As most matters of James' life tended to turn for the worst, the journey home was no contradiction to that sentiment. Sometime aft turning southeast, the HMS Godspeed's sails slackened. According to the military men rushing about, it was as if the ship had been 'put in irons' by another. But, they mused, it was more a case that there was not wind enough to be their own, nor sufficient for another ship coming up behind to steal. Fortunately there was no other ship. Unfortunately, as James found to his immense displeasure, there was no wind either, and there was, according to the two uniformed men nearby, no telling when there would be.
"Sitting ducks we'll be for a bit," said one.
The other frowned. "Seems that way."
"Far be it from me to interrupt this most," suggested a third voice, "fascinating navigational discussion, but mayhaps we should make the most of circumstance."
James did not need to turn to know whose fast clip it had been, but he did, as did the men, nonetheless. With some bit of contempt he watched the gent most good company didn't keep cross the deck. Jonathan Starling hadn't been far off enough to warrant his coming closer but it seemed such had not occurred to the young cartographer who stepped too close, to James and the Navymen, for comfort.
One of them, the one who had frowned, frowned all the more. A glance he spared for James before turning his attention back to the gent leaning so casually toward him. "Make the most of it?"
"A man's dead," put in the other.
"Ahhh, but we're not."
For a reason that young James could not figure, that answer angered him. Red that wasn't shame colored his face. Though his hands fisted and he glared hotly in Starling's direction, he did not speak. If there was ever a time that he did not trust himself to speak with the respect his family would no doubt expect him to, it was then. Further infuriating was the way that the man turned to him and, worse, the kindness in his dark eyes usually agleam with mischief.
"Young Jamesy, for example," he said, "would do as well to realize that."
James clenched his jaw, feeling even less likely not to spit spiteful words at Starling, and looked away.
All about the deck mixed the mourners with the Navymen. For all the grief they'd expressed to James they certainly did not show it. If it were not for the severe black of dress no one would've been the wiser that a man's funeral was the occasion. In fact, for the easy way they sauntered to and fro in social circles, it looked as if the journey upon the HMS Godspeed had been nothing more than a pleasure cruise.
James supposed it should not have surprised him. He supposed it should not have surprised him in the least. Afterall, it had been Brian himself who'd once remarked upon the quality of 'good company' kept by their parents.
Always the first to cry your tears, he'd said, and the next to make you shed them.
As James glanced about the assembly of societyfolk, he realized just what Brian had meant. All of them, one face to the next, had been wrought with sorrow when they'd expressed sympathy to him and not hours later there was not one tear among them. James' own eyes, however, stung enough for every dry eye aboard.
Blinking away the blur, James frowned. With renewed focus he looked to the people that had supposedly been good friends and better to his parents. Nearest him was a group of womenfolk, all wide eyes and gossip. Not far from them, and casting imperious glances their way at every giggle or snerk, sat three he knew by name. They seemed to disapprove of the petty talk amongst the other women, the Ladies Witter, Munsen, and Starling did. Their husbands stood nearby—well, Witter and Munsen at least. The King's own Pilot Major Starling was, at the moment, strolling away from the two of them. It seemed he was making his way toward one of the uniformed men but a most fastidious Lord Littleton quickly intercepted him.
His Lordship took the Pilot Major by the arm and led him toward the men nearer the prow. James couldn't help but notice the flicker of annoyance on Starling's father's face as the man noticed Hawk VonCoch—so called on count of his most austere nose but whose name was actually Charles—in the center of the circle, and he couldn't blame him for it either. Everyone knew Charles VonCoch was cousin to the King—because Charles VonCoch made certain it was known. He was a cold-hearted man and his son was none the better. If there was any relief at all in James on the day of his brother's funeral, it was thanks to the absence of Charles VonCoch II.
Starling looked, James thought, as if he would have been just as glad not to see Charles I. Truth be told, Lords Dorie and Pickwick looked just as lessly thrilled. Captain Jensen's face was unreadable but the only one who looked as if he truly found merit in VonCoch's presence was Lord Littleton.
An outburst of giggles drew James attention to that man's daughter and the company she kept. Around a bench were gathered the lasses—Lillian Littleton seeming the center of attention as always she was. The girl was as fair as her young mother but stiffer in stature. James guessed she got that from her father. Lord Littleton had always sat staunch and no different was the blueblood's daughter. For as rigid as she was, however, Lillian had a certain grace that most other girls did not. She was also a great deal… fussier. That particular trait was most manifest in her dress—in the way that she frowned at and fidgeted with it even as she chattered with the rest of the girls around her.
Beside Lillian sat her best girl. Meredith Munsen was more a fussbutton but, unlike Lillian, seemed not to have a choice in the matter. In fact, James thought as he watched her fiddle with her hair, it seemed she had no control over any bit of her appearance. Try as she may, Miss Munsen could not tame the erstwile frizz any more than she was capable of stuffing her too big bosom into her too tight dress. The ribbon decorating her decollatage was stretched so thin that James couldn't help but wonder when the threads would snap. Still, he thought she wore a pleasant face when it was she was not in company with Lillian. It was a bit of a pity, he thought, that Miss Munsen's pretty smile was so oft replaced by one that wavered with worry.
"Meredith, really," scoffed Lillian, batting the frizz away from her own face, "that mane of yours!"
Miss Munsen mumbled a response that James couldn't hear but he did see that pink tinged her freckled cheeks. He watched her duck her head and puzzled over why it was she looked with such gratitude toward her shoulder. It took him a moment to realize that a fat-fingered hand laid upon it and he followed its arm up to its body's face. Behind both girls stood Dolores Dorie, pudgy as ever she was. There was something sweet about her fat face. Same way was it with her twin. Danielle, who sat before Lillian on a neighboring bench, was just as pleasant and plump as her sister. Of all the gathered girls they bore the friendliest faces.
The least likely to be so amicable was the girl to Lillian's left, Alice Witter. The Witter family's only daughter was a few years older than James but much smaller. With her pale hair done up in curls, pretty face set in a soft pout, and dainty gloved hands set prim upon her lap she looked much like a fancy porcelain doll. As shrewd as her mother, Alice did not so much as flinch as her grey eyes shifted to glance in James' direction.
Flushing pink, he averted his gaze. To a laughing Lillian he looked again but soon followed her stare to the source of her apparent amusement. It was, he found, the only gel not in their company.
Though her back was to James, there was no mistaking that wild mane of waves. They were much the colour of sticky caramels from the sweetshop. It was Susan Sutton, alone as always, who stood balanced upon the rail of the ship as if her heeled shoes were not at all a hindrance.
Layers of lace, however, lay rumpled behind her. Most of the proper portion of her dress—grey ruffles of silk and a long-forgotten bodice—was a heap on the deck. A small grey bonnet had been tossed atop it.
Two gloves flung to the deck drew James' gaze up to the girl who'd shed them. With hands on her hips over the dark of her wide skirt, Susan cut as bold a figure as ever she had. A black bell she was against the grey.
"Susan Jessamine Sutton!"
James flinched but the gel had not.
"Off of there, girl!"
Admiral Sutton's bark of command was unpleasant at best and worse yet in James' ear. Before he could find voice to complain, he was grasped breathless by two strong hands. Lifted in the air and then set back on his feet, James was startled and could only stare after the surly man in whose way he'd stood.
A titter of giggles turned him aside and he frowned at the girls who reveled in Susan's discomfort.
"Not very nice are they?"
James shook his head and turned to the friend he'd been looking for. To his satisfaction, he found two—not only stood Percy beside him, but Nolan as well. Youngest of the Witters, Nolan was also the most friendly—even his wiry form and the unruly curls of brown hair were wholly unlike the polished appearance of his family. Percy, though, was all Pickwick. From the roots of his auburn hair to the toe of his buckled shoes, he was all the strength and dignity of his family name. As if to prove that point, he stood straighter and squared his shoulders to give the girls a glare of disapproval.
As if on cue, Miss Munsen flushed brightly and nudged her best girl friend in the ribs. Lillian Littleton's laugh was cut short. In the middle of complaint her violet eyes hooked on Percy. To the boys' delight she was sour-faced as a fish—and as was usual, Percy used that fact to his advantage, making googly eyes at her and gaping like a big-mouthed bass. The girls' collective gasp, James thought, was music to the ears.
Unfortunately, it had also caught the attention of Lance Littleton. Lillian's stronger, squarer-shouldered brother stormed toward them, full speed ahead. It was fortunate that the conversation behind them ended on a sweet note that had Jonathan Starling giving a great whoop and swooping an arm around Lance's rage-shaken shoulders.
"Ready your instruments men," Starling crowed to the startled crowd. "There's to be a party—festive folly celebratory of the life our fallen friend lived!"
James, for his part, chose then to disappear belowdecks. Percy and Nolan took more than a moment to notice and when they did he was gone from sight. Certain of why that was, they glared unforgivingly up at Jonathan Starling.
Unaffected, the gent patted the both of them fondly upon their heads. "Don't worry," he told Percy, "this time won't be like the last time." With that, and a bit of a grin, Starling bounded forward, dragging a reluctant Lance Littleton into the crowd abuzz with the prospect of a party.
A puzzled Nolan turned to Percy. "What happened last time?"
"Last time," Percy said with a roll of his eyes, "James and I were made to serve refreshments to Starling and his chums."
"So?"
Percy glanced about to make certain that no one else was listening. When he was sure of it, he turned woeful green eyes in Nolan's direction. "As wenches."
It was Nolan, then, who gaped like a fish.
--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---
James was skulking about the ship when sounds of the impromptu party thumped above his head. There were the sounds of heels striking the deck and he frowned to think that people were actually dancing up there while he wandered through the gloom of the Godspeed alone. The first deck under, armed with the majority of the ship's guns, had been all but deserted. Two gunsmen, laughing over a shared joke, did not look up as James stalled on the stairs. He supposed, with a shrug, that they would not see him descend either and so he went on his way—past the second deck under to the third.
From what James had read in Brian's letters, most daily life aboard a vessel such as the Godspeed took precedence on the third deck under. Comrades cooked their catch in the galley or took a meal together at one of the long tables in the mess hall. James slipped between those tables, fingers of each hand sliding over the rough wood, toward a set of wooden doors.
It took all James' strength to muster even the slightest creak. He pushed through the crack and found himself in a great empty room. The only source of light filtered in through dirty portholes. It was grey and cast shadows that reminded James too much of an attic he'd long avoided. For a moment he wondered if perhaps avoidance would be the better pursuit in his situation but the soft thud of the doors behind him bade him move on.
Gulping hard, he took hesitant steps forward into the eerie silence.
All wooden beams and bunks it was. Trunks bearing names—Goulding, Gunther, Haverford, Hawkes—sat at the foot of each bunk. Topping every one was a blanket folded into a square. There were discarded boots and flasks, several rough-hewn fishing poles, and upon one untidy desk lay a heap of rusty instruments that James hoped did not belong to the ship's surgeon.
James passed the tools with a wary glance and found himself at a rickety stairwell. A musty smell rose to tickle his nose. An altogether unpleasant feeling filled his head and the next thing he knew, he was doubled over and sneezing up a storm. Echoing in the abandoned space, a thousand squeaks and wheezes clamored around James. He winced and clapped his hands over his ears, but not before he heard the ominous creak of opening doors. Eyes wide, he stared at the stairway before him.
Splinters it might well have been for all he could see of it in the darkness but he stepped hurriedly forward. Down he took the stairs, ignoring the quake and shake of wooden treads that were good as rotted out. Quickly he made past the underdeck with all the guests' sleeping compartments. Near to the underbelly of the Godspeed he was when he heard footfalls above. His hand clutching the shuddering rail, James paused. There he stood, still as a doe in the crossfire, straining to hear any noise that wasn't the fast patter of pulse in his ears until there was a faint scrape and a shower of dust fell before his eyes.
Panicking, he pounded down around what looked to be the last curve. He saw the faint outline of a doorway and then his vision blurred as his foot crunched through wood. Pitching forward, James lost his grip on the rail. He flung his elbows out to catch himself but regret the course of action immediately. White-hot pain shot up his arms. He cried out, tears stinging his eyes. His knees smacked wood and smarted and then he thudded to a stop. Something was clambering down the stairs after him and, lying in a heap under the doorway he'd spied, James decided that whatever injury he'd suffered was of lesser importance than getting away from what was after him.
Dragging himself to his feet, he stumbled forward in something of a run. But the underbelly of the Godspeed was damp, and damp wood was slippery and James did not realize this until he was skidding across the floor in darker shadow than he'd wished to encounter. There was no grey, only darkness—darkness that had hidden from him the hard mast of the ship he skidded into.
A scrape of claws on wood turned him around. Glowing green eyes blinked. He gasped. With a shriek the thing leapt at him. It'd sunk in its claws before he'd time to run. Over the loud thump of his heart he heard another shriek. It did not occur to him that it was his own and so he gave another as he tumbled to the ground with his assailant. Sharp talons swiped his palm. The sting was terrible but it was not so bad as the terror of the thing that was scrambling about him, hissing and spitting like mad. They rolled. To James' horror, he heard a dash over floor that meant the thing attacking him was not what had been pursuing him. In a fit, he poked the thing scratching at him in one of its gleaming eyes. It gave a yowl and sunk its claws into his shoulder.
"James!"
Becalmed by the shriek, the thing slunk around his head, a long tail draping over his face. It tickled his nose. Feeling a bit more brave for having not been claimed by death, James let his eyes roll back to identify his attacker.
The ship's cat stared at him.
James closed his eyes. Silently he berated himself as the animal sniffed at his hairline. Its nose was wet against his forehead when he remembered that he'd been running from something—something that had turned out to be someone.
"James, are you alright?"
Before he could take a proper look at the person, the bright light of a lantern blinded him. He heard the rustle of silk and the soft thunk of knees before his eyes fixed themselves to find the face of Susan Sutton. Glowing gold it was, her cheerful face, but puckered with worry as well. Two brown eyes assessed the damages done to his person and then shined into his. A smile lifted her lips and a giggle escaped them and James felt his face heat up considerably.
"I'm just fine," he told her. "Fine's what I am." With that he stood, inwardly cursing his shaky legs, and frowned down at her. He folded his arms and when she stood, he glared fierce as was possible given the situation. "Do you make it habit following boys about?"
Susan Sutton blinked. Her eyes glistened at him, bright with tears in the darkness. "No," she said, her lip quivering just a bit, "not all boys."
James flushed worse, but his anger had gone. "I—well—" it returned with his sputtering, however, and he stalked away from her and into the darkness. To his further irritation, the cat followed along, rubbing against his ankles. "Away, mongrel," he snapped, shaking it off. He felt the smallest twinge of regret when it gave a sad little meow and scampered off ruffling its mangy fur. "Bloody cat…"
"Are you going to be contrary forever, then?" Susan trailed after him, her black silk sweeping over the floor. "It only wanted to be friends."
"Friends with a cat," James spat, whipping around to glare at her. "Do you mock me?" He cursed her eyes for going tearful again, and scowled at her. "Leave me to myself and enjoy the party! Everyone else is!"
"Brian would have liked it."
"What do you know about him?" It had been quite enough that she had so far belittled him, but that she felt it necessary to bring up his dearly departed brother—and as though she were his familiar! He stared her in the eyes, now caring not that they watered, and struggled with his fisted hands that wanted nothing more than to grab her by the shoulders. "Well?"
"Only that he was funny—and nice—"
"Then you don't talk about him! And don't tell me he would have liked it!" Tears stung his eyes. "Who would like having their friends and family dance all over their grave?!"
Susan took a step back, her mouth turning down in a frown.
"No one, that's who."
James didn't wait for a response. He did not wish to hear any, and so he pushed past her and made for the doorway he'd fallen under. In his haste he did not remember that the floor was wet and his feet slipped out from under him. Landing hard on his bum, he was mortified to hear soft peals of laughter behind him and worser embarrassed to feel two small hands lifting him under the arms. He watched, face flaming, as Susan stepped past him and lifted the lantern to light the way.
"Come on," she urged when he didn't move to follow. "It's too dark without a light."
When they'd made it successfully to the desk with the tools upon it, she stopped and turned around to face him. There was determination writ upon her face. She opened her mouth to speak but James, wary of hearing what she might have to say now, turned to the instruments and pretended to be fascinated by the grisly things. Unfortunately, this seemed not to distract Susan Sutton from what it was she'd meant to say.
"That's not what they're doing up there, you know," she said. "They're celebrating the life your brother lived. Mister Starling's idea was a good one, James. I wish we could have danced after my mother's service…"
James paused in his handling of a particularly sharp apparatus and glanced sideways at her. He was glad to note she was not looking at him, but at the tool in his grasp. It made responding easier, somehow. "Your mother…?"
Susan nodded and then her gaze fell to the floor. "She had the loveliest smile… Grandmere says I smile just as pretty, but I don't think that I do." She looked at him then and her lips curled up in a little half smile that was not as lovely as the one she usually flashed. "Father agrees with me."
"The Admiral? I thought—"
"He's remarried," she said. "Shame Nataline's not made him any nicer." She looked at the rusty tongs in his hand and sighed. "Are you planning on being a ship's surgeon?"
James made a face, feeling quite ill that these were really the surgeon's tools. "No, I am not," he said, realizing he'd no idea what he planned on being when it was he was of age to decide. Frowning, he followed her out through the crack between the heavy doors and into the mess hall. "Where are we going?"
Susan did not answer until they were just under the gun deck. She paused on the landing and looked over her shoulder at him. "To find your friends, of course."
Such was easier said than done it seemed, for when the both of them stepped onto the main deck they found themselves in the thick a spirited jig. Navymen danced around them to the tune that the ship's uniformed musicians played off the quarterdeck. James and Susan were whirled this way and that by the whooping men. Susan gave a startled squeak as one redcoat grabbed her little hands and turned her in a circle. The wide skirt of her dress flared, and she was gone in a whir of black silk and caramel curls. James gawked, but made up his mind to escape the mayhem. Between two men, stomping and clapping to the tune, he darted forward—right into the rather rotund belly of another. Eyes crossed, he fell backwards but two pudgy hands grabbed him by the shoulders and righted him.
"Ey laddy," cried the round man, "tis a hearty party, aye?"
Short of breath, James nodded. A lock of dark hair fell over his eye and he reached to smooth it back when another strong set of hands grabbed him up by the underarms. A great arc in the air later and he found himself on a set of broad shoulders. Confused, he looked down at the head of the man he sat on and found a familiar head of wavy blond hair.
"Lieutenant Hollings?"
"Aye Jamesy," said his brother's best mate. "You alright up there?"
Truth be told, James was not so fond of heights double his own but he was much grateful for the rescue from the chaotic jig he'd been caught up in. He compromised, gulping back his fear and nodding emphatically as they made their way out of the thick of things. "Just fine!"
"Good to hear," said Hollings. He turned his head, showing James a twinkling blue eye. "Been looking for you all the night long and here you was taking a dance!"
James frowned and glanced behind at the mess of folk, now both Navymen and guests, to see if he could spot Susan. He didn't and frowned all the more, wondering where she'd gotten off to. A quick patter of feet turned his attention to Hollings' side and there she was, skipping along.
"Twirling with the boys, were you?"
Susan laughed, breathless, and shook her head. Curls bounced on her shoulders and her eyes caught the twinkle of stars. "Sod off, Hollings!"
The strapping Lieutenant gave pause. He looked down at the girl with a faltering frown. "Now is that any way for a wee lass to talk to a Lieutenant officer of his Majesty's Royal Navy?" With a chuckle, he reached down and mussed her hair. "You do me proud, Suze, but don't let no one else, particularly that Da of your'n, catch hear of that tongue or you'll have the devil to pay!"
"Of course not," she scoffed. "It'd be surprising if Father heard one unsavory word as it is we don't talk much for all the hollering he does."
James watched her skip ahead, aware of Hollings' sad sigh drooping him lower on those shoulders. He was near to asking if he could walk the rest of the way when it was the man went down on bended knee to allow him just that. James stepped off and turned around to look up at the man who, when standing tall, was taller than any he'd ever known.
"Thanks," he said.
"Twasn't a problem," said Hollings with the traces of a smile. He patted James' head fondly and seemed to study him. "You're still Brian's brother, afterall."
"James!"
"Finally!"
Pairs of feet pounded over deck toward him and James turned in time to see Nolan hurtling too fast at him and Percy on his heels. Gulping, he ducked to avoid a confrontation with Nolan's flailing arm. Percy's knee clocked him in the jaw and he scowled, rubbing at the spot as he straightened.
"Sorry about that," Percy offered.
"Yeah," said a sheepish Nolan as he untangled his limbs from their sprawl upon the deck, "sorry."
James shrugged. "Wouldn't be the worst I've suffered all day." He made a move to glare at Susan but she was nowhere to be seen. He turned to Hollings again but found that the Lieutenant had sidled off into the crowd towards Captain Jensen, Percy's older brother Patrick and… James lifted a brow. "Who is that?"
The man in question was swaying slightly, the mug in his hand spilling over just a bit but enough to spatter on the toes of the Captain's fine shoes. Jensen did not look particularly thrilled, nor unhappy with his predicament, but he did look slightly less than impressed by the state of his own lace cravat stretched around the man's head as if it were a scarf. Patrick Pickwick's face was apologetic, and no less so when their strange companion started conversing with his hands and managed to updump the rest of his cup on Jensen's stockings.
"Who else," said Percy, "but Starling?"
James gawked. "Is he—"
"Sloshed," confirmed Nolan. "He's been at the rum all night. That ain't even his mug in hand—it's the Captain's!"
At that moment, as the cup flashed past with quite an elaborate swoop, Jensen chose to take back his mug. He did so without incident, for Starling did not even seem to notice the thing had been lifted from his hands. On the contrary, his fingers flexed and fluttered in the air all the more.
"Lookit my brother," whispered Percy, nodding at Patrick's flushed face. "Mortified, to the red roots of his hair."
"But his hair's always been red," said Nolan, sounding mystified.
Percy rolled his eyes and motioned they follow. James sighed inwardly but went on because he was genuinely curious as to what Starling was saying. Much as he resented him for his earlier suggestion that ended up the proceedings as a party, he couldn't help but pander to curiosity when the gent displayed his stranger side.
"…now me, I've forever thought Henley was mistaken in his battle with the French. Turns out Frenchies aren't keen on Spaniards either, see? Were Henley to ally his forces with the Frogs, he might better accomplish his goals of constipation." Starling frowned and swayed a bit with this last word. "Constabilization? Con…" He trailed off looking quite puzzled for a moment, but then his face lit up and he snapped his fingers. "Colonization! What say you, Captain?"
"Me, Mister Starling?" Jensen did not smile, but on James' closer inspection the man's eyes were doing it for him. "I say I'm surprised that with so keen a strategical mind you stay with the study of cartography. Why, Jonathan, have you not joined His Majesty's Royal Navy?"
"Because," Patrick said, "no Royal Navy would have him."
James snorted his agreement and was somehow vindicated by the hurt look that Starling turned first upon a chuckling Hollings and then down at him. He smiled as much as he could up at the man. The cravat about Starling's head was much a help to this cause—it looked even more ridiculous up close than it had previously.
"What about you, Mister Norrington?"
Not expecting to be addressed by Captain Jensen, James whirled to gape at him. He gulped, hard, and somehow found his voice—though he'd some difficulty at first. "W—what of me, sir?"
"Will you pledge service one day?"
"To the Navy, sir?"
Jensen nodded.
"I—"
James stopped himself. He'd been about to make a promise that he was not certain he would be able keep. To be the third Norrington committed to the Navy would be one thing. To chancely be the third Norrington whose obligation to the Navy met him with awful ends was another. James frowned at the thought.
"I don't know, sir."
It was at that precise moment that a soft breeze caressed the cheeks of all aboard the Godspeed. The ship was swept with gasps and murmurs of excitement for the telltale touch of the wind having come back to her. Indeed, the sails were soon billowing and those officers who'd not partaken of drink were to their posts to see that the ship took her passengers home.