Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“You sent for me, Sir Edward?”

“I did, Sir William. Come inside, if you will, and close the door.”

Sinclair did as he was bidden, relieved to see that at least there was light in here. Three fat candles hung in heavy sconces, intricately suspended, although he could not quite see how, from a device that hung from the beams of the overhead deck, and although the shadows they cast swung and swooped disconcertingly, their light was nonetheless extremely welcome, projecting an illusion of warmth.

“Sit on the bunk if you wish, or on the stool.” De Berenger glanced at him sympathetically, noting the haggard lines around his eyes and mouth. “How are you feeling, all things considered? Will you last, think you?” There was the merest hint of smile around his eyes.

Sinclair perched himself carefully on the three-legged stool with his spread feet firmly planted on the decking, his back to the door, and one hand clutching an iron bracket that was anchored in the ship’s timbers. “Aye, I’ll last. I know that now, after five days of this. But I warn you, I’m like to vomit without warning. I can barely manage to control myself on deck, in the fresh air, but I cannot stay confined for any length of time without being able to see the horizon.”

De Berenger’s little smile widened to a grin. “Aye, that’s common with seasickness. But don’t worry about vomiting in here. I don’t imagine you have much in you to spew up, after five days. And there’s no shortage of seawater with which to wash it out.” He pointed a thumb towards the papers spilling from the open leather wallet on the table beside him. “I wanted to talk to you about these. Haven’t had much time since they came aboard, and only started reading them this forenoon … But they are thought provoking, and the admiral has obviously taken great pains over what he had to say.” He paused briefly. “They came to me, of course, from admiral to vice-admiral, one shipmaster to another. But you hold higher rank within our Order than either of us ever could, and thus I know that what’s contained in there concerns you primarily. The admiral has suggested that there will be grave decisions to consider, and he suggests, too, what they might entail … I read what he had to say with great interest, but I found myself glad the decisions are not mine to make.”

Sinclair nodded, glancing sideways at the open wallet and its contents. He had watched the wallet come aboard, on the first day of the bad weather, during a brief lull between the passing of one storm and the onset of the next, when St. Valéry’s galley had approached close enough through treacherous waters to shoot a crossbow bolt safely into their ship’s side, close by the entry port. It had taken several attempts, but a bolt had eventually thumped home. A length of fishing line had been tied to it, and attached to the far end of that had been a thicker cord, securing a pitchcovered basket, like a tiny boat, that held a waterproofed package of heavily waxed cloth containing the wallet of dispatches. He had watched the recovery process with interest, coming close to forgetting his own discomfort as he admired the monkeylike dexterity of the seamen who had carried it out, and he had presumed that whatever was involved in the hazardous delivery, it had to be a purely naval matter, since they had been far from land for days by then and nothing had occurred during that time that might involve him in his capacity as a member of the Order’s Council.

Now he looked back at de Berenger, raising one eyebrow. “You wish me to read them?”

“Aye, Sir William. I do. But I suspect you might find the task impossible, given your seasickness. You would have to sit here, head down, and concentrate on reading while everything around you seems to move. And so, if I may make a suggestion?”

“Of course. What is it?”

De Berenger indicated the table again with a wave of his hand. “I have already read everything here, and have been thinking of it for the past few hours. I can tell you what is involved, and outline the admiral’s suggestions. Then, afterwards, if you so wish, you may read anything you choose more carefully, without having to wade through the entire wallet.”

“Excellent suggestion. Do that. Give me the gist of it.” The vice-admiral picked up a substantial pile of papers and held them up in one hand. “Much of what’s here, naturally enough, is straightforward naval records work—copies of bills of lading, cargo lists, disciplinary reports, that kind of thing. None of that interests us in this instance.” He squared the edges of the papers and aligned them carefully against the bulkhead before picking up a second, much smaller pile that had been set apart. “This is what concerns us. These papers deal with the two main areas that the admiral is concerned about. The first of those is the matter of the three galleys that sailed into La Rochelle after we left. What happened to them, and where are they now?”

“Do we know any of that? I have heard nothing since the admiral delegated those two other galleys to keep an eye on them.”

“Admiral St. Valéry detached two more vessels to hang back and position themselves separately between us and Parmaison and de Lisle. That was five days ago, before the storms came down on us.”

“Separately. You mean separate from each other, or separate from de Lisle’s ships?”

“Both. The second pair, commanded by André du Bois and Charles Vitrier, were to station themselves within view of each other but far enough away from the first two to be able to pass the word to us quickly if they saw any signs of trouble.”

“And?”

“We don’t know. The weather has been too bad for us to know what’s going on out there.”

“But. I can hear a ‘but’ in your tone.”

“Yes, you can. The admiral has been proceeding in the belief that the three galleys have been seized and will come after us.”

“That was our first assumption, and until we find out more, it will remain valid. So what does Admiral St. Valéry propose?”

A tiny frown ticked between the other man’s brows. “That is where his logic evades me … or confuses me … and it is why I decided to talk to you.” He hesitated, then plunged on. “Has Admiral St. Valéry spoken to you of what he would like to do once we are clear of Cape Finisterre and outward bound?”

Sinclair cocked an eyebrow. “Aye. He has some idea of sailing off to the west, across the great sea, in search of something he believes is there.”

“The Merica legend.”

“Ah … He has spoken of it to you, has he?”

“No, not spoken of it exactly.” De Berenger looked troubled, as though he might be betraying a confidence. “He mentioned it, last time we spoke together in private. Hinted that he might like to go in search of it when he resigns as admiral. Said he had dreamed of finding it for years and that there’s nothing to stop him now, if he can find a crew of volunteers …”

Sinclair grunted. “He said much of the same to me. Asked me to consider giving him leave to go. He has no wish to travel with us to Scotland. He made that clear … What think you of the idea?”

De Berenger’s blink revealed his confusion before he asked, “What idea? Merica, or going to Scotland?”

“Merica.”

A play of expressions crossed de Berenger’s face until he shrugged. “Truthfully, I don’t know what to think of it, because the Order never really told us what to think of it, did it? On so many things the teachings are specific: this is what we know, that is a lie promulgated by Rome, that is true, this is foolish superstition. We always knew where we stood in the matter of most of the Order’s lore, and if we misunderstood or disagreed with any part of it, we could ask questions and debate the answers. But this Merica legend … no guidance was ever offered on it.”