Henry and Curie, the sailing master, were standing side-by-side at Henry's desk, both examining a heavily-annotated map. Curie looked increasingly nervous as Henry's scowl deepened, his expression growing darker than the night outside. Though they were sailing north and the days were long, night had still fallen and it was very dark. They had departed from Tromso only three days earlier, and already the temperatures were plummeting to well below seasonal.
That, combined with the fact that Henry, for reasons unknown to the crew, was in a foul temper, made Curie edge around Henry cautiously, evidently wary of irking his captain.
"Shift our course north north-east," said Henry. "Make sure it's not north-east. For the love of God, don't sail us into Greenland."
Curie nodded, concurred, and departed. His head was hanging in submissiveness, his cold-reddened hands nervously twisting the brim of his hat. Henry slammed his fist on the table with a growl. Then he sat down, still growling wordlessly.
So when there was a delicate tap on the door, Henry snarled:
"Come."
John crept in. Despite his demure appearance, Henry could still see gaiety sparkling in his eyes.
"Sir. You called me," he said. In a gesture he had learned from the sailors, he clicked his heels together and stood straight. Buried in a thick jumper, he still looked fragile and soft.
"I did. Where's my damn supper, boy?" he growled.
"In the mess, sir. The cook is not quite finished preparing it," said John.
"Oh? And what sort of excellent supper is it, that it takes so long to prepare?" snapped Henry.
John grinned viciously. "It is the most excellent of dishes, sir," he said. "First, a course of the absolute worst wine anywhere in the world has to offer, and then a course of the cook's least appetizing boiled carrots, and then, of course, for the main course, salt pork and beans."
Henry, despite his temper, smiled at the boy. "Dear God, preserve us. If I have to eat much more of this, I will shoot myself before we even reach the ice."
John laughed his mockingbird's trill as he bowed his head. "Shall I tell the cook that you are most impatient for your supper, sir?"
"Do," laughed Henry. "Then tell the bloody man to boil himself next time for all the good he does on this ship."
John laughed too. "Aye aye, sir," he said and Henry took note of the fact that the sailor's affirmative had slipped into the boy's vocabulary. He moved to leave, but Henry stopped him.
"Oh, and John?" called Henry.
"Yes, sir?" asked John. Henry was surprised to see the boy's face arranged into a hopeful expression as he turned about, the movement as graceful as a young lady dancing.
"Dine with Mr. Hawking and I when supper is ready, won't you?" he asked.
"I would be honoured, sir," said John, bowing his head.
"There's a good lad. Now off you run," said Henry, gesturing that John should leave.
John obeyed, off and light-footed, nimble and elegant and utterly unlike the lumbering sailors. Henry shook his head and sat down at his desk. Pulling a small journal from the drawer, he dipped a quill in ink and paused.
This was not his ordinary journal, the one in which he kept the details of their voyage, the captain's log that detailed weather, supplies, the morale of the men.
This was a personal journal, and one he had never used.
But now he had someone to write about, as much as he barely wanted to admit it.
He penned in the date, his writing cramped, which had earned him, in his youth, countless strokes from his tutors' angry rulers. Then, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts, he began to write.
The men are in good spirits, likely due to the healthy supply of rum but also due to the strange presence of a rather charming individual. John Manning, cabin boy, twelve years old, has won over the hearts of the men in a way no captain's authority ever could. This is both worrying and comforting, for if he opposed me I am concerned that we could have a mutiny. I admire Mr. Manning, though First Mate Edgar Hawking has his suspicions. He was praised as womanish and beautiful by a Norwegian, and I share the Norwegian's concerns, but I am aware that many boys of twelve are womanish and beautiful. And the idea that Mr. Manning is a woman is preposterous, for no girl of that age could be clever or headstrong enough to bother with a-
There was a bang on the door and Henry dropped his quill. Without knocking, Hawking flew in, hatless, his eyes narrow with anger.
"Henry," he said. "Come quickly. There's a fight."
Henry was on his feet in an instant, his foul temper returning as he snatched up his hat, yanked his overcoat from the hook, and donned both before storming out of the cabin. The wood creaked under his feet, groaning as he stomped, such a contrast to the light-footed John, who had appeared at Henry's elbow as if summoned by magic.
"You, boy," he growled at John when the child shrank back. "Come with me. You ought to see this."
He made to grab John by the scruff of the neck, but found John all too willing to follow him, practically bounding to keep up.
"He won't like it," muttered Hawking as they climbed onto the deck.
"It will be good for him," said Henry. The Norwegian had been right about one thing: John was too womanish, to effeminate. He needed to be toughened up a bit.
Hawking grunted as they came upon a circle of men, crowded around two other men - Henry struggled to remember their names, before determining that they were Samson and Brown - who were attempting to batter one another to death.
The boatswain was growling in an animal way as he tried to force the men apart, and was being asssisted by a frightened-looking Curie and two of the ship's carpenters.
At his presence, the boatswain suddenly blew his whistle and everyone stood at attention. The presence of their Captain was enough distraction to halt the fighting men for a moment, and that was long enough for the boatswain and the carpenters to separate them.
"What happened here?" growled Henry.
"Sir-" began Samson, but Brown was silent.
"Be quiet. You, what happened?" he snarled, turning to the boatswain.
"These scoundrels got into a tussle over Samson's wife, sir," said the boatswain, inclining his head. "Heard and saw the whole thing, sir. Brown insulted the good lady, and Samson struck him, sir."
Henry glared at the two men and they quailed, heads hung low.
"Bind both to the mainmast. Fetch me the captain's daughter," said Henry. "And assemble the crew on deck."
The boatswain's whistle rang shrilly out and the men clambered to attention. Most were already on deck, but those who had not been were called up. This was not the standard daily punishment, which most men were used to as any sailors were.
This was different.
At the same time, Henry saw both men blanch with fear and heard Samson begin to protest. "I was only defending my wife's honour, sir, don't beat me, sir, I was acting as a good and virtuous-"
"Be quiet," snapped Henry. "I will not tolerate fighting amongst the men, you know this, all of you! You will have to fight enough to survive in the Arctic, to fight for your lives, that to waste energy fighting here against your comrades!"
"You're going to beat them, sir?" asked John from behind Henry.
Henry turned to see the boy's eyes wide with revulsion and perhaps some fear, yet his voice was steady. He was nervous and anxious, yet hid it well. Henry very nearly growled with approval at the boy's gumption.
"Yes," he said. When the boatswain handed him the knotted rope, Henry showed it to John. "See, boy, this is the captain's daughter. On land, we call it the cat o' nine tails. I'll have the men lashed as punishment."
By way of demonstration, he slapped the cat against his hand.
John's eyes widened and he blanched, but he swallowed and lifted his chin. "Yes, sir," he said, and stepped back.
Henry turned back to the men, who had been stripped to the waist and roped to the mast.
"Fifteen strokes for Samson. Twenty-five for Brown," said Henry, and handed the captain's daughter to the boatswain. Since this was not the Navy, there was no official ceremony surrounding the punishment. Instead, everyone simply circled around the men.
Colour had returned to John's cheeks, and he was staring straight at the men, chin high.
Hawking was at his side, obviously ready to stay John if he tried to run, but Henry did not think the cabin boy would.
"Start with Samson," he said.
The boatswain swung. "Aye, sir," he said, and turned away, as there was the horrible sound of cord meeting flesh.
"One," said the boatswain. Samson grunted. Henry's eyes moved to John, whose own eyes were trained on Samson.
The boy did not flinch, or gasp, but his eyes tightened.
Henry suddenly remembered that the boy had been beaten by his father, who had been a member of the Royal Navy. With this in mind, the boy's stoicism was impressive.
Henry kept a careful watch on John as the boatswain struck again and again, until Samson's back was covered with red slashes and he was whimpering. He was not bleeding, for the captain's daughter would not really cut his skin - contrary to the belief of many - but Henry knew he would be in pain for days.
The punishment was repeated for Brown, and still John did not flinch. But Henry could see the boy's eyes tighten with every lash administered. His face was hard and his eyes glittered.
The Norwegian's words came back to Henry and he felt ill at ease.
When it was all over, he gestured to John, who came to him.
"You look sick, boy," he said.
"No, sir," said John, and colour had returned to his cheeks. He lifted his head and looked at Henry with so much haughtiness that Henry was astounded into silence for a moment. He was so very full of pride and authority that it quelled Henry for a moment.
"Oh?" he said. "Ever seen a beating, Mr. Manning?"
"No, sir," said John.
Henry wasn't sure he believed John. After all, if the scars John claimed to have were any proof, John must have experienced a similar - if more brutal - beating on more than one occasion.
"Then you did well. Now come along. To dinner," he said, and motioned that John should follow him.
A good while later, Henry, Hawking, and John were seated at the table in the captain's quarters, the cook attending them with a scowl as he tripped over his feet in dishing John carrots. The boy, who had at first refused wine, was now smiling up at the pathetic old cook, his eyes alight with amusment.
Henry, who'd had a bit too much wine, lost all his stoicism and his reserve, the things he usually practised in front of his men.
He blustered at Hawking: "Edgar, I didn't see you when we were in Tromso? Did you go ashore with the men, and leave your pay in the lap of some buxom, bright-eyed woman?"
Hawking flushed red and glared at Henry. "No," he said, voice colder than the Arctic ice.
"Afraid of dishonouring your wife?" said Henry, casting a conspiring look at John, who grinned back.
"Terribly," replied Hawking.
"You see, John, Mr. Hawking considers himself married to the most magnificent, honourable, and virtuous woman known to man. To this man, anyway," said Henry, and snorted into his glass of wine, chuckling at his own pun.
Hawking would have laughed had he not been so enamoured of his wife. Henry knew that Hawking's devotion to his wife was miraculous, as was his respect for women; he had often heard Hawking praise the fairer sex for their virtues and degrade men for their failings.
"Do not mock my wife, sir," said Hawking, stressing the last word far more than he needed to.
Henry laughed loudly. "I don't mock her, Edgar. But really, can anyone think of a more admirable woman, in either fiction or
"I can think of an example, sir," said John, cocking his pretty head.
"Oh? And not your bloody mother, John, I'm sick of hearing of her," laughed Henry.
"Not her, sir, but Rosalind," said John, and graced Hawking with a smile, who frowned in response. "She, in order to escape the tyranny of her uncle, concealed herself as a man and earned the respect of other men."
"And induced a rather confused young man to fall in love with her, too," muttered Hawking. Then he smiled at John. "But she was a very admirable woman, Mr. Manning."
John smiled and Hawking's face fell once more, as if loath to be seen showing the boy any kindness.
Henry got more than a little drunk, as did Hawking. But he was not so far gone as to be out of his mind, and so was able to watch John who, through the course of the evening, had enough wine to make his cheeks pink and his eyes sparkle.
"You know what the Norwegian said, John?" he hollered, when John had begun to curl the long hair of his braid around his finger. It looked like a habit.
"The Norwegian, sir?" said John, and frowned.
"The one on the dock," said Henry, impatient.
"Yes, sir."
"He said you looked like a woman," said Henry. "Didn't say you looked like a nobleman."
Hawking flinched and his eyes skittered over to John. John, however, smiled serenely, and said to Henry, plucky as a sparrow and twice as pretty:
"Did he, sir? It would not be the first time a man has called me pretty."
Henry saw Hawking flinch again, and knew why, for both of them knew what happened to pretty boys on ships, pretty boys who did not have an officer's rank to save them from their fellow sailors.
"It's your own damn fault," said Henry, pushing that idea aside, for there was a reason why John shared a cabin with Hawking and not with the other men. "You're too girlish. Trying behaving like a man, John. You look like some damned girl, playing with your bloody hair like that."
Now John threw back his head and laughed. "Shall I cut all my hair off then, sir? Make my voice low? Swear and curse?"
"You confuse masculinity with barbarism," said Henry, his drink making him capricious enough to become peevish at John's cheek.
"The two seem to be linked, in my experience," muttered Hawking, whose own hair was short, his voice low, and who possessed a sailor's colourful vocabulary.
Henry roared with laughed and did not press the matter, for he saw John eyeing his slender wrists and delicate fingers almost wistfully. With any other boy he would have chided him for such tender pining, as he had many a time with the midshipmen under his command in the Navy.
John was different, however, and Henry felt his heart swell for the boy.
"Oh, damn you," he said, and poured John another glass of wine.