Georgana's Secret

by Arlem Hawks

  “Thank the heavens.”

  “Would you like something for the pain?” she asked, thinking of their brandy stores. He gave one curt shake of his head.

  “Please, sir.” Papa. “You’re hurting.”

  “I will not put you in danger.”

  Georgana rested her forehead against her knees. Of all the times to risk revealing their secret, now was it. What crew member would think twice about a wounded, delirious captain talking about his daughter?

  Papa lay silent for several minutes, and she hoped he was dozing. Soon she’d need to go for a blanket. His skin was hot and slick now, but she didn’t want him to catch cold in the chill of the orlop.

  “Peyton is commanding?” her father asked.

  “Yes.” Walking the same deck where Papa had suffered his wound. She murmured a prayer, not knowing if it would ascend past the carnage of the upper decks. Please, keep him from harm.

  Dominic whirled as Moyle met him on the quarterdeck. “Gather a boarding party for the Intelligence.”

  The second lieutenant glanced at the floundering ship off the larboard rail. Its crew frantically hacked at the grappling hooks slowly pulling them toward the Deborah. “She hasn’t struck her colors, sir.” Indeed, the French flag still waved behind the Intelligence.

  Dominic clapped him on the shoulder. “She will soon. Or you will do it for her.”

  “Yes, sir,” Moyle said through a grin.

  “Once we silence those guns, we’ll double our efforts on the St. Germain.” The French frigate had drifted out of range to regroup but kept launching periodic shots. Geysers exploded up from the sea around them. “What say you to a pair of prizes for the return journey?”

  The lieutenant’s smile widened. “I don’t think even Jarvis could frown at that.” Moyle hurried away to gather his party, and Dominic turned to the mizzenmast. A cannonball had taken a bite from the side of the mast and wreaked havoc in the rigging. Mr. Byam stood aloft, untangling and fixing the lines. Too much pull in one direction or another could topple the already weakened spar. They could sail with two masts, but not well.

  “Hold her steady, Mr. Fitz,” Dominic said as he passed by the wheel. The coxswain nodded.

  Dominic could practically taste the victory. The Deborah had sustained damage in the hour and a half since the first broadside, but much of it had been to her masts, yards, and rigging—all of it difficult to repair, but none of it a threat to the immediate safety of the ship. The St. Germain, however, had taken several hard hits at the waterline. Her pumping crews would be working frantically to clear the flooding.

  Just as the sun burst up from the horizon, he ordered men to fire a volley at the St. Germain from the long-range cannons. The sailors cheered. The deck shook as the long guns let go their loads. At least one shot hit the St. Germain.

  Yes, they would win the day. Dominic brushed a trickle of sweat from his cheek. When he glanced down, a smear of blood lined his hand. Blasted debris.

  “She’s coming back around!”

  To his right, the enemy frigate pulled in, as though on course to collide with the Deborah. “Ready a broadside,” he said, then turned to the opposite rail. The captain of the Intelligence raced aft and pulled down the French flag in surrender as Moyle and his party climbed aboard with pistols raised.

  A midshipman ran up beside Dominic. “The St. Germain is leaving, sir.”

  He swore. The French ship intended to turn tail, bold enough to start a row but not honorable enough to finish it. They couldn’t cut the Intelligence off and give chase now, not with Moyle and his group aboard. The St. Germain lumbered just out of range of the Deborah’s eighteen-pounders, tacking south. She rode much lower in the water than she had almost two hours ago.

  “Fire the long guns until she’s out of their range.”

  On the main deck of the Intelligence below, the captain handed his sword over to Moyle. The decimated crew drew ­together behind him, their red-headed pretender nowhere in sight. Dominic couldn’t believe he’d mistaken them for Americans. They were almost as obviously French as Georgana was female. The corner of his lip curled.

  The popping of faraway cannon signaled that the St. Germain hadn’t quite given up, or at least the privateer wanted to leave behind as much destruction as possible. It was to be a battle of the long guns until she finished tacking and moved away.

  Dominic strode toward the starboard rail. They’d send their own parting gift. “Ready the—”

  An ear-splitting crack cut off his words. Wood flew in all directions, and he threw up his hands to shield his face. The St. Germain wasn’t finished. He tried to draw breath to shout his command again.

  No air came. Only blinding pain, searing through his side.

  Dominic hit the deck, splinters digging into his palms. His lungs beat uselessly as they fought to pull in the sweet ocean air. Roaring in his ears drowned out the crash that shook the deck beneath his hands and knees.

  A little air seeped in. Not enough. He gasped, digging his fingers into the sawdust that coated the deck.

  Distant shouting circled him. The stabbing agony in his side wouldn’t let the words through the haze. The deck jumped beneath him. Feet pounded. A cold wind touched his face. He tried to draw it in, but it wriggled away.

  He let his head drop to the rough planks beneath his quaking limbs.

  One thought flashed through his clouded brain. Georgana. Where was Georgana?

  Chapter 28

  Shouts of victory reverberated through the orlop deck as Georgana scurried for the captain’s storeroom to retrieve the brandy. It had taken almost an hour to convince her father to take something for the pain.

  Deep inside, Georgana wavered. The sight of her father collapsed on the deck, shaking from the ache of the missing arm, still muddied her mind.

  Yelling carried down the ladder, and several men heaved someone to the orlop as she passed. She darted down the corridor toward the storeroom, gaze trained on the ground.

  More wounded. More dead. She’d seen enough already to haunt her the rest of her life.

  Her legs wobbled as she moved. The lantern pulled down on her hand as though it held a cannonball instead of a candle. She sighed, attempting to quiet her skittish heart in the shadows of the orlop. All would end soon if the shouts of triumph could be believed. In no time they would have the captain’s cabin restored, and she could begin properly caring for Papa.

  She stopped outside the storeroom door and pulled the key from her pocket. The marine usually on guard was above with his comrades, defending the deck. She held the lantern up before she entered the storeroom, disrupting a rat nibbling something on the floor. Her footsteps sent the rat scampering away.

  The memory of Peyton’s wide eyes when the rat had jumped out of his sea chest relieved some of her anguish. She moved to the back of the room to the meager store of bottles nestled in straw-filled boxes. No doubt they owed this victory to the first lieutenant.

  She longed to see him, to gain strength from that reassuring grin. But he wouldn’t have time for her now or any time soon. If the enemy ships had surrendered, he would be receiving swords, inspecting the vessels, giving orders for detaining privateers, and organizing crews to man the prize ships.

  Georgana resealed the box and made for the door with one of the bottles. There were many things one could count on while at sea—storms, repairs, battles, deaths, rats. She would not regret leaving these behind. But what of Peyton? Could she stay if it meant a little more time with him? The thought spun through her mind as she cautiously made her way back to her wounded father. She had already made the decision to return to normal life—how could she rethink it now?

  An officer left the carpenter’s shop as she approached. Georgana hurried forward, but the lantern revealed Moyle’s rigid face instead of Peyton’s. The young man opened his mouth as if to speak but clos
ed it and moved past before she could salute. They had all seen and experienced so much today.

  She entered and knelt beside her father, offering him the bottle. His eyes were open but distant, and his jaw was set.

  “Here, take this,” she said.

  Papa didn’t move. He didn’t look at her. “Lord Nelson went back to the quarterdeck after losing his arm.”

  She sighed. It would do no one any good to compare themselves to a foolhardy, ambitious vice admiral like Nelson.

  “I am not Lord Nelson.”

  Georgana pulled the stopper from the bottle for him. “I know of only one who was.”

  “I suppose we cannot all be heroes.” His remaining hand closed lightly over hers on the cool glass. She had never seen him so devoid of energy. Even after Mama’s death.

  “You are a hero,” she insisted. He had saved her from his mother’s clutches, after all. From living a life alone. A life at sea had plenty of troubles, but he’d brought her into it out of love.

  He looked up. In the dim light, torment swirled through his bloodshot eyes. “The greatest heroes are always taken the soonest.”

  Georgana swallowed as her father laid his head back and turned it away from her. She didn’t press him to drink again. His words had sent a chill through her she could not shake.

  A few hours passed before they could return to the captain’s cabin. When Georgana had settled her father in his chair, he mumbled a request for a jacket. She located his undress coat and gingerly pulled its sleeve over the stub of his arm. She wondered if the limb would ever be of any use to Papa again.

  “Are you certain you want to wear this?” she asked. “It seems you would be more comfortable without your coat.”

  He answered with a glare, so she continued helping him into it. She understood. Normalcy had been wrenched from him. Pain and the unknown had been left in its place. Now he grasped for anything that could return him to some semblance of the Captain Woodall of yesterday.

  Georgana had searched for Peyton as she helped her father back to his cabin, but the lieutenant must have had many tasks to oversee. She would find him after her father was resting. The thought of confronting him about his pointed looks last night made her stomach fidget.

  Papa leaned heavily against the table, an untouched mug before him. She wanted so badly for him to drink it, to take away a bit of the hurt. But he wouldn’t. For her. His refusal made her want to reveal her secret to everyone on board, just so he could find some relief.

  At a tap on the door, her father straightened. He pasted on a mask of stern strength that nearly broke her.

  Lieutenant Moyle strode in and saluted. Strange that Peyton had sent him to make reports twice. A surgeon’s mate followed behind him on spindly legs. Red-brown stains snaked up his previously white sleeves.

  “We’ve secured the Intelligence, sir,” Moyle said with a slight tremor in his voice. “The St. Germain is nearly out of sight.”

  “We can only pray she won’t be back,” her father grumbled.

  “She rode low in the water and had several yardarms missing. She’ll need repairs before she can challenge a bigger ship again.”

  Papa nodded. The skin around his eyes pulled tight in hidden pain. “What are the casualties?”

  “Thirteen dead, including Mr. Byam. He was aloft when the mizzenmast came down.” Her father ran a hand across his brow. With both Byams gone, the ship had no boatswain. When they refitted the mast, the carpenter or yeoman of the sails would have to sort out the rigging. That would delay their journey.

  “And wounded?” Papa asked.

  Moyle looked to the surgeon’s mate. The young man stepped forward. “Thirty-two, sir, but several are just holding on to life.”

  “How is Peyton?”

  Georgana’s head snapped around. “Peyton?” Father avoided her stare.

  “Not well, sir. He isn’t lucid, and Mr. Étienne doesn’t think he has long.”

  Peyton? Wounded? No, it couldn’t be. They were wrong. She wanted to run to the surgeon’s mate, make him explain, confess to misspeaking, but her feet stayed paralyzed. It can’t be. It can’t be. The spiraling words in her head numbed everything.

  The surgeon’s mate adjusted his spectacles and ducked his head. “Poor man keeps calling for Georgiana, whoever that is.”

  Georgana’s heart froze. She clenched her teeth against a sob that threatened to tear free. She pulled at her neckcloth, trying to still her anguish. He wasn’t calling for her. The surgeon’s mate said Georgiana, not her less-common name of Georgana.

  “Are you certain he wasn’t calling for George?” her father asked in a low, distressed voice. She almost couldn’t hear him in the fog that had encircled her.

  The young man cleared his throat. “I distinctly heard Georgiana. Perhaps a sister or a sweetheart.”

  The lady Peyton thought of when he sang at dinner? The memory of his soft gaze was too much. Georgana’s legs wobbled. She reached a hand out to her father’s chair. Whomever he called for, he’d never see her again.

  “We’ve moved him back to his cabin in hopes he’ll be more comfortable there,” Moyle said. “It won’t be long.”

  At his words, she shot from the room, Papa calling after her. Her pounding feet and racing heart muffled the shouts. She slammed into a blue officer’s coat. Jarvis. She shoved past, not stopping to listen to his protests.

  Peyton. She needed to get to Peyton.

  Her feet hardly touched the rungs of the ladder on her way down to the messdeck. She slipped on the final rung and fell to the floor, her knees cracking against the wood. The still fresh wounds on her palms screamed as they pushed her back to her feet.

  Peyton.

  Chapter 29

  Georgana jerked to a halt at the door, Étienne’s stocky form blocking her view of the cabin. She willed her feet to carry her inside. Trepidation countered her longing to run to Peyton. What would she see when Étienne turned?

  “Ah, George. There you are.” Étienne’s hoarse voice grated against the raw uncertainty she felt. The Frenchman hadn’t moved enough to provide her a view of the lieutenant.

  She could see only his lifeless hand, so pale it blended with the blanket covering the cot.

  “I wondered when I would see you.” The surgeon motioned her over. When she didn’t move, he crossed the tiny cabin and took her hand. She let him pull her in, step after faltering step to stand at Peyton’s side.

  The lieutenant lay propped at an odd angle, his chest and arms uncovered. A bubbling splotch of blood ran from a deep gash the length of a finger and seeped into the pile of bandages sitting beneath his ribs. His ashen face clenched weakly.

  And his breath. Each rattling, whistling gasp slashed at her heart.

  “I think you should seat yourself,” Étienne said gently. He removed a lantern from the stool by the bed.

  Georgana dropped to her knees. Her hand wound through Peyton’s. She found no warmth or strength in the icy touch.

  “What happened?” she managed to choke out.

  “A shard from the mizzen struck him,” the surgeon said. “It pierced through his coat to his lung and hit his arm as well. I have removed all cloth and splinters, and I have stitched up the arm, but . . .” He sighed. The weight of his hand rested on her shoulder. “There is not so much a doctor can do in this situation. I have leaned him to the side, to keep the blood from getting into the hurt lung. I think, however,” he squeezed her shoulder, “you should make your farewells. We have little time left with our lieutenant.”

  Georgana’s body shook. She ground her teeth to keep in the torrent. But waves do not like walls, and just as the sea broke down their walls of sand in the bay, her sobs surged through her defenses. She lowered her head, her brow brushing Peyton’s arm.

  It couldn’t be the end. She’d prepared for separation, but not this.
She had consoled herself knowing he would be on his beloved ocean, taking in the fresh, briny air as though his life depended solely on the sea. Now he would never again glimpse the roaring tide or stars freckling the night waters.

  “I must see to the other wounded,” Étienne whispered. She hardly heard him. “I shall return when I can.” His footsteps drifted away. Her sobs and Peyton’s rasping were the only noises that sounded in the wardroom.

  Georgana pulled herself up. She inched toward the head of his cot, which softly swayed with the rocking of the ship. Her hand came to rest over his heart. His faint pulse echoed Étienne’s warning. So little time.

  Her fingers traced up to his face, smoothing along the line of his jaw. For a moment his eyes fluttered, and she held her breath, but they did not open.

  “Peyton?” she murmured. “Can you hear me?”

  There was no movement, only the haggard rise and fall of his chest that seemed to wane with each repetition. “I wish I had known you under different circumstances. Perhaps we could have . . .” The lump in her throat did not let her continue the thought. “I only wish I could have seen your smile once more.” She brushed the tip of a finger across the corner of his mouth.

  She leaned her head against the side of his cot. Finally she had found someone to make life brighter, only to have that light snuffed out before her eyes.

  Georgana didn’t know how much time passed, how long she watched his paling face, before Étienne returned.

  “How is he?”

  “Fading.” She should be worrying about her father, but she didn’t have the strength to go above. Her will was broken. She would stay with Peyton until the last, even if it meant days.

  The surgeon took Peyton’s uninjured arm at the wrist and pulled out a watch. He nodded grimly. “Soon.”

  The word battered through her mind. The surgeon’s simple response cut through her more than his mate’s announcement had in the captain’s quarters. She thought she’d understood, but now she withered under the glaring reality.