The "Indefeatable"

[Brighitta]

A story I wrote as present to a friend of mine.

Not finished yet.

For Nadine: “a friend more true than any that have lived.”

THE 'INDEFEATABLE'

Amelia's heart thrashed like a caged animal as she stepped aboard the 'Indefeatable'. She certainly hoped she did not look as frightened as she felt, but as her feet touched the ship's wooden deck, a rush of excitement pushed the trepidation out of her body.
She took a deep breath, taking in the salty, moist air. Above her head, white gulls shrieked loudly and incessantly, louder even than the throngs of deckhands and sailors that roamed the ship. Reluctantly, she turned her attention to the men on the decks. There was a good three hundred of them on the 'Indefeatable', Amelia knew – over 100 red-clad soldiers, 130 mariners, 40 gunners, the rest officers. The mariners rushed about, shouting something she could not hear over the cries of the gulls and the noise of the port.
'New arrival, are you?' one man, taller than her by at least a head, burly and dark-skinned from continuous exposure to the sun, winked at her good-naturally. He was carrying a heavy-looking box with apples and lemons.
'Yes,' she answered in a voice lower than her natural one.
'What's your name?'
'Aiden. Aiden Watson.'
'I'm James Flanaghan, midshipman. And welcome to the 'Indefeatable', Mr. Watson.'
'Thank you, Mr. Flanaghan.'
The midshipman looked up, squinting in the sunlight.
'You should report to the officer, Mr. Watson. First Lieutenant William Thompson, there on the upper deck.'
Amelia smiled thankfully and began to make her way onto the third deck. The men that rushed here and there ignored the newcomer completely, all preoccupied with last-minute preparations.
'Lieutenant Thompson?'
The man turned around to face her. He was young, probably a few years older than she herself was, with a cheerful, pale-skinned face that betrayed a recent illness. Aristocrat, as far as she could tell from his hands, crisp, navy-blue uniform and immaculate, russet-gold hair tied back with a black ribbon.
'Fifth Lieutenant Aiden Watson?' the officer smiled, checking something on the stack of papers he was holding.
'Yes, sir.'
'You are the last one, then. You're not on duty till later in the day, so you can go acquaint yourself with the ship. We shall be meeting in the mess after lunch, just the officers; quite a few new faces here today.'
He smiled again and turned his attention to a group of mariners hauling a stack of boxes at a precarious angle.
'What are you doing? Gellard, Ashway, these fools are going to drown our munitions before we even set sail!'
Amelia spent the next two hours walking about. She had never been on a ship this size, the largest being a traders' ship her late brother, Aiden, captained. Nonetheless, it had been nothing compared to the 'Indefeatable' – a mere vessel with two dozen crewmen. This one was overwhelmingly large, bustling with life. The enormous white sails dwarfed everything, making her feel small and insignificant, one of the many ants crawling the decks.
On an impulse, she bent over the railing and closed her eyes, letting the hot breeze wash her face. At that moment, she felt like she was breathing not air, but freedom – pure, undiluted, exhilarating. Like alcohol it ran in her blood now, turning her head with its novelty and prospects.
'Wonderful, isn't it?'
The young woman's eyes snapped open, the sound of the male voice sobering her in an instant. It was one of the officers, leaning against the railing a yard away from her.
'All the young ones are enamored with the sea at first,' he continued, dark eyes wistful and far away, so far that Amelia was no sure whether he was talking to her or to himself. 'Fades after a while, after you realize it is not as pretty as romance novels made it all appear. More dreary work and days without food than dashing pirates and exciting battles.' He sighed and turned to face her, smiling a little, sad smile. 'Forgive me. I should be welcoming you on board, not discouraging you from sea-travel altogether. Second Lieutenant James Dalloway.'
'Fifth Lieutenant Aiden Watson, sir.'
'Kent, if I not mistaken?'
'Dublin.'
Dalloway laughed.
'Trying to impress my subordinates and always failing, I am afraid. Welcome on board, Mr. Watson. We have a good crew here, I am sure you will agree, and she is a good ship. Have you ever traveled on vessels this size?'
'I am afraid no,' the woman replied, 'but I think I shall take great pleasure in serving on this ship.'
'I have been here for eight years, ever since I was a fourteen-year-old lad. Young, idealistic, we are all like that at that age. See this mark, here?'
His hand rested just below a deep etching in the wood. There were two letters there – J D.
'The first day I came here. I -'
A bell rang somewhere, silencing the senior officer.
'Lunch, Mr. Watson. Shall I show you the way to the mess?'

* * *

'Gentlemen,' a tall, austere-looking man rose, 'yet another journey lays ahead of us. We have been commissioned to brings arms to the British forces in India, and then to join the forces of Admiral Greye in the Carribean, as you all undoubtedly know.
As your captain, I would like to thank the regular crew for their unwavering loyalty, and to welcome the three new officers. I trust our partnership shall be productive and...'
The captain continued to talk, but Amelia's attention strayed. She noticed that the first officer, Thompson, and the man who had lead her here, James Dalloway, were occupied with something else. The two men were laughing silently, hiding behind hands and the backs of others.
As she watched, Dalloway whispered something into Thompson's ear, and the two erupted into another peal of mute snickering.
They were quite different, these two officers. The fair, blue-eyed Thompson, broader in the shoulders and shorter, and the dark-haired, delicately built Dalloway, with his full lips and large, almost-black eyes. Thompson was exuberant and full of life, with shining eyes and a lively face. Dalloway seemed quieter – his smiles were small and almost coy, his eyes seemed to look down more often than at the person he was talking to. Despite these differences, however, they seemed to be the best of friends, content with finally being reunited and impatient to fling themselves into adventure.
'...thank you, gentlemen. You may resume with your duties.'
The twenty four officers rose, all talking loudly. Amelia suddenly felt very uncomfortable, realizing, only now, that her plan was ridiculously bad. How could she have thought that she could possibly pass for a man? She'll be discovered, sooner or later, and set down at the nearest port with shame. How could she have been so foolish? She was just a girl, a frightened little girl discontent with her life and yearning for freedom. How could she expect these men, with all their prospects, to understand?
'Mr. Watson?'
'Sirs,' Amelia fought hard to keep her voice from shaking, at the same time making it lower.
'Captain Isaacs likes to speak, a lot,' Thompson grinned, a hand curved around his friend's shoulders. 'We've volunteered to be you unofficial patrons on this voyage. Show you the ship, sleeping quarters, introduce you to the crew you shall be working with.'
'Thank you,' Amelia answered, suddenly very interested in her boots and conscious of the gaze of the two men.
'Care to walk with us, Mr. Watson?' Dalloway motioned at the stairs. They lead her onto the lower deck, where crewmen were securing boxes of food and paraffin with long cuts of rope. 'Will, where will Mr. Watson be sleeping?'
'In the third compartment, with five other officers. You're in luck,' the blond lieutenant grinned at Amelia, 'better that sharing a compartment with twenty or thirty, at least. I remember the first year there were, what, seventy people crammed together?'
'Forty-three,' Dalloway remarked wryly, making Amelia smile.
'Thank you, James,' Thomson said with mock-irritation. 'You captained a ship called 'Sparrow', did you not, Mr. Watson?'
'Yes, for two years,' Amelia lied, ducking to avoid a mast.
'At such a young age, too?' Thompson seemed impressed, 'You cannot be older than eighteen!'
'Twenty-one, Mr. Thompson. And she was only a trader's vessel. A mule could have captained it; I spent more time lounging on the deck with the first-mate's very fine rice wine.'
The two men laughed.
'I think we are going to like you, Mr. Watson,' Thompson concluded, placing a wide-palmed hand on Amelia's shoulder.

* * *

It was storming that particular night. Amelia was on watch with James Dalloway, leaning against a mast, her uniform soaked to the shirt. She was freezing, her hair was plastered to her neck and forehead, the many layers of clothes were as heavy as boulders, and yet she had never been happier. Paradoxically, she did not even feel particularly uncomfortable in the drenched clothing.
Around her, the sea raged, tossing gallons of black water against the ship's hull. The masts moaned under the force of the wind, an salty water seemed to be everywhere – in the crates of food, on the decks, in Amelia's mouth. The ship heaved slowly as it rose on a wave, then plunged back down, sometimes at frighteningly dangerous angles.
'Aiden, go inside,' Dalloway shouted from where he was standing, holing his navy hat with one hand and grasping the looking-glass with another.
'I have another three hours yet,' Amelia walked closer, clasping her hat to her head.
'Go below deck, dry off, you are going to catch your death. I shall finish our watch, I am more than used to such weather.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.' The dry words were filled with gratitude.
'Go now.'
Below deck, everyone was sleeping. On clear nights, the men would doze in the warm air, but with nature raging, they had all taken refuge in their hammocks, curled up with thin blankets wrapped around shoulder. Amelia found her own hammock, slid out of her uniform jacket and pondered changing into a dry shirt. Looking around to make sure the three officers were asleep, she quickly peeled the sodden shirt off her body, grimacing as the cloth she had bound across her breasts reminded her of itself. The dryness of clean shirt and breeches was welcome, and the little nest of the blanket of hammock embraced her as she climbed into it carefully.
'Watch over?' Thompson asked from the next hammock.
'No, Dalloway sent me down early,' Amelia whispered, not wanting to wake the other two men.
Thompson muttered something incoherent and turned away, falling back into the oblivion of sleep. Amelia rested her head on her makeshift pillow, but sleep was slow to come. She closed her eyes and listened, taking in the quiet creaking of the wooden ship as it protesting against the rough treatment it was being subjected to. On her right, Thompson's breathing, deep and level, mingled with the creaking, on her left, Dalloway's empty hammock swung with the motion of the ship.
It seemed eternity later that she heard footsteps and saw a thoroughly drenched James Dalloway moving down the stairs. Feigning sleep, she watched through her lashes as the senior officer tossed his jacket aside with a grimace of distaste. Off went the shirt as well, and he spent some minutes drying himself off with a cut of cotton. Unwillingly, Amelia's eyes ran down his slender, willowy silhouette, flat-muscled and pale-skinned. Dark curls leaked salty tears, tiny rivulets running down the curve of his spine. Some years ago, boys would have called him clumsy, thin and gangly and long limbed, but with age the clumsiness had turned into grace and thinness into slenderness.
An animal raised its head within her stomach, raised its head and opened its eyes as the man swathed in shadowy darkness reached for his sea-chest and started looking for something in it. His eyes seemed larger in the half-darkness, the gaslight reflecting in their chocolate surface, hard stomach heaving with the cold. The animal squirmed as Dalloway's tongue darted out to lick a salty drop off his bottom lip. As his long hands reached for the breeches that clung to his narrow hips, Amelia closed her eyes and, cheeks burning with shame of her own boldness, persuaded herself to sleep.

* * *


Three weeks later. Shore leave.

The dingy inn was filled with noise and boisterous, half-drunk officers. There were only five tables here, but all were occupied, and each held an uncountable amounts of mugs and plates. The rich, pungent scent of ale and limes hang in the air, mixing with the thick cloud of cigarette smoke that had attached itself onto the wooden ceiling.
'...so there he was,' Thompson clanged a glass mug onto the table unceremoniously, making a huge gesture and almost hitting Amelia in the nose. 'Ah, beg your 'ardon, Aiden. The admiral, prim 'n proper sort of arrogant idiot, was giving 'is “high and mighty” speech when he realized his prized hat wasn't on his head. Spent a good 'alf hour looking for it. We got a good thrashing from the cap'n for hiding the d**ned thing afterwards, I can tell you that!'
The officers laughed uproariously.
'Thompson,' a ginger-haired officer called Jones spoke, ''fess up, did you rig those duel pistols for Grey's and McAllister's duel?'
'Yup,' Thompson downed his cup of dark ale, 'a little water on gunpowder does wonders, innit? Besides, no-un wanted 'em to kill each other off. We'd have had to clean the bloody deck afterwards, eh?'
He smirked at the unintentional pun and shoved Amelia in the chest.
'You ain't drinkin' more?'
'No, thank you,' Amelia answered, clasping her almost-full – and first – cup in her hands. 'Afraid I cannot hold liquor as well as you can.'
'Ain't liquor, it's ale,' Dalloway grinned drunkenly, the alcohol clearly having loosened his tongue, 'you've still gotta lot to learn, don't ya, Aiden?'
'I suppose so, sir,' Amelia answered, but her politeness did not go well with the other officers, who guffawed like a herd of wild stallions and shook their heads.
'You gotta relax once in a while, kid,' McAllister rolled his eyes in mock irritation, 'have some fun, y'know?'
'And what does this “fun” entail, Mr. McAllister?' Amelia grinned, taking a sip from her cup, 'I pray, do enlighten me.'
'Andrew here no doubt means all kind of drunken deb-deb-debaucheries,' Thompson struggled over the difficult word. 'Fights, we've had a good lot of those, haven't we, lads? Drink, and we've plenty of that here, thank God. And ladies, of course. Pretty lasses is one el-element we seem to be missing...'
Amelia started to giggle, but quickly disguised it behind a pretended bout of coughing.
'You got a girl back home, kid?' Thompson slung an arm around Amelia's shoulder, its weight almost throwing her off balance. 'They have plenty of pretties there?'
'You are drunk, Thompson,' Amelia winced, moving his arm off her.
'Ye, I am at that,' there was an amusing note of surprise in the second lieutenant's voice. 'I think I've had enough, boys. Nice bed 'n a glass of whiskey before sleep.'
More laughter and cheering.
'I'll call it a night as well,' Amelia rose, looking around the table. 'Good night, gentlemen.'
'Yes, you need to relax more, Watson,' McAllister said, in the tone of a doctor pronouncing his verdict. 'Promise to drink more next time?'
'Promise,' Amelia answered.
'I'm coming upstairs as well,' Dalloway finished his drink and got up, swaying a little as he did. 'Doubt Will will handle the stairs all by himself. At least not without endangering his own life.'
'You, sir,' the Will in question slurred, 'doubt me much too often.'
'Yes, of course. C'mon.'
They made their way up the small flight of stairs, slowly and carefully. Although Amelia was not as drunk as the men in front of her were, she had been forced to drink some, and was consequently somewhat light-headed.
'Good-night, Aiden,' Dalloway reached out for his door, missing the handle by some inches. 'd**n...'
''Night, sir,' Amelia turned the key in the lock and entered her tiny, semi-dark room. There were two beds, each sporting a leather bag with a change of clothes and some money, and a table with two matching wooden chairs. Nothing else. Amelia fished a clean shirt out of her bag and wondered when the other men will decided to go to bed. Hoping she had an hour before her room-mate had enough of alcohol and food, the woman made for the bathroom.
There was a tubful of warm water waiting for her already, and she was quick to undress and sink into the caressing warmth. It was wonderful to finally be in a proper bath; she had grown tired of the hurried dips into the ocean, when she was constantly terrified of someone discovering her for what she really was.
She sank under the water, running a hand through her shoulder-long, dark hair. It had not been too difficult to pretend to be a man. Her broader shoulders proved to be helpful, and the wide shirts easily disguised her small waist. Slightly bigger boots made her feet appear larger than they actually were, and long sleeves hid her feminine hands. Short hair, a lower voice, bound breasts. For the first time in her life, she was glad to be bigger-boned than it was fashionable.
Her eyes snapped open as she heard something, and she sat up, water polling down her face.
There was someone outside the door.
Before she had the time to think of anything, thought, the door swung open and a tired-looking James Dalloway strode in, a towel slung across one shoulder and a shirt in his hand.
Her hands flew to her chest, but it was too late, and she knew it.

[Brighitta]

'And when were you planning to inform us, Ai – Amelia?' Dalloway seemed completely sober. Although he had been shocked initially, he now seemed curious and somewhat indignant.
'You must understand, I was not planning to stay on the ship for long. I -' she lowered her hands in defeat. 'Life back home is indescribably dull. We spent the day talking about knitting and cookery, for God's sake. You cannot understand – you with your freedom. Why is it that I am denied that liberty because of my gender?'
'Women have their duties, Amelia. Home, children -'
'So I am to have these duties forced upon me?'
'Amelia, you will be arrested if you discovered. It is against the law to impersonate an officer of the Navy.' The man came closer, holding her eyes in his. 'I will put you on the next ship home, without telling anyone of your secret.'
'I am not going home.' She accentuated every word, anger lacing her voice. Who was he to order her about? Who as he to think he could force her to do something against her will?
'That is up to you,' Dalloway placed his arms across his chest, 'then you are ready to be left here and fare on your own?'
'I can be of great help on the ship. I know my navigation, I am as useful as any man could be,' Amelia started indignantly, only to be cut off by the quiet-voiced officer.
'Out of the question, Miss Watson. I am not going to aid you in breaking the Naval Code.'
'No-one needs know.'
'Someone is bound to find out.'
'No-one will.'
'Discussion over. Now, if please, I'd like to have my bath.'
However, Amelia would not have it. She furrowed her brows and crossed her arms, smirking a little as she did.
'I am not moving until you promise that you shall not stand in the way of my return to the 'Indefeatable', Mr. Dalloway.'
'You,' Dalloway reached for his shirt, 'Miss Watson, are nothing short of a stubborn ass.'
With that, he continued to undress nonchalantly, as if she not present at all. She made a sound of exasperation and turned to face the door, listening as the man changed the bath water and climbed into it.
'You know -' she began.
'I am not interested, Miss Watson.'
Then, a gunshot sounded.
'Those idiots are going to wreck the place,' Dalloway muttered, and Amelia heard him climbing out of the water. Little more than a minute later, he was standing next to her, buttoning a red linen shirt.
'Stay here, Miss Watson.'
'I -'
'Stay. Here.'
With that, the man rushed outside, leaving her in the now silent bathroom. She began to pace impatiently. This was how she was always treated. This was how all women were treated. As inferior, silly little girls with no minds of their own. As she if she could not take care of herself! Well she had spent her childhood playing with the neighborhood children – something her mother was, luckily, still now aware of – and was not as genteel and fragile as some people seemed to think she was.
She stopped and began to tap her foot on the floor. Did that insufferable James Dalloway expect her to totter off home at his first bidding? Ha! She would stay just to spite him, just to show him that she could man a ship as well as any male could. And it had nothing to do with the fact that he was ridiculously handsome, of course it did not. It was a matter of principle.
The door swung open and the subject of her heated thought walked in.
'James Dalloway, I'll -'
He did not let her finish. Grabbing her arm unceremoniously, the man dragged her over to the window, ignoring her sounds of protest.
'Can you fit through that window?' he asked brusquely.
'What?'
'Can you fit through that window?'
'What is going on? You are hurting me!'
'The Spanish. They are arresting the men downstairs.'
Her indignation on behalf of womankind disappeared.
'Why?'
'God knows. I want you to climb out of that window. There are rowboats outside, take one and row to the cove just north. Wait there. If everything goes well, I will come and retrieve you. If they open fire on the “Inde”, run west, get some women's clothing and wait for a ship back home. Do you understand?'
'But you -'
'I will be fine.'
'James, come with me.'
He looked at her, hesitating. Another gunshot sounded, and the floor shook. Someone shouted out in pain.
'James, you will be of no help if you are arrested with them. Come with me, we will think of something, we will get them out.'
Before he could reply, the door opened once more and a rather tousled-looking Will Thompson ran in. He was sporting a black eye and a bloodied shirt, and his breathing was heavy.
'Ah, here you are. Get out, come on, out of that window.'
Dalloway seemed ready to say something.
'James, shut it and get out of that window. That's an order.'
After years in the service, James Dalloway had learned to obey without a question. So he grabbed Amelia's waist and hauled her up, supporting her until she had squeezed through the opening. She fell onto the soft grass and rolled aside, just as Dalloway landed gracefully next to her. He threw his right arm out, pushing her against the wall of the inn as Thompson landed where she was standing a moment ago.
'There will take them out of the front door,' Thompson whispered, 'we will wait until they are out of earshot, then go into the wood back north and hide there until we know if the bloody Spaniards are planning to attack the ship.'
'The “bloody Spaniards” are not,' someone said in immaculate English.
It was only then that the three realized that the Spanish had placed armed soldiers all around the inn. They had been hidden behind some shrubbery, but now a red-clad officer strode into the light, bearing a gun aimed squarely at them. 'Arrest these three, they will do.'
'On what charges, sir?' Amelia tried to sidestep two men approaching her with a length of rope.
'You are prisoners of war, gentlemen. Do not attempt anything, and you will be returned alive soon enough. Try to resist arrest and I shall have you killed. I have an inn full of you and I care not which of the officers spend the next five or six months in our cells. Shoot the rest.'
The Spanish soldiers laughed and wrung Amelia's arms behind her, tying them securely with the rope. Dalloway and Thompson brought their hands together themselves, standing calmly as they too were bound, sculptures of serenity itself.
Then they were lead into the darkness, gunshots sounding behind them. Dalloway walked to Amelia's right, eyes half-closed, features relaxed, as if he was asleep, or hypnotized. Thompson stared ahead intently, stubborn chin raised proudly, lips pursed. Both tried to not think of their fellow officers. Both failed.

* * *

By dawn, they had reached a fort, an old-looking construction of yellow-brown stone. Apart from a a dozen or so armed men on the tower walls, there seemed to be no-one else about. The three were marched through the gates, and into a small inner yard. It was clean and bare-looking, just a square patch of earth with a palm tree in the center, lined on all sides with stone walls .
A short flight of stairs, a metal door and they were locked in a cell. It was not as horrible as Amelia had pictured it would be – there were three bunks with pillows and blankets, a table with four chairs and a water-jug. A barred window looked out onto a beach some fifty feet away.
No-one said a word. Dalloway, the mask of defiance tossed aside, looked sad and exhausted, face heavy with dark lines and eyes bleak. He lowered himself onto the first bunk and hung his head.
'Was he honest when he said we shall not be harmed?' Amelia broke the heavy silence.
'I presume the Spanish pig was,' Thompson let out a bitter laugh, 'they need us to trade, I presume. The English must have something they need – prisoners, money. Today they shall send a messenger to the admiralty setting out their demands. The admiralty will bargain for a few weeks, then a consensus will be reached and a ship will be commissioned to take us. Simple as that. Question is – how many of us do they need? All three, or one?'
'They wouldn't have taken all three had they not required us all,' Dalloway spoke quietly, 'so it is safe to assume that we are safe. Which cannot be said of the others.'
'How long?' Amelia asked.
'As long as it takes a messenger to reach London, then the negotiations, then a ship to be sent here... I say three, four months at the least.' Thompson tossed himself onto a bunk. 'Could have been much worse, I suppose,' he continued. 'James, remember that Spanish prison two years ago?'
Dalloway sighed, gathering himself.
'No, it is not as bad, and if they need us alive and healthy than I expect we will be fed well, too.'
His assumption was right. After the three had slept for some hours, a tray of food was brought to them. Salted meat, bread, limes and a jug of red wine.
They sat cross-legged on the floor and began to eat, wolfing the food down hungrily and squinting in the sunlight like cats.
'Will,' Dalloway said finally, licking his salty lips and pushing the now empty tray aside, 'there is something you should no.'
Amelia threw him a warning glance.
'He might as well know, seeing as we are about to spend months in this room,' Dalloway shrugged.
'Know what?' Thompson asked lazily, picking a lime with the air of an expert.
'My name is Amelia Watson. Aiden was my brother.' Amelia said in one breath.
Thompson stared at her for a moment, looking as if he had just met her. A second later he understood everything. His face turned from blank to taken aback to amused.
'They say a woman is bad luck on a ship,' he said finally, giving her a long, measuring look, as if taking her in all over again. 'I think they might be right.'
Amelia laughed.
'They say men are gullible creatures,' she retorted tartly, 'I think they might be right.'
'Who are you really, then?' Thompson asked curiously.
'Amelia Watson, as I have already said. My brother died at sea two years ago, on my sixteenth birthday. Three weeks ago, my parents informed me on my imminent marriage to some Lord or other, a man I have never met and have no desire to meet. That night I stole my brother's papers and fled to London, where I dressed as a man and enrolled into the Navy.'
The two men exchanged a look.
'I can safely say I have never met a woman quite like you, Amelia Watson,' William Thompson said with an unhidden admiration. 'It takes great courage to run away from a life that has been set out for you, from everything you have known.' He stopped and let out a short, bark-like laugh. 'So we have had a woman in our midst all these weeks...'

* * *

Days passed. Lazy, warm days of doing nothing, of tolerably good food, young, bitter wine and hour-long conversations that often lasted well into the night. They were treated well here; no-one beat or threatened them. In fact, they only people they met were the guards who brought them food and drink. Occasional, they heard snatches of conversation, female giggling and drunken singing Dalloway estimated that there were about one and a half hundred people at the fort, and ten or so women, wives of the higher officers.
A week later, the guard told them, in heavily accented English, that they were permitted daily walks to the beach. That day, they were supplied with towels and a change of clothing.
'They don't fear us running away?' Amelia asked curiously. Thompson had ran to the beach the instant they were informed they could do so, and her and James Dalloway were alone in the cell.
'Where?' he shrugged from where he sat on his bunk, long legs folded beneath him. 'They have a hundred armed soldiers and we have no means of getting out of here to speak of. No, they know we will not run.' He cut a lime in quarters and placed one green slice in his mouth.
'How can you eat that?' Amelia opened their little window, letting a breath of red-hot air inside.
'It's good,' he said through a mouthful of fruit, 'here, try.'
She flopped onto Thompson's bed, crossing her legs like the man opposite her. Taking a piece of lime from his hands, she looked at it dubiously, her mouth watering just at the thought of it.
'Go on.' The man looked at her expectantly.
She closed her lips about it, and bit back a yelp of surprise as sharp, acidic taste pierced her tongue. Tears formed in her eyes.
'So?'
'It's horrible,' she swallowed and licked the juice from her lips.
'It's better with sugar. If only we'd had some here...'
'You know what I miss? Chocolate,' Amelia confessed, taking another lime. 'What?' The man's eyes shone with amusement. She winced and swallowed. 'Yes, chocolate and coffee. There is nothing better than a cup of black coffee in the morning. Father used to bring me chocolate when he traveled to France. Boxes of little chunks of black chocolate with almonds and honey.'
The man smiled softly. He reached out across the space between them, hesitated for a moment, then touched her cheek, wiping a droplet of lime juice off her skin. His hand lingered there for a moment, then dropped to his side.
Amelia stood up and busied herself arranging the clean clothes, separating them into three neat piles. Her cheeks burned, as if his fingers had been made of white-hot steel. Carefully, she avoided Dalloway's eyes.
'Amelia?' she heard him move off the bunk, walk towards her. A hand fell onto her shoulder, warm and heavy. 'Did I say something untoward?'
'No,' she replied, more curtly than it was necessary. 'Of course not.'
Eyes met, deep brown and pale blue, an electric current running between them.
It is a strange thing that one moment, a fleeting, fleeting instant can change everything. How one wordless speck of time may bond two people more closer than blood can. And at that moment, his hand on the coarse fabric of her over-sized shirt, eyes locked together, something happened. What, she did not yet know, but for the first time she felt that connection, as if he was naked before her, heart and soul, and she before him. There were no rainbows, time did not slow as romance novels like to say it does. No. They were just two people with tousled, unbrushed hair and dusty clothing, standing in the middle of a little stone room and looking at one another.
'I am sorry,' Dalloway eased the silence away gently. He looked away, a shadow passing across his face, which disappeared the moment he saw is friend coming from the beach.
'You two should go,' William Thompson bounded into the cell like an over-exuberant pup, flaxen hair damp and face reddened from the sun. 'The water is lovely, like a warm bath. Something wrong?'
'No,' Amelia spoke at last. 'I shall go and swim now.'

* * *

When she returned, the sun had set and the two men were sleeping. The evening had turned cool, northerly wind blowing heavy clouds their way and dispelling the lazy heat of the day. As the guard let her into the cell and locked the door behind her, rain started to fall, huge droplets making dotted designs on the yellow sand outside. The rain beat against the window, hard and unwavering, drumming some eternal nature's tune out on the glass.
She sat on her bed and ran her hands through her hair, wishing she had a comb. On her right, William Thompson slept peacefully, one hand over his eyes, chest rising and falling with slow breathing.
James slept fitfully, eyelids fluttering as he muttered something in his sleep. White-knuckled hands grasped the edge of a blanket.
On an impulse, Amelia bent over him and touched his cheek, feeling the hard stubble beneath her fingers. She meant to wake him from his nightmare, but he did not open his eyes. Her hand roamed to his dark hair. He moaned something incoherent.
'James,' she whispered. 'James.'
At last the man did wake.
'Nightmare?' she asked quietly.
'Headache,' he replied with a pained expression. Now that he was awake, she noticed the bleak eyes, the dry lips. 'I get them once in a while.'
She touched his forehead.
'You're burning. Would you like me to get an officer?'
'No,' he winced. It was clearly difficult for him to speak. 'Just closed the window, try not to make any noise.'
She obeyed, moving about as quietly as she could.
'Anything else I can get you?'
He shook his head and turned onto his side heavily.
Amelia thought a little, then sent her modesty to the stinking place and lowered herself onto the bed, wrapping her arms around the man's neck. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, not saying a word. Warm breath tickled her skin as she ran her fingers through his tangled hair. Second later, James fell into a fitful sleep, with her still holding him as a mother holds an ailing child.
The rain continued to fall, a lullaby to the woman's ears. Her eyes drooped, a languid warmth spreading up her limbs from the man pressed to her. He smelt of the sea and of citrus, tangly and sweet at the same time, body firm and solid against her own.
She did not remember whether she had slept or roamed the space between sleep and consciousness, bu the next thing she could remember was that the rain had ended, and she was curled up in the curve of James' body. Their legs were entwined, his thrown across her hip, one arm slung across her shoulders.
Carefully, she shifted so that she was facing him. For a moment, she pressed her lips to his forehead. It was cool and damp.
'Good morning,' he said into her ear, voice like sandpaper.
'Good morning. How are you feeling?'
'Considerably more alive, I think. Thank you.'
'For what?'
'For this.'
She smiled serenely.
'You two lovebirds done?' a cheerful voice called from behind them. William Thompson had returned from another swim, and was entering the cell, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. 'Get out there, before it starts to rain again.'
And so they did. Taking some clothes and towels, they strode past the two guards and out onto the hot sand outside. It was not long before they were in the water, clothes and all, diving and laughing like little children. Afterwards, they lay on the sand, breathing heavy, wide grins adorning their faces.
'It's been too long since I had a swim like that,' James admitted, propping himself up on one elbow. The drenched shirt left little to the imagination.
'You spent the past years at sea!' Amelia laughed.
'Yes, well, we are usually too busy to just swim, aren't we?'
'I suppose you right,' Amelia admitted. 'So what about me, then?'
'What?'
'You going to send me home?'
He looked at her for a moment, the grinned.
'No, silly girl. Of course not. I think I'd feel safer if you were beside me on the “Inde”. That way I can keep you out of trouble.'
'James -'
'Mmm -?'
'Than -'
And then their lips met in a butterfly of a kiss, chaste and soft and gentle.

TO BE FINISHED

When I have fought off writers' block.

[subtlecollision]

Well done, Annie. The writing is especially descriptive and clear, and the story really kept my attention. This is probably my favorite story you have written. I'm looking forward to reading the rest.

It is a strange thing that one moment, a fleeting, fleeting instant can change everything. How one wordless speck of time may bond two people more closer than blood can.

Niiiice.

The only issue I have is that when the Spanish come, isn't Amelia still naked? Perhaps I missed it, but later she is in men's clothes when Dalloway has to inform Thompson that she is a woman.

[Brighitta]

There was a bit of an interlude between when James walks in and when they are talking later, so she gets dressed then. Sorry if it wasn't clear!!!

Glad you liked it. I'm stuck with the ending now. Don't want to make a huge, soppy love-story ending, but don't want to make it miserablke either...

[Catherine]

that was amazing. it was wonderful.

I especially liked this part

And then their lips met in a butterfly of a kiss, chaste and soft and gentle.

the word 'chaste' there is unusual but very descriptive. it gave me a warm fuzzy feeling.

and I assume that this is something the site edited??

sent her modesty to the stinking place