Authors: Christine Trent
“Yes. I told you that I was arranging for you to be transferred to
Pickle
at the soonest possible moment. You deliberately defied me by telling my midshipman some ridiculous story about how the surgeon wants you to stay aboard. Now it’s probably too late to shift you over.”
Marguerite folded her arms across her chest. “Well, since you haven’t given me a moment’s thought in quite some time, thinking so little of me that you delegated me to others, I hardly think it’s any of your concern what I do.”
“Believe me, Mrs. Ashby, what you do is very much my concern. And I now have to figure out what to do with you so I don’t have to report a dead woman under my care.”
“I hereby absolve you of that responsibility. Besides, Captain Hardy gave his permission for me to stay.”
Darden grunted. “Not likely. Nelson wants you off, therefore Hardy does, too. Except you’re not gone, and you’re my responsibility, so I have to do something with you to keep you safe.”
“You’re not listening to me. Captain Hardy did say I could stay on board to help the surgeon. Ask him. Ask Mr. Beatty.”
“I knew I should have escorted those wax figures to Portsmouth myself. You’ve been nothing but trouble for me since you came aboard.”
Marguerite froze before him, and he knew she was remembering their last encounter.
Nothing but trouble? Hastings, is this your best romantic line? And I’m accusing Marguerite of appalling conduct?
“Well. Lieutenant. It would seem there’s nothing you can do about it now, since we’re too far from
Pickle
and the fighting will start soon.”
Darden’s sense of duty washed over him in a wave, followed by another bursting dam of anger at this stubborn, willful, heavenly woman.
“You think so? My dear Mrs. Ashby, you have no understanding of how much I can do.”
And with that, he strode over to her, bent down, and swept her up in his arms before she had the wherewithal to react.
She was as light as a hammock. The weeks of ship food had taken their toll, despite her inactivity. But it hadn’t reduced her obstinacy.
“Where are you taking me?” Her eyes glowered as she hissed the question. At least she had enough sense not to struggle against him.
But just as quickly as her temper flared it simmered down again. He nearly stopped in his tracks when she wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled him.
“Where have you been?” she asked, plaintive and beseeching.
He nearly came undone at her words.
“Busy,” he replied gruffly. She remained buried in his neck as he stayed bent over, carrying her across the deck and to the stairs to the next deck.
He maneuvered, as gently as he could with her in his arms, down to the hold and straight into a room full of bags stacked at various heights and marked “Hardtack.” It served as storage for the ship’s biscuit, a tasteless but rot-impervious blend of water, flour, and salt that was baked until all of the water had been removed. The biscuits were a commonplace part of everyone’s shipboard diet. The dim lighting from behind them through the open door provided the only illumination.
“What is this place?” Marguerite asked.
“It’s the bread room. It’s lined with tin to keep the rats out,
which means it will also help to keep the shot out. It’s also way below the water line, so that you will be safe. And drat you, Mrs. Ashby, you have to be safe at all costs, do you hear me? I couldn’t bear it otherwise.”
She reached up and cupped his cheek. “Am I no longer Marguerite?”
And at that he was broken.
“You are,” he said hoarsely, and did exactly what he knew he shouldn’t, his mouth seeking hers with the desperation known only to the condemned. In just a couple of hours he would be in the throes of a battle. Anything could happen. He could be directly hit by cannon-shot, or torn apart by a splintering deck, or fired upon by a French sharpshooter. Marguerite responded in kind, sliding both hands around his neck again and pressing against him as though to meld into him and thereby derive some of his essence into her own body.
But duty murmured to him.
He tore himself away from her yet again. “No,” he said. “I cannot. This is too … much. It ruins everything.”
He averted his face from the bewildered look in her amber eyes and set her down atop a stack of hardtack bags four feet high. He disengaged from her, but she grabbed his injured hand. He jolted at her touch.
“Ruins what, Darden? Why am I a cause of your distress? I did not mean to get caught on board
Victory
.”
“It’s not that. I have a specific future, and it doesn’t contain—doesn’t have room for—an entanglement.”
“An entanglement? I see. I didn’t realize how inconvenient I was to you,
Lieutenant
.”
She dropped his hand and crossed her arms over her chest again. She was back to being defiant. “You are the strangest, most inconsistent man I have ever met.”
Her words sliced through him like a freshly sharpened cutlass. Duty and loyalty were what he valued most, and to be accused of unpredictability was a deep blow. But there was nothing to be done for it now. He lit the single lantern hanging from the ceiling.
“Perhaps one day I can explain it to you. But for now, you must remain here. Promise me you won’t try to leave the bread room until I come for you. Or until someone does.”
She stared at him steadily, giving him no response.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Marguerite, promise me.”
She wrenched away from him, distaste evident in her flaming eyes and the grim line of her lips. He let his arms hang limp at his sides.
“Promise me. Promise me, you rebellious little minx.” He hoped an attempt at humor would soften her.
No such luck. She cocked her head to one side, pursed her lips, and gave him the briefest of nods.
“Blast you, Marguerite, you’ve no idea what you’ve done to me.” Without waiting for what was sure to be a scathing response, he left the bread room, slamming the metal-backed door behind him.
Marguerite spent nearly an hour nursing her fury. Fury at Darden for locking her away in this dark, cramped room. Even more angry at herself for her own self-imprisonment on this ship. At least the weather had been mostly calm so she hadn’t experienced any seasickness. And her only headache had been the one brought on by her fall in the admiral’s cabin.
But at her first chance to be useful, she was thwarted by the one man on board she assumed cared about her. What was wrong with that man? He floated capriciously between admirer and adversary. And what were these secretive “plans” he seemed so obsessed with? Why couldn’t he share them with her? Was he up to something illicit?
It was time to build the wall around her heart again. It would not do to expose it any further to Lieutenant Darden Hastings. No, he was simply not to be trusted.
Having spun through her anger and concluded that Darden was no longer to be a part of her own future plans, either, she set about to more thoroughly disobey him by escaping from the bread room to join Mr. Beatty back on the orlop.
She stood up with resolve. Her first move would be to try to break through the bread room door. She turned to one side and ran
against the door, intending to slam into it with as much force from one side of her slender frame as she could, in hopes of loosening the door’s hinges. Her body made impact with the door and it flew open effortlessly, sending her hurtling to the floor and landing on her shoulder. The shock hurt her more than the impact. What had just happened? Why, Darden hadn’t even locked the door. She laughed despite herself. Her captor had done little to confine her.
No, he’d merely asked for her promise that she wouldn’t leave and had taken it for granted that she would do as he asked.
She got up and smoothed her skirts. There was no advantage to thinking upon Darden’s baffling nature now. Her mind was made up. She returned to the bread room long enough to blow out the lantern, then scurried back to the orlop to find the surgeon. She
would
be useful on this voyage, no matter how hard the good lieutenant tried to thwart her.
The orlop deck was fairly quiet, although she could hear the echoes of men shouting and cannon being rolled into place on the decks above her. What a melee it must be already.
She found Mr. Beatty inside the dispensary with his assistants, counting bottles and performing other last-minute preparations. His look of relief upon seeing her instantly gave way to irritation.
“Where have you been, Mrs. Ashby? You committed to a responsibility to me. Have you lost your wits or your nerve?”
After her encounter with Darden, the surgeon seemed a tame kitten to her.
“Neither, Mr. Beatty. I was unavoidably detained. I’m very sorry. But I’m ready to work now.”
The surgeon accepted her apology and gave her further instructions. She was to stay posted where the canvas was laid out for the wounded. He expected her to come up with a way to keep track of who had come down first, so the men could be treated in order of arrival. She would also offer water, succor, and comfort to the sailors while they waited their turn for a surgical table.
Any further instructions the surgeon may have had were forgotten as a blend of shouting and cheering above them reached the pandemonium level. Marguerite could have sworn she heard the sound of a band striking up a patriotic tune.
“What is happening?” she asked.
“I do believe we have met the enemy.”
But the surgeon was wrong. A wild-eyed sailor flung himself into the orlop, bursting with excitement. “Lord Nelson’s giving us the go-ahead. We’re about to engage. He’s sent up a signal: ‘England expects that every man will do his duty,’ and followed it up with another one for close action!” The man scurried away to the other decks with his news.
Marguerite held her breath as she and the surgeon stared at one another helplessly while waiting to see what happened next. She looked down at her timepiece. It was just before midday.
They didn’t have long to wait, although it seemed an eternity.
Brax was standing on the quarterdeck of
Royal Sovereign,
taking stock of how close they were to the enemy’s fleet so he could report it down to the gun captains on the decks below. Other officers were translating flag messages drifting by on frigates whose sole purpose was to run up and down the line delivering these missives.
Nearby, Vice Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood shook his head at the other officers standing about on deck. “I wish Nelson would stop signaling, as we all know well enough what we have to do!”
Brax sympathized with the admiral’s sentiments. Nelson was not one for autocratic control of his fleet, and typically gave simple, general direction and extended his vice admiral’s flexibility in how to carry out those orders. A message about performing one’s duty was akin to telling crew members how to breathe properly.
Collingwood’s irritation extended to those around him. “Lieutenant Selwyn! What the devil are you wearing?” The admiral strode angrily to where Brax was standing. Collingwood’s uniform of blue jacket with tails, white waistcoat and breeches, and large cocked hat was impeccable, almost as if he were preparing for a formal ball rather than going into battle. By comparison, Brax was similarly attired but was not sure he carried off his superior’s stiff and ceremonial look.
“Sir?” Brax asked.
The admiral gestured at Brax’s feet. “What is that?”
Brax looked down to where his superior officer was pointing. “Sir? My boots?”
“Exactly! You know my policy. Get those things off. If you’re wounded it will be impossible for the surgeon to remove them. Stockings only. Quickly, man.” Collingwood pointed down at his own unshod feet for emphasis before moving off to deliver other orders.
Brax sighed. He didn’t think the surgeon’s convenience should trump a man’s dignity—God only knew how ridiculous an officer looked gliding about like a half-dressed girl, and besides, boots provided protection against rolling cannon and wreckage on the deck—but he would obey the order without question. It would be foolish to anger the one man he planned to valiantly impress today. Brax shucked his boots off as quickly and gracefully as he could before dashing down to the decks below to store them away and give his report to the gun crews and the ship’s captain, Edward Rotheram, who was busy in his cabin at his log books.
Brax rejoined Collingwood on the quarterdeck as soon as he was done, taking care not to slip in his nearly bare feet. He intended to stay as close to Collingwood as possible, in case an opportunity for bravery showed itself. Brax was convinced that this day, this battle, was his one opportunity for glory and he would not waste it.
Even if it meant risking his life.
For it would do him no good to return home empty-handed, so to speak, without having laid claim to a rightfully deserved promotion. Such an unthinkable occurrence would mean seeing great disappointment in his father’s eyes, and would give him little to commend himself to a potential bride.
“Lieutenant!” Collingwood’s voice exploded from behind him. “Look in front of you, man. A sharpshooter could pick you off easily while you stand there like a sack of barley. Get below and have the gun captains line up a simultaneous broadside. Tell them to fire as soon as we are centered there, on that frigate that looks to belong to those devil Spaniards. Quickly. And tell Captain Rotheram what I intend.”
Cursing his bitter luck that the admiral was forever sending him away from his side, Brax flew down to the ship’s upper gun deck
and relayed the message, instructing a sailor to carry it farther down to the other gun decks, and returned once again to the captain’s quarters. Brax then scurried back to the open air, determined to keep his eyes open for an opportunity.
Nelson’s division of ships was running parallel to Collingwood’s to the port side but lagging behind a little. Because
Royal Sovereign
headed up Collingwood’s line, that ship would be the first to smash through the line of French and Spanish ships that were frantically trying to shift their perpendicular position to the British fleet. The enemy was starting the battle in a seriously compromised position. Since gun ports were in the sides of the ship only, a ship needed to pull up alongside another in order to fire at it properly.