The Blue Enchantress

by Marylu Tyndall

  Swerving around, Hope glanced over the deck. Two sailors nearby tying knots in ropes gaped at her with leering grins. Upon the quarterdeck, Major Paine’s eyebrows lifted in invitation. The captain gave her a saucy smirk. Hope turned back around. Better to face the storm than the lecherous gazes of these men. She knew they took such liberties because they thought her wanton. She’d received the same looks back in Charles Towne once her relationship with Lord Falkland had seeped through gossiping lips across town.

  “Good day, Miss Hope.” Mr. Keese appeared beside her, tipping his bicorn and startling her.

  “Good day, Mr. Keese.” Hope tried to keep her tone free of any sultry invitation.

  “You are looking lovely today, I must say.”

  “Please, sir, I wish you would not.” She stared at the swirling water below.

  His head jerked back as if she’d punched him. “It pains me you slight my compliment.”

  Hope faced him. Strands of loose sandy hair flapped in the wind, and a wild, inviting look beamed from his dark blue eyes. “Forgive me, Mr. Keese. I meant no offense. And I do thank you for your kindness.” After the vulgar way the crew eyed her, not to mention Major Paine’s bawdy glances, the perpetual smirk on the captain’s mouth, and Mrs. Hendrick’s insulting manner, Mr. Keese’s kindness soothed Hope’s wounded heart like salve. Surely it wasn’t wrong to accept such attentions as long as she did not encourage them.

  “I assure you this voyage would be pure drudgery without you, Miss Hope.” One side of his mouth curved in a handsome smile.

  “I am sure you would manage, Mr. Keese.” Though Hope tried to squelch it, a grin lifted her lips as well.

  “But life is more than managing, is it not, Miss Hope?” He took her hand in his, enveloping it with his strength and warmth. But no. She hardly knew him. It wasn’t proper. She snagged it back and instead folded her hands together and stared at the oak planks of the deck by their feet.

  A jagged streak of lightning crossed the dark sky, followed by a low roll of thunder. The brig rolled over a churning mound, and Mr. Keese put a hand on her back—she assumed to keep her from stumbling. When her eyes met his, no passion simmered within them. Just a friendly, playful gleam as if he were toying with her. Removing his hand, he coughed into it and grinned.

  “Regardless of what you may think, Mr. Keese, I am not the strumpet the others on this ship assume me to be.” She bit her lip. Or at least I am not any longer.

  Mr. Keese scratched his whiskers and shrugged. “I rarely give much credence to the opinions of others.”

  From the untamed glimmer in his eyes and the confident way he carried himself, Hope knew he spoke the truth. She envied him. “’Tis an admirable quality, Mr. Keese.” The brig pitched over another wave, and Hope gripped the railing. “I believe you and Miss Sheldon are my only friends on this voyage.”

  “Not Mr. Mason?” He cocked a brow.

  “Least of all him.” The sting of rain filled her nostrils. She brushed the hair from her face and glanced over the unusually calm sea lurking between the swells rippling in from the southeast. “I find most of the crew stare at me as if ... as if...” Thunder rumbled, and she raised her voice over the din. “As if I am extending an open invitation to share my company at any time.”

  “You are, are you?” Nathaniel’s guttural voice stormed between them. “How fortunate for you, Mr. Keese.” He nodded toward Mr. Keese with a smile that belied the simmering in his dark eyes.

  Hope rubbed her sweaty palms together and swallowed the burning lump in her throat. Throwing her shoulders back, she intended to explain, but Nathaniel’s face was as stiff as a sail at full wind, and her words faltered on her lips.

  “May I speak to you a moment?” he said without emotion.

  “You misunderstand, Mr. Mason.” Hope eyed Mr. Keese with a lift of her brows, encouraging him to come to her aid.

  “I shall remember your invitation, Miss Hope.” Mr. Keese took her hand and planted a kiss upon it. A playful grin twisted his lips before he marched away. Why was he playing a charade? Why didn’t he explain the context of her statement to Nathaniel? Hope bunched her fists.

  Nathaniel dabbed the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief then ran a hand through his moist hair. “I believe your meaning was clear, Miss Hope. The only thing I have misunderstood is your desire to change.”

  Hope huffed. Defeat settled in like an old familiar friend. She pressed a hand over her still-bubbling stomach.

  “You’re not going to be sick again?” He gave her a sideways smile. “I’ve not got my boots on to protect me this time.”

  Hope glanced down at his large tanned feet. “I hope you can forgive me, Mr. Mason. Regarding my behavior last night, I ... I am quite overcome with shame.”

  He cocked his head and studied her with dark inquisitive eyes the color of coffee. Flecks of gold sparkled from within them like flickers of hope until the sun disappeared beneath a cloud and stole them away.

  Hope’s gaze dropped to his lips. A warm sensation fluttered in her belly, and she quickly looked away. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t like she hadn’t kissed a man before. Just not one who hadn’t invited it. Just not a decent, honorable man like Nathaniel.

  “I came to warn you to go below, Miss Hope.” He crossed his arms over his sweat-soaked shirt and stiffened his jaw. “That is, when you are finished with your playful dalliances above.”

  “I wasn’t engaged in any playful dal—oh, what is the use?” Hope waved a hand through the air.

  He nodded toward the horizon. “There’s a fierce storm brewing, and I fear the deck will become most unsafe in a short time.”

  “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Mason.”

  “Mr. Mason!” Captain Conway bellowed. “Quit dawdling and get back to work, or I’ll send you below to pump out the bilge.”

  Nathaniel closed his eyes and pressed a hand over his left side. With a quick nod her way, he turned and stomped away.

  Hope spun to face the storm again. A vicious tempest was brewing indeed. Both within her and without. Her every attempt to behave like a lady had failed miserably. Not by any fault of her own, but by the presumptions of others. Nathaniel in particular. How could she change if all those around her had already made up their minds as to her character?

  CHAPTER 9

  The brig heaved forward, and Nathaniel braced himself on the bulkhead to keep from tumbling down the hallway. The muscles in his arms and back throbbed. He hadn’t worked so hard in years, not since he’d been a carpenter aboard old Captain Harley’s ship. Known for running his merchantman stricter than a ship of the line, Captain Harley had always had difficulty manning his voyages. But Nathaniel had been young, in desperate need of work, and eager to learn how to sail. In that latter regard, he owed old Harley a huge debt, for the man took him under his tutelage and taught him everything he knew.

  Captain Conway was a different animal. His harsh and unyielding command served no discernable purpose other than to exasperate and demean the crew. And he harbored an extra measure of ill will toward Nathaniel. Perhaps he resented Nathaniel’s experience as a captain and feared he would attempt a mutiny. Ludicrous.

  The brig canted, groaning like an old woman under the strain, and Nathaniel slammed into the bulkhead, careful not to drop his lantern. Thrusting it out before him, he followed the shifting circle of light through darkness as thick as molasses. He must make his way down to the hold, where he had heard Miss Sheldon was tending a patient.

  Gripping the rough wood of the railing, he crept down the ladder as another wave jolted the brig and nearly sent him flying.

  Outside the thick hull, the storm pummeled the merchantman with waves as high as a building and gusts of wind strong enough to blow a man overboard. The warning signs had been evident ever since they’d set sail from St. Kitts three days ago: the huge swells rolling in from the southeast, the calm winds interspersed with wild gusts from all directions. The signs of a hurricane—the most feared s
torm on the Caribbean. He had tried to warn the captain to seek shelter as soon as possible, but to no avail. The stubborn man kept insisting it was naught but a summer squall, that he’d encountered many a storm before in the North Atlantic, and that he’d be dead in his grave before he’d cower before the wind and waves. His eyes had taken on a wild glow as if some wicked force possessed him, and he kept shouting something about his wife and thrusting his fist in the air, cursing at the black clouds.

  The man was clearly unsettled, which explained his brutal treatment of the crew but did naught to ease Nathaniel’s fears of what would happen should they enter the hurricane’s path.

  At least Nathaniel had convinced the captain to sail south out of the storm’s path before the worst of it hit. And the captain, per Nathaniel’s request, had also brought down the topgallant yards and masts, strapped them to the deck, and secured storm lashings on the guns.

  With these measures taken, they might well be out of danger by morning. But the ride throughout the long night would be tumultuous at best. Which was why Nathaniel must escort Miss Sheldon back to her quarters. Down in the hold, she could be crushed by cargo loosened by the storm. The sick crewman shouldn’t be down there, either, but Captain Conway had insisted he remain as far from the rest of the crew as possible so as not to spread whatever disease ailed him.

  Thunder growled like a ravenous monster, shaking the brig from truck to keelson, and Nathaniel hurried downward. As he took the last step, the ship lurched, and he tripped. Tiny paws skittered over his bare feet, and he kicked the beast aside. The stench of moldy grain and human waste assaulted him. Bracing his feet over the wobbling deck, he turned left and followed the flicker of a small light in the distance.

  “Miss Sheldon,” he bellowed, wending his way toward the light. “Miss Sheldon!”

  “In here.” A female voice screeched through the roar of the storm.

  Pushing the door aside, he entered a tiny room crammed full with crates, barrels, and sailcloth. A cot protruded from amidst the clutter in one corner. Upon it lay a gaunt man shriveled into a ball, his bony white face a sunken frame of death. Miss Sheldon sat on a crate beside him, lantern in one hand and wet cloth in the other. She turned and gave Nathaniel a weak smile, her eyes moist with tears. The man moaned, and she dabbed the cloth on his forehead.

  Dousing his lantern, Nathaniel approached, feeling his own blood drain from his face. He recognized the stench of death, one he’d witnessed many times before—an ugly, cruel force that knew no mercy. An icy chill stabbed him, shoving away the suffocating heat that had enveloped him since he’d descended below deck. “Is there no one but you with medical knowledge aboard the ship?”

  “Nay, the captain’s wife used to administer medicaments, but word is she remained behind in St. Kitts with some relations.” Miss Sheldon’s voice strained with sorrow.

  “I don’t blame her. The captain probably ordered her to haul barrels all day, as well.”

  She glanced his way, a glimmer of approval in her eyes. “You handle his harsh treatment well, Mr. Mason. With a humble spirit.”

  He chuckled. “I do not feel very humble.”

  The sailor moaned and smacked his lips together, and Miss Sheldon soaked her cloth in a bucket of water and squeezed droplets into his mouth.

  The brig jerked to larboard. Miss Sheldon held on to the cot, and Nathaniel, still holding his lantern, threw his back against a stack of teetering crates to keep them from falling. “I’ve come to escort you back to your cabin, miss. ’Tis not safe here in the storm.” He steadied the boxes and nodded toward the sailor. “And regardless of what the captain says, we should take him along as well.”

  The angry sea pounded against the hull with the roar of a broadside.

  She shook her head. “The captain will not permit it, and I will not leave him.” Facing the sailor, she dabbed the cloth on his neck. “There, there. It will be fine.”

  Nathaniel rubbed his eyes, stinging from salt, and squatted beside the bed. Admiration welled within him at the woman’s selflessness.

  A few strands of brown hair had loosened from her pins and waved across the back of her neck with every movement of the ship. And though her figure was hidden beneath a plain cotton gown buttoned all the way to her neck, her modest attire did not distract from her beauty.

  How different she was from Hope. He had enjoyed seeing the two of them conversing so easily two days ago. Complete opposites standing together on the deck, laughing and chatting as if they’d been friends forever. But then who wouldn’t want to bask in the joy and peace and acceptance flowing around Miss Sheldon like a morning breeze? Like her parents, she would no doubt make a great missionary. He sighed. But not him. Instead of drawing people to God’s love, Nathaniel seemed to push them away.

  “I understand your concern for him, Miss Sheldon, but this is more than a summer storm, and we aren’t even in the thick of it yet. You risk your life by staying here.”

  Where most people would have expressed some alarm at his statement, Miss Sheldon’s peaceful countenance remained as composed as if he’d just told her there was no sugar for her tea. “You are most kind to come down here for me, but I’m not leaving.”

  Nathaniel grunted. If he so desired, he could hoist her over one shoulder and the sick man over the other and haul them wherever he wished.

  The sea roared against the hull, threatening to chomp down on the sodden wood with its sharp waves and break through to grab them at any moment. The brig pitched by the bow and plunged downward, knocking Nathaniel to his knees and Miss Sheldon from her crate. Steadying the lantern that teetered precariously in her hand, he assisted her to her feet. “We should not have a lantern lit. I insist you come with me at once, or I’ll—”

  A loud moan broke through the roar of the storm. The sailor’s eyelids flew open and his gaze shot around the cabin—surprisingly clear for one so ill—and finally locked upon Nathaniel. Terror screamed from his face. His pale lips quivered. “They are coming for me.”

  Nathaniel knelt beside the man. “Who is coming for you?”

  “The dark shadows. The dark shadows. Don’t let them take me.” His gaze flickered about the cabin again as if he could see monsters in the corners.

  A chill slithered up Nathaniel’s spine. He glanced across the tiny room. Light from the lantern cast eerie, shifting shadows over the bulkheads. Perhaps in his delirium of death, the poor sailor thought they were real. Then why did the hair on the back of Nathaniel’s neck stiffen? And why did a chill envelop him where there should be only heat?

  Miss Sheldon’s wide eyes met Nathaniel’s as she lowered herself back to her crate. She patted the sailor’s forehead with the cloth. “Shhh, Mr. Boden. You are merely feverish.”

  The pungent smell of decay shrouded Nathaniel, and he grabbed the man’s trembling hand, hoping to offer him some comfort. Soft, icy flesh gripped his. “He has no fever.”

  The brig lurched, and Nathaniel clung to the cot, which seemed to be the only thing not shifting in the room.

  “He did a moment ago.” Miss Sheldon touched the man’s neck and frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Before Nathaniel could remove his hand, Mr. Boden squeezed it with more strength than Nathaniel would have thought possible from so feeble a man. “Are you the preacher?” he asked, his voice cracking with desperation.

  “No. I’m not.” Nathaniel cringed as the truth of his own words twisted through him like a knife. How could the son of a harlot be a preacher?

  Mr. Boden writhed on the straw cot, clenching Nathaniel’s hand in a viselike grip. “Don’t let them take me.”

  “Shh, Mr. Boden. No one is going to take you anywhere.” Miss Sheldon pressed down on his shoulders, trying to calm him, but he bolted and bucked so violently, she stumbled backward.

  Sweat streaked down Nathaniel’s back. An impossible blast of frigid wind whirled through the enclosed space, freezing his sodden shirt stiff. His heart thudded in achingly slow beats as if
this ghostly breeze had the power to freeze a man solid. Evil was in this room—the same evil he had often felt as a child in his mother’s chamber.

  And he knew exactly what he had to do.

  Bowing his head, he prayed for God’s direction and His protection, then gripped Mr. Boden’s shoulders. “They won’t take you,” he said. “Look at me.”

  Sweat poured off the man’s forehead, beading into icy crystals. His chest heaved, and his thin lips faded to a pale blue.

  “Look at me, Mr. Boden.”

  His desperate gaze fixed on Nathaniel. Labored breaths whistled in his throat as he settled back onto the cot. “Help me. Please.”

  Nathaniel laid a steady hand on the man’s chest. “I cannot. You must put your trust in the Son of God. Call upon the name of Jesus.”

  Mr. Boden began coughing, choking, gasping for breath. He thrashed over the cot. The brig vaulted, toppling Nathaniel and Miss Sheldon. A deep wail roared through the ship as if the sea screamed its fury that it could not breech the hull.

  Mr. Boden calmed, his gaze focused on the deckhead above him.

  Nathaniel placed two fingers on his neck. “His pulse is weak.”

  “Jesus,” the sailor whispered through wet, trembling lips. He let go of Nathaniel’s hand. The terror in his gaze fled, replaced by a soothing peace. He released a long, heavy sigh, and his body stiffened.

  Nathaniel held his breath, half expecting the fury of the unnatural cold to take them all in its grip. The icy chill that had consumed the room vanished. In its place, a sweet scent swirled past Nathaniel’s nose. “Thank You, God,” Nathaniel muttered, his voice raspy.

  Tears pooled in Miss Sheldon’s eyes. “You did it.”

  “I did nothing.”

  Thunder boomed. The brig pitched forward. Nathaniel grabbed her arm to steady her and held the lantern with his other.

  She glanced at Mr. Boden, a peaceful look on his face. Wiping his forehead, she placed a kiss upon it. “I’ve been speaking to him most of the day about heaven and hell and turning himself over to God, but he wouldn’t listen. Then you stomp in here and reach him in less than a minute.”