over a hundred feet in length and all the brass fittings gleamed in the sunshine, but what I noticed first and foremost was the name across the stern.
“The Osprey,” I murmured with a thrill.
I won’t say Cyrus Barker ran—he’s not really the running sort—but he easily outstripped me across the beach and dock and was soon climbing the ladder on the side and going aboard. Beauchamp went second; and when I was halfway up the ladder, he laid a hand on me and deposited me on the deck. While my employer plunged below, I looked about the vessel.
Properly, I learned later, it was a lorcha, a Manila-built ship constructed from European plans. It was designed to run with Chinese junk sails as well as European ones, and, of course, had been altered to run on steam as well. No amount of white paint and brass could disguise its piratical appearance, caused by the way the front and back ends were so much higher than the center. I’m no mariner, but it was an odd craft, principally due to a large winch at the stern that must have been used for hauling in nets. It seemed to have gone through so many permutations it could have been turned into anything at a moment’s notice.
The captain came on deck. Barker had discarded his jacket and stood in his waistcoat and shirt, the sleeves of which he was already rolling up. In place of his customary bowler he now wore a black cloth cap, already streaked with brine.
“Get up steam. Let’s take her out.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Beauchamp said, dashing below.
“What should I do, sir?” I asked.
“Sit there and try to stay out of trouble,” he said, pointing to the deck.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” I said, and he frowned.
“Don’t worry,” he growled. “You’ll have plenty to do soon enough.”
Getting up steam is a long process. It was nearly an hour before the Osprey got under way. During that time, for the most part, we baked in the sun. The Guv tested every knot, caressed every surface, fussed over the mildest rust or warping, and stalked the decks like the captain he was.
“Mr. Llewelyn,” Barker called from the helm, once we’d gotten under way. “Go belowdecks and relieve Mr. Beau-champ. Tell him I need him.”
“Yes, sir,” I told him. I’d worked out by then that Barker couldn’t run the entire ship by himself and that his sole crewman could not keep the fire stoked and do his other duties. Boilers run on coal; Welshmen pull coal from the earth; and who better to stoke a fire, any fire, than a Welshman? I was wearing a good suit, but at least I’d decided against my white flannels that day. I’d have been a sight after an hour in the engine room.
“Captain’s sent me down to relieve you,” I told Beauchamp, who had stripped to boots, trousers, and the kerchiefknotted about his neck. His chest was slick with sweat and black with soot. In the red light of the firebox he looked hellish enough.
“Very well,” he cried over the roar as he opened the hot doors of the boiler. “Keep the firebox full and the coals evenly distributed. Don’t let the fire go out, or you’ll regret it.”
He went above while I took off my shirt, seized the shovel, and thrust it into the bunker of coal. “Come to sunny Seaford,” I growled aloud as I shoveled. “Try the bracing life of a stoker.”
While Barker and his old shipmate played pirates above and steamed along on my sweat, I filled that insatiable maw with shovelfuls of coal. No doubt the Guv was congratulating himself on building my character. Now that I knew the Osprey had been docked here all along, I was surprised the Guv hadn’t brought me down here earlier for a thorough cramming course in nautical training, including deck swabbing, barnacle scraping, and hatch battening, whatever that was.
Doing mindless labor always makes me think, and this was mindless enough. Why had Barker, a man of so many secrets, really brought me down here? Was it to meet Mrs. Ashleigh, the keeper of so many of them? Or should
“The Osprey,” I murmured with a thrill.
I won’t say Cyrus Barker ran—he’s not really the running sort—but he easily outstripped me across the beach and dock and was soon climbing the ladder on the side and going aboard. Beauchamp went second; and when I was halfway up the ladder, he laid a hand on me and deposited me on the deck. While my employer plunged below, I looked about the vessel.
Properly, I learned later, it was a lorcha, a Manila-built ship constructed from European plans. It was designed to run with Chinese junk sails as well as European ones, and, of course, had been altered to run on steam as well. No amount of white paint and brass could disguise its piratical appearance, caused by the way the front and back ends were so much higher than the center. I’m no mariner, but it was an odd craft, principally due to a large winch at the stern that must have been used for hauling in nets. It seemed to have gone through so many permutations it could have been turned into anything at a moment’s notice.
The captain came on deck. Barker had discarded his jacket and stood in his waistcoat and shirt, the sleeves of which he was already rolling up. In place of his customary bowler he now wore a black cloth cap, already streaked with brine.
“Get up steam. Let’s take her out.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Beauchamp said, dashing below.
“What should I do, sir?” I asked.
“Sit there and try to stay out of trouble,” he said, pointing to the deck.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” I said, and he frowned.
“Don’t worry,” he growled. “You’ll have plenty to do soon enough.”
Getting up steam is a long process. It was nearly an hour before the Osprey got under way. During that time, for the most part, we baked in the sun. The Guv tested every knot, caressed every surface, fussed over the mildest rust or warping, and stalked the decks like the captain he was.
“Mr. Llewelyn,” Barker called from the helm, once we’d gotten under way. “Go belowdecks and relieve Mr. Beau-champ. Tell him I need him.”
“Yes, sir,” I told him. I’d worked out by then that Barker couldn’t run the entire ship by himself and that his sole crewman could not keep the fire stoked and do his other duties. Boilers run on coal; Welshmen pull coal from the earth; and who better to stoke a fire, any fire, than a Welshman? I was wearing a good suit, but at least I’d decided against my white flannels that day. I’d have been a sight after an hour in the engine room.
“Captain’s sent me down to relieve you,” I told Beauchamp, who had stripped to boots, trousers, and the kerchiefknotted about his neck. His chest was slick with sweat and black with soot. In the red light of the firebox he looked hellish enough.
“Very well,” he cried over the roar as he opened the hot doors of the boiler. “Keep the firebox full and the coals evenly distributed. Don’t let the fire go out, or you’ll regret it.”
He went above while I took off my shirt, seized the shovel, and thrust it into the bunker of coal. “Come to sunny Seaford,” I growled aloud as I shoveled. “Try the bracing life of a stoker.”
While Barker and his old shipmate played pirates above and steamed along on my sweat, I filled that insatiable maw with shovelfuls of coal. No doubt the Guv was congratulating himself on building my character. Now that I knew the Osprey had been docked here all along, I was surprised the Guv hadn’t brought me down here earlier for a thorough cramming course in nautical training, including deck swabbing, barnacle scraping, and hatch battening, whatever that was.
Doing mindless labor always makes me think, and this was mindless enough. Why had Barker, a man of so many secrets, really brought me down here? Was it to meet Mrs. Ashleigh, the keeper of so many of them? Or should
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