An Officer but No Gentleman (3 page)

“Y’ can keep your shirt on if that’s what’s stopping you,” Morty bellowed loudly slurring his words together. “That’s what you usually do isn’t it?  I-I’ve never heard you say any of your wenches fainted at the sight of your scars.”

“Bloody hell!” Hugh swore, his face as red as his hair and beard.  “I-I’m sorry, mate.  Forgot aboot yer scars, I did.”

Charlie saw the look of revulsion flash across the woman’s face.

“Don’t worry about it, McNamara,” Charlie said.  “But I do think I’ll decline your offer. I already wore out one wench tonight; I should probably leave the rest for everyone else.  As for you, Mr. Ness, I suggest you get dressed if you’re coming with me.  I’ll be down in the taproom waiting for you.”

Charlie gave Morty a shove towards his discarded garments and pulled the door closed.

“Blood hell!  I dinna mean to be so daft.”

“He’s ticker-thinned…thicker-skinned, than you give him credit for,” Morty slurred sitting on the edge of the bed trying to get his feet into his trouser legs
.

The wench wrapped her arms around her middle and shivered.  “He’s scarred up bad, is he?”

Both men ignored her.

Before Morty finished dressing, a loud crash came from the taproom reverberating the floorboards.  Morty and Hugh exchanged knowing glances.

“Thick-skinned, ye say?”

“It’ll do him good t’ blow off ssteam.”

“If he was my friend, I sure wouldn’t be up here jawin’ about it,” the wench said.

There was a second loud crash
, but neither man seemed very concerned.  “Our mate can take care of hisself,” Morty said as his head emerged through the neck-hole of his shirt then, belying his words, he staggered across the room and out the door.

When the woman looked at Hugh for conformation, Hugh nodded. “Oh Lassie, watching Charlie fight is a thing of beauty. He learned how from a real Japanese master who worked as cook fer a few years.”

Morty half-stumbled down the steps to the taproom below.  The sight that greeted him was pretty much as he expected.  The room was in disarray with two tables turned over and others no longer where they had been earlier.  The floor was littered with the splintered remains of at least one chair.  Of the dozen men in the taproom, three were involved in the fray with Charlie.  Morty could see Charlie had his hands full.

A short man lay sprawled at the foot of an overturned table.  He slowly regained his senses and struggled to rise.  A second man, his nose bloodied, attempted to land a punch to the second mate’s face
, but Charlie fended off the blow with all the skill their Japanese cook taught him.

Suddenly, the third man charged Charlie from behind.  But before Morty could call out a warning, Charlie turned, his leg swinging high and wide, kicking the man across the face.  He dropped like the dead at his feet.

It always amazed Morty how graceful his movements were and how efficient and powerful the younger man’s blows were.

Unfortunately, when Charlie was forced to turn his attention to the other man, the bloody-nosed man managed to land a glancing blow to Charlie’s jaw.  Charlie staggered backwards nearly tripping on the unconscious body.  It hadn’t looked like a substantial blow to Morty, but then Morty out-weighed Charlie by at least seventy-five pounds and the same blow would have been little more than a pinprick to him.

Charlie appeared slightly stunned, but when the jack-tar swung another fist, he blocked it with his lightning reflexes.  Charlie threw one of his strange Japanese punches that started very close to his body with his fist palm up.  His arm snaked out, twisting his fist palm down and made contact with the man’s mouth.

Morty could tell instinctively, the punch carried less than its normal force and he wondered if the man had hurt Charlie worse than he had initially thought.  But as long as Charlie was holding his own Morty wouldn’t interfere—not that he’d be much help in his current condition.

Morty looked around the room to the other bystanders, carefully noting their reactions.  Sinclair’s fluid movements and strange fighting style fascinated them.  It was unlikely any had ever heard of karate much less seen it. 

The barkeep’s sharp intake of breath brought Morty’s attention back to the fray. Charlie slowly backed into the corner.  Bloody-nose drew a knife and the short man had finally regained his senses and approached with a chair leg grasped in his upraised hand.

Bloody-nose lunged. Charlie moved forward, stepping sideways to avoid the knife and grasped his wrist, twisting his arm and throwing his hip into the larger man’s hip.  A moment later, Bloody-nose lay flat on his back, Charlie still holding the man’s wrist.  Another twist of the man’s arm and the knife clattered to the floor.  It all happened in one fluid motion lasting less than five seconds, but it gave the short man a long enough reprieve to move into striking distance.  Before Charlie could turn, the man swung the chair leg catching him squarely across his shoulder blades sending him to his hands and knees, all the wind knocked out of his lungs.

Charlie’s instincts screamed for him to move before the man struck again, yet pain and the effort of pulling air back into his chest paralyzed him.  His back tensed waiting to be smote to the ground with the wooden club.

Suddenly, the small man collapsed to the ground beside him and Charlie, his breath now ragged, looked over his shoulder to see Morty standing over him.  A heavy pewter mug in hand.

Bloody-nose, halfway to his feet, dropped back to the rough-hewn floor.  He looked from one man to the other, a look of defeat and resignation upon his face as he wiped his nose on his arm and hand.

“You all right, Charlie?” Morty asked.

When Charlie didn’t get up on his own, Morty straddled his fallen friend’s hips, reached his hands under his arms to his chest and heaved him to his feet. But as he stood behind Charlie, his palms on his chest, Morty felt a swell of bound breasts under his hands. He squeezed clumsily and didn’t miss Charlie’s gasp.

“Morty, if you don’t get your hands off me, I’m going to unman you with the heel of my boot.”

Morty’s hands returned to own thighs so quickly, they made a slapping sound on impact, but he hesitantly raised them and turned Charlie toward him.  Charlie, still breathing hard, was too exhausted from the brawl to attempt resistance.

As the crowd of men around them recapped their favorite moments of the fight no one noticed the tableau before them.

“Charlie, are you a maiden?”

“Don’t be daft, Morty. You just felt my scars. Why do you think I won’t take off my shirt,” she said.

Charlie reached in her pocket, pulled out a twenty dollar gold piece and threw it to the proprietor, too distracted to realize the damages to his place were nowhere near that bad.  She turned on her heel and strode out of the tavern leaving Morty to find his own way back to the ship.

2

As soon as her feet on the deck, Charlie found herself nearly running to her cabin.  Immediately upon entering, she locked the door.  The knowledge that Morty had stumbled onto her secret scared her more than the fight when she realized she was in over her head—she’d never intended to fight three men at once, but she didn’t realize the man she’d targeted was not there alone.

Morty might not be the smartest man
, but she knew he wouldn’t believe her lie.  She could only hope in his drunken state, by morning, he would forget it all. 

Charlie poured herself a brandy and downed it quickly then poured another
, but did not pick it up.  After double checking the lock, she began divesting herself outer clothing. 

Damn, her back hurt.  She didn’t need to look to know the blow left a mark. At least that was one thing she could probably keep her father from finding out.  She excelled in hiding her pain.  But this other thing with Morty, how could she possibly hide that?  She knew she should wake her father and tell him what happened.  This was not a matter that should wait.  And yet, she knew Morty would be put off the ship before they sailed and she couldn’t stand the thought of losing her best friend.

Some blower she was.

They had been friends for nine years.  She was thirteen and had just passed the test to be an able seaman and he was seventeen, straight from the farm and aboard a ship for the first time.  She noticed him immediately when he boarded carrying a tattered sea chest that was probably older than him.  Morty was the proverbial farm boy, tall, good looking, strong as an ox
, and a bit of a hayseed.  Morty didn’t pick up new tasks quickly and because he wasn’t carrying his weight, the crew rode his ass endlessly.  Charlie felt sorry for big oaf.  Being the captain’s
son
and being so much younger than everyone else had kept her ostracized her whole life so she took pity on him and began working with him when she had time.  It must have taken over an hour of repetition to teach him a simple bowline knot.  But their friendship benefitted Charlie more than it ever benefitted Morty.  He was her first and most loyal friend.

Surely, even a blockhead like Morty would understand he couldn’t tell anyone. 

With the doctor and her father, the trouble had been in the pronouns at first.  It’s hard to know that someone is one sex and use the other gender’s pronoun.  Even when dealing privately with each other they always referred to Charlie as
he
because if they called her
she
in private, they were more likely to slip at other times.  For the sake of the lie, it had been a good thing that Charlie hadn’t spoken for more than two years after the fire. It was probably the only reason they had been able to get away with telling everyone she was a boy.  By the time she did start talking again, she was used to it and at times, when she was still small, she really wasn’t sure if she was a boy or girl. 

Maybe, just maybe, if she pretended nothing had changed, Morty would think he had dreamt the whole thing.  In the morning, she would continue to pretend to be male just like every other day of her life.  Morty was so
drunk; he would probably doubt his memories if she acted like nothing had changed.  Eventually, he would confront her and she would just laugh in his face and make him think he was crazy.

Charlie still felt a little drunk at 4:00 AM when her shift started.  Morty appeared highly inebriated.  They were preparing to set sail with the tide and although most of the preparation had been completed, there was still ample work to keep everyone busy.  Charlie knew Morty was a danger to himself if he went into the riggings so she put him to work stowing a last minute delivery.  After he moved all the crates and barrels into the hold, Charlie did not see him again until they were underway.   When he reemerged an hour later, the crew was swabbing the deck and he picked up a mop without instruction and joined the others.  Charlie climbed down in the hold to check that the cargo was properly stowed and secured.  Most of Morty’s knots were messy or loose.  She re-tied them then locked the hold and returned to the deck.

“Morty!” she yelled.  He set aside the mop and walked towards her.  “If you ever show up for your shift drunk again it’ll mean lashes. I just checked your knots and had to redo half of them.”

“Aye, sir.”

When he didn’t immediately return to his task, she yelled at him again.  “Don’t just stand there twiddling your thumbs—get back to work!”

“Aye-aye.”

Charlie didn’t know why she was so harsh dealing with Morty that morning. It was not like her to yell like that. Normally, she was direct and concise
, but rarely raised her voice. Was she mad at him for stumbling upon her secret, knowing she was obligated to tell her father and he would insist that Morty be put ashore? Criminy! The bond she felt for Morty was stronger than any person in her life, including her father. Why did he have to find out?

Although sailing the ship fell mostly in the hands of Mr. Byron and Charlie, Captain Sinclair preferred to be on the quarterdeck as the ship entered or departed port. They were just hitting open seas when Charlie began noticing the ship’s complement distracted by the passing of another ship off the starboard bow. Baltimore clippers were a relatively new design and although not large, they were sleek and nimble and most of the men had never seen one before. Where the crew admired the refined lines and cannons at the rails, it was the captain who captured Charlie’s attention as he stood on the quarterdeck. They were too far away to clearly see his features, but she could not pull her eyes away from his striking presence. The ship was abuzz with activity yet he stood akimbo on the bridge observing. It seemed time had ceased to move in his presence. He cut a fine figure with narrow hips and wide shoulders—his black hair, unbound and bluntly cut at the length of his open collar and blowing in the wind. He looked young and hard bodied. Charlie tried to memorize everything about him in hopes of bringing him forth in her dreams.

Suddenly, Charlie’s father blocked her view and scowled menacingly into her face.

“I know a young man who has work to do,” he gritted.

“Sorry,” Charlie said, knowing her thoughts must have shown on her face. Then she said the first thing to pop into her mind. “I was just contemplating the color choice of the officers’ uniforms on that ship.”

“Fashion is a woman’s pursuit,” he said. “We’ve worn black since your mother died. I see no reason to change it.”

“Aye, sir.”

Charlie began calling out orders as she headed to the boatswain’s locker to pass out tools and supplies they’d need to do their work.

She cast one last glance at the other ship, carefully schooling her countenance and trying not to sigh. How she longed to stop pretending to be a man and to sail away in the arms of a man like that. Exciting as that might seem, the prospect frightened her more than she cared to admit.

Charlie kept the watch busy until 8:00 AM when their four-hour shift ended and went straight back to her quarters to get four hours of sleep until her next four-hour watch started.  Normally, the watch coming off the 4:00-8:00 AM shift went to the galley for breakfast when their shift ended, but Charlie had barely slept an hour the previous night and the idea of food turned her queasy stomach. 

As far as she could tell, Morty acted normally. Maybe he
had
been so drunk; he blacked out the whole thing.  Deep down she knew it was only wishful thinking on her part.  Something this monumental would be hard to forget.

Morty suffered the aftermath of his debauchery the rest of the day.  They were back on duty at noon—off at four and then back on for the two-hour dogwatch at six.  She felt bad for him. His hangover made his skin pale and blotchy with a fine sheen of sweat making him look clammy.  When she was still a crewman, she would have teased him mercilessly about his condition.  She would have made retching sounds to see if she could make him throw up every time they were near enough to speak without getting caught.  She would have made excessive noises at her task to see him wince and rub his temples. 

Charlie saw Benjy coming out of the forecastle and stopped him.  “Go ask Dr. Kirk to make up two cups of willow bark tea.”

“Aye, sir.”

She really wanted to yell at him for going back into her cabin when she wasn’t there
, but decided that placing the clean, folded quilt and the wash basin in her quarters was not the worst infraction.  She never let any cabin boy clean her quarters unless she was present.  Most of them would have used the time alone to snoop and Charlie always guarded her secrets. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Benjy who brought the tea. Brody Kirk emerged from the ship’s belly with a tin cup in each hand.  In many ways
, Charlie felt closer to the doctor than she did to her father.  He had been her teacher and as such, they spent countless hours together.  Where her father was stern and exacting, Dr. Kirk was kind and encouraging. He even encouraged her to become his loblolly boy or as some people called it; surgeon’s mate.

“Two cups?”

“Morty’s hung over.”

“The other one is for you?” he asked, one eyebrow shooting upwards.

“Aye.”

Br
ody Kirk looked at her askance.  “Do we need to talk privately?”

In other words
, was she having female problems?  Warmth reddened her face. “No, I just have a headache.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue.  She did have a headache from too much brandy and not enough sleep, but she needed it because she was incredibly sore from the walloping she took during her fight.

“You must really have a bad headache if you’re asking for willow bark tea.  I know how much you hate the taste.”

It was true. The bitterness of the brew was sometimes worse than the malady.  When she was younger, it made her gag, but now, with effort, she willed herself to swallow it down.

Brody Kirk handed her one of the mugs.  “Drink up, my boy,” he said and laughed at the expression she made as she threw it back
, drinking it in large gulps.  As she held the empty cup towards him, he slapped her on the back. 

Charlie winced in pain.

“Charlie?  What the hell is going on?”

“I’m just sore.  I must have picked up something wrong,” Charlie lied.

The doctor scrutinized her expression, and then, noticing a slight swelling in her jaw, he moved her head to the side to put the swelling into the sunshine.  “Did you get into another brawl?  Damnation, Charlie!  When are you going to stop this nonsense?”  The doctor thrust the second cup into the helmsman’s hand. “You’re in charge, man.  See that Ness gets this.”  Then he turned to Charlie, “Let’s go.”

“It can wait ‘til the watch is over,” Charlie protested.

“Maybe I should ask your father if it can wait.”

Knowing she had no choice, Charlie reluctantly left the bridge.  “Nothing’s broken,” she said as she followed him to his quarters where he had set up a medical bay.

He handed her a sheet.   “I’ll step out for a minute.”

“I’m fine, really. You don’t need to do this,” Charlie said, fighting to keep her voice from rising in pitch.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed at her.  “The more you resist, the worse I know it is.”

He knew her well, too well.  

Within a few minutes, she had removed her clothing above the waist except the strip she used to bind her breasts and wrapped the sheet around herself allowing it to drape loosely around her back.  The doctor knocked and waited for her answer before coming in.  Her face burned with embarrassment, her eyes never leaving the floor as he moved behind her.

“Dear God,” he gasped at the sight of the massive swollen bruise stretching the width of her back between her shoulders. He tugged slightly at the sheet and his finger slipped into her bindings, pulling down.

Charlie clamped her arms down at her side as embarrassment flooded her body with heat.

“You’re going to have to take this off, Charlie. It’s too tight for me to see to the bottom of the bruise. I’ll turn around. Tell me when you have the sheet back in place.”

Charlie wanted to cry. Could this be any more humiliating? She craned her neck around to make sure Dr. Kirk turned away before she removed the strip.

“It’s off,” she whispered, her eyes shut tightly.

She heard the rustle of his clothing as he turned. “Have you seen this?”

“No.  I don’t need to, I can feel it.”

None too gently, he pushed through the tender flesh trying to feel the bones.  She fought to keep from wincing with every poke and prod. 

“Did you get thrown against a bar counter?” he asked trying to understand the injury.

“I got hit with something—a board or chair leg, I think,” she admitted.

“Your father is going to tan your hide when he finds out,” the doctor said, sternly.

“There’s no reason he has to know,” she said quickly, hopefully.

Brody Kirk sighed.  “We have to explain why you’re not working for the next few days.  I want you in bed, on your stomach with a poultice on this.”