by Kate Dolan
If that were the case, she could almost forgive him for taking her and the others from the inn. And they weren't being held as slaves, after all, because they would receive a share the same as the other men who had not been, as the seamen said, “pressed into service.”
Caroline was still not sure what they would receive a share of, however. Captain Talbot had said they would be chasing pirates. The ship carried several cannon, and they had practiced using them. So, if they were going to fire cannon at the ships they chased, they would surely hit them and they would sink. What use was a share of a sunken ship?
Still, he was captain and everyone accepted the promise of a share without question, so she assumed he knew what he was doing.
“Not finished there, boy?” An abrasive voice broke into her reverie. Caroline looked up at the sailor who spoke—not Hardey, fortunately—and then down at the section of the deck she was scrubbing rather ineffectually. Of course, she wasn't finished! They never finished scrubbing the deck.
“Wipe up there,” the abrasive voice ordered, “then go below and help the cook.”
Caroline looked at her bucket wistfully. She disliked scrubbing the deck, but at least out here she enjoyed the fresh air and felt the comfort of a vast sky overhead. Down below it was all stink and darkness, and she wanted to have as little as possible to do with the food.
But she knew better than to balk at an order. As a ship's boy, she had to take orders from everyone. At least, if she had to be subjected to the orders of all men on the ship, she would rather it be as a servant boy than as an unprotected lady.
Below, she found the cook needed some assistance with the duff pudding for the midday meal. He was trying to pour flour from a cask into a small sack, but his hands shook so badly he could hardly hold the cask and bag in any kind of proximity for pouring. A frighteningly large fire burned on the small stove, sending hungry tongues of flame licking upward toward the exposed wood above.
“Dinnertime soon, and the cap'n must have his duff.” Bretton, the cook, laughed as he tried to aim the stream of flour into the bag Caroline now held open for him. “And it's not ready!” He laughed again. “One for me, one for the bag.” He splashed a prodigious amount of some strong-smelling liquor from an open bottle into his mouth and then into the sack in Caroline's hands. Then he chopped off several small pieces of suet and added them to the mixture. He took the sack from her in one hand, picked up the bottle in the other and leaned against the bulkhead.
“Fetch a cup of water from the open one,” Bretton instructed merrily. Caroline followed his vague gesture and found the open cask of water to which he referred. She saw two others sealed. Surely, the water in them would not be usable much longer, and then they would have to head for a port. She hoped it would be a big town where she might be able to obtain some proper clothes before beginning her return trip to Elkridge.
After she carefully delivered her dipper-full of water, Bretton knocked it into the bag, spilling about half, and sent her for another by gesturing with the liquor bottle. The gesture brought the bottle halfway to his mouth, and he completed the journey with a smile.
When the rest of the water had been added, he handed the bag to Caroline and attempted to tie it closed with a piece of dirty twine. It was an agonizingly slow process, and after about the seventh attempt, Caroline sighed in exasperation.
The cook yanked the sack from her arms and held out the grimy piece of twine. “So, you can do better?”
With relief, she took the twine and tied a neat knot, closing the bag securely.
Bretton scoffed and pulled at the knot, undoing it completely. Caroline's pride at finally having been able to accomplish a task evaporated before she could even swallow it.
“A granny knot, you ninny,” Bretton jeered. “If ya can't even tie a square knot, you don't belong on a ship.” He shoved the bag back into her hands and knotted it with the same motions she had used.
It was her turn to jeer. “Look here, now…” But the knot stayed fast while she tugged on it, though it looked just like the simple knot she had tied a moment before.
“Ooh, it's magic.” The cook began a strange sort of dance, amused at her confusion over the knot. He shook the bag a couple of times and dropped it into the kettle of boiling water over the roaring fire.
“Well, you'd better watch that fire, anyway,” Caroline muttered, knowing Hardey had warned the cook at least once to keep the flames lower. Maybe she could somehow draw the first mate's attention to Bretton's infraction. After all, even an inexperienced sailor like her realized fire was a serious danger aboard a wooden vessel. She would only be protecting her own interests if she did something that got the cook in trouble for his carelessness.
After a few moments' meditation, however, she could think of no pretense to lure the first mate into the galley.
“Nature calls,” she announced, using the ever-handy excuse to get out. Once away from Bretton's ears, she would find Hardey and tell him the cook wanted him to see the rations he'd just opened.
Just as she got to the ladder to the hatch, however, she came face-to-face with Captain Talbot. Should she say something to him about the fire or the drunken cook?
She looked into his eyes and found she could say nothing whatsoever. They were brown eyes, a warm, rich brown fringed by dark curling lashes. She stood stock-still and completely forgot where she was going or why.
He seemed to be staring back at her, too. Their gazes remained locked together in the dim light, and Caroline felt as though it took a great deal of effort to breathe.
“Were you sent to fetch me, boy?” the captain asked.
Here was her chance.
She said nothing.
Gesturing toward the water dipper in her hands (which she had intended to return and had completely forgotten about), the captain asked if the cook wished to see him.
Here was the perfect chance to advise the captain about the dangerous fire and get even with Bretton for his boorish behavior. When she opened her mouth and tried to form words, though, no sound came out. She looked down in embarrassment.
And now the captain would leave! She'd lost her chance and looked like a fool in the bargain.
But he surprised her. “Are you well, boy?” the captain asked gently, placing his hand on her shoulder. “These past few days have taken much from you, I know.”
His voice warmed her like the spring sun. He cared about how she felt! As she thrilled at the touch of his fine hand on her shoulder, he removed it and gave her a pat on the head.
“It will all seem second nature soon.” He smiled. “And then the hunt will begin, and we'll all have some good fun!” With that, he turned and ascended the ladder with easy grace.
Caroline was on her way back to the galley to return the dipper when shouting and commotion erupted on the deck above. The few sailors who had been resting or working below quickly dashed by her and up the ladder.
“Land ho!”
Chapter Nine
Josiah pulled away from the uncomfortable something that was shaking him awake. It was too early to get up, still dark and the air a bit damp and cool. Sleep had eluded him for so long, and now that he finally had it, it was being wrested away. His haggard mind felt the injustice most keenly.
“Sir, you said you was to leave at half-five. ’Tis past that now.” Betty scowled at him from the side of the doorway as she spoke.
Ellis stood next to his bed, still shaking his arm. “She asked me to accompany her, sir. It being your bedroom and all.”
Half-past five? In the morning? Why on earth would he have asked to be awakened so early? Then his gaze landed on the open chest waiting by the door. The Canary was to leave with the early tide this morning.
Josiah sprang from the bed with uncharacteristic speed. After the remarks Charles Carter made in parting yesterday, he was most anxious to show he was not afraid to make this rescue venture. Tardiness could be equated with reluctance, if not outright cowardice.
&nbs
p; Josiah was not used to having servants help him dress, but they were there and might as well be made useful. “My waistcoat, Ellis, if you please.” He looked at Betty and thought for a second. “Coffee,” he ordered.
While Ellis reached for the waistcoat, Josiah scooped up his stockings and shoes. What was missing?
“Your breeches, sir?” Ellis handed those to him along with the waistcoat.
“Very good.” Josiah realized that the process of dressing was improved little, if at all, by the presence of an audience. “That will be all for now.” He nodded toward the door.
His hands twitched slightly as he knotted his cravat; it was certainly due to the difficulty of dressing by candlelight. Where was his hat? Downstairs. Good. He was ready for his coffee. He descended the stairs with self-assurance.
“Have you anything else to add to your chest, sir?” Ellis asked.
Josiah's sudden burst of confidence faded, and his mind began to race. Did he have everything? He stepped into the library. Did he need any of his papers? He hadn't even looked through his library to see what personal effects he might need to take with him. A sense of panic welled up inside of him. Taking time to go through the papers would certainly make him late to the ship.
Then, as he thought of Charles calmly waiting on the Canary, the confusion and worry suddenly subsided. He was done packing.
“No. You may lock it and load it into the skiff. I'll be along momentarily.”
"Coffee and breakfast 're ready, sir, " Betty hollered.
Josiah stepped back into the warmth of the main room and eyed the mug of coffee eagerly, casting only a cursory glance at the plate of fried mush, bacon and toast. He wasn't hungry, but he remembered enough of the horrid food on the voyage from London to realize this might be his last chance at a decent meal for many months. Although he had never really considered Betty's cooking to be much to begin with.
Josiah poked at the burnt edges of his mush, wondering if the insides were even warm. Who knew when he would again taste a hot breakfast or drink real coffee? He drank a long swallow, even trying to enjoy the sensation of burning his throat. Then he looked around the room.
He had always hated this house. So small, so crude, though by local standards it ranked above average in size and nicety of finish. All of his interior walls were plastered—downstairs, at least—and the trim and cornices in the main room were finely carved. With the furniture he had brought with him, the house took on a local brand of elegance, and most visitors seemed duly impressed.
He sighed and looked back at his breakfast. The house still seemed to him a shabby cabin, meaner than the cottage of the poorest laborer back home. Until recently, cooking had been done in the best room! Perhaps it would not be so dreadful after all if he were to return from his “adventure” to find the house decayed or burnt to the ground. He could start over and build a proper house. Or he could return home.
Josiah had not seriously thought of returning to England before, but it began to seem like a viable option now. Both Eleanor and Richard, his older sister and brother, had indicated in their latest letters that his uncle, Robert Throckmorton, had taken ill. Eleanor even noted he was not expected to recover. Uncle Robert now had no male heirs, since his son John had himself died of an illness last winter. His estate was entailed to the males of the family, and so would pass to Richard.
It would be most natural for Josiah to return and manage his uncle's Hampshire estate on Richard's behalf. He did not know if his brother would agree, of course. The estate in Hampshire was not as substantial as the main Throckmorton estate, but it was substantial enough, and Richard enjoyed exercising control over people and property. Probably, if he did allow Josiah to manage it, he'd give such minute instructions as to leave him feeling absolutely powerless. But Josiah would at least have a comfortable house, competent servants and, certainly, a better style of life.
He watched Betty try to shoo three flies out the window opposite.
“Damned buggers, get on there.” She slapped at one on the windowsill then wiped her hands on her apron.
Josiah pushed his breakfast plate away. He tried to savor the last few mouthfuls of coffee but found himself munching on the grounds. In vain he looked around for a clean napkin.
This country was too rough, refinement too rare. Certain aspects of life he had always taken for granted were simply not here. There were no towns to speak of, and no proper roads to reach them had they been there. If he needed a new hat or gloves he could not ride into the haberdashery in town and purchase them; he had to place an order with his agent in London and wait perhaps a year to get them.
The appeal of the civilized life back in England grew stronger as the likelihood of losing everything he had gained on this frontier loomed ahead in the form of the two-masted brig waiting in Elkridge Landing.
Josiah set down his coffee mug and stood. It was time to go. What did he have to lose, after all? His overseer would make sure the crop of tobacco was harvested, cured and prized correctly, and that was the only valuable asset on the plantation.
Actually, though, he did have several valuable slaves and servants with useful years left, and these might be gone when he returned. The furniture, plate and books, too, were quite valuable when he thought about it. But no one in the immediate neighborhood could steal his household effects, of course, because they would be recognized were they to show up in someone else's house.
“Well, Betty, I am off. Please give my farewell to Priscilla and remember that you are to see Ellis for your instructions.” Josiah smiled curtly at her, picked up his coat and walked out, trying to give the door a confident slam behind him.
His thoughts, however, did not sound with the same confidence. In what was certain to be a lengthy absence, his goods could be moved and sold some distance away. He imagined Betty and the others dividing his belongings and scattering into the hills.
In the light that was just starting to break through the trees, Josiah could see the tobacco in the fields, raising full, fragrant leaves toward the sky. The sight of the dead hulks of girdled trees, pointing upward like decayed fingers, nearly made him shudder. He paused for just a second then continued down the path to the river.
The sound of his feet crunching on stones seemed uncommonly loud in the early quiet. A sudden snort made him jump slightly, but it was just one of the pigs. He could dimly see it chasing one of its fellows into the brush. Would the servants butcher and eat them the moment his ship set sail?
Similar thoughts plagued Josiah all the way to the Landing. Ellis rowed in silence; Josiah pictured his skiff lying at the bottom of the river, rotten and full of holes. He could imagine, on his return, not even being able to find his plantation, with the pier rotted beyond recognition and no sign of habitation visible from the water.
When he ran out of property to destroy in his siege of mental devastation, Josiah turned to predicting the damage that was sure to be inflicted on his person by this adventure. Before they even reached the high seas, the diet of awful ship's food would shrink him to the size of a beggar, and he would probably get scurvy and lose his teeth.
Every day during his passage from England he had examined his face in a small mirror, peering anxiously to detect any signs of illness. He had frequently scanned the sky for clouds and tried to keep attuned to any change in the wind. If the ship were to start pitching wildly, he had not been sure if he should go below to keep from being washed overboard or stay on deck and make ready to jump before the vessel could be sucked under the waves.
The more Josiah thought back on those memories and the anxious days of the crossing, the more he grieved. He had forgotten how truly miserable he had been on that ship. And now he was heading out to sea again to chase after dangerous men.
He felt rather than saw his boat strike the dock. Ellis stood a little too quickly, and the skiff rocked violently back and forth while he struggled to tie it fast. After a pause and an almost imperceptible sigh, Josiah stood and steadied himse
lf to make the great step onto the dock. He heard grunts and scraping sounds behind him as Ellis struggled to move his chest of goods from the bottom of the open boat up to the dock. Josiah did not turn around but merely continued his plodding progress toward the waiting ship.
“Good morning, Mr. Throckmorton,” Charles Carter hailed from the quarterdeck as he approached.
Josiah said nothing until he had walked up the gangway onto the ship, traversed the length of the main deck and come to stand at the base of the quarterdeck.
“Good morning, Mr. Carter, Captain Johnson,” he said quietly, bowing slightly to each man in turn.
An officer who had apparently been overseeing the last-minute loading of supplies ran up behind him demanding to know his business but stopped mid-sentence after seeing the captain tip his hat in unconcerned greeting.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” the officer said apologetically.
“My luggage.” Josiah gestured back to the unfortunate Ellis, who appeared to be in great danger of tipping off the gangway and into the water with the heavily laden chest. Finally, it hit the deck with a loud thud. The officer looked aghast.
“Your personal luggage, sir? Would these be items wanted on the voyage?”
“Why, certainly, man,” Josiah snapped in reply, “my clothes will be wanted on the voyage!”
“I'm sorry, sir.” The officer glanced toward his captain, who wasn't paying the least bit of attention. “It's just that, well, you are Mr. Throckmorton, are you not?”