Forgotten Fragrance

by Téa Cooper

  What nonsense!

  Charlotte shivered and crossed her arms over her chest then rubbed her palms up and down her arms before she made her way to her cabin, determined to escape her overactive imagination. All these macabre thoughts of Jamie and the past were flights of fantasy. Marcus was her future and his words earlier were nothing more than attentiveness and concern for her wellbeing. She must count herself lucky he cared for her and look to the future.

  Having tidied her meagre possessions and unpacked her cloak Charlotte threw it over her shoulders and made her way to Marcus’ cabin. She laughed aloud as the ship rolled and bucked against the open ocean and she lurched from one side to the other. A delicious odour wafted past and her stomach rumbled in anticipation. It had been a long time since breakfast.

  Once inside Marcus’ cabin Charlotte chased the papers strewn across the desk by the waves. Her stomach rumbled again. Marcus had said he would take his meals in his cabin but she’d rather eat with the crew if invited. It sounded like a fine idea. She intended to make the most of this trip and she wanted to experience as much of life at sea as possible.

  With a thundering crash the cabin door flew open. Marcus staggered in and collapsed face down onto the bunk. ‘Bucket! Get a bucket, woman.’

  As he heaved his words made sense. Hurriedly pulling the timber pail from below the bunk Charlotte deposited it next to him. He levered himself up on one arm and hung his head over the side, vomiting loudly and expansively.

  Marcus’ skin resembled cold porridge and a slick of sweat covered his crumpled face making his malady more than obvious.

  ‘Oh! I fear you are suffering from seasickness.’

  ‘What rubbish woman! I have been poisoned.’

  Charlotte mopped at his brow with her handkerchief and then leapt aside as he once again stuck his head over the edge of the bunk and gave a watery groan. ‘I don’t believe you have been poisoned. We both ate the same food for breakfast, the bread and…

  ‘Don’t even mention food.’ He heaved again. ‘I will be called to meet my maker before we reach Sydney.’ The stench from the open bucket churned her stomach and Charlotte tried to breathe through her mouth as she took Marcus’ cloak from his shoulders and replaced it blanket-like across his prostrate, whimpering form.

  ‘I doubt you’ll die. It’s simply seasickness. Believe me, it will pass. Let me fetch you some water.’

  He belched and leant over the bucket again. Clamping her lips together Charlotte slipped through the door and made her way into the darkened passageway.

  ‘Whoa! Where d’you think you’re goin’?’ Thick, meaty hands clasped her upper arms and the stench of unwashed flesh enveloped her.

  A long shiver of revulsion shook her from head to toe. ‘Henk! You scared me.’ Her heart pounded, ready to leap right out of her chest. ‘I need water. Marcus…Mr Wainwright is unwell and…

  ‘Cookie!’ Henk’s voice bellowed in the confined space and a blast of rum laden breath wafted into her face. ‘Cookie! Bring water to the Capt’n’s cabin.’

  Henk pressed closer forcing Charlotte back against the cabin door.

  ‘Now. Not yesterday,’ he bellowed, his fetid breath fanning her face.

  Somewhere to her right banging and clattering heralded the arrival of a small man with a flagon in one hand and a pewter mug in the other. He slithered to a halt and stood shuffling from one foot to the other as though unsure which direction to take.

  ‘Here give it to me and get back where you belong. I can smell something burning. Shame it’s not whale meat.’

  Henk grabbed the flagon and cup and shoved them into her hands. ‘Bloody hell. Get out of the way and go and do what you’re meant for.’

  Swallowing back a torrent of words she’d long forgotten Charlotte snatched at the flagon and turned. The confines of the cabin and a seasick Marcus were far preferable to the overwhelming stench of the first mate and his foul, hot breath.

  Marcus lay on his back, his eyes closed and his sweat-soaked hair plastered around his parched face. With his skinny fingers interlaced on his chest he looked as though he belonged in the crypt at St Martin’s where she and Jamie had hidden so many times.

  She poured a small amount of water into the pewter cup. ‘I’ve brought you some water.’ Her whispered words raised nothing more than a pained groan. ‘Try and help yourself. You’ll feel better after a sip of water.’ Sliding her right hand under Marcus’ neck she attempted to lift his head.

  Marcus’ palm connected sharply with her cheekbone. Charlotte reeled backwards. The water swarmed down the front of her dress. Scuttling further back she came to rest only when the solid reassurance of the bulkhead stopped her skid and she regained her balance.

  ‘Leave me, woman. My God will care for me as he sees fit.’ Marcus closed his eyes once more and resumed his crypt-like pose.

  Fingering the rising lump on her cheek Charlotte choked back a sob. By tomorrow she’d have a livid bruise. Without glancing in Marcus’ direction she left the cabin, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Chapter 3

  Christian didn’t have to turn around. A waft of something akin to fresh flowers stirred some long buried memory, piercing for a brief moment the gloom shrouding his past, like rays from the setting sun forcing their fingers down towards the darkening ocean. Charlotte had returned to the deck.

  ‘Catz!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Take the wheel.’

  Leaving the burly seaman standing watch he strolled across the deck. Charlotte stood windward, her body swaying with the movement of the ship. Her hand cradled her cheek, and a dark welt blossomed below her eye against the alabaster of her skin. As he drew closer a single tear escaped her brimming eyes and trailed across the mark.

  ‘You fell. Let me see.’

  ‘I didn’t. Mr Wainwright…he…yes. I fell.’

  Her sigh made him ache and he itched to reach out and pull her close, instead he gently lifted her hand away from her face. The patch of red angry skin displayed the stinging mark of fingers and palm. A clout delivered in a moment’s rage.

  His guts clenched and his vision narrowed honing in on the livid mark. ‘You fell?’

  ‘Yes, against the bunk while I tended Mr Wainwright. It is nothing.’

  It didn’t look like nothing. Too many times in the past he’d received a similar blow. ‘This doesn’t look like a fall…’

  Her pleading eyes begged him not to question and he let his words die. Without the protection of her hand the welt of the palm print was evidence enough. Why would the sanctimonious oaf hit her? The last time he’d seen Wainwright he’d been clutching his belly and heading below decks. A foolish place to suffer seasickness but convincing the idiot landlubber otherwise would be a waste of time.

  Tucking Charlotte’s cloak tighter around her he led her along the deck and out of the wind. He lifted his hand wanting to pull her closer then let it fall as his pity turned to admiration. Though distressed she held her head high and refused to resort to tears. A surge of protectiveness caught him, an emotion he barely recognised. Something akin to rescuing the ship’s cat from the crew. They had flung it at the sails, laughing uproariously as the poor bedraggled animal flew through the air with claws outstretched towards the furled sails. Flying lessons, they’d called it.

  Her petite form rocked as though she found comfort in the motion of the ship. Searching for some way to soothe her pain he lowered the swabbing bucket over the side of the ship and let it fill with seawater, then heaved it back aboard and removed the kerchief from around his neck. Dipping it into the cool water he swirled it around then wrung it out and laid it tenderly against Charlotte’s cheek.

  ‘I can do it, thank you.’ Her chilled hand covered his.

  ‘The cold water will ease the swelling.’

  She nodded and shivered as she held his kerchief against her cheek, and her eyes fluttered closed.

  Unable to tear his gaze away he studied her. Her hair hung down
her back, tugged free by the wind, a mixture of every colour of sand like the pristine beaches of the South Sea Islands. The droplets of water on the smooth skin of her cheek glistened in the sunlight. He followed the line of her throat to the fine golden chain disappearing into the cleft between her breasts. His body tightened as he dragged his gaze back to her face, his heart pounding in his chest when he met her questioning stare.

  ‘What was that?’ The panic in her voice startled him.

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘I thought I heard someone cry out.’

  Christian cast a practised glance around the ship. The sails tugged and tossed in the brisk breeze, Catz stood at the wheel with his eyes firmly fixed on some point on the distant horizon and, despite the fact he had assured the crew Zephyrus was now a trading vessel, young Jinks was latched up the mainmast keeping watch for whales. He turned back to Charlotte.

  ‘No one crying out. I think it is your imagination. The wind.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘I heard someone.’

  ‘The wind in the sails, I’m sure.’

  ‘No. It came from down here, below me. I heard it before. Before I went to the cabin.’

  ‘It’ll be the men below. We are carrying a couple of dozen convicts to Port Albert. They’re going to be building the new wharves.’

  Charlotte swung around and peered down through the hatch below her. ‘You have them below decks? Prisoners?’ She dropped his kerchief from her cheek and pulled her hair back off her face, holding it tightly at the nape of her neck as she turned to him. ‘There it is again. Someone is moaning.’

  ‘They’ll be fine. It’s only a short voyage. They’re well housed and Cookie sees to their rations. We’ll be in Port Albert before they know it.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like men. It sounds like a woman, I can hear a woman crying.’

  ‘No. You are imagining it. They’re all men bound for dockside work.’

  She stood and peered down at the hatch, a perplexed frown creasing her forehead. ‘Are you going to keep the convicts below for the whole voyage?’

  ‘No, of course not. Henk brings them up on deck, weather permitting, in the evening. Once darkness has fallen they’re less likely to try and jump overboard and make their escape.’

  ‘I don’t envy them being imprisoned down there. Can’t you allow them on deck? I know what it’s like.’ She screwed up her nose making the dusting of freckles dance. ‘Damp and stuffy, cramped and unpleasant.’

  A flash of irritation streaked through him and he folded his arms. What right had these passengers to query his cargo? A transport of convicts was as profitable as any other cargo and they were hardly cramped below decks. The hold was all but empty, in readiness for the additional barrels of whale oil they’d take on at Boyd Town. The convicts had all the room they needed and hammocks slung.

  Charlotte handed his kerchief back to him.

  Swallowing his annoyance, he said, ‘Keep it on your cheek, it will help with the swelling.’

  ‘I don’t need it anymore — thank you. I will be fine.’ She made to move, reaching out to steady herself against the hatch and then paused as if she had changed her mind.

  ‘Can I see you back to your cabin?’ Why in God’s name had he said that? He would rather she stayed up on deck in his company and away from the pompous idiot languishing below decks.

  ‘No, I think I shall stay here. I like the motion of the ship and the fresh air.’

  He nodded, relieved she preferred to stay on deck where he could keep an eye on her. ‘I have work to do. Zephyrus is a fine ship but she doesn’t sail herself.’ Begrudgingly Christian left her and made his way to the foredeck where Henk was waving his stubby finger at Catz while paying little or no attention to the course they were meant to be steering.

  ‘Captain Charity!’ Her surprisingly strong voice stopped Christian in his tracks and he turned back. Gazing directly into the setting sun he could make out only her silhouette; she had released her hair and it blew around her face like a halo.

  ‘Those are not men below decks. They are women!’ She stood with her hands on her hips glaring at him.

  He retraced his steps, gritting his teeth against his irritation. ‘They are men. We only carry men. Men from Hobart Gaol assigned to Port Albert. There’s a couple of dozen of them, I told you.’ As fetching as he found Charlotte no one dictated the terms and conditions under which he ran his ship; not Wainwright or some chit of a girl, no matter how attractive. It was plain she was revisiting some former experience, her voyage out to Van Diemen’s Land. Whatever her previous life her behaviour infuriated him. She made a perfect match for the God-bothering fool below decks.

  ‘Listen!’

  Rubbing the back of his neck he slowed and cocked his head to one side, close to the hatch. ‘Nothing. I hear nothing.’ She was turning him into a fool.

  As he spoke a wail, almost a song, swelled and floated up through the lattice hatch cover. Either Jonas’ old stories about dugongs and mermaids had tainted his mind or his passengers had sent him mad. Another stronger and more melodic chorus drifted up into the fresh air.

  ‘Now do you believe me?’ Charlotte’s foot tapped on the deck.

  He nodded. He believed she could hear voices; he could too, although they didn’t belong to women. ‘It’s the timbers straining now we are in open waters distorting the voices of the men.’ His words had a hollow ring and judging by the disparaging look on Charlotte’s face he’d failed to convince her. ‘Let me look and we’ll put this matter to rest once and for all.’

  Stepping past her he rattled the cover of the hatch. Jammed so tight it refused to budge. ‘Henk! Send Windy over with the mallet to release these wedges.’

  While Christian waited he peered into the darkness. The wailing ceased. ‘What’s going on down there? You’ll get your chance at some fresh air when the sun goes down.’

  Charlotte hovered behind him, her impatience scoring his back. ‘Please hurry up and open the hatch, Captain Charity. They sound so miserable and I am certain there are women below.’

  ‘I’m sure there are not. It’s simply your imagination fuelled by your previous experiences.’ He tried to cover his growing annoyance. If he intended making a go of a trading and passenger service he would have to learn how to deal with his customer’s foibles. Maybe Henk was right and he wasn’t cut out to captain a hen frigate. How much experience did he have of women? None, other than those who’d lain on their back with their legs open for a small fee in some of the more dubious ports he’d visited.

  ‘Right! We’ll open the hatch and the matter will be resolved.’ He peered through the lattice down into the black hold, his impatience building. ‘Windy, get a move on. Come and open this hatch!’

  Henk’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘What do you want to do that for? I’ll do it tonight once the sun sets, before they get their rations.’

  ‘I want it done now. Open it up.’

  ‘Haven’t got the mallet.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, man, I’m sick of all this prevaricating.’ As his temper snapped Christian slammed his forearm under Henk’s chin and pinned him to the bulwark. ‘Open the bloody hatch now or I’ll have you strung up for failing in your duties as mate.’

  Taking a deep breath Christian stepped back. He’d lost his temper and resorted to barely-disguised violence. When would he learn he was no longer one of the crew? As the captain he must rise above the petty day-to-day scraps, not create them. There’d never been much love lost between the two of them but now, more than ever before, it was important Henk followed his commands. Slamming any member of the crew against the bulwark was not the job of the captain of the ship.

  Tuned to Henk’s every movement and never trusting the man Christian tensed as Henk’s big blunt-fingered hand reached into his pocket. He pulled out a mallet and lobbed it through the air. Ignoring Charlotte’s gasp Christian swung his hand down. His fist closed over the handle. Throwing Henk a look of d
isdain he turned to the hatch.

  Charlotte bent peering through the lattice into the darkness, her lips silently moving as though praying for lost souls with some of Wainwright’s missionary zeal.

  ‘Move away from the hatch while I release it. It’s unlikely they’ll rush it but it’s better to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Are they chained?’

  ‘No, only cuffed. Now step back.’

  With a flick of his wrist Christian knocked the timber wedges free and eased off the heavy hatch.

  An oily silence greeted him when he peered down into the darkness. He swung onto the third rung of the stepladder and bent his head below the deck, blinking to adjust his eyes to the dim light. A beam of pale twilight slanted across the hold, illuminating the cavernous area; he gazed around trying to make out the bodies of the men. In the ample space a series of empty hammocks swung with the movement of the ship. Bumping down the last rungs of the ladder on his heels his feet hit the deck with an ominous echo.

  Apprehension prickled down his spine and he tensed preparing for an attack, but none came. Where in hell were the convicts?

  ‘Henk…’ He squinted into the darkness with blood pounding in his head then picked out a tangled mess of limbs.

  Edging towards the large crate isolated in the middle of the hold, he groaned. Not the belligerent prisoners he’d expected but tiny, frail figures no bigger than children, their darkened skins making them almost invisible between the rusty metal bars restraining them.

  With tentative steps he edged closer, hands outstretched as if soothing a wild beast. As one, the pile of bodies shied away and retreated against the back of the cage, their naked limbs entangled for protection. The acrid stench of piss and rank fear filled his nostrils. Huge eyes wide with terror gazed back at him and a pathetic whimper broke out. Bile rose in his throat and choked him.

  Not convicts. The dark skins marked his prisoners as anything but England’s outcasts. They were little more than children and unless he was mistaken — half-naked. Never had he imagined the Zephyrus carried such a cargo.