Charlotte's Promise

by Jennifer Moore

  Alden bid the swabbie farewell and made his way to his cabin. The conversation had opened a sack of worries and emotions he’d just as soon avoid, but today, pushing them back was more difficult.

  He glanced to the drawer where he kept correspondence and important documents, his mind’s eye seeing through the wood and to a neat stack of letters tied with a blue ribbon. Picturing them made his heart hurt, and he absently rubbed his chest as he sat at the desk and stared at the unrolled map. Bitter guilt rose in his throat, a typical companion to the heartache as the memories swept over him. Why had he insisted on one more voyage last winter? Why had he taken so long to return? If he’d only stayed, been there when she’d asked, Marguerite would be alive, and they would be happily together. But he’d been so obsessed, so driven by money and status, and—he’d give all of it, down to his last penny to go back, to change the outcome.

  He rubbed his eyes, realizing they were wet. For an instant he thought to return to the upper deck, to sit beside Charlie and confide in her the entire story. Charlie was a good listener with a steady temperament, and—

  Get ahold of yourself, man. The impulse was ridiculous. A captain did not go about confessing his mistakes and heartaches to a freckled escapee disguised as a sailor. He opened the ship’s account book and took the cork from his ink bottle, needing a distraction from his thoughts.

  He analyzed the columns, making certain there were no errors in his calculations. If he was smart, frugal, and lucky, he’d sell his cargo, pay his investors, and have just enough profit to fund a voyage to Calcutta. Tea was valuable throughout Europe and America, and his ship was fast enough to deliver the commodity before the leaves spoiled.

  He sat back, pushing aside the curl from his forehead. With any luck, after this trip, he’d never return to or even think of New Orleans again.

  Chapter 5

  Charlotte sat on her stool at the table, eating slowly in an attempt to make the supper of pea soup last. As usual, she’d given the major portion of her meat to her messmates, and tonight she was hungry. She dipped a hard biscuit into the soup, letting it soak and hopefully soften.

  The portholes were open to the night to dispel the heavy odor of sealant. She and Mr. Yancey had finally finished caulking the decks, and today the ocean was calm enough to apply what the ship’s carpenter referred to as his “special brew”: a hot mixture of beeswax, linseed oil, pine tar, and a splash of turpentine. The result was a paste-like varnish that hardened when cool and dry. Unfortunately, calm waters meant a lack of wind, and the crew complained endlessly about the smell. Charlotte and Yancey had only a small portion of the deck to finish sealing after supper, and Charlotte looked forward to a few days without the holystone as the sealant cured.

  She had already spent quite a few hours climbing up and down the rigging with Mr. Stafford’s help. Well, not his help, precisely, but he had been there and given quite a lot of criticism, which Charlotte had taken as instruction. Mr. Stafford still wasn’t friendly or even slightly cordial, but Charlotte didn’t take his rudeness personally. She’d never seen him act friendly to anyone.

  She bit into the biscuit and chewed slowly, letting the bread crumble in her mouth, and watched her messmates. As usual, John Allred—she’d almost laughed out loud when she learned the red-faced man’s name—was entertaining the group with a story.

  “. . . a calm night like this one. That unearthly dark that feels thick and heavy, like a wet blanket against your skin. I was on watch that night—somewhere below the equator in the China Sea—and after a few hours, far off in the distance, I could see flashes of light.”

  Allred paused for effect, opening and closing his hands. His eyes widened, and his features looked a bit skeletal in the shadows thrown by the lantern hanging over their table.

  The men enjoyed Allred’s stories, and Charlotte determined that they didn’t question whether or not the tales were true but simply enjoyed them for the entertainment. She enjoyed them as well, and in spite of her initial unease around men in general, she had grown surprisingly fond of the four messmates. After a few days, they had started including her in their conversations and seeking her out when the crew gathered on deck in the evenings to listen to Mr. Gardner’s fiddle or play at Crown and Anchor. She’d started to consider association with the messmates less of a precautionary measure and more of a friendship, which was something she’d not had for a long time. She wondered if they would continue treating her well if she stopped giving part of her meal but decided against tempting fate. She would remain wary. Trusting too quickly was unwise.

  “Naturally I assumed I was watching a distant storm,” Allred continued. “And the flashes were just lightning. But something about it seemed . . . wrong, somehow.” He looked around the table, meeting each of the messmates’ gazes in turn.

  “What was it?” George Nye, the younger, hairier messmate’s voice sounded apprehensive. Nye was a superstitious man and easily shaken. Charlotte decided his reactions were the reason Allred chose to tell frightening stories.

  “Took me a little while to figure it out,” Allred said. “But finally it occurred to me.” He paused again. “The lights were . . . moving.”

  “Zis is not unusual for a storm,” Marchand said, spooning soup into his mouth.

  Allred nodded. “That’s what I thought, at first. But you see, the lights were moving fast, and when they got near, I realized they were under the water.”

  “No.” Nye froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

  Charlotte glanced at the others. Mr. Stafford wore his typical scowl, Marchand watched the red-haired storyteller with an interested smile. But Nye looked utterly engrossed.

  “Beneath the water and coming straight toward me.” Allred leaned forward. “And that’s when I saw it.”

  “What did you see?” Nye asked in a whisper.

  “Don’t know what exactly it was, only that it was big—longer than the ship—and covered in scales. Moved like a snake—a huge serpentlike beast, with spikes along its back.”

  “What did you do?” Charlotte asked, suppressing a grin at Nye’s terrified expression.

  “I froze, lad,” Allred said. “Too petrified to move even my little toe. Watched, still as a statue, while the monster swam around the ship and then off into the night, just as fast as it had come.”

  The table was silent as the others pondered the strange tale.

  Stafford grunted. He cut a chunk of meat and chewed.

  Marchand watched Allred thoughtfully.

  Nye glanced toward the porthole, as if worried he’d see glowing lights and a spiky, scaled monster swimming toward him.

  “I imagine every seasoned sailor has a similar tale,” Allred said. He spread his hands, wiggling his fingers spookily. “Ocean’s vast. Full of strange phenomena.” He glanced at Charlotte. “What about you, Swabbie? Seen something mysterious at sea?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I’ve only been at sea for two weeks. The strangest thing I’ve seen is Mr. Turley’s tattoo.”

  Mr. Stafford snorted.

  Nye grinned, pulled from his anxious mood. “He claims it’s a mermaid—looks more like a deformed eel in a wig to me.”

  The others laughed.

  Charlotte laughed as well. One thing she’d discovered in living in close quarters with fifteen men was that not all tattoos were created the same. The passage of time and lack of experience by the artist explained the worst offenders. But in Mr. Turley’s case, she thought it must be both, as well as the thick hair on his forearms, that made the image look so strange.

  “Marchand, you’ve been at sea for years. Have you seen something like that?” Charlotte asked.

  “Like an ugly tattoo?”

  “No.” She smiled at his joke. “Something like Allred saw. Something you can’t explain.”

  “Oui, Charlie.” He spoke in his typical quiet voice, his ac
cent making her name sound like Sharlie. “But I do not think you would wish to hear about it. The story is rather disturbing.”

  At his quiet tone the mood at the table shifted immediately. Charlotte could sense the sincerity in his words. He wasn’t simply trying to get a reaction from the others as Allred had been. A chill moved over her skin.

  Stafford’s expression changed, his scowl softening and brows lifting in a look of interest.

  Nye rested his gaze on Marchand, the edges of his eyes tight.

  “Now you’ve piqued our curiosity,” Allred said.

  “Are you certain you wish to hear it?” Marchand looked specifically at Charlotte.

  She nodded.

  He leaned back, pushing his bowl away, and clasped his hands together in the space where it had been. “Zis was many years ago—at least twenty. I sailed on the Canton under Captain Bretrell.” He rubbed his lip, as if deciding how to begin. “Well, at first it did not seem strange at all—simply a ship under half sail, moving with ze same wind and current as our ship.” He glanced around the group then looked back at his hands. “We hailed her but received no answer and, thinking she may have been in distress, drew alongside and boarded.” Marchand’s face darkened, and he crossed himself. “She was a ghost ship.”

  The men around the table seemed to hold their breath.

  Charlotte felt a stab of fear.

  “We searched ze ship, but it was empty. Everyone—ze captain, ze crew—zey were all gone.”

  “But what happened to them?” Charlotte asked.

  “I do not know. No one knows. They were just gone. All of zeir possessions and equipment remained, but ze people . . . I have never been as frightened as I was aboard zat silent ship. It felt lonely and very sad. Like a cemetery.”

  Nye shivered, and Allred swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Even Mr. Stafford looked less certain than he had moments earlier.

  Marchand stood. “I told you it was frightening.” He glanced toward the galley and then opened his mouth to say something, but the ship leaned, and he grabbed on to the table to steady himself.

  Charlotte reached out, stopping his bowl and her own from sliding onto the deck.

  The ship leaned in the other direction. The board making up the table slipped, and a crash sounded from the deck above.

  Charlotte caught herself before she fell off her stool, but doing so meant she dropped the bowls. Feeling foolish, she crouched down to gather them while the men centered the tabletop back onto the barrels.

  “Fire!” A panicked voice called the warning from above, and without hesitation the crew left behind their suppers and rushed up the companionway.

  Forgetting the dishes, Charlotte ran with them. Urgency and fear spread throughout the crew; panic felt like a stone pressing in her throat. On the upper deck, flames licked over the newly sealed boards, their brightness nearly blinding in the dark night. The ship pitched again as another wave hit it. Charlotte grabbed onto the companionway ropes to keep from falling. A sudden wind pushed her back, and the ship careened to the side. She held tightly to the ropes to keep from falling down to the lower deck, and looking up, saw immediately the source of the fire. The small stove where Mr. Yancey boiled his sealant burned in the center of the flames. The rough waves must have dislodged an ember into the combustible mixture. And the fire was spreading fast.

  Charlotte didn’t wait for orders. The idea of the wooden ship in the middle of the dark ocean going up in flames was even more frightening than Marchand’s story. Terror spurred her into action. She grabbed one of the swabbing buckets and ran to lower it over the portside rail, taking care to twist her foot around a coil of rope to keep from following the bucket overboard. The sea that had been calm moments earlier sent the ship plunging and rising with shocking force. In the darkness, she felt rather than saw the bucket reach the water and grow heavy as water filled it.

  Around her, men shouted and jostled against her. Her shipmates appeared only as shadows in the light of the flames. She pulled on the rope, and the instant she drew up the bucket, someone snatched it away into the darkness, leaving an empty one in its place. She lowered it quickly, scooping up more water, and the new bucket was snatched away as well. The smell of chemical smoke choked her throat. Men shoved and ran through the eerie darkness, yelling as they slipped on the sloping deck and fighting to push past one another to throw water onto the expanding ring of fire.

  “Avast!” Captain Thatcher’s voice cut through the noise like a shot.

  Charlotte darted a look behind and saw him standing in the center of the deck, his face lit by the flames. Wind whipped his hair, and a spray of water drenched him as the ship pitched. He spread his legs to keep his balance but hardly seemed to notice the tilting deck or the blast of water as he called orders. Charlotte couldn’t help but admire his control.

  The chaos calmed, and the crew settled into their assigned posts, drawing water, passing buckets, and pouring it onto the deck. The urgency had not dissipated, but with the crew working systematically, the panic was managed and the fire doused.

  The sudden dark made the rocking deck feel even more fright-ening. Charlotte held tightly to the ropes beside her, orienting herself and trying to keep from sliding down the wet deck when the ship tipped to the side.

  Lanterns were brought on deck, and the crew gathered to inspect the damage.

  Charlotte crossed the sloping deck and went below, returning with a mop. She held on to the companionway rail and, in the faint light, gazed around at the wet, ashy mess, uncertain of where to begin.

  “Charlie!” Captain Thatcher yelled her name as he stomped across the deck. “What in the blazes are you doing?”

  She waved a hand around, indicating the mess. “The deck, Captain. I—” A sudden pitch threw her off her feet.

  Captain Thatcher caught her by the arms, holding her up. “Belay that. The deck is the least of our worries. A storm’s approaching. Can’t you smell it?”

  He kept hold of her arms as he called orders over her head. “Furl the sails! Batten down the hatches!”

  The crew hurried around the deck, some ascending the rigging, others pulling lengths of sail over the grates in the deck, securing them in place with nails.

  Captain Thatcher looked back down at her. “Get below, Charlie.”

  “But I can help. I’ve practiced going aloft, and—”

  “One strong gust will carry you away. You’ll be no help to anyone if you’re swept overboard.”

  A flush heated her chest. She could do this. She tensed her muscles, ready to argue, to do whatever was needed to prepare the ship to survive the storm. “But—”

  “Help Turley secure the lower deck.” In the faint gleam of lantern light, Captain Thatcher held her gaze. “That’s an order, Charlie.” The stern expression in his dark eyes left no room for argument.

  She nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  He released his hold and started away, but Charlotte caught his arm. “Captain, please don’t be angry with Mr. Yancey.” She yelled to be heard over the waves and activity. “He was very careful with the stove.” A blast of water crashed over her, and she wiped her eyes with a frustrated swipe of her hand.

  Captain Thatcher’s lips twitched. “Aren’t you the little advocate.” He studied her face. In spite of the severity of their circumstance, his expression turned gentle, and he leaned closer. “It was an accident, Charlie. I do not blame anyone. Set your mind at ease.” He glanced up to where the men were fighting against the wind to pull up the sail and then back to her. He clasped her arms again—gently this time—then turned her toward the companionway, giving a little push. “Now, off with you, Swabbie.”

  His voice was soft, and though the words were spoken with a teasing tone, Charlotte also heard affection. Still carrying the mop, she stepped down the companionway, and a squirming feeling moved through her mid
dle. It must be worry about the coming storm or the remnants of fear from the fire, she reasoned, but neither explanation felt right.

  The captain’s grip on her arms hadn’t frightened her, which in itself was surprising, but his touch provided comfort—something she’d not felt from another person since before the Fort Mims attack. She was unused to the sensation and pondered on it throughout the long night.

  Chapter 6

  Alden kicked the charred stove. The action hurt his toe, but he didn’t care. He welcomed the pain, in fact, seeking for something to sharpen his thoughts. Even Turley’s strong coffee couldn’t help him shake the haze and exhaustion of a night spent fighting a Caribbean storm. His gaze moved over the scorched wood of the deck. Luckily the fire had been extinguished before anyone was injured, and none of the cargo had been damaged. But the same couldn’t be said for his ship.

  “I’m sorry, dearest,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over the smooth wood of the rail. The sealant had accelerated the flames, burning a large section of the forecastle deck and part of the bulwark rail on the portside bow.

  He turned his gaze upward, wincing at the jagged tear in the sail. In spite of the crew’s best efforts, there were just too few of them and the storm had developed quickly. The pumps had been manned all night and the hatches covered. But the hold and lower deck had still been drenched. Alden rubbed his eyes, frustration and anger making his muscles tight.

  A memory entered his mind. He was twelve years old, working at the shipyard with Jacob and their adopted father, Thomas Hathaway. The two boys had spent weeks constructing a scaffolding around the frame for a brand-new schooner commissioned by the governor himself. One morning they’d come to the shipyard to find all of the scaffolding in pieces, torn apart by a storm.

  Recognizing Alden’s frustration, Thomas had laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Feeling discouraged is natural,” he’d said. “Allow yourself the emotion, and then push it away and get back to work.”