Ransome's Crossing (25 page)

“Boat coming up, Commodore.”

“Where away?” William asked the question even though he knew where and whom it would be.

“Starboard side, sir. ’Tis Lieutenant—Captain Cochrane, sir.”

Permission for Ned to board
Alexandra
was requested and given. William scrutinized him when he appeared on deck. Much of the traces of melancholy William thought he had seen before were no longer as evident, though Ned’s smile took longer to develop and stayed a briefer time than usual.

He ushered Ned toward the cabin, and they were joined by
Alexandra’s
six lieutenants. Tomorrow night William would play host to the captains of all the ships. Tonight was for his officers.

Dawling was just pushing Julia’s chair in when William and the officers entered the dining cabin. Ned and each of the lieutenants stopped and gave her a polite bow before taking their regular places at the table. As Gibson had been added to their number as the acting sixth lieutenant, he hung back and waited for everyone else to claim his seat before taking the open chair in the middle. As the honored guest, Ned sat at Julia’s right hand, at the opposite end of the table from William.

No one could have called the meal exquisite—nothing like what Collin’s French-trained steward had been able to prepare—but the meal Dawling and Cook had prepared for them was hearty and tasty.

The lieutenants, naturally, wanted to hear about Ned’s first week in command of a ship of the line.

“It has gone well,” Ned responded. “Though there have been some rough waters along the way.” Here, Ned stole a sidelong glance at Julia, who gave him a tight-lipped smile.

The bite of beef in William’s mouth lost all flavor. Ned
had
confided something to Julia. William wanted to demand a full telling of it, but he exerted his self-control to wait until his private time with Julia later tonight.

“What problems have you faced?” Lieutenant Eastwick asked.

Ned took another glance at Julia before answering. “I learned almost
as soon as I took command of the vessel that it is not a unified crew. The majority of the officers served under Captain Yates. But Captain Parker—God rest his soul—brought several over with him. Midshipmen, warrant officers, and lieutenants. It seems a rivalry formed between the two groups, with Parker’s officers feeling they had the captain’s favor and therefore lording it over those who had served under Captain Yates. So I have spent much of my first week as an acting captain trying to figure out ways I can forge these two factions into one united crew.”

William relaxed, understanding now what Ned’s long interview with Julia earlier had been about. When Ned had shared his concerns about the
Audacious
crew to William, he had mentioned he had a few ideas on how to help his crew work together better. Realizing Julia’s experience in managing vast numbers of workers who probably did not always get along, Ned must have decided to run his ideas past her to get her input on their viability.

He enjoyed the rest of the dinner party, having worked out the meaning behind the occasional glances between Ned and Julia. After dinner ended, William walked Ned to the waist entry port.

“I will see you tomorrow at three bells in the second dogwatch, Captain Cochrane.” He hoped Ned would volunteer his ideas for unifying his crew, but perhaps he thought William did not have time to deal with such issues. “If you would like to come early and discuss any of the issues you are having with your crew, I would be more than happy to make the time.”

“Thank you, Commodore Ransome. And please thank Mrs. Ransome for a lovely meal.” Ned saluted before disappearing down the side of the ship.

William watched until the small boat had almost reached
Audacious.
A glance at the sky informed him it was almost time for evening call to quarters and inspection. He returned to the wheelhouse and waited a few minutes until eight bells signaled the beginning of the evening watch.

“Lieutenant O’Rourke, beat to quarters for inspection.” William
stood beside the binnacle, hands clasped behind his back, and observed as his crew efficiently made their way to battle stations. Though many might not understand his strict adherence to the custom of evening beat to quarters, William had been in the navy—and at war—far too long to relax his guard. He did not want to think ill of the dead, but he wondered if Captain Parker had been as scrupulous in training and inspecting his crew.

After making a complete inspection of the ship, William dismissed the men. As the majority of them would be on make-and-mend tomorrow, rather than immediately going below decks and hanging their hammocks, most lingered above to spend their hard-earned money on trinkets, fresh fruit and vegetables, and other goods offered them from the small boats that had swarmed about them ever since they docked.

As his presence was no longer needed on deck, William returned to the cabin. Julia sat at her desk writing furiously.

“What time will you deliver the packet of correspondence tomorrow?” she asked, the nib of her quill hovering over the page.

“Not until the afternoon. You have plenty of time to write a great long letter to your father.” He wanted to press Julia for details on the ideas Ned had presented to her, but if Ned had wanted William to know, he would have told him. William himself might not tell a commanding officer that he had sought advice from a woman, no matter how intelligent and accomplished she was.

“Good. I was afraid you might be sending it first thing in the morning and that I might not have time to finish.” She set her quill down. “I understand Dr. Hawthorne came aboard this afternoon. I hoped I might speak with him this evening.”

William called for Dawling, who appeared moments later. “Pass word for Dr. Hawthorne.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Dawling knuckled his forehead and left the cabin.

“Had you a good visit with Ned this afternoon?” He sat at his desk and opened his own stationery box to complete the correspondence he also needed to send tomorrow.

“Yes. He had a concern about his crew that he wished for my opinion on.”

Once again, William was struck by Julia’s ability to mask what she was feeling. She had promised she would not keep anything important from him again, so as she did not share more of her conversation with Ned, he had to trust that it was nothing more than she said.

Because one thing he knew about Julia, she was a woman of her word.

C
harlotte was not certain what happened when Ned was aboard
Alexandra,
but in the days following the brief stopover in Madeira, she felt his eyes constantly upon her. He could not possibly know her secret or else, she was certain, he would have turned her over to William. However, with the constant vigil he now seemed to keep over her, she worried he might suspect something. So she made it her business to get away from him when she was not on duty by trying to avoid everyone altogether.

Occasionally she could find solitude in the cockpit, but those not on duty came in and out often enough to disrupt her peace.

The only quiet place she could find on the ship was the infirmary, and with most of the injured sailors now recovered enough to return to duty, Charlotte took her journal or her stationery box and a candle, found a quiet corner, and spent many a pleasant hour writing or sketching. The surgeon’s mate now in charge of the infirmary ensured the others working with him did not bother her, and she never outstayed her welcome.

The letter she had sent to Mama from Madeira had been short, hastily scrawled in the last moments before the correspondence packet had been handed over to the captain of an English merchant ship headed for Portsmouth. She had not wanted to risk discovery by someone seeing her writing the long letter of explanation she wished she could send to her mother. But she hoped that even the short note assuring
Mama that she was safe and well and under William’s protection would relieve the worry she knew she had caused.

“Mr. Lott, are you still here?” The surgeon’s mate stepped out of the shadows and leaned over her position on the floor. “’Tis almost eight bells. You’ll be late for duty if you aren’t careful.”

Charlotte closed her journal and wrapped its leather thong around it; then she jumped to her feet and bent down to retrieve her quill, ink bottle, and hat. “Thank you for telling me, Jack.”

“You’ve always been nice to me, Mr. Lott, and I like to return good for good. Now, if you were that Mr. Kent, I might have let you sit here and be late.”

Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “You know it is not good to play favorites.” Even though protesting the sentiment was the right thing to do, pleasure tingled in Charlotte’s stomach at the idea that even ordinary seamen liked her more than Kent.

The surgeon’s mate knuckled his forehead and gave her a sardonic grin, as if to say he knew she protested only out of politeness.

Charlotte returned the salute and rushed away to the cockpit to stow her writing supplies before reporting to the quarterdeck for duty.

The echo of the last of the eight chimes faded away just as Charlotte came to a stop in the wheelhouse. The sailing master looked at her in surprise. “Cutting it a mite short this time, Mr. Lott?”

“I lost track of time.” Charlotte tried to catch her breath from the mad dash from the cockpit in the bow to the wheelhouse in the stern. She turned her attention to the log board, reviewing Midshipman Jamison’s notations of their speed and bearing over the last four hours. She copied them into her log book and then wrote down the new information the sailing master gave her.

Nerves already taut, Charlotte’s heart gave a little leap every time the marine standing guard at the door of the big cabin shifted position or made any kind of noise. By the time her watch ended at four o’clock, her back ached from the constant fear of Ned emerging from the cabin and exposing her identity.

Though she still hated the taste of it, she drank her entire ration
of grog that evening at supper, feeling for the first time the relaxing effects of the rum. She wished for more, but then she understood why her mother had always warned her about the evils of strong drink. She needed to keep her wits about her at all times in order to remember who she was supposed to be so that those around her would never suspect who she really was.

Isaac cajoled Charlotte into returning above deck with him and most of the other idle midshipmen after supper. Since Ned had taken over command of
Audacious,
he had allowed the off-duty midshipmen and officers to idle on deck for an hour in the evenings. They soon discovered Lieutenant Duncan played the fiddle quite well and knew virtually every sea chantey the others asked him to play. In fact, it became a competition between the lieutenants and midshipmen to see who would be the first one to come up with a song Duncan did not know.

After singing along with two tunes she had recently learned, Charlotte slipped away from the boisterous group and moved toward the bow of the ship. In the forecastle a tall, lone figure stood beside the foremast, hands clasped behind his back. Charlotte stopped, her shoe making the tiniest scraping sound against the deck. The silhouetted figure turned, revealing it to be Lieutenant Martin.

“Please forgive me, sir. I had no wish to disturb you.”

“Are you not enjoying the music this evening, Mr. Lott?” Martin relaxed his stance and smiled at her.

“I find I am not in the mood for such lively activity tonight.” Charlotte hesitated, but at a signal from Martin she climbed up onto the forecastle deck to stand beside him, staring out over the dark waters beyond the bow of the ship. She mimicked his stance, hands clasped behind her back, feet shoulder-width apart, knees easy. Over the past month she had become so accustomed to the pitch and roll of the ship that she had almost forgotten what it felt like to stand on solid ground.

From the corner of her eye she caught the motion of Martin’s nod. “I wondered if you might not be like me. While I occasionally enjoy the
music and the laughter, I also have to find times when I can be alone and quiet. I have discovered over the years how hard this is to do on a large ship at war, but it is necessary for me. And I have learned to recognize and take advantage of the opportunities when they come. It can be hard though, trying to explain the need for solitude to others.”

Charlotte had never given it any consideration, but upon further reflection she now realized that, like Martin, she had always sought out a quiet hour before or after a dinner party or ball at which she was sure to be surrounded by talking, laughter, music, and noise.

Although this would have been the perfect time to strike up a conversation with Martin and learn more about him, to break the silence between them would have been as unthinkable as laughing in church.

Though she could still hear it clearly, standing here, gazing out over the dark water seemed to mute the irksome noise the rest of the officers were making. And when it died away, her ears rang from the lack of sound. The sound of
Audacious
cutting through the waves filled the void. Charlotte closed her eyes, breathed deeply of the salt air, and relaxed more fully than even the grog had coaxed her to do earlier. The midshipman who was assigned the duty of the forecastle this watch reported himself to Lieutenant Martin and moved forward to resume watching for any signal from the ship ahead of them.

“I do believe that is your signal to return to the cockpit, Mr. Lott.” Martin looked down at her with an almost apologetic smile.

“Thank you for allowing me to pass the hour with you, Lieutenant Martin.” Charlotte touched the rim of her hat in salute.

Martin pinched the forepoint of his hat between thumb and forefinger. “Any time, Mr. Lott.”

The confined space of the cockpit served to both amplify and muddle the noise the midshipmen had been making on deck. Once again, it seemed no one had been able to stump Lieutenant Duncan. Charlotte slipped into her berth and started to remove her coat, but in the dim light cast by the few candles out on the table, she realized something was amiss.

She stood very still and looked around to try to figure out what had caught her attention as being out of place. There. The lid to her sea chest was slightly ajar, with what looked like the cuff of her other jacket sticking out. She reached down to lift the lid, but took her hand away when it came in contact with something wet. She turned her palm toward the light coming from the main part of the cockpit. A dark smudge stained her fingertips. She sniffed it—ink.

She dropped to her knees and, touching only the corners of the lid, opened the chest. She could not see well, but it was easy enough to tell that her clothing was no longer neatly folded, as she had left it. Someone had been rifling through her belongings. Fear tightened like a fist in her chest. She ran a mental inventory of the trunk’s contents: extra clothing, stockings, shoes, stationery—which she had been drawing on, not writing anything someone might use against her—her log book, and a few personal items, such as a plain comb, a sliver of unscented soap she had acquired on one of her many secret outings in Portsmouth, and…

She dug down under her clothing and stationery box. Finding the stack of thick cotton rags and fabric belt still neatly folded together, seemingly untouched, she rocked back on her heels with a sigh. Though whoever rummaged through her trunk might not know what they were for, their mere presence would raise questions.

She closed the trunk and stood, touching her hand to the small of her back. Not only did tucking her journal under her waistband help keep her pants up, it assured her nothing she wrote in it would fall under unfriendly eyes.

She stepped out of her cubicle and took one of the lighted candles from the table. Its glow illuminated the mess inside her trunk. Before she went on duty, she had set her ink bottle down on top of the folded clothes, thinking she would return it to the stationery box tonight, in which it was unlikely to be overturned. Only she knew the cork had a crack that allowed the bottle to leak when turned on its side.

Tomorrow she would discover the responsible party through careful observation. The culprit’s hands would bear evidence against him.

She slept for a couple of hours before reporting for the middle watch at midnight. As expected, all remained quiet during the darkest time of night, when everyone except the watch on duty was asleep. At least, she hoped all of the other midshipmen were asleep and not rummaging in her trunk again. Perhaps when the intruder realized he’d upset the ink bottle, he’d stopped shortly after beginning his invasion of her privacy.

Upon returning to the midshipmen’s berth, she discarded her jacket and waistcoat, climbed into her hammock, and fell almost immediately to sleep.

Less than four hours later, she grudgingly rolled out of bed at the “out or down” call and the shrill piping of the “hammocks up” whistle. She pulled her hammock down from its moorings and folded it in preparation to stow it, along with the rest of the crew’s, in the netting that lined the sides of the ship. Yawning, she stepped into her shoes and bent to retrieve her waistcoat from the floor where it had slipped off of her sea chest.

A crash and several yelled oaths snapped her upright again.

“Watch what you’re doing there!”

“What’s the idea?”

“You’ve ruined my log book!”

Forgetting her vest and coat, Charlotte stepped out of her cubicle—and her heart sank. More than half the midshipmen stood back from the table splattered in varying degrees with ink stains. At least eight boys had ink on their hands.

Kent was on duty, so he could not have been personally responsible for the act that eliminated the clear identification of the boy who had violated Charlotte’s privacy. It also meant he was unlikely to be the one who had entered her cubicle and gone through her belongings. He would not be able to explain ink stains on his hands when everyone knew he was not here for the “accident.”

She returned to her area and finished dressing. Now it would be hard for her to go to Lieutenant Gardiner and tell him of the incident. With no way to positively mark the guilty party, with more than half
of the midshipmen now bearing the mark of guilt, and with nothing missing as far as she could determine, complaining of it would only bring her undue attention.

The sea chest that locked had been just five guineas more. She should have ignored the clerk when he told her only lieutenants bought those.

Securing her journal into the waistband of her pants, she buttoned her waistcoat and jacket and joined the others—who had cleaned up the spilled ink—for breakfast.