A Burial at Sea

“I don’t envy the fellows who are up and down the rigging all day, anyhow.”

“I wish you hadn’t gone—it would have been terribly inconvenient for us if you had fallen and died. While you’re on board the Lucy I would appreciate it if you exercised greater caution.”

“There was a rope around my midsection, and Andersen was with me.”

“Both ropes and Andersen have been known to fail upon occasion.”

“I—” Lenox was about to respond when the image of Jane, pregnant, appeared in his mind’s eye. Instead he nodded. “You’re quite right. I won’t go up again.”

“Thank you. Now, what have you come to discuss with me?”

“May I sit?”

“Of course.”

Lenox turned to take his seat, stealing a glance at the desk; he saw from the label on the bottle that it was whisky, and from the looks of it no more was gone.

What kind of man drinks half a bottle of whisky in one night and none in the subsequent five? he thought.

He had been planning to ask the captain about the whisky, but decided at the last moment to hold off. Instead he said, “I’ve just heard a bit about Bethell, your former lieutenant.”

“It was a sad loss.”

“Did you consider then that he might have been pushed overboard?”

“Never for a second—nor do I accept it as a possibility now. The Lucy has been an exceedingly happy ship, Mr. Lenox.”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t rule out the chance that a single man, whether out of madness or guile, might have killed Mr. Bethell.”

Martin shook his head. “No, as I say, I cannot believe it. Deaths of that type are part of naval life, unfortunately. Contrast Bethell’s death with Halifax’s and you’ll see that they cannot be by the same hand—cannot be linked.”

“Perhaps,” said Lenox.

“And you, are you any closer to finding out who killed Halifax?”

“Not far off now, I think.”

“I hope to God not.”

With that Lenox returned to his own cabin then, to dress for dinner. As he was fixing his tie McEwan’s voice called out to him.

“A note for you, sir,” he said.

“Come in.”

McEwan entered and handed over a blank envelope, offering along with it an exaggerated wink.

Lenox, puzzled, thanked the steward and took the envelope to open it.

Inside was one of the drawings Evers had made in the crow’s nest, a panorama, dated that very day and signed in a surprisingly precise hand. Lenox was touched. Then he noticed that the paper, slightly translucent in the bright sunlight, had something written on its reverse, in small handwriting along the battom. He turned the sheet over.

Butterworth knows something, was all it said.

The instant he read these words—and before he could begin to consider what he knew of Billings’s steward —the bell rang for supper.

In the wardroom the men shook hands and sipped sherry, exchanged jokes and the officers’ tales of the day’s hard sailing. The mood was amiable, and the food smelled wonderful from the galley. Lenox, though distracted, began to feel his tension dissipate.

Just as they were sitting to eat, however, a thin voice cried out from the crow’s nest, barely audible below deck: “Ship ahoy! American colors!”

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Fetch me my glass, Butterworth,” said Billings to the steward, who was behind his chair.

The captain had been planning to dine alone, but came through to the wardroom now. He was smiling. “An American ship. Come along, anyone who’d like to,” he said.

All of the men except one, Pettegree, rose and followed the captain, leaving their bowls of potato and leek soup behind to fall cold; for his part, the purser had a second bowl and then a third, delighted at his good fortune. The American ship wouldn’t be near for another quarter of an hour at least.

On the main deck they took turns looking at the ship through Billings’s glass (the captain kept his own), while with the captain’s approval Mitchell, who was on watch, gave orders for the ship to reverse itself toward the approaching vessel.

Soon Lenox could see her with his bare eye, a one-decked ship of middling size.

Martin spoke. “A sloop of war, clearly.”

Lee, when he took the glass, answered the captain almost immediately, “Yes, she’s the USS Constellation, I’d bet any sum. We met her once near the African coast, when I was aboard the Challenger. She captured a fat little bark with seven-hundred-odd slaves in her, set the slaves free, and imprisoned the slave traders. I would recognize her anywhere.”

“A good sailor?” Martin asked.

“Not fast. The Lucy could outrun her under jibs and staysails. But she’s steady, sir, and because the Americans make their ships of live oak she’s tolerably strong. It would be a mighty storm that broke her beams.”

There was a tangible buzz of excitement as the Constellation drew closer, among the officers and the men alike.

“Prepare the Bumblebee,” said Martin when they were less than a mile apart. “Cresswell and Lenox, you shall pilot her over there if they invite us on board. Mitchell, you shall stay on watch.”

Only now did Lenox see that his nephew was among those lined along the rail, looking out.

At last the American ship was close enough that Martin could cry out “Good evening!” and hear in faint reply from the captain of the Constellation, “You’re very welcome on board our ship, sir! You’re in time for supper!”

It was easy to claim that the French and the British navies were superior to any other in the world. Some fifty years before, however, during the War of 1812, Britain had been shocked at the strength of the American fleet, and now, with that country’s civil war receding into the past, the United States Navy was again a formidable force. Fortunately the States and Britain were on excellent terms. In fact their navies had worked jointly to lay the cable for the first Atlantic telegraph, the USS Niagara and HMS Agamemnon the two vessels chiefly responsible for that achievement, and the comity between the two navies was written on the face of every man on board the Lucy: they liked each other.

“Billings, Carrow, and Lee, change into uniform as quickly as possible. Bosun, bring along several men to row us—yes, they may stay on the Constellation while we eat, of course”—at this there was a tremendous clamor of men begging for the job. “Mr. Lenox, you may use your own discretion, but you are most welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, I shall.”

Soon they were across in the Bumblebee, Teddy Lenox and Alastair Cresswell rather puffed up with their responsibility and commanding the jolly boat it as if they were carrying Lord Nelson to battle.

As they slipped over the gunwales of the American ship, Lenox saw a half-circle of officers in their best uniform. At their center was an imperious-looking, remarkably thin gentleman, almost Roman in his ascetic good looks, skin tanned and hardened by the sun, with snow-white hair. He looked to be about fifty years of age.

“I am Captain John Collier, of Cohasset, Massachusetts,” he said, “and you are exceedingly welcome on