by Beverly Adam
“You are doing right by taking command. Captain Jackson could not have done so, even if he were here right now. He could barely sit up and speak when we left him. You still would have been forced to take his place, as undoubtedly you did before. Nay, ’tis right. You’ve no other choice. You must proceed as planned.”
“Aye, although this is not how I hoped our voyage to your mother’s island would end,” he agreed. Resolutely, he walked over to the captain’s desk.
He opened the log.
It was encased in a leather cover. The parchments inside were smeared by Indian ink. The tobacco Captain Jackson smoked smelled pungently from the opened pages. Reading, Robert looked them over.
“There is little here to point us in the direction as to who may have been trying to kill him. Everything appears to have been normal. No malicious notes of discontent from any of the men, no heated arguments with the officers, just the everyday discipline of normal routine. The only evidence that points to anything out of the ordinary is this entry here . . .”
He fingered the page before him.
“Captain Jackson began to admit to not feeling well. It was shortly after we brought the captured French warship, La Bonne Chance, back to England.”
‘“When was that?”
“One week later,” he said, looking again at the entry in which the captain began to admit to ‘not feeling quite up to scratch.’
“We were fair proud of ourselves, almost bursting out of our britches at having captured a blockade runner. It was the second one in two years we had managed to nab. The first had been of Spanish origin, a small fifth-rated vessel. But this one, this one was particularly special. She was a French merchant’s cargo ship. Aye, a real beauty, she was—expressly made for smuggling black-market goods. And it was we who had the good fortune that day.”
His face lit with pride.
He remembered the capture . . . it had been difficult wrestling away the vessel from the blockade runners. In the end, as the ship surrendered, the captain of La Belle Chance shot himself, choosing to die rather than be imprisoned.
Robert had often asked himself what he would have done if the situation had been reversed. Instead of being captured and clapped in irons, would he too have taken his own life? He did not know . . . he recognized he would not know until such an event occurred. Happily, so far, it had not.
“By way of celebration, Captain Jackson gave the officers shore leave. The married men sent for their wives and the rest of the crew took to drinking themselves senseless.”
He smiled. “Captain Jackson and I visited some of the finest taverns in town for food and entertainment. It was a good time . . . shortly thereafter, he fell ill.”
“How long after was it?”
“One week,” he answered. “Aye, ill winds seem to have followed us ever since the day we captured La Belle Chance. It would appear we cannot shake it.”
“Were there any new hands who signed on at that time?”
He nodded in thought. He then looked through the enlistment roll, the sheet the hands marked when joining the ship’s crew. Slowly, he shook his head. There appeared to be nothing of value to be found in the logs.
“His servant had been with him already for six months and the cook for over a year,” he said, closing the book as a bell tolled the hour. “There were, however, three men who enlisted after we captured La Belle Chance . . . a young noncommissioned seaman, a gunner, and a marine. It does not appear that any of these men would have gained anything by the captain’s death.”
“So it would seem,” she agreed, wondering what motive lay behind the assassin’s attempt to end the captain’s life.
What had prompted this villain to try and kill the captain on his own vessel? In these tight quarters, it would be difficult to go unnoticed. How had he managed to sneak the poison into the captain’s food?
Robert stood up from the table, closing the log.
He carefully put it back in its original place. When Captain Jackson returned, everything would be as he left it. The ship’s bell tolled. It was time to hear about the progress made in repairing the ship during his short absence.
“I have a meeting with Lieutenant Litton and the other officers, and therefore, I must excuse myself.”
Catching a whiff of lavender and sea salt permeating from the wise woman, he felt reluctant to leave. If it were not for the fact that he had duties to perform, he would be tempted to spend more time in her company. Recalling the feel of her luscious curves when she fell against him earlier reminded him just how long he’d been without a woman. Aye, she was a beauty to be sure, as well as charming and intelligent. She was also here for a serious purpose, he sternly reminded himself.
He cleared his throat, needing to get back to the matter at hand.
“While I meet with Mr. Litton in the wardroom, perhaps you would like to rest or visit the rest of The Brunswick with one of our young seamen as an escort?”
“I would enjoy viewing her.” She smiled, her face aglow with excitement.
He cleared his throat again. “Excellent. Remain here and I’ll send one of the crew to escort you about.” He beat a hasty retreat, feeling hot blood rushing to heat his loins. Outside the door, he took a deep, calming breath. He needed to get a hold of himself. He was behaving like an untried youth and not like an acting captain of one of his majesty’s finest warships.
“The devil take it, man!” he told himself. “Get a hold of yourself!” Briskly, he walked away from temptation’s door and went to the officers’ meeting.
Chapter 5
Shortly after Robert left, she heard a knock on the cabin door. Sarah opened it and found a young seaman about her height and size, standing there. It was difficult to discern his age. The face seemed more mature than that of a young boy. But he did not have the square masculine features of a grown man.
The seaman wore the usual uniform of a common sailor. He sported a loose white shirt, a red wool jacket, and baggy trousers, with a red-checkered handkerchief tied around his neck. His curly dark black hair was worn in a neat pigtail in the back. On the whole, the lad appeared to be sturdily built. He was, as she was to describe him later, a pretty youth.
Wide, brown eyes looked her up and down appraisingly. She wore the blue, homespun gown her mother had helped her sew with inset laced sleeves. The young man’s sherry-colored eyes focused their inspection, first on her face, taking in her fair porcelain features, unblinkingly gazing into her light blue eyes. He then looked upwards to her gold-colored hair.
But what he did next surprised her . . . his assessing eyes traveled back down to her bosom. The lad stared boldly at the lace lining of her tightly fitted bodice where the globes of her breasts peeped modestly out of the empire-styled bodice. The Irish lace lining the garment demurely screened her bosom from full view and was tucked back in its proper place.
She felt herself growing angry under his insolent regard. Did he know what had transpired in Robert’s cabin, and if so, what business was it of his?
Sarah’s sapphire-blue eyes gleamed with anger. This lad was boldly staring at her chest . . . what the devil did he think he was about? She was not some harbor trollop to be stared at in such an insolent way!
On the verge of setting the impudent lad properly in his place by giving him a good facer with the flat of her hand, she watched as his manner suddenly changed. It was as if the young seamen suddenly remembered who she was.
He bowed and presented himself to her in a correct, deferential manner, as befitted her station as the commanding officer’s future bride.
“I’m Jeremy, ma’am,” he said in a soft voice, giving her a curious look. “Lieutenant Smythe asked me to escort you about. He said you wanted to become more familiar with The Brunswick, ma’am.”
“That’s correct, seaman,” she said in frigid tones, letting him know of her displeasure at his open familiarity. She drew the paisley shawl more closely about her.
Fervently, she wished that it
were the first mate showing her about the frigate, not this wee bit of puffed up manhood. There was something not correct about the young seaman’s attitude towards her.
Aye, she could not quite put her finger on it. Something was definitely amiss. Her intuition told her that something was not quite right with this lad.
She knew Jeremy did not hold her in any kind of respect. His raking look upon first meeting had not held the deference due her as either a lady or as the fiancée of the highest ranking officer aboard. It had been openly insolent and cold.
But why was the lad behaving so badly? Why was he speaking to her with barely veiled contempt? It was as if he knew her betrothal to Lieutenant Smythe to be all but a sham. Was the little imp secretly mocking her?
Despite the young sailor’s now seemingly polite manners, the uneasiness she felt upon first meeting him did not diminish as he escorted her about.
Following Jeremy, she descended two decks to the bottom of the frigate, the cargo hull. It was here that repair materials were kept. Most of the crew was outside finishing their duties. It was empty of any other human presence.
She had been on other sloops before with her godfather, Duncan, the fisherman who had pulled her out of the sea as a baby, but this naval warship was almost twice as large as any fishing vessel. It was also impeccably clean and shipshape.
The brass shone in the waning afternoon light. The wood decks were well swabbed, sanded, and cared for with several coatings of lemon and wax. The inexperienced seamen, not yet ranked as able-bodied, had been on their hands and knees, moving back and forth across the planks with book-sized pieces of sandstone. The end result of their labor being that the wood now gleamed from the sanding.
Jeremy led her down past the berth deck.
The familiar smell of livestock assailed her senses. A mixture of hay, gunpowder, manure, and a variety of other smells she associated with small, tenant farms, assaulted her nose. This area was where the officers penned their livestock of chickens, pigs, goats, and cows, next to the guns and cannons.
There were other animals aboard with the livestock, she noted. The crew was permitted to keep pets. Occasionally, she heard the squawking of parrots and the loud bark of a dog. A few cats also freely prowled around, working for their keep. They kept the population of the ship’s rats down.
They descended farther. She knew when they reached the bottom level of the frigate. Her skin prickled with anticipation. Small, unseen brown and black vermin with long tails hid there.
Pairs of dark, beady eyes stared out from the top of cargo boxes. She could hear tiny feet scurry away at their approach.
Shivering, she tightened her grip on her paisley shawl. Rodents were not one of her preferred creatures. She had never intended to descend this far down. But Jeremy had adamantly insisted on including it on the tour.
She noted baited pieces of bread soaked in arsenic lying about. She’d been told the poison was kept locked in the captain’s trunk and put out for these small vermin. It might have been how the assassin obtained his.
The young seaman paused at the hull’s hatch door. He took a candle down from a stand and lit it. He led her arm, firmly gripping her elbow.
Ouch—his hold hurt.
“Take your hand off of me!” she snapped.
“You want to see all of the ship, don’t you, ma’am?” Jeremy asked, his tone oily. “The commander told me to let you explore every inch of her, Mistress Duncan. You’re not afraid, are ye, ma’am?”
She gave him a frosty stare, clearly indicating that she had no desire to go any further. He would have to drag her down first. At the same time a horrible stench assailed her senses. She wrinkled her nose. The smell came from the frigate’s bilge water.
Merciful heavens, it’s horribly foul! She pinched her nose. That green slime on the floor of the hull . . . is that what’s making the dreadful stink? If so, I am not going to take another step.
Jeremy smirked at her look of disgust.
“I thought an Irish lady brought up on a remote island, such as yourself, ma’am, would want to see all of the grand ship that your future husband is in charge of. Especially seeing how poor Captain Jackson is dead . . . God keep his soul.”
Does he want me to contradict him? If Jeremy desired her to tell him that Captain Jackson wasn’t dead, but actually still alive, and therefore the tour of the hull quite unnecessary, she almost obliged.
But instead of setting her tongue loose, she held it. She detested the idea of letting this inflated wee bit of jackanapes see her afraid.
Is he trying to unnerve me on purpose? Does he think I’m not worthy of becoming the first mate’s wife? She was full of indignation. And if so, who the devil does he think he is to judge me?
She stiffened her spine. Faith, I’ll show this forward scamp of a boy that I’m made of far sterner stuff than bits of petticoat and lace. I am as strong as any English lady!
Poised to open her mouth and order him to take her directly back up to the top deck, something happened that caused her heart to pound with genuine fear. It killed the sharp words poised on the tip of her tongue, silencing them forever.
The candle guttered out . . . she stood alone in complete darkness.
Disoriented, she realized the hand that had been pulling her forcefully down into the bowels of the ship, suddenly disappeared. Instinctively, she reached out, her fingers grasping at nothing but air. However, it did not remain dark for long.
* * *
Later, Sarah tried to describe it to Robert as they dined alone in the wardroom that night. In the safety of the quiet cabin room, she felt as if it were someone else who had lived the events she was retelling.
The best she could do was say, “It was as dark as tar down there. I could not see my own hand. I felt a sudden chill in the air about us and everything was unnaturally quiet.”
Goose pimples ran along her arms as she recalled the frightening moment.
“The hair on the back of my neck rose. I sensed . . . nay, I knew, something or someone was standing behind me. Then I turned and saw . . . ,” she paused, taking a healthy swallow of sherry, “a ghost.”
“You saw a what?”
“It was a pale ball of light at first, floating next to the cargo boxes. It slowly took a form, turning into something more solid and recognizable. First, a head . . . followed by shoulders . . . and then finally the rest of the spirit’s body.”
“What did this ghost look like?”
“He looked like a dead seaman.”
When the unearthly apparition materialized in front of her, she had almost leapt with fear. The hull had suddenly turned bone cold. Her breath came out in small, white puffs of air.
“Anything else?” he asked, eyeing her across the candlelit table. “Did it indicate who it might be? What it might want?”
“It was wrapped in what appeared to be long strands of seaweed. It lifted pale arms and pointed an accusing finger at Jeremy . . .” She knit her brows together in an endeavor to remember exactly what followed.
“My heart was thumping so hard. Yet I could not let loose a scream. It stayed lodged in the back of my throat. I was terrified, unable to move. Fear held me in place as strongly as any tight rope.”
“How did Jeremy react to this specter?” He leaned closer. Sarah’s voice had descended to a barely audible whisper.
“He fainted dead away,” she recalled. “His lamp dropped out of his hands.” Shaking with fright, she had had the courage to pick it up. Almost slipping in her haste, she had turned back to the tinder box by the hatch.
“I managed to light the candle and proceeded to come back down to confront the specter. But before I had an opportunity to speak, to ask what it wanted . . . it vanished.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I checked on Jeremy. I was beginning to loosen his neck cloth when he came to. He looked about, startled at first. Then he sat up and did something I would never in the world have imagined.”
�
��Which was?”
“He laughed, Lieutenant . . . he chuckled with uncontrolled delight. It was as if the ghost’s strange appearance had been nothing but a bit of tomfoolery. Apparently, the sole purpose of this was to frighten me.”
“Never!”
“Aye,” she said, nodding in agreement.
She still was not quite certain herself as to why the seaman had reacted that way. “It was then he informed me of the truth of what had just taken place.”
“Which was?”
“That he had asked one of his shipmates to hide behind the cargo boxes and dress himself up as a ghost, covering himself in white flour and seaweed. Another had taken a magic lantern and made a pin prick of light to appear and disappear, or so he said. He laughed and told me that it had all been a prank to baptize me into life aboard ship. An initiation, he said it was.”
“Did you believe him?” Robert scowled, upset on the wise woman’s behalf.
The lad should never have taken her down to the cargo hull. It was not a suitable place for any visitor aboard the ship, and most certainly not a lady. He was prepared to summon the young seaman to his side for a brutal face-to-face with the nearest judgment from God—a moment alone with his angry acting commander.
“Nay,” she said calmly.
Jeremy’s joviality had been forced. She had sensed it. But why pretend? And where were these so called other pranksters? Why was it the young seaman had been the only one standing there laughing?
“It all felt quite false, a veritable farce put forth by one person. I did not believe what he told me for an instant. It was pure blarney,” she finished.
The first mate’s frown deepened. He disliked these shenanigans. The dark image of a ghost suddenly appearing out of nowhere made him uncomfortable. Added to that, when he thought of the lovely wise woman in possible danger, he was ready to enact martial law. If she’d been harmed in any way, he’d have wrung the lad’s neck with his own bare hands. Gripping his chair in anger, he decided the impudent sailor and his co-conspirators were about to pay dearly for their nasty prank.