The Birthright

by T. Davis Bunn

  Two weeks into the voyage, the days had fallen into a carefully structured routine. Mornings she spent taking lessons with the midshipmen. These four lads were aged anywhere from fourteen to her own nineteen and were generally drawn from the families of officers and their close friends. Most vessels carried two to six middies, who had learned navigation and sailing lore while serving as cabin boys. The sailors called them “dogsbodies,” for there was no duty too low for a middy. And Mrs. Madden had taken it upon herself to teach them what she referred to as “proper parlor etiquette.” Nicole was only too happy to attend, though the rules seemed absurd and the lessons endless: Sit up straight and at the edge of the chair, feet and ankles and knees always touching, chin just so, never allowing oneself to rest against the back of the chair. And there were the table manners and the proper use of cutlery.

  “Your pardon, Miss Harrow. A word, if you please.”

  Nicole turned with a start and found the captain poised on the third stair, his head a little higher than her own. She began to rise from her perch. “Most certainly, sir.”

  “No, no, stay where you are. This won’t take long.” But the captain seemed unable to find his course. Then his eye caught the volume in her lap. “Ah, reading, I see. French or English?”

  She held it out. “English, sir.”

  “Ah. The Bible. Most noteworthy of you, Miss Harrow.”

  “I cling to it, sir,” she said quietly.

  “And why is that, pray tell?”

  “It is the only time when I am certain God is with me still, and that I have not strayed too far from His will for me.”

  For some reason, her words seemed to relax the captain a bit. He leaned against the stair’s top pillar and cocked his hat slightly back on his forehead. His working uniform was salt stained and patched in several places. The gold on his shoulders looked faded, the seams frayed. Even so, the dark blue added to his austere presence.

  “A woman who can speak straight. Good. Very good. I shall try to match you with my own words. I have observed you closely these weeks, Miss Harrow, and have come to the conclusion you are cut from an uncommon fine cloth.”

  “Why, sir—”

  “No, no, pray let me finish. You are neither flighty nor a flirt. You do not use your station to offer querulous demands. Nor do you use your remarkable beauty to stir up my crew. I have spoken with my wife, whose judgment I hold in great esteem, and she feels the same way. So I have come to ask if I might offer you a few words of advice.”

  “Most certainly, sir.”

  “Very well, then.” He took a great breath and launched with, “You are clearly worried over what you shall face upon your arrival in England.”

  “Terrified,” she admitted.

  “I would therefore urge you to use this time on board to, shall we say, hone your tactics. Take the measure of your saber. Practice your thrust and parry.”

  “I…I am sorry, Captain, but I don’t understand.”

  “You rarely speak at dinner. You hold yourself like a little mouse trying to squeeze into the tiniest of holes. I have observed how you shrink whenever one of my gentlemen offers you a kind word. You have difficulty speaking even with the ship’s surgeon, who is the meekest man who ever walked a foredeck.”

  Nicole hung her head. “I am so very afraid of making a mistake.”

  “Don’t be. It’s utterly natural, but not necessary. Those not already smitten have nonetheless found you acceptable. They would be honored to be of service, if not beg for your…no, no. Let no more be said upon that.” When she did not respond, he went on, “My advice, Miss Harrow, is this: Do not hide yourself, nor show such shame here on board. My wife has shared with me a bit of your story. It is, if you will permit me to say, marvelous. Learn to deal with society through these people who already think well of you.”

  The evening routine was now well established. The two ladies would retire to their sleeping chamber when the crew arrived to turn out the great room. Nicole had learned to slip into the fine dresses herself, submitting when necessary to Emily’s help with out-of-reach buttons. But tonight the weather had grown chill, with a strengthening wind straight out of the north. So Nicole selected the heavier dress of midnight blue, which she could do up unaided. The dress had a high collar and long sleeves and small froths of lace that tickled her chin and wrists. The buttons that ran up the front were the only adornment. Yet nothing else was required, because the buttons were matched pearls as big as her fingernail—thirty-six of them—spaced less than an inch apart and marching from below her waist all the way to her chin, with another six down each forearm.

  As usual, Emily inspected her. She nodded her approval, then asked, “Shall we take a turn on deck?”

  Always before, Nicole had declined, preferring to remain seated on her bed, dreading the moment ahead when she would walk through the doorway and be met by the assembly of ship’s officers. They were a grand lot at these dinners, for the captain had begun his career in the Royal Navy and held a strong liking for spit and polish. The officers stood stiff and proud in their best uniforms, bowing and murmuring their greetings. Nicole was typically famished by evening, yet found it hard to eat anything, because their eyes never seemed to leave her. She felt she was always being watched. Always. A ship’s closeness had never bothered her during the journey north from Louisiana with her uncle Guy and his family. Only now, when she was dressed like a doll on display and every motion she made seemed wrong, was she conscious of others’ eyes on her.

  Tonight, however, Nicole gathered her courage and said, “Yes, all right.”

  Emily’s eyes widened with surprise. “My husband spoke with you?”

  “H-he did.”

  “He is a good man, despite what you may think of his manner. The sea is a harsh place to ply a trade, and a master must hold the respect of his men. But he is a good man nonetheless, and you can trust his word.” She offered Nicole the lamb’s-wool mantle with a smile. “You are doing the right thing, my dear.”

  Nicole followed her through the great room, where the two crewmen stopped their polishing of the silver platter long enough to bow to her, pulling their forelocks. The two women continued down the hallway and up the stairs and into the gentle light of the setting sun. The sea was tossed by the brisk, biting wind. The ship gave a mighty lurch just as Nicole reached the quarterdeck’s top step, and because of the tall-heeled shoes she wore, she risked tumbling back down the stairs.

  Fortunately the captain was close by to offer her a hand. “Steady as she goes, Miss Harrow.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Think nothing of it, ma’am.” He bowed slightly, first to her, then to his wife. “A fine night, by the looks of things. We’ll be making record time—that is, if the weather holds.” The captain peered beyond the two women, and a frown suddenly creased his face. “Avast there! You there at the mizzen, tighten out that luff! Your business is out to sea, man, not what goes about the quarterdeck! Hold steady to the course, steersman, or I’ll have your hide!”

  Nicole joined Emily by the windward rail and thrilled at the wind’s soft buffeting.

  Young Andy Potter moved up alongside, doffed his hat, and said, “Evening, ma’am. The captain said I might dine with the officers tonight.” He pointed out across the wind-tossed ocean. “The watchman just spotted a whale off the stern. Keep a careful eye, if you will please, for you might just…yes, there she blows!”

  Without warning, a great black hump appeared a mere stone’s throw from where they stood. The water rolled white and foamy off the broad back. Then there was an enormous puff of breath and a geyser of white water shot high as their heads, which was immediately followed by a sucking hiss sound when the whale inhaled. The tail large as the ship’s rudder flapped once, then the whale rolled down with the sea closing swiftly in around it. Soon no sign remained that the beast had ever appeared.

  Nicole released the breath she had not realized she’d been holding. The air was biting, and the s
alty tang sparkled deep with each breath she took. “I love the sea.”

  “Aye, there are grand moments to the life on board a ship.” The captain’s second officer stepped up to her other side. Gordon Goodwind was a tall, rakish man with copper-colored hair and a long saber scar down one cheek. He doffed his hat and gave a stiff bow. “Captain’s compliments, Miss Harrow. He has granted me the privilege of seeing you into dinner.”

  Nicole had always found the man frightening. She was intimidated by the combination of his dashing looks and officer’s poise. But tonight she offered her hand as she saw Emily do to Andy Potter, and said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  As they proceeded down the passageway to the great room the young officer continued, “Of course, there are the harsher faces to the world afloat. And they temper one’s affection for the sea, if you catch my meaning.”

  The captain directed each man to his position, the lieutenant holding Nicole’s chair as Potter did for Emily. Only after the women were seated did the men then take their places.

  “That’s as may be,” the captain said, “but with the wind steady out of the north quarter, we may well make landfall before we run out of fresh provisions.” To Nicole he explained, “A diet of hardtack and salt pork might nourish the body, but it does little for the spirit. But when the sea shows a mean face, we have little choice but batten the hatches and wait her out.”

  It was at this point that Nicole ordinarily dropped her head and held to a tight silence throughout the ordeal of dinner. But she caught both the captain and his wife studying her, waiting, clearly offering her a chance. So she took as great a breath as she could and said, “I have known an Atlantic storm.”

  “Ah?” The captain’s eyes sparked. “And when was that?”

  “Last summer, off the Virginia coast. I was traveling up with my father’s brother and his family. That is, my French father.” Then she stopped, ashamed of her accent and clumsy words.

  Before she could lower her head, the lieutenant beside her said, “Pray do go on, Miss Harrow.”

  Nicole risked a sideways glance, finding no derision there, only a keen gaze fastened intently on her. She cleared her throat quietly and said, “We were becalmed for almost a week. It was very hot and very still. Day after day we sat and cooked.”

  “Well do I know those times,” the captain replied. “The diabolical waiting, searching the horizon, praying for wind.”

  “Just so,” Nicole agreed. “But none came. The sun beat upon the sea like an anvil on a great steel mirror. I have lived most of my life in the Louisiana bayous, but never have I known a heat such as this. Then at midday on the eighth day of our waiting, there came a single sudden breath. And all the ship’s crew raced to the side and searched. No one spoke, not for the longest time.” Nicole then realized all eyes were upon her. She blushed to the roots of her hair. “I beg your pardon, I am carrying on too long.”

  “Quite the contrary, Miss Harrow!” The captain’s words were echoed by all those at the table.

  Nicole saw Emily giving her an approving smile.

  The captain continued, “Cook tells me the crew landed six fine halibut this very afternoon. We should be dining upon a stew fine as you’ll have anywhere on earth.” He waved at the waiting crewman, who turned and left the chamber. “Pray continue, Miss Harrow, if you will.”

  “They searched and they searched,” Nicole said, suddenly caught up in the memory. “Then, for no reason that I could see, the entire ship exploded into action, racing up the masts and across the booms, the captain and all his officers shouting orders and running with the men. Everyone moved so fast, I did not know where to look next. Then I happened to glance out over the rail and I could not believe my eyes. Out of nowhere a great black mass of clouds had appeared and was moving toward us rapidly. It looked like nature was sending an invading army, all aimed at us.”

  “Well said, Miss Harrow. Most well said. There is nothing like one’s first glimpse of a nor’easter. Nothing at all. What did you do?”

  “We were bundled down into the central hold, where we crouched for a day and a night and most of the next day. The waves crashed and tossed us about like peas in a great wooden pod. The children were terrified, and sick, of course, and the lanterns were doused. They shut the hatches, so there was no light and very little air. Then it was over. It passed like it came, there one moment and gone the next. I shall never forget the beauty of walking back up on deck, seeing sunlight again, and breathing calm, clean air. Never, as long as I live.”

  “Was there much damage, Miss Harrow?” someone down the table asked.

  “We lost one mast, chopped down like a felled tree. Ropes were scattered everywhere. The men exhausted. And we were leaking badly. The ship put in at Boston for repairs.”

  “You made it, though, and that’s the important thing. You survived.” Lieutenant Goodwind’s brow furrowed in thought. “But why, may I ask, were you placed in the central hold and not in the aft cabins where you belonged?”

  “Because we did not belong there, sir,” Nicole replied simply.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Harrow, but—”

  “No, no, it’s time we gave the young lady a respite. That tale and all the rest shall await us another day.” The captain paused until the servants’ settling of their steaming plates blocked his actions from notice; then he rewarded Nicole with an approving nod.

  Chapter 9

  Cyril started to rise and protested, “Anne, you really must let me get up.”

  “I won’t do anything of the sort.” She was able to force him back with the gentlest of pressure. “You’re still not well. You must rest, and that’s that.”

  His face looked more flushed now, lying as it was on the stark white pillow. “But my patients—”

  “Must wait,” she interrupted. “The doctor is ill.” Anne feigned a calmness she did not feel. With one hand supporting the small of her back, she straightened and walked to the window. She swept back the drapes, revealing a second curtain of falling flakes. “Look at the weather, my husband.”

  “Snow in late May. Whoever heard of such a spring?” Several strands of hair lay plastered to his forehead with perspiration. “Warm and bright one day, freezing the next. No wonder so many remain sick.”

  “Momma has gone to see Dr. Camberly and tell him he must carry on.”

  “I’ve been down a whole week now,” Cyril said. “I cannot let the old fellow continue to cover for me.”

  But it had not been a week. Today was in fact the tenth day Cyril had been in bed. He had lost three days to delirium. But there was nothing to be gained by sharing this with him. Nor the panic that threatened to choke off Anne’s breath as she had stood by helplessly and watched her husband thrash and cry and pour forth his feverish sweat. At least this had passed. Never had she prayed so hard. Never. “You must rest, Cyril. Now, no more arguments.”

  To her great relief, he subsided. Then the familiar tenderness flickered faintly from his gaze. “You are such a dear good wife,” he whispered.

  Walking back over to his bedside, Anne took up a towel and dabbed the beads of sweat from his face and neck. “My beloved, would you take another cup of peppermint tea?”

  “Never have I grown so tired of anything as I am of peppermint tea. I taste it in my dreams.”

  “I must return to the kitchen. I am preparing another poultice.” Anne needed both hands to straighten herself. She gave her patient another love-filled look, then left the bedroom.

  Midway down the hall, she was halted by the baby kicking. The baby had taken on such a strong kick, Anne was certain she carried a boy. She stood there, her hand cradling the tautly stretched belly, and wondered how it was possible for her to manage both this weight and the worry over her husband.

  Finally the baby eased, and she continued on to the kitchen. The room reeked of fumes from the poultice. She opened the pot that simmered on the iron rail above the fire. Anne shielded her face the best she could, hoping the fum
es would not affect the child. Using the wooden ladle, she plucked out the cheesecloth sack. She held it over the pot for a while, allowing the excess water to drip back in. A few drops fell on the fire, sending up puffs of foul-smelling smoke.

  When her arms grew tired, she turned and laid the sack into a waiting bowl. Then she grabbed a large piece of cotton bunting—cloth she had originally purchased for making diapers—and stretched it across the kitchen table, folding it twice. Picking up the bowl and the ladle now, she walked to the basin for waste water, tilted the bowl, and used the ladle to press out the remaining water. Then she walked back to the table, pulled out the cheesecloth sack, and settled it on the bunting. After wrapping it up, she lifted the bundle and walked swiftly back to the bedroom.

  As soon as she opened the door, Cyril groaned a wordless protest.

  “None of that, now. Peel back your bed linen.” Anne waited as he pushed down the blanket and sheet. “Now open your nightshirt.”

  He obeyed, but with a grimace. Cyril hated the poultices almost as much as he hated lying sick in bed. “I have decided this is my punishment for ordering my patients to use them.”

  “It helps and you know it,” Anne said as she settled the steaming bundle on Cyril’s chest. The poultice was made according to Cyril’s own recipe and contained fresh mustard leaves, two entire peppermint plants, twice-boiled tea leaves, and a dollop of camphor. “You always say there’s nothing better for drawing out the contagion.”

  As she started to move away Cyril captured her wrist. His grip was feeble, his hand moist with sweat. “I have never appreciated you enough.”

  “Oh, stop that.” But something in his countenance and the desperate way in which he spoke the words left her heart feeling pierced straight through. “You’re talking—”

  “Or loved you as well as you deserve.” His hand dropped away. His eyes began to close. “You are the embodiment of everything I ever dreamed for myself.”

  “Oh, Cyril.” She had to stop and swallow a sudden desire to weep, for the words did not bring the joy she might have expected. Not at all. “My dear darling husband.”