Georgana's Secret

by Arlem Hawks

  Chapter 8

  Dominic didn’t expect to find George huddled behind a cannon on the gun deck following afternoon watch. His knees were pulled up to his chest, and his Monmouth cap hung over his eyes. No one on the deck paid him any mind. Most probably couldn’t see him.

  Captain Woodall had kept the boy in the captain’s quarters most of the day following the fight—Dominic assumed to help ease tensions. Word of the fight passed quickly and faded, as it always did. No doubt the only one who remembered now was Fitz, who could still hardly see out of one eye.

  Dominic stopped in front of George. The sound of shoes on wood was hard to mask, but the boy didn’t acknowledge Dominic’s presence. He sat still as stone against the wall, leaning onto the cannon. If Dominic didn’t know better, he would have guessed he was even younger than fourteen at that moment. He looked so small.

  “George?” Dominic nudged George’s shoe. No response.

  Had the captain been more upset than he’d let on? Had he changed his mind and inflicted punishment? “Are you all right?”

  The boy’s hand rose to his cap, then slithered back around his knees. He looked unhurt.

  Perhaps the shame of the incident had put George in this sorry state.

  Dominic sighed and walked to the galley. He knew too well the loneliness of trying to find one’s place at sea. As he entered, the hobbling cook nodded a greeting while stirring up a batch of grog for the impending meal.

  “Might I have a couple mugs of that, Mr. Harold?”

  The cook sent his mate for mugs and filled them with the warm liquid. Dominic thanked him and carefully made his way back to George with the sloshing cups. He sat awkwardly, trying not to spill all over himself.

  “There you are, George.” He tapped the tin mug against the boy’s arm.

  George took the mug, lifting his head enough to cradle the drink in his lap. He stared unseeing at it.

  Dominic needed to make a report, write in the logbook, and prepare for the next day’s gun exercise. But the dejected boy would plague his thoughts unless he tried to help. Dominic drank from his mug. He could spare a few minutes.

  Charlie, the boatswain’s son, walked by, a finger wrapped where a rat had bitten him the other night. A shiver ran up Dominic’s spine. Wretched vermin. Charlie didn’t look their way but continued on to the hatch. The eighteen-pounders secluded them. Enough, he hoped, to get George to speak.

  “Would you like to practice today?” George always came to life when they practiced.

  The boy shook his head. “Captain doesn’t want me to practice anymore.”

  Ah. Well, they couldn’t go against the captain’s orders. Dominic disagreed with the decision, but he would respect it. “Have you been drawing?”

  George flinched. “A bit.”

  “I always wished I had learned to draw. I’d probably rival you with how many pictures of waves I’d make.” Most boys he’d looked after responded well to playful ribbing, but the goading didn’t draw a smile from George. He tried again. “In the absence of talent, I will have to commission you for a piece to brighten my cabin.”

  The boy looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “It’s pencil. There is no color.”

  “Well, to liven my cabin, then.” Dominic leaned his head back against the wood. The sweet music of waves washing across the hull filled his ears. “I do love the sea.”

  “It’s all around us. You can walk up and see it whenever you wish,” George said, his voice pinched.

  “I’d like a picture all the same.” This wasn’t working. The boy still stared into his cup, as though searching for something beyond his reach. “Where are you from, George?”

  “London.”

  “I’ve never been to London. Not the city itself.” He hoped speaking of home would draw the boy out.

  “Lucky, you are.”

  Dominic laughed. “I assume you don’t miss it, then.”

  “Not at all.”

  “And you don’t like the sea.” He winced as he said it. The observation had fallen from his lips before he could think better of it.

  “I . . . do not know how I feel about the sea anymore.”

  Dominic sipped his drink and waited. He sensed more beneath the surface. The boy did not speak again for some time.

  “I wanted nothing more than to go to sea when I was young. I loved my father’s stories, and I wished to be with him. But I fear . . .” The boy swallowed. “I fear I was not born for the sea as my father was.”

  Many boys in the navy, after their eyes were opened to the harshness of sea life, found it not for them. As a midshipman, Dominic had snickered over the boys who left the service. Weaklings, he and his comrades called them. As he grew older, he regretted those sentiments. Now, seeing the toll the navy had taken on George, his resolve deepened. This life seemed to be killing George from the inside. He would find another place for him when they got back to Portsmouth.

  “Did your mother fight to keep you home, as mine did?” Dominic grinned. Many seamen could relate. Mothers somehow knew once they let their boys scramble up the gangplank, their sons were gone. Even if the boys came back unharmed, the navy changed them in irreversible ways. It hardened them or strengthened their unquenchable thirst for adventure. It didn’t make them men. It made them sailors.

  “My mother died just before I went to sea.”

  Dominic didn’t know why the quiver in George’s voice struck his heart. His own father had died not long before Dominic went to sea. But he never cried—at least not for the loss. Little had changed after his father’s death. His mother was still uncared for, but with his father gone, Dominic could do something about it. Or start to. A twelve-year-old just beginning life at sea earned very little money. But he’d tried to make a life for them.

  “What year did your mother die?” Dominic asked.

  “Eighteen hundred and seven.”

  “Was that not also the year the Caroline sank?” Dominic set down his mug, turning toward the boy, who sat paralyzed in place. George’s mother and father had been taken from him in the same year. Dominic felt sick.

  Living this life away from the support of family was hard enough. But knowing someone was at home to welcome him back sustained Dominic when it felt as though no one cared one whit whether he lived or died.

  Dominic put a hand over George’s knee, covering the mismatched buttons on the side. “I’m so sorry, George.” The lad’s knee tensed, as though he wanted to pull away.

  “Why does it concern you?” The pleading words burst from George’s mouth.

  It did not take long for Dominic to find the answer, though he had to dig deep. Deeper than he liked.

  “It took me several years in the navy to find my place. Despite my love for the sea, this life is not for the faint of heart, and I worried I was not cut from the right cloth. I had plenty of men to tell me how to be a seaman, but not many to show me how to be a good man.” He met the boy’s intense gaze and offered a smile. “Not that I put myself forward as the best example. But a boy in the navy can never have too many friends.”

  George set his still full cup down between them and stood. “Thank you, sir.” He trudged back to the captain’s cabin, leaving Dominic alone with the guns and drinks.

  Dominic drew a hand through his hair. It was longer than he liked it. What to do for George? If only he knew how to reach the lad—to show him he had a place, even if it wasn’t at sea.

  Georgana sat by a window at the start of the morning watch. Darkness still swathed the skies, but the stars had begun to wink and fade. In these twilight hours, suspended between the magic of night and truth of day, she felt the most at ease. The whole earth held its breath, waiting for the hope of sunrise.

  When she’d boarded this frigate, she’d practically still been a child. Hidden from Society on Grandmother’s orders, then pulled away fr
om the only world she knew while on the brink of womanhood. She had been unready to marry and eager to go to sea, but she was grown now. The excitement of being on the ocean wore off quickly under the weight of keeping her secret. If she’d stayed at home, she would probably be married. Possibly with a family.

  She traced the panes of the window with her finger. She couldn’t fool herself into believing she deserved respect from her shipmates. Fitz’s heckling revealed what he thought about boys who couldn’t adapt, and most sailors held the same view.

  Her mind wandered back to her conversation with Lieutenant Peyton the day before. What would he think if he knew who she truly was? Would he dismiss her as the child she pretended to be?

  Georgana rose and retrieved her sketchbook. She returned to her chair, flipping through the pages. In the faint light before dawn, she could barely make out her latest attempt at depicting the lieutenant at the bulwark.

  Her father was right. She should be in London, moving forward with her life. Not suspended in adolescence in the middle of the sea. Would Grandmother allow suitors? No doubt she would skip the frivolous courting and shove Georgana headfirst into the hands of the first rich bachelor she met. Would Papa be brave enough to stop such a match? She couldn’t say.

  Georgana slid her fingers lightly across the page. What would it be like to be courted by a man like Lieutenant Peyton? Surely a wondrous experience, with the kindness in those eyes. It did not take great imagining to see them filled with love. They must resemble what they looked like when he laughed, so full of ease and warmth. She’d speak solely in jokes and riddles for the rest of the voyage just to see that joy on his face. And he talked about his mother in such gentle tones. If he adored a wife half as much as he adored his mother, she couldn’t see herself wanting anything more.

  Her fingers halted their progress. Was he already married? No, he had said he wasn’t. But his heart could be taken already. He could be engaged . . . or soon to be engaged.

  She shook the strange disappointment from her mind. Some­one like the lieutenant was all she wanted, not the lieutenant himself. And the only way to get that was to leave this ship.

  Her father’s cot hung still, with the curtains pulled tight. She would have to tell him the time had come to quit this lie. He already sensed her unhappiness. They both knew in their hearts she couldn’t hide from life much longer. But she would not bring it up now. She would wait until their return journey, when they were close to England. That would give them just enough time to plan her quiet escape.

  Papa would return to a normal sea life, free from the burden of secrecy. And she would go back to Grandmother and her sharp tongue. As a young, single woman, there was no other option.

  Georgana took a breath. Until then she would enjoy her last voyage—as she had enjoyed her first few weeks at sea—with her father. And with her friend, Lieutenant Peyton.

  She seized the page with Lieutenant Peyton’s likeness and tore it from the book. Then she crumpled it into a ball, opened the window, and tossed it out. The future and any connected thoughts, good or bad, would wait.

  Chapter 9

  A stiff wind nearly blew Georgana’s cap from her head as she emerged from the hatchway. Lieutenant Jarvis would be pleased with the ship’s pace today. His division could only hope that meant less shouting. Though she did not often participate in maneuvering the ship, she much preferred doing it under Lieutenant Peyton’s energetic but kind command.

  Clouds of sails strained above her, drinking in the incessant wind. Excitement pulsed through the crew, though no one said anything. Along the sides of the upper deck, men coiled lines to prevent them from tangling. They squinted against the late afternoon sun. With winds such as these, they would reach Antigua within the week.

  Lieutenant Peyton stood on the starboard side, talking to the boatswain. He always seemed so alive in his beloved sea air. His smiles shone brighter, and his voice carried more intensity. After the dullness of her father’s melancholy voice, she found the lieutenant’s animation captivating.

  She caught his gaze, and Peyton put a quick end to his conversation with the boatswain. He crossed the deck in a few long strides and greeted her with his customary mussing of her cap, interrupting her salute.

  “I find myself in want of exercise, George.” He nodded up to the web of ropes above them that steadied the mainmast. “Race me up the shroud.”

  Georgana followed the ropes with her eyes from their base up to the platform just above the lowest sail. “I’ve never been aloft.”

  The lieutenant’s brows furrowed. “Three years at sea, and you’ve never been aloft?”

  Her father hadn’t allowed it. She glanced toward the fore­castle, where Papa was holding up various instruments and speaking with the sailing master. He’d sent her below for paper and a pencil to make notes. She hadn’t found his pencil and had to grab her last drawing pencil as a replacement.

  “It’s simple,” Peyton said. “Left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot. You’ll be up in no time.”

  Papa looked intent in his discussion. A climb couldn’t take long, could it? She’d seen men race up the shroud in moments.

  “It won’t be much of a race,” she said, pushing the pencil and scrap of paper deep into her pocket. Peyton chuckled.

  She scrambled after him onto the bulwark where the shroud attached to the side of the ship. Several yards below them, waves beat against the painted sides of the Deborah. It was a long way to fall, with no certainty she could be rescued from the water. Georgana tightened her grip on the outermost line of the shroud.

  “Now, swing yourself around and hold here and here,” the lieutenant instructed. He pointed to the lines for her to use. Her stomach keeled. “Don’t look down. On my word.”

  She threw him a scowl. “That hardly seems fair, sir.”

  His eyes glinted mischievously. “Go!”

  Georgana swallowed, trying to calm her fluttering heart. Left hand, right hand, he’d said. She moved up the ropes and away from the deck below. The wind’s snapping made the shroud quiver.

  Keep going.

  She paused only once, to find the lieutenant’s position. He scrambled up the lines like a spider on its web, faster than many veteran sailors. Already he’d risen nearly to the platform. She re­focused on her own climb. Left foot, right foot.

  At the top, her forearms burned and her legs wobbled. Now to get around the lines and onto the platform. She planted her elbow on the ledge and prepared to push herself up, but Lieutenant Peyton caught her under the arms and hauled her up beside him. She used the mainmast to help her stand, hoping the redness of exertion on her face covered her blush at his touch.

  The lieutenant held one of the lines to steady himself. His chest rose and fell in deep breaths as he gazed out on the endless expanse of waves. Below, her father’s attention was still toward the bow. Despite her fatigue, she itched to get back down.

  “What do you think, George?” the lieutenant asked.

  She lifted a shoulder. “It’s the sea from a different angle.” That earned her a laugh.

  “Shall we go higher?”

  Georgana shook her head, her eyes rising to the next set of lines. This height suited her just fine.

  A young man staggered down from the platform above them. The ropes swung wildly back and forth as he moved. His head lolled forward, hands barely gripping the ratlines. He was going to fall.

  “Lieutenant!” she cried, pointing.

  Peyton turned and caught the youth as he slipped to the platform. It was Charlie Byam. His face was wet with perspiration, and his eyes were unfocused.

  Peyton’s jaw tightened. “We have to get him down.”

  “Ship,” the young man mumbled. “There.”

  “Come, Charlie, let’s get you to Dr. Étienne.” Lieutenant Peyton guided him to the shroud and mounted it. “George, help him d
own. I’ll go first should he fall. You come around beside him.”

  “Ship,” the boatswain’s son whispered again. Georgana glanced behind at the merchant ships to the north. Ship?

  “George, hurry!”

  She grasped the outside line and reached around the shroud with her foot. Her gut leaped at the thought of leaving the safety of the platform. One, two, three. She clawed at the ropes as she swung over. The lines vibrated beneath her.

  “Ship,” Charlie muttered again as Georgana helped him onto the shroud.

  “Watch him,” the lieutenant said.

  A group of sailors noticed their plight and waited at the bottom to catch the sick young man and pull all of them in. Feet firmly on the deck, Georgana darted between the men and avoided crashing into the boatswain coming to fetch his son. She ran for the starboard side and caught herself against the rail.

  She counted the merchant ships. Eleven, twelve . . . thirteen. “Ship!” she shouted. “There’s a ship!”

  Her father spun on the forecastle. He called for his telescope, but she wasn’t there to get it for him. Jarvis hurtled up the steps to the forecastle, extending his telescope to the captain. Seamen joined her on the starboard side. Their muttering rippled the air.

  Light popping cut through the noise. Everyone on deck fell silent, heads swiveling to the captain.

  Her father shoved the telescope back to the second lieutenant. “Corsair!” A French privateer. “How did we not see this until she was right on us?” His snarl reverberated across the deck.

  The boatswain’s whistle screeched. Feet pounded the deck. Men yelled below. Across the water, tiny puffs of smoke appeared around the farthest merchantman.

  A hand grabbed her arm and whipped her around. “Get to the powder room, George.” Her father’s wide eyes spurred her toward the hatchway.

  Two men carrying the boatswain’s son descended before her. His eyes were closed, arms limp. Men poured onto the gun deck, while some continued to the upper deck.