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The storm did not come upon the Majestic without warning.
It couldn't; the morning sky had been clear, but even then there had been a certain feeling in the wind, and a general spirit of unease upon the deck. And then the clouds had begun to pile themselves up, slow and dark and undeniably ominous, and the glass already plunging low.
And now, with the sky gone black and terrible, the wind high and the sails straining, and the captain's brow having taken on a cast near as grim as the dark seething water, James could not shake free of a suspicion that he had somehow drawn it to them.
Utter foolishness. As if he had the right to attribute his own heavy heart such weight, such power. He kept his head low and did what he was told, lashed free lines down as securely as he was able and then bent his back to the task of reefing sail, and made himself attend; and yet the cold clench of his belly, the ache behind his ribs, persisted, and there was no help for it. He shook loose wet curls from his eyes, as the first icy spray of rain made itself felt, and he looked up at the sky and could not help thinking how fitting it was: for a storm was indeed upon him, and all round him was cast dim in the shadow of it, and the touch of the sun lost to him.
And, worst of all, he had brought it on himself. He should have known better than to do such a thing.
His eyes stung; the lash of the rain, he decided, and set his jaw, and blinked the sting away. The waves swelled higher, the deck slanting beneath his feet as the ship was tossed—and a year ago he would have fallen, fallen and made a fool of himself trying to scramble up again. But now he had the legs for it, and was able to steady Yorke besides.
A year ago, if he had fallen, Abraham would have been there within a moment, and caught his hand, and pulled him up; and there would have been no amusement, no disdain, on that narrow grave face—only close attention, and sweet earnest concern that James should not have managed to come to injury.
But Abraham was surely still below, where James had left him. And possessed now every right to refuse to come to James's aid ever again; but no doubt would have anyway, if he thought it were needed, because he was Abraham—
James bit the inside of his cheek, hard. Lucky, then, that it was not needed. And if he had any sense at all, he should ensure it never was, and take care not to prevail upon Abraham to feel obliged to provide it.
Yorke thanked him for his assistance with a duck of the head, and then they both were made to grab for the rail by a deeper swell. The rain was heavy now, sweeping them in sheets, and the waves slopping high, seawater spilling the deck in a rush and then seeping away. The Majestic yawed and then plunged abruptly, so sharply the bowsprit dipped into the water before rising free again; and a wave broke amidships against the hull with fury enough to drench James, Yorke, and Lieutenant Hathaway beside them.
James rubbed the water from his eyes with a swipe from the back of his wrist, and shook his hair back again—the tie, he thought, he had lost the tie. A moment ago he'd been cursing the rainwater dripping with such icy determination down the nape of his neck beneath his collar; and now he was soaked through, as if the sea itself sought to demonstrate what a petty complaint it had been. He was suddenly, wryly, half tempted to laugh aloud.
Lieutenant Hathaway shouted an order. James could only pick a few words clear of the din, other men's cries and the rumble of distant thunder, the seethe and roar of the water—but Hathaway's outstretched arm gave him direction. A line free, snapping in the wind, and James rushed across the deck toward it.
It whipped itself toward him all too eagerly, and struck him a sharp stinging blow; but he caught it in his aching hands anyway, caught it and hauled with all his strength till he had enough length in hand to tie it off securely. The rope was wet, and his hands numb and clumsy with the cold. It took him three tries to draw it tight and knot it. He could attend to nothing else.
Which was why he did not hear how Hathaway shouted for him until it was much too late.
He gripped the rail beside him, half turning, confused. He became aware of a dimness about him, deeper than that before him, persistent; Hathaway's white face turned toward him, and Yorke's likewise, the wideness of Yorke's eyes.
And then the great, towering wave climbing above him broke: broke, and crashed down upon him in a torrent; lifted him off his feet, and swept him away.
He was, for an instant, almost grateful.
An enviable solution to the difficulties in which he'd found himself. No, that was too generous: the difficulties in which he'd placed himself, himself and Abraham alongside him, with his usual thoughtless selfishness.
And at least this way, he need never look Abraham in the face again. Cowardly, of course, for his own part; but it could be thought of as a kindness, too, that he must now leave Abraham be, and indeed would have no other choice. He could not have been trusted to succeed in that aim, steadied by nothing stronger than his own will, which had already proven so ready to yield before temptation. He had always yearned too deeply to be near Abraham, and would have dared it again in time, even knowing it was cruel of him to press, because he could not have stopped himself—and Abraham was generous to a fault with James, and always had been. No, better by far that the decision should be taken so decidedly out of his hands.
And better, too, that it should be done so quickly, and so completely. Abraham would put it behind him, surely; he would not speak, nor even think, ill of the dead. Not Abraham. He would pray for James's soul, despite the evidence thrust upon him that it was already lost, and would forgive James his final trespass. A grim and greedy thing to be thankful for, but nevertheless it was so. Abraham could not hate a dead man.
But despite the obvious merits of allowing the sea to have him, James could not fight the mindless animal desperation of his body to live. The water took him; all was dark, and cold; he was borne full across the width of the deck and struck the far rail, a throbbing ache across the yoke of his shoulders, and then he was over the side, with no hope of orienting himself.
He kicked out anyway. He could swim—not well enough to have much hope of surviving a stormy sea, but he could not help trying. He found the surface with a hand, for a moment, and redirected himself toward it; broke it, and gasped in a wet and helpless breath, and saw through the veils of silver rain the dim dark bulk of Majestic: not far at all, not really, and yet he thought resignedly it might as well have been miles, for all his hope of crossing that distance.
An instant, to perceive this. And then the water heaved about him anew, and a wave closed upon him, and he was under.
At least he knew which way was up, this time. He swam as hard as he could, and it was hard enough to let his fingertips reach air again; he could feel it, the wind, the spatter of the rain. And then another wave crashed over him, and the roll of it as it passed pulled him down, inexorable. His throat ached with the strain of holding his breath. The water was so cold; his body felt so heavy.
He did not want to die. But if he was about to, the least he could do was meet that fate with some semblance of equanimity.
So it was with mixed feelings that he perceived, dim, through the turbulent water, a shape cutting toward him. He knew he should not like to be the sort of man who required the comfort of impossible visions to go to his rest with dignity, and the guilt and shame settled cold in the pit of his belly; and yet what harm could it do, now? What harm could it do, in these last few moments that remained to him, to pretend that someone—that Abraham—had come for him, and would close a strong hand round his wrist, and save him?
None, he decided, and allowed it, even as the last of his breath was used up, and all became still within him.
They had not liked each other well at first, James and Abraham.
James had been sent late to sea, and had hardly deserved to be positioned as a midshipman—would not have been, but for chance and circumstance conspiring to settle it so. He had been aware, helplessly, of how little he knew, how little he understood, compared to any able seaman over which he had by such happenstance been placed in some authority, and he had hated it. And would no doubt have been hated in his turn, if he had not possessed the gift of making himself amiable to everyone.
Everyone but Abraham. Which was to say Midshipman Dawes, as James had been told Abraham required such address at all times. Abraham had seemed to him so stern, then, so standoffish and uncompromising; James's charm, the wry good humor on which he so relied, had earned him nothing but steady unsmiling stares, and perhaps a hint of a flush in the cheek, as if of offence.
But if it had been, it had been fleeting offence at worst. It had taken time for James to grasp as much, to understand that it was in Abraham's nature to keep to himself—that he did not speak readily because he spoke with care; that it was reserve, and caution, and thoughtfulness that ruled him.
James had been frustrated with him, had felt thwarted by him, had perceived his presence as an unwelcome shadow. But then he had been struck down by a few days' fever, the same week a terrible error during a gunnery drill had filled the ship's doctor's time with much direr cases than he. He remembered little of it, except the long endless hours of half-conscious discomfort, and Abraham.
Abraham, who had tended him whenever he had not been on duty himself, with steady gentle hands and infinite patience. He'd borne all James's incoherent mumbled complaints, and laid cooling cloths across his brow, and made him drink; and spoken to him, quiet soothing words, when he was restless, though surely he would rather have been asleep.
He had treated James no differently when James was well again, but it had not mattered. James had felt himself to have perceived something, something he wished to perceive again, and from that day forward had hardly let Abraham alone—he could not help it, curiosity awakened, interest aroused, because he wished to understand what sort of man it was who could seem so terribly unfeeling and yet extend such undeniable kindness unasked; and because he felt indefinably certain that if he did not attend closely, if his gaze wandered at the wrong moment, the split-second flicker of an answer, withdrawn almost as quickly as it were offered, would be lost to him, and leave him in ignorance.
James had endeared himself to Abraham. He could not have said how it had been accomplished, but it became clear in time that he had done it. For Abraham never grew cross with him, never ordered him away. The first time James had earned a smile outright from him, it had been like a gift. One of many, admittedly; for Abraham was clever, and as patient a teacher as he had been a nursemaid. He knew how to tie a hundred different sorts of knots, and what every single piece and part of a ship was called, and could do calculations in his head that left James scowling over a slate in bewilderment.
James learned, one evening, a quiet confession murmured to him between their hammocks, that this last was a matter of necessity: Abraham could read and write, but with difficulty, for he had never been taught properly; James had assumed he must intend to take his examination for lieutenant soon, he was so able in every other respect, but Abraham had looked down and said softly that of course he knew better than to overreach himself, and did very well as a midshipman, and was satisfied.
James had told him he was shocked to hear such a baldfaced lie, and had shaken his head in dismay, and set about requiring Abraham to write out his every word as he recited all he could remember of Shakespeare, or to read to him from the ship's Bible—for he had learned, by then, that to jolly or cajole would get him nowhere, but to set Abraham a task was to see it done.
He could not say with certainty precisely when it was that Abraham had come to represent to him every good thing in this world. It simply became apparent to him, a piece at a time. Abraham was responsible, dutiful; thoughtful, kind; able, in every respect except those denied him by others, and yet unfailingly humble. There was such sensitivity, such grave well-meaning sincerity, in his narrow face, his steady dark eyes—he had such strong shoulders, such graceful and well-formed hands—
There was a danger in such observations, of course. For James, not for Abraham. Abraham could not possibly share James's inclinations; Abraham was all that was just and righteous, all that James had ever failed to be, and could not possibly share that shameful flaw.
And James had been determined never to expose him to it—never to stain him with even the most cursory awareness of it. Sailors were sailors, midshipmen or no, and prone to all manner of talk. But James was careful to steer entirely clear of such things in Abraham's presence, and meant to give himself no opportunity to err.
Except he had failed. He had failed, for no good reason at all. Sitting below with Abraham, waiting for the next bell that would call him up as Abraham had scratched away upon his slate; and, a full passage of Shakespeare rendered without error at last, Abraham had looked up at James with such shy pleased warmth that James had utterly lost his head.
He had drawn a sharp breath, and touched Abraham's face. Abraham's brow had had only a moment to furrow with the beginnings of puzzlement. And then James had kissed him, firmly, deeply, unmistakably.
A moment's stillness, in the grip of a cherished dream abruptly realised. And then James had jerked to his senses again and torn himself hastily away. He had said something; he did not know what. Abject apologies, he hoped. He could not remember any of the words that had passed his lips—only the way Abraham had stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth red, face soft with shock.
James had not wanted to see what would pass across it next, which of all he deserved—anger, dismay, disdain, revulsion—he might first receive. He had stumbled out, hands wound tight round each other so they could not shake, and been on deck just at the bell: just in time to look out across the sky where the clouds had begun to gather, and to understand that a storm must come, and there would be no outrunning it.
He was so cold.
The water seized him, gripped him, dragged at him.
There was a narrow pale face, a dear face, drawn and agonised. The touch of a rope, harsh, soaking; a hot sting, where it rasped against his arm, his chest.
It hurt. Everything hurt.
He became aware, dimly, that something was wanted of him, an effort implored. He tried, desperately, to heed what little of the instructions given him he understood. He strained, with all that was left of him. And he was rewarded, at last, by being allowed to stop—to tumble, slack, and be caught.
The rain was half-drowning him all over again.
And then it was not. He was—he was somewhere else. A light, and not the hard white flash of lightning but a warm persistent glow. Hands on him, that face above him again.
He ached. He could not think.
He went away.
He woke on an indrawn breath, in a familiar darkness. For a moment, all was peace, he remembered nothing; he was dimly bewildered, soft with sleep. And then the breath was drawn, and his chest moved with it, and his ribs burned in a sudden bright line, his shoulders throbbing with a hot dull ache, and oh. Oh.
After a moment, he was able to discern some sense of his body beyond the pain. He was in his own sleep-hammock below, he determined, and though the ship moved—gently, now; the storm must have passed—he barely swung at all. His shin, his thigh, felt warm and heavy, and this for the same reason: because Abraham was there.
Abraham was there. He had taken a chair from somewhere, and brought it in, placed it between his own hammock and James's. He sat in it, except 'sat' was perhaps too generous a word when he had slumped so decidedly, limp with sleep, his arms and head curled up and cushioned against the side of James's leg.
James's face felt hot. He could not move. It was, of course, a terrible thing, that Abraham should have fetched him safely from the sea, and clearly had looked after him besides, and worried for him; he recognised this full well, at the same time that he was shamefully grateful for it. For he knew himself, and he was not proud. If pity should move Abraham to forgive him, it would not be right to accept it—and yet James might well do it anyway, too desperate, all good sense and stalwart principle choked off by helpless yearning.
He did not like to wake Abraham, did not want to bring the moment of his inevitable failure of will any closer than it must be. But he tensed too much, seeking to hold himself steady, and Abraham must have felt it, and was already stirring.
James's breath was caught in his chest. Abraham blinked, and rubbed at his face with the back of one hand, and looked up; and the instant he perceived that James was looking back, one of his rare true smiles broke across his face with blinding intensity.
Luckily, it was gone again almost as fast as it had come, and James was only left longing in its wake for a moment before Abraham had come up out of that chair and leaned over him, and taken him by the shoulders. "James," he said, low, intent. "James, by God, I thought—" He went briefly quiet, and swallowed hard; James could see his throat move. "I thought you were lost."
It was not like him to stumble. But then it was also no surprise, that he should find it difficult to know what to say to a man who had done to him what James had done, and whom he found himself in the unenviable position of standing over, in the quiet dark, only the two of them awake. Any who had the watch must be up on deck, and any who did not were sound asleep, to judge by the light; they were nearly as alone here as they had been when—
James swallowed, and looked away, and made himself smile. "Well, and I was, or very nearly so," he said, and thought to himself distantly that it had come out creditably light, and level, and amiable. "And if I do not miss my guess entirely, I've you to thank for the fact that I am not."
Abraham looked at him, and the look was long and thoughtful; James forced himself with no small effort to bear it, and not squirm or twist his face away.
"You've yourself to thank," Abraham said at last. "You made it easy, and clung hard when I bid you, and did half the work. James—"
"I am sorry," James said, too hasty, too loud.
Abraham fell silent.
James did turn his face away, then, and covered it with his hand, though the motion set the blow across his shoulders to aching. He was a coward after all; but Abraham could not now be surprised to learn as much. "I am sorry," he said again, this time soft, and hoarse, for his eyes stung, his throat ached, in the saying of it. "I had never intended that you should be made to come to my rescue, so soon after I proved myself so—so entirely undeserving of it."
"It was not my suspicion that you had," Abraham returned after a moment, dry but not unkind. His grip eased, on James's shoulders, and then changed: one palm found the side of James's throat, and a thumb touched the line of his jaw.
James drew a sharp, startled breath. His heart pounded.
No. No, surely not; surely not—
"James," Abraham said again, very low.
"It is not right," James heard himself say. "It is wicked, it is debased—"
"If you believe yourself wicked for it," Abraham said to him gently, "then you must believe me wicked also."
James let his eyes fall shut, and felt such a contradictory flush of pain and gladness that he hardly knew how to answer. "Because I have brought you to it," he murmured. "God, if I had only had the strength to let you be."
"No," Abraham said.
James laughed a little; he could not help it. Was he meant to believe that Abraham—Abraham—would ever have so much as entertained the notion, if not for him?
"I am not—easy to befriend," Abraham said softly, into the quiet after. "I do not have the trick of it, whatever it is that makes men loyal, and trusting; whatever it is that brings them into confidence with each other. Within a week, you were better loved aboard ship than I have ever been in life. I was resigned to it, though I could not understand it. And then—"
James swallowed, and bit his lip, and dared to forego the shelter of his own hand, and look up. "And then?" he said, and did not know whether to fear or beg for the answer.
"And then I did," Abraham murmured. "I did understand. I understood far too well. I had no hope; you extended the generosity of your fellowship even to me, and yet you were so open in your feelings, so utterly without hesitation; you must have known you might have anything you asked of me, and yet you never asked, and so I had my answer."
"I meant never to ask," James confessed, bewildered, staring up helplessly. "I tried never to ask. I did not wish to trouble you with it, to force you to refuse me, for I knew how you would hate to do it—"
Abraham looked at him. "Indeed I would," he said, very low, and his thumb was at the corner of James's mouth, now; and then he bit his lip and leaned down, and they were kissing.
James tried to swallow a noise he should not have made, and half succeeded. He felt swept away, as if the wave had come all over again, except this time he was safe, and warm, and dry, and Abraham's strong hands were already there to catch him. He took Abraham's face in his hands, heedless of the way it made his shoulders ache, and kissed back harder; he had only the barest notion of how it was meant to be done, but he applied himself with vigour, and Abraham seemed disinclined to hold his clumsiness against him.
In point of fact, Abraham seemed to endeavour only to follow along—as if, in this alone among all things, James's knowledge and experience, however paltry, still surpassed his own.
He was flushed with heat; he could not bear it. He caught Abraham to him more closely still, and held on tighter—and then was forced to flinch and break away, as the pain in his ribs sharpened too suddenly for him to stand.
"Easy," Abraham said to him, breathless, and spread a warm steady hand across his aching chest. "Easy. Come now, be still."
"But—"
"Hush," Abraham insisted, and then a shy sweet look crossed that grave face, and James felt a fresh ache that had nothing to do with his bruised ribs. "No need for haste; we've all the time in the world. At least," he added more quietly, looking away, "if it please you that we should."
"It does," James said without hesitation, and spread his own hand across the back of Abraham's.
It should not have been the true answer, he knew; he should have had the strength, the conviction, to ensure that it was not. But it was. For there was nothing he could think of that Abraham might offer and find himself refused.
"All right," Abraham said, and his voice was low and level and warm, and oh, James did so love to listen to it when it got that way. "All right—then go back to sleep, will you?"
To sleep, James wanted to say, indignant. To sleep! As if he had nothing better to do; except the eager pounding of his heart had given way, now that they were resolved together, now that nothing remained to fear, to a soft creeping heaviness. He had swum so hard, he had been so cold, and it would exact its price from him, now that he was warm and safe.
So in the end the best he managed was to say, "Aye, Midshipman Dawes," and to get it all out neatly before he must yawn, and his eyes were already shut without his intending it. Somewhere not too far away, Abraham laughed a little, soft and low, and gentle fingers slid into James's damp hair—and then he was away, sweetly drifting on a calm dark sea.