The Flood-Tide by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

going home.'
    ‘Yes?' Chetwyn said encouragingly.
    ‘And then I thought - well, you won't be here much longer will you?' It came out in a rush, and Edward's eyes came up and round to him, with all sorts of unaskable questions in them.
    ‘Only one more half,' Chetwyn said gently. 'If I weren't so stupid, I should have been gone by now. You might never have known me,' he added, trying to make a joke of it. Edward's eyes were dangerously bright. Chetwyn leaned a little towards him. 'I say, Morland,' he said, 'would you like to come home to Wolvercote with me, to my people, for Christmas? I'm sure my parents would like it, if yours would give permission.’
    Edward glowed. 'Really? Do you really mean it?’
    Chetwyn nodded. Edward stared at him, filled with a strange and indescribable delight. Chetwyn's smooth side was rosy where the fire-glow warmed it, and two tiny images of the flames danced in his eyes, which seemed dark by contrast. A lock of his straight, silky hair had fallen forward in a smooth curve, like a wing, and Edward suddenly wanted to reach up and push it back, though he did not dare. The towel lay forgotten on the floor between them, the bread was abandoned untoasted in the hearth, and there was no sound but the snap and hiss of the wood burning in the grate. It was Chetwyn who finally put up a hand to brush away the brown hair, Chetwyn, too, who reached forward to place his hands on Edward's trembling shoulders.
    *
    On a dark and showery, windy day in April 1775, large ragged clouds were tearing across the sky, dark grey against the flat grey of the cloud blanket above them. Rain fell in soaking hatfuls, thrown by the wind against the ramparts of Portsmouth and the oilskins of the few hardy souls who walked there. The sea was grey and tossing, flecked all over with white horses, and with the larger white patches that were the sails of ships.
    The coach put William down at the dockyard gates, and he huddled into his collar as a cold squall dashed around him, and felt completely lost. Beyond the gates and the grey buildings, he could see a forest of masts and spars, like naked winter trees against the low sky. The wind smelled of salt and fish and dead weed and tar, smells so alien to a nose accustomed to earth and grass and sheep that they made him feel dizzy. The coachman let down his box, and the second coachman thumped it to the cobbles beside William. Accustomed as he was to delivering young boys to the gates of their naval careers, he yet felt sorry for William.
    ‘By God, you're a little 'un, though,' he shouted. 'I wonder they thought of the sea for you. How old are you, boy?'
    ‘Twelve,' William said, trying to keep his lip from quivering. The second coachman shook his head.
    ‘You look no more than eight. There's the dockyard gates. Go through to the office, and tell 'em your business. They'll see to you.'
    ‘Thank you, sir,' William said, grateful for any guidance in this strange world. He managed to get his box onto his shoulder, and heard the coachman say as he turned away, ‘I wouldn't wonder if that one hadn't run away. Well, they'll sort him out in the dockyard. Twelve, my foot!’
    There was enough rain on his face for the odd tear not to show, but he had his voice under control by the time he came to the office, and spoke to the one-armed clerk inside.
    ‘The Ariadne? What name?' William told him, and he checked with a list. 'Quite right. Well, she went out of harbour this morning, first light.’
    William stared in panic. Out of harbour? 'I have missed her?' he said, dry-mouthed. The clerk sucked his teeth impatiently.
    ‘No, no, she's gone up to Spithead. There'll be a boat going out to her at six this evening from the sally-port. You can go in that.'
    ‘Thank you, sir,' William said, and then just stood and stared. He had no idea what to do next, where to go, how to occupy himself until six o'clock. The clerk took pity on him.
    ‘Just come off the coach, have you? I daresay you'll