Secrets (The Steamship Chronicles Book 1)

by Margaret McGaffey Fisk

  “The engine room?”

  “You becoming some type of a parrot? Can’t say as I’ve seen much use for them aboard ship, and certainly not in my kitchen.”

  Nat forced his sluggish mind to review what he’d been told. Not seagulls but the engine. Soon, Jenson would be looking for someone to deliver Mister Garth’s meal while he got back to the task of getting the rest of the crew fed.

  “I’ll take it.” The words were out of his mouth almost before he’d recognized the chance to see what lay behind that hatch, along with the hope of undoing some of the damage his enthusiasm had caused the day before.

  Jenson laughed. “You? You can hardly stand on your own two feet and haven’t had anything to line that empty stomach of yours. I heard some of the others talking about how the captain kept you going long past the rest of the crew, and after a full day shifting cargo on top. No, rest a bit. You won’t have much hope of easing off your feet once Mister Garth gets that engine turning over.”

  Nat jumped up with twice the energy he’d shown on his arrival. “I’ll eat after, I swear. Let me take it. There’s no harm in it, I promise you. I just want to see the engine room. Please?”

  Jenson stared at him for so long Nat thought the cook would hold fast or the meal would grow cold, but then he nodded once. “Far be it for me to stand between a boy and his curiosity. You take care now and don’t do anything to distract the engineer though. The captain will have both our heads if you get Garth all twisted up about something beyond fixing the teakettle so we can ship out, you hear me?”

  “I promise. I swear. I’ll be the soul of helpful. I won’t say one word wrong, or maybe not a word at all if that’ll do best.”

  With another bark of laughter, Jenson handed over a shallow, curved plate with a healthy portion of porridge and a fresh roll stuck into the gray mass. “Don’t be so quick with your promises or your swears, boy. Hasn’t Mister Trupt told you that often enough? Just keep a level head and bring the man his food. You don’t have to swallow your tongue. Just school it a bit. He’s the master of that domain as much as I am of this one.”

  Nat tucked the plate close so he wouldn’t spill any. “Right. Thanks.” He didn’t even look at the cook as he headed for the doorway, unable to hold back a grin.

  The engine room. Finally.

  NOT WANTING TO WORSEN THE situation, Nat rapped sharply on the hatch to get Mister Garth’s attention, but though he leaned against the wood, an awkward position with the porridge in his hands, he heard no response. The noises from below must have masked his effort to be polite.

  Nat lifted the hatch, seeing no other choice.

  The top step creaked when he moved onto it.

  “What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you never to set one foot in my engine room?”

  The harsh bark startled him, and he struggled to keep the plate from falling or the generous portion of porridge from sloshing over the edge. “Jenson sent me,” he managed after regaining control of his voice. “With breakfast since you’re in here working so hard.” If the engineer thought he’d been commanded, maybe that would soften his objections.

  Movement away from him toward the interior of a room filled with pipes going in every direction caught Nat’s attention, but the lamp Garth used offered too little illumination from this angle to reveal much of the space Nat longed to see. The engineer must have come to see who was knocking.

  He went down two more steps, accepting the silence as some sort of a backhanded removal of his restriction. Most men could be bought by their stomachs, at least when they gave up something small.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing? Have all those books done damage to your hearing, boy? You are not to come down here. I don’t care if the Queen herself bids you to. Get out.”

  Nat didn’t know how the engineer could see that he’d moved, but it seemed even food would do little to change the man’s mind. He strained to see something of the room from where he stood, but without disobeying and charging down the steps, he had little hope. Nat could tell if he went even one step further, any chance of reconciling with Mister Garth would be destroyed forever.

  Sighing, he lowered the dish to a crate he could reach through the railing. “All right, then. I’m going. Your breakfast is here by the stair. You might want to eat it before the porridge gets cold.”

  A wordless growl, accompanied by the ping of hammer against metal came as Nat’s only reply. He winced to hear the ping repeat even louder, sure the object receiving Mister Garth’s not so gentle attention would fare poorly. At least the hammer didn’t land on Nat’s fingers, as the engineer most likely imagined.

  He’d done nothing on purpose to antagonize the man, but it seemed every act had that result no matter what his intention.

  A weak hope that the food would soften the engineer toward him was all Nat could manage as he went back up on deck to seek his own sustenance. His stomach felt shriveled as though it had given up any belief he’d be so good as to put food down his throat. Nat knew full well there’d be little time for him to eat once they got underway. The captain had no intention of missing the early tide, and it would be some time after before the sails were set and the course steady enough to break for lunch.

  20

  Sam had remained crouched in the far corner as she listened to the argument, if such a one-sided exchange could be called that. At least the engineer had not caught her this morning. If he proved so unwilling toward one bringing him food, how much harsher would he treat a stowaway, intentional or not, especially one with some of his materials in her hand.

  Steam rushing through the pipes around her masked what noise she made, not that it mattered with the sharp banging the engineer produced when he wasn’t cursing worse than Henry’s farm workers each time they thought she wasn’t around to hear.

  She winced at a particularly strong blow, the force vibrating along the pipe supporting her shoulder.

  If he didn’t take care, he’d loosen every joint of the old engine and cause many more problems than he’d come down here to fix. She didn’t fault his dedication, just his methods.

  Her mind clung to the last thought until she recognized its meaning.

  The sounds of his labors had not changed since the boy brought a plate of porridge she could just see from her hiding spot. Steam still rose from its surface, adding a rich, nutty scent to the tang of metal mixed with overheated seawater.

  She waited a bit longer to see if the man would take his meal as soon as the boy he’d been so rude to had moved out of earshot, but nothing in the rhythms of blows or curses showed any sign of lessening.

  The steam taunted her, unconfined as it was in the spaces between the pipes. Its scent wafted in her direction, the air chill enough to show curls of white waving their temptation at her, enticing her forward.

  Her stomach grumbled loudly in her ears, but the engineer’s curse rang louder.

  If she waited too long, he’d pause.

  If she timed it poorly, he’d catch sight of her where no one should be, and she’d seen his reaction to intruders already.

  The only other option, for however long the journey lasted, would be any rats she could catch, raw and unskinned.

  She’d been hungry before, but always Lily had brought her something even when the times were rough. This hunger bit all the deeper for the knowledge Lily was not here and never would be again. She’d said she could fend for herself, and now she had to prove it. Sam refused to fail her first test and would much rather pilfer the cooling porridge than gnaw on raw meat from vermin.

  A glance toward the engine showed no sign of the engineer, his voice muffled as though he’d gone around the back or crawled into the huge machine to reach another location for his brutal care. She’d have no better chance than this.

  Sam dove between the pipes, knowing caution would cost her time she could ill afford.

  Her knee struck a pipe hard enough to collapse her joint, but she rolled with the fall, using the m
omentum to propel her body across the small gap between her and the plate that had become her sole focus.

  She could do nothing now to prevent discovery. Only fate, and whatever damage had seized the engine, could save her now. At least if they caught her she’d go to the asylum with a full stomach.

  Both hands sank into the coarse porridge, her fingers singed by the heat it still retained. She didn’t slow down, though, shoveling as much into her mouth as she could, chewing rapidly, and swallowing in time to add another load to her tongue.

  The food had little of the complex spices Cook used to tease the palate, but nothing had ever tasted better as she gulped it down as fast as she could manage.

  The meal sat heavy in her stomach, and Sam burped, having swallowed almost as much air as sustenance. She could have kept going and even licked the plate clean, but a good layer and the roll remained in the plate. The effort to back away exhausted her, especially since she had no guarantee of another meal until the ship came to rest in a different port and she could make her escape. But her hiding spot only worked because no one thought to search the back sides of the engine room.

  The engineer had not seen the amount when the boy brought his food. He’d been too busy working and giving the boy a firm lashing with his tongue.

  As long as she’d left no evidence, he had little cause to suspect a stowaway had swallowed down more than half the generous portion offered him.

  She knew the reasoning to be sound, but still, returning to her hiding place without taking at least the roll hurt. Despite the dust collected on her fingers, Sam licked each one clean, then climbed back to do the same to the pipes when she realized she’d left a path. This existence had little in common with the one she’d left. Though her life had been difficult before Henry discovered the truth and took both of them in, she’d had Lily then. Now she had only herself.

  Homesickness and a longing for her sister hit Sam with the force of a blow. She smothered a whimper, shoving a fist into her mouth and biting down hard enough to hurt.

  She had to be strong, for herself, but also for Lily. Her sister needed time and care to heal. She refused to believe Lily had been telling the truth to Henry, preferring his version of her sister’s sickness. If Sam had stayed at the estate, Lily would have done nothing but worry and fuss, taking more care for Sam than she ever did for herself though she had the greater need.

  Lily required this, but so did Sam. She needed to take control and become what she was intended to be. She couldn’t forever live as an addition to Henry and Lily’s life. She needed to make her own way. And though this had not been how she’d intended to start, the fact remained that she’d managed to gain passage away from Dover to some distant land. From there she’d make her way to the places where Naturals could be free. Surely she could manage that much once she touched down on soil where there were fewer restrictions than in England itself.

  Keeping that thought at the front of her mind, Sam curled around her distended belly and allowed herself to drift back to sleep. She had nothing else to do, and asleep, she would be less likely to get into trouble she would not be able to get out of.

  If she could just stay hidden until the ship had left the port, what could they do with her except kick her off at the next landing? And from the urgency the engineer gave his repairs, she didn’t imagine they’d be lingering here much longer.

  21

  The whistle calling all hands to the ropes came when Nat had barely snatched a few bites of the already congealed porridge Jenson had left for him when feeding the rest of the crew. His stomach grumbled with the memory even as he scrambled up the lines to join Phil in stringing up the sails.

  Though a concession to the damage, and a loss of face before all the captains in Dover, Captain Paderwatch had decided to give up on Mister Garth and the chance of a repaired engine. They would sail out of port in the style of older vessels, with cloth aiding the tide.

  Even the newest of the steamships used the water’s draw when heading out to sea, but their sails stayed furled, if they even had any. The crew liked to hide their dependency as much as possible with minimal sail and visible steam clouds from the pipe.

  This time, they left with full sheets and no telltale white rising from their vents.

  Nat did his share of grumbling.

  Mister Garth could have had the decency to vent some steam while he worked to maintain the illusion. The boiler had been active when he’d brought the ungrateful man his breakfast, so it wasn’t as if steam would have been hard to come by. It might have helped the engineer to ease the pressure in his system, not that his blows indicated a focus on delicate adjustment.

  But Mister Garth had stomped across the deck to his cabin some time ago without any sign of steam or movement from the paddles.

  The need to gloat at Mister Garth’s failure vied with Nat’s frustration at a further destruction of their reputation. It didn’t matter how well the captain used his knowledge to earn the crew a little extra if they only got the worst cargo runs. Who would trust an unreliable sailing ship when all others could steam their way through lulls and even fierce storms.

  “Now, now, Mister Bowden. Don’t be dwelling on things you can’t change. Concentrate instead on what you can. Tie that rope off properly and help me adjust the sail.”

  Nat glanced up to see Phil shaking his head at the piss-poor job Nat had done, his mind elsewhere.

  A flush heated the back of his neck as if he’d gotten too much sun, but Nat didn’t argue as he undid his work and started again.

  He ignored his grumbling stomach even though hunger made his gut feel plastered against his spine. He’d taken an opportunity in bringing Mister Garth a meal and it cost him. He couldn’t regret the choice, though. Enough kindness could turn that sour engineer into a mentor, maybe even a friend. If going hungry could gain him access to the engine room, then he’d go hungry.

  Meanwhile, he planned to ensure not a single member of the crew could doubt his enthusiasm and value. He might be the lowest crewmember on what was arguable the lowest vessel in the Company’s merchant fleet, but he took pride in his work, and he’d learned a lot since the first day he shipped out to the sight of his mother weeping on the docks.

  The rhythm of getting their vessel out to sea and steady on course soon took over and distracted him from both his morning failure and the lack of food lining his stomach. The crew had taught him so much already. He took every opportunity to prove he’d listened and learned. He leapt into each task with enthusiasm and care, determined not a man among them could have a complaint.

  THEY’D SWEPT PAST THE LAST ship a long time ago, the tide pulling and wind filling every square inch of cloth to drive their steamship along. Waves smacked the sides, and from his vantage point up in the rigging, Nat could see fish begin to leap the foam of their wake.

  This had been why he’d wanted the sea over a train. Not the opportunities—though that’s what he’d told his mother—but for the freedom to see the world and to fly across the water with clear skies and full sails.

  “That’s the way of it, men. Get yourself down and stretch a while. Jenson might even have a bite to sup on,” Mister Trupt called, waving them down.

  Nat shook off the siren call of the sea and remembered his grumbling stomach in the same moment. He scrambled down the ropes, getting a pat and a laugh from Phil on his way.

  “Looks like you’ve gained your craft, Nat,” the rigger called as he went by. “A full on rope rat you’ve become.”

  Waiting until his feet landed on the rocking deck, Nat flashed Phil a grin. “If I have, it’s your teaching made it happen.”

  A hand closed on his shoulder, but rather than the compliment he’d been expecting, the touch tightened hard enough to make him wince.

  Nat twisted to see his tormentor, stunned to find the good-natured cook instead of Mister Trupt with some complaint.

  Jenson scowled down at him. “I told you food would be waiting, and it had been. If it
were cold, that was your own choice in going after Mister Garth.”

  Nat shrugged off the touch. “I meant to finish it. I would have, but the whistle sounded. I wouldn’t have left it if I didn’t have to.” He hadn’t expected the cook to question his decision. Surely a veteran of the seas knew a sailor didn’t hesitate when called to duty.

  “You hardly touched it, but the call had nothing to do with that, and you know it.”

  Nat’s brows lowered as he tried to make out the cook’s meaning. “I don’t scorn your cooking. You should know that by now. It’s hearty and filling.”

  “And you like yours piping hot.”

  “Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

  The other sailors gathered round. Their confrontation proved as interesting as any other diversion in one of the few chances for rest before the first mate found work for all those not asleep.

  Jenson thrust both fists onto his hips. “And if I left food for you as I promised while I went to see to the rest of the men, I suppose it would have been too cold for you then?”

  Nat couldn’t see where the conversation was going, and he’d started losing patience. Who, or what, had turned the cook against him? “It was good enough to line my belly, but that’s what time I had.”

  “You had time enough to swallow down half of Mister’s Garth’s portion, though, didn’t you?”

  The statement, delivered with such an adamant tone, struck Nat dumb. He stared at the glowering cook and gave his head a slow shake. “What are you talking about?”

  Jenson poked Nat in the chest. “I’m talking about leaving me to take the blame for giving Mister Garth a stingy serving when I filled that plate so high you had trouble carrying it, that’s what I mean. No wonder you had no stomach for your portion after gobbling up his, and just because he wouldn’t let you see his engine room. Don’t you know there’s no greater crime than to take a man’s food? You think being a boy will save you, and this time it might, but a man’s actions show his true nature, not his words. You should remember that if you ever want to be seen as more than a wealthy boy playing at working a true hand.”