by Louise Allen
McTiernan might be a pirate, but at least he wasn’t twofaced. Nathan had absolutely no need to have put that strategy to the captain. McTiernan would have been quite happy with a report on the frigate. His only motive could have been to ingratiate himself, and, presumably, to share in the plunder until such time he could find an opportunity to betray this ship with some chance of escaping with a whole skin.
How could her instincts be so at fault? How could she have this bone-deep certainty that he was not all he seemed, when every time she let herself believe in him, he did something that proved her wrong?
‘Look where you’re going, boy!’ She skipped back just in time to avoid the two men with the slop buckets of swill for the prisoners below. One of them dropped a cloth holding ship’s biscuits and swore.
‘I’ll bring them, you’ve got your hands full.’ She snatched up the bundle and fell in behind them, heart thudding. Now she would discover where the men were kept, perhaps see the door opened, catch a glimpse so she could assess their condition.
Down they went, down again, the decks becoming lower, the light from lanterns less bright, the stench of the bilges stronger. Finally the men grounded their pails and one lifted a key on a chain from a hook.
‘What the—?’ The foul language swept over Clemence, made worse somehow by the icy calm with which the rant was delivered.
‘I was just helping, Cap’n,’ she stammered when McTiernan was finally silent. Behind him, on the lowest step of the companionway, she could see Nathan’s shadowy form.
‘If I catch you down here again, brat, I’ll have the flesh off your back. You hear me?’
‘Yessir.’
‘And that goes for anyone I don’t tell to come here. Anyone. Is that clear?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Then get the hell out of here.’ She tried to slide past him, but he lashed out at her as she did so, sending her into the bulkhead as though she weighed nothing. Clemence bounced off and into Nathan who grabbed her, none too gently.
He shoved her on to the steps. ‘Idiot boy.’ Clemence stumbled up, her head spinning, until they reached the deck where their cabin was. Nathan took her ear and dragged her towards it, keeping up a stream of angry reproof. ‘You do as the captain says, always, do you hear me? Or you’ll feel my fist even before he gets to you.’
The shove he gave her sent her sprawling onto his bunk as he slammed the door. Clemence tried to rub as many painful spots as she could at once—ear, head, shoulder—and glowered at Nathan.
‘Ow!’
‘Serves you right.’ He leaned back against the door panels and regarded her with a look that held everything of the angry ship’s officer and absolutely nothing of the tender man from the pool. ‘Just what did you hope to achieve with that ridiculous start?’
‘To see how the men were secured, whether they were chained up or free inside the hold, how many there are and if I knew any of them.’
‘That would have been helpful if they recognised you—good day, Miss Clemence,’ Nathan mimicked savagely. ‘Even the dimmest member of the crew is going to suspect something if their captives started falling on your neck with happy cries of recognition.’
‘It was so dark down there, you could hardly see, and anyway, they would never dream it was me,’ she retorted. ‘If we get into a fight, I was going to slip down and let them out. At best, they could attack the crew, at worst they wouldn’t be trapped down there if we are holed.’
‘Brilliant,’ Nathan said.
‘Thank you.’ At last, he realises that I am capable of doing something to help.
‘Brilliant, if you want to end up dead,’ he continued grimly, ‘You are not dealing with your uncle here, you are dealing with a murderous, insane, cunning, suspicious brute and you will give me your word you will not set foot on any deck below this one.’
‘No.’ Clemence rubbed her ear resentfully. ‘You hurt me.’
‘It had to look real. Swear, Clemence, or I’ll lock you in this cabin for the duration.’
She had never broken a promise in her life. Oaths were sacred, but was a promise to a renegade binding? Was her conscience worth more than the lives below deck?
‘I promise,’ she said. I promise to let those men out, I promise to do everything in my power to sink this ship.
Nathan had obviously dealt with equivocal promises before. ‘What, exactly, do you promise?’
‘I promise not to go down to the orlop deck again,’ she said between gritted teeth.
‘Good, now stay here out of McTiernan’s sight until he finds someone else to divert his attention.’ He went out, closing the door behind him with such deliberate care that he may as well have slammed it.
‘Yes, Lieutenant, or Captain or whatever you were, Stanier,’ Clemence said mutinously to the empty air. ‘Whatever you say, sir.’ It did not help that she knew, deep down under her simmering frustration and anxiety, that he was only trying to protect her. She rubbed her ear again, wincing as she circled her shoulder to ease the bruises where McTiernan had flung her against the bulkhead, and made a conscious effort not to sulk.
Nathan leaned on the rail of the poop deck and watched Clemence seated below on an upturned bucket, peeling sweet potatoes for the next day by the light of a lantern. When he had let her out of the cabin, judging McTiernan’s mood to have lifted a trifle, she was silent, stiff-shouldered, but not, thank God, prone to pouting.
She seemed to feel safe with the cook, so he did not interfere when she went to the galley and offered her services. At least he could keep an eye on her and she had stopped rubbing her sore ear. He felt bad about that, but he could hardly have taken her by the hand and led her off under McTiernan’s bloodshot gaze. The urge to tell her who he was, what he was about, was an almost physical pressure that had to be resisted for her own safety. Clemence, when her emotions were engaged, was not the best actress in the world.
‘We’ll skulk for one more day,’ the captain was saying to the first mate and the bo’sun. ‘Let that bloody frigate get well away, then at first light the day after tomorrow we’ll slip out and see what we can catch. Mr Stanier, show them your trap.’
Nathan turned to the chart and began to explain. When he looked back, Clemence and her bucket of potatoes had gone. With any luck she’d be asleep when he went down.
‘You’ll take the second watch, Mr Stanier.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Time to snatch some sleep himself, in that case. Nathan touched two fingers to the brim of the wide straw hat he wore, noting inwardly how deeply the habits of respect to a captain were ingrained, and made for the cabin, collecting a mug of the well-stewed coffee from the galley stove as he passed.
‘Good lad of yours, Mr Stanier.’ Street loomed out of the shadows.
‘He is that, most of the time. Boys will be boys.’ Nathan eyed the big cook. He was a rogue, but not, he judged, a vicious one. ‘Keep an eye out for him for me, eh? If we get into a scrap and I’m…not around.’
‘Aye.’ Street nodded, impassive. ‘I’ll do that.’
That was probably all he could do in the way of insurance. Nathan opened the door softly on to the dark cabin, noting the hump in the opposite bunk that was Clemence’s sleeping form. He took off his shoes, unbuckled his sword belt and lay down, silent in the stillness so as not to wake her.
Then the quality of that stillness hit him and he held his breath. No one was breathing. When he pulled back the bedding he found not a young woman, but a roll of blankets. He did not waste any time swearing. There was only one place she could be, in defiance of her promises.
He did not take a lantern, feeling his way through the shadows, down past the gun deck with the occupied hammocks swinging to the motion of the ship and small groups of men dicing in pools of candlelight, down like a silent wraith into the stinking darkness of the orlop.
Only it was not dark. There was a figure holding a half-shuttered lantern, hand raised to the keys on their hook. As his heel hit the deck she swung roun
d with a gasp and the keys dropped.
‘You little fool.’ He went down on one knee to retrieve the keys. ‘I trusted you. Why is it impossible for a woman to keep her word?’
‘This is more important,’ she hissed back, her face white in the lamplight. He must have scared the wits out of her. ‘This is my duty. Let me open the door and see who is in there, speak to them.’
‘Duty!’ He got to his feet. He knew where duty got you. ‘Get back up. Now.’
They both heard the sound of feet on the deck over their heads at the same instant, saw the spill of light from a lantern. He had never hit a woman in his life, had never dreamed that he would. Nathan clenched his fist and caught Clemence a neat uppercut under her chin. She went down like a stone. He had just enough time to push her under the steps before McTiernan and Cutler appeared in the hatchway above.
‘Well, well, well. What have we here, Mr Cutler?’ The drawl sent a cold finger down Nathan’s spine, his hand closed on empty air where his sword should be.
‘It seems we have a navigator who doesn’t obey orders, Captain,’ the first mate answered, his eyes sliding warily over Nathan. ‘You want to explain what you are doing here, Mr Stanier?’
‘Curiosity.’ Nathan hung the key back on its hook.
‘Curiosity flayed the cat,’ McTiernan said, coming slowly down the steps, his eyes never leaving Nathan’s face. ‘With the cat.’ He smiled thinly at his nasty pun. ‘I don’t make idle threats, Mr Stanier.’
‘I imagine not.’ Nathan felt relief that his voice was steady. His stomach churned. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Clemence stir and willed her to be still.
‘A dozen?’ Cutler suggested, something like a smile creasing the corner of his mouth.
‘Eight,’ McTiernan corrected. ‘I want him on his feet in thirty-six hours. We’ll have it done now; call all hands and tell the bo’sun.’
‘With your permission, I’ll stop off at my cabin and change,’ Nathan drawled. ‘This is a decent pair of trousers, I don’t want to get blood on them.’
‘…blood on them.’ Clemence managed to focus her spinning brain and process the words that she had been hearing for the past few moments. Blood. They were going to flog Nathan. She had got him killed.
Three pairs of feet climbed the wooden steps over her head. Clemence dragged herself out and managed, using her hands, to climb after them. Her jaw throbbed, her ears were ringing, but that was as nothing compared to the utter terror gripping her. She saw Nathan move away from the others, go towards their cabin. At least they had not tied his hands. Could he get through a porthole? No, too small.
‘Nathan.’ He was stripping off his trousers as she hurtled into the cabin, breathless with fear. He dropped them on the floor and pulled on a pair of old loose canvas ones, not bothering to tuck the shirt back.
‘Are you all right?’ He pulled her towards him, his hands firm on her bruised jaw as he explored it with calloused fingers. ‘I didn’t have time to argue with you.’
She ignored the question, jerking her chin out of his grip. ‘Nathan, tell them it was me, that you were only following me.’ She hung on his arm as he turned to the door.
‘Clemence, if they take you to flog you they will find you’re a girl, then they’ll rape you.’
The cabin spun round her. ‘I know, but it was my fault, I broke my promise, you can’t be flogged for something I did.’
‘And if they try to rape you,’ Nathan continued inexorably, ‘I’ll have to try to stop them and they’ll kill me. Eight lashes will not kill me. Now, do you want to get me killed in order to salve your conscience?’
‘No! Nathan, I’m so sorry…’ Eight lashes with a cat-o’nine-tails. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain, then she remembered the screams of the man who had dropped the fid from the mast and the room went dark.
‘Listen.’ Nathan had her by the shoulders, shaking her. ‘You can’t faint on me, you must not cry. Do you hear me? If you do, you’ll give yourself away and this is for nothing.’ She nodded, her eyes locked with his, something of his strength seeping in to give her courage. ‘Come on, let’s get it over with.’
Silent, feeling as though her blood was congealing in her veins, Clemence followed him. He must feel fear, and yet he did not show it. She could never put this right, but at least she could make sure it didn’t get any worse, she resolved. She would be quiet, she would not weep and she would look after him when it was all over. He might, she supposed, forgive her one day. She thought she could never forgive herself.
Blinking, she stumbled out on to the lamplit deck, the hands all crowded round, the babble of excited voices. Nathan pushed her towards someone and a meaty hand took her shoulder and pulled her back behind him. Street.
‘No. I’ve got to watch,’ she stammered. ‘My fault.’ Listening to it happen would be even worse, she sensed. The cook shrugged, but let her stand in front of him. Nathan had tossed his shirt aside and stood, in front of one of the hatch grills that had been upended, bare feet braced on the scrubbed white planks. The bo’sun came forward with lashings, tied his wrists and ankles so he was spread-eagled against the frame, his face turned from her.
The man walked back, picked up a bag and drew the cat-o’-nine-tails from it, running his fingers through the knotted strings to shake out the tangles. Clemence’s stomach clenched. She forced her eyes wide.
The crew fell silent, waiting. Their faces, she saw, were not showing any pleasure at this spectacle. Nathan was liked, or, at least, respected, and they knew that with this captain it could be their turn next. The first lash landed with a noise that made her flinch back against Street’s great belly. He put one hand on each shoulder and held her. ‘Steady, lad.’
Two. Three. The blood was running now. Four. Five. So much for Cutler’s nice white deck, Clemence thought wildly. Nathan was silent, still, braced for the next blow, the muscles of his back and shoulders rigid and stark in the light. Six. He sagged, then recovered. Seven. She realised she was praying, her lips moving silently, although she hardly knew what she was asking for. This time he hung from his bonds, unmoving.
‘Thank you, God,’ she murmured, realising what she had been asking for. He had fainted.
Eight.
Street pushed her to one side and strode forward, catching Nathan’s limp body as the lashings were cut. He slung him over one shoulder as if he was a side of beef and stomped back to the companionway. ‘Bring water, boy. Salt and fresh.’
It took a moment to make her legs work. Clemence felt as though she were watching someone else through a thick pane of glass. Water splashed everywhere as she filled buckets, hands shaking. ‘Here, I’ll take those.’ It was Gerritty, the sail-maker, taking a bucket and thrusting a bundle of soft rags into her hand. ‘You’ll need these.’
‘Thank you.’ She followed him down. There was no doctor on board. What should she do? What did you do for a man whose back was cut to ribbons?
She pushed past the men, stripping back the blanket on Nathan’s bunk, taking away the pillow. ‘Put him here.’
The big man laid the limp body face down, grunted and went out. ‘Salt water first, while he’s out of it,’ the sail-maker advised. ‘Cleans it out. Then the fresh.’
Street came back and thrust a bottle into her hand. ‘Here, brandy.’ That appeared to be all the advice she was going to get.
The door closed behind them, leaving Clemence on her knees beside the bunk. Acting on instinct, she fumbled under Nathan’s heavy body for the fastenings on his trousers, then pulled them down, leaving him naked on the bed. It never occurred to her to feel any embarrassment. Keeping him as comfortable as possible was all that mattered.
She rolled towels and pushed them along his sides and flanks, then started to wipe the blood off all the undamaged skin. She draped another sheet over him from the waist down, then made herself really look at his back for the first time.
It was as though someone had been tracing the pattern for a crazy patc
hwork quilt on his back in red ink, careless of how it ran. Salt water, Gerritty had said, and quickly, before he began to come round. Sponging, rinsing, she worked doggedly, not realising she was crying until something tickled the sore point of her chin and she rubbed the back of her hand across it.
There. She looked doubtfully at her still-bleeding handiwork. Now fresh water. And then what? Should it be bandaged, or left to the air? At least there were no flying insects here.
In the end she wrung out a large piece of soft clean cotton cloth and draped it over the wounds, then went to mix birch-bark powder into a mug of water. With nothing left to do, she went back to sit by his head to wait.
She wanted to put her hand over his as it lay lax on the pillow, but somehow she felt she had forfeited the right to touch him like that, even when he was unconscious.
The long hiss of indrawn breath had her alert in an instant. ‘Nathan?’
His lips moved. Lip-reading, she came to the conclusion it was curses. She reached for the mug, then realised he could not drink in that position. ‘I’ll be back, just one moment.’
‘Mr Street!’
The cook turned from his game of cards. ‘Aye, lad? How’s he doing?’
‘He can’t drink lying on his stomach. Have you got a clay pipe? A new one?’
He got up and lifted a long churchwarden pipe from a rack on the wall, its stem a good foot long, and knocked the bowl off with a sharp blow on the tabletop. ‘That’s good thinking, boy. He’s come round, then?’
‘Just. He’s swearing a lot.’
‘That’ll do him good. You all right, Clem?’
‘Yessir, thank you.’ She could have hugged him, grease and all.
Nathan was moving his head, restless, when she got back. ‘Clem?’
‘I’m here.’ She restrained the impulse to ask how it felt, how he was, all the other useless, automatic questions. Instead she dipped one end of the pipe stem in the mug of birch-bark powder and water and sucked until she could taste the bitter liquid in her mouth. She turned his head gently on the pillow and slid the stem into his mouth. ‘Suck.’ He grimaced, twisting away, but she held his head firmly. ‘That’s an order, Mr Stanier,’ she said, making her shaking voice hard. Nathan gave a small gasp that she realised with surprise was a laugh, and did as she said.