She made it to the galley, crestfallen to find another man there in place of Padraig. The old Irishman had become dear to her, and she’d looked forward to sharing solace with him. At least his absence explained the cold fish soup. This fellow, a portly middle-aged man who clearly liked to sample his work, seemed to apply the least amount of effort necessary.
“There you are. I’m going to find a hammock and sleep.”
The storm roiled the ship, every man jack aboard frantic to keep her afloat, so he went off for a nap. Naturally.
She remembered Hawk’s story for Falligan that she was mute, so she merely nodded at the man. He passed her without comment, heading toward the men’s sleeping quarters.
For now, she prayed Padraig was safe on the other ship, where she assumed Raven was as well.
She set the bowl where she’d hidden the knives off to the side while she worked, and began washing the dishes in the cold, dank galley. The stove had never been lit for the meal, and she hoped the men had had something to eat. A single whale oil lantern hung overhead, and as smelly as it was, she was grateful for the dim light.
Her mind continued to turn over ideas for rescuing Hawk, but each seemed futile, and the entire situation, hopeless. She had to get the knives to the men, but so many uncertainties stood in her way.
Would the other ship’s men join in a mutiny?
How could she disguise the knives? She noticed the fine linen napkins from the captain’s cabin. Unfortunately, there weren’t nearly enough to spread out among all the men, or their next food delivery would be the perfect time.
If she carried them in her pocket, she risked easy detection. Large as her pockets were, she doubted she could stuff many dirks into them without the bulges arousing suspicion. And she was certain she couldn’t move without their clanging giving her away. And she couldn’t leave them here, sitting on the counter.
She grabbed the bulky package of knives wrapped in napkins. She carried them to a lower cabinet, rarely used. On her hands and knees, she shoved the collection to the back wall, where it was unlikely that lazy cook would find it.
Relieved for a moment’s respite, she sat back, searching for a way to get the knives to the men.
And as she sat back, she realized she was no longer alone.
“What have we here?”
Marley glanced over her shoulder. Percy Snaveling.
She gulped and closed the cabinet without speaking. She didn’t need to remind herself she was supposed to be mute.
“Open it.”
She obeyed.
“Remove whatever you just hid.”
She reached in for the large stewpot beside the knives.
“Don’t tempt my patience, halfwit. Whatever you’ve covered with napkins there.”
She withdrew the bowl, and he walked forward to kick it over. The knives clattered across the floor, and she flailed out her arms as if in alarm.
Snaveling grabbed a knife and held it before her face. She went still.
With his other hand, he brought the cudgel across her cheekbone, the edge of it glancing across her nose. She cried out in pain, tasting copper, and tears came to her eyes. All the times in her life she’d flinched against blows that never came, she hadn’t realized that real blows came without warning.
She remembered the perverse pleasure Jimmy had found in Nan’s weeping, and she swallowed her own tears. When Snaveling raised the cudgel again, she crouched into a ball, her arms over her head.
But no blow came.
She didn’t believe his ruse, and she huddled in place.
His voice softened into an oily attempt to soothe her. “Ah, boy, I know ’twas only an act of desperation. I admire that.”
His hand came down on her back, patting—then it roved down to her buttocks, shaping and molding.
Her stomach heaved in revulsion. His hand went under the hem of her shirt, grabbing the back of her breeches.
In a moment, she knew he was about to split them in two.
“What are you doing, you disgusting fool?” It was Falligan.
She knew she had no hope of mercy from either man—only different types of suffering. She stayed where she was.
“Boy, stand up.”
She scrambled away from Snaveling and came to her feet, shrinking away into a corner.
“She’s got a dozen knives there.”
“You’re in a galley. Do you suppose they don’t have knives here? And can you not pull yourself together and set your perverse predilections aside for two days?”
Snaveling squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”
“Go to the captain’s cabin and keep him secured.”
“He’s knotted from neck to ankle. He’s going nowhere.”
“Nonetheless. And hide these knives, on your way.”
Marley didn’t leave the galley that night. The place was small and dark and no one had any interest in being there. With the crash of the storm, the rolling of the ship in steadfast rhythm, and the darkness that descended early, she no longer found a reason to fight.
If a man like Hawk was helpless, what could someone as small and simple as she hope to do?
She closed her eyes, surrendering to the darkness, feeling the tears slip from her eyes. She slipped into a narrow place between the end of a storage cabinet and a wall, where she could hide in peace.
In time, her own body heat warmed the small space. She huddled into the corner, bereft of all hope. If they did not outwit these men, their jokes about hanging would become reality as soon as they reached Boston.
And yet Hawk’s stubborn memory persisted. Comforting her, refusing to let her give up hope. Finding her drowning in the sea and breathing life into her; holding her shivering body near and warming her; cradling her under the stars and tutoring her in the amusements of a sailor.
As she sat there, slumped against the wall, she remembered the last private moments they’d shared before he’d captured the ship.
Forgive me for striking you.
She smiled at the memory of his light spanking, as playful as a child’s game, and he as surprised as she to discover she enjoyed his play.
Tonight, perhaps, I’ll finish what we’ve started here.
Just for a moment, her tears stopped and she raised her head, dumbstruck by the realization. She wasn’t certain when it had happened, but the charming, protective, demanding man had become dear to her.
Marley had never been in love before, so she shouldn’t have been expected to recognize it. But she had come to love the impossible captain in all his alluring extremes, a combination of carefree and passionate, brilliant and simple, demanding and generous. A man who ever held her at arm’s length but refused to let her go, content to have her there by his side.
No logic or reason could prove it, but she knew in her heart as she sat there with him surrounding her, holding her safe, that up in the captain’s cabin, that the thought of her sheltered him, calming him in his worst moments of fear and hopelessness. And together in their separate cold darkness, they lent each other their own courage.
Chapter Seventeen
From the quarterdeck of the Delight, Raven watched the Adventurer as best he could through the storm. The pouring rain slicked off his oilskin, but the coat did only so much to protect from the biting cold. Snow and sleet mixed with the rain, but the sailors kept the deck salted and so far they could still get around.
His gaze was grim. He had known the exact moment when Falligan had gained the upper hand. It was no mystery.
A seaman had raised the Union Jack.
The Adventurer kept an assortment of ensigns, useful for preserving life and limb in tight jams. But Hawk had not raised the British colors since Michael’s death.
“What can we do, sir?” This from Deming.
“I don’t know yet. What are the options, as you see them?”
“Depends on where the captain is.”
“And those options?”
Deming exchanged a tense gla
nce with him, and Raven waved a hand. “It helps me work it out, to hear it aloud.”
“The captain could have been taken unawares and tied up. There could have been a gun or knife fight, with the captain injured, seriously or not. Finally, there could have been the same fight, with the captain—”
“Thank you, Deming.”
After a moment, Deming added, “Begging your pardon, sir. Not to give you false hope, but it only benefits Falligan to keep the captain alive and well.”
Raven looked up at him. “Yes. That’s very true, isn’t it?”
Deming gave a nod.
“And to board now?”
“Sir, we can’t cross in this. We could lose control of this ship and risk lives unnecessarily. Fools commit foolish acts in desperation. A better time will present itself.”
“Well it had better do so soon. In no time we’ll reach Boston—and a hangman’s noose.”
“God willing, with better weather ahead.”
“Yes. Keep an eye peeled. I’m going below.”
He nodded and returned to relieve the man at the wheel.
Anyone could see the ship was heavy-laden in the water, but as Raven raced down to the hold, he began to get an inkling of the ship’s load. No wonder Falligan was desperate.
Apparently a herd of cattle and pigs had been slaughtered before the trip, as an entire deck was filled with salted meat and other food stores. This was beyond provisions for their men; these were stores for the starving Navy in Massachusetts Bay. Flour and butter, tea leaves and coffee beans. Salt, sugar, dried peas, oatmeal. Cords of firewood, crammed everywhere.
He hurried back up to the next level, the glorious smells of iron and steel and lead and oil teasing his nostrils. And in a moment he was a boy in the gunsmith’s shop back home, pestering his Uncle Jeremiah with a million questions. The sense memories of his uncle’s shop nearly overwhelmed him: the warmth greeting him through the open door on the coldest day in February, the pungent aroma of fire and melting ore, and the fearsome hot glow of lead as his uncle poured it into shot molds.
The warmth within him was almost enough to lighten his mood. At the moment, it filled him with melancholy. A man could be homesick within miles of that home with the threat of losing it so real.
Still, the stores soothed him even beyond its magnificent value—especially to the colonials—and he goggled at the artillery. Cannons, carronades, crate upon crate upon crate of pistols, muskets, rifles, bayonets, swords, dirks, and daggers. Scabbards, ramrods, cartridge boxes, and flints. And gunpowder to dwarf their own hidden stores, plus saltpeter for making more.
After several moments, Raven threw back his head and let deep, exultant laughter explode from his chest, and with it a resolute determination. He couldn’t wait to show this to Hawk.
This was a prize whose loss would ruin a man—and whose gain, make him a hero.
It was up to Raven to make sure the role of the ruined went to Falligan, and that of the hero to his own captain.
The storm grew merciful in the night, slowing to a quiet rain. Marley had dozed in the galley. The cold made it difficult to sleep, but at least she was left alone. She tried not to think of the occasional rustling in the corner by the cask of oats.
Instead, in those moments of quiet when all the world slept except those who labored longest, she found wonder in the discovery of her love for Hawk. As anyone who’s known such wonderment knows, she was certain no one had ever felt this way. She wanted to protect, to safeguard, these strange, unique feelings, that she might always enjoy them. And, as anyone who’s loved knows, life’s urgent cadence indifferently intruded on her private exploration of life’s magic.
So it was early when she built a fire in the hearth, thankful for its luxurious warmth. She’d begun to thaw by the time she started breakfast without the indolent cook’s help. She hoisted kettles of water onto the surface to boil and assembled the ingredients for the men’s breakfast. The pork that had been so tasty that first morning had grown dull—oh, what she would give for a glass of cold milk, even as freezing as it was—and she couldn’t imagine how these men survived on such fare for months at sea.
She prepared a breakfast tray for Hawk and his captors, setting it aside. She slipped the portions of pork into the larger kettle, then as the smaller kettle began to bubble, she salted the water well and added oatmeal, stirring hastily. Cooking on a fire hearth was not the modern gourmet chef experience, she thought as the oatmeal bubbled wildly.
Dear God, how she longed to see Hawk, to touch his face, to try to give him a bit of encouragement. How long would it take to make this food edible?
At last the oatmeal was done, and she took the kettle off the hearth, dumping in a generous glob of butter and even some sugar. Poor guys, they had so little pleasure. Perhaps it would be a treat for them.
She filled the plates with pork and biscuit, the bowls with oatmeal, the cups with hot coffee. Excited to see Hawk, she lifted the monstrous tray and headed for the captain’s cabin. If he were still captive, he would need help to eat, and for other morning tasks. She couldn’t imagine Falligan freeing him—or feeding him, certainly. The thought of seeing him again, even in a dejected state, filled her with pleasure and with new hope.
“You. Boy.”
The hair at the back of her neck went up. Snaveling, behind her in the passageway. She looked at him over her shoulder.
“Give me that.”
She ignored him, heading toward the ladder.
Snaveling grabbed the tray from her. “I’ll take that now.”
More interested in at least knowing Hawk was being fed, she abandoned her hope to see him.
When he spoke, his voice was nasal and gravelly. His eyes, narrowed with foul threat, were a rheumy pink. “Mark my words, you’ll suffer when we reach dry land. Why, I’ll take you so far into the black Carolina woods you’ll never see daylight again. And afore it be over, you’ll pray for death.”
With that, he climbed the ladder.
Marley steadied herself against the wall and headed back to the kitchen, fear buckling her knees. For several blinding moments, she couldn’t even think of Hawk, let alone the encouragement she’d memorized by now. She tried to breathe and found she couldn’t.
She made it to the corner, lightheaded, and sank onto a small chair. She put her head between her knees and in moments, the lightheadedness passed and her spine stiffened.
Stubbornly now, she focused again on the stove. Two dozen men out there would be hungry. And among them would be men who would jump at the chance to help her free Hawk.
By dawn’s first light, Marley had finished serving the men in the mess—with Falligan watching them all. She’d found that along with deep breaths and battle cries, contempt and hatred helped steady her attitude toward the bastards who’d captured Hawk. Perhaps it wasn’t the healthiest way to channel adrenaline—but for now, it was a port in the storm.
She stopped to offer him a mug of coffee, and he looked as if she held out a dead snake.
“What is this?”
She bit her lip, her gaze dropping from his.
Shaking his head, he said, “No, by God! Do you not have the sense to bring an Englishman tea?”
She scurried away toward the kitchen. Tea? They had no tea. For heaven’s sake, man, it was 1775, and outside Boston. There was likely no tea within 500 miles.
“I’m going to inspect the locked room,” Hayworth told Falligan. “If I have to shoot the lock off myself.”
He headed down the ladder and off toward the room where the women were hidden. So far, they’d been able to keep the women in hiding. If they were revealed—anger filled her at the prospect of what these three men would do to them.
“Sir!” she called, forgetting her affliction of muteness.
Hayworth turned.
“There’s a key to the room, kept in the captain’s cabin.”
That would distract him for a few minutes. For now, she had the impossible task of finding tea
on Hawk’s ship.
Think harder, Marley.
Recalling all the minor luxuries Hawk secured on board for himself and his men—good cigars, Tahitian oils—she thought perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched. Perhaps he had some in his cabin? Perhaps Padraig had stashed a precious jar away for honored guests?
She put on a cast iron tea kettle to boil fresh water while she rifled through every cabinet. And at last she found it, forgotten in an unused corner. Stale or no, she thought it might just work. And she lacked the luxury of options.
While she sifted through the galley’s storage compartments for tea, she’d come across a handsome and large pewter tankard with a family crest.
Trelawney.
She gasped.
The coincidence of this unusual name, on that mug—the same name gracing the cover of the antique book she treasured back in her own time—was too great. What could it mean? Did Hawk and Raven work for the family who owned the ship? Could one of them—both of them?—be Trelawneys?
She blushed at that quantum leap of logic. How could a white man and black man share the same family? Perhaps if one family had owned the other’s?
This must be why she was here, in this time.
“Where’s that tea?” came the shout.
She grumbled under her breath and prepared the tray.
While small bubbles formed at the edge of the water in the cast iron teapot, half a dozen freezing men were climbing the ladder to board the Adventurer. They had left Delight on her far side to avoid detection by Falligan, should he be watching. Each man was heavily armed with knives, and they moved through the icy water silently—and quickly. Such water could kill a man with its embrace.
As he’d swum, Raven glanced at the lookout, but it was their own Cosly, and he reacted as Raven expected. The boy noticed them once, made no remark, then only glanced occasionally, surreptitiously, to chart their progress.
Raven padded up the ladder, his men trailing just behind. His head cleared the edge of the gunwale just enough to see what they were up against.
They were matched man for man, and he assumed the rest were below, eating. Nearby, he recognized a ginger-haired sailor from the Delight. Raven sprang over the gunwale, landing on the balls of his feet just behind the seaman, capturing him around the shoulders and holding his knife to his throat.
Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2) Page 15
