What the Ship Remembers - 32. Chapter 32

The Forms Are Observed

Noon Watch on the Quarterdeck

The sun hung high, casting sharp shadows across the deck of HMS Absolute. Awnings stretched taut over the quarterdeck to blunt the worst of the heat, but the air beneath still clung thick and close, tinged with canvas and tar, tempered by the slight breath of wind off the sea.

A long table, usually reserved for charting or inspections, had been positioned beneath the awning and flanked with chairs. Captain Huxley sat at the head of the table, coat buttoned to the throat, white gloves resting palm-up before him. His face bore no anger, only the stillness of command deciding what it will not ignore. Before him, an open log book, a quill poised beside it like a question waiting to be asked.

Lieutenant Vane stood at the foot of the table, his back ramrod straight, face impassive, hands behind his back in the stance of a man who knows the forms by heart and intends to find refuge behind them. The bruise along the bridge of his knuckles had already begun to darken.

On Huxley’s right sat Lieutenant Pitt, jaw tight, gaze fixed ahead. Beside him, Lieutenant Kit Avery, his arms loosely crossed, face giving nothing away. Lieutenant Morris, stolid and unblinking, completed the row.

On Huxley’s left sat Midshipman Blake, pale beneath a healing bruise, but upright and composed. Next to him, Gordon, face drawn but calm. Then O’Brien, who had folded his hands on the table and was glaring at Vane with no pretense of neutrality.

Around them, the deck was active but subdued. Men worked, but slowly. Lines coiled, sails checked, brass polished, all with stillness, as though even the ship itself were holding its breath. From where they stood, the entire maindeck could see the captain and the lieutenant. None could hear, but they could mark the order of it.

Huxley felt the eyes of the deck on his shoulders. One mistake here, and the ship would bend where it should hold. With a tilt to his bristling eyebrows, he broke the stillness, sharp and dry as a snapped stick.

"This is no court martial. But I have called this company to enquire into the conduct of one of my officers. What is spoken here may well guide what follows.”

The bell sounded to mark the beginning of the noon watch.

“Lieutenant Vane. Explain your actions on the main deck yesterday during the afternoon watch.”

Vane’s tone was flat. “Midshipman Blake responded to my questioning with insolence. I reprimanded him."

“You struck him,” Huxley said. Not a question.

“Aye, sir.”

“In front of the crew. During a sanctioned drill.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Did he raise his voice?”

“No.”

“Refuse a lawful order?”

“No.”

“Was he threatening?”

“No.”

“Then what did he do, Lieutenant?” Huxley asked, low and sharp. “Not how he looked. Not how you felt. What did he do?”

Vane’s jaw ticked. “He gave cause to suspect impropriety. And he has made a habit of...”

Huxley’s voice whip-cracked across the space: “No. Not implication. Action. What did he do?”

The question hung between them.

Vane’s composure cracked, just slightly. “He undermines discipline, sir. He presumes authority he does not yet possess. The men notice. The officers notice. He conducts himself with a familiarity unbecoming... ”

“This is not a sermon,” Huxley said coldly. “I did not ask for your opinion, Lieutenant. I asked what passed between you and Mr. Blake on the main deck, at the rail, in front of my crew.”

A pause. Then Vane’s voice, tight: “I struck him, sir.”

“You assaulted a midshipman in broad daylight.”

“I... " Vane hesitated, "I corrected a junior whose conduct merited..."

Huxley held up a hand to interrupt him. “What,” he asked, with limited patience, “precisely provoked you?”

Vane hesitated. Just a breath. Then: “His manner. His tone. The way he looks at senior officers, as if he is already one of us.”

Blake did not flinch. Gordon’s jaw clenched. O’Brien breathed out slowly through his nose.

Pitt said nothing. But one of his gloved hands curled slowly into a fist on the table.

“I see,” said Huxley. He shifted slightly, not in discomfort, but like a man adjusting weight on a blade. “So you object to his manner. Not his conduct.”

“It is difficult to separate the two, sir.”

“For some,” Huxley agreed. “For others, that distinction is the whole of naval law.”

He let the silence breathe for a moment. Then looked to Avery.

“Lieutenant Avery, you were there. Did Mr. Blake’s behaviour merit physical correction?”

“No, sir.”

“To your knowledge, has Mr. Blake ever disobeyed a direct order from Lieutenant Vane?”

“No, sir.”

“Has he shown defiance?”

A pause.

“No, sir,” Avery said. “Only endurance.” Quiet, but with weight.

That hung in the air.

Huxley turned to Pitt. "Have you observed Mr. Blake to act insolently or defiantly towards Lieutenant Vane?"

"No, sir." Pitt opened his mouth to say more, but Huxley signaled him to hold back. Pitt faltered, then stayed silent. There was more he could say, too much. But not here, not now. If he began, he feared he wouldn’t stop. He nodded instead, once.

"Lieutenant Morris?"

"Mr. Blake's behaviour with concern to Mr. Vane has been exemplary," Morris said flatly, but his gaze didn’t waver.

Huxley turned his gaze on Vane again. “Do you deny striking him in anger?”

Vane’s jaw ticked. “No, sir.”

“Good,” Huxley said, quietly. “Then there is at least that much sense left in you.”

He stood.

The crew went still.

“This ship does not run on affection. Nor equality. Nor ease. But it does run on trust.” His voice carried now, pitched just enough for the men beyond the awning to hear the rhythm, if not the content. “The chain of command holds because we make it hold. Not with brutality. Not with fear. But with judgement. With example.”

He stepped from the head of the table, coming to stand directly in front of Vane.

“And when an officer forgets that, when he uses his rank to settle grudges, to strike out against a junior not for disobedience, but for daring to endure, then he becomes a liability to the service. And a danger to the ship.”

Huxley’s voice dropped again, quiet enough now that only those at the table could hear.

“I will not have my quarterdeck become a place of punishment without just cause. I will not lose the trust of my officers for the sake of one man’s pride. The Articles of War allow for no such misconduct.”

He turned to face the others.

“Lieutenant Vane is hereby suspended from duty pending the Admiralty's review by my order as captain of this vessel. He is to be confined to his cabin, with access only to writing materials and provisions. He will not return to his watch. He will prepare a written account of his conduct, to be sealed and submitted to the Admiralty on our return. His rank is retained... for now. His dignity, he must salvage on his own.”

Vane’s mouth opened slightly. Closed. His glance flickered over the nearby sailors watching avidly.

“I have the right... ”

“You have the rank,” Huxley interrupted. “You have forfeited the right. That is earned. And you have spent it poorly.”

"Sir, I protest..." He trailed off in the face of Huxley's glower.

A long moment passed.

Vane gave a sharp, furious nod.

“Aye, sir.”

“You may salute and depart, Mr. Vane.”

After a moment, Vane did. The gesture was stiff, and far too slow.

“You will remove yourself, Lieutenant Vane.”

Vane turned and walked off the quarterdeck, face wooden. The crew parted to let him pass. No man spoke.

At the table, Blake stared straight ahead, unblinking.

Huxley returned to his seat. The moment passed like a pressure front breaking.

“Lieutenants,” he said quietly, “you are dismissed.”

They rose, saluted, and stepped away in silence.

Huxley looked once toward the midshipmen. Just briefly.

“Mr. Blake. Mr. Gordon. Mr. O’Brien. Carry on.”

They stood.

O’Brien glanced at Jamie. “Step lively, then,” he muttered. “Let’s put a brave face on it, eh?”

They descended the ladder without a word.

Only when they were gone did Huxley lean back with the faintest of smiles, fold his hands together, and finally he drew breath again, slow and deliberate.

The crew resumed their duties, one by one.

But the silence lasted longer than the storm.

Gunroom, Afternoon

The light outside was hard and clear, a break between squalls that painted the sea in blue and white. Inside the gunroom, it was dim and close. The maps were spread again across the central table, pins marking positions like the echo of battle plans yet to be written.

Lieutenant Pitt stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, face drawn. Lieutenant Morris sat beside him, one hand tracing the dotted line that showed the French cutter's last known course, now vanishing into uncertainty. Avery leaned against the aft bulkhead, tossing a pencil between his fingers with uncharacteristic restlessness.

"We had her," Morris said quietly, tapping the chart. "She was damaged, and the wind wasn’t in her favour. And now she’s eluded us."

"Eluded, or lying in wait," Pitt said. "There are a dozen islets between here and the passage. If her captain is clever, he’ll drift among the shoals until dusk, then run for deeper water."

"He’s clever," Avery muttered. "He proved that yesterday."

Morris’s mouth tightened. "And we’re short-handed in the tops. Half the foremast watch is still recovering from fighting the storm. If we’re challenged again, we’ll be fighting one-handed."

The creak of the ship seemed louder in the stillness.

Avery straightened slightly. "And we already have something worse aboard."

Pitt looked over.

"Vane," Avery said.

They didn’t need to say more. The name settled into the close air like damp powder.

"He’s watching the midshipmen too closely," Avery went on. "The men have taken note. They’ve stopped calling it discipline. Now they call it correction, and that’s a colder word."

"He’s angry," Pitt said. "Stripped of his duties and confined to his cabin, but not removed entirely. Huxley cut the line partway through. He’s still aboard. Still watching."

"That kind of resentment doesn’t fade," Morris said grimly.

Pitt turned back to the chart. "If we’re tested again, if we take damage or lose men, he’ll seize the moment. He’ll frame it as a failure of judgement. He’ll call it the cost of misplaced trust."

"He’ll lay it at your feet," Avery said. His voice was quiet, but certain.

Pitt didn’t reply. He should have spoken more. Should have named the shape of what he feared. But what word was safe, when the truth itself might hang you?

Outside, a faint knock came from the passage. Likely a midshipman delivering reports. The ship continued her slow roll under shortened canvas. The weather had steadied, but the air still felt heavy.

"That French cutter is still there, too," Pitt reminded wearily.

Morris sat back, eyes narrowing. "If she’s still watching us from behind the reefs, waiting to probe our defences again..."

"Then she’s not the most dangerous thing we’ve yet to face," Avery said.

Pitt closed the chart gently, as if to avoid damaging something already fraying.

"Then we prepare for both."

Companionway, Just Before Morning Watch

The lanterns still burned low in their brackets, casting long shadows that flickered over salt-scarred wood and tired faces. Boots thudded dully on the companionway as the midshipmen made their way toward the ladder, stiff-shouldered, collars tugged straight, jackets only half dry from the squall.

Jamie Blake walked beside Gordon and O’Brien, all three quiet at first. Then Gordon gave a soft, sharp sigh after gesturing a warning by pointing first to the bulkhead and then to his own ears. Someone is always listening.

“Well,” he murmured, voice pitched low to avoid echoing. “That was something.”

“Something like being hauled up at the masthead, only fancier?” Blake said, offering the faintest smile. “Or a sermon?”

Gordon snorted. “Captain Huxley looked like a stained glass Moses handing down the word of God. I half expected the Articles to be etched on stone tablets.”

O’Brien chuckled, voice rough with sleep. “Right, and then he smote Vane down from the mount. Smited? Smote?”

“Smoted?” Gordon offered.

“Nah,” O’Brien said cheerfully, pounding his fist into his open palm. “Knocked him clean on his bloody arse! That’s the word I know.”

Blake laughed, a short, startled sound, and the other two joined him. For a moment, the weight eased from their shoulders, and the dark didn’t feel so close.

Blake looked between them, his voice quiet. “Thank you. Both of you. For standing up. I... It mattered.”

Gordon shrugged, trying for casual but not quite managing it. “Standing’s easier when you’re not the only one doing it.”

O’Brien grinned, crooked and warm. “Besides, you play cards like a lubber, but you’re decent company otherwise. Wouldn’t be the same mess without you.”

Their boots clanged up the final steps, toward the deck where grey light already bled into the sky. The wind smelled cleaner than it had in days.

Gordon elbowed Blake lightly. “What do you think the next commandment’ll be?”

“Thou shalt not run afoul of Vane in a corridor,” O’Brien muttered, mock-pious.

“Or talk back to a boatswain’s mate,” Gordon added.

“Or look too sober while doing your duty,” O’Brien finished, winking.

Blake rolled his eyes but didn’t stop smiling. The day waited. The deck waited.

They stepped into the light together.

The others moved on, their voices fading. Blake lingered a moment at the ladder's edge, watching the grey bloom at the horizon. A new day, yes. But changed.

The ship would forget the storm. It would forget the chase. But this... this, it would remember.

Lieutenant Vanes' Berth

The cabin felt smaller than it ever had. The single stern window, shuttered against the sun, admitted only a narrow seam of light that struck across the floorboards. Dust swam in the stillness. No voices from the wardroom. No footfall outside his door.

Lieutenant Vane sat at the narrow desk, coat hung with careful precision behind the door. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, arms taut and still. A pot of ink sat uncapped at his right hand, beside a clean sheet of parchment smoothed flat.

He had been there for over an hour. The quill between his fingers remained dry.

His gaze wandered the walls. Empty pegs. A shelf of carefully stowed books. A pair of silver buttons catching the light. No sound but the ticking groan of the hull.

They had frozen him out. Morris... always watching... Avery ... insufferable slouch... Pitt... so tight he might snap. Pretending to be gentlemen above reproach. Choosing silence over discipline. He had seen their faces beneath the awning. Not just disapproval. Contempt.

They thought him a brute. A relic. Even the captain. Even Huxley, with his airs and his polished little sermon.

He had given all the right orders. Followed every regulation. And still, they had looked at him as if he were the problem. As if kindness were strength, and clarity were cruelty.

And somewhere above, Pitt and Blake would be together. Laughing, perhaps. Or pretending nothing had happened. Blake with his wide eyes and practiced humility. Pitt watching him the way a man watches a knife he secretly wishes to wield.

The quill snapped between Vane’s fingers.

He stared at it. Then, slowly, reached for another.

He dipped it in the ink. The parchment remained blank for a moment more, then his hand began to move, deliberately, almost gently, not for his defence, but for something sharper.

A different letter. One he had written before in other circumstances. A careful shaping of narrative. A trail of facts, shaded toward advantage. He knew the pattern like a catechism.

This ship was slipping. Its discipline softening. favouritism spreading like rot through the lower ranks. He was not the only one who had seen it. But he would be the first to speak plainly. They all pretend not to see it, but he does. And when the Navy falls, it will fall for this reason. This softness.

He began to write. The scratch of the quill was soft, precise. Once it was completed, he scattered sand carefully over the page and read his crabbed copperplate script, mumbling to himself. "Egregious insolence... moral decay...aye... rot of insubordination...aye... lack of judgement... certainly... lack of decorum, dereliction of duty...aye... shocking display of sodomitical leanings... irrefutable." He carefully folded the document before melting a blob of red wax on the join and pressing his signet to seal it from prying eyes.

His fingers lightly ran over the letter.

Let's see how Blake fares after this reaches Whitehall Street.

Vane closed his eyes in contemplation.

He sat back, coldly satisfied.

Every sentence, every word, a blade turned upward.

---

Captain Huxley’s letter to the Admiralty

HMS Absolute, at Sea
21 December 1810

To: The Right Honourable the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty,
Whitehall, London.

My Lords,

I have the honour to submit, for your Lordships’ consideration, a report concerning a breach of conduct by Lieutenant Edward Vane of His Majesty’s Ship Absolute, now under my command. The following account outlines the substance of an internal enquiry held aboard this vessel on the 20th instant, touching upon Lieutenant Vane’s treatment of Midshipman James Blake during the afternoon watch of the 19th.

On the date in question, in the presence of the ship’s company during an instructional gunnery exercise, Lieutenant Vane did strike Midshipman Blake upon the upper deck, without prior warning, justification, or provocation discernible to the attending officers. Said action took place in full view of the division under arms, and in the absence of any immediate disciplinary necessity. No lawful order was disobeyed, nor was any threat offered.

An enquiry was convened by my order on the quarterdeck at noon on the 20th instant, and was attended by all senior officers and midshipmen concerned. Lieutenant Vane did acknowledge, under direct question, that his action was prompted not by insubordination but by offence taken at the perceived manner and bearing of the midshipman. No evidence was produced of disobedience, insolence, or any breach of the Articles of War by Mr. Blake. Testimonies from Lieutenants Pitt, Avery, and Morris, and from Midshipmen Gordon and O’Brien, all corroborated Mr. Blake’s conduct as correct and dutiful.

In consequence, and for the preservation of good order and naval discipline aboard His Majesty’s Ship, I have thought it right to suspend Lieutenant Vane from all duties and to confine him to his cabin, with access to writing materials and necessary provisions only. He has been instructed to prepare a formal written account of his conduct for transmission to the Board.

It is my considered judgment that Lieutenant Vane’s actions constitute a serious lapse in professional conduct and a misuse of authority incompatible with the rank he holds. While no formal breach of the Articles appears to have occurred in legal terms, the act has materially undermined confidence in the proper exercise of command aboard this vessel.

I do therefore respectfully request that a Court Martial be convened at the earliest opportunity upon the ship’s next arrival in port, in order that the matter may be fully examined under the authority of the Articles of War, and with due regard to precedent and the integrity of the Service.

I have the honour to be,
With the utmost respect,
My Lords,
Your Lordships’ most obedient and humble servant,

Charles Huxley
Captain, His Majesty’s Ship Absolute