Ransome's Crossing (14 page)

A shadow passed over, and she looked up—and almost gasped. Captain Parker walked along behind the row of stools, pausing occasionally to glance over someone’s shoulder and shake his head. He paused behind Kent the longest. Kent wore an expression of agonizing concentration—and he did a lot of wiping out and refiguring as he worked. Parker’s face grew grimmer, and he turned and made his way back up the line.

“Lott.”

She stood, grabbing her slate before it slid to the deck. “Aye, Captain?”

“You do not appear to be working.”

“Aye, sir…I mean, no sir. I am finished.”

Parker’s pale brows shot upward. “Finished?” He extended his hand. “Show me your calculations.”

She handed the slate over to him. The numbers fairly danced on the dark gray surface.

The longer he scrutinized her work, the more Charlotte’s doubt expanded. Her palms grew damp, and her knees, aching from the effort to absorb the movement of the ship, began to tremble beneath her.

Finally, he handed the small shingle back to her. “You’ve a neat hand and a good understanding of arithmetic, Lott, but your attitude is bordering on arrogance. See that you check it. That is a quality that can bar you from advancement.”

Tears stung the corners of Charlotte’s eyes at the reproof, but she fought against them. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Mr. Howe, see to it that these men know how to calculate the ship’s position properly.” With those words, Captain Parker turned on his heel and retreated to the starboard side of the quarterdeck.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Howe launched into the lesson on calculus.

Charlotte dropped back onto her stool, fighting the urge to run down to the cockpit, fling herself into her hammock, and weep. Of course, her hammock was not down there but stuffed into the netting lining the sides of the ship along with everyone else’s.

However, listening to Howe’s lesson soothed her, and soon she found herself lost in his explanation of the advanced arithmetic. He finished the lesson in plenty of time for them to prepare to measure the sun at its zenith and mark noon.

“Lott.”

She stopped and received pitying looks from Martin, Hamilton, and a few others.

“Aye, Lieutenant?”

“Your slate.” Howe extended his hand toward her very much the same way Parker had.

She handed it over. He chewed his bottom lip as he examined her numbers. If Charlotte had met him socially, she might have considered him a handsome man—his hair and eyes both somewhere between golden and brown, his build pleasantly average. But nothing compared to Ned—to Henry Winchester.

“Who taught you?” Howe returned the slate to her.

“I learned it mostly on my own, sir. I studied every book I could lay my hands to, including mathematics.”

Howe inclined his head. “I am duly impressed. And while I do not consider it arrogant of you to say so, you might want to keep that information to yourself.” He cast his gaze to the opposite side of the ship where Parker conversed with Second Lieutenant Crump. “Dismissed.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Charlotte kept her smile to herself, relieved to know Howe was on her side. She set up her sextant as far away from Kent as she could get and set about measuring the sun’s position in the sky, determined she would not be the first to mark noon today.

Granted, she might have to if no one else got it—

“Noon, sir. I mark noon.” Hamilton turned toward Parker, cheeks bright red—as Charlotte was coming to realize they usually were whenever Hamilton faced the captain.

Parker’s eyes narrowed. “Master Bolger, mark it on the log board and sound noon.”

Bolger wiped everything from the slate log board and started the new day’s entry with the ship’s position, the wind speed, and their heading, while one of his mates rang out four couplets of chimes on the brass bell.

“Mr. Parr, pipe crew to dinner.”

The boatswain knuckled his forehead and blew the appropriate signal on his whistle.

An hour later Charlotte returned to the cockpit with the rest of the mids. The smell of so many perspiring bodies in wool uniforms in such a close space nearly made her sick, but she managed to maintain control of her stomach. In fact, it was the first time she had felt at all nauseated. Perhaps coming from a long line of seamen meant she was built of sterner stuff than those who fell prey to seasickness.

She endured quite a bit of jostling before a mug and plate were thrust into her hands. She sat on what was becoming known as the Yates End of the table, but when she looked down at the gray muck on her plate, she was uncertain she would be able to eat. She grabbed her mug instead and took a gulp.

Her stomach heaved, and she retched, turning just in time so that the liquid hit the floor instead of the table. “That is
vile.”
Coughing, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, wishing she had water to rinse the foul taste from her mouth.

Everyone around her laughed. “You act as if you’ve never had grog, Lott.” Hamilton pounded her back until her coughs subsided.

Grog. Rum mixed with water and a bit of lime juice to ward off scurvy. She should have remembered that everyone aboard was allotted a certain amount, half served at dinner, half at supper.

Another mid picked up her mug and sniffed it. “I don’t think grog is all that’s in here, lads.” He set the mug down on the table and leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Smells like turpentine.”

Hamilton looked down at the other end of the table where several of Kent’s mates leaned together, whispering conspiratorially.

“They’re behind this.” He started to rise, but Charlotte stayed him by grabbing his arm.

“Nay, do not create trouble on my behalf. No real damage has been done.” And real damage would be caused for Hamilton’s career if he were to get into a fight with the midshipmen favored by the captain. She stood to take the mug to the slop bucket to empty.

“What have we here?” Kent pushed through a group of boys standing near the end of the table and blocked Charlotte’s path.

She sighed. “Let me pass.”

He snatched the mug from her hands. “I’ll be taking your grog ration today, Lott.”

She reached for the mug and opened her mouth to tell him not to drink it—but then she thought better of it and let her hands drop to her sides. She stepped back quickly.

Kent spewed the vile concoction in an arc that sprayed it onto several bystanders. “What is this? You’ve tried to poison me!”

Charlotte’s sense of revenge froze into fear. “I did not. If you had not been greedy and tried to steal what was not rightfully yours, you would have seen I was about to throw it away because it somehow got tainted with turpentine.”

Kent’s mates who’d been whispering jumped to their feet, wide eyes focused on the mug in Kent’s hand. The remaining dozen midshipmen grew deathly silent, all attention now on Charlotte and Kent.

“Turpentine? You tried to poison me with
turpentine
?”

“Turpentine is not poisonous. It is used all the time as a remedy for stomach complaints. It just does not taste very good.” Charlotte crossed her arms.

“Aha! You see?” Kent turned to make sure everyone was listening. “She put turpentine in the grog and then made sure I would drink it.”

“I did no such thing.”

“We shall see about that.” Kent grabbed the collar of her coat and dragged her from the cockpit. “We shall see what Captain Parker has to say about a midshipman who tries to poison his superiors.”

W
illiam had to admit that the time Dawling worked with the Yateses’ staff had not been ill spent. Though still simple, his food was much better prepared. William tucked into his dinner—but paused when he realized Julia had not yet lifted her fork.

“Is the food not to your liking?”

“It looks wonderful. I am…I have no appetite.” She gave him a wan smile. “I never do, the first day or two.” She glanced over at Dawling, standing behind William. “If I could have a cup of tea and perhaps a piece of bread, that might help settle my stomach.”

“Ri’ away, missus.” Dawling swept her plate from the table and disappeared, returning moments later with the bread and a steaming teapot.

As soon as Julia started picking at the crust of the slab of bread before her, William returned to his own food. It should not surprise him Dawling had taken to having a pot of tea ready at all times. No doubt something he had learned from Collin’s cook. Indeed, he appreciated his steward’s efforts to make Julia feel comfortable and welcome.

It meant he did not have to do it himself.

Weighing anchor and setting sail this morning had gone well. With Julia standing behind and above him on the poop deck, she had been out of his line of sight. He wished he could put her so easily from his thoughts.

He signaled Dawling to remove his empty plate but hesitated before leaving the table. Julia’s pallor and the tightness around her eyes tugged
at him. “Would you like to take a stroll on deck? Perhaps some fresh air will be good for you.”

“If it is not an imposition, I would enjoy that.”

Every time she suggested her presence was a burden or a distraction was like a cutlass to William’s gut. What did he have to do to help her understand he had reconciled himself to her presence aboard his ship?

The three lieutenants already returned to deck from their dinner vacated the starboard side of the quarterdeck when William appeared with Julia on his arm. He made a quick scan of the activity on deck. Mostly quiet, as the majority of the crew were still below at their midday meal.

He turned and started back toward the stern. Lieutenants O’Rourke, Campbell, and Eastwick hastily turned away—as if the log board, with only two entries on it, was the most fascinating object they had ever seen.

“Is that your commodore’s flag?”

Julia’s question startled him. He followed her gaze upward. “Aye. That is my pennant.” While the rank of commodore gained him the right to wear the same uniform as a rear admiral—with all the gold braid about the collar, lapel, and cuffs he could bear—the swallow-tailed flag flying high above
Alexandra
’s deck bearing the Cross of St. George was the true insignia of his new rank.

“I am so proud of you.” Julia squeezed his arm. “I know I have said it before, but it bears repeating.” She swayed, dropped her gaze, and covered her eyes with her free hand.

William paused, prepared to direct her to the side and hold her to keep her from falling overboard. “Are you ill?”

“I should not have leaned my head back for so long. It made me dizzy.”

He wanted to put his arms around her, to offer her the promise of shelter and care. But he could not do so with an increasing number of crew milling about. The bell chimed thrice, and the balance of the watch came up onto the deck.

One of the sailing master’s mates scurried over, stopping a respectful distance from them. “Master Ingleby and Lieutenant Cochrane’s compliments, Com’dore, and they wish to inform you we are now at the coordinates designated for formation.”

“Very good. Let them know I will join them presently.”

The sailor saluted again and hastened off with William’s message.

“Thank you for the airing, William. I shall retire and see if lying down will be a curative for me.” Julia dropped her hand from his arm and bent her knees in a perfunctory curtsey.

William bowed before he realized how out of place the social gestures were on a warship—and between husband and wife. He took her hand and started toward the wheelhouse with her. “Send for Mr. Hawthorne if you need him.”

“I do not believe that will be necessary.”

“He would be glad of the duty of seeing to you. This shall be an otherwise dull voyage for him and his mates.” William tried to keep his focus on his wife, but Cochrane and Ingleby’s intensity of conversation over the chart made him impatient to join them.

“If I do not feel better after a rest, I will send for Hawthorne.”

Both Ned and Ingleby swept their hats off when William and Julia stepped into the shade of the wheelhouse.

“Mrs. Ransome, you are looking lovely today.”

“Enough of that, Lieutenant Cochrane.” Julia laughed, but the sound came out just as pale as her countenance. She turned to face William, closed her eyes a moment, and then looked at him again. “I shall leave you to your work.”

The marine guard at the door to the dining cabin opened it for her.

“Show me the dead reckoning on the chart.” William leaned over the small table where Ingleby’s chart lay spread open.

Neither Ned nor Ingleby complied with the order. William straightened. Both men had their backs to him, staring at the door where Julia had just disappeared.

He cleared his throat. “As you were, men,” he barked.

Ned snapped to first. “Apologies, sir. Is Mrs. Ransome unwell, sir?”

“A touch of seasickness. It shall pass. As we shall pass our formation point if we continue to dither.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Cochrane quickly showed him their position on the chart, well within a box William himself had marked on it.

“How far behind is the
Golders Green
?”

“About a hundred yards. We have gained distance on her over the past few hours. She doesn’t draught as well as
Alexandra
.” Pride laced Ned’s voice.

“If there is a hundred yards between each ship, that means our line is more than half a mile long. No. We must close the distances between ships. With twelve cargo ships between us and
Audacious,
that makes the ships in the middle of the line too vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to what, sir?” Ingleby asked. “We are at peace with France and Spain. And their privateers would not dare risk the treaty and attack an English convoy.”

William rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I am not so certain. And there are still self-styled pirates throughout these waters, waiting for easy prey. We must be vigilant and keep the line as tight as we can.” He glanced over at the master’s mate hovering nearby. “Pass word for Lieutenant Jackson and Midshipman Gibson.”

The two young men must have been waiting nearby, for the mate returned with them less than a minute later.

“Mr. Jackson, Mr. Gibson, it is time to call the convoy into formation.” William wrote out his instructions and handed the slip of paper to the fifth lieutenant. “Signal the other ships to close ranks. No more than twenty yards between ships.” Two abreast—six pairs—would be better, but harder to coordinate and control. “Have the ships signal their progress and position up the line, and report to me regularly.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Jackson and Gibson chorused before hurrying off to climb up to the poop to start hoisting flags to send William’s instructions to the rest of the convoy.

“Mr. Cochrane, have the crew reef tops’ls so
Golders Green
can close with us.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Cochrane stepped out from under the overhang of the poop deck above to relay William’s orders to the crew, which immediately sprang into action to shorten the uppermost sails.

“Carry on, Master Ingleby.”

“Aye, aye, Com’dore.”

William glanced at the door to the cabin but returned to the captain’s walk along the starboard side of the quarterdeck. Though confident his orders would be carried out to the letter without his presence on deck, he could not bring himself to retreat to his cabin as he would have in the past. Not with Julia there. Not with the crew knowing Julia was there. In the past he would have gone to his cabin at such a time to write in his log book or journal or to deal with other paperwork. But if the crew were to see him retreating to his cabin now, it might appear as if he were shirking his duties.

He stopped amidships and turned to look out over the water, squinting against the glare of the reflected sunlight. He set his feet shoulder-width apart and clasped his hands behind his back, breathing deeply of the briny air.

Nothing like the chop of the waves under him and the open ocean spread out in its diamond grandeur before him.

Lord God, thank You for bestowing upon us the blessing of good wind and fine weather. Speed our journey, and if it be Your will, keep us safe from those who would do us harm, from disease and storm
—

“Com’dore, sir?”

“Yes, Dawling?” William did not bother turning around.

“’Tis Mrs. Ransome, sir. She asked me to fetch Doc Hawthorne.”

“And did she ask you to send for me as well?”

“For you…no, sir. I…I reckoned you ought to know, sir.”

William clenched his teeth and then forced himself to relax. “I suggested Mrs. Ransome send for Hawthorne if she continued to feel unwell. Please do as she bids and fetch the doctor.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

William fixed his gaze on the horizon.
Lord, help me find the fortitude necessary to set aside my belief that a ship is no place for a woman. Not even a wife.

Lieutenant Howe would not make eye contact with Charlotte. She mimicked his stiff stance as they waited in the captain’s dining cabin and tried to wipe every trace of anger from her expression.

From the corner of her eye, she could still see Kent’s smirk, which made hiding her anger all the harder. She counted the number of chairs around the table. Eight. Two fewer than William’s set aboard
Alexandra.
It stood to reason—
Audacious
was a smaller ship, carrying fewer cannons, fewer crew, and fewer officers. And right now, she wished she were counted among
Alexandra’s
larger crew, even with the constant fear of discovery she would live with there. William would never countenance his crew behaving in this manner.

The door between the dining cabin and the day cabin opened and Captain Parker entered, straightening his coat as if he had just donned it. He sat at the head of the table and folded his hands atop it.

Charlotte was again struck by how young the captain appeared. Perhaps that was why his crew was so disorderly. He had not William’s experience in handling the crew of a ship this large.

“Speak, Lieutenant.”

“Sir. Mr. Kent came to me with a very serious accusation against Mr. Lott. He has accused Mr. Lott of trying to poison him.”

Parker’s expression did not change. Charlotte’s heart pounded an alarm. The captain seemed unsurprised by this statement—unlike Howe’s shock at hearing Kent utter the charge against her—which meant Parker had somehow learned of it beforehand.

“Kent, state your case.”

“Captain Parker, sir, I returned to the cockpit for dinner. Lott here
handed me a mug of grog, and when I drank from it, I could tell it was laced with something meant to fell me.”

Charlotte chewed the inside of her bottom lip as Kent spun a tale worthy of the most tortured of souls. Howe’s mouth grew tighter, his eyes grimmer, as Kent’s fable unfolded. Parker appeared mildly amused.

“Lott.”

Charlotte flinched. “Aye, Captain.”

“Why did you try to poison Mr. Kent?”

“I did not, sir.” She took a breath to continue, but a line from one of William’s old letters strayed through her mind.
I would say no more, as it is best to stay one’s tongue and speak no unnecessary words before a superior officer, especially when said officer is relatively unknown.
She clamped her lips closed on the story wishing to spill forth.

Parker’s pale brows twitched. “Oh? Then, pray tell, what did you do?”

No unnecessary words.
“Sir, when I sat down to dinner with the plate and mug that had been handed me, I tasted the grog and realized it had been tainted with turpentine. I was on my way to dispose of it in the slop bucket when Mr. Kent”—
stole
was too incendiary a word to use—“took the mug from my hand and drank before I could warn him.”