What the Ship Remembers - 33. Chapter 33

Eyes on the Reef

Early Morning, Calm Seas

The hazy morning smeared the sea with grey light. The wind had fallen away to a breath, only enough to twitch the topsails. HMS Absolute creaked gently on the swells, rising and falling as if asleep.

But no one was sleeping.

The deck was too quiet. The usual thud of boots and call of orders had dulled, as though the ship herself were holding back sound. Men worked, hands to the brightwork, coils re-stowed, powder cartridges checked, but they moved with an edge of hesitation, a searching watchfulness that spoke louder than the scuffle of brushes on wood. Conversations trailed off when officers approached. Glances were exchanged, but not greetings.

The hush was the kind that came after thunder.

Rumours had already done their rounds. Vane had been seen escorted below. Confined. No more quarterdeck duties. But no man knew quite what had passed, only that the captain had called the senior officers and midshipmen together at the noon watch, and that Vane had emerged an hour later pale and silent, with a shadow under his eye and a tremor in his jaw. Since then, his cabin door had not opened.

Some said it was a breakdown. Others said he’d struck too hard, or the wrong man.

A few said nothing, only looked toward Midshipman Blake with narrowed eyes.

Blake felt it in the air around him, the shift in weight. A handful of men nodded to him now with a trace of respect that hadn’t been there before. But others watched him sidelong, murmuring under breath. One or two had gone suddenly silent when he passed. There were sailors who’d served under Vane for years, some loyal, some simply wary of change.

“Keep your back to the bulkhead,” Gordon had muttered to him the night before, only half in jest. “And never take the last tot of coffee in the mess.”

Blake hadn’t laughed.

Now he stood at the base of the mainmast, slate in hand, noting slings and lashings for the foretop gun drill. His writing hand was steady, but his neck prickled. He could feel them watching.

And above it all, Lieutenant Pitt had grown silent again.

Not cold, never cruel, but overly precise. Formal. He’d nodded once that morning, handed Blake a sheaf of revised drill orders with a crisp, “You’ll oversee this division.” And then moved on. Not a glance back. Not a word more than duty required.

Blake had folded the orders neatly, said, “Aye, sir,” and felt something in his chest go very still.

A soft clatter behind him made him turn. O’Brien approached, wiping his hands on a rag, face creased with unease.

“You feel it?” O’Brien muttered, voice low. “Even the rigging’s holding its breath.”

Blake nodded once. “The wind’s gone flat.”

“Aye. And the crew’s gone stiff. Like they’re waiting for the next blow of the lash.”

Gordon appeared beside them, squinting toward the horizon. “Or something to come out of the haze.”

O’Brien shivered dramatically, then forced a grin. “The wind is too still,” he said. “Too bloody quiet for good sense.”

None of them answered.

Somewhere aft, the bell struck the change of watch. A gull cried overhead, sharp and distant.

And the stillness held.

Mid-Morning, Weather Still Holding

The gunnery crew gathered amidships, tools in hand, uniforms streaked with powder stains and sweat. The heat had risen since dawn, settling damply over the decks. Blake stood a pace back from the forward six-pounder, a folded list tucked under his arm. The gun’s carriage was chalked with repair marks from the last drill, and the breeching rope had frayed slightly at the eye splice. He entered it on the slate.

“Shot tally?” he called.

“Thirty-nine round, two chain,” came the reply from the locker.

“We are short,” Blake said, frowning. “We should have forty-two at this station.”

“May have been miscounted at last stowage,” muttered the powder-boy. “I’ll double-check.”

“Do so,” Blake said.

He walked slowly around the line of guns, recording observations. The crews moved with quiet efficiency. Hands and powder-monkeys nodded acknowledgement. Even the captain of the number four gun, Dobbs, nodded to him without sarcasm.

It was nearly smooth.

Until it wasn’t.

At the aftermost gun, a lanky sailor named Haines adjusted the elevating quoin with exaggerated slowness. His face was impassive, his voice louder than needed.

“Strange, having a mid take the rounds,” he said. “Used to be that was the lieutenant's task.”

Blake halted.

“Is there a problem, Haines?”

“Not at all, sir,” Haines replied, almost pleasantly. “Just noting how the world’s changing.”

There was a pause. One or two sailors shifted uneasily.

Blake stepped closer. “Your job is to ensure this gun is fit to fire. Mine is to see that it is. That hasn’t changed.”

“Aye, sir,” Haines said. His smile did not reach his eyes.

Blake turned away slowly. “Carry on.”

The drill ended without further incident, but the air felt close. The reports were sound, the gear accounted for, the stations ready. Blake signed off on the log and dismissed the crews. They dispersed with their usual shuffle and mutter, but he felt the silence pressing in again as he gathered the reports and made his way aft.

He found Lieutenant Pitt on the quarterdeck, standing near the weather rail with a spyglass in hand. Blake waited until he was acknowledged.

“Drill inspection completed,” he said. “All gear accounted for. One discrepancy in shot, to be corrected.”

Pitt nodded, not looking at him. “How did they take it?”

“Well enough. One question of authority. Nothing more.”

He lowered the glass and turned to look at Blake directly.

“There’s no virtue in wanting them to like you,” he said. “Only in being right when it counts.”

Blake met his gaze. “Aye, sir.”

Pitt studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once.

“Good. That will be all, Mr. Blake.”

Blake saluted and turned away. But as he descended the ladder, the words echoed in his mind. Not the instruction, but the tone. Precise, even kind. And unreadable.

He had kept his footing. He had done what was asked. But he could not tell if he had earned respect, or simply endured a sterner trial.

Below, the light shifted against the deck like the prelude to a squall.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, the test was coming.

Afternoon, Below Decks

The heat deepened below, thick with the smell of hemp and oiled wood. In the cramped passage leading to the purser’s office, the air felt especially close, and the narrow light from the scuttle did little to ease it.

Gordon moved along the corridor carrying a folded inventory sheet. He had come looking for a replacement for a spoiled length of tackle. Near the mail locker, he slowed.

A figure ahead of him, partly shadowed by the bulkhead, slipped a sealed envelope into the outgoing dispatch pouch. The movement was quick, almost too casual. Then the figure turned, nodded to the steward minding the door, and walked off with quiet precision.

Gordon didn’t see the man’s face clearly, only the edge of a well-pressed sleeve. He waited a beat longer, then approached the steward.

“That the dispatch bag?” he asked.

“Aye,” the steward replied, busy with his entries. “To be carried out on the cutter tomorrow, weather willing. Packet boat to Antigua.”

Gordon nodded, but his brow furrowed slightly. “Captain's correspondence?”

“And a few others. One from the Lieutenant in confinement. Sealed already. Courier picked it up just now.”

“Which lieutenant?”

The steward didn’t look up. “Which one do you think?”

Gordon left without answering. "To whom?" he wondered. "And why now?" He told no one. But later, as he sat with Blake over logbooks, he watched his friend more carefully than usual.

The tension had begun to show in the rigging. Orders repeated twice. Quiet arguments below. Small things, but they accumulated like salt in the seams.

On the lower gun deck, during a rest period, Blake was passing through Vane’s old division when he heard it.

“You’d best watch your back, sir.”

The voice came from a thick-set sailor named Kell, one of the older hands. He stood with a coil of line over one shoulder, his face unreadable.

Blake paused. “Is that a warning, or a threat?”

“Neither, sir,” Kell said. “Just a word. Some of the lads think the ship's gone slack. Others say it’s cleaner now, what with that bastard penned up and you lot still walking straight. But the ship remembers, sir. Some liked the way he did things. Kept them afraid. Made it simple.”

“And you?”

“I think fear’s a poor kind of ballast. But it kept the keel steady.” He glanced toward the hatchway. “Not everyone feels safe without it.”

Blake inclined his head. “Thank you, Kell.”

He walked on. But the words stayed with him.

That evening in the mess, the talk was subdued. O’Brien played idly with a chalk stub, tapping out a rhythm. Gordon sat with arms folded, frowning faintly.

“Some of them are waiting,” Gordon muttered. “Not for orders. Just for something to break.”

“They can wait,” Blake said quietly.

O’Brien gave a low whistle. “Let’s just hope we’re not the ones who snap first.”

Above them, the lanterns swayed gently with the ship’s motion. It was calm. Too calm.

The storm had passed, but its shadow lingered.

And behind a locked door in the stern cabin, Lieutenant Vane sat in silence. The ink had dried. The seal had set.

His letter was already gone.

Late Afternoon, Main Deck

The light was thinning, the horizon a band of bruised gold above the dark line of the reef. The wind had gone fickle again, turning from the south, and the sails fluttered without conviction. Evening settled across HMS Absolute like a spring coiled too tightly.

From the foretop came a sharp call. "Sail ho! Port side, low on the reef line!"

Lieutenant Pitt was on the quarterdeck within moments, telescope already in hand. He trained it toward the point just beyond the nearest shoal. A smear of canvas showed faintly against the blue-grey sea, lowered, almost hidden, drifting behind the rise of coral.

He adjusted the glass, narrowed his eyes.

A narrow hull. A cut of mast just familiar enough. The ghost of a French pennant flickering low.

“It’s her,” Pitt said. “Or something made to look like her.”

Lieutenant Morris came to his side, frowning. “She’s not making for us?”

“No. She’s holding still. Letting the current carry her.”

Avery arrived last, wind-chapped and squinting. “Looks like bait.”

“Or a lure,” Pitt murmured. “Or worse, a signal.”

The three men exchanged a glance. Then Pitt turned sharply. “To the captain’s cabin. Quietly.”

The chart was already laid out when they arrived. A candle guttered slightly in its dish, throwing shadows over the reef lines and soundings marked in pencil.

Huxley was absent. His coat had hung on its peg all day, untouched.

Morris tapped the chart. “She’s drifting near the southeastern reef. No easy way in without scraping the keel.”

“She’s daring us to follow,” Avery said. “She wants us to come in close.”

“Or to look afraid by holding back,” Pitt replied. He was studying the pattern of islets beyond the cutter’s position. “If we hesitate, she’ll know something’s changed. That we’re uncertain. If we rush, she’ll lead us aground or into a second set of guns.”

“She plays it cannily,” Avery said.

“She’s watching,” Pitt said quietly. “Testing us.”

There was a silence. Then Pitt looked up from the chart. His voice was calm.

“I want a boat in the water. Quiet, fast, low. We need eyes up close.”

Morris blinked. “You mean to risk a pinnace's crew on mere conjecture?”

“I am trusting one midshipman with a pinnace,” Pitt said. “And the judgement he’s earned.”

The room shifted. Avery shot him a sidelong glance.

“Blake?” he asked, neutral.

“Aye.”

“He’s steady,” Morris admitted. “And the crew listens.”

“Then he’ll go,” Pitt said. He straightened, closed the chart, and nodded once. “I’ll brief him myself.”

Captain’s Cabin, Dusk

The lantern was turned low, casting a narrow circle of light across the desk where Captain Huxley sat. A pile of charts lay untouched before him. He looked up slowly as Pitt entered.

“Sir,” Pitt said, standing just inside the door. “I have a proposal regarding the cutter sighted near the reef.”

Huxley gestured toward the chair opposite. “Go on.”

Pitt remained standing. “I believe the French vessel is attempting to draw us in. Her position near the shoals is deliberate. If we approach directly with the ship, we risk grounding or ambush. I want to send the pinnace under sail. Quiet. Shallow-drafted.”

Huxley’s expression did not change. “Who would command her?”

“Blake.”

There was a pause.

“He’s capable,” Pitt said. “He holds fast under strain. And the men will follow him.”

Huxley leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on Pitt. “There are others with more time in. Gordon. Ransome. Even O’Brien.”

“None with his eyes,” Pitt said. “Or his calm. If this turns sharp, he won’t panic. He’ll see it through.”

Huxley studied him a moment longer. “You’re certain this isn’t sentiment?”

Pitt held his ground. “No, sir. It’s judgement."

"Some may view it as favourtism."

"Aye."

Huxley exhaled softly. He turned toward the window, where the faintest glimmer of starlight touched the sea.

“She’ll be armed?”

“Aye. Lightly. Signal flags prepared. Quiet crew. We’ll rig the sail by the bow, steer by lead and compass. If they’re waiting for us to blunder in, this will show them we haven’t lost our nerve.”

Another long pause. Then Huxley nodded once.

“Approved. But if the lad doesn’t come back... it will fall to you to explain why this risk was worth it.”

Pitt’s jaw tightened. “Aye, sir.”

He turned, and Huxley’s voice followed him just before the door closed.

“Watch the tide. And trust the ones who still ask questions. They’re the ones worth sending.”

The boat was being lowered by the time Pitt found Blake near the waist of the ship, already fastening his belt. The sky was nearly black now, stars pressing through above the faint outline of the shoals.

Blake looked up at the sound of Pitt’s boots.

“Sir.”

Pitt stopped a few paces short. The deck was quiet around them, though a few hands lingered, murmuring low. The kind of quiet that comes before the first cannon, or the last words.

“You understand what you’re walking into?” Pitt asked.

“Not entirely, sir. But enough.”

Pitt watched him a moment longer. The man was too pale, still carrying the shadow of Vane’s strike, but upright, balanced, ready.

“You’ve seen what command costs,” Pitt said.

He waited for Blake’s eyes to meet his.

“Go prove why it matters.” He quickly brushed some salt from Blake's shoulder.

Blake nodded, the motion sharp, even as his throat worked with something unsaid.

“Aye, sir.”

He turned to climb down into the boat, boots finding the rope ladder by instinct.

Pitt stood at the rail until the cutter vanished into the gloom, the oars just a whisper in the dark.

Avery stepped up beside him. “You place your line's honour in his hands?

“No,” Pitt said quietly. “Our future.”

Near the Shoals, Close to Midnight

The pinnace slid over the dark water, sail drawn taut with just enough wind to keep her steady. Blake crouched low near the tiller, eyes fixed on the curls of water over the reef ahead. No sight yet of the French cutter in the calmer water behind. Too still.

Blake glanced toward the shallows. The leadman whispered a depth. Still safe, but narrowing.

“Keep your eyes sharp,” Blake murmured to the coxswain. “No sound unless I give it.”

Behind them, the Absolute lay in deeper water, her lights shuttered, her deck tense with waiting.

On the quarterdeck, Pitt peered through the nightglass, jaw clenched.

“She hasn’t moved an inch,” Avery said quietly beside him.

“Because she doesn’t need to,” Pitt replied.

Just then, the lookout’s voice floated down.

“Lanterns, sir. On the far side of the reef.”

Pitt turned, fast.

Morris appeared beside them. “Another vessel?”

A flash blinked across the dark—a second lantern, then a third. Not random. Signaling.

“They were waiting,” Pitt said. “We’ve been marked.”

From behind the reef, a larger shape emerged. Low hull, long boom. No mistaking the angled rigging of a brig, or perhaps an armed ketch.

“Bloody hell,” Avery muttered.

The shadows flared to life. French colours broke from her staff. Light spilled across her deck. Guns uncovered.

Then—

A single cannon fired.

The shot struck the water close to Blake’s boat, sending up a curtain of spray.

Pitt’s voice snapped across the deck. “Mr. Avery, beat to quarters.”

He did not raise his voice, but it carried like a bell.

“We’ve been invited to dance.”

The drums began to roll. The ship came alive.

Below the reef, the French guns turned to fire again.

The first cannonball struck the water twenty yards off the starboard bow, close enough to drench the forward oarsmen. The crew flinched as one, but the boat held course, sails trembling in the sudden wind off the blast.

“Hold steady!” Blake barked, his voice sharp against the roar of the surf and the thrum of rising wind. “Keep your heads. No panic.” The coxswain gave a tight nod; the boat was his to guide, but the command was Blake’s tonight.

The second shot landed farther off, skipping once before sinking into the shoals with a deep splash.

Salt spray stung Blake’s face. The oars had been shipped the moment they raised sail, but now he half-wished for them again. The air smelled of cordite, seaweed, and something coppery underneath. He could feel the shallow water shifting beneath them, deceptive and restless.

The coxswain shouted from astern. “She’s ranging us, sir!”

“I know. Hold her to course.”

The leadman glanced up from his sounding line. “Seven feet, six. Shoals rising fast.”

“Noted.” Blake’s voice was low now, meant only for the men near him. “Ready to come about on my mark.”

Another shot tore the air. This one passed clean overhead, low and fast. It struck somewhere beyond, on the reef, with a heavy crash.

The men ducked again, but Blake stayed upright. His hand gripped the gunwale, knuckles white.

“We’ve got one chance,” he said to the crew. “They want us to bolt. We do that, we give them our stern. We turn with control, when I give the word. That is how we come through.”

A younger seaman glanced over, eyes wide. “Sir, do we fire back?”

Blake gave a short, grim smile. “With what? A disapproving glare and stern words? We were sent to watch, not to start a war.”

The man laughed once, breathless but steadier.

Above them, the reef line was now alive with gunflashes. But none hit. Yet.

“Wind’s shifting,” the coxswain called. “Coming about to retreat will be rough.”

Blake scowled. "We stand or we sail smartly, but we do not retreat. We shall come about smartly. Hands to braces. We’ll show them how His Majesty’s sailors reposition with precision and dispatch.” The crew nodded in grim amusement

Another blast sounded, but this time it was farther off. The Absolute was answering. Blake didn’t look back, but he felt the shift in the sea.

“Ready helm!” he called.
The men braced. The tiller swung. The sail cracked hard as they turned.

The pinnace heeled, groaned, and then caught the new wind like a live thing.

Blake stood at the bow, eyes fixed on the open water ahead.

“Back to the ship, lads,” he said, loud enough to reach every man. “We will give them cause to remember us.”

Behind him, fire lit the reef like lightning in a storm. One of the sailors whispered in awe to another, "He held. The bloody lad held."

Ahead, the Absolute waited.

letter from Jamie Blake to his brother Thomas

---

HMS Absolute, off the Leeward Reefs
January, in the Year of Continued Miracles

Dear Tom,

Well, I have not been shot. That seems the best place to begin.

You may now resume breathing.

I write to you as a man who has (somehow) just returned from his first command. Not of the ship, yet, but of a pinnace. A small one. Armed with optimism, shallow draught, and no cannon worth mentioning. We were sent out under cover of night to scout a French cutter lurking near the reef like a ghost with popguns and poor intentions. The idea was to look bold without actually being blown out of the water. A delicate sort of task, requiring nerves, restraint, and the ability to act like one knows exactly what one is doing.

Fortunately, I’ve spent my entire life pretending to know what I’m doing. You, as my brother, can attest.

The whole thing felt like walking on glass while juggling flintlocks. The sea was dead calm—untrustworthy—and the French were too still, which is worse than too loud. But we managed it. We got close enough to see the truth of her, didn’t flinch (much) when they opened fire, and sailed back with our skin intact and a good deal more respect than we’d left with.

The crew was solid. Even the older hands, one of whom muttered that “fear’s a poor kind of ballast” but followed my word all the same. I think I may have earned something from them. Not affection, perhaps, but something close to it, wariness with a shade of trust. I’ll take it.

Pitt—Lieutenant Pitt, that is—chose me for the job. Said I had the right eyes for it. I’m still turning that phrase over like a polished stone. It means more than he says, I think, though he’s impossible to read when he’s being serious. Or worse, kind. I stood before him in the dark, with my orders in hand and my heart pounding like a fouled pump, and he said, “Go prove why it matters.” And I did.

Or I think I did. It still feels like a story I borrowed from someone braver.

I should probably tell you I was not, strictly speaking, calm the whole time. My left boot slipped when the cutter fired, and I smacked my shin on the thwart so hard I saw stars. No one noticed, or if they did, they had the decency to pretend otherwise. I choose to believe it was my commanding presence, not the unholy squawk I made nearly falling overboard, that held their attention.

Please do not tell Clara that part.

Anyway, we’re now preparing for whatever comes next. The French may try something clever, or we may turn the tables, or we may sit in the doldrums swatting flies and waiting for orders from shore. I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime, do take this as proof that I am, occasionally, capable of doing something impressive without being keelhauled for it.

Give my love to Clara, and tell her I will write a proper letter soon, full of sentiment and sweet temper, but tonight I’m only good for salt, sweat, and a bit of borrowed bravado.

Yours,
Jamie

P.S.
If I do die heroically at sea, please make sure they spell my name right on the memorial. And insist someone includes the phrase “unreasonably competent in a crisis.” That would suit me.

P.P.S.
(From Midshipman O’Brien, since Blake left this lying around like it was his last testament and wandered off to contemplate stars or morality or some other lofty nonsense. Honestly.)

Dear Master Thomas Blake,
Your brother is, regrettably, still alive. Worse, he’s now considered trustworthy by several senior officers, which has made him insufferably upright and only slightly more prone to following regulations. We’ve taken to calling him Captain of the Rowboat in the mess, and I’m afraid the name is catching.

In fairness, he did keep his head when French guns were pointed at it. I was on the upper deck watching through a glass, and I’ll admit, even I clenched.

He’s still the same lad you packed off with a too-big coat and too many books, though now he’s got salt in his hair and a look in his eye that says he might actually make it through all this. Not unscarred, but possibly unchanged in the ways that count.

I’ll keep him alive, if he doesn’t do it himself. Though he’s making a decent attempt at that, too.

Yours in bruises,
O’Brien
Acting Keeper of the Last Biscuit, First Lord of the Stern Bench
Sworn Enemy of Sentiment, Except This Once

P.P.S.
Tell your sister not to worry. He only limped a little coming off the pinnace.

---

To Midshipman J. Blake,
HMS Absolute, wherever you’re still afloat,
From your devoted brother,
Thomas Blake, Age Nineteen, Veteran of Several Garden Skirmishes and One Goose Incident

---

Jamie—

Let me see if I understand this. You nearly got shot, By Frenchmen. In a dinghy.

And somehow this is being called “command”? Next you’ll be promoted for not falling overboard during breakfast.

Still, I must say, I’m impressed you managed to avoid sinking, surrendering, or spontaneously combusting. And you even used your “stern words” in battle. That’s truly terrifying. I’m surprised the enemy vessel didn’t strike her colours on the spot and beg forgiveness.

Mother will be thrilled. Clara already walked around the house for a full hour with your letter folded over her heart like it was the Magna Carta. I, however, am reserving judgement until you command something that doesn’t have oars.

That said, I’m proud of you. I mean it. Even if you’re becoming almost intolerably proper. I’m glad someone aboard that ship trusts you, because I still don’t trust you with the jam pot, let alone a crew of actual human beings. (Do you give stirring speeches before rowing off to spy on the French? Something like “Men, this is your oar. Love it. Cherish it. Row it with dignity”?)

Also, tell Mr. O’Brien I appreciate his postscript, even if he sounds suspiciously fond of you. He seems decent. I like that he signed off as Keeper of the Last Biscuit. It feels right.

Send more letters. Tell me when you get real cannons. Until then, I remain unimpressed. And Jamie?

Don’t get dead. It would ruin my whole year.

Your better-looking brother,
Thomas
Commander of the Chickens, Defender of the North Field, etc., etc.