West Horizon
by Mab
Blair carefully put his quill back in the inkpot, and shook out his cramping hand. He was finally finished with copying letters for Eli's records. It was, he reflected, interesting that organising a scientific expedition seemed to incorporate one long line of begging letters. Eli had been amused the time he brought up the idea
“I'm a well off man, Blair, but an expedition is expensive. I put in my bit, Williams and his college cronies put in theirs. But it won't do any harm to have other names attached to the undertaking. A good dinner and a named plaque on the wall of Williams' new college are strangely persuasive in opening purse strings, if they're offered to the right people.”
“And of course, you know the right people?” Blair grinned, but he knew he looked a little quizzical.
“It's a useful skill to cultivate,” Eli replied serenely. “Watch and learn. Discoveries are not made solely by trekking through jungles or over deserts.”
Well, Eli had certainly done his share of exploring in some very odd places and now they were nearly to the last gasp of preparing for his latest venture. Eli had a dinner planned, a little thank you for those who had already contributed, and an encouragement to those that he hoped might still be convinced.
Blair shook sand off the papers and began the job of clearing the small desk he sat at. “What do you need me to do for the dinner?”
“I thought that you could review the wine list for me. I've approved the menus and the rest of it's in Phillip's hands.”
A shadow crossed Eli's face. Not so long ago, the arrangements would have been in the hands of his daughter. Blair suspected that Eli might have been happy enough to rest on his laurels, teach at Edward Williams' new college, if not for her death. Blair and Eli shared the opinion that Mr Williams was unhealthily obsessed with the college that he saw as his legacy, but if his obsession supported Eli and Blair's opportunities, then Blair would hardly naysay it.
Blair's hunt through the papers on the desk reminded him of something. “Captain Ellison has confirmed his attendance.”
“Good,” Eli said somewhat waspishly, “I'll be glad to make his acquaintance at last.'
That was a sore point for Stoddard. Williams had high-handedly hired Ellison, and his ship, the Fair Prospect, as much because he'd known the man's father as because of his reputation as a sailor. Ellison was reputed a competent captain, or else Eli would have fought harder over the business. As it was he was still annoyed, and expressed that annoyance freely to Blair, sure of his discretion. Edward Williams wasn't going to be the one who would have to live and work in close quarters for likely over a year with James Ellison.
The dinner, no doubt, came far too soon for the servants who were expected to clean the house from top to bottom. Eli was a generous master, but exacting, and he wanted this dinner just so. He'd given careful thought to his guest list. Edward Williams of course, as the initiator of this grand plan, his cronies, and a selection of other possible sponsors, plus Captain Ellison, whom Eli hoped would be presentable. A few others, including various men and women chosen for their charm and intelligence. He liked good conversation at his table, had informed Blair that it 'relaxed the prey'.
Blair was busy trying to make himself presentable for the occasion. He had washed his hair earlier in the day, much to Eli's friendly tut-tutting about his vanity, which Blair thought was a case of the pot calling the kettle black. As he wrestled with the fly-away mass he was beginning to suspect that it might have been a mistake, but he gamely continued on with brush and plain black ribbon.
“Have you ever considered cutting that? Hair that length is reputed to be falling out of fashion.”
Deep in concentration, Blair started slightly, even though he had left his door open.
“I can't help thinking that it might be worse if it was short. My mother has a miniature of me when I was about two, and my head looks like a dandelion clock. Unless you suggest I shear it as if I was going to wear a wig underneath?”
Eli shuddered. “That fashion at least is gone. Very itchy things, wigs.” He smugly smoothed back his own silver fall of hair. Eli always dressed immaculately in polite company, and was in no way above using a still impressive appearance to get his way.
“You needn't pretend that you're not here to make sure that I won't disgrace you. You spent too much time mixing with dandies in the days of your youth. I don't know how you ever found time to study.”
“It wouldn't do you any harm to pay more attention to your clothes. It's a pity my Mary didn't live long enough to marry you. She would have made sure you went out decently dressed.”
Surprised, Blair turned to look at him. Eli hadn't been able to mention his daughter casually for a while.
“I loved Mary like a sister, Eli, but I'm not sure that I would have made her a good husband.”
“You'd have been better off with her than sniffing around the merry widows, my boy.”
Blair grinned, a little abashed. “A brief liaison with Lizzie Johnson, and I never hear the end of it. At least the merry widows know the game for what it is.”
“Lizzie Johnson is an indiscreet giggle pot. Although I suppose she's preferable to Peter Bates.”
Heat suffused Blair's face. Eli had seen him in company with Peter one night, and given him a very speaking look. Immediate dismissal had not followed, and he was grateful for the respite. He kept his eyes on Eli's face. The older man looked quite calm, only a little stern.
“I've grown fond of you Blair. And I've seen enough of many things in this world that I'm not prepared to comment on whom you may choose to spend your – time- with. But you've a good mind behind that too pleasing face of yours, and if the word of your tastes goes around then struggling as an apothecary will be the very best you can hope for. And that would be a waste.”
Blair turned away, and began tying his cravat.
“I can be careful.”
“Good, although I'd rather see you safely married, because I have high hopes of guiding a career for you.” Eli snorted suddenly. “For God's sakes, you can't possibly go down with it like that.” He turned Blair around and began arranging the folds of the cravat to his satisfaction. Given that Philadelphia gossip pronounced that Eli had made a very peculiar choice of secretary, Blair decided that submitting to being lectured and dressed like a six year old was the least he could do for his employer. Certainly, Blair had no plans to marry for anyone's convenience.
Later that evening a goodly number of guests mingled in what was rather grandly described as a salon when Eli rented his house, but which was more like a parlour. It was comfortably appointed though, and the servants were distributing good wine. Blair was to circulate and keep an eye on the servants, while Eli welcomed the guests who were still arriving.
Blair moved among the men and women, and was treated with only slightly more respect than Phillip, Eli's Negro butler. Some of them would be startled when Blair sat down to eat with them. Blair was usually amused by attitudes towards him. He had been both accepted and snubbed by rather grander people than Philadelphia's small Society. Rumour, however, suggested that some of the guests, including the guest of honour himself, Mr Williams, had particularly scathing opinions of Jewish bastards and, more to Blair's concern, their mothers. He hoped he wouldn't hear anything that might tempt him to embarrass Eli. Blair had tried to make the effort to present the appearance of a perfect secretary, with his decent dark suit, and tidy linen. Even his hair had been tamed – eventually.
The servant by the door announced, “Captain James Ellison,” and Blair looked up to get his first look at the man whose ship would take Eli and him to the South Seas. He had listened with both sympathy and amusement to Eli's complaints about Williams' actions. However, that was hardly Captain Ellison's fault. He expected to see some bluff old sailor, and was completely unprepared for a man who could have modelled for some heroic statue.
'My God', Blair thought, 'he's beautiful.'
He watched Eli greet Captain Ellison, and then, aware that he was gawping like an idiot, Blair pulled himself together and returned to his responsibilities. But he kept watching Ellison out of the corner of his eye, and gradually worked his way across the room towards Eli and the captain.
“Ah, Blair. Captain Ellison, I'd like to introduce my secretary, Blair Sandburg. He'll be accompanying me on the journey. If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you in Blair's hands.” Eli turned to mix with his other guests and, Blair suspected, to ask some hard questions as to why dinner hadn't yet been announced.
“Mr Sandburg.”
Blair looked at Captain Ellison in fascination. The man's voice was as attractive as the rest of him, although Blair could wish that Ellison wore a smile rather than a mask of stiff politeness.
“Captain Ellison. Have you come far to be here tonight?”
“Just from my brother's house. But before then, England and back,” was the laconic reply.
Blair was annoyed that a nervous chuckle prefaced his next words. “Well, that must have been interesting, given the state of relations between England and France right now.”
“I don't know if I'd say that, precisely.”
Ellison's manner was almost rude, and Blair felt a brief flare of disappointment that a man so outwardly attractive should be a boor. Then he looked more closely.
“Are you well, Captain Ellison?”
“It's just a headache. That's all.”
“I've some experience with drugs and remedies. If you need something, please let me know. Or I could show you to Professor Stoddard's library if you want some quiet.”
Ellison shook his head, and then looked as if he regretted the action. “I'm well enough, thank you,” he said brusquely.
Further conversation was forestalled by the announcement that dinner was served. The party trooped in to the dining room. Blair was seated between Mrs Bates, a witty if somewhat malicious woman, and a Mr Joseph Goodbody, one of Eli and Williams' potential moneybags. He felt as if he was caught up in some strange parody of the old classics texts his tutors made him translate and analyse – defending against rear attack from Mrs Bates, attempting to ally with Goodbody, all the while keeping an eye on his new ultimate objective further up the table. It was tricky, but Blair was determined. He did note that Captain Ellison wasn't eating much.
“But why the South Seas?” Mr Goodbody enquired.
“Professor Stoddard has always had a desire to visit the area. There are so many new theories about the social development of man, and where better to observe man in a natural state? And since we must hire a ship to travel there anyway, groups of many islands are easier of access.”
“Such a shame,” Katherine Bates suggested, “that so much of Europe and the East is at war or under the influence of the Turks. Perhaps in the homeland of your people you might have found those, what did Lizzie say you called them – oh, yes, sentinels? Such a charming subject for, ” her voice dropped, “pillow talk.”
Blair tried to restrain a wince. He could no more resist talking about his favourite subject than Lizzie could resist talking to her bosom friend about her lovers. Lizzie Johnson was a mistake, no matter how pretty she was.
“Sentinels, if they exist, are a necessity within a primitive tribe. I suspect that they may be long bred out of civilised society, and of course the Jews have a tradition of centuries of civilization and scholarship.”
Mrs Bates gave him a shark's smile. Blair responded with his very best innocent expression. See Eli, he thought, I'm behaving properly under provocation, just as you'd like.
There was a commotion higher up the table. Captain Ellison was standing, napkin to his mouth, in a coughing fit. The tall man dropped the napkin and grabbed his water glass, gulping down its contents. Eli jumped up, as did Blair, with a muttered “Excuse me.” Ellison continued to gasp and cough, and as soon as Blair was close by, he grabbed the other man by the elbow.
“It's all right, Eli, I'll look after him.”
Ellison wheezed in a breath and shot Blair a look through watering eyes that suggested that Blair's statement was unwelcome.
“This way, sir,” Blair said, and steered the taller man out of the dining room.
Once outside the dining room, it appeared that Captain Ellison was ready to let his indignation over-rule his manners.
“Maybe you ought to instruct Mr Stoddard's cook to have a lighter hand with the flavourings.”
Blair raised an eyebrow. The man had the same soup on his plate as everybody else, and Blair had thought it a little bland if anything.
“Come and sit in the library. I'll get you some more water.”
Blair returned speedily with a pitcher and glass, and sat in a nearby chair as Ellison slowly drank the water. The man's expression was as self-contained as a statue, but in the dim evening light Blair noted the clenched jaw, and slightly shaky hands.
“You're still worried by that head ache you mentioned, aren't you?”
He received a glare for his trouble.
“Look,” Blair said, “if you'll permit me, I have an idea.” He stood up and walked over to the man. He put his fingers over Ellison's forehead and scalp in a gentle grip and exerted a light pressure. “Can you feel how I'm pressing here? My mother learned this from a Chinaman, and taught it to me. You do the same, and I'll organise some hot water for a tisane.”
He let go reluctantly, cursing his runaway tongue, and watched as Ellison put his hands over his forehead. “Not quite,” Blair said, and guided the other man's hands. “There, that's the way. Excuse me and I'll be back soon.”
He headed out of the library, to be met with Eli in the hall.
“Is he all right?”
“Just a small indisposition. I'll make him a tisane, and I think we may even be able to return to the festivities shortly.”
Eli snorted inelegantly. “Indeed. If I have to listen to Williams drone on about his college much longer there'll be nothing festive about the occasion.” He looked at Blair measuringly. “I hope the servants aren't wasting wood on the fire in there. You look a little flushed.”
Blair raised his face to look Eli in the eye.
“I'm fine.”
Eli sighed. “He's a handsome man, but he has the conversation of a block of wood. And in the circumstances, Blair, he'd be a most unwise infatuation.”
“I'm *fine*, Eli.”
“Good. Stay that way, dear boy. Stay that way.”
They had been sailing perhaps two weeks when there was knock on Blair's door after he'd retired for the night. It was Eli.
“Blair, I want you to see Captain Ellison. Dobbs came to me, Ellison was in a sort of trance at the helm. He seems all right now, but the man needs looking at, and talking to. I want you to get to the bottom of this.”
Dobbs was fiercely loyal to Ellison, and must have been deeply concerned to approach Eli. Blair hurried into his clothes, not bothering to question Eli's assumption that he might be able to deal with a cantankerous James Ellison. He had been designated sacrificial lamb, it seemed. “I take it he's still on deck.”
Eli snorted. “He is a very stubborn man.”
Blair went above, shivering in the cold night air. The water was choppy, and the ship moved roughly though the water.
Jim stood at the helm, the light of the lantern casting his face into harsher lines than was normal even for him.
“Captain Ellison.”
“Mr Sandburg.”
Silence stretched out. Blair was exasperated and the smallest touch amused, although he tried to hide it. After two weeks of acquaintance with the man, he still felt that spark of attraction, but it was tempered by the observation that James Ellison was often quite, quite, impossible.
“You were unwell.”
“I was distracted, and Dobbs panicked. That's all.”
“Mr Dobbs strikes me as a sensible man. Look, I can keep confidences. Eli is worried for the success of his expedition, but I don't need to tell him more than the most general explanation if it's needed.”
Jim's voice was low. “I should have turned down this hire. I was a fool.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I'm going mad.”
“You seem eminently sane to me.”
“And what would you know about it? You don't hear and see impossible things. It's as if the whole world is too much to bear, the smallest things are like an assault. Good God, I dreamed of a whaling voyage and threw up at the memory of the smell.” He grimaced in disgust.
Almost without knowing it, Blair had moved closer to Jim. “What do you mean, impossible things?”
“I hear the crew talking below deck, wherever I am. I hear every little creak of the timbers. The horizon is - too close, I can see specks in the water, everything tastes like shit, or just strange. Everything…” Jim shut his eyes.
Blair was torn between pity and concern, and sheer flabbergasted exultation. He nearly laughed out loud. It had been his personal dream that among less civilised people he might find a sentinel, and here it seemed was one in the unlikely shape of a New England ship's captain.
“You're not at all mad. Perfectly sane, in fact. You just have a more heightened sensibility than other people - that's all.” Blair bubbled with excitement. “My God, I thought that this could only appear in a primitive population, I was playing with the thought of heading west among the Indians before Eli told me about his plans, this is amazing….” His remarks were cut off as a fist knotted into his jacket and Jim jerked him hard up against him.
“What the hell do you mean, primitive?” he snarled.
Blair put a hand over the other man's wrist. “Whoa there, I don't mean you're a primitive.” Blair briefly noted the irony of trying to convince the other man of Blair's belief in his civilised state while he glared at Blair like an angry cat. “It's just that I never expected…” He tried to pull back. “Look, let go of me, will you, and I'll try to explain.” He shivered again in the cool air. “Put another man on the helm, and I'll talk to you in private.”
“Go get Dobbs. This was his idea, he can stand out here.”
Duties disposed of, Jim and Blair headed below decks. Jim directed Blair to his cabin, which Blair found decidedly small with two people in it. He took a deep breath and began.
“Look. Much of my life, we travelled, Europe, India, we were south in Charleston for a time. And I was always fascinated by legends and stories wherever we went. In India, I was in and out of the servants quarters asking questions, the same in Charleston in the slave quarters, and I heard one story that just took a hold of me.”
“Getting to the point would be an excellent thing, Sandburg.”
“I am, I am. The story was about a guardian, a sentinel, if you like, gifted by the gods with the ability to see and hear better than anybody else, to just know things because of enhanced senses of touch and smell and taste. Now, myths and legends have to come from somewhere, all the time that people tell stories it's a way of explaining the world…”
“Explaining an excess of something fermented, more likely,” Jim muttered.
“And in Charleston, the old woman who told me the story, her name was Tilda, but she told me that her real name was Sembay, and the rest of the slaves revered her as a magic user. Now, I was curious, and I suspect, I'm not positive, that she had hearing that was far more acute than anything usual, and that set me thinking that maybe there could be real, full sentinels out there.”
“And I'm one of these? But why? And why now?”
”Well as to the first, presumably it's a gift handed on from your parents and grandparents like the colour of your hair and eyes. As to the rest, I don't know. This is all new to you? You've never experienced this before?”
Jim shook his head, but his face was closed even for him. Blair chose to let it go for now. After all, James Ellison wasn't going anywhere that Blair couldn't find him.
“Sembay claimed that the gift had a double edge. Sometimes the Sentinel's gifts could be overpowering, or he might get lost in what he observed or felt.” Blair chuckled. “The way I could get lost in a book. Sembay said that the Sentinel needed a companion, somebody to help him, watch when he was in danger of becoming unaware of his surroundings and bring him back to himself.”
Jim's expression was thoughtful. “So, there's no way to get rid of it?”
Blair was startled. “Why would you want to do that? It's an amazing gift. A link to history.”
“It's an amazing distraction. You vomit at the dream of a smell, and I'll tell you what a gift it is.”
“Well, obviously, it's not meant to be like that. There must be a way to control it, we just have to figure it out.”
“We?” There was a wealth of emotion in the single word, with sarcasm the largest part of the bounty, but Blair forged on.
“If you want a crew member to help you, that would make sense. But I could help you both. Two heads are better than one, and besides, it's almost an exploration in itself, and you can't do those sorts of things on your own.”
Jim made a gesture of denial. “No, nobody else. You know about this, what there is to know, and you're the closest thing to a doctor that we have, for what good that is. You and I will control this, and so long as I'm fit to deal with my ship, it's nobody else's business. Is that clear?”
Blair nodded. In one way, he was delighted to hug the secret to himself, like the knowledge of a buried treasure. Jim's dismissal was clear, and Blair decided that the late watches of the night weren't the point to push him. Reluctantly he returned to his cabin, and too excited to try to sleep, he opened his trunk of books. He pulled out the small journal he kept, with its record of all the things that Sembay had told him about sentinels, all the memories and legends that he had copied from the fragments that he had kept and written over the years. Carefully, he put the journal under his pillow. He smiled. Something to dream on.
He looked at books that were left. Collections of legends and myths, and his medical texts – Galen, Hippocrates; the notes he had taken himself when a doctor friend of Naomi's had agreed to him accompanying him on his rounds, the things that Sembay, who was also a midwife, had told him. It was an old dream, that one, and one that he had put away when his grandfather died. Medical colleges might have accepted a bastard Jew with money behind him, but not an impoverished one.
Jim knew that life could be peculiar sometimes, but the last few weeks had been startling. When Jim had left Stoddard's party and returned to his brother's home, he'd spent time pumping Stephen for all the gossip that he knew about Blair Sandburg. He'd learned of his illegitimacy, of the spectacular bankruptcy and rumoured suicide of his grandfather; of the partial acceptance of his beautiful and eccentric mother into society, of Blair meeting with Stoddard when he attended on the professor's daughter as her apothecary. That had made him snort. James Ellison had little faith in doctors and apothecaries, having seen them do as much harm as good. He pondered the pull of attraction he'd felt when those gentle hands had lain on his forehead, and then put it away.
When his senses began, as he thought of it, playing him false, or maybe all too true, he had thought he was going mad. His senses were still overly sensitive sometimes, but nevertheless vastly improved to what they had been, and if anyone had told him that part relief would be offered by an overeager young man teaching him how to breathe, he would have laughed in his face.
When Blair had first made the suggestion, Jim hadn't laughed, but he'd made a goodly effort at a sneer.
“You must be joking. I've been breathing since the day I was born. It's not something I need lessons in.”
Blair had twisted himself into something that wasn't quite a tailor's sit, and remonstrated, “That's where you're wrong. It's natural to breathe, but it's also a skill. There's all the difference between a child tying a granny knot and you splicing a piece of rope together. Same intent, entirely different result. It will help you concentrate. You'll be in a better frame of mind to control whatever sensation is troubling you.”
Jim cut off the spate of words with, “I am not clambering into that position.”
Blair had looked slightly downcast, and then agreed that Jim could sit in a more normal manner. He had encouraged Jim through various exercises, and chants. Jim was very glad they did this in the privacy of his cabin, and was even more glad he'd refused to try the sitting when he discovered it was some heathenish thing from India.
“You can hardly call Indians savages.”
“Maybe not, but they're definitely heathens. I shouldn't have thought that Christian men were meant to contort themselves like that.” And then Jim had remembered that Blair was no Christian himself, and if it came to the question of practice, Jim barely qualified either. He stopped short, feeling a little foolish, and a little guilty, at forgetting something that mattered so much to most people, even if he found it increasingly a thing of no matter to himself.
His father's stifling precepts were long behind him. Jim had dropped his New England Calvinism overboard on his first voyage as a runaway fifteen year old, although the remnants of it still ambushed him occasionally. He had become a man of a wider world, and if he chose to befriend a young Jew bastard, then that was his affair. Besides the ridiculous exercises, which Jim grudgingly admitted helped, he found Blair strangely soothing. His presence was a comfort, whether speaking or silent, whether dealing with Jim, or elsewhere on the ship conferring with Stoddard, or attending to the small illnesses of the crew.
They made their way steadily down the coast, stopping in ports along the way. It was part of the hire agreement that Jim was permitted to take cargo to defray the cost. He knew this coast well, although it was the first time he had captained his own ship here. Blair often accompanied him in travels into the towns, and Jim enjoyed his enthusiastic appraisal of everything that he saw. With Blair's encouragement he tried to explore the new abilities. The smells of fruit and spice in a market in Montevideo quite literally entranced him one day, and he did not appreciate Blair's gentle amusement as he plucked at his sleeve to bring him out of the state.
And that was another thing that he found disconcerting when he thought about it – the unthinking habit of touch that had grown up between them. There was nothing in the habit that might not be between any other friends, but it was a new thing to Jim, this inclination to touch. Blair did it all the time, and not just to Jim, although it was more pronounced between them. Blair dragged him around markets by the edge of a coat, laid his hand in small pats on his back, wrapped his fingers around Jim's arm to make a point.
For his part, Jim found that he was almost pleased when Blair said something that could be interpreted as foolish or exasperating. It meant that there was an excuse for a gentle cuff across the head or shoulders. If Blair had no compunction about dragging Jim by his coat to see something interesting, then Jim discovered that he had none about clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder or arm when he decided that he had waited long enough on Blair's enthusiasms.
It reminded Jim, almost, of the unthinking domination he'd held over Stephen when they were small. Almost, because Blair was no small boy, and because somehow he refused to be dominated. He had dropped into first-name terms with Jim within a week of their arrangement that Blair help him. Certainly, he refused to be silenced about anything, although Jim wondered what would happen if Blair's hands were tied, since he seemed to express himself with those almost as much as with words.
So, the trip down the coast to the dreaded passage of the Horn went by in a strange content, interspersed with the usual discomforts of ship travel – the increasing poverty of the food as fresh stuffs were used up, the cold and damp of everything on board after squalls, the settling down of factions and friendships among the crew.
“Any thoughts on going around the Horn, Captain Ellison?”
Jim had estimated that they would be in the Pacific within two weeks, and both Blair and Eli, veterans of ship travel though they were, couldn't help feeling anxious. Cape Horn was notorious for its foul and capricious weather.
Jim shrugged at Eli's question. “It's hard to say. There are better times of year for the voyage, but the weather's holding for now. We're making good time, knock on wood.”
It seemed that Jim's solid rap on the timbers of his ship was to no avail. Blair found him one morning, eyeing the thin line of a bank of cloud to the south.
“It's going to be a bad one.” Blair watched Jim closely. Something about the twist of Jim's mouth suggested that he wasn't just referring to the storm. There were still times when Jim's senses hurt or overwhelmed him, even though they were growing fewer.
“What is it, this time?” Blair asked.
“I don't know. A feeling in my ears, in my balance, but not hearing. Bad storms, sometimes it's as if the sky falls and the water rises to meet it. I've felt this before and I can't explain it any better than that. Best be prepared.” And he turned from Blair, instructing his crew to prepare for heavy weather.
The swells began to heave the Prospect about well before noon. Blair was in some ways grateful. If they were lucky, the worst might be over by night. He always hated storms in the dark. Dobbs had taken the helm while Jim had walked his way over the ship. He always insisted on order, but now he went with Blair and Eli to check the stowage of items in the hold, warned Saunders to douse his stove, just listened to his ship it seemed, which Blair found fascinating.
The wind developed a howl that everyone found unpleasant, but which Jim seemed to find actively painful. Blair knew he ought to go below, a landlubber could only be a nuisance, but some instinct made him stay close to Jim. He half expected to be ordered below, but Jim accepted his shadow without comment. There was the occasional crack of thunder and lightning, and Blair could see Jim wince at the noise and light. It worried him deeply – the storm was only just beginning, and he wondered how Jim would deal with several hours of it at best, maybe several days.
Another crack of noise and light, and Jim grunted and put his hands over his ears. In desperation, Blair put his hands on Jim's shoulders. Nobody could function like this – surely the sentinels of fable had some way to control this. Blair looked around at the crew, at the ship's sails, some already reefed, some flapping loudly in the wind.
“Dammit, it shouldn't have to be like this. You don't have to be adrift in this. Jim you have to be able to prepare your senses just like you do your ship. She's seaworthy, so are you. You've pulled back the sails of your ship, pull back your hearing.”
Jim sighed, something that Blair saw rather than heard in the noise. “It's times like these that I'm reminded that you're a landsman.” But his voice was steady, although raised against the noise of the storm. “Go below, Sandburg. It's only going to get worse. I'll be all right.” He shoved at Blair, gently enough. “Go.”
Blair judged it was about midnight when the noise of the wind lowered and the movement of the sea settled to merely rough. He had spent the time miserably below deck, he and Eli talking together for a while, both of them braced against the movement of the ship and joking about the bruises they would have when it was all over. There was no hot food. Not that it mattered - good traveller though he was, Blair grew queasy as the storm wore on.
He couldn't sleep, even with the knowledge that the storm was lessening. Instead, he put his damp coat back on and prepared to go up on deck. He was nearly to the hatch, feeling his way in the dark, when he heard the noise of someone else coming through, and felt as much as saw another presence in the narrow passageway.
He heard the rumble of Jim's voice in the dark.
“Sandburg? What are you doing?”
“I couldn't sleep.”
“There's nothing restful up on deck, even if it is a little quieter now. I'm going to get some sleep. I suggest you try to do the same. Or else write in that journal of yours.”
Big hands gripped Blair's shoulders and carefully steered him against the pitch and roll of the ship back to his tiny cabin. Blair was relieved that he was facing away from Jim. The gentle touch was arousing in the extreme. He was glad to avoid the embarrassment of prodding Jim with his suddenly erect cock, but he couldn't avoid the thought that perhaps Jim's hands had lingered on him just a little longer than they had to.
Jim dreamed. He was in the house he bought for Caroline, lying in bed, listening smugly as the wind howled outside. Inside was safe and snug, and in the darkness the weight of his lover was heavy and warm against his side. He rolled over to clasp that other person - not Caroline, he knew that. Hair tickled his nose, scented with herbs. 'Vanity' he laughed to himself, but the scent was a pleasure. His beloved was like that, always thinking of Jim's sentinel senses, aware that Jim was fastidious. He nuzzled gently at the sleeping figure, half wishing he would wake up, but also glad that he was content to rest there, secure against Jim.
The storm was a bad one, and even to sentinel sight the room was black as pitch. Of course, Jim had other recourse. He stroked his hand over the other's body, delighting in the strong, square shoulders, the coarse fluff of chest hair, the firm muscles of buttocks and thighs. His beloved woke up with a gentle chuckle. “Never satisfied, are you?” he asked.
“Why should I be?” Jim asked in return, and the other turned and touched him, sweetly, so sweetly, and the pleasure was unendurably everything that it should be…
And Jim started awake, with a hammering heart and a sticky belly. In his dream it was a matter of simple unconcern that his lover was a man. It wasn't so now in the small cabin, filled with the subtle noises of the Prospect as she pushed her way through the sea chop. “Jesus,” he said aloud. “Blair.”
He put the dream away, although it was an effort of several days. 'It doesn't have to mean anything,' was his refrain. It meant a great deal, and he was disturbed as much by the fact that the dream events happened in his marriage bed, as he was by the identity of his lover. He had genuinely grieved for Caroline when she died. He had held her in affection and respect, but after her death he was sometimes aware of a pained relief that he didn't have to see her face clouded with doubt and the beginnings of grief, and know that they were failing each other.
The easy companionship of their courtship had not translated to their physical relationship. Even after nearly a year of marriage Jim had felt awkward and unsure and he was grateful when the coming child had put an end to relations between them. Would it have been better or worse, he wondered, if the child that died with his wife had been conceived in love and joy rather than obligation?
He'd found the same companionship with Blair, better even, because it wasn't loaded with expectations. It was just what it was. But he looked at the younger man with new eyes. Anyone not blind could see that Blair was good to look at, but Jim now had to acknowledge a more personal pleasure in the attractive, eager face, and strong young body.
Tommy Urlich, in great excitement, spotted land. Jim knew it couldn't yet be the Society Islands, their first planned landfall, and made a careful notation on his charts. The island looked attractive, green slopes rising up a symmetrical peak, but Jim insisted on leading a small landing party to ensure that it was safe. There were no natives to be found, either friendly or unfriendly, and everyone looked forward to some time on land. Various jobs needed doing. The water barrels needed filling, other men were sent out to look for fresh food. Some men were left on the ship to check and repair rigging, ropes and sails. Blair indicated that he would join the landing party. Jim couldn't help chuckling when Blair appeared with one of Saunders's bigger cooking pots, face set in concentration as he carried the heavy object.
“Are you planning on cooking for all of us, Sandburg?”
“I'm not cooking at all. Wait a moment, I have to get the rest of it.” Blair disappeared below and returned with what looked like a parcel of laundry.
“A stream would do as well if it's your shirts you want to get clean.” Blair gave Jim an exasperated look as he threw the parcel down to the boat with a called-out warning.
“A rope, I think, although cord would be better,” Blair muttered, and went in search. On his return he ignored the amusement of Jim and the other sailors and slung some the cord he'd found through the handle of the pot, and passed both pot and cord down to the men already in the boat. These preparations done, he climbed down into the boat himself.
“And just what are you going to do with this? Setting yourself up as a washerwoman are we?”
“Tell me, Captain Ellison,” Blair asked, “what do you know about contagion and sepsis? Sickness and bad wounds, that is,” he added ironically. His voice was friendly, but his use of Jim's title warned that the joshing was beginning to annoy him.
Jim grinned and with a gesture of his hands threw the field open to the rest of the men.
“We know that we should avoid them,” declared Dobbs, also grinning.
“Good answer, but easier said than done.”
An air of good-natured resignation came over the men. Everyone could recognise Blair Sandburg preparing to give a lecture, and they were most definitely a captive audience. The oarsmen began to pull away from the ship, with Dobbs' humorous encouragement to put their backs into it. Blair met his eye but refused to be deflected from his subject
“There're several theories. Some hold that fresh air itself is injurious although the general health of sailors that I know gives the lie to that.” A couple of men gave out an ironic cheer. “And I can't believe that the fug that gathers in a closed-in sick room is anything but injurious. And of course with the discovery of the microscope and animalcules there're some promising areas of discovery there. But nobody really knows how contagion is passed on, or for how long the danger exists in a situation. Is it breathed, is it through touch, or combinations of those things.” He sighed. “What I'd give for a conversation with Jenner or Hunter.”
Jim took pity on the men. He was comfortable with listening to Blair's ramblings and most of the men humoured their “little doctor”, but it was time he got to the point.
“And this has to do with your pot and parcel how?”
“Fire and heat purify. After all, I can use a poultice to fight an infection, and the body makes its own heat with a fever, which is surely a clue. So, I thought that now that we have a quiet time, and space to move I'd make sure that my bandages and cloths were as clean as possible. I'll boil them up and hang them in the sun – that's another purifier after all.”
“Rather you than me labouring over a fire.”
The journey to shore passed soon enough and the men all moved on to their appointed tasks. Jim moved up and down the beach, helping to fill the casks and supervising the work over the course of the day, always watching Blair out of the corner of his eye. The man had some strange ideas, but Jim found him endlessly fascinating in his energy and warmth.
After a while he joined Blair. The air was full of the smell of boiling linens, and while it wasn't unpleasant precisely, Jim moved himself upwind of the pot, watching Blair as he leaned over it, poking the contents with a stick to ensure that all the linen was loose in the boiling water.
Satisfied, Blair moved back from the heat. Between the steam of the water and the heat of the fire and the sun, Blair was sweaty, his hair and clothes sticking to him. He had rolled his shirtsleeves up and Jim scrutinised the young man with an intensity that he usually reserved for lookout down a dangerous coast. His gaze followed the lean lines of Blair's body, the breadth of shoulder that was somehow always surprising, the square, capable hands, the sweet line of cheekbone and jaw. Blair looked back at him unexpectedly, and Jim flushed.
“It's all right, Jim. Looking never hurt anybody.”
“There's a good many tavern fights would give the lie to that, Sandburg.”
“Well, then, let's just say that I've never thrown a punch over something as simple as a look.” He spread his hands in a gesture of permission. “Look as much as you like.”
Jim's heart seemed to fill his chest.
“There's been punches and worse over invitations like that.”
Blair just looked at Jim.
“So do you plan to hit me?”
Jim shook his head. The two men held each other's gaze, and then Blair laughed, a little nervously.
“You're dying to ask the question, aren't you? Dammit Jim, I don't know any words that don't sit in judgement for what I am. Besides being an illegitimate Jew, I'm also – what – a sodomite, a pederast? Although even that's not complete. I enjoy women. When I'm with a woman it's because I want to be, not as a shield. It's just that women aren't the only creatures who – move me to desire.” Embarrassed, Blair ducked his head, and picked up his stick to poke at the boiling pot again.
“I won't sit in judgement on you, Sandburg. Friends don't do that.” Beside, Jim thought, I have no right. God knows, you move me. He shoved himself from his leaning position against the tree. Blair was stringing the cord he'd brought around the trunks of a couple of trees. The intimacy of the exchange between them hung heavy on both men, and Blair turned to more pragmatic matters to lighten the mood
“I'll leave this to cool. It'll be a while until I can handle it and then I'll hang it up to dry. What other work needs to be done in the meanwhile?”
Jim gladly accepted the change of subject.
“I thought I might try hunting inland. I'm pretty sure that there's pig sign. You want to come?”
Jim had brought a gun as he had hoped that they could find something for fresh meat on the island. Strange birds, especially seabirds, were an unsure proposition. Some were delicious and some tasted like lamp oil. You didn't know which it would be with an unknown animal until you tried it. Fresh pork would be welcomed by everyone, even Blair, who had made it clear that he made no point of Judaic practice. Besides, Jim hadn't tried his hand at hunting since the senses made themselves known. He wondered if he should suggest to Blair that he should note how the day's activities went, for that journal that he knew he kept.
Both men had noted that Jim's senses seemed to be clearer and less disturbing to Jim when Blair was nearby. Blair had wracked his brains trying to remember Sembay's stories, looking for clues buried deep in his memory. For now, he looked glad of Jim's company. Once Jim had told McGlashan his intentions and left him in charge of the men on the beach, he and Blair headed into the undergrowth, and followed the stream inland.
The two men struggled along for about an hour, heading up the slope that led to the mountain. Blair stopped a moment, his eyes following a change in the shape of the land. Then with an exclamation, he headed towards it. Jim called out to him and then followed him. Blair stopped at a small hillock in the forest. In suspicious curiosity he scrabbled through the vegetation at his feet, uncovering myriad stones about the size of his fist. He turned to Jim, his face alight with pleasure.
“This is man-made, Jim.”
“It's a pile of rocks.”
But Blair was already exploring further. With a cry of triumph he moved on a little further, and pulled vines off what Jim assumed were tree trunks. Rough stone was revealed underneath.
“Eli has to see this.”
Jim was nonplussed by Blair's happiness in his discovery. Blair turned and saw his friend's expression.
“People built this. And when you take into account the size of the area,” Blair began pacing out area of stones, “it must have been important to them. He looked at Jim and saw that he was having trouble understanding Blair's enthusiasm. “Look, Jim, South Seas people have no draught animals, and no metal. To drag all these stones here, and to create that pillar must have been a huge undertaking.”
Jim shrugged. “It takes a scholar to get excited about some savages gathering stones together. How about we keep looking for something edible. You can tell Professor Stoddard about your discovery when we get back.”
Jim's dismissive remark deflated Blair's excitement, and irritated, he said, “I don't like that term savages, noble or otherwise. I've seen plenty of savagery among white men and I'd judge that you have too.”
“Natives, whatever you want. Come on, Sandburg.” Jim wondered what had happened to that quiet moment of confession and accord on the beach. He didn't understand Blair and his inexhaustible curiosity about practically everything, but especially savages – natives, he corrected himself sourly.
The two men continued their wandering. The pigs remained elusive but they made another discovery that interested Blair as they came over a rise. Instead of the lush jungle there were acres of low growing foliage, interspersed with rock.
“Well, at least I can see why they abandoned their works,” said Blair. “That pretty mountain must be a volcano, and this is nature's repair after an eruption.”
“If you say so,” said Jim. “Maybe this might be a good spot to look. All those young plants might tempt pigs.”
Blair sighed.
“You're gusting, Sandburg.”
“I'm out of breath. And I've just been reminded that I have a strange way of looking at the world.”
Jim smiled. “This is a surprise to you?”
“You see a good spot for hunting pigs; living in the present, looking after your people. I see a place that used to support a community, and I wonder how many people died in the eruption.”
“Not strange, just different.” Blair smiled, and they were in accord again.
Jim stilled then. He looked and listened ahead, sentinel-wise, and grinned. “No noise, Professor, I think that we might be in luck.” He put up his hand in a 'stay put' gesture and began to move quietly across the slope, heading around to be down-wind of the animals. There were two he judged, but he was barely close enough to be sure and nowhere close enough for the range of his gun. Gradually he got closer, deciding to try for the smaller of the two, even if there was a danger that the bigger pig would run at him rather than away at the shot. The smaller would be easier to carry and likely tenderer meat. Once the animal was in the range of his gun, he took aim, taking a simple pleasure in how easy and assured his aim was. He felt certain of a good, quick kill when he pulled the trigger. The beast dropped like stone, and with a raucous squeal, its companion barrelled away sideways up the slope towards the shelter of the heavier trees.
Jim waved back at Blair, knowing that he was grinning like a loon. Blair waved back and started picking his way towards Jim. When Blair reached Jim, Jim was busy tying the pig's forelegs with some twine he had in pocket. The back legs were already done.
“Feel like playing fetch and carry?” Jim enquired. Blair grinned.
“That was a good shot.”
“I'll warn you now, Sandburg, if any words that sound remotely like 'primitive hunters' come out of your mouth, you'll be roasting on the same spit as this.”
“I don't know, Jim. I think I'm a little short to be long pig.”
Jim looked Blair up and down in an assessing manner, and had to smile when a flush that had nothing to do with the sun appeared on his friend.
“You look a good enough size to me,” he said teasingly, and then turned his mind to business. He hadn't planned to flirt, but there was no doubting that was what had happened. “We might be able to find a suitable carry stick back in the trees. In the meantime, do you want front or back?
“I don't know. Neither side looks particularly appetising. I'll take the back, I suppose.” Blair grabbed the loop of twine that Jim had left as a handle.
Jim looked down the slope towards the sea. “It'll be longer but easier to carry this around the coast. The tide's out.”
“What ever you prefer,” Blair replied. The two men companionably bore their prize back along the miles of smooth black sand to the landing area. Jim felt happy. For once, the senses had been useful rather than a liability, and he answered all of Blair's queries about the hunt in a good humour. Then, in turnabout, he asked a question of his own.
“How in God's name did you get saddled with Blair for a name?”
Blair shrugged, the wind blowing strands of hair across his face.
“Not what you might have expected, I take it.”
“Well, Rueben or Isaac seems a little more likely.”
“My grandfather's name was Rueben.” Blair sighed. “Thomas Blair was engaged to marry my mother, but he died before the ceremony could take place.”
“He was your father.”
“No, no, I thought that he was for a long time, but he wasn't. But he was willing to marry Naomi, even though she was a Jew and pregnant with another man's child. She thought he deserved some memorial. I don't believe his family appreciated the honour.”
Jim knew that he was probably rubbing salt on an old wound, but he couldn't stop. “And your real father?”
“Naomi knows, but she won't tell me. I asked her again before we left Philadelphia. Presumably there's nothing good to be known of him, or she would have said something by now. So best not to know, I suppose.”
Jim was silent. There seemed be little *to* say to Blair's resigned pain.
“Don't look so tragic, Jim. I've had a better life than many an honestly born man. When Grandfather was alive we had rather a lot of money. I've had an education and books, travel, rather fine clothes at one point, although,” and he grinned, “I fear that I didn't always appreciate them. And here I am in the employ of a famous scholar, which I must admit I didn't expect to include hauling a great piece of dead pig along a rather pretty beach, albeit in good company.”
Jim grinned, curiously warmed. He liked the idea that Blair thought him good company. He liked it very much.
They'd been under sail for about a fortnight, and Jim estimated that they would make the Society Islands soon. They would stay there some time, as both Stoddard and Blair planned substantial study. One good thing about making a larger landfall for a while would be sweet water on a regular basis, and the natives were reckoned friendly. Jim surveyed his crew, and sighed, knowing that lonely men would take full advantage of any 'hospitality'.
He was making the rounds of the deck, when something about the way that Gregg was handling himself struck him. There was a dirty bandage wrapped around the sailor's hand, which he held awkwardly. Jim clapped his hand on the man's shoulder, registering feverish heat coming through his shirt.
“Have you shown that to Mr Sandburg?”
Gregg averted his eyes from Jim's face. Jim knew that Gregg had no great liking for Blair, but still felt angry at the man's foolishness. Blair had proven himself as competent as any other medical man Jim had met. The disgusting sweetish smell of decay assaulted his nose and he grabbed Gregg's hand and pulled it up between the two of them. With a curse he pulled the bandage off, despite Gregg's cry of protest.
The little finger was swollen, shading down to the knuckle in purple and red, hot and painful looking. There was a small, bead sized spot of black towards the tip.
“Idiot!” Jim spat at Gregg. He called over his shoulder down the deck, “Sandburg. Get over here.”
Blair had been sitting against the rail, writing in his journal. He got to his feet and came to investigate, his eyes widening as he saw Gregg's hand.
“How long has it been like this?” he snapped at the man. Gregg said nothing, his expression equal amounts of sullen and fearful, as Blair took a close look, his face furrowed in concern and disgust. Blair let go of Gregg's hand, and looked at Jim.
“Captain Ellison, I think I need a word with you.”
Gregg's face went pasty. Jim felt little pity for him. It must have been obvious for several days just how badly the finger was festering, and he knew exactly what Blair needed to discuss with him.
Jim and Blair went to Jim's cabin. Jim shut the door and said without preamble, “That finger has to come off doesn't it? Or else he'll lose the hand.”
Blair's face was very nearly as white as Gregg's. “It may be too late already. I don't know Jim, I'm not a surgeon.”
Jim was no surgeon either, but twenty years on and off ships had taught him the look of gangrene. Gregg must have been in a lot of pain. A pity he hadn't used the strength and determination he'd used to hide his injury to overcome his dislike of Blair before now. Jim had heard his occasional mutterings about the 'Jew-boy'.
“But you understand the principles involved?”
“I've studied a little anatomy, but that's not enough for something like this.”
“You know more than anybody else here. You've served as a de facto ship's doctor all this time.”
Blair was very obviously trying to control his breathing
“Sandburg, I'm his captain. I'm asking you to help him, I'll be responsible.” Jim took a breath of his own, trying to banish unpleasant memories. “I've seen a couple of amputations done, a foot and a leg.”
“Excellent, you do it!” Blair made a gesture of apology then, and collected himself. “When?”
“There's no point in waiting.”
“No. On deck would be best. The light's better. I'll get my things.” He walked away, his stride stiff.
Jim returned to the deck. Gregg was sitting down, Dobbs standing above him. Gregg refused to look up, but Dobbs's face asked the question for all the men. Jim took a breath.
“Mr Sandburg is fetching what he'll need. We'll need men to help.” Gregg made a small whimpering noise of fear and rejection. Jim knelt down to grip the man's upper arm. “If we do it now, it's just the finger. Do you want it to be the whole hand?” Gregg shook his head, although Jim was unconvinced that he wasn't simply denying the whole situation.
Preparations were swift, a small cask to lean the hand on as Gregg sat on the deck, two men besides Jim to hold Gregg still. Blair returned, and Stoddard stood by his side, saying nothing, but offering a quick squeeze to the shoulder before withdrawing to the side. Blair was all brusque competency, and Jim approved, although he guessed what it cost the younger man. McGlashan sat behind Gregg, gripping hard around his chest and good arm, Saunders held his legs, Jim pressed his injured hand and arm against the flat bottom of the cask.
It took only a few seconds probably, but even narrow finger bones were tenacious. Blair's own fingers were awkward in the task, with tiny hesitations whenever Gregg's voice reached a certain pitch. Jim doubted that he would feel comfortable disjointing a cooked fowl any time soon. And then it was a simple matter of packing the wound with cloth, the clean linen that Blair had, presciently it seemed, boiled and sunned on the island behind them.
Blair picked up the rags containing the finger, and bundled it with quick, jerky fingers before pitching it overboard. Stoddard stood next to him again, murmuring a few words of encouragement and comfort. Jim felt a quick spike of what he recognised was jealousy, but he pushed it down. Blair needed support, and Jim had to attend to Gregg and the morale of his crew.
“Well done,” he said to Gregg, and then told Dobbs, “Grog all round.”
Gregg was assisted down below, the men drank, the appearance of normality gradually returned. Blair refused any drink, claiming that he doubted he would keep it down, and then disappeared below deck to his cabin. He didn't emerge for several hours, and several times over that time Jim gave in to curiosity and listened. He heard nothing except breathing, usually steady, and wondered if Blair was sitting in the dark, contorted in one of those strange positions he claimed was calming.
Blair emerged at the time of the evening meal, and ate about three mouthfuls. He visited Gregg, but left the bandages as they were. He invited Jim to inspect the injury, and understanding, Jim scented for any further evidence of rot. Nothing yet, although clearly there was still infection in the man's body. Time would tell soon enough. Then Blair spent the rest of the evening propped against the rail towards the bow, courteously but definitely rejecting any overtures to engage him in talk. Jim watched all this, and eventually took action. He stalked to the bow and crouched down in front of Blair.
“What you need, Sandburg, is to get drunk.”
Blair's face was shut in.
“Maybe I don't, Captain Ellison.”
“Permit me to disagree,” Jim declared and hauled Blair to his feet before he had any time to make a protest. For a moment he thought that Blair would pull out of his grip, but he stood still. Jim marched Blair towards the hatch, like some prisoner, he thought, and then shied away from that idea. Stoddard raised an eyebrow at both of them, and Jim offered a grim smile.
“I've decided to introduce Sandburg to some bourbon. Might drag him out of the dumps.”
Stoddard smirked, but cast a concerned look over Blair. “If my experiences with that brand of rotgut are anything to go by, at least it will give you something else to think about.”
Blair relaxed a little under Jim's hand, and Jim felt the barb of jealousy again. Blair didn't need Stoddard's permission to be with him.
Once in the cabin Jim hunted up the liquor, while Blair paced the tiny space like a caged animal. Whatever calm he'd had on the deck was clearly illusory.
“For God's sake, Sandburg, stop it.” Jim reached out from behind and grabbed the younger man's shoulders. They were tense beneath his hands. “Just let it go. You did what you could, and trust me, I've seen worse.”
Blair stood still, his head bowed. Jim kept holding his shoulders, and tried not be distracted by the curve of neck, the warmth of Blair's body under his hands.
“I've seen worse too, I just haven't done something like that before. What if the infection spreads?”
“Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. ”
Jim was about to let go of his grip on Blair, when Blair reached up and took one of Jim's hands, and pulled it in front of him. He turned his head and Jim realised that Blair was studying his hand, Jim's blessedly whole and pain-free hand. Then Blair pressed a kiss to the palm. Jim stood still, hollow and light-headed in fear and pleasure, filled with drumming excitement.
Blair turned carefully, Jim's hand still caught in his own. Another kiss to the palm, and Jim shut his eyes.
Blair spoke. “Am I really here to get drunk?”
Jim swallowed hard. If anyone had asked him five minutes before he would have been sure that he had intended no more than to offer Blair the common masculine comfort of a little mutual drunkenness. Now he gave the only answer he could.
“No, no, I don't think that you are.”
“Good,” responded Blair and reached up to kiss him, hands reaching for Jim as surely as the searching mouth. Jim bent his head the little that was needed, arms grappling around the warm male body, hands feeling the flex of Blair's back and shoulders as Blair's hands ran across his own shoulders, the back of his neck. Blair's mouth welcomed him, the robust greeting of a host who draws you into his home, accepting no shyness. Breathless, Jim drew back his head, looked down at the face looking intently up into his own.
He withdrew from the embrace, but only to lock the door. When he turned back to Blair, it was to see that the young man had shucked off his jacket and shirt. In the warmer climes, Blair had never bothered with shoes, and he stood half naked in front of Jim with a nervous smile, and made a sort of 'this is it' gesture at himself. Jim put his arms around him once more, unable to keep back a gasp at the feel of skin under his hands, and bent his head to inhale the scent of an aroused Blair. Blair reached for the fastenings of Jim's shirt, licked his way across Jim's throat and collarbone. Impatiently, Jim pulled his shirt off. Blair grinned.
“What?”
Blair ran a reverent hand across Jim's chest. “My friend, there are statues in Rome that aren't as beautiful as this.” His hand dropped, to drape and rub across Jim's groin. “And as for this, the idiots persist in putting makeshift coverings over the statues. No respect for works of art.”
Jim found that he didn't really care what happened in Rome. He braced a hand against the wall of his cabin, years of balance against the sea's movement deserting him. All he knew was the utmost importance that Blair should touch him, like this, in any way, as long as he touched him.
Blair's hands worked at Jim's trousers, slid them down his legs. “Step out, Jim, and then the bunk I think. Not that doing things standing up isn't entertaining but not on board ship.” He gently pushed Jim back, his face flushed, his eyes bright with lust. Jim watched every play of feeling in Blair's face, shocked and pleased at the same time to realise that this was what a man looked like when he wanted another man; when the man that he wanted was Jim. He bent his head and kissed Blair again, breaking it only as the Prospect lurched unexpectedly.
Blair laughed. “See what I mean?”
Jim gestured at Blair's own trousers and found his voice. “Shouldn't those be off?”
Blair shooed Jim towards the bunk, dragging off the last of his clothes as Jim folded himself down, before he clambered in alongside. Jim reached for him in something akin to desperation. Looking at Blair was too much but not enough. Blair's warm sturdy body against Jim's was comfort and fear at the same time. He breathed in a convulsive breath and reached to touch Blair's cock, delighting in his friend's little murmur of pleasure. It felt different in his hands to his own, the difference he realised of a man who was cut. He truly looked, both at Blair's cock, then the young man's face, and saw only things that pleased him.
“This way, this way,” Blair pleaded, guiding Jim's hand. Jim found the rhythm soon enough, not so very different to how he handled himself. He bent to kiss Blair again, the warm moist mouth moving under his own, Blair's hands a warm, stimulating pressure across his back and shoulders. Blair's mouth went slack, even as his body tensed harshly against Jim's. A small whimpering noise breathed out of him, and then there was the heavy scent of semen, the damp warmth of it in Jim's hand.
Blair's eyes were shut, his face beatific. Jim's own arousal was an urgent painful ache, but he waited quietly for Blair to come back from wherever he had gone. Then Blair's eyes opened, aware and apologetic. “Sorry, I go out to it a little when I come. I didn't mean to leave you dangling.” Blair leaned up on an elbow. “What do you want? This?” His hand moved to Jim's cock, but Jim held it still.
Jim had pushed aside certain memories for a long time, but they were bright and present in his mind now. “I – would you use your mouth?” He shuddered, and Blair's hand rested, soothing, on his shoulder. Blair frowned for a moment, and Jim's heart contracted before he realised that Blair was trying to work out how to attend to business in the cramped space that they had.
“Sit up, Jim.” Blair put his hands on Jim's hip, indicated that he should sit sideways across the bunk. There was barely headroom for Jim, and he leaned back against the wall, propped on his hands, as Blair knelt between Jim's splayed legs. Jim commanded himself not to shut his eyes, to watch everything, and then promptly disobeyed as Blair's mouth closed over him.
Just for a moment he was outside himself, seeing the scene as a stranger might – two men, one with his head against the other's groin. It was wanton, and he heard his father's voice “(Bible quote), boy, learn it if you don't know it.” Jim moaned, exorcised the voice and memory. He was within himself again, and he looked down at Blair, the strands of hair that were loose from their tie swaying as his head bobbed back and forth. Blair was leaning over Jim's hips and thighs, his weight preventing Jim from bucking up as he wanted, but the tension of restraint was its own pleasure, and God, he was all the way in Blair's mouth, and he was coming.
Blair's throat worked as Jim finished, then he leaned back on his haunches, his face tender, and curious. Jim sighed, partly sated pleasure, partly resignation. He recognised the signals of forming questions.
“So, um, how new was that to you?”
The memory of the pleasure of the encounter drew back to be replaced with memory of all its awkwardness. Jim's face was stiff with embarrassment. Blair smacked himself across the head.
“No, no, I didn't mean it like that, I swear. It's just, I was curious, I just wondered…” He slowed, bowed his head
Jim leaned forward, grabbed Blair's face in his hands, and pressed forehead to forehead, his eyes shut. It was easier to talk that way, without Blair watching every little motion of his face.
“There were a few fumbles with girls, before I went to sea. I've paid whores to suck me, men. In foreign ports. Barely admitted that it was another human touching me, let alone a man. But it had to be a man. And aside from my marriage, I haven't really bothered. There's not exactly privacy aboard ship.” And that wasn't whole truth, but there were things he wasn't yet prepared to say.
“Good God,” Blair said comically. Jim was stung, and drew back.
“Some of us possess self-control, Sandburg.”
It could have been his father's voice.
Blair grabbed at his hands.
“I'm sorry. It's just – well, you've looked after yourself, you don't mean you've done totally without?”
Jim sighed again. “ I'm occasionally at home to Mrs Palm,” he said dryly. He was beginning to believe that all this interrogation meant that he'd been lacking in some way after all. There certainly hadn't been any dilly-dallying between them. He wondered as to Blair's previous experience. A question for another time perhaps, when he didn't feel raw and strange.
Blair grinned. “You certainly gave the impression of knowing what you wanted.”
Jim quirked an eyebrow. “I can be decisive when I need to be.” Then he took the plunge and asked, “ Did you get what you wanted?” Blair's smile was blinding. “Oh, absolutely.” Jim was a little reassured. He gently moved Blair back and stood up, began to drag on some clothes. Blair picked his things up off the floor, and shrugged into his shirt, ruefully fingering the line of hair on his belly. He sniffed the air.
“Nobody's going to have trouble guessing what happened in here.”
“No, so we'll leave soon, after we've both had a couple of drinks for the look of the thing. When do you need to check Gregg again?”
“Soon, and then I could sleep for a week.”
“Well, then, I'll escort my tipsy apothecary and newly blooded surgeon to his patient and then his cabin. So that you can sleep,” he added emphatically
Blair's jokingly mimed disappointment, and then his eyes widened at the size of the drink that Jim poured him. “I need to wash first. My God, I won't have to pretend to be tipsy if I have to drink all that. Still, it's true that subterfuge works better if there's a little verisimilitude.”
Jim looked at Blair, who was all big eyes and flushed skin in the aftermath of sex, and sighed a little for the need for the subterfuge. People had described Caroline and Jim as a handsome couple. He had no great desire to know how they might describe him and Blair.
Blair's days were spent in a blur of ridiculous happiness and continuous sexual wanting. Even when you were one of only three people to have a private space on ship, privacy itself was still a rare and precious commodity. He remembered a newly married couple he had met on a voyage. Their ogling looks and clasped hands had disgusted some of the other passengers, although Naomi had smiled on them benignly. Now, Blair envied them even the chance to look and hold hands in front of others.
Jim was captain, and a responsible one. That meant that on the rare occasions he could retire behind a locked door, there was always the chance that there would be a knock on the door, a request for his advice and judgement. If the door was opened to release the scent of sex into the passageway – well. Despite that concern, he and Jim seemed to find time every few days, some excuse. They had been friends before the physical loving, and the crew was accustomed to seeing them together.
On other nights, Blair would lie in his bunk and touch himself, fuelling his pleasure with memories, and fantasies for the future. There was the way that Jim nuzzled his way through the hair on Blair's torso, weaving across his chest from nipple to nipple, sucking and licking before weaving back again. “Do you know that all this hair concentrates your scent?” Jim had asked once. That was just before he'd nosed his way down the line of hair that bisected Blair's stomach, and swallowed him whole.
Tropical idyll – waterfalls, flowers, hot sex, and the suggestion of the serpent in Eden as Eli starts getting worried. (oh yeah, and there might even have been the occasional suggestion of anthropology) Our heroes then travel on to NZ and Marama and Jim first meet.
The big pigeons were good eating, and the conversation around the fire made pitying reference to the men left on watch on the Prospect. The party had all eaten to the point of feeling ill, except for Jim and Blair. Jim had eaten nothing all evening, just drunk a little water and tea. Any efforts to draw him into conversation petered out. Jim would answer in the shortest possible way, and the good humour of the party flowed around him but did not touch him.
He sat rigidly alert, as if listening for something on the edge of hearing, but always he was in contact with Blair. Nothing overt, a knee touching Blair's leg, shoulders leaning together, the brush of fingers as a bottle of rum was passed around the circle of jovial men. His hand trembled a little.
Eli's sly comment about the attention that Jim had given the native woman had passed over Jim. He had other concerns than what Stoddard thought of him. Eli was busy now in animated conversation with the two men from the pa, Rangi providing the translation, although every now and again there would be a murmur of polite appreciation as Eli attempted to use the Maori words he was beginning to pick up. The language was all rolling sonorous sounds, and Jim could hear the woman's voice behind the voices of the men by fire.
Jim looked at Blair, but the strong lines of cheek and jaw, the full lips, were subsumed in his memory of the blunter features of the native woman. Blair's tanned skin became the dark brown of the Maori, his curly hair the thick black wavy mass that fell to her hips. Gasping, he reached out and convulsively clutched at Blair's wrist. The vision fell away and there was Blair's familiar, beautiful face.
“Jim, are you all right?” Blair looked at his friend, clearly concerned. Jim's knew that his distraction was beginning to almost frighten Blair. Always, whenever Jim was under the influence of his Sentinel senses, Blair had a share in the work. Even if he couldn't be aware of everything Jim was, he still with him, and Jim was with Blair. Not so now, for all the touches that Jim knew were as needy as child alone in the dark with a companion, seeking comfort by reminding himself that somebody else was there.
Jim didn't let go of Blair's wrist. Instead he got to his feet, dragging Blair up with him. He could not stay here a moment longer, or else he would leave everything that he knew behind, and would walk up the night dark path to that small hut at the top of the hill. He needed the familiar, the sounds and smell of his ship about him. He needed more than the acceptable public touches between him and the young man who stood beside him with a bewildered expression on his face.
The cheerful talk around the fire ceased in surprise. Everyone was staring, and Eli also got to his feet, worried for Blair.
“Sandburg and I are going back to the Prospect,” Jim growled. “We'll need some men to help handle the boat. You can come back to shore if you want or sleep on board. The men looked up at their Captain doubtfully. They had been looking forward to a convivial evening and a good night's sleep to settle the meat in their bellies. Finally, Dobbs, McGlashan and Finn got up, and Dobbs dragged Johnson up as well. Blair made a gesture to Eli across the fire, as if to say 'it's all right, don't concern yourself'.
The six men walked down to the beach, Dobbs holding a small lantern. Jim and Blair were a little ahead, the pale waning moon giving enough light for Sentinel sight. Blair stumbled a little every now again, but Jim's hand locked around his wrist supported him. He knew that his grip hurt, and suspected that Blair was desperate to ask Jim what all this meant, why he was being dragged through an alien forest in this harsh silence. Sound travelled at night, and he would have to wait until they were on board the ship. Blair cast him looks occasionally, worried, and resentful at being dragged along like some naughty child being taken to punishment
Once on the beach, Jim inhaled deeply, trying to purge the scent of a strange place in the more familiar scent of salt and seaweed. Instead he found himself filled with the smell and taste of the woman, and he spun around, looking at the high rocks some twenty yards behind them. She was there, he knew. She began to chant in a high and vibrating voice, her voice rising and falling rhythmically.
It was an eerie sound to hear in the dark, and Blair shuddered briefly in startled surprise. Jim shuddered too. He did not understand a word, but he didn't need to. She was singing to him, welcoming him, asking him to come to her. He shook his head like a goaded bull. He would do no such thing, but he could not stop himself from looking behind. He was tumbling in the sea looking back at a shipwreck, and Blair was the spar keeping him afloat.
“Do you see her?” Blair whispered. Jim stood poised as if he might run, although he couldn't tell if his flight would be to the small boat or up the beach to the calling voice that rose and fell, alternately softened and sharpened by the eddying night breeze.
“Come on, let's get to the boat,” Blair coaxed. The four sailors were already preparing to push it into the surf, the lantern hooked to the prow. “Come on, Captain,” called McGlashan. He trotted up the beach. “Is he all right, Mr Sandburg?” McGlashan's voice dropped nervously. “Is she a witch do you think?”
Jim turned, and shoved the man. “That's fool's talk.” But he walked forward stiffly, letting go of Blair's wrist so that all six of them could push the boat into the water and clamber on board. Jim took the tiller, gripping it as he had gripped Blair's wrist and the four sailors wielded the oars against the tide. There was no talk, the sailors unsettled by the weird song and their Captain's mood. Blair would see little in the dark, but Jim wondered if Blair could feel his eyes on him.
The journey to the ship was interminable to Jim. He tried to imagine himself deaf, but to no avail. The only defence against the pull of that voice and the images it evoked in him was the sight of Blair huddled down on the boards of the boat. Blair was looking at him; Blair knew that he was being watched. 'Yes, that's right,' Jim thought. 'I'm looking at you, and there'll be more than looking once we're alone.' He warmed himself with the thought of it, Blair's skin in the candlelight, Blair's body sprawled to his view, nothing hidden, nothing forbidden, behind the safety of a locked door.
Finally, they were moored, the ladder climbed. “I promised Professor Stoddard that I'd play my fiddle for the natives,” Dobbs said.
Jim kept his voice steady with an effort. “Yes, go back. We can signal if there's any need.” The small boat pulled away, slower now with only two men at the oars, Dobbs at the tiller.
Jim leaned against the rail of his ship, hands aware of every little imperfection in the wood. It helped – only a little – to be here. He could still hear the woman's voice across the water, but he would ignore it. There were answers he needed, and he sought them out. All the clever answers that came out of Blair Sandburg's mouth, which lay in the touch of his hands. Blair leaned against Jim's side, his palm firm across the small of Jim's back. Jim bowed his head, felt a shiver move through him.
“Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong.” Blair whispered
Jim turned and gripped Blair's shoulders. “Nothing that you can't put right,” he murmured, trying to believe that it was true. One hand shifted, pulling Blair's head back by his hair, and Jim's mouth bent to take Blair's. No gentle play here, just a statement. 'This is mine, and I will do whatever I want with it.' What Jim wanted was the full mouth open to him, responsive.
Blair knotted his hands in Jim's jacket to steady himself, and tried to push away. They were on the open deck and anyone might come and see them. Jim's response was immediate. Both hands gripped Blair's head, unbreakably sealing the touch of mouth and tongue. Blair was pushed up against the outside cabin wall, Jim finally breaking the contact of their lips only to lick and nibble along Blair's ear and jaw.
Jim could hear the rasp as his teeth rubbed along the stubble, feel the rough give of whiskers against skin under his mouth, and he tried to ground himself in the indisputable masculinity of those sensations.
“Jim, we can't stay out here. For God's sake…” Blair's efforts at commonsense were interrupted as Jim's thigh pressed between his legs, his hands pulling Blair's shirt out of his breeches so that Jim could press hands against the skin of his back. Jim grinned in feral pleasure as Blair moaned and began to grind against him. That was good. He wanted Blair to be out of control too. Blair stilled, and made yet another effort to deal sanely with the situation. “Jim, your cabin door is about three yards away.” He again pushed at Jim, although he had no leverage to move the bigger man. “Will you listen to me?” Blair hissed in something close to panic.
Jim stood quiet for a moment, his breathing harsh in the night air. Both men could hear somebody coming, probably to ring the watch bell. Jim grabbed Blair around his upper arm, and hauled him through the open hatch and to Jim's door. The rattle as Jim pushed the bolt home seemed as loud as a gunshot. Blair stood still, leaning against a wall, completely blind without even the dull moonlight that had shone on the deck. Jim, however, moved quickly and surely to the lantern. There was the crack and hiss of a match, and then the tiny space was lit by the dull glow of the candle. Jim hung the lantern by its hook, and then looked at Blair across the tiny room.
“Strip.” He led by example, sitting on the side of the bunk to pull off boots and socks, dragging off jacket and shirt. Blair didn't move, and impatient, Jim looked up at him. It was obvious that the young man was as aroused as he had ever been in his life; the tiny cabin was awash with the smell of his musk, his eyes were huge, his breathing unsteady. Blair's curiosity was aroused too, but if Jim could be said to have a plan, it did not include answering questions.
Jim was naked now, the discarded clothes kicked into a corner. He walked over to Blair and, not touching him, leaned his hands against the wall on either side of him. Jim gazed intently at his lover. Blair struggled for breath in the heat of that regard, and ran his own eyes up and down Jim's nude body. Jim's cock jutted out, fully erect, and Blair was about to reach out to touch it when Jim spoke.
“Sandburg,” Jim said softly, “what did I tell you?”
“You said I should strip,” Blair replied, his eyes now fixed to Jim's. His mouth must have been dry, as he reflexively licked his lips, and Jim's sight greedily followed the movement of Blair's tongue.
“Well then.”
Blair shrugged out of his jacket, but found that with Jim so close to him he had no room to draw his shirt over his head. Jim dealt with this by dragging the garment off him, and then knelt down. He pressed his face against Blair's groin, face nuzzling against Blair's erection though the front of his breeches, his hands running across Blair's buttocks. The mix of sight and feeling was too much for Blair's efforts to maintain a discreet silence. With a low moan he leaned his head back against the wall, his throat arched in the effort to gulp in more air.
Jim looked up at the sound, smiling a little. He was used to silence, kept quiet in pleasure or in pain. But he always liked the sound of Blair's voice, and he determined to draw more sound out of him. Long fingers worked at the fastenings at Blair's waist, pulling down breeches and drawers together, careful not to drag at Blair's cock as he did so. Then, he very slowly licked from the base to the tip, chuckling at Blair's cry, still quiet, but higher pitched this time. Perhaps that was the sound that Blair made as a boy, the first time he ever pleasured himself. Blair's hands stroked aimlessly over Jim's head, his face strained, his hair sticking to his sweating skin. Jim found him completely beautiful.
“I know what you want, Sandburg. Do it. It's a fair exchange. Fuck my mouth, and I'll fuck you.” The hesitation, the uncertainty over that ultimate act of joining was laid aside. Jim knew that he had to have Blair. He laid a kiss on Blair's hip, before taking the base of Blair's cock in his left hand and sinking his mouth down the shaft. Each time he drew his head up and down, his hand followed along the saliva-wet skin. His other hand reached between the cheeks of Blair's ass. He didn't try to penetrate Blair's anus, merely rubbed the side of his finger along the puckered skin, the gentle movement continuous.
A continuous stream of babbling whispers poured out of Blair, “God… Jim… yes,” a perpetual struggle to express what he was feeling. “I'll fuck you.” That was what Jim had told Blair, and his mind painted pictures, Jim leaning over Blair as he trembled on all fours before him, Blair astride Jim, looking down on Jim's face as Jim came inside him, as he came all over Jim. Jim was pleased when Blair's fluttering hands found a purpose. Their purpose was to hold Jim's head steady, so that Blair could fuck his mouth properly. Jim had made the invitation, and Blair would never commit the discourtesy of refusing him.
Blair's legs were beginning to tremble, and Jim put both hands on his lover's hips, his arms tensing to support Blair's weight, his throat relaxing to take Blair's cock. Jim tightened his hold, willed Blair to let go, give in to it all, and then Blair laughed, a harsh sound of joy and relief, as he came, his semen bitter, grainy and slick together, and the most desirable thing that Jim had ever tasted.
Blair shuddered mindlessly through his pleasure for what seemed a very long time, and then confusedly looked down at Jim, who was reluctant to give up his position in front of Blair. Even as Blair softened, Jim mouthed at him gently, aware that Blair might not welcome the caresses straight after orgasm, but unwilling to stop tasting him.
“Jim, I have to sit, my God…” Jim moved back a little and Blair folded at hips and knees without further ado. Perhaps that was better than sliding slowly down the wall and collecting splinters in his back, but Blair was beyond such considerations. He leaned against the wall and Jim gave him little time to collect his breath before briefly kissing him, Blair's shoulder warm against Jim's, Jim's hand at the back of Blair's neck.
Jim broke off the kiss with regret, but there were things he needed to do. He pulled the blankets and pillow from his bunk and threw them down on the floor by Blair. It wasn't the first time they'd made a nest of bedclothes rather than try to squeeze into the tiny bunk space, and Blair wasted no time spreading out the bedding.
Jim reached into a cabinet and brought out some salve that Blair had given him, before returning to kneel next to him. Blair was sitting on his haunches, and he gave one look at Jim before simply turning to all fours. That gesture nearly undid Jim. He stroked a palm down Blair's spine, watching the shiver that followed, before scooping out a dollop of greasy cream on his fingers and gently pushing one finger inside Blair's anus. Another shiver, and the smallest grunt. Jim moved his finger back and forth, nearly trancing on the warmth and pressure that enclosed that one narrow digit. Two fingers, and Blair moaned, one low word. “Please.”
Probably it was barely enough, but Jim had no more patience. He rubbed more of the salve over his cock, and knelt behind Blair, stroked a hand over the roundness of buttocks. “Remember this,” he thought fiercely, and then pushed inside.
He gasped, unsure whether he was lost or found, knew only that he had to move. Blair had dropped to lean his elbow and forearms on the floor, his head resting down. Jim tried to go slow, but it was difficult. Whether he was lost or found didn't matter, he was where he was supposed to be. Jim's longer length of limb meant that he could lean over Blair's body on all fours. He did so, scenting, feeling, listening.
And then it happened again. It wasn't Blair's broad pale shoulders he saw, but dark brown shoulders, not the quiet rumble of Blair's need he heard, but the higher pitched grunt of a woman.
“No.”
Jim stopped for a moment, and felt Blair still beneath him. “Jim?” he questioned.
Jim shook his head, and then he looped one arm across Blair's chest, and kneeling back, he pulled Blair upright against him. Jim's hand spread across Blair's chest, his hand rustling against hair and the peaked nipple. His other hand reached for Blair's renewed erection, gripping and milking all the warm, hard, male length of it.
“No,” he muttered again. Then, he whispered harshly into Blair's ear, “ this is what I want. You hear me, Blair, this.”
It didn't matter if Blair understood him or not. This, he thought, as he flexed his hips, pushing into Blair; this, as he handled Blair's cock. Blair's hand came down to wrap around the hand Jim held at his groin.
“I'm close,” he gasped. “Please, oh please.” Then Blair went rigid, all over, before moving frantically and without rhythm. It was over for him, and Jim gratefully took the opportunity to leap over the edge to his own pleasure, let it come crashing up to meet him.
The two of them collapsed to the floor. Jim wound himself around Blair's square, hairy body and tried to sleep. But it was no good. He would drop into a fitful doze, and wake with the woman's song in his ears. After a couple of hours he rose, trying to cocoon Blair in the mess of bedding on the floor.
Jim dressed, and moved out to deck. There was just the silent night now, the lap of the sea against the side of his ship. Jim stood, waiting, knowing somehow what was coming. As the early dawn light greyed the sky, he heard voices, the movement of oars through the water.
He looked down over the edge of the Prospect, and saw Dobbs's strained face looking up at him.
“They've taken Mr Stoddard and some of the others to the pa. Their chief wants to see you. They won't let them go until you do.”
Jim nodded, grateful that Blair was still asleep, and climbed down to the boat. He sat there in a sort of angry resignation, and tried to face his fears. Perhaps the rut that his body cried for was all there would be to this, but his gut twisted at the thought that the Maori might not let him leave. The others would try to rescue him if they had the chance. He had a sudden vision of Blair, his face grim, his hands around a musket. No. Whatever it took, not that. He turned to his first mate.
“Dobbs, I don't think they mean any harm if we do as they say. There's to be no waving around of guns. I see or hear of any crew disobeying me, there'll be hell to pay. You understand me?”
Dobbs nodded, although clearly unhappy with the instruction. “And what if they do mean harm?”
“You get away from here. But it'll be all right. You'll see.”
Once the boat was landed, Jim instructed the men to stay on the beach. Alone, he walked up to the pa. Two big warriors escorted him to an open space in front of one of the bigger huts, almost more a house, with an ornately carved ochre painted lintel. Stoddard, Rangi and the rest of the crewmen were to the side. In front of the house stood more Maori.
Jim presumed that the chief was the tall man with his hair held in a bun on top of his head with a decorated comb, and tattoos swirling across his face. He wore a heavy feather cloak draped across his shoulders. Stoddard would love to take one of those home with him, Jim thought irrelevantly.
“I'm here,” he said, and gestured at the other Americans. “Let them go.” The chief said a few words, and Rangi's face showed clear relief. He told the others that they could go.
“But what about Captain Ellison?” said Stoddard.
“I'll be all right. Just go back to the Prospect and wait for me.”
Another man, also heavily tattooed, stepped forward, and gestured to Jim to come with him. He didn't want him here, Jim realised. None of them did, really. But they all seemed in agreement that some unpleasant necessity had to take place. Jim took a deep breath, and followed the man, up a steep path to a small hut near the crest of a hill. She was there, and Jim felt uneasy anticipation. She was there.
“He did what!” Blair's voice rose in disbelief. He looked at Eli accusingly. “And you let him. What the hell were you thinking?”
“It's not as if we had much choice. What is going on? Rangi won't discuss much of it, just says that it's tapu and closes his mouth more firmly than even our esteemed captain. It's something to do with that woman. Has he given offence somehow? I may not speak Maori but I know unhappy people when I see them.”
“Of course Jim didn't give offence,” Blair snapped. He turned aside, trying to think. This mess was something to do with Jim's strange behaviour last night, with the woman whose wavering song last night had clearly called to something in him. The heritage that had given Jim the Sentinel gifts might well be tied to a more primitive response to some things, such as sex, but why now, why this woman? Last night's urgent passion seemed to muddy the waters as much as clear them. Blair had a sharp pang of jealousy at the thought that he had been some sort of stopgap measure for Jim.
Whatever the answers, Jim would not be happy. Blair remembered his fear and disgust at what he regarded as his body's treachery when his heightened senses first manifested. Eli had said that the people in the pa weren't happy either. But they had forced Jim back there, he hadn't gone of his own will. Which meant that they knew something that Blair didn't.
“My God, she's a sentinel.” He barely managed to avoid blurting out the word “too”.
“What?”
“She was following us last night, through the dark, and it *was* dark, without lanterns, she knew where Jim was.”
“It's a theory that fits I suppose,” said Eli, “but how does it help Captain Ellison? I take it that their requirement of him is,” Eli sought not to further upset Blair, “at her request?”
There was muttering among crew, part outrage and part ribaldry. McGlashan's “I knew she was a witch” rose clear. Blair winced at that, and the thought of how his proud, reserved Jim would react to the crew's knowledge of his situation.
“I ought to go to the village.”
“Is that wise? I know you're worried for Ellison, but it's hardly safe. If she is a sentinel, it would be a great vindication for you, would launch a career. But they may not appreciate outsiders.”
Blair bit his tongue. Vindication was the last thing on his mind. He needed to know what was going on so that he could help Jim.
“Rangi, will you go with me?”
The Maori was deeply uncomfortable. “These are tapu things, tapu for another iwi. They don't want me.”
Blair put his very best efforts into persuasion, made his voice as gentle as possible. “I know, but the Captain is part of the tapu, and I know something of it too. I should speak to the chief. Please. Jim and I are already touched by the tapu.” It was a risk to suggest that, he knew. Rangi would probably keep his mouth shut if he guessed that Jim was also a Sentinel, but trying to keep the secret from Eli was tricky.
Rangi shook his head. “Not the ariki. You need to talk to the tohunga.” Blair smiled, relieved, until he turned and saw Eli's expression.
Some while later, Blair trekked up the hill to the gate of the pa, Rangi nervously behind him. Blair's blood was up, at least partly due to the argument that he had had with Eli about the wisdom of this course of action. There was another vehement and intimidating argument at the gate, and Blair was deeply relieved when one of the warriors went to seek instruction. Rangi had the look of a man who knew that his ordeal had just begun.
The warrior returned with another man. They indicated that Blair and Rangi should come with them, and led them towards the back of the village. There was a hut there, separate from the others, with a wooden pedestal upon which sat another startling carving. Another time Blair would have been fascinated. Now he was concerned for Jim, and also for Rangi, who had the dun pallor of a truly frightened man.
There was a roofed open space in the front of the hut. A man sat there, on a woven flax mat. He gestured to them to sit, and Blair and Rangi did so. There was a stream of deep-voiced, rhythmic language, and Rangi relaxed a little.
“He greets you. He says that so long as I do not tell what I should not that the tapu will not touch me. He asks what you want.”
Blair took a deep breath.
“Give him my greeting in return. Tell him, I am concerned for my friend. I would like to see him.”
The response to this was a deep rich laugh. Embarrassedly, Rangi said, “He says that the Captain is busy right now.”
“I can wait for an appropriate time.” He watched the other man, the – tohunga – Rangi had called him. Sitting cross-legged on a grass mat, he possessed dignity and power. The man looked at Blair. There was a certain sympathy in his eyes, but also chagrin.
“He asks how much you know of these things.”
“I know that the woman has special gifts. And this – thing – between her and Jim isn't of Jim's seeking. Not much more than that.”
Blair kept his eyes on the tohunga. As Rangi translated, his eyes flashed. So, not of her seeking either, so far as this man was concerned. Was this man her husband? Her guide? Blair ached for the ability to communicate directly with him. There was another query from the Maori.
“He wants to know why you are here, instead of any of the others?” Rangi ducked his head in apology. “Mr Stoddard has more mana, he is bigger, older, the men listen to him. So why you?”
“I have a question of my own. He helps the woman with her gifts, looks after her, doesn't he?”
More conversation. Rangi translated, with great reluctance, “Her name is Marama. She is taonga to these people.” He fumbled with his missionary taught English. “A pearl of great price. She protects the people and he protects her.”
“Tell him that it's the same for Jim and me.” Rangi passed this on, and the tohunga's gaze on Blair sharpened, and grew speculative. Blair nodded at him. “Exactly the same,” he told the man, hoping that his expression and tone of voice could bridge the lack of a shared language.
“Tell him we need Jim. When will he be returned to us?”
Rangi looked embarrassed again as he relayed the answer. “When there is a child.”
Blair's stomach lurched. Surely…quickly he asked, “Does he mean born, or just growing in her?”
“She will know when it is made. Not long.” Blair bowed his head, trying to hide his relief. He looked up as the tohunga stood, gesturing at Blair. Blair stood also, although Rangi remained sitting. The two of them walked up the hill, joined after a moment by two other men, burly and carrying spears. They came to a hut, separate from the others, and stopped a little distance from it. The Maori called out, and indicated that Blair should do the same.
“Jim. It's Blair. Are you all right?”
The woman, Marama, poked her head out of the low door. She emerged, wrapped in one of the blankets that Eli had offered to them earlier. After a moment, Jim also came out, dressed only in his trousers and jacket. The two of them walked over. Jim was pale, his features pinched and drawn. He avoided looking Blair in the face until they were close.
“So, are you farmers, come to see how your husbandry is going, or pimps? I don't speak this lady's jabber, so the question's a little confused.” Jim's voice was deeply sarcastic, although his hand rested gently upon Marama's shoulder.
Blair felt all the air go out of him in one great rush. He was speechless for a moment, and then gathered himself together. “She's like you, Jim.” Jim started but remained silent. “They expect a child out of this, and then you can go. She's a sentinel, apparently she'll know without waiting for her courses to stop. Hopefully, it won't be long.” He winced at how that came out.
“Well, if I want to get back to my ship, we'd better fulfil our breeding obligations, hadn't we? If you'll excuse me, gentlemen. Unless you want me to cover her in front of you.” And Jim turned on his heel and walked back to the hut. Blair had a sudden fierce urge to take a spear from one of the warriors, and hurl it straight to the middle of that vulnerable, prideful back. It was that or burst into weeping. He never wanted to have Jim look at him like that again; disdainful, angry – and afraid.
Blair walked down the hill on legs weak as a newborn colt's. Last night made clear and painful sense. It had been Jim's desperate search for shelter against a completely unwanted impulse. Jim's hissed repetition of “this” echoed in Blair's head. A fine guide he had turned out to be.
Blair and Rangi made a camp on the beach for the next two days. There was some coming and going from the crew. Eli visited once also. There was no further contact from the Maori at the pa, until the morning of the third day. Jim walked on to the beach, accompanied by the tohunga, and three men carrying bundles.
Blair hurried forward as the men carefully deposited the bundles on the ground. The tohunga said a few words and then the four turned away back up the hill, with Rangi watching in nervous relief. Blair spared only a glance for all that. He put his arms around Jim, hugging him hard.
“Are you all right?”
“I'll live.” Jim detached himself from Blair's hold.
Hurt, Blair turned, telling himself that Jim had a right to his trouble and confusion, and taking a stick from the small fire, hurried down the beach to light the beacon he had built there. Jim followed him.
“What's all that?” Blair asked, cocking his head towards the items left behind.
“Stud fee, I presume. There was this too.” Jim reached into a pocket and took out a three-pronged comb, carved out of what looked like jade. He handed it carelessly to Blair. “I imagine that Professor Stoddard will be in ecstasies when he sees that.”
Blair was too distressed by Jim's manner to take any pleasure in the comb. The boat arrived soon after the smoke from the beacon began to rise, Dobbs, McGlashan and Eli among the men. The return to the Prospect was quickly expedited, and Jim lost no time in ordering their departure from the bay.
Jim was all business, and the crew knew better than to discuss the business within what they knew could be earshot of him. Of course, earshot was a greater distance than anybody except Jim and Blair knew. Eli was indeed in ecstasies. Besides the comb there was a fine cloak, carven gourds and foodstuffs wrapped in cunningly woven mats. The crew ate the food, and Eli exclaimed and gloated over his treasures. And Blair watched Jim, and sat with him on deck, but had little conversation with him.
They travelled down the coast and returned Rangi to his tribe. Rangi was, Blair knew, as glad to be off the Prospect as he was to be home. Ever since they had left the other village he had kept his head ducked and his eyes averted from both Jim and Blair. Rangi was frightened of people deep in the secret counsels of native priests.
Jim accepted Blair's company, but he was very quiet, and there was hardly any touching between them. Jim's withdrawal continued, and Blair occasionally grew irritated with him. He knew that the experience had been startling and frightening to Jim, but as an explorer and a hedonist, Blair sometimes found it hard to understand just what was so terrible about the compulsion to lie with an attractive woman.
They had started the journey home again, when Blair finally decided that he'd had enough. Jim was in his cabin, writing in the ship's log.
“Are you planning to be this close-mouthed for the rest of your days?”
“You've always managed enough talking for several.”
“Well, yes, but I don't like talking to myself.”
“There's twenty-five men on board. Most of them tolerate you.” Jim returned to his writing.
“Are you angry because I didn't understand what was happening? Dammit, Jim, I figured it out as best I could, and even if I had realised sooner, what difference would it have made?”
“None at all.”
“So you are angry, then? With me?”
“No, I'm not angry with you.”
Blair stood behind Jim, put one hand on his shoulder, and watched in satisfaction the tiny shudder that crossed the bigger man.
“Then why so distant? Why ignore me and try to deal with it all on your own? How can I understand if you don't tell me anything.”
Jim's voice was harsh.
“Why? So that you can write it all down in your journal? No doubt there'll be some scholarly essay about it all some day.”
Blair drew back his hand from Jim as if he'd been burned.
“No, no, of course I wouldn't do that.”
“Why not? That's the whole point of your voyage. It's been a great success for you and Stoddard. My God, you didn't even have to clear the coast of the States before you discovered that you had a Sentinel on your hands.”
“Jim, of course I write things down, but if I ever did anything that made you think that I'd pass that on to others without your knowledge and agreement, well… It's enough to know things sometimes, I don't have to tell the world.”
“But it is all written down? How much?”
Jim stood and grabbed Blair, one hand in his hair, the other resting possessively across one buttock.
“Is this written down?” Jim breathed in deeply, as Blair fisted his hands against Jim's jacket, off balance in the rough embrace. Jim bent down and kissed Blair, a deep all-encompassing kiss. “Is this? I know you write everything down. It's just another form of talking to you.”
“Jim, I've told you before, I can keep confidences. Yes, I've written about you, but no-one will ever know anything if you don't want them to.”
“You want to know everything, don't you?” The question was resigned, Jim's voice almost gentle, but his hands kept their determined grip on Blair. Blair was inescapably reminded of the last time they'd been alone like this, the night before Jim went to Marama. He was becoming aroused, but there was a desperation in Jim's face that he needed to understand.
“What is it?” Blair asked, moving his hands up to cup Jim's face. Jim shut his eyes, and then let go of Blair and returned to his chair. Blair leaned against the wall of the cabin, observing Jim as closely as the other man's bowed head would permit.
“She wasn't my first native lover. Does that surprise you? I was mate on a ship - we were wrecked off the coast of Peru, should have been wrecked two weeks out of port, creaking rat trap that it was.”
“Dobbs mentioned it.”
“Yes. He and I were the only survivors that I know of. I came ashore miles from any town, wandered for a few days. A tribe of Indians found me, took me in. I lived with them for several months, learning their language, their ways.”
“So you took a native woman. That's not so unusual.”
Jim laughed bitterly.
“Don't be stupid, Blair. It was a man, their priest, I suppose, and he took me. I was fond of him in my way, but I never planned to stay with them. Incacha knew that. They were nomadic, and eventually we came close enough to a town and from there I worked my way back to the States. It took a while, everybody thought I was dead.”
There was no other place to sit except the bunk, and that was too far away. Blair sat on the floor, subtly and quite consciously moving as close to Jim as he thought he would tolerate.
“My father,” Jim took a deep breath, “my father was dead by the time I got back. He was a hard man, my father. Stern Calvinist, and there was never any doubt in his mind that the Ellisons were the Elect, predestined for a place in Heaven and a place on earth, as well. His business prospered, and that was predestined. God gave him two sons – predestined. His wife died – predestined. That Stephen and I should obey him without question – ohhh, that was absolutely predestined.”
Blair put one hand on Jim's knee. “But you ran away.”
“To be my own man, I thought.” There was a silence, and Blair began to think that he knew where all this desperate outpouring of words was leading.
“You are your own man.”
“You've seen me. I've been pushed and pulled by my own body, by powers that I don't understand. I had no choice with her, no choice at all. No choice with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything this last year is compulsion, or destiny. Yes, you've taught me how to deal with the senses, but half the time it's not your teaching, it's just you.” Jim pulled Blair up between his legs, and kissed him again, before pulling him close and burying his face in Blair's shoulder.
Blair struggled for some words to make it right.
“Even when we don't have choices in some things, we still choose how we act in those circumstances. I saw you with Marama. Even if it was a – a rut, you were gentle with her. I know you, and I know plenty of men who would have taken her like an animal, who would have used the excuse of the situation to treat *me* like an animal. You didn't do that.”
Jim was silent and Blair pulled back, tilted the bowed head up. But he couldn't make Jim look him in the eyes.
“Even if you do need my help with your senses, is that so bad? We've been good friends.” He wanted to say 'we love each other', but he was uncertain of making that declaration while Jim was in this mood. “A man isn't any less the master of himself because he needs food or sleep, but he shows his mastery in how he meets those needs.”
Jim sneered. “Yes, a man shows self-control. Something that's been noticeably lacking recently.” He pushed at Blair's shoulders. “Get up, Sandburg. Let me be. Go and write in your journal. I'm sure that Professor Stoddard wants to confer with you.” Blair stood there, but Jim's attitude was clearly one of dismissal. He left the cabin, full of foreboding.
Major work needed here. Jim's insecurities coming into play, Eli starting to push harder in a spirit of 65% genuine concern for Blair's future and 35% latent homophobia. Jim eventually decides that there's no future in it. Big angst. And, yes, some of this section isn't consistent in terms of Jim's back story.
Blair couldn't pace in the small cabin, and his hands shook in inability to express the feelings in him.
“What are you trying to tell me? That because Eli doesn't want to take me to bed that his affection is purer somehow? That his aims for me are better? That jealousy and manipulation don't exist outside of a carnal relationship? My god, what a sheltered and gentle life you've led, Captain Ellison.”
Jim braced himself. He had never seen Blair like this before, scornful and contemptuous. But having brought them both to this point, he wasn't prepared to sacrifice his martyrdom quite yet.
“You have a good future ahead of you. Professor Stoddard made that quite clear. The work that you did can open doors for you. Just don't mention my name in your lectures that's all. There's no future in this thing between us. You're young, you'll forget me soon enough.” He attempted a worldly chuckle, but it came out all wrong. “There'll be plenty of distraction once you're off the little world of the Prospect.
“What it amounts to is that you're afraid. Being with me is going to cost too much.”
Jim shrugged his shoulders in a purposely dismissive way. It was after all, a completely accurate description of the situation.
More angst, obviously, and the end of the voyage.
It was a grey morning, the Philadelphia docks washed in both salt and fresh water. Eli cursed as two longshoremen nearly dropped the crate they were loading onto a cart. Blair had already dragged out the smaller of his bags. Now Dobbs and he were carrying the trunk that held most of his books. As they deposited it on the dockside, Dobbs said, “It's been pleasant voyaging with you, Mr Sandburg. I just wanted to say that, and wish you well for the future.”
Blair swallowed hard. “Thank you, Mr Dobbs. It's been a pleasure to know you too. I wish you well for your future voyages.”
Dobbs grinned. “I hope to live to be a landsman one day. But not yet. Take care of yourself, sir.”
“Dobbs.” Blair took a breath. He would not cry, he would not. But his eyes stung and his throat hurt. “You'll keep an eye on him, won't you.”
A shadow passed over Dobbs's weathered, good-natured face, but it passed quickly. “A good mate always keeps an eye on his captain. Don't you worry, Mr Sandburg. His bark always has been worse than his bite.”
“Yes.” Blair dredged up what he knew was a weak smile. Jim had claimed business on land and left his ship early. Blair had been awake early, but only early enough to watch Jim's tall straight figure walking into the town. He wouldn't return until Blair had no more excuse to be at the docks.
Eli approached him. “Blair, that cart's nearly ready to go. Do you want to put your things on it?”
“Yes. Eli, I'll have everything taken to my mother's. I should spend some time with her after all.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Give her my regards. Tell her I'll call on her as soon as the immediate press of business permits.”
“I'll give you my address as soon as I find suitable lodgings.”
“Blair, you know that you are entirely welcome at my home.”
“Of course. But it would be better if I lodged in town.”
“Are you offering me your resignation, Blair?” Eli said unbelievingly.
“Yes. Yes, Eli, I believe that I am.”
“Well, then, I will be busy if I have to find another secretary. Oh, get along with you. We'll talk about this later.”
Blair climbed up beside the carter, and gave directions to his mother's house. After so long at sea, the jerk of the cart's travel along the rough streets felt more peculiar than ever, but Blair ignored it as best he could, watching the streets for any sign of Jim. There was none.
He directed the carter to the back entrance of his mother's house. The door was unlocked and he stepped into a stone-flagged room filled with wood and various household items and from there to the kitchen.
A woman turned to him. “What do you think – Mr Sandburg! You're back!”
“Indeed I am, Maggie. Is Billy still with us?” At her nod, Blair said, “Send him out to the man outside. There's a few things that need to be unloaded. Is Mama up?”
“Enjoying her coffee, sir. Should I announce you, or do you want to surprise her?”
Blair chuckled. 'What do you think?”
“It's a surprise she'll welcome. She missed you.”
Blair took himself upstairs. After such a long absence the smells of the house were very obvious to him – wood smoke, the stale remnants of cooking odours, the potpourri that Naomi made, some of it sitting in a china bowl at the top of the landing. He reached his mother's door and knocked.
“Oh, just come in, Maggie.”
“I thought that I'd best enquire if you were decent, ma'am.”
Blair's elegant mother never made so undignified a noise as a squeal. At least, that was what Blair was sure she would say if he teased her about it. There was the sound of Naomi's light-footed step, and then the door flew open.
“Blair!” his mother cried, and gathered him in her arms. He held her tight, breathing in her familiar sweet scent. “Let me look at you. Oh, you're so brown. I'm disappointed – I expected you to grow a real sailor's beard.”
“I still could, if you wish.”
She smacked him lightly across his shoulders and hurried to the top of the stairs, calling down excitedly, “Maggie, Maggie! Bring some breakfast for my son.” Then she turned and drew Blair into her room and set him down in the small armchair. “Oh, I can't believe you're back. Tell me all about it.”
So he did. It was a very long conversation and he struggled with it sometimes, with the need to edit it. He wondered if he mentioned Jim too often, or not enough. And he didn't mention his intention not to return to his position as Eli's secretary. He had no idea how he would explain that to her satisfaction, but he would think of something.
It was nearly the lunch hour before they stopped. Blair had sipped a great deal of tea and coffee in that time. His mother shooed him out, saying teasingly that deshabille was all very well, but she really must dress properly.
His things were neatly placed in the small bedroom he slept in whenever he visited his mother. He opened a leather valise, and took out the journal which contained many of his notes about Jim. He had tried so hard to write scientifically about what he found, but every page seemed to reflect at first hero-worship and then deeper feelings. He held the book in a hard grip. Well, that was over now.
There was a knock at the door. It was his mother. She came in, resplendent in dark blue with a very fetching cap sitting on her red hair. His hands jerked with the impulse to hide the journal and he cursed himself.
“Lunch is nearly ready.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
His mother put a hand on his shoulder. “You've done nothing but talk all morning, but I still think that you're too quiet. Is there something I should know?”
Blair turned to the easier truth. “I've decided not to continue working for Eli. Medicine was always my first interest. I'm going to work more on it, try to build up more of a practice.”
His mother's eyebrows lifted. “Are you, indeed? You've always deeply admired Professor Stoddard. What happened on the voyage to give you a disgust of him?”
Blair stood up. “Nothing, nothing. Eli's an excellent man.”
“Yes,” Naomi said. “He is, and you were always hugely excited about working for him. *What* has happened?”
The need to tell *somebody* overcame the need for prudent silence.
“I fell in love, Mama, and Eli didn't approve my choice.”
“And who is your choice, sweetheart?” Her voice was gentle. No doubt she expected a tale of some native maiden left behind, or maybe she even thought that the girl was still stowed on the ship until he broke the news to her.
“It's Captain James Ellison.” Naomi gasped. “But don't concern yourself, Mama.” Blair rubbed his face with his palm. “He doesn't want me.”
“Oh, my dear. My dear.” And she swept up and put her arms around him. He rested his head on her shoulder and cried, just for a minute or so. Both he and his mother had learned long ago that sometimes there was no comfort.
Blair was abstemious by the standards of his society. He enjoyed a glass or two of wine with a meal. He occasionally fell into pleasant tipsiness with people he trusted. But after six empty months of activity that used to delight him, he approached Eli's party in a reckless mood. He was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. He wanted to feel something new, find a woman (definitely a woman – not a man), get drunk. Maybe he would end up doing both – he didn't care. The help that he felt obligated to offer to Eli in preparing his notes and lectures had seemed pointless. The suggestion that he might obtain some position at the new college was stultifying.
He dealt with people who called on his medical skill, professionally, but perfunctorily. He knew that with just a little more effort on his part, and with Stoddard's sponsorship, that he had the option to become a fashionable doctor. No, not a true doctor, he reminded himself. He found some comfort in the charity cases he helped. It felt more useful than most of his other endeavours.
He tried not to consciously think about Jim, but always in the back of his mind there was lonely concern for the man – his whereabouts, if he was all right. Was he using his Sentinel gifts, or had he used Blair's teaching to put the senses into hiding? His sleeping mind had no such discipline. Too many of his dreams were of Jim – memories of the journey on the Prospect, or else strange fancies that made perfect sense to his dreaming mind, however weird they were when he awoke. In one thing, the fancies were consistent. Whenever he begged Jim to stay with him, and that was often, Jim would smile and obey. And then Blair would wake up.
In a bitter frame of mind, he set out to walk to Eli's home. It took well over an hour, but when he wasn't tired he was sometimes possessed by a restless energy that couldn't settle to any purposeful work. If he put more effort into his medical work he supposed he would have to buy a horse. The idea held no more appeal than anything else. A satchel slung over his shoulder contained drugs and instruments, another bag held his clothes for the night, and he was grimy with road dust when he finally arrived at the Stoddard estate.
Eli saw Blair from his study window and came out to the porch to greet him. He surveyed the dusty clothes and declared, “I see that you're making work for my servants again. Well, come in and sit down.”
Blair came in, and was settled in the library with tea and some small delicacies that he had no appetite for. Eli watched him uncomfortably.
“Do you ever think of coming back as my secretary?”
Blair shook his head.
“Better to just stay with the medicinal work, Eli. I should make my own way.”
“I'm not talking about being your patron. Just some simple employment. You need the work and I need someone competent.” Eli began to pace. “You have no intention of forgiving me, do you?”
Blair found himself growing irritated. “It's not a matter of forgiveness. You did what you thought best. If I held some grudge against you I wouldn't be here now. But I - I wanted to find a Sentinel, and I did. It was a great experience but now it's over, and I just have to make a living.”
“And there's no better way to do that than living and working in a shabby cubby-hole, pounding out powders and giving half of them away? Sounding the chests of consumptive children? I refuse to believe that finding some Maori woman who could see in the dark is the pinnacle of what you could do. At the least you should be writing and presenting on it, rather than giving me all the credit.” Eli dragged out the big guns. “Your mother is worried about you. She asked me to talk to you when she found out that you were coming tonight.”
Blair sought for a smile and evasive manoeuvres. “And now you have. And I'd better go wash and change. People want to hear about wild men, they don't expect to see them at your gatherings.”
“Blair, your mother and I care about you. When is this pointless grieving going to stop?”
Blair froze. He had never discussed Jim with Eli, after those strained conversations on the Prospect. Eli was too mixed up in the pain, and even if he hadn't been, his tolerance went only so far. Maybe that was why Blair couldn't let go of it, because nothing could be acknowledged.
“It's not pointless, Eli. And I can't stop it just because it makes you feel guilty. And that's why I won't be in your employ any time soon.” Well, there they were; direct hits for both of them. Eli's face was stricken, and Blair felt guilt swamp him in his turn. “It's not that I don't appreciate everything that you've done for me. It's just…” He faltered. “I'd better go and change.”
Later in the evening, Blair wandered quietly among the guests, and wondered why on earth he had bothered to come. Well, he knew why, to avoid giving unnecessary offence to Eli. Not a pointless endeavour, but a failed one, it seemed. He made a little cursory conversation, and drank far too much. His limbs were heavy, and his head felt hollow, he had so much to drink.
“Mr Sandburg? May I introduce my friend, Mrs Jane Awkwright?” It was Katherine Bates, of all people, smiling at him with too many teeth. Her friend was a plump little woman, about thirty-five, but possessed of good skin and a wealth of brown hair. She smiled at Blair, and he suspected that he was not being introduced on the basis of his travels with Eli, so much as any confidences that Lizzie had passed on.
“Jane, this is Blair Sandburg. He travelled with Mr Stoddard, and had a great many interesting experiences. Perhaps he might share some with you, after he brings us some punch.”
Blair smiled in his turn. Well, he had nothing better to do after all. He collected some punch, although not before downing yet another drink. He was going to need help to attempt Jane Awkwright under Mrs Bates' knowing eyes. So the rest of the evening was spent describing Otaheiti and volcanic beaches and the glory of the summer pohutukawa blossom, all of it, according to Jane, so amazingly different to what she knew in Massachusetts. Well, Blair thought fuzzily, there was a surprise.
Mrs Bates withdrew to speak to other acquaintance, and Jane informed Blair that she felt a little warm. He escorted her to a small porch at the side of the house. There was a bench seat, and they sat together. They kissed a few times, and Blair was grateful that nothing was likely to happen under Eli's roof, because he felt peculiarly numb, and fairly certain that he would be incapable. He had a moment's drunken irritation. Hadn't he been supposed to be feeling something new tonight?
He turned to kiss Jane once more, trying to summon something other than a certain detached awareness of the warmth of her mouth, when she stiffened, and pushed him back. Damn, someone else was on the porch. He looked up, straight into Jim's face.
He'd wanted to feel something new. Amazement, abject horror, humiliation and self-disgust weren't what he had planned, but there they were. Jim was standing there, his face as controlled as Blair had ever seen it, and Blair was harshly aware of his drunken state, the mild but telling disarray of his and Jane's hair and clothes. For one brief moment, he was afraid that he was going to faint or throw up. He expressed everything in one heartfelt, “Oh, dear God,” before standing up.
He had to get rid of Jane. Since he doubted that the earth was going to swallow both of them, however much he wanted it, he turned to her and said “Please allow me to escort you back inside, ma'am.” His mouth was dry and his tongue felt huge, but she seemed to understand him. They entered the house, and she detached herself and headed for the room set aside for the ladies to rest, to make the small adjustments that were sometimes needed to toilettes.
He turned back to the door to the porch, his heart hammering. He stopped by the door, almost too terrified to touch the handle, and then finally pushed it open. The porch was empty. Blair sat down heavily on the bench seat, shock and alcohol both wreaking havoc. Of course Jim was gone. He would hardly want dealings with the whorehound drunk he had discovered, would he now? Blair leaned his head back and gulped in a few shuddery breaths, before deciding that he really needed another drink.
He headed inside, and gulped down some wine. He saw Eli approaching, knowledge and concern written clearly on his face.
“Did you know he was coming?” Blair blurted out.
“No, no, it was a complete surprise. He's gone anyway, I saw him leave. Blair, why don't you come into the library? You must have had a shock.”
“I'm fine,” Blair said. He could hear his voice slurring, and changed his mind. He needed to think, and he couldn't do it in this room. He allowed himself to be escorted to the library and slumped into a chair.
Why the hell had Jim shown up? To make his respects to a former employer? At this time of night? Well, hardly. So he must have come to see Blair, although God knew why after their last parting. And what he saw no doubt disgusted him.
A thought struck him. Jim would have observed – what? Blair engaged with some woman, Blair clearly horrified and disgusted. He groaned. Jim couldn't – well yes; he probably could think that the horror and disgust was directed at him. Confusedly, Blair stood up, his head spinning, the beginning of nausea announcing itself. Eli said that Jim had gone. Back to town presumably. He looked at the clock. Blair had been sitting in the library for about fifteen minutes. What if he ran, could he catch up? Where would Jim be staying?
Blair hurried out of the library and stumbled down the steps. A waxing half moon shone wanly in the sky, and as Blair moved away from the brightly lit house, he realised that he could see very little. He stood still, willing his eyes to adjust, and hurried down the road. He fell in the darkness, and the winding fall was the last straw to his queasy stomach. He ignominiously and painfully vomited, before dragging himself up.
He leaned against a tree in utter misery. He couldn't do this. He was too damn drunk and Jim was too far ahead. He was too drunk and depressed to even consider the possibility that he could enquire for Jim tomorrow. He'd been here, in front of Blair, and Blair wanted him back, now.
Without thought, he began shouting down the road, “Jim. Jim, come back.” All was silent, of course. “Damn you, James Ellison, you get back here right now. Right now, do you hear me? Jiimmm.” He called at the top of his voice. It cracked, and he coughed, and feared he was going to vomit again. He stood there for some while, beginning to shiver despite the warmth of his jacket. After a while, he heard footsteps approaching, but from the wrong direction. It was Jacob, a local man hired as a stable hand for the evening. He was well known for a calm temperament with horses, and arms the size of ham hocks.
“Mr Stoddard told me to come and look for you,” he announced.
“Well, you've found me,” Blair declared sullenly. He suspected that Jacob was expected to take him back to the house, but he had no intention of moving from this spot. Jim might have heard him, might be coming back, and Blair was staying exactly where he was. To make the point, he moved a few feet down the road, and plopped down in the grass. Jacob sighed and sat with him. Knows better than to argue with a drunk, Blair thought triumphantly.
The drink was rising to his head again, and Blair lay back, trying to ease the dizziness. After a while, he fell into a stupor.
Jim told himself that he was a fool to be so disappointed. That Blair was entertaining himself with a woman was – manageable – but the disgusted exclamation and speedy exit from Jim's clearly polluting presence was not. When Blair couldn't manage so much as “Good evening” or even “What in God's name are you doing here?” then it was time to take the hint and go. What else should he have expected after the way he'd treated him? To hell with whatever mistaken ideas that Naomi Sandburg had given him. Blair had been about as pleased to see him as a yellow fever flag.
After months of pulling his senses back, control eluded him. Whether it was the emotional distress of seeing Blair, or a physical response to the man's presence Jim didn't know, but the thud of the horse's hooves on the road was too loud, the night air too cool and prickly against his face. He kept on down the road, horse and man picking out the route together, and then lifted his head. What the hell? He heard, barely, Blair's voice, raised in a hoarse shout, “…get back here right now. Right now, do you hear me?” The shout cracked on a last cry of his name. He pulled up his horse, and sat still a minute to admit the nervous hope that maybe, maybe, he'd made a mistake, then turned around.
“You'd better not change your mind, Sandburg,” he sighed. Twenty-five minutes steady walk up the road brought him close enough to the Stoddard house that he could hear the sounds of the party without trouble. There was a man walking carefully up the middle of the road, misshapen in the dark. Jim looked more closely and realised that the figure was carrying another man, and took the risk of a gentle canter forward. Sure enough, it was Blair slung over the other man's shoulder. The man, not tall, but very solid, turned, and Jim called out to him.
“You're taking him back to Mr Stoddard's house aren't you? Put him up next to me, it'll be easier for everybody.” Between the two of them, Blair was clumsily hauled up in front of Jim, who cradled him as best he could in the saddle. Blair's breathing was stertorous, and Jim tried to find a better angle to prop his head, while pulling back hard on his sense of smell. His lips twitched. A situation that a short while ago had seemed the stuff of tragedy was descending into farce. Clearly somebody was going to have to teach Blair how to hold his liquor. Jim tightened his hold on the limp body. If he had any say in the matter, then the teacher was going to be him.
As the three men approached the house, Jim saw a figure that had been heading back turn and hurry towards them. It was Stoddard.
“Jacob, did you – Captain Ellison? You have Blair?”
Jim and Eli regarded each other. They were united on one thing – Blair's wellbeing - and at this point, that meant getting him inside with the minimum of people seeing the state he was in.
“He's safe and sound, although I'd say he's going to wish he was dead tomorrow. I presume he has a room here?”
“This way. Thank you Jacob, come with us so you can take Captain Ellison's horse.”
Stoddard led the way to the kitchen entrance to the house. Blair was wrestled down, muttering but not truly waking. Once Jim was on the ground he picked him up once more, and Stoddard went ahead, gesturing when the coast was clear in the hall.
“Quick,” he muttered to Jim, “next storey, north passageway, the door at the end on the left.”
Jim managed to follow the instructions, hoping hard that Stoddard didn't have any overnight guests who had already gone to bed. He found the room eventually, identified the smell of Blair's medicines satchel and put the young man down on the bed with a sigh of relief.
“I think you may have lost weight, Chief, but I'm in no hurry to do that again.” He pushed the dishevelled hair back off Blair's face, in an odd mix of tender frustration. He had come here to see Blair, to talk to him, and here he was insensible. Jim checked the room for the chamber pot, as he had a foreboding that it was going to be needed. Some drinking water might be needed also, so he headed downstairs. In the hallway he met the woman who had directed him out to the porch earlier, a tall, sleek lady in a deep green dress.
“Did you find Mr Sandburg?” she enquired all too sweetly. She might not have known who Jim was, but her hope that she had embarrassed Blair was quite palpable. Jim simply nodded, and walked past her. The thought of his earlier flight from Stoddard's house was still sharp enough to cut, and he had no desire to bandy words with a harpy. Instead he gathered up a pitcher of water and cups, begged some washcloths from one of the frazzled women in the kitchen, and headed back up the stairs.
He arranged everything to his satisfaction, which included pulling off most of Blair's clothes. He could hardly sleep in his shoes and jacket and the rest was grimy, stinking, or both. The bed was barely wide enough for two, but there was nowhere else to rest except for a narrow upright chair or the floor, and Jim was exhausted. He snugged up behind Blair, with one arm over his shoulders, searching for what he thought of as Blair's true scent, under the reeks of alcohol and distress. Between that and the warmth of the body against his he soon fell into sleep, although not before perverse amusement struck him. This wasn't how he'd imagined the first time he shared a real bed with Blair.
He awoke to a very dim grey light, and a dawn chorus that included singing birds, and the sound of Blair wretchedly throwing up into the pot that Jim had placed by the bed. Jim scrambled over to Blair, and held his friend's head through the second bout of spasms. Blair quieted and moaned just the once.
“You don't do anything by halves, do you?” Jim asked. He poured some water so that Blair could rinse his mouth, and swiftly deposited the pot out the door.
“My God, you did come back.” Blair's voice was rough. It reminded Jim of the timbre Blair used in sex, and he reminded himself that now was unlikely to be a good time.
“Get back into bed. You'll catch your death.”
“I have to piss. Where the hell did my clothes go to?” Blair fumbled in the armoire, and pulled out another shirt and pair of trousers, and dragged them on, moaning occasionally. The two men stumbled down the stairs in shirt -sleeves and trousers, Jim bearing the pot, which Blair very pointedly tried to avoid seeing, and headed to the privy. Then back upstairs as speedily as possible
Jim sat on the edge of the bed. Shivering, Blair climbed back under the covers, burrowing down until he was nearly buried. He didn't seem much inclined to look at Jim, who could feel his heart start to sink again. Finally Blair spoke.
“So do I look as bad as I feel?”
“I've been as drunk as you were, Sandburg. Nobody can look as bad as it feels, although you're trying.”
The next question was very quiet.
“Did I make as big a fool of myself last night as I think I did?”
“I don't know. I wasn't here for that much of it.”
“That's not comforting, Jim.”
“You were so drunk you passed out on the roadside. I can only hope you enjoyed the preliminaries.”
Another low-voiced remark.
“I'm sorry I was so rude when you arrived. I was, um, a little surprised.”
“I gathered that, once I was past the first shock.”
“Eli knows you're here?”
“He helped me smuggle you into the house. Although I'm surprised he hasn't been here checking that I haven't made any essays on your virtue.”
Blair roused a little.
“Oh for God's sake, Jim, it's none of his damn business what you want with me. Eli knows that.”
“I'm not disagreeing with you.”
There was a snort of air from out of the blankets. “Oh, now you can form an opinion about me without Eli's assistance.”
Clearly, a night spent sailing three sheets to the wind had a bad effect on the Sandburg temper. Jim could feel his own temper start to rise. Whatever his expectations of his first meeting in months with Blair, they hadn't included an argument quite like this.
“I've always been capable of forming my own opinions, about you or anything else.”
“So,” Blair began quietly, but his voice gained in sarcastic vigour, “I remember all the *opinions* you expressed when you kicked me off the Prospect. What new ones have formed in the meantime? Decided you missed me after all did you?” And after six months of miserable half-life, that was the outside of enough. Damn the arrogant little bastard for even daring to suggest that any of that had been easy for Jim.
“If you want to talk about who missed who, let's remember that I wasn't the one last night bellowing like a bull calf that had lost its momma.” Jim regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but that was too late to stop the painful flush that erupted across Blair's face. Jim had the chance to see all of it, because Blair leaped out of bed and started hunting up stockings and shoes from the floor, before leaning an arm on the mattress, the flush gone to a pale sweat.
“Damn it, I'm sorry. Just get back into bed. You'll be sick as a dog for a while after last night.”
“No, no, don't you worry, I've got a shabby cubby hole and some consumptive children to see to.”
And that made no sense at all to Jim, no more than the idea that Blair would charge off without even listening to him. He bent down to grab Blair's wrists. Blair stiffened. It seemed that Jim no longer had any right to the casual manhandling that had always been part of their interaction, and he let go. It grieved him, and scared him. He always had expressed himself best to Blair in touch.
“Blair, I just wanted to see you. You're right, I did miss you.”
Blair watched the floor. “The remedy to that was in your hands, not mine.” Jim let out one slow breath. He would not lose his temper again, but his endurance was running thin. He gathered up his own clothes.
“I wanted to invite you to stay as a guest in my home. I'm planning to stay in Philadelphia a little while. When you've finished with pride's declaration of independence, maybe you'll let me know whether you accept.”
Jim was nearly out the door when, with a rush and a thump, Blair bounded across the room and slammed it shut.
“Don't you go. Don't you dare go.” Blair's arms snaked around Jim's neck in a stranglehold, his face buried against Jim's shoulder. He kept shivering like a spooked horse, and Jim instinctively soothed him the way he would a frightened animal.
“Shh, I won't go, I'm right here, hush,” repeated over and over.
Long minutes of stroking and petting followed, gradually attaining a lazy sensuality, for Jim anyway. It wasn't the time, and Jim could wait, now that he was satisfied that his presence was wanted. To distract himself, Jim enquired, “Hair of the dog?”
Blair shuddered. “God, no. I've got some peppermint and ginger teas, thought that maybe I might have to dose some of Eli's guests. But I'd best dose myself.” He looked up and smiled in a worn sort of way. “And yes, Captain Ellison, I accept your invitation.”
Followed by your basic they live happily ever after once they've had a heart to heart and maybe some sex. The end….
Return to Story Index