(Sweetheart, the dream is not ended)
HMS Clorinda weighs anchor and sets sail from Falmouth harbor on a half-overcast dawn in April. If this were a storybook, it would be a day of full sun, with fanfares and ladies waving their handkerchiefs on the quay; as it is, there are only a few drabs on the damp stones, and the chant of the men at the capstan.
There are four men standing at the quarterdeck rails, one to windward and three to leeward. Captain Duff looks back at England. He does not know what lucky star shines on him, that he, missing a leg and infamous for his preferences, should get a command in peacetime; but he does not think about it much.
The other three look out towards the Atlantic, cold and deep, with the white of the bow wave and wake lacing the dark surface. Mr. Marshall, the master, often thinks about how he got here, but usually concludes that his penchant for astronomy and long experience at sea outweigh any irregularities in his other tastes. Still, there are fewer warrant officers than commissioned to draw from, so perhaps it is only luck.
The coast of England sets behind them, but they are too slow to leave the rising sun behind. Day comes so much quicker on the sea, without trees and hills and towers to block the light. The rays shoot one by one across the mirror-like ocean, all plain, without that sense of something unseen and hidden that one feels on land. There is magic in it. Today it is cloudy, and the breeze disturbs the water.
"On the terrace, of course. Friday night," Mr. Laine is saying.
"I was distracted," says Mr. Anderson.
"I would be happy to lend you mine, gentlemen. It is only a Baillère*, but quite a sarviceable one."
*he pronounces it Bailar
"You are an astronomer, Mr. Marshall?"
"I dabble, Mr. Anderson. I dabble."
"Should you like to help us take our observations when we reach Halifax, Mr. Marshall?"
"I dare say I should, Mr. Laine. Very much indeed."
"I hope Mrs. Welldone has had it taken inside," says Anderson to Laine.
"Elsie will have noticed it, watering the roses next morning."
Marshall moves away to inspect the men at the wheel. The wind strengthens in the sails, and they hold their course steady for Canada.
Seven days into the voyage, the gunroom invites Captain Duff to dine with them. The gunroom steward and the astronomers' servant together produce an uncommonly good drowned-baby, and the dinner is a general success, to the delight of Mr. Kelley, the president of the mess. Duff tries bravely to draw everyone into the conversation, and this goes some little way towards bridging the gaps between all the still-unfamiliar commensals.
After the toast "to ourselves", and the muttered reply "as no one else is likely to concern themselves with our welfare" by Mr. Isbister, the lieutenant of marines, the table settles into a comfortable hum of talk. Marshall is deep in technical discussion with Anderson and Laine, and it only roused out of it by Duff's calling down from the head of the table, "Mr. Olcott tells me you served with Admiral Aubrey, Mr. Marshall. I hope you will give us an anecdote." Admiral Aubrey is a legendary figure, almost a second Nelson in tales. During the war there were plenty of heroes, but there is a dearth of them in peace.
Marshall chuckles. "I sailed with him when he was first made commandar. They called him Lucky Jack then. Those cruises in the Sophie."
"Was you at the taking of the Cacafuego?" asks Mr. Llewellyn, the purser.
It was the greatest victory of those months sailing out of Port Mahon. "No, I was not there." He tells instead the story in which Dr. Maturin saved the Sophie from the Spanish frigate-- "the very same Cacafuego!"; it is well received, with some laughter, but there is a feeling of disappointment that weighs on the table until Olcott breaks into "Spanish Ladies".
Marshall knows that Duff, too, sailed with Admiral Aubrey and would have liked to hear about the fleet-action off Ireland. But the time for tales is over now; it will have to wait for the next time they dine together.
It is four more days before he notices that his eyes are following Duff without his directing them. He is not stupid, and he is tired of denying himself the knowledge of his own emotions, so he must conclude that he loves him; and as the years have passed he has not gotten better at hiding it, so to ignore it is useless.
It is his misfortune that the object of his affections is once again his captain, because this means that there is no hope of their being returned. He is perfectly aware of Duff's inclination, that at least is a difference from the last time, but it all comes to the same thing- nothing- in the end.
He has long ceased to expect anything. He did not want to be reckless, risk his ship, his men, everything for a lover, let discipline go by the board, be strung up under Article XXIX. So he has not: another casualty of war.
They proceed across the Atlantic. In six days there is a storm, and the officers stand on deck at watch all the night. The astronomers are gently but firmly escorted to the gunroom and told to wait below, as they are more useless still than the landsmen of the crew.
The storm abates in the early hours of the morning. Marshall is the first one to come back to the gunroom, dripping water from his tarpaulin jacket and very much in the mood for a cup of strong hot coffee. The first thing he sees is Laine's hand, white-knuckled, gripping Clorinda's knee above his head; then his face, tight, eyes closed, mouth open; back gently curved, pressed against her side, and a fist made in the fabric of his shirt- Anderson's. Knelt before him like a prince proposing to a kitchen-maid--
They are lucky that he was the first to find them there. He goes out again silently, meets Mr. Olcott on the companionway, steps and speaks loudly. When he comes to the gunroom again, Anderson and Laine are seated at the table dealing out a deck of cards. Olcott jokingly reminds them that gambling is not allowed on board, and Anderson explains that they're playing only to pass the time. Laine collects the cards, shuffles, and deals a hand to the four of them.
Sodomy should be so much easier in the Navy, Marshall thinks. At sea a man is not looked at oddly if he does not seek the society of beautiful ladies, because such a thing is impossible. Around him are only his shipmates, companions, his friends. It should not be wrong- should not be a hanging offense, when captains usually turn a blind eye to girls aboard. It is not fair to those who do not desire women, that under the Articles of War they are the same as those only making up for the lack of them.
He learned, from a conversation in guarded terms with Mr. Olcott, that Duff is the sort of man who takes his pleasure where he finds it. They are not in the same category at all, then; Marshall never consults his desire when on a ship, and only very rarely off it. I dare say we are reckless, doing what we do for all these years. But in our line of work a certain recklessness is wanted, and it did answer him well enough in battle, that's certain.
Some who have been long at sea are even forgiven for a reluctance to change their ways when set on land; now that he is in love again, he is no longer sure if it would be better to be one of those, ashore with no prospect but the faint hope of finding someone, or to be as he is. It is after the war.
There is no reason for him to deny himself anything.
He would have liked to sleep all day; as it is, he moves through his watches in a haze. The sea is flat and lustrous, calm after the storm. The men are bending on new sails to replace the ones lost in the night, and the part of his brain that has been afloat for thirty-odd years can direct them even if the rest is dreaming.
They finish at around two bells in the last dogwatch, and Captain Duff gives everyone the rest of the night free after their long full day of work. Marshall brings the day's charts to the captain's cabin while everyone else chats on deck in the light of the setting sun, officers on the leeward side of the quarterdeck, crew on the forecastle, a few dancing.
The sun sets on their bow, streaking the ocean in orange and pink and gold, with the shadows of the waves a deep azure and Clorinda's black. Nightfall is not like daybreak: it comes slowly, but there is no blocking it, neither on land nor sea. There is magic in the way the light slips away, ripple by ripple, rose to violet to darkness. Standing on the forecastle, they can see the bowsprit cleave the scarlet disc of the sun in two.
Marshall lays his hand carefully on Duff's knee, above the missing leg. "Tell me about the action in Bantry Bay."
They sail into it.
