JJ
Part 47.
The quarter deck resembled a charnel house, 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 slaughter. If the Captain was at all able, he would be on his feet or at least calling out orders.
"Take it down to the infirmary, 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. Peter paused and turned, finally looking at the bodies of the fallen; Golding was the only one left standing. At Peter's feet lay what was left of Mr Duggan, the Master. Beside the shattered remains of the wheel lay the helmsman, bloodied and lifeless. Mr Macquarie was likewise dead. There was no sign of Robert Bell. Peter resisted the urge to start searching amongst the fallen spars and rigging. There were more important matters at hand.
"Bosun, 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.
Peter took a deep breath. The Nightingale's guns were still firing, so at least Jonathan was following orders and thankfully the Frenchman had not scored another direct hit. But 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 as he stared about in disbelief.
"Get yourself in hand Mr Hooker, you are needed. See if we can still steer
and if so, have the men prepare to tack. 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.
"Oh my god, oh dear...Where's Bunny?" Peter closed his eyes as the surgeon arrived. Dawson's hysterics were the last thing he needed.
"Over 'ere, Sir!" It was Perkins voice from the other side of the wheel.
"Let me Sir, if you please." Surgeon's Mate Pike. Peter breathed a sigh of relief. At least Pike would be able to handle whatever they found. He followed.
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.
Dawson began sniffling and flapping his hands around, as Perkins pulled the debris aside. Pike had the presence of mind to take charge and send for a stretcher, before bending to take a closer look. "The leg's crushed, and he's lucky he ain't bloody bled to death by now," Pike explained to anyone who was listening. Peter swallowed.
"Very well, take him below Mr Pike and..." What? Peter felt sick. "Do whatever you have to do...please. I leave him in your hands." With that Peter turned and walked back to what was left of the wheel.
Part 48
"Cease firing." Jonathan straightened up and took a deep breath. He'd been working as part of the gun crew replacing an injured tar who had been hit in the throat by a flying splinter. The Nightingale swayed sharply as she tacked, bringing the wind behind once more. The torn sails torn billowed, ropes flapped, as she struggled to take flight. The Frenchman fell behind.
"Hislop, take charge here and get the dead cleared from the deck." Jonathan called to Nathaniel. "See what repairs can be done. Get Ned to help." It was doubtful they would have much time for already the Frigate was preparing to follow. Jonathan nodded towards the quarterdeck. "I'm going up to see if I can help."
Very slowly the Nightingale pulled away from the Frigate who, even as Jonathan climbed to the quarterdeck was wearing to give chase. Her hull seemed sound. The Nightingale's guns had failed to cripple her.
"What do you want?" Peter snapped as Jonathan approached. "Why did you leave your post?"
Jonathan bit his lip. "Sorry. I left Hislop in charge. I thought you might need a hand." He glanced around to see who was in earshot and dropped his voice. "I...saw the Captain taken below. I thought you might want to go and see..."
"Do you honestly think I can leave here now?" Peter almost screamed. "We are barely holding on to our mizzen, some of our sails are shot to pieces, and I don't know how long we can hope to outrun the blasted French! Do you really expect me to stroll down to the infirmary and leave YOU in charge?"
Jonathan shook his head. "No, I'm sorry." A cannon ball splashed close beside the hull and they turned to watch the approaching foe. Even as they watched, they could see the Frigate was gaining quickly. Another shot hit the already weakened Mizzen mast and split it in half. It crashed into the sea, dragging topsails and rigging with it. The Nightingale slowed, weighed down by the drag of wet canvas and spars.
Peter took a deep breath and let it go. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Have the colours lowered, it's the only thing left to do. We can't hope to outrun them, damaged as we are and they will shoot us out of the water if we don't."
"Peter, are you serious?" Surely Peter wasn't giving up so easily.
"Do it Jonathan. Don't question my orders! We can barely steer the ship. Take charge here, I'm going below to the captain's cabin to take care of some things. Hooker..." Peter called as he walked forward. "Bring the ship about again, if you please."
Jonathan watched the retreating figure, too shocked to move for a moment.
"Mr Hislop, Mr Grayson, to the quarterdeck of you please." He waited for the younger midshipmen to arrive, trying to steady his breathing, unable to believe that Peter was surrendering without a fight.
"Mr Grayson, lower our colours and don't ask questions. Mr Hislop, prepare the main deck for boarding." Their faces reflected his own state of shock.
"Will we be their prisoners?" Ned asked, his voice shaking. Jonathan knew the root of his fear but there was no time to offer comfort.
"Ned, I'm counting on you. We are the only Officers left except for Mr Crittenden. We are in this together. Please stay calm and do as I say."
Ned nodded, visibly marshalling his control and went to work, as did Hislop, jumping down to the main deck again and rallying men. Jonathan wandered over to Hooker at the wheel. The Mate shook his head. "I knew we was done for when I saw who was in charge."
"What?" Jonathan asked.
"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 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 of such talk from you, it will be your last. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Sir," Hooker nodded meekly.
"I have the greatest confidence in Mr Crittenden. There is nothing to worry about." Jonathan hoped that his words would prove true.
Part 49
Nathaniel Hislop could not believe his eyes when Peter Crittenden immerged from below. 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.
"Mr Hislop, Mr Riley, 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.
As he arrived, Jonathan Riley seemed to have the same problem. He blinked and shook his head. "Peter, what are you doing?"
"What does it look like I am doing?" Crittenden asked, his voice shrill with anger. "I am trying to save our necks, Jonathan. I don't fancy spending the next five years in some filthy French prison. I would ask you to lend a hand if it's not too tiresome." Crittenden tilted his head and fluttered his black lashes. "Surely you don't expect me to save this ship single-handedly, do you?"
Riley was too stunned to answer. Crittenden continued. "Mr Hislop?"
"Yes," Nathaniel squeaked, afraid to hear what the next order would be. "I gather from the rather colourful scrawlings in the margin of your journal that you understand some French?"
Nathaniel felt the heat rise in his face and nodded.
"Good, then listen carefully to anything you may overhear. It may prove useful. And it would do well for both of you to remember that the French may speak English too, so watch what you say in their hearing."
"They're comin' alongside Sir," Fleming called out from where he waited at the entry port.
Crittenden bit his lip and lowered his voice. "I want you both to follow my lead and be ready for whatever eventuates. Now get rid of those swords before the French come aboard. I don't want anyone armed. Do you understand?"
Nathaniel didn't, but he followed orders and stowed his hanger with the other that had been brought on deck during the battle. He noticed for the first time, that despite Crittenden's finery he also went unarmed.
With one final look around, Crittenden shook back his hair and minced towards the entry port. "Come Gentlemen, let us prepare to be boarded. My only regret is that I did not have time to heat the curling tongs."
What unfolded next was like something out of a street theatre that Nathaniel had once watched. Lieutenant Crittenden bowed and bobbed and reached up high on tip toes to embrace the French Officers and kiss them each heartily on the cheeks. The French were stunned as were most of the Nightingale's crew.
The French Captain introduced himself as Capitaine Boulierre and demanded Crittenden's sword, whereby and the young Lieutenant went into a near apoplexy declaring that he never carried one as they were far too dangerous and he was libel to trip over the pointy end. "Besides," Crittenden added in what Nathaniel deduced to be close to perfect French. "We are at Peace, Monsieur. Make love not war has always been my motto." He lowered his eyes and fluttered his lashes in a move that left the French snickering under their breath.
The Captain was not taken in.
"What is he saying?" Riley whispered as the French Captain began a series of loud and angry replies.
"He's refuting that we are at peace." Nathaniel replied softly. "Says he has never heard of such a thing. Do you think he is lying?"
Riley shrugged.
In the blink of an eye, Crittenden had dropped to his knees on the deck, his hands clasped together in a parody of prayer.
Nathaniel suppressed a groan. "He's begging!" he whispered a little too loudly. Several of the French looked their way and smirked.
"What exactly is he saying?" Jonathan asked again.
"Something about rendering assistance, and not leaving us to perish ...he wants their surgeon sent over...for our Captain, I think...and something about dinner." Nathaniel shook his head. "I can't keep up with it all. His French is too fast for me. Do you think he knows what he is doing?"
Riley sighed and looked away. "I honestly don't know but don't judge him too harshly. He's been through a lot. He...lost a very dear friend some years back. He took it very hard. I fear he thinks he will lose the Captain as well. That may be foremost in his mind and making him a little...irrational."
"A lot of good that is going to do us!" Nathaniel spat.
At that moment the meeting broke up. Something had been decided, although Nathaniel had missed most of it while talking to Jonathan. A swarthy French Officer, with a bright shiny sword, herded the midshipmen together and led them down to the gun room behind the French Captain and Peter Crittenden, the latter chattering all the way.
"What's he saying?" Jonathan's frustration was clear in his voice. Nathaniel listened trying to pick up the threads of the conversation. Thanks to Angelique, he knew many colloquial terms; colourful words that were not taught in schools or found in books. But the things that tripped so easily off Lieutenant Crittenden's tongue made him blush to the roots of his scalp.
Part 50
It was like something out of a bizarre comedy. Jonathan wondered if he would suddenly wake up and find it all a dream. They were seated in the Captain Bell's cabin around a large makeshift table laden with a variety of hastily prepared delicacies. Some had been prepared by Updike, the Nightingales cook; others by his French counterpart, a small man of some conceit who had guarded two large silver platters as one would two virgin daughters, until he was ready to hand them over to their prospective Bridegrooms. Those Bridegrooms, or rather the French Captain and three of his Officers, were now seated at the table also.
Jonathan surveyed the scene. Captain Boulierre sat at the head of the table looking very much like a man at home. A faint smile played about his lips as he watched Peter Crittenden simper and flirt on his right. On Boulierre's left sat his own First Lieutenant, glass of claret in hand.
Beside Peter sat another Frenchman; a big red faced man, with the manners of a pig who was busily pulling apart the carcass of what looked to be a small chicken. Thick sauce, the colour of old blood dripped down his fingers. Beside him and directly across the table from Jonathan sat Ned Grayson. The young midshipman had barely touched his meal although his plate was heaped with food. His eyes had taken on a glassy look and he gripped the silverware so tightly that his knuckled showed white. Jonathan wondered how long it would be before the young midshipman snapped. At the very end of the table sat a quiet young French officer. He had learnt from Nathaniel Hislop who thankfully was seated on left, that this young Frenchman was somehow related to the Captain.
Jonathan turned his attention back to Peter and wondered for the thousandth time what his friend was up to. Peter and Boulierre had disappeared into Bell's cabin, while Jonathan, Nathaniel and Ned were placed under guard in the gunroom. The hours had crept by as overhead the sound of men working echoed down. Hislop had passed on what little information he could glean. Ferguson and the rest of his marine had been secured in the hold. However the French thought the rest of them of little threat, especially Peter Crittenden whom they thought an incompetent fool. They'd set the Nightingale's crew to work repairing the rigging and sails, replacing mizzen mast and spars. From what Jonathan could ascertain they were lightly guarded, the French not worried enough to send over more of their own crew than was necessary to oversee the repairs.
He'd fretted the time away, wondering what Peter was doing in that cabin...with the French Captain. Dark pictures formed in his mind. There was no denying that Peter had a self destructive streak; he'd almost admitted that much himself. It was only the occasional comings and going of the other French Officers, carrying orders and reports that gave Jonathan hope that Peter was not indulging in his own twisted form of punishment at the hands of the French Captain. He'd almost laughed out loud when the French cook had arrived chaperoning his offerings and Peter had immerged from the cabin to bid them enter and dine.
Now here they sat, playing out this outrageous dinner party, eating snails and quails while talk passed back and forth in a language he could not understand.
"What is he saying now?" Jonathan asked Hislop yet again.
Nathaniel took a gulp of the red wine which had flowed liberally all night and sniffed. "He's relating some tale about himself and ...one of his father's gardeners, I think he said." Nathaniel frowned. "Something about them being so close there was nothing between them..." He looked at Jonathan, puzzled. "Perhaps it's something to do with that French idea of equality amongst men?"
Jonathan was not so sure. He watched as Peter flirted with the Captain. Even without understanding the words, it was obvious what Peter was doing. But for a split second as Peter turned away, Jonathan caught sight of his eyes. What he saw there gave him pause, for reflected in those depths was something as cold and hard as emerald.
Jonathan held his breath, waiting.
"A Toast!" Peter declared, this time in English. He surged to his feet, staggered a little, giggled and raised his glass towards Boulierre. "To our French saviours," he slurred, dark lashes fluttering. The Nightingales midshipmen surged to their feet. The French remained seated, smiling.
"Long may they live." As Peter spoke the final word, he brought his glass down hard on the table, shattering it, then with the speed of a snake, struck towards the Captain's throat. The small white hand hovered there, broken glass pressed hard against the jugular. No one moved.
Peter spoke, French again but this time his meaning was clear to all. Surrender.
The French Captain laughed.
And Ned Grayson, held so long like a coiled spring, turned to the big Frenchman beside him and thrust his table knife into his throat.
The room erupted in a burst of movement, confrontation and engagement, attack and counter-attack, quick and brutal. Peter slashed the glass along Boulierre's throat, showering the table in a stream of hot blood. The French First Lieutenant reached for the carving knife, it being in better reach than his sword. Hislop reached for the silver platter of small bird bodies and battered the Frenchman in the face with it, breaking cheek and jaw and rendering the man unconscious. Jonathan launched himself at the remaining Frenchman, throwing him from his chair and landing a blow to his jaw as they landed on the deck. The young man put up little resistance and was easily subdued.
Silence descended, broken only by laboured breathing and the gurgling of Boulierre, drowning in his own blood. Ned was sobbing quietly. His adversary lay with a fork imbedded in his eye and several knife wounds to his throat. The whole encounter had taken only moments.
"Arm yourself with their weapons, we don't have much time." It was Peter's voice that roused them to action, sounding fair calmer than any man had a right to when covered in so much blood. It dripped from his hair and had soaked the lace frills of his shirt. It was all French.
"Mr Grayson, remain here and tie up any who are still alive." Peter walked to Bell's sleeping alcove and immerged with his Captain's sword. He unsheathed it, letting it catch the lamp light for a moment before smiling. "Mr Riley, Mr Hislop, if you please," he gestured toward the closed cabin door. "We have but one chance, let us not waste it."
And with that he threw open the door and went into battle.
Part 51.
It was easy to overpower the two French crewmen playing cards in the gun room and from there they moved forward, a wave of violence surging through the ship, gathering momentum as swords cut and blood flowed.
"Nightingales, attack!" Jonathan called to any who would answer, as he ran towards the companionway, Hislop beside him, Peter a little way behind, slowed down by his heels.
And answer they did, turning on the surprised French and bearing them down by sheer weight of numbers. Muskets sounded, and where silenced; swords and knives gave way to buckets and boat hooks and 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 mirroring Peter's actions from minutes before.
Joseph Pike broke his skull with a bottle of medicinal gin.
Somehow they did it, overpowered their captors, although afterwards much of the fighting was a blur to Jonathan. He stood on the main deck and wiped the blood from his hands, as Peter called across to the French Frigate. It was a young Officer who answered, an Aspirant, scarcely older than Hislop, whose wavering voice could not disguise his uncertainty.
Jonathan listened, only half following what Peter was saying, until Hislop came over and offered to interpret once again.
"Mr C is saying that he has their Captain and senior Officers held prisoner in the hold and will be taking them to a British Port for trial." Hislop frowned and turned to Jonathan, his eyes troubled. "He says they knew all about the Peace, but chose to ignore it in the hope of a prize."
"And he hasn't mentioned that half of them are dead?"
"No, he's offering...Laurendet, I think his name is, the chance to go free and sail back to wherever they came from with his honour in tact."
They both held their breath awaiting Laurendet's reply. Would the young Frenchman open fire and risk killing his own Captain? Peter was taking a considerable chance. Jonathan admired his gall.
Finally the reply came.
"He's agreed," Nathaniel whispered, letting go his breath. "Mr C is offering to return any French crewmen who want to go." He turned to Jonathan and beamed a smile. "I do believe he has pulled it off."
In less than an hour both ships were once more under sail. Jonathan watched from the Quarterdeck as the French slowly disappeared from sight. He had the watch, which suited him, for he doubted that he could sleep. The makeshift repairs to the mizzen seemed to be holding and there would be time for more work in the days ahead. For the moment however, the crew could rest, or at least try to in what was left of the night.
Jonathan wondered how Ned was faring down in the cockpit. He'd been shaken but coherent when they had spoken briefly on deck. Hopefully he was asleep, along with Hislop who was trying to grab a few hours rest before the next watch started.
And Peter...what was he doing? Down with Bell, most likely. He'd waited until everything was in hand and the last order given before he'd gone. Even then he had shown some reluctance. Perhaps he didn�t want to face whatever awaited him down in the bowels of the ship. The only report that Jonathan had heard was that their Captain's leg had been amputated.
Jonathan took a deep breath. Peter's behaviour today had been unorthodox from the start. Jonathan did not know which aspect unsettled him the most. True, he had no proof that Peter had played the whore for Bouliere, but what had happened afterwards as they sat around the dining table, felt close to murder.
Had the French really been ignorant of the peace treaty or had they been lying. Peter seemed to think they had, but Jonathan had not had the chance to confirm this with his friend. Peter had been so busy giving orders and Jonathan following them, that they had not had the chance to speak of anything.
And they needed to, if only to put Jonathan's own mind to rest. He was haunted by visions of what may have happened whilst Peter was closeted alone with Bouliere and did not know why. Was it only his concern for Peter that made the thought so unacceptable? And if Peter had let himself be used like that, was it really much different to Jonathan's own actions in catching Crabtree and his cohorts?
Perhaps it was simply that his blood was still up from the fighting, Jonathan reasoned. It surged in him, a palpable presence that would not let him rest. He walked the deck, back and forth, seeking to release his pent up energy.
Hislop arrived well before the change of watch, bleary eyed, but eager to talk. "I couldn't sleep, everything kept passing before my eyes," he said with an apologetic smile. "I think Ned's the same. He's down there tossing and turning. I think we were keeping each other awake. I half envy Golding down in the infirmary."
They stood together in awkward silence for a few minutes. "You did well today Mr Hislop." It was rather formal, but it needed to be said. "I am sure Captain Bell will be well pleased when he hears of your role."
Hislop blushed. "Thank you...Sir." There 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.
"I'll take over here now Sir, 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 as he caught sight of a dark figure standing forward. Ben Flower. Was the young crewman waiting for him? If so, then Jonathan guessed he knew the reasons; unwise, but perhaps forgivable given the circumstances. 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 to seek his hammock feeling like this, for Ned was no doubt still awake and equally unsettled. Now was NOT the time to try and work out what had been smouldering between them. If Ned SHOULD choose this moment to declare his feelings then Jonathan was not at all sure that he currently possessed the patience and self control that Ned would need, should it become physical.
With Flower, all that would not matter.
Just this once, Jonathan told himself as joined Flower in the shadows on the forecastle. Flower bobbed his head. "Mr Riley, Sir."
"Are you on duty Flower?"
"No Sir, just couldn't sleep, Sir." Flowers 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.
"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. I didn't do it."
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."
Slowly the cold truth sank in. No one else knew of Peter's part in their escape. The crew had only seen Jonathan leading the uprising.
"Listen to me Ben, it wasn't me. It was Mr Crittenden. HE was the one with the plan. He was the one who made it work."
Flower did not look convinced.
"It was Mr Crittenden who cut the French Captain's throat. That was our signal to attack."
Flowers eyes grew wide. "What? While 'e was fuckin' 'im?"
"NO! That never happened." Jonathan closed his eyes. "Flower, I want you to tell the men that they have it wrong. Tell them that I said so. Mr Crittenden killed the French Captain while we sat eating. HE is the true hero here."
"If yer say so, Mr Riley, Sir."
They fell into silence while Jonathan's mind whirled. Did Peter know what everyone was thinking? I should go and tell him...and let him know that I put the story to rest. For Peter was the one who deserved the credit.
"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.
"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 52
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 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 still evident on the black and white floorcloth, making it look like a bloodied chessboard. The air still held the sharp metallic tang 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, changing the subject.
"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. Was there no subject of which to speak that would not cause pain?
"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 led 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 raised one sceptical eyebrow. "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.
Peter laughed out loud this time. "My report? Oh yes. I am sure THAT will make for interesting reading." He stood and poured them each another glass, the bottle clanking loudly against the crystal, brandy splashing everywhere. "I think it might be best, given the circumstances, that I keep my report as simple as possible."
"You are not going to lie, are you Peter?"
"Lie, no. Why should I do that?"
Jonathan emptied his glass before answering. "Well several reasons come to mind. For one, I don't think the Admiralty will look favourably on sodomy with a French Captain even if it is in the name of war."
Peter laughed. "Is that what you think I did?" He stood and paced to the casement windows. "Bouliere was not that interested in my arse. He wanted information and took me for nothing more than a foolish English fop who had been thrust into command in the absence of more senior Officers. I showed him every chart and document in here," Peter gestured violently at the littered desk. "And while I flirted and he read, he happily gave himself away by mentioning a good many things, one of which was that he knew France and England were at peace. When I learnt he was going to great efforts to make the Nightingale seaworthy again, I understood what he was planning. It would be a simple matter to kill us all and claim he found the Nightingale unmanned and floundering. He could suggest we were lost in a savage storm rounding the Cape or died from some capricious disease that left few standing. He would have made a tidy sum from her salvage."
"So that was the reason that you decided to attack him at the dining table?"
"Of course!" Peter declared hotly. "He was just keeping us alive until he had as much information as he could gather." Peter narrowed his eyes. "Surely you don't think I killed him in cold blood? It was an act of self defence, only I struck first."
Jonathan rose. "If you say so." He put his glass down and turned to leave.
In a flash Peter was by his side, one small fine hand reaching out to stop him. It was shaking. "You do believe me, don't you?"
Jonathan looked down at the figure beside him. Peter's feet were stockinged, shoeless, accentuating his small stature. There was still dried blood in his hair. "I don't know what to believe."
"I did what I had to do Jonathan, that's all." Peter's fingers tightened on his arm. "I'm sure you would have done the same."
Where had he heard words like those, before? Jonathan stared into the green depths of Peter's eyes; eyes that begged for understanding. "I think I had better go," he whispered, aware of a strange heat building between them.
"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.
Something sparked between them, a desperate need that grew, hot and consuming, drawing them closer and colliding as it found like cause. Jonathan could not say who moved first. They met in a gnash of teeth and a frenzy of hands, careless and urgent, and were soon wrestling together on the floor. Breeches were pulled down, shirts pushed up as flesh sought flesh. It was Peter who finally yielded and turned, head down, arse up, a prize for the claiming.
Jonathan took him with spit and fire.
Part 53
It wasn't meant it to happen like this. He had dreamed about this moment for too long for it to be over so quickly, a hurried act of self gratification on a bloodstained carpet, with so little said between them.
Peter Crittenden rubbed his elbows through the thin cotton of his sleeves and rolled onto his back. There was so much he wanted to say, so much that needed to be said; things of the heart. But already Jonathan was apologising and making excuses.
"I'm sorry Peter, that shouldn't have happened. You should have stopped me."
Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead and sighed. "Jonathan, it's all right. I didn't want to stop you."
"It's the fighting, that's all. We were both wound tight, riding on our nerves." Jonathan's eyes were full of guilt.
"It's all right Jonathan," Peter said again. He closed his eyes and listened to their breathing.
Jonathan hadn't finished. "I mean, I know that you and Robert Bell, that you and he are...I...respect whatever it is between you and I wouldn't want to upset that and it's not as if this means...I mean, it was just..." He broke off nervously.
Peter opened his eyes again, waiting. Jonathan waited too; like a condemned man ready for execution. Peter took pity on him and set him free. "This was just something between friends, Jonathan. That's all. It need mean nothing more than that; just two friend giving each other a moment's ease."
It hurt to say those words, to put it into those terms, for Peter longed for it to be so much more. But it was fitting. And it was right. That's all it had been, and for all Peter's wishing, he could not make it otherwise.
Jonathan propped himself on one elbow and looked down. It was impossible not to see the relief on his face. "Yes, we are friends, good friends, and we always will be." He smiled, and began buttoning his breeches. "I suppose I should go. I'm sure you'll be wanting to check in on Captain Bell before you go to bed and I should see how Ned is faring after all this. It's been a trying day for him."
They were not the words Peter wanted to hear. He bit back a sharp reply and settled for something more profound. "You care a great deal for Ned, don't you."
Jonathan's face softened. "Yes," he whispered.
"It's more than just a physical attraction, isn't it."
Jonathan nodded as if the truth was too sacred to be spoken aloud. It broke Peter's heart.
"You'd better go then," he said, marshalling his courage. "Get some rest Jonathan. You've earned it."
Peter lay back and closed his eye listening to Jonathan's departing steps and the gentle click of the door as it opened. He thought of all the ways the day might have ended. It was strange that he had not foreseen this as one of them.
Perhaps he should count himself lucky to be alive and not feeding fish at the bottom of the ocean; or hale and whole and not chained in the hold of a French Frigate. He'd save a good many lives too and given Robert at least a chance of surviving. The Nightingale was mostly intact and he had skill enough to get them back on course and to their destination. Perhaps he should ponder all of that and give thanks to God for his mercy. Perhaps he should do as Jonathan suggested go back down to where Robert lay fighting for life and listen as Dawson and Pike squabbled over what to do.
Or perhaps he should just lie here a while longer and try to recall the fleeting touch of Jonathan's lips on his mouth and hands on his skin. Capture those moments and lock them away his memory and hide them away in his heart. And not give in to tears.
"Peter?"
He opened his eyes with a jolt, surprised to find Jonathan still standing in the doorway.
"Aren't you going to bed?"
"Yes, in a minute." His voice shook and there was no disguising it.
Jonathan crossed the floor and reached down, offering a hand to help him up. Peter took it and felt the strength of Jonathan's grip as he rose. He held that hand for a moment, drinking in the offered companionship and warmth, reluctant to let it go.
It was Jonathan who pulled him closer and enfolded him in the embrace that he longed for and needed so badly; Jonathan who placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head and whispered, "You were amazing Peter."
Peter's laugh was bitter as he listened to the steady beating of Jonathan's heart. "Why thank you, but I can do much better, given more time and a proper bed." Perhaps it was not too late to hide behind his mask.
"I didn't mean it like that." Peter looked up to find Jonathan frowning.
"I meant today," Jonathan continued, his voice humble with awe. "What you did, how you planned it and saw it all through. You are truly a hero, Peter."
"Thank you." It was not what Peter had hoped for, but it was from the heart. It ended all too soon.
"Where will you sleep?" Jonathan asked as he released Peter and made his way to the door.
Across the room Bell's hanging cot was visible through the half opened door to the sleeping alcove. Peter let his gaze rest there, remembering.
"In my own cot, Jonathan," he finally replied. "It wouldn�t seem right to sleep in here."
Part 54
Jonathan closed the door and stood in the darkened gunroom, cursing himself. How could he have let this happen? To take advantage of his friendship with Peter and use him like that. And at such a time too, when Peter's lover lay at death's door, and Peter himself was probably worn out from all that had transpired.
And yet it had felt so good. For both of them, of that much he was certain.
Perhaps Peter had the right way of thinking; something between friends. Something simple with no ropes or anchors to foul their friendship. Something shared like a bottle of wine or a round of cards. Something without guilt.
Yet if that was true, then why did he feel this way? Jonathan wandered through the darkened gun deck, aware of men slumbering all around him, feeling very much alone.
He thought of Peter, not in the heat and friction of their encounter, but of the little things afterwards. Peter's knees, rubbed red from the rough flooring, his hair all awry and tangled around his face. The feel of Peter's hand, small and vulnerable in his own as he helped him to his feet. Strange, it had not felt that way on his skin moments before. The look in Peter's eyes as he turned to go, so different to the calculating confidence of earlier when he had taken on the French Captain and emerged the victor.
What exactly had transpired between himself and Peter just now? Was it as Peter had said; something between friends? Or was it something more? What would have happened if Jonathan had but stayed? There was so much between them that Jonathan didn't understand; why of late they always seemed to be at odds with each other; why he felt something close to jealousy when he thought of Peter with Bell; and why he wished they could do this all over again and take a little more time.
But would it be right to embark on such a relationship with Peter when he was bound to Robert Bell in some strange unholy alliance? And then there was the tangle that Jonathan felt whenever he thought about Ned Grayson. He could no longer deny that there was something growing between them, something powerful that would have to be addressed sooner or later.
No, now was not the time to take his relationship with Peter to a more intimate level, not while they were both involved in others. To do so would put their friendship at risk and Jonathan was not prepared to gamble with that. It was too dear to him.
In the cockpit, Ned had finally succumbed to sleep. Jonathan stripped off his clothes and swung into his hammock, relieved that he did not have to face Ned's problems tonight. He wondered if Peter's scent still lingered on his skin.
And as he lay alone in the darkness Jonathan could not shake the feeling that something very precious had just slipped through his fingers, before he'd even realised that he held it in his hand.
THE END
JJ March 2003