by Brenda Novak
“Of course.”
“I admire your strength. Your back cannot have healed so soon.”
Treynor smiled. “My injuries are nothing to concern yourself with. A woman could have caused more damage,” he replied and walked away.
“Lieutenant Treynor!” Mrs. Hawker called after him, hustling down the companionway to meet him.
From behind, Cunnington hissed something about Treynor’s low birth. Treynor heard the word bastard but, refusing to let Cunnington bait him, he focused on the bosun’s wife. “What is it?”
She waited until Cunnington had stalked away before speaking, then glanced around as though she was still afraid they would be overheard. “I ‘ave the clothes ye need.”
“Thank you. Put them in my cabin, please.”
He turned to continue his search, but stopped when he felt her hand on his arm. “I ‘ope ye know what yer doin’, sir. When ye came to my cabin ter ask for the clothes, ye said nothin’ about the lass bein’ a baron’s wife.”
With the number of officers searching the ship, Treynor wasn’t surprised Mrs. Hawker had already learned Jeannette’s true identity. Nothing escaped the bosun—and the minute Mr. Hawker knew something, Mrs. Hawker knew it better.
“Makes no difference.”
“Aye, it does! Now that the captain an’ Cunnington know about ‘er, you ‘ave to give ‘er up.”
“Why?”
“Because ye can’t ‘ide her forever. Think what it would do to yer career if ye was to be caught doin’ what yer doin’! Cunnington would finally ‘ave a serious complaint against ye!”
Treynor had long known that Mrs. Hawker felt motherly toward him, but he didn’t have time to be waylaid now. “I am not planning to hide her forever. Soon the Tempest will be too far from Plymouth to turn back when the captain realizes she’s on board. That could buy her a month, maybe more, depending on the war. She might even be able to get off at another port.”
Mrs. Hawker propped fisted hands on her hips. “An’ if yer caught?”
“We only need a few days. We can manage that easily enough, but not if Knuthson or Cunnington or someone else gets to her before I do.”
Lines appeared in Mrs. Hawker’s forehead. “It makes no sense for ye ter take the risk.”
And Treynor couldn’t explain it. He had a weakness for a pretty face, that was all. He knew he should wash his hands of her, put an end to the trouble she’d caused him. But he hated to send her back to a man who would crush her fiery spirit.
“For some reason, she’s afraid of the baron.”
“And ye feel obliged to play the gallant?” The older woman regarded him shrewdly. “But it’s none of yer affair.”
“It is now.”
Mrs. Hawker heaved a sigh and released him. “Most stowaways try ter get as far below as possible,” she said grudgingly.
“I shall begin at the front hold,” he said, but he doubted the delicate Jeannette would go below—or stay there if she found it. Everything drained into the ballast. On some French vessels, dead men were buried there. Even without human decay, the ballast reeked, awash in bilge. Although the Tempest had been fumigated while they were in port, the fumes caused by sprinkling vinegar and brimstone over braziers of hot coals often made one sicker than the original stench.
But the baroness had to be somewhere. Could be anywhere. Which meant he had to look everywhere.
With a conspiratorial wink at the bosun’s wife, he hurried away, shifting in his jacket to keep his shirt from sticking to his back. Part of him was stubborn enough to let Jeannette face the consequences of her actions alone, as Mrs. Hawker evidently thought he should, but another part—a stronger part—urged him to continue looking.
The beat of a sea chantey rose like the pounding of distant drums. All hands were gathered around the capstan, hauling in the anchor so they could set sail. The chanteyman’s verses changed according to his whim, often making good-natured fun of the officers. Treynor smiled to himself when the men joined in for the chorus. He wondered whether his fellow officers would now give up the search and if Knuthson and Pratt had found anything.
Ignoring the lure of the song that beckoned him back to his duty, he headed to a narrow room at the heart of the ship where the spare sails were folded and piled high. But a thorough search of the area left Treynor as empty-handed and even more irritable than before. When he got hold of Jeannette, he’d turn her over his knee and warm her backside as she deserved.
The anchor cable was stored next door to the sails—another good hiding place if they were at sea. For now, Treynor doubted Jeannette would go where men would be coiling the wet, heavy hemp cable on the slatted floor. So he passed the cable room and headed to the gangway that would take him down to the hold.
Before long, Lieutenant Cunnington would surely give up the search to supervise the deck, he thought. The bosun’s mate would pipe, “All hands, up hammocks,” at promptly seven-thirty, and the rest of the crew would go topside. After they stowed the last of the hammocks, the captain would appear at eight bells. Then Bosun Hawker would pipe breakfast for the crew, after which they’d return to their duty as the new watch came up, bringing bags and chests with them from the lower decks to allow for cleaning.
They’d not get much farther into the day before Cunnington or someone else missed Jean Vicard. The “boy” had to make an appearance on deck today, and possibly tomorrow as well. Then the truth could be discovered.
As the baron’s wife, Jeannette would be protected from the rank and file. Cunnington would look the fool and repent having tried to flog her, Cruikshank would treat her like a highly-favored guest, despite the inconvenience, and Treynor’s own career would no longer hang in the balance.
Until then, however, anything could happen.
* * *
The straw made Jeannette itch miserably. She burrowed deeper, trying to fall asleep again, but the scratchy manger and her complaining stomach allowed her no respite. Somehow, she had to find something to eat and drink.
Shifting carefully, she listened for voices or footfalls before poking her head out of her hiding place.
The sun was up. Its rays poured into the ship’s portholes, bright enough to float dust motes. The pigs had settled beside the trough, but her movements gained their attention. One stood on its short legs and grunted, then came to investigate.
Jeannette wasn’t particularly fearful of animals, but coming eye to eye with a pig made her nervous. She nearly burst from her hiding place—but the sound of someone approaching made her sink back into the shelter of the straw.
The pig came closer, rooting around her head and sniffing the air. Hungry for more slop, no doubt. Or her. She bit back a scream as its snout wet her cheek.
Queasy, she tried to twist away without making any noise.
The footfalls passed and receded without pause. Cautiously easing out of her hiding place, she sent the pig scurrying.
Bits of straw clung to her hair, Treynor’s shirt and Dade’s breeches. She brushed herself off, climbed over the wall and headed in the direction of the steward’s cabin. She knew nowhere else to find food. According to Mrs. Hawker, the men ate in small groups, each taking a turn to be mess cook. But she dared not go among them.
The steward’s cabin was locked. Jeannette shoved against the door to see if it would give way.
Unfortunately, her puny efforts netted nothing more than a thump loud enough to wake the dead and a possible bruise on her hip.
Voices rang down the corridor, causing her to jump into the shadow of an adjoining hallway as some sailors trudged past. When they were gone, she tried forcing the steward’s door again, but to no avail. She was just about to give up when she caught sight of a dead fish lying across a sack of biscuits not far away.
Bread of sorts. Probably old bread but old bread was better than nothing.
Blessing the hand of providence and being careful to avoid the carcass of the fish, she stuffed her pockets with the hard, round disks and
hurried off to find a place where she could enjoy them.
After descending another deck, she found herself in an arsenal, among containers of priming-irons, wads, shot, and various pieces of hardware used in the rigging and sails. Too bad she hadn’t found the reserves of beef, pork, and other food—although how she’d get into such barrels she didn’t know.
A couple of sailors worked in the dark, cavernous hold, hammering wedges between barrels to keep them from rolling.
Jeannette hovered just outside the light shed by their lantern. Their presence gave her a modicum of peace. This would have been a frightening place to be alone.
Several crates were stacked nearby. She climbed up and set about eating.
Her stomach rebelled at the taste; she’d never tried the likes of the hard old biscuits before. But they were food. Determined not to starve, she chewed and swallowed—and nearly screamed when someone at her elbow murmured, “Do ye ‘ave any more?”
“What?” Jeannette whispered, turning toward the voice that had come out of the darkness. “Who are you?”
“Don’t matter, does it? I’m ‘idin’ down ‘ere, same as ye. Only I’m ‘ungry. I could ‘ave sworn ye were eatin’ somethin’ a minute ago.”
Judging from the voice, it was a woman. “I have got a little bread.”
Whoever it was moved beside her. Then a distinctive odor filled Jeannette’s nostrils—a combination of sweat, dirt, and cheap perfume. She recognized the stench as one she had smelled on the docks at Plymouth. Was this woman a prostitute?
A hand reached out and touched her, and Jeannette steeled herself against pulling away from the faceless stranger. Whoever it was was hungry. She handed over what remained of her supper as the sailors finished their work and moved away.
When their light was gone, the blackness became complete. Jeannette imagined herself as Jonah, lost inside the whale. She hugged her knees to her chest, wondering if she could tolerate the cold, damp darkness.
“Where’d ye find these?” her new friend asked. “I wish I ‘ad a dozen, at least.”
Jeannette grimaced, thinking she’d rather go hungry than eat another. “They were in a sack next to the steward’s room, with a dead fish on top. I am sure there are more, if you want them.”
A low chuckle sounded. “I thought I tasted bargemen.”
“Bargemen?” Jeannette echoed.
“Aye. Ye know, little white worms. Surely ye’ve seen ‘em.”
Jeannette’s stomach lurched. She fought to keep her supper down, but the thought of “bargemen” was too much for her.
The person at her elbow pulled her away from the mess and led her to some barrels farther back. “That smells worse than the damn bilge,” she complained.
Jeannette said nothing. She sat beside her new companion, utterly miserable.
The thought of Henri and her parents caused a sharp pang of loneliness. Two days, she reminded herself. She only had to survive on the frigate for two more days. “How did you know?” she asked. “About the …maggots, I mean. Can you really taste them?”
“When I concentrate I can. But it’s the fish what was the clue. Ye said yerself ye found a fish on top of the sack. It’s supposed to draw ‘em out, though if the steward’s left the whole lot for anyone to take, ‘e’s not much concerned with savin’ ‘em, eh?”
“I don’t suppose so.” Jeannette shivered. In an effort to block the maggots from her mind, she said, “It’s so cold down here.”
“Aye. And dreadful damp. But ye get used to it.”
Jeannette felt an arm go around her as the stranger briskly rubbed her limbs. She didn’t know who this woman was, or what she looked like, but she didn’t move away. She was far too desperate for any crumb of human kindness.
“That oughter ‘elp, oi? Now …what’s this? Yer soft as a—” The woman’s hand encountered the swell of one breast, then dropped away before Jeannette could react. “I thought ye were a lad. Ye’re a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are ye wearin’ trousers?”
“For the same reason you are hiding in this hellhole.”
“Ye got a lover on board?”
Jeannette thought fleetingly of Treynor. Why, she couldn’t say, didn’t want to contemplate. “No. You?”
“Yeah. ‘E’s gonna marry me when the war’s over.”
“Doesn’t he bring you any food?”
“When ‘e can. We’re just out of port, so for now, I’ve got to lay low.”
“I see.”
Silence fell between them. They were two of a kind, in some ways. “Do you stay down here all the time?”
“For the most part. This is as good a place as any. The men work ‘ere once in a while. They ‘ave to make the stores secure in case of bad weather or battle. But the smell from below keeps everyone away, if they ‘ave a choice.”
“What’s your name?”
“Amelia.”
Jeannette gave her name in turn and listened as Amelia boasted about the many virtues of her beau. He was a regular seaman, she said, but she was as proud of him as most women would be to catch an officer.
“What’s his name?” Jeannette asked.
Amelia paused. “That I’ll not say. I don’t know ye, after all. An’ I’ll not do anythin’ what could bring ‘im a floggin’.”
Jeannette didn’t press her. Considering the circumstances, she had no desire to become embroiled in someone else’s intimate affairs.
Still, they sat huddled together as if they’d known each other for years.
“Do you like life at sea?” Jeannette asked.
“Aye. It keeps food in me belly, for the most part.”
Jeannette pictured a gap-toothed smile. None of the prostitutes she’d seen on the pier had possessed all of their teeth. “Not today, evidently.”
“I’ll live till tomorrow. My man will bring me a bite or two. He’ll be wantin’ somethin’ ‘imself by then.”
Jeannette thought of Treynor—the memory of his smooth skin, the latent strength of his well-muscled body, the tingle of his lips moving against hers. They were all sensations connected with desire, a desire she would never feel again if she couldn’t free herself from her hateful marriage.
The ship rocked to the side, knocking Jeannette against her new companion. When she encountered a hard, well-rounded belly, she pulled away as quickly as she could gain her balance.
“Don’t worry, ye didn’t ‘urt me,” Amelia said.
Jeannette didn’t know how to respond. That Amelia was pregnant was obvious. That she would stow away on a frigate while in such a condition was alarming. “When do you expect your baby?” she asked, hoping that what felt like a melon-sized middle wasn’t quite melon-sized at all.
“In another month. P’raps two.”
Jeannette’s nails curled into her palm. Two of her mother’s four babies had not survived their first year, and Maman had hinted about the pains of childbirth when she deemed her daughter old enough to know such things. Jeannette could not imagine braving such an ordeal at sea.
What if the baby came early? And why didn’t Amelia know with more certainty when the baby was due to arrive? A month was a long time. It could mean the difference of being in port.
Of course, considering the woman’s probable profession …
“Does your, um, man know?”
“‘Ow could ‘e miss it?” She laughed. “‘E wants a brat of ‘is own. ‘E’s goin’ ter marry me after the war.”
She’d said that already. Doubt nipped at Jeannette, but she hoped, for Amelia’s sake, that her beau was truly as devoted as she said. That he’d not brought her anything to eat while she was in such a delicate condition certainly gave Jeannette reason to wonder.
“I am sure he will.” She hoped she sounded more convinced than she felt.
“Shhhh!” Amelia stiffened next to her. “We must ‘ide,” she whispered and scrambled away.
Dumbfounded, Jeannette blinked after her until she heard w
hat Amelia had already detected. Someone was coming. Boots ground on the wood floor, then a light appeared.
Ducking behind the barrel on which she’d sat, Jeannette crouched in the darkness. Whoever it was was alone, but it took only one man to drag her back to the main deck.
“Jean, are you down here?”
The rich timbre of Lieutenant Treynor’s voice echoed against the walls, causing Jeannette’s heart to pound.
“Jean?”
Hunching lower, Jeannette held perfectly still. It would be next to impossible to find her amid the barrels. The halo of Treynor’s light extended only so far; she could circle around him indefinitely. Unless he went back up and brought others to canvass the hold with him, she was safe if she could only move quietly enough. The steady creaking of the ship would help.
“Jean, if you’re down here, you must come to me immediately. We have left port. We are not going back.”
Was he lying? He called her by her boy name, but she would be a fool to let him to trick her so easily.
“There are others who are looking for you. It would be wise to let me help you.” Treynor walked to the other side of the room, flushing Amelia out of whatever hiding place she’d chosen. She voiced a short cry of pain as she stumbled over something in her rush to avoid him.
The light bobbed as Treynor weaved between the barrels, homing in on the sound. With Amelia so far along in pregnancy, Jeannette knew her movements would be slow and awkward. Chances were good that Treynor would catch her. Jeannette didn’t know exactly what that would mean, but she knew by Amelia’s reaction that she was afraid.
Jeannette didn’t want to get her in any trouble. She thumped the barrel next to her, hoping to draw the lieutenant away, and he stopped and cocked his head.
“So you want a game of chase, do you?” he said.
The subtle threat in his voice made Jeannette swallow hard as she ducked behind a hogshead and waited. Only this time, the light didn’t move. When she braved a peek over the rounded slats of her hiding place, she spied Treynor’s lantern sitting alone on the floor. The lieutenant was nowhere to be seen. He’d relinquished the one thing that gave him away and was pursuing her stealthily.