Page 101 of Rears & Vices

“Yes. And it occurred to me, and several others also, you must understand, that you are a man of especial experience.”

Everard said nothing.

“And you must know I do not have a man exactly like you at my disposal; which makes you such a unique opportunity. The British are unparalleled in skill—and your record is spotless⁠—”

That wasn’t right at all. D’Arcy’s record as an officer was—had been—spotless; Everard’s had been distinctly tarnished.

“Er…”

Alarie waved. “Spotless enough for a wobbly-legged new nation desperately in need of guidance. You do see?” He flashed white teeth.

“I believe so,” Everard said stiffly. He believed he hadn’t been more effectively offended throughout all his career. To say nothing of México.

Alarie nodded. “Good. Then I shall obviously make you vice-admiral—we do not do the red or the blue or the distinctions, there is only the one rank—you would answer directly to me, and none higher.”

“Would I?” Everard murmured.

“Well, yes! It is settled, then. Mina has brought some seven, eight ships—a thousand ‘maricones,’ he said⁠—”

Everard coughed in disbelief. “Marineros,” he corrected firmly.

“That is what I said. A thousand sailors.”

“No,” Everard said. “No⁠—”

Alarie peered at him. “Non? I could have sworn—but it was in the Spanish, perhaps I have not reproduced it⁠—”

“Non,” Everard confirmed. “I mean to say, it isn’t settled. Not at all. I cannot be your admiral.”

Alarie stared up.

“But—no? You would go from this”—he waved again—“from nothing, to be a kept man, a mate, to be an admiral! A hero! A revolutionary! Fighting against the enemy very same, the Spanish! My good friend⁠—”

If Vitaliy had already lost his temper with the man to the point of throwing things—little wonder—Everard didn’t think he could make the situation much worse. He allowed himself to show the full depth of his feeling, which turned out to be pure rudeness:

“No. No, thank you. Never. I will not be your admiral, Governor. Absolutely not?” He tried this last in English, knowing the man understood it perfectly well. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Alarie shut his mouth with a snap, pushed out his lips into a boyish pout. “Hmm. Non, I will let you time to think upon it. A week. Yes? That is how long we will be in Port-au-Prince before we are departing. You will give me your answer then.”

“No. No is my answer, Governor.”

Alarie bowed. “I will not take offense at your bluntness, since I have had to be so unfortunately frank myself. But you will change your mind, I know. I am staying at the palace, naturally—” He did a little half-turn as he stepped down the ladder. “You might call on me there.”

He fled, off the Sévère and agilely back into the tender, rowing quick as though he’d left torpedo bombs aboard and had to get outrange.

“Sant Jesús.” Everard rubbed his hands over his face briskly. “Admiral.” He let out a high laugh. “What in hell?”

He removed the hands to find he had an audience: Romilly René. She lounged in the mizzenmast shroud above him, smoking a cigarillo.

Disappointment rang clear through him. Did her being there mean Vitaliy was soon for the San Telmo?

But he finally had his answer. The broad panniers hadn’t hindered her climb, nor had she accommodated them—she sat on the ratlines just as Vitaliy did, but with more concealment via lace.

“Alarie takes a tonic of coca leaf, from Amerique du Sud,” she said solemnly. “I would recommend not to partake, if given chance.” She flicked ash from the cigarillo into the water, blew a perfect smoke ring, and gave him a sharklike smile. “Trop bien, mon amour. Vee will be enchanted.”

Everard stared.

She waved, smile widening. “Go on. Collect your reward, matelot.”