“Dr. Levy on deck!” Bishop shouted.
Hadrian rushed over the instant he could, but stopped short on seeing the tattoo of the mermaid on the dead man’s forearm.
“It’s Edgar Drew, sir. He’s dead, sir!” Bristol shouted to the quarterdeck as he knelt next to the fallen man.
Several sailors gathered around the body, glancing upward at the mainsail shrouds, until the boatswain’s mates took them to task. Hadrian thought he could see Royce up near the top yard, but in the dark he could not be sure. Still, he must have been close by when Drew fell.
The boatswain broke up the crowd and Hadrian, once more unsure of his duty, stood idle. The first light of dawn arrived, revealing a dull gray sky above a dull gray sea that lurched and rolled like a terrible dark beast.
“Cook!” a voice barked sharply.
Hadrian turned to see a young boy who was not much older than Poe but wearing the jacket and braid of an officer. He stood with a firm-set jaw and a posture so stiff he seemed made of wood. His cheeks were flushed red with the cool night air, and rainwater ran off the end of his nose.
“Aye, sir?” Hadrian replied, taking a guess it would be the right response.
“We are securing from all hands. You’re free to fire the stove and get the meal ready.”
Not knowing anything better to say, Hadrian replied, “Aye, aye.” He turned to head for the galley.
“Cook!” the boy-officer snapped disapprovingly.
Hadrian pivoted as sharply as he could, recalling some of his military training. “Aye, sir?” he responded once more, feeling a bit stupid at his limited vocabulary.
“You neglected to salute me,” he said hotly. “I’m putting you on report. What’s your name?”
“Hadrian, sir. Blackwater, sir.”
“I’ll have the respect of you men even if I must flog you to obtain it! Do you understand? Now, let’s see that salute.”
Hadrian imitated the salute he had seen others perform by placing his knuckles to his forehead.
“That’s better, seaman. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
It felt good to get down out of the rain and wind, and Poe met him on the way to the galley. The boy knew his way around the kitchen well, which was no doubt why Wyatt had suggested him. They fired up the stove and Hadrian watched Poe go to work cooking the morning oatmeal, adding butter and brown sugar in proper amounts and asking Hadrian to taste test it. Despite its name, the skillygalee was surprisingly good. Hadrian could not say the same about the biscuits, which were rock hard. Poe had not made them. He had merely fetched the round stones from the bread room, where boxes of them were stored. Hadrian’s years of soldiering had made him familiar with hardtack, as they were known on land. The ubiquitous biscuits lasted forever but were never very filling. They were so hard that you had to soften them in tea or soup before eating them.
With the meal made, stewards from the mess arrived to gather their shares and carry them below.
Hadrian entered the berth deck, helping the mess steward carry the last of the servings. “Bloody show-off couldn’t even make it up the lines,” Jacob Derning was saying loudly. The men of the tops, and the petty officers, sat together at the tables as befitted their status on board, while others lay scattered with their copper plates amid the sacks and chests. Jacob looked like he was holding court at the center table. All eyes were on him as he spoke with grand gestures. On his head he wore a bright blue kerchief, as did everyone on the foretop crew.
“It’s a different story with him when the sea’s heaving and the lines are wet,” Jacob went on. “You don’t see him prancing then.”
“He looked scared to me,” Bristol the boatswain added. “Thought I was gonna have to go up and wallop him good to get him going again.”
“Royce was fine,” said a thin, gangly fellow with a white kerchief tied over his head and a thick blond walrus mustache. Hadrian did not know his name but recognized him as the captain of the maintop. “Just seasick, that’s all. Once he was aloft, he reefed the tops’l just fine, albeit a bit oddly.”
“Make excuses for him all ya want, Dime,” Jacob told him, pointing a finger his way, “but he’s a queer one, he is, and I find it more than a little dodgy that his first day aloft finds his fellow mate falling to his death.”
“You suggesting Royce killed Drew?” Dime asked.
“I ain’t saying nuttin’, just think it’s odd is all. Of course, you’d know better what went on up there, wouldn’t you, Dime?”
“I didn’t see it. Bernie was with him on the tops’l yard when he fell. He says Drew just got careless. I’ve seen it before. Fools like him skylarking in the sheets. Bernie says he was trying to walk the yard when the ship lurched ’cause of that burst from the shoal. He lost his footing. Bernie tried to grab him as he hung on to the yard, but the wetness made him slip off.”