by Anne Groß
“Damn it, Thomas. I thought I told you,” Elise rasped, pulling her face out of his grip and touching her corset to assure herself that the emerald was still there, “I don’t need your help.”
Quickly Thomas stood and took two steps backwards and glared. Despite the crowd surrounding them, the only sound came from the seawater dripping from their clothes and puddling around their feet. Finally, he shook the water out of his thick black hair, and Elise blinked her eyes against the spray. “Well,” he said, pushing his mane away from his face. “Back you go, then.”
“No!” Elise screamed as he hauled her up and over his shoulder. She clutched his back desperately as he leaned her over the rail.
“No?” he asked. “Are you sure? Far be it from me to help you live if you wish to die.” The crowd pushed at them, encouraging Thomas to drop her overboard.
It was the same sea, but this time it terrified Elise. She did want to live. She did. “Please,” she begged. “Put me down.”
Thomas stepped away from the rail and let her slide through his arms, setting her feet gently on the deck. “Don’t you ever—” His voice broke. Dipping his head towards her, his warm breath tickled the skin on her neck. “Never try that again.” He looked at her with an intensity that made her body feel cored. Elise gulped. That was all the agreement he seemed to need.
“Get back, you buggers.” Thomas turned to push a path through the crowd. “Someone send for Mrs. Gillihan,” he ordered as he stalked away.
Despite being entirely surrounded, Elise felt suddenly alone. Her teeth clattered. One thoughtful infantryman draped a blanket around her shoulders, probably the same blanket she’d dropped earlier.
Only in her mid-thirties, but still the senior woman on board, Mrs. Gillihan played the role of the nurturing, wise elder with aplomb. She arrived on the scene as if by magic. “Oh my dear, my dear,” clucked Mrs. Gillihan with her arms spread wide in consternation. Elise was only too happy to lean into them. “Let’s get you dry before you catch your death.”
Seeing that Elise was now in the capable hands of another female, the men began to drift away. “Where is Private Ferrington?” Mrs. Gillihan called. “Someone tell him we’ll be in the galley.”
“Don’t bother. I’m okay,” Elise said as she convulsed in shivers. “It’s all good.” Richard was the last person she wanted to see.
“Don’t be daft. Good? It isn’t good. Bad, I should say. ‘Tis quite bad. You’ve nearly drowned! Your Richard will be soon on his way, you’ll see. He’ll warm you right up.”
Thankfully, the woman wasn’t about to wait on Richard for bestowing warmth. She draped a second blanket around Elise’s shoulders and hugged her to her side as they walked across the deck towards a hatch that led to the only place on board with fire—the normally off-limits galley kitchen. “Move away,” Mrs. Gillihan snapped at the gawkers who clogged the narrow steps. “Get on with ye. Leave us.”
“Did she fall?” slurred a woman who was practically swinging from the steps. She slapped at her own bonnet ribbons that whipped against her cheek from the wind tunnel created between the lower and upper decks.
“Of course she fell. How else do you think she’d be soaked through?”
“The poor girl needs a good slug of this to warm her up,” said the woman. She thrust a flask of something at Elise. “Drink this, there’s a dear.” Before Elise could accept the offer, the woman pulled the flask back and shook it. “One moment. Let me see if there’s any left.” She tipped the contents down her own gullet. “Bad luck. None left.”
“Be gone, you slattern!” cried Mrs. Gillihan.
Elise sighed heavily. The Slattern made a rude gesture and disappeared back into the murk where surging shadows partied with abandon.
“The indecency of those dreadful women! The very last thing you need is their rum. I pray every day that they will come to recognize their transgressions against God and society. Filthy creatures!” she spat. “Filthy. There’s nought but disease between their legs.”
Elise thought about the truth of that statement as Mrs. Gillihan ushered her into the warm galley, easily banishing the guard that had been set to keep away the riffraff, and began tugging at the strings of her soaked dress. While it was true she didn’t need liquor for its warmth, its comfort sure would have been nice. She lifted her arms and allowed the woman to peel her dress off over her head. The situation made her think of Mrs. Postlethwaite who’d been there for her after the first time she’d nearly drowned. Elise was sure Mrs. P. would have poured her a little glass of brandy. There was always plenty of brandy in the kitchen at the Quiet Woman, Elise recalled. She missed the old gal. She missed her rejuvenating beef stews, the black porter, the nearly feral cats. She even missed Mary.
Elise jumped when Mrs. Gillihan began tugging the strings of her corset. “No need to be shy,” the woman said, “I’ll not let any men in here but your husband.”
Mrs. Gillihan was no Mrs. Postlethwaite, and there was no way Elise would allow her to discover the scarab. “Thank you, I’ll take it from here.”
“You’re a modest thing, aren’t you? Suit yourself,” she said, turning to the oven to stir up the flames, an unnecessary task, but one which gave Elise the privacy to pop the emerald into her mouth and remove the rest of her clothes. “You should have seen Private MacEwan run after you,” Mrs. Gilliham said into the flames. “He didn’t even think to spit out his pipe before he leapt overboard.”
Elise smiled at the idea of Thomas in a swan dive with his pipe dangling from his lips. Everyone has their treasures, she thought as she tongued the scarab into the pocket of her cheek and wrapped the blanket around her nakedness.
Thomas was hunkered, stark naked, hidden in the dark shadows of the ship’s hull. The noise of near one-thousand soldiers, sailors and countless whores echoed against the curved walls and pounded his hot ears, making it difficult to organize his thoughts. He needed dry clothes and a mouthful of rum. “Stanton!” he yelled. “Bill Stanton!”
“Let him be. I’ve got what you’re looking for.” Patrick emerged from the dark with enough liquor for a few long swallows, and a dry pair of trousers.
“Bill doesn’t know his arse from his elbow,” Thomas said, his mood making him incapable of a civilized thank you. “Where is that lad? When I was Stanton’s age I made it a point to know when I’d be needed.”
“Bill’s climbed to the fighting top with young Master Donegal. There’s no better place for the two of them, seeing as this ship’s been overrun with molls. And anyway, he doesn’t answer to you.”
Thomas threw back the rum. It burned in the bottom of his empty stomach as he tried on Patrick’s trousers. They were tight around his thighs and ended well above his ankles, but fit perfectly around his waist. He rolled them up to his knees.
“There’s a devil in you, Tom. Don’t look at me like that. I know these things. You’d best sit and smoke it out with me.”
Reflexively, Thomas slapped at his bare waist where he normally hid his pipe in his pocket. The memory of tearing his shirt off as he swam down towards Elise made him freeze. He had an extra shirt in his kitbag, but his waistcoat was gone forever. “Bloody hell. I dropped my tobacco in the drink.” He tore at his forelock in frustration then put his hand out to steady himself against the stacked crates as the vision of Elise’s limp, floating body crashed over him again and again. She’d almost died, he thought. She’d nearly died. “That damned woman!” he muttered.
“No matter, no matter,” soothed Patrick. “I’ve got some.”
“Don’t bother yourself. I’ll not smoke all your leaf. I’ve got a plan to get more.”
Patrick gave Thomas a wary look. “A plan? Private O’Brian, d’you mean? Don’t do it, Tom. There’s no guarantee you’ll win that fight.”
“I always win,” Thomas snapped. His fists felt like glowing coals. He’d been putting O’Brian off for a while, but now the timing felt right. If O’Brian thought he could best him, then he’d take t
hat bet. Besides, he had expenses. He needed a new second shirt, waistcoat, pipe, and a pouch of good tobacco. A win off O’Brian could make him flush enough to get it all. “Have you seen him?”
“I thought you wanted me to fetch young Stanton. Now you want me to fetch O’Brian? What’s gotten into you? You leave O’Brian be. You oughtn’t chase down trouble when you’re in a fix.”
Thomas shrugged off the old sailor’s steadying hand. He was in no mood to indulge his warning. His blood was up. His guard was down. And he desperately needed a smoke. “I’ll find him myself,” he said, stalking off.
If old Patrick did have one thing right, it was that the members of each company mostly kept tight. His own, including Richard, Bill Stanton, O’Brian and others, all slept together near where the Valiant’s mainmast speared the lower gun deck—a choice spot. Everyone in his company always knew everyone else’s business, which was mostly why Thomas spent his time with the sailors, but it made it easy to find people when he needed them. Richard, he knew, was with Elise in the Galley. Bill, it seemed, was on the fighting top. He lifted a blanket that had been hung for privacy and found Peter Collins nuzzling his young wife. Collins pointed him in the direction of Hobert, who sent him forward.
Thomas finally found Private Benedict O’Brian towards the bow of the ship where the walls began to come together to chase out the light. Peering around a short stack of crates he found O’Brian humping a folded-over girl who was making quiet rhythmic squeaks, like an exhausted and tortured mouse.
“Ahem,” said Thomas.
“Bloody hell!” O’Brian, straightening up quickly in surprise. “MacEwan, you bastard. What the devil do you want?” The moll dropped her skirt and took the opportunity to escape.
“If you still think you can best me, let’s have the match, then.”
O’Brian’s sly smile was slow to bloom, and fast in getting under Thomas’s skin.
It used to be that old Cooper would organize all the boxing matches and keep the books, which was fine by Thomas. Someone had to do it, and it wasn’t seemly for him to do it himself, as he was usually the one fighting. The matches were, generally speaking, clean events—a fighter won, a fighter lost, money exchanged hands, beer was bought for those that lost their bets. The Quiet Woman would also make a bit of money from hosting the event while the magistrate, being Cooper himself, would look the other way at the legality of a public house holding fights.
“Form a queue, men,” shouted Private Benedict O’Brian. He waved a small ledger book in the air. “Easy now, no pushing. You’ll all get your chance to make your bet.”
Thomas sniffed, and narrowed his eyes. The man hadn’t lost a minute of time to spread the word, once he’d agreed to the match. No doubt O’Brian would be skimming from the top. Likely skimming from the middle and bottom too, lousy cheat.
No, Thomas didn’t have any regrets about accepting the challenge. His knuckles itched with a heat he couldn’t dispel. He’d be glad to let them collide with O’Brian’s fat mouth, sure enough. “I can best him,” Thomas said to Patrick, who was shoving back the curious men and women who reached past him to pinch Thomas’s arms in order to make an educated bet. They knew O’Brian already—he was a loud, blustering man, a compact stack of muscles with thighs like logs of hardwood, chest like a lady’s traveling trunk, and arms that swung like bullwhips—but Thomas they weren’t sure about. Thomas kept to himself.
“Maybe you can, maybe you can’t,” Patrick replied. “Best not even try. Isn’t he in your own Company? Why would you fight your own man?”
“My own man?” Thomas asked with outrage. “I suppose you think I enlisted the bastard? He’s not my own. I’ve nothing to do with O’Brian.”
“You do now, like it or not.”
Patrick had a point. There was nothing personal about fighting a man in a match, but you did learn a great many things about him while doing it. Thomas had fought many who he’d never see again, but he always remembered. All his fights stuck with him.
He watched as the crowd pushed and shoved towards a happy O’Brian. When he saw Richard line up with the rest to place his bet, he scowled—and him with a wife as just jumped into the drink. Elise was on her own with that one, he thought. Can’t say he didn’t warn her.
Against his better judgement, Thomas glanced over to the pile of barrels and crates where he knew Elise liked to perch. It’d only been an hour since he’d made yet another resolution to wash his hands of the strange woman, but his eyes couldn’t break the habit of seeking out her location. She was there, alright. With her dress having been hung to dry, she sat with her knees pulled up to her chest wearing nought but Richard’s shirt. She’d pulled the shirt over her knees to cover as much of her body as possible, but a lamp that hung behind her shone through the taut white fabric, outlining her slender legs. Her auburn hair, full of curls after her dip in the sea, shone like a wild halo around her narrow face.
“Are you even fit enough to fight?” Patrick asked, jerking Thomas’s attention back to the situation at hand. He looked significantly at Thomas’s stomach where a long red line in his flesh was hidden behind the right panel of his open shirt.
“This? This is nothing. It’s an old wound.”
“Let me see.”
“Stop,” Thomas slapped away Patrick’s hands. “Stop being such an old Nana. It’s nothing, I tell you. Just a scratch.”
“And will you be fighting with your shirt on, then? You’d best let the men see – if you lose and that gash is found out, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“No, of course I’ll take the shirt off. It’s the only one I’ve got left.” Thomas reluctantly shrugged off his shirt and a few of the whores gasped. The stitches Elise had tied had helped the top part of the knife wound heal, but the bottom was red, and still open. He thought maybe he’d cut the stitches out too soon, but the damn thing had felt like he’d wandered into a patch of nettles, and was pulling and itching. Now, looking at it carefully, he saw he was slowly growing his flesh back from the center out. “See? It’s fine.”
There was a sudden flurry of activity as those nearest Thomas rushed to spread the word of his handicap. A clamor arose around O’Brian, who was scowling and madly scribbling in his ledger. The odds had just changed. That suited Thomas just fine. Since he was betting on himself, he stood to win more.
Pulling out an old fishing net, seemingly from thin air, Patrick set to repairing it, signaling the conversation was over. All attempts to convince Thomas to drop the fight had been made, and this was Patrick’s way of washing his hands of the matter.
To clear his mind, Thomas watched as the old sailor deftly shuttled the needle from loop to loop. Logically, the turns of twine made sense: cross over, form a loop, bring the end up under itself, now thrice more. He could follow the motions, he could memorize the pattern, but to his great irritation, his hands refused to cooperate when given a length of twine.
He should have known it would be that way. It had been the same with music. Old Mr. Ferrington had wanted him to play the fiddle, but Thomas couldn’t even finger the holes on a penny whistle and against all expectations, Richard had been the one to show a talent. Thomas could easily sing melody, or drop instantly into the background with a harmonic support should a more delicate voice take the lead. Music made sense, but his hands were clubs. About all he could do with his hands was pour a beer, scrawl figures into the old ledger behind the bar, and fill a pipe.
He could fight. That’s what he did best with his hands. He’d always been able to fight. Fighting made sense to him too: cross over, form a loop, bring the end up under itself. The only difference between the twists of a sailor’s knot and the twists of a fight was he never got tangled in a fight.
“The scratch line’s been drawn,” Richard said, pushing people out of his way to reach him. “You ready, Tom?”
“Aye, I’m ready.” His hands felt warm and heavy. They itched. He didn’t know what to do with them, so he crossed his arms and tucked t
hem into his armpits. “Pat? You coming? I’ll need you to be my second.”
Patrick scowled and remained silent. His hands flew faster over the net.
“I’ll be your second, Tom,” Richard said. “It’ll be like old times.”
Thomas sighed. “Old times, then.” He clasped Richard’s elbow in affection, then rose on steady feet. He’d thought he was done with the old times.
The crowd surrounding Thomas pulsed close, making him sweat from the heat of everyone’s blood-lust. The fight had not yet begun, and already excitement was reaching a pitch near madness. “Get them back,” he hissed to Richard. “Get them away from me.”
“Don’t be daft. They love you,” Richard laughed. Half-heartedly, he turned to the crowd and waved his arms at the nearest people like they were squawking hens to be herded into the roost. No one budged.
Toeing the line in front of Thomas, O’Brian narrowed his eyes in a combined expression of concentration and amusement. “The crowd’s too much for you?” he sneered.
“Who’s refereeing this match? Everyone needs to get back.” Thomas demanded. There was barely enough room to breathe, much less swing a punch.
“Referee?” O’Brian laughed. “Who told you this would be refereed?”
“Broughton’s Rules state—”
“Broughton’s Rules? Here? We’re anchored off Ireland, man. If you thought we’d be using Broughton’s Rules, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.”
