Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [121]
He must get out of here, quickly, before he betrayed himself even if only by his shaking body or the sweat on his skin and his ashen cheeks.
“Thank you,” he gasped, his voice hoarse. “We must be well into the North Sea by now.” He nodded briefly and walked away, his legs like jelly, forcing himself not to run.
He went straight to the bridge and asked for permission to see the captain. It was refused.
“The captain gave me a particular duty to perform,” he said urgently, hearing the panic inside himself. “I have to report a conclusion. Tell him so, and do it now.”
Something in his manner must have caught the man’s belief. He returned and conducted Matthew up to where Archie stood alone, staring across the gray water, Cape Wrath to the south, the open North Sea ahead.
“Yes?” he asked.
“It’s Harper. I have no doubt at all.”
Archie smiled, his eyes brighter, something inside him easing. “Good. I’ll have him put in the brig. Well done. Now you can go and get some sleep.”
Matthew knew that it would be a long time before Archie himself could sleep. There was no one else to carry any of his burden. He was alone.
Matthew stood to attention. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER
* * *
THIRTEEN
Matthew slept easily that night.
He woke in the morning to the news that the Grand Fleet had been ordered to sea and the German High Seas Fleet had left harbor. For one idiotic moment, feeling the steel steps under his feet and the rail in his hands, he wondered if this was what it had been like on the morning of Trafalgar a hundred and nine years ago. There would have been the silence of wind and sail then, but the same tingle in the air, the unbearable sweetness of life bound up in the knowledge that this could be the last day of it for thousands of them. Then they had been outnumbered and outgunned and knew Napoleon was massed on the shores of France.
Now they faced the kaiser, and the might of Germany and Austria. France was driven to the wall and England desperate again.
He tightened his grip and pulled himself up onto the level of the bridge. Ragland was in the signal house, surveying a calm, slightly hazy sea.
“Looks as if you’re going to have more than you bargained for, Matthews,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s all hands on deck.”
“Are we going to be in time?” Matthew asked.
Ragland smiled. “Of course we are. But at least you’ve got your man. If you want to ask him anything, you’d better do it now. By midday you may not have the chance. We’ll probably catch up with the main fleet about then.”
Matthew considered it, but what could he ask? What was there that he didn’t know already? He did not want to face Hannassey, but perhaps he must, even if there was nothing to learn.
He accepted the advice and went back down into the bowels of the ship and along the narrow, steel-enclosed passages. He could feel the entire hull vibrate with the racing of the engines. The stokers must be shoveling coal till their backs ached and their muscles felt as if they were tearing off the bones.
Hannassey was in the brig, guarded by armed men. They knew who Matthew was and let him in, but with a warning to be careful.
Hannassey was sitting on a wooden bench. Stripped of his assumed naval uniform he was a lean man, hard muscled with a flat stomach and broad, supple hands. But it was his face that held Matthew’s attention. He was no longer pretending to be ordinary, and the cold, brilliant intelligence in him was undisguised. His features were powerful, his eyes bright blue-green. He looked at Matthew with amusement. “Well, I never thought I’d go down in the belly of some damn English ship!” he said wryly.
Matthew searched to see if he could recognize anything of Detta in the man in front of him. His coloring was utterly different—pale, washed out, where she was dark and vivid with life. He was cold where she was warm. He was all angles; she was fire, soft lines, and grace.
Hannassey smiled. “Looking for a resemblance,