over?

In either case, Jonathan would require money and therein lay the biggest problem. Jonathan had no allowance. Macquarie's words were an oversight no doubt; the first lieutenant would naturally assume that Jonathan had funds. But since coming aboard Jonathan had not even earned enough to pay for the slops from the purser.

Soft footsteps on the deck behind him caught Jonathan's attention. "Yes Sir?"

Peter Crittenden blinked and offered a half smile. His hands fidgeted ever so slightly with the front of his coat. He seemed unsure of his reception. Peter cleared his throat. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right about the trial tomorrow," he began quietly. "I know it will not be easy for you...because of what happened to...Jack."

Jonathan clenched his teeth at Kerrison's name. He'd been trying to avoid this, deliberately refusing to think about the connections that his own mind would make; Rape and men hanging by their necks, dead. He closed his eyes before speaking. "Peter, please..."

"Jonathan, if you don't want to talk about it, then that�s fine. But I know Captain Bell is giving you time ashore and I think it will do you the world of good. I also know that you have no money whatsoever. So here...I just wanted to give you this." Peter drew a small green silk purse from his pocket and held it out. "Consider it a token of my thanks for...helping me the other night."

Jonathan sighed. "Peter, I can't accept this. You really don't have to..."

"Then consider it a loan from a friend. We are still friends, aren't we?" Peter pouted and raised one eyebrow in a coy gesture that looked out of place on his bruised face.

"Of course we are." Jonathan replied. He licked his lips. "I am sorry if I spoke out of turn... I was worried."

Peter's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know, and I appreciate your concern. Now take this and enjoy yourself ashore tomorrow. Please."

Reluctantly Jonathan accepted the gift, its weight settling into his palm and conscience.

"I don't know what to say, Peter."

"Then say nothing." Peter whispered. "Words are not needed between friends." And with that he departed.


Part 40

"Sit down. I'll get you a brandy." Robert Bell indicated one of two chairs that were pulled up together and Peter raised one eyebrow. Usually Robert liked him seated in his lap so perhaps Robert was truthful when he had said he just wanted to talk. It was the last thing Peter felt like, an interrogation into the causes of his outrageous behaviour. He didn't like the conclusions he had drawn about himself in the last few days and he was not about to share them with Robert Bell.

Peter settled into the chair and looked around Bell's cabin noting what had changed since he had last been here. This cabin was like a second home to him, more familiar than his own tiny cubby and he missed his regular visits. There was something comforting in the untidy clutter that filled the small cabin, a friendly messiness that stood in sharp contrast to Robert Bell's own immaculate appearance. There were even a few of Peter's own possessions that had somehow found their way here; a silk fan from the orient was hung on the bulkhead and adorning the sideboard was an ivory carving from India depicting a tangle of bodies that made one take a second look.

"Here you are. How's the nose?" Robert asked as he sat down in the other chair.

"Fine thank you, although Reggie says to be careful with it until it knits. So nothing rough tonight Robert, we'll have to try something a little more... sedate." Peter smiled coyly and fluttered his lashes. He hadn't forgotten his decision to end their relationship tonight but old habits die hard. He had always played the flirt with Robert and suspected he always would. Besides, who said one could not end a relationship with a little sex beforehand?

"That isn't why I asked you down here Puss," Bell replied. "I would like you to accompany me ashore tomorrow. I have some business to attend to and I'd like you to come too."

"More shirts Robert? I hear there's a very fine lace maker in town."

"That wasn't my destination, but perhaps afterwards we could do that. I think I owe you a new shirt after ruining that other one." Bell reached behind him to take a sheet of parchment from amongst the papers strewn about his desk. "Read it."

Peter read a few lines then looked up frowning. "This is your Will, Robert."

"Yes, I am going ashore tomorrow to have it witnessed and lodged and more copies made to send to my agent in London. I wanted you to read it beforehand." Bell gestured and nodded, encouraging Peter to continue.

"Robert...this says that you leave all your worldly possessions to...me." Peter looked up shaking his head. "I don't need them, Robert."

"I know that Kitten," Bell took the parchment from Peter's fingers and replaced it on his desk. He leaned across the space between them and took Peter's hands in his own. "I suspect you could equal me in wealth ten times over. What I am trying to show you is how much you mean to me." He squeezed Peter's hands and smiled. "If you were a woman, I suspect I would go down on one knee and ask for your hand in marriage, but that avenue isn't opened to us. So I offer you this instead."

Peter sat back, speechless. "Robert I..." He shook his head slightly, trying to gather his thoughts. "Robert if you feel you need to do this as some form of retribution for what happened then you are sadly mistaken."

"Puss, I'll admit that what happened the other night has had some influence on this, but only in so far as it has made me give serious thought to our relationship. I don't want to loose you Kitten, and I want you to know how deeply I value you. How much I love you."

Bell released his hands and Peter turned away. He bought one hand up to hide his mouth as he leaned on one elbow. "What do you want me to say, Robert?" Peter muttered, unable to meet the other man's eyes. "'Thank you' doesn't seem quite adequate and 'I love you too' seems a little trite." He turned back suddenly, worried his words would be taken the wrong way and met Bell's steady gaze. "Bunny, this has taken me quite by surprise."

Bell smiled, "That�s what I intended, Puss."

Tears pricked at Peter's eyes as the full meaning of Bell's gesture struck home. One usually left one's fortune to one's next of kin; a wife, a child, family. Of course Robert knew he did not need the money, it was the declaration behind the gesture that was priceless - that in all the world no one was closer to Bell than he was. Peter bit his lip, fighting to hold his tears at bay, damned if he'd start snivelling like some foolish maiden. He'd come here tonight with the intention of telling Bell that it was over between them; something he could hardly do now. Nor did he want to, if he was completely honest with himself. The thought of being alone in the world was frightening. He wanted, needed someone to cling to when the weather turned stormy. And Robert, despite all the unlikely reasons seemed to want him too.

Perhaps it was that which finally tilted the scales, Robert wanted him, just as he was, quirks and all.

Peter straightened and sniffed, "No one has ever offered me so great a gift, Robert, but I don't know what to offer you in return."

Bell stood and drew Peter into his arms. "All I want is your heart, Puss."

Peter could not meet his eyes. "It's your Robert, you know that," he whispered. But Peter wasn't sure it was even his to give.



Part 41

The trial was held early and by noon four men hung dead on the yard of the Nightingale. The remaining six had been flogged around the fleet and reassigned to new ships. Jonathan was amazed at the speed and discretion with which everything had been conducted. He'd given his testimony as one Ship's Boy John O'Reilly, duly entered on the Nightingale's books as such as of June that year.


"We'll transfer O'Reilly to the Wyvern in the next few days and they will discharge him dead in another month or so." Macquarie explained afterwards. "This won't come back to haunt you Mr Riley, rest assured."

Jonathan felt like laughing at Macquarie's words for it seemed that scenes of men hanging would haunt him for the rest of his life. But he put it behind him as he changed back into his uniform and boarded the jolly boat to go ashore with the others.

The hangings and floggings had not dampened either Golding's or Hislop's enthusiasm. They laughed and joked all the way through the streets of St James town bragging of their prowess. "I've done it six times!" Golding declared to the silent Ned Grayson.

"Does that include the times with the goat?" Hislop inquired, taking the bluster from Golding's sails.

They were dressed in their best uniforms and Lieutenant Macquarie had personally inspected them before handing Jonathan his letter of introduction and hastily written directions so they would have no difficulty finding 'The Garden of Eden'. The house itself was quite impressive and all four young men stood nervously outside for a few minutes watching two well dressed gentlemen take their leave. It was Hislop who finally built up the courage to lead them inside. They were greeted warmly by a young woman who took their hats and asked them to wait while she fetched her mistress, Mrs George. The lady in question turned out to be a small, slim woman of exquisite presentation and ageless grace and beauty. She read Macquarie's letter and smiled fondly.

"Dear Henry mentioned last night that you'd be along today. We do not normally entertain Young Gentlemen such as your selves. You are very fortunate indeed."

Golding snickered and Hislop stamped on his foot. Mrs George led them to a parlour where several young ladies were seated drinking sherry with two officers of the East India company. The two men gave the newcomers a disinterested glance then went back to their conversation. Mrs George waved her hand and two of the girls walked over.

"May I introduce Violet and Pansy. They will get you each a sherry. Please make yourselves at home." Mrs George departed through a drawn brocade curtain leaving the four midshipmen to stare at the women who were pouring drinks at the sideboard. They were clad in loose robes, modest but easily removed. Both were negroes.

"They're black!" Golding hissed a little too loudly. "I'm not having a black one! I've heard they are all cannibals."

Hislop shoved him hard in the side with his elbow. "Do shut up and show a few manners."

"But they might bite!" Golding whined.

"You couldn't be that lucky!" Hislop replied giving the younger boy a slap on the ear. "Now be quiet or you will get us all thrown out."

Jonathan sighed. Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing. He wondered who was the most nervous, himself or Ned Grayson who stood beside him, hands twisting the buttons on his coat. He looked pale and gulped down his sherry when it arrived. Hislop on the other hand struck up a conversation with the two women and was happily recounting his experience of crossing the line when Mrs George returned with four more girls in tow, all young and beautiful and of various colouring. This time Golding was more impressed and immediately attached himself to a pretty young girl by the name of Peony. Jonathan soon found himself surrounded by two young women, Rose and Poppy, each vying for his attention. The last one, Lily, sidled up to Ned who looked at the floor and muttered in answer to her questions.

Mrs George kept an eye on the proceedings, hovering in the background, weighing, assessing. After a while she approached Jonathan, brushing the other girls away with a gesture.

"Is your friend a little shy," she whispered, nodding discretely towards Ned who had slunk into a corner, alone.

"Yes, he's never...he hasn't...had much...intercourse with ladies," Jonathan stuttered. Despite his initial misgivings he was beginning to warm to the adventure and had almost forgotten about Ned.

Mrs George nodded. "Ah ha?" She stared at him, one eyebrow raised demanding a more truthful answer in a manner that reminded Jonathan of his mother. "And you are worried about him?" she prodded.

Jonathan blushed. "Ned had an...unfortunate experience. I am not sure he is up to this."

"An unfortunate experience with a woman?" Mrs George asked.

"No, not with a woman."

Mrs George took a deep breath and let it go. "I see. Well leave it to me, I think I know what might help." She beckoned to Rose and Poppy and sent them off on some errand through the brocade curtains, leaving Jonathan alone again. He scowled as he watched first Hislop and then Golding climb the staircase with a partner on their arm, Golding taking the stairs two at a time in his haste. The two East India Company Officers had also moved upstairs, and the remaining women busied themselves straitening glasses and plumping cushions, leaving Jonathan to his own devises. He wandered over to Ned.

"Jonathan," Ned sighed gratefully. "Will you stay here with me, I have no idea what to say or what to do. I thought it would be easier than this."

"Well it is sometimes." Jonathan replied, looking around, hoping for another glass of sherry. "You don't always have to worry about the small talk. Sometimes it is enough to just pay them."

Ned nodded, looking as if he wanted to ask more. But at that moment the curtain parted again and Mrs George returned with yet another girl. This one was less showy and could almost be considered plain. "This is Hyacinth," Mrs George said introducing her to Ned and Jonathan.

Hyacinth smiled. "Hello," was all she said in a small voice. She was unlike the other women, much quieter, less threatening. She said nothing for a few minutes while they all just stood there, waiting, then she slowly held out her hand to Ned. "Would you like to come upstairs with me?" she asked almost innocently.

Slowly Ned reached out and took her hand, nodding. He turned suddenly, his desperate eyes latching onto Jonathan. "Are you coming too?"

Jonathan looked to Mrs George who nodded kindly. "Go ahead."

Ned let himself be lead away and Jonathan went to follow. But a small strong hand held him a back a moment and the soft voice of Mrs George whispered in his ear. "This will cost extra, of course."


Part 42

At the top of the stairs Golding's voice was quite audible. "You want me to wash my WHAT in that basin?" Jonathan resisted the urge to laugh. There were more serious matters at hand.

Hyacinth opened a door on the right to reveal a tastefully decorated bedroom. The curtains were pulled back and the room was awash with sunlight. With a gentle smile she gestured for Ned to enter then turned back to Jonathan. The look on her face changed; she grinned at him. "You coming in too?" she asked with a tilt to her head and a twinkle in her eye. The innocence and simplicity were nothing more than a clever act.

"I'll wait...here." Jonathan replied.

"Suit yourself." She licked her lips and gave Jonathan a sultry look. "I'll leave the door ajar so you can watch," she added with a wink. "Join us when you are ready." With that she closed the door slightly leaving it open enough to afford Jonathan a clear view of Hyacinth as she led Ned towards the bed.

Jonathan turned his head away and leaned against the wall. I'm not going to watch, he told himself. Ned's fine now and he really doesn't need me here. Hyacinth, despite her unworldly appearance no doubt was a professional. She'd have everything in hand soon enough. But what if Ned should become wise to her ploy? How would he react when the assumed innocence gave way to artful instruction?

From somewhere down the hallway, Jonathan could hear Nathaniel Hislop and his girl giggling together like two powder monkeys. At least Hislop sounded like he was enjoying himself. Another door burst open and Golding appeared, still buttoning up his breeches.

"Christ I am starving," he declared when he saw Jonathan. "I'm going to find an inn. Are you done too?"

"No, I am not done." Jonathan replied with a frown. "I've not even started. Not all of us go at it like a pig at a trough, Golding!"

Golding snorted in reply and headed off down the stairs muttering something about wasting the whole bloody day.  Jonathan called after him, "Just don't get into any trouble...or lost."

In the returning silence, Jonathan heard faint sounds coming through the open door. Little gasps, breathy moans, the creak of the bed frame. Without thinking he turned his head. Ned lay on his back, the girl astride him. Her hair was loose now and hung down her back to her waist, swaying in time with her movements. Her hands rested on Ned's chest, supporting herself as she rose and fell, up and down, thighs tight around Ned's hips, small feet resting on his legs.

And Ned...Ned lay still, head thrown back, eyes on the ceiling, mouth opened, panting. His hands gripped the girl's hips, his fingers so tight that they left white makes on her skin.

Jonathan watched, mesmerised; watched the ebb and flow of muscles, the slide of limbs, the way Ned's tongue suddenly appeared to run along his lips. And then it happened. Ned turned his head and looked towards the door, straight into Jonathan's watching eyes. Something passed between them in that moment, something electric, something that had no name. It fused them, held them, devoured them. Jonathan felt it rush through his body and come to settle at his groin. He gasped at the intensity. As if in answer Ned groaned, his eyes flickering, loosing all focus as his body shook with pleasure. Jonathan could not look away.

In the aftermath Jonathan waited and tried to curb his own painful arousal and bring his breathing back to normal. Ned appeared to be sleeping as Hyacinth rolled over and lay down beside him on her back. She too caught Jonathan's eye where he waited at the door and reached out her hand in invitation. This time Jonathan did not refuse. He entered the room, closed the door firmly behind him and was naked before he reached the bed.

"I like a man with enthusiasm," Hyacinth murmured as he settled between her legs.

Beside them Ned stirred and opened his dazed eyes. His skin was flushed a delightful shade of pink that stretched down to his chest. Jonathan did not dare look any lower. Ned smiled when he saw Jonathan beside him and rolled onto his side.

To make more room or to get a better look, Jonathan wondered? He looked away, not sure he could trust himself this close to Ned. In desperation he thrust into the warm body waiting beneath him, giving little thought to anything except his own aching need. Ned on the other hand had finally found his courage and reached over to explore one of Hyacinth's breasts that he had been too afraid to touch before. Jonathan's chest rubbed lightly against the back of Ned's hand as he rocked forward, the touch sending shivers through his skin. He deliberately bent lower to increase the contact.


Jonathan closed his eyes not daring to look at Ned, afraid of what might be reflected in his own eyes and what he might see answered in Ned's. He felt Ned's hand move lower, caressing down over Hyacinth's stomach, teasing and tantalizing Jonathan's own skin as it moved. He opened his eyes and looked down at the girl beneath him. Her eyes wide, her mouth opened. She smiled up at him between gasps. Somewhere down beside him, her hand was busy with something else. Jonathan thrust harder.

Slowly Jonathan turned his head. Ned was there, so close now that Jonathan could feel his breath warm against his shoulder. There were tiny beads of sweat along Ned's upper lip, caught in the fair hairs that heralded the start of manhood. It would be so easy to lean just a closer little and kiss those parted lips, taste them just as Ned's own tongue was doing as it slipped out to lick around leaving them wet and glistening. 

Jonathan glanced down and saw Hyacinth's hand was wrapped around Ned's cock, moving with a fierce rhythm that matched his own. Their breathing fell into pace, rough and gasping, caught up in a quickening spiral that was carrying them both onwards. Jonathan looked up in time to catch Ned's eyes spark and explode, felt Ned's seed gush warm against his leg and then lost himself in his own hot rush of release.

With his last conscious thought, Jonathan rolled to the opposite side of the bed leaving Hyacinth between them, the token barrier of denial. After a time he was dimly aware of Ned taking his place, mounting the girl again and was quietly impressed by his stamina. This time Ned set the pace, taking it slower as he discovered the joys of being the aggressor. Even with his eyes closed, Jonathan could feel Ned's gaze searing his skin, a hand trailed down his bare chest, another seized his cock where it had sprung to life again. This hand was too fine to be masculine, too small to be Ned's yet he let himself be swept away in the fantasy.  The touch set him on fire again and he fell into the dream he was creating, knowing it was wrong but refusing to open his eyes and face reality. He clutched at memories of Ned in the dark with Charlie Witherspoon and more recent ones of Ned all but naked in his arms, wet and laughing, legs brushing against his, hands and arms tangling, impossible to dismiss the look of want in Ned's eyes any longer as they played and wrestled in the waves together. He heard Ned's cry and answered it with his own, unsure if he had uttered aloud the name that he screamed in his dreams; Ned.

It was sometime later that Jonathan realised that Hyacinth had left and it was Ned's warm leg pressed closely against his own. He rolled away and slid out of bed searching for his clothes.

"Is it time to go?" Ned asked, blinking. The sun was lower, the room was in shadows.

"Yes, I think we have been asleep." He chanced a look at Ned, who lay on his side covered only by the sheet. Ned smiled back shyly. Jonathan bent to pull up his breeches, suddenly self conscious. "So...it wasn't too bad, was it?"

Ned shook his head. "No, it was all right. I did all right, didn't I?" The panicked look was back again and Ned's voice shook.

"Of course you did! Couldn't you tell?"

Ned shrugged.

"Trust me, you did it just fine," Jonathan replied. "And I will tell you a secret. I really don't have that much experience myself so I am probably not the best one to ask."

"Really?" Ned smiled, his face taking on a faint blush.

"Really. But if you dare to tell either Hislop or Golding I will throw you overboard and I won't save you!"

Ned laughed. It was a small sound at first but it grew until he lay back on the bed clutching his stomach, the sheet rippling around him like a wave. "And all this time I thought you had women swooning in every port."

As his laughter slowed Ned's gaze became thoughtful. "I want to thank you Jonathan," he finally whispered, "I don't think I could have done this without your...support."

Jonathan looked away, suddenly uncomfortable, trying to ignore the hint of something more in Ned's eyes. It was doubtful that this exercise had done much to diminish Ned's attraction to him. If anything it had only served to make it more powerful. Nor could Jonathan ignore his own attraction to Ned that even now was threatening to rise again and rob him of all sensibility.


"Of course you could have," Jonathan replied, refusing to give in to temptation. He needed time to think this whole situation through. "There's nothing to it, nothing to it at all."


Part 43

He felt like he was suffocating in the hot, stuffy darkness of the cock pit, listening to Golding and Hislop recount the delights they had encountered ashore. Admittedly Golding seemed more captivated by the mince pies he had eaten, but Hislop's adventures were of the fleshly kind and brought with them memories of the afternoon. A hand's breadth away Ned lay, silent in his hammock, shirtless and sweating, his musky scent rising like phantom, to tease and taunt. It was that heady reminder of things that Jonathan was trying hard to forget that drove him to rise and leave, picking his way over the prone couples that littered the gun deck and seek solitude on the forecastle, where the stillness of the night was broken only by the gentle lap of waves against the hull.

Jonathan's mind was in turmoil, along with his body. Any satisfaction he had taken in the woman earlier had long since been forgotten, replaced by an agonising yearning for Ned. But what was he to do? Even if Ned welcomed such a relationship it would be wrong to act on this desire. Ned's attraction may prove to be yet another manifestation of his destructive nature or at the least a reflection of his current confusion. Surely Ned was too young and had been through too much to be able to make a competent decision about such an undertaking.

"Still awake Jonathan? I would have thought you'd be quite tired out by your excursion shore. You are not still pondering the day's events are you?"

Slowly Jonathan turned to face Peter Crittenden, a wry smile on his lips. It was uncanny how Peter always seemed to appear just when he was needed.

"I am actually Peter. I have things on my mind."

Peter frowned. "You're not still fretting about the hanging and...Jack Kerrison, are you? I know this must be hard for you Jonathan, but you have to put that whole episode behind you. Try to remember the good time you had with Jack. It will crush your spirit otherwise."

"Jack's not the problem. It's what happened in the brothel today."

Peter raised one eyebrow. "Did you have some...difficulty?"

Jonathan almost laughed at the absurdity. "Oh no...nothing like that. It's to do with Ned."

"Hmmph...why am I not surprised?" Peter muttered.

Jonathan ignored him and pressed on. "I think Ned fancies me and I don't know what to do about it."

"Ned Grayson? Fancies you?" Peter blinked. "Are you sure you are not mistaking hero worship for lust, Jonathan?"

"Quite sure. When we were at that brothel today...he...well he asked me to go along with him. You know, like you and Harry used to do?  We ended up in the bed together, with the whore, and..."

"Oh God, you didn't..." Peter had gone quite pale, and he stood, mouth slightly opened, like a man awaiting sentence.


"No! But I wanted to and I think Ned did too. He didn't say anything but I could see it in his eyes. Peter, what should I do?"

Peter turned away. "I am not sure I am the right man to ask for advice on this, Jonathan."

"Well then who should I ask? Mr Macquarie? Captain Bell? There IS no one else Peter. Besides, I thought friends were supposed to help each other. We ARE still friends aren't we?"

"Yes, yes, of course we are. I am sorry. Of course I will help you." Peter turned back, frowning slightly, his dark brows drawing together as he squinted towards the lights of the town. "Perhaps you should tell me how this started."

Jonathan took a deep breath and leaned against the ratlines. "I have suspected that Ned was attracted to me for a while now but I told myself that I was imagining it because I couldn't believe he could feel like that after what had happened to him. He's always watching me and lately he's has been getting...closer to me, like in the water, yesterday."

"Hmm, yes, I noticed that myself. But I still think it could be hero worship." Peter declared fiercely. "Besides, Ned's very young, too young to get involved in something like that with you."

"I know that," Jonathan defended, his voice rising slightly. "I am not a monster. But I don't know how to handle it."

"Do nothing." Peter offered, the calm voice of reason. "Ned may well grow out of it as he gets older. They often do, you know."

"But some don't. Some are like you and me, eh Peter."

Peter smiled at that and nodded. "Yes. Like you and me. Mind you," he declared suddenly. "I thought you had swapped boats in mid channel after your recent efforts with women."

Jonathan laughed. "That was just a small diversion, nothing more, although I think I am getting a likening for it. It's not so bad. Haven't you ever tried it?" he asked with a smile.

"No and I don't intend to." Peter shook his hair back over his shoulders. "I know where my affinity lies."

"I was hoping today that Ned might feel different after he had a woman. But it didn't seem to make any difference that I could see." Jonathan sighed and rested his head against the ratlines, wearily. "So tell me Peter, what do I do if Ned doesn't grow out of this?"

Peter thought for a moment. "Wait for him to make the first move. And if he does, then put him off for as long as you can."

"That might not be easy." Jonathan smiled, remembering how persistent he had been with Archie. "I think I feel a little for what Archie suffered when I chased him so unmercifully."

Peter sniffed. "I am sure Archie did not suffer one little bit. But you can see my point. You were over sixteen and STILL Archie tried to put you off."

Jonathan nodded.

"Did YOU feel you were ready for it then?" Peter asked quietly.

"I thought so at the time." In hindsight it was easy to see that he had been unprepared for the emotional complications that had come from his attraction to both Archie and Jack Kerrison. But would time and maturity have made it any easier? Perhaps such matters of the heart must be suffered in order to be learned.

"The more time you give Ned, the more certain he will be that it is the right decision." Peter offered. His words sounded reasonable.

And wise.

"How old were you the first time that you did it with Harry?" Jonathan asked.

"The first time I did it or the first time with Harry?" Peter fluttered his lashes coyly.

"But Archie said..."

"Archie Kennedy has loose lips." Peter responded smiling at Jonathan like a co- conspirator. "One day he will regret what comes out of his mouth whilst in bed. It never does to tell tales of past lovers. They come back to haunt you." Peter fixed Jonathan with a keen look. "Remember that Jonathan."


"I will," Jonathan agreed, but his curiosity had been aroused and he wanted answers. "But tell me, if it wasn't Harry then why did you tell Archie that it was?"

Peter's smile was secretive. Slowly he began, "Harry wasn't the first. I was well experienced by then. In fact it was I who seduced Harry and had to show him how to do it. Archie would have been shocked had I told him the truth, so I lied a little. It was for his sake. He never would have let me give him what he so badly needed if he knew my real history."

"So who was it Peter?"

Slowly Peter's eyes took on a far away look as he travelled back to another time and place. "When I was about ten years old my mother sent me a tutor from Italy." He looked back suddenly, "She's Italian, you know."

"No I didn't know," Jonathan answered, but Peter was no longer listening.

"She and my father had been separated for several years and I had not seen her since she returned to her estates in Campania. She was quite wealthy in her own right and so she spared no expense trying to upstage my father in everything concerning my welfare. He, on the other hand, found my presence nothing more than a regrettable reminder of his momentary madness in marrying a woman who was equal to him in wealth, status and wit.

"I remember their fights when I was about five. She was a fiery woman and my father would often accuse her of sleeping with the groomsmen, or gardeners, or the tenants farmers. There was no denying his paternity however for I am the very image of him except that I have my mother's colouring. He changed his tune quickly enough when she decided to leave him and take me with her. He couldn't claim me fast enough. Not that he needed an heir of course. He already had two sons from his first marriage. No, I was nothing more than one more possession to be fought over.

"So, my mother left England, never to return and I did not hear from her again until she sent Signor Pedroni to tutor me in Italian, Latin, French and Spanish, dancing and the piano, art and literature. To my surprise my father did not turn the foreigner away but accepted him into the household and set him up in rooms close to mine."

Peter looked up, his eyes searching the heavens as if the story was to be found there amongst the stars. When he continued his voice sounded very small in the encompassing darkness.

"Signor Pedroni was a good teacher but a harsh disciplinarian. I would often find myself bent over my desk while he wielded his cane and reprimanded me in fierce Italian. His anger seldom lasted though and afterwards he would cradle me on his lap, stroke my hair and wipe away my tears. In time, the strokes turned into caresses, his hands slipping from head to shoulders to body, and the chaste kisses that had begun on my forehead became more carnal as they moved down to my lips."

Slowly Peter turned and looked at Jonathan. "Don't misunderstand me. I loved him and I enjoyed the way he touched me. So desperate was I for any sort of affection that I even encouraged it. Sometimes I would deliberately err in the hope that he would cane me and then make it all better. I'd get so ...hard Jonathan, and then he'd touch me and kiss me and it would all feel so good. One day, I remember I was lying across the desk, arse stinging, prick so hard I thought it would burst when he stopped the canning and put his hands on me, one on my prick, the other...well...I don't have to tell you what happened next. Suffice to say I don't know what was more intense, the pain or the pleasure."

"How old were you Peter?" Jonathan whispered, not wanting to break the spell that Peter had woven around them.

"I was young, very young." Peter's eyes slid away again. "Thirteen perhaps; something like that. It doesn't matter. Anyway, after that there was no stopping us. No stopping me. So seldom had I had any kind of attention from anyone that I felt a sort of power in being able to control Pedroni with just my body. I'd only have to wiggle my arse and he'd be panting over me like a dog. Of course it was only a matter of time before my father discovered what was going on. He found us 'in flagrante' one rainy afternoon when he came home early from riding. The Signor left amid a storm of threats and counter threats and my father caned me and locked me in my room for a week with no visitors except one aged maid to bring me food and empty the chamber pot.

"Not that it stopped me. I had finally found something I liked, something that made me feel alive and yes, something that got me noticed. I worked my way through a succession of grooms and stable hands before my father caught me once again." Peter laughed, a high strangled sound that held little mirth. "He didn't take it nearly as well that time. The lad, oh...I've forgotten his name, was on his feet at least and he managed to run. I think my father would have killed him otherwise.  I was on my hands and knees in the hay, arse up, breeches down around my ankles and was not so fortunate. He took to me with a horse whip. It took three of the grooms to pull him off. It was our housekeeper who finally sent for the doctor. I think she was afraid that she'd be blamed if I died while I was locked in my room. I don't remember very much of what happened of course. I was in and out of consciousness most of the week. By the time I was well enough to stand my father had arranged to have me taken on as midshipman by an acquaintance of his and I was packed off to sea. He agreed to pay me a considerable allowance if I never darkened his doorway again. When my mother found out that I'd been sent to sea, she arranged for the house in London to be signed over to me and, not to be outdone, gave me a second allowance." Peter laughed again. "So you see, I have more money that I will ever need but I am a little short on family." Peter finished and stared into the darkness.

"Why are you telling me all of this Peter?" Jonathan whispered into the silence that enveloped them.



Peter took a deep breath and shook himself slightly. "I think what it all means is that if one is attracted to ones own kind, then it doesn't matter how many deterrents are put in one's way; one's nature will always win out in the end. There might be those who deny who they are and choose not to act on what they feel, but they can never eradicate those feelings. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Jonathan replied. But there was more to Peter's story than simply explaining the forces of nature. It also contained a desperate need to unburden his soul and a cry for understanding that had nothing to do with Ned Grayson. "And that's the reason why you told me all of this; to illustrate your point?" Jonathan pressed on, hoping Peter would continue.

But Peter looked away and shrugged his slight shoulders. "Maybe it just needed to be said."

As he watched Peter walk away, a slim figure that disappeared down the companionway, Jonathan felt his anger build. At twenty, Peter was hardly an imposing figure. Jonathan surpassed him by a good four inches and was easily more solid in shoulder and chest. So how much smaller and frailer must Peter have been in his youth and childhood? How could anyone, any man, treat him so cruelly?  Jonathan rubbed the scar on his cheek, trying to unravel the tangle of half understood threads that made up the colourful tapestry of Peter's past life. There was something here if only he could follow it through; something that Peter himself wanted Jonathan to know. Was it to do with Peter's relationship with Robert Bell? Was there some sort of unholy parallel between their friendship and Peter's earlier relationship with Pedroni?

Jonathan sighed and leaned against the bulwark, doubtful that at this late hour any officers were about to chastise him for the breech of decorum. He knew very a little about Peter's private life except that he seemed well acquainted with the likes of men such as Eversleigh and Cavanagh and was part of that London scene. Partner swapping and casual liaisons, yes; but sexual violence, surely not. Still, something had happened between Peter and Bell, something that was tied up inexplicably with their relationship. Had what Jonathan witnessed in the aftermath of their fight, been just a hint of what went on behind closed doors?

He didn't need this complication. Jonathan rubbed his face, tiredness finally catching up with him. Ned was his main concern, or had been. Peter's advice was sound and made sense and had done much to ease Jonathan's trouble mind. But the story that had accompanied it now presented another problem for him. He wandered how many others were privy to Peter's secrets. Did Bell know? Did Archie? Or had Peter told no one until now; was he the only one in whom Peter had ever confided?

And if so, why?


Part 44


Peter sought the dark sanctuary below decks with the desperation of a man with demons on his tail. He hadn't intended to reveal so much about himself although his past had been on his mind considerably these last few days. He'd faced some ugly truths about himself; faced them and accepted them as part of who he was. But if anyone should be privy to his dirty little secrets then by rights it should be Robert Bell who was offering him a future by his side; companionship, security ... love. Yes, Robert should be the one to hear his darkest secrets, certainly not Jonathan Riley.

But somehow in the intimate darkness, there on the forecastle, Jonathan had once again stormed Peter's defences leaving him naked and vulnerable. Stormed was not the right word for the attack had been far more subtle. What power did Jonathan possess that his very presence was enough to make Peter lay bare his soul?

Peter entered the gun room and leaned against the table, heart hammering. Dear God, what had Jonathan thought? What would he make of the sordid little tale? Did he even care? Have I gone too far this time? Have I shocked Jonathan so much that he will never speak to me again? Perhaps not, for there had been no hint of disgust in Jonathan's clear blue eyes, no pity, only concern.

Peter sighed. Jonathan was so easy to read, so honest in his emotions. Ah, to be like that...

The door opened and Bell poked his head out, his white nightshirt a vivid reminder of the lateness of the hour. "I thought that was you. Where have you been?"

Peter said nothing as he slipped past Bell into the cabin and waited for the door to close. "I've been on deck, talking with Jonathan," Peter whispered as he insinuated his way into Bell's embrace. "He was telling me about his adventures ashore today. About the woman he had."

Peter pressed closer into Bell's chest. Suddenly, the thought of watching Jonathan with a woman became strangely appealing. He'd been a spectator for Harry's liaisons several times and had been fascinated by the experience. It had little to do with the women involved and much to do with watching Harry in all of his glory. The chance to see Jonathan in a similar situation with or without Ned as a third player would be irresistible.

Still thinking of Jonathan, Peter reached up and kissed Bell's neck through the opening of his nightshirt as he let his mind play out its fantasy. His lips wandered until they rested on the pulse beating quickly beneath the skin. Bell sensed his arousal.

"Puss, are you up to this?  How is your nose?"

Peter answered with a playful nip. "My nose is fine, but there are others parts of me that are wanting."

Bell set him at arms length. "Kitten, you seem a little agitated. I know what your moods can turn in to... What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Peter hissed. "Nothing," he repeated in a more even voice. "It's just that I have missed your company...and your bed."

With a sigh, Bell gave in, but only so far. He maintained enough control to ensure their lovemaking was just that. It may have lacked the frenzied, unconstrained lust that Peter craved, but it left him tingling and tired.

And as he lay in Robert's arms, sleepy and sated, he wondered what it would be like to make love to Jonathan Riley ... just like that.



Part 45

'Dear Angelique,'

Nathaniel Hislop stared at the paper before him and chewed the end of his goose quill. Where to begin?

There was so much to tell since his last correspondence; with stops at St Helena and Cape Town, rounding the Cape itself and now sailing north again as part of the convey escorting the transport ships carrying the redcoats to their new posting in India. Usually letter writing offered no problems to Nathaniel, but this time he was having difficulty.

It might not be seemly to recount his adventures in the brothel at St James Town to the girl that he hoped would one day be his wife even if he was certain that Angelique would enjoy some of the things he had learnt there. Violet had been an entertaining and skilful teacher who was happy to impart her considerable knowledge. She was matched only in enthusiasm by her equally dusky sister, Pansy, who had joined them in the big bed later that afternoon. Time had flown and Nathaniel had been the last one back to the Nightingale that evening, welcomed aboard by a chorus of cheers from some of the cheekier members of the crew.

Nathaniel smiled smugly remembering the sisters; if only Golding knew what he had missed!

The ship swayed sharply and Nathaniel grabbed the inkwell to stop it sliding off the table. The rough weather for which the Cape was so well known had pursued them north, driving most of the crew below decks to seek respite from the rough seas, wind and rain. Some of the older ratings were eager to point out that they had escaped lightly and would set about telling tales of waves so high they topped the masts or troughs so deep you could not see the bottom.

Nathaniel plucked some small feathers from his mouth and frowned. Perhaps it would be best to skip mention of St Helena and its fleshy diversions all together and move on to Cape Town, although that had hardly been a memorable event. Captain Bell had refused anyone shore leave, worried that the Dutch might prove to be hostile. The garrison of redcoats had been brought aboard the transports along with the company wives and assorted civilians and others who had remained until the last.  The last four weeks had been spent at sea as they made the long journey to India, the Nightingale acting as an escort, often sailed ahead of the convey on reconnaissance, surveying the waters for any strange vessels.

Of course there had been some highlights during the weeks at sea; gun drill being one of them. Despite it being peacetime, after leaving St Helena, Captain Bell had insisted they run out the guns each afternoon and practice firing three times a week. Nathaniel wondered what intelligence had come the Captain's way to make him so cautious. Was France once again arming for war?

A mere midshipman was not privy to such information and the cockpit had been rife with rumour, a situation that only escalated when Lieutenant Crittenden had begun taking the midshipmen daily in small arms practice. Despite his ridiculous high heels and foppish manner, the young Lieutenant was surprisingly agile with a sword and had proved an astonishingly good shot with a pistol. Nathaniel and his fellow midshipmen had not been as polished. Nathaniel snickered as he recalled how Golding had sliced his own ear trying to draw his cutlass. Heaven help the French!

And so an air of anticipation descended on the ship both above and below decks. Something was happening elsewhere in the world, something that may well invade even this remote corner of the globe.

In the cockpit however, something different was invading the atmosphere and it had nothing to do with Golding's farts. Nathaniel had noticed it not long after leaving St Helena, a strange sort of tension that hovered between Jonathan Riley and Ned Grayson. Not animosity, Nathaniel was certain of that. No, this was different. It was reflected in the way they looked at one another when they thought the other was not watching. Like now; Nathaniel surreptitiously looked across at Ned. The younger mid was lounging against the bulkhead, idly stroking one of the ship's cats that was curled in his lap. But his eyes were on Jonathan at rest in his hammock. There was something in that look that Nathaniel could not decipher; something smouldering that left the air hot with expectancy. It was almost as if...

Nathaniel looked away, confused and uncomfortable. He shook his head as if to banish his wild thoughts. Perhaps they had all been shut up together for too long in their stuffy little berth and it was just his overheated imagination. He returned his attention to his unfinished letter.

"Sail ho, Sail ho. General quarters! Clear for action."

The ships cat shrieked as Ned surged to his feet. Nathaniel stumbled upright, ink well crashing and sheets of paper fluttering all around. "Do you think it's the French?" he stuttered.

Riley was already out of his hammock and pulling on his jacket. "No idea, but we will know soon enough" he replied as he headed for the doorway, extinguishing the glim on the way.



Part 46

Jonathan staggered as he came above, buffeted by the strong wind. He fought to keep his footing on the listing deck and he made his way to his station. Around him the Nightingale's crew were hard at work, rolling out the guns and preparing to change course.

"Where is she?" Jonathan called to Peter Crittenden who was hurrying over.

"Take a look for yourself, and tell me what you see." Peter pointed and handed his glass to Jonathan. "We are close to Mauritius so Captain Bell thought it best to be prepared. We want to be able to rejoin the rest of the fleet and warn them of whatever we find."

Jonathan climbed into the shrouds and focused the glass as the Nightingale came about. What he saw was not reassuring. "She's a frigate and she is raising...yes, the French flag." The same call echoed down from the masthead. "I estimate forty cannon," Jonathan continued. The Nightingale had twenty eight. "Twenty four and thirty two pounders, by the look of it. Plus carronades fore and aft." Jonathan climbed down and handed the glass back. "They outgun us."

Peter took Jonathan's place and surveyed the approaching ship. "Thirty pounders, Jonathan, the French use thirty pounders," he murmured absently, reciting a lesson learned long ago. Peter snapped the glass shut and started to climb down. "But you are right, they do outgun us. However we should have speed and agility on our side."

"Do you think they will open fire? Are we at war again?" Jonathan asked.

Peter frowned slightly. "We've had no word of such, but it doesn't do to be less than cautious. Captain Bell is not taking any chances." Peter looked around the deck. "You'd better take your post and see to your division Jonathan."

Jonathan joined his gun crews and spent the next two hours watching through the gunports as the French ship drew nearer. No one spoke, except to pass the occasional order. It was as if everyone was holding their collective breath. The waiting became unbearable. Jonathan straightened up and surveyed the deck. He caught the looks of crewmen, many of whom he knew by name from his time below decks; Flemming, Crawford, Starling, Perkins, Flower. They waited by the great guns, their faces eager or nervous or resigned. Ben Flower offered a shy smile which Jonathan returned.

Just forward, standing with his own gun crew, Nathaniel Hislop nervously chewed one fingernail. On the starboard side, white faced and fearful, Ned Grayson waited with the handful of men who were not manning guns. A stash of small arms was brought up and Ned hurried over to select a cutlass.

Here and there Marines stood in little clusters, checking their muskets, awaiting their orders to climb into the rigging.

Peter Crittenden paced, his heels tapping on the deck, hair swishing as he turned. He pulled out a lace handkerchief and delicately dabbed at his brow. The Frenchman came closer.

Jonathan eyed the supply of roundshot and the boxes of grapeshot that had been brought up on the deck. "Should we load?" he asked as Peter passed him by. "We are sitting ducks if we remain as we are."

"We are under strict orders to do nothing that might be interpreted as hostile or aggressive by the French."

"That's all very well, but we must be ready to defend ourselves if they fire first."

Peter glanced hurriedly towards the quarterdeck. Bell was there, his glass out, trained on the Frigate, Macquarie by his side. "I am sure Captain Bell knows what he is doing, Jonathan. Don't question orders." Peter looked at the frigate. It was very close now, passing beside the Nightingale. The faces of the Frenchmen could be seen peering over the bulwarks. "Perhaps they are going to pass us by?" Peter whispered. 

And the Frenchman opened fire. Even as Jonathan saw the flash of their cannon, he was calling orders for his gun crew to load. The French shot whistled overhead, ripping through the Nightingales shrouds and mainsails.

"Load and return fire," Macquarie shouted from the quarterdeck.

The order echoed down but Jonathan's guns were one step ahead. "Fire!" he shouted. His cannons were the first to answer the French challenge. Marines raced up the ratlines like red monkeys, men coughed and wiped their stinging eyes as they reloaded the guns, powder monkeys darted here and there with covered containers of gunpowder.


The French guns sounded again splintering a section of the bulwark, and overturning a gun. The air was clogged with the acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke.

We'll never outgun them, Jonathan thought to himself, but we have speed on our side if we can make use of it. "Aim for their sails and rigging and fire on the up roll." The gun captains adjusted elevation with their handspikes.

Before Jonathan could shout the order to fire, the Quarterdeck exploded in a flash of sparks and splinters and screams.

"Dear God!" Jonathan whispered as all eyes turned aft in disbelief. Through the smoke one small figure appeared at the railing, blackened and bloodied. Golding.

"Help," he mouthed, no sound coming from his lips. Suddenly found his voice. "Help," he screamed. "They're all dead!" and held up a severed arm, still clothed in blue broad cloth and guilt edging.

Peter Crittenden sprang into action. "Mr Hislop, take over here. The French are coming around behind us, get the starboard guns run out. Jonathan, come with me." 

Jonathan nodded, trying to dispel his shock. He followed Peter as he raced towards the quarterdeck, calling for men to help with the wounded.



Part 47.


The quarter deck resembled a butchers shambles, so covered it was with blood and gore. Golding was still holding tight to the severed arm.

"It's Mr Macquarie's," he whispered as Peter stepped over an unidentifiable mass of blue. "It came off when I tried to wake him up." The boy was clearly in shock.

"What should I do with it?"

'Throw it away,' Peter wanted to scream as he fought the urge to search for Robert Bell amid the carnage. If the Captain was at all able, he would be on his feet or at least calling out orders. I'm the senior Officer now, Peter told himself, it's all up to me. 

"Take yourself below, Mr Golding." Let someone down there deal with the boy if he became hysterical. "And have the surgeon look to your injuries." Golding was heavily cut by splinters, his face bloodied and pale. Peter paused and turned, finally looking at the bodies of the fallen; Golding was the only one left alive. At Peter's feet lay what was left of Mr Duggan, the Master. Beside the shattered remains of the wheel lay the helmsman, limp and lifeless. Macquarie was likewise dead. There was no sign of Robert Bell. Again Peter resisted the urge to start searching amongst the fallen spars and rigging. The Nightingale was in his hands now and his first duty was to her.

"Jonathan, pass the word for Mr Hooker," Peter called out, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. They'd need the Master's Mate...and another helmsman. "And
get... Perkins up here... And some men to clear the quarterdeck." They'd have to do something about the damage to the mizzen mast too. It had split in two, bringing down sails and rigging.

Peter took a deep breath. The Nightingale's guns were still firing, so at least Hislop was following orders and for some reason the Frenchman had chosen not to rake them as she came astern. Was she waiting for them to surrender?

Peter looked at the chaos around him. What to do? The Frenchman clearly had the upper hand.

"Holy mother of Jesus!" Hooker, the master's mate declared loudly as he reached the quarterdeck and stared about in disbelief.

"Get yourself in hand Mr Hooker, you are needed. See if we still have steering.
We are going to turn tail and run. I fear it is our only hope."

"If the bloody French let us," Hooker mumbled under his breath as he went to work.

"Over here, Sir!" It was Jonathan's voice from the other side of the wheel. "It's the captain."

Robert Bell lay behind a tangle of splintered spar and rigging. His body looked untouched but for the mangled remains of his left leg. His chest slowly rose and
fell in a ragged rhythm. Peter swallowed.

"You men, take Captain Bell below and..." What? "Tell Mr Dawson to do whatever he can." Bell was in the Lord's hands now, the Lord's and Dawson's.

With that Peter turned and walked back to what was left of the wheel.

"Steerin's gone Sir," Hooker said as Peter approached. "The tiller ropes have broken and come loose."

The Frenchman was approaching the starboard side now and even as Peter watched, it raked the Nightingale's main deck with canister shot.  

"They must know we are crippled." Jonathan had come up beside him. "What are you going to do?"

On the deck below them, the screams of the injured and dying echoed through the cannon fire and tore at Peter's heart. He took a deep breath and let it go, then closed his eyes for a moment. The situation was hopeless. Damaged as they were the French would blow them out of the water if they tried to fight back.

"Lower the colours, Jonathan."

"Peter, are you serious?"

"Do it Jonathan. I am in command so don't question my orders!" Peter took another breath and tried for a measure of control. His first command, initiated in such tragic circumstances was nothing more than a bitter taste in his mouth. "Take charge here, I'm going below to the captain's cabin to take care of some things."




Part 48

"Cease firing."

Nathaniel Hislop straightened up at the unexpected order. He'd been working as part of the gun crew replacing an injured tar who had been hit in the throat by flying shrapnel. Now he looked to the quarterdeck to see their colours being lowered.

"Mr Hislop," Jonathan called from the rail. "Order a party to get the dead cleared from the deck and to prepare for boarding by the French. Then report to the quarterdeck with Mr Grayson." His face reflected Nathaniel's own state of shock.

Nathaniel set about giving orders, having the wounded taken below and the dead dispatched to the deep. Under his breath he prayed silently, whilst trying to keep a tally of names and numbers.

"Will we be their prisoners?" Ned Grayson asked from behind, his voice shaking.

"I suppose so." Nathaniel replied, too distracted to pay much attention.

"What will they do to us?" Something in Ned's voice made Nathaniel look up. Grayson was pale and that glassy look was back in his eyes. His fist gripped the hilt of the cutlass at his waist.

"Place us in some filthy French prison, probably in Mauritius, until we are exchanged. Or at least I think that's how it goes." Nathaniel replied. Grayson looked as if the words made no sense. "Come on," Nathaniel gave a quick tug to Ned's jacket, trying to break him out of whatever possessed him. "Mr Riley is waiting for us." Nathaniel led the way to the quarterdeck.

As they approached the damaged binnacle, Hooker, the master's mate was muttering under his breath in disgust.  "I knew we was done for when I saw who was left in charge."

"What's that Mr Hooker?" Jonathan turned from where he was examining the compass, angry.

"Kitten of course...what does a bloody molly know about real fighting? If you ask me we're as good as dead men."

"I did not ask you Mr Hooker, and what you said sounds very much like mutinous talk." Jonathan narrowed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was deadly. "I've dealt with mutineers before Mr Hooker. They are all dead and I am standing here. If I hear one more whisper from you, it will be your last. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes... Sir," Hooker muttered and walked away.

Jonathan looked over to where Nathaniel and Ned were waiting and sighed heavily.

"Mr Hislop, Mr Grayson, good, I'm counting on you both. We are the only Officers left except for Mr Crittenden. We are in this together. Please stay calm." Nathaniel suspected this last was for Grayson's benefit. Ned nodded, visibly marshalling his control.

There was a murmuring from the main deck and Nathaniel turned to see Peter Crittenden on the quarterdeck once more. Nathaniel could not believe his eyes. The young Lieutenant had been transformed. Gone was his gunpowder stained jacket, replaced by a new and heavily braided blue coat. From beneath, the frilliest lace shirt Nathaniel had ever seen, struggled valiantly to escape. It was held in check by a silk cravat, emboldened by a large cameo of two young Greeks, that was definitely not of Naval order. As Crittenden balanced unsteadily on the deck, Nathaniel's gaze was drawn towards the heels of his shoes which we so high the Lieutenant could barely remain upright. From somewhere down the deck came a snicker.

"Gentlemen, a word if you please." Crittenden called, one bejewelled hand flashing around in summons.

Nathaniel obeyed, trying not to stare. As a final touch, the Lieutenant had applied a heavy dusting of power to his face, his cheeks and lips were rouged and his eyes lined with black. Nathaniel dropped his eyes not knowing where to look.


Part 49


Jonathan Riley was having much the same problem as Nathaniel Hislop. He stared as Peter climbed to the quarterdeck, blinked and shook his head. "Peter, what are you doing?" he whispered.


"What does it look like I am doing?" Peter asked, his voice shrill with anger. "I am trying to save our necks, Jonathan. Trust me. Something feels very wrong about this whole situation. If I can get us out of it, then I will. However it is always best to let the enemy underestimate you." Peter tilted his head and fluttered his black lashes. "Surely you can see the sense in that?"

"Well yes...but if we have surrendered, then won't we be going against our word?"

Peter face grew serious. "That only holds if they ask for and we give our parole. Besides, at this point I am not entirely sure that we are even at war. I intend to bide my time and wait and find out what I can."

"Did you go down to see Captain Bell? How is he?"

Peter shook his head. "There wasn't time. I had to make sure our signal books and certain documents would not fall into the hands of the French. And do you realise how long it takes to apply rouge?" The joke fell flat. Peter turned serious again. "Dawson should know what he is doing. I would only be in the way."

"I just thought," Jonathan began.

"Let me do the thinking Jonathan. I am in command."

"They're comin' alongside Sir," Fleming called out from the main deck.

Peter called to Hislop and Grayson who were waiting nearby. "Join us Gentlemen and listen carefully." Peter lowered his voice. "I want you to follow my lead and be ready for whatever eventuates."  He glanced at Ned Grayson who was still gripping the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white. "Get rid of those cutlasses before the French come aboard." Peter ordered, "Just wear your dirks and I don't want anyone tempted to premature heroics."

With worried faces Hislop and Grayson followed Jonathan and stowed their weapons with the others that had been brought on deck during the battle.

Crittenden continued. "We have surrendered, but if asked for our parole we will refuse. Be polite, and be cautious. Watch and listen and wait." Peter paused and looked down to the waist where the French Officers were climbing aboard. "Mr Hislop?"

"Yes, Sir" the young midshipman squeaked.

"I gather from the rather colourful scrawlings in the margin of your journal that you understand some French?"

Hislop blushed bright red and nodded.

"Good, then listen carefully to anything you may overhear. It may prove useful. But under no circumstance are you to let on that you or any of us understand French. That is an order. And it would do well for you all to remember that they may speak English too, so watch what you say in their hearing."

With one final look around, Crittenden shook back his hair and adjusted his cravat. "Come Gentlemen, let us prepare to be boarded. My only regret is that I did not have time to heat the curling tongs."


Part 50

This was nothing short of a nightmare! Nathaniel Hislop stared open mouthed at the foolishly dressed fop who was now their commanding Officer and wished he was home safe in his mother's kitchen. Did Lieutenant Crittenden really imagine he could outwit the French? Nathaniel shook his head and thought of the years he might spend languishing in a filthy French prison because Crittenden was too cowardly to fight.

In due course the Frenchmen climbed to the quarterdeck, the Captain himself along with several of his Officers. Peter Crittenden stood blank faced, shaking his head, and fluttering his lashes until a young French Lieutenant began translating.

"Capitaine Boulierre, is demanding your sword."

"What is your name, Sir?" Peter asked of the young Frenchman. "Have you no manners?"



The Frenchman bit his lip. "Laurendet, Sir, Lieutenant Henri Laurendet." He bowed slightly. 

"A pleasure, Sir. I am Second Lieutenant Peter Crittenden and am presently in command of this vessel. Now, does your Captain not know we are at peace?"

"My Capitaine say he knows nothing of your peace."

Boulierre spoke and the Lieutenant translated. "Capitaine Boulierre says that you have surrendered to us and your ship is ours, now he wants your sword."

Peter lowered his eyes. "Your Captaine is rather...forward, isn't he?" he looked up again, eyes coy. "To speak so of my sword!"

The French lieutenant blinked and blushed and turned to his Captain as he considered how to translate the words. As Laurendet spoke, Boulierre's face changed. His eyes narrowed, his lips formed a hard line. He shouted out an order to his men, who surrounded Peter and the midshipmen, muskets held at the ready, bayonets glinting. One by one, Peter and the midshipmen was divested of their remaining weapons.


"You will be confined below for the moment." Laurendet continued. "My Capitaine has more questions for you." The Frenchmen pointed their bayonets again to usher them away.

"Wait!" Peter shouted all traces of flirtation gone. "Our Captain is badly wounded. I would ask for your assistance. Would your surgeon consent to aid our own? Please?"

Laurendet spoke to Boulierre who appeared to consider the words.

"Very well, my Capitaine has agreed, but in return he expects you to co-operate fully with him and show him where your Captain's papers and orders are kept."

Peter dropped his head and nodded, the picture of defeat.

As they were hurried below, Nathaniel Hislop, ears straining, tried to pick up the threads of conversations from their guards. Thanks to Angelique, he knew many colloquial terms; colourful words that were not taught in schools or found in books. But the things that the guards were saying about Lieutenant Crittenden made him blush to the roots of his scalp.

They were led to the gunroom and told to sit at the large table. Nathaniel wondered if they would be tied and was relieved when they were not. Two armed guards took their places either side of the gun room door, muskets at the ready. No one spoke. Tension built. Beside Nathaniel, Ned began to fidget.

"It's all right Neddy," Jonathan whispered across the table. Peter Crittenden rolled his eyes. The French guards ignored them.

Time passed. With no bells to mark the hour or half, Nathaniel felt lost. Overhead could be heard the sound of men working. From the muffled voices, Nathaniel knew the French were directing repairs to the mizzen and the tiller rope. Boulierre arrived, with Laurendet and another guard in tow carrying the surrendered weapons.  He strode through the gunroom paused in the small anteroom and brazenly opened the door to Captain Bell's cabin. He looked back at Peter Crittenden and spoke rapidly demanding him to show him all charts and documents. Crittenden waited for Laurendet's translation before rising. The third guard left.

After some time two more French Officer's arrived and surveyed the gun room and the prisoners. The first was a large rotund individual, his uniform straining across his ample stomach. He reeked of garlic. His companion was smaller, almost rat like in his appearance, his black eyes matched his greasy hair. They wandered over to the sideboard and inspected the brandy decanter, before pouring themselves each a glass. Nathaniel listened. They did not think much of the brandy, declaring it could not be French. Across the table Jonathan stared at them, sullenly. Ned closed his eyes and began to shake.

"These English are nothing more than fools," the fat man scoffed, "cowardly fools. No Frenchman would surrender so easily." The both laughed. Nathaniel tried to hide his reaction. He would lose the advantage if they suspected he understood their words.

"They are fools if they believe our Capitaine and trust him so easily, Emile," the other replied. His beady eyes stared from one midshipman to the other.

"Shhh," Emile interrupted. They both stared at the prisoners, before laughing again. "And to think you were worried, Jacques, about being posted on the other side of the world and missing out on the spoils of war!" The fat man raised his glass in toast. "To Capitaine Boulierre, may we all grow rich! Peacetime was never so profitable!"

Nathaniel became aware that his hands were shaking. He looked across at Jonathan, whose eyes were waiting. There were questions there, ones that Nathaniel desperately wanted to answer. He bit his lip, frustrated.

Laurendet appeared in the doorway across the small passage to the Captain's Cabin.

"Watch your mouths," he said in rapid French. "Where have you put their marines?"

"They are confined in the hold."

"And how are the repairs coming along?"

"We have most of their men working now, but it will be some time yet. She was damaged far more than we had thought."

Laurendet frowned. "Well you had best go and hurry them along then. The longer we hold the prisoners here, the more dangerous this becomes. Captaine Boulierre wants this enterprise...terminated as soon as possible."

Nathaniel kept his eyes fixed on the worn surface of the table in front of him, not daring to look up for fear his expression would give him away. It was only when the two Frenchmen had departed and Laurendet returned to the Captain's cabin, that Nathaniel dared to raise his eyes. This time he looked past Jonathan's shoulder, leaning a little to see into Bell's cabin. Even from that distance, he could see charts and papers and log books strewn across the desk and floor. Boulierre was busy reading. Peter Crittenden sat silently in a chair. Slowly he turned his head and looked at Nathaniel. His gaze was as hard and brittle as emeralds. Nathaniel's mouth went dry. Peter raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and tilted his head fractionally towards Laurendet, who was folding a chart.

Nathaniel nodded, just once, certain he understood the unspoken question; did you hear that? Peter's eyes darted to Jonathan, whose back was to him. Again Nathaniel understood the message. Tell Jonathan to be ready.

Nathaniel bit his lip again. That would be harder to do. He looked over his shoulder at the guards behind him. One had his musket between his legs and was picking his nails with the tip of the bayonet. The other was watching idly, looking around, more than a little bored. Nathaniel looked back at Jonathan and waited for the blue eyes to come his way. When they did he mouthed one word. Murder.

Jonathan's eyes grew wide. Nathaniel turned his head again and tilted it towards the guards, hoping Jonathan would follow his signal. Then he looked back at Jonathan and Ned and nodded. Did Jonathan understand the message? Either way, he would be ready for something.

Finally Nathaniel looked back at Peter Crittenden. The young Lieutenant's frame was taut, like a cat waiting to pounce. Slowly Peter pulled his lips wide into a close lipped smile and narrowed his eyes. Like a cat, hunting, Nathaniel decided and awaited the strike.


Part 51

Something was happening, although he didn't know what. Jonathan was conscious of sweat trickling down his back. If only he understood what the French were saying. Hislop's hurried message was almost as cryptic. Murder, or at least that is what he thought the midshipman had mouthed. But whose murder? Was he implying that the French were going to murder them or that they were supposed to murder the French.

Jonathan stretched, chair scrapping backwards slightly on the deck, The two French sentries sprung to attention. He held up his hands, palms towards them, wanting no trouble until he knew more. They settled back to their posts. Two armed Frenchmen against three unarmed midshipmen. Jonathan frowned. The odds were not good. They were worse for Peter, who would be alone with both Boulierre and Laurendet to overcome. If only he could see what Peter was doing. He turned his head slightly.

"Jonathan, I think I am going to be sick."

Jonathan muttered a curse and looked back to Ned Grayson. The young midshipman looked pale, his lips bloodless.

"Neddy, not now, please."


"I can't breathe Jonathan, I'm going to be sick." Ned gripped the table, his knuckles white.

One of the guards spoke, asking something or other.

Jonathan shouted back, "He's sick."

The guard came over speaking again, gesturing towards Ned whose breath was now coming in short sharp gasps.

"I don't understand you," Jonathan shouted at the Frenchman.

"What is going on here?" It was Laurendet at the gun room door.

"He's sick. He's going to be sick." Jonathan replied even as his mind calculated the odds again. Three against three, although Ned might not be of any help. Peter against Boulierre. The French Captain was far bigger, but it never did to underestimate Peter.

"May I pour him a brandy to settle his nerves?" Jonathan gestured towards the small sideboard where the brandy decanter sat in its fixture. Laurendet nodded.

Jonathan shot a hurried look at Hislop before leaving the table.  His hands shook as he lifted the heavy cut glass decanter. One chance...they would only have one chance.

"Could we all have one please...sir?" Jonathan asked. "We are all a little, unsettled by this." Laurendet sighed and nodded again. Jonathan carried three glasses to the table and returned to the sideboard.  Two steps would bring him in beside Laurendet. One guard still hovered by the table, the other was back at his place by the door.

Jonathan picked up the decanter. One...two... He paused beside Laurendet.

"My mother always said that a glass of brandy did wonders to ease a nervous condition." He smiled, catching sight of Peter over Laurendet's shoulder. Peter, poised and ready to strike.

"Would you like one too, Lieutenant?" Slowly Jonathan lifted the decanter, offering.

Laurendet sneered, "No," and looked away.

Jonathan struck him hard in the temple, glass and bone shattering in the sickening impact. The Frenchman sagged. Jonathan turned in time to see one French guards take aim with his musket. It was Ned who surged to his feet and knocked the man sideways, Ned who slashed his own broken glass across the man's throat, then stamped on his neck until he ceased to gurgle. Even then Ned seized the musket and stabbed at his chest with the bayonet. The guard stopped moving.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel Hislop had tackled the other guard, musket between them, tilting to and fro. Jonathan held his breath. If the musket discharged, more French would come running. The musket slipped, bayonet slicing along Hislop's sleeve, leaving a trail of blood. Nathaniel let go, the Frenchman turned, reaching for the trigger.  And Ned Grayson struck him in the head with his butt of the borrowed musket. The Frenchman fell, the musket dropped, a loud clatter in the now silent gunroom.

Overhead, a voice cried out in inquiry. Peter appeared at the doorway to the Captain's cabin, a long thin bodkin in his bloodied hand. He spoke in rapid French. To Jonathan's ear, his voice was a passable imitation of Laurendet's cultured tones. Through the distortion of the wooden deck, it might just fool the French. Peter spoke again, his voice rising in anger. They all held their breath. There was no reprisal.

"That was nicely done, gentlemen, but we have only moments." Peter wiped the thin blade on his handkerchief and brought it up to his neck. For one horrifying moment, it seemed as if he was preparing to slit his own through. But he slipped the bodkin down through his cravat until only the cameo broach at the end was visible.

"Not exactly naval regulation, but useful," Peter declared, catching Jonathan's stare.

"Now, to work Gentlemen, gather their weapons.  Mr Hislop, how is your arm?"

"Fine sir, it's just a surface wound."

"Good, then put on one of those French uniforms," Peter indicated the guards, "and make your way to the hold. I want you to release the marines and then break into the small arms locker. 

"Mr Riley, you and Mr Grayson tie up any survivors and then arm your selves. We are going to retake the ship."

As they divested the French of their weapons and tied up the unconscious, Jonathan listened to Peter's directions.

"Mr Riley, I want you to go out through the casements and climb up to the deck. Take off your coat and vest, make yourself look like a seaman doing repairs. Mr Grayson and I will come up through the companionway. Mr Hislop, you will lead the marines up through the forward hatch." Peter paused and looked from one to the other. "I don't need to tell you, Gentlemen that the odds of success are not good. But the alternative is death. These French are little better than pirates and intend to kill us all when the Nightingale is once again seaworthy. Now on your way, Mr Hislop. We will allow twenty minutes then begin our attack."

Hislop left, musket in hand, and Jonathan followed Peter through to the captain's cabin. Boulierre lay dead on the black and white floor cloth. His throat was slashed. Jonathan stared at the body for a moment then turned back to see Peter loading two pistols. When he had finished Peter handed one to Jonathan.

"When did you become wise to their ploy, Peter?" Jonathan asked as he unbuttoned his coat and began to undress.

"They gave themselves away by the things they said. Boulierre and Laurendet showed far more interest than was seemly in Captain Bell's personal possessions. It was only a matter of time before they let slip enough so that I understood what they were up to. We ARE still at peace Jonathan and prizes can not be taken in peacetime. So they decided to claim they found the Nightingale, devoid of crew, floundering."

"Would they have gotten away with it?" Jonathan bent to take off his shoes and stockings.

"Who knows. By the time our loss was reported, and word was passed back to the Admiralty, we may well be at War once again with the French and Boulierre would be sitting on a nice little profit. Who knows how many times they have done this before."


Jonathan straightened up and found Peter smiling. The green eyes flicked up and down appreciatively. One eye brow quirked. "You need to see a tailor, Jonathan. Those breeches are way too tight to be decent."

Jonathan turned away, his face was flaming. He felt naked standing there in nothing but his breeches with Peter's eyes on him. It was silly of course, for Peter had seen him naked many times before. But there was something in his look this time that went far beyond playful teasing.

"You'll need a sword." Peter said suddenly.

For a moment the words made no sense, until Jonathan's gaze came to rest on the stash of confiscated weapons in the corner of the cabin. "I'll take Laurendet's." he replied, not daring to turn and face his friend just yet.

"Take mine." Those words made him turn. Peter had retrieved his sword from where it had been placed, and held it out to Jonathan. "It's good steel, the best. I'll feel better knowing that you are well armed, Jonathan."

"Thank you."  Jonathan tested the weight and balance in his hand. It was short, crafted to Peter's height and made for close quarter fighting. It was an exceptional piece of workmanship.

Jonathan looked up. Their eyes met.

"I'll take care of it, for you," Jonathan whispered, the gesture, their shared look and the impending fight all blending together give the moment a sense of sacredness.

"Take care of yourself for me, Jonathan." It was Peter's turn to look away.

Jonathan bent and checked his pistol before tucking it into the front of his breeches. He wanted to say something to Peter; something more. But his mind could not cope with words and spoke to him instead in images; images of Peter from long ago, holding the body of Harry Stratford on the deck of the Indy. Images of Peter's face when he realised he had lost Archie. Jonathan remembered all the ways Peter had cared for him after Kerrison was gone. He looked at the sword and suddenly knew what Peter was trying so hard not to say - I don't want to lose you too.

"It's time to go." Peter held out his hand and Jonathan gripped it, felt a surge of warmth and let go.

"Good luck Jonathan." Peter whispered, his face suddenly pale.

"I'll see you on the quarter deck," Jonathan replied as he climbed out the window.


Part 52

Nathaniel Hislop walked, trying not to rush and arouse suspicion as he made his way down to the lower deck. He hoped the dim light would be enough to conceal his real identity should anyone stop to question him. He gripped the musket tightly as he climbed down the last few steps. Strange, but he was no longer aware of the pain in his forearm from the bayonet. Aftward, voices echoed; the crew rethreading the ropes for the tiller. Nathaniel turned his attention forward. The hold storerooms would be the most likely place to imprison the marines, right below the cockpit, where the faint groans of the wounded still echoed. He made his way to the companionway and looked down.

"Who's there?" a French voice asked.

"You want some tobacco?" Nathaniel replied in his best guttural French, throwing in a profanity or two. "I took some off the English but it is not too bad."

"Bring it down then," the Frenchman replied. He appeared to be on his own. A small glim was the only light present. Nathaniel climbed down and walked over. The Frenchman waited.

"Have the English dogs been giving you any trouble?" Nathaniel asked, head turned away as if looking in his pocket.

The Frenchman shrugged, turned and spat on the floor. Whatever curse he was about to utter was stopped short when Nathaniel brought up the butt of his musket and smashed the man's jaw. With trembling hands he searched the bleeding Frenchman for the keys before liberating the prisoners. The twenty marines were soon clustered around him.

"Sergeant Ferguson, we must break into the arms locker and make our way to the deck. Lieutenant Crittenden will be leading an attack in a few minutes. Time is of the essence."

Ferguson nodded but hesitated. "You'd better take that French uniform off before the fighting starts, Sir. You wouldn't want one of the lads to mistake you for the enemy."

At the stern of the Nightingale, Jonathan felt the spray of waves on his bare feet as he climbed the slippery side. Above him he could hear hammering and the call of voices. English voices. His men. He recognised Flemming's voice, and Flowers amongst the working party. There would be guards too, but how many? The crew thought themselves prisoners and it was doubtful they would lead an uprising without an Officer present. Would the French be careless enough to leave them lightly guarded because they thought them of little threat?

Jonathan poked his head over the taffrail. The deck had been mostly cleared of debris and there were men working everywhere. The carpenter's mates were repairing the wheel and the binnacle, under the direction of a French seaman. Flemming and a team of hands were preparing to raise the mizzen mainsail. The rotund French Officer who had come to the gun room for a drink of brandy was leaning on the rail looking down to the maindeck. One, two, three, four; Jonathan counted the guards. Four that he could see, armed with muskets and bayonets. But the Nightingales were armed too, if the men turned their tools upon the unwary Frenchmen. His foot slipped slightly and Jonathan repositioned himself. Should he wait, clinging like a rat to the side, or could he sneak up and over whilst the guards were looking else where. Jonathan waited his chance, then slipped up over the taffrail, landing silently on his feet. He ducked behind a pile of folded sail, undid Peter's sword from his hip and slipped it beneath. The pistol he tucked further into his breeches, resisting the urge to grin when he thought how it must look.

Then casually he straightened up, grabbed a rope and mingled with the rest of the crew. They stared, but he pursed his lips and winked. Flemming acknowledged him with a slight nod. The Frenchmen were none the wiser.

Part 53

In the deserted gunroom, Peter bided his time with Ned Grayson. The young midshipman was like a tightly coiled spring. He had armed himself with a sword and his dirk as well as the remaining French musket. 

"I'll not let them take me again," Grayson muttered under his breath as he fingered the edge of his cutlass. "I'll die before they take me this time."

Peter didn't reply. Grayson's desperation and fury would be a potent weapon when turned against the French. He let it simmer.

Minutes ticked by. Not long now and he should hear Hislop's arrival with the marines. Jonathan had been gone some time and must surely be on deck by now. That no alarm had been raised meant he had successfully slipped in amongst the working crew.

Soon it would all be over, one way or another. Peter closed his eyes. His first taste of command was far from what he had imagined. Even if they were victorious, there were still more problems to face. The French frigate was still out there and would have to be dealt with. And then there was the more personal problem of Robert Bell. Peter had not let himself even think on what might have befallen his Captain down in the cockpit. If they came through this safely, then there would be time to face whatever awaited him. And if not...well, at least they would all die together.

But they wouldn't fail. Somehow Peter knew it, knew with a certainty that boarded on prophecy. And it was all tied up with Jonathan Riley. There was something about Jonathan that inspired confidence, a touch of the hero that he never failed to live up to. The men knew it. They'd seen what Jonathan could and would do when the need arose. He was the one the men would rally to without question and follow to the death, up there on the quarterdeck. Peter almost envied him, but he recognised too another fact. Jonathan would succeed where he himself would fail. It was a sobering thought.

So he bided his time sitting silently with the suicidal Grayson waiting for the sound of fighting to break out above.

It started forward, a musket shot followed by another and another. Peter was on his feet. "Come along Mr Grayson, now is the time for revenge." He rushed up the companionway, pistol drawn and shot the first Frenchman he saw. Then he brandished Laurendet's sword and went to work, killing. Ned Grayson was close by his side.

On the quarterdeck, the guards turned to see what was happening and Jonathan took the opportunity to draw his pistol and shoot the nearest. "Nightingales, to me," he shouted, rallying the men as he dived to retrieve the hidden sword. The crew answered his call, rushing towards the French, armed with whatever tools or makeshift weapons came to hand.

They held the element of surprise. The French Officer fired his pistol at Jonathan, the ball ripping along his side, stinging. Jonathan raced towards his assailant and cut him down with one slash.  Elsewhere on the quarterdeck the surprised French were beaten down by sheer weight of numbers. Muskets sounded, and where silenced; French swords and bayonets giving way before English knives, hammers and mallets, buckets and boat hooks. Finally fists proved too plentiful.

In the infirmary, the French Surgeon made one valiant attempt to hold the unconscious Captain Bell to ransom, his scalpel poised at Bell's throat.

Joseph Pike broke his skull with a bottle of medicinal gin.

On the main deck the battle still raged. The last remaining French Officer confronted Peter Crittenden, sword drawn. Around them, their men fought on. The two small figures met in a clash of arms, sunlight flashing off their blades as they lunged and stepped and parried back and forth. But Peter was the more skilful. He smiled as the truth dawned in his opponents eyes.

"Rendre, Monsieur," Peter demanded. The Frenchman refused to yield and they engaged once more.

Not far away Ned Grayson was fighting his own battle. Armed now with only his sword Ned was fighting for his life against a seasoned French seaman. His opponent was bigger and what he lacked in expertise he made up for in strength and reach. Ned was loosing ground before the Frenchman's onslaught, being driven backwards towards the bulwark, his desperate parries revealing his failing strength.

On the quarterdeck, Jonathan saw Ned corned and knew the young midshipman was hopelessly outmatched. He grabbed a musket from a fallen French guard and searched the body, rifling through his poach, for ammunition. He loaded and brought the musket up to fire, but stared in horror at the scene unfolding below him.

In a flash of steel, Peter's sword broke, snapped clean in half as it met his opponent's. Peter was forced back, reeling from the blow and the shock, the broken sword, Laurendet's sword, still gripped in his hands. His heels met something solid on the deck and he tripped, falling backwards, across a fallen body.

In desperation Jonathan looked from Peter to Ned, who was now slumped against the Bulwark, the right arm of his blue jacket dark with blood. His sword fell from his dangling hand. The Frenchman moved in for the killing blow.

Without thought Jonathan aimed and fired, saw the Frenchman fall and Ned look up in surprise, then he spun back to see the French Lieutenant looming over Peter's prone form. Even as Jonathan bent to retrieve a second cartridge he knew there was not time to reload. He fumbled with the cartridge, tearing it open, pouring in the powder, spilling some, spitting the ball into the muzzle, not bothering with the rammer this time but saving a few precious seconds by tapping the butt on the deck. He brought the musket up again, cocked it, aimed at the French Lieutenant who stood with sword raised, and watched as the Frenchman fell, a bright plume of blood spraying from his head. Dead. Jonathan had not pulled his trigger.

Further down the main deck, Sergeant Ferguson, his red jacket looking like a beacon, lowered his smoking musket. Jonathan raised a hand in acknowledgement. Ferguson did likewise.  All around the remaining French were surrendering.  The ship was retaken. Ned and Peter were safe. Rivalry was the farthest thing from Jonathan's mind.


Part 54

Peter lost no time in clambering out from beneath the dead Frenchman. He looked around, trying to find his saviour. Sergeant Ferguson came ambling up the deck like a big bear, grinning as if he had just finished an afternoon of rabbit hunting. He offered Peter a hand up.

"I take it I owe you my life, Sergeant?" Peter asked, wiping the Frenchman's blood from his face.

"I think it was me Sir, but Mr Riley was aiming too." He pointed towards the Quarterdeck where Jonathan was still standing. "Looks like we were both keeping an eye on you." Ferguson grinned and winked. "I really don't know which one of us got the trophy."

Peter wondered who Ferguson meant by the trophy, the Frenchman or himself. "Well thank you anyway, Sergeant." He turned and surveyed the deck. "Have some of your men climb up and cover the French deck with their muskets. I want to dissuade them from retaliating. Send the rest below to round up any French who are still at liberty and secure those who have surrendered."

He turned to Nathaniel Hislop. "Run out the guns. I'm going to hail the Frigate from the quarterdeck."

Jonathan was there, flushed and breathless. "That was close," he said as he wiped the bloody hilt of Peter's sword on his breeches. "I think perhaps you should have kept this?" He offered the sword to Peter.


"I managed without it, thanks to you. Are YOU all right?" Peter pointed to the wound along Jonathan's side. The blood had seeped all down his white breeches.

Jonathan dismissed his injury with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine. It looks far worse than it feels." He took a breath. "It was Ferguson who saved you...I was too slow. I'm sorry."

Peter shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He turned his attention to the French Frigate. "We are not out of the woods yet Jonathan. I need to know how many able men we have left and if the wheel has been repaired." He looked aft and shook his head. "It's a shame the mizzen isn't up, but it can't be helped." 

Peter took a deep breath and shook back his hair. "Now, let's see who has been left in charge over on that Frigate."

Part 55

It was a young Officer who answered Peter's hail, an Aspirant, scarcely older than Hislop. His wavering voice could not disguise his uncertainty.

From the quarterdeck Jonathan followed the rapid exchange as best he could, with Peter filling him in every so often.

"I have told...Picard is the boy's name... that I have taken his Captain and senior Officers prisoner and I will be taking them to a British Port to be tried as pirates."

"And have you mentioned that half of them are already dead?" Jonathan asked. They might lose any advantage they held if the young Frenchman thought his Officers were no longer alive.

"No, I am offering him the chance sail away with his honour intact."


"What?" Jonathan was dumbfounded. "Why not ask for his surrender? If you have him bluffed we could take his ship."

"And do what with it? We barely have enough men to man our own. I would have to send a party aboard the Frenchman, and I doubt they will make amenable prisoners. They only have the rope to look forward to if they are convicted of piracy." Peter shook his head. "It's a long way to India and it would be too much of a risk. Once they saw how few of us there were they would try to retake both ships and probably succeed."

"Are you telling me you are afraid" Jonathan asked.

Peter laughed, a bitter little sound. "Jonathan, I am not afraid to die gloriously upon the quarterdeck, but the life of every man on board is now in my hands so there are other matters to consider. I won't put personal glory ahead of common sense. If strength is not on one's side, then one must use other means."

Jonathan rubbed the scar along his cheekbone and considered the situation. "The men won't like it. They will see it as weakness."

"Then it is up to you to make sure that they understand the reasons behind it." Peter snapped his voice low and shaking. He turned and caught Jonathan's eyes with a direct gaze. "You are second in command now, Jonathan. You had best begin acting like it. Stop questioning my orders and start following them."




Part 56

In less than an hour both ships were once more under sail, the young French Aspirant having accepted Peter's offer. Jonathan watched from the Quarterdeck as the French slowly disappeared from sight in the growing twilight. He had the watch, which suited him, for he doubted that he could sleep. Restlessness gripped him. The aftermath of fighting was sharp in his mouth and prickly on his skin. It hovered in the air, a palpable presence that would not let him rest.

Peter's chastisement only added to his discomfit. Not that he didn't deserve it; had it been anyone else he would never have dreamed of questioning an order, but with Peter it seemed to come naturally. It's because we are friends, Jonathan reasoned, close friends. Perhaps too close given their present circumstances.

Jonathan turned his attention to the ship. The makeshift repairs to the mizzen seemed to be holding but there would be more work to be carried out in the days ahead. For the moment however, the crew could rest and see to their wounded. The list of dead and injured was long. Twenty one dead, including Macquarie, and Mr Duggan, Master. Another fifteen with injuries of a serious nature. These included the Captain. Once order had been restored, Peter had sent a message down to Dawson, asking how their Captain fared. Word had come back, brief and to the point; Bell's leg had been amputated and he was unconscious. Peter had waited until everything was in hand above deck and the last order given before he'd ventured down to see Bell for himself.

There were numerous other minor injuries amongst the crew; cuts and splinters taken during the fighting. The tip of Golding's nose had been severed by a large splinter, making the boy look even more pig like. Hislop's arm was now bandaged, as was the wound to Jonathan's side.

The sword cut to Ned Grayson's arm had required stitching. Jonathan wondered how Ned was faring down in the cockpit. He'd been shaken but coherent when they had spoken earlier. But with the coming night was he lying awake reliving the day's events and wondering what would have befallen him in a French prison?

Jonathan took a deep breath, as once again his mind returned to those terrible seconds when he had watched both Ned and Peter fighting for their lives. The sense of desperation, the hopelessness surged through him again as he remembered loading the musket, aiming. He'd shot on reflex, with little thought except the Ned was about to die. And Peter?  Dear God, what would he have done had Peter been killed? A mantle of guilt descended upon Jonathan's shoulders. Surely Peter had been in just as much danger, yet in hindsight it was easy to explain away his actions; Peter was the more experienced swordsman and even with his weapon broken had stood a far better chance defending himself then Ned, wounded and defenceless.

Yes it was easy to find reasons after the fact, but what preyed on Jonathan's mind was the knowledge that at the time he had given it no thought whatsoever. When faced with the choosing between the two men, he had chosen Ned over Peter.

Jonathan pushed the thoughts away, unsettled by what he knew was truth. There was a difference between love and friendship, but no man should have to choose one over the other.

He had; he'd chosen Ned, instinctively. But was it to do with love or something else? Is it only that I have cast myself so long in the role of Ned's protector that I leapt to his aid without thought, Jonathan wondered? Is it my own sense of guilt about Ned that overrides the loyalty I should feel towards Peter?

Peter had proved himself a friend time and again, even giving Jonathan his own sword to use. Surely a friendship of that calibre brought with it responsibilities. Yet when have I ever been there to help Peter? When have I ever offered him something in return? Even now when he is struggling with his first command, I do nothing but question him.

Peter was going through his own turmoils with Robert Bell and the weights of command. Jonathan rubbed his eyes. It is wrong that I should be a further cause of grief for him. He needed to apologise to Peter, if only for his behaviour earlier. Apologise and some how make up for his double betrayal. Yes, after his watch he'd seek out Peter and offer his apology. Perhaps he could offer some support as well. Peter had always been ready with open arms whenever Jonathan was in need.

Even as the idea formed, a new thought intruded. Was Peter already seeking comfort in Ferguson's arms? Jonathan pushed the thought away, unnerved by where his mind had wandered. There was no reason to think such a thing, no reason to suddenly be plagued by visions of Peter's pale body in Ferguson's hairy grasp. No reason to imagine Peter's moans and shudders as they big marine bent him over and...

Jonathan closed his eyes tightly and paced the deck seeking to dispel his vivid imaginings and gain some measure of relief from his rapidly growing arousal. Such thoughts to ponder after a battle! But perhaps it was not that surprising; perhaps it was simply that his blood was still up from the fighting and killing and after watching men die and fearing for your own life and that of his friends, it was only natural to want to reaffirm that life, to reach out and touch someone, love someone. Was Peter experiencing the same thing? Was it doubly difficult for him because Robert Bell was injured and Peter had no one to turn to for comfort? No one but Ferguson?

Hislop arrived well before the change of watch, bleary eyed, but eager to talk. Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief, hoping Hislop might provide some distraction from his treacherous fantasies.

"I couldn't sleep, everything keeps passing before my eyes," Hislop said with an apologetic smile. "Golding's the same. He's down there tossing and turning. I think we were keeping each other awake. I half envy Grayson that dose of laudanum."

They stood together in awkward silence for a few minutes. Their roles had changed again, for Jonathan as senior midshipman, was now Acting Lieutenant and would most likely remain so until they reached a British port. Of course it would all depend on their Captain and if or when he recovered enough to resume command.

"You did well today Mr Hislop." Jonathan began. It was rather formal, but it needed to be said. "I am sure Captain Bell will be well pleased when he hears of your part."

Hislop blushed. "Thank you...Sir. I'll take over here now, if you want to take some rest."

Jonathan nodded knowing the exercise would be futile.

He made his way down to the main deck, but hesitated when he caught sight of a dark figure standing forward. Ben Flower. Jonathan frowned. Was the young crewman waiting for him? If so, then Jonathan knew the reasons; Flower would be looking for some form of distraction himself to help him unwind and Jonathan had proved an obliging partner in the past. It was unwise of Flower to even contemplate this now that Jonathan was once again an Officer; unwise, but perhaps forgivable given the circumstances.

And would it be so wrong to take up any offer that Flower made? It would be a quick and easy way for both of them to be rid of their pent up energies. Far worse for Jonathan to seek out Peter, and attempt to make amends for his earlier behaviour whilst in this strange mood. If Peter was awake and equally unsettled there was no telling what might happen. Should Peter want more than moral support then Jonathan was not at all certain that he currently possessed the patience and self control to resist should things become physical.

With Flower, all that would not matter.

Just this once, Jonathan told himself as joined Flower in the shadows on the forecastle. Just this once I will disregard all sense and sensibility and seek my own satisfaction just as Flower is no doubt seeking his.

"Are you on duty Flower?"

Flower bobbed his head in salute. "No Sir, just couldn't sleep, Sir." Flower's dark eyes suddenly looked worried as if he expected a reprimand.

"At ease Ben, I feel the same." They leaned against the bulwark, gazing out at the darkened sea. "I'm pleased you came through the fighting unhurt." Jonathan offered by way of conversation.  He had scarcely spoken to Flower in the past weeks and it seemed impolite to come straight out and ask him down to the cable tier without a little small talk before hand.

"I took a bump to the head, but its fine now." Flower touched the lank brown hair on his forehead with a calloused hand.

"You did well, I saw you on the main deck overpowering a Frenchmen." Flower smiled again, pleased by the compliment.

"I seen you too, Mr Riley, leading the charge. We all did. You're the one who saved us today, Sir. Without you, we'd all be prisoners of the frogs."

"Me?" Jonathan shook his head. "It wasn't me alone."

Flower nodded vigorously. "It were you, Sir, no need to be bashful. All the lads are saying we were goners but for you and yer bravery. That Mr C is nothing but a cowardly Molly! He gave the French back their ship when we could 'ave 'ad it for a prize."

Slowly the cold truth sank in. No one else knew that it was Peter who had planned their escape. The crew had only seen Jonathan and Hislop leading the uprising. Nor did the men understand the reasoning behind letting the French Frigate go. As Peter had surmised, it was up to Jonathan to put them to rights.

"Listen to me Ben. Mr Crittenden is the one responsible for our victory today. HE was the one with the plan. He was the one who made it work. Mr Crittenden had to let the French ship go because there were not enough of us left to guard them. He wasn't afraid of a fight; it was simple mathematics that defeated us."

"If yer say so, Mr Riley, Sir." Flower did not look convinced. "But the lads all reckon it would be better 't'were YOU in command!"

Jonathan turned sharply. "You should know better than to listen to talk like that Flower. You survived one mutiny by sheer luck, you might not be so fortunate the next time."

Flower paled and looked down at his bare feet.

"Now tell me who has been saying such things so I may put a stop to it."

Flower bit his lip. "It were only some of the lads like, some of the younger ones. Flemming soon put a stop to it when he heard them. It were only idle talk, Mr Riley. I swear it."

"Well there had better be no more of it Flower, do you understand? You tell the lads what I have told you and make sure they know that if I hear any more talk like that there will be a flogging coming their way."

"Yes, Sir," Flower nodded.

They fell into silence while Jonathan's mind whirled. If this was all just idle talk amongst the younger men then there was little harm in it, but perhaps a quiet word with Flemming tomorrow might be prudent. Scuttlebutt had a habit of spreading and Jonathan had seen what could happen when it was left unchecked. Should I tell Peter what I have learnt here even if it is only to let him know I put the story to rest? Peter had suspected that such would be the case.

"Will there be anything more, Sir?" Flower had moved closer and his quiet voice startled Jonathan. He turned and looked into dark eyes. They looked older and harder than he remembered.

Jonathan stepped away. "No Flower, I'm afraid I have some business to attend to. You should get some rest."


Jonathan made his way to the gunroom to find Peter.




Part 57


The gunroom was deserted and Peter was not in his own small cubby, but lamp light flickered from under the Captain's door. Jonathan knocked.

"Come in."



Peter was seated at Bell's desk, surrounded by charts and papers, busy with pen in hand. He looked up, surprised. Peter had changed from his blood stained uniform and was dressed in only shirt and breeches. His face was pale now that the rogue and kohl had been washed away.

"What's wrong? Don't you have the watch?"

"Hislop relieved me a little early. It seems he can not sleep."

Peter gave a strangled little laugh. "Can anyone?"

Jonathan shook his head.

"Brandy?" Peter asked and collected a bottle and two glasses from the sideboard.

Jonathan took a seat and looked around. The cabin had been put to rights but bloodstains were evident on the black and white floorcloth, making it look like a bloodied chessboard. The air still held the sharp, metallic, tang of blood. Jonathan looked away but not before Peter had noticed.

"I'll have the crew wash the canvas tomorrow. It was too late to do any more tonight." Peter's lips formed a small tight line of tension across his face. 

"How is Captain Bell?" Jonathan asked.

"It is too early to say. Dawson is dosing him with laudanum to keep him quiet. There is a problem with the amputation. The ligatures are not holding. Mr Pike seems to think it is because there was... insufficient...skin allowed for coverage of the..." Peter stopped and took a large swallow of brandy.

"I understand." Jonathan whispered.

"I thought sending for the French surgeon would prove helpful," Peter continued. "For all Dawson's skill with the pox, he is not a very good surgeon."  Peter gave an ironic laugh. "It seems the Frenchman was little better."

"It's not your fault Peter. You did what you could."

Peter nodded. "I know. That's what I keep telling myself."

Jonathan swirled the brandy around in his glass, trying to relax. Tension was an unseen presence everywhere.

"It seems the crew are under a false impression that I was the one who planned the attack," Jonathan began, once again hoping for safe ground. "I've made it know that it was you, but you might want to say something yourself."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Surely you don't expect me to stand upon the quarterdeck and declare myself a hero, Jonathan. It simply is not done."

"Well, no...but...what I mean is...you will put it all in your report. Won't you?" Jonathan indicated the papers strewn about the deck.

"Of course I will." Peter snapped. "Are you worried that I won't mention YOUR part, Jonathan?"

Jonathan blinked, surprised once more by Peter's mercurial change. "No! I'm sorry, I just thought that you should know what I had heard. I DID correct the man and give him a stern warning."

Peter shook his head. "It's I who should apologise," he said more softly. "It's been a long day." His green eyes looked up, weary but smiling. "I don't think I thanked you properly," he whispered. "Thanked you for saving my life."

Jonathan looked away. "It wasn't me, it was Ferguson."

Peter shrugged. "It might have been you. You tried."

Not hard enough, Jonathan chided himself. "When I saw that sword break, saw you fall..." ...I turned away and saved Ned Grayson first. Guilt, sharp and keen stabbed home. "I tried to reload...I was so worried that there wouldn't be time."

Peter's smile turned lazy. "I didn't know you cared so much, Jonathan," was his coy reply.


"Don't make light of it. You could have died."

"As could have you, had that Frenchman's aim been just a little better," Peter said, suddenly serious again.  He poured them each another brandy. Jonathan drank his down without stopping.

Peter rose and walked around the desk to stand at Jonathan's side. "How is your wound now?" Peter asked quietly, one small pale hand reaching out to touch Jonathan's side. It was shaking.

"Fine, a little sore, but it's nothing really." Jonathan looked at the figure standing beside him, a picture of vulnerability. Peter's feet were stockinged, shoeless, accentuating his small stature. There was still dried blood in his hair.

Jonathan put his glass down and stood up. "You must be tired, perhaps I should go."

Peter's fingers tightened on his arm. "Stay." It was more than a request.

They stood like that, unable to look away as that one word hung between them, full of suggestion, invitation, demand.

Jonathan hesitated, knowing it had been wrong to come here, knowing that he had foreseen this and happily disregarded his own instincts on the pretext of helping Peter. If this was what Peter wanted from him tonight, then was it so wrong to comply? For by doing so, by giving Peter the comfort that he craved, could Jonathan somehow make up for his earlier betrayals? But was guilt a valid reason to risk losing their friendship forever? And in the longer term was physical comfort really what Peter needed most from him? 

Now that Peter is acting Captain, would I not serve him better as a loyal friend, willing to support him and help him run the ship? By giving way to lust tonight our relationship will be irrevocably changed forever.

"Peter..." Jonathan began, realising that neither of them was competent enough to make such a momentous decision tonight.

"Yes?"

Jonathan took a deep breath and let it go, surprised by his own rationality. "This isn't a good idea."

"Oh?"

Jonathan shook his head. "No. Not tonight, not after all that has happened. Neither of us is thinking clearly and we will most likely regret it all in the morning."

Peter pursed his lips and looked away. "And when did you become so wise Jonathan?"

Jonathan gave a small laugh. "About two minutes ago," he whispered.

Peter looked back, smiling also. "Well I am pleased that one of us has some sense tonight." He looked away again, clearly embarrassed. "You are right of course. We both have other...matters to consider; I have Robert and, no doubt, Ned Grayson is on your mind." This last echoed with a touch of sarcasm. "We should settle those before we contemplate beginning anything new." Peter wandered to the casements, and stared out, although nothing was visible in the darkness. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Jonathan replied, "For under different circumstances..."

"Perhaps when we get to India, we could find some time to talk about...this?"  Peter turned back suddenly, face full of concern. "We DO need to talk about this Jonathan, talk about what is between us, what MIGHT yet be between us."

Jonathan nodded, pushing all thoughts of Ned Grayson and Robert Bell to the side. "Yes, I think�...talking... would be a good idea." 

"Good, now go and get some rest," Peter continued. "I am going to need your help in the next few days."

Jonathan smiled. "You can count on me, Peter. I won't let you down again." He walked to the door, but hesitated, turned and looked back. "Goodnight Sir," he added, standing to attention.

Peter smiled at the appellation and nodded once in dismissal.


The End.

JJ May 2002-March 2004


Young But Growing

The Trees they do grow high,
The leaves they do grow green.
Many's the time my love I have seen.
Many's the hour I've watched him all alone,
He's young but he's daily growing.

One day whilst I was walking upon the castle wall,
I saw the boys they were playing with the ball,
And my true love was the fairest of them all,
He's young but he's daily growing.

Traditional Folk Ballad
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