‘The boy’s Portuguese is good.’
‘He has a facility for languages. He spoke English already and some Dutch, but he’s picked up the Hispanic tongues. They are common at port and we have three Brazilian sailors on board. We had seven, but the war for independence put paid to four. Those left aboard are not patriots.’
‘You know your crew. Not every captain could name his sailors’ politics.’
‘I run this ship.’
‘Still . . .’ Maria did not continue. Many captains all but ignored the seamen except to see that adequate orders were barked in their direction.
Captain Henderson shrugged. He lifted his glass and smiled. Maria fought the warmth she felt towards him. After she had challenged him that afternoon, she noticed a change – a shiver down her spine and a jump in her stomach. The man was an odd mixture of comfort and danger. Staring northwards now, she thought of John Murray’s drawing room. Who was the toast of London these days? Who was Murray inviting to his famous salon? The greatest minds in the world. Wits and intellectuals – members of the Royal Society and hot-blooded young poets mingling over a glass of German wine. Not one of those firebrands had ever made her feel this way. When she had left the captain’s cabin that afternoon, it took her five minutes to recover her equilibrium and, she realised, not all of her anger. When he had told her about his profession, she had been disarmed. When he set sail without consulting her, she’d pulsed with fury. Now she felt moved.
It was a new experience. Her late husband had never turned her stomach to jelly. Thomas Graham had been a competent naval officer and her closest friend, but he had never made her blush. Surely this was the behaviour of a foolish girl in a novel, not the widely admired Mrs Graham. The captain was, at a guess, five years younger than she was, and a felon.
She turned her gaze westward and, reaching into the satin bag dangling from her waistband, pulled out a small fan that she snapped open in an effort to cool down. Looking back, if she was honest, these feelings had turned in her belly in the carriage as they’d rattled up to the Bagdorf plantation. Now, she realised, if she attempted to rein in the feeling, it only became stronger, like some kind of alchemical reaction. Maria watched Captain Henderson brush a lock of hair from his face. So far he had admitted to being a smuggler and then he had effectively kidnapped her. Was this childish spellbound fixation in fact some kind of fear over what he might do next?
‘Madam . . .’ Henderson started.
In a rush, she wondered if the captain might be about to propose something indecent and, worse, that if he did, if she would consider it.
‘I am of the view we should dine outside every night.’ He motioned her back to the table.
Maria realised that she was almost disappointed. The silence was easier to cope with, she thought. How will I make it through a whole month of this?
‘Thank you, I should enjoy that.’ She gave a slim smile. ‘I fear it is time to retire.’
Henderson gave a curt nod. ‘I will see you to your cabin.’
‘No need,’ she murmured, giving a little dip, hardly a curtsy at all. It was time to call a halt.
The captain bowed and watched her figure disappear into the darkness. He lingered a while until, smiling, he dragged his attention to business. He had his starlight duties to attend. Many calculations could only be carried out at night. Henderson called the cabin boy to clear the table and then he turned to his sextant on the bridge. From a height, he noticed the boy steal a sliver of cheese, ramming it into the pocket of his breeches as he collected the plates.
‘Hey!’ Henderson called down. ‘Thatcher will give you a ship’s biscuit if you’re hungry.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The boy kept his head low, like the dog he was.
‘Put it back.’
The child’s dark fingers fished out the cheese and laid it on the pewter. He started to pile the tableware.
Long after midnight, the deck was balmy and silent. Two men kept the night watch while everyone else slept. Late, the captain hovered outside Maria’s cabin, making his final round. There was no noise from within, and if there was a light inside it was too dim to show round the frame. He waited, wondering how long it was decent for a woman to be widowed before she could remarry. The wooden door seemed like the entrance to a different world – not an imaginary past, but a possible future. Something real. He leaned opposite, his back to the planking, and regarded it for a long time. Perhaps, Henderson considered, if he wasn’t respectable he might at least find himself worthy of Mrs Graham’s attention, and that of London too. For the first time, he saw a path of his own, not a legacy passed on from his father or the trail of disappointment bequeathed by his mother’s expectations. Instead, here in the dark passageway was something new. Now he had sight of it, might he find his way in the world with no shame?
12
On board the Bittersweet
The next day, Mrs Graham did not emerge from her cabin and Captain Henderson kept to himself. At four bells of the afternoon, he sent a message once more inviting the lady to dine with him, and she agreed.
Then, early in the evening, Big Al Thatcher was distracted by some merriment among the crew – an argument over a game of dice. A scuffle broke out, opponents tumbling across the boards. A punch was laid with a sharp crack and, at once, the cook left his station and went on deck to put money on which man would win. A shilling, which he lost in two minutes flat. As it transpired, however, those two minutes were enough. As he turned back to work, Thatcher discovered the galley was engulfed in smoke. A greasy bundle of rags was aflame and had spread to the day’s cornbread, which had ignited with vigour. The cook tried to beat out the blaze. He poured a bucket of wine over the base, which dampened it, but still flames leaped upwards. The wooden frame of the galley started to kindle, the stores showed signs of smouldering, and smoke began to pour across the deck. Maria emerged on deck in her evening attire just as two men jumped overboard in panic, grabbing a barrel each to keep them afloat. Several of the crew were screaming. Taken aback only momentarily by this mayhem, she quickly took in the crisis, calculating quickly how far they must be from shore. It was too long a distance to furnish hope of easy rescue.
She hovered, unsure what to do, as Henderson emerged from his cabin. He didn’t hesitate, calling the men to order.
‘Fetch buckets,’ he instructed Clarkson. ‘Anything that will hold seawater.’
Clarkson brought what he could – half barrels, washing bowls, pewter tankards and zinc buckets. Henderson formed the crew into a chain to draw seawater over the side. There was a strong smell of melting butter and burning ham. The men were coughing as the dark cloud belched thickly across deck. Maria took her place in line.
‘There’s no need, ma’am,’ Clarkson said.
‘I want to help,’ she insisted. ‘I need something to do.’
The work was hard. Maria’s dress was soaked in an instant, flecks of charcoal staining the satin, but she persisted. The constant flow of water brought things under control impressively quickly. Al Thatcher and Henderson stood to the fore, dousing the flames until the deck drew back into view. The men were a raggle-taggle bunch, smeared by the smoke. Those nearest the flaming kitchen were found with their eyes streaming. The sound of coughing echoed round the deck in between the low murmur of conversation as the men assessed the damaged and apportioned the blame. Henderson stripped off his sopping greatcoat and ordered the cabin boy to beat out the last of the smoke, which had dwindled till it was mere steam. Inside, the galley was crusted in blackness. The boy moved like a smudge across it.
One of the sailors had been badly burnt – a livid stamp on his right arm as if his skin was embossed. He crouched, whimpering. Big Al Thatcher bundled him below decks, assuring Henderson that as long as infection didn’t set in, the fellow would be fine in a day or two. ‘He will keep the limb,’ he said. ‘But it may scar.’
‘We must tack,’ Henderson ordered Clarkson. ‘We have two men overboard. Cowards, both of t
hem.’
Clarkson took command. Such manoeuvres were tricky. A man had to look sharp – the mainsheet could cut off your head and the ropes could hang you. Accidents were not as rare as they should be, especially after a night on the rum or if a sailor’s nerves were on edge. The Bittersweet turned, however, without incident and Clarkson scooped the shamefaced deserters out of the surf as the crew jeered. Maria hung back, watching.
Henderson waited by the mizzen. He inspected the miscreants with his arms crossed. Through the material of his shirt, Maria noticed a long scar on his arm. There was, she realised, a lot she didn’t know about this man, and she felt what was set to happen now might reveal some of it. The crew fell silent, anticipating the captain’s pronouncement. The unlucky two knew to cower before Henderson struck out, his fist like lightning. The captain was strong. In only a second or two, both men went down.
‘You don’t abandon ship unless on my command,’ Henderson spat. ‘You don’t shit till I tell you. Understand?’
The men were shaking now, cowering.
‘Bloody cowards,’ Henderson sneered, nodding at Clarkson, who handed him a whip.
Maria looked away. The sound of it was bad enough. Far off, she could swear she spotted a porpoise. Her stomach turned. The smoke had sickened her and the pitiful screaming was worse. The damp material at her wrist rubbed the skin pink.
When the whipping was over, she turned again. The men were bloody, their crewmates still looking on, unforgiving. It was they, after all, who had been abandoned.
‘Half rations for a week?’ Clarkson asked, and Henderson nodded.
The men disappeared below deck, flanked by the bo’sun. The captain seemed so mild sometimes, almost milky. Many officers doled out discipline by proxy, but when it came to it, Captain Henderson did what was required himself. He caught her eye and nodded. She nodded back. She should have gone back to her cabin, she realised. That would have been more seemly. The crew dispersed and Henderson turned to inspect the damage to the fabric of the vessel, issuing orders to the ship’s carpenter. Even the sea breeze couldn’t blow away the smell of smoke. Maria hovered by the galley. A ragged puddle of light seeped in where the side had burned through.
‘I’ll square it off, sir. It’ll be good as new,’ the carpenter swore. ‘A porthole, eh?’
‘Bad show, Thatcher,’ the captain pronounced.
The cook had seen to the injured man and was squaring up now he was back on deck. ‘I deserve a punishment, sir.’
Henderson laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘Just be careful, man,’ he said. ‘You have one of the most dangerous jobs on the ship. A moment’s inattention is all it takes. That fellow’s injuries are punishment – every time you see them, you’ll remember. Don’t let it happen again.’
Maria hung back as the cook wiped his huge hands on his smoke-stained semmit. The captain had the measure of him, and it took half an hour for him to regain enough spirit to go back to work, taking stock of his supplies. In the galley, the stove required mending, and the fish caught that afternoon was burnt to a cinder along with the entire supply of cheese, which although melted to a crisp remained edible and unexpectedly delicious. The butter was ruined. A small urn of milk had been used to douse the flames and now there was a sour odour where it had singed the deck. The drum of ship’s biscuits in current use had not been ruined beyond serving, but they tasted of the fire.
Maria withdrew to her cabin and patted her hair dry. She aired her evening gown, which dried almost instantly in front of the open window. The smoke had left a grey swirl on the fabric, but it would rinse away. She washed her hands and face and then curled up and watched the sky darken through the glass as she replayed the panic, the punishment and the cook’s tortured expression when the captain forgave him. From the deck, the sounds of repair floated down – wood being hammered into place and men hauling barrels.
An hour later, when the boy announced that Henderson’s invitation to dinner still stood, Maria found herself eager to join him. She wanted to talk. Outside, the deck was deserted now and Henderson stood as she approached the depleted table. Instead of fish, fresh vegetables and wine, Thatcher had prepared chocolate with brandy and a plate of the crisped cheese. It was late and the stars were out.
‘Elegant enough,’ Maria said, gracefully sinking into her seat.
The men had been issued with rum and hard tack. It had been pronounced that the galley would scrub up, and Clarkson was fixing the oven, though it might take a day or two. Supplies would run low the rest of the trip and they would be reliant on fishing, but they would survive.
‘Some evening,’ she said.
‘I apologise.’
‘What for?’
‘That you had to see it and that you were put in danger. I promised you would come to no harm. We’re only two days out of Trinidad and you might have died. We might all have.’
Maria nursed the warm drink in her hand. This chocolate was different from the morning confection – less sweet and as thick as posset, so that it slipped slowly over the lip of the cup as she tipped it into her mouth. The taste was extraordin-
ary – startlingly rich. It lay satisfyingly in her stomach. From below, a melancholy song floated up on the evening air and she floated with it, leaning back to watch the stars swirling. It was always the same in a crisis – the ship you were travelling on became the centre of the world.
‘We’d have been in trouble had the flames spread,’ Henderson said.
He had changed his clothes, but there were smudges of soot on his face.
‘You were admirable, Captain.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I’ve seen men in battle. I’ve been on a ship under fire, but today you saved our lives. In such hot weather, the wood above the line must be dry as kindling. Had you not been so timeous . . .’
‘Were you afraid?’ he asked.
Maria lifted a shard of cheese. It was an odd texture, but melting had intensified the flavour. ‘There was no time for fear.’ She shrugged. ‘I heard shouting, but you had the men in order very quickly.’
‘There was a lot of smoke,’ he said.
‘It passed through my mind that we were too far out to row back to Trinidad and we’d have been down on our luck had we to abandon the ship.’
The captain regarded her. ‘You look very nice.’ He smiled.
Maria passed a hand over her skirts. In the low light, perhaps the marks left by the smoke looked like a pattern. No one ever commented on her appearance. Certainly not to say she looked nice. Thomas never had. ‘For a royal governess, you mean? On a boat. After a fire.’
Henderson stopped, suddenly serious. It seemed strange she did not know. That she put herself down so. What had she been used to? He lay down his pewter cup and paused before leaning across the table and pulling Maria towards him. She could smell the ash on his hair. He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close as he kissed her. Her body suddenly liquid, she found that she kissed him back with an insistent rhythm. It was like flying.
When they pulled apart, she was breathless, her lips felt swollen, and it took a moment to understand what she’d done. Henderson’s eyes slid over her and she felt a warm wave of desire break across her body, followed swiftly by anger that advanced like a starched sheet. Drawing back her hand, she slapped him hard and scooped up her things, turning to leave. It was the worst kind of insult.
Henderson interposed himself. ‘A woman. You look very nice for a woman, Maria.’
Before she could reason, Maria kicked him hard in the shins. ‘Damn you,’ she hissed. ‘I am a lady.’
Henderson laughed out loud. ‘You look very nice for a lady too.’
She took in a sharp breath. This man was a kidnapper, a liar, a smuggler, a criminal and now a predator. What on earth had she been thinking? She should have got off the ship when she had the chance. Her cheek stung where his beard had scraped her. It fired her fury, but before she could spit a riposte, the cabin boy crossed the deck carrying
an additional pot of hot chocolate from the galley. She froze while he poured. What she wanted to say should not be voiced in front of a member of the crew, even in temper. At least it gave her a moment to think. Henderson smirked. As the boy retreated, he got in first, damn him.
‘I should not have kissed you. I apologise. My blood is up after the fire and, madam, I must confess, I grow very fond of you. I was fond of you from the beginning.’
‘You need not be,’ Maria spat. ‘I am years your senior and a widow. There is nothing worthwhile in this. You cannot take advantage and then simply apologise. You must decide to behave better, sir.’
Henderson bit his lip. ‘You feel like I do. I know it.’
This incensed her. How dare he? ‘How you feel is irrele-
vant, sir. And how I feel is none of your business. You have insulted me.’
‘I admire you, madam. A kiss is not an insult.’
‘Where I come from it is.’
And there it was. London.
The world Henderson longed for. The place Maria belonged.
The captain sank back in his chair. ‘I’m sorry. I behaved out of turn,’ he stumbled, trying to explain. ‘I don’t understand the terms – that is to say, I’m not used to this. But I give you my word, I’ll not touch you again. I will behave better, just as you ask.’
Maria faltered. Her hands flew to her hair, to check that something at least was in place. ‘Well then.’
‘My intentions . . .’ he started. ‘Only, I have so enjoyed your company, you see, and—’
She cut him dead. ‘I have enjoyed your company too, Captain Henderson. Do you think you might be able to ignore this rash gesture? Do you imagine tomorrow we might dine and talk once more of botany and astronomy, and you will behave like a gentleman?’
And there it was. Like a gentleman.
Henderson sighed. He solemnly gave his word. He shook her hand. He bowed. Abashed, he caught a flash of slim ankle as she returned to her cabin and felt guilty. When she disappeared inside, he called for brandy.
On Starlit Seas Page 13