Miss Whittier Makes a List

by Carla Kelly

  Her rescuer ran on board the ship just behind the captain and Adam jumped from the dock as a sailor cut the cable and they swung out to sea. The seaman set her down, apologizing for his rude behavior, but Hannah could only wring his hand in gratitude while he towered over her and blushed like a schoolboy.

  “Someone take the captain below,” snapped a commanding voice from the deck. “Lively now. We don’t know how bad he’s hurt. Miss Whittier, where is the doctor?”

  Hannah looked up at Mr. Futtrell, who stood, eyes stern, feet planted widely apart, on the darkened deck. “He was the diversion,” she said simply.

  Futtrell nodded, but said nothing. Adam helped her below deck, where a sailor had already wrapped the captain in a blanket. Without a word, she sat down and leaned back against the gunwales as the sailor deposited the unconscious captain in her lap then raced back on deck again. The harbor shook with another explosion while Futtrell steered a course out into the Atlantic, taking them out of harm’s way and far from the wrath of a French garrison destroyed by a handful of shipwrecked members of the Royal Navy.

  Hannah took a deep breath and then another. What ship was this, she asked herself as she pulled the captain closer and looked about her. Everywhere were barrels of fish, and nets. Captain Spark stirred in her arms and opened his one eye. She touched his face. “I think Mr. Futtrell has commandeered a Portuguese fishing vessel;” she said.

  Spark nodded and then closed his eye again. “Lady Amber, it is nine good sailing days to Lisbon,” he said. “Only think of all the ways you will discover that you can cook tunny.” His voice was scarcely audible, but it carried a conviction that put the heart back in her. “I told you I was a rapid mender.” He chuckled, and then winced. “But I think I will sleep now, my dear. Don’t wake me until we get to Lisbon. I could sleep a week.”

  Captain Spark slept for two days as the Maria la Rainha, a fishing smack from Terceira, plowed a course for Lisbon, some nine hundred miles distant. Hannah found an old mattress from one of the forward cabins and with Adam’s help, rolled him onto it. He made no comment beyond a stifled groan and another lapse into unconsciousness. When he was conscious, he seemed intent on what was happening inside his body. She held his hand, fearing this inward preoccupation and praying that it did not require a doctor. And then one morning he sat up and demanded something to eat.

  “We have lots of tunny, and it’s not getting a moment younger,” she said.

  “Why then, I’ll have some, Miss Whittier,” he said. He made a face. “You would think Mr. Futtrell could have commandeered something with a keg of salt beef and sea biscuit on board.”

  “Oh, you are a difficult patient!” she teased. “You are complaining, and here we are under all sail and proceeding to Lisbon, where I trust we will see no more ugly customers.”

  He nodded and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Only a court martial board, Lady A, and they can be decidedly unpleasant.”

  She stared at him. “Surely thee will ... you will not be castigated for losing the Dissuade.”

  “It is standard procedure. You still remember the dispatch you memorized?”

  She nodded.

  “Good! That will help. I only wish I had the original.”

  “But you do,” she said and tugged at the blanket around his waist.

  He grinned. “Hannah! Mind your manners! Ship’s discipline!”

  “Oh, hush,” she said, blushing. She pushed on the bandage and was rewarded with the crackle of paper. “Dr. Lease bound it around your waist.”

  “By God, so he did,” Spark replied, fingering the dispatch layered between the muslin strips. He leaned his head against the gunwale, looking suddenly old. “And all he had in that medicine satchel was gunpowder, I suppose.”

  “I suppose,” she echoed, her voice soft. “Why did he do it, Daniel?”

  The captain touched her face. “You have never called me that before.”

  “I was forward. Forgive me.”

  “You are charming, and I won’t forgive you.” He let his hand drop to his lap, serious again. “I don’t know why he did it. Maybe some people have to beat themselves over the head with their sins, real or imagined. I am not numbered among that sensitive lot.” He gazed into her eyes. “Put that on your list, Hannah. A rascal is always a better bedfellow than a man with a guilty conscience.”

  She was silent, looking at her hands. “I wish I had never mentioned that list,” she said finally, and got up from the deck where she sat. She quietly left the lower deck, even as he called to her to return.

  The ate tunny for a solid week—boiled, stewed, soupy, fricasseed, roasted, poached, and sautéed, while Mr. Futtrell and Adam, their eyes almost gluey from lack of sleep, stood watch and watch about and Captain Spark grew stronger. He could open both eyes now, and wiggle his fingers without flinching, and when he laughed at something she said he did not have to hold his side. She would have shaved him, but no one on board had a razor.

  The Maria la Rainha had been captured at the end of its voyage, and the water barrels were all but empty. The sailors and crew went on quarter rations immediately and began an elaborate deception to make sure Captain Spark had plenty to drink. Hannah was touched by their solicitude, and by the way that at some point during the day or night, everyone on board managed to wander by the lower deck to see that he was getting better. I wonder how I could have thought them rough, barbaric men, she asked herself when she came on deck one night, relieved by a sailor who insisted that Captain Spark was well enough for her to leave his side.

  Mr. Futtrell was standing the watch. He motioned to her to give him a progress report and then invited her to join him. “Soon we’span>ll be in Lisbon and this adventure will be over,” he said. “Do you think you’ll try to go to Charleston then?”

  Hannah smiled to herself. “Charleston seems like another world, Mr. Futtrell.”

  “It isn’t. You can pick up your life where you left off.”

  She couldn’t answer him. She knew she could never return to what she was before. Perched on the railing, her arm looped through the rigging, she examined her character and realized with a shock how much she had changed. I know that I can face the worst kind of trouble, she thought. I also know better than to let Hosea or Papa bully me into marriage, no matter how good their intentions or how good the man, if he is not right for me. I also know that I cannot put people in lists or categories. We are all governed by so many different circumstances. I hope this will make me more tolerant of others and leave me flexible enough to see good, no matter how well disguised it may appear.

  It was not something to tell Mr. Futtrell, of course. “What about you, sir?” she asked. “What will you do?”

  “Oh, I hope to ship out again on another raider with Captain Spark, if he’ll have me.” His face clouded over for a minute. “Of course, it won’t be the same without Mr. Lansing on the gun deck, but that is war.”

  She considered him. The night was dark, so he could never see blushes. “Mr. Futtrell, do you think Captain Spark might be induced to leave the sea?”

  He stared at her. “I think he would sooner sprout wings and fly to Madagascar, Miss Whittier.” He groped in his inarticulate fashion to explain. “On land, he’s just the younger brother to a baronet who’s pretty well managed to ruin the family.”

  “Dear me,” she said.

  Mr. Futtrell was just warming to his subject. “I’ve seen him in drawing rooms and even at Almack’s, ma’am, and it’s not a pretty sight! All he does is pace about and wish himself elsewhere.” He peered at her in the darkness. “The sea becomes a bit addictive, Miss Whittier. Perhaps you’ve noticed?”

  She thought of those glorious days under full sail, perched in the lookout, barefoot, wearing canvas trousers and a loose shirt. She sat now in the dress Madame Aillet had given her, covered with a long shirt one of the Marines had removed from his own back when he noticed her shivering that first night as they fled Terceira. Soon I will be dressed proper
ly again, she thought, but I can never forget how nice it was to be barefoot on a sunny deck, the wind in my face, listening to the rigging hum.

  “Yes, I suppose it is addictive,” she replied.

  “Captain Spark will die before he will give up the sea.”

  She found a pair of shears in a forward cabin and cut the captain’s hair one morning while Adam snored on the mattress and Mr. Futtrell trod the deck above with firm footsteps. She had no comb, so she fingered his curls out as straight as she could, and made a good attempt. “You know, you could go on deck and relieve Mr. Futtrell, I believe,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear so as not to awaken Adam.

  I could,” he agreed, “but it is good for Futtrell to feel the full strain of command. It is an important part of his nautical education that I will not deprive him of.”

  “He has done well, Daniel,” she reminded him as she gathered the shorn curls into a corner.

  He took her hand. “So have you, my dearest Hannah,” he said, and tugged her closer. “I think I will never forget this voyage.”

  “Nor I,” she replied, suddenly shy. She closed her eyes and leaned forward for his kiss, even as she told herself not to.

  It never came. From the mainmast came the cry, “Land-ho! Mr. Futtrell, we have raised Lisbon!”

  “Damn!” said Spark as she drew away. He tugged her close again and his lips just grazed hers. “Damn,” he said again, and it was more of a caress than a curse.

  She pulled back then. “I don’t understand you, sir. You practically kill yourself to get to Lisbon and now listen to you! I do not pretend to understand men.”

  He smiled, but there was a bleakness in his eyes now. “My dearest Hannah Whittier, my sort of proper Quaker miss, I have discovered to my great chagrin that I really do love you, want you beyond all bounds of propriety, and yearn for you like a mooncalf. Damn! And now we have raised Europe and my life is not my own anymore. Neither is yours.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” she asked.

  “You are probably about to find yourself at the center of an international incident, Miss Whittier,” he said as he struggled to his feet, draping the blanket about his shoulders. He leaned on her and then grasped the deck above. “Soon there will be ambassadors, and ministers of state, and accusations hurled about and ....”

  “Not from me, Daniel,” she said quietly.

  “Nor I,” he said. “Just tell me that you love me. It’s not enough, but it will do until I can get a more firm commitment. And I will, Hannah.”

  She opened her mouth to speak when the lieutenant of Marines hurtled down the gangway. “Sir, Mr. Futtrell requests your presence on deck, and I am to help you.”

  He was gone then, with a backward glance that seemed to through her like a hot poker. I do not know if I love you, she thought as she returned his gaze. You are still too old, and you will not give up the sea for me, and there is this matter of our nationality. If I consider all these objections and still love you, I am a bigger fool than any of us thought.

  Chapter Twelve

  I believe that I will soak and soak until my skin is wrinkled, and still smell of tunny, Hannah thought as she sat in the hip bath in Lisbon’s American Consulate. The consul’s wife had brought in lavender bath salts, and then verbena and lily of the valley, and they had even changed the water once, but Hannah still smelled fishy.

  “Miss Whittier, you must put the best face upon this,” said the woman as Hannah wrapped herself into a towel.

  “Yes, by all means! At least I did not drop into a tanner’s vat or irritate a skunk,” Hannah teased. “And my hands and feet are very soft from all that fish oil.”

  “I am sure that the essence will fade,” assured the woman, with no indication that she appreciated Hannah’s joke.

  “L’eau de poisson,” Hannah said. “I do not think it will overtake rosewater or patchouli as the scent du jour, except among cat lovers.”

  The woman managed a grimace that Hannah charitably called a smile, and went to the door. “I am sure my maid has left something on the bed that will fit you,” she said. “When you are dressed, please come downstairs to the bookroom. My husband says that he has more questions.”

  Hannah suppressed a sigh and turned to the bed, sorting through the clothing until she found a chemise that appeared to be her size. She tugged on the smallest petticoat, and was chagrined to see that it was too large. If I ever had a womanly figure, I have lost it on my diet of tunny and ship’s biscuit, she thought as she gazed into the mirror. And horrors, I have never had so many freckles! She sat cross-legged on the bed, refusing to go any farther. If I find some clothes, I will only be subjected to more questions in the bookroom, she thought, her mind high on rebellion.

  “I have told thee everything I know,” she said out loud, and flopped back on the bed to stare up at the ceiling. “Thee cannot squeeze any more blood out of this Quaker turnip.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, scrutinized the ceiling, and blamed Adam Winslow for her current difficulties. As soon as Captain Spark had been taken off the fishing vessel on a stretcher, Adam leaped from the ship and demanded to see the American consul. Before she could protest, she found Adam and herself occupying a litter on its way to the consulate.

  She would like to have shunned Adam for this betrayal, but it was difficult to overlook someone sitting knee to knee with her. She made herself as tall as she could and fixed him with a stare that would have wrung a cry of ill usage from a sculpture. “Adam, what fly was buzzing in thy brain when thee thought to bring in the American consulate?” she demanded finally.

  He returned her stare for stare. “Don’t be a dunce, Hannah! I was thinking I would like to get home,” he declared in round tones. He stopped, skewered by her outraged expression, and slumped forward, exhausted. “Captain Spark has the dispatch, and we ....”

  His jaw dropped as he fell asleep in midsentence, leaning forward until his head touched his knees. With a sigh, Hannah pushed him back against the side of the liner. “Thee is the dunce, Adam.” she said, even though he was past hearing. “I have the dispatch now!” She wished for the hundredth time that she could have convinced Adam to let them stay with Mr. Futtrell. But that would have been futile, too, she realized as the liner swayed up to a mansion overlooking Lisbon’s magnificent harbor. Blasted with exhaustion himself, Mr. Futtrell had merely waved Adam on and stepped aside for the consul when he came on board the Maria la Rainha to retrieve these errant children from Yankeeland.

  “But how is thee, Captain Spark?” she asked the ceiling in the consulate. The question energized her and she sat up and pawed through the simple muslin dresses on the bed. The sooner she finished wth the questions, the sooner she could petition a visit to the hospital where Spark had been taken. She had to return the dispatch from the Bergeron.

  Don’t let thee get a swelled head, Captain Spark, she thought as she pulled on a primrose-colored muslin cut a bit lower than she liked, but otherwise acceptable. I merely mean to see that thee is taken care of, and that the dispatch is safe. Then it would suit me fine to be on a ship bound for home.

  She burst into tears, wondering why it did not suit her fine, and decided that her nerves were as tangled as her hair and needed a good comb out. She only cried harder, remembering the time Captain Spark had so gently combed her hair when she was stricken with sunburn and could not move. And now he is lying somewhere in this dirty city full of shifty characters of Mediterranean extraction, and I am not with him!

  She slapped cool water on her face and lay down until the moment passed, then brushed her unruly hair until her shoulders ached. She was tying back the gleaming mass of hair when the consul’s wife returned.

  “Miss Whittier, the consul would really like to speak to you.”

  “Very well,” Hannah sighed.

  Adam was still deep in exhausted slumber and could not be wakened, but that was no reason for the consul not to question her again about the entire escapade, beginning w
ith the hailing of the Molly Claridge and the impressment. She gave the same answers to the same questions, only this time a clerk took down every word. His pen scratched and grated on her nerves until she wanted to swing from the chandeliers, babbling gibberish.

  When she finished again, two more men came into the room and were introced as the incoming and outgoing ambassadors to Holland. They requested her story, and she told it again, fighting back tears this time. Each word she spoke seemed such a condemnation of Captain Sir Daniel Spark and the Dissuade, however unintentional. How could she tell them of his many kindnesses, the days of glorious sail aloft in the lookout? They would never understand how safe she felt when she sat on the quarterdeck after the battle, covered by his boat cloak, or how the gallant Mr. Futtrell had steered them safely to Lisbon. She knew she would never mention the dispatch. It was not the business of the United States.

  “There, sirs,” she said finally. “I have told this story over and over and it does not change.”

  “No, it does not, Miss Whittier,” replied the consul at last, after observing her over his laced fingertips as he sat at his desk. “Why do I think that this is not all the story?”

  “I cannot imagine,” she said, sitting up more straight in her chair, hoping that she had tucked the dispatch into a safe place in her room.

  “Perhaps Mr. Adam Winslow, when he finally wakes up, will have an augmented edition?” the consul asked.

  She nodded, hoping they would not notice the sweat that suddenly beaded on her upper lip. “It’s entirely possible. He saw the whole adventure from the gun deck, and I did not.”

  “Adventure? Was it an adventure, Miss Whittier, to be terrified out of your mind?” said the incoming ambassador to Holland, his voice heavy with disbelief. “I think you are too kind. We will lay this ‘adventure’ on the desk of David Erskin Britain’s ambassador to the United States, and see what comes of it.”

  “I wish thee would not.” she murmured. “It was—” she paused and smiled, thinking of Captain Spark—“it was truly an adventure.” It was something to remember when I am married safely to some dullard and living the life I was born for, she thought, but you stodgy ambassadors would not understand.