‘In your time,’ Kite said. ‘You said it wasn’t only you, with epilepsy. The forgetting. You said it was common.’
‘Yes, it’s … well, the doctors said it was common. They said it happened in clusters. Started about two and a half years ago now, three. Why?’
‘Something happened here, three years ago. It will have affected the future a lot. You’ll be angry when you hear, but – I’ll tell you if you want to know. It’s the only thing I can give you, to …’ he lifted his hand a little ‘ … return the favour,’ he said.
‘What could have changed the whole future that much?’
‘Trafalgar.’ Kite’s hand went to the burns across his face but like always he pulled it away before he could touch them. ‘The Kingdom came from a future where the English won the Battle of Trafalgar. London didn’t fall, the French fleet never made it to Calais to ship the army across to Kent and Bristol, they didn’t invade, none of it. Your time was under English rule. But then we lost.’
Joe almost laughed, but only almost. ‘Jesus. And she was only trying to tell Herault about railway stations.’ He held up Madeline’s letter to show what he was talking about.
Kite nodded, but not like he blamed her.
34
Offshore, Cadiz, 1805
Everything had smelled of paint and turpentine that afternoon. They were repainting the hulls. The Belleisle was even having to redo the rings around her masts in yellow instead of black. Kite swapped his jacket for a brush and a can. He liked painting. It was simple, and it was obvious when it was finished.
Suspended on a rope swing below the furled sails, he could feel a tiny breeze that didn’t reach the deck, where the heat haze swam. Other people on other ships had noticed too and the masts swung with men on ropes, which gave the fleet a festive look, as if it were made of dangerously high carousels. Like he had done every five minutes, despite always promising himself he wasn’t going to look again for at least another hour, he glanced at the flagship. It was conspicuous for not flying any flags. No supply orders, no post, no invitation to cross between ships.
The golden dome of the cathedral at Cadiz showed, just. He had been trying not to stare at it as much as he’d been trying not to stare at the flagless masts of the Royal Sovereign. As of this morning, he hadn’t been ashore for twenty months and two days. He had never wanted to with any particular exigency, but Cadiz was different. It wasn’t home; he’d moved too often to have a home except wherever the majority of his clothes were, but it was a place he liked, and whenever he did look, he wondered if the same priests were there. He had started, since getting here, to want to go to a real Mass again, in a real church instead of the bleak grey English ones with their boneless English parsons. There was something off-putting about faith with no backbone and only just enough teeth to get through a cucumber sandwich.
Just around the arm of the bay was the French fleet. They had been there for thirty days. They hadn’t moved once, not even to scout. They weren’t bothering to fire on the English frigates that scudded up to look at them. Their officers’ wives had even taken to climbing down to see the English officers’ wives as they rowed out to go shopping in Cadiz. It was a weird little piece of friendliness in the middle of what was otherwise a strict blockade. If a single man had been on one of those boats, it would have been blown out the water. But everyone had decided that there had to be a line, and that line was pissing off the women.
Above him, the two sailors filling in the next stripe up were muttering that it was nothing but a way to pass the time. He flicked paint at them.
‘Get on with it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ one of them said quickly.
Usually the trouble officers had was making the men listen. Kite would have liked it if they’d listened less. He had never done anything noteworthy; they had no reason to be afraid of him. The point wasn’t inherently sensible either. They were painting because all Nelson really wanted – and Kite could never decide if he found it dandy or endearing – was that nice checkerboard effect that came of having black hulls with yellow stripes. When the gun ports opened, they hinged black squares into the yellow, and he liked the masts to match.
Tom mooched up from the cabin, in gallant disarray in the heat, and slouched forward against the taffrail just opposite Kite’s swing. He must have stood in the same way at another rail before this one, because his waistcoat crumpled into already established creases.
‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘Why is … why?’ He waved his hand at Kite’s paint can. ‘Have we not sailors, lieutenant? Have you not that paperwork I made up earlier?’
‘I was tired of waving at the Orion, sir,’ Kite said, and there was an assenting mumble above him. Something under his chest turned unhappily. Jem had waved back early that morning from the other deck. They could only make each other out properly with telescopes. It had been a relief to see that Jem was alive and with all the right limbs, but it was a short-lived relief.
‘So we’re painting,’ Tom concluded. He seemed to search for something constructive to add. He didn’t find anything.
Kite caught himself rubbing at the tattoo under his sleeve, full to splitting with the need to say something to Jem. It was getting so urgent he was willing to try smoke signals.
‘Captain, may we not—’ one of the sailors began.
Tom
