sweet man called Codrington who’d got them all hopelessly lost in Canada once.
‘Gentlemen!’ Nelson was tiny and therefore invisible in the crowd, but he had a clear voice. ‘I’m delighted to see you all so pleased with each other, but before I forget, I’ve brought the post.’ He burst into his merry laugh as he was mobbed.
The stateroom tables were laid out with water jugs and bread, and real butter. Most of the captains and first lieutenants were there and more besides. Formality was out the window faster than orange peel. It felt more like being in a coffeehouse than a fleet flagship, and because there were so many of them, it was even laid out that way, with ten or twelve tables. There was easily space; Victory was a first-class ship of the line, and the stateroom was twice the size of Belleisle’s.
Tom arranged them in a square, he and his brother Ru on one side and Kite and Jem on the other. Further down were officers from Jem’s ship and from Ru’s, all familiar. Despite all the doors and windows being open, the room was too hot, and before long Kite had to pull off his cravat and open his collar. Jem did too, then produced a needle and ink from his pocket and claimed Kite’s arm. He put a new star on to the tattoo whenever they met up. He was two off finishing Orion.
When the food came, there were pomegranates and pears, real grapes, duck, wood-pigeon for God’s sake, things Kite hadn’t seen for years. The sun set fast here and, when it did, the servants came in with lamps. The silverware reflected the lights and the bright buttons on their jacket sleeves. Kite was strict about it with the men, so he didn’t have much of a head for wine. He leaned gradually against Jem. It brought him nearer the tiny crackle of the cigarette Jem was sharing with Ru, and the sweet smell of the tobacco. From the other side of the room, the Grenadier fife and drum song broke out, with dirtier lyrics than usual.
Jem had one hand on his thigh, stroking the edge of his thumb to and fro over his hip. Kite was on the edge of falling asleep after the second glass of wine. The idea of getting up, never mind going back outside, finding a boat and rowing back to the Belleisle, was starting to take on the same enormity as a journey to Brazil. He hoped someone organised was going to invite them all to stay here overnight. There was nothing in the world more appealing than settling down in a hammock with drunk conversations seeping through the grain of the deck, breathing the rich smell of old sherry.
‘Hammocks going up below, gentlemen,’ someone called.
Thank God.
‘Do you want to share? Then we won’t have to fight for two,’ Jem said.
‘No,’ Kite said again, and smiled so that he wouldn’t look miserable. He’d requested to be transferred to the Belleisle because he’d hoped that his psyche, always lazy and suggestible, wouldn’t be up to staying in love with someone it hadn’t seen for years. It had turned out to be a lot more determined than he’d thought.
The feeling was so deep-rooted now it might as well have been hunched up round all his organs and staining his blood, a pestilential thing staring hard at his sister’s marriage. Given one single hour alone and drunk enough, and he would assuredly say something that led to a punch in the face. Whatever Jem – poor decent kind Jem – had meant that night by the river, it had not been to provoke this creeping, deformed devotion.
‘Miz,’ Jem said, frowning. ‘Come on.’
He would just have to be offended. Kite shook his head.
‘Can I have that cigarette back?’ Ru asked. ‘It’s wasted on you, Jem, you smoke so much I bet you can’t even taste pepper, never mind—’
The shots came straight through the window at the back of the room. They blasted the far wall. He didn’t see it but it must have been chain shot, to do to the room what it did. He had been flung ten feet backward into the wall and his lungs wouldn’t fill properly. When they did, he choked and realised there was too much on top of him. Broken chairs, part of a table.
Something was hissing right by his head. He thought