by Carla Kelly
“Prepare to board! Ready with the grapples!”
Captain Winslow turned away in disgust, unable to bear the sight, as the sailors on the other vessel swung out with their grappling hooks and dug them into the Molly’s railing. Hannah tried to make herself small on the grating, but the captain did not order her below. Instead, he came across the deck and sat down beside her.
“Thee does not need to fear,” he said to her in a low voice as he watched the ships swing together, and then motioned his own crew down from the riggings. “Think of this as something to tell thy brother when we pull into Charleston,”
“What is happening?” she asked.
“My dear, thee is about to see His Majesty’s Royal Navy impress my crew.”
Chapter Two
Captain Winslow gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, then stood up and straightened his coat as the captain of the other vessel leaped gracefully onto the deck of the Molly Claridge, followed by other sailors and a lieutenant of Marines. She watched in dumbfounded amazement as other Marines in red coats climbed into the riggings of their own vessel and trained their muskets down onto the deck of the Molly, which bobbed below them in the water.
The captain strode across the deck, nodded to her, and stood in front of Captain Winslow.
“Captain, I am Captain Sir Daniel Spark and this is His Majesty’s frigate Dissuade. I am requiring and requesting that you turn over to me all deserters from His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
“I have none on board,” growled.
“I think you do,” Captain Spark replied, biting off each word as though born to command. “I demand that you summon your crew and have them show me their papers.” When Winslow said nothing, he looked over his shoulder at the carronade, which was now reloaded and pointed at point-blank range. “Well now, sir?”
Wearily, Winslow motioned to his men who stood about the deck, talking among themselves in guarded tones, and then glanced up at the Marines in the Dissuade’s shrouds. “Line up and show them your papers, lads.”
“Good of you to be so obliging,” said the captain.
With a growing sense of stupefaction that someone without a by-your-leave could so coolly commandeer a ship of another country, Hannah sat with her hands balled into tight fists and observed this intruder to the Molly.
He was tall, impeccably dressed in the white pants, white vest, and blue coat of the Royal Navy, and rendered even more imposing by the high fore-and-aft hat he wore. I wonder how he keeps those trousers so white, she thought, fascinated in spite of herself. Gold epaulets fringed both shoulders, proclaiming him a full captain. His face was mahogany-colored from constant exposure to the sun, with weather wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He was thinlipped and grim, with a straight nose. From his buckled shoes to his hairline, he was well built, but without an ounce of fat anywhere that she could see. In any other setting, she would have thought him a magnificent specimen.
“Dear me,” Hannah whispered under her breath, making herself smaller on the grating where she sat.
She thought she spoke softly, but he turned toward her, raising one eyebrow in a scrutiny that lasted only a brief moment, but which seemed to go on and on. His eyes were the cool blue of ice rimming a deep winter pond, and stood out distinctly in contrast to his tanned face.
He cleared his throat. “If there is something about me you see that does not meet your scrutiny, please let me know.” His words were crisp and lively with command.
Hannah blushed and looked away from him, raising her chin proudly and gazing out beyond the rigging to the port bow. There was a long pause, as though he waited for an answer. Reluctantly, she looked back at him.
“Well!” he asked her, one eyebrow raised.
“I think thee is a perfect beast,” she replied as distinctly.
“Oh, does thee?” he replied, his voice heavy with mockery. To her further dismay, the lieutenant of Marines standing beside him laughed out loud.
One glance from the captain’s disconcerting blue eyes ended that outburst and turned it into a cough. The captain directed his gaze next at Aaron Winslow, who stood beside his men lined on the deck.
“Sir, Lieutenant Ream here will examine your crew’s papers. If anything is out of order, he will seize that party and return him to the Royal Navy, where he belongs.”
Winslow made no reply. The Marine made his way down the line of seamen while Captain Spark stood ramrod straight, eyes ahead, taking no notice of Winslow. The Marine read each paper carefully, then stopped before the sailing master. When the man did not hand over his paper, he tapped his chest. “You there,” he barked.
The sailing master stepped forward, forcing the Marine to back up. He turned smartly and faced Captain Spark. “Elijah Cogburn, late of the Temeraire.”
Captain Spark allowed himself a tiny smile. He strode to the sailing master. “I thought I recognized you, Cogburn,” he said, his voice mild, but with that hint of sarcasm that Hannah was already beginning to loathe. “We thought you jumped ship.”
“I found a better berth, sir,” Cogburn replied, eyes straight ahead. “And a better country.”
Captain Spark came closer, until Cogburn was forced to take a step backward. “May I remind you—all of you—once an Englishman, always an Englishman!="+0">”
The sailing master made no reply. At a small gesture from the captain, two sailors sprang forward and hustled Cogburn to the ship’s railing. He looked back at Winslow, the bare pleading evident on his face. “Captain Winslow! Can you do nothing?”
Her heart wrung out, Hannah scrubbed savagely at the tears in her eyes. She knew she should not say anything, but something deep within her compelled her upright. In a moment she was standing beside Captain Spark, who regarded her with faint amusement. She looked up and up to his face, and nearly lost her courage, staring into those unsettling eyes.
“What gives thee the right to do this thing?” she raged, amazed at her own temerity, even as she spoke.
“The right of the Royal Navy, and I might add, a man who has guns and muskets trained on this deck,” he replied coolly. He glanced at Captain Winslow. “I suggest you retire this little termagant below deck or I might be tempted to use her for chum and troll for sharks!”
Hannah gasped. “Thee is despicable!”
“I certainly am,” he roared back. “Now sit back on your grating before I paddle you!”
She did as he ordered, not doubting for a moment that he would have turned her over his knee. Tears came to her eyes once more as the Marines in the shrouds and the sailors on the opposite deck laughed. She sat as tall as she could, while tears of rage and humiliation streamed down her cheeks.
After a moment, the Marine lieutenant continued his perusal of citizenship papers. He pulled out an Irishman and two Canadians, then saluted to Captain Spark. “That’s it, sir,” he said, showing him the papers.
Spark read them quickly and nodded. He looked back at another officer still on the deck of the Dissuade. “Mr. Lansing, have we need of any others?”
“Two more, sir,” Lansing holle"justif.
His hands clasped behind his back, the captain walked up and down in front of the remaining Americans. He stopped in front of one sailor, Nantucket born and bred, and nodded to his lieutenant. The Marine grabbed the man and dragged him to the railing as he protested and tried to dig with his bare feet into the deck.
“By God,” muttered Captain Winslow, his face white.
Captain Spark continued his stroll of the neck, stopping at last before Winslow’s own son. “This one,” he said to his lieutenant.
Captain Winslow leaped forward, shouting, as the young man cried out. “By God, sir, that is my own son! And this his first voyage! Has thee no heart?”
“None whatsoever, Captain Winslow. Take him aboard,” the captain snapped. “Terms of enlistment are up when this ship docks in Portsmouth, and not one moment before.” He tipped his hat to Captain Winslow, who was held back in the iron grip of his bosun.
The impressed seamen were quickly bundled over the side and hauled up onto the other deck. Captain Winslow dropped to his knees and wept, his head in his hands. It was more than Hannah could bear. She jumped up again and ran to the British captain, who waited to reboard his vessel. She grabbed his arms and tried to pull him around.
“Thee cannot do this! Have we no rights?” She tugged his arm, but he was anchored fast to the deck and would not budge.
“You have no rights,” he said quietly. “None whatsoever. You belong to an impertinent nation that will soon be a failed experiment. Let go of my arm.”
She did as he said and wiped her streaming eyes with her sleeve. “I wish thee to hell, sir,” she said, her voice as quiet as his and more fierce.
“Well I won’t go, Miss Spitfire,” he replied.
To her utter amazement, he grabbed her by the mass of hair on the back of her neck, hauled her close, picked her up, and kissed her. Her feet dangled off the deck and she grabbed onto him to take the pain off her hair, while he kissed her once, and then again more thoroughly. She clung to him, her head on fire, and tried to speak, even as he kissed her a third time, completely in command of the situation. Wild-eyed with fury, she stared at him, noting even in her rage how improbably long his eyelashes were. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
And then it was over. He set her back on the deck and released her hair. “I haven’t had that pleasure in two years,” he said softly. He stepped aside quickly in case she should strike out. “May I add that you needn’t improve upon a fine thing?”
He sprang to the railing, his arm draped gracefully in the rigging to maintain his balance, and then leaped across the space between the ships as his men laughed and cheered.
“Release the grappling hooks,” he ordered, and then looked at his first mate, who wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Wear the ship, Mr. Lansing, lively now.”
As she watched in total humiliation and stunning fury, the sailors on the opposite ship grinned at her and released the grapples from the Molly’s mutilated railing. The vessels moved apart quickly. Captain Winslow joined her at the railing and put his arm tight about her shoulder. He was shaking, and his face was as gray as a Nantucket winter sky. “Oh, lass,” was all he could manage as the ships swung apart and the Marines climbed down from the riggings.
But there was Captain Spark on his quarterdeck again, a speaking trumpet to his mouth. “A word, Captain Winslow.”
In pointed disgust, Winslow turned his broad back on the British officer.
“I advise you to douse your running lights tonight,” called Captain Sir Daniel Spark. “The French are out and seem not to be asking questions before they open fire.”
Winslow said nothing. At a word from his bosun, the remaining sailors fell to the ropes to continue their course toward Charleston.
“It’s good advice,” Spark called out, his voice much farther away now. “Good day, Miss Quaker. I hope we meet again.”
“Impertinent bastard Englishman,” Winslow said, his voice drained of all emotion. He hugged Hannah close. “What am I ever going to tell my wife? She did not want Adam to go on this voyage.”
Dinner that night was eaten in silence. Winslow toyed with his mutton and biscuit, then set his fork down, defeated. He bowed his head over his plate in silence until Hannah touched his arm. With an effort he looked at her, and pushed the plate away. “We’ll be in Charleston tomorrow night, Hannah,” he said, speaking for the first time, his eyes staring down again. “And then I do not know what to do.”
“Captain, surely Adam will be all right, once that abominable ship docks in England,” Hannah said.
“If he gets there alive. Thee does not know what happens on a British warship. I do not suppose there is a harder service anywhere.”
The other ship’s officers at the table nodded in agreement. “Why do ye think so many jump ship?” asked one of them of no one in particular. “Adam’s a tender lad, and those jailbirds on the gun deck are a rough lot.”
Hannah shook her head and put her finger to her lips, and the man was silent. The captain finally raised his eyes to the others. He rose as the bosun on deck whistled for the night watch.
“Are you going to douse the running lightslike that wretched captain said?” one of them asked.
“No,” was Captain Winslow’s brief reply. He trudged from the cabin, and in another moment, they heard his footsteps on the deck above.
The other officers ate quickly then, talking among themselves, but always coming back to Adam and the other American crew member, captive now on a British vessel bound for England. When Hannah could stomach no more of their whispered conversation, she left the table and retreated to her own quarters. The bed looked better to her than it had in three days, even with the covers still rumpled from her tardy rising. She wanted to crawl into the berth and pull the blanket over her head, and not emerge until they docked in Charleston and Hosea opened his arms to her.
Her own eyes dull, her heart sick, she removed her clothes and just left them in a pile on the deck. Too tired to look for her nightgown, she crawled into the berth in her chemise. Her head still ached where Captain Spark had grabbed her hair and pulled so tight. She massaged the spot, and then touched her lips, which felt bruised and swollen from their encounter with Captain Spark. A glance in the mirror earlier had told her they were nothing of the kind. He had not kissed her to hurt her, she had to admit, as she lay there in the dark and let the ship rock her toward slumber. Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed it.
It galled her and threw her into the depths of humiliation to realize that her first kiss ever would come like that. She had hoped it would come from the man she loved, and not some captain of the Royal Navy too long away from a woman, any woman. She blushed in the dark, reliving the shame all over again. I wonder if I will ever kiss another man and not remember that degradation, Hannah considered.
It was a disturbing thought. She lay in her berth, hands behind her head, and allowed the gentle motion of the Molly to soothe her jangled nerves. As her eyes began to close, she thought of her list of all those qualities she required in a husband. “Well, Hannah Whittier,” she spoke out loud, her voice drowsy, “there is one man thee can cross from any list. Captain Sir Daniel Spark is the last man on earth thee would ever marry.” She closed her eyes and let the ship rock her to sleep.
Why she woke, hours later, Hannah could not tell, not then or ever. The Molly was making fair progress under a full moon, running smooth and swift toward Charleston. She was familiar by now with the creaks and groans of the well-weathered timers, and the hum of the wind in the riggings. Suddenly it was as though all sounds were suspended, and then superseded by an enormous roar of cannon.
The percussion tumbled her onto the deck, and she lay there, trying to collect her wits, as the Molly leaped like a wounded animal, and then shuddered to one side. Even as she lay there, doubled into a little ball with her hands over her ears, Hannah heard the shrieks of the wounded, and the crunch and groan of settling timbers.
She could not move. She gritted her teeth and waited for another explosion. When it came, she braced herself and closed her eyes tight, as if to keep out the horror. This time she heard the mainmast crash through the deck. The brig heeled sharply to one side as the sails and rigging from the mast dragged in the water and threatened to pull the Molly under. The deck slanted, and she slid hard against the berth she had left so unceremoniously only seconds before.
Hannah wailed in terror and tried to crawl toward the companionway. The force of the explosion had blown the door off its hinges. She could make out its vague silhouette, half in and half out of the companionway. She stared at the door stupidly for a moment, thinking how useless it was, lying there like that. She rose up on her knees and discovered they were wet.
In growing panic, she patted the planks. They were all wet with cold water that seemed to bubble up out of the hold itself. Dear
God, she thought, her mind suddenly crowded with memories and thoughts long-forgotten, but rushing back now in a most peculiar review. Was this how it felt to die?
And then the thoughts were gone, leaving her almost exhausted. Her trunk floated by. I must get out of here, she told herself as she struggled to gain her footing on the deck, which continued to rise at an absurd angle. As she paused, someone grabbed her under the armpits and hauled her into the companionway.
“Hannah, is thee all right?”
It was Captain Winslow. She felt the wool of his soggy uniform against her bare skin.
She nodded, then realized that he could not see her in the dark. “Yes,” she gasped. “Only let me find a dress, or something besides this chemise!”
“No time,” he said, his voice sharp.
The companionway lay at crazy angles, with floating rope and boxes. The hanging lamp tilted weirdly, its flame extinguished. She shrieked as a rat ran across her bare shoulders, its feet digging into her flesh, and then mad with fear, leaped with a splash into the steadily rising water.
Somehow Captain Winslow pulled her toward the gangway. The steps were gone. As they stood there in water waist deep, someone above her grabbed her long hair and tugged at her. She raised her arms and he pulled her onto what remained of the deck.
In another moment, Captain Winslow stood beside her. Before she could gather her wits about her to speak, he picked her up again and half ran, half staggered to the ship’s railing. She pushed against his chest in a sudden surge of fright as he lifted her over the railing.
“Oh, please, no!” she shrieked.
“Hannah, thee has no choice,” he said. “When thee hits the water, swim away fast!”
She tried to clutch at his buttons, but he pulled her hands away and threw her into the water. She reached out for him, even as she sank below the water’s surface. The water was colder even than the water on the sinking ship. Her hair streaming above her, Hannah sank down into the darkness. When her panicking brain told her that she must surely touch bottom, she began to rise. Her lungs desperate for air, she kicked with her feet to hurry the return to the water’s surface, which seemed to boil above her.
