Chapter 25 #2
“Preston,” Everard said, alarmed. “Say that isn’t true. You wouldn’t let them hang you, at any cost. Would you?”
D’Arcy gave him a strange look. “Whyever not, Mr. Morality? I am guilty of all of it. More.”
“And whose fault is that, pray? Mine. Fuck the morals,” Everard said fiercely.
“They don’t apply. There’s no amount I would not pay to slip you free of a noose, had I the option.
Do you understand me? I don’t care if it’s unfair or unjust. The thought of you…
” He swallowed. “I have already had to comprehend it, you see, and it’s—it’s incomprehensible. ”
D’Arcy’s expression was mingled consternation, shock, and affection.
His lips parted, and he straightened so as to meet Everard’s eyes.
“I thought the point was that one’s morals applied in all situations,” he murmured, hair falling over his eyes.
He needed a cut badly. “But, noted.” He leaned in, like he would pull Everard close and kiss him, right there on the deck, in full view of the bay and the loader crew—he must be feeling much better indeed—
Everard stared, but all D’Arcy did was smirk and tilt his bruised chin. Then his attention was suddenly elsewhere: he nodded behind Everard’s shoulder to the water’s edge. “Though maybe don’t mention that to our pirate egalitarian, aye?” he said, low.
It was rather too late for that, Everard thought as he turned, almost clocking D’Arcy with his nose in the process. “Vee’s returned?”
He had. There was no mistaking the taper of broad back, the white-blond hair tied in a queue.
He himself rowed the little tender steadily towards the Sévère; Louis-Michel Alarie and Romilly René sat at the bow, René’s skirts marking a whole cargo of their own.
She waved, then saluted cheekily. Alarie made no greeting, intent in conversation with Vitaliy; today’s satin was a royal purple.
“Why the devil’s the Frenchie still with them?” D’Arcy muttered. He returned the wave. “Wasn’t he to move along to Galveztown with his new navy?”
“God knows.” Everard wasn’t much pleased either.
Pirates didn’t pipe each other aboard, so Vitaliy’s ascent went relatively unremarked. Everard, though, felt his matelot’s steps upon the deck in his bones and blood; they jarred rhythm into his heart.
God help him, as angry as he was with the man, he’d still missed him. Had still felt the absence of his quiet presence like flesh torn out of him. Had put on the new hat this morning, because it was too fine to not, because it meant Vitya had thought of him.
Halfway across the deck, Vitaliy looked up to where they stood at the quarterdeck rail. His steps faltered, a hitch so small it was barely noticeable. Everard’s heart stuttered with him.
But without a word, without a greeting, Vitaliy turned his face away—and ducked into the companionway beneath. Alarie followed, short on his heels.
“Ooh,” D’Arcy said quietly. “Well, damn.” He pushed his curls further down over his forehead. Vaguely, Everard was glad he was well enough to raise his hands past his shoulders without pain. “What’ll you say to that, Ev?”
Everard took a deep breath. “I—”
There was a thudding crash from beneath, as though something heavy had been thrown; they both jumped. Vitaliy’s low, angry voice shot, unintelligibly muffled, through the deck.
“What in hell—?” Everard started for the ladder.
He hadn’t made it two steps before Louis-Michel Alarie came dancing out of the companionway. He shut the door gracefully behind himself, looking utterly unbothered at Vitaliy’s uncharacteristic outburst of temper.
“Ah!” he said, finding Everard slack-jawed and staring at him from above. “The man precisely I must speak with!” He leapt up the ladder. “Do not you worry about Vee; his mood is rare only from being ashore—there is such heat!”
“Er…” Everard, not believing this for a second, glanced to D’Arcy with pleading eyes. “Quite.”
D’Arcy—having miraculously understood—nodded and slipped behind him on the ladder, past the approaching Alarie. Limping slightly, he ducked into the companionway. Everard hoped he was well enough to deal with whatever he would find there.
But there were no further thrown things, calls of alarm, or angry voices; and so, Everard was slightly more capable of meeting Alarie’s charming, smiling face.
He bowed. “How might I be of assistance, Governor?”
“I am going to be quite quick, very direct,” Alarie began, “due to sheer lack of future opportunity. Please do forgive me. I wanted to have more ceremony than this—over a drink, or a meal—but circumstances…”
“Governor…?” Everard prompted.
“Yes, quite. The bare fact of it is, de Anglada, you were missed at the junta yesterday.”
Everard blinked. “Indeed?”
“Yes. And it occurred to me, and several others also, you must understand, that you are a man of especial experience.”
Everard said nothing.
“And you must know I do not have a man exactly like you at my disposal; which makes you such a unique opportunity. The British are unparalleled in skill—and your record is spotless—”
That wasn’t right at all. D’Arcy’s record as an officer was—had been—spotless; Everard’s had been distinctly tarnished.
“Er…”
Alarie waved. “Spotless enough for a wobbly-legged new nation desperately in need of guidance. You do see?” He flashed white teeth.
“I believe so,” Everard said stiffly. He believed he hadn’t been more effectively offended throughout all his career. To say nothing of México.
Alarie nodded. “Good. Then I shall obviously make you vice-admiral—we do not do the red or the blue or the distinctions, there is only the one rank—you would answer directly to me, and none higher.”
“Would I?” Everard murmured.
“Well, yes! It is settled, then. Mina has brought some seven, eight ships—a thousand ‘maricones,’ he said—”
Everard coughed in disbelief. “Marineros,” he corrected firmly.
“That is what I said. A thousand sailors.”
“No,” Everard said. “No—”
Alarie peered at him. “Non? I could have sworn—but it was in the Spanish, perhaps I have not reproduced it—”
“Non,” Everard confirmed. “I mean to say, it isn’t settled. Not at all. I cannot be your admiral.”
Alarie stared up.
“But—no? You would go from this”—he waved again—“from nothing, to be a kept man, a mate, to be an admiral! A hero! A revolutionary! Fighting against the enemy very same, the Spanish! My good friend—”
If Vitaliy had already lost his temper with the man to the point of throwing things—little wonder—Everard didn’t think he could make the situation much worse. He allowed himself to show the full depth of his feeling, which turned out to be pure rudeness:
“No. No, thank you. Never. I will not be your admiral, Governor. Absolutely not?” He tried this last in English, knowing the man understood it perfectly well. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Alarie shut his mouth with a snap, pushed out his lips into a boyish pout. “Hmm. Non, I will let you time to think upon it. A week. Yes? That is how long we will be in Port-au-Prince before we are departing. You will give me your answer then.”
“No. No is my answer, Governor.”
Alarie bowed. “I will not take offense at your bluntness, since I have had to be so unfortunately frank myself. But you will change your mind, I know. I am staying at the palace, naturally—” He did a little half-turn as he stepped down the ladder. “You might call on me there.”
He fled, off the Sévère and agilely back into the tender, rowing quick as though he’d left torpedo bombs aboard and had to get outrange.
“Sant Jesús.” Everard rubbed his hands over his face briskly. “Admiral.” He let out a high laugh. “What in hell?”
He removed the hands to find he had an audience: Romilly René. She lounged in the mizzenmast shroud above him, smoking a cigarillo.
Disappointment rang clear through him. Did her being there mean Vitaliy was soon for the San Telmo?
But he finally had his answer. The broad panniers hadn’t hindered her climb, nor had she accommodated them—she sat on the ratlines just as Vitaliy did, but with more concealment via lace.
“Alarie takes a tonic of coca leaf, from Amerique du Sud,” she said solemnly. “I would recommend not to partake, if given chance.” She flicked ash from the cigarillo into the water, blew a perfect smoke ring, and gave him a sharklike smile. “Trop bien, mon amour. Vee will be enchanted.”
Everard stared.
She waved, smile widening. “Go on. Collect your reward, matelot.”