Chapter 3
Charlotte stood on the deck, nerves tingling, both in excitement and trepidation, as the Belladonna made ready to set sail. At the captain’s command, Mr. Ivory called out orders, which Charlotte tried unsuccessfully to understand. It seemed sailors spoke a unique language. The crew all came together to heave a thick rope the width of a man’s leg, haul in the anchor, and secure it to the front end of the ship. The bow, she reminded herself.
She gasped and clutched the rail, surprised by the lurch as the ship was freed and the Belladonna moved out onto the Savannah River.
From beside her, Mr. Turley, the ship’s cook, laughed. “If a bit o’ jostling frightens ya, lad, just wait ’til we reach the open sea.” He smirked, making his dark whiskers rise above his lip. “Swells the size o’ mountains.”
She tried to read his expression but found it difficult to determine beneath the thick beard whether he was teasing. He was exaggerating; she was almost certain of it. Almost. “I’m not frightened.” Charlotte forced her hands to relax their grip. “Just startled.” She looked away from the cook, watching the activity on and above the deck.
Captain Thatcher stood beside Mr. Dobson at the wheel. He patted the man on the shoulder then stepped up to the higher deck above the stern for a better view. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the ship and then nodded to Mr. Ivory.
The boatswain called out an order.
At his words, the crew darted around, every man knowing his duty. The sailors moved quickly, some scampering up the rigging to let down the sails, and others tying them into place. The ship had a feeling of orderly chaos, and Charlotte was excited to be part of it, albeit a very small part. Mr. Ivory had indicated a spot by the rail and told her to remain there until he came for her. Apparently a significant part of a swabbie’s duties were to stay out of the way.
Charlotte didn’t mind. She was glad to watch. The entire process was fascinating. The ship operated like a machine. Ropes adjusted sails, the wheel shifted course, and somehow, from his position on the top deck, Captain Thatcher directed all of it.
The sails filled with air, propelling the ship forward. Charlotte was glad Mr. Turley had moved away so he didn’t see her clutch the rail again. She’d seen boats and even the occasional ship sailing on the Tensaw River by her home, but riding upon the water with the wind blowing in her face and the ship moving beneath her was an entirely different experience, one that would require getting used to. The sails rose impossibly high, and the ship creaked, swaying from side to side. The motion made her uneasy. She worried the ship might topple over.
“No time fer daydreamin’, Swabbie.”
Mr. Ivory’s rough voice startled her, and she spun. Out of habit she put up her hands to defend herself then, realizing she wasn’t in danger, lowered them. “No, sir. I was just—”
He shook his head, giving what she thought might be his version of a smile, although the expression mainly consisted of squinting and pressing together his lips. “Was wide-eyed as a puffer fish first time I set to sea.” He glanced toward the rigging overhead, his long braid swishing across his back, then back to her. “Excitin’ time for a lad. Lots to look at.” He pointed downward. “But decks don’t swab themselves.”
The last thing she wanted to do was give the impression she was shirking her task. She intended to work hard on the voyage. She’d recognized the skepticism in the expressions of the other sailors when they looked at her, and she wanted to prove their worries were unfounded and she was capable of the labor required.
Captain Thatcher’s wary expression had concerned her more than the others’. When they’d met earlier, his eyes had held a flicker of doubt, and she’d feared for a moment that he saw through her disguise, but after their talk in his cabin, she decided his skepticism was based on her diminutive size and lack of experience. Her secret was safe.
“Where shall I find a mop?” Charlotte asked Mr. Ivory. The idea of swabbing actually sounded rather nice. Mopping a deck of this size would be time-consuming but not difficult.
He squinted again. Yes, it was definitely a smile. But not a kindly one. The expression was rather sardonic. “Get below, and find Mr. Yancey, the carpenter. He’ll teach ya about maintainin’ the decks.” He smirked. “But I doubt you’ll need a mop—not for a while.”
Charlotte wasn’t certain what he meant, and his mocking tone made her apprehensive.
She descended the wooden steps and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim of the lower deck. In an alcove near the galley, she saw an area stacked with boards. Tools hung on a wall, dismantled barrels and crates sat on the floor, and a wooden shelf held buckets of nails and other implements. The workshop was very small but seemed well-organized.
A man sat, bent over, on a stool, working with a chisel on a block of wood he held between his knees.
“Mr. Yancey?” Charlotte asked.
The carpenter looked up. In the light of a hanging lantern, she could see his skin was very fair and his blue eyes pale, almost gray. He studied her for a moment. “Yer the new swabbie?”
“Yes, sir. Charlie.”
He sniffed. “A small one, aren’t ye?”
Charlotte wasn’t exactly certain how to answer. “Mr. Ivory told me you’d give directions on swabbing the deck.”
Mr. Yancey set aside the block and tool and stood with a grunt. He took a white brick from a shelf and climbed to the upper deck without giving a backward glance.
Charlotte imagined the swabbing equipment must be kept on the top deck, though she hadn’t seen any mops or spare buckets lying about. She followed him back to the upper deck and forward, to the very tip of the bow.
Looking even paler now that they were in the bright sun, Mr. Yancey turned and leaned his lower back against the rail. He glanced down at her legs. “Ye’ll want to remove yer boots. And roll up yer trousers.” He nodded as she did. “That’s it, past the knee.”
She blushed at the idea of exposing her legs but reminded herself that a boy would have no qualms and did as he said, having no clue as to why. Perhaps he didn’t want the mopping water to slosh onto her clothes.
Once Charlotte finished with the second pant leg and placed her boots against the rail, the carpenter set the brick onto the deck. “Well, what are ye waiting for?” He pointed at the brick and crouched down. “On yer knees, then.”
Charlotte knelt next to him and picked up the block. It was made of rough stone. She inspected it for a moment, hoping for some clue as to how she was supposed to use it.
Mr. Yancey took it from her hands and set it back onto the deck. “This is a holystone, lad.” He pushed it back and forth along the board like he was sanding a piece of furniture.
Charlotte’s shoulders sagged in dismay when she realized that was exactly what he was doing. Was she to sand the deck?
He let go of the holystone and motioned with a flick of his finger for her to continue. “Each board needs to be scraped until it’s white and smooth.”
Charlotte pushed the stone forward then pulled it back, the brick making a harsh sound over the boards. “Like this?”
“Lean into it.” He nodded. “There ye are. Ye’ll want to use yer legs and arms to move back and forth; keeps the strain from yer back.”
He sat against the rail, watching as she pushed forward on the stone and drew it toward her. “Water damages pine, as does sunlight. Out at sea, we’ve an abundance of both. Mother Nature’s a ship’s worst enemy.” He ran a finger over the board, coming up with a dusting of white powder. He rubbed it between his fingers and nodded, pointing to the next. “Move on, then.”
Charlotte scooted to the side and started on the adjacent plank. Her thigh muscles were already starting to ache.
“Holystones scrape the deck every other day. Ye’ll do the upper deck one day and the lower the next. Twice a day ye’ll sweep up the dust then give a saltwater rinse. The galley
and mess area are swabbed after each meal. To keep water from dripping below, the deck needs re-caulking with oakum. That’ll be done in sections on the days yer not scrapin’. Every other month, all of the planks are treated with a sealant.” He ticked each item off on his fingers. “But we’ll wait until the new caulkin’s finished.” He gave a nod. “Any questions?”
Charlotte stared at the man. Her gaze moved over the deck from bow to stern. The Belladonna must be more than a hundred feet long and at least thirty across. How could she possibly scrape, sweep, and mop the entire deck each day? Inside she felt a dropping sensation, and the immensity of the task nearly overwhelmed her. She looked back to Mr. Yancey and saw a hint of a challenge in his eyes. He was waiting for her to complain or object to the enormity of the assignment.
Well, she would not. She sat back on her heels and forced a confident smile. “I’ve no questions, and if one arises, I know where to find you. Thank you, sir.” She leaned forward and returned to the current task, scraping the stone over the board.
“Good lad,” Mr. Yancey said, pushing himself to his feet. “Don’t forget the edges against the gunwale.” With the side of his foot, he tapped the side of the ship above the deck and beneath the rail.
“The gunwale,” Charlotte said to herself. Another word to remember.
She set to work, pushing and pulling the stone over the wood, making certain not to miss any spots. The sun was warm but not hot, and she removed her coat, setting it beside her boots. Kneeling on the deck was not comfortable. She experimented with various positions, leaning on one knee, sitting and drawing the stone from side to side, even squatting, but in the end, she realized kneeling was the most efficient way to perform the task. As she worked, she reviewed the new terms she’d learned since coming aboard the Belladonna this morning. Bow, stern, starboard, port, bulwark, gunwale, companionway, galley, porthole . . . She wondered how many more she would know by the time they reached New Orleans. Would the use of the new words come naturally to her by then?
In the center of the deck were large hatches covered by rectangular grates through which she could see the lower deck. She assumed they provided light and ventilation, and were likely opened to load cargo. But the very best part about the hatches was the amount of deck space they occupied.
Charlotte worked along one side of the hatches and then crossed over to the other, rubbing her back as she went. She had been scraping the deck for hours, and by her estimate, she was just more than halfway done. Scooting backward as she went, she worked along the starboard side of the hatches and came to the area around the ship’s wheel.
Seeing Captain Thatcher and Mr. Dobson in conversation, Charlotte stopped, not wanting to crawl beneath their feet and disturb them. She sat up on her knees and rolled her shoulders.
The captain shaded his eyes, looking ahead. “Steady on, Dobson.”
“Don’t like this narrow river, Captain,” Mr. Dobson said. “We could run aground, and then where would we be?”
“The tributary is narrow.” Captain Thatcher continued to look toward the bow. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? An English Man-o-War would never dare to venture on this route.”
“We’ve not seen any English ships for months, Captain. Not since Fort McHenry. Maybe they’ve all left. Retreated back home for tea and crumpets.”
Captain Thatcher shook his head. “It’s never that easy. Keep yer guard up—” He glanced down and, seeing Charlotte, cut off his words. “Beg yer pardon, Charlie.” He stepped back, and Mr. Dobson did the same, holding on to the wheel but giving her room to maneuver around them.
Charlie kept her head down, contemplating as she scraped the planks. She knew of the British blockades in port cities but hadn’t heard anything about Fort McHenry. What had happened there? Had the American navy defeated the English ships? Captain Thatcher still seemed concerned. Was the Belladonna in danger?
Once she’d moved away a sufficient distance, she glanced up at the men. Captain Thatcher wore his coffee-colored curls tied back at his neck. His eyes were dark and lively, holding a bit of mischief as they scanned the ship. The way he stood, legs wide, shoulders squared, he carried such an air of assurance. She felt comforted by the notion, but not safe. Charlotte had not felt safe in a long time. She’d almost forgotten how it felt to not be constantly on her guard, looking over her shoulder, hiding, and calculating how much she dared to trust.
With the rhythm of the ship, the sound of the water, and the constant back and forth movement of the holystone, Charlotte fell into a sort of stupor, her eyes glazing as she stared for so many hours at the same view of pine planking.
Someone kicked the stone from her hands, and she jolted, fully alert.
The sailor who’d kicked the stone was a man she’d seen but whose name she didn’t know, a lanky man with a large nose and a blue kerchief tied around his neck. He picked up the stone and tossed it to another man, who caught it, laughing. “Come and get it, Swabbie!”
Charlotte considered. She couldn’t just ignore the teasing. If Mr. Ivory or Mr. Yancey came along, they’d see her shirking her task. Perhaps they’d think she was joining in on the amusement. She couldn’t risk giving the wrong impression. Besides, if she was to finish her work, she needed the stone back.
She stood, wincing at the stiffness as she straightened her knees and crossed the deck to retrieve the holystone.
The other man was shorter, with pockmarked cheeks and red hair. He tossed it from hand to hand while she drew closer, and, as she knew he would, tossed it back to his friend.
Charlotte sighed. She turned and started toward the kerchief man. Perhaps if she didn’t react, they would get bored with the teasing.
When she reached him, the man with the kerchief held the stone out to her. “Here ya go, Swabbie.”
The harassment was over. “Thank you,” she said and reached for it.
But at the last second, he swiped it away and tossed it over her head. He gave an ugly laugh. “Gotta be quicker.”
Charlotte’s cheeks burned as she turned back to the red-haired man. She was sore and tired and humiliated. Remember Will. She repeated the mantra that had gotten her through months of abuse and fear. I can endure this to find Will.
The sound of the ship’s bell ringing caught the men’s attention. The man with red hair dropped the stone, and they both hurried to the companionway to go belowdecks.
Charlotte picked up the stone and noticed the other men on deck went below as well. She had deduced the ringing marked time somehow, but didn’t know what the different number of bells meant. She’d need to start keeping track.
Mr. Ivory came from below and motioned her toward him. “First watch is over, lad. Time for the midday meal.”
Her stomach growled as she noticed the smell of food coming from below. The hour must be past noon.
Not knowing what to do with the stone and not wanting it to get taken again, she wrapped it in her coat, grabbed her boots, and followed, stowing the bundle in her bunk. She rolled down her pant legs, brushing away the dust as best as she could, and tugged down on the edges of her hat. Her mother had instilled in her the need to look one’s best at the dining table, but not wanting to make Mr. Ivory wait, she didn’t pause to put on her boots. Hardly any of the other sailors wore shoes anyway. She joined the boatswain near the galley on the lower deck.
“These are yer messmates.” Mr. Ivory gestured to one of the makeshift tables that was really just a large panel of wood set on two barrels. Three men sat on stools around it. Charlotte only recognized one of them: Mr. Stafford, the man who’d tried to teach her how to climb the rigging.
“I’m Charlie,” she said, scooting in to sit on an empty stool.
“That’s Marchand’s seat.” A man on the other side of the table pushed the stool away from her with his toe. “He’s gone for our provisions.” He glared beneath thick dark brows.
&nb
sp; “Oh, I beg your pardon.” She glanced around the deck and, seeing a stool, pulled it over, taking care to avoid Marchand’s seat. She sat beside Mr. Stafford, facing the other two.
The men ignored her, returning to their conversation.
Charlotte studied her messmates. The man who’d kicked her seat could not be many years older than herself. His hair was dark and grew low over his forehead, side whiskers covering his cheeks. He appeared to be the youngest of the group. Next to him sat a thin man with a red face and a bulging Adam’s apple that moved up and down when he spoke, which, if the past few moments were any indication, he did a lot.
Tom Stafford was by far the largest of the messmates. She thought he must be the largest man on the ship or on most ships. His shoulders were broad and his arms thick and muscular, covered with a dusting of light hairs. He listened as the others spoke, occasionally giving a nod or a grunt, but his expression didn’t vary far from a frown. Charlotte had hopes he’d be in better spirits once he’d eaten.
A younger Charlotte would have studied the men with thoughts of developing friendships with her new acquaintances. But that Charlotte was a memory left behind at Fort Mims. Experience had taught her that if she intended to survive, a person of her size needed protection. She calculated which of the men would make the best allies and which to avoid.
The sailor she assumed was Marchand returned with a bucket, a stack of wooden bowls, utensils, and a sack under his arm. He hardly gave Charlotte a glance as he scooped pea soup into each bowl and plopped a hunk of pork into the center. The men watched carefully and snatched away their bowls.
Charlotte took the one that remained, assuming it contained the smallest portion. “Thank you.”
Marchand glanced at her, blue eyes squinting as he studied her. Finally he must have decided she wasn’t speaking sarcastically. He tipped his head in acknowledgement, handing her the sack. “You are ze new swabbie?”
His accent was thick, and she thought it might be French. Perhaps Marchand was Cajun. The way he spoke reminded her of a man her father had known from a village near Baton Rouge. “Yes. I’m Charlie.” She reached inside the sack, pulling out a hard biscuit, and then passed the sack on to Mr. Stafford.
Charlotte's Promise Page 3