“Now we shall have to wash your face before we put you to bed again,” said Garrett.

There was a moment that seemed as if a storm had suddenly struck lightning in the room. Matthew felt it like the rumble of thunder in his bones, and the strong fishy aroma of the whale oil in the lanterns had taken on the rusted iron smell of disaster about to crash down from the clouds.

But … it passed. Matthew thought that they might be yet destined to brave many storms on this mission, but here in this room standing in Paul’s feeble though touching and obviously heartfelt embrace, Julian was not going to allow the bad man to come out.

At least, not all the way out. Julian stroked his brother’s hair with his other hand. “The warden treating you well in this somber prison, is he?” Julian asked.

Paul might have managed a laugh in his throat, but it became a terrible gurgling sound. He looked up at Julian and Matthew saw a sparkle of humor in the tortured eyes.

“May I offer the gentlemen tea, sir?” Windom asked his master.

“Heavens, no. They are on their way out. We have no use for sodomites and defilers of God’s world in this house, do we, Paul?”

The older son did not answer or respond, other than to keep Julian’s hand pressed against his cheek. His eyes closed, perhaps in memory of a younger and better time when both brothers had God’s world ahead of them. Windom moved in, took up the blue bowl and emptied it into a larger clay pot attached to the rear of the chair by leather bindings, then quickly returned it to its more useful place. Matthew couldn’t help but wonder how many times a day—and night—Windom performed that task, and how many times he turned the clay pot over to clear it out.

“You have the answer to your idiotic question about stolen mortar vessels and ships-of-the-line,” Garrett rumbled on, a storm unto himself. “Now get out.”

“A moment,” said Julian. He tapped Paul lightly on the temple and Paul looked up at him. “I miss our sailing days,” he said quietly. “But I have them still.” He tapped his own head. “Don’t you?”

Paul slurped and nodded and made something of a whine of assent.

“You are looking at a hero, Corbett,” Garrett suddenly said in a great exhalation of breath, as if he had been carrying this in his throat for so long it had become lodged there. “A patriot. Unlike your associate, who has never cared for anything or anyone not seen in his shaving mirror. The man who sits before you gave everything for his country. Your associate can tell you, if you ask him. Oh yes, he knows the story very well … and that story is the nearest he’ll ever get to being worth as much as a dog’s turd on the street.”

“Charming, Father,” Julian said easily, still stroking his brother’s hair. “You flatter me.”