Miss Whittier Makes a List

by Carla Kelly

  The lieutenants looked at each other and grinned. “Best make yourself useful,” Lansing said. He took a last sip of his coffee before the orderly removed it and made a face. “And start by doing something about this coffee. I swear it is made of bilge water, or deck swash./font>”

  “Does the captain complain about his coffee?” she asked.

  “It’s probably the only thing he complains about, at least, until you came aboard,” Lansing said, getting to his feet and ducking his head to avoid the deck above.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “I wish one of thee could tell him that I didn’t throw myself off the Molly Claridge with the expectation of being picked up by a frigate of the Royal Navy, Captain Spark commanding.” She sighed. “But I owe him my rescue, at the very least.”

  Futtrell smiled and pulled out her chair as she made to rise. “One thing else, Miss Whittier. It might be better if you said ‘you’ instead of ‘thee.’ Makes me feel like a guilty sinner.”

  “Well, is thee?” she asked, her voice crisp. She reconsidered immediately. “I am sorry. I will try to remember. Can ... you ... think of anything else?”

  “Only this,” said Lansing as he ushered her toward the companionway. “When the captain gives an order, obey and don’t ask why.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “That is fearsome undemocratic.”

  Futtrell bowed elaborately, to the amusement of the midshipmen. “Thee is in the Royal Navy now, Miss Whittier.”

  The air was much fresher on deck. As Hannah took several gulps of the brisk air, she vowed to spend as much time on deck as possible. She was not alone in this desire. Adam Winslow sat on a forward grating, deep in conversation with the other Nantucket sailor. He raised his hand to her, but made no move to come closer.

  Their voices low, other sailors had grouped themselves about the scuttlebutt for one last drink before going below to sleep. As she watched, they pulled their hammocks from the webs of rope lining the railings.

  “Why do they keep their hammocks there? Isn’t it dreadfully inconvenient to do that?” she asked Futtrell.

  “You would think so, until those hammocks stored there deflect cannonballs during battle.”

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes wide. “Does thee ... do you ... think we will run into trouble with the French between here and England?”

  He nodded, not a trace of humor in his voice. “You can depend upon it, Miss Whittier. It is only a matter of time.”

  She took that bit of news below deck with her as she prepared for bed. She wondered what she would sleep in, as she said good night shyly to the sentry at the door and entered her tiny cabin. Draped across the cannon was one of the captain’s nightshirts. It was not the one she had worn, greasy with salve, but a fresh one. She picked it up. “Captain Spark, thee is a strange man,” she murmured out loud. She fingered the shirt and thought of her friend Charity Wilkins, recently married, declaiming on the simplicity of men. Thee does not know Captain Spark, if thee thinks men are simple, Hannah thought.

  In a matter of moments, she was in the hammock, still dubious about dumping herself out, then reassured as it enveloped her again in its comfort. She squirmed into a comfortable position and folded her hands across her stomach. As she lay there, waiting for sleep, she thought of her list. It seemed so long ago that she had composed it. Now it was a meal for the fish, along with nearly everything else that had once comprised the Molly Claridge. But I won’t think of that, she thought, for it makes me too sad.

  She concentrated on the list. I asked for a handsome man with blond hair and blue eyes, she thought, and considered Captain Spark, with his rather fine curly hair and somewhat disturbing pale eyes. Perhaps I am too arbitrary, she considered. There is nothing wrong with dark, curly hair. “Not that I am for even the smallest minute considering thee as a possible husband,” she said firmly. “But perhaps I should not be too picky about color of hair and eyes.”

  She turned gingerly onto her side, less from worry over her sunburn, than the lively fear of involuntary expulsion from the hammock. She tried to remember the other conditions on her list: patient, kind, devout, loves me. She stopped, her face even more red, thinking of her ejection from the quarterdeck. She was not a grudge holder; soon philosophy—and approaching sleep—took over. “Hannah Whittier, at least thee is now perfectly capable of telling the difference between love and pointed dislike, thanks to Captain Spark. As if thee had any doubts!”

  She concluded that the way to finding a husband was fraught with true peril. I begin to wonder that anyone attempts it, she thought as her eyes closed at last and she slept.

  She woke to the sound of the wash pump working on the deck and the clicking of heels outside her door as the Marine guard changed. She listened to the water pattering overhead as it fell onto the deck, and the sound of someone—it could only be Captain Spark—singing rather tunelessly. The air was cool and she shivered, wondering how he could stand to shower under that pump, and in seawater.

  Her cabin was still dark, but it was a simple matter to climb from the hammock and dress. She tugged her hair back at the nape of her neck, tied it with a string salvaged from the sea chest, and opened the door. The guard, his face wooden, gave her a sidelong glance.

  “Lieutenant, I wish you to escort me to the galley.” she said firmly.

  He grinned. “Ma’am, I am a corporal. This way.”

  She followed him silently, picking her way carefully through the gun deck, and overlooking those men still asleep in their hammocks. The clank of the wash pump ceased. She kept her eyes forward, hoping that the captain, in whatever state of dress, would not go below until she was out of sight in the galley.

  Her hope was realized. She ducked through the door that the Marine held open for her, and sniffed appreciatively. A little man with a peg leg stood at the large galley range stirring vigorously.

  “That you, Trist, you old bastard? Tell the captain to slow down and dry off them long limbs! I’ll have his porridge in two shakes, and not before.”

  Hannah, her eyes merry, cleared her throat, and the cook spun about on his wooden leg. He stared at her in surprise, then hurriedly dumped the spoon back in the pot, muttering something about “losing ten years off me plaguey life.”

  Hannah ventured closer. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He continued stirring, as if too shy to look at her again. “Well, you did, miss, you did.” He stopped then. “Is there something that you need?” he asked, as if eager to end her presence in his galley.

  She nodded, wondered briefly if a small prevarication of good intentions was as bad as an outright lie, and plunged ahead. “I am under orders from the captain to prepare him a cup of coffee.”

  The cook gestured to the coffeepot on a back burner, its lid chattering away as the brew boiled and strengthened. “Already done, miss.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” she insisted. “I am to make it my way.” She overlooked the mulish look on his face and dimpled her sm boilt him. “Oh, please, sir! I don’t know what I’ll do if you say no!”

  She had no intention of crying, but there must have been a plaintive note in her voice that triggered the cook’s immediate response. Without a word, he hurried to the ship’s stores and pulled down a sack of green coffee beans. “Don’t cry, miss, don’t cry,” he pleaded as he held it out to her.

  It was a simple matter to roast the beans, grind them, and add them to a smaller pot of water simmering on the other back burner. She worked quickly; silently amused at how hard the cook watched her when he thought she was unaware. She added the ground beans to the strainer and returned it to the pot, wishing for a clock to time it precisely. She lifted the lid finally, and sniffed.

  “Now you boil it?” the cook asked, his eyes hopeful.

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  The cook turned back to the range, his back stiff with disapproval. “Then it can’t be regulation navy, miss,” he muttered, “and the captain is particular about the rules.”<
br />
  She opened her eyes wide. “I didn’t know coffee had rules!” She waited until she thought he could not stand another moment of suspense, then poured a cup of the brew into a measuring tin.

  “Wouldn’t you agree that was better?” she asked.

  He sniffed, his eyes suspicious. “Don’t rush me, miss.”

  As she watched in amusement, he sipped at it, nodded, and turned back to the porridge. “Good enough for the king,” he mumbled, “even if you are a Yankee.”

  He didn’t say anything else, so she could only take it for a compliment. “Why, thank you, sir,” she replied.

  To her surprise, he turned about on his peg leg again and held out his hand. “Call me Cookie, ma’am.”

  “I will,” she assured him. “And you may call me Hannah.”

  He drew back in shock as though she had grabbed him. “I could never!”

  “Miss Whittier, then,” she amended hastily. “And I promise only to invade your galley to make coffee for the captain.”

  His face rosy with shyness, the cook held out a large white mug. “He says he likes it blacker than a coaldigger’s arse, ma’am.”

  “He would,” she murmured, mentally crossing the captain off her list yet again as she accepted the cup. Her eyes on the brimming mug, she left the galley, looking back only when the cook called to her.

  “If you’re ever bored, miss, there’s always something to peel,” he offered, and then ducked inside again, his face aflame.

  She smiled to herself and kept her eyes carefully forward. Timing her stride to the roll of the ship, she looked up from the gun deck to see the captain, dressed and on his quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back. He tapped his toe on the deck, and every line of his body seemed to scream out impatience.<

  Trist stood beside the gangway, eyeing her with vast disapproval. She held out the cup to him. “For the captain,” she whispered, her eyes on the deck above.

  Spark’s orderly backed away, as though the cup contained hemlock. “Not unless Cookie brewed it,” he declared, his voice as close to virtuous as possible, for a member of the Royal Navy.

  “Oh, very well,” she declared, took a deep breath, and mounted the steps.

  Captain Spark had turned at the sound of her voice. He eyed her and the cup with suspicion, then pointedly turned his back again. She stifled the urge to throw the mug at him, and carefully crossed the deck to the ladder that gave onto the quarterdeck.

  “Come to poison me on my own quarterdeck, Miss Whittier?” he asked, his back still to her.

  “I doubt that even arsenic would have other than a sweetening effect to thy ... your nature,” she said.

  She climbed the first two steps of the ladder and the captain turned around, eyeing her with frosty distrust under frowning eyebrows.

  “You seem to have a short memory, Miss Whittier,” he began.

  “And you are abominably rude,” she replied. She leaned forward and set the cup down on the quarterdeck, then turned around and plopped herself onto the second step, coming no closer. With what she hoped was elaborate unconcern, she watched the seamen holystoning the deck, and waited.

  After a long moment, he crossed to the gangway and picked up the cup. She heard him return to the weather side of the ship. He was silent. She couldn’t tell if he was sipping the coffee, or if he had dumped it overboard. The minutes passed. She got up to go below again.

  “Miss Whittier!” came the command from the quarterdeck. The mainsail boomed then, and the helmsman, who had obviously been watching his captain, grabbed for the wheel again as Captain Spark flung a curse and an order at him. The ship heeled quickly as the canvas flared and then filled again.

  Goosebumps charged up and down her spine, and she stood still, her heart pounding so loud she looked down to see if she could watch it jump about in her chest. The captain’s steps were firm on the deck above, coming closer. She shivered.

  “Miss Whittier, have the goodness to look at me when I make such a racket,” he said then, his voice mild and almost in normal speaking range.

  She turned about in surprise. He squatted on his haunches until they were eye level, and held out the empty cup. “It may be that you have just justified the reason for your existence aboard this vessel,” he said. “I’ll have another, lively now.”

  She took the cup and hurried below, not daring to look at him again. She threw herself into the galley, startling Cookie into dropping the pot of porridge. He leaped back, surprisingly agile for a one-legged man, and swore as she poured another cup and darted out of the galley again.

  The captain was waiting by the gangway. Without a word, she handed him the mug and sat on the ladder again. He drank the coffee slowly, his eyes on the sails, the expression on his face almost reverent. Finally he sighed and handed back the mug.

  “I disremember when I have had a cup of coffee that excellent.” he said. “If you will do that every morning, I expect that you and I will rub along quite well for the duration of this voyage.”

  “Aye, sir,” she whispered.

  He smiled then, and squatted by her again, his face close to hers, his blue eyes lively. “I think you are a scamp and a nuisance, Miss Whittier, but, by God, you can make coffee.”

  She thought he would rise then, but he remained where he was, balanced gracefully on his quarterdeck. “Now, if you can find Trist, my worthless orderly, tell him I am headed below for my basin of porridge. Join meMiss Whittier?”

  She shook her head, suddenly shy, and quite caught up by his blue eyes. “No—no, sir, I think not,” she stammered. “I think I should make amends with Cookie.” She slipped down the gangway until she was standing on the main deck again. “Do you suppose if I peel a lot of potatoes, he will overlook the fact that I startled him into spilling your porridge all over the deck?”

  “By God, Miss Whittier, you are a trial,” he murmured. “I wonder if your parents will want you back, given the choice. Tell Trist to poach me some eggs instead.”

  She hurried back to the galley, her heart pounding, where Cookie ignored her elaborately. On her tremulous request, Trist, with much wringing of hands and little moans, coaxed two eggs into a reluctant poach and charred the toast. Making herself as small as possible, she sat on the deck by a mound of potatoes and began to peel. Trist finally hurried forward with the captain’s late breakfast, a large mug of coffee featured prominently. Cookie sat down and mopped his face. With a shaking hand, he pointed to the pile.

  “Keep peeling!”

  Hannah was still peeling potatoes an hour later when the bosun’s whistles twittered and the gun deck filled with seamen. Cookie, his rheumy eyes eager now, put down his knife and motioned her to the doorway. “There you are, missy,” he gestured, his voice expansive. “Our reason for being.”

  As she watched, interested, the confusion of sailors resolved into separate crews standing beside each gun. The gunports were opened, and Mr. Lansing stood in the center of the deck, his watch in his hand. She looked up through the cut-out deck to see Captain Spark on the quarterdeck with Mr. Futtrell, his second officer.

  “Mr. Lansing,” he roared in that penetrating voice. “A complete exercise, right down to the sand. And if you’re fast enough, by God, we’ll blow up a few kegs.”

  The crews cheered and were silenced quickly by a sharp word from Mr. Lansing. While one crew member spread sand on the deck, another ran to fill a tub with water. A third stuck long wicks of slow-burning matches in the tub, while another readied the swab.

  Hannah turned inquiring eyes on the cook, who stood beside her. “Sand?” she asked.

  “For the blood on the deck,” he replied, and laughed with some relish when she shuddered. “You’d be amazed how slippery it can get.”

  Small boys darted among the crews. She looked at the cook again.

  “Powder monkeys, miss,” he explained. “They get the powder forward from the magazine and hurry it back to the crews.”

  “They’re so young!” she exclaimed in
dismay.

  The cook only shrugged. “Better than sweeping chimneys in Lunnon, I always say.”

  “I suppose,” she whispered, her eyes on the crews. She saw Adam Winslow by one of the port guns. He looked at her and grinned. “I hope thee does not enjoy murder and death too much, Adam Winslow,” she murmured under her breath.

  The exercise began with a sharp command from the captain. “Broadsides first, Mr. Lansing, then let them practice aiming and shooting as the guns bear.”

  In a fever of motion, the crews went through the exercises in silence, which ended with the gun elevated, the lanyard pulled and someone screaming, “Boom!” She knew it was only a drill, but as she watched from the companionway, Hannah felt a ripple of fear down her back, and recalled Mr. Lansing’s quiet words of last night. It was only a matter of time before the guns spoke in earnest.

  The crews drilled the better part of the morning, exercising the guns faster and faster until the men were drenched in sweat that dropped onto the deck, turning the sand dark. She wanted to go up on deck, where the air was fresh, but that would mean navigating across the gun deck, with the men working so feverishly. Hannah remained where she was.

  She was joined by Andrew Lease, who nodded to her and leaned against the bulkhead beside her. He smelled pungently of oil of cloves. She sniffed the air, grateful for a smell besides sweating men, and the ever-present bilge. He waved his hands in front of her.

  “I broke a bottle in the pharmacy,” he said. “I thought it was time to inventory my medicine.” He sighed. “Not that much of it will do any good when the guns go off in earnest.”

  “You are so sure that will happen?” she asked, her voice low.

  “It’s only a matter of time.” He looked at his hands again, the veins standing out in high definition, a surgeon’s hands. “And then I go to work.”

  She looked at him, startled at the sadness in his voice. “Why do you do this, Mr. Lease?” she asked. It was rude question to ask a brief acquaintance, but she could not help herself.