Wellard drew his greatcoat tighter around him, more for security than to ward off an actual chill. The night air was cold, to be sure, with the rain beating down against Renown’s sides, but he did not feel it; his skin was hot, itching with anxiety.
Sleep eluded him, and he had left the midshipmen’s’ berth seeking solitude while the others slept carefree and content. They appeared so untroubled by the state of the ship that Wellard sometimes felt as though they served under a different captain. Perhaps they trusted the lieutenants to take care of matters, believing it their duty not to question, or perhaps they were blinded by Sawyer’s reputation. In either case, Wellard wanted to be away from them.
He had not got far when he heard the companion ladder creak. A broad shadow appeared, and instantly Wellard shrank back into the darkness beyond the hatchway, fearing it was Randall. For a moment, Wellard stood holding his breath, recalling the man’s ferocity in that brawl earlier. What if Randall had come seeking revenge for having his sport interrupted? A wave of sickness rolled through Wellard’s gut; he would have no chance against a brute like that and the lieutenants were not here to save him now.
But he was relieved when the light revealed a polished shoe buckle and then the blue skirts of a lieutenant’s jacket, and finally the shimmering strands of a long blond queue beneath a bicorn worn fore‘n’aft, in the new fashion. Lieutenant Kennedy. Wellard exhaled, letting his arms fall to his sides. Randall would not dare bother him now.
The relief was short-lived, however. Kennedy took off his hat, wet from the rain, and began walking away. Wellard stared hard after him, an unsettling mix of confusion and frustration burning under his skin. He was taller than Kennedy, but he could not help admiring the lieutenant’s figure, broad and sturdy, his wide shoulders flattered by his neatly pressed coat and his golden hair turned silver by the moonlight. The other mids liked Kennedy – he was efficient and never heavy-handed, and he would smile at you if you warranted it, though never in the way he smiled at Hornblower. Some whispered that he and Hornblower were sweet on one another. Wellard supposed that was none of his business. He also supposed that none of those whispering mids ever let their gaze linger so long on Kennedy as he did.
His cheeks stung with guilt to do so now, as though he were trespassing, *stealing* something from his superior officer. That was absurd; he was merely looking at him and had no need to skulk in the shadows like a thief. Far from it; he had much to say to Kennedy. Wellard straightened, clearing his throat, knowing he had to speak before Kennedy stepped out of earshot. On this ship he could not trust being overheard.
“Sir . . .” He whispered it faintly, but Kennedy turned. Wellard crossed into the light, stopping less than a foot from the fourth lieutenant at the bottom of the ladder, unsure of why he suddenly found it so hard to speak or why the heat in his cheeks deepened. He swallowed once to compose himself, and then said, “I didn’t thank you for your assistance this afternoon – with Randall that is, sir.”
Kennedy scowled, for a moment his expression as fierce as when he at roared at Randall earlier, but after a moment the scowl faded and his mouth curved into a slight smile. “There’s no need, Mr. Wellard,” he said, coolly formal, but titled his head and peered at Wellard for a long moment, as though wanting to say more. Wellard wondered briefly if Randall had been dressed down further. Hornblower had threatened him with death, hovering protectively behind Kennedy’s shoulder, but Wellard suspected Hornblower had only done that to be sure Randall did not dare disrespect Kennedy in turn for intervening. Wellard was fairly certain Hornblower cared nothing for him.
“I think the men will fight again,” he rambled after a moment when Kennedy’s scrutiny became too awkward. “At least they will if the Captain lets them carry on like they are.” Wellard had always imagined fighting below decks punishable by flogging, but Captain Sawyer only seemed interested in intimidating his officers and not demanding order among his crew.
“Shh.” Kennedy put a finger to his small mouth, his eyes darting about. Wellard blinked, his cheeks burning to have been stupid enough to forget the danger of being overhead and criticizing the Captain aloud. But after a moment of hearing nothing but the rain and the creaking of the ship, Kennedy seemed to relax. His expression did not completely soften, however. “Come with me, Mr. Wellard.” He turned, motioning for Wellard to follow.
Wellard swallowed hard, fearing that he had now earned the dressing down. He was only a midshipman and therefore had no right to disapprove of how one of Nelson’s own chose to run his ship. Hornblower would tell him as much and had already scolded him for mocking Bush earlier, but this was Kennedy. Yet for all Hornblower’s sternness and adherence to the Articles and their punishments, Wellard would find chastening from him far less devastating. From Kennedy he wanted smiles and laughter, not censure. But he had to obey, and so followed after him, a nervous knot tightening inside his chest.
The fourth lieutenant led him into one of the dark storerooms. When he bolted the door, a strange excitement stirred under Wellard’s skin to be alone with him, replacing the dread of a moment ago. He regretted the lack of light when Kennedy removed his jacket and hung it over the cutout, wishing he could drink in the pleasing sight of Kennedy’s muscular arms through his thin shirt. The heat burned stronger in Wellard’s face; there he went taking liberties again.
After a moment, Kennedy turned to face him in the dark. Something in his manner suggested that he was ill at ease, distracted, but that did not matter; Wellard only delighted in having his private attention. “Mr. Wellard, I believe you and I share an understanding,” Kennedy began in his cool, aristocratic way. “But for the time being I’m afraid we’ll have to keep it to ourselves.
Wellard blinked. Kennedy was referring to the state of the ship and their disapproval of the Captain. Relief filled him that someone would even vaguely acknowledge that things were amiss, but then confusion set in. Why must they keep it to themselves? Wellard had always imagined that Hornblower and Kennedy stood in agreement on everything, as though sharing one mind.
“Hornblower has sided with Bush, sir?” The prospect was beyond disappointing; he admired Hornblower as a brilliant and honorable officer, but Wellard supposed in some ways Kennedy far outshone him in courage. Kennedy spoke his mind, even if his recklessness in doing so gave Hornblower silent fits.
In the darkness, Wellard could see Kennedy shake his head. “Lieutenant Hornblower has of late expressed an adamant reluctance to engage in any behavior which might send him to the noose.” By his tone, Wellard understood that he had struck a nerve.
“But what does this mean, sir?” he stepped closer to ask, lowering his voice. Were the others not allies or did they simply wish to turn a blind eye? He took a wicked pleasure in sharing this secret with Kennedy, wanting to step even closer and whisper together in the nature of secrets, but then felt vaguely alarmed that he and Kennedy were only ones in agreement where Sawyer was concerned.
Kennedy sighed. “I don’t know.” He sounded tired. Wellard wondered if he had argued with Hornblower. The two shared quarters; perhaps Kennedy had come down here to avoid him.
Frowning, Wellard moved nearer to stand beside Kennedy, leaning his back against the door. “Are you well, sir?” It was not his place to inquire on the private matters of a superior officer, but the idea of Kennedy brooding over Hornblower filled him with strange jealousy. He pressed close against Kennedy’s shoulder, excited by the warmth of him.
“Well enough, I suppose,” Kennedy answered, distant despite their proximity. Wellard’s frown deepened and he did not know what else to do but continue talking.
“I fear the Captain will see Hornblower swing if he can. He seems to have it in for him.”
At Hornblower’s name, Kennedy tensed against his shoulder, but in the next moment he scornfully snorted. “They either despise or worship him, Mr. Wellard. He allows no middle ground. Today he seems in a mood to be despised.”
“I’d say he succeeded with the Captain, sir. I was sure Mr. Hornblower would cop it for greeting Lieutenant Bush in Mr. Buckland’s place. Weren’t you frightened, sir? The Captain was on the verge of – “
Kennedy cut him off, finding his hand in the darkness and squeezing hard. “Mr. Wellard, you mustn’t –“
But he must, for so long he had wanted to speak of how much the Captain and his minions frightened him – Hobbs, Clive, and Randall – and now that the chance had presented itself Wellard did not wish to be silent. “But, sir, what will we do if Saw –“
He stopped. Kennedy turned and took his face in both hands, and the next thing Wellard knew the lieutenant’s mouth was on his, hot, and firm, and quick. Something ignited within him, burning like a fever. His arms wound around Kennedy’s neck and he clung, giddy and terrified.
It was not until Kennedy had pulled away that Wellard made sense of the heat that had overtaken him. His superior officer had kissed him and he was aroused. Panic clutched within his breast; this was a sin, a crime, and he ought to take his arms from around Kennedy’s neck.
He could hear Kennedy breathing, feel him tense against him, but when the lieutenant spoke his tone was much too casual for the severity of what they had done. “Footsteps, Mr. Wellard,” he explained. “I don’t mean to take liberties.”
Footsteps? Wellard’s face burned, feeling a fool. He could hear the faint clack of heels outside their door, perhaps Buckland or one of the other midshipmen. Kennedy had only meant to silence him because his tongue had run away with him again. Wellard supposed the little sin of kissing did not carry so high a price as letting their contempt for Sawyer be overhead.
But Kennedy’s chest was hot against his – Wellard could feel his heart beating – and he thought he had imagined enthusiasm in that kiss. Perhaps he might dare flatter himself into thinking that somewhere deep down Kennedy wanted him, or at least was lonely enough at sea to want someone.
“No, not at all, sir,” Wellard stammered, his throat dry. “Quite the contrary, I . . .” He did not know how to say that he was more than unrepulsed, that he wanted . . . His arms tightened and he clumsily crushed his mouth to Kennedy’s again.
Wellard felt emboldened by his own courage; he initiated, asked for more. Kennedy seemed taken aback but he gave it, his hands going to Wellard’s forearms as his mouth responded, without any of the sloppiness of the other boys Wellard had kissed. Kennedy was experienced; Wellard could tell. But after a moment Kennedy’s hands fell and he tried to step back.
“Mr. Wellard, we’re . . .” Not supposed to do this, Wellard supposed Kennedy meant to say, but he did not give him the chance. His mouth found Kennedy’s once more, pressing hard, offering all he had if only Kennedy would let this go on.
“I know, sir,” he managed in a hoarse whisper when he stopped to breathe. But then “sir” seemed inappropriate, dirty, considering what they were doing. “Mr. Kennedy, “ Wellard corrected. That was better. He moved his mouth to Kennedy’s warm neck, feeling the lieutenant’s pulse throb under his lips. He started to move even lower, ready to sink to his knees. Surely Kennedy was fraught enough to want . . . .
“No.” Strong hands seized his shoulders, keeping him upright. Wellard froze in sheer panic. He was aroused and could not hide it, his prick pressing against Kennedy’s thigh. He had to do something before Kennedy stopped him and pushed him away, had to win the older man over somehow.
Kennedy took the matter from him, backing him the few steps to the bulkhead. He pressed Wellard there, breathing hard, throwing his heavy body against Wellard’s small frame. On instinct, Wellard began grinding back against him, seeking contact with every inch of the other man’s muscular body, burying his face in Kennedy’s neck and clinging to his jacket. Kennedy panted in his ear as they writhed, their cheeks pressed hotly together. Intense sensation surged through Wellard’s party; a part of him feared he would not survive it.
“Oh God . . .” He bit into the thick damp wool at Kennedy’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his sweating fingers into the lieutenant’s broad back. His body shuddered, the room suddenly bright as he came off in one sharp spasm after another.
When the climax ebbed, Wellard was left with a cooling mess in his trousers, his body weak and drained. Kennedy had already pulled away. Wellard could hear him rasping in the blackness, but without his sturdy body to lean against Wellard could not hold himself up.
He sank to the floor, staring up at Kennedy’s solid shape in the darkness. Shame welled up in him to have forgotten himself with a superior officer, and then fear for the consequences of that trespass, and underneath it all a dim hope that Kennedy would want more.
“I . . .” Kennedy began after he seemed to catch his breath. Wellard took small comfort in the way he faltered, knowing he was nervous and confused as well. But Kennedy was composed when he continued. “Mr. Wellard, I hope you understand I mean you no harm.”
Wellard blinked. Did Kennedy fear being taken for a lecher? He had heard of lascivious officers charged with having their way with the ship’s boys, but surely Kennedy must knew he could never think such a thing of him.
“Of course not, sir,” he rushed to say, finding it strange to be the one in the position to allay fears. Kennedy could have him hanged if he wanted; a midshipman’s word was nothing against a lieutenant’s.
“Right, then.” Kennedy spoke with more conviction now, though Wellard wondered if it were a mask. Sometimes Kennedy could be hard to read. “As we were before.”
Wellard’s heart sank. Though what else could he expect? It was not as though Kennedy would begin an illicit, disgraceful relationship with a junior officer. Still, the hurt would not leave him that this incident would have to be put behind them, never to be spoken of again. Wellard wondered if Kennedy would be distant toward him now, or resentful, and wanted strangely to sob at the thought. Matters on this ship were too unbearable to lose the only ally he had.
“May I take my leave, sir?” he asked quietly, with perfect respect, getting up from the floor.
“Yes . . .” The fourth lieutenant’s voice was equally quiet, but then he swallowed and tried again. “Yes. Goodnight, Mr. Wellard.”
Kennedy grabbed his hand then and shook it. Wellard’s head whirled with confusion where it had spun with giddy desire a moment before. What was this? A gentlemen’s agreement that Kennedy would keep silent about what had passed between them if he did? Wellard frowned, cold as he stepped out of the storeroom and into the passageway, making his way back to the midshipmen’s berth, wondering if Kennedy would confess what they had done to Hornblower or if this would be another strange secret shared only between them.