On the Bare (25 page)

‘And what shall I do?’ Sebastian mused. ‘Make up with one of your spurned suitors and marry?’ He batted his eyes coquettishly and they dissolved into laughter. But a sombre mood soon descended. This was the last time they would see each other for a long time.

‘Just mind you don’t find yourself on the wrong side of the lieutenant,’ Sebastian warned, his face pale. ‘He won’t brook any weakness.’

Emily blushed and looked down at her shoes. The candlelight shone on the gleaming buckles. Her strange obsession with discipline was the one thing she’d been unable to confide in her brother. Rather than confessing that the prospect thrilled her, she feigned nonchalance. ‘Oh, he doesn’t frighten me,’ she said with a plucky grin.

Suddenly, they heard their father, calling for Sebastian.

Sebastian straightened Emily’s hat and dusted down her coat. After one last look he handed her his books and sextant. ‘Good luck, Em,’ he said. ‘I shall miss you.’

‘And I shall miss you.’ Tears threatened to well in her eyes and she blinked them back. It wouldn’t do for a future captain of Nelson’s navy to be seen weeping like a girl.

‘Will you write to me?’ Sebastian asked.

Emily drew herself up proudly. ‘Of course.’ She took his hand and kissed it, giving a little bow. ‘My sweet sister.’

Then with a final glance in the mirror, she hurried off to meet her fate.

* * *

Emily had studied the books with diligence – Norie’s
Epitome of Navigation
and Clarke’s
Complete Handbook of Seamanship
. She was familiar with much that a midshipman was meant to know, in theory, at least. But she was completely unprepared for the bewildering reality of it all. She marvelled at the array of rigging towering above her. Everywhere there was frantic activity that would seem like chaos to an outsider. Orders were bellowed from one end of the ship to the other. Men scrambled up and down the ratlines without so much as a downward glance. She watched as the hands aloft loosed the headsails and topsails and got the ship under way.

She could barely contain her excitement as the
Nemesis
left land behind and headed out into the ocean. But the unceasing corkscrew roll of the frigate soon took its toll on some of the new midshipmen, who staggered about with ashen faces while the seasoned crew looked smug. Emily was glad she was not alone in that particular misery. And most of the lads seemed to be suffering worse than she was.

In the days that followed, Emily often caught sight of Lieutenant Trevelyan, but he paid her no mind. She watched him whenever she could, straining to hear his voice. He issued orders with a natural authority that made her legs weak. Men touched their forelocks to him and scurried off to do his bidding. The dampness between her legs could easily make her forget she was supposed to be a boy.

Trevelyan stood on the quarterdeck with his feet well apart and his hands clasped behind his back. Emily was still learning to balance on the pitching ship, but the lieutenant stood as solid as the mainmast. She longed for an excuse to approach him, to speak to him, if only to impart some trivial bit of information and await his orders.

‘You, boy!’

She jumped.

It was Wagstaffe, the oldest inhabitant of the midshipmen’s berth. At twenty-five, his chances of making lieutenant were slipping away, and it did not improve his temper.

It took a few moments for Emily to realise he was addressing
her
.

‘The master wants to know why you aren’t at lessons with the rest of us.’

‘I couldn’t find my way, sir,’ she mumbled, lowering her head. She regretted her show of submission instantly. Sebastian had instructed her to make eye contact.

‘Lost, are you, snotty?’ he sneered.

Emily had never before been spoken to in such a manner and she had no idea how she was meant to respond. That was one thing Clarke’s
Seamanship
couldn’t tell her. But she screwed up her pluck, raised her head and pushed past him. ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ she said gruffly.

Behind her she heard him laugh. Her face burned. She was annoyed with herself. Any show of weakness would make her a victim among her shipmates. She had to be more assertive.

When she eventually found the others and took a seat the sailing master glowered at her. Then he called on her to tell him the equation relating the leeway to the trim of the sails. He let her flounder with tangents and cotangents for nearly a minute before silencing her disgustedly. Blake, a younger midshipman, was only too happy to supply the correct answer, smiling loftily at the unfortunate Mr Vane.

She glared back at him and was immensely pleased with herself when Blake looked away, abashed.

But her triumph was short-lived. The next day the master berated her for miscalculating the ship’s latitude. Most of the others got it wrong too, but she was already in his bad books from the day before. Emily loathed the tedious lessons. Navigation was going to be her downfall, she was certain. And the endless hours of inactivity dampened her spirits. When would they get to fight?

The morning’s lesson was finally over and Emily was relieved to be left alone to study. She peered out over the waves, squinting through the eyepiece of her sextant. She found the sun in the half-silvered mirror and slid the index arm round carefully until the image was superimposed on the horizon. Clamping the sextant, she read the angle off the scale. Simple enough. It was the calculations that defeated her. Sebastian had warned her that her mathematical
skills
would need improving, but sines and cosines were not her strong point. She had been so impetuous about the enterprise that she simply hadn’t given trigonometry much thought.

‘So what’s our latitude, Mr Vane?’

She jumped at the familiar voice, nearly dropping her sextant. ‘I haven’t done the calculations yet, sir,’ she said.

Trevelyan gestured for her to continue, but he made no move to leave. ‘Very well, then. Carry on.’

Emily grew even more nervous. She’d never get it right with him standing over her.

She tried to shoot the sun the second time, but her fingers trembled so much that she couldn’t hold the instrument still. The sun was a jumpy golden gash in the mirrors, but she clamped it anyway and looked at the angle. Then she realised she’d forgotten the angle of the first sight. She’d have to take it again and risk his disapproval. Then there were the calculations and corrections, which she had yet to be successful with. She suspected her position line would be off by several degrees.

Trevelyan stood immobile, but Emily could sense his growing impatience. She began to panic. ‘Sir, forgive me, I … I’m still learning the calculations.’

He frowned. ‘My boy, you should have learnt those before setting foot on board. You were meant to be studying these many weeks past.’ His voice was strict and unsparing. He had been charged with the duty of making a man of this delicate boy. No one knew better than Emily that he took his responsibilities very seriously.

‘Yes, sir,’ Emily said, crestfallen. She had no excuse to offer him.

‘The sailing master thinks you lack application.’ He held out his hand for the sextant and for a moment she feared he would tell her she had no place on board, that they would set her down in the next English port. But instead he put the eyepiece to his eye and took the sight himself.

He read out the angle and Emily noted it. He took the second angle and looked at her enquiringly.

‘Now, Mr Vane, how do we combine the two sightings?’

That much she could do. 60° minus the second angle should be equal to the first. But what came next? The index error? She searched her mind, but came up blank.

Frightened as she was, she thrilled at his nearness as he stood looking down on her. She fixed on the impeccable cut of his uniform. She could see the ropes twisting round the anchors on every single gilt button.

He had asked her a question. Oh, yes. The sightings. Emily searched her mind for an answer. She wanted desperately to please him, to prove herself worthy. But she was completely lost. True, she had neglected her studies; but her desire was also clouding her ability to concentrate.

His ice-blue eyes glittered. ‘Perhaps I should have young Blake assist you.’

The comment rankled. She had been feeling so much better after staring Blake down the day before. Now he was eroding what little confidence she’d acquired. Bristling, Emily held her tongue.

‘Come on, Mr Vane. Any of the master’s mates could have done these calculations by now.’

‘Then perhaps the master’s mates should do it, sir,’ she blurted out. ‘Surely an officer has more important things to do than play with numbers.’

She regretted it the instant she said it. Trevelyan’s face hardened and she realised the enormity of her mistake.

She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I … forgot myself.’

Trevelyan was eyeing her severely.

Her cheeks burned. ‘Sir, I …’ What could she say?

‘That will be quite enough from you,’ he said softly.

Her head lowered, she stared fixedly at a coil of rope at her feet. She felt light-headed and if she’d been wearing a corset she might have swooned. Emily had to remind herself that she was no longer a lady. When the silence became unbearable she raised her head to face him.

‘Report to the gun deck at eight bells in the afternoon watch.’

Blanching, Emily struggled to keep her voice steady. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ she said, touching her hat with unsteady fingers.

The lieutenant turned and walked away down the deck.

She recalled Trevelyan saying once that he liked to be present when he had ordered punishment. He said it reinforced the formality. She was frightened, but also exhilarated. The shadow of a smile touched her lips at the thought of him seeing her caned. There was the familiar tingling heat between her legs and she had to glance down to make sure there was nothing outwardly visible. The wetness felt conspicuous in her tight breeches. She tugged gently at her waistband, moaning a little at the pressure of the seam against her crotch.

The forenoon watch had barely begun; she had several hours yet to wait. She looked around to see if anyone might have been within earshot, but she was alone. Perhaps no one else had heard the exchange. Then they wouldn’t know to listen for the telltale swish of the bosun’s rattan. She could hope.

She busied herself as best she could, trying not to think about what was coming. But every time the ship’s bell rang out her pulse quickened. In her head she heard the lieutenant’s pronouncement over and over again. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but her impending punishment.

At ten minutes before eight bells, the new officer of the watch came on deck. It was time. Emily didn’t want Trevelyan to get to the gundeck before her.

She forced herself to hold her head up, in disgrace but not dishonour. Her heart banged behind her ribs and her legs wavered like a drunken sailor’s as she made her way below deck.

The gundeck normally bustled with activity and noise. Now it was deserted. Trevelyan must have given orders. Emily was thankful for that. While witnesses might strengthen her resolve to take the punishment bravely, she didn’t know how she would face them afterwards. She stood beside one of the twelve-pounders, caressing its cold body. It was so much larger than she had imagined back home. Very soon she would be bent over it, suffering under the cane.

The air was warm and heavy and Emily felt the back of her neck begin to prickle. For a moment she regretted taking Sebastian’s place here, but she shook off the thought disgustedly. She had wanted adventure. She had
demanded
it. Now that she faced her fantasies at last, she had no choice but to follow through.

She lifted her head proudly. She was a King’s officer. If she flinched at the prospect of a caning, how could she ever face the French in battle? Or look in the mirror?

In the distance she heard the ship’s bell herald the end of the watch. Then the sound of boots on the ladder. This was it. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. No one would know how much she secretly wanted this.

Lieutenant Trevelyan appeared with Harmwell, the bosun. Emily flinched when she saw the stout malacca cane he carried. She lowered her head, hoping they would take it for penitence and not fear.

Trevelyan’s stern voice boomed in the confined space. ‘Mr Vane seems to think navigation is beneath him. But I think we have the means to teach him some humility. Haven’t we, Mr Vane?’

‘Yes, sir’ was the only answer to that. Emily thought she would melt.

‘Twelve good hard strokes, I think, Mr Harmwell.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Trevelyan nodded solemnly towards the cannon and Emily steeled herself as she turned towards it. She removed her hat and laid it aside. Then she placed her hands on the cannon. With her legs together she bent forward at the waist, sideways over the gun. She knew she must bear the indignity.

‘Not like that, lad,’ came Harmwell’s gruff voice. ‘Along the gun. One leg either side.’

She choked back a gasp. She hadn’t pictured it like that! The idea of wrapping her legs around the barrel seemed indecent. It was the way a gentleman rode a horse. But she obeyed, straddling the cold metal and stretching herself out along its length, presenting her bottom for the cane.

At that moment she wished she could see Trevelyan’s
face
. What expression did he wear? Stern indifference? Sadistic pleasure? She didn’t dare turn round to see.

Emily flinched as she felt the malacca touch her bottom, measuring the first stroke. She tensed in anticipation, waiting. An age passed before Trevelyan gave the command for the punishment to begin.

The cane drew back and she heard a low deep whistle as it cut through the air. It sliced into her bottom with a loud
thwack!
She was unprepared for the force of the stroke and she yelped, more out of surprise than pain.

‘One,’ Harmwell counted.

The sting began to bloom in a line across her bottom and she fought the urge to reach back and clutch the burning flesh. Her breeches offered no protection at all. The position pulled them deep into the cleft of her bottom, separating her cheeks. A perfect target.