by Arlem Hawks
The lump that rose in her throat halted her words. She nodded, keeping her eyes on the bucket. Among the powder monkeys she was needed—at least more so than in the powder room.
“Do you know why I assigned you to the magazine?” His tense voice tightened all her muscles so much, she struggled with her task. “Look at me. I sent you there for a reason.”
She didn’t look. She couldn’t. When her father’s temper flared, she didn’t see his face. She saw Grandmother’s. Papa had never struck or belittled her, but his pinched brows and flared nostrils beat down her conviction as though his mother was standing in the cabin. This side of her father hadn’t appeared before Georgana came to sea.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
A tear wriggled out of the corner of her eye. She nearly brushed it away with her hand but at the last moment used the sleeve of her shirt. This soap in her eye would only bring more tears.
Papa’s shoes clipped over the black-and-white floor. He sat beside her as she scrubbed at the stain that would never fully come out.
“I assigned you to the powder room for your safety,” he said. He had lowered his voice, but it still held the same intensity. “By helping the powder boys, you are in grave danger of Timothy Locke’s fate.”
“I am in grave danger anywhere I am on this ship,” she whispered. If the ship caught fire, as ships often did during battle, the powder room was the worst location to be. “If you wanted me to be safe, you should not have brought me into the navy.” Georgana clamped her teeth shut, horrified at the feelings she’d let escape. She had agreed to this. He hadn’t forced her.
Her father rose without a word and retreated from the cabin, leaving her to her wash. Another tear pulled free, dripping into the soapy salt water in her bucket.
No, she could not choose to be a sailor’s wife. Not even if by some miracle an exhilarating first lieutenant begged for her hand. It was lucky for her, then, that such a dream would never happen. She might find herself sorely tempted to accept the sea and all the ways it changed a person for the worse. Look what it had done to Papa. To Mama. To her. To all the men sunk in hammocks beneath the waves.
Only one person seemed unaffected by the ocean’s wrecking grasp. Someone who laughed into the wind and smiled through the mists. Georgana groaned, burying her face into her shoulder. She was not falling for Lieutenant Peyton. She wasn’t!
She couldn’t.
But the energetic pattering of her heart whenever she saw him suggested otherwise.
“Ship! Ship!”
The cry reverberated through the Deborah in the midst of their afternoon artillery drills.
Dominic adjusted his telescope in the intruder’s direction. It wasn’t large enough to be the St. Germain, thank the stars. It was another schooner, with perhaps ten guns.
Captain Woodall materialized on the quarterdeck and extended his hand for the telescope. Dominic gave it him. “She hasn’t identified herself, sir.” The vessel looked too close to the edge of the convoy for comfort.
Jarvis launched himself into their company. “It’s the schooner we passed before. I’m sure of it. Back for blood this time.”
“It’s moving in the wrong direction to be the same boat,” Dominic said, but Jarvis ignored him.
“Turn her about, Mr. Fitz,” Captain Woodall called to the coxswain. “Every man to his station.”
The boatswain’s whistle pierced Dominic to his core. The possibility of another battle so soon after the first did not excite him. He pivoted and strode toward the main deck to get the midshipmen sorted.
George stood impassively by the hatch, watching the party of officers. He hadn’t recovered yet from the last battle. Dominic’s heart hurt for the lad. He squeezed his shoulder as he passed. “Get to the powder room, George. Captain wants you there this time.”
The boy didn’t respond but turned and hurried down the ladder. He wondered if George would listen or join the powder monkeys instead. Dominic knew what he would do in the same situation. But he’d chosen this life. Had George? Perhaps the captain hadn’t given him a choice.
He rejoined the officers as wearing orders swept over the upper deck, and the crew prepared to turn the ship. Together the officers moved to the forecastle, dodging lines and seamen straining at their task.
Captain Woodall handed the telescope to Dominic. “Tell me the moment she posts her colors.”
The captain didn’t seem the sort to cruelly force an orphaned relative into the service. Then why fabricate a story for the lad?
Dominic put the instrument back up to his eye and adjusted the focus. It was strange the boat hadn’t declared, and it didn’t seem to be retreating either. A vessel that small could easily outrun a fully armed frigate and could do damage to a merchantman carrying few cannons.
The Deborah came close enough to see the tiny dots of crew members without the assistance of the telescope before the flag rose. White and red stripes, with stars on a blue field in the corner. Dominic swore under his breath.
An American schooner.
Jarvis ran for the captain before Dominic could turn. His shrill voice carried across the forecastle. “American! We must ready the boarding party.”
Captain Woodall held up his hands for quiet as Dominic arrived. “Patience, Mr. Jarvis.”
“Sir, we must strike quickly, before they can form a plan,” Jarvis said.
Dominic glanced behind at the convoy. “You don’t think they’ve been forming a plan as much as we have in the last thirty minutes since we spotted them?”
“We thought they were French, Peyton,” Jarvis spat. “This is a different situation.”
“Gentlemen.” The captain’s graying brows pulled low over his eyes, cutting off whatever Jarvis had meant to say next. “What are your thoughts, Lieutenant Peyton?”
A neutral ship in neutral waters. “I think we need to tread carefully. Check their cargo and be done with them.”
Jarvis’s face reddened. “That is all? I’m sure there are British sailors on that ship. Why do we not bring them here to replace the men we’ve lost? Then your little George won’t have to work with the powder monkeys.”
Dominic gritted his teeth. He didn’t know why Captain Woodall allowed this sort of insubordination, trite as it was. The captain had threatened disciplinary action before, but Jarvis continued to speak his mind without reserve and suffered no consequences.
“What sort of show of strength would that be,” Jarvis said, “letting an American merchant go free? They’ll infest the waters if they know they can get away with it.”
“If they’re sailing for France, they won’t get past the blockade,” Captain Woodall said. “More than likely they sail for England to obtain license.”
Jarvis snorted. “American ships slip past the blockade often enough. How are we to be sure they are planning to legally trade in Europe?”
“We could follow them back to England,” Dominic muttered. “There is no way to know their true design, but if we engage an honest crew and something goes amiss, we could have another war on our hands.” He glanced at the captain. Another war was the last thing their country needed. “Remember the Leopard, sir.”
Dominic didn’t doubt Captain Woodall had read the reports. Americans screamed for English blood after the British fourth-rate Leopard fired a broadside at the USS Chesapeake, then boarded her and seized four Royal Navy deserters.
Orders by the British government prevented free trade with France for any ally or neutral country, which did nothing to ease tensions. Dominic hoped letting an American ship go without harassment would help relations between their countries, or at least do no harm.
The captain nodded. “Gather a boarding party, Peyton. Check their stores and let them be on their way.”
“Yes, sir.” Dominic touched the brim of his hat. Jarvis seethed beside him. This afternoon’s proceedings would do nothing to establish a friendship between him and the second lieutenant, but then if eight weeks on the water had
n’t done it, nothing would.
All too soon, Dominic stood on board the Intelligence, pistol loaded and sword at his side. Moyle and several men flanked him, keeping the way back to the Deborah clear in case of an ambush.
Dominic shook hands with the ginger-haired captain, whose gaze kept drifting to the British sailors and the Deborah’s guns. “The name is Captain Jacobs, sir.”
“Where do you sail from, Mr. Jacobs?” Dominic asked. He counted the crew. Twenty, if all were on deck. Large for a boat of this size.
“Port Royal, South Carolina.”
The crew looked healthy, though most had a darker complexion than he would expect from an American crew, not counting the three Africans. They all watched the captain with little expression on their faces.
“And what is your destination?” Out of the corner of his eye, Dominic could see Jarvis on the deck of the Deborah, staring daggers at him.
The schooner captain lifted his hat and scratched his head. He glanced at his dark-haired first mate, whose well-made coat outshone the captain’s simple ensemble. “England, of course. Then on to the rest of Europe.” They were sailing to France, then, but doing so legally. Just as he’d guessed.
“You’ve sailed farther south than I would expect of a ship bound for England.”
The captain chuckled nervously. “Yes. Trying to avoid the storm.” A reasonable answer.
“And your cargo?”
“Tobacco and rice.”
“Might I see it, Mr. Jacobs?”
The captain motioned with one clublike hand toward the hatchway. Dominic left Moyle and all but two of the men above and followed the captain and first mate down. He worked to keep his breathing even and his manner relaxed. Anything could happen below. If the Intelligence wasn’t what the crew professed, it would come to light in the darkness of the hold.
Dominic didn’t see any additional sailors or anything out of order as they descended. They reached the bottom of the ship, piled high with bags and barrels. The captain barked an order to his accompanying crewman, who rushed to open one of the bags. White grains tumbled out and sprinkled the floor.
Well, they certainly had rice on board. Dominic went through and punched bags down the row. All rice. He kept one hand on his waist, close enough to reach for the pistol concealed under his coat.
“Does he want to see the tobacco?” the first mate quietly asked Captain Jacobs. His voice carried just enough for Dominic to hear the accent. London, for certain, though the man put an odd twist on that last word. If Jarvis had come, he would have dragged the man back to the frigate.
They moved on to the other stores, and the tension in Dominic’s shoulders eased. The fearful Mr. Jacobs was no privateer captain. Just a merchant using whatever crew he could muster. Everything pointed to the Intelligence being what it claimed. There would be no battle today.
Georgana let out a held breath at the sight of Lieutenant Peyton coming up through the hatch on the American boat. He shook hands with the burly captain and then climbed over the rail and up the rope ladder to the deck of the Deborah.
She scuttled out from her hiding place behind one of the gun crews. The lieutenant spoke to her father for a few minutes, away from the other lieutenants. Then her father gave the command to let the Intelligence loose and send her on her way.
Georgana rubbed her forehead. Like steam from a hot platter, fear escaped her pounding heart and dissolved into the cool breeze. When her father turned his back, she jumped up and hurried to the ladder after Lieutenant Peyton. She caught him on the gun deck. “Everything all right, sir?”
He removed his bicorn. Many officers could walk the lower decks without removing their hats if they wished, but the top of Lieutenant Peyton’s hat would be crushed if he tried.
The grin that lit his face melted away the rest of her uncertainty—uncertainty about the American vessel as well as her feelings. She was falling for Lieutenant Peyton. For his infectious zeal that ruled his every action. For the hazel eyes that twinkled in merriment when he was amused. For the perceptive heart that saw her loneliness and fear and couldn’t stand by and just watch.
Her lips pulled free of the chains she’d set on them, returning his smile with a light that radiated from within. When was the last time she smiled like this?
Lieutenant Peyton put a hand on her head and ruffled her cap. “All’s well. You’re a good lad, George.” He continued down to the messdeck.
Georgana shrank into the captain’s cabin. A good lad—that was what she would always be to him. For a moment she’d forgotten the ship and her disguise. How utterly foolish to imagine he would ever think of her in the way she thought of him. When they returned to England, she would quietly slink back into Society under Grandmother’s thumb and become a memory in his logbook.
The warmth of her smile faded from her lips, but she could not completely banish the heat from her heart.
Chapter 13
Dominic held the razor blade back from his face as the ship swayed. When it righted itself, he swept the blade down the line of his jaw and wiped it clean. He sat on the floor across from his little mirror, which was perched on top of his sea chest, and he continually had to catch it before it plunged to the deck. His shirt lay on the cot, and he put a towel across his lap to protect his breeches. With ships making such unsteady seats, Dominic had learned early to protect his clothes while attending to his face.
They’d be in Antigua any day now. The last time he had seen English Harbour, it was fading into the distance and Dominic had been more than ready to leave. But that ship had stayed in port for several weeks, tending to repairs and finding supplies. The Deborah, on the other hand, had orders to sail back to England as soon as they could manage, with letters from the commanding officers at the military compound to authorities in England.
At least he could find George some drawing pencils. Maybe that would bring another smile to the boy’s face.
Dominic slid the razor across the cloth again to remove the suds. He used only the smallest amount of shaving soap today since it was running low. Just like everything else on the ship, other than biscuits and rum.
Light footsteps announced the boy’s arrival. “Lieutenant?”
Dominic glanced up. He didn’t know if it were a trick of the light, but George looked pale today. His wide eyes didn’t help the appearance. “Good morning. Are you feeling well?”
The boy nodded and swallowed. “Yes, sir.” It came out as a squeak.
No one could convince Dominic this boy willingly agreed to join the navy. Something must have forced him into it.
Dominic pointed the razor in George’s direction. “Be grateful you don’t have to deal with this yet. A rocking ship is a dangerous place to shave.”
“But why are you on the floor?”
Dominic nodded toward the wardroom table where Mr. Jordan, the sailing master, had spread several maps and charts. “It would appear my grooming takes second place to getting the ship into port safely.”
George’s eyes flew about the room, but he avoided making eye contact. He chewed the corner of his lip, making Dominic pause. He’d seen someone else do just that recently. Jarvis? No. With the force that man put into everything, he’d chew a hole through his lip on the first attempt. Not Moyle. Perhaps one of the petty officers, or even one of the men from his division. Try as he might, he could not bring the other person to mind.
“What brings you to the wardroom this morning, George?”
The boy blinked. “Oh, yes. The captain wishes the lieutenants, Mr. Jordan, and the marine lieutenants to dine with him this evening.”
A celebration of their safe arrival and last night at sea, no doubt. Dominic nodded, then swiped the razor under his chin. “I cannot complain about that.”
Instead of running back to the captain, George stayed at the doorway. They had talked little the last few days. Dominic had missed their conversations and George’s dry wit.
“Have you ever been to Antigua?” he
asked.
“I’ve been in the harbor before, but not on land.” The boy leaned half out of the door, watching the sailing master.
Dominic’s eyebrow rose. “Never?”
“The captain doesn’t let me on land.” George didn’t say it in anger or sadness, but as a simple statement of fact.
Dominic lowered his razor. “Why not?” Safety was a valid concern in port—naval law didn’t extend to the land—but surely with a trustworthy guardian George could escape trouble.
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind.”
The sound of Dominic’s razor scraping against stubborn whiskers, mingled with Mr. Jordan’s mutterings, filled the silence between them. If what George said was true, he must not have set foot on land in three years. Even with his love of the sea, Dominic occasionally found himself restless to be back on land.
George inched out of the room. Now he looked flushed. Was he taking ill like the boatswain’s son? Charlie had hardly left his hammock since the day of the battle with the St. Germain and didn’t seem any better than when they’d eased him down the shroud. But George didn’t look lethargic, despite his coloring.
“Tell the captain I am grateful for his invitation,” Dominic said.
George grabbed the brim of his cap. “Yes, sir.” Then he practically ran from the wardroom.
Mr. Jordan met Dominic’s eyes from the table. “Frightened little thing, isn’t he?” the sailing master said.
Dominic had thought George was getting past his nervousness, but it seemed old ways did not change easily. The sight of George chewing on his lip still tapped at Dominic’s mind.
He finished his work, then wiped his face dry and folded up the razor. As he examined himself in the mirror, he thought of his mother’s pouting face and could almost imagine her lamenting the fact there were no young ladies about. Dominic might even agree with her after this job well done.
After stowing the mirror and shaving kit, Dominic pulled on his shirt. He hadn’t spent time in a young lady’s company for a long time. His mother so wished for another daughter-in-law. Perhaps he could make some effort when they returned. For her sake.