by Arlem Hawks
“Ah, George. How are you?”
“The captain wishes to speak to you, sir.”
He chuckled. “That did not answer my question.”
“I am well, thank you.” She pulled her lips into a frown, fearing they would do the opposite.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He paused, and she waited with breath caught in her lungs for him to say more. But he walked away. Her posture slackened. She didn’t know what else she had wanted him to say—how silly to have wanted more.
She fell in step behind him, and when they arrived on the quarterdeck, Étienne was speaking animatedly to her father. “They have all come from the same messes, five or six of them. Whole groups taken ill.”
“You think it is food, then?” Peyton asked, putting a hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder.
Not many members of the crew or wardroom treated the surgeon with such familiarity. The lieutenant had fought as many Frenchmen as any other man on board, and still he accepted this outsider with open arms.
“Bien sûr, the food.”
Papa stroked his chin. “What does that mean for the crew?”
“We must inspect the food. Throw out the barrels already opened,” Étienne said. “If we remove the bad food, we might see an end to the illness.”
“The cook is not going to be happy about that.” Her father nodded. “George, find Moyle again. I’ll have him oversee the removal of the food. How many new sick crewmen today?”
“I have not seen one yet, sir,” the surgeon responded.
Light touched Peyton’s face at the news, and Georgana stared. She wanted to burn the image into her memory. With her meager skills, could she draw the hope that glowed behind that smile?
Papa blew out a long, slow breath. “Well, that is better news than we’ve had in some time. Thank you, Mr. Étienne. George?”
She snapped to attention, then hurried for the hatch to find Moyle. The sick still had far to go before they recovered, but perhaps the end was in sight.
Boisterous laughter hit her as she landed on the messdeck. Sailors were playing cards while waiting for their next watch. She almost ignored them, when her gaze fell on a well-tailored blue jacket in their midst.
Jarvis?
She crept closer. What was he doing here? Lieutenants didn’t mingle with the rest of the crew on the messdeck. The men at his table all held mugs, attention fixed on the officer.
“You heard the surgeon’s mate,” Jarvis said. “Bad food.”
“I don’t see what the captain has to do with it,” one of the crewmen said.
Jarvis shifted on the bench, and Georgana leaned closer, crouching behind the nearest table. If he caught her listening . . .
“The captain’s responsible for everything on this ship. If someone does their job poorly, and he doesn’t reprimand them, is the fault not equally his?”
Georgana was hidden several tables down from Jarvis, on the other side of the aisle, but his words carried through the room.
“If the boatswain’s son died of the same illness, the food must have been bad then as well. He’s tried to poison the crew multiple times.”
Her hands clenched into fists. Lies. She kept her head ducked behind the table, out of sight.
“Poison?”
“Why would the captain poison his own crew, sir?”
“He did not prevent the order of bad food,” Jarvis said, retracing his steps.
The first man spoke up again. “If he didn’t know it was bad, how can it be his fault?”
“Carelessness,” Jarvis growled. “You’ve seen how he barricades himself in his quarters with that boy, not communicating, even with his officers. He allows the wardroom officers to do his responsibilities and doesn’t inspect the warrant and petty officers’ work. He’s employed that Frenchman, who we all know couldn’t care if we live or die.”
“Étienne was pressed into service. I wouldn’t doubt Captain’s been fooled by the Frenchie,” a new voice said. He sounded like the yeoman of the powder room. “What I’ve been wondering is how none of the officers have taken sick. If Mr. Jarvis is right, seems the captain’s been skimping on the quality of the crew’s food.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Jarvis said. The pitch of his voice rose. “The officers have been dining like kings and not on our own funds.”
Georgana wanted to scream. If the captain were only concerned about himself, why would he give such attention to the officers?
Footsteps on the ladder sent Georgana scrambling toward the wardroom. By the time she came back with Moyle, Jarvis had vanished from the messdeck. Thinking of his words made her insides contort.
When they reached the gun deck, Étienne’s loblolly boy sprinted out of the sick bay, his face white as a sail.
“What is it, William?” Moyle asked, pausing with hands on the rungs of the ladder.
“Where is Monsieur?” The French came out awkwardly in the boy’s cockney accent.
“He’s above,” Georgana said.
The boy barreled toward the ladder before she’d finished speaking, shouting, “It’s Noyse!”
Another boy gone. Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, leaning into the bulwark. The steady creaking of the ship’s hull rumbled through him, calming the anxious tension that had taken root within his heart. He didn’t want to know how many would succumb to disease before they reached their destination. If he dwelled on speculations, he’d drive himself to distraction.
Not that he wasn’t already preoccupied.
Dominic picked at a splinter on the rail. He usually enjoyed first watch. He liked the calmness of the black water and the moon reflecting on the crests of the waves. He liked the quiet of the ship and the murmur of men’s voices as they sang songs or told stories in little circles across the upper deck.
And until Monday evening, he used the serenity of night to think. Now he thought only of Georgana Woodall standing beside him at the bow. Perhaps she infiltrated his mind because he worried about finding her a safe place to stay. He wasn’t truly worried that his mother would refuse to help. She had put him up to this, after all. But what if Georgana refused his help? Or if her father believed he had some ulterior motive?
Dominic startled when his memory of Monday night materialized before him. Georgana walked quickly toward the prow, and for a moment he let himself enjoy it. He couldn’t see her face in the shadows, but he imagined that elusive smile on her full lips.
“Are you well, sir?” She had asked him that question a thousand times since the onset of the disease.
“Of course. Are you?”
“I need to speak with you.” Her voice trembled. Dominic straightened and reached a hand for her, but let it drop before he made contact.
“Is it Jarvis?”
“Yes, he . . .” She took a breath. “I overheard him talking in the mess with some of his division.”
He blinked. What had possessed Jarvis to do that? He hadn’t spent much time in the wardroom of late. He occasionally spent time with the marine second lieutenant, but he didn’t seem the type to prefer common seamen’s company to those of his station.
“He said awful things,” she said.
“About you?” She’d survived awful things being said about her before. And though it made his blood boil, he couldn’t understand why it would upset her so much now.
“No, about the captain.”
Dominic’s shoulders relaxed. Jarvis hadn’t threatened her. “Yes, I’ve heard that as well.”
“But he blamed the captain for the illnesses.”
“George, captains get blamed for many things outside of their control. It happens on ships. Do not let it worry you.”
Georgana took a step back. “You think I shouldn’t worry?”
She had sailed long enough—she should know that sometimes the small confines of a ship bred discontent. As the highest-ranking officer, the captain was often made a scapegoat when tensions heightened, but only in rare cases did it come to anythi
ng more than a meeting to discuss the issue. Good captains knew a crew with high morale performed better, and while he wasn’t certain he would call Captain Woodall a great captain, the man certainly qualified as a good captain.
“All will be well. New illnesses have slowed, and Étienne will do all he can to care for the sick ones. Pearce and several others are on the mend already.”
She retreated farther. “Sorry to bother you, sir. Good night, sir.”
A part of him wanted to beg her to stay, to spend a few more minutes talking in the dark. But before he could say or do anything, she had stolen down from the forecastle and was gone.
A hammock, its edges sewn shut around a still form, lay on the deck. Not even the wind moved it as it waited for the words of the chaplain. No more would the hammock hang in an orderly row, side by side with dozens exactly like it. Just another piece of canvas. Just another burial shroud.
Georgana didn’t weep for the deaths anymore. They came too frequently. But she remembered every hammock that slid into the deep—every splash, every ripple as the ocean swallowed them. She recorded the deaths in her father’s logbook, carving their names into her memory.
This burial could be only the beginning. She knew that. If Charlie Byam’s illness was any indication, more deaths would come.
Étienne stood by himself, eyes on the closed hammock. No emotion marred his features, but his messy curls and disheveled clothes belied his state. He worked tirelessly to help the sufferers, and all he received in return was rumors and gossip.
Georgana ground her teeth and moved her gaze back to the deck at her feet. Lieutenant Peyton had greeted her when she came up that morning. She’d pretended not to hear, all while trying to convince herself not to blame him. He had curtly dismissed her worries over Jarvis’s rumors about the captain, but she couldn’t condemn the lieutenant for that. He didn’t know the captain was her father.
The chaplain began his dour sermon, but his words drifted past her ears. The conversation with Peyton last night awakened her to the reality of her situation. She had let herself become too hopeful. For a few glorious weeks she’d nearly forgotten her disguise when in the lieutenant’s presence. She had almost let herself believe there was something more between them.
Last night reminded her he did not understand, even if he seemed to. And continuing to hope for something that was impossible only risked her future. What would happen if she let her secret slip? No doubt he would be angry. She didn’t think him petty enough to inform the crew, but Peyton’s sense of honor would not allow him to treat her the same way he did before. He would treat her like a lady, and that would be enough to alert the other men.
At the end of the chaplain’s words, Georgana said “Amen” with the rest of the gathering. John Noyse, ship’s boy, third class. Then two men stepped up to lift him onto the board, covered in the Red Ensign. The board tilted, and the boy fell into the depths.
Georgana always looked for the other ship’s boys at a burial for one of their own. Though she had little camaraderie with them, she knew they had a bond with each other. Not so hardened yet by sea life, true sorrow graced the young faces. Pearce, who had mostly recovered from the illness, slumped against the mainmast, face crumpling.
Before she could make her way to the boy, Fitz appeared and put a hand on his shoulder, as Georgana had done for him the day of Locke’s death. A little flicker of pride swelled in her chest at Fitz’s gesture. At the beginning of the voyage, she had not thought him capable of such compassion.
“We will not hold gun drills as usual today,” her father announced gravely. “Wash your hammocks. Wash your clothes. We will resume drills Monday morning.”
Lieutenant Jarvis rushed forward as the men dispersed. Georgana shrank back toward the quarterdeck to avoid him. “That is unwise, Captain. The men need practice.”
Her father shook his head, brows lowered dangerously. “There are too many men unable to drill, and it is difficult to move seventy men from the sick bay just for gun practice.”
“If we are attacked at reduced numbers, they need to be prepared,” Jarvis said through clenched teeth. “What of the ship that’s been following us?”
Georgana glanced to the west. She couldn’t see anything on the horizon, but talk of a follower infiltrated every conversation on the Deborah.
“If she were a privateer, she’d be moving faster and would have engaged us by now.” Her father drew himself up, nearly as tall as Peyton and much taller than Jarvis. “The men are tired. They need to rest and prepare for what lies ahead. We have many weeks to go.”
Jarvis sneered. “Your giving them rest will not increase your favor with them, if that is your aim. An incompetent captain inspires disorder, and unstructured hours will only fan the flames.” He turned on his heel and stormed off without a salute.
“Sir, that—” Peyton began from his side.
Papa held up a hand for silence. “He wants a battle. I will not give it to him on his terms.”
Georgana avoided the lieutenant’s face as she studied her father. He appeared so confident in handling Jarvis’s insubordination, but he hadn’t heard him spreading lies. Papa headed for the quarterdeck, and she followed behind him.
“George,” Lieutenant Peyton said softly as she passed.
Once again she pretended not to hear, though it prompted an ache in her soul. Her father was right. Getting too close to the lieutenant had not been wise, and now she must suffer the consequences.
There were plenty of other boys on this ship he could take under his wing. He needn’t miss her friendship, though she didn’t think she could fill the void his warm smile would leave.
Chapter 23
Dominic rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and swung himself onto the foremast shroud. Hat and coat stowed safely in his cabin, he launched himself up the rows of ratlines with ease. A playful breeze rocked the lines as he climbed.
Too soon he reached the foretop platform. Up the next ladder to the higher platform he went. He didn’t know what possessed him to climb that morning after his watch. When he reached the highest point on the mast, he did not stop to behold the breathtaking expanse of ocean. With a nod to the watchman, he turned around and climbed back down to the deck, then crossed the forecastle to the opposite shroud and started up again.
Heat ignited in the muscles of his arms and legs, slowly growing into a weary burn. At the top, he ignored the wary look of the watchman and immediately descended. His breath quickened. The rough lines bit into his hands. He could feel the stares of crew members as he jumped to the deck and trekked across to the other shroud.
He hoped the exercise would rid him of the looming realization he refused to acknowledge. The disappointment in her face yesterday morning would not leave his mind. She had very clearly been avoiding him since their encounter on the forecastle Thursday night. What he’d said had not pleased her.
Dominic’s arms shook on his way down, slowing his breakneck pace. The pull in his shoulders and sides slowed him more. He sucked in the briny air, but it did nothing to rejuvenate him. When had his beloved sea stopped mending all that was wrong in his life?
Are you well, sir? She’d asked him that so many times.
“I certainly am not,” he grumbled aloud.
At the foretop he stopped and collapsed onto the platform. His limbs cried out at their mistreatment. He hadn’t climbed the shroud so many times in a row since his midshipman days.
Dominic wound his hand through one of the lines for stability, then closed his eyes. The Deborah swayed beneath him, the movement enhanced by his position on the mast. He wished the oscillating would alleviate the turbulence within him, like a mother hushing a child in a cradle.
How had he let it come to this—thinking of Georgana at all hours, getting distracted when he should be focusing on running the ship? She had been avoiding him for a day and a half now, and it was driving him mad. If she did not want to be with him, he would not force her. And yet he missed their
interactions, more than he liked to admit. He wanted to tease out that elusive smile again.
The wind tore at his shirt, billowing it around him. His sweat dried at the wind’s cold touch. It was easy to forget the seasons at sea. In England the leaves would be changing color now. His mother wouldn’t see them well from the house in Portsmouth, not like she had at his father’s estate. Back then, Dominic hadn’t brought her shells, stones, and sea glass. Acorns and vibrant leaves had been the tokens of his adventures at the estate, and she had kept them in her private parlor, tucked out of sight from the rest of the world.
How could he make room for another woman in his heart, no matter how deserving? His primary duty was to his mother. She had spent so many years forgotten by his father—Dominic couldn’t forget her. She needed him more than she needed a daughter.
Georgana didn’t need him. She had her father, and Dominic couldn’t argue Captain Woodall’s devotion. He’d gone to great lengths to protect his daughter, even backing down from battle to keep her safe.
Dominic opened his eyes and watched the spray rising around the bow of the ship. Surely everyone would be better to disembark as they’d boarded—unattached. The thought of not seeing Georgana again shot pain through his heart. She had ruined the sea for him. Could he ever sail without memories of her haunting every part of the ship? He would never stand at the bow without remembering her soft touch on his arm as he poured out his soul.
He clapped a hand to his forehead, then let it spill down the side of his face. His gut wound in an eager twist as he finally let the looming knowledge crash over him.
He was in love.
But the sea—she had always been his one love. He didn’t need another woman.
Yet for all her beauties, the sea did not satisfy him like a few minutes with Georgana did. He ran a hand through his hair, stopping to tug at the ends, as he enjoyed watching Georgana do. He dropped his hand to his lap.
