Alden allowed himself a small smile at the memory. Thomas had been extremely practical, and his advice had remained with Alden long after he’d passed away.
Alden breathed deeply for a long moment, indulging in the emotions and then, with an effort, pushed them away. Straightening, he planted his fists on his hips and turned. Now was the time for action, and he needed to put on a confident aspect. Nothing would sink the crew’s spirits faster than the sight of their captain looking overwhelmed.
He took stock of the situation. The deck could be repaired. Thankfully none of the damage was to the ship’s frame, and he didn’t think any of the beams beneath the deck were burned—Mr. Yancey would know soon enough, once he removed the damaged planks.
Glancing upward, Alden saw the torn sail was already being taken down. Not the main sail, luckily, and with Marchand’s skill, it would be repaired within the day.
Dobson emerged from the lower deck and walked toward him. The quartermaster’s jaw was tight; no doubt the man was frustrated at the delay the repairs would cause. “Lucky it didn’t explode.” He tapped the burned stove with the side of his boot.
“I’d hardly call this circumstance lucky.” Alden scowled at the deck.
“Just came from talking to Yancey,” Dobson said. “He assures me he took every precaution. Locked up the stove tightly before supper.” He shook his head. “Terrible accident.”
Alden glanced at the stove again. He didn’t doubt for a moment the ship’s carpenter took the threat of fire seriously, probably more so than any other person on board. The man had served on his ship for years, and Alden considered him responsible in his duties. He harbored no displeasure toward Mr. Yancey.
Dobson cleared his throat. “Just wanted to make certain you didn’t blame him, Captain,” he prodded.
Alden nodded. “Charlie already assured me Yancey isn’t to blame.”
“Oh.” Dobson nodded, visibly relaxing. “Well, then. How shall we proceed?”
For an unexplained reason, Alden’s anger returned. “We should stop worrying about everyone’s tender feelings and fix the ship, Mr. Dobson.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended.
Dobson blinked. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He hurried away, barking orders at the crew.
Alden was surprised by his own response. He certainly wasn’t angry with the quartermaster, nor did he hold the carpenter accountable for the fire. But his mental state was off-balance, and he was unsure why.
Charlie came up the companionway, carrying an armload of wet blankets and clothing. She and Mr. Turley strung a rope, tying it between the upper deck rail and the starboard rigging and laid the wet items over it to dry in the sun.
She rubbed her eyes, and even from his distance Alden could see they were red with dark smudges beneath. Charlie looked exhausted, much like the rest of the crew, but for some reason, this bothered Alden, and his frustration grew. He continued down to the lower deck and into his cabin, closing the door behind him.
He was surprised when he realized his anger had begun with the encounter with the young lady the evening before. The response was irrational, and he rubbed his neck, pacing across the deck as he considered what exactly had bothered him.
The idea of Charlie sliding over the rocking deck or going aloft in the storm had . . . frightened him. He wasn’t prepared for the realization, and it took a moment to process the reasoning behind it. His anger had been caused by worry. What if she’d been swept overboard? Or hurt? She wasn’t trained for the difficulty of a storm at sea.
The explanation was incomplete. He knew the concern had less to do with her skills as a sailor and more to do with the fact that she was a female. He let out an exasperated sigh. This was exactly the reason women weren’t permitted to join a sailor’s crew. They impeded a man’s judgment, caused him to base decisions on feelings rather than necessity and reason. Women complicated things. They made a man worry when his focus should be on the voyage.
Alden hoped the others didn’t find out Charlie’s secret. A woman at sea was considered bad luck, and he suspected it wasn’t just their presence but the men’s irrational reactions to their presence that was the reason for the superstition.
Alden was still pondering this revelation as he made the calculations to determine the ship’s location. The storm hadn’t blown them far off course, he learned, which was extremely fortunate. The current stream around the tip of Florida would keep them from floating too far south while the sail was repaired. He sat back in his chair, allowing his eyes to close—just a quick rest.
The sound of arguing awoke him, and a moment later a knock sounded on the door of Alden’s quarters.
He opened the door to find Mr. Ivory and Dobson.
“Captain.” Mr. Ivory looked even more exhausted than the quartermaster. “We need your help with a . . . situation.”
“And what situation is that?” Alden resisted the urge to rub his eyes, not wanting to reveal that he’d fallen asleep.
“A rearrangement of assignments is necessary in order to make repairs.” Dobson scratched his cheek and glanced over his shoulder to the main area of the lower deck. “Some of the changes aren’t . . . ah . . . sitting well with the crew.”
Alden followed them out to one of the mess tables. Turley sat on one side of the table, arms folded as he scowled at Yancey and the red-haired carpenter’s mate, Adam Day. Next to Turley sat his assistant, Paulo Nogales, wearing his usual blue kerchief. The four men looked as if they would burst out yelling at one another with the slightest provocation. And based on the noise he’d heard only moments earlier, Alden wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if they did. The men were exhausted and strained, and the damage to the ship only added to their workload.
An unfamiliar source of light drew Alden’s gaze. He glanced up. Sunlight streamed in from a hole overhead, where the damaged planks were being removed. His jaw tightened, and he looked back to the ship’s carpenter. “What’s the problem, Yancey?”
“Beg your pardon, Captain, but the deck’s requiring more extensive repair than we’d thought. Day and I can’t do it alone. We hoped Nogales could assist.”
Alden looked to the opposite side of the table. Nogales was the only other crewmember with carpentry experience. The source of the discord became clear.
Turley leaned forward, resting his dark-haired arms on the table. “I still have an entire crew to feed, and some of the pantry supplies are soaked through. If I’m to save the food, put the lower deck back in order, and keep meals in the men’s bellies, I need not only Nogales but more help as well.”
Alden held his hands tightly behind his back, though he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose against the headache forming. A beam from the hole in the deck above shone right into his eyes, a glaring reminder of the damage, which felt like a determined attempt from the sun to antagonize his already tense nerves.
He glanced upward and saw Stafford and Gardner pulling up the boards. Marchand was manning the ship’s wheel and supervising the men sewing the tear in the sail, and the remainder of the crewmen were busy with their regular duties. And none had slept the night before. He clenched his hands tighter. There were simply not enough men on this ship.
He studied those around the table, considering how to use each crewmember’s skills to the best advantage. Which duties were the most pressing? The damage to the pantry stores needed immediate attention in order to save all the food possible, but he couldn’t focus on any other problem when there was an enormous hole in the deck directly above his head.
“If I may, Captain,” Dobson said, his expression brightening as if he’d solved a complicated puzzle. “Shall I send for Charlie?”
The man must be suffering from lack of sleep. Alden looked at the quartermaster as if he’d just proposed they harness a team of dolphins to tow them to New Orleans. “Charlie? The boy can no more repair a ship than Mad King George.”
“Aye, sir, but he’s an arbitrator.” Dobson appeared exceedingly proud of himself as he said the word. “He may be able to solve the problem.”
The other men glanced at one another as if wondering whether the word was one the quartermaster had just invented but none wished to ask and sound foolish.
The hint of pain behind Alden’s eyes burst into a full-blown headache. “Very well, then.” He spoke in an agreeable voice that hid the resurgence of anger he felt toward the young lady. How was she so consistently at the center of the problems on the ship? “Let’s see the arbitrator in action.”
Dobson must not have heard the sarcasm in Alden’s voice, or if he did, he chose to ignore it. “Fetch Charlie.” He pointed at Nogales. “He’s above, helping Nye with the sail.”
A moment later Charlie descended the companionway. The line between her brows was the only indication she might be nervous at being sent for. Alden wondered if he was the only one who noticed the line. It was quite small.
“Come on over here, lad.” Dobson gave an encouraging smile as he waved Charlie toward the table.
The quartermaster had most certainly noticed the line, then, and Alden had no idea why that irritated him. He wanted to get this entire ordeal finished—assign duties, repair the ship, and get on with it. Tapping his finger against his leg, he listened with increased agitation as Dobson explained to Charlie the dilemma of an excess of work and lack of capable men.
“We’ve been unable to reach a compromise that suits everyone.” He shook his head, lips pulled to the side and eyes wide looking decidedly un-quartermaster-like as he and Mr. Ivory waited for the swabbie to do their job for them.
Charlie tapped her lip with her forefinger, the line between her brows deepening as she considered. From her expression, she took the problem very seriously. She looked between the various men, who all watched her with infuriating anticipation.
“Both duties seem very important,” she said slowly. “I understand why you each need more than one person to get the work done.” She glanced toward Mr. Ivory and Dobson, and then her expression cleared. “My own duties are much lighter with the newly sealed deck and the . . . damaged portion. If you’d like, Mr. Turley, I will help you in the galley, and Mr. Nogales can assist the carpenters.”
The men looked at one another thoughtfully.
Mr. Turley nodded.
Alden rolled his eyes.
“And with Mr. Stafford assisting in the repairs as well”—she glanced to the hole above where Stafford was prying a nail from a burned plank—“I can help man the sails.” Charlie very obviously kept her gaze from Alden, no doubt afraid he’d forbid it.
Yancey stood. “It’s settled, then.” He shook hands with Turley.
Alden returned to his quarters, a nagging feeling like an itch he couldn’t scratch making him frustrated. Why was he so bothered? Had he wanted Charlie to fail? The smooth management of the ship benefitted everyone, most especially him. So why the irritation? Was it because Charlie had indeed turned out to be an arbitrator? Or because she planned to take on more-dangerous responsibilities? Or was the nagging feeling an indicator of something else? Something buried deep inside him beneath scars of guilt that he feared to examine too closely—that horrible regret that made bile rise in his throat? He pushed the thoughts away. The circumstance was different, he reminded himself. And being overprotective of this young woman wouldn’t make up for the one he’d lost.
Chapter 7
Charlotte scooted back into the corner on the portside of the upper deck where the gunwale met the bulkhead beneath the stairs of the quarterdeck. The night was clear, and the stars spread overhead, bright against the velvety blackness. She would never fail to be captivated by the sight of the night sky over the open sea. Without a tree or a hill to obstruct the view, it wrapped all around, glistening on the water.
On the other side of the deck, the crew gathered, cheering and laughing while Mr. Gardner played jolly dance tunes on his fiddle. Usually Charlotte clapped along or even joined in singing. But tonight she just wanted to watch the sky. She encircled her arms around her legs and leaned back her head.
In the three days since the fire, she’d been busy, but every single moment of her day wasn’t occupied with physical labor, and the respite, while welcome, had the unwelcome effect of giving her time to remember. Her chest ached, and every bit of her felt heavy as she missed her parents. If only they’d gone somewhere other than Fort Mims when the Red Sticks had threatened. If only they’d found a hiding place or escaped into the woods, or General Jackson’s soldiers had arrived earlier. If only . . . She closed her eyes, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes into her hair and ears.
And little Will. Where was he? Finding him was her only reason to push ahead, though it seemed she’d faced pain and discouragement at every turn. Would she find him? She squeezed her arms tight and shook off the negative thought. Of course she would. She had to.
The creaking of the ship reminded her of the sound of her mother’s rocking chair, and she was pulled into a memory of sitting on the family porch in the cool of the evening. Will played with a stick, swishing it like a sword. Pa sharpened farm tools, scraping the blades against a whetstone, and Ma hummed softly as she sewed by lantern light. Stars spread over the sky, mirrored below by fireflies in the trees. Frogs croaked and insects buzzed, and a breeze brought the smell of flowers and freshly plowed earth.
“Why do I always see you sitting here?” Captain Thatcher’s shadow covered her, and Charlotte jolted from the reminiscence. She sniffled and swiped away her tears.
“Is this section of the deck secretly more comfortable than the rest? Or perhaps you have a stash of sweets hidden beneath the stairs.” He settled down onto the deck, stretching his legs out before him.
They sat at a strange angle to one another. If Charlotte straightened her own legs, they would cross his. She kept them bent and close.
“So,” Captain Thatcher said. “What is the answer?”
Charlotte thought back, trying to remember his question. Oh yes. This particular spot on the deck. “It’s where I finish scraping with the holystone,” she said. “And this spot is shaded during the day.”
“And it is one of the few places you can be almost alone on this ship.” The stars gave enough light that she could see Captain Thatcher’s expression clearly, though he was shadowed. His forehead wrinkled as he waited for her answer.
“It feels secure, I suppose,” she said. “The roof of my father’s barn had a similar spot where the eaves came together. I liked to go there to think and to see the stars.”
He leaned back his head and looked up at the sky. “Beautiful tonight, aren’t they? I’ll never tire of the sight.”
Charlotte nodded, though he wasn’t looking at her. She glanced at him, wanting him to remain and, for reasons she didn’t understand, wanting to confide in him. “Tonight the music makes me nostalgic.”
He rolled his head to the side, studying her. “I suppose you went to dances and assemblies back in Mississippi.”
She smiled, remembering. “Every chance I got.”
“And I imagine all the young ladies lined up to dance with you.”
She opened her mouth then closed it. The question was so strange that Charlotte didn’t know how to answer. She considered herself as Captain Thatcher must see her: a small young man with narrow shoulders who wore a knit cap pulled tightly over his hair—hardly a person young ladies were hoping to take a turn around a ballroom with.
“In New Orleans, they have grand dance halls, and the music plays all night.” He glanced at her. “The city is a blend of French and Spanish culture, and the Creole people refuse to learn English, even though Louisiana has technically belonged to America for more than ten years. There are disputes over the proper dance steps, and I’ve seen swords drawn between French and Spanish dancers.” He smiled an
d shook his head. “There really is no place like New Orleans.”
“Is that where you live?”
Captain Thatcher was quiet for a moment, and she could see his shoulders stiffen in the darkness. “I’d . . . hoped to make the city my home. But even the best-laid plans can go off course.”
“I know.”
He glanced at her. “I imagine you do. Life has a way of surprising us, doesn’t it?”
The cheerfulness was gone from his voice, and Charlotte felt sad that she hadn’t been able to keep the conversation pleasant. “My father used to say, ‘A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.’”
“And does that comfort you?” he asked.
Charlotte again tightened her arms. Her father’s words were trite, and how could they possibly be true? Surely her parents’ destinies hadn’t been to die pleading for their lives. “I don’t know.”
“A man makes his own destiny.” He pushed himself up. “I’ll leave you to your stargazing.”
A lump grew in Charlotte’s throat. She’d hoped to lift his spirits. Captain Thatcher had suffered some tragedy. She recognized loss and pain in a person. The evidence was right there in his eyes. And she’d made it worse.
Resting her chin on her knees, she stared down at the deck. Tonight not even the stars could chase away her gloom.
***
Three days later Charlotte stood on the footrope, balancing by leaning her legs forward onto the yardarm while she reached forward with the other members of the crew to set the sail. She pulled on a gasket, untying the reef knot, and then moved to the next, loosening a clewline as she passed. The footrope beneath her bounced with the movements of the other sailors, but she’d gotten used to the motion and moved with it, pacing her own steps to follow the up and down motion instead of fighting against it, like a sort of dance.
Though she’d never admit it, especially to Captain Thatcher—whom she could feel watching every time she went aloft—she was still utterly terrified by the height. From beneath, the tops of the sails didn’t look nearly as far away as the deck did from above. But over the last few days, the terror had been joined by elation at her accomplishment. Going aloft was frightening and difficult, and every time she looked out at the sea and then all the way down to the deck, a swell of pride spread from her chest.
Charlotte's Promise Page 6