by Carla Kelly
He glanced at Hannah, but his eyes didn’t seem to notice her. “It’s the perfect career for a man who wishes he were dead, my dear.”< /> He touched her under the chin, leaving the smell of cloves as he went back down the companionway. “Maybe this cruise I will get lucky.”
Chapter Six
Pushed along by the prevailing winds, the Dissuade sailed steadily on a course toward England. Hannah peeled great quantities of dead skin from her arms and legs and as far as she could reach on her back, and admired her golden tan, which was better than despairing over the loss of a ladylike complexion. She did not miss the confinement of her Quaker bonnet, with its long wings, like blinders on a carriage horse. The abandonment of corsets she suffered without a backward glance.
There were even moments, sitting on the deck crosslegged and barefooted, when she was perfectly at peace with the life that had been thrust on her. True, her first crunched weevil had sent her flying topside to lean over the railing, to the amusement of the junior officers’ mess. She still held her breath until Captain Spark had taken his sip of his first morning cup of coffee, and pronounced it fit to drink. When she lay in her hammock at night, swinging idly over the great gun below her, she still agonized over what her parents must be going through. For a few moments, she would be wild to be home, and then the moment would pass, and she would remember the pleasure of the wind on her face, and the feel of the white deck under her bare toes.
She entered into the life of the commerce raider as far as she was able, secretly pleased that Captain Spark found her useful. After that first gunnery practice, when she had peeled enough potatoes to get back into Cookie’s reluctant good graces, she had been summoned on deck by a peremptory command from the captain.
Hannah hurried up the gangway. The captain pointed to the afterhatch and she sat down, mystified. He nodded then, and the bosun’s mate, grinning from ear to ear, deposited a large pile of old rope at her feet. Puzzled, she looked up to the quarterdeck.
“That, Miss Whittier, is oakum. It will be your task to separate the strands and place them in that sack.”
Doubtfully, she took up a piece of rope and began to unwind it.
“Excellent!” Captain Spark said. “When you have finished, there is always more. You ould be amazed at the amount of rope we go through.”
“Captain, tell me ...” she began as she worked.
“What do we use it for?” he asked, finishing her thought. “When we spring a leak, we patch it with oakum. It has a thousand uses, I suppose, but that is the one we are fondest of.”
She found herself observing Captain Spark from her usual perch on the aft hatch as she sat, day after day, picking oakum. He never sat down on deck, or even leaned against the railing, but ramrod straight, paced his quarterdeck, king of all he stared at. His eyes were often on the sails, and even more often on the brooding cannon below on the gun deck, which were exercised more and more often, the closer they came to England, and the dangers of a world at war for twenty years.
The hint of war came rushing to her the first morning they ran out the guns and practiced with live ammunition. Her heart in her mouth, she made herself small against the angle of the main deck and the quarterdeck and watched in terrified fascination as the guns boomed, the ship heeled to one side with the force of the discharge, then righted itself.
The men worked in silence for the most part, so they could hear the shouted orders of Lieutenant Lansing, who commanded the gun deck. There was only the screech of the gun trucks as the cannon were wheeled out to fire, and back to reload, and the sound of the explosion. The broadsides were painful almost, with the starboard guns and then the port guns roaring off together. Even worse, to Hannah’s way of thinking, was when Lansing ordered his crews to fire as soon as they reloaded. The continuous roll of thunder as the guns belched fire set her whole body vibrating and her ears tingling in agony.
While the guns were roaring and the ship was heeling crazily from side to side, the lieutenant of Marines sent his detachment of men into the riggings with their muskets, where they clung to the lines, aimed, and fired at imaginary Frenchmen.
Accidents were an inevitable part of practice—powder boys tripping on the gun ring bolts as they ran with the cloth bags of powder; fingers crushed from a moment’s carelessness in the hypnotic rhythm of swab, load, tamp, and fire. Andrew Lease was always there, a canvas bag of rudimentary medications and bandages slung over his shoulder, to help those in pain on the gun deck. He worked swiftly d surely, his face set, his eyes calm, then sent them back to their posts.
She had so many questions, but there was no one to ask. The surgeon spent most of the time on the lower deck in the pharmacy. In the evenings, he often stood on the coveted weather side of the quarterdeck with Captain Spark, conversing softly. When he did come onto the main deck during the day, Lease never failed to stop and talk with her, inquiring after her health, asking how she did, rather like they sat together over tea in a drawing room. She could only sigh after he left and continue picking at the endless rope, and wondering at the air of sadness he wore like a cloak.
Hannah kept her own counsel for the first time in her life. There was no one to giggle with, or share secrets, so she was silent for the most part, an observer. She began to anticipate the bells and the soft splash as the officer of the watch dropped the log in the water, then watched its speed to determine knots per hour before hauling it in. Even the twittering of the bosun’s pipe resolved itself into distinct orders as plainly understood by her as by the crew that assembled to receive them, or carry them out.
She came to dread Fridays, when the bosun, at the command of the lieutenant of Marines, would pipe all hands on deck for floggings. To her way of thinking, the infractions were so minor: spitting on the deck; oversleeping when called on watch; exceeding the daily fresh water ration of one gallon per man. Eyes wide, scarcely breathing, she watched as the offender, shirt removed, was tied by the hands to the rigging.
The bosun took the cat-o’-nine tails out of a red bag and flourished them before getting down to the business. As crew and officers watched in silence, the lash came down quickly and thoroughly, turning the malefactor’s back crimson. She watched in horror, forgetting to breathe almost, and then gulping air until she became light-headed.
It was on the tip of her tongue to protest. She glanced at the captain, standing tall in full uniform with his brother officers, his face impassive. He was watching her, too, as if expecting an outburst. She closed her mouth into a firm line and wished that the ship would stop spinning about. Dizzy and sick at heart, she watched as the sailor’s comrades cut him down, sluiced him off with saltwater, and replaced him with another offender. He took his ten lashes with little gasping noises.< />
But she was the one making the noises. The ship seemed to whirl faster and faster until all she could hear was one continuous lashing after another. Hannah tried to get up from her customary perch on the aft hatch and make her way silently below deck, but her feet wouldn’t move. In another moment, someone pushed her head between her knees and held it there.
“Now stay that way until you feel more the thing,” said Captain Spark, his hand on her head. When she finally nodded, he released his grip.
Hannah sat up carefully; waiting for the verbal flogging Spark was so capable of administering. Instead, his eyes were kind as he looked at her.
“It’s a sight that’s felled strong men, Miss Whittier,” he said. He motioned to Lieutenant Futtrell to help her below. “Perhaps we’ll make a sailor of you yet.”
She shook her head, and then groaned as it began to pound. Captain Spark turned his attention back to the misery on his deck, punishment which he had decreed. The lash whistled and popped and she went gratefully below.
But there were glorious days of sailing, when all the canvas was loaded on and the frigate ran toward home. The humming of the rigging became music to her ears. She watched the sailors climbing about like monkeys in the jungle, scampering up riggi
ng that seemed to stretch upward and out of sight, like an Indian fakir’s magic rope.
And then one morning, she set down the everlasting hemp in her hands and started toward the rigging herself. It wasn’t a conscious thought that drew her there like a moth to flame, but more of an involuntary movement, the result of watching others climb up and down the rigging. She knotted her shirt firmly, so the wind would not whirl it above her head as she climbed, rolled her trouser legs to the knee, then began her ascent.
She kept her eyes ahead, looking steadily at the unoccupied lookout on the mainmast. There was usually a midshipman there, bare feet dangling over the ed, spyglass in hand, but they had all been summoned to the deck by the sailing master for a lesson in shooting the sun. The wind tugged at her hair the higher she climbed, until it was swirling about her face and in her eyes. “Drat and botheration,” she said, wishing she had tied it tighter at the back of her neck.
She reached the lookout and was contemplating her next move when she heard a shout from far below, and made the mistake of glancing down. She gasped and clutched the rope tighter, astounded at the great distance between her and the deck. Lieutenant Futtrell stood far, far below, pointing up at her and waving his arms about. Then others were looking at her. She clung to the rope and stared at their upturned faces. As she watched in growing terror, the wind picked up and the mast began to sway. She closed her eyes and wished herself back on the aft hatch, safely picking oakum. Climbing the rigging had looked so easy from the deck.
As she watched Lieutenant Futtrell’s antics, he picked up the speaking trumpet. “Come down right now, before you hurt yourself,” he shouted to her.
It sounded like excellent advice. Hannah gulped and tried to move her feet. They would not budge, no matter how hard her mind willed it. She clung tighter to the rigging and prayed for rescue. As she clutched the rope, someone darted for the gangway and tumbled below.
In a few minutes, Captain Spark hurried on deck, stuffing his shirt into his pants, and then running his hands through his curly hair, anxious eyes on the mast. Hannah closed her eyes. “Oh, heavens, not him!” she whispered. He had been up for the early watch and had retired for a nap. She tried to move her feet again, but they were anchored like glue to the ropes. She dared herself to look down again, to see Captain Spark climbing steadily toward her. “Hannah Whittier, thee is an idiot,” she said out loud.
Quicker than she would have credited, Spark climbed the rigging. He kept coming, as though to travel right over the top of her, and stopped only when he was standing on the same ropes, his body shielding hers from a fall. He as breathing heavily, and his breath ruffled the hair on her neck. She waited for the ax to fall.
He said nothing at first, only wrapped one arm through the rigging, gathered her hair back into a manageable handful and retied the string at her neck. “It helps to see what you’re doing, Miss Whittier, if you have fancies of climbing the rigging.”
“I am so sorry,” she managed to gasp out through tightly clenched teeth. “I had no idea I would be so scared.”
He didn’t move, but rested his chest against her back until she relaxed a little. “You can’t fall with me here,” he said finally. “Just loop your arm through the rigging and listen to me. Do it now.”
She forced herself to do as he said, afraid to look at him. She shivered and clenched her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering.
When he spoke, his tone was conversational, and she was grateful right down to her toes. “As I see it, we have three choices, Miss Whittier. I can have my men rig a block and tackle and we can lower you down, but that would be quite humiliating, don’t you agree?”
She nodded, still shivering. He took her by the shoulder and gave her a little shake, then rested his hand beside her neck. His fingers were warm.
“I could also turn you around right now, and you could put your arms about my neck and your legs around my waist, and I could carry you down. But you will doubtless agree that such a maneuver lacks in dignity for both of us. You’re a bit of a scamp, but I do have a position to maintain on the Dissuade, my dear Miss Whittier.”
He was silent a moment more. Hannah cleared her throat, wondering if she could make her voice work any better than her legs. “The third way, sir?”
“I go back down to the deck by myself, and you follow me.”
“But ... suppose I fall?” she whispered, looking at him at last.
His face was so close to hers that she could see interesting black specks in his pale eyes. “You won’t fall, Miss Whittier. I believe you are made of much sterner stuff than that. Anyone who survives two days on a grating is not going to succumb so easily. By God, I did not realize it before, but your eyes are more yellow than brown. I had a cat like that once. Named her Lady Amber.”
She giggled in spite of herself, and relaxed her death’s hold on the rigging.
He took his hand off her neck. “Much better, Miss Whittier. Bear this in mind, my dear. When you get to the bottom on your own, I’m going to send you right back up and then down again, and I’ll probably have my watch out timing you. Which is it to be?”
She raised her chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I ... I will come down by myself, sir.”
“An excellent choice, Lady Amber.” He smiled at her then, the wrinkles deepening around his eyes. He sniffed the air around her ear. “What is that wonderful odor, Miss Whittier? I can’t help noticing it at such close quarters.”
She blushed. “My lavender water sank with the Molly Claridge, sir, but Cookie had some extract of vanilla that I am sure he is not missing.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Not only are you a rascal, but you are a sneaky one, at that. I like it, Miss Whittier. I can probably locate another bottle in my personal stores, if Cookie cuts up stiff. See you on deck, lively now.”
Without another word, he was gone, scrambling down the riggings, a veteran of twenty years at sea. Her hands tightened as the ropes shook during his descent but she did not clutch them with the prospect of never letting go. She took a deep breath and looked across the yard to the foremast where three sailors stood, carelessly balanced on the foot ropes, ready to trim sail. There was no ridicule on their faces as they watched her, and she realized that at one time they had all been where she was now. As she watched, one of the men blew her a kiss then clasped both hands over his head in a triumphal gesture.
She nodded to him and started down the rigging, slowly at first, groping for each new foothold, then more confidently, as each rope was right where it should have been. By the time she reached the deck, she was breathing regularly again.
The men in the sails cheered, and Hannah grinned. Captain Spark pulled out his watch and snapped it open. “Let’s see how fast you can do it again, Miss Whittier.”
Hannah took another deep breath and climbed back into the rigging. Her eyes on the pennant snapping out straight from the topgallant, she clambered up the rope, touched the lookout, and hurried down, reaching the deck again to cheers from all hands.
Captain Spark shut his watch. “Pretty good. It can be better, Miss Whittier, but we will let you rest on your laurels for now.” He turned for the gangway. “And nowif you will excuse me, I will return to my cot. Miss Whittier, do stay out of trouble for at least another hour, if you can.”
Only minutes ago, she would have taken offense at his tone. Now, she merely smiled. “Aye, sir. I promise.”
“Sir, perhaps we could include her in the rum ration today?” Mr. Futtrell asked, his eyes lively with good humor.
The captain turned around, his eyes frosty again. “That is the last thing I would recommend for Miss Whittier! Mr. Futtrell, you know rum is for heroes. We will wait on that for this misguided bit of shark chum.”
Futtrell chuckled and returned to his duty on the quarterdeck, and Hannah went back to the aft hatch and the pile of old rope that awaited her. Shark chum, indeed, she thought as she picked out the strands. You would not say that if I were tall
and willowy, with a beautiful face. She sighed and flopped back on the hatch, surrendering to the sun. And why, Hannah Whittier, shouldst anything like that matter to thee?
It was foolish, she decided, as she sat up and applied herself more diligently to the oakum. Besides all this, he is so old.
“Beg pardon, miss?”
She looked up to see Trist standing before her, and hoped she had not been talking out loud. “I am almost done with this batch,” she said, indicating the oakum.
“Oh, no, no, it is not that, Miss Whittier.” The little man cleared his throat. “Captain Sir Daniel Spark wishes your company at dinner tonight in the great cabin.”
She remembered her last refusal of the captain and had the good grace to blush. She hesitated, and Trist continued.
“I was to tell you, if you looked indecisive, that he can arrange live coals, if you prefer, but all the same, he’d like you to eat with him.”
Hannah laughed. “Very well, then! I will take mutton with the captan. When, sir?”
“Four bells, ma’am.”
“Very well. Will anyone else be there?”
“Oh, yes ma’am, the surgeon.”
She remained on deck all afternoon, picking oakum and watching the water. Captain Spark came on deck in midafternoon after his nap, nodded to her, and proceeded to his quarterdeck, where he remained, hands clasped behind his back. During the long afternoon, he stared out at sea, roared at the helmsman to pay attention, and then coached the midshipmen in the mysteries of navigation. She tried to listen, but the intricacies of the math involved eluded her, and she was grateful she did not have to suffer such a lesson herself.
As the sun began to slant across the deck and to set the water to dancing with new colors, Hannah went below. Dressing for dinner involved nothing more than changing to the other shirt, which, while still black-and-white checked, was not as faded as the one she had been wearing. She washed her face with her two-inch ration of fresh water and dabbed more vanilla extract behind her ears, then brushed her hair until it crackled about her face like a nimbus.
