Georgana's Secret

by Arlem Hawks

  “Clew up the mainsail!” came the shout from above.

  Boys scurried about with bags of sawdust, coating the floor to soak up blood and prevent slipping in the heat of battle. Georgana coughed through the dust and hurtled down to the mess, then to the darkness of the orlop deck.

  The yeoman and his mates already had a few sacks of gunpowder filled and lined up, ready for the powder monkeys to collect and carry to the cannons. She grabbed a bag and helped fill. The scent of charcoal filled her nose.

  The ship tilted to one side as it changed course, and the powder crew braced themselves. She set down the sack, her hands shaking. Her eyes drifted toward the decks above, where her father and Lieutenant Peyton commanded the crew.

  Their first battle of the voyage.

  Cannon fire continued between the merchantman and the privateer as men tacked the Deborah, turning her to the north. From his position on the quarterdeck, Dominic could see the merchant crews. They madly hauled, turning their ships, with their meager collection of guns, away from the fight.

  “Slack off the headsail sheets!” The crack of sails flapping in the wind drowned out the distant cannon. The ship rocked as it turned and crested white-capped waves.

  Beside him, Captain Woodall adjusted his hat, then turned to observe the crew.

  Midshipmen rushed about setting their gun crews in place. The boys carrying powder dodged to keep from getting trampled. Dominic looked for George on the chaotic deck.

  “He’s in the powder room,” the captain grumbled.

  “George is?” How had Captain Woodall known he was looking for George? No part of the ship was safe during battle, but barring a fire and explosion on the orlop, the powder room was one of the safer areas. Safe from gunfire and debris, at least.

  The men finished tacking, and the Deborah stormed toward the attacking privateer. Dominic raised his telescope. St. Germain, the letters read. The wide blue, white, and red stripes of her flag flew straight out behind her, allowing no mistake as to her loyalties.

  “I’d say twenty-eight guns, Captain,” Dominic said. “Two carronades on the forecastle.” The merchant ship blocked their full view of the enemy, but her size and shape pointed toward a lighter craft.

  “We’ll run her off, check the merchantman for repairs, and get back on our course.”

  Jarvis wouldn’t like that, and Dominic couldn’t help thinking that ridding the seas of another corsair was worth the risk of a fight, but perhaps the captain was right. Their order was to see to the merchantmen’s safety.

  An age passed, as it always did when waiting for a ship to pull in range. The merchant ship was having difficulty maneuvering away from the fight. With its sails in shreds and one of the yards drooping from the foremast, it barely cleared the scene in time for the Deborah to force her way in.

  Dominic checked his pistol and sword. His body thrummed as fourteen years of training took control, tightening his limbs and sharpening his senses. Every creak of the Deborah, every shout of a seaman pounded through his core.

  Puffs of smoke erupted along the side of the St. Germain before the ships pulled even. Shots whistled overhead. The crew of the Deborah ducked, still tending to their guns. Boys carrying boxes of white powder cartridges poured up from the hatchway and ran for their gun crews. Powder was rammed in, then the shot and wadding.

  “Run out!”

  Dominic flinched as splinters rained down from a glancing blow to the mizzenmast. He’d been skewered by small shards of wood in nearly every battle, but so far he hadn’t met any of the deadly ones that pierced a man through.

  Men heaved at ropes—some attached to cannons, some to sails. Almost as one, cannons locked into firing position along the deck.

  “Guns in position, sir,” Dominic said.

  Captain Woodall stared unblinking at the privateer before them, not a hundred yards away and getting closer. The small figures on the enemy ship swarmed about their guns as they loaded the next shot. “Fire when ready.”

  Dominic nodded. He jumped down from the quarterdeck, repeating the command to the midshipmen on the main deck and down the hatch to Jarvis on the gun deck.

  A volley from the privateer preluded the Deborah’s deafening broadside. White smoke billowed around him as he propelled himself back to the quarterdeck. As much as he loved this life, he did not love the haze of war. Shouts and screams, both distant and near, pierced the sulfuric mist. Lead cracked against wood. His pulse roared in his ears.

  All of it drowned out the whisper of the sea.

  Sweat dripped down Georgana’s face from beneath her hair, which stuck out at odd angles. Her cap had come off a while ago, but even in the heat of battle she didn’t dare remove her jacket. Powder monkeys waited for ammunition to run up to their crews. As they waited, a few stood still as statues in a manner that even Grandmother would have approved. But most hopped back and forth or paced, anxious to be on the move.

  Concussions rocked the ship. Those in the belly of the vessel knew little of how the battle fared, and Georgana pushed back the paralyzing fear that one could be the Deborah’s death blow.

  Fitz ran up, towing two cartridge boxes. The whites of his bloodshot eyes shone prominently in the lantern light. Purple skin still marked one of his cheekbones where she’d struck him the previous week.

  “Can’t take two, Fitz,” one of the mates growled.

  Any ammunition near the guns could catch on wayward sparks. Powder monkeys took up only a few rounds at a time to reduce the risk of explosion.

  “Locke went down.” The boy’s voice broke. “He’s with the surgeon. The other crews need powder.”

  The mate took the canisters and shoved the tied-off sacks in. “Two will slow you down.”

  Four guns were sitting unused while they waited for powder, with more than four dozen men sitting idly, tensions high.

  “I’ll take one,” Georgana blurted. Fitz’s eyes narrowed, but no one else in the powder room reacted. She was only an extra set of hands forced on the powder crew by the captain.

  “Be off then,” the yeoman said, rolling out another barrel of powder.

  Fitz stayed silent as she looped the box’s strap over her shoulder. He took off toward the ladder, and she scrambled to keep up. Eighteen pounds of powder thudded against her back as she ran. They dodged other boys hurrying in the opposite direction.

  “Take it to the Hargood and Richards,” Fitz called over his shoulder as they cleared the messdeck.

  She knew the first cannon. Once called Queen Anne, Jarvis had demanded a change of name to honor the fallen lieutenant. It sat on the gun deck, not the upper deck. Good. She’d be out of sight of her father.

  Skidding on sawdust, she located the guns and deposited her ammunition. The gun crew didn’t notice Locke’s absence. As long as they had powder, they kept firing. Swab, ram, run out, fire—the endless round of battle.

  Comrades pulled bloodied men down the hatches, and Georgana followed them. The walls of the captain’s quarters had been taken down and her trunk and its condemning contents stowed below. The thought of a seaman accessing her things should have unnerved her, but the numbness drove out her fear.

  She slid down the ladder after Fitz to collect more powder.

  “Bring her around!”

  Dominic ran to the larboard side. He couldn’t hear the commands from the privateer, but he watched the French captain and coxswain for hints of their next moves. Bodies littered the decks of the enemy ship, holes speckled her sails, and she seemed to ride low in the water.

  The St. Germain drifted away from the Deborah, heading south. But they couldn’t be sure if the privateer was retreating or turning to get a better position.

  The merchantmen behind the Deborah had drawn as close together as they dared, continuing slowly toward the Caribbean, out of the way of the battle.

  “Hold fir
e!” the captain called.

  A solitary shot from the St. Germain flew harmlessly by, burying itself in the waves. Then the French crew adjusted their sails and pulled away.

  “Do we follow, sir?” Mr. Fitz asked.

  The captain chewed the corner of his lip. Had he heard the question? Dominic opened his mouth to repeat, but the captain cut him off. “Put us between her and the convoy. Let us see what she does.”

  Men rushed from the guns to the lines to turn the ship about. Sweat and blood stained their shirts. Dominic could see their already fatigued muscles shake as they strained against the ropes and fierce wind.

  Heavy footsteps bounded up to the quarterdeck, and Jarvis’s crimson face materialized. “We aren’t claiming her?”

  Dominic closed his eyes. He’d hoped for a little rest from the battle with the St. Germain before this battle of stubborn wills.

  “We have done what was required, and now we return to our duty—the convoy,” the captain said.

  Jarvis’s simmering glare made Dominic reach for his sword. Plenty of men struggled to regain normalcy after the heat of a skirmish, and he didn’t expect anything less from a man like Jarvis. Over the second lieutenant’s shoulder, the St. Germain diminished on her straight path toward the darkening horizon.

  “We have the men, we have the guns—we have the stamina to take that ship. Why are we sitting here?”

  Captain Woodall’s eyes flashed. “You are not captain of the Deborah. And if this talk continues, I will consider demotion. Is that clear, Mr. Jarvis?”

  “Yes, sir,” the second lieutenant replied coolly.

  “Bring me a casualty report.”

  Jarvis muttered under his breath as he left the quarterdeck. Captain Woodall’s shoulders drooped. “Put Moyle on the fore­castle. Watch that ship for any change of course.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Dominic sent the third lieutenant to his post and put the gun crews to work cleaning the cannons. The deck was strewn with debris—pieces of masts and yardarms, rail and hull. The boatswain and carpenter rushed about with petty officers assessing the damage.

  He stood in the middle of the deck and breathed in. The air wasn’t the clear sea breeze he so loved, but still it eased the fire of combat coursing through him.

  Jarvis returned, and Dominic moved closer to hear his report. “Four dead, thirteen wounded.”

  Captain Woodall nodded. “Bring me Mr. Byam to discuss repairs.”

  On his way to follow orders, Jarvis stopped by Dominic. “Your little friend made a passable powder monkey,” he said grudgingly.

  Dominic’s brows pulled together. “George?” He was supposed to be in the powder room.

  “He filled in for one of the boys who went down.”

  Dominic didn’t know why the thought of George in the battle made his stomach twist. “Where is he?”

  “I haven’t seen him for some time. Check below,” Jarvis said with a shrug.

  That could mean many things. Dominic’s mouth went dry. “How many boys went down?”

  “A couple wounded, one dead. Étienne didn’t tell me names.” Jarvis’s face soured as the French surgeon’s name crossed his lips, and he stalked off.

  Dominic swept the deck with his eyes, noting all men at their work. He then lumbered down the ladder. Hazy air shrouded the gun deck. Heart beating as fast as it had in battle, Dominic searched through the weary faces for the bright-eyed boy. If anything had happened . . .

  He’d taken boys under his wing before but none quite like George. The other boys had the stature and temperament to get them far in the navy and needed only a little encouragement. George needed more than that.

  “Do you need something, sir?”

  Dominic whirled. Cool relief seeped through his limbs. There was George, standing with his coat on, cap off, hair in disarray.

  And blood soaking his waistcoat.

  “Are you hurt?” Dominic grasped his arms, observing the garish stain.

  The boy’s eyes looked him up and down in the same manner. He shook his head. “I helped some of the wounded below.”

  “You were assigned to the powder room. Why were you up here?”

  George held his gaze. “Locke went down. They needed help.”

  As much as Dominic wanted to scold him for not letting the other boys fill in, he sighed and nodded. George had done his duty. “How is Locke?”

  “Gone,” George whispered. He squinted, as though struggling to keep back his emotions.

  Dominic wondered at it. Wasn’t Timothy Locke one of the boys who had mercilessly teased George?

  “I need to find Fitz.” The lad pulled away and made for the ladder.

  What was he thinking? “George, this isn’t a good time to renew quarrels.”

  George scowled. “This has nothing to do with that.” And then he went below.

  Chapter 10

  Men moved about the messdeck, patching a hole from cannon fire and restoring stowed items to their proper places. Georgana found Fitz in a corner, head in his hands. Brown, dried blood streaked his fingers, arms, and clothes.

  She sat on the bench beside him, much like Lieutenant Peyton had sat next to her the day after the fight.

  She didn’t speak. It was strange to observe a face she only saw sneering now pinched with grief. “Go away, Taylor.”

  Georgana blinked. All the boys in his group called each other by their surnames. He’d never used hers before.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, voice wobbling between her false masculine and true feminine tone. For all this boy had done to her, for all he’d said, she could not help but feel sorrow for his burden. She remembered floundering through the heartache of Mama’s death in her early days in the navy.

  Georgana rested her arms on her drawn-in knees. Her back ached where the powder canister bumped it as she ran, and she still had the acrid scent of burned powder in her nose. But worst of all, emblazoned in her mind were the images of writhing sailors, blood pooling from wounds they might never recover from.

  The scene would have made her wretch three years ago. Now it just chilled her to the bone, even in the muggy center of the ship. She hadn’t seen Locke’s injuries, but Fitz must have.

  “Thank you.”

  She nearly missed Fitz’s words in the noise. He sounded younger than his fifteen years. Like a scared child in the night.

  Georgana wanted to put her arms around him and tell him all would be right. Like her mother had done for her when Grand­mother screamed. Like Papa had done when they carried Mama away in a box or when he’d found her bruised and bloodied from Grand­mother’s beating. Her eyes smarted. She knew Fitz wouldn’t be all right—not for some time.

  She reached out a hand and settled it hesitantly on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. They sat there, unmoving and silent, until the watch bells beat out their usual toll.

  The morning after the battle, everyone arose and put on their best coats. Dominic stood on the quarterdeck, observing the trickle of crew members filtering up from below. Five still forms, wrapped in canvas, lay on the deck. One more had died from his wounds in the night. Fallen faces and bowed heads circled them.

  This was a regular part of life in the navy. The worst part of it.

  Captain Woodall came up the ladder, with George close behind. The captain positioned himself near the side of the ship and nodded to Mr. Doswell.

  The young chaplain adjusted his spectacles and began his somber recitation. One of the forms was loaded onto the plank, draped in the country’s Red Ensign. The bell tolled, the name was read, and the canvas-wrapped body slipped into the arms of the sea. They repeated the ceremony for the other causalities, and Dominic’s heart sank a little deeper each time.

  The last form was smaller than the rest. His eyes darted from George to Walter Fitz. He’d found them the night before, sitt
ing together on the messdeck like long friends.

  “Timothy Locke. Ship’s boy, third class.”

  George’s head dropped low on his chest, with no sign of anger or satisfaction about the death of someone who had treated him so poorly. Dominic had expected stoicism, not the pained distress he witnessed.

  The men slowly dispersed after the brief memorial. Dominic didn’t have watch again until noon. After the battle the previous day, he wanted nothing more than to go to his cot and sleep. But he stayed on the quarterdeck, wandering to the back of the ship.

  “Mr. Fitz,” Captain Woodall said to the coxswain, “let’s catch up to the merchantmen.”

  The convoy was still in sight, but repairing and cleaning the ship had lasted through the remaining light the day before, weary­ing the crew and keeping them far behind. Without the help of his ill son, the boatswain had struggled to quickly set the rigging straight.

  George made his way up the steps to the quarterdeck and joined Dominic at the rail. Dominic had somehow known he would come and offered as good a smile as he could muster.

  “Good morning.” The boy’s cap had returned to his head, and he pulled his coat tightly around him. The crisp day didn’t warrant more than a thin jacket. And if he felt the same inward cold as Dominic, the coat would not help.

  “How are you this morning?” Dominic asked. Like the rest of the crew’s, George’s eyes had dark circles beneath them.

  “Well enough.” He leaned against the side of the ship. “How do you love this life when it can have such an end?” The boy said it softly, almost inaudibly. “How do you love this?” He waved a hand toward the main deck where they’d stood for the burials.

  Dominic braced his arms against the rail. The water had a gray hue to it, or perhaps the somberness of his heart just made it seem so. “Can I not love the sea without loving its destruction?”

  George sighed, his shoulders falling. “The destruction overshadows any good there is for me.”