by Arlem Hawks
“It is not unheard of to rid the ship of an unwanted captain.” Jarvis watched something behind her.
“What will you do after securing the St. Germain? Do you think any port will allow an honest sale after what you’ve done? You have no sanction from the Crown for your privateering.”
Jarvis’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “We will return to Portsmouth with a prize for the Admiralty. And if we don’t, there are ports that allow for sales without a letter of marque.”
“How much of the cut would you take, Jarvis?” Fitz called. “Would you leave any for your crew?” The murmurs of conversation from the men on deck began to rise.
The lieutenant held up a hand against the seamen’s mutterings. “A contract will be drawn up. Every man shall get what is fair.”
“Even if you can sell it, remember the Hermione!” Georgana cried. That halted the men’s discussions. The mutiny ended in twenty-four hangings after the mutineers returned to England. “Do you think the navy would pause for a moment before stringing every last man of this crew from the nearest yardarm?”
“The crew of Hermione had good reason to rid themselves of Captain Pigot,” Jarvis said.
Georgana’s knuckles turned white around the handle of the gun. “You do not have so good a reason. Your pride and your greed will send this ship to the bottom of the ocean.”
The lieutenant threw the onlookers a patronizing smile. “I think the men have more trust in my seamanship. Surely more than they have in our former captain’s.”
None of the sailors moved to help Georgana and the boys, except for Mr. Fitz who inched toward the quarterdeck, eyes on his son. Several crewmen had mugs of grog in hand. Of course Jarvis would pass around extra rations before taking the ship. It was the only way to get the men to agree to this ludicrous plot.
“Think of your families,” she said, her eyes flashing between Jarvis and the crowd. “Your mothers, your wives, your children. No good will come of this for them.” Her words drew jaded looks from many, but a few whispered uneasily to their companions. She silently plead for their support.
A disturbance at the hatch stole everyone’s attention. Marines spilled onto the deck, drawing her father, Dominic, and the others out after them. Georgana’s legs wobbled. The guards herded the officers toward the larboard rail, where a sailor let down a ladder over the side.
“Let them go.” She pulled the hammer back fully. The click of the cocking pistol echoed over the deck. A chorus of empty muskets cocked in response.
“Lieutenant,” one of the marines said. “Shouldn’t we try to sort this out?”
“Silence.” Jarvis looked Georgana up and down, no doubt sizing up the distance between them. Unless she was a very poor shot, she’d hit him somewhere. He didn’t know her gun wasn’t loaded.
“Release the officers, Jarvis,” Georgana said. The prisoners stood near the dangling ladder. Her father stared at the deck, but Dominic watched her. His clothing disheveled and face pale, he still flashed her the briefest of grins. The grin, in defiance of his circumstances, pierced through her heart. “Don’t do this. You know it will be more trouble than it’s worth.”
Her father went over the side first, gripping the rail with his one good hand. Bayoneted muskets circled him. The ship bucked on a wave. Foam spilled across the deck.
Papa slipped. He grabbed in vain for the wet rail, but his flailing hand disappeared below. “Papa!” Her shriek rang through the yards. She lunged for the lower deck, but a hand around her wrist yanked her back.
You stupid, stupid girl. Why did you think you could succeed? Grandmother screeched.
Jarvis wrenched the gun from her hands and shoved the muzzle against her skull. “I knew there was something between you and the captain.” He cackled. “Good Captain Woodall, with an illegitimate whelp. I should have known.”
Georgana couldn’t see for the tears. She lunged for the ladder but couldn’t break Jarvis’s grasp.
Papa. The last person she had in this world. One more thing the sea had taken from her.
“And good riddance to the good captain,” Jarvis snarled. He whirled toward the rest of the crew. “Any man who wishes to side with the boy may come forward and have his brains blown out as well.”
When the captain vanished, Dominic’s guards happily let him throw himself over the side. He clutched the rungs of the ladder, hands still manacled, as the ship pitched and swayed. The boat below pulled free of one of its ropes and swung toward the stern.
A groan forced his gaze down.
Captain Woodall clung to the end of the rope with his good arm, his legs submerged in the rolling sea. The movement of the ship battered the captain against its hull. Dominic scurried down the ropes, the pain in his side slowing his pace.
“Hold on, sir.”
“I can’t,” the captain gasped. The wind muffled his voice as it tore at their hair and wet clothes.
Dominic bumped against the ship’s side, cracking his fingers against the wood. “Yes, you can.” His feet hit the end of the ladder, but the chains on his wrists stopped his hand short of reaching the captain. He needed to go lower.
Bitter cold water raced up his legs as he swung down even with Captain Woodall. The man’s pinched face stared back. “You’re endangering yourself, Lieutenant.”
Dominic grasped him under his injured arm. Their wool coats were soaked, pulling them into the deep. “Georgana needs you.”
“She has you now.”
Dominic grunted, pushing the captain up with one hand and pulling down on the ladder with the other. The force did not get them very far. “Bring your feet up,” he said through gritted teeth.
Captain Woodall pulled up his legs, but he couldn’t get them high enough to get his foot on the rung. “I can’t.”
“Pull with your arm.” Dominic tried again to hoist the thicker man. The manacles bit into his wrists. This time the captain’s shoes slid across the ropes before crashing back into the sea.
“Harder. We’re almost there.” The ladder skidded across the hull as the Deborah hit another wave. “Hold!”
The captain’s face relaxed, and his body slackened. “It’s no use.” The sea roared over his calm voice.
Dominic dug his fingers into the man’s coat. “You’re not giving up now.” Waves lobbed the ship hard to port and sucked them both downward. The captain’s head sank almost beneath the surface, only his weary face showing.
Curse this water. Curse the mutineers and their stupidity. Curse this rocking ship.
“Let go, Peyton,” the captain said as the ship leveled for a moment. “Take my place. I’m not needed here.”
Dominic’s limbs shook. His numb hand threatened to let go of the soaked wool coat. Ocean water seeped down his face, stinging his eyes. Georgana was above, facing Jarvis and a swarm of muskets to save them. Until his strength failed, he would not betray her by letting her father commend himself to the deep.
Dominic shouted and heaved once more. He didn’t breathe, only yanked with everything he had.
The rope tightened as Captain Woodall’s feet caught the rung. Dominic cried out in relief. The captain grabbed higher up the ladder with his hand, and the weight lifted. Dominic’s muscles shuddered. He tightened his grip on the side rope with both hands. His face clenched at the ache in his side.
They made it up only a few rungs when the captain looked down at him, gasping. “Why did you do that? You owed me nothing.”
“You are my captain,” Dominic said. Then he softly added, “And Georgana doesn’t want me. She only has room in her heart for one navy man.” He had meant to say it with a smile but couldn’t muster one.
After a painstaking climb, they rolled over the rail and hit the deck on hands and knees.
In front of them, Jarvis held Georgana, a pistol leveled against her head.
“Stop this, Ja
rvis.” Mr. Fitz stepped up to the quarterdeck. “We’ve lost enough on this voyage. Let the boy go.”
“Get down, Fitz, or you’ll be next.” Jarvis pressed the pistol harder against Georgana’s head, making her tears fall.
Papa.
“He doesn’t have enough powder for that,” Walter Fitz called. “Not one of them has any powder. Every musket’s empty.”
Jarvis stiffened against her. Angry voices rose among the crew. A few pushed past the marines and clambered onto the quarterdeck.
“What is this, Jarvis?”
“Some mutiny!”
“We were better with Woodall.”
“Not a proper officer.”
Some seamen scowled, but relief flashed on several men’s faces. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jarvis staring at them, veins popping out on his temples.
“You won’t escape this, you little mistake.” He pressed her to him and twisted the pistol’s muzzle against her scalp. Someone shouted her name.
Georgana ground her teeth, pulling at the man’s arm as he tried to tighten it around her neck. He’d taken almost everything she had left. She wouldn’t let him take anything else.
The ship pitched as it crested another wave. Georgana crouched as she yanked Jarvis’s arm and thrust forward. The lieutenant tripped and tumbled over her, aided by the motion of the ship. The pistol dropped from his hand. His weight pressed into her back as he rolled, but she stayed upright. He hit the deck with a thud then lurched to his feet, uttering a string of curses.
Georgana tensed, ready. One step. Two steps. Her fist curled. Sound English cannon.
The pop against her knuckles reverberated up her arm. Pain flashed through her shoulder from the impact with his face. Jarvis careened backward, eyes wide.
Georgana stumbled and collapsed to the deck. Boys and a few men pounced on the lieutenant. On the main deck, sailors wrestled muskets from marines.
A cry from the forecastle brought everyone’s head around. “It’s the Intelligence!” The schooner had cut the distance despite the wind. Her bow pointed toward them. The impending presence of more loyal officers and crew made the last of the mutineers’ confident stares falter.
Looking out at Moyle’s boat, her eye caught two dripping forms lying against the larboard rail. Georgana had to squint to see their faces in the waning light.
Papa. Dominic.
A sob emerged through her pursed lips. She pushed herself up, her hand falling on top of the pistol Jarvis had dropped.
“I will not be beaten by a chicken-livered captain’s mistake child!” Jarvis thrashed against the men who held him.
Georgana stood and turned to him. Her body quaked, the vibration shooting through all her limbs. She stooped to pick up the gun.
“I am not a mistake,” she hissed.
She cocked the gun. Her grandmother’s withering screeches and Jarvis’s threats tumbled through her mind. She took a fierce breath and forced them out—for good, forever.
“And I am not the captain’s illegitimate son.” She raised the gun toward him.
“Taylor, no!”
The empty gun clicked when she pulled the trigger. She cocked it again and pulled. And again. Jarvis’s face hardened with each tick of the hammer, murder in his eyes as the realization dawned. He’d been beaten by an empty pistol. Shaky laughs erupted from the men holding him.
“I’m his daughter.”
As the deck fell silent, Georgana spun on her heel. She stepped down to the main deck and ran past her father and Dominic. Men aided them to their feet. She should go to them. Help them. But the welling inside didn’t let her stop. Everyone’s eyes followed her progress.
“I knew it,” someone said. Probably Fitz.
Pistol still in hand, she climbed down the hatchway ladder. Men coming up from the messdeck didn’t give her so much as a glance. Through the darkness of the gun deck, she easily found her way toward the stern.
She walked into the captain’s cabin, then shut the door. The gun slipped from her fingers and clattered to the black-and-white tiles. Her damp footsteps slapped against the barren floor.
Georgana sank into the corner of the room where her sea chest normally sat, buried her face in her hands, and wept.
Chapter 37
Georgana stood at the windows of the captain’s cabin. Portsmouth’s harbor stretched before her, but she didn’t see it. Her gaze fell no farther than the glass panes.
In the reflection across the squares of glass stood a young woman she hadn’t seen for so long. This reflection couldn’t be right. The white gown she wore hung loose and pulled tight in all the wrong places. Even with the stays beneath the dress holding her upright, her shoulders hunched.
And the dark, cropped hair . . . She cringed and wrapped her arms around her middle. When ladies wore their hair short, it wasn’t supposed to look like the fur of that rat the lieutenant had found in his trunk.
Two tedious weeks had passed. After the attempted mutiny, everyone walked on eggshells, especially around her. No one spoke to her except her father and Lieutenant Peyton. And even he acted strange, but she could hardly blame him. He had hoped to secure her hand, but she wouldn’t be left at port while he sought adventure at sea.
She closed her eyes. Someday the soreness inside would fade. She had nearly taken back her refusal just to banish the hurt in his voice. And to see that grin again.
Each time she tried to convince herself that perhaps she could live the life of a navy wife, without him for months on end, Mama’s image forced itself into her mind. The thought left her paralyzed. She couldn’t do it.
Georgana reached toward the window. Her fingers drifted down the cold panes. One good thing had come in the last two weeks. Grandmother’s voice didn’t shout at her anymore. Even as she stared at her unruly hair and yellowed, wrinkled gown, the woman’s voice did not penetrate her defenses. The image didn’t stop Georgana’s own voice from finding fault, but perhaps that too would fade with time.
The planks of the deck outside the cabin creaked under approaching footsteps. She glanced to the reflection of the door in the window. Her tall, blue-coated visitor stopped in the doorway.
“Miss Woodall.” Those two words pricked her heart. He’d never called her that, even after her revelation to the crew. It made him sound like an indifferent acquaintance rather than a friend.
But they were supposed to be indifferent acquaintances, she supposed. She was to go to London and find a husband as quickly as possible before word of her time at sea spread. That left little room for friendships with other young men.
She touched the ends of her hair. “It looks a mess, doesn’t it, Lieutenant?”
He stood too far away for her to see his eyes in the glass, but she imagined they twinkled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” His boots echoed on the floor as he walked up behind her and pulled something from inside his coat. “But perhaps, if you find it lacking, this may help.”
He rested a strip of lace across the crown of her head and tied it at the back. The magic tingling as his hands brushed against her hair made her breath snag. She fingered the delicate material around her head. It was the lace bandeau she’d admired at the market in Antigua, the day Lieutenant Peyton took her to the lagoon.
“You may need to retie the bow.” He stepped back to observe his work. Or to be proper. “I am not the best at it.”
“I don’t think I could do better.” She hardly knew anything about propriety anymore. She finally turned to him.
The lieutenant bowed, his brown hair falling across his face. She clasped her hands together to keep from brushing it back. He needed to have it cut, though she was glad she’d be gone when he did. She would always remember him standing at the rail with the wind running through his unruly hair.
“I’ve taken the liberty of inviting you and your father to di
ne with my mother and me this evening. He accepted, but I do not wish to hold you to it if dinner will make you uncomfortable.”
“Oh, no. That would be wonderful. Thank you.” She had never dined with him before, despite their many weeks together. Only on cherimoya and lime water. It would be a fitting last meeting.
He held out his arm to her. “Might I escort you to the carriage? Your father will join us in a moment.”
“Yes, let me fetch my cloak. And bonnet. And gloves.” She had to remember these things now. The flattened poke bonnet, more a summer hat than a winter one, settled nicely over the bandeau. She tied the cloak over her gown, squeezed her fingers into the too-tight gloves, then returned to his side. This would all have to do for dinner, since she’d brought only a single ensemble aboard, crammed in the bottom of one of her father’s trunks and disguised as covering for books. She would fix the horrifying attire when she arrived in London.
Lieutenant Peyton took her hand and wrapped it tenderly around his arm. The act pulled her close against him. She fought the urge to lay her head on his shoulder. The time for that had passed. He led her out the door, and she leaned on his arm as they walked into the main area of the gun deck. No one had seen her in women’s clothes yet. The thought made her face burn.
The lieutenant preceded her up the ladder, then held out a hand to help her through the hatch. Not many men remained since the ship was paid off. Peyton moved them quickly to the gangplank, where a lone figure waited.
Fitz.
The boy stuck out his hand as they made to pass. She hesitated before setting hers in his.
Fitz shook it, and none too gently. “Farewell, Taylor.”
“Thank you, Fitz.” Her eyes blurred, and she blinked the mist away as they proceeded down the gangway. Never would she have guessed she would miss that boy.
Slippers firmly on the dock, Georgana halted and looked back. The late afternoon lit the Deborah’s freshly washed decks. She saw the quarterdeck, where she had followed her father around so many times, and the bow, where she and Peyton had spoken late into the night. Her eyes stopped on the mainmast, where he’d taught her the hornpipe, and the mizzenmast, whose falling had nearly killed Peyton. A crew of carpenters were making more repairs to it now. Her gaze drew down to the many gun ports, marking the gun deck, where she’d carried powder in battle. And the main cabin, where she spent so many quiet hours.
