It was a look of pure concentration, of possibilities and ideas so tumbled together that the man had to use every bit of his willpower to separate them. Reubold had a hold of the potential of the boats, a potential handed to him so completely by the demonstration tonight that nothing else existed. The first man who discovered fire, Walters thought, must have had that very look: wonder mixed with fortune, sweetened by opportunities.
Reubold looked at Walters. “Now, Kommodore Walters,” Reubold said, “we are ready for war.”
Hardy walked along the quay, wearing one glove, the other glove trapped in his right hand. Beatrice Schiffer was beside him, asking a question when she thought it pertinent, generally remaining silent because she could tell that Hardy was nervous and that he did not respond well to what he called “a lot of chatter.” She had smiled when he first informed her of this predilection but agreed that there was nothing wrong with silence, although a few words at just the right moment had been perfectly all right. She watched as Hardy thought this over and in kind of a half-growl, half-grunt, reasoning that a few words appropriately delivered were acceptable.
They walked along the quay with the weak early morning sun lost in a sky of fog and clouds, not an unusual thing around Portsmouth.
Beatrice had grown up in the coastal town, caring for both her parents when they became too ill to fend for themselves. And after they died, for Topper when he came back from the Great War, silencing the demons that tormented him with memories of what he had seen in the trenches. Beatrice awoke to her brother’s strangled sobs in the middle of the night, and was at first unsure of how to comfort him. She had settled on simply talking with him and fixing tea, and they sat, he silent and trembling, she calm and assured. She kept him busy doing things around the house until Topper began to understand that the horror was behind him. It was a bad time for her as well; she was never certain if the poor dear man would kill himself just to find solace. Her tenderness pulled him through and after several years he cast about for something that he could make his own. When he couldn’t make up his mind, it was Beatrice who said out of the blue: “I’ve always fancied owning an art emporium.” The comment was so innocent and unexpected that Topper blew a mouthful of tea across the kitchen table in laughter. Beatrice waited for Topper to calm himself before explaining, in a very rational manner, how it could be done. The more she talked, the more she convinced Topper that such a thing was possible. A few words at just the right moment.
They rented a storefront and began to fill the shelves with things that artists, or people who wanted to be artists, needed. Fortunately, there were a number of empty stores about with landlords desperately seeking tenants. Business, to begin with, was not good, and they lived frugally on Topper’s pension and any odd jobs that Beatrice could scare up.
What the pair did have, and Topper explained this not only to Captain Hardy, RN, but to others as well, was Beatrice’s unassailable confidence that things would work out. After a number of years, things did work out.
“She’s just up here a bit,” Hardy said, slapping his hand with the glove.
He was nervous, Beatrice realized, because they were going to see his ship, his Firedancer, but more because he would be seen with a lady at his side. Beatrice gave this a great deal of thought, as she did nearly everything of consequence, and realized what Hardy must be thinking. He was thinking that his officers and men would see him, the captain; or rather, The Captain, in the role of a human being. Beatrice knew of course that Hardy’s perception of his relationship with his officers and men was certainly not more than half correct. He was far too hard on himself and could see only his faults and never his accomplishments. She realized also that he was a very sensitive man. Beatrice decided, because she was a very good judge of human nature, that the men of Firedancer viewed their captain as basically a decent, if erratic, soul. Not so complicated as Hardy made it out to be, but George Hardy did not understand human nature as well as she.
Theirs had been an acquaintance that had blossomed through understanding. It was a sturdy, uncomplicated relationship. Not the sort of thing you read about in magazines or saw at the theater, but a gradual thing that proceeded as easily as a leaf floats down a creek, bobbing over the eddies and glancing off the bank because nature made it so.
Beatrice was relaxed with Hardy and Hardy was at ease with Beatrice. There was a lot to be said for two people being comfortable in each other’s presence. Perhaps the blazing flames of romantic love didn’t blaze as brightly as those at the cinema, but that was make-believe and had only to last for an hour and a half at most. What Beatrice knew and Hardy might come to suspect, although he was not the sort of fellow to identify it, was that theirs was a carefully tended fire that burned with reason and understanding. Beatrice smiled inwardly, feeling the warmth of Hardy’s presence.
“She’s had a few changes,” Hardy said, waving the glove before striking. “We took out A-turret and put some new treats for Jerry there. Can’t tell you what of course.” The glove struck his open palm. “We’ve done convoys. Done them to death. Some escort duty.” Slap. “Got us up to Coastal Forces now.” Slap. “‘Costly Farces,’ some of the chaps call them. MTBs and the like.” He noticed some confusion on her face. “Motor Torpedo Boats. We operate with them, northbound and southbound convoys. Give the American chaps a hand as needed.” Harder slap with a bit of irritation in his voice. “Can’t wait to get out of it. Get out of this pond, back out to sea. It may be the English Channel but this is one Englishman who wants nothing to do with it.”
“I should imagine it’s very thrilling at sea,” Beatrice said.
“Thrilling?” Hardy said. Beatrice could tell that the idea seemed incredible to him, but then he gave the notion some thought. “Thrilling, yes.” He warmed up to it. “Yes, you’re right. Thrilling it is. Well said, old girl.”
Beatrice smiled, turning her head so that Hardy could not see her face. It was the first time that he had felt relaxed enough in her presence to use a term of endearment. Some women might have been offended by the phrase; some women who clung to their youth with all of the resolve of a drowning man clinging to a rope. But Beatrice saw those two words for what they were: the first sign that Hardy forgot that it was necessary to cloak himself in formality.
“Yes,” Hardy continued. “Storms in the North Atlantic are thrilling enough, I can tell you that. By God, Bea, once or twice I thought the old girl would go topsy-turvy. Frightened me — as close to being frightened to death that anyone can be.” The glove remained motionless in his hand and the words came easily. “Land, my Number One; damned fine fellow. Oh, excuse me.” He had caught the mild profanity but in his excitement to talk about the sea, let it slip again. “Damned fine fellow to be sure — we rode seventy-two hours on the bridge during one storm. Took two of us, mind you. Old Firedancer creaked and groaned her way up one wave and down another. Threatened to broach a half-dozen times, but we wouldn’t let her. Swept away everything topside that wasn’t secured.” He stopped, laughing at himself in embarrassment. “Sailors’ stories. Shouldn’t have gone on like that. Bored you silly.”
“No,” Beatrice said, smiling. “Not at all, George.” His name came out of its own volition, and now she was surprised to feel her face redden, self-conscious at the slip. She glanced to see if Hardy was aware that she had called him by his Christian name, but if he was, he was doing a superb job of hiding it. She quickly tossed out a question, anxious to mask her discomfort. “Will you try for another ship? That is, would you like to command something a bit larger?” She winced at the stupidity of the question, realizing that she had probably offended him, or his beloved Firedancer, and she remembered how close captains were to their ships. But he took the question in stride, as if he had never before considered it.