Burning Bright (28 page)

“Uh, no, miss, Captain’s very, uh, we were given Scorcher, uh, uniforms,” Fischer said. “I’ll be right back, miss.” He closed the door, leaving Elinor in darkness.

Sighing, she once again kindled a fire and lit the lantern, whose clear glass gave off a brighter light than she was accustomed to. Hands on hips, she studied the hammock. There was a second hook in the ceiling some distance from the first, and by standing on the tips of her toes she was barely able to reach it.

She set about unhooking and disentangling the wad of rope and canvas until it dangled from its hook, limply, like sails when the air was still. Elinor lifted the canvas middle, which was stiff and heavy and did not look comfortable, then found the end of the ropes and began trying to loop them over the second hook.
Never mind being able to string it up,
I do not believe I will ever get it back into that bundle. And Captain Crawford said no special treatment. I wonder if my dislike of him can possibly increase.

Fischer pushed the door open with his foot. He held a pile of clothing that had not been folded and, atop that, a pair of clunky shoes and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat, all of which Elinor eyed with distaste. “Here you are, uh, Miss,” he said, thrusting the pile at Elinor. Then he noticed the tangle of hammock and brightened. “Do you need help with that?”

“Would you please, Mr. Fischer? I have done my best, but I’m afraid this is my first time slinging a hammock.”

Fischer showed her how to tie a secure knot and fix it to the hook. “I’ll help you stow it in the morning. If there’s nothing else?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Fischer.” So he was at ease when it came to matters nautical. Maybe he could be convinced to think of her in that light, poor awkward man—she was merely a weapon now, as much a part of
Glorious
’ arsenal as her cannons. “Good night.”

Fischer nodded at her and closed the door behind himself. Elinor set her pile of new clothes on the hammock, which promptly swung and dumped them all on the splintery deck. Sighing, she picked them up one at a time and laid them gingerly across the canvas. It looked as though her uniform was a compromise between the commissioned officers’ dress and that of the warrant officers, and she sensed Durrant’s disdain for Scorchers in that decision to make them neither one nor the other.

There were trousers, not knee breeches like the lieutenants wore; a white shirt more finely woven than she expected; a waistcoat that would probably turn out to be too large; shoes that were
definitely
too large; and, of course, the floppy hat, its brim shapeless and the inside of its crown stained with what she hoped was salt water. She picked at it and turned up no lice nor nits nor other fauna that would love to transfer themselves to her head. Since she had forgotten her parasol back on
Athena
, and Crawford would no doubt have forbidden her to use it at any rate, this would have to suffice.

There was also a thin, red wool blanket, worn to the point of transparency in places, and a pillow that
did
have undesirable creatures crawling in it. She tossed it to one side, wondering if there were a way to burn the insects out without incinerating the pillow.

She folded her new wardrobe as neatly as she could, then slipped out of her gown and chemise and put on her nightdress before laying the new clothes atop her trunk. Then she turned her attention to the hammock. The canvas was stained, but (when she put her nose almost against it) did not stink of urine or anything else unpleasant.

She took a deep breath, turned her back on the hammock, took hold of the ropes on either side and tried to hoist herself into it. It rolled away from her and she slid, landing hard on her feet, her nightgown rucking up beneath her. She straightened it and tried again. And again. It took a dozen attempts before she held, jumped, and found herself seated in the canvas cradle—then promptly fell out again when she tried to turn herself sideways.

Ten more tries saw her lying gingerly lengthwise, her feet dangling. Slowly, afraid the hammock might realize what she was doing and dump her out again, she pulled her legs in and lay stiffly, motionless, only relaxing after several minutes passed and she had not fallen out.

Then she realized she had left her blanket in the corner.

She breathed deeply, willing her frustration and anger to seep away, then rolled out of the hammock, retrieved the blanket, and hopped back into her new bed without any trouble. The idea that she might have mastered what was surely second nature to even the rawest seaman eased the fury she could not quite rid herself of. She shifted an inch at a time until she rested completely within the hammock and had the blanket spread over herself. The ship’s motion imparted a gentle rocking to the hammock, more noticeable than that of her bed, that was actually quite pleasant.

She lay, listening to the murmuring and occasional laughter of the officers outside her door, breathing in the familiar smell of warm, damp wood that characterized the mess deck on
Athena
, and the ridiculous tears she had been battling all evening slid down her cheeks until she wiped them ruthlessly away. This was temporary. Ramsay would resolve it. He might even have the problem solved before
Glorious
set sail in the morning.
But suppose he does not? Suppose the First Lord will not see him?
More tears. She hated her weakness. Crying would solve nothing. One ship was very like another, and she would be able to use her talent against the enemy no matter what ship she happened to be on. She and Crawford might even become friends.

She needed to stop lying to herself.

She extinguished the lantern and lay in the warm darkness, enjoying the movement of the hammock and the unintelligible murmur of voices that was as good as a lullaby, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

In which Elinor is no longer the only Scorcher

he sound of bells and the thunder of running feet jerked Elinor awake, and she had to grab hold of her hammock to keep from falling hard to the floor. Someone pounded against the wall near her canvas door. “Breakfast!” the man called.

Elinor squeezed her eyes shut to clear the confusion from her head. She was on
Glorious.
She was assigned to Crawford’s special Scorcher unit. She was supposed to dress in trousers. She rolled out of the hammock, stumbling only a little, and set the lantern burning. No, it had not all been a horrible dream; she was still in her cube of a room on
Glorious.

She stripped off her nightgown and dressed in her new clothes. Buttoning the flap of the trousers was more complicated than she had imagined, but other than that, men’s clothing proved to be much easier to don than her gown and certainly easier than struggling into her boned chemise. She crammed her hat onto her head, slipped into her own shoes—the ones Fischer had provided felt like leather boxes on her feet—and stood for a moment, eyes closed, trying to relax. With her breasts flattened by the heavy fabric of her too-large waistcoat and her legs on display for the world to see, she felt humiliated—was this part of Crawford’s plan, to keep her unbalanced so she would be more amenable to his commands? She felt as if she were about to step out of this room wearing nothing but her shift. She rubbed her hands over her legs, comforted by the rough, thick fabric that was certainly not that of her undergarments, took a few more deep breaths, and opened the door.

There were fewer officers at table that morning than the previous night, and only half of them looked up at her entrance. One of them stood and silently offered her a bowl and nudged a large spoon resting in a pot of burgoo. She had never had it before, though she had seen the men aboard
Athena
eat it, but she helped herself to a small serving and was then surprised when the same man scooped more of the gloopy mess into her bowl. “You’ll be hungry later,” he said in a gruff voice, and sat down and began shoveling burgoo into his mouth as if afraid someone might try to take it from him.

Elinor sat and began eating more daintily. It was gluey and bland, slightly salty, studded here and there with sultanas plump from their long immersion in the thick paste. She ate and tried not to think of the breakfast she would be having at ho—on
Athena
, and wondered that she had ever found Dolph’s antagonism unpleasant. The silence in which these men ate was oppressive and made it hard for her to choke down her food.

When only a few spoonfuls remained in her bowl, Fischer appeared in the doorway and said, “Miss Pembroke, the captain would like to see you now.”

Elinor gratefully abandoned her bowl and followed him up the stairs to the main deck, where they were met by an elderly man wearing glasses attached to a tape that went round his neck, coming down from above. He looked Elinor up and down, his brow furrowed, then shrugged and pushed ahead of Fischer to enter the great cabin before them.

It was a grey morning, the sun’s light diffused by heavy clouds that made the great cabin dim enough that the lanterns had been lit. Crawford sat on the three-sided settee exactly as he had the previous evening, as if he had never left it. He had a low table in front of him and was reading documents, signing some of them and sorting them into neat piles on the seat to his right. He ignored their entrance, and Fischer did not attempt to get his attention, so Elinor assumed he was aware of their presence and was simply demonstrating his authority over them.

Elinor covertly examined the old man, who’d walked to the window and was staring out, his hands clasped behind his back. Could this be another Scorcher? She had yet to meet one in person; encountering someone in combat did not count. The man’s hair was grey and receded from his forehead, giving the impression of a whale rising from the deeps. He wore the same kind of clothing Elinor had been given, though his waistcoat was buttoned lopsidedly and was dark grey where hers was tan.

The door opened again, admitting two more men, also dressed as she was. One might have been younger than Elinor; his bright orange hair stood up in back, making Elinor itch to offer him a hairbrush. The other was middle-aged, with a paunch and thick jowls and chestnut-brown sideburns that threatened to engulf them. Both of them stared at Elinor, though the young man quickly turned away, and the older man pursed his lips as if in calculation. Elinor watched him warily. He looked and moved like someone with so much self-assurance it did not even occur to him that anyone might disagree with his opinions—no, that he did not consider himself to have opinions so much as make statements that were always, invariably true. She knew that look well. She had seen it on her father more times than she could count.

“Well,” Crawford said, finally raising his head, “let’s take a look at you.”

The old man turned away from the window and fixed his spectacles on his nose, but made no move to join them. Crawford took no notice of it. “Admiral Durrant thinks you four are the best at what you do, and he’s assigned you to this ship as an experiment with new tactics.” He stood and walked past them to run his finger along the sheath of one of the swords on the wall, then turned around to face them. Elinor kept her gaze on him, but was aware the jowly man’s attention was still on her, and it made her nervous.
He’s not your father,
she told herself,
he has no power over you. He is only another Scorcher and not an Extraordinary at that.