The Lady and the Captain

by Beverly Adam

Gazing up the high, smooth side of the frigate made her queasy. The frigate was as tall as any church tower she’d ever seen. She realized how far up she was about to be dangled by the two ropes. She felt a lump of fear in her throat.

  Noting her nervous expression, Robert said in reassuring tones, “’Tis perfectly safe, my dear. I’ll be there beside you before your feet touch the deck.”

  The crewman looked up at the couple. A pleased smile spread across his tanned face. He tipped his hat at her.

  “Excuse me for asking, sir . . . but are ye closely acquainted with the lovely lady, Lieutenant Smythe, sir?” he asked, staring with open approval, at the woman with shiny gold hair.

  “Aye, Mr. Kelly. . . . I am so honored.”

  Carefully, he steadied her as she stood. His hands solicitously helped her into the baggy wrinkle. “This is my betrothed, Mistress Duncan. I’m bringing her home with me to England for our impending nuptials.”

  Without a word, he silently removed the Caddagh gold ring she wore on her right hand, turning the small band around then placing the ring back on. She was once again spoken for.

  It tore a little at her heart. The ring, meant to be a symbol of love, was now being used as a ruse to help catch a murderous villain.

  “If you are afraid, close your eyes on the way up. My men will see you safely aboard,” he said. “Nothing bad will happen to you.”

  “Thank you,” she managed to whisper.

  He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, signaling the crew to begin pulling her up. The pulley’s wheels squeaked as they slowly moved her skyward.

  Sarah felt a light sea breeze beneath her layers of wool skirts. They billowed out under her. The poignant sound of a flying seagull’s cry echoed in the sky as it flew by. If she hadn’t been so frightened, she would have opened her eyes and admired the view.

  The Blasket Islands were dark green forms off in the near distance. They stood outlined in the hazy sunlight. Other boats, including light wooden framed currachs, small fishing boats covered in cowhide and painted with tar, were stacked on the shore. The small harbor dock of Dingle wasn’t as crowded with fishing or merchant vessels as it used to be. The thriving community was currently more involved in the weaving trade.

  Butterflies flitted about in her stomach. She kept her eyes firmly shut, while she held onto the thick, prickly ropes with a white-knuckled grip. She felt her body swing slightly. It was now suspended high over the bay’s dark water.

  The ropes ceased creaking. Strong hands reached out for her . . .

  She felt herself being lifted up.

  Once her feet touched the solid boards of the ship’s deck, she let loose a breath of relief. She hadn’t fallen. She was safely aboard.

  Lieutenant Smythe swiftly climbed up the ship’s rope ladder. He emerged between the thick bulwarks on the top deck. Gently, he held her as she accustomed herself to the ship’s slight bobbing. She felt a warm tingling sensation of awareness course through her as his firm fingers touched her small waist.

  His dark brown eyes looked down at her with concern.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Fine.” She smiled at him. She felt a tinge of blush creep into her cheeks. Her stomach did a small butterfly flip. It had been a long time since a man had showed any protective interest in her. It was pleasantly comforting and oddly natural.

  A small whistle was blown, low, high, low. A seaman piped them aboard.

  “Commander aboard, sir!” said a midshipman to an officer next to him.

  Second in command, Lieutenant Litton’s round, cherubic face presented itself. Doffing his hat respectfully, he gave a smart salute of welcome to his commander. He waited, as naval custom demanded, for his superior officer to speak first.

  “Ah, Lieutenant Litton,” Robert said, returning his salute. “I see she is no worse for wear from my absence. Aye, it would appear The Brunswick is becoming shipshape and seaworthy as per my orders.”

  “Aye, sir. Good to have you back aboard, sir,” replied the technician as way of greeting. “And I see you’ve brought a guest with you, Commander.”

  “Ah, yes . . . Mr. Litton, I wish to present to you my betrothed, Mademoiselle Sarah Duncan. She is to be my special guest. I asked for her hand in marriage yesterday at her mother’s home on Varrik Island. She has done me the great honor by accepting.”

  The other officer raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner at this shocking bit of news. Sarah could almost discern his thoughts.

  Undoubtedly, he was wondering if the first mate had lost his mind. Perhaps even been bewitched by the Irish woman into proposing. For how did the lieutenant expect to ever be promoted by having such an unconventional bride?

  She knew the second mate dared not question the officer.

  The dark brown eyes that met the mate’s inquiring watery blues were calm and detached. The commander’s manner was as it should be—confident and aloof. The protective manner he exhibited towards Sarah warned Litton against saying anything unseemly about the lady standing beside him.

  This Irish wise woman, despite her lowly social status, was now under the commander’s protection. It would be suicidal to say anything careless. That is unless he was ready to cross swords with the seasoned lieutenant.

  The second mate wisely kept silent.

  Tipping his hat correctly in Sarah’s direction, he quickly recovered his composure. He gave her a genuine smile of welcome and bowed politely over her outstretched hand.

  “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Mistress Duncan, ma’am . . . aye, a great pleasure indeed to have Commander Smythe’s betrothed aboard.”

  Other officers, upon hearing this remark, gathered around.

  Soft murmurs of appreciation over “the beauty,” and conjecture of it being “love at first sight,” were heard. Lower ranking, noncommissioned seamen nearby also observed the comely Irish colleen their master and commander had betrothed himself to.

  “Will miracles never cease?” one of the ship’s Irish gunners, a jolly man with red side whiskers, was heard to mutter. “It would appear that Lieutenant Smythe does have a beating heart after all.”

  “Aye, and who’d have thought Mister Chastity Belt capable of picking out such a winsomely pretty coo of a dove, eh?” added another. “Faith, the lass does have a very trim hull and a fine set o’ rigging up front. Aye, the commander can easily lose himself in her.”

  A Scotsman added with a touch of salty, good humor, “And smooth skin a man would enjoy in his hammock—” The seaman broke off what he was about to say next under the stern, reprimanding glance of the second mate.

  “That’s enough of that, gentlemen. Return to your duties.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The men nodded and hurried away.

  Turning to Smythe, Litton asked, “Did Captain Jackson survive the journey, Commander? Did you find the healer you were seeking, sir?”

  Hearing this question, the rest of the crew quieted. They listened intently to the reply of the first mate who’d taken full command of the frigate since the captain fell ill. The air about the men changed from frenzied activity to one of somber respect. They all wanted to know why Captain Jackson hadn’t returned.

  Robert shook his head sadly, removing his hat. He clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head. He gave them the solemn news.

  “Captain Jackson went on to his greater glory shortly after we landed on the island,” he boldly lied, speaking loud enough so that all the crew nearby might hear his response. “We buried him there on the island—God rest his soul.”

  The crew took their hats off in respect. A few made the sign of the cross as they said a quiet prayer for the departed soul of their deceased captain.

  “We will honor Captain Jackson’s memory on the morrow with a short service, gentlemen,” Robert said, taking full command of the ship.

  He noted approvingly their solemn attitudes. Captain Jackson had been well liked. It was still difficult to believe that one of the c
rew had poisoned him.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied the men in unison.

  * * *

  Robert paged through his prayer book for the last rites of burial. There currently was no chaplain serving aboard. The fifth-rated warship was too small to merit one. As the ship’s acting commander, he was expected to meet the spiritual needs of the crew. It was required of him to pay respects to the deceased with a proper burial service.

  Other ships of the line had been known to undergo mutinies by unceremoniously dumping the dead into the sea. Without so much as a whisper of prayer to God for the soul of the departed, cold-hearted officers had thoughtlessly disposed of the deceased’s body. Outraged by such callousness, ordinary seamen had been known to take arms on behalf of their departed shipmates.

  Aye, he wanted to find the poisoning traitor as quickly as possible. He had to, before someone else became sick, or worse, dead.

  “Mister Litton, I expect you to notify Master O’ Grady’s wife that I shall have need of her services as chaperone for my betrothed,” he said. “Please, also inform the master carpenter and the other officers that I will wish to meet with them for an update of the ship’s condition at the next bell.”

  “Aye, sir,” the second mate replied.

  He bowed slightly to Sarah and left on his errand.

  She learned that there were two other ladies already living aboard The Brunswick. They were both standing officers’ wives—the master gunner’s and the master carpenter’s. Only in peacetime were the captains of the Royal Navy permitted to bring their ladies aboard.

  The lower ranking officers, the master gunner, boatswain, and carpenter received warrants from the navy. They were permanently attached to the same warship from the time she was first built until she fell apart or wrecked. It was not unusual, therefore, for their wives to come and live aboard with their husbands.

  This was not however true of the superior officers, the captain and his lieutenants. They were assigned by commissions from the Royal Admiralty for a particular period of time. Their time of duty serving aboard a ship of the line could be anywhere from a matter of a few months to several years. Sometimes unassigned ranking officers waited around on tenterhooks on dry land, idly passing time in port gambling and wenching, not knowing when their next commission might be.

  To a small degree, Sarah’s presence aboard was setting a precedent. But as the frigate did not expect to see any fighting in friendly waters and currently was on its way back to their home port of Portsmouth, none of the other officers questioned it. It made sense that the first mate would wish to bring his pretty Irish bride back to England on his own vessel, rather than entrust her care to someone else.

  Presenting his arm, Robert escorted her off the main, top deck up to the next level, the quarter deck. This part of the ship was considered to be the exclusive territory of the frigate’s superior officers. No noncommissioned member of the crew touched a foot on this part of the ship, except when invited by a superior officer.

  Looking around, she admired the beautiful lines of the sloop. She’d never been aboard a royal naval warship before. It was a new and exciting experience for a young woman who had been brought up on a small island.

  She’d noted upon first seeing the frigate, the long white stripes which ran along the gun decks and under the painted black gun ports. Other white stripes ran up and down on each of the three tall sailing masts. The hull was painted black.

  “Why are there white markings on the masts, Lieutenant?” she asked, curiously wondering at the decoration.

  “They mark our frigate as fighting on the side of the British. That way none of our own warships will mistake us for the enemy and try to blow us out of the water.”

  “Oh,” she said, much impressed.

  She tried to imagine what it would be like to be in the middle of such a battle on this small vessel. “I can see how that might indeed be undesirable. But do tell me more about The Brunswick . . . are there many like her in the Royal Navy?”

  “Aye, there are. And much has been made about the design of these frigates. The Royal Navy is busy having their top designers build an entire fleet of them,” he said proudly.

  “The speed and the agility of this fifth-rated ship-of-the-line are enviable. She and her kind can do what no other larger vessel can. She is able to quickly maneuver through the sea at a brisk speed of twelve knots. Although heavily sailed, she can surprisingly turn nimbly about. She is much faster compared to the larger warships of the fleet.”

  “Indeed . . .” Sarah breathed, looking up once more at the tall masts before her.

  “Aye, these frigates are considered to be ‘the eyes of the fleet.’ They are capable of acting as efficient messengers. They can swiftly slip between enemy lines, harassing larger first-rated warships and giving support to other vessels blocking important seaports. But they do have one weakness . . .”

  “And what would that be?” she asked.

  “She’s vulnerable to being pulverized. If attacked by better-armed enemy warships, she will be nothing but splintered wood bits . . . aye, a larger vessel with its multitude of cannons can easily dispatch us to the high heavens by simply blasting us out of the water.”

  “She is nonetheless a grand warship,” said Sarah, pleased to be standing aboard the most modern vessel in the entire Royal Navy.

  She could not help but think of the great Lord Admiral Nelson, who when asked by a reporter what he wanted for the Royal Navy, replied, “More frigates, sir! More frigates! If I were to die this moment, ‘want of frigates’ would be found engraved upon my heart.”

  And here she was, a simple, wise woman from Ireland, standing on the quarter-deck of one of the finest warships ever built. It was truly an honor.

  * * *

  He led her down to his first mate’s living quarters located on the lower middle deck. It was a small room situated next to what the seamen called “the captain’s great cabin.” The cabin was built in the stern at the frigate’s protruding end. Robert had not felt comfortable taking over Captain Jackson’s living quarters. It remained unoccupied.

  The first mate’s cabin next door was tight and cramped. However, it was spacious and private by comparison to the noncommissioned seamen’s. The crew’s dormitory styled quarters were situated on the opposite end of the deck.

  He intended on installing her in his quarters. He would rig a hammock tonight in the nearby wardroom where the lower ranking officers slept. Not a finger’s breadth of space was wasted on the frigate.

  Upon entering the small first mate’s cabin, she tried to squeeze past Robert to hang up her bonnet on a nearby hook. He turned with his hands full of his own belongings, but a sudden swell from the ocean caught her off balance. Before anyone could say, “Redcoats are red roosters,” Sarah stumbled against him, pushing him backwards onto the narrow cabin bed.

  “Oh,” she murmured under her breath as she landed safely on top of him, his firm hands went around her waist as he dropped his belongings in a futile effort to keep her steady.

  Her breasts were pressed up against his chest as she found herself mere inches from his mouth. She could feel his warm breath upon her skin. Looking into his dark eyes, she saw her reflection and with some embarrassment realized her ample bosom now took up a good portion of his view. As if mesmerized, they continued to stare into each other’s eyes.

  For a brief moment, Sarah wondered what it would be like to be kissed by him. Would his lips be soft against hers or hard and demanding? And the very thought of such a kiss set her heart pounding.

  “Um . . . ,” said Robert with some belabored breathing. “I do believe it would be for the best if you got off me now, Mistress .”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. Cheeks flaming, she pulled herself up to a sitting position next to him. Her hands shook a little as she patted a loose hair back into place.

  It’d been over a year since she’d been this close to a man. She’d loved her late fian
cé, the burly John Maxwell, and they had planned to marry upon his return from service. She’d enjoyed their lovemaking, deciding waiting was unnecessary, as they’d been committed to each other. Now the handsome master and commander had reawakened all the emotions she’d kept pent-up inside her body, by accidentally pressing his body against hers.

  Heavens, it’s a good thing he cannot read my thoughts, for sure now they are not that of a proper gentlewoman’s. Indeed, as she lifted a hand to feel her heated cheeks, it was quite the opposite.

  Gathering his things, he hurriedly prepared to leave the cabin.

  “Shall I give you a couple of minutes to tidy yourself and then return to escort you to the captain’s cabin where we shall take a look at his personal log?” he inquired before leaving.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding, while adjusting the lace fichu, which had slipped off to one side of her bodice during their encounter. He turned and left, giving her the time she needed to cool the flames that burned her cheeks.

  * * *

  A red, uniformed marine saluted them outside the captain’s cabin.

  Robert smartly returned it and they entered. Captain Jackson had given him advanced permission to look into his personal log, a document separate from The Brunswick’s.

  He sighed deeply upon opening the door. His face was dark with troubled thoughts of what he was about to undertake as the first mate. The upcoming days would decide not just Captain Jackson’s future, but his, as well.

  “What is troubling you?” she asked, noting his expression.

  “My every action from here on in will be minutely scrutinized by the Royal Admiralty,” he confessed. “A single blameworthy error on my part could end any hopes I may have entertained of ever being promoted to the rank of captain. Indeed it may occasion something much worse.”

  He prudently closed the door behind them. There was no need for the sentry to overhear their conversation and possibly report it to the other hands.

  “If Captain Jackson should decide to find fault with what I do during this time of his convalescence, he may have me brought before a naval tribunal and court-martialed for any incompetence, real or imagined. I am now walking a fine line between safety and an open, damning abyss.”