When the last gasket was released and the sail fully dropped, she held on to the yardarm and studied the activity below. From this distance, the hole marred the shining wood of the deck, although the charred wood had all been removed. Mr. Yancey was still worried about the integrity of one of the beams. He didn’t want to set the new planks until it was replaced.
That issue had become a source of tension for the crew. Replacing a beam was difficult, Charlotte had learned. While planks were easily taken up and laid down, the beam needed to be a particular length, and solid. Mr. Yancey claimed none of the beams in the hold were exactly right, Captain Thatcher didn’t want a less-than-perfect repair to his ship, and most of the crew just wanted the ship repairs finished so they could get to New Orleans.
Along with the damage to the deck, a section of the gunwale was being replaced. Charlotte smiled at the small figure of Mr. Stafford leaning over the edge of the rail, nailing a fresh board into place. Seeing him from so far above was possibly the only time the man would be considered small.
Sail set, the others on the line moved to the rigging, climbing down, and Charlotte followed, stepping carefully between the knots and shuffling to the side as she’d been instructed. Many of the more experienced men ran along the tops of the wooden yards, somehow managing to keep from slipping as the boat swayed. But Charlotte was not that brave. She moved cautiously along, placing her feet carefully, and making certain she had a strong handhold. Her progress was slower than the others’, and for the moment, she was alone on the highest point of the ship. Hearing a yell, she stopped.
“Man overboard!”
She recognized the words as the crew below rushed to the portside of the ship. Looking into the water, she saw him, and a jolt pierced through her heart. Mr. Stafford had fallen into the sea!
Heart and mind racing, Charlotte remembered what Captain Thatcher had told her. Most of the sailors on the Belladonna didn’t know how to swim. Did Mr. Stafford? From this distance she couldn’t tell if his motions were controlled or not. She looked back down at the crew gathered at the rail. They pointed, yelled, and even at this distance, she could see their motions were panicked, which frightened her more than the man in the water. There was no time to waste. With the sails set and filling with wind, the ship was moving away from her messmate. She had to save him.
Charlotte scooted to the edge of the yardarm, her breath coming in spurts as she realized what she was about to do.
A voice below called her name. It was Captain Thatcher. He must know what she intended to do. “No, Charlie! Don’t—”
Before she could change her mind, she jumped.
Charlotte’s stomach flew into her throat as she dropped. She plunged feet first into the water, sinking deep. Her thoughts turned to frenzied confusion for an instant as she floundered around, uncertain which way led to the surface, but she calmed and got her bearings and then with a firm kick pushed upward toward the light. She emerged into the air and took a deep breath, coughing out a mouthful of salty water and wishing she’d thought to plug her nose.
The sea rose and dipped, and she twisted around, kicking her legs and stirring with her arms as she searched for Mr. Stafford. Behind her, the ship moved away, but she imagined the crew was at this very moment reefing the sails to slow it then sending a small boat after them. She could remain afloat for a long time, she reasoned. And she hoped Mr. Stafford could as well.
She turned in each direction seeking him, but the enormous waves rose and dipped, and she was so low that the moving water felt like mountains surrounding her. How would she ever find him? “Mr. Sta—” She tried calling his name, but a wave covered her, filling her mouth. She sputtered as she broke through again.
Mr. Stafford had to be close. She’d jumped directly toward him. Had he gone under? If he’d sunk, she didn’t think she would find him, but should she try? She took a breath and dove down, kicking her legs and slicing her hands through the water just like she’d done in the pond on her father’s farm. Around her, the water was clear, but the sea floor was so far beneath that she saw only darkness. The panicky feeling returned, and she fought it away, peering in each direction. Then, not knowing which way to go, she followed a school of silver fish until her air ran out. Emerging again, she twisted, looking over the water.
If Mr. Stafford was attempting to swim, thrashing his arms, she thought she’d see motion, but the waves were too big. She could only glimpse a small distance at a time. She again turned in a circle, wishing for a sign or even a hint of an impression to show her the way to go.
Her legs were tiring, her clothes heavy, and she couldn’t even see the ship. She twisted around again, looking for the Belladonna, and caught a glimpse of something white. Not the sails—the object was low, in the water. She started toward it, heart pounding. Had she imagined it? Or was it truly Mr. Stafford’s shirt?
The wave under her rose, lifting her higher, and she saw the mass of white again. It was him. But she couldn’t see clearly enough to know if he was keeping himself afloat or if the waves were moving him. As she swam toward him, another fear arose. If Mr. Stafford couldn’t swim, he might grab onto her in his panic, and she wasn’t strong enough to get out of his grip. Would he take them both down? She shivered but kept her eyes on the man instead of glancing down into the bottomless depths.
When she reached him at last, she saw he was floating, facedown, bobbing limply with the movement of the waves. The sight was horrifying. The strong, large man hung in the water, lifeless. She dove down, swimming beneath his chest, and pushed him upward, turning him over. She pulled his head back against her shoulder, holding his face out of the water as well as she could while she kicked her legs to keep them afloat, but it was much more difficult to swim with the extra weight. Waves continued to wash over him, and she couldn’t tell whether he was breathing or not.
Charlotte scanned the endless sea, feeling helpless. Her legs burned, and she still couldn’t see the Belladonna. Despair filled her. Hot tears pressed behind her eyes, and her throat was tight. She wouldn’t be able to hold the two of them up for much longer. She concentrated on keeping Mr. Stafford’s head above the bobbing waves and not allowing the frightening thoughts to enter her mind, but it became more difficult as her arms and legs tired. Remember Will. I can endure this to find Will.
She kicked harder with her legs, letting one arm rest, then switched, churning the rested arm and allowing her exhausted legs to still. How much longer could she do this? The image of a dark scaled shape beneath the water came into her mind, and she pushed it out.
A faint noise reached her ears. A voice? Or just a seagull? She listened closely over the swishing sound of the waves, afraid to hope.
The noise came again, louder this time. It was a voice, and it shouted her name.
“Over here!” Still holding Mr. Stafford’s head, she found a reserve of energy and kicked her legs, raising herself up and waving an arm as high as she could. “We’re over here!”
“Charlie!” Mr. Dobson yelled as a small boat came into view, rowed by four crew members. A moment later strong arms grabbed her beneath the arms, and she was hauled onboard, followed by Mr. Stafford. Mr. Dobson and Mr. Allred laid Mr. Stafford flat on a bench.
Limbs shaking, she crawled over the bench to the unconscious man, laying her hand on his chest. Mr. Stafford didn’t move. His face was pale. “Please, Mr. Dobson. Help him. I don’t know if he’s breathing.”
Her throat clogged as the fear she’d held at bay flooded over her—fear for her friend as well as the realization of the peril she’d put herself in. The tears came now, and sobs shook her.
“There, there, lad.” Mr. Dobson patted her back. “You’re safe now, and we’ll see to Stafford.”
While they rowed back to the ship, the quartermaster pushed down on the large man’s chest and breathed into his mouth.
Finally Mr. Stafford coughed, spewing a f
ountain of water.
Charlotte continued to weep, even after she was on the Belladonna’s deck. She wrapped her arms around her legs, burying her face against her wet knees. She felt foolish but could no more stop her sobs than she could use her knitted hat as a soup bowl. Thinking of her hat, she felt her hair, but of course she’d lost the hat in the ocean. Tremors shook her, and she realized she was cold, but her thoughts were muddy. It seemed the only thing she was capable of was crying like a child whose pet had died.
With Nye and Allred’s help, Stafford sat up against the gunwale. The large man pressed a hand against his chest, wincing with every cough. His skin looked bluish, and Charlotte could see he was shaking as well.
Steps sounded behind her, the noise made by boots on the wooden planks. Only Captain Thatcher and Mr. Dobson wore boots aboard the ship. Charlotte peeked over her shoulder, feeling a burst of fear. What would the captain do? She had no doubt she’d be punished for disobeying him.
“Take Stafford below,” the captain said in a calm voice. “Remove his wet clothes and cover him with blankets.” He pointed. “Nye, you stay with him.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” The men led Stafford away, leaving Charlotte and the captain alone on the starboard side of the deck.
She didn’t dare look up at him.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
Glancing up, she squinted against the sun and searched his expression for a sign of compassion but could see nothing in his expression—not even anger, which made him seem angrier. The fear spread, tingling in her fingers.
She pushed herself to her feet, wobbling just a bit on her tired legs. She shivered. Water dripped down her back and puddled on the deck at her feet. Her first thought was to fetch the mop, but beneath Captain Thatcher’s gaze, she was afraid to move.
His expression remained stony as he looked her over. He gave a sharp nod then turned toward the companionway, motioning with a flick of his finger for her to follow. “Come with me, Charlie.”
Chapter 8
Alden’s jaw was tight. His muscles ached, his skin was hot, and he was so supremely angry he could hardly form words. He led Charlie down the companionway to his quarters, his pulse thumping in his ears.
She followed quietly, and he knew she was afraid. Well, good. It was about time the girl felt a good hearty dose of fear. Maybe it would teach her once and for all to exercise caution, to actually listen to his orders and not to believe herself incapable of coming to harm. What on earth had she been thinking, diving off the tops of the yards?
He stormed into his quarters and took a pair of trousers and a shirt from his sea chest, tossing them onto the chair. “Change out of your wet clothes.”
He stormed past, leaving Charlie alone in the room and closing the door behind him without even giving her a glance. He didn’t think he could actually look at her right then. He had never been so . . . furious in his life. Furious didn’t even come close. Furious was a huge hole in the deck of his ship. But this . . .
Unable to remain still, he paced in front of the door, seeing Charlie drop again and again in his memory. He’d already been tense this morning, watching her move up the rigging and along the yard, but that fall from so high above and losing sight of her among the waves as they’d fought to slow the ship . . . Every nerve in his body hummed, and he paced faster. What had gone through her mind? Did she imagine she’d just take a pleasant dip in the ocean, find Stafford, and then swim at their leisure back to the ship?
He imagined her alone and afraid, out of sight of the ship, surrounded by endless waves, the sheer terror she must have felt. Alden’s anger resurged, making him clench and unclench his fists.
He wanted to hit something or scream or strangle someone or hold Charlie in a tight embrace and not let her go— The thought stopped him short, foot in the air. He stared at the door as a realization hit him with the tenderness of a cannonball.
It wasn’t anger he felt, but fear. He set his foot down and leaned his back against the door, rubbing his eyes. Now that he’d identified the emotion, he experienced it fully. Limbs shaking, heart feeling like it would explode, he fought to breathe steadily.
Charlie had jumped without a second thought into the sea to save her shipmate. As frightened as Alden had been, her fear must have eclipsed his by a hundredfold. But she’d done it anyway. And with that thought the last bit of his anger dissipated, leaving in its place a jumble of confusion. He wasn’t certain exactly how to feel. Fear and guilt and admiration swirled around inside him like leaves caught in a river’s eddy. Even more perturbing, he was uncertain how to act. The dichotomy of Charlie being both a woman and a crewmember was one Alden had never dealt with before. He had no idea how to approach the situation.
Anger was much more convenient, he decided.
He knocked then entered, finding Charlie standing in the center of the room, one hand holding her wet clothes and the other gripping the waistband of Alden’s trousers, lest they fall off. Without her hat her honey-colored hair stuck to her head like damp straw. Her eyes were red from both salt water and weeping and still leaked tears onto her freckled cheeks.
He took the dripping clothes from her and called from the doorway for Turley to take them to dry.
When Turley had whisked the clothes away, Charlie said, “I’m sorry, Captain.”
Seeing that she was shaking, Alden sat her on the chair.
She released the trouser waist and wrapped her arms around her middle. “I know you’re angry, but I just couldn’t let him drown.”
The line was firmly entrenched between her brows, and Alden was finding it nearly impossible not to comfort her like he would a weeping child. He sat on the berth, facing her, and rested his forearms on his knees. “Did you think the crew would leave Stafford behind without attempting a rescue?” he asked.
She pursed her lips, glancing at him. “No . . . that is . . . I didn’t know. You said most sailors can’t swim.”
“Charlie, we would have done all we could to save him.” He sighed, wanting to ease her misery, but she needed to understand the magnitude of what she’d done. “When you jumped in, two crewmembers’ lives were at risk instead of just one. And having to save two people halves the chance of rescue for each.”
Her lower lip trembled, and she looked down, more tears slipping from her eyes. “I didn’t think of that. I . . . made the situation worse, didn’t I?”
Alden rubbed his eyes again, briefly wondering if they looked as red as hers. “Well, on one hand, you acted with unbelievable bravery, selflessly risking your life, and saved a crewmember. But on the other . . . yes. Your actions increased the danger to both of you.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“Charlie.” He sighed again, wishing some of the anger would return. It was much easier to discipline a sailor who didn’t incite such compassion. “The sea south of Florida is filled with sharks. The two of you are more than lucky.”
Her face paled and eyes widened. “I’m glad I didn’t know that before.”
Alden shook his head against the “what if” images that came into his thoughts.
She pulled her arms tighter around herself. “Captain, are you going to punish me?”
He tapped his chin, considering. “Well, typically, I’d send you to scrape the deck with a holystone, but for you, that would hardly be a punishment.” He fought to keep a teasing tone from his voice. Discipline had a more lasting effect when he didn’t wish to comfort the offender. He stood, motioning for her to remain seated. Charlie understood the significance of what she’d done, and Alden thought the girl needed a reprieve from danger and fear and reprimand.
“I’m afraid discipline will need to wait,” he said. “At the moment another much more pressing matter requires our attention.” He moved aside the maps, charts, and inkbottle from his desk, lifting th
e top to reveal the mirror and washstand beneath.
Charlie frowned, looking uncertain. “What matter?”
“Your haircut.”
Her hands flew to her head. “Oh, my hat!”
“Yes.” He shook his head dramatically. “Saying goodbye to such a treasured headpiece is a pity indeed. But now you must be brave and go on without it.” Crouching to her level, he took hold of her wrists, pulling her arms down. He looked over her hair. Stick-straight didn’t even begin to describe it. There existed not the slightest hint of a curl, and the haircut . . . “Charlie, who is your barber? Because the man deserves to be terminated—and by that I mean not just removed from the hairstyling profession—actually terminated.” He shook his head. “This is simply a disgrace.”
She pulled away her hands, covering up her head again. “I cut my own hair.”
That uncomfortable feeling of compassion returned and, with it, the need to set her at ease, even make her smile. “Are you certain?” He moved away her hands and then made a show of walking around her in a circle, rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger and studying the haircut. “In my opinion, this barbering job was done by . . . well, it could only have been a . . . blind monkey.”
Charlie gasped, her cheeks going red.
“During an earthquake,” Alden finished.
A sound that was some combination of a sob, a laugh, and an insulted choke came from the young lady as she stared at him, clearly not knowing how to react to such a preposterous statement.
Alden smiled. After the past hour, he’d consider it a positive noise.
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