laughed again—a bark of appalled dismay. "Half a year! We will be lucky if there's a week's tolerance left in the men"
He made an abortive movement as if to reach out and take Summersgill's arm, and though his face was as composed as always, Summersgill had known him from childhood and discerned both an apology and a request for reassurance. The second touched him deeply. Such a splendid young man to be looking to him for help, and yet so young. So young to be bearing this burden.
"I hope you will forgive me, sir, if I say that my greatest concern is not our lives at all. We were sent to Bermuda to combat privateers, and the Nimrod is a floating fortress. There isn't a settlement on the islands or another ship in these waters could stand against her."
"That is a pleasing thought, surely?"
"It is. As long as she remains in the navy. But once the men are branded mutineers, then what? They'll have this ship and nothing to lose. I dread to think of the damage they could wreak with it."
Summersgill pictured it. Bad enough the fleets of cutters, sloops, and brigs that flitted from isle to isle making it impossible for decent folk to live without fear of robbery or violence, but add the Nimrod and you would add terror. "Oh, I agree!" he said, appalled, "I agree. But what can we do?"
Kenyon gave him a smile of exceptional sweetness. "If the men do mutiny, and I can get down there myself, I intend to blow the powder magazine."
Summersgill wondered suddenly why he had taken this position. He was a landed gentleman and a mathematician, not an adventurer. The realm of sudden death and glory had never appealed, not even when he was young.
"However," Kenyon continued, "it's more likely that the men will get the officers out of the way first, and if I can't..."
Heroism at his age? His skin shrinking away from the vision of himself setting a candle flame to hundreds of tons of gunpowder, Summersgill swallowed. Would there be time for it to hurt? Time to feel the scalding flame, as though he swam in molten lead? Did his oath of allegiance absolutely require that? And if it did, would he really have the courage to go through with it?
Yet could he continue to live, knowing himself a coward? Hadn't he said himself that sometimes honor demanded action? Well. Well, why not?
"My family?" he said, fighting a need to weep at the thought of them, alone in this harsh world, alone on the treacherous sea. "Promise me you will put them into a boat. Promise me my wife and daughter will live."
Glancing aft, Kenyon's eyes lit on the group of midshipmen who were heaving the log to determine the ship's speed, unnaturally studious and quiet for such young boys, their faces pinched with fear. "I mean to take Andrews into my confidence and give him the job of making sure all the youngsters get aboard the longboat. Bess should go, too, this will be no place for her."
He looked back with a rueful smile. "I would certainly have asked you to go and him to stay," he explained, "if it weren't—you understand I mean no disrespect—for the fact that he is a better navigator and a better sailor than you, and so stands a better chance of bringing them safe to shore."
Unexpectedly, Summersgill found himself laughing. "Had I had known the advantage of having such a trade I might not have taken so great a care to remain entirely ignorant all my life." He took Kenyon's hand and shook it, resigned. "Very well, Peter, should it become necessary to blow us all to kingdom come, you may count on me."
Chapter 7
"I think I can brush the stains from the inside of my coat. But the shirt is ruined." Kenyon twisted the linen as though he was wringing a neck. The pressure squeezed out a trickle of blood that dripped onto the clean floor of their cabin. "My best shirt only fit for handkerchiefs, God damn him!"
Josh drew his gaze back to the dark mirror of his wine with a sense of pressing danger. The Nimrod had never been a happy ship, but it seemed to him that some special
He made an abortive movement as if to reach out and take Summersgill's arm, and though his face was as composed as always, Summersgill had known him from childhood and discerned both an apology and a request for reassurance. The second touched him deeply. Such a splendid young man to be looking to him for help, and yet so young. So young to be bearing this burden.
"I hope you will forgive me, sir, if I say that my greatest concern is not our lives at all. We were sent to Bermuda to combat privateers, and the Nimrod is a floating fortress. There isn't a settlement on the islands or another ship in these waters could stand against her."
"That is a pleasing thought, surely?"
"It is. As long as she remains in the navy. But once the men are branded mutineers, then what? They'll have this ship and nothing to lose. I dread to think of the damage they could wreak with it."
Summersgill pictured it. Bad enough the fleets of cutters, sloops, and brigs that flitted from isle to isle making it impossible for decent folk to live without fear of robbery or violence, but add the Nimrod and you would add terror. "Oh, I agree!" he said, appalled, "I agree. But what can we do?"
Kenyon gave him a smile of exceptional sweetness. "If the men do mutiny, and I can get down there myself, I intend to blow the powder magazine."
Summersgill wondered suddenly why he had taken this position. He was a landed gentleman and a mathematician, not an adventurer. The realm of sudden death and glory had never appealed, not even when he was young.
"However," Kenyon continued, "it's more likely that the men will get the officers out of the way first, and if I can't..."
Heroism at his age? His skin shrinking away from the vision of himself setting a candle flame to hundreds of tons of gunpowder, Summersgill swallowed. Would there be time for it to hurt? Time to feel the scalding flame, as though he swam in molten lead? Did his oath of allegiance absolutely require that? And if it did, would he really have the courage to go through with it?
Yet could he continue to live, knowing himself a coward? Hadn't he said himself that sometimes honor demanded action? Well. Well, why not?
"My family?" he said, fighting a need to weep at the thought of them, alone in this harsh world, alone on the treacherous sea. "Promise me you will put them into a boat. Promise me my wife and daughter will live."
Glancing aft, Kenyon's eyes lit on the group of midshipmen who were heaving the log to determine the ship's speed, unnaturally studious and quiet for such young boys, their faces pinched with fear. "I mean to take Andrews into my confidence and give him the job of making sure all the youngsters get aboard the longboat. Bess should go, too, this will be no place for her."
He looked back with a rueful smile. "I would certainly have asked you to go and him to stay," he explained, "if it weren't—you understand I mean no disrespect—for the fact that he is a better navigator and a better sailor than you, and so stands a better chance of bringing them safe to shore."
Unexpectedly, Summersgill found himself laughing. "Had I had known the advantage of having such a trade I might not have taken so great a care to remain entirely ignorant all my life." He took Kenyon's hand and shook it, resigned. "Very well, Peter, should it become necessary to blow us all to kingdom come, you may count on me."
Chapter 7
"I think I can brush the stains from the inside of my coat. But the shirt is ruined." Kenyon twisted the linen as though he was wringing a neck. The pressure squeezed out a trickle of blood that dripped onto the clean floor of their cabin. "My best shirt only fit for handkerchiefs, God damn him!"
Josh drew his gaze back to the dark mirror of his wine with a sense of pressing danger. The Nimrod had never been a happy ship, but it seemed to him that some special
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