Chapter Text
Faint light falls through the small window, announcing the start of a new day. The room is simply furnished, a narrow bed, a small table and a chair, a mirror with a slightly tarnished surface. A large bookshelf is the only luxury in here. James had woken up long before dawn – tangled in his sheets, hard, and panting, his thoughts still haunted by memories of ocean blue eyes and dark brown curls. But dreams like this were normal after the last few days, his mind still too agitated.
He sits on the edge of his bed, bare-chested, his immaculately folded uniform lying on his lap. The jacket with its golden buttons and insignia seems even heavier than usual. His fingers stroke the fabric absently. The uniform is a symbol of the discipline he has been perfecting for years, a sign of his successes and achievements. He needs to remember that, especially today.
A few more minutes pass, during which he just stares at his clothes. Finally, he takes a deep breath and straightens up. With a jerk, he stands up and begins to put on his uniform. The trousers, the boots, then his shirt, the cravat. The shirt feels even rougher than usual, rubbing unpleasantly against his wrists. As his fingers smooth out the sleeves, he notices it – the pale yellow-blue bruise on his right wrist.
His hand remains over the discolouration, the outlines of fingers clearly visible. He closes his eyes for a moment, as a wave of memories invades his thoughts. Images. Feelings. The warmth of a hand roughly closed around his wrist, the harsh breath of the man who had held him there, just two nights ago. The mixture of lust and shame within him. James had surrendered almost entirely without resistance – not because he wanted to, but because he needed to.
Weak. Uncontrolled. Like an animal.
He presses his thumb firmly into the bruise until it hurts. The humiliation of this memory, of this failure, rises in his throat like bile and his jaw tightens. He pushes his sleeve down and pulls it tightly over his wrist until the stain is hidden. Out of sight, out of mind – or at least that’s how it should be.
James resolutely pulls his waistcoat over his shirt, fastening it button by button, precisely and slowly, like some sort of ritual. Then, his heavy coat. He touches the cover of the battered Bible lying on his bedside table. “Forgive me,” he whispers.
On his way out, he looks at himself in the mirror for a moment. His fingers glide over the collar, adjusting it. He fixes his hair again, neatly tied back with a tie, then puts on his hat. Immaculate, as always. But his gaze wanders to his sleeves, where he knows the hidden trace of his shortcomings is to be found.
‘It was just an insignificant moment. It will have no consequences. It never has consequences,’ he recalls. Like every year, he tells himself that this time will be the last.
Both things are a lie.
The consequences were never tangible though, not in the form of disciplinary action or a scandal, he was too careful about that, especially since he had been appointed admiral seven years ago. The three days off he allowed himself every year were always spent somewhere on the outskirts of London, never in the same place, never with the same men. But his actions left their marks in places that no uniform could ever hide. He would burn in hell for his sins one day. And yet, he would do it again, because he couldn't overcome this weakness.
He straightens his shoulders, takes one last look in the mirror and then turns away. Duty is waiting, and that’s all that matters now.
***
James enters the courtyard. He takes the familiar route between the quarters to the briefing rooms. On the way, a few officers greet him, to whom he nods briefly before hurrying on. He is about to gather with the other admirals for a meeting called at short notice.
Halfway there, he realises that he has forgotten to take his report booklet with him. Stupid. This happened only because he had been so distracted. He turns around and walks back down the colonnade.
When he suddenly hears his name and quiet laughter, he instinctively slows his steps. He recognises the voices immediately. They belong to two young officers he recently hosted on his ship. As part of their training, they had to serve under different captains. But even though he recognises their voices – he’s always been good at that – he can't remember their names for the life of him. Neither of them had stuck in his mind as particularly noteworthy and he had saved himself the trouble. They greeted him just a few minutes before.
The closer he gets, the better he can hear their conversation. They can’t see him from their position, with their backs to him and the wide pillars between them. James stops, even though he knows he should just keep walking.
„Do you remember how he used to step onto the deck? As if he were the greatest of all. Admiral McGraw. Always so damn perfect.”
„You should back off. The man has won more battles than you can count.” The second officer sounds nervous, his voice a touch softer. „Besides, he hears everything, and if he catches you talking shit about him, you’ll be on a supply ship in the Caribbean faster than you can blink.”
„Oh, I’m not saying anything against his abilities.” The first officer sounds unfazed. „Everyone knows he’s an excellent Admiral. No man leads a fleet like him. But have you ever met anyone so cold and aloof?”
„They say he never talks about something personal with his crew,” he continues conspiratorially. „Or have you ever heard of anyone having a private moment with him? A story, a laugh, anything?”
„Now that you mention it... I haven’t even heard of anyone who’s seen him without that uniform.”
“Do you know what I think? There's nothing behind that uniform. No passion, no dreams, no flaws... nothing. He's like... A fucking cannon, always ready to be fired.”
„I don’t know. Maybe that’s all he wants. Some men are like that.”
James feels his hands clench into fists. He has had to listen to a lot of mockery and ridicule in his life, but for being good at his job? For taking his duty to protect this country seriously? He had renounced so much – everything that could distract him. And this is their thanks?
“I've heard rumours that he's not even fully using his annual leave that he is entitled to, except for a few days.”
“What do you think he does on those days?”
“I don't know, honestly. But I bet it's something we'd better not think about. Maybe he's making a sacrifice to the devil, who he's obviously sold his soul to so he can be this excellent.”
James exhales again after unconsciously holding his breath.
It's just words. They know nothing.
He finally walks on, makes a small detour to walk right past them. They salute hastily, their faces turning red as they realise, he's probably heard them. But James says nothing, enjoying the brief triumph that they would be worrying for weeks about whether they would receive a punishment.
***
Two hours later, he is sitting in a carriage on the way to one of London's more wealthy neighbourhoods. The First Lord of the Admiralty himself had given him this order. James had not yet learned more, apart from the fact that Alfred Hamilton had approached the First Lord and asked for assistance in an urgent matter. He had agreed and chosen James for this assignment. Soon, he would receive all further orders from Hamilton himself.
The carriage stops. The coachman jumps down and opens the door. “We have arrived, sir.”
James nods, smooths the folds of his coat and steps out into the cold mist. The Hamilton estate is situated before him, grey and ominous, like a fortress defending its secrets.
There are plenty of them here, and one of them dominates every gossip round. Over ten years ago, three men of the Royal Navy had died here, without a single clue as to why this had happened or who the perpetrator was. There were no survivors, no witnesses, no answers. Only Alfred Hamilton, who had quickly and quietly swept the matter under the carpet.
James had found himself thinking about the incident again and again over the years. Not because he was trying to solve this mystery, but because he wondered if he would have been one of the dead men if his life had taken a different direction. A long time ago, when James was still an aspiring lieutenant, he had applied, along with others, to be an official Navy envoy to the Hamiltons. Thomas Hamilton had been looking for support – men willing to go along with his visionary plan to save Nassau.
For James, there was no question that someone other than him could be chosen. He knew that he was the most suitable of the candidates. When it was announced that Pickram had been chosen, James had been shocked. Incomprehension and humiliation had accompanied him for weeks.
He had prepared meticulously for this assignment in advance and all the effort he had put in had been for nothing in the end. James had studied every detail of Thomas' reports and even tried to understand his vision, although he thought it was somewhat naive. Once he had even visited one of the salons Thomas and his wife organised – incognito –, just for half an hour, to get a personal impression of him.
The evening had confirmed to him that Thomas Hamilton was a dreamer, blind to reality. Even if part of James had felt something like respect for the confident way Thomas talked about his beliefs. Maybe James could have helped him come down to earth, but Thomas Hamilton had made the wrong choice and settled for Pickram, that incompetent good-for-nothing shit who had only cheated his way to the top through connections.
James shakes his head and forces himself to push the thoughts aside. It doesn't matter anymore. They are both dead, and Thomas' naive visions died with him. His job is to maintain order - not to doubt dead men.
The interior of the Hamilton estate is just as imposing as its exterior. High ceilings, decorated with expensive-looking works of art and sculptures, and dark furniture that screams power and wealth. A servant leads James through the endless corridors until they reach a heavy double door. He opens it and James goes inside.
Alfred Hamilton is sitting at a large desk, his head bowed as he writes something down. He barely raises his eyes as James enters. When he finally regards him, his expression is cold and calculating. His face is haggard, the corners of his mouth pulled down slightly. A man consumed by resentment and hatred. James can't help but think of the two officers in the courtyard and wonders if people see the same thing when they look at him.
“Admiral McGraw,” Hamilton says in a tone that is equal parts greeting and command.
“Sir.” James salutes and takes a seat as Hamilton gestures for him to do so, back straight, hands folded on his knees, waiting. He knows that Alfred Hamilton is a man who likes to talk, but even more so to be in control.
Hamilton finally points to a spot on the nautical chart lying on the desk in front of him. “The Bahamas, Admiral,” he begins. “An embarrassment for England. The pirates have taken over Nassau, and this Captain Flint seems to think he's the king of the Caribbean.”
James had heard stories about John Flint. A man with a dangerous intelligence and a presence that inspired loyalty as much as fear.
“I have read the reports, my lord. There is even evidence that Governor Barlow is cooperating with the pirates.”
“Cooperating?” Hamilton spits derisively. “He's supporting them, Admiral. He plays the well-meaning diplomat, but we both know what such men really are. Cowards, traitors. The situation in Nassau has gotten out of hand. The pirates have created their own little nation under the protection of Governor Barlow. This cannot and will not be tolerated.” His voice drips with contempt.
James nods slowly. “And what is my part in this, sir?”
Hamilton puts his hands on the table and leans forward slightly. “This place is a plague, and we need to eradicate that plague. Flint must be taken alive. I want to make an example of him, because such men must not exist. Without him, their alliance falls apart. Woodes Rogers will be sent in as the new Governor, but your job is to clear the field.”
James studies Hamilton, but his face gives nothing away. However, James has his doubts. Something about Hamilton's words makes James believe that there is more at play here. His instincts tell him that this is no ordinary assignment. This is personal.
It had been ten years since the news of the death of Thomas and his wife, Miranda, had made the rounds. They had been attacked and killed by pirates on a crossing to God knows where. James had overheard a conversation between Alfred Hamilton and his superior at the time, Hennessey. It had been the first and only time he had heard Hamilton talk about his son. 'My son was a fool. His misguided ideas brought him and his wife to their graves. Weakness is always exploited, Admiral.”
James had never forgotten that remark.
“Why now?” he finally asks. “Nassau has existed in this state for years. What has changed?”
Hamilton's lips curl into a cold smile. “I've been told you're the best. Your job is to carry out orders, not question them. This is no mere military operation. It will be a message. The world needs to know that England will never concede defeat. We will not grovel before pirates or traitors. And I expect you to deliver that message with the precision and relentlessness for which you are known.”
James nods curtly, swallowing his growing resentment. God, this man repels him. “I understand, my lord.”
Hamilton stands up, a clear sign that the conversation is over. James also rises, salutes curtly and turns to leave.
“I will send you further instructions soon. Do not disappoint me, Admiral. I expect results.”
He is still convinced that Hamilton has his own agenda, but he doesn't really care. As always, he would act. It's all he's ever done. Besides, this new assignment comes at just the right time. It would require his full attention and make him quickly forget the last few days.