“Very well, what of Captain Hardy? He should also be aware of my arrival.”
The sailor looked at her with something akin to amusement.
“I’m imaginin’ the captain is with the admiral, if you understand, miss.”
“Yes, I do. What is your name?”
“My name’s Reginald, though most call me Gin.”
“All right, then, Gin. Please. Please do as I ask. I assure you I am expected.”
He looked Marguerite over again. “All right. I ’spect you’re probably telling the truth.”
He disappeared for several minutes, while Marguerite waited at the entrance to one of the lower decks. Sailors ran past her in and out of the ship, some cursing her for being in the way, others swallowing her with their eyes, knowing there would be no female companionship in their near future.
Gin returned, a small hint of respect in his eyes. “Cap’n Hardy said you’re to be permitted to bring your goods aboard. To the admiral’s cabin. Let me help you, miss.” With powerful arms that were hidden under his shirt, he grabbed the cart and finished hauling it into the ship, shouting for another of the mates to help him get the crate up the stairs. Marguerite stayed poised at the entrance, unsure whether to follow or not.
Gin and his companion came back, looking hardly winded from their exertion. “What else, miss?”
She pointed to where the rest of her belongings were. “See that long crate there? It matches the one you just took on board. Please bring that one.”
While the sailors took care of the crate, she tentatively stepped inside Victory to try to find the admiral’s cabin herself. She almost had to crouch, the ceiling was so low, and it took several moments for her eyes to become accustomed to the dank darkness, pierced only by a few lanterns hanging from nails around the deck. Surely the admiral’s cabin was not on this level, which seemed to be living quarters for the men. Hammocks were slung from battens fixed to low overhead beams in very narrow intervals, and there were what looked like dining tables hanging by ropes from the ceiling. It might have been an orphanage, if not for the bustle of men preparing for their sea departure and the serious weaponry on this deck. Incongruously situated at intervals between sections of hammocks and tables were gleaming black cannon, each mounted on a wheeled carriage and already positioned out open ports that provided some additional dim light.
Did the sailors seriously sleep, eat, and conduct warfare in the same place?
Thank goodness I’m not pressed into service.
She saw a set of stairs in the center of the deck and fled as quickly as she could to them. Since surely the admiral’s cabin was not on the same level as where the rest of the soldiers lived, it must be farther up. Besides, the admiral would not have cannon in his room!
Would he?
The next deck was much like the previous one as far as she could tell as she passed through quickly, except that it seemed to be divided into many rooms instead of a single large common area. But the hanging dining tables interspersed by cannon were all there.
She dashed to the next set of stairs and climbed up as rapidly as her skirts would allow. More cannon. But there was a little less activity on this deck. The central part of it was uncovered and open to the air, making it much less confining than the other two decks she had been on. A man could stand up straight here. Perhaps the admiral’s cabin could be found on this level. She espied a highly polished and darkly stained wood door and hurried to the rear of the ship toward it.
Pushing the door open gently, Marguerite saw that she had found the right place. The splendor of this cabin, which seemed to be roughly divided into a living area, a dining space, and sleep quarters, contrasted so sharply with the other two decks below that she gasped. A beautifully polished mahogany dining table, flanked on each side by a dozen red velvet chairs and topped with five multi-armed, silver candelabra, dominated one half of the long room that spanned the entire width of the ship.
On the other side were inlaid chests, tables, and settees that would be more fitting in a great country estate. A round table, surrounded by more velvet chairs, was heaped with well-worn maps, notebooks, quills, and silver inkpots. A jacket was thrown carelessly across one of the chairs, as though its owner would be back to claim it at any moment.
Hanging from the ceiling off to one side was a great cot. Compared to the hammocks she had seen below, this hanging bed was lavish. The sides of it were covered in white silk, a seemingly inappropriate material for the rough seas. Embroidered hangings draped over the rod suspending the bed and cascaded around the cot like a shroud. They were simply magnificent.
The floors were, unbelievably, made of marble, and luxurious Aubusson carpets provided serene colors and warmth to the room. Marguerite wondered how such carpets could survive the salt-drenched air at sea. She bent down to touch the carpet, and a closer inspection of the floors revealed that they were not marble, but that black-and-white squares had been painted on large sheets of canvas, and the canvas sheets covered the deck from edge to edge.
The sloped walls of either side of the palatial room were dominated by windows surrounded by wainscoting. The room was flooded with bright sunshine through the paned windows. Inset benches, topped with cushions and also decorated with wood paneling, followed the line of windows. She knelt on one of the benches and peered out the window. She hadn’t realized how far up she had climbed. Marguerite shook her head. Enough idleness.
Standing upright near the door of the enormous cabin was the object of her search. The crate itself was undamaged, and was hopefully not upside down. The bag of tools had been tossed onto the floor next to the crate and some of her implements had fallen out. As she went to the bag to begin gathering the spilled contents, Gin appeared alone with the second crate and set it upright next to its mate.
“Here you are, miss. Just as you asked. You’ll tell Cap’n Hardy I did as you asked, right?”
“Why, certainly, although I’m sure I won’t see him, since I—”
But Gin was gone again, undoubtedly to return to whatever he was doing in preparation of sailing before Marguerite interrupted him.
Darden Hastings was third lieutenant aboard Victory, made so because two other lieutenants had earlier commissions than his. Nevertheless, his ranking was a good one, and if they engaged the French and Spanish fleet he would have great responsibilities. But he considered his greatest responsibility to be ensuring the wax figures were brought topside if they were needed. Darden was decidedly pleased with this task.
He looked over the side of the quarterdeck for the hundredth time, scanning the dockside. Still no sign of Marguerite. Had he somehow missed her? He needed to check with someone to see if her cargo had been brought aboard.
“Lieutenant!” A red-faced sailor puffed up to him. “There’s a bit of a scrap going on down below. Can you come help sort it out?”
“Fighting already? We haven’t even left port yet.”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“Do these ignorants know they’ll end up in irons?”
“No telling, sir.”
Darden followed the sailor, regretting his inability to maintain watch for the wax sculptress.
Marguerite set about dislodging the figures from their coffins right away. She unlocked each crate still in its upright position, carefully pulling the hinged lids away so as not to rub them too harshly against the fine carpet underneath them.
“Well, my lord Nelson and Captain Hardy, it looks as though the first part of your voyage has ended, and the second is to begin. Without me to accompany you, praise be. Now, where would you be most comfortable on this part of your journey?”
She looked around the expanse of cabin again. They needed to be easily accessible should they—heaven forbid—be required, yet be well protected from the tumult the ship was sure to endure. Knowing that the admiral had been less than enthused about having the figures made, she knew they should also remain as unobtrusive as possible.
She could hear distant whistling, n
ot quite a piper’s tune, yet not a distress signal, either. Probably Victory signaling something to its crew. She must hurry and finish. If only Gin were still here to help her move the heavy pieces.
While contemplating where exactly to position the figures, she made quick work of assembling the special stands she had developed for them in anticipation of turbulent ship movements. Looking much like a post jammed upright into the center of a thick wooden disk on the floor, the stand would be a platform that the figure could be lashed to, using buckled straps. The buckles could be easily undone in case the figures needed to be released in a hurry. Packing the stand pieces inside each respective crate had made the boxes far heavier than normal, but the work and the weight were worth it, since the figures would be much more accessible than if they remained lying flat in the crates.
As she was discovering now that she was trying to pull poor Mr. Hardy out of his compartment. The figures were dreadfully heavy under any circumstances, but always worse when they had to be picked up from the floor. Even in their current upright position it was difficult to extract them from their snug lodgings. Even Joseph would be a welcome help right now.
Did she dare step out of the room and seek help from one of the men? Not all of them would be quite as respectful as Gin was, would they? No, better to do this herself and get off the ship as quickly as possible.
With an arm around his waist, Marguerite gave one more gentle pull. “Ah, Mr. Hardy, there you are. Let’s put you somewhere safe, shall we?”
She slowly walked the deadweight figure to its stand. She gave it a little lift to get it onto the large round base and leaned it against the thick wooden pole, breathing heavily as she did so. Grabbing several straps from one of her bags, she tied him to the post around his shoulders, waist, and thighs.
She stood back and surveyed the figure. “Not a very dignified position, is it, Captain? My hopes are that you stay lashed like this for the entire voyage.”
Moving the wax character was now easier because she could get on her hands and knees and simply slide the round platform disk across the carpet, instead of attempting to walk with her arms around the figure. She maneuvered the Nelson figure out of his crate and tied it to the second stand. Now both figures were ready for positioning.
But where?
I suppose they’re best at the back of the cabin.
It appeared from the round table that the admiral conducted meetings in here.
No need to startle his officers.
She finally decided on a location behind the far end of the elongated dining table, underneath another bank of windows. Under the windows behind the table stood a sideboard inlaid with fanciful marquetry. She would place a figure on either side of the serving chest, as though they were servants standing post for the admiral’s supper. That would probably be less shocking for Nelson’s officers, who might be used to having servants attend to them.
On her knees, Marguerite pushed Captain Hardy down the length of the cabin and around the near rounded edge of the dining table to position the figure on the left side of the sideboard.
She returned for Lord Nelson and pushed his figure in the same way, this time going all the way around the end of the table to place his figure between the right side of the sideboard and a wainscoted window.
She sat back on her knees, her skirts jumbled around her, surveying her work. Yes, this positioning would do nicely for the figures. Lord Nelson should be pleased. Or at least not displeased.
Marguerite moved to stand up, not realizing that her right foot was on her skirt. The resistance of her clothing pulled her backward and she fell, her head cracking loudly against the polished edge of the dining table and jostling it. She yelped, crouching down again in pain and surprise. Seconds later, the silver candelabrum nearest that end of the table came rolling off and hit her square on the back of the head in the exact spot where it had just made contact with the table.
Her last thought before blacking out was for the dreadful headache this was sure to cause.
The sailor named Gin scanned the quay and was ready to report that all cargo had been brought aboard when he noticed the lady’s bags still remained on shore. She musta forgot. Cursing the troubles a woman brought to a ship, he stomped off to retrieve them and deliver them to the admiral’s cabin.
“Miss?” he asked as he knocked on the door. Getting no answer, he opened it and entered. “Miss? I brought your bags. Where d’ya want them?”
No answer. She wasn’t here. Where was she? The crates stood empty where he had left them, so she musta been here doing her work. Eh, not his problem. Gin dropped the luggage inside the room near the door without bothering to look farther into the cabin. She could figure out what to do with her belongings. He turned to leave and paused.
The admiral probably wouldn’t want his cabin left unlocked once they were underway. Best if he found the first lieutenant and asked him to come back with him with a key to latch the door.
“Are we ready to weigh anchor?” Nelson asked.
“I believe so,” replied Victory’s captain, Thomas Hardy. He reviewed his lists. “The magazine is full of shot, the surgeon has his tools and bandages, and the hold has over five hundred barrels of water, fifty tons of beer, and enough salted beef and pork to make the Prince of Wales scream for mercy.”
“Indeed.” Nelson repressed a smile. “What of those dratted wax figures? Has that Ashby woman stored them in my cabin?”
“Yes. One of the men reported her arrival to me, suspicious of course as to why a woman wanted aboard.”
“Is she done? Has she left the ship? Make sure of it.”
Hardy had Gin summoned.
“Seaman, did you get the two crates aboard and in the admiral’s cabin?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“And did the woman accompanying them get them opened?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is she gone?”
“Gone, sir? She wasn’t in the cabin when I was just there a few minutes ago, but—”
“Thank you. That will be all.”
And so Gin returned to his post, and, with Nelson’s approval, Captain Hardy gave the signal to pull anchor.
Nathaniel had no idea how difficult it would be to drum up a crew for his ship, now rechristened Wax Maiden. Press gangs took most of the able bodies, and it was difficult to persuade the willing with mere money to spend an indefinite amount of time at sea. He’d resorted to offering extra rations of beer, free clothing, and bonus money on top of a promise of spoils for completing certain types of missions. All in all, a degrading business for him. But he’d finally rounded up a crew of men who claimed to have good naval experience. He worried briefly that they might be a crew of misfits instead of a complement of hardy sailors, but dismissed the thought as one that did not take into account his own skills as a leader.
He was also surprised by the cost of victualing even a small ship such as his. The price of a single potable barrel of water was positive thievery. Not to mention the amount of food Mr. Scroggs said he must have aboard even for a small journey, plus guns and shot for protection. Fortunately, he had good credit with the bank.
Or at least his father did, and Nathaniel had no compunction in borrowing on his father’s name.
But most of his difficulties were behind him. Just a few more repairs and Wax Maiden would be ready to do her duty, a duty that would ultimately result in great glory and recognition for one Nathaniel Carter Ashby.
This accomplishment deserved a celebratory glass of port. He decided to send for one of his father’s finest vintages from the cellar right now.
Maybe he’d offer a glass or two to the new maid, Polly something-or-other, Lydia Brown’s replacement. She was a saucy-looking thing who might enjoy a brief dalliance with a man poised to be quite famous, indeed.
And when he was that famous, why, Marguerite Ashby would come scampering back to London, now wouldn’t she?
17
Marguerite woke slowly, all
of her senses coming back to her individually. Where was she? What had happened? As her eyes became focused, she saw Nelson and Hardy in wax, standing before her like sentinels.
Dear God, did her head throb. She tentatively reached up a hand and touched the back of her head. The pain was excruciating and she withdrew immediately, holding her hand up in front of her. Was that blood? Why was she bleeding?
Right. The table. She’d clumsily fallen, something she’d never done before when working with wax figures. How embarrassing. Well, she just needed a bit of tidying up and she’d be on her way now that the figures were set in place. Her hand flopped down to her side again.
She lay still for several minutes, willing the pain away. Surely this was the worst headache she’d ever had, although it wasn’t every day that she crashed into a heavy mahogany table, now was it? The boisterous noises of the crew outside the cabin as they prepared for the journey were magnified inside her tender skull.
She again attempted to get up and at least this time maneuvered into a seated position. While sitting motionless to again regain control of her pulsing head, she felt a gentle movement beneath her. Sort of as though she was floating. Surely that was just her mind playing tricks in her weakened state.
Wait, there was the feeling again. Motion forward. Dear God, no, surely the ship had not pulled anchor. With as much rapidity as she could muster, Marguerite pulled herself up by the edge of the table and stood, wobbling. She stepped gingerly to the cabin’s rear windows and saw nothing but a receding coastline.
Even through her muddled wits, she realized she was trapped aboard the ship. But they weren’t too far away from shore yet. If she could get someone’s attention quickly enough, then without a doubt she could be put in some kind of launch and sent back to Portsmouth.
Marguerite groped her way to the front of the cabin and pulled down on the entry door’s handle. The door would not open. She rattled and pulled on the handle, yet it wouldn’t budge.
A Royal Likeness Page 27
