Miss Whittier Makes a List

by Carla Kelly

  “Tighten it again!” he ordered, his voice louder now, more urgent.

  She did as he said, and he finished his swift work, dropped the shattered forearm in a brimming bucket and quickly tied off the artery.

  The sailor was silent, his eyes closed. The surgeon looked up at her then, as if remembering some social indiscretion. He smiled apologetically, and extended his bloody hand to her acrosable.

  “Oh, do forgive my manners, Miss Whittier. Welcome to hell.”

  Chapter Eight

  Hannah wasn’t aware when the guns stopped, because there was no silence on the orlop deck where the wounded had been taken. She blotted all thoughts from her mind except the ordeal before her and did as Andrew Lease said. She only hesitated once, at the very beginning, when the surgeon took her hand and forced it against an artery that was cascading like a fountain to the deck above.

  She had looked at him in terror as the droplets rained down, then did as he said.

  “Excellent, Miss Whittier. Just jam it tight against the bone for another minute,” the surgeon murmured as he continued his work. “Tell me, do you have brothers and sisters? I suspect you are the youngest.”

  She looked at him in amazement, then understood. “I have four older brothers, and yes, I am the youngest,” she replied with scarcely a quaver in her voice. I will match you calm for calm, she thought, as she pressed against the artery. “Do you think I am the youngest because the captain contends I am a rascal, sir?”

  Lease smiled as he sawed. “Yes, actually. You seem a bit used to your own way. Another moment, Miss Whittier.”

  “Perhaps I just resist bullying,” she said as Lease took the artery in his hand and tied it off. “It is an American trait, I think.” She gulped, too afraid to look down at what he was doing.

  “He means well. Here, grab this fellow under the armpits. I think we can ease him to the deck.”

  Whatever his deficiencies in ordinary conversation, Lease knew his business. He worked his way through the wounded and the dying, moving so deliberately at times that she wanted to scream. “Haste never healed a wound,” he commented mildly at one point. “Do quit gritting your teeth, my dear Miss Whittier. You might ruin an otherwise excellent facial structure.”

  The hours wore by, and then she realized that the last two men the Marines had brought below were French. She looked at the doctor. “Is it over?”

  “You didn’t hear the guns stop?” Lease asked as he surveyed the latest ruin on his operating table. “Why do they bring these wrecks below?” he asked no one in particular. “Am I God, to ordain a miracle? Just hold his hand, Miss Whittier. He will soon quit this life, lucky man. Bon chance,” he told the sailor in French, bending over him and straightening his legs.

  She took the French sailor’s hand and held it tight until he died. Lease slumped against the bulkhead and sank to the deck, his face etched with exhaustion like acid on copper. He patted the deck beside him and she joined him, feeling oddly boneless as soon as she sat down.

  “You are right, you know,” he said at last when her eyes were closing.

  “Right?”

  “A husband should put his wife’s welfare above his own.”

  If she had not already endured an afternoon and evening of strange commentary on fashion, customs, weather, and scientific discovery, delivered across an operating table, Hannah would have been amazed. As it was, she regarded the surgeon’s comment in the same calm in which it was delivered.

  “My dratted list has already been a source of some embarrassment to me,” she said. “I did not wish to cause you pain, sir.”

  Lease smiled, but there was no mirth. “I know you did not, and I was rude to walk out like that, particularly before Cookie’s plum duff. Look far and wide, my dear, for a man who will not desert you when the sky falls in. Let me be your bad example.” He closed his eyes and seemed to be reaching for a memory not usually touched. “My wife and baby would be alive today if I had possessed less pride in my skills to save them.”

  “Oh, sir,” she said and tried to take his hand. He shifted away from her.

  “I assured her that I could handle any situation, even as she pleaded with me to call in another surgeon,” he continued, his voice dull, but with a wistfulness that went straight to her heart. “I was more concerned with my reputation than her welfare.”

  He said no more, but stared at the table with the dead man on it. In another moment, two sailors came onto the deck. “Captain Spark sent us, sir,” said one, his face covered with black powder from the guns. “Can we help?”

  Lease sighed and pulled himself to his feet. “Indeed you can. And I release you, Miss Whittier, from the underworld. These fellows and I will tidy up this little corner of Hades.”

  She left the orlop deck and climbed wearily to the gun deck, where the battle lanterns still glowed weirdly. She gasped the carnage there that had never even reached the surgery. She thought she saw Mr. Lansing, pale beyond belief, pulled into a corner, but she had not the heart to investigate. She continued her climb to the main deck, amazed at the effort it took to put one foot in front of the other.

  There was no other ship on the ocean. Night had come and with it a certain tidiness as the darkness cloaked whatever still floated on the water from the Bergeron. She slumped onto the afterhatch, noting idly that the bag of oakum she had picked that morning was still there. She looked at the chaos about her, the bloody sand, the slanting deck, the ruined sails, the mizzenmast shattered at a height of ten feet from the deck, with the yards and sails drooping dangerously over the side.

  As she watched, sailors and Marines chopped through the mast and ropes and heaved it overboard. The ship righted itself, and the remaining sails filled as the sailors in the yardarms unreefed them. Order was replacing catastrophe as she watched, her eyes weary.

  And there on the splintered quarterdeck, stood Captain Daniel Spark, calmly telling his crew what to do. He spoke quietly, and they moved to do his will. Soon the bosun’s mate had turned the wash pump on the deck, sluicing it clean, except for the deeper stains. Hannah knew, as surely as she breathed, that the morning sun would bring out the survivors to holystone the deck back to its former whiteness. The mast would be replaced, the sails refined, and life would continue aboard the Dissuade. It was just another incident of war to these iron men who had contended against France for twenty years now.

  A great wave of loneliness washed over her, bringing with it such pain that she could only get to her feet, climb to the quarterdeck, and huddle there against the comforting planking. If thee shouts me off this deck, I won’t go, she thought as she gathered herself into a tight little ball. She listened to the captain’s approaching footsteps, her heart aching, her mind blank.

  Spark stood beside her. She waited for him to speak, dared him to, but he said nothing. He came closer until his leg touched her, and just stood there, continuing his orders to his crew as his boat cloak swirled around her, shutting out the dreadful view. She closed her eyes, relieved beyond words to be enveloped in darkness. He reached down once to pat her head when she began to shiver, then turned back to the task at hand as she leaned against his leg.

  An hour passed, and still he stood on the deck, watching the evolution from upheaval to order. He spoke to her finally.

  “Hannah, tell me if I won my wager.”

  “You did, sir,” she said.

  He knelt beside her. “You deliberately disobeyed me, didn’t you?”

  “Of course,” she replied, looking him right in the eye. “You didn’t really think I would stay there when all those men were screaming?”

  He brushed her cheek with his own. “No, I did not.” He stood up and moved away to the railing. “Cookie, find me some rum. Two glasses, or cups or whatever isn’t broken.”

  She looked up. “Rum’s only for heroes. You told me.”

  He nodded, but said nothing. In a few minutes he handed her a coffee mug full of rum. “Drink it all, Hannah. You’re a hero.”
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  Her eyes filled with tears as she took the mug.

  “And for God’s sake, don’t cry!” he ordered, then knelt beside her again, his hands gentle on her shoulders. “How can I maintain order when my scurviest little crew member turns into a watering pot?”

  She sobbed anyway, then took a great gulp of the rum. It furrowed aath down her throat and landed, glowing with a life all its own, in her empty stomach, where it warmed her all the way to her toes. She cried and sipped the rest of the rum until it was gone and she had no tears left. With a last shuddering sigh, she handed back the mug.

  “Do you want some more?” he asked. Already, his voice sounded distant and thick, as though her brain were full of rum, too.

  She shook her head. “I think it would make me drunk.”

  He poured another mugful and handed it to her. “Good. Have some more, by all means.”

  She set the cup on the deck. “I had not thought thee unscrupulous, too,” she protested, but her voice was light.

  “I am that and worse, I suppose.” He took another swallow and squatted beside her. “How is Andrew?” he asked.

  She picked up the mug and drank it half down without pausing. She giggled and leaned forward until her forehead touched the captain’s. “I think he is mad.”

  “I am certain of it, Hannah,” was Spark’s quiet reply. “But as he can still saw and tie with the best, I don’t trouble him about it much.” He looked around, and then sat beside her on the deck, leaning against the bulkhead. “Never thought I would sit on my own deck,” he grumbled. “Let me know if you see Futtrell, and I’ll get up. I have a certain standing to maintain in this community.” He looked at her and chuckled. “That was a joke, Hannah. You’re supposed to laugh when I make one.”

  p width="29" align="justify">She made a face at him and finished the rum. She held out the mug again, but he shook his head. “Oh, no! That’s enough, even for a hero.” He looked at her and flicked the hair back from her face. “Did he tell you she was my sister?” “Oh, God,” Hannah breathed, wide awake again. She took hold of Spark’s arm. “Never that!”

  He nodded. “She made that little sampler in my sleeping cabin.”

  “But ... why? Why would he want to serve with you?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Maybe that’s part of his own mad punishment. After—well—after Melinda died, he disappeared. No one heard of him for a year, and I did check, whenever we came off blockade. Just gave up his practice and disappeared.”

  “Did he really cause her death?”

  “Probably not, but who knows? He thinks he did.” Spark stood up then and convened quietly with his lieutenant of Marines for a long moment while Hannah tried to gather her thoughts into one coherent shape. And then Mr. Futtrell, his arm in a sling, was on the deck, and the carpenter, too, wet from the waist down and smelling of bilge.

  As she sat shivering on the deck, Captain Spar removed his boat cloak and slung it over her. “Go to sleep, Miss Whittier,” he said. “You don’t have a cabin right now, and this is the best place.” He was gone then with the carpenter and the bosun, while Futtrell took his place on the quarterdeck.

  She watched Mr. Futtrell pace back and forth, in imitation of his captain. Every few minutes he touched his bandaged arm as though proud to have a wound. How young thee is, she thought, and then was filled with the absurdity of her reflection. She was far younger than he, but she felt so old.

  “Is Mr. Lansing dead?” she asked when he had stopped close to her.

  He must not have seen her there in the shadows because he jumped back. “Lord, you scared me, Miss Whittier!” he exclaimed. “Place is full of ghosts. Thought you was another.” He touched his arm again. “Yes, he’s dead. Practically from the first.”

  She sighed and drew Spark’s boat cloak tight around her. “And the Bergeron is sunk,” she added as flimsy consolation.

  “Aye, Miss Whittier, but do you know, weighing that against Mr. Lansing, I would rather fight her again and still have him roaring out orders from the gun deck.”< Futtrell moved away then, to smite the helmsman with a sharp order to trim the sails.

  She watched him until her eyes grew heavy, then she lay down and arranged the cloak around her. She thought of Adam Winslow, and wondered if he still lived. And then Andrew Lease, with his desperate eyes and drawing room chatter, shouldered his way into her thoughts and stayed there, cutting and tying, as she closed her eyes upon troubled dreams.

  When she woke, she was in her hammock again, but still covered by Daniel Spark’s cloak. She snuggled deeper into the woolen warmth, loath to open her eyes on chaos by daylight. When she was unable to avoid the new day, she opened her eyes and sat up. The bulkheads knocked down so quickly before yesterday’s encounter with the Bergeron were in place again, effectively shutting her off from the main gun deck. She sniffed the gun below her, which was still heavy with the odor of expended powder and shot.

  She lay on her back, staring up at the deck, when she heard several heavy splashes. Her heart in her throat, she climbed from the hammock and wrenched open the tiny porthole. As she watched, another shrouded body slid into the water from the main deck. Hurriedly she dragged a brush through her tangled hair and ran onto the deck above.

  She stood in silence as Captain Spark, dressed impeccably, and with all his medals this time, stood before another row of bodies sewn into their hammocks. “ ‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ ” he read from the little Bible in his hand, his eyes on the words without seeing them. “ ‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’ ” He removed his hat then and bowed his head. “Merciful Father, God of Battle, we commend these thy servants at the guns, to rest in the deep. God rest their souls and God bless the King and his Regent. Amen.”

  The next row of shrouded bodies was tipped off the deck and into the water. Hannah scanned the sailors standing alert on the main deck, her eyes anxious. She sighed. There was Adam, looking much older than his sixteen years, with a stained bandage on his neck. She looked around for the other Nantucket seaman who had been impressed, and sighed again. He was not in sight.

  Another scripture, another entreaty to the Almighty, and a third row of bodies slid into the water. Her heart sore, Hannah looked at the captain and moved closer, alarmed at the agony on his face. Why did I ever think him so hard, she thought as she watched him, head bowed, feet wide apart on the deck, trying to retain what shreds of composure clung, tattered, about his tall form. She looked at the faces of the sailors and saw her own concern mirrored there. How could I have seen only rough men, she asked herself. They all have followed him to hell and back without a murmur. I have, too.

  Then there was only Mr. Lansing left, sewn into a length of sailcloth, his hat resting at the head of the plank, his sword at the foot. She waited for Captain Spark, but all he could do was clear his throat over and over, unable to speak at the loss of his first lieutenant.

  Hannah took a deep breath and stepped forward. She took the Bible from Spark’s hands and turned to Job. Spark rested his hand on her shoulder and she looked back at him, wondering if she was completely out of bounds, and due for a scolding. She glanced at his face, a winter landscape, his eyes filled with tears, and turned back to the book. Her voice was calm. “ ‘For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.’ ”

  She paused, overwhelmed, and looked at Adam Winslow, who watched her, a half smile on his face. He nodded to her, and she gathered the courage to continue. “ ‘And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.’ ”

  The ship was silent. Even the riggings had stopped humming for once. There was only the slap of water against the ship, as though the sea were eager to receive another offering. Hannah bowed her head. “Heavenly Father, accept thy son to thy merciful bosom, where there are no guns, and no war. Let use worthy to see Mr. Lansing again in the resurrection. God save the United States, the King, and his Regent. Amen.”


  Mr. Futtrell stepped forward and took the sword while Captain Spark tipped Mr. Lansing into the water. He stood beside the railing as the shrouded body, loaded with shot like the others, sank swiftly. Hannah hesitated. She longed to touch Spark, but she knew better. She stood next to Adam, who put his around her shoulder. They watched quietly, no one moving, as the captain stared at the water.

  “Bosun, change the pump crew,” he said at last, his eyes still on the water. “Send the starboard watch to Chips for orders.”

  “Aye, aye.” The bosun’s whistle piped and half the men hurried below to relieve the sailors at the pumps. The others gathered around the carpenter.

  Spark turned around then; his composure restored, and settled his hat back on his head. He nodded to Hannah as she handed him his Bible. “Can you spend the day in the lookout?” he asked her. “I can’t spare anyone to change off, and we must watch.”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “My straw hat’s in the cabin, and so is my glass. You can get them. Take this, too,” he said, handing back the Bible. He turned on his heel for the quarterdeck, where a crew was preparing to jury-rig a new mast.

  She hurried below deck to Spark’s cabin. The black-and-white-checked canvas had been returned to the floor, the guns lashed down again, and the furniture arranged as before. She found the hat in the sleeping cabin and put it on her head. The telescope rested on the chart table in the great cabin. She looked at the chart on top, with the parallel rulers pointed to the Azores.

  A half-finished letter lay on the chart. She picked it up, her mouth dry. “My dear Mrs. Lansing,” she read, “please accept my consolation on the death of your son Edward.”

  She put down the letter, unable to continue. Imagine a lifetime of writing such letters, she thought. I could never. How does he? There was another such letter, and another, these finished and signed. As she turned away, a scrap of paper caught her eye. It was a narrow sheet, with pen wipings, blots, and doodles. She picked it up and read aloud. “Cheerful to a fault (Careful here: this could become tiresome). Courageous. Not afraid to argue. Lovely of face and body (at least to me). Places my welfare before her own.” There were numbers scratched through and rearranged before each sentence, but she dropped the page as though it burned her fingers and hurried from the cabin.