by Beverly Adam
“I give you my word, this would-be assassin will be brought to justice,” said his first mate in earnest. “He’ll be made to pay for his crime against you. Have no fear, sir. It will be taken care of before you once again walk on a quarter-deck. Of this, I promise.”
Captain Jackson patted him on the shoulder.
He was reconciled, putting his personal frustrations aside. “Aye, I suppose you’re right, Smythe. I will put my faith in you and in these ladies.”
The conversation continued into the night concerning Captain Jackson’s ideas as to when and how he may have been poisoned. Sarah carefully took notes of the conversation with an ink quill. She made a list of the people with whom he’d spent the last fortnight, the inns he’d patronized, the food and drink he had partaken of. She wrote down all that he could muster from memory concerning the days leading up to his illness.
It’s going to be a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, she thought with a small weary sigh, looking over the notes when they finished. The sooner they began the search, the better. Captain Jackson and Gladys depended upon them unmasking this villain. She and the lieutenant must not fail. Far too much was at stake. Muineann ga seift. Need teaches a plan. Eventually, the lieutenant and she would have one.
She closed the notebook. She added it to the small stack of belongings she would take with her on the morrow. Once again she was ready to leave the safety of her childhood home.
* * *
The sun at last broke through bathing the island in its warming light. Sarah and her mother stood by the door of the cottage, her small traveling trunk sat at her feet. She said one final farewell to her mother, holding her close—hoping that the next time she saw her, it would be under happy circumstances with this danger behind them.
“Are ye certain that you’ll be able to handle him?” she asked her mother, glancing worriedly over at Captain Jackson who sat by the hearth.
“Have no fear,” her mother said, patting her reassuringly on the shoulder. “After a time we’ll be like two old slippers sitting next to each other cozily by a fire. We’ll warm up to each other and come to a mutual understanding. He may be cantankerous and proud, but as ye know, I’ve dealt with worse. Aye, I’ll manage him fine.”
“Aye, that you’ll do,” Sarah agreed with an affectionate smile.
It was true her mother had dealt with more difficult men than Captain Jackson. She trusted her mother’s abilities to cope with the proud officer. How the two would manage was in her mother’s capable hands.
Robert joined them. He picked up her small trunk, lifting it up onto his shoulder. He’d already said his farewells to the commander.
“Time we departed, Mistress Duncan. I want us gone before the next tide.”
Kissing her mother on the cheek, she bid her one final goodbye.
Once more she was leaving her family home for an uncertain future. Knowing the explosive situation aboard The Brunswick, she wondered what dangers lay ahead for her.
She glanced over at the handsome profile of the young English officer. Disturbing doubts ran through her mind. They almost caused her to turn tail.
Could this determined English naval officer be trusted to take care of her? What problems would she be facing in helping him find the one who poisoned Captain Jackson? And would she later come to regret her decision to go with him?
From here on she would have to rely upon him for food, shelter, and companionship. If in any manner he should fail her—it would be devastating. She was going to have to count on him for both her comfort and safety. It depended entirely upon him as to how she was going to be treated by the ship’s crew.
She chewed on her lower lip. Indeed, I have cause to wonder if I mightn’t be walking into a lion’s den full of trouble.
But the lieutenant’s behavior towards her had been correct, entirely without fault, she reminded herself. Hopefully, he would continue to behave in a manner worthy of a gentleman when they were on board his ship, and he had promised her mother this morning he would take good care of her. Plus, if anything should happen to her, she suspected, Captain Jackson would, upon leaving her mother’s island, make full retribution on her behalf.
She glanced over at his handsome profile as they walked down to the beach. Nay, I have no reason to be concerned. He will stand by his promise to protect and take care of me. The only one I need to worry about is that villain I have to ferret out. He’s the one I need to be wary of. Not this gentleman.
They sailed to the mainland in a pucan, a fishing boat built of oak. Sturdy and quick, it was about twenty-two feet in length. An experienced seaman, Robert had no difficulty maneuvering the small craft. The skies above them had cleared to a cloudless dark blue and a light breeze aided the sail.
Brought up on a tiny dot of an island, Sarah ably aided him by manning the rudder. In no time they were smoothly sailing into Dingle Harbor. Their voyage was a pleasant one until they started discussing the best way to introduce her to the crew.
At first she’d shaken her head in disagreement over the idea. Her arms tightly folded.
“You cannot possibly believe your crew will accept me as such,” she said, when he first proposed the manner in which to introduce her.
She enumerated her reasons. “I’m of uncertain origin, the lowliest of the low in Ireland. I don’t have either the family connections or wealth to entice you into doing me the honor of asking for my hand. You know, they’ll think you a right, blithering fool to do so, Lieutenant.”
The steady gaze he directed at her told her he would not be changing his mind.
She tried to remain calm and not lose her temper. Aye, though there is no bone in the tongue, it has frequently broken a head. If I’m not careful, it will surely be my own I’ll be hurting today.
“You’re an English naval officer with a promising future in the Royal Admiralty,” she said aloud, trying to reason with him. “You, deciding to marry me—why ’tis far too incredible to be believed! They will think you’ve gone stark raving mad to tie yourself to someone so far beneath you. It would be plain ludicrous and—”
“You will pose as my betrothed,” he cut in, determination lacing his speech. “I cannot explain to the crew this sudden change of attitude towards having an unmarried lady aboard, unless she be mine own.”
He eyed her up and down. For some reason, he was angry at her remark. He didn’t want her to belittle herself. She was a brave woman and he admired her for her healing skills and her intelligence. The circumstances of her birth mattered not to him. But the reaction of his crew did. She was too pretty by far to come aboard as a spinster. Just sitting there in the bow of the ship, he was having a hard time keeping himself from reaching out and touching her. He had to keep himself in check and set an example for his men to follow. “The men will think me hypocritical, making up rules to suit myself if I do otherwise. At the present moment, I cannot afford to have any of them questioning my actions. As acting master and commander of The Brunswick, I must be above reproach in everything I say or do if I want to maintain order and avoid a mutiny.”
“Ye mean to say, you’ve never had any female companionship during your last two years at sea?” she asked, amazed.
She peered up at him. She couldn’t fathom it. He was far too attractive and virile to be alone. She could discern no sign of any present illness about him. Nor had he indicated he did not enjoy female companionship. Gazing at his handsome face, she thought that any lady, unless she had a couple of loose tiles in the upper story, would want to spend time alone in his company.
Perhaps he kept a mistress? For some reason this made her upset. Of course he wouldn’t just engage in dalliances with light-skirts. No, he was the kind of man who, no doubt, would keep a lover in a comfortable cottage or rooms for his return to port.
But not all men were so disciplined. Having been around busy harbor ports her entire life, she knew seamen brought not just their wives and sweethearts aboard their vessels, but also mistresses and
prostitutes. Frequently, unable to get shore leave because of the Royal Navy’s legitimate fear of the noncommissioned and impressed crew swimming for land, sailors sent for the soiled doves to come to them aboard their overcrowded warships.
Desperate for female companionship, they paid the trollops of the port to visit them. Small enterprising vessels, known as “drab tail trulls” were loaded with friendly strumpets and made frequent calls upon the visiting vessels. A seaman simply had to scrounge together enough coin to pay for the services the women provided.
Firsthand she had witnessed the after effects of these thoughtless indulgences of the flesh. She’d tried to cure the sexual contagion that ravaged these short-lived liaisons. Often she was called upon in the last stages of the disease to provide laudanum to ease some of the painful suffering of the dying.
The end result of these relationships was a temporary reprieve from poverty and hunger for the women, many of whom were seamen’s widows. Untimely deaths were common. She’d estimated that the career of a harbor strumpet walking the streets lasted no more than three years.
“My men may frequent such loose company, but I do not,” he said bluntly. He did not look her directly in the eye. His statement made her smile inwardly. Clearly, his preference in ladies was not a subject he desired to discuss at length with her, but she was pleased that he was careful all the same.
“The practice of having ladies aboard is one I’ve been trying to persuade Captain Jackson to cease. They bring nothing but disruption aboard. The men grow careless when the fairer sex are around and catch diseases of the foulest kind. Not to mention they behave foolishly. I’ve lost count the number of times one of the hands has drunkenly climbed the topsails to impress a tittering female, only to fall off, and break one or more bones in his idiotic body.”
There had been times he wished he could have prevented some of the more outstanding stupidities. “Ladies interfere with the running of the ship. They smuggle aboard strong spirits, get under foot, and in general make a ghastly nuisance of themselves. They’re nothing but trouble.”
In his younger midshipman days he’d been a bit reckless with his relationships. He’d met ladies of questionable virtue on his many voyages in different ports and island harbors throughout the British Empire. However, he’d quickly seen the foolishness of engaging with any of these light-skirts.
“But, sir,” she interrupted, “if having a lady on board is such a bother, why must I pose as your betrothed? Why not simply pass me off as a friend of your family’s or even a relative? Perhaps as someone who is visiting you for a brief time?”
At this remark he laughed derisively, a wolfish grin twisting his lips. A sparkle of manly humor appeared in his dark brown eyes. She was sitting demurely next to him, the sun lighting her hair from behind. He looked her over appraisingly. Pass herself off as a friend? Was she mad? When was the last time she looked at herself? She was a young woman and too comely by far for his men, let alone himself, to try and ignore.
The cool north wind had colored her pale cheeks to a becoming shade of pink. She was prettier than any portrait he’d ever viewed in a picture gallery. In his eyes she outshone those so-called beauties of the first circle, le haute monde, or high society.
The ladies who frequented the royal court and pleasure gardens were base and commonly coarse, in his opinion. The ladies of the upper echelon wore low décolletage and wetted gowns in fashionable salons in order to expose their voluptuous charms. By exhibiting themselves, they caused titters of scandalous delight among the English courtiers. They hoped to gain more notoriety and rich patrons in this manner. By comparison, this simply dressed Irish colleen in her homespun wool dress was one of the most naturally charming and desirable women he had ever encountered.
“As my friend,” he repeated softly aloud, with a hint of amusement. “Nay, ’tis not possible, dear lady. No one for an instant would believe it! You’re like a perfectly plump chicken, ready to be plucked and devoured.”
His teeth gleamed in the sunlight, lips smiling upwards in good humor. The charming minx was trying to dissuade him!
The tone of his voice darkened at the mere thought of her coming aboard as an unmarried spinster. What she was suggesting was entirely unthinkable and too dangerous by far, and with a killer running loose on board the ship, who knew what perils she might face? No, he had to protect her at all costs.
“My fellow officers, let alone my crew, would slit my throat if they thought you were anything else but my fiancée. Aye, you need to be good and tied to me in their thoughts by the sacred vows of God. If you come aboard as unspoken for . . . well, that Mistress Duncan, would be preposterous. The suggestion will not be contemplated.”
“I can handle myself, sir,” she said bravely, straightening her back.
She thought of the switchblade she kept hidden. It was strapped to her right stocking. She kept it as a safety precaution. One she did not wish to tell him about. She had once been forced to put it to good use.
“The minute your feet touch the top deck, you will become my betrothed,” he repeated in a voice that brooked no nonsense. It was said in such a stern manner, she was almost certain he made use of it on his crew. It was effective. It made her reconsider.
Silently, she mulled over the possibilities of defending herself against randy seamen. In close quarters it would be hard to do. If she were cornered by one of the men, where would she run? How would she protect herself if more than one became involved?
The frigate would be too small to avoid close contact with the hands. A large man could physically overcome her weapon and then what? She shivered, remembering that one time in Dublin when she had sliced the hand of a man who had attacked her from behind. Although she had managed to escape and run away, never again did she venture about without a paid escort. She also had to admit the lieutenant could not be expected to be always next to her. He had responsibilities, a crew and ship to command, as well as a villain to unmask. He could not be expected to play nursemaid and have her tied to him all day.
She shook her head, knowing the reality of the situation. No, she would have to take care of herself.
He put a hand beneath her chin.
She looked up into his eyes and met his even gaze.
“Please, don’t disobey me in this, ma’am,” he said. “I am now in command and it is you who must obey. Do you understand? I must be very firm about this before we board. This concerns your safety as well as my crew’s.”
He smiled, taking the edge off of his speech. “A beautiful lady can easily break half-a-dozen sailors’ hearts merely by smiling at them. And your smile, I daresay, could cause an epidemic of fatalities.”
He removed his hand.
“Will you do as I ask? And be kind to both me and my crew? So no blood will be spilled over you?”
“Aye, sir,” she replied softly, losing herself for a moment.
He’d just called her “beautiful.” She felt a delightful heat course through her entire body. And it was not the sun’s brightness that had brought about this sudden warmth. It was the afterglow of his compliment.
Slowly, she nodded in reluctant agreement.
“I will do as you wish, Lieutenant Smythe. I’ll pretend to be your betrothed.”
“Good,” he said, catching sight of the bow of a sleek modern frigate over her right shoulder. It was anchored in the near distance from the harbor.
A smile of pride lit his face. “Ah, there she is . . . The Brunswick.”
Chapter 4
Sitting tranquilly anchored in the harbor was a British frigate with forty portholes for large metal cannons. It was a double-decked, fifth-rated sloop with an elegant modern hull designed expressly for speed. Even to Sarah’s inexperienced eyes, the warship appeared to be outstandingly modern compared to the other larger vessels nearby.
The frigate’s three masts stood tall and erect over the small Irish harbor. The mast to the right of the middle, known as the mizzen, was in the process o
f being repaired. A long piece of lumber, the size of a full-grown tree, was slowly being set in place
A crew of able-bodied seamen, she noticed, scrambled about on the top deck. An officer stood to one side barking out orders with the use of a brass, speaking trumpet. The men clambered agilely about the riggings making necessary repairs under the watchful eyes of the ship’s master carpenter.
The sounds of hands at work, sawing and hammering, along with the strong smell of pitching tar, filled the air around the frigate. They slowly approached it on the much smaller Irish fishing craft.
When they reached its starboard side, an “Ahoy” was shouted up by Lieutenant Smythe.
An answering crewmember’s head appeared over the stern. With a nod of greeting and the wave of a hand, the man acknowledged them. He disappeared from view and then lowered a wood seat suspended from two sturdy ropes, known as the baggy wrinkle.
The seaman clambered down the side to help them.
Robert greeted him with warm familiarity, handing over the small craft to be anchored. A hook was lowered and Sarah’s small traveling chest was attached. The wood container held a few worldly possessions, bottled medicinal herbs and oils, the basic tools of her profession.
Warily, she eyed the suspended wood seat.
Although she knew how to swim, she nervously rubbed her arms. Afraid, her heart quailed inside her chest. She had visions of herself falling from the small seat into the cold sea below.
Oh, no. Please don’t have them expect me to get into that flimsy contraption!
For a woman who had traveled through some of the most dangerous places in Ireland, she still had one great fear . . . she was afraid of heights. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d been brought up on Varrik Island’s lone, high hill. But she’d learned at an early age to hug the side of the dirt path, never looking down over the steep edge.