(no subject)
Events have been set in motion.
But there is an ocean yet to cross.
A few more pieces have to be set up and put into play before the old game can begin once more.
(old battles and scars that were never forgotten)
The East India Company's Board of Directors have reached a decision.
Or have had a decision reached for them.
By this point, most of them are no longer sure who made the decision or who agreed with it. With the debates amongst the shareholders in the General Court growing increasingly virulent, the mutterings of discontent and distrust amongst the merchants and traders at the Royal Exchange and the underwriters at Lloyd's, and a sudden and decidedly nerve-wracking interest being taken in their affairs by the King himself, all they really care about is doing something. And so they have settled on the time-honoured bureaucratic formula put to use by those who want to get an unpleasant situation out of their hands with minimal harm to their careers and livelihoods.
Something must be done. This is something. Therefore, we must do it.
In this case, the something in question is clear enough. Lord Beckett must be recalled, brought back to London and dealt with as quickly and quietly as possible. No one has yet determined what dealing with him will entail; the options appear to range from a private but very stern talking-to all the way up to actual criminal proceedings before the House of Lords. (Judging by the tone of the letters that have been arriving from the Palace, His Majesty seems to favour something rather nearer to the latter.) Yet a closer examination of the facts and the records proves that recalling Lord Beckett may not be quite as straightforward as it would seem.
Most of the Company's experienced commanders on the Atlantic run have had some prior association with Beckett, whether through administrative contacts or other more personal dealings. In particular, Beckett's connections to the Caribbean trade are extensive and, it appears, quite pervasive. If even the most baseless rumour of leniency should reach Parliament -- or heaven forbid, His Majesty -- the cries of 'scandal' and 'collusion' would send share prices sliding further down an already steep slope. And almost all of the commanders who have had little to no contact with Beckett are out at sea, somewhere in mid-voyage on the India or China routes and preparing to bring still more tea to rot in the Company's overstuffed warehouses.
Of the remaining handful of suitable officers who are currently in London or operating out of other English ports, one name gradually emerges.
According to Lyon's file and the reputation he holds in London, he seems to be a career officer of long standing with an exemplary record and no apparent desire for higher rank or a more comfortable desk job. The Caribbean is not his usual route, but he seems to be an experienced navigator, even in unfamiliar waters. And above all, he has little to no prior acquaintance with Cutler Beckett.
Something must be done, and someone must do it.
This someone seems to be ideally suited for the position.
(as the wheel comes full circle, and darkness ascends)
The decks of the Pridewin are a flurry of noise and activity: the thumps and rattles of provisions being hauled aboard, squawking chickens and creaking ropes, mates bawling orders, canvas snapping in the breeze as the sailmakers see to the final adjustments. Her commander stands on the quarterdeck, keeping a trained eye on things and occasionally handing down an order or two.
The watch is set to change when a young man, a clerk in a clean but rumpled suit of clothes, comes hurrying up the dock, a bit of paper clutched in his hand. He nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to board the ship, but once aboard he nimbly threads his way through the working men and comes to a halt outside the door of the captain's cabin. But before he can knock, a voice drifts down from somewhere over his head -- pitched just loud enough to carry to his ears.
'Even a landsman should realise, Mister Wellard, that he really ought to ask the captain's permission to stand below the quarterdeck.'
Matthew Wellard looks up, startled, to see Commodore Lyon peering down at him. It isn't an unfriendly sort of stare -- far from it, if he really thought about it -- but nonetheless it demands a prompt response.
'Your pardon, please, sir.' Nervously, he steps back a few paces -- just managing to avoid bumping into a grizzled-looking man who has his arms full of rope -- and he holds up the bit of paper in his hand. 'I was asked to give you this.'
One eyebrow goes up, inquisitive and imperious, and then the commodore steps away from the rail and makes his way down the port-side stair to the main deck. He opens the door to his cabin, and beckons to the young clerk to indicate that he should follow.
Matthew Wellard has heard many stories of the lavish accommodations that some East India Company captains have in their private cabins...and so he has to hide his initial disappointment when he sees this one. He had expected fine silks and fancy brocades, curios and trinkets from faraway lands, perhaps even a brightly coloured parrot or a tame monkey brought from afar. Commodore Lyon has nothing so exotic -- books and maps, mostly, with a few crates and chests against the walls. But he scarcely has time to look round and take all of it in before the commodore is standing before him, and he hastily hands over the letter he had been ordered to deliver.
It is short, only a few words. He had seen Captain Morrison writing them, and he knows what the message says:
Truth to the rumours, it would seem. A fair wind be with you. -- H.M.
Yet those few words make the commodore's mouth twitch, and the quiet huff of breath he lets out sounds more amused than anything else.
'You may tell your master,' he says, looking up, 'that Commodore Lyon sends his regards, and thanks him for his assistance. And quite possibly owes him a drink, once this affair has been settled.'
Matthew Wellard blinks, managing to look appropriately eager and not at all curious. 'Yes, sir.'
A nod, and then the commodore takes out a small purse. A brief flash of gold, and then a guinea -- nearly a month's pay, all at once -- is being pressed into the young clerk's hand.
'For your time and trouble, Mister Wellard.' There's an almost conspiratorial glint in Commodore Lyon's eyes, as if there is a strange sort of secret between them now. 'Go well.'
(naught shall stand fast against it, save those who are willing)
The crew and officers are assembled on the deck, awaiting the orders of their commander. The rumours have been flying about what those orders will be, of course, for every man aboard knows that their destination is not Bombay, but rather an island somewhere in the Caribbean. Even the prospect of a shorter voyage and the promise of tropical delights cannot fully keep the men from exchanging furtive glances that are full of questions for each other.
Why the sudden change in course? Why the secretive nature of their orders? And above all, why does the ship's roster include a detachment of stony-faced, well-armed Company marines?
The bo'sun's whistle sounds a long, shrill note as Commodore Lyon takes his place on the quarterdeck, preparing to address the assembled men. The day is partly overcast, but a few weak strands of sunlight streak his mane of hair silvery-white.
'You are all aware, no doubt, that our intended destination is the Caribbean, to make land at Port Royal.' He speaks as if giving a sermon, addressing the crew with the detached, lofty air of a clergyman. 'We have been charged with an order of the most absolute importance, and as such we are carrying only such cargo as is necessary to speed our voyage -- and, as many of you know, a sufficient quantity of arms and armaments. '
More glances are exchanged. Sufficient quantity is putting it mildly -- there are no fewer than eight extra cannons on board, as well as more powder and shot than the Pridewin ever normally carries. The men who have faced the Navy's press would reckon that the Pridewin is as well armed as any ship of the line going into open battle...and that is not a comforting thought, on a merchant ship.
'Our orders come with a direct command from His Majesty,' the commodore says, and more than a few eyes go wide at that. 'First and foremost, we are to sail to Port Royal with all speed. Further orders will be issued once we have taken stock of the situation there, but there are a few rules of engagement that all are to follow on this voyage.'
His brow furrows then, as his expression darkens.
'If this vessel comes upon any other vessel flying the Company's flag, upon first sighting the call will go up to summon all hands to their stations. We will not engage, salute, or in any way signal the other vessel. If the other vessel chooses to signal us, we will not respond, but will instead continue on our existing course. The only course changes or corrections permitted will be those necessary to avoid further contact with the other vessel.'
Some of the men are frowning, in either puzzlement or concern. But the commodore presses on, his words clear and precise.
'If the other vessel continues to engage us, or in any way turns to follow us or match our course, the crew who are manning the nearest gun on either port or starboard side shall load their gun according to standard procedures -- and upon my command, fire a single warning shot across the other vessel's bow.' A pause, just long enough to let a hundred imaginations picture the scene. 'If, after firing the single shot, the other vessel continues to engage us...then I will give orders to engage the other vessel and fire upon her with the explicit intent of sinking her.'
Commodore Lyon's piercing gaze scans the assembled men, who by this point are scarcely daring to breathe.
'I will say this again, to ensure that my orders are heard and understood.' Cold, crisp, and stern; nothing of the clergyman now. 'You are under direct orders to sink any ship of the East India Company, or any ship flying the Company's flag, that continues to engage with the Pridewin after the single warning shot has been fired. '
The silence, of course, is absolute.
(to look once again to the White Lady's favour)
They are within a fortnight of making Port Royal, if the wind holds fair.
It has been a tense, busy voyage. Every sight of a sail on the horizon sends the men scrambling to their positions, prepared to carry out their duties under Commodore Lyon's sharp and ever-watchful gaze. The sailors who man the cannons have it worst of all, as they remain prepared for the command to load and fire on a ship that might possibly be one of their own.
(Three weeks in, the sheer build-up of stress had sent one of the ship's boys into a screaming nightmare that woke half the hold. Only the swift intervention of the first mate saved the lad from a vicious beating at the hands of the men whose already troubled sleep he had disturbed.)
It is a minor blessing, then, that all the ships they have seen thus far have been those of other nations, or other owners. A handful of native fishing boats. A French merchant vessel. The clapped-out hulk of a slaving ship that at one point had probably been a Spanish ship of the line. Two of the sleek new Dutch-built sloops that in all likelihood were being used by smugglers from the North American colonies. Nearly all of them had given the Pridewin a wide berth -- one of the Dutch ships had come a little close, but it tacked northwards well before it came anywhere near firing range.
It may be simple courtesy that makes the other vessels keep their distance. More likely, it is the Company flag that flies from the Pridewin's stern. Whatever the reason, the common sailors and officers to a man are silently thankful that they have not yet had to follow the Lyon's orders, and hope that their good fortune continues.
Their commander, however, is not so certain that the situation is one of pure good fortune. Before leaving London, he had studied the shipping rosters at Lloyd's to develop a general idea of what kind of merchant, military, and mercenary traffic might be expected in the sea lanes at this time of year. Additional information from Archie Kennedy and Henry Morrison had helped fill in the gaps in his knowledge. And now that his ship is nearly two-thirds of the way into the voyage, he has noticed an unsettling trend.
From the moment they passed Plymouth and turned southwest, out of the Channel and onto the open sea, they have not seen a single Company vessel.
For that matter, in all that time, they have not seen a single ship that even remotely looks as if it might belong to pirates.
Merriman has a very strong feeling that all of the ships they might have seen are located in a very small part of the world -- somewhere within the area that glows with the faintest of white light whenever he lays hand on the navigational chart in his cabin.
(she alone has the means to unveil the world's ends)
There have been no gales or storms, nothing worse than the odd fast-moving squall that gives the deck and sails a good drenching but harms little else. The winds have been moderate or good, with only minor adjustments and sail changes needed to keep the Pridewin on her proper course.
It almost seems the model of a navigaton manual's ideal voyage, but the men know better than that.
Those who have been at sea longest feel it most strongly. It shows in the way that the superstitious ones are desperately trying not to read ill omens into the flight of every passing sea bird, and the way that even the more skeptical sailors have half an ear open for the hallmarks of destruction. The sound of ghostly church bells ringing out, for instance -- or worse, a man's own voice calling out his name from somewhere across the waters, a sure sign of an imminent death by drowning.
The commodore has taken to walking the decks at night, a lantern in hand and a loaded pistol at his side. He often spends as much as an hour up towards the prow, some nights, staring out across the water as if he expects to see something. It's somehow both comforting and discomforting to see him standing there, like a figurehead at the front of the ship.
You don't act as if you're protecting someone if you don't think there's a reason why they might need protection.
Whatever the reason, more than one sailor catches himself wishing for a good old-fashioned hurricane, a real sail-tearing storm...anything that would be a change from what is increasingly feeling like a growing malevolence, a rage that is just waiting to be unleashed upon those who happen to be nearest at the time.
The Pridewin sails on, across uneasy waters.