His warm breath stroked her cheek, disturbingly intimate and certainly improper. But gratitude for his assistance outweighed any indiscretion. Still, her fingers fumbled through the pages until she found the ones with long columns of names, the first, longer part alphabetized and written in a crisp, flowing hand, with other, more careless writing adding additional names to the end. A lot of additional names, at least fifty of them. And in no particular order.
She was supposed to sort this out? It would take a good hour, and that without the entire crew watching her and awaiting mistakes. But Captain Fleming straightened and called out, "Edward Ackers," leaving her no choice but to swallow her panic and scrabble with the penner.
As she dug out the crow quill, a trim young man, short and wiry like a terrier and wearing white duck trousers with a blue-and-white checked shirt, stepped from the mass of sailors, clutching a straw hat. A long queue swayed behind him, the braid of dark hair reaching to his waist. He touched his fingers to his forehead and sloped across the deck to the opposite side.
Without taking his eyes from her.
Well, she'd asked for it by stowing away. She shouldn't quibble now upon delivery.
She loaded the quill with the thick, smooth ink while her eyes skimmed the list. His name lead off the alphabetized portion, followed by the word "coxswain." She marked it.
Captain Fleming's eyes skimmed over the book, then lifted back to his crew. "William Adams."
For a long moment no one moved. Then a crapulous lower form of life stumbled from amongst the crowd as if shoved by unseen hands. With his sharp, seedy jacket and tattered trousers, he looked like a forlorn and not-very-lucky cockfighting sharp as he straightened himself. He made a halfhearted gesture toward his face with one hand and staggered across the deck to join Ackers. But even when he stumbled on the main hatch covering, Adams too never looked away from her.
His name wasn't second among the alphabetized ones, so she scanned further and found it lodged in the middle of the disorderly section, followed by the word "landman." She checked it off.
By the time they reached "James Hardwick, waister" the stares no longer bothered her — for none of the sailors looked away, not for a moment. And a clear pattern emerged amongst them. The ones whose names comprised the alphabetized portion of the list wore neat, clean clothing similar to that worn by Edward Ackers: white duck trousers and a plain but well-sewn shirt of blue-and-white checked linen. They also saluted the quarterdeck properly and stepped out smartly to their posts. But the sailors whose names made up the lower, disorganized portion wore clothing of all varieties: farmhands' dirt-smudged wool, torn tweeds that had likely seen poaching, threadbare smocks of town laborers. These sailors had to be pushed and pulled into their proper places, and they looked lost and forlorn. All of them were rated landmen. She'd heard of the press-gangs that snatched workingmen off the streets and from jail cells; now she'd seen their results for herself.
At "David Mayne, foretopman," she realized her shoulders had relaxed and her lips started to curve, and before they closed with "Jeremiah Wake, forecastleman," she no longer cared that her lovely grey sarsnet had collected flecks of black ink.
Because she was doing a man's job. Better, she'd warrant, than some men.
A delicious, bold-as-brass euphoria soaked through her as she formed the final tick mark. Perhaps Captain Fleming truly did need a clerk; perhaps his request was so much hogwash, designed to keep her busy or out of the way. It didn't matter. The useful chores would keep her occupied and content whenever she tired of reading Staunton's journal, or when lace-making and crochet no longer amused her. She'd studied with her father and Miss Hadley to improve her mind, but this was different — this was using her mind for a practical purpose, and she relished it.
Even if she didn't as yet understand the captain's motives. Nor the captain himself, for that matter.
Only three sailors didn't answer to their names. Nobody seemed surprised at their lack of response.
"So Titus Ferry truly has run," Captain Fleming said.
She glanced up from the book. But the captain had turned to his first officer, not her.
"I'm having trouble understanding that," he continued. "Titus volunteered; he wasn't pressed, nor was he jail fodder. He wanted to be a sailor. Why would he run?"
No mark graced "Titus Ferry, captain's clerk." Captain Fleming hadn't been joking; he did need a clerk's assistance, since his own hadn't showed before sailing. A frisson shivered through her. Of course she hoped nothing had happened to the poor man; perhaps he'd only become engrossed in a card game or conversation in a tavern and so missed his boat. But her satisfaction over assuming his position prevented her from feeling too sorry over his plight.
Mr. Abbot's auburn hair was mussed but his uniform coat, white frilled shirt, and breeches were shipshape. He grimaced and raised his eyebrows in a facial shrug. "If he ran away to avoid a lady, perhaps they kissed and made up."
"Well, perhaps." Captain Fleming didn't seem convinced. "He never spoke of a lady in his life, but then, he didn't speak much of his home at all." He raised his voice. "Carry on, Mr. Bruce."
A small, portly man pushed his way through the gathered warrant officers, elbowing the carpenter and quartermaster in passing. Grey, greasy hair stuck from beneath his stovepipe hat and he cut a suspicious eye each way as he rolled across the larboard gangway, now cleared of sailors, to where a collection of barrels huddled. Before he quite reached them, two wizened Chinamen, their matching black-and-silver queues reaching their hips, scurried past him and began yanking off the round barrel tops that were so reminiscent of Mr. Bruce's figure.
Clara raised the book in front of her face. Diana had taught her that a real lady never let the victim of a titter see it. That was one dictate best kept while aboard.
While Mr. Bruce — or the purser, as he was called with some apparent distaste — stood by, watching with scintillating eyes, his two mates, Long Song and Hue Bye, pulled dozens of pairs of white duck trousers and blue-and-white linen shirts from the assorted barrels. These were issued to the newly pressed sailors, and Captain Fleming murmured that she was to write the cost of the clothing, forty-eight shillings or two months' pay, against each man's name. Outrageous that these men, yanked from their homes, businesses, and jail cells without even a by-your-leave, were now to be charged for the clothing to keep them decent. But perhaps she should learn more before speaking her mind.
Once the sailors' slops were issued and the barrels lowered back into the hold in a rope net, Long Song stood on the larboard gangway while the carpenter's mate hammered a nail in behind his feet. Twelve stretched steps later, Long Song stopped and the mate added another nail to mark that spot. Hue Bye hurried forward, his arms piled with bolts of cloth. As he tumbled them from their wrappings, a beautiful clear shade of indigo and a snowy white appeared. The Chinese measured the cloth between the two nails and with the dexterous efficiency of long shopkeeper's practice, sliced off nine lengths of each color, a dozen yards long.
She sighed. The indigo linen, although a simple cloth, flowed like dark, soft water as Hue Bye bundled it into precise folded lengths. One of those bundles wouldn't be enough to make even a simple morning or walking gown. And of course the color was unfashionable, even immodest, for an unmarried woman of her age and station. But it was still gorgeous and she yearned, watching with envy as Long Song handed a bundle of each color, along with needles and thread, to nine picked sailors, all of them experienced, headed by Edward Ackers, the coxswain.
"They're the captain's bargemen," Staunton muttered, as he'd muttered information to her for the last hour, "they row the captain about when he needs to leave the ship. Since last cruise was a good 'un, he's bought material so's they can make themselves proper bargemen's outfits."
She couldn't have heard that right. "Make their own clothing? Men?" But even as she sniggered, she remembered her father's neat, even stitching on the telescope's canvas covering, the stitches she'd fought t
o duplicate without success. Her glee died.
Staunton gave her an arch look and didn't deign to answer. Behind him, the mist had begun drawing away, but the cool air still raised goose flesh on her arms beneath her wrap and only the barest breeze blew. Her dampened hair clung to her cheeks.
The last bundle of cloth was tucked beneath a smiling bargeman's arm and toted away. But Long Song and Hue Bye tossed out the white cloth again, measuring it between the nails once … twice … her pulse picked up speed … a third time before they sliced it from the dwindling bolt. They folded it together, cut off and folded a similar length of the indigo linen, and handed them to the purser.
Who handed them to Staunton.
Who handed them to Mr. Abbot.
Who doffed his scraper and handed them to Captain Fleming.
She couldn't stand much more of the suspense.
Captain Fleming hefted the indigo and white cloth. "Thank you. Pass the word for Wake, Mr. Abbot."
Her pulse pounded in her ears and she had to look a whimpering, drooling fool. But she couldn't help it; Diana's fashion lessons must have taken a far greater hold on her than she'd realized. Of course she needed clothing. One ink-stained gown, no matter how good the sarsnet cloth, wouldn't last her the two months or more to southern Africa's tip. Did she get a wage for the work she was performing? Could she offer to buy the remaining indigo linen from Captain Fleming with what credit she could scrape together? Could he be bribed?
A scarecrow of a sailor, with a sharp, wrinkled face and gnarled hands, knuckled his forehead to the captain. "Aye, sir?"
"Ah, Wake." Captain Fleming gave him the indigo linen and white cloth.
Then he stepped back and turned to her.
All the mist-damp air seemed to vanish from the quarterdeck. Or at least she couldn't breathe all of a sudden.
"Wake, Lady Clara has generously consented to fill in for Titus Ferry during the voyage."
Silence fell over the entire ship. Even the whisper of water along the ship's side seemed to still. Straining eyes, and surely ears, peered from around every mast, sail, railing, and rope. Not a wrinkle moved in Jeremiah Wake's face.
She'd forgotten the staring. But it hadn't gone away. It had merely waited and now it was back. Her stomach hadn't felt so tight and cold since she and Harmony had eaten their ices too quickly during an assembly room ball.
A strange shade of pinkish-grey rose from Captain Fleming's collar and crept over his face. He wasn't oblivious to the staring, either. "I want you to stitch her up a few gowns, nothing fancy, necessarily—"
She might argue with that.
"—something that will fit in with everyone else's uniforms."
And she might not. Captain Fleming was serious. He truly intended for her to be a part of his crew, and the realization drove her heart to a faster clip.
So much for understanding the captain's motives; he'd meant precisely what he'd said. As for understanding the captain himself… perhaps that would come in time.
Captain Fleming rocked back on his heels and glanced over the ship. The peering eyes vanished, to a man.
"Besides yourself, of course, Wake—"
For the first time Wake's expression softened. But only a touch.
"—who would you say has the best needle in the ship?"
One eye peered cautiously about the mainmast. Another appeared from behind some rigging, and others followed, until again the entire crew stared. Not at the captain. At her. And then at the captain.
Air returned to the quarterdeck. At least she wasn't alone in being the target. She inhaled hard, drawing the dampness deep inside.
But Wake didn't glance back at the rest of the crew. "Oh, Mayne, sir, in course. Nobody sews a quicker nor neater seam than him."
"Then have Mayne assist you, and anyone else you need. Let's see if you can't get something sewn together for her before quarters." Captain Fleming nodded to her, then turned to Mr. Abbot and began speaking in a low voice.
All the eyes swiveled to her. Including Wake's, sharp glittering blue like the sea on the horizon.
The air went away again. If someone didn't fix that soon, she'd faint.
And on the thought, Wake's eyes crinkled in his weathered face and the barest edges of his lips curled higher. He jerked his chin to a gangling young man at the foot of the quarterdeck's ladder, and together the two vanished for'ard, Wake muttering and Mayne nodding, carrying the cloth between them.
She knew nothing of them, nothing of their sewing skills nor their fashion sense, and they'd done little more than glance at her for sizing. Captain Fleming said they could sew. Sew what? A sail? Men's clothing? If she rushed after them, she could give them directions and—
—make herself appear silly, not to mention admitting her lack of trust in their competence. No, that was impossible if she wished to be considered a member of the crew. And with a sudden rush, she knew to the last full stop how much she yearned for just that.
With the fog retreating and dampness slowly trickling down the back of her neck, Clara sat on the for'ard quarterdeck and copied out the new muster, first alphabetizing them in Titus Ferry's book and then a second time onto a full sheet of foolscap, carefully aligning the names into rigid columns and spelling them precisely. Only when Hennessy brought her a sandwich and mug of sweet, lemony ginger beer did she realize how the morning had flown past, with bells ringing and bosun's pipes twittering and the hands racing to and fro. She'd missed all of it through her concentration. But the muster was done.
In the afternoon she pulled out her lace-making. But she still felt the weight of those stares and her trembling hand kept dropping the tiny little cotton thread from the absurdly small hook. Instead she pulled out the wrap she'd started a few days ago, stripes of lovely cream, tan, and brown hooked like tambour, only with a comfortable size yarn and hook, and without the net. The sedge stitch combination of single, half-double, and double crochet stitches all in the same spot formed sweet little pillows within the stripes; unlike her attempts at sewing, or knitting, or netting, or embroidery, this would actually be something she could wear without a blush. Shepherd's knitting, Father said it was called, but the French word crochet fit it better.
"Lady Clara?"
Staunton's voice. She glanced up, and her cramped neck screamed at her.
"Yes, Mr. Staunton?" She rubbed the back of her neck. "Oh!"
In his hands he held an indigo blue garment with white trim. It was folded and discreet, details hidden away. But not a stitch in the cunning stand-up collar seemed hurried nor out of line, better than anything she could have created.
"It's beautiful!" She set her crochet aside and shook out the dress. They'd made it after the pattern of Staunton's uniform jacket, with an open front filled in by a modest stretch of white, white patches on the collar, gathered beneath the arms and bosom, and loose sleeves to the elbow with white edging. It flowed down to her feet in the perfect length, not so much material it would billow and catch on the ship's workings, not so little it would be constricting. It wasn't the ghostly muslin that was all the rage, and it carried more trim; but it was a naval officer's uniform and she'd not hesitate to wear it into any assembly room around.
Wake and Mayne stood below the quarterdeck, grinning. Indescribable gratitude swelled within her.
"I can't believe you finished so quickly. How very clever of you! I thank you with all my heart."
Mayne bobbed his head and stared at the deck.
Wake turned his sennit hat in his hands. "It weren't no problem, me lady, and there's cloth enough left for another or two, we think. Mayne here," he jerked a thumb, but Mayne didn't glance up, "well, he were a tailor's apprentice afore he ran away to sea, and the rest of us have made hot-weather slops since we were powder monkeys and ship's boys. There's—"
But Staunton hissed. "Better cut along, Wake."
"Aye, aye, Mr. Staunton." Still grinning, as if he hadn't been cut off, Wake touched his forehead to Staunton, then to her, a
nd he and Mayne trotted off.
To her. The old forecastleman had saluted her.
But before she could absorb that, somewhere nearby a drum began to thunder. Her heart leapt in response.
"Quarters!" Staunton exclaimed, and ran off, leaving her standing, all a-flutter.
Chapter Nine
Pounding feet raced to battle stations, the jumbled thumping emphasizing the furious drumbeat. Of course, the landmen had to be prodded and yanked into position; best to start their training for emergencies first thing. Fleming surreptitiously gestured for Lady Clara to join him and she hurried over, her dark eyes darker than ever. But her expression remained stoic, calm and reserved, as if she disdained permitting any undignified emotion access to her countenance.
"Stand behind me and—" But the carpenters began hammering below with his first word. They'd be ripping down bulkheads, creating a clean sweep on the gun deck from stem to stern, and while the walls vanished, Hennessy and his mates would stow the captain's, and now the captain's clerk's, belongings into the hold. He raised his voice. "Stand behind me and take notes."
She nodded, balancing the book in her arms and scrambling for the quill. But that distracting pucker had formed across her smooth forehead.
"Mainly we'll be determining the rate of fire," he added, cradling the minute repeater in his palm. "I'll give you the start and stop times, but you must calculate the difference and note it down. I'll also give you the fall of shot. Are my instructions clear?"
Her forehead cleared and she nodded again. For all her outward calm, a ferocious excitement in her eyes mirrored the drum's rousing roll. No modest, retiring violet, his spoiled debutante; she responded to the drumbeat the way a keen mare responded to the huntsman's horn, the way Topaze responded to stu'ns'ls aloft and alow. Even more interesting.
On the gangway, eager hands prised up the main hatch covers, flooding misty light into the gun deck below, and beside him she stiffened into a pikestaff, staring into the depths. The gun crews clustered around their charges in clumps of confused scrambling, scattered every few feet along the starboard side. Abbot stalked behind them, his experienced eyes glancing over the vital items, ready in hands or within reach: powder horn, rammer, swab, water, sand, powder boys with their charges behind each gun over on the larboard side, and the burning slow match in its tubs sent up a sharp, enticing fighting scent. Wake cast off the ropes confining number sixteen, Old Trusty, and the long gun's three thousand seven hundred pounds eased backward along the grooves engraved in the deckboards from past firing. It was the first cannon loosed.
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