A Sea Unto Itself by Jay Worrall

Charles’ mind refused to accept it. The sound became regular, a loud knocking. By degrees he pulled himself to wakefulness. “Sir, sir,” he heard a voice call—Beechum’s voice. He heard Augustus moving through the outer cabin. Grudgingly he pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the hammock. Something must be wrong somewhere to have him called in the middle of the night.
    Charles forced his senses to work. It wasn’t for a change in the weather. From the pitch and roll of the ship he determined that Cassandra sailed on the same easy seas and moderate westerly breeze that she had when he’d gone to bed. Two weeks out of Chatham, they were in open seas well off the North African coast with no navigational hazards. There was none of the shouting or even musket fire that might signal a mutiny in progress. In fact, aside from the gentle groaning of the ship’s timbers and the wash alongside, it was deathly quiet, as would be expected at this time of night—whatever time of night it was. His feet rubbed across the floor until they found his slippers.
    “It be Mr. Beechum, Cap’n,” Augustus announced, pulling back the curtain to the sleeping cabin. He held a candle in its holder, casting a dim glow into the room. “He say he must speak to you urgent.”
    “I’m coming,” Charles said and stood upright. Beechum, he knew, was scheduled as deck officer for the middle watch.
    “I’m sorry to wake you, sir,” Beechum said as Charles emerged.
    “What is it?” He stretched his arms, trying to shake the torpor of sleep.
    “It’s Stimson, sir.” The young man looked genuinely upset. “He was found in the hold forward, under the orlop.”
    “What was he doing? Who was with him?” Charles came fully awake, angered but not completely surprised that an obstinate Stimson might have continued with his schemes. At least he had been discovered in time.
    “No, sir. He’s alone. He’s dead.”
    “Dead?”
    “Dead, yes, sir. I’m certain of it.”
    It took Charles a moment to digest this. “Wake Mr. Owens, the surgeon,” he said. “Tell him to meet me there, and Lieutenant Ayres with a few of his marines. You might get Lieutenant Bevan out of his cot as well. Is there anyone with the body now?”
    “Just Sykes. He’s midshipman of the watch. I told him to stay until you came.”
    “Let me put on some clothing; I’ll be there in a moment.”
    “Aye, aye, sir,” Beechum said as he started toward the door.
    Charles found his breeches and pulled them on, tucking his nightshirt into the waistband. It took him a moment to find his shoes, then he slipped into them without bothering about the stockings. He buckled on his sword as he passed out the door.
    The hold of any ship of war is a dank, airless place below the waterline. As Cassandra was newly overhauled and only a few weeks from port, hers smelled sweeter than most. He climbed down by the forward ladder-way, holding a lantern before him, and hurried along the narrow aisle between the casks, barrels, hogsheads, and crates stacked to the deck beams and wedged tight on either side. The space was eerily silent, his light casting patterns of constantly transforming shadows as he passed. Ahead he could see the platform for the orlop. “Mr. Sykes,” he called out.
    “Here, sir,” the boy answered. “You’ll have to come under.”
    Charles saw the light of Sykes’ lantern and ducked low under the beams. The midshipman sat cross-legged on a looped section of cable. On the floor in front of him lay the red headed Stimson. The body lay stretched out on its back, the arms straight on either side, legs slightly splayed. There was no blood that Charles could see as he drew near; no obvious bruises or scrapes. Stimson’s head was twisted at an unnatural angle so that he appeared to be examining the deck boards at close range.
    “Christ,” Charles muttered. He looked at Sykes, who seemed calm enough. “How long have you been