The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series)

by Schulz, Marilyn M

  He flipped at the little bit of lace on her sleeve. She knew he had seen her wear a dress before. He was just being surly.

  “I need someone who can take her out and back with a little diversion along the way. I have another plan for myself.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ambrose Standish thinks they might be using us to do something underhanded, perhaps subversive, which is worse for the British might see it as sedition. I don’t need to hop out of one prison only to land in another.”

  Mr. Whayles swore at a nearby Hessian, which made them all move a little bit faster. Then he replied to Kate without missing a beat. “That man is a jackanapes who had a monkey when he should have had a mother.”

  “But he might be right,” Kate said.

  “Aye. I would not trust my life to a man like the Earl, but I wouldn’t think he had need of the underhanded. Rich men seldom take the time or the trouble. They never learned how.”

  “How about his friends?“

  He spit again, and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’t know, don’t care if it is sedition. Don’t have much love for the British, and I was born over here. Well, Scotland, which isn’t the same no matter what they claim now.”

  She said, “Ambrose thinks those men might be French Republicans.”

  “More power to them, that’s what I say. You know the Scots have more often sided with the French. Did you see they have finished your cabin, Miss Mattie? It looks fine, it does.”

  “It will not be my cabin this trip or next, Mr. Whayles. I admit I hate to see her go anywhere without me.”

  He only pointed as men came aboard with more supplies, and something else.

  “What is that you have there?” she said.

  “Feather beds,” he said as he spat.

  “Good Lord.”

  “Good place for lice. I almost hope for rough seas, Missy. Lord help me, but this I surely do. Nothing like a feather bed to soak up the stink of a fresh man’s folly.”

  Rough seas could easily see a man tossed from a bunk, not to mention a bed. Smart officers kept a hammock handy for those times, common sailors usually slept in them anyway. The original bunks on the Wilde had been built into a sort of cradle to keep the occupant in bed even in the roughest seas. But the Earl had insisted on something closer to what he was used to in the way of those feather beds on anchored pedestals.

  “Will you take command, Mr. Whayles? I need your help, and I don’t want my ship confiscated.”

  “Aye, Mattie Little, that I will. For you.”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 12 - The Excursion

  It was another three days before they finally left port, mostly to take on enough supplies and for renovations to be completed enough to embark. It took almost as much time to convince Mr. Whayles of the soundness of her plan, such as it was, which was not much. Considering how much depended on weather, luck, and gumption, she didn’t blame him for all the doubts. She had as many, but she kept them well hidden. Eventually, he agreed.

  But he took to mumbling every time she came near, “Your father would kill me, rest his soul.”

  They made sail over the protest of the Hessian craftsmen, because there was still much to do on the ship before it was sea-worthy for a much longer voyage. The workmen felt much better after Kate told them they would be paid while they waited for the Wilde to return. Few noticed the ship that left after them, but far out and back on the horizon, it was hard to miss the only other signs of man’s intervention on the vast expanse of the sea.

  She knew who was following; she felt it in her bones—and in her stomach. As usual, Kate was seasick to the point of being green for the first few days out. It was embarrassing, given her history, but also a fact of life. And given the present company, she stretched the excuse to several days, only coming out to stroll on deck in the earliest morning hours or late at night.

  Neither the Earl nor his entourage had named a destination, to Kate’s great relief. They had been too drunk at first, and now had settled into gambling, eating and drinking to excess. It seemed to have slipped their mind. On occasion, Kate would find the Marquis or his friend watching her discretely, but they said very little. The Earl didn’t talk with her at all.

  But she had something definite in mind. On clear nights she would navigate by the stars as Mr. Whayles had trouble seeing at night, and she knew just where she was going.

  She now took a deep breath on the quarterdeck, thinking how much this felt like home.

  “And not an owl anywhere to be seen.”

  She looked up, smiling at the beautiful night. She liked the stars. They were remote and distant from any kind of pain she had felt on this earth. They were always there guiding men back home, if you asked them.

  Kate nibbled on the last of her hard biscuit and wished she had some cocoa to wash it down. Still, hard rations were worthwhile if it meant avoiding the English nobleman and his guests.

  The Earl brought his own cook and several servants. None got along well with the ship’s steward. Mr. Whayles refused to be bothered with the problems of their creature comforts. Kate had to finally come out of hiding to settle a particularly vicious dispute between the steward and the cook over the supply of live chickens.

  The steward was of a conservative nature, as most supply masters would be if they had been out to sea for any length of time. Not so the Earl’s cook, who was really a French chef, arrogant to begin with and seasick to end. The combination made him surly enough that she had finally lost all patience.

  Of course, the fact that she had snipped, without permission, some of his fresh-growing herbs he’d brought on board did not help his temperament. Nor did the idea of telling him she was using his culinary herbs to treat people’s ills—particularly her own—appeal to her now. Still, no use in letting the pot boil over, she decided.

  Kate tried to sooth tempers, but their argument raged on. Finally, she suggested quite loudly to Mr. Whayles that both men be tossed overboard. All fell silent for a blessed moment. Then the steward laughed, and the chef sulked away with very little complaining within anyone else’s hearing after that.

  The weather held, and life then settled down to routine. They had been to sea now for several days longer than originally planned. Luckily, Kate had also anticipated that, and the ship was still well supplied. The Earl complained about missing his hunting, and a party or two, but he didn’t demand they turn back. She suspected it was at the behest of the Frenchmen, who both seemed now to be taking turns watching her.

  For her own objective, Kate had anticipated overland travel at the end of this journey, but the further along they went at sea, the closer she got to her preferred destination on the shore. It put her in an amiable mood all the way round, though when she thought of her promise to Louis Dumars, which was really what all this was about, it made her grow a bit sober again.

  Ambrose Standish was not taking the sea voyage as well as everyone else. He had been in his cabin for the duration so far. Kate looked in on him a few times, but the stench of days of sour stomach and dirty body was more than she could take. He was feeling sorry for himself, she guessed, and for that, she had no patience left either.

  But the breeze was gentle tonight. Kate lifted her arms and stretched, feeling the coolness along her body. Nights like this, with the stars, the wind, the sea and little else, were the best that she could remember.

  When she heard voices, she turned to go back inside. But it was only Mr. Whayles and his first mate for this trip. The mate was his cousin, she found out soon after they left port. Not that the resemblance wasn’t so strong that a good look couldn’t tell it anyway. The only problem she had now was that when she called him by name, they both replied.

  “Sail ho,” they both said and one pointed.

  She had also been watching the distant ship in the moonlight. The image was as clear as it had been the day they left Plymouth port: It was the Stalwart. Kate would know it anywhere.

 
; “I think it’s time we stopped to say hello, Mr. Whayles.”

  “Miss Mattie?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Aye, Missy, that I did. I just wanted to make sure it was what you really wanted.”

  “I’m sure, Mr. Whayles,” she replied. As sure as I ever will be, she thought. “Do as we discussed, but don’t hurt her too much.”

  The Misters Whayles, one and two, shook their heads, but got on about their business of crippling the Wilde.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 13 - The Frenchmen

  Come morning light, the Wilde didn’t flounder really, though it looked as if it might at any moment. It just hung on the wind until her topsail spar cracked and twisted to a weird angle. Both Kate and Mr. Whayles knew the ship well enough to know what she would take. This was nothing that the Wilde could not recover from with a little tender loving care.

  But it was enough to accomplish what Kate needed, which was to stall for a little bit of time. She made sure that the work was going slower than usual by way of triple rations of spirits for the crew. They were being paid to stay drunk, so they complained very little.

  The Stalwart had offered assistance, but none was required short of lending protection while the Wilde could not run from any danger that might occur. Kate’s ship wasn’t heavily armed, but it was very fast and built to maneuver better than most. Good seamanship was usually all that was required to keep the Wilde out of unfriendly hands.

  The first night stranded, the Earl and his French guests dined aboard the Stalwart. Kate and Mr. Whayles had declined the offer. In normal circumstances, that might have been considered rude, even an insult. Mr. Whayles didn’t offer an excuse, he just said no. But Kate didn’t want to see Edward Lindsay this way, and she didn’t know why.

  Maybe it was because this was his domain. She felt like a visitor here. It was her ship, true, but leased to the Earl. In some sense, she felt at the mercy of the Englishmen.

  Besides, she had promised her mother’s cousin, Louis Dumars, that she would see it through. Promised him before he died, though she regretted it now. Maybe if he knew he would have to do it himself, he would not have given up so easily. Still, with so much pain, Kate knew she could not really understand what he was feeling in those final days, those last few hours.

  One of the sailors called, “Launch coming over.”

  It was afternoon, but the Earl and the Frenchmen were still asleep. After dinner last night on the British frigate, they were up late playing cards and drinking. Ambrose Standish was up, but wrapped in a blanket and leaning against the rail. He didn’t show much sign of life. She was on her own.

  “Ahoy,” someone called from the jolly boat. “Permission to come aboard?”

  It was Captain Lindsay calling. Another man nodded slightly as he smiled up at her.

  “Come alongside,” Mr. Whayles yelled down.

  Sir Edward climbed the rope ladder. When both men were aboard, the captain introduced the surgeon.

  Dr. Llewellyn bowed. “We meet again,” he said.

  Kate studied him a moment, then felt the blush of remembering.

  “Thank you for not throwing out my bark,” she said. “It was the consideration of a civilized man.”

  He laughed.

  “What can we do for you, sir?” Mr. Whayles said.

  “The Earl expressed concern as to your lack of progress,” Sir Edward said. “Dr. Llewellyn is here to see to the complaints of your passengers. I am here to give a hand to your ship.”

  “Complaints?” Kate said.

  Dr. Llewellyn quickly added, “Nothing a little bleeding and a bit of buckthorn would not cure.”

  Bleeding was in fashion and often the remedy used when none was really required. It was also considered polite dinner conversation. She refused to ever do it. She had seen enough battles to know that losing blood was not a good thing.

  She fought a smirk at the suggestion of buckthorn though, for it was a common shrub with strong purgative properties. If it couldn’t cure the illness, it would kill the complaining, if not the patient, eventually.

  “We don’t need help,” Mr. Whayles said. “She’s as mended as she’s going to be until we reach port. Be slow going, but we’ll see her there.”

  “That is good to hear,” Sir Edward said. “But in the meantime, the Earl has invited us aboard to see the renovations you made for his voyage to India.”

  Kate opened her mouth, but Mr. Whayles said quickly, “You will be joining us at the captain’s table then?”

  She glanced at her bosun then, and he gave her a reassuring nod, just a bit. She forced herself to relax and tried not to sigh.

  “The Earl has invited us to his table,” Sir Edward said. “I am not sure he meant it as the captain’s table.”

  Mr. Whayles blushed, but shook his head. “I wasn’t asking for me, sir. I’d be giving it a pass in any case, though no slight is intended.”

  Sir Edward nodded once.

  Mr. Whayles was used to being a subordinate to officers, and the presence of a strong captain had him back in his well-loved place. Kate couldn’t fault him; she felt the strength of Captain Lindsay too. She found it as comforting as it was disturbing. Maybe she needed a good dose of buckthorn too.

  “And you?” Dr. Llewellyn said to Kate. “Will you join us at table?”

  Me? No, she thought emphatically. Forced politeness in a small party was too much scrutiny. She often found herself babbling on about incoherent things: native spirits, and folk dances from strange places, and the proper way to tie a sarong.

  But she said, “Yes, of course.”

  * * * * *

  Ambrose Standish was heartier by dinnertime. No way would he miss this occasion. He roused himself enough to take thin soup and weak tea . . . and hard biscuits . . . and just a bit of chicken . . . maybe some cakes as well, since you have them. And wine, a little wine never really hurt anyone, did it?

  Kate smiled into her own wine glass. She had too much already, and it was making her ears buzz and her sight dizzy.

  “How did you manage to keep the wine cool?” the Marquis said. “I do not recall seeing any ice aboard. Or if it was, would it not be long melted by now?”

  Kate said, “Bucket.”

  “A bucket?”

  She cleared her throat. “We put the bottles in a bucket and lower it into the sea.”

  “Good heavens, is it that cold down there?” the Earl said.

  “So it seems,” Kate said. “At least in some parts of the world.”

  “Not in the Indies, I will wager,” Dr. Llewellyn said.

  Kate added, “Maybe if you go deep enough, but then you lose the cork.”

  “What is that you’re are saying?” the Earl said. “Lose the cork? What? Do you have fish with a taste for French Champagne?”

  The French laughed along with him.

  Standish said, “Kate probably learned that trick from the natives. Or her mother did and wrote it down, she was known for that sort of thing. I believe the Great Lakes can be rather cold.”

  Dr. Llewellyn said, “I was on Lake Champlain in the war. I supposed you do not really call it one of those Great Lakes that are now yours.”

  “How unfortunate for you,” the Marquis said.

  “Why is that?”

  “I think he means about the war in general,” Ambrose said.

  The nobles started telling stories of naval history. Very little of it was from personal experience, Kate guessed. Then she noticed that Sir Edward was quiet enough. At least he wasn’t asking her questions, she thought, or even looking at her all that much.

  She watched his hands as he dissected an apple. They were industrious, neither nervous, nor refined. She liked the way they moved—strong, but not clumsy.

  She wondered what they would feel like on her skin.

  In an instant, Kate felt her face grow overly warm.

  It was the argument that brought her back to reality.

  “What do you think,
Kate?” Ambrose said.

  “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  The Earl summarized, “A cargo fleet has the choice of running away or standing to fight. If they all stand to fight, they might overpower the frigate attacking them. If they run, most might make it away.”

  “What would you do, stay and fight or run away?” the Marquis said.

  “I would run,” the Earl said. “The frigate would have to select one only, possibly two. It could not take us all.”

  “Better to sink than let the enemy have the cargo,” the Frenchman said.

  The Marquis asked again, “What would you do?”

  “Am I the frigate or the cargo ship?” she said.

  They laughed. Sir Edward was paying attention now, she noticed, but not to her, more to the Frenchman. It made her pay more attention too. They waited.

  “They shoot horses,” Kate mumbled.

  “What was that, Kate?” Ambrose said.

  “They shoot a horse when it breaks its leg, but no one ever asked the horse if it would rather be dead than have a broken leg. I am a coward, I would run even if I had little chance.”

  “I do not understand, little one. Explain,” said the Marquis, his eyebrow up, just the one. It gave his face a comical look, half-balanced, like he was only half-there, or half-mindful.

  Kate couldn’t look at him long without wanting to giggle. It must be the wine, she figured. She said, “You say better the ship goes down than the cargo captured, but invariably when a ship goes down, lives are lost.”

  “That is the cost of war, my dear,” the Earl said.

  “What is your point?” Dr. Llewellyn said.

  She glanced at Sir Edward. He was studying his wine.

  "I would rather be hungry than dead. I would rather another man be hungry than me dead and I would rather be hungry than he be dead because of me. Or do I mean that the other way round? Never mind, you know what I mean.”

  In a moment, Sir Edward said, "What would you do then?"

  She thought as she took another sip of her wine. When the words came out of her mouth, they came with a Scottish brogue that sounded suspiciously like Mr. Whayles. "I’d put up a bit of a fight, just enough, then feign to be damaged and drifting. I’d float by a while, and when the frigate drew near, I'd use my sharp-shooters to pick off the officers who would be on board for the killing.”