Questions Never Asked
Below decks, the orlop was fetid with lantern-smoke, bilge-water and sweat. Though the engagement with the French privateer had ended hours ago, the acrid stench of gunpowder lingered in the wood. Sequestered together out of the way, the wounded men groaned with every pitch and roll of the ship.
Beeton lay in a hammock in a fevered dream. They had given him laudanum and rum, and a strip of leather to bite down on, before the surgeon had sawed off what remained of his leg. He tried to doze, but his missing leg still burned with terrible pain, as though the grape-shot had torn through it mere moments ago. To take his mind off his agonies, he thought of Captain Pullings.
He even managed a smile, weak though it was, as he recollected his first interview in the Captain’s great cabin, when he had been on board only a matter of days, back on the far side of the globe.
*
When he and his fellow convicts had come on board, still in fetters, their chains clanking, the Captain had made a short, disinterested speech, exhorting them all to learn their duties, to perform them to their utmost, and, if they did all that, promising that when they returned once more to England, they would be returned to civilized society. The only part of the speech which was truly inspiring came at the very end, when the Captain had turned to Horning, the beefy master-at-arms, and commanded them to be released from their manacles.
Rubbing life back into his wrists and ankles, Beeton had watched the Captain’s glittering, brocaded back as he descended to his cabin and wondered what kind of man he was in the charge of now. A ship of His Majesty’s Navy was a small step up from a cold gaol, but the wrong Captain could easily make it seem a floating wooden prison all of its own.
Asking around, the other sailors were as in the dark about Captain Pullings as he was. Only lately to command, the Captain had never yet taken the HMS Splendide to sea, and was still a mystery to his men. His seamanship, his courage, and his philosophy of discipline were all the subject of much speculation amongst the foremast jacks.
Beeton only espied the Captain once more as the ship took on its stores; one afternoon he called out his gig and had himself rowed in a wide circle about the Splendide, before coming back on board and ordering a complete re-organisation of her holds. The newer men grumbled as they laboured amongst the casks, but the older hands were quietly pleased. ‘Shows he knows ships,’ Half-Nose Watkin explained to Beeton. ‘We wasn’t balanced proper, we was too heavy in the bow. She’ll grip the water better now.’
The next day found the Splendide anchored in Portsmouth still, and Beeton manning the capstan bars, helping to heave up the last of their salt-beef from the lighter overside. His hands were blistered and bleeding when Horning pulled him from his place without a whit of explanation and dragged him below. ‘Make y’self smart,’ the master grunted.
‘In these rags?’ Beeton protested, but he did his best, buttoning his shirt and wiping the sweat from his brow as they descended to the Captain’s cabin.
On nearer inspection, Captain Pullings was young for command, and handsome. A fine mouth was set in his tanned face, black hair tumbled casually across his forehead, and his eyes were blue. Setting off his features was a quality more ineffable; he had the blithe, careless confidence that came with privileged birth.
He looked up from his desk when the door opened and eyed Beeton shrewdly. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Stand there.’ Beeton did as he was told. ‘You came to us from the Exeter Assizes, did you not?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Captain smiled. ‘You’re at sea, now, Beeton.’
‘Sir?’
‘ “Aye-aye,” Beeton, is the correct affirmative response.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Captain raised an eyebrow and Beeton blushed. ‘Aye-aye, sir.’
‘How long were you in prison?’
‘Not three months.’
‘And you were offered the choice between a naval career, or else …?’
‘Transportation to the colonies, sir.’
‘I am informed,’ said the Captain, searching in his desk drawers for a quill, ‘that before you were a criminal you made a living for a time as a gentleman’s servant. Is that correct?’
‘It is, sir. I was first valet for Lord Marlborough.’
‘I know Lord Marlborough.’ The Captain cocked his head and studied Beeton thoughtfully. ‘You are well-spoken, and even in those slops, you are presentable. How came you to prison?’
Beeton shuffled his feet. ‘I do not wish to dissemble, sir,’ he said, choosing his words with care, ‘but it is a matter of some … delicacy.’
Captain Pullings laughed aloud. ‘Ha! So it is true! He caught you meddling with his daughter. The cantankerous old fool. I had heard rumours to that effect, when he sent his whole family back to the country at the height of the season. I think all of England heard those rumours. You’re a famous man, Mr Beeton.’
Beeton could think of nothing to say; he went so far as to allow a faint smile to play across his lips, but did not dare more. In truth, it was Lord Marlborough’s son, a beautiful but callow youth, in whose embraces he had been caught. He considered himself lucky not to have been strung up.
The daughter was a sweet girl of fifteen. Beeton was sorry to learn that this garbled version of his foolishness was getting about; doubtless it would be injurious to her future prospects.
‘Keep your own counsel, then,’ said the Captain, ‘but I can read the truth writ all across your face.’
‘Aye, sir.’
The Captain jabbed his quill into a near-empty bottle of ink and began transcribing some orders or other. ‘I am currently without a steward, Mr Beeton, and I’ve a mind to appoint you to the task. Have you any objections?’
‘No, sir.’
Captain Pullings eyed the weeping blisters on Beeton’s cracked and bleeding palms. ‘Hands like yours were made for finer work than hauling on ropes,’ he commented. ‘The purser and the cook can instruct you in your new duties. Get below and fetch me a cup of coffee.’
‘Aye-aye, sir. And thank you, sir.’
*
The Splendide’s orders took them to the West Indies. Once out of harbour, the pitch and yaw of the ship as she rolled through the waves made all the new hands sea-sick, or at least made them stumble about like drunkards, flailing for handholds. Within a week, however, stomachs and feet had settled, and Beeton no longer noticed the floor’s listing, except when he tried to set the captain’s table.
The first part of the voyage seemed charmed; the French fleet was blockaded in their ports, giving the English rule of the oceans, and every sail they met was friendly. The only time the guns had cause to be run out was when the crew spent a few mornings practicing their revolutions.
The lubbers had time and peace to learn their duties well, and of the three men who slipped from the masts in their first fortnight aboard, only one had the misfortune to land on deck and break his neck. The others dropped overside into the water, and Captain Pullings had no hesitation in ordering the ship about to pick them up. Other captains, Beeton was told, might have simply sailed on.
These humanitarian acts were not the only thing to endear Captain Pullings to his crew. When, after a solid day of sail-drill, he timed the crew hauling in the flysheets and furling the mainsail in less than twenty minutes, he allowed an extra ration of grog for the entire ship. When he invited the lieutenants and midshipmen to dine with him from his private stores, he bade Beeton and Stuart, the cook, to add the leftovers to the men’s dinner the next day. And when, during a gale, the wind had veered six points and threatened to take them all aback, he had handled the ship with calm, purpose, and—even to Beeton’s uneducated eyes—tremendous skill. He had refused to yield the quarterdeck all that long, dark night, until morning and calm had arrived together.
As steward, Beeton’s duty was to be at the captain’s side always, and he relished it. Captain Pullings had ordered that each dawn he be woken at four bells in the morning watch; Beeton rolled from his hammock at three bells so as to have a coffee brewed, a cigar lit, and to have time to memorise the direction and strength of the wind, which was invariably the captain’s first question upon being shook from his slumber.
In action, the captain gravely informed him, Beeton’s place was on the quarterdeck, ready to convey the captain’s messages or, at the last, to protect him with cutlass and pike. One of the few jacks to stand such exalted station, Beeton was not envied for this: opponent gunners would invariably aim for the cocked hats and brocade of the senior officers, oft times turning the planks of the quarterdeck into a splintering abattoir.
Beeton was an observant man, and sensitive to the intricate moods of men of great birth. Soon enough he could predict the captain in his wants: arriving with a boat cloak just as the northerly breeze became too cold to stand; or unpacking the card table before it was ever called for, when the captain was merry; or subtly warning off gregarious lieutenants when the captain wished to pace the deck in silent thought.
However inappropriate, Captain Pullings didn’t bother to hide his delight with his new subordinate. Of a naturally light-hearted disposition, he was as at ease with Beeton as he was with those nearer to him in rank and class: First Lieutenant Fotherington, sixth son of an earl, and the doe-eyed young Midshipman Blakeny, who was apparently the captain’s own relation—both his second and third cousin, according to rumour, or some other connection equally mysterious.
As Beeton, with each passing day, revealed himself a man of sense and intelligence, the captain even came occasionally to solicit his opinions. Only ever about inconsequential matters—at what latitude it would be safe to pack away his warmest clothes; whether, when the original supplies of sealing wax ran out, ordinary candles might be adapted to the purpose—yet each inquiry was an example of considerable condescencion all the same.
It wasn’t long before Beeton was bewitched by the captain’s beauty, by his passion and skill, by his intelligence and his wit, and by his considerate nature.
Sometimes, in quieter moments, Beeton thought he could sense that the captain thought well of him too. He seemed unattached: there was no ring on his slender fingers, and no letters to sweethearts from Captain Pullings’ pen were ever added to the mailbag waiting for the next ship they met headed back to England.
And there were looks they shared, glances that hinted at an understanding deeper than they had ever openly acknowledged. Towards the end of one particularly raucous wardroom dinner, the captain had insisted each of the attendants share in the last bottle of wine. Every other jack was given a fresh mug, but Captain Pullings poured a generous few mouthfuls into his own fine-stemmed glass and offered it to Beeton, looking him solemnly in the eye as he took it and drank. Handing the glass back, their fingers touched, and Beeton didn’t believe that the captain was unaware of the currents that passed through their clammy skin.
Approaching the West Indies, the atmosphere below decks became stifling. The collected savage breaths of four hundred sweating men were trapped by the low wooden ceilings and transformed the boiling ship into a hot, humid oven. Sweat clung to every pore and, except when duty required it, every man on board did away with as much of his uniform as his own modesty allowed.
On deck, the captain was exempt from this indiscipline, only ever emerging from his cabin in full uniform. In the privacy of his cabin, however, he would often strip off his shirt; Beeton was the only man allowed to intrude on this intimacy, and he drank in the sight. Whether Captain Pullings understood the torture that his blasé nudity was inflicting, Beeton could never be sure. From simple admiration, Beeton was shaken to vicious lust, and he could think of little else but the captain’s imagined embraces.
But each hint of fellow-feeling the captain betrayed was followed by a moment of bitter-tasting coolness. Which was the real man: the jocular captain who laughed gaily as an ill-timed roll would send them both sprawling as Beeton helped him into his pants, or the stern taskmaster who could stand unbending on the quarterdeck for twelve hours or more without so much as a single backwards glance for his patient, lovelorn steward?
In torment, Beeton invented fantastic scenarios in his mind, running through every conceivable and inconceivable scenario that might lead them to the brink. But rank and class stood between them, an impenetrable wall of glass that could only be seen through, never smashed. How could he, a lowly gaol-rat, proposition a ship’s captain, a man destined since birth for a seat in the House of Lords? The thing was impossible.
It was up to Captain Pullings then; it must be. Beeton thought the captain wanted him; on more confident days he was certain of it. Whether it was modesty or propriety that held the captain back, Beeton tried to give him an easier time of it by deliberately placing himself in compromising situations. He would wake the captain before lighting the lantern, rather than after, to give them a few minutes in a cabin dark and furtive. Twice he grew so desperate that he deliberately spilled wine on the captain’s pants, so he could kneel at his feet and wipe at his crotch. None of it availed.
Beeton envied the other foremast jacks; their clumsy trysts seemed, to him, absurd in their simplicity. Take a liking to a common sailor and all you had to do was wait until the rum was ladled out on Sundays, then stumble with him down to the cable tiers and grope together in the dark, rats scurrying about your feet. There were many that chose not to exercise themselves thus, but they simply turned a blind eye to the buggery—for it is a simple truth that questions never asked are never answered.
*
Beeton couldn’t remember the shot that had taken his leg, but he had no wish to. His laudanum dreams had only one object: Captain Pullings. Lying half-dead in the orlop, surrounded by those just as mangled as he, Beeton knew that the captain would come to him.
He could recall, above the tremendous crashing of the guns, the sincere alarm in the captain’s tone as he had shouted for the loblolly boys to carry him below. Through a veil of powder-smoke, he could picture in his mind’s eye the fright in the captain’s visage as he watched his beloved steward dragged off the shattered quarterdeck. In that moment, leg gone, Beeton finally knew for certain that Captain Pullings loved him.
And so he waited, for the captain would come. The battle was fought and won above him, and he waited. In the dark and the stink, he waited. Men died around him, and Braun, the surgeon, sniffed his wounds for gangrene, and the collecting blood on the orlop decking had to be sluiced clean every two bells, and he waited. Day became night became day, and every able man had to help plug the shot holes to keep the old Splendide from sinking, and he waited. Ignoring the crippling pains still emanating from his phantom leg, Beeton patiently waited.
At last, the captain came. ‘Beeton. I’m glad to see you still alive.’ Captain Pullings had scarce ceased barking orders for forty-eight hours, and his voice was a rasp.
‘I am happy to be so, sir.’ It was no lie: at that moment Beeton was truly happy. Though the words were spoken through grinding teeth, the sight of the captain’s sweet face, lined with such tender compassion, had sent angels dancing into Beeton’s heart.
‘I wanted to ask you, Beeton …’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I wanted to ask … do you know of any other man on board who could act as my steward?’
‘Sir?’
‘It will doubtless be a long time until you are fully recovered. We are making for Kingston, and we’ll be disembarking all our injured at the Naval Hospital there. When you’re gone, is there anyone you think suitable to replace you?’
Beeton’s angels vanished, laughing over their shoulders. ‘Replace me?’
Captain Pullings clapped him on the shoulder, smiling gently. ‘Well, I need a steward, and it can’t be you, can it? Is there anyone you can recommend?’
‘I … I …’ The captain looked him straight in the eye, frank and friendly as ever, but nothing more. ‘No, sir. Nobody springs to mind.’
*
Beeton lived. He avoided gangrene, and as he learned to walk on his new peg-leg, the pad of meat at the end of his stump grew calloused and hard.
But there was a second wound he had taken, less noticable than the first, but far more painful. And no matter how calloused and hard his heart grew, that second wound would never truly heal.
THE END
Story notes:
- Can you tell that I'm a Hornblower fan? I didn't need to do any research for this story, because I've read so much C.S. Forester that all the technical vocabulary of those olden-timey sailing ships is ingrained in my memory.
- And look, when I used the line 'doubtless it would be injurious to her future prospects,' the Jane Austen fan in me gave a little thrill as well.
- Reading back over it, I can sense the rush I was in to get it finished. I think the second half of the story is much weaker than the first. From 'Beeton was bewitched by the captain's beauty' onwards, it devolves into a (really pretty silly) bodice-ripper ... or whatever a male equivalent of a bodice-ripper is. In the next draft I'd like to make the 'is he?/isn't he?' romance plot much more subtle. At the moment it's about as subtle as a cannonball to the head.
- (Oh God, I'm such a wanker for even thinking this, let alone writing it:) My usual philosophy of story-telling is to try, as the writer, to become invisible. I normally don't want people to notice the 'writerly-ness' of my stories, because I think it distracts from the story itself (on a side note, this is my problem with so much literary writing - authors want me to notice how clever they are and what pretty sentences they can write, which actually detracts from my enjoyment of the plot). If you're truly caught up in a story, you can lose yourself in it, and nothing's worse than being dragged back to reality by a bit of self-indulgent writing. So normally I try to hide my tracks, hoping that as you read you're only thinking about the characters, my puppets, and not about the writer behind the scenes pulling the strings.
- But in this case the style is very obvious. My excuse is this: if the bulk of the story were written in a modern fashion, but the characters spoke in a pastiche-Georgian sort of way, then the clash between the two styles would be jarring, and that would, I thought, be even more distracting. So the lesser of two evils was to write the whole thing in that ye-olde style and hope I could do it well enough that the 'writerly-ness' of the whole thing didn't detract too much from your enjoyment. I doubt, on a first draft, I was successful, but maybe I can neaten it up and smooth the edges when I go back over it.
Cheers, JC
currently reading: The Diamond Age by Neal Stephenson
books to go: 115
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