A shout came from the deck above, penetrating even through the thick planks, and Tom dropped his needle, staring upward. Most of the shouts from the rigging overhead were incomprehensible to Grey, but the words that rang out now were clear as a bell.
“Sail ho!”
He flung himself out of the hammock, and ran for the ladder, closely followed by Tom.
A mass of men stood at the rail, peering northward, and telescopes sprouted from the eyes of several ship’s officers like antennae from a horde of eager insects. For himself, Grey could see no more than the smallest patch of sail on the horizon, insignificant as a scrap of paper—but incontrovertibly there.
“I will be damned,” Grey said, excited despite the cautions of his mind. “Is it heading for England?”
“Can’t say, sir.” The telescope-wielder next to him lowered his instrument and tapped it neatly down. “For Europe, at least, though.”
Grey stepped back, combing the crowd of men for Trevelyan, but he was nowhere in evidence. Scanlon, though, was there. He caught the man’s eye, and the apothecary nodded.
“I’ll go at once, sir,” he said, and strode away toward the hatchway.
It struck Grey belatedly that he should go as well, to reinforce any arguments Scanlon might make, both to Trevelyan and to the captain. He could scarcely bear to leave the deck, lest the tiny sail disappear for good if he took his eyes off it, but the sudden hope of deliverance was too strong to be denied. He slapped a hand to his side, but was of course not wearing his coat; his letter was below.
He darted toward the hatchway, and was halfway down the ladder when one flexing bare foot stubbed itself against the wall. He recoiled, scrabbled for a foothold, found it—but his sweaty hand slipped off the polished rail, and he plunged eight feet to the deck below. Something solid struck him on the head, and blackness descended.
He woke slowly, wondering for a moment whether he had been inadvertently encoffined. A dim and wavering light, as of candlelight, surrounded him, and there was a wooden wall two inches from his nose. Then he stirred, turned over on his back, and found that he lay in a tiny berth suspended from the wall like the sort of box in which knives are kept, barely long enough to allow him to stretch out at full length.
There was a large prism set into the ceiling above him, letting in light from the upper deck; his eyes adjusting to this, he saw a set of shelves suspended above a minuscule desk, and deduced from their contents that he was in the purser’s cabin. Then his eyes shifted to the left, and he discovered that he was not alone.
Jack Byrd sat on a stool beside his berth, arms comfortably folded, leaning back against the wall. When he saw that Grey was awake, he unfolded his arms and sat up.
“Are you well, my lord?”
“Yes,” Grey replied automatically, belatedly checking to see whether it was true.
Fortunately, it seemed to be. There was a tender lump behind his ear, where he had struck his head on the companionway, and a few bruises elsewhere, but nothing of any moment.
“That’s good. The surgeon and Mr. Scanlon both said as you were all right, but our Tom wouldn’t have you left, just in case.”
“So you came to keep watch? That was unnecessary, but I thank you.” Grey stirred, wanting to sit up, and became conscious of a warm, soft weight beside him in the bed. The purser’s cat, a small tabby, was curled tight as an apostrophe against his side, purring gently.
“Well, you had company already,” Jack Byrd said with a small smile, nodding at the cat. “Tom insisted as how he must stay, too, though—I think he was afraid lest somebody come in and put a knife in your ribs in the night. He’s a suspicious little bugger, Tom.”
“I should say that he has cause to be,” Grey replied dryly. “Where is he now?”
“Asleep. It’s just risen dawn. I made him go to bed a few hours ago; said I’d watch for him.”
“Thank you.” Moving carefully in the confined space, Grey pulled himself up on the pillows. “We’re not moving, are we?”
Belatedly, he realized that what had wakened him was the cessation of movement; the ship was rolling gently as waves rose and fell beneath the hull, but her headlong dash had ceased.
“No, my lord. We’ve stopped to let the other ship come alongside of us.”
“Ship. The sail! What ship is it?” Grey sat upright, narrowly missing clouting himself anew on a small shelf above the berth.
“ The Scorpion,” Jack Byrd replied. “Troopship, the mate says.”
“A troopship? Thank Christ! Headed where?”
The cat, disturbed by his sudden movement, uncurled itself with a mirp!of protest.
“Dunno. They’ve not come within hailing distance yet. The captain’s not best pleased,” Byrd observed mildly. “But it’s Mr. Trevelyan’s orders.”
“Is it, then?” Grey gave Byrd a quizzical glance, but the smooth, lean face showed no particular response. Perhaps it was Trevelyan’s orders that had caused them to seek out the other ship—but he would have wagered a year’s income that the real order had come from Finbar Scanlon.
He let out a long breath, scarcely daring to hope. The other ship might not be heading for England; it could easily have overtaken them, sailing from England, en route to almost anywhere. But if it should be headed to France or Spain, somewhere within a few weeks’ journey of England—somehow, he would get back to London. Pray God, in time.
He had an immediate impulse to leap out of bed and fling on his clothes—someone, presumably Tom, had undressed him and put him to bed in his shirt—but it was plain that there would be some time before the two ships had maneuvered together, and Jack Byrd was making no move to rise and go, but was still sitting there, examining him thoughtfully.
It suddenly occurred to Grey why this was, and he halted his movement, instead altering it into a reach for the cat, which he scooped up into his lap, where it promptly curled up again.
“If the ship should be headed aright, I shall board her, of course, and go back to England,” he began carefully. “Your brother Tom—do you think he will wish to accompany me?”
“Oh, I’m sure he would, my lord.” Byrd straightened himself on the stool. “Better if he can get back to England, so our dad and the rest know he’s all right—and me,” he added, as an afterthought. “I expect they’ll be worried, a bit.”
“I should expect so.”
There was an awkward silence then, Byrd still making no move to go. Grey stared back.
“Will you wish to return to England with your brother?” Grey asked at last, quite baldly. “Or to continue on to India, in Mr. Trevelyan’s service?”
“Well, that’s what I’ve been asking myself, my lord, ever since that ship came close enough for Mr. Hudson to say what she was.” Jack Byrd scratched meditatively under his chin. “I’ve been with Mr. Trevelyan for a long time, see—since I was twelve. I’m . . . attached to him.” He darted a quick glance at Grey, then stopped, seeming to wait for something.
So he hadn’t been wrong. He had seen that unguarded look on Jack Byrd’s face—and Jack Byrd had seen him watching. He lifted one eyebrow, and saw the young man’s shoulders drop a little in sudden relaxation.
“Well . . . so.” Jack Byrd shrugged, and let his hands fall on his knees.
“So.” Grey rubbed his own chin, feeling the heavy growth of whiskers there. There would be time for Tom to shave him before the Scorpioncame alongside, he thought.
“Have you spoken to Tom? He will surely be hoping that you will come back to England with him.”
Jack Byrd bit his lower lip.
“I know.”
There were shouts of a different kind overhead: long calls, like someone howling in a chimney—he supposed the Namparawas trying to communicate with someone on the troopship. Where was his uniform? Ah, there, neatly brushed and hung on a hook by the door. Would Tom Byrd wish to go with him when the regiment was reposted? He could but hope.