The Brazen Woman

by Anne Groß

  She was still awake when the roll of the drums calling all hands sounded. The roar of sailors’ feet rushing over the deck a mere foot above her head caused dust to filter between the joints in the floorboards and into her eyes. Next to her, Richard pulled the blanket over his head with a curse. Aft of where they lay, officers arrived to wake their sergeants, who, in turn, shouted their wake-up alarms at the men in their company, kicking the laggards and complainers. The last thing Elise wanted to see, first thing in the morning, was Sergeant Taylor’s wiggling uvula at the back of his throat, so she rolled Richard off the crates with a hard shove. He landed with a satisfying thud. His howl of pain followed by a blue cloud of profanity made Elise smile.

  It felt as though they were being roused earlier than usual, although it was impossible to tell. Deep inside the ship, there were no visual clues, no windows or clocks; there were no audible clues, no neighbors starting up their cars for work, no birdsong or cicadas. She guessed that not even Sergeant Taylor knew, and was driven to work by his ranking superior. The major probably had a reliable timepiece, some rust-prone piece of machinery dangling dangerously from a delicate chain—perfect for carrying on an ocean-faring ship.

  It had taken Elise a while to adjust to the idea that access to a watch was something reserved for the moneyed classes and even asking for the time was an impertinence. For the enlisted men, their moments were marked not in hours or minutes, but in bugle horns and drum beats. It was never four pm, eight-fifteen am, or even, “when the sun is at its zenith.” For the soldiers, it was time for drill, time to eat, time for inspection, time for bed. No one dared to ask for more time; no one pressed the snooze button.

  Despite having slept very little (a confident assumption she was willing to make), Elise was more than happy to join the crowd rising towards the weather deck. Three hundred or so sailors and officers, plus the entire army battalion of eight hundred men and their hangers-on of women and children, were all hurrying to see the sun rise behind the golden beaches of Portugal. Also rising from below decks to the surface for disembarkation were the many provisions for the British Army—all the necessities to conduct an extended campaign in a foreign land.

  The mood was breathless and bright-eyed. Army and navy officers were cordoning men off into groups and tasking each with specific orders. They were all moving at once and sometimes at odds with each other. The promise of fresh food and water and the chance to stretch their legs on land was enough to force a smile from even the grouchiest pressed sailor or soldier.

  Everything, and everyone, would have to be rowed to shore in cutters. The Valiant had a limited number of these boats, so multiple trips were needed. Rum rations had been suspended in order for the operation to run smoothly, but many men were still drunk from the bumper rations officers had allowed the previous night. The rest of the men had caught up on their buzz by mid-morning since those in charge of moving the rum barrels were lightening their load by drinking and passing around as much as they could.

  “There you are, Mrs. Ferrington!” cried a familiarly unpleasant voice. “I’ve been looking all over for—I say! Come back here!!”

  Elise heaved a deep sigh and turned back around. George Russell and his assistant Jenkins were pulling the medical gear out from the storage closet where he’d been quartered. It lay spread out on the deck in various states of disorder. The stacks of caged chickens that had survived the captain’s table—the surgeon’s roommates for the duration of the voyage—were clucking loudly in protest at their rough handling. “For the love of God,” he cried as he banged on the top of one poor hen’s cage, “stop your infernal racket. Mrs. Ferrington, lend us a hand, would you?” The chickens squawked louder in alarm. No one likes to be yelled at, not even chickens. “It seems neither the good captain nor Major Letchfeld can spare a single man,” Russell complained.

  Reluctantly, Elise stepped forward to gather a set of muslin wrapped surgical tools that had tumbled from a leather case. Each bundle had an ominous wooden handle jutting from the protective cloth, the kind found on handsaws. She shuddered.

  “They’ll ignore us until the very second they need us the most,” continued Russell. “You watch. Then they’ll be surprised when we’re ill-prepared, and place all the blame squarely on our shoulders. You’ll see.” To illustrate his vexation, he slammed down a heavy trunk. Jenkins jumped backwards in alarm, barely saving his toes. The deck boards bounced under Elise’s bare feet.

  “Which boat do we drag this stuff to?” asked Elise, eyeing the growing pile of medical equipment.

  “Women and children go first,” Russell sniffed. “It is difficult to understand why the army would allow such useless baggage to join their ranks. Women and children indeed.”

  “Oh!” Elise smiled happily. “That’s me. I’m a woman. See you later.”

  “No you are not,” snapped Russell, grabbing her arm as she turned to walk away. “You are an attachment to the Army Medical Department. You stay.”

  “I thought I was useless.”

  “You deliberately misconstrue my words.”

  “No, I think I got your meaning just right. Thanks a lot, Doc.” Elise started dragging a heavy trunk towards the rail of the ship where it could be easily loaded into a cutter, ignoring the surgeon’s continued threats.

  The temperature was rising to a level Elise hadn’t felt since she’d left Tucson, but the humidity was something she hadn’t counted on. She was drenched in sweat by the time she’d hauled the trunk around the crowds. Breathing hard from the effort, she stopped to catch her breath and looked longingly towards a beach already swarming with activity. Although it was hard to tell exactly what was going on so far away, she didn’t see any skirts on shore, despite what Russell had said about women and children going first.

  Instead, guessing from the uniforms, it had been the officer classes who had taken the first boats over to smooth the path with Portuguese officials in the nearest town. The riflemen, clearly visible in their green jackets, had also landed to secure the area. A small swarm of artillerymen were struggling to move a heavy cannon that had gotten bogged down in the sand. They made angry gestures, pointing up to the sky, pointing out to the grassy field beyond the beach, sometimes pointing back to the ship. It wasn’t too hard to figure out their conversation as the cannon was slowly dragged off the beach.

  A woman’s frightened screams suddenly brought Elise’s attention back to the Valiant. Farther down the rail, a small crowd had gathered around a rope ladder that descended into a cutter still tied up alongside the ship. Thomas and two other men from her company were in the boat, as were Lady Letchfeld, an enormous pile of wardrobe trunks, and Lady Letchfeld’s two maids—all of whom, Elise presumed, had been packed into the cutter while still on board the Valiant. Floating nearby, three other cutters had already launched. Sailors, with biceps bulging as they gripped the oars, looked sharp in their worn white trousers and shirts, their faces shaded by straw hats jauntily askew on their sweaty heads. All of them were gazing up at Amanda whose screeching was drowning out the angry howl of her baby.

  Elise looked back towards where she’d left Russell and saw that he was busy organizing knives into various leather sleeves. Jenkins was alternating between hovering anxiously over his employer and stacking bedpans. Stealthily, Elise moved towards the commotion, not wanting to be noticed by anyone who might try to give her work to do.

  Inside the surging mass of men, the smell of alcohol nearly knocked her over. Sergeant Taylor, surrounded by his company, was red faced, sweaty, and calling for swift action. He’d given Amanda orders to descend into the cutter, but she was frozen in place and he was unused to having his orders called into question. Each time Amanda called up the courage to poke her head over the rail to look at the boat three decks below, the three women in the cutter sent up encouraging kissy noises and words of comfort which only provoked her to shrink away in fear, hugging her baby closer to her chest.

  “Come along, love. Don’t worry. I w
ouldn’t ever let you fall.” Her husband was just over the edge hanging onto the rope ladder, beseeching her to take that first step.

  “How can you say that?” Amanda demanded. “There won’t be a thing you can do if I fall.”

  “You shan’t fall. I’ll be right here,” Collins said. “Give me our daughter. We’ll go down together.”

  “We’ll drown together, you mean. We’ll fall and drown.”

  “Where is the gamming chair?” Elise couldn’t see Mrs. Gillihan in the crowd, but her complaining alto voice was loud and clear. “I’ll not climb down a rope—the very idea! Mrs. Collins is perfectly correct to be angry! Heavens, what on earth were they thinking?”

  Elise pushed her way through the throng. “Amanda! What’s going on?”

  A look of relief washed over the young mother’s face at seeing Elise. “I can’t do it. It’s too far.”

  “You’ll be alright. It’s not that far.”

  “It is! It’s far!” Amanda stamped her foot.

  “Okay, I’m here, now. I’ll talk you down. And your husband will stay right by you, won’t you Collins?” Elise gave him a meaningful look and he nodded emphatically and made affirmative noises. “See? He’s not going anywhere. He won’t let anything happen.” She had unconsciously assumed the calm voice she used on panicking patients in the ER. “First, give the baby to me.”

  Peter Collins nodded again, as though Elise had been talking to him. Amanda looked dubious, but took a hesitant step towards her husband.

  Suddenly, Sergeant Taylor grabbed Amanda by the arm. “Look here, either get in the bloody cutter or say goodbye to your husband! I’ve no time for this nonsense.”

  Elise threw up her arms in exasperation. Amanda’s loud tears resumed.

  “Sergeant Taylor, I insist you produce a gamming chair this instant,” Mrs. Gillihan shouted from nearby.

  “Give me that baby,” Sergeant Taylor snapped. He ripped a howling Edwina out of her mother’s arms. “The baby stays with me until you’re in that boat.”

  Amanda’s rage burst forth in ear-piercing screams. Taylor had found the magic button to get the woman to move, only she didn’t move in the direction he’d hoped. “Get this woman off of me,” he shouted.

  The men were delighted for the excuse to grab any woman in their path, and Elise charged right in, making it easy for them. “Don’t touch me!” she shouted, as she was lifted into the air. In front of her, O’Brian and Hobert had Amanda by her hands and feet and were swinging her back and forth like a hammock. “Hooo!” the crowd cheered as she was swung over the rail. “Hooo! Hooo!”

  “MacEwan!” O’Brian called down to Thomas. “Look sharp!” He winked at Hobert and they let go.

  “Hooooooo!”

  Elise saw the young mother twist in the air, arms cranking like a two-tailed cat falling from a third story window, then disappear overboard without even a scream.

  Elise’s deep gasp of horror pressed the emerald scarab painfully against her sternum. It flamed over her skin, burning neurons straight through her limbic system. Her capillaries flushed. Her vision ringed in red. The heat rushed to her fists, to her feet, to her brain, and curled the hair along her arms. Each defensive movement Elise made to dislodge the hands that gripped her was well calculated. One man fell away with a bloody nose. Teeth marks appeared on another man’s wrist while a third got caught in the eye with a fingernail. She ducked and knocked another soldier off balance with a twist of her shoulder, sending him skittering along the deck to tangle with the ankles of his mates. The more she fought, the more the men leapt into the fray, lapping up the bruises she delivered like happy dogs.

  A few feet away, Collins swung off the rope ladder to charge O’Brian. The company roared with the pleasure of a fight and tightened their circle. Sergeant Taylor, not wanting to be left on the outside of the action, started swinging indiscriminately at his men with his one free fist while clutching Edwina to his chest with his other. The baby was an inconveniencing burden in a brawl, but not entirely incapacitating.

  “No fighting in the ranks! No fighting in the ranks!” the sergeant shouted. The men who saw him coming protected their heads with their hands and backed away. Striking a superior was a serious offense, even if done accidentally. Taylor cut through his men like butter.

  The sudden sound of a pistol cracked like thunder. Everyone froze. “Put that woman down at once!” Heads snapped around at the sound of the barked order. “Do as I say. Put Mrs. Ferrington down this instant.”

  George Russell, his youthful freckles vivid over his pale nose, stood with his smoking firearm in the air. His splayed leg pose was impressive, except that the position shortened him and he didn’t have the luxury of inches to spare. His gloomy manservant, Jenkins, lurked behind him with his hand held out to receive the pistol.

  The surgeon’s authoritative voice, if not stature, caused the men to set Elise back on her feet. “With me, Mrs. Ferrington.” He turned sharply, expecting Elise to follow, but instead she rushed to the rail.

  “Amanda!” Elise yelled down. Three decks below, Thomas was lying flat on his back in the bottom of the rocking cutter with Amanda tight in his arms. They both looked dazed.

  “We’re all right,” one of Lady Letchfeld’s maids called up. She and the other girl were trying to revive their slumped mistress, who seemed to have fainted.

  Slowly, Thomas pushed himself up on the bench and pulled Amanda into his lap. Even from Elise’s height, she could see something was wrong. He ran his hand through his hair, then gazed at the blood in his palm.

  “Thomas!” yelled Elise. “I’m coming down!”

  A heavy hand on her shoulder stayed her. “Wait just a minute, if you please.” Russell had returned.

  “I need to make sure everyone’s okay down there,” Elise protested. “I think Thomas hit his head, probably on one of Lady Letchfeld’s trunks.”

  The doctor peered over the rail with curiosity, “Thomas, you say? Quite admirable to catch the young woman.”

  “Yeah. He’s a real prince.” Elise peered down again. Amanda’s face was pale, her expression dazed, as though her brain hadn’t quite caught up to the journey her body made. She mouthed something, and Elise knew exactly who Amanda was calling for without having to hear it: Edwina.

  “I shall descend and tend to whomever needs help,” the surgeon announced. He turned to Jenkins and took his medical kit. “You will stay and help Jenkins pack our supplies.”

  “Don’t go down without the baby.”

  Russell nodded and smiled. “That’s the spirit, Mrs. Ferrington. Excellent suggestion. Ah, here’s your husband. Just the man I need to see.”

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?” Elise was surprised by how genuinely rattled Richard seemed. “I’ve been looking all over for you. They’re sending the women down first.”

  “About that,” started the surgeon. “As you know, I’ve retained the services of your missus, and thus, I’m afraid she will be unable to accompany you for much of the campaign.”

  Elise placed a hand against her chest over the now cold emerald. She began to tremble.

  “Elise? Don’t let’s get weak-kneed now.” Richard’s voice receded. “Swooning doesn’t suit you, my dear.”

  Elise leaned heavily against her husband and felt his arms encircle her waist. He wasn’t all bad, she thought as the adrenaline rush wore off.

  “Damn it, Elise. This really won’t do. You pick the oddest times for feminine foibles—it’s quite off-putting.”

  Behind her, Lieutenant Mason had arrived. She could hear him barking at the sergeant. “Why are you holding that baby—are you now a nursemaid? No, don’t bother to answer. Just give the damn child to Mrs. Gillihan.”

  “There,” said Russell with a satisfied smile as the gamming chair was finally sent for. “The lieutenant will set things right.”

  ENDLESS PILES OF LAUNDRY

  Thousands of men, all dressed in linen shirts and red wool, were sweating like pi
gs on the Portuguese beach. It had been a long day of getting supplies off the ships and safely organized, and now that evening was coming, no one was anxious to continue the work. Initially, officers had kept their men occupied and out of trouble, but the officers were just as anxious as the soldiers to finally get a bit of space. Most left their lieutenants in charge and went to explore the town further inland. The lieutenants, after giving their superiors enough time to relax in the taverns, soon followed, leaving sergeants to deal with the rabble. The result was an easing of oversight that suited everyone.

  Just as the English were anxious to go into town, the town was eager to go to the beach and meet the English. Laden with the early August harvests, the Portuguese trekked the dusty trail to find their new marketplace and traded profitably, even without a common language. Up and down the beach, hands flashed in elaborate attempts at negotiations for all kinds of goods. Fresh fruit, the likes of which many soldiers had never tasted, were quick to sell out. Soap, sewing needles, hair combs—those items used up or accidentally forgotten back home—were sought, with costs rising quickly as supplies dwindled.

  Shelter became the second order of business. The officers last to disembark were out of luck since all the extra rooms in town had all been taken by the time they’d been relieved of duties. Not that many would sleep, as the third order of business was women and then liquor, or liquor and then women, or, the best option, liquored women.

  Elise, having landed on the beach with the medical division, had been put to the task of boiling laundry almost immediately. Stirring great cauldrons of linens and bandages was not what she had expected to do as a nurse and the higher and hotter the sun moved overhead, the grumpier she became as she sweated over the fire. This was not nursing; she hadn’t signed up for this. The other nurses seemed comfortable hauling water, making a large fire and using driftwood as a laundry stir-stick, but Elise wanted to use her own stick over George Russell’s head.