by Téa Cooper
Thank God for Marcus.
As ever he’d come to her rescue.
Captain Charity pursed his lips. ‘I see. Something else I must apologise for. Henk is still battling the Zephyrus’ refit. He is not entirely convinced I have made the right decision. I don’t believe our fortune lies in whaling. The indiscriminate slaughter is concerning and seal numbers have already diminished alarmingly. We are all God’s creatures, are we not?’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ Marcus’ tone changed to his pulpit voice, the one he used to harangue the poor inmates of Hobart Gaol during his Sunday visits.
Charlotte stifled a laugh knowing Marcus’ voice would ratchet up a notch or two if he became suitably enthused, though something as unimportant as whales was unlikely to inspire his full fire-and-brimstone version.
He sucked in a breath and puffed out his chest. ‘All God’s creatures are placed on this earth to serve and I, for one, would not be happy to forgo the bounties whales provide. Lamplight being but one of their God-given gifts.’ Marcus folded his arms over his belly.
‘You may find that you and Henk have something in common to discuss during the voyage.’ An almost sarcastic twist of amusement scored the Captain’s face. ‘I have made the decision to move to cargo: wool, potatoes and timber are all possibilities. Convicts, oil and passengers on this trip. I intend to trade between Hobart and Sydney and offer a passenger service.’
The air bristled as the two men measured each other and Charlotte watched bemused, expecting Marcus to respond; instead he took a step back and a nervous tic tweaked the corner of his eye.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed on deck.’ The Captain’s gaze returned to her face. ‘Miss Charlotte, let me show you to your cabin on my way.’ He indicated she should step ahead of him.
The clean tang of sea air and salt filled her nostrils as she stepped out the door and all her concerns about the voyage vanished in the sea breeze. ‘Thank you, Captain.’
He gave her an amused smile and threw open the next door, and Charlotte entered a smaller version of Marcus’ cabin. The window, console and chair appeared identical and a sea chest rested against the bulkhead. She swivelled around searching for the bunk. Surely the Captain didn’t think she would be sharing a bed with Marcus. He’d introduced her as his housekeeper and soon-to-be-wife, not his doxy. Her hand rose to her cheek stilling the sense of mounting outrage.
A deep chuckle reverberated in the small space and she glanced up, questioning.
It was as if he’d read her mind. ‘Don’t panic, your bed is here,’ he said, and reached behind the door to unhook a length of canvas and rope. With a flourish he stretched it across the room, attaching it to a hook above the small window. ‘A hammock.’ He swung the dangling canvas from side to side.
‘A hammock?’ Did he expect her to sleep there? It looked ridiculously uncomfortable and unsafe. Even the bunk on the Atwich she’d shared with three other women seemed a luxury by comparison.
‘Trust me.’ He threw her another wink and for some ludicrous reason she did.
With surprising agility for a man of his height he swung into the hammock and lay back, hands behind his head, beaming at her. His white teeth shone against the bronzed skin of his face and unable to resist his boyish good humour she dropped her hand from her cheek and grinned down at him.
‘It is far more practical than a bunk and twice as comfortable. You’ll find yourself lulled by the motion of the ship and you’ll sleep like a baby.’
With a surge of energy he sprang out of the hammock. ‘If you keep it hooked up during the day you will have more room during the voyage.’
‘Thank you, Captain Charity, however I hoped to spend most of my time on deck. I prefer…’
‘Christian. Call me Christian. Everyone else does, even my crew, unless they’re angry with me.’ His booming laugh filled the room again.
She tried his name on her tongue. ‘Christian.’ Somehow, it didn’t fit. She shrugged. Who was she to argue?
Chapter 2
Christian bounded up the ladder onto the open deck. The sun had reached its zenith and it beat down on the polished brass sending arcs of light zigzagging across his ship. It had taken close on six months to refit and repair after Jonas died and the small crew who’d stayed with him had worked long and hard. Zephyrus sparkled.
Letting out a sigh of pure pleasure he surveyed the scene. The thrill of possession still caused a knot to form in his gut, part excitement and part disbelief — excitement at the prospect of so many new opportunities on the horizon and utter disbelief at his good fortune. ‘Henk! Prepare to weigh anchor and the Zephyrus will commence her maiden voyage under my command.’
With a deal of scuttling and scuffing the crew raced to the braces while the boys scrambled up the ratlines and out along the yards. Canvas spilled down, unrolling in the wind like thunder and within moments the schooner’s bow drifted towards open water. Picking up the offshore breeze the spotless white sails filled. Christian turned to Henk with a grin. ‘Isn’t that a prettier sight than those old smoke-blackened sails?’
‘Might be a prettier sight if that’s what you’re after. I doubt it’s going to be a profitable one.’ Henk hawked his disgust over the deck rail.
‘You’re going to have to come to terms with it. The depression hit hard. With the decline in the price of whale oil it’s no longer the goldmine you imagine. I intend to keep the Zephyrus running. I’ve no intention of operating her as a whaling ship any longer.’
As they left the Cove and passed out into the Derwent River the wind increased, the sails blossomed and the Zephyrus, true to her name, skimmed the waves of the broad reaches of the river as the open sea beckoned.
‘The old man’ll be tossin’ in his grave, especially if he knew she’d become a bleedin’ hen frigate.’
‘The old man left the Zephyrus to me and I make the decisions. It was his express desire that we quit whaling. And you and the crew have been given the choice. Sail with me on the Zephyrus as a trader, or go and sign up with another whaling ship. There are plenty that’ll take you on.’
‘How in hell’s name are we going to do that? We’re already taking a cut in profit and going to another ship’ll only make it worse. Besides, we’re all owed.’
‘Lighten up, Henk! You’re not going to tell me you’ll miss the stench of the whale oil, are you?’
‘That’s liquid gold you’re talking about and I don’t care what it smells like — anything’s better than the pong of a hen frigate.’
Christian swung around, his gaze following Henk’s grimy thumb as it flipped to starboard.
Thick tangles of hair blew across Charlotte’s face and streamed out, bringing a scent that was a far cry from whale oil and infinitely more appealing. Drawn to the wind-whipped figure Christian left Henk at the wheel and strolled down the deck. She stood clasping the rail with both hands, leaning out over the water.
He stepped up beside her. ‘Your feelings of sickness will pass.’
She turned and combed her hair back from her face, her smile causing her stormcloud eyes to dance. ‘Oh, I’m not feeling sick. I don’t suffer from seasickness. The voyage out here from England cured me of it, though I’d far rather be up here than confined below decks.’
A jolt of surprise raced through him. He wouldn’t have picked her for a convict even though most of the inhabitants of Hobart Town were London’s rejects.
‘Oh!’ Charlotte’s hand covered her pretty mouth. ‘I wasn’t supposed to mention it. Mr Wainwright prefers me not to allude to my past.’
‘Ticket-of-leave?’ he asked, in some strange way delighted to be discussing it when the upright Mr Marcus Wainwright didn’t approve. The black-clad gentleman’s supercilious nature and holier-than-though attitude rubbed him up the wrong way.
‘Not yet. I’m a bonded convict, assigned to Mr Wainwright. He carries my papers. I’ve worked for him for the last six years, ever since I arrived in Van Diemen’s Land. We’re to
be married in Sydney once my sentence is over. A fresh start for me while he searches out new business ventures.’
The flat acceptance in her voice piqued his curiosity. It didn’t belong to a woman embarking on a new beginning with her husband-to-be. And why hadn’t the man married her already? It was common practise. She didn’t need to serve out her sentence if she married. He shrugged his shoulders. None of his business. ‘We’re on our way to your new start. Say goodbye to Hobart Town. And be prepared for it to get rough.’
The sun shone on the golden yellow of the acacia trees growing in profusion on the riverbank and accentuated the myriad of colours in her hair. She stifled another pretty laugh and shook her head. ‘I won’t be ill, I promise you.’
‘I’ll hold you to it. I think I should find you somewhere a little safer. I don’t want my paying passengers washed overboard. Come with me and I’ll show you how we sail the Zephyrus.’
Christian’s pulse quickened as he fought down the desire to reach out and touch her. Her smile lit her face with such an unexpected radiance and her eyes, the dark grey-blue of thunderclouds, danced in delight.
‘This is where the Derwent River meets the Southern Ocean. There’s Iron Pot.’ He pointed to the craggy island ahead. ‘Once we round the light we will truly test your stomach.’
‘Iron Pot?’ She raised an eyebrow as if she thought he might be teasing her.
‘Yes. Iron Pot light. You must have passed it when you arrived. There’s been a lamp here for a few years now. A couple of poor blighters man it and live in tents. Three ships went down in as many years so they set it up; one had three hundred free women settlers aboard.’
Charlotte gasped and raised her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with distress. ‘How terrible.’
He could have kicked himself. Too used to being aboard ship with a bunch of rough and ready men he’d forgotten women took things harder, and besides, she would be remembering her own arrival on a transport, stuck below decks not watching the sights. ‘I’m sorry. It was inconsiderate of me.’
A smile transformed her quivering lips. ‘It was a long time ago. I’m not ashamed of my past, only sorry for the poor women who never had a chance.’ She waved his remark away then stretched up on her toes to get a better view. ‘Iron Pot is a funny name for a lighthouse.’
‘No one rightly knows how it got its name. Some say it’s because the original light was a whale oil beacon in an old try pot, the iron cauldrons the whalemen use for oil. Old Jonas used to say the bay whalers dumped their pots there. Who knows?’
From the wheel the panorama of the open ocean spread out as far as the eye could see. Snowy white clouds scudded across the brilliant cobalt sky above the dark streak of the horizon. A deep feeling of peace settled on his shoulders. A man could ask for little more than this.
‘Who’s Old Jonas? He sounds like something out of the bible.’ Her laugh flew away on the breeze and added to his enjoyment.
Jonas had been a bit of a biblical figure with his flowing beard and weathered face, and he’d certainly given him a second chance. ‘Jonas used to own the Zephyrus. I inherited it from him.’
Charlotte reached out to the smooth polished timber of the wheel, and traced her long fingers over the spokes. With her hair streaming free behind her she might have been the inspiration for the carving on the Zephyrus’ bow. Covering her hand with his he turned the wheel hard to starboard, relishing the movement of the ship as it responded and threw Charlotte closer. ‘By the time we reach Sydney you’ll be vying for the position of first mate. Zephyrus responds to a woman’s touch.’ And so it seemed did he.
Laughing, Charlotte withdrew her hand and folded her arms, balancing easily as the deck swayed with the motion of the open sea. ‘There’s Mr Wainwright.’
Christian eyed Wainwright as he strode along the deck, his hands behind his back, pacing with a measured, proprietorial step. Obviously the man possessed a sharp intelligence, he’d picked it in his hawk-like gaze; however, something less savoury lurked beneath the surface. The lecherous gleam when he eyed Charlotte spoke of long-awaited desires. Maybe Marcus wasn’t the paragon of virtue he’d have the good people of Hobart Town believe. Possibly it accounted for his need to start life anew in Sydney — why else would a man give up what must have been a comfortable existence?
Shaking his head Christian pushed aside his thoughts. If he intended to operate the Zephyrus as a passenger and cargo ship he’d have to learn to pay less attention to his customers. Six years of dubious characters and shady ports had taught him to read men and he’d learnt the hard way. It was safer not to delve into complex relationships. He had enough to keep him occupied managing the combustible nature of the crew. Seamen had a reputation for fighting change and with Henk stirring up trouble he’d have his hands full until he proved to them Jonas’ decisions were the right ones.
‘Finding your sea legs, Mr Wainwright?’ he asked as the crow of a man clambered up the three timber steps to the wheel.
Wainwright rearranged his cloak and pulled it tighter to his chest. ‘Thank you, Captain. I am, though the breeze is very brisk.’ He turned to Charlotte and frowned. ‘I don’t think this is the spot for you. Apart from the suitability of mixing with the crew it is far too cold up on deck.’
‘But Mr Wainwright, I…’
‘Go to your cabin. I am certain you have matters to attend to and if you haven’t my papers are in an appalling state of disarray.’
Christian caught the discreet flash of irritation crossing Charlotte’s face and the tiny sigh escaping her reddened lips. He kept his peace while she nodded her head in submission and made her way back along the deck.
‘So, Captain, we’re your only passengers?’ Marcus asked.
‘Correct. We are not carrying any other passengers.’
‘And the cargo?’
Christian resisted the temptation to tell the fool to mind his own business. He irritated him and he regretted his impulse to tell him of his plans for the Zephyrus. If he hadn’t been so taken with Charlotte he might have been more circumspect. Swallowing his displeasure he made an effort to be civil. ‘At the moment, potatoes, some timber and whale oil, and a dozen or so convicts. We were hoping to carry one of the first shipments of beer to Sydney, unfortunately it didn’t eventuate.’
‘Beer? Do you not think the colony has seen sufficient problems with a surfeit of alcohol? Encouraging its use is hardly a responsible way to conduct your business.’
Christian loosened his fingers from the wheel and gazed up at Windy perched at the top of the mainsail in the crow’s nest before answering the pompous fool. ‘As captain of this vessel it’s my decision as to the cargo and the passengers I carry, Mr Wainwright. I’ll thank you not to interfere.’
‘My dear young man, there is no need to react so aggressively.’ Marcus pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and thankfully turned his back, studying the rapidly diminishing coastline of Van Diemen’s Land.
Charlotte truly believed Marcus had her best interests at heart. She would never forget he’d saved her from all sorts of horrors when she arrived in Van Diemen’s Land and for that reason alone she owed him her obedience and her allegiance. He’d rescued her as surely as any knight on a white charger, and now he was taking her away to begin a new life. She had to keep that foremost in her mind. Transitioning from servant to wife was bound to be trying. Marcus’ intentions and concern for her welfare were simply proof of his regard. As yet he’d never professed any affection for her, never so much as touched her other than to guide her; that part of their relationship would come in time.
Caught in a sudden blow the sails filled and the ship lurched. Lost in her thoughts, Charlotte’s foot slipped and she fell to one side. Reaching out to regain her balance she sank onto one of the hatches. With a giggle she swung her legs clear of the deck and latched her fingers through the open timber frets, swaying with the movement of the ship.
Well out of sight of Marcus and the Captain she se
ttled back to enjoy the sensation of skimming the waves. A fine dark line on the horizon was all that remained of Van Diemen’s Land and the past six years. What Jamie would have given to be part of this adventure!
No matter how many times she read the surgeon’s report and no matter how often she’d demanded the story recounted, she couldn’t believe the nimble-footed, agile youth had fallen to his death. She studied the swaying mast. Climbing the ratlines or the mainmast would have been a game to him. The boy who had shimmied his way up the spire of St Martins-in-the-Fields for a dare and clung to the cross in a parody of the crucifixion wouldn’t have fallen. If only they had travelled together…if only.
Marcus’ investigations on her behalf had been more than thorough. He’d even spoken with the captain and surgeon of the Lord Petre. There was no doubt Jamie had fallen to his death. As Charlotte looked out at the darkening ocean the terror of being swallowed by the waves and carried down into their swirling depths churned her stomach.
Pushing her morbid thoughts aside, back into the hidey-hole of the past somewhere beneath her heart, she clenched her fingers tightly around the timber frets and let out a huge sigh — a final farewell to Jamie and all that might have been.
As the Zephyrus rounded the lofty cliffs and basalt columns of Cape Raoul, grouped like crumbling Roman ruins, the shadows lengthened and an eerie stillness descended. The drop in the wind silenced the snapping canvas and a mournful wail hung in the air. She shuddered; reliving the memories of the despondent women cramped below decks on the Atwich.
In a matter of moments the cries from the deckhands chased away the remnants of the past as a fresh southerly squall filled the sails, and casting one last glance at the Derwent Estuary she pulled herself to her feet to walk to her cabin.
As she stood a pitiful moan reverberated through the ship, twisting her heartstrings, a ghostly reminder of the past. She peered down through the latticed hatch to the hold. The fetid stench of bodies filled her nostrils and a wave of heat lashed her as she relived the hell of her first nightmare voyage. The moan echoed again, louder. She shook her head.
