Page 11 of Rears & Vices

“Do not you dare,” Everard snapped. The marine put away the gag.

But Everard could not stop the shackles going back on, the state of the prison hold below, or another night within it.

“I…” He looked to the deck, ashamed as a boy. “I’ll do what I can, on the morrow. It might not⁠—”

“Everard,” Vitaliy interrupted him softly. “Enough. You’ve done enough.”

Everard looked up, astonished. Vitaliy hadn’t ever called him by name, not even in bed.

But Vitaliy’s eyes were closed; his abused lips were pressed tight. Before Everard could respond, the marines frog-marched him belowdecks, back and away and down.

Everard returned to the other captains, amazed at himself for every subsequent step he made without staggering or being sick.

But then, he was on a ship, and on the water he was never sick.

Five

When Everard returned at last to the Netley, he found that Jack had obeyed him. The newspapers were all—every single blasted gossip column and cursed satire—quite gone from his greatcabin.

He looked around the neat, clean space, checked the door was latched behind him, and removed his hat with a trembling hand.

It was the last straw. He hadn’t recalled the newspapers until he’d been nearly unto the cabin, but now that they were gone and he couldn’t look up a single thing more about Vitaliy the pirate, he was… he was bereft.

If he’d been listening at all to the charge sheet, he’d have it there, clear in his mind as a list on papercloth; but he hadn’t, because he didn’t like having the charge sheets of every defendant he’d ever passed judgment on imprinted upon him for eternity.

And now this God-blessed shred of self-defence could be Vitaliy’s undoing, and his own, too.

“Fuck!”

He threw his hat. It plunked off the window, rattling the latch and casing, and he was immediately regretful. The corner fold was probably crumpled to hell. He sat at his desk with a groan and put his head in his hands.

There was a knock on the door. Of course there was; Everard was captain. Some days he was endlessly in demand. It would be one of those, he despaired, just when he most needed a pair of hours to sit and think, read through C’s letters, and choose which ones would suit.

He’d just picked up his hat again, and called “Enter,” when he heard them from above: the bo’sun’s pipes, chirping the call for an approaching gig.

The head peeking around the door was Jack, telling him what he already knew: a captain was about to be piped aboard the Netley.

“Now, Preston?” Everard muttered, and dashed up the hatch. He made it just in time.

D’Arcy was still in full dress, like him, except hatless. He gave Everard a big, insolent grin as he stepped over the railing and put out his hand.

“Smile and nod,” he muttered, leaning in for a handshake. “Like nothing’s happened.”

Everard gritted his teeth and obliged him, irritating, correct man that he was. “Captain D’Arcy.”

“Been a while since we’ve been on Ontario together, Captain Anderson,” D’Arcy added, loudly. “Good we might do an early supper in Kingston, like old times.”

Early supper? Practically a late luncheon. But Everard would play along for now.

“You’re kind to oblige my invitation, Captain,” Everard said with a nod. “Though I would want a word before we abandon ourselves to liberty.”

D’Arcy returned his nod agreeably, perfectly polite. He greeted Everard’s first and second lieutenants, who were deboarding on their way to their own leave. He gave the first, Mr. Spicelay, a critical squint that Everard didn’t miss.

They went belowdecks to the little officers’ parlour.

“Sorry,” D’Arcy said, as soon as the doors were shut. “I know it’s all backwards. Johnson’s taken over the Brigitte, my cabin included.” He glanced around, checking each officer’s quarters to be sure they were empty, and sat. “How have you been, really? I’ve been so curious.”

What cannot wait until supper? D’Arcy’s raised eyebrows said.