Chapter 2: A Feat of Navigation and the Return of Mr. Simpson

The aftermath of the Bay of Biscay found the Indefatigable once again undermanned. A great naval battle had called all the warships of a convoy away, leaving the cargo brigs virtually undefended and easy prey for any British ship that could chase them down. A prize crew was needed for each one taken, which meant both officers and men to be taken from the ship's company. Chadd had been given command of a brig, leaving only Bracegirdle and Riley for the watches, and only a handful of mids remained. When he wasn't on-duty or sleeping, Riley spent most of his time talking with Kennedy or reading. He was never in the mood for backgammon; he was too worn out.

"What are you doing?" Kennedy asked him, sitting down next to him. It was the time of day Riley would have been playing whist, if Chadd or Hornblower had been there. The mess was empty; they were stretched a bit thin on officers, so most of the mids who weren't on watch were catching up on lost sleep.

He didn't look up from his book. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Reading."

"Well, then."

"It seems rather odd," Kennedy said. "Not that you're reading, I mean," he added hastily, seeing Riley's look, "It's just that it doesn't seem like you could have many books to read. It'd be the very devil to fit more than a few in a sea chest, after Norie's Seamanship and all."

"You'd be surprised." Riley said in a tone that intentionally bordered on rudeness. He liked Kennedy, but he wished he would go away.

"What are you reading?"

Riley sighed heavily and read a passage aloud.

"That was… Latin?" Kennedy asked tentatively.

Riley nodded.

"What does it mean?"

He sighed inwardly at the realization that Kennedy was not going to "go away."

"I'm not entirely sure," Riley said, "I'm using it to teach myself the language." He indicated the lexicon on the table before him

"That's… impressive," Kennedy said, "I must have driven my tutor half mad trying to learn that; and he was more than half mad to begin with, so I suppose it's no wonder he ended up in an asylum."

Riley laughed. "Poor man. I hope your father had no trouble finding another."

"Not at first, no. It wasn't until I'd gone through a good half-dozen more that the search became difficult." Kennedy explained. He grinned at Riley's appreciative chuckle. "My father was a businessman of some modest wealth, so he could afford very attractive terms."

"Was?"

"Yes," Kennedy said. His smile slipped a little. "He lost everything just last year and he… ah…" he looked down, pretending to clear his throat. When he looked up he was joking again. "The judge said he had to pay the asylums to board all of those mad Latin tutors and he died of shock."

"Oh." Riley sat up and put the book away. "Archie, I'm so sorry."

Kennedy looked at his hands. "We weren't really that close. He always favored my older brother."

"I'm sure that's not true-" Riley began.

"It is," Kennedy insisted, "Torrence was the one who was going to follow in his footsteps. He did, too; took over the business after my father died. And I was the second son, who got shunted into the navy. Not that I dislike -"

"No, you misunderstand me," interrupted Riley, "I mean you're not telling the truth. You don't believe in your own words."

"Oh." Once again, Kennedy became very interested in the dirt beneath his fingernails.

Oh, damn, I've embarrassed him. Or worse; offended him.

"Forgive me, Mr. Kennedy, that was impertinent," Riley said, searching desperately for some way to change the subject. "I never knew my father."

Riley regretted his words instantly. Dangerous, dangerous ground, and not much of a change of subject at that. What had prompted him to say such a foolish thing? It wasn't like him to blurt out the first thing that occurred to him.

"No, that's all- really? I'm… I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes," Riley thought quickly, "He was killed, in America."

"My condolences," offered Kennedy. "Was he a navy man?"

"No," replied Riley, "A lobster. Non-commissioned. My mother never remarried. I joined the navy as soon as I was old enough and earned my commission through service."

"Does it pain you to speak of it?" Kennedy must have noticed his distraction. For reasons unknown, Riley found it difficult to lie to him. He would have to examine that later, when he had time. It could cause some problems

He shook his head. "No. As I said I never knew him; he went off to war before I was born."

"I meant about your childhood," Kennedy said, "Your mother."

Now it was Riley's turn to stare at his hands. "My childhood was not as unusual as you might think."

That wasn't a proper answer, and they both knew it. Kennedy was willing to let it drop, however, and proposed a game of backgammon. Riley accepted with no small sense of relief and brought out the board.

Slowly but surely, the other officers came trickling back. Hornblower was the first, and the most surprising. They found him floating in the middle of the bay in a small boat. The captain of the Marie Galante, the brig that Hornblower had been given to take to port, appeared to have recently been in charge. The midshipman came aboard preceded by the four men he'd brought with him; Matthews, Styles, Finch, and Oldroyd, all crowing his praises. After he reported to Captain Pellew, Hornblower was whisked off to the officer's mess. They put him before the long table. Riley sat at the head of the table, looking very stern and imperious indeed. He gestured to Kennedy, who stood to his right. Kennedy stepped forward.

"Now, Mr. Hornblower," he said ominously. A familiar glint of mischief danced in his eyes. "You will kindly explain to Lieutenant Riley why you have returned in so ignominious a fashion or face his displeasure."

Riley deepened his scowl as emphasis. Hornblower scowled indignantly and opened his mouth to speak.

"Look at him, Kennedy!" Riley dropped the act and chuckled, "I told you he would take us seriously. Don't worry, man. Sit down! And for heaven's sake, tell us what happened!"

Archie sprang forward and planted Hornblower in a seat. The remaining mids gathered round expectantly. Hornblower cleared his throat awkwardly and began.

His first and only real mistake had been to quarter the French captain with his men, giving him an opportunity to issue orders. They didn't have much of a chance to revolt, though, because twelve hours later, Hornblower realized that the ship was holed. When they took her, they'd hit her just as the ship heaved upward, so that when she was on calmer waters the hole rode about a meter and a half below the water line. Hornblower had patched that up as quickly as he could with an old sail, but by then the water had hit the cargo. The cargo of rice. It promptly absorbed the water and began expanding. Rather than lose the ship, Hornblower hauled the Frenchmen out of confinement and had them haul the rice over the side, but by then it was too late. There simply were not enough men to get the rice out quickly enough, and they were taking on water rapidly. About the time the rats starting leaving, Hornblower was forced to abandon ship. After that it was the four men he'd taken with him, the nine Frenchmen, and himself in a jollyboat.

The French captain, who from the first had treated Hornblower was a clueless stripling fool, insisted that they make for Bordeaux, citing its closeness. Hornblower refused, saying that they were heading for England, which would take over a week. This elicited further argument from the Frenchman, and eventually Hornblower was forced to threaten him with bodily harm. After further discussion the captain swore he would do nothing to undermine Hornblower's command of the boat. At Hornblower's insistence, he had his men swear, too.

"How do you know that was what the Frenchman said to his men?" Riley interjected.

Hornblower hesitated, "Well, I didn't."

"That's you're problem, right there," Riley said, "You had no idea what the crew agreed to, and you couldn't possibly expect that the Captain would keep his word. Starting tomorrow, Mr. Hornblower, you and anyone else who cares to join you are learning French."

"Aye-aye, sir," Hornblower said, "If I may continue?"

"Do."

Finch was passing out water one day and sloshed it. He had been carrying the bucket in one hand and a pistol in the other, as a precaution. So the French captain barked at him to use both hands, that the water had to last until they reached England, and did he want them to die of thirst? Suitably chastised, Finch stuck the pistol in his belt. The Frogs jumped him; the Captain grabbed the pistol and pointed it at Finch. Four pistols leapt in his direction. The French captain ordered them to lower their weapons. Hornblower told his men to do as he said. There was some protest, but Hornblower shouted it down. They handed over their pistols.

"I'm sorry, sir," Finch said, "I'm sorry."

Hornblower told him it was all right.

"Thank you, sir," Finch said.

The French captain said that his men wanted to throw Hornblower and his men overboard, but he wanted Hornblower to have time to contemplate on his own stupidity in a French prison. A sort of revenge for the five years he'd spent in an English one. He demanded the navigational charts. Hornblower handed them over. He demanded the compass. Hornblower held out the compass, looked him dead in the eye, and dropped it over the side.

"Fish for it," he said.

The French captain backhanded him across the face. Styles leapt to his commanding officer's defense and started wrestling for the French captain's pistol.

"As you were, Styles!" Hornblower shouted.

"But sir!"

"As you were."

Styles sat back down.

"That was a foolish thing to do, boy," the French captain said, "I might have killed you."

"And forgo the pleasure of crowing over my discomfort?" Hornblower said, wiping the blood from a bitten tongue off his face, "I think not."

"Still, it was a futile act. All I have to do to reach France is turn this boat around 180 degrees and then sail southeast."

"If you can find it."

"Oh, I can read a chart, Monsieur," the Frenchman retorted. He was clearly relishing his highly superior intellect and authority. "I only need the sun and a polestar for reference; a feat of navigation even you might manage."

Many days passed, and they did not reach France. The French captain's men voiced a rather heated complaint, which became a heated discussion, about their captain's abilities. Styles asked what the fuss was about and Hornblower explained.

"Well, where is it though, sir?" Matthews asked, meaning the coast, "He said he'd only to follow the charts."

"So he did," Hornblower said. Shouting in French masked his words, so he could not be overheard even if the captain were trying to listen. "But that would pre-suppose that our position upon the chart was accurately plotted."

Matthew chuckled. Styles shushed him.

Hornblower went on to explain that with nine against five, the odds of the French gaining the upper hand were always favorable, and that it would have been a poor captain who did not take precautions against such an eventuality. Matthews wanted to know were their true position was. Hornblower responded that it was in his head. They had been sailing north, not northwest as the French believed when they had take control. The French captain had simply turned them about.

"So we're going south, not southwest, sir," Styles concluded.

They were. They were therefore sailing parallel to the French coast rather than towards it.

By that point the arguing among the French had begun to grow violent.

"That's Frenchmen for you," Kennedy said, "Ill-disciplined rabble."

"And it cost them," Hornblower continued.

One of the Frenchmen stood and grabbed the captain's vest threateningly. The captain hit him, sending him sprawling practically into Hornblower's lap. Hornblower pulled the pistol from the man's belt and pointed it at the captain, cocking it. The captain pointed his own pistol right back. They were at an impasse.

"An interesting situation, Monsieur," Hornblower said.

"Then Oldroyd sighted the Indy's sail to windward, and the rest you know." Hornblower concluded simply.

"Bloody brilliant!" Kennedy said, clapping Hornblower on the shoulder and grinning broadly.

Riley concurred. "Mr. Hornblower, if I had a drink to hand, I would salute you. 'Fish for it!'" Riley laughed, "Oh, what I wouldn't give to have seen his face just then."

"It was worth the blow," Hornblower smiled as well, "You should have seen him when we spotted the Indy: his face was the picture of defeat."

"'An interesting situation, Monsieur,'" one of the mids said with a chuckle.

"Damned impressive," Riley repeated, "Damned impressive."

The French would have to look out for Mr. Midshipman Horatio Hornblower. They would indeed.

It was morning near the French coast. A dense fog bank hung over the water. The Indefatigable skirted the edges of it, wishing to avoid the obscured visibility of the fog.

"Sail to leeward!"

Captain Pellew rushed to the side. "Make sail before we lose her!" he bellowed. The French ship was heading into the fog. The Captain had just enough time to see her name painted in gold on the stern – Papillon – before she disappeared. Indefatigable sailed after her and into the fog.

They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, watching, but all they could see was gray. Gray fog, gray water, formless gray surrounding them on all sides with no sense of shape or horizon. Riley could feel the air hanging over him like a blanket as he gazed out on it, eyes straining to pick any shape out of the amorphous mass. Nothing. More than once he heard the captain curse the fog and agreed whole-heartedly. He couldn't see a thing. Not a single, solitary – there! It was a British ship, aflame, leaning heavily to port. She wouldn't last long.

"Ship to starboard!"

Riley whirled just as the cannon blasts sounded. The shots hit the deck and set men and equipment flying. The all-to-familiar sounds of men screaming and moaning filled the air. The Papillon moved off quickly before they could return fire.

"She'll hide in the fog!"Pellew shouted over the noise, "After her, Mr. Bowles!"

"Aye-aye, sir." Mr. Bowles said. "Starboard two points!"

"Starboard two points," the helmsman confirmed.

But Papillon was already slipping away.

"We're losing her, damn it." Pellew shouted, bringing out his spying glass. The sounds of men in pain had not ceased during this interchange.

"Siiileeence!" The captain roared. The men quieted almost instantly.

Once again they were scanning the fog, only this time Indefatigable would be on the offensive. Still, it was nerve racking; they had no idea where Papillon would appear. Fog banks were excellent for hiding and lying in wait, but truly horrible for hunting in. Riley's dark gray hair, which was the same color as the Captain's - as were his eyes, though he and Pellew were not related - had come out of its queue during the action. He caught his ribbon just before it blew over the side and tied it back again, more securely, and went back to watching. And waiting. He uttered Pellew's earlier curse on the weather. It was so damned disorienting…

"There she is!" Pellew cried, "Now we have her!"

Just as he said that, they came under fire again, this time from the shore. It had all been a cleverly orchestrated trap, arranged by the French to utilize the fog bank. A British ship would be lured into the fog where the Papillon would harry her and herd her within range of the guns positioned in St. Di and Gaye. It was simple, workable, and would probably cost His Majesty's navy any number of vessels if not eliminated.

"Mr. Bowles, we're in over our heads," the captain concluded, "Take her out of range of their shore batteries."

"Aye-aye, sir," Mr. Bowles said.

By the time they were safely away, the sun had burned off the worst of the fog. The Papillon still lurked within reach of the shore guns. Pellew gave orders for boats to be launched to pick up survivors from the sunken British ship.

Riley was on deck seeing to the remaining members of the lost ship's crew. They were a sorry lot: frightened, bedraggled, most of them totally incoherent. From a boatswain's mate by the name of Stanley, he learned that they were assigned to the Justinian; Hornblower and Kennedy's old ship. Riley thanked the man and gave him a blanket.

"Go and see the Steward about some dry clothes and some hot stew," he said, "Osgood here will show all of you the way."

"Aye-aye, sir. Thank you, sir," Stanley said. He knuckled his forehead and relayed the orders to the others from his boat. He had to repeat himself twice before they showed any sign that they had heard him, let alone understand what he was attempting to communicate.

The third and last boat came as soon as they'd gotten the second tied down. The first man up was a dripping officer clutching a blanket. He took in the deck in one great covert sweep, huddling under his blanket, eyes hesitating briefly on each officer as though taking their measure for a new hat. Or a noose. Riley looked away just before the officer's gaze passed over him. Appraisal complete, he sniffed long-sufferingly and shivered, then straightened and squared his shoulders. Riley never would have noticed his evaluation if he hadn't been standing within three meters of the man, watching him. He strode purposefully up to Riley and nodded briefly in lieu of a salute – his hat had not made it through the swim.

"Mr. Midshipman Simpson reporting, sir," he said.

Riley blinked. So, this was Mr. Simpson.

"Well, Mr. Simpson, it will grieve you to hear that unless there are more coming aboard now, you are the only officer to survive the wreck," Riley informed him.

"Oh," Simpson said. He blinked rapidly as though holding back tears and looked at the ground. When he looked back up a single tear was trailing conspicuously down his cheek. Simpson followed Riley's eyes and wiped it off, embarrassed.

Or so he wished to seem. Riley wasn't fooled. He'd seen the way Simpson had looked at the other officers. Still, for the moment it would be better to pretend to be taken in.

Riley said gently, "If you'll go to the midshipman's berth, Mr. Graham will help you find a uniform that fits well enough. Get some food, then report back to me. I'll see to your men."

"Aye-aye, sir." Simpson nodded again and moved off.

Riley repeated the orders he'd given Stanley to the last group of bedraggled men and was instantly approached by Hornblower.

"Yes, what is it, Mr. Hornblower?" he asked.

"Where's Archie?" Hornblower asked in an undertone.

"In the mess, I believe," Riley replied quietly, "You want to warn him about Simpson?"

Hornblower nodded, "How did you know?"

"Let us say that Mr. Simpson strikes me as the sort of man who would use any power given him to its fullest advantages," said Riley, "The idiot went off to find the mid's berth without someone to show him the way. It won't make too much of a difference, but if you hurry you should beat him to that part of the ship. Just don't make a spectacle of yourself."

"Thank you," Hornblower said, and he was off. Riley ascended to the quarterdeck to report.

"Captain Pellew, sir," he saluted.

"Well, what have you learned?" Pellew asked.

"It was the Justinian, sir, that we saw. Captain commanding was Keene. I count nineteen survivors all told, one of them a bo'sun's mate, plus one officer. A Midshipman Simpson."

"Simpson?" Pellew repeated. No doubt he too recalled the name from the affair with Hornblower, back before the war had officially begun.

"Yes, sir. The very same."

Pellew nodded, absorbing the information. "After he's had something to eat, report with him to my ready room."

Riley saluted again. "Aye-aye, sir."

"The Papillon jumped us from the fog," said Mr. Simpson. His voice was soft, broken, sensitive. It was a well calculated telling. If the captain was pretending to be convinced, he was doing an excellent job of it. Riley very much hoped he was.

"Every time we thought we knew where she might be coming from, she… she came at us from somewhere else. It was like there were four ships, not one." Simpson swallowed. He grew more upset with every word. "Poor Captain Keene. I was with him when he was hit. Tore… tore his insides out, and…" he began to weep.

Crocodile tears, Riley thought disgustedly.

"Yes, yes alright, Mr. Simpson," Pellew said gently, "Please do not distress yourself further."

There was the barest, almost imperceptible hint of sarcasm in the captain's words. Mr. Simpson didn't seem to catch it, but it was enough to convince Riley that Pellew had not been bilked. Conversely, all of the other officers – Hornblower and Kennedy excepted, of course – seemed sympathetic to Simpson. They must have been sheltered; Riley had seen genuinely inebriated beggars act better than that.

Pellew had Mr. Bowles lay out the charts and indicated places as he spoke.

"The mouth of the Geronde," he said, pointing to the mouth of the river, "The Papillon is just here, between the batteries of St. Di and Gaye. You, gentlemen, will go in with the boats and cut her out. Lt. Eccleston will be in general command.

Eccleston took this as his cue to speak. "As you have seen at firsthand, she is a ship of war, well-armed and fully crewed. But we will be attacking her at night, taking her by surprise." He went on to say that they would be boarding her from the ship's boats, and detailed how many men would be brought along. "…Mr. Chadd will command the gig, Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Hornblower the jollyboat. Mr. Bowles."

The attack would commence in the early morning, before dawn and before the fog. Eccleston and Chadd would fight the battle on deck while Kennedy and Hornblower would immediately ascend the main rigging to loose and sheet the topsail. By then having command of the Papillon, they would rejoin the Indefatigable under cover of darkness and the beginnings of the fog bank.

"So much for the theory," Pellew said. "Any questions, gentlemen?"

"Sir." It was Simpson. "I would like to go in with the boats."

Riley quickly intervened.

"If I may, sir?" He looked to the Captain for permission to speak. Pellew nodded.

"I think perhaps it would be better if Mr. Simpson were to remain behind," Riley continued. "After all, he has recently been put through a rather traumatic experience at the hands of the Papillon, and we would not want to put him in a situation where a desire for vengeance could overcome his devotion to duty. Such a reaction, while entirely understandable, could potentially endanger the lives of both Mr. Simpson and his comrades."

To say this in Simpson's presence could have been interpreted as an insult, but given the stakes it was a conscionable risk. It was a very different sort of revenge Riley believed Simpson would have in mind. He would not have forgotten the wound he'd received from the late Mr. Clayton, on the behalf of Mr. Hornblower, and Kennedy would not escape his wrath either; he had been one of Hornblower's seconds. Lots of things could happen in a battle, and they could be difficult to sort out afterwards.

To Riley's dismay, the Captain said, "If Mr. Simpson thinks he's up to it, I have no objections. Mr. Simpson?"

"I'll be alright, sir," Simpson assured him.

"Mr. Eccleston?"

"We will be glad to have you, Mr. Simpson. You will go in with Mr. Hornblower and Mr. Kennedy."

At the end of the table, Riley could see his two friends close their eyes and sigh softly. Any doubts he might have had about his theory were immediately dispelled. Simpson shrugged as if to say, "No matter."

The officers dispersed to their preparations.

"Mr. Simpson." Riley stopped Simpson before the midshipman could descend belowdecks.

"Yes, sir."

"If anything untoward should happen to any of the men, or officers," Riley added with a meaningful glance at Hornblower and Kennedy, who were leaning on the side, talking quietly, "because of any vengeful impulse on your part, I shall hold you personally responsible. By which I mean that I, personally, will hold you responsible. Do I make myself clear?"

Simpson continued to gaze at his old shipmates for a moment. Then he looked back at Riley, measuring again. "You're name's Riley?"

The question took him aback. "Yes, of course," he responded.

"You're from Plymouth?"

Riley suppressed a gasp of surprise. How…

Simpson read the answer on his face. He nodded slowly, a smile growing on his lips. "I know your mother," he said.

He could not panic. He must not. That would ruin everything.

"I find that unlikely," Riley said, feigning nonchalance, "And even if it were so it would have no bearing on the current situation. I asked you a question, Mr. Simpson: do I make myself clear?"

Simpson sniffed, ostensibly from the cold and his recent immersion in seawater. "Perfectly." He saluted. Just a shade more insolent and Riley could have brought him up on charges of insubordination. But then he certainly would have spoken. "Good day, sir."

Riley had to struggle not to jump the rotten sot and kill him right there and then. Instead he walked stiffly to the side to contain himself. A stain on his reputation like the one Simpson insinuated could ruin his career. But then, Simpson couldn't prove it. Riley couldn't disprove it, but that hardly mattered; he knew perfectly well he had an unimpeachable reputation and was considered a good officer. No prodigy, but a good officer. No one would be inclined to believe Simpson, and if he did tell it would be ample provocation to suggest a duel, which Riley was fairly sure he could win.

There are plenty of Riley's in Plymouth. It's hardly a small place. No need to upset yourself.

Simpson had been very stupid to reveal his trump card. It only gave Riley more reason to see him dead. He was used to bullying or fooling everybody around him. He could not fool Riley, so he tried to blackmail him. He must not think Riley the sort who could stick a knife into someone's back

He's right.

That depended on who's back the knife was being stuck into. Simpson would have to be disillusioned. Hornblower and Kennedy's lives could well depend on it.

"Well," Kennedy said, feigning light-heartedness, "I imagine George here has just given Simpson the threat of a hangman's noose if he misbehaves."

His voice started Riley out of his murderous reverie.

"There are certain advantages to familiarity with superior officers," Hornblower agreed. There was a determined set to his jaw that Riley was beginning to recognize.

"Damn it, Mr. Kennedy, I've warned you about using by surname where people can hear you," snapped Riley. He knew he shouldn't be upset by something so trivial, but it was just one of those times. Kennedy needed the reprimand anyway.

"Yes, sir," Kennedy said, but there was not even the barest hint of impudence in it. No mock-salute.

Riley sighed, regretting his words. He shouldn't have done anything to lower Kennedy's spirits, not now.

"Don't worry about Mr. Simpson," he said. He looked left and right to be sure no one was listening and continued, softly. "If he tries anything I'll either put a noose 'round his neck or a knife in his back, and if he hasn't reasoned that out by now there's something wrong with him."

Hornblower and Kennedy started at that. Hornblower frowned.

"A knife…?"

"How else was I supposed to get through to him?" Riley snapped defensively. "Just don't worry about him, alright? Worry about taking the Papillon."

They were looking at him oddly, as though they'd never really seen him before, or he'd just sprouted bananas from his earlobes

"Go rest," Riley waved them away, "you'll have be up early tomorrow."

They murmured their "aye-aye"s and moved off. Riley felt rather than saw their eyes on his back.

Again and again, nothing but stupidity, he berated himself, Was that supposed to be reassuring? He leaned on the railing and hung his head, staring sightlessly down at the water lapping against the side.

How had things gotten so out of hand? First there had been that sailor. No, he couldn't really count that; it had been covered up easily. No, it all began during Hornblower's absence. During that conversation with Kennedy, when he began having… what had he been having? Qualms of conscience? No, not that: he had absolutely no difficulty shading the truth for the Captain or the other officers. It was Kennedy and Hornblower, his friends. He could not lie to his friends; couldn't even hide his thoughts and emotions well. That was a problem. He'd come dreadfully close to letting something slip before. What if it grew worse? There was nothing for it: he would have to distance himself as soon as Simpson had been taken care of.

As for Mr. Simpson… Nothing could be done tonight; there wasn't enough time to plan and execute an appropriately discreet solution. He'd be on his guard, so no hope of a simple faked accident or suicide, and a threatening message would likely do more harm than good. Damn. And there was another problem: Riley wasn't sure he could kill Simpson in cold blood. He'd never done that before. It was one thing to run someone through in the heat of battle but quite another to quietly and calmly do someone in. Well, that was just too bad. If Simpson tried something and failed, Riley would have to go through with it to protect whoever survived, unless he could get Simpson hanged. If Simpson succeeded, there was no way Riley was letting him get away with it and that was that. End of discussion. But everything hinged on Simpson knowing he was in earnest: revenge never brought anyone back from the dead. He would just have to hope that what he'd told Kennedy was true: Simpson was intelligent enough to figure it out on his own. Riley was unable to drive the point home.

"Begging your pardon, sir," a voice said at his elbow, "Are you feeling alright?"

It was Stanley, the boatswain's mate from the Justinian. Riley remembered him as having an unusual amount of self-possession, especially when compared with the others from his ship.

"Yes, Stanley, I'm fine," Riley said, straightening. "Thank you. How are your lads doing?"

That question properly should have been put to Mr. Simpson, but Stanley took it in stride.

"Oh, they're well enough, sir," he said, "Still in shock, most of them, but they're coming through. Some of them have mates that transferred here when the war started, and that helps."

"Good," Riley said. "The Captain has ordered that you be put back to work as soon as possible, so we'll be putting about half of you into Mr. Hornblower's division while the other half will go to Mr. Cleveland. You of course will maintain your position as bo'sun's mate. This will be put into effect at four bells, forenoon watch, so you have until then to rest and recuperate."

"Very good, sir," Stanley said. "Keeping busy gives a man less time to think."

Riley nodded. "That'll be all."

Stanley saluted and moved off.

Riley sighed and straightened his coat. He should go apologize to Hornblower and Kennedy. Mr. Simpson aside, they were going into action tomorrow, and Riley might very well never see them again. But no. This… attachment had to end, for their sake as much as his. Riley's slip of the tongue might be the perfect opportunity to make it so.