Marchand gave a nod and turned his attention to his food.
He may prove a good ally. He appeared confident, and the others seemed to respect him. Charlotte took a bite of the hard biscuit. She ate a bit of the soup and a few bites of the pork but decided if she were to win any of the men to her side, some sacrifices needed to be made. And she was not a stranger to hunger.
She sliced the meat into fourths and pushed forward her bowl.
The motion caught the men’s attention. They stopped their conversation and looked at her meal.
“I’m not used to so much meat,” Charlotte said. “You gentlemen are welcome to the r—” She didn’t even need to finish the sentence before each of the men speared a portion of the pork. They scooped away the soup just as quickly.
Charlotte nibbled on the biscuit. Once they were finished eating, she helped put the table away and clean the dishes then retrieved her stone and started to the top deck but stopped when Mr. Yancey called her over.
She stepped back down the stairs and into the space he used as a workshop.
Mr. Yancey pointed to a bucket. Inside was a broom and mop. “Lower decks need sweeping and swabbing after meals. You’ll be able to use saltwater now.” He motioned with a raise of his chin toward a porthole.
Charlotte stepped closer and peered through. Outside she saw nothing but open sea. She leaned to the side, looking as far toward the stern as she could, but they were surrounded by blue water. The sensation of being unable to see any land was unnerving. She felt like a kite that had come loose from its string. She pressed her hand to the bulwark, glad to have something solid to touch.
She swept the lower deck and then Mr. Yancey took her above and showed her how to lower the bucket on a rope into the sea to fill it. Charlotte was terrified leaning over the side but after a few times figured how to hold on to a coil of rope with one foot while she used both hands to pull the bucket up. Once the lower deck was swabbed, she returned above to continue scraping with the holystone.
Hardly an hour had passed before the man with the blue kerchief snatched away the holystone again. He tossed it toward his redheaded friend, but before the man caught it, Marchand seized the stone out of the air. “Do not bother ze swabbie.” He spoke in a low voice, his tone nonthreatening.
Nevertheless, the men left Charlie and went off to find something else to divert themselves.
The Cajun man dropped the stone beside Charlotte and gave her a nod then left.
She let out a sigh. While Marchand’s action hadn’t been outright friendly, it was certainly an improvement.
The evening meal passed much the same, and afterward, Charlotte swabbed the lower deck by the light of the lanterns. Finally, decks swabbed, scrubbed, scraped, and swept, Charlotte climbed onto the shelf she’d been assigned as a berth. On one end was a cupboard that held nothing but her boots. Aside from her clothing, she had only one possession. She took the silver ring from inside her trouser pocket and ran her finger over the turquoise stone. Then she opened the cabinet and hid the ring deep inside one of her boots. She didn’t imagine anyone would bother to steal the boots or look inside. At least, she prayed they wouldn’t. She hoped the ring was valuable enough to purchase her brother’s freedom.
Exhausted, she put her coat over the thin wool blanket and used her arm for a pillow. The berth was hard, and the men around her snored, grunted, and sniffed in their sleep. Every muscle ached, her knees were worn raw, and her hands blistered, but for the first time in more than a year, Charlotte dropped into a deep sleep.
Chapter 4
Alden stood on the quarterdeck with Dobson and Ivory. The Belladonna’s size didn’t allow for a truly private meeting between the captain, quartermaster, and boatswain, which was perfectly fine with Alden. He had no secrets from the crew, and if any cared to listen in, he’d welcome it. He’d found over the years, however, that many of the sailors were just content to do their jobs and leave the planning, business, and navigation calculations to those in charge.
Clasping his hands behind his back, he swept his eyes up over the sails then down across the deck, confirming that the ship operated smoothly. His gaze took in Mr. Gardner inspecting a sheet of sail, Marchand tending the helm, Mr. Yancey patching a crack in the binnacle box, and Charlie, on her knees, scraping with the holystone.
Alden winced, remembering the discomfort of the task. He and every sailor upon the high seas had put in their share of time on their knees, and it was a duty he hoped to never perform again. The voyage had been underway for nearly a week, and the young lady had kept the decks in excellent condition.
He turned back to the others. “We should arrive in New Orleans in ten days, two weeks at the most.”
“We’d be there in one week if we’d just followed the coast.”
Alden nodded. The quartermaster complained about the longer route every time they spoke of the course. Alden didn’t blame the man. Of course he wished the voyage to end as swiftly as possible. Dobson had a family waiting in New Orleans.
Alden’s belly knotted. He should have a family waiting in New Orleans as well. If only . . . He swallowed hard through a tight throat and pulled his thoughts from the past. “You know the reason for caution, Dobson.”
“We’re staying so far south the ship’s likely to hit Cuba.”
Alden smirked at the exaggeration. Dobson knew as well as anyone the wisdom in avoiding Florida. The war had spread across the southern border into the Spanish Colony. In spite of having trusted friends and associates in St. Augustine and Pensacola, Alden still decided to keep clear until hostilities ceased.
“We’ve seen no trace of the English fleet for months.” Dobson scowled at the sea around them as if pointing out the lack of enemy ships.
“They’re out there,” Alden said. “Cochrane didn’t give up that easily. And we’re safer in the open sea. My darling is swift out here.” He brushed a gentle finger over the bulwark rail. “Especially when her hold is filled with expensive cargo.”
“Even if we were boarded”—Mr. Ivory crossed his arms, looking toward the sea as well—“they’d never find the tea. Too well-hidden.”
Alden nodded. The Belladonna’s secret compartments were so difficult to see that even he at times had difficulty locating the entrance to a few of them. “True. But cargo’s not all they’d take. And some commodities are more valuable than tea.”
The others nodded and turned their gazes from the sea to the crew. The British practice of impressing sailors from American ships was one of the atrocities that had led to this war in the first place.
“Speaking of the crew,” Alden said. “Any concerns to discuss, Mr. Ivory?”
The boatswain shook his head. “We’re still understaffed, but the men are managing.”
“How is Charlie faring?”
Dobson’s expression softened as he glanced at the smallest crewmember. The quartermaster definitely had a tender spot for the little swabbie.
“Works hard.” Mr. Ivory shrugged. “Yancey said he’s not complained, though I’d imagine his knees aren’t pleased with the treatment.”
“I know the crew’s shorthanded, but one man scraping and swabbing the entire deck every single day?” Alden said. “Seems . . .”
“Brutal,” Dobson said.
“Aye, it is at that. But you saw him in the rigging.” The boatswain rolled his eyes. “Swabbing’s miserable work, but the task never killed anyone.”
The point was a fair one. Charlie was hardly suited for work as an upper yardman. Alden found it difficult to watch a young woman performing such labor, but he knew giving special treatment would result in ridicule by the other crewmembers, and she did not need that difficulty. He nodded and dropped the subject.
The three discussed their course heading based on Alden’s equations, charts, and instruments’ readings and then adjourned the conference, each moving o
n to their daily tasks.
Alden descended to the main deck and started below to his cabin, but before stepping down into the companionway, he changed course and crossed toward Charlie.
She sat against the gunwale on the portside in a scrap of shade, legs stretched out in front of her as she pulled apart old ropes to make oakum. The cords were untwisted and then rolled to loosen the fibers, which were pounded into the joints of the deck planks and sealed with a tar mixture to make the deck watertight. The task was mundane, but Alden was glad Charlie had a reprieve from the holystone.
He sat next to her, picking up a worn length of rope and drawing apart the fibers.
Charlie blinked and reached for the rope. “Captain, you don’t need to do that.”
“Nonsense. I’ve picked my share of oakum over the years.” He smiled. “A dull task but rather relaxing, don’t you think?”
She nodded, rolling a cord on her leg. “I don’t mind it.”
Her trouser legs were folded up, and Alden saw she’d wrapped scraps of cloth around her knees. He winced at the splotches of blood that had soaked through. Guilt tugged at his gut. Wounds like this looked so out of place on a girl, whereas he’d hardly have noticed the same on a boy. In his experience, females were delicate, gentle. His instinct was to care for a young lady, save her from anything that might distress or pain her. What would Elnora, his adopted mother, say if she saw the bleeding knees? She’d constantly stressed the importance of her boys behaving as gentlemen. Alden forced away his gaze, reminding himself not to think of Charlie as a young woman, but a crewmember.
“And swabbing?” he asked. “How do you find that task?”
She looked up at him, her brows pulled together as if she were trying to understand the intention behind his question. “It is not the worst task.” She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. Her upper lip twitched as if it would curl.
Alden leaned back his head and laughed. “It is the worst task. The absolute worst.” He laughed again, wagging a finger. “Your answer was very diplomatic, Charlie. How do you really feel about working with the holystone?”
She scowled. “I hate it.”
Possibly without her notice, her lower lip pouted. Alden found it difficult to think of her as a lad when he saw the expression. “I don’t blame you one bit.”
She glanced upward, and her brow smoothed. “I could learn to go aloft, really I could. I just need practice.”
He studied her. The hopeful expression in Charlie’s enormous eyes was a powerful tool. Her parents must have had a difficult time resisting anything she’d asked, as, he imagined, had the young men in the Mississippi Territory.
“It is very dangerous,” Alden said. “You climbed the rigging before when the ship was still, anchored in port. But the ropes are usually wet and slippery, the wind pushes and pulls without warning, and the sea is hardly calm, especially the higher you ascend. Can you imagine hanging on in choppy water or during a storm? Or in the pitch dark of night? You must not only climb aloft but also run along the yards and fight against an enormous flapping sail. More than a few experienced seamen have fallen into the ocean, never to be seen again.”
Her shoulders straightened and her chin rose in a look of determination. “I could do it with practice. And I am a very good swimmer, you know.”
“Swimming won’t help you, especially not at night. In fact, I doubt many of the crew have even bothered learning the skill. The ship is moving faster than it appears. You’d be left behind before anyone even realized you’d gone overboard, and we’d never find you. The ocean isn’t calm like a country pond.” He was frightening her, but she needed to know the truth. Sailing was dangerous, and those tending the sails had the most dangerous job of all.
Her scowl returned, scrunching up her nose. Ah, so she’s a stubborn one. Alden hid his smile, not wanting her to think he didn’t take her seriously. He understood further Dobson’s difficulty in turning her away in Savannah. There was something so likeable about Charlie’s persistence.
“If you’re not too tired after your work is done,” Alden sighed, not believing the words he was saying, “And Stafford agrees to teach you . . .”
Charlie’s face lit up.
“We could rotate duties,” Alden finished.
She rolled the oakum fibers quicker. “I can do that.” The dimple on her cheek made an appearance with her enthusiastic smile.
Alden shook his head, unable to keep a stern face. An arbitrator? More like a persuader. “In the end, the decision is the boatswain’s, of course.” He rolled a strand of rope between his hands.
“Of course.” Charlie looked down, and Alden got the distinct impression she didn’t want him to see her victorious grin as she gathered a handful of the loose fibers into a sack.
A persuader indeed.
Alden set aside the strand he’d been working on. He brushed the particles of rope from his legs and began to stand.
“Captain?” She glanced toward him and then down as she pulled apart another twist of rope. “I didn’t mean to listen to your conversation the other day, but I overheard you talking to Mr. Dobson about Fort McHenry. What happened there? Were the British defeated?”
Alden settled back down, resting his forearms on bent knees. The fact that she didn’t know about the famous battle and its result was a harsh reminder of her grim circumstance. Fort McHenry had been all anyone in America had talked about for the past months. Seeing her smile and the determination in her eyes nearly made him forget what Charlie must have suffered. Yet, somehow she didn’t seem like a victim at all. The young woman was strong in spite of her hardships or perhaps because of them. And Alden felt an admiration he supposed few captains harbored for their swabbies.
“The British were not defeated at Fort McHenry.” He held up a finger. “But they were also not victorious.” He leaned back his head against the gunwale, glad for the slice of shade. “In September, Admiral Cochrane led a convoy of frigates and a half-dozen bomb vessels into Baltimore harbor.”
Charlie opened her eyes wide.
“The American navy had sunk a number of its own ships in the channel in hopes of blocking the invasion and keeping the English out of firing range,” Alden continued. “Nevertheless, the English launched mortar shells and rockets toward the fort for an entire day and night. The blasts could be heard and the red of the rockets seen from miles around, but in the end, they were unable to breech the armaments.” He held his hands apart. “Thick walls.”
“That is a relief,” Charlie said.
“Very much so.” Alden gave a nod. “The result was a stalemate and an enormous waste of English ammunition. The ships retreated, sailed out of the harbor, and left Chesapeake Bay altogether. The English navy clearly had the advantage of troops, weaponry, and experience.” He ticked off the items on his fingers. “For them not to take the fort felt like an American victory, one we were in sore need of. In fact, an attorney, Francis Key of Washington City, witnessed the battle from a truce ship five miles away. He wrote a poem that was published in newspapers all over the country. Became quite famous. You’ve not heard ‘The Defense of Fort McHenry’?”
Charlie shook her head.
“Well, I’m certain at least one of the crew must know it by heart. I’ve heard it sung to a catchy tune as well—a good rallying song.”
“Where did the English ships go?” Charlie asked.
Alden shrugged. “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Some think they retreated altogether. Crossed the ocean back to foggy old England.” He smirked. “But I don’t believe Rear Admiral Cochrane would give up so easily. A fiery temper, that one.” He lifted his chin toward the southwest. “They’ll be massing somewhere in the Caribbean, planning to invade New Orleans.”
Charlie dropped the piece of rope she was holding and leaned forward, turning to face him directly.
Seeing her in
the sunlight and at such a close proximity, Alden noticed freckles dotted her cheeks and nose at nice intervals, as if they’d been carefully placed instead of flung like paint from a brush. Fifteen in all. A tidy sum.
“But, Captain, why?”
He focused on her eyes and the telltale furrow in her brow. “If the English were to take New Orleans, they would control the rivers and inland waterways, effectively halting any westward expansion, commanding trade throughout the states and territories, and trapping America on every side.”
The furrow deepened into a crease above her nose. “I meant why are you going there? If you believe New Orleans to be the target of invasion, wouldn’t it be wise to avoid the city altogether?”
“I never said I was the most intelligent of men.” Alden gave a wry smile and a sigh. Why was he going to New Orleans? He’d asked himself the same question hundreds of times. What martyr returned to the site of his heartbreak? The mere thought of walking the streets brought a pain to his chest. If it were up to him, he’d avoid the city forever.
“Truthfully, Charlie, some things cannot be helped. I’ve lenders in the city, awaiting a return on their investments, and there’s nowhere else a man can so easily sell—uh”—he flicked the lock of hair from his forehead—“creatively stowed cargo.” New Orleans was notorious for ignoring American tariffs on imported products. In fact, pirates, smugglers, and “merchants with unorthodox business models,” as Alden considered himself, sold their illegal goods openly in the city square. “If I am to fund my next voyage, I have no choice but to return to New Orleans. I expect the English will wait until the weather is more favorable to attack, and I hope to be gone long before they arrive.”
Charlie nodded. “I see.”
He studied her expression and decided she did not seem worried. Charlie, he was coming to find out, was a person who accepted the challenges life gave her and made the best of them.
Charlotte's Promise Page 4
