It is the business of every officer in HM Navy to keep in mind that HM Navy is not a business. It is a calling, every bit as much as holy orders are, if not more so, and to Hell with anybody who considers the comparison impious.
—Admiral Sir Simon Tremaine DuPuy
It was tempting, but . . .
Strangling Owlsley would probably not make matters any better, DuPuy decided, although there was that strong temptation, and Owlsley's skinny neck really did cry out for a pair of strong hands to wring it. No, words would have to do—and they'd have to be carefully chosen words.
DuPuy waited until Throckmorton had closed the door behind him before saying anything. Owlsley hadn't risen to get the door for Throckmorton, either, although that was a more minor problem.
"The purpose of having you maintain my schedule," he said, slowly, as though he was explaining things to an idiot, which seemed to be more than reasonable under the circumstances, "is to make sure that my time is left free for important things."
"Yes, Admiral," Owlsley said, ducking his head. "Of course. Admiral."
Then why did you tell Throckmorton that he could have an hour when McCaulkin sent a note that said he needed to see me? he didn't ask.
Perhaps it was too much to expect, at this point. And more than perhaps he should have taken up Throckmorton's or Shea's offer—or any of the half-dozen other such offers—to have their own secretary replace his, after Scratch's . . . unfortunate accident. He had probably been overly concerned about some residue of loyalty to their former captains. But given the way that both Throckmorton and Shea treated their own secretaries, that was probably an unreasonable concern.
Something to learn from, he decided.
DuPuy knew of other officers who didn't believe in second-guessing themselves, but while he wasn't immune from folly, at least he was immune from that particular folly: if he didn't acknowledge errors, at least to himself, how the blasted hell would he ever learn to avoid them in the future?
The truth was, he missed Scratch. Not his treason—but his efficiency. He wondered how much of that efficiency had come from Scratch's resolve to keep his position, so that he would be able to sell the Navy's secrets to his Dar paymasters, and—
Damn him. Damn him to the blackest of black hells for having forced DuPuy's hand too soon. But Owlsley—DuPuy couldn't think of him as Scratch—had been left waiting and sweating long enough.
"Well," he said, slowly, carefully, as though he was speaking to an idiot—as indeed he was, apparently, "let's start from first principles, shall we? Captain McCaulkin and his men take ships that don't float, or don't float well enough, and he and they fix that. Do you follow me? Captain Throckmorton shuffles around the least likely batch of beached officers, landsmen, and pox-ridden bunch of alleged bosuns and mates that one can imagine—some of whom are expected to sail aboard those ships. When Throckmorton has a routine appointment and McCaulkin sends a note that he says he'd like to speak to me as soon as is convenient, which do you think is most needing of my attention? Well, speak up, man."
Owlsley cleared his throat. "Sorry, Admiral, I—"
"I don't give a sodding Spanish sou for your sorriness—I asked you a question, Owlsley."
"Yes, sir. Captain McCaulkin's more important."
DuPuy shook his head. "No. Every officer and every man in His Majesty's service is equally important. A ship can sail without a master better than it can without topmen and riggers. But Captain McCaulkin's need, in this case, is more important than Throckmorton's. Understood?"
He didn't wait for an answer, but stalked out of the office, shaking his head, mostly at himself. It wasn't an emergency—the excitable McCaulkin would not have sent a messenger with an ambiguous note in a real emergency—but whatever McCaulkin had in mind was likely more important than giving a mild chewing-out to Owlsley.
The only justification that he could offer himself was that, all in all, it was important to the efficiency of the Fleet that he have a capable secretary.
The damn fool.
While the road to the dockyard was not as straight as it should have been—he had to skirt around the bursary, rather than having every man-jack in it leaping to attention—it took him only a few minutes, and gave him time to calm himself. It was best to be seen as a man of short temper—you got better service when your subordinates feared failing you as much as they relished not only obedience, but success—but that was not aided by actually being a man of short temper, after all.
Oh, well. He couldn't do a damned thing about his temperament, but he could, by God, control his temper, no matter how the trying made his stomach boil, and his fists clench themselves.
The bulk of the Surprise—God, he hated that name—loomed over the shack that McCaulkin used as his office, and at DuPuy's approach, the rating catching a quick smoke outside the office ducked quickly inside.
Good. McCaulkin had been informed that the Admiral was present, and would join in a moment.
The Surprise, unless DuPuy missed his guess, was in somewhat better shape than he had feared. Not that he could tell the condition of the keep or the knees from here, but the few gaps in the planking on the hull spoke of McCaulkin having decided against having to do the sort of lengthy and expensive reconstruction that had been all too common of late.
Worth seeing for himself, at that.
High above his head, a long gangplank ran from the scaffolding that cradled the hulk onto the poop deck, and while it looked rickety from here, it was stable enough for a pair of men to be coaxing a heavily loaded wheelbarrow across it. Good enough for DuPuy.
He silently cursed every step up the scaffolding, not-seeing the men who scampered up and down it, although part of him secretly hoped that one would stop his work and salute him, giving him a chance to tear the poor sod a new asshole. Any man who didn't have both of his hands full with work, relieving him of the necessity of saluting, had damned well better find some work, and quickly, as far as DuPuy was concerned.
By the time he reached the top he was half out of breath, and paused for a moment.
A pair of artificers, each carrying a pair of muslin bags depending from a yoke, actually waited to let DuPuy proceed. He would have liked to have a stiff word with them, but he didn't want them to believe that he actually needed the rest, dammit, so he stomped across the plank and lowered himself onto the deck of the Surprise, making his way quickly past the waist toward the quarterdeck.
You could tell a lot about the progress of a ship from a distance, but to get any real feel for it, there was no good substitute for seeing for yourself. True for most things in life, and one of the manifold and various frustrations of DuPuy being beached in practice, if not in theory.
For some reason or other, the steps up to the quarterdeck were much easier to take than those up the scaffolding had been. Probably just that there were fewer of them; that was most likely it.
There were hints that things were going more quickly than he would have expected—the quarterdeck's decking was fresh, which meant, of course, that the work beneath it had been done. He hadn't looked to see if the rudder had been unchocked, but knowing McCaulkin, the fact that the wheel had been remounted and not tied down indicated that it indeed had—and probably connected to the whipstaff, although that was obscured from here—so he walked over and took it in his hands.
Even in drydock, where he couldn't fool himself even a little that he was really at the wheel of a sailing ship, it felt good to have the spokes in his hand, although he didn't try to turn it. That would have been silly, just playing at being a steersman, much as he was playing at having a ship beneath him once again.
What he should have been doing was sending one of the men to tell McCaulkin that he was here, and—
"Admiral."
DuPuy snatched his hands from the wheel, and turned in irritation.
Heavy boots thundered on the deck as McCaulkin ran up, almost daintily stepping over the cordage and other detritus littering the deck. DuPuy had tried to ignore that—it was perfectly legitimate, he supposed, to leave equipment lying all over the deck in drydock, but it reminded him even more than the lack of motion beneath his feet that the ship was, after all, in drydock.
"Good to see you this morning, sir. Thank you for coming over so quickly."
"Hmph."
Captain Rodney McCaulkin was a stubby, fiftyish man, barrel-chested and thick-fingered, and gray: his close-cropped hair—what there was of it—the deeply sunken eyes, and even his skin had an unhealthy-looking gray pallor that seemed utterly invulnerable to alleviation by the sun, although McCaulkin certainly spent enough time out of doors.
As was usual in the morning, his freshly shaved face was spattered with freshly clotting cuts—DuPuy thought that a man with such unsteady hands should have grown a beard—and, as was also usual, be it morning, noon, or night, McCaulkin's utilities were a mess.
Not that that bothered DuPuy. If anything, the notion of the captain of Malta's Repair Depot demonstrating by example that he wasn't afraid to get his hands and uniform dirty was, DuPuy had always thought, a good thing, although McCaulkin tended to take it further than DuPuy would have recommended, all in all.
But he was a tireless worker—even at this early hour, the underarms of his utilities were already darkened with sweat, despite the mildness of the day, and his fingernails were utterly filthy.
He ran those filthy fingernails through his too-long hair. Perhaps he thought it was a salute?
"Well, Captain, I'm sure you've brought me over for some reason—what is the bad news? The keel going? Knees turn out to be balsa wood? Masts stepped with glue?"
McCaulkin smiled. "No, not bad news, Admiral—surprising news, though. Given her logs, I was expecting that we'd be dealing with deviled bolts again—one of the reasons I wanted her out of the water, so that I could get at the keel from the underside."
"And . . . ?"
McCaulkin shook his head. "Nothing of the sort, sir. I pulled a couple—dirty work, but I wanted to see for myself. Good copper—and thicker by a good quarter-inch than standard. Somebody in Mumbai seems to have actually done his job, for once."
That was suspicious, in and of itself. "And you're quite sure."
If anything, the already broad smile widened. "I knew you'd be skeptical, Admiral—I was myself. But one look's worth a thousand words, if I do say so—care to take a look? I've got a couple of the bolts down in the master's cabin—been using it as an office aboard the ship."
That wasn't unusual; McCaulkin seemed to spend most of his waking hours aboard whatever ship was in the drydock. He had probably slept aboard. Probably in that set of utilities, from the look of them.
McCaulkin could have, of course, simply sent a report over to DuPuy—along with a bolt, perhaps—instead of sending for him, but DuPuy didn't complain; it was good to get out of that damned fur-lined prison for a while, at that. Putting off getting back was a luxury, and a spot of self-indulgence, but it was one he could afford for a few minutes, perhaps.
It might even help him keep himself from strangling Owlsley.
"Lead the way, Captain."
"Aye, aye, Admiral."
As DuPuy remembered it, there was a hatch at the stern end of the quarterdeck that led directly down to the captain's cabin, just as there had been on the old Sufficient. Back then, DuPuy had logged standing orders that the officer of the deck was to stomp three times on the hatch if, for any reason—he had underlined the phrase twice—there was any reason to believe that it would be better for the captain to come on deck.
DuPuy wondered if the Surprise's log would show similar orders. Worth looking at, as long as they were going to the captain's quarters—to what would be the captain's quarters; the Surprise had no master at the moment.
For that matter, DuPuy was curious to see if he could squeeze his bulk through the narrow hatch. Nothing like land duty, with food that was far too good and far too readily available to make a man fat.
But the after part of the deck was still cordoned off, and McCaulkin led him down the ladder, to the open deck, then through a path among the piles of rope whose destiny was to become lanyards of the shrouds and back-stays to the open door of the captain's cabin.
"I think you'll find this interesting, Admiral," McCaulkin said, then started in manifestly affected surprise. "Lieutenant—I hadn't realized that you were still here."
Lieutenant Lord Sir Alphonse Randolph, who had been sitting at the master's desk, leaped to his feet. "My apologies, sir; I found myself caught up in the logs," he said. "Admiral."
DuPuy gave him a cold nod. "Good morning, Mr. Randolph."
"Morning, sir."
DuPuy eyed him carefully. He would tolerate McCaulkin's sloppiness of dress, for good reason, but if Randolph had one tarnish on a jacket button . . .
But, no. Randolph's first-class uniform was impeccable, as usual. No lack of starch, and it looked as though he'd had his dog robber take a chamois and rouge to his buttons, as well as his medals; his collar points were sharp enough to make DuPuy think that they might almost be able to slice his throat open for him. A well turned-out officer, by the look of him—the only thing that DuPuy had to complain about the bastard was that he was here, dammit.
As to why, that was clear. Randolph wanted to talk to him, and rather than going through channels and asking for an appointment, he and McCaulkin had arranged this little charade. Perhaps Randolph was fool enough to think that a back-channel chat could get him off the Lord Fauncher? Well, it could, at that—but not in the way that Randolph was, perhaps, thinking, and not at the moment.
DuPuy briefly considered dismissing Randolph; let him apply for an appointment like anybody else.
But Randolph had piqued DuPuy's curiousity—what was he up to?
More to the point of the moment: what was in it for McCaulkin? That was something that DuPuy could save for later—if money had exchanged hands, DuPuy would make it his purpose to give McCaulkin reason to regret it.
"I didn't know you were visiting the Captain, Mr. Randolph," he said, coldly. "I would have thought that, perhaps, the Lord Fauncher is keeping you busy enough that you'd not have time for social calls."
"Err, Admiral, it wasn't a social call—Mr. Randolph had some issues with the way I set the flying rigging, and wished to discuss them."
"Hmm. And you've settled those matters?"
"I think I've handled his questions, yes, Admiral."
Whatever you could say bad about Randolph, he wasn't stupid enough to be unprepared—if DuPuy asked what the issues were, he and McCaulkin would, no doubt, have been able to lecture him for hours, hours that he didn't have. "Well, let's see this non-deviled bolt, eh?"
"Yes, of course." There were three of them on the captain's desk—each more than a foot long, two inches around, and apparently of thick copper. Two had been sawed or cut in half, and DuPuy reached for the nearest.
"That was one off of the Lord Fauncher, Admiral."
"Before the repairs were completed," Randolph added, as though DuPuy was some sort of idiot who couldn't have figured that out.
DuPuy nodded as he examined the bolt. It was well-enough done—somebody fairly clever had sheathed what appeared to be decent oak in copper, all the way around, rather than just at the heads.
"On the other hand," McCaulkin said, grunting overly dramatically as he picked up another sawn bolt, "this is one that I pulled out of the Surprise."
Now, that was another matter entirely. It was as heavy as it should be, and copper through and through. DuPuy pretended to give it a close examination, although he didn't know quite what to pretend he was closely examining—it was just solid copper, after all. Ah: "You've assayed it, of course."
"Of course. As I was telling you, Admiral, it's good news, and I've pulled half a dozen more—all of them good and solid. We could take the ship apart, of course, but I'd wager my pension that if we haven't found any deviled ones yet, we're not going to. I figure I can have her back in the water in perhaps a month, six weeks at the most. Faster, even, if Captain Throckmorton might find me some more hands who can tell a froe from a hammer."
That again. DuPuy didn't say anything for a moment. Then, "Well, then, make it so—I'll have a word with Throckmorton, although I think he'll think that your ability to get this ship back in service so quickly suggests that you've already ample hands, eh?"
"My thinking, as well," McCaulkin said. "Which is why—"
"You'd rather the word come down from me that that's not the case, to preempt the problem?"
Hmm . . . that didn't sound at all like McCaulkin's sort of thinking. He was a direct sort, and he and Throckmorton had been bumping heads for years.
DuPuy looked at Randolph, whose face was studiously neutral. There were, it appeared, other ways for the young earl-to-be to pay off McCaulkin than simply putting coins in his hands.
"Yes, sir," McCaulkin said, shifting his feet back and forth, like a schoolboy. "Thank you, Admiral, and . . ."
"And you'd best be getting back to it, eh?" DuPuy nodded.
He waited until McCaulkin had left, and silently stared at Randolph.
"Well, Randolph," he finally said, "as long as we're both here, I guess I could ask you how the shakedown went, although I assume you've filed a report."
"Last night, sir, just after we dropped anchor." Randolph nodded. "Yes, sir. It went better than could be expected—crew's shaping up nicely, and more quickly than I would have guessed, all in all."
Randolph wasn't a whiner; you had to give him that.
"And further work needed?"
"A hundred minor things, Admiral, or more. But nothing that can't be handled—more quickly if I can borrow a few carpenters and riggers from Captain McCaulkin, but we can manage aboard, if need be. If it wasn't that I didn't think that the flinger crews weren't quite up to it—as of yet—I'd say the Lord Fauncher was ready to be returned to full duty."
"And you thought it was more important to tell me all that than to be training them?"
"All in all, yes, sir. Mr. McHenry can run the drills just as quickly as I can, and at the moment, he's doing just that. I'd say they're fairly river-trained about now—give me another few weeks, and I can certify them ready enough for full service."
That was interesting. "I would have thought that it would have taken months to get that batch of useless mouths and clumsy hands to that point. What's your secret, Mr. Randolph?"
"No secret, sir—just work, rewards, and punishments." His mouth tightened. "Had to go to the lash more than I'd like to—rather more—but my orders were to make the Lord Fauncher ready to be posted to the squadron as soon as possible, and I took some liberties in that."
Well, DuPuy would have to see that for himself. Still, as far as he was concerned, Randolph could flay half the men to their backbones if that would add another ship to Fleet quickly. And Randolph hadn't hanged anybody, as of yet; he would have mentioned that.
"Any other . . . liberties, Mr. Randolph?"
"Yes, sir." Randolph seemed to hesitate for a moment.
"Out with it, out with it."
"It's in my report, sir, and it's going to come to your attention soon enough, but I put in on Pantelleria on the way back from Sfax, to give the top men in each section some overnight leave."
So there it was. Standing orders were to avoid Pantelleria, for obvious reasons. But the orders were "avoid" and not "avoid at all costs." It wasn't unusual or forbidden for a ship to put in offshore to refill its water barrels, and while DuPuy didn't want any boarding or searching to take place in the waters immediately offshore, immediately was a flexible term, after all—Gold Squadron had nailed a pirate under false colors just a few months before, just east of the island.
It didn't surprise DuPuy that Randolph would take responsibility for violating his orders. It was the violation itself that was curious.
"Leave, Mr. Randolph?" DuPuy arched an eyebrow. "You thought that giving a few sailors leave was worth violating standing orders?"
Randolph drew himself up to a position of attention. "If the Admiral decides that I have violated any orders, I'll take any consequences, sir. My interpretation—"
"Interpretation, Mr. Randolph? Orders are to be obeyed, and not merely 'interpreted.' "
"Yes, sir." Randolph didn't seem apologetic, which was just as well, perhaps.
"I'd like to see orders that could be 'interpreted' so." DuPuy didn't know what he would do if Randolph had bribed Shea to permit leave. Tossing every corrupt officer off of DuPuy's balcony would likely draw attention—and create a large pile of bodies.
"Aye, aye, sir." Randolph reached into his breast pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper, then handed it over.
To Lieutenant Lord Sir Alphonse Randolph, Lord Fauncher, Port Valletta, HM Possession of Malta:
You are hereby required and directed forthwith to, upon your determination that His Majesty's Sloop Lord Fauncher is in all ways victualled to Four Weeks of all Requirements for her Established Complement and in all ways ready for Sea, if not for restoration to Full Service, to hoist such Flag and Flags as are proper and necessary, and then without loss of time to sail His Majesty's said Sloop under your command to Sfax, that City in Tunisia, to safely convey His Excellency, Shaykh Abdul ibn Mussa al-Bakilani al-Medina Hajji, Emmisary of the Caliph of Tunis, to that City, showing him all Courtesies, Respect, and Consideration due to his Inviolate Person, and those of his Attendants.
You are not to permit any of your Company to go ashore at Sfax save under the direst of Emergencies.
Upon your completion of the successful conveyance of Said Persons, you are to continue to sail the HM Sloop no less than one Day Adverse Sailing from any Coast and no farther than Five Days Adverse Sailing from HM Port of Valletta, for all purposes required in the Evaluation of HM Sloop's readiness to be returned to Full Service, and the Training of the Ship's Complement in said endeavor, to which end you are to take All Measures keep your men together to their Duty and cause them to be diligently employed in putting out her Weapons, Stores, and Provisions, and to keep yourself diligently employed in preparing both Ship and Crew for Service.
The Lord Fauncher not being in Full Service, you are to refrain from Battle with other ships of any kind, save under circumstances of being Attacked, or should you be signaled by one of HM ships for rescue and succor.
When either the Ship or Crew are in all ways ready for Service, or Three Weeks from this date have elapsed, or you have determined that further Making of Readiness must necessarily be performed at Port Valletta, you are without loss of time to repair to Port Valletta, provision&victual for another Four Weeks sailing, but remain there till further order, giving us a Full Account of your proceedings.
Given under Our hands this 5th Leeds the 1625th Year of Our Lord
By Order of Admiral Sir Simon Tremaine DuPuyMorton Shea, Captain
Well, that could be interpreted as Randolph had chosen to, although it was perhaps a stretch. There was some sense in it—DuPuy had been known to say, publicly and often, that rum and other rewards were every bit as important in maintaining good order and effectiveness as as a good master-at-arms who knew how to use a lash, and Pantelleria had been the only port within Randolph's orders, save for those in Tunisia, or on Malta itself, and returning to Malta would have not permitted much of any liberty, given the way that Throckmorton had written Randolph's orders.
"Hmmm . . . what trouble did they get in there?" It couldn't be terribly bad, or DuPuy would have heard about it already.
Randolph shook his head. "None, sir. None whatsoever—I took some precautions." His brow furrowed. "But the waters seemed awfully full of ships—it's in my report."
"Ships, Mr. Randolph? There are many kinds of ships, Lieutenant—" DuPuy stopped himself. "Hmm . . . perhaps you'd better tell me about it."
"I'll be most willing to tell the Admiral about it, of course, but I do have a suggestion, if the Admiral doesn't mind one."
"I'll always listen to suggestions, Mr. Randolph, particularly for an officer who has gone to as much trouble and taken as much risk to his career as you seem to have in order to bring this to my attention." He had hoped Randolph would at least blanch a little at that, but he didn't. "Your suggestion would be, Lieutenant?"
"I know the Fleet is undermanned, sir, but there's a lot more ships around Pantelleria than I think should be normal—Guild, unflagged, merchantmen from Crown and Dar, and half a dozen other flags."
"And you didn't think to have your men ask around as to—" DuPuy stopped himself.
Of course, Randolph had thought of doing just that, but it was damnably inconsistent with keeping a close leash on them. He probably had them confined to one tavern or bordello, with his master-at-arms and a few marines to make sure that they stayed there. Turning even a snap-to crew into a bunch of spies on the instant would have been too much to task any man.
Enough of that, and more than enough of letting Randolph tease DuPuy's curiosity without coming out and making his case, whatever it was: "Well, what is your advice, Mr. Randolph?"
Randolph didn't answer right away.
"Well?"
"I don't know, sir. I'd advise sending a squadron closer to Pantelleria than has been the practice of late. Or perhaps a port call by a ship with a carefully chosen crew—some of Captain Shea's lot, perhaps?" He didn't quite shrug. "I'd take the Lord Fauncher back myself, if I had the orders, but I'm not sure that I have enough of the . . . right sort of crew to look into things."
"How quickly do you think you get could get there?"
"If the wind holds, perhaps twenty, twenty-four hours."
That sounded more than a little suspicious—Pantelleria was closer to a hundred miles away than farther from it, and while the Levanter was still blowing . . .
Randolph wasn't bragging of being able to set a record, by any means, but it was an ambitious boast, particularly for a new crew.
"I'd like to see that," DuPuy said, nodding.
"I'm at your orders, Admiral. We can raise anchor within the hour."
So Randolph had anticipated him, eh? Fair enough. "Make it two hours—I'll have to make some additional preparations if I'm to leave Malta, even if only for a few days. I trust you have a bunk and a seat at your table for an old man, and perhaps a few more for some of his staff?" Some of Shea's people were not utterly incompetent, and putting a junior lieutenant or two in a jack-tar's shirt and trousers would be easy enough.
He had finally managed to get a reaction out of Randolph, and was only a little surprised that it wasn't more than, "Yes, sir." Randolph drew himself up to attention, again. "By your leave, sir? I'd best be back to the ship, and quickly."
"One your way, then, Mr. Randolph."
Randolph's feet didn't start pounding on the deck until he was several feet from the door.
DuPuy didn't have time to waste, either. Two hours? Owlsley had damned well better be able to pack his things in short order; no worries on that score. Shea had better have a few good men ready to be hauled off on short notice—and if they didn't have the right clothing for their disguises, the Lord Fauncher's sailmaker could quickly alter some dirty, used issue clothing, or DuPuy would know the reason why. Shea wasn't—had better not be—a problem.
Throckmorton, on the other hand, would need a short and pointed lecture on the difference between being left in charge and left in command, and—no; to blazes with Throckmorton, and Shea.
He stepped outside the captain's cabin, and beckoned to the nearest of the sailors working on deck.
"Tell Captain McCaulkin I'll see him in my office, on the double. Move it, man, move it."
It would do Throckmorton and Shea's souls good to have to jump when McCaulkin barked, even if only for a few days, and DuPuy had no doubt that there would be plenty of barking done; McCaulkin was that sort, and while he would have enjoyed Throckmorton's expression at having to stand to attention before a man with dirty fingernails, the reality would probably not be nearly as amusing as the mental image, and if he had been there, Throckmorton would have been standing at attention in front of DuPuy, instead, after all.
He should be hurrying, but it was best that he not be seen to hurry, so he took a moment to light his pipe, and let the rich smoke fill his lungs and nostrils, trying to slow the pounding of his heart.
Of course, it was totally irresponsible, looked at any reasonable way, and Shea and Throckmorton and a dozen other senior officers would be certain to make certain that reports of DuPuy's irresponsibility reached the Admiralty, one way or another. They might even beat DuPuy's own report, which might be written on his return, but wouldn't be dispatched before the next courier ship left for Gibby, and home.
Not that that mattered. The trip would give DuPuy some time to feel out Randolph—he was far more interested in what the future Earl of Moray thought of what he had seen in Sfax than in some temporary excess of activity on the wizard-controlled island of Pantelleria. The age of the Wise Ones had ended with the Age of Crisis, no matter what those pompous knights of the Order seemed to think. Pantelleria was just a local irritation and problem; nothing more.
Even if this bit of irresponsibility lost DuPuy his last command—and it well might—enlisting Randolph in his quiet, informal conspiracy to keep the main threat firmly in mind in Londinium and elsewhere would be of more value to the Crown than whatever service DuPuy had left as a land-locked sailor.
And if Randolph hadn't taken the point? DuPuy was not, by any means, a terribly persuasive man—what if he couldn't get through to Randolph? Or worse—what if Randolph had been taken in by that too-smooth al-Bakilani? What if he were to become part of the Accomodationists?
DuPuy didn't think that was likely, but that could be handled, too. Nights at sea were dark, and a man could go over the side without drawing notice, if he were careful in the doing of it.
Earl or no earl, a man who had lost an Admiral on a calm Mediterranean night—even a poor landlocked excuse for an Admiral—would find himself discredited in and out of Parliament. And given their personal history, with DuPuy having relieved him of as desirable a posting as could be had out of Malta, and given a beached crew, it would be thought, and it would be widely whispered, that perhaps it had not just been carelessness.
Hmm . . . perhaps DuPuy had time to leave behind a memorandum? He and Randolph had had a long discussion about the threat of the Dar, and Randolph had disagreed, then invited the Admiral on board to discuss it further?
No; he could do that shipboard, and hope that Owlsley wouldn't use the memorandum to wipe himself.
It was best to hurry. There wasn't much time, after all. He really should have given Randolph more time than a scant two hours. Still, it was justified in that the sooner he was off, the sooner he would see for himself these strange and supposedly significant gatherings of ships on and off Pantelleria.
Yes, that was it.
And that this would give him a deck rolling beneath his feet for three days, that couldn't have affected his decision, in any way.
It wouldn't be his deck, after all. It would be Randolph's ship and Randolph's deck and while, of course, Randolph would offer DuPuy his cabin, Randolph would still be the master of the Lord Fauncher, not DuPuy, and DuPuy would have to watch himself constantly so as not to forget it, as Randolph would no doubt be more than happy to remind him, all the more pointedly for it being done with exquisite courtesy.
Simon DuPuy made his way across the waist, toward the plank that led over to the scaffolding. It was all he could do not to let his feet break into a run across the plank from the all-too-stable deck of the drydocked ship to the normal and proper stability of the scaffolding.
Dammit, it would be good to be a sailor again, and if he wasn't to be an entirely honest one, well, Simon DuPuy could live with that, just as long as was necessary.
And not a minute longer.