Authors: Elizabeth Essex
In the middle of this affectionate display of commerce, the cheerful doxie looked over the quarter gunner’s shoulder, and tossed Col a wink. “Wanting a turn, love?”
However much he admired her cheek and her entrepreneurial spirit, the thought was not to be borne. But before he could speak, the mischievously angelic voice breezed into his ear.
“Is she talking to you or me?” Young Kent had stopped on one of the higher steps and was peering over Col’s shoulder at the spectacle.
Col tried to curb the impulse—and he had never before, or at least since becoming first lieutenant, been a man subject to the whims of impulse—to laugh. Because Kent was already laughing. At himself. It was … “disarming” was the only word Col could think of.
“Me. You’re too damn young, even if you are a Kent.” Col redirected his voice at the doxy. “Alas, madam, I must decline your charming offer. All visitors ashore. Hove to, Griggs.”
“Aye, sir, but if you’d just give us a minute to finish our business wif’ Long Peg, I’d be much obliged, Mr. Colyear.” The gunner didn’t even turn around, but kept his mind on the task, quite literally, at hand. And already, Col guessed, paid for.
Griggs’s huffing and puffing continued, oblivious to all bystanders, until he at last began to reach his noisy crescendo.
Col half expected the stammering return of the crimson embarrassment, but instead of prigging up like a parson, behind Col, young Kent removed his hat and laid it solemnly across his chest.
“Devil take me if I don’t feel like I ought to take my hat off for such a biblically instructive display.”
There was nothing Col could do but laugh out loud and listen as the boom of his mirth echoed off the curved interior of the hull. It carried over the din and caused more than one sailor to turn and stare. “Bloody hell. You surprise me, Mr. Kent.”
“Do I?” The imp seemed to like the notion. To be sure, the lad’s face was flaming like a radish, but his eyes were dancing with familiar Kentish mischief. “I fancy I surprise myself.”
“Not like I would, dearie.” The well-endowed piece of crumpet that was Long Peg began a leisurely tucking in of her assets. She sent a wide-toothed smile at the boy behind him. “Have a go then, ginger? I could do a little tidbit like you in a heartbeat.”
Kent’s smile widened across a flash of teeth. “I very much doubt that, madam,” he countered with a small, elegant bow. “Though I thank you for your generous offer.”
“’E’s too young for you, Peg,” someone called. “But you could do ’im for a wet nurse!”
The deck exploded into ribald laughter, and the boy seemed happy to laugh along with them. He wasn’t shocked or disapproving of the men at all. He was, instead, laughing so with such jovial humor that his warm gray eyes began to water.
“Mr. Colyear, I beg you will preserve me from such a fate. She’s as like to smother me as anything.” The boy backhanded a tear of laughter out of his eyes with the cuff of his coat. “Oh, devil take me. You have no idea. It’s all so marvelously ridiculous.”
Col couldn’t stop the laughter that was rumbling out of his own chest. And he didn’t want to. He wanted to laugh, the way he always did with the Kents. Damn his eyes, but it was going to be good to have a Kent on board. Clearly the boy had untapped depths.
“Visitors ashore, visitors ashore,” Larkin was bawling from aft.
Col could hear the steady fall of the cane as Larkin beat against posts and deck beams to make himself heard and get attention.
“Perhaps, sir,” Kent suggested when he regained his composure, “you might like me to see that the marines are mustered at the rail to prevent the men from trying to join their … companions, sir?”
Col liked the boy more and more. Bright and pleasing, with a self-deprecating sense of humor. And something more—the ability to look ahead and see what remained to be done. It seemed like such a simple thing, but in Col’s experience, it was rare indeed.
For the first time in a long time, Col felt some of the weight of responsibility he carried around on his shoulders ease. Remarkable. After an unpromising start to their association, the tide in the boy had indeed changed. With luck, this was going to be one hell of a cruise.
Chapter Four
“Out and down, lads. Out and down. Show a leg.” The shrill call from the bo’sun’s whistle, and the bawling of his mate, pierced the darkness of the orlop deck. “All hands. All hands to weigh anchor.”
Sally was already out and down and up and out, and had been since five bells. She had lain awake most of the night, listening to the storm, and waiting for the marine on sentry duty to hail a coming boat, or the sound of Jenkins, or even Richard himself coming aboard. And then there had been the riot of snoring from some of her fellow inmates in their cockpit asylum that had risen over the howl of the wind and lashing rain. She wasn’t exactly sure who the worst offenders were, as they had all been asleep in their hammocks by the time she had quite deliberately turned in very late last night, and she hadn’t wanted to light a lamp. In the deep of the night the bloody confounded racket had made her reconsider the wisdom of her plan. But this morning had dawned fine, and despite the lack of sleep, she was anxious to be out the door with her coat on, before any of the other midshipmen had stirred to life.
And getting up before any of the others provided her with time to change in the dark. She had also quite deliberately chosen to hang her hammock closest to the backside of the cockpit’s canvas door, so the corner might provide some small measure of privacy. And in its proximity to the door, she had the shortest route up and out.
As she made for the companionway, Pinky, God bless his tousled head, bustled toward her with a steaming mug of something dark and bitter and aromatic that resembled neither coffee nor tea, but something in between. Whatever it was, it was welcome.
“Take you up one, young sir,” he advised.
Sally took a scalding gulp before she gasped out, “Ahh, God love us. Thank you, Pinky.”
“I’ll have a breakfast ready for you after all the hammocks are piped up and we’ve weighed for the Channel. But I can get you a bit of bread and cheese if you’re hungry. You didn’t get no supper last night. You’ve only to ask an’ I’ll keep a good supper back for you.”
“I thank you, Pinky, no. I had much rather arrive on deck and get the lay of things before Mr. Colyear’s exacting eye can find me.” Before the man had any reason to cast his meticulous gaze her way for a second or third look at her. Devil take him, but he had watched her closely last night. But then again, he watched everything with that raking eye of his. Why should she be any different?
“Don’t you worry about Mr. Colyear, now. He’s a fair man, he is, as is the captain.”
“Speaking of fair, and mindful of what you told me, my sea chest is
full
of dried herbs and sundry things to give over to your keeping. For the whole mess, mind you, not just me. I’m sure you can use them to make all our mouths water.”
Pinky’s rheumy eyes lit up. “Oh, aye. Just so, young Mr. Kent, just so.”
She had packed those herbs for Richard herself, harvesting most of them from the kitchen garden and wrapping them carefully in paper packets with injunctions to use their contents for the betterment of his fellow midshipmen. She had also thought it would be a good way for Richard, who tended to be a rather solitary young fellow, to make friends. Anyone who could improve the quality of the food aboard ship was bound to be well liked. She had fussed at Richard, instructing him and telling him how to go about it. How unnecessary it had all been.
“They’re fresh—just days old.”
“Ah, you’ve as good a nose as ever.” The pleased contentment at the thought of bringing their mess proper food brought the apples back into Pinky’s cheeks. “I only tell you so’s you know—I’ll always keep as good a meal for you as I can, no matter the hour.”
“Excellent, Pinky. My thanks. I know I can rely on you. And so can you rely on me. We’ll have a good mess of it. Now, wish me luck.” She took one last gulp of the still scalding, but strengthening brew.
“Good luck, young sir.”
It only occurred to her, as Pinky disappeared down the deckway, that she did have as good a nose as ever. But Richard never had.
Was the old man, though he never said it out loud, trying to tell her he knew that it was she and not Richard under his care? Or was it just that old age was mixing the memories up in his mind? And how could she ask without giving herself away?
It was going to be devilishly difficult, this balance, this being Richard and also necessarily being herself. Mentally, she could be herself, but physically she would just have to become more like Richard. Or more like a better version of him, like Matthew or Owen. Or, even better, more like the boys of the orlop cockpit, with their swiped sleeves and unrestricted, bounding walks. She would make a study of them, the same way she had made a study of navigation and sails and spars—she would observe them until it became second nature.
If only she had long enough.
On deck she headed aft, toward the taffrail, where she might have a better view of the town, and could draw a long breath of damp sea air into her lungs. Devil take her, but she loved the heavy, salty smell of it. A proper lungful she could get here, much more so than in Falmouth, where even the breeze off the sea quickly became laden with the scents of the land. But out on the water there was nothing but the wind. The close smell of belowdecks, or even the oak, hemp, and tar of the deck, disappeared. It was nothing but possibility, that smell. It was freedom. And it was home.
At the taffrail, she could still recognize a whiff of the dank mustiness of Portsmouth less than a mile inshore, hulked down at the edge of the water. The square, gray town wavered over the dark slate-colored water of the harbor. Portsmouth, where Richard might still be. Where he might have changed his mind and be trying to right his wrong.
Devil and Saint Elmo, if only he didn’t. If only they were away and downchannel before anyone could find her and put her off.
“See anything of interest, Mr. Kent?”
She jumped—literally started back like a scalded cat—at the low rumble of Mr. Colyear’s voice, rough and somehow liquid, like the water of the surf being churned into the sand. Devil take her. Clearly, she was already too late to escape Mr. Colyear’s notice. He was already there, standing to larboard of the mizzen with the same solid immutability as the mast.
He shifted his eyes her way only momentarily before looking ahead, down the length of the ship, and spoke without changing his stance. “Nice and early, I see.”
“Good morning, Mr. Colyear.” It was a pretty dawn, with a warm yellow light to the east. A fine day to put to sea. A marvelous day for a fresh start. Provided Richard didn’t come.
Sally glanced over the rail, back across the harbor. It looked quiet enough. Boats were working closer in to the quay, but none looked to be venturing out to
Audacious
.
“Mr. Kent?”
“No, sir.” She lied automatically in answer to his first question, even though
everything
was of interest to her. Especially the inscrutable Mr. Colyear.
He had come up close behind her. So close, she had to look up to see him. With his lean ranginess, he loomed over her like a cliff, with a craggy handsomeness that appealed even as it daunted. There was something about Mr. Colyear that was irrefutably direct. His well-worn uniform spoke of utility, as if he cared nothing for appearances, only for results. His face had a squareness to it, a spare quality, as if the years of life at sea had honed him down to the essentials, so that his outer appearance matched his character exactly. There was nothing extraneous or purely decorative. His dark eyebrows were straight across the tops of his eyes. His nose was straight, exactly the right size for his face. The only part of him that was unnecessary was the slight dimple that bisected his chin. It was the only suggestion of softness or excess on the man.
Not that she was interested in his handsomeness. Or his approval. Not at all. She was far more concerned about the possibility of boats coming out from the town.
She was about to say so when Mr. Colyear’s attention shifted away from her to the instruments—the compass and barometric glass, which had risen as the worst of the wet weather had abated, leaving them a high, clear morning. Then his eye moved beyond, to the mainmast stays, and then beyond again, his eyes roving in their constant catalogue of the ship. Constantly assessing and making instantaneous judgments. Before he turned back to her.
And now he frowned at her in that minutely considering way of his. Sally saw an almost imperceptible flicker of his dark straight eyebrows before he made that wry downward cant of his lips that was somehow still a smile. “Hell of a storm last night, Mr. Kent. Regretting your impulse toward family tradition already?”
“No, it’s not that, sir.” She didn’t regret it at all. The impulse, as he called it, to family tradition was the only thing she was sure of. She was not afraid of the voyage or the service. She was absolutely sure she could do the work.
Mr. Colyear was still waiting, with all the inescapable patience of the sea itself.
“I just wondered if the watermen—though it seems strange to call them watermen, don’t you think, when they are all women?” In Portsmouth harbor the rowers from the quay were all women, the men having been pressed into service by the navy’s insatiable appetite for men to fill out her crews. But she was nearly babbling, sounding like a complete looby. Mr. Colyear’s intense, meticulous regard still managed to discompose her even when she had screwed her courage down fast. Every time he looked at her in that particular, silently measuring way of his, her insides went all a-jumble, as topsy-turvy and out of tune as a broken fiddle.
Because any moment he was going to look at her and his face would lighten, and then darken with recognition. It would have been so much easier if he had simply looked at her and known. If he had hauled her up by her lapels the way she expected, and declared her a fraud, and tossed her into the drink.