by Beverly Adam
“I’ll have him and his mates put in the brig for this,” he muttered.
He felt his authority was being questioned by making a mockery of the beautiful woman under his protection. “But before I do that, I’ll flog the prankster myself! How dare the little bugger . . . the rascal, I’ll make him sorely regret his actions.”
“No, don’t!” she said, placing a restraining hand on him. “I don’t want any difficulties because of this foolishness. The crew has been through a terrible time with the loss of one of their shipmates, the fire, and now their captain’s announced death. They have had everything thrown at them at once. ’Tis acceptable with me if I am the one to make them laugh, to ease the tension . . . there’s no need to punish anyone. No harm has come to either me or to the ship. Aye, there is no need to exact any revenge on my behalf.”
She had personally taken care of that.
What she did not add to her tale was the fact that after the young seaman confessed what he’d done, she slapped him angrily across the face and then had promptly gone directly back up to the berth deck.
Once out of the hull, she began pulling a heavy potato sack across the trap door. She had some help. Master O’Grady, the master gunner, who upon seeing her struggle with the heavy sack, unquestioningly aided her.
She sat down on it. Calmly, she ignored the poundings and urgent shouts emitting from the other side. Blithely she smiled like a queen on her throne, at the seamen gathered about.
“I hope ye won’t take offense if I was to be asking if ye be in fair weather, ma’am?” asked the burly Irish gunner.
Frantic thumping sounds emanated from the sack beneath her.
“I’m desirous to do a bit of sitting, Mr. O’ Grady. That’s all I’m doing.” She smiled up at him and the other hands. “I’m afraid a wee bit of respect is needed to be taught to a certain young seaman aboard this warship.”
“For sure, ma’am,” said the Irishman mildly. “May I be so bold as to ask which one of our unworthy lads that would be, Mistress Duncan? Who needs the reprimanding?”
“A certain Jeremy Kaye by name, sir,” she said with a small offended sniff. “He was supposed to escort me about The Brunswick. Instead, he took me on a trip down to Hades itself.”
“Did that undisciplined, English buffoon offend your tender Celtic sensibilities, ma’am?” asked the Irish gunner, flexing an arm the size of a sturdy log.
“Would you like me to teach him what we sons of Erin do to those who give a pretty colleen, such as yourself, trouble?” asked another.
The other men gathered about her beamed eager smiles of agreement down at the flaxen-haired beauty. Aye, they muttered in agreement, they would all like to have a hand in punishing the young upstart. How dare the little braggart treat the commander’s betrothed this way! How dare he mock her!
“It would be delightful to give the young sea pup a proper paddling, especially when the lad is such a stuck up little bugger,” continued Mr. O’ Grady.
A chorus of rough ‘ayes’ were heard from the other able-bodied seamen.
“Nay, nay, gentlemen.” She beamed, rearranging her skirts prettily about her. “No need to go concerning yourselves over this small matter. I’m perfectly content to sit here and let the bilge rat remain in his rightful hiding place.”
She was happy . . . her revenge was complete.
Jeremy and his fellow pranksters, if there were any others, were down in the dark hull. They were unable to stir up any further trouble. Only when the steward came to fetch her for the evening meal with Robert, did she finally relinquish her makeshift throne. Master O’Grady, his wife, and various other members of the crew, pressed her to let them take her place.
“We’d be honored,” they said, “to stand guard for ye, ma’am.”
Before she could say, “Jack your brother,” more than half the hands volunteered. It would be well into the next day before the seaman was released.
Nay, I do not need to worry about what happened in the hull. There’s no need for the first mate to do any bloodletting on my behalf. The crew has seen to that.
Chapter 6
They finished their dinner pleasantly discussing places they both had visited. They talked about the various journeys they had taken, including the people they’d met. To Robert’s surprise, he learned that the wise woman was used to associating with those above her station. He noted during their conversation that there were times when she spoke with mocking humor about those considered to be her betters. He liked her all the more for it.
Secretly, he was impressed by the way she handled herself in his company. Most women of his acquaintance were a bit overawed by his presence and tended to babble on about mundane inanities, as if a commanding officer could possibly care that their dancing instructor didn’t know any French or that their mother wouldn’t let them wear wetted gowns to a ball. Other ladies paled, as well, when compared to Sarah’s natural beauty and feminine charm, which he found to be most alluring and innocently exciting. Indeed, he had never met a woman like her.
He himself had not been raised among the upper crust. Having earned his rank as a first lieutenant through merit, he felt uncomfortable among those who did not. The Smythe family’s origins were from among the solid merchant class. He did not aspire to a title higher than that of a captain of the Royal Navy. Although he knew of five naval admirals who had risen up the ranks this way, his aspirations did not lead him in that direction. He wanted simply to be in command of a naval warship.
“Do you play any instruments?” he asked. Her blonde eyelashes, he noted, were very long and her mouth as she smiled at him, was generous, just right for kissing, he mused.
She shook her head. “I enjoy it. But the best I can do is sing a little. Being brought up on a remote island never provided me with the opportunity. And you, do you play any instruments, Lieutenant?”
“I was most fortunate as a lad—I served on second and first rated warships as a young midshipman. They had several talented musicians. Under the tutelage of two of the chaplains, I learned to play a little of the harpsichord and mandolin.”
She smiled, looking about to see if any instruments were available “Will you not play for me now? It’s been a long time since I heard any melodies. When I was young, my mother would sometimes play on a penny whistle for me. Sometimes,” she modestly confessed, “I’m invited to my friend Lady Beatrice’s evening concerts at Brightwood Manor. My voice, it may be supposed, cannot be too out of tune. She often asks me to sing.”
“If that is true, I must see what I can do to fulfill your wish. Give me one moment,” he said, “and we shall have our own little musical soiree. I should be delighted to hear what a sweet voice you’ve been blessed with.”
He held himself back from adding that if her voice matched the rest of her appearance, he was in for a treat. Instead, he excused himself and went in search of the instrument.
Bearing the mandolin carefully in his hands, he returned.
He took it out of its case and placed it upon his knee. She noticed how strong and wide his thighs were, like the beams of the ship, sturdy, perfect for sitting on.
Before long they were singing in unison. Merry melodies that were familiar to both of them were heard echoing out the cabin window onto the bay. On some of the slower songs, his deep baritone joined her light soprano. The two voices blended together in perfect tune and pitch, encouraging the other to sing on.
He enjoyed watching her luscious mouth as she sang, the light of enjoyment in her light blue eyes. Sometimes her voluptuous bosom swelled upwards as she took in a deep breath, and he was forced to gaze elsewhere to keep from gawking at her like a school boy.
He had no right to think of touching the lovely Irish woman. She was under his protection. She trusts you, he sternly reminded himself. Don’t be a cad and ruin it by giving into your carnal desires.
Observing him opened the wise woman’s eyes to a different aspect of his character. The minute he held the instru
ment in his hands, cradling it in the same competent manner he did his sexton, his whole demeanor changed. All the tenseness he held on his stiff uniformed shoulders during the day dropped away.
Music indeed can lighten a man’s burden.
He appeared more relaxed and content, lifting the corner of his mouth into a genuine warm smile. Something she had not seen since they’d come aboard. He always appeared to be in firm command of himself and those around him, except now, when playing.
Her feet lightly tapped the boards in time to the music as they went through a rollicking rendition of Whiskey in the Rye.
In the future, when we dine together, I shall make a point of asking him to play. For surely it must do him some good to set aside his burdens as commander of this fine ship for a little while.
Watching him made her aware of the way he always held himself in check. He was always in tight control. His duty as acting captain, she understood, was both a blessing and a burden. But he had met the challenge of taking over for Captain Jackson admirably. He had done so with self-assurance, knowing he was able to command both the ship and the crew. There had been no doubts. And she respected and admired him because of it.
As she watched him play, she couldn’t help but notice his long, muscular arms, and idly wondered if he could hold a woman as well as he could an instrument? Undoubtedly, it would be most enjoyable to find out, she decided, gazing up at him from beneath her lashes. She then berated herself for thinking such wicked thoughts, for who was she but a lowly Irish wise woman. He will want someone of higher rank than you. Stop behaving like a moonstruck schoolgirl around him and be of good use instead.
She vowed to do what she could to help him, to see if she could make his life more agreeable. Maybe she could give the cook a hand with the food? She thought tasting the almost bland food placed in front of her. Perhaps help the other women aboard with their work . . . surely she could be of some use during her time aboard.
Thus resolved, she smiled up at him and enjoyed the rest of the evening in his company. For a few happy moments she forgot the awful events that had frightened her witless earlier. She put them aside and relaxed in his safe company. But unfortunately that evening was not to be the end of the matter between her, Jeremy Kaye, and the ghost. It was merely the beginning.
* * *
Lieutenant Smythe, upon retiring for the night, encountered the rather unusual watch being held on top of the potato sack. Upon learning why the master carpenter’s wife, Mistress Kelly, was perched there, he insisted on having a turn.
When the crew passed the hatch on their way to their hammocks that night they were greeted by a rather odd sight . . . their commanding officer was seated on a rustic gunny sack.
He softly whistled a well-known sea shanty, while whittling on a piece of driftwood. They quietly saluted him, tipping their hats as they passed.
“Night, Lieutenant Smythe,” they said as they passed to their hammocks.
Robert nodded politely in turn, acting as if this were a perfectly normal way for him, the master and commander of one of the swiftest warships of the line, to pass his free time.
His men appreciated his loyalty to his betrothed. They were glad to be serving under a gentleman with such discerning taste. Many of them, including several of the officers, envied him his choice of bride. For the beautiful Irish woman had proven she was not a spineless petticoat. She was a grand lady, worthy of their respect.
* * *
The morning of the memorial service for Captain Jackson was a somber affair. Sarah watched Robert give the eulogy from the quarter-deck. She looked about for Jeremy. Her nemesis was noticeably absent. He was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps he had gone back to his bunk or been placed in the brig? Either way, she was secretly relieved she did not have to face him. She wanted to concentrate on the service, not on his unwelcome presence.
At the end of the memorial, Robert solemnly intoned, “Deal graciously, O’ Lord, we pray, with all who mourn this day. We cast all care on you, that we may know the consolation of your love through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
They sang a hymn as Mrs. Kelly played the small organ kept in the corner of the lower deck for Sunday services. Robert turned to Mr. Litton and nodded in a familiar signal known to both from years of working together.
“Crew . . . diss-missed!” the second mate said in a commanding voice that carried to those on the lower deck.
The men quickly dispersed, returning to their assigned duties.
Sarah looked again for Jeremy, wondering what had become of him. She knew that Lieutenant Smythe had kept his promise not to have the seaman punished because the boatswain, the officer in charge of superintending such punishments, had not been summoned.
Later that afternoon she learned why she had not seen him. The simple reason was that he was no longer aboard.
The young seaman had spent twenty-four hours trapped in the stinking hull. Upon being released, he was given his morning mess and confined to quarters. But instead of attending the morning memorial service for Captain Jackson, the lad had taken the opportunity to slip overboard and swim for shore. Unseen by the rest of the crew who were busy attending the memorial service, he escaped.
The ship’s Marines and a small longboat crew were sent ashore to track down and find the wayward deserter. But not a trace of him was to be found. Jeremy had apparently found means in which to quickly escape the harbor. He was now out of their reach.
“I should have had him shackled in irons,” Robert said, upon learning of the sailor’s escape, “and properly flogged. A little bloodletting would have certainly impeded his escape. I assumed the lad had learned his lesson and would reform his ways. More the fool I!”
Miserably, she conceded, “It is undoubtedly my fault, Lieutenant Smythe. I am most sorry for it. If you had not listened to me, he would not now be gone. I hope the Royal Admiralty does not blame you for this sorry affair. If they do utter a word against you because of this, please place all the blame on my shoulders. I am, after all, the featherbrained female who thought he would act honorably after you dealt him so mild a punishment.”
He smiled at her, his anger quickly disappearing.
The wise woman’s face was contrite and repentant. She was quite becoming in the morning sunlight, standing next to him on the quarter-deck. She wore a simple dove gray morning gown. Her gold locks of hair peeked out in curled tendrils from under her plain straw bonnet. She had beribboned it appropriately with black velvet for the memorial.
He consoled her. “You are not to blame, Mistress Duncan. Neither one of us could have possibly known how Jeremy would react. Truth be told, this is the only second desertion The Brunswick has had in the past two years. It is an admirable record most captains would envy. Nay, the Admiralty will say nothing about this regrettable event.”
“Men desert that frequently, sir?”
“Aye, I’m afraid so,” he answered truthfully. “Those pressed into service, the homesick, and those disillusioned about life at sea, will on occasion jump ship. Aye, I am afraid it is a common enough event. One unfortunately a captain of a man-of-war must come to expect in these uncertain times. Loyalty to king and country can mean much, or for some very little.”
“And the hands, will they miss Jeremy greatly? Have I deprived you of an important member of your crew?”
“Nay. Jeremy was a capable enough foretop man,” he said, referring to the sailors who were assigned to the highest part of the ship’s tall masts. They worked rigging the sails, serving on watch, and acting as marksmen in battle, firing from the maintops at any invading intruders trying to board the ship.
“But he was not so indispensable a seaman that I could not easily replace him with another. From what I understand, he was not particularly well liked by a great number of the hands. Therefore, he shall not in the least be missed. Apparently, the lad had no friends. He kept to himself, believing himself somehow to be superior to the others. Aye, a true loner was
our wayward sailor.”
He took her hand comfortingly into his own.
“Do not trouble yourself on his account, Mistress Duncan. To dwell on the matter, my dear, will only give you cause to frown. As the commander of this vessel, I must say it would displease me greatly to see you thus.”
He daringly kissed her hand.
It was a gentle and tender gesture, one she had cause to dwell upon with a contented smile on her face for the rest of the day. The sight of the proud and proper commanding Lieutenant Smythe bending over her was endearing. He had been more than kind. He had managed to abate all the secret fears she had guiltily held concerning her part in Jeremy’s decision to desert.
She would have gladly swept the matter cleanly from her thoughts, as he had recommended, but that was not to be. A darker event was about to overshadow the others.
* * *
As the sun reached its zenith the next day, an excitable gentleman in a long black overcoat came running up the gangplank, bringing word of a most unusual find. A dead body had been recovered from the sea.
Robert recognized the excitable gentleman as being the local constable of Dingle Harbor. The local Irish called him their Garda Siochanca. He went and greeted the man thinking that perhaps Jeremy may have been found.
That morning he had filed a report with the constable of the port about the sailor’s disappearance. In return he had been assured that the town’s officials would spread the word around to keep an eye out for the young deserter.
But instead of bringing word about Jeremy’s whereabouts, the Garda brought the disturbing news of a retrieved dead body. It had recently washed ashore on a remote part of the southern peninsula not far from Dingle.
“A shepherd from Lipspole sighted the body snagged on a bit of seaweed. We rowed out and fetched it. He had come in on a high tide, Commander.”