Chapter Three
The days passed in relative peace. The sea was cold but calm, the skies clear. With only wood and metal separating them from the pitiless sea, the men worked hard to keep their ship alive and under way. After another month, the strain of accustoming themselves to the work waned into competent tedium. The men began to focus on their plans for the New World, exchanging stories about what they might do once they arrived there. John shook his head at their extravagant plots and expectations, but allowed them their dreams: those were the fuel that would fire their efforts upon landing.
John kept an eye on Thomas, always. The youth was still rather hopeless, but he at least managed to keep himself out of catastrophic trouble. John was relieved to have made the right choice in dealing with him. Ratcliffe would have thought him an utter incompetent if Thomas had continued to fatally fail in his duties.
John glanced across deck at the Governor's cabin. Ratcliffe was surly, but had not gone out of his way to fight John's command. Today, he seemed in an almost pleasant mood, by his standards. His companion (assistant, officially, John noted wryly) was fussing over him, trimming his hair. They exchanged some words, looking out to give some of the settlers a disdainful glance, and laughed.
Even a man as dour as Ratcliffe had brought company, John mused. One would think the man's black heart would be perfectly fine biding its time alone on a ship. Yet he had brought along that Wiggins fellow, who left his side less frequently than his lap dog did. John wondered if the little dog was lonely, and the thought made him bow his head to hide a laugh.
That evening, Thomas managed a minor bit of trouble. Not that he found himself at fault. The odious little dog Percy had been running around the deck, going mad barking at some seagulls that were circling after a bucket of unsightly matter spilled on deck. Wiggins was running after him, trying not to step in the stuff, while Thomas was trying to swab the mess away without mopping the dog itself across the desk. One turn led to another, and eventually both men collided, while Percy skittered over them and brought himself back to Ratcliffe's cabin on his own. The dog would have told them he would be done with his play soon, that they need not bother chasing him, but then, he could not talk.
"Oh, would you watch where you're stepping?!" Thomas snapped irritably. He was warm and tired and the deck smelled insufferably disgusting. He got to his feet, brushing himself off, and threw the mop aside.
Affronted, Wiggins got to his feet, straightening his own outfit. "Hmph. I'm not the one who can't tell fore from aft, you redheaded dolt."
Wiggins was too busy and far too important (in his mind) to bother any more with Thomas. He turned on his heels and headed for Ratcliffe's cabin. But then-
"Oh, am I a dolt? Who do you think you are, you little fop?"
Wiggins stopped, mouth twitching in an annoyed quirk. His fists curled, and he whirled back to Thomas. "Oh ho! A fop, am I?"
Thomas ignored him, picking up the mop and continuing his work. He wanted to finish with everything and collapse somewhere. Preferably, collapse in John's cabin, nestled into his bed and his arms.
"And what do you mean by that?" Wiggins asked. He snatched the mop from Thomas, incredibly fast, and tossed it aside. "Do you honestly look down on me, sir?"
Thomas, short but still having an inch or two on Wiggins, lifted his head. "As a matter of fact, I-"
"Don't be droll," Wiggins said, rolling his eyes. "You know what I meant. Do you honestly believe that you're somehow better than me?"
Thomas removed his cap, brushed his hair back, and set it back in place. "I have real work to have done," he said wearily. "If you would only-"
"No, I will not 'only'," Wiggins said, stepping toward him as if he thought this might be a menacing gesture. "You are no better than me. Are you so dense that you don't realize that we are actually being compared?" Wiggins snorted, looking Thomas up and down. "As if an intolerably redheaded peasant could ever aspire to being the Governor's assistant."
"What did you say?" Thomas asked. "What do you mean, 'compared'?"
Wiggins raised his thin, arched eyebrows. "You really are that thick," he observed. "God! We're on a ship, boy!"
"I'm not a boy," scowled Thomas. "You can't be much older than I am, surely."
"I'm twenty-two," Wiggins said, with great dignity. He lifted his pointy nose further in the air, looking at Thomas with narrowed eyes. He sobered. "And I know what I am."
Thomas crossed his arms. "And what exactly is that?" he sneered.
Wiggins bristled. For the first time, his vacant, gratingly cheerful facade gave way. He looked very small, just a horse-faced young man wearing fussy clothing. He smiled, without showing his teeth for a change.
"I was a sickly child," Wiggins said. He gestured down at himself. "Rather obvious, I suppose. We had nice things, but after my father died … we never ate very much. Did you know, my mother once contemplated drowning me?"
Thomas' spine felt filled with cold seawater. He dropped his arms, staring dumbfounded at the man. Wiggins was looking far out into the ocean. He walked to the rail and gripped it in both hands. Thomas stood beside him.
"She hated me, my mother," Wiggins said dispassionately. His thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Well, why not? We could not afford me a great education, and I was not a daughter that could easily be married off. I was quite obviously not meant for sailing or labor. I always thought I had the hands of a craftsman-" Wiggins held out his hands, surveying their spindly, delicate digits. "-but no one would have me for an apprentice. I looked too unhealthy, you see."
"I … I had no idea," Thomas said uncomfortably. "I'm sorry."
"There was no reason for you to know or wish to, and even less reason for you to be sorry for me," Wiggins said. "I was a pitiful thing, but no longer. I accepted everything I would never be, and took stock of what little I had. Good enough breeding. My mother had some social connection. I charmed, I served, I groveled, and I'll freely admit that. And in the course of things, I've made my way here."
"But don't you … don't you want to have pride?"
"I do have pride," Wiggins said. "I'm proud to serve greater men than myself. I would never be a great man, God simply cut me from a lesser cloth. I'm fine with that."
"Greater men," Thomas echoed. He hated to admit it, but he could see that point.
Wiggins was a more perceptive fellow than he looked, and he caught Thomas' look. He turned back to him. "We are on a ship, Red," he said. "There are no secrets on a ship. For everything that happens and is said, someone sees and hears it. Everyone knows what you're doing with John Smith. It's only out of respect for him and some unfathomable liking of you that stays tongues. Well, they don't remark to your faces, in any case."
Thomas was staggered. He looked around at the men in paranoia. Wiggins made an amused sound somewhere between a series of snorts and a giggle.
"You really are an idiot," he said, shaking his head. "You have no idea how the world works. Don't look down on me, boy, not if you're so completely unaware of where you actually stand."
With that, Wiggins turned on his heel, and stormed off. Thomas sank to the deck, leaning his back against the rail. Was it true? Did the men really know? He wanted to disregard Wiggins' words as a spiteful lie, but there had been a deep ring of truth in everything he'd said.
Thomas wished to discuss the matter with John desperately, but he could not bring himself to approach the captain's cabin. He wondered whether he ever would be again. He did not want to end up a reputed sinner, but the idea of suffering the rest of the voyage without John's support was unimaginable. Only considering it made his breath come up short.
Thomas dully retrieved the mop and continued working. He was too numb to think or feel. He could only move.
Three days later, John called Thomas to his cabin.
"You've been avoiding me."
Thomas' eyes widened. "Wh- Oh, no, sir, it's only … I've been fearful busy, and-"
"Thomas, Thomas, calm down," sighed John. He was sitting behind his desk, finishing a log entry. "Do not bother with excuses or lies. You have no reason to fear me so. Take a breath, and tell me what's the matter."
"It's … Wiggins, sir."
This made John look up from his log book. "Wiggins?" He set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. "Ratcliffe's Wiggins?"
"Yes, sir." Thomas sat down in the chair opposite John's desk. "He … He said that secrets can't be kept on a ship. He said that everyone knows about us. Is that true, sir?"
"Yes."
Thomas stared at him in disbelief. "And you don't- I mean, you- Does it not bother you, sir?"
"It's a ship, Thomas," John told him. "In ships and in prisons, there is a code of silence. True, I have heard of some overzealous captains attempting to crack down in the name of God's supposed law-"
"Supposed?" Thomas gasped at the implied blasphemy of the word.
"I only mean that men have made a mess of all laws of Heaven and Earth," John said, reminding himself of who he was talking to. He stood and retrieved a wine bottle and two glasses. "Yet there are places of such desperation and darkness that sense prevails over accepted morality."
"I don't understand," Thomas said, frowning deeply. "There is right and wrong, good and bad, the right side and the wrong."
"You're young," John smiled wistfully. "Very young. You've only lived in values and dreams. Do you remember the way you felt just after I punished you? How even such a painful connection set your body alight with the fires of desire and need? Can you recall being driven so blindly mad with desire that you set aside rank and morality simply to connect with me?"
Thomas was staring at his hands. "I do," he said softly. "It was as if I were outside myself and yet completely myself at the same time. That person was more than myself … yet … "
"You were yourself outside of your preconceived ideas of who you are, outside of the expectations you've been trying to live up to," John said. He tapped his fingers against his wineglass. "The core of a person differs, I find, from the person one must be in civilization. Out here, men are free of all responsibilities save working and surviving. All men must find a way to survive, all men understand that struggle, and so even if they may not agree with another's methods, they respect the fact that their fellow is only doing what he must to keep going."
"I see," Thomas said slowly. He took a long drink of wine. "Mm. Yes, it's much like the liquor. Imbibing so much on land would make one a drunkard, but no one sees anything wrong with drinking themselves near drunk every night while at sea."
"Precisely," John said. "Besides, we're hardly the only ones doing it. There is Ratcliffe and Wiggins, and several other men at least. It means nothing. We'll land, the affair will end, and one day you'll have a wife and children."
Thomas did not look too pleased with this prophecy. John hoped that he had not started harboring unrealistic ideas of what they were. He was very fond of the boy, but not so fond that he would swear off women and take him up as a permanent lover. The notion made John get up to fetch himself something stronger than wine.
Thomas murmured something so softly that John missed it. "What?"
Thomas took a deep breath, and fortified himself with more wine. He stood then, and faced John. He could not meet his eyes long, however, and ended up staring at his hands. "Do you not love me at all?"
It was said nearly as softly, but John could not have missed it. The words struck him at his center, and he was unable to reply for a few minutes. He'd had boys before, of course, but none ever so naïve as to romanticize the relationship. He knew that he should simply deny him, but …
In truth, he did love Thomas a little bit, and he told him so.
Thomas set down his wineglass and kissed John, wrapping his arms around his neck. He tasted of wine and the salted meat he had had for supper. It was a sweet, sincere kiss, though none the less thorough for all that.
"I do love you, John," Thomas murmured into his ear. "So much."
"Thomas-"
"I'm not a complete fool, I know we'll not be together forever," Thomas sighed. He pulled back to look up into John's eyes. "But I'll always love you, regardless. And, well," Thomas' gaze slid to the cabin's bed, "so long as we are together … "
"So long as we are together," John said, picking Thomas up with a swift heave, "we might as well enjoy it. We may connect out of necessity, but that doesn't make the connection any less pleasant, does it?"
Thomas curled his face into John's neck, pressed tight against him. "No," he said with a sigh of content, "no less pleasant at all."
The End
