Read Online Secret of the Sands by Sara Sheridan - Free Book Online
Authors: Sara Sheridan
Tags: Fiction, Historical
Ads: Link
a single word coming in the other direction, for it is not the Wellsted way.
An hour or so before dawn, he smells the day’s cornbread baking in the galley and his appetite is sharpened. He wonders briefly if the last supply of bitter water they managed to obtain further down the strait is responsible for the fact the coffee on board is so substandard. The water is difficult to stomach without mixing it with something, and the men have been taking it with sheep’s milk. Perhaps that is the key. His mouth is watering now and his stomach grumbles – he knows there is some cheese left – hard and mostly rind, but he has a yearning for it nonetheless. He is about to make his way to the galley when Ormsby reports to take over Wellsted’s duties and allow the lieutenant a few hours of sleep before the day’s survey gets properly underway.
‘Morning.’ The lad stretches and reaches inside his jacket for his flask. He offers it, but James declines. Then, shrugging his shoulders, Ormsby takes a draught and smacks his lips as the liquor hits his bloodstream.
‘Will you break your fast with me?’ James offers.
Ormsby nods. ‘Yes, sir,’ he says.
‘Good. We can fetch it from the galley and eat here. We’ll see the sun come up. Then I must sleep, I think.’
‘This weather’s quite the thing for a picnic. It feels almost fresh this morning,’ Ormsby smiles.
‘Give it an hour or two!’
Ormsby’s eyes fall to the small bottle of dark ink and the roughly made quill his superior officer has been using. His pupils shrink and he feels uncomfortable. Wellsted has been writing again. This is what has caused all the trouble and he is hoping that there will be no more. The captain has been moody for weeks on end and has taken it out on everybody.
‘I’m writing home, you idiot,’ the lieutenant says fondly. ‘My grandfather likes to keep up. He’s an invalid these days. I send a letter now and then – to keep the old boy going.’
‘Ah,’ Ormsby nods, though he can hardly really understand. His grandfather, after all, is a committed Christian, a Conservative and the brother of a duke, who scarcely if ever leaves his well-run and comfortable estate in Gloucestershire and would be horrified had he seen even half of what James took as read during his Marylebone childhood. The most the old man hopes from his grandsons is that they will be good eggs .
‘Yes. My family likes the odd letter too,’ Ormsby says. ‘They are awfully fond of news. I should really write to them more.’
He wonders if he might see some interesting fish today – the coral reefs are teeming with brightly coloured, odd-looking marine life and Ormsby has been sketching what he sees. It keeps him amused and he is hoping, if he can learn to swim, that he will be able to make a comprehensive study of the shoals of strange creatures, for as his grandfather says, the Lord’s design is in everything.
‘Come on,’ says Wellsted. ‘There is the last of the cheese left. We can toast it on top of the oven.’
Chapter Twelve
The very same day that Zena is auctioned off, on the kind of brisk but sunny English summer morning of which men in the desert can only dream, at his cousin’s substantial, terraced, stucco mansion on Cadogan Place, William Wilberforce, a man of principle and a social pioneer, receives the news that the Bill for the Abolition of Slavery is set to pass the Commons. He celebrates by catching influenza and three days later he is dead. It is decided to bury the old man’s body in Westminster Abbey, close to his venerable friend, William Pitt. He is, after all, one of Britannia’s own – a national treasure. The funeral is an enormous event. Both Houses of Parliament suspend their business for the duration as a mark of respect, and most members actually attend the obsequies personally. All over the British Isles toasts to the new, enlightened age are drunk by Whigs and Tories alike and Wilberforce is universally mourned from
An hour or so before dawn, he smells the day’s cornbread baking in the galley and his appetite is sharpened. He wonders briefly if the last supply of bitter water they managed to obtain further down the strait is responsible for the fact the coffee on board is so substandard. The water is difficult to stomach without mixing it with something, and the men have been taking it with sheep’s milk. Perhaps that is the key. His mouth is watering now and his stomach grumbles – he knows there is some cheese left – hard and mostly rind, but he has a yearning for it nonetheless. He is about to make his way to the galley when Ormsby reports to take over Wellsted’s duties and allow the lieutenant a few hours of sleep before the day’s survey gets properly underway.
‘Morning.’ The lad stretches and reaches inside his jacket for his flask. He offers it, but James declines. Then, shrugging his shoulders, Ormsby takes a draught and smacks his lips as the liquor hits his bloodstream.
‘Will you break your fast with me?’ James offers.
Ormsby nods. ‘Yes, sir,’ he says.
‘Good. We can fetch it from the galley and eat here. We’ll see the sun come up. Then I must sleep, I think.’
‘This weather’s quite the thing for a picnic. It feels almost fresh this morning,’ Ormsby smiles.
‘Give it an hour or two!’
Ormsby’s eyes fall to the small bottle of dark ink and the roughly made quill his superior officer has been using. His pupils shrink and he feels uncomfortable. Wellsted has been writing again. This is what has caused all the trouble and he is hoping that there will be no more. The captain has been moody for weeks on end and has taken it out on everybody.
‘I’m writing home, you idiot,’ the lieutenant says fondly. ‘My grandfather likes to keep up. He’s an invalid these days. I send a letter now and then – to keep the old boy going.’
‘Ah,’ Ormsby nods, though he can hardly really understand. His grandfather, after all, is a committed Christian, a Conservative and the brother of a duke, who scarcely if ever leaves his well-run and comfortable estate in Gloucestershire and would be horrified had he seen even half of what James took as read during his Marylebone childhood. The most the old man hopes from his grandsons is that they will be good eggs .
‘Yes. My family likes the odd letter too,’ Ormsby says. ‘They are awfully fond of news. I should really write to them more.’
He wonders if he might see some interesting fish today – the coral reefs are teeming with brightly coloured, odd-looking marine life and Ormsby has been sketching what he sees. It keeps him amused and he is hoping, if he can learn to swim, that he will be able to make a comprehensive study of the shoals of strange creatures, for as his grandfather says, the Lord’s design is in everything.
‘Come on,’ says Wellsted. ‘There is the last of the cheese left. We can toast it on top of the oven.’
Chapter Twelve
The very same day that Zena is auctioned off, on the kind of brisk but sunny English summer morning of which men in the desert can only dream, at his cousin’s substantial, terraced, stucco mansion on Cadogan Place, William Wilberforce, a man of principle and a social pioneer, receives the news that the Bill for the Abolition of Slavery is set to pass the Commons. He celebrates by catching influenza and three days later he is dead. It is decided to bury the old man’s body in Westminster Abbey, close to his venerable friend, William Pitt. He is, after all, one of Britannia’s own – a national treasure. The funeral is an enormous event. Both Houses of Parliament suspend their business for the duration as a mark of respect, and most members actually attend the obsequies personally. All over the British Isles toasts to the new, enlightened age are drunk by Whigs and Tories alike and Wilberforce is universally mourned from
Similar Books
