There was nothing, James reflected as he climbed down from the rigging, eyes squinted tight against the glare of the setting sun, as refreshing and invigorating as a cool sea breeze. Even in these few days since pulling up anchor and setting sail from Tortuga, James felt reborn – he had forgotten how thoroughly a deep lungful of salty sea air could heal what ailed him, and his malaise of the previous week was a receding memory, replaced, if not wholly cured, by the contentment he felt at pursuing his true life's calling on the open seas.
Which was not to say he was entirely content. Brodie, like most captains, watered down the rum to make it last, and the daily rations of grog were a poor substitute for the strong distilled spirits to which James had become accustomed on Tortuga. It was in the morning in particular that he felt the loss of his daily bottle of rum most keenly; the rest of the crew had learned to give him a wide berth until he had swallowed his morning's grog, consumed a stale biscuit or two, and emerged from below decks, lest they be caught in the wake of his menacing ill-temper. Simple Pete, in particular, had made the unenviable mistake of greeting James one morning with a wide grin and a bellowed salutation as James had emerged, head throbbing and bleary-eyed, from his hammock, and had been rewarded for his cheer by a sharp cuff across the brow.
"For Christ's sake, keep your bloody voice down and that stupid smirk off your face, you thrice-buggered idiot!" James had snarled, his ordinarily caustic wit dulled by the aches that pervaded every nook and cranny of his body, a combination of his need for drink and the awkward contortions he was forced to make to accommodate his tall, broad frame into a hammock made for a man at least a foot shorter than he. Simple Pete, suitably cowed, had let James be in the morning after that (though he noticed that the simpleton still tried to sit as close to him as possible when the crew dined, drank, and carried on at night, much to his eternal consternation).
It was a new experience for him, living in the forecastle – even as a young boy midshipman, he'd been entitled to bunk in the cabins aft of the deck with the other midshipmen, and, of course, had earned his own private cabin once he'd passed his lieutenancy exam and become a rated officer. But aboard the Sagitta, he slept, ate, and lived with the rest of the crew, an experience that, though it lacked the amenities to which he'd been accustomed in the Navy, was not entirely without its benefits. James knew some captains were stricter about gambling and drinking below decks than others (he himself had been a fairly strict disciplinarian when he had captained ships of the line in the Navy, wanting to instil in his crew a notion that they must always be ready for action while at sea), but Brodie had been true to his word – he had no rules for what the men did below decks when they were not working, so long as they did not fight or cause any sort of disruption or mischief. And as it so happened, James was a fair hand at cards and games of chance, and he took every opportunity he could to divest his less perspicacious crewmates of their rations of grog, for which he was willing to wager a fair few shillings (knowing he was more likely than not to emerge with all his coin and a spare bit of rum besides).
And so it was again tonight, after he'd descended from the topsail and down to the crew's quarters belowdecks, where the ship's cook had managed to fix up a pot of stew and the men were digging in eagerly, a swell of loud and friendly conversation filling the air as the men ate, drank, and played cards. One man, a deckhand named Jenkins, could play the fiddle, and was performing an impromptu session as he perched lightly atop barrels of dry goods, head bowed low over his instrument in a reverie of concentration.
James found a free seat at a small battered table in the corner across from the fiddler, where he joined Riggins, Pete, and two other new hands, Richard Crosby and Sam Wells, who could both be reliably counted on to gamble away their grog to James's benefit. Simple Pete beamed gaily at him, and James suppressed an irritated growl as he focused instead on Riggins' affable grin.
"Evening, Mr. Norrington," Riggins said, ladling a generous helping of stew onto James's pewter plate. "I hope you're hungry – cook decided to treat us to a beef stew made from the stores tonight. Well, leastwise, he says it's beef." James looked at the vaguely unappetizing slop on his plate, shrugged, and dug in with a hearty forkful.
"I'm always hungry," James growled, and it was true – as an officer, he'd never wanted for food aboard his Navy ships, and in Tortuga, he at least had had coin enough for Crusty's supper special most nights, however dubiously edible it might have been. But rations were lean, he'd discovered, when a man was a mere seaman, and he'd gone to sleep more than once crammed into his hammock with a still-rumbling stomach. This was the first time aboard the Sagitta that the men had been served meat, and he was grateful for it. "The cook could have prepared the stew with bilge rats and I'm not sure I'd mind altogether much."
Riggins and the other men laughed, the jest doing nothing to put them off their appetite – an iron stomach being an occupational requirement for a sailor. "Well, now that you mention it, Mr. Norrington, I'm not so sure he didn't. I know what a good side of beef tastes like, and this ain't it." Riggins shovelled a forkful of stew into his mouth and shrugged. "But it's still the best I've eaten in weeks, wherever it came from."
James helped himself to another serving of the stew (which, though not delectable by any definition, was not altogether terrible, and was a drastic improvement over hardtack and wormy biscuits), feeling sated for the first time since he'd set off from Tortuga. After the men had piled the supper dishes away, James settled back into his chair as Wells drew a tattered deck of cards from his pocket.
"Fancy a game of whist, Norrington?" Wells said, shuffling the cards nimbly between his fingers. "Maybe care to wager a few coins if you dare? I'm feeling lucky tonight, I am."
James grinned and withdrew six pence from his pocket, sliding the coin across the table. There was a significant disparity between Wells' perception of his "luck" and reality, which boded well for James. Wells spied the coin greedily and reached for his evening's share of grog, from which he'd abstained – he found gambling much more irresistible than drink, and, being perpetually short of coin, needed something of value to wager. Crosby, too, joined in, placing a twopence piece on the table, much to the consternation of James – what good was winning coin on a ship, where a man couldn't spend it on rum or women?
"We need a fourth," James said, looking to the tawny-haired quartermaster. "Care to join us, Mr. Riggins?"
"I'm no good for gambling, Mr. Norrington," Riggins groused good-naturedly, shaking his massive head. "Not since I lost half a good fortune in a dockside hovel in Bridgetown, no sir."
"Well, that sounds like quite the tale," James replied with an easy grin – he could nearly taste Wells' grog, weak as it was, but the promise of drink along with a full stomach put him in a rare good mood. "But I truly must insist you join our game – you wouldn't want the men to mutiny because they couldn't find a fourth for whist, would you?"
Riggins frowned in mock reproach. "Best not to be saying such things, even in jest, Mr. Norrington," he said. "But so be it, I'll join your game. But I won't go over eight pence, so if my luck goes poorly you'll be having to find another partner once I'm played out."
They divided into partners – James ended up with Riggins, which was just as well, since he wanted Wells' grog and could not care less about the others' coin – and James reclined easily while Wells divvied up the hands.
"So tell me how a man loses 'half a good fortune' in a Bridgetown hovel, Mr. Riggins," James said as he casually apprised his hand. It was a fair hand, but not a great one – but no matter, if Wells played as poorly as he usually did.
Riggins made an exasperated noise, as if suffering the injustice of his loss all over again. "Ah, 'twas years ago, in my ill-spent youth. I had just been paid by my captain and was full of piss and vinegar, and decided I wanted to double my wages the easy way. I wasn't half bad at cards, you know. But that cocky little scofflaw – Rider or some such was his name – was better, and he picked me out for a mark as soon as I set foot in the tavern. Talked me into wagering everything I had and beat me every hand." Riggins shook his head ruefully. "I'll swear to the Lord above he was cheating somehow, though I couldn't prove it. But at any rate, I frittered away all that coin to nothing and I haven't played a game of chance since." Riggins looked at his cards and cast a wry glance up at James. "Least until you roped me in tonight."
"Well, it's not as if I can ask Pete to join, is it?" James said, casting a wary glare at Simple Pete, who had wandered over to Jenkins the fiddler and sat, entranced, at his feet. "I can't relieve old Sam here of his grog if I don't have a partner." He smirked, and Wells shot an indignant glare across the table at James. James returned his glare with a grin, and turned back to Riggins. "Perhaps if you are not amenable, I could invite Mr. Kurtz?"
The men around the table – Riggins included – grimaced at the thought. A week aboard the Sagitta had passed so far, and James had yet to hear Kurtz utter a word, nor was the hulking boatswain ever seen belowdecks with the rest of the men, not even at mealtime.
"Now there's a jest you shouldn't be making," Riggins said uncomfortably. "I've never had any personal problems with Mr. Kurtz, myself, but he's not exactly what you'd call a friendly sort." James suppressed a sarcastic snigger – that was, to say the least, an understatement. He still hadn't seen the man crack the vaguest hint of a smile.
"I seen Hinks sneakin' around earlier," Wells said, sotto voce. "Probably Kurtz never comes down from the deck at all and has his little lackey bring him his grub. That way he can turn that evil eye on the poor sods what're above decks after lights out." Hinks was the boatswain's mate, whose sole job aboard the ship was to report to Kurtz, to be the eyes and ears for the big man whenever he was not around. He was a weaselly little man with a pinched, greedy face, and James had taken an instant disliking to him.
"Aye, well, a word to the wise," Riggins said carefully, as if debating whether to allow these new shipmates into his confidence. "Kurtz is just as mean as he looks, so best for you all to mind him as you would the captain himself. And don't be discountin' Hinks, neither. He's Kurtz's mate for a reason – because Kurtz can trust him, and because he's got a fair sizeable mean streak himself. You'd all do well to give both of them a wide berth and a generous amount of respect."
"Don't worry on that account none, mate," Wells said. "I don't plan on even lookin' in his general direction if I can help it. Gives me the heebies, he does. Makes you wonder why the cap'n keeps him around."
"That's exactly why the captain keeps him around," James replied. "To keep rabble like you in line." He laughed as Wells responded with a scowl and an obscene hand gesture.
"But what about the captain's old lady?" Crosby observed suddenly. "If I had a wife, I sure wouldn't want her around no man like that."
Three heads turned in surprise towards the ordinarily quiet Crosby. "The captain's wife is aboard the ship?" James asked, incredulous. He'd been aboard the ship for a week – had met with Captain Brodie personally, and been to the captain's stateroom, even – and this was the first he'd heard that a woman – the captain's wife, no less – was aboard the ship.
Riggins looked acutely uncomfortable as the three new men turned to him for confirmation. "Aye, but you lot aren't supposed to know," he said, directing a pointed look at Crosby, who shrugged his shoulders innocently.
"I just heard some of the old hands talking, I swear," Crosby said. "Something about whether they'd see Mrs. Brodie disembark at Port-au-Prince this time, like they'd never actually seen her before."
"Aye, because they haven't," Riggins said firmly. "Mrs. Brodie is a very delicate woman, or so the cap'n says. Gets seasick, she does, and doesn't like to be around strange men. So she stays down in the cap'n's quarters. That's why the cap'n doesn't say anything to the crew – he's afraid that one of you tars, deep in your cups and longing to see a glimpse of a womanly form after months at sea, might try and find her, talk to her, or worse. So he doesn't tell no one she's aboard, lest temptation get the better of you. Only me and Kurtz know – and now you lot, so if you know what's good for you you'll keep it that way!" Riggins looked uncomfortable to be chastising the men, and his eyes were round and wide and almost pleading, as if begging the men to understand that he wasn't cross with them, that he only told them these things for their own good.
Wells and Crosby furrowed their brows, seemingly content with Riggins' explanation; but James felt the gears in his mind turning, agitated and deep in thought. He recalled the captain mentioning a wife when he spoke to the men from the quarterdeck on that first day aboard the Sagitta, but why keep her presence such a secret? Sailors could be a lusty sort, it was true, but something about the explanation seemed off to James.
"If Mrs. Brodie is so beset by seasickness, then why does she sail with the captain?" he asked Riggins. "Most sailors' wives live ashore. A difficult separation, to be sure, but if the lady is ill-suited for the sea…?" He allowed his speculation to trail off, but Riggins only shrugged helplessly in reply.
"To be honest, I can't say. I've never actually met Mrs. Brodie myself. Neither has Mr. Kurtz, to my understanding," Riggins said. "The cap'n says it's because she misses him too fierce to be left behind, and he feels the same. I suppose love must be strong enough to overcome a lack of sea legs, at least for the cap'n and his missus."
James felt his lip curl ever so slightly. When he'd been a commodore in the Royal Navy and on top of the world – when he'd wanted to marry Elizabeth Swann – he'd imagined just that: taking her with him on his voyages and living with her in his stately cabin aboard the Dauntless. Mrs. Brodie's presence was, in a way, yet another reminder of everything he had lost. He felt a swell of resentment rise up within him and reached for his own untouched bottle of grog.
"Rank hath its privileges," James said acerbically. "But as the comfort of a woman is at present denied to we mere seamen, I suggest we return our attentions to the indulgences we can enjoy." Taking a long pull of his grog, he fixed Wells with an indulgent smile. "I am particularly anticipating the extra ration of rum that Sam seems so intent to give away."
Wells flung an incensed oath at James, and the men, determined not to dwell on the unpleasantness of Kurtz the boatswain or the mystery of Mrs. Brodie, threw themselves wholly into their game of cards. James's anticipation proved well-founded; Wells' luck deserted him as usual and by the time the men had decided to call it a night, he had earned both Wells' and Crosby's rations of grog and a handful of coin, which he had given over to Riggins for his share, choosing to keep the rum for himself.
"Next time, Norrington! 'Twas just a bad night for me, that's all," Wells promised as he pocketed his cards and headed for his hammock, and James smirked his agreement – if Wells was so bound and determined to give him rum, who was he to complain?
"It appears we make a good team, Mr. Riggins," James said, uncorking Wells' bottle of grog and taking a swig. "I'd be honoured to allow you to help me divest those poor sods of their drink any time."
"I told you I don't intend to make a habit of gambling, and I meant it," Riggins said seriously. "But I can't deny it was a pleasant way to wile away the hours. Just don't get too deep into your cups that you miss the morning bell. I'd hate to see any misfortune come your way."
"Don't worry," James said, uncertain whether to be touched or irritated at the quartermaster's kindly paternal concern. "I survived on Tortuga for long enough to know how to handle my drink." And so, bidding the other man a good night, James navigated his way through the forecastle to ascend the ladder topside, unwilling as yet to subject himself to the discomfort of his too-small hammock, and wishing to enjoy his rum in the fresh sea air, away from the stuffy reek of sweaty men that pervaded the hold below.
As he emerged topside, he first scoured the deck for Kurtz – it was not forbidden for men to be above decks when they were not working, but he knew Riggins' advice to avoid attracting the surly boatswain's attention was sound, and he wished to steer clear of any encounter with the man. Spying Kurtz leaning against the foremast with his burly arms crossed, James made his way quickly across the starboard deck, making his way for his usual spot against the starboard side by the mizzenmast halyards, where he could lean against the railing and enjoy the solitude and quiet with relatively few distractions.
The night was calm and the sea quiet, and James reclined against the railing, drink in hand, and pondered the magnificent scattering of stars that graced the ink-black sky. He loved being topside on a perfect clear night such as this; the stars were a mariner's oldest and truest friend, fixed for ever in the firmament, their unchanging, unyielding permanence steering many a sailor back on course. He spied the constellation for which the Sagitta was named, a small and unremarkable grouping of stars in the shape of an arrow, loosed by Hercules, hurtling forth to slay the demigod's foes. Their ancient presence was a comfort to him, and he wondered idly whether he would ever find his own star, to guide his restless, wayward soul back on course after everything had gone so terribly wrong.
He had just finished his last bottle of grog and was feeling the warming euphoria of the drink making its way through his blood when he first heard it. At first he thought it must have been a particularly sharp breeze blowing through the sails, and he shook his head, pleasantly muddled by the rum, to clear out the cobwebs that might be affecting the clarity of his thought. But then he heard it again, and he was quite certain that it was not the wind through the sails producing such a winsome melody.
He cast his eyes to the sails to see if perhaps the sound came from a sailor, spending a lonely night atop the crow's nest. He was surprised to spy the tall lean form of Captain Brodie, who stood dimly silhouetted against the top of the mainmast, uniquely identifiable by the long coat that billowed out behind him. Perhaps James was not alone in his desire to enjoy the comforting solitude of the stars. But then again, James did not have the warmth of a woman to share his bed with, unlike the captain.
There, again, the keening cry came to his ears; it seemed to him to be haunting and plaintive, sorrowful in a way, and he became aware that it was a woman's voice, singing into the night. A woman's voice – was he so drunk that he was hearing a siren calling to him from across the waves, beckoning him to his doom? But there it was again, and no – it was most definitely a woman's voice, issuing from somewhere beneath him. Could this be Brodie's mysterious wife, who was so reclusive that the captain permitted no mention of her to the men at all? Why would such a timid, fearful woman announce her presence so clearly – or was it only clear to James, who stood on the aft deck where no man would be ordinarily working late at night? Did she hope her husband would hear her mournful cries and retire at once to their bedchamber to keep his frail and seasick wife company through the wave-tossed night?
Later, James would not be able to say exactly what had spurred him. He supposed that it must have been curiosity, at least in part, his interest having been piqued earlier in the night by Riggins' tales of the captain's unseen wife. If he were being honest with himself, he must also account for the stirring he felt in his blood to be near a woman again, his ache having gone unsated since he had partaken of the comforts of Josephine the whore on Tortuga some days before. And, of course, he was certain he could not have been so bold, so foolish, had he not been thoroughly in the grips of three bottles of grog. But all those things taken together tipped the scales against the rational, sensible decision – which was to leave well enough alone, pretend he had heard nothing, and return to the forecastle to his uncomfortable hammock – and so, casting a furtive eye towards Brodie in the crow's nest and Kurtz at the foremast to ensure that neither were paying him any mind, he descended carefully into the forbidden lower aft deck, where the captain's cabin waited with its mysterious and alluring siren within.
He crossed through the narrow, tight quarters quietly, past Brodie's stateroom, and paused at what must have been the captain's cabin. The keening song was clearly coming from within, and at this proximity he could hear the voice clear as a bell, and the beauty and clarity of it made him ache with a familiar need. But that was not what he was here for, he reminded himself sternly. (Then why was he here? – his treacherous thoughts countered.) But regardless of the purpose for his visit, he could resist the sweet siren's voice no longer, and, with a gentle rap on the hatch to announce his presence, he pushed the door open slowly.
Though the woman's voice had enticed him below with its alluring sweetness, he nevertheless found himself utterly unprepared for the stark beauty that greeted him as he entered the cabin. A lissom young woman stood before him, hair cascading down her back in dark wavy tresses, her statuesque form garbed in a gauzy nightgown that clung tantalizingly to her curves. Her skin was porcelain in the pale moonlight, and as she turned to regard her intruder, he could not help but admire the delicacy of her features and the red fullness of her lips, even as her countenance registered a medley of shock, startle, and fright. Immediately he raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture before she could cry out in fear.
"Please, do not be frightened," he said hastily as she stammered backwards into the bulkhead. "I mean you no harm, I promise." Her eyes, dark and doe-like in the silvery light, were wide and afraid. With a belatedness of clarity that could only be blamed on the rum, he realized how he must seem to her – a large, strange man who had intruded unwanted into her bedchamber and who yet insisted she had nothing to fear. His shoulders sagging with the realization, he dropped his hands and held his palms open to her, hoping to reassure her that he truly did not have ill intentions. "It is just that I heard you singing, and I found the melody so entrancing that I simply had to make the acquaintance of the fair creature responsible. I do hope you will forgive my terrible lack of manners and rude intrusion into your privacy."
His words seemed to assuage her fear somewhat; her posture relaxed ever so slightly, and her expression underwent a subtle metamorphosis from distressed alarm to suspicious apprehension. James felt his mouth go dry and a tightness catch hold in his throat; she was beautiful, so very beautiful, but now that he was down here with her, he realized the incredible folly he'd made. She was the captain's wife, for God's sake! If he frightened her too greatly, if she screamed, if Brodie caught him down here…
"You shouldn't be here." Her first words to him echoed his own present thoughts, and they came carried to him in a lyrical Gaelic brogue, similar to Brodie's – but where Brodie's accent was rough-hewn with a Scottish burr, Mrs. Brodie's voice was all music and grace, and he guessed that she hailed from Ireland.
"You shouldn't be here," she repeated, with more urgency. "If he finds you – if you're caught – you don't know what he'll do to you!" The suspicion writ across her visage was replaced yet again, this time by a panicked insistence that seemed to James to be directed towards him, rather than at him. "You must leave now! Go on! Get gone with you!"
"But…" James stammered in response. He didn't know what he'd expected to happen, what he'd wanted her to say, but being dismissed so quickly and summarily surely hadn't been it. What had he wanted? To charm her, flatter her with flowery compliments regarding her gift for song? To press his lips to hers and steal a forbidden kiss from those ruby lips? To lie with her, right underneath the nose of her husband, his captain? "Mrs. Brodie, I do apologize. I had no wish to alarm you. I…" He faltered as he tried to explain his presence to her, when in truth he could barely justify it to himself.
"I only wished to meet you, my lady. I had no inkling that you were aboard the ship until this evening, and I was struck by how lonely you must be, locked in this cabin for the endless days and weeks. And once I heard your graceful song in the night, I knew I must behold you at once. But if my presence displeases you, I shall take my leave." None of it was untrue, but he was nevertheless struck by how insincere he must sound, how much he was attempting to cover his carnal intentions with base flattery. Which was itself not entirely untrue, though he certainly had no intention of imposing himself where he was not desired. Swallowing thickly, he managed a courteous nod to Mrs. Brodie, and turned to depart.
"You are a strange and brave man, to call upon me in defiance of your captain's orders." Her voice stilled him, and he turned back to her with a curious hope. Her countenance had shifted yet again, and in place of the panic he now saw her regarding him with an intensely inquisitive gaze.
"In truth, it was not the captain who forbade my presence here," he said. "He made no mention of you at all, nor made any warnings to avoid your company. But I heard – "
"Heard about the captain's mysterious bride, elusive as a spectre, so fragile and delicate that she may never emerge nor be seen by any man?" She bestowed upon him an unmistakably wry smile, and he felt a warmth suffuse him – the entire travail had been worth it, if only to be privy, for just a few moments, to that wondrous smile.
"Something like that," he admitted, feeling shy and awkward as a schoolboy. He suppressed his own wry grin. He'd long ago lost count of the women he'd bedded, and he marvelled that any lady could still bring him to feel the bashful inelegance of infatuation he'd last felt all those years ago, in Port Royal –
No, he told his mind firmly as thoughts of Elizabeth threatened to intrude and spoil the enchantment. He would not allow her to ruin this moment, as she'd ruined so much else that had been right and good for him.
Perhaps his internal conflict had been apparent, written across his features; or perhaps Mrs. Brodie was uniquely perceptive. "You came to me because you thought I must be lonely," she mused, recalling his earlier words. "And yet I think it is you who are the lonely one, my handsome stranger. Lonely and searching for something, though you know not what. Perhaps you thought you might find it here?"
James stood transfixed, unsure how to respond to this strange creature who regarded him now with an aloof – yet unmistakable – kindness, and who had seemed to see right through the mask he'd painstakingly constructed for himself during his years of exile: the beard, the rum, the devil-may-care manner.
"I don't know what I thought I'd find," he replied softly, feeling a complicated melange of emotions swirling through him – curiosity, attraction, lust, affinity, and perhaps even a touch of the gentleness he'd last exhibited to the woman he'd loved so long ago. "But I am glad, nevertheless, that I found you."
She smiled at him then, a true, warm smile, and he returned her smile fully and without reservation. But as fleeting as the sun, consumed by clouds scudding across the sky, so her smile disappeared, to be replaced once more by the nervous urgency he'd seen not minutes before.
"I misapprehended you," she said, her voice strained with a tension he wished he could soothe. "I feared you were the kind of man my husband has always warned about, a lusty sailor intent on despoiling my honour." James flushed, hoping that his carnal imaginings of her were sufficiently removed from such ill intent as to exclude him from that disreputable breed of "lusty sailors" of which she spoke.
"But nevertheless, you must leave me at once," she said, all traces of warmth gone from her voice as she fixed him with a firm and unmoving look. "If my husband finds you down here, you shall suffer tremendously. And – " she broke off abruptly.
"I find I do not wish such a fate for you," she finished, quietly and to his surprise. James marvelled at the odd creature before him, undeniable in her beauty, a true enigma in her nature. She seemed, truly, to like him, but he did not know why, nor why she so feared for her safety that she remained locked in the captain's cabin, unable to enjoy the sea breeze or the sun or the stars but for the half-glimpses of the world beyond that she could spy through the small porthole. In truth, he had come to see her to sate his curiosity, but, upon being dismissed by her, found he was left with far more questions than answers.
"I thank you for your kindness," he said sincerely, bowing his head to her in the genteel fashion that had been a part and parcel of the social graces of his old life. "And I will respect your wishes. Good night, Mrs. Brodie."
He turned to leave yet again, and yet again, her voice stilled him.
"Niamh."
He turned back to her, her silhouette framed by the porthole, a vision in the moonlight. "I'm sorry?" he said, brows furrowed in confusion.
"My name," she replied. "You may call me Niamh."
The name was strange to him, doubtless an artefact of the Irish language, but it rolled from her tongue with a lyrical beauty that was altogether fitting.
"Very well, Niamh," he said. "You may call me James."
She smiled beatifically at him. "You are unlike most men I have met, James. There is a fire within you. Perhaps it smoulders so lowly that even you have forgotten, but it burns still. Perhaps one day you shall remember to rekindle your fire, James. And now I must bid you good night."
There was so much he still wanted to ask her – why did she insist on staying below the decks, when she did not seem nearly as delicate or fragile as he'd been led to believe? Why did she insist upon following Brodie in his adventures if she clearly found shipboard life to be stifling and restrictive? And why was she showing him – a man who had intruded most crudely upon her solitude with, truthfully, less than pure intentions – such kindness and open consideration? And what was this mysticism to do with his 'inner fire' and his 'loneliness' and his 'search for something he could not describe'? He knew the Irish could be superstitious to a fault; was that the whole of it, or was there something more, something about him that had inspired her musings?
He wanted to ask all of these things, and yet he knew he had intruded too long on her already, and he knew he had been dismissed, and so he merely bowed his head in another mannerly nod.
"Good night, Niamh," he said, and slipped out the hatch. He thought he saw her smiling as he pulled the hatch slowly closed behind him.
He was careful, when he ascended the ladder, to make certain that the attentions of the scant few crewmembers on deck – especially Brodie and Kurtz – were directed elsewhere before he scrambled quickly out of the aft hold and back to his familiar drinking spot. Testing his three bottles of grog to see if there was a drop left, he found himself disappointed, and, pocketing the empty bottles, he made his way back to the forecastle, his mind a maelstrom of questions, doubts, and pondered curiosities. Descending the ladder, he made his way through the galley to the crew's quarters, where his shipmates tossed and turned and slept in their swinging hammocks. Finding his own berth, he divested himself of his overcoat and boots, stacking the boots beneath his hammock and hanging the coat on a jutting peg near his feet, before climbing in.
The hammock was, as always, acutely uncomfortable, and James was forced, as always, to fold his tall frame into an unwieldy contortion in order to fit. He wished for his old bed back in his room in the Mermaid's Tail, which, though shabby and ill-made, nevertheless permitted him to stretch out to his full length. Wishing he had one more bottle of rum to dull his thoughts and mute the ache of the cramped hammock, James fell into a fitful sleep, thinking of the mysterious Niamh Brodie and her soft, delicate features, and wishing he were the fortunate man who could spend the night curled up in a real bed with such a woman in his arms.
A/N: The term "tars," which Riggins uses to refer to James and the other men, comes from "Jack Tar," which was slang for a British sailor (particularly a Navy seaman, though it could be used broadly for any English sailor). Thanks for reading and, as always, reviews are greatly appreciated!
