rumble of encouragement, almost a moan, and then Andrews was frantically shoving him away, the caressing hands holding him at a distance. Considerably more aroused than he had expected to be, Peter was ready to be angry at being toyed with, but the expression in Andrews' dark eyes was of fear, surfacing out of a deep, stunned bliss.
"Why...?"
"I heard something."
Peter had forgotten he could hang for this. Even now it
didn't seem real—what the hell was so wrong about kissing? But Andrews had instincts honed by a life of threat, and he'd neatened his clothes, taken the lantern and walked away before Peter could even stop panting.
Now he, too, heard footsteps, pausing above the hatch. He heard the grating being flung back and a pleasant voice humming "Hearts of Oak" in an offhand baritone mumble. Hastily retying his disheveled hair, Peter pulled the ribbon taut just as the owner of the pleasant voice leaped the final few rungs of the ladder and splashed into the dirty water of the hold. The lantern light showed a rawboned face, sallow from too much sun, a finely powdered wig, and a lieutenant's coat nearly as new as Josh's, but with the creases shaken out. "Captain Kenyon?"
Settled in himself once more, Peter stood and moved into the light. The sallow young man looked him over with light, humorous eyes and said, "Archibald Howe, sir, reporting for duty. The carpenter's crew told me you were down here."
Peter remembered now that Lt. Howe was the officer promised him by Commodore Dalby, laid off the Asp with yellow fever and, as the commodore said "a troublesome young person, but the only one we have available". He managed not to smile at the thought that the commodore was right about the troublesomeness, though it would be a long time before "disturbing a superior officer's experiment with buggery" would be a reportable offense.
"You are most welcome aboard, Mr. Howe," he said instead, resigning himself with reasonable grace to the interruption. "Help Andrews with restowing the hold, will you—I want her a little more brought by the bow—and when that's done go down to the dockyard and see if you can charm me any more cable. Hawser weight for preference, but I'll take whatever they've got."
* * * *
When Peter came out onto the quarterdeck, just after noon, having spent the rest of the morning checking the salt beef, salt pork, salt horse, dried peas, and other nonperishables, he found Andrews and Howe leaning over the railing together, laughing as if they were old friends. The sun seemed to hang in topaz fury all about them, and the rigging made a beautiful black symmetry against the burning sky.
Inland, parrots flew gaudily over the violent green slopes, but Peter found his eye drawn back to Andrews, whose uncovered hair was tawny-copper in the golden light, and whose face was lit up with humorous scorn as he related one of the Nimrod's minor scandals to an appreciative audience. A strange complex of emotions filled Peter at the sight— proprietorial pride, aesthetic appreciation, but mostly a satisfaction such as he felt looking at his very own first command. Joy and a determination to prove himself.
Realizing that he was standing in a public place, woolgathering, with a small—probably intimate—smile on his face, he cleared his throat and schooled himself to sternness. "The dockyard, Mr. Howe?"
"At once, sir!"
When Howe had gone down the side, they were alone but for the ply to and fro of small boats from the other men-ofwar and the distant hammering and curses of the carpenters, echoing up from the hold. He let the smile return, and received, in exchange, a look of more sweetness than he'd imagined Josh capable of—the man was normally sharp as a barrel of bayonets.
"Eight bells and a little over, Mr. Andrews. Would you join me for dinner?"
"I'd be honored, sir."
* * * *
Dinner was two cold pork chops, saved from yesterday, and the heel of a loaf which had served for breakfast. A less glowing heart than
"Why...?"
"I heard something."
Peter had forgotten he could hang for this. Even now it
didn't seem real—what the hell was so wrong about kissing? But Andrews had instincts honed by a life of threat, and he'd neatened his clothes, taken the lantern and walked away before Peter could even stop panting.
Now he, too, heard footsteps, pausing above the hatch. He heard the grating being flung back and a pleasant voice humming "Hearts of Oak" in an offhand baritone mumble. Hastily retying his disheveled hair, Peter pulled the ribbon taut just as the owner of the pleasant voice leaped the final few rungs of the ladder and splashed into the dirty water of the hold. The lantern light showed a rawboned face, sallow from too much sun, a finely powdered wig, and a lieutenant's coat nearly as new as Josh's, but with the creases shaken out. "Captain Kenyon?"
Settled in himself once more, Peter stood and moved into the light. The sallow young man looked him over with light, humorous eyes and said, "Archibald Howe, sir, reporting for duty. The carpenter's crew told me you were down here."
Peter remembered now that Lt. Howe was the officer promised him by Commodore Dalby, laid off the Asp with yellow fever and, as the commodore said "a troublesome young person, but the only one we have available". He managed not to smile at the thought that the commodore was right about the troublesomeness, though it would be a long time before "disturbing a superior officer's experiment with buggery" would be a reportable offense.
"You are most welcome aboard, Mr. Howe," he said instead, resigning himself with reasonable grace to the interruption. "Help Andrews with restowing the hold, will you—I want her a little more brought by the bow—and when that's done go down to the dockyard and see if you can charm me any more cable. Hawser weight for preference, but I'll take whatever they've got."
* * * *
When Peter came out onto the quarterdeck, just after noon, having spent the rest of the morning checking the salt beef, salt pork, salt horse, dried peas, and other nonperishables, he found Andrews and Howe leaning over the railing together, laughing as if they were old friends. The sun seemed to hang in topaz fury all about them, and the rigging made a beautiful black symmetry against the burning sky.
Inland, parrots flew gaudily over the violent green slopes, but Peter found his eye drawn back to Andrews, whose uncovered hair was tawny-copper in the golden light, and whose face was lit up with humorous scorn as he related one of the Nimrod's minor scandals to an appreciative audience. A strange complex of emotions filled Peter at the sight— proprietorial pride, aesthetic appreciation, but mostly a satisfaction such as he felt looking at his very own first command. Joy and a determination to prove himself.
Realizing that he was standing in a public place, woolgathering, with a small—probably intimate—smile on his face, he cleared his throat and schooled himself to sternness. "The dockyard, Mr. Howe?"
"At once, sir!"
When Howe had gone down the side, they were alone but for the ply to and fro of small boats from the other men-ofwar and the distant hammering and curses of the carpenters, echoing up from the hold. He let the smile return, and received, in exchange, a look of more sweetness than he'd imagined Josh capable of—the man was normally sharp as a barrel of bayonets.
"Eight bells and a little over, Mr. Andrews. Would you join me for dinner?"
"I'd be honored, sir."
* * * *
Dinner was two cold pork chops, saved from yesterday, and the heel of a loaf which had served for breakfast. A less glowing heart than
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