rim. “Harry. I’m tired.”
My heart twisted within me and my anger fled. Even with my guilt and desolation, it seemed I had space for a fresh pain. I should have known the battle vigour would wear off and leave him watching over me, injured, alone, and rebuked, with both our lives in his hands and no word of thanks. I was an utter villain.
Creakily, my bones protesting the movement, I found water and hard tack, passed them to him. Then I got him by the shoulders, and as he had done for me earlier, I eased him away from the tiller. He yielded to me, heavy, limp, and confiding, not an ounce of strength left in him.
“I have a niece,” I said, my arms about his chest, settling him down into a sitting position beneath me. His head drooped onto my knee, his eyes closed. “Betsy. My sister and her husband let her sit up to hear my tales when I am in port, and she falls asleep just like this: draped all over me. I can lift up her little arm and let it fall, and she does not wake.”
He gave a “hmn” of amusement, tried to open his eyes and failed.
My eyes burned as I brushed my fingers against his throat. How could I have blamed him for a disaster that was my own responsibility? I had known all along that Garnet was proud and reckless, arrogant and hot-tempered, with that aristocratic certainty that everything he did must be right. I had gone against his advice in ordering the convicts to be released. I had loaded him with the responsibility of commanding them, though I knew he was weary beyond reason or restraint. If he had snapped briefly under the pressure and hit one of them, unprovoked, well, it was no worse than many a boatswain had done to a surly new recruit. As his captain, I should have seen his fraying temper and restrained it before the damage could be done. I had asked too much of him. The death of my crew, the wreckage of all my hopes? It was my fault, not his.
How deep pride goes! Even then, I cherished a small ember of self-regard, because I was nobly and selflessly able to forgive Garnet. I thought it a proof of my love. Now I see that he was blameless all along. Even my forgiveness was an offence to him, for I patronised him when I should have trusted his judgement. I treated him like a boy when he has always been the better man. This I will try to remember in future, so that I do not make the same error again.
“You’re not angry?” he asked me then, his voice slurring with tiredness.
I threaded my fingers through his hair and teased out the tangles of blood and salt. A wearying inner voice told me we should not be talking so—like lovers, stirring drowsily in the early morning, warm beneath the blankets. But why not? Who was here to see? We were ruined and dying, and together. And for the first time in my life—since, at the age of ten, I began to suspect there was something strange about me—I felt free. At peace. “No,” I murmured, watching his fingers open, and the biscuit he had taken up fall out into his lap. “I’m not angry. Or at least, only with myself. I’m sorry, Garnet. I’m so sorry.”
By midday, the storm had slackened to become a fine following wind, the swell had decreased, and the sky above had turned the most translucent of whites. A glow like a hot pearl concealed behind those filmy clouds showed me the sun, finally, enough for me to take a guess at our direction. Still mostly west with some northing. I thought perhaps, with a little luck, we might yet strike Tahiti and be saved, though luck had not been the greatest distinguishing feature of this trip so far.
Garnet slept all day, while I thought about my life. All my striving for success and it had come to this: nothing—worse than nothing. If we made it back to England by some outrageous miracle, a court martial would be waiting for me, as it was for any captain who lost a ship. I had lost four. Perhaps five, if the Ardent too had gone down, as seemed likely. An astonishing degree of failure that deserved to be
My heart twisted within me and my anger fled. Even with my guilt and desolation, it seemed I had space for a fresh pain. I should have known the battle vigour would wear off and leave him watching over me, injured, alone, and rebuked, with both our lives in his hands and no word of thanks. I was an utter villain.
Creakily, my bones protesting the movement, I found water and hard tack, passed them to him. Then I got him by the shoulders, and as he had done for me earlier, I eased him away from the tiller. He yielded to me, heavy, limp, and confiding, not an ounce of strength left in him.
“I have a niece,” I said, my arms about his chest, settling him down into a sitting position beneath me. His head drooped onto my knee, his eyes closed. “Betsy. My sister and her husband let her sit up to hear my tales when I am in port, and she falls asleep just like this: draped all over me. I can lift up her little arm and let it fall, and she does not wake.”
He gave a “hmn” of amusement, tried to open his eyes and failed.
My eyes burned as I brushed my fingers against his throat. How could I have blamed him for a disaster that was my own responsibility? I had known all along that Garnet was proud and reckless, arrogant and hot-tempered, with that aristocratic certainty that everything he did must be right. I had gone against his advice in ordering the convicts to be released. I had loaded him with the responsibility of commanding them, though I knew he was weary beyond reason or restraint. If he had snapped briefly under the pressure and hit one of them, unprovoked, well, it was no worse than many a boatswain had done to a surly new recruit. As his captain, I should have seen his fraying temper and restrained it before the damage could be done. I had asked too much of him. The death of my crew, the wreckage of all my hopes? It was my fault, not his.
How deep pride goes! Even then, I cherished a small ember of self-regard, because I was nobly and selflessly able to forgive Garnet. I thought it a proof of my love. Now I see that he was blameless all along. Even my forgiveness was an offence to him, for I patronised him when I should have trusted his judgement. I treated him like a boy when he has always been the better man. This I will try to remember in future, so that I do not make the same error again.
“You’re not angry?” he asked me then, his voice slurring with tiredness.
I threaded my fingers through his hair and teased out the tangles of blood and salt. A wearying inner voice told me we should not be talking so—like lovers, stirring drowsily in the early morning, warm beneath the blankets. But why not? Who was here to see? We were ruined and dying, and together. And for the first time in my life—since, at the age of ten, I began to suspect there was something strange about me—I felt free. At peace. “No,” I murmured, watching his fingers open, and the biscuit he had taken up fall out into his lap. “I’m not angry. Or at least, only with myself. I’m sorry, Garnet. I’m so sorry.”
By midday, the storm had slackened to become a fine following wind, the swell had decreased, and the sky above had turned the most translucent of whites. A glow like a hot pearl concealed behind those filmy clouds showed me the sun, finally, enough for me to take a guess at our direction. Still mostly west with some northing. I thought perhaps, with a little luck, we might yet strike Tahiti and be saved, though luck had not been the greatest distinguishing feature of this trip so far.
Garnet slept all day, while I thought about my life. All my striving for success and it had come to this: nothing—worse than nothing. If we made it back to England by some outrageous miracle, a court martial would be waiting for me, as it was for any captain who lost a ship. I had lost four. Perhaps five, if the Ardent too had gone down, as seemed likely. An astonishing degree of failure that deserved to be
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