But if not, what then?
“I’m not asking as your captain, but as your friend. Alfie, what’s wrong?”
Alfie raised his head and gave a quick, defensive smile; a ridge of white teeth in the dimness, and his smoky eyes unfathomable. “How can I tell the friend without the captain finding out?”
“I may have already guessed,” John murmured, heavily. “You were on his ship, weren’t you? Did he...?”
John’s breath came hard as he primed himself to fight even the horrible suspicion. He had sworn never to think this again. If he could just keep it at bay—a formless dark monster on the edge of his mind—he could challenge it, defeat it, and neither of them would ever have to think about it again.
“No, I don’t need to know,” he answered himself quickly. “No one has to know.” Throwing open his sea chest, he delved inside for the box at the bottom. Laying it on the bed, he opened the clasp and lifted out one of the brace of pistols; long, heavy and comfortable in his hand. He couldn’t afford enemies, particularly not this one—a Post Captain and a nobleman of a most distinguished family—but the monstrous suspicion combined with something bright and fearless in his heart, and for a moment he wanted blood more than he had ever desired anything in his life.
He stood on the edge of a razor, above a hell in which that man abused the boy who was to grow up to be his friend, and he would take steel and fire to that vision and make it go away, for Alfie’s sake and his own. I understand you wouldn’t be able to face him. Let alone bear being dragged before a court of inquiry. But it doesn’t have to come to that. I can find another excuse to call him out. I can kill him. If you want me to, Alfie, I’ll kill him, for you.
How bitter—Alfie put down book and sword, rising to throw open the window—to see all that deadly beauty arrayed in anger for his sake. Twilight touched John’s face with shades of silver, and if by day he looked like Octavian Caesar, by the light of the moon he was an elfin knight, delicate as a crystal of arsenic.
This should not be happening! Alfie had fled in panic from Charles Farrant—Captain Lord Lisburn, first son of the Duke of Alderley—in order to stop this from happening. But it seemed his impulsive action had betrayed him. If he had only kept his head and stayed where he was! The flight itself had alerted John to the fact that something was wrong, and now, unless he wished John to become a murderer on his behalf, he had to speak. It was too early to speak—the ground unprepared, still arid with winter chill. Any seed sown there would rot before it saw the sun. That was clear enough from John’s panicked rejection of his careful advance during the bath. If there ever could have come a time when it was safe to make everything plain, that time was not now. But speak he must, because nothing else would stop the blind, holy fool from charging to a rescue he didn’t need, and Farrant had not deserved that of him.
“I’m touched,” he said, surprised he could still sound so casual. Would John denounce him, accuse him, see him pilloried and driven from the service? He was almost certain that John would not see him hang, though the man was pious enough, devoted to his duty enough, to force himself even that far if he believed it was required of him. But hanging aside, this was the end of it. Alfie had gambled and lost; hoped to win John’s heart and thereby to bring the rest of the body along later. Now he dreaded to speak; dreaded John’s virtue as if it was a thousand stinging spines.
“But you have it wrong, sir.” He forced the words out in short, painful bursts. “Lord Lisburn was my first captain. I adored him with all the ardor of my romantic little childish soul.” As with stepping off a precipice, the first move proved the hardest. Once made, it was almost a relief to fall.
“I did everything I could to make him notice me, sir. Everything I’ve done
“I’m not asking as your captain, but as your friend. Alfie, what’s wrong?”
Alfie raised his head and gave a quick, defensive smile; a ridge of white teeth in the dimness, and his smoky eyes unfathomable. “How can I tell the friend without the captain finding out?”
“I may have already guessed,” John murmured, heavily. “You were on his ship, weren’t you? Did he...?”
John’s breath came hard as he primed himself to fight even the horrible suspicion. He had sworn never to think this again. If he could just keep it at bay—a formless dark monster on the edge of his mind—he could challenge it, defeat it, and neither of them would ever have to think about it again.
“No, I don’t need to know,” he answered himself quickly. “No one has to know.” Throwing open his sea chest, he delved inside for the box at the bottom. Laying it on the bed, he opened the clasp and lifted out one of the brace of pistols; long, heavy and comfortable in his hand. He couldn’t afford enemies, particularly not this one—a Post Captain and a nobleman of a most distinguished family—but the monstrous suspicion combined with something bright and fearless in his heart, and for a moment he wanted blood more than he had ever desired anything in his life.
He stood on the edge of a razor, above a hell in which that man abused the boy who was to grow up to be his friend, and he would take steel and fire to that vision and make it go away, for Alfie’s sake and his own. I understand you wouldn’t be able to face him. Let alone bear being dragged before a court of inquiry. But it doesn’t have to come to that. I can find another excuse to call him out. I can kill him. If you want me to, Alfie, I’ll kill him, for you.
How bitter—Alfie put down book and sword, rising to throw open the window—to see all that deadly beauty arrayed in anger for his sake. Twilight touched John’s face with shades of silver, and if by day he looked like Octavian Caesar, by the light of the moon he was an elfin knight, delicate as a crystal of arsenic.
This should not be happening! Alfie had fled in panic from Charles Farrant—Captain Lord Lisburn, first son of the Duke of Alderley—in order to stop this from happening. But it seemed his impulsive action had betrayed him. If he had only kept his head and stayed where he was! The flight itself had alerted John to the fact that something was wrong, and now, unless he wished John to become a murderer on his behalf, he had to speak. It was too early to speak—the ground unprepared, still arid with winter chill. Any seed sown there would rot before it saw the sun. That was clear enough from John’s panicked rejection of his careful advance during the bath. If there ever could have come a time when it was safe to make everything plain, that time was not now. But speak he must, because nothing else would stop the blind, holy fool from charging to a rescue he didn’t need, and Farrant had not deserved that of him.
“I’m touched,” he said, surprised he could still sound so casual. Would John denounce him, accuse him, see him pilloried and driven from the service? He was almost certain that John would not see him hang, though the man was pious enough, devoted to his duty enough, to force himself even that far if he believed it was required of him. But hanging aside, this was the end of it. Alfie had gambled and lost; hoped to win John’s heart and thereby to bring the rest of the body along later. Now he dreaded to speak; dreaded John’s virtue as if it was a thousand stinging spines.
“But you have it wrong, sir.” He forced the words out in short, painful bursts. “Lord Lisburn was my first captain. I adored him with all the ardor of my romantic little childish soul.” As with stepping off a precipice, the first move proved the hardest. Once made, it was almost a relief to fall.
“I did everything I could to make him notice me, sir. Everything I’ve done
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