Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl

by Leigh Statham

  His voice rose through the storm, bringing her anger back with it. Marguerite was in this position because of him. Determined not to let him see her falter in fear, she reached up with her other hand and then willed her feet to follow. The ladder wobbled, but she made herself keep going, hand over hand, foot over foot, until she had a nice rhythm.

  “There you are, sassy britches.” A raspy female voice surprised her. Marguerite’s eyes popped open to see she had reached the starboard side of the Henrietta. A portly woman with wild grey hair sprouting out from underneath a deep blue tricorn hat reached over the side and grabbed her arm, practically yanking her off the ladder.

  “Hold on, there!”

  Marguerite scrambled not to lose footing as the woman’s surprising strength overwhelmed her. Marguerite hit the deck like a wet rag doll and slipped as she tried to gain footing.

  “You’re safe with me as long as you don’t cross me!” The woman hollered, then leaned over the deck and shouted below while waving her arm in a huge circle overhead. “We got her, boys! Safe flying!”

  A faint cry of “Safe flying!” came from below and the Henrietta lurched away from the Renegade.

  “Alright then. That wasn’t too painful. Get yourself below and get dried off. Report at the mess hall in thirty minutes for a meal and debriefing.”

  “I’d love to, but I haven’t any idea where to go or how to get dry or—” Marguerite was cut off unceremoniously.

  “Pierre, and you, Louis?” The woman pointed at the red headed boy who grinned at Marguerite. “Pierre, take them both below and show them to the aft quarters.”

  “Yes, Captain Butterfield,” the boy shouted and saluted.

  “You are the captain?” Marguerite asked incredulously.

  “Right now I’m soaking wet and cranky, and yes, the captain. So if you don’t want to see my temper, you’ll get yourself below before I send ya back without a ladder.” She waved an arm at Marguerite.

  Marguerite wasn’t sure if she should salute or run or just walk backwards without taking her eyes off the stout, wiry old crone. She chose an awkward curtsy, realized it was the wrong choice when Captain Butterfield laughed out loud and decided to turn and walk quickly after the boys.

  Below deck on the Henrietta was even more cramped than the Renegade. As soon as they lifted the hatch to enter the lower levels, a great waft of animal, human, and machine gear smells hit her nose. She took a few steps into the dense air lit by old-fashioned yellow lights and felt the ship take off at full speed ahead. No doubt they were trying to make up for lost time in the great embarkment adventure. She swayed and grabbed the rails to steady her, too late realizing they were also covered in dirt and gear grease.

  “Oh my word,” she mumbled to herself as she followed the two boys down the steep, single file staircase while wiping her hand on her uniform. They descended another staircase and then proceeded down a long hallway, the smell of animals growing stronger with every step. Marguerite couldn’t take it any longer. “What on earth is that smell?” She plugged her nose with two fingers; pinky raised daintily in the air.

  “Oh, that’s Fifi,” Pierre called over his shoulder. He looked to be about the same age as Louis, twelve, maybe thirteen. Both boys bore the marks of a hard life—thin arms and legs, messy hair and dirty faces, but both boys seemed happy enough to be on this stinking ship.

  “Who is Fifi?” Marguerite called after them as they trotted ahead.

  Pierre came to a quick stop. “Here’s your bunk, miss.”

  She couldn’t’ take the impertinence any longer. “It’s Lady Vadnay, or Officer Vadnay, if you please.”

  Pierre looked confused. “Oh, I’m sorry m’lady, er, officer. I was told you lost your rank and was being kept here till they could court martial you or some such.”

  “Court martial? No. I do not think so.” Marguerite knew how quickly gossip could spread, in a small town, in a girl’s school, and on a ship. “I’m here only until we get things sorted out with Captain Laviolette. Never mind. I don’t need to explain to either of you. Now, where is my room?”

  She leaned against the two boys, moving them away from the open door, and her heart sunk as she saw the tiny room with four bunks and three chests at one end, her soaking box of belongings at the other. She sighed audibly, “And who am I to be sharing this room with?”

  “Oh, the galley gals, I suppose. You’ll be workin’ on the farm, though, miss.” Pierre caught himself, “I mean, lady.”

  “The farm?” This was just getting to be a bit much.

  “Aye,” Louis answered this time. “The Henrietta is famous for her floating farm. It’s one of the reasons I offered to come with ya, m’lady. I wanted to see it for myself.” He looked suddenly sheepish then. “I hope you don’t take offense to that. I’ll be here to help you out as well.”

  “It’s right down here, come on. I’ll get you to a washroom and a clean towel while we’re there. Laundry’s right by the farm.” They continued down the narrow hallway until it opened into what Marguerite guessed was the aft of the ship. A glass dome of triangles lay overhead. She remembered seeing part of it on deck, but with all the drama, she hadn’t paid it much mind.

  The rain beat on it now making the chamber echo and ring. The smell was almost overpowering, but she truly couldn’t believe her eyes. Surrounding the large skylight were artificial lights, fired up no doubt to compensate for dreary sunless days such as this. They cast yellow light on an amazing array of plants growing below. Walls, floors, and benches were covered with food producing plants of every shape and size, and in the center stood the biggest Abondance milk cow Marguerite had ever seen. Her body was a deep red with patches of white on her legs and friendly cow face. She wore a leather strap and bell for a collar that dinged when she swung her head to look at them. The smell told Marguerite this had to be Fifi. A makeshift fence of copper piping held the cow in a stall with plants arranged all around her to nibble on like some sort of bovine buffet. A pipe extended from the deck above, allowing rainwater to gather and pool in a bucket attached to the floor for the beast to drink from. She stood chewing happily, and paused only to moo at them for a moment as Marguerite inspected the vast room filled with plants of every variety.

  “What an ingenious idea!” Marguerite forgot to hold her nose or the fact that she was freezing cold and soaking wet as she pushed past the boys, opened the waist high gate, and proceeded to give herself a tour of the farm. “This is as fine a greenhouse as I’ve ever seen, even in France. It’s a bit dusty, and the materials could be updated, but the design is pure intelligence put to work.”

  She identified several varieties of citrus trees, berries, pole plants, and even melons. One whole section was dedicated to greens of every kind, and grape arbors grew from containers fastened to the walls, dancing and twirling across the beams of the deck above. A pond of light-colored fish swam at the end opposite the cow, chickens pecked and scratched at the floor around the pond, alternately pooping and flicking scratch into the fish. Marguerite followed the line of the pond to pipes at one side and a pump that appeared to distribute water to all of the greenery, and then alternately, it caught the runoff and returned it to the pond.

  It was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen, but as she took a deep breath, as she was used to doing when she wanted to appreciate something fully, she nearly gagged on the smell of Fifi.

  Marguerite walked up to the beast and entered her pen. Having grown up with free reign of a working estate in the country, Marguerite knew a thing or two about all things flora and fauna. She examined her from all angles, patting Fifi on the soft white forehead and rubbing her back. Then Marguerite made her way around to the steaming pile of manure that lay on the floor at the lovely animal’s hind quarters.

  “Who is in charge of mucking this stall? This is atrocious. No animal should have to stand around in this, and humans shouldn’t be forced to endure the smell! It’s absolutely wretched on eve
ry level.”

  At that moment Captain Butterfield walked in, picked up a flat-ended shovel and threw it at Marguerite’s head.

  “For goodness sake!” Marguerite cried as she caught the shovel with two hands saving herself and Fifi from a nasty blow. “I don’t think that was necessary.”

  “You are,” Captain Butterfield said with a smile.

  “I am what?” Marguerite asked.

  “In charge of the cow.” Captain Butterfield laughed heartily then turned to leave. “Get to scooping.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When the two boys were finally done laughing behind their hands at the soaking wet lady holding the shovel in front of them, they showed her the trap door for the excrement. If she hadn’t been completely mortified, the contraption might have impressed Marguerite. It had a lever she could step on that retracted a space in the floor right next to Fifi’s small pen. She could then shovel with both hands while her foot held the door open.

  Pierre demonstrated and then handed the shovel back to Marguerite, who reluctantly took it from him and demonstrated a quick mastery of the chore. A bell rang overhead. Pierre stood to attention and turned to Louis. “We better get going. That’s the deck boy’s call.”

  “I’m assigned to help Lady Vadnay. I’m staying right here.” Louis stood tall and immovable at her side.

  “Suit yourself,” Pierre answered, and then he ran off, placing one hand on the top of the fence and vaulting over it in a single bound. Louis immediately reached for the shovel and took it from Marguerite’s hands.

  “The laundry is over there, m’lady. I’ll finish up here while you get a towel and swap clothes.” He blushed a bit as he smiled.

  “Well, thank you, Louis. That is very kind of you.” She started to walk toward the door opposite the fence they’d entered in but stopped and turned to the small boy who was now furiously scraping refuse out to sea. “Are you certain you don’t need to be somewhere else, Louis?”

  “Captain Laviolette ordered me on this ship to help you. Those are my orders, and I plan to follow them.” He put the shovel to his side like a musket and saluted her with two fingers to his forehead.

  “Well, lovely then.” Marguerite turned and left Louis to shovel without a second thought.

  She found the laundry easily enough. It was a tiny room directly opposite her bunk on the other side of the ship and was filled to bursting with two women, two large copper pots of boiling water, and several overhead-drying contraptions. One woman stood on mechanical stilts while hanging rags to dry high above the other woman who was stirring a pot of grey suds. Marguerite wondered what they could possibly have to wash so early in their journey, but decided not to ask.

  Both women took one look at her wretched state and motioned to the stack of dry towels without a word. Marguerite thanked them and turned to leave, toweling her rain-soaked hair as she went, when one called out to her. “One towel per person. Washing day is recorded on your bunk door.”

  “Thank you!” She called and hurried to her bunk to change. Excellent. She would have to find somewhere to hang her soaking garments, or she would be stuck in these clothes for another week or so. When she’d followed the boys to Fifi, she remembered seeing a passageway that looked like it cut through to the other side of the ship. The last thing she wanted was to cut back through the farm and end up having to help muck cow dung, or worse, before she was dry.

  She found the passage and only had to deal with a handful of shipmates giving her strange looks on the way to her bunk. She quickly closed the door and prayed that none of her new bunkmates would show up before she got herself decent again. The tiny space was like being locked in a closet. She thought of her old governess locking her in the cellars and shuddered. Small dark spaces were not her favorite.

  She opened her chest and was relieved to see that her clothes were still dry. She peeled off the wet wool suit and hung it on an empty peg on the wall, then carefully took off her pink silk under garments, threw them on the floor, and hurried to replace them. She put on a new flight suit, and then debated what she should do with her undies. They weren’t soaked, but they did need to lay flat to dry.

  “Drat,” she swore. “If Outil were here she’d know what to do.” She rubbed her head vigorously with the towel and laid it over her trunk to dry. Marguerite cursed Jacques then as well. He was such a bastard for putting her in this position. There was no other word for him. True, he could have sent her home, or given her a chute and thrown her over the edge of the ship, but this was only a miniscule step above complete abandonment. She gritted her teeth and stomped her foot for good measure. She was going to get even.

  In the meantime, she decided to try to determine what bed was not being used and laid her things out there. Only, none of the beds had been used yet. They were all made up tight, untouched. She sighed in frustration and just picked a bottom bunk to arrange them on, then resolved to get back in time to put them away before anyone else returned.

  Back at the farm, Louis had finished cleaning up the mess and the whole place smelled measures better. He had found a brush somewhere and was in the middle of rubbing down Fifi, who appeared to be enjoying the whole affair immensely. “Well then, Louis. You’ve done a fine job here. She’s a lovely Abondance, isn’t she?” Marguerite walked to the pen and leaned in to pet her. Fifi stomped her foot and threw her head away from Marguerite’s hand. A stout woman with bright red hair piled high on her head came panting and chuffing into the farm. She spotted Marguerite and Louis and pointed at the pair.

  “You the new help from the Renegade?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Lady Vadnay, and this is Louis,” Marguerite answered.

  “Right, well you are both going to come help me. I’m Lady Cook, and I need at least six more hands to get evening meal on before we hit the preparations for tomorrow’s rounds.” She rolled her eyes as she said lady in a mocking tone.

  “Oh no, I am not a galley worker. I’m sorry. I’m an officer and a Lady, and I do not prepare food.” Marguerite was firm in this point. She stood her ground, hands on her hips. Fifi mooed long and low as if to mock the aristocrat pouting by her pen.

  “You may have been all those things on land or even on the Renegade, but here on the Henrietta, you’re nothing but what Captain B. says you are, and today, that’s a galley hand. Now get those lovely little aristocratic hands off your hips and help me fill these baskets with greens or you’ll get no supper and quite possibly the chute.” The little woman picked up two baskets from a pile near the door and tossed one unceremoniously to the floor at Marguerite’s feet.

  Marguerite knew the woman was right. The law of the skies was not the way of things on land. All that mattered up here was your title according to your captain, and neither of her captains was interested in promoting her anytime soon.

  She had no choice.

  She bent over and picked up the basket. Louis put down the brush and climbed out of the pen. Fifi mooed again.

  The rest of the day was much the same. She cut her hand trying to learn to peel carrots; she stubbed her toe while carrying a pot of potatoes and water from sink to stove, and she ended up covered in grease when the ship lurched to starboard and a pot of lard tipped and tumbled off a shelf.

  She had to admit that the meal was quite good, considering they were several leagues above ground and even farther from civilization. However, the after dinner clean-up nearly did her in. Even with Louis running circles around her, helping in any way he could, she felt beaten and bloody and even more determined to make Jacques’s life a living hell if she was ever to see him again.

  She made her way back to her bunk in low spirits and with a bedraggled appearance. She heard voices coming from all the rooms she passed. Some had doors open, some closed. Some were merry, most sounded tired. It was a crew of mostly women and boys. The Henrietta was a galley ship, which meant it prepared food and carried extra supplies for the rest of the convoy. This saved space for the oth
er vessels to carry larger weapons and more men for battles. At supper each night, the Henrietta coasted over the other ships and dropped food from a parachute system. In the morning, the ships floated over her deck and returned the shoots and empty containers.

  Marguerite hadn’t ever spent much time in the kitchens of the estate where she’d grown up. She took for granted the fact that hot meals showed up on her dinner table and at her bedside at regularly scheduled times. Even at the school, she didn’t think much about where her food came from or whose hands had prepared it. She looked at her own hands. They were white and shriveled like ghostly prunes. Nicks and scrapes here and there lent shocking peeks of blood. To add insult to injury, three of her nails had broken to the quick. She felt wretched.

  Ahead of her, the door was open to her bunk. Merry voices drifted down the hall and met her ears. She hesitated; worried that she hadn’t arrived soon enough. What would they say about her underthings? Just when she thought the day couldn’t get much worse, she was now convinced it would.

  She decided to meet the problem head on.

  Marguerite marched up to the open doorway; head held high and mangled hands on her hips. Their laughter and chatter stopped suddenly when Marguerite appeared. She looked them over carefully before speaking. The three girls sitting on bunks before her were a mixed bunch. Two were mousy with thin watery-brown hair and upturned noses; obviously sisters, but not twins. One sister was broader through the forehead, looked a bit more care worn, and even while sitting down was a head taller than the other.

  The third girl was sitting on the bed Marguerite had claimed earlier. She had tight black curls falling in lovely ringlets to frame a creamy brown face. Marguerite was instantly jealous of her hair. When she saw Marguerite, her soft brown eyes grew wide at first, and then narrowed in mischief. “Oh, good! Our roommate is finally here,” she purred.

  Marguerite instantly identified her as a new pain in her side. One of the many girls her age whom she could not abide but would have to endure. A troublemaker, a bully, a nasty heart in a pretty package. She bristled as she realized the girl was holding her now dry pink satin underclothes up to her own body and smiling like a cat with a mouthful of canary.