Ransome's Crossing (12 page)

“Oh, aye, mum. I’d always thought of service on land as something pitiable. But once I saw what a butler and a valet do and what kind of life they have when they get a good house and master, I started to think that I might consider making it a life if I ever find myself without a ship again.”

Julia continued unpacking as Dawling enumerated many of the duties he had learned from Collin and Susan’s butler, Fawkes. After setting the last stack of folded petticoats from the valise into one of the drawers, she turned and found that Dawling had opened the trunk for her.

“Thank you, Mr. Dawling.”

“Please, mum, just Dawling. ‘Mister’ don’t suit my rank.”

She ducked her head and bent over the trunk so he would not see her smile. Though he did not have the skills or polish of the stewards
who had served her father, including Creighton, Dawling would make the voyage more interesting.

Not much of what she had packed in the trunk would be needed during the voyage. Julia removed several personal items she thought she might want, as well as two of the many formal gowns her aunt had insisted she have made. If William invited any of his officers to join them for dinner, she wanted to show her respect—for William and for the crew—by dressing her best.

After rummaging through what remained, she finally stood, hands pressed to the small of her back. “That is all I need. Is it possible for this to be stowed with the rest of my baggage?” She glanced back into the sleeping cabin. “Oh, and the bandboxes as well. I will keep two bonnets, but the rest could be stowed if there is storage room for them.”

“Oh, aye, mum. I can find room for them.” He motioned toward the valise by her feet. “If you’ll give me that, mum, I’ll put it in here until it’s needed again.”

“Good thinking, Mr…Dawling.” She handed him the empty tapestry bag and then went in to find her plain straw bonnet and send the rest to be stowed away until Jamaica.

A quick rap sounded on the door. Dawling latched the trunk lid and went to answer it.

One of the midshipmen—one Julia had not yet met—came in and swept his hat off his head, revealing a sheaf of sandy hair. “Commodore Ransome’s compliments, ma’am, and will Mrs. Commodore please join him on the quarterdeck.”

Her heart tripped over itself. “Please let Commodore Ransome know I will join him presently, Mr…?”

“Oldroyd, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Oldroyd.”

“Ma’am.” He nodded and backed out through the door.

Julia took the bonnet from the hook and tied the ribbons under her chin as she hurried through the dining cabin. The blast of sunlight brought her up short. She blinked until acclimated to the light and
then scanned the deck for William. He stood just beyond the wheel-house, hands clasped behind his back.

He said nothing when she joined him but motioned her to follow him up onto the poop deck. When he took up a position at the railing overlooking the quarterdeck, Julia stood beside him, her eyes taking in the vast expanse of ship laid out before her—a veritable floating city populated with nearly eight hundred souls. And William was responsible for the lives of all of them. She wanted to reach over and squeeze his hand to let him know she understood the enormity of his task, but she stopped herself before her arm left her side.

“Signal all hands, Mr. Cochrane.”

Julia looked over her shoulder. The young first officer grinned at her in his affable way and then stepped to the rail of the poop. “Bosun,” he called in a booming voice that surprised Julia, “signal all hands on deck.”

From below the boatswain made a shrill signal with his brass whistle, which was soon almost drowned out by the multitude of feet pounding the decks and companion stairs as the men rushed from the far reaches of the ship to gather on the deck.

Once all had gathered and quieted, William leaned forward a bit. “Crew of His Majesty’s Ship
Alexandra”
—a cheer went up from the men—“tomorrow morning, we weigh anchor.” Another cheer. “As you all know, my wife will be joining us for the crossing to Jamaica. It is the wish of Mrs. Ransome as well as myself that her presence on board does not disrupt the efficient operation of this ship. Therefore, whenever you see Mrs. Ransome on deck, you may pay her the respect of salute or doff, but then you are to go about your duties as usual. Is that understood?”

“Aye, aye, sir” rang out from hundreds of voices.

“Mr. Gibson.” William did not turn his head when he spoke the name.

One of the midshipmen Julia had met—he had been one who delivered William’s notes to her before their wedding—came forward. “Aye, sir?”

“Has noon been called?”

“Not yet, sir, but ’tis almost marked.”

“As you were.”

The mid touched the brim of his hat and returned to his sextant. A few seconds later, “Noon, sir. I mark noon.”

“Very good, Mr. Gibson. Master Ingleby, ring noon.”

Below, the ship’s master hammered four couplets of chimes on the big brass bell.

“Mr. Cochrane, dismiss the men to dinner.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Cochrane once again stepped forward to relay the orders.

Just as quickly as they had come on deck, the crew dispersed. Julia released the breath she hadn’t realized she held and followed William back down to the quarterdeck and then into their quarters.

She bumped into his back when he stopped just a step into the dining cabin.

“Dawling!”

Not wanting to get involved in something between William and his steward, Julia skirted around him and entered the day cabin. The trunk and bandboxes were gone, so she had a pretty good idea of where the seaman had disappeared to.

“Aye, Com’dore?” Dawling’s brusque voice carried through the ajar door between the cabins.

“Dinner?” The weight and inflection of William’s voice made no other words necessary. Julia cringed. Dawling had neglected to prepare their midday meal because she had kept him from his duties.

As soon as Dawling left to rectify the situation, William entered the main cabin, shrugged out of his coat, and hung it on the back of his desk chair.

“William, it is my fault Dawling did not have time to prepare luncheon. He came in and offered to help me with the trunk, and…I am sorry. It will not happen again.”

William sighed and closed his eyes. “I appreciate your trying to take the blame, but you do him a disservice by so doing. As my steward, he
well knows what his duties are—and one of those duties is to see that he does not get distracted by anyone else aboard this ship.”

A crash, followed by loud swearing, reached them, even through the closed cabin doors.

William grabbed his coat and punched his arms into the sleeves at nearly a run. Julia followed closely behind. She navigated the companion stairs much more slowly than his leap down them. For a moment, she could not see in the darkness of the main gun deck, but when her eyes adjusted, she drew in a gasp.

Covered in food, a rotund seaman sprawled on his back like a harpooned whale. Midshipman Kennedy scooped food off the man and back into a bucket.

“What happened, Mr. Kennedy?” William barked.

The teen jumped to his feet and saluted. “Cap’n, sir. Cook fell, sir.”

William swallowed, annoyance fairly oozing from him. “Yes. I can see that.
How
did Cook fall?”

Matthews arrived, lamp in hand. Around Cook and covered with the victuals now scattered across the floor, Julia could make out the shapes of half a dozen somewhat crushed bandboxes. Her stomach turned.
Her
bandboxes. She opened her mouth to apologize again, but closed it when William turned a questioning gaze on Matthews.

“Beggin’ pardon, sir, but Dawling was looking for a couple o’ boys to get this dunnage moved afore you called for him.”

“See to it, then. Mr. Kennedy, get some of the boys up here to clean this up and then return to your station.” He turned on his heel and finally looked at Julia.

In that moment she saw it—in his eyes, in his stance. His ship was no place for a woman. Not even his wife.

V
ast hauling!”

Charlotte’s hands cramped around the rope as she and the other midshipman stopped pulling. Her arms trembled. Sweat drenched every inch of her body. She had never experienced pain so excruciating in her life.

And she had been aboard
Audacious
for only half an hour.

Until thirty minutes ago, everything had been going well. On the quay, Lieutenant Howe had quizzed her extensively—she once again gave silent thanks to Geoffrey Seymour and his journals for supplying her with answers to Howe’s inquiries about Charles Lott’s previous experience. She had chosen Geoffrey’s first years—those unlucky years in which every ship to which he was assigned ended up at anchor in some harbor for months on end—so that if she did not do well with her gun crew during the first few drills, Howe would excuse her inexperience, not question it.

She had been the first midshipman to mark noon—though she regretted it when it drew some scathing looks from a few of the older mids. But during their quick midday meal, there was no time to discover who would be friend or foe amongst the midshipmen. They had hardly sat down when they were once again ordered back on deck to help with bringing cargo aboard.

“On my mark…two…six…heave.”

Charlotte mustered every reserve she possessed and threw her weight against the line.

The quartermaster and purser scurried about, checking cargo, while Charlotte and the rest of the junior officers hauled the barrels of water aboard—some of the most precious cargo they would carry.

The sun beat down relentlessly. Twice more they had to haul dozens of barrels that seemed filled with lead rather than water.

Charlotte nearly collapsed onto the deck in relief when the purser announced that was the end of the hauling. But rather than respite, “Beat to quarters!” followed by a drummer’s quick tattoo rent the air.

Around her the other mids hurried away.
Beat to quarters
meant for the gun crews to take up their battle stations for battle, for drill, or for inspection.

Charlotte alone stood still in the midst of the bustle.

“Why are you just standing there?” A tall boy with golden-brown hair grabbed Charlotte’s arm and dragged her in his wake.

“I do not know where I am supposed to go.” She thought the other midshipman’s name was Hamilton, but between the pain each movement brought and the confusion surrounding them, she could not be certain.

“You’re at the guns beside mine. I’ve been covering your stations ’til now.”

Being stationed beside Hamilton proved to be Charlotte’s best luck to date. He did everything with efficiency and ease, and by mimicking him, she issued her final command—“Run ’er out!”—to both of her gun crews before at least half a dozen others.

Her heart leapt into her throat when Captain Alban Parker came down the companion stairs to inspect the lower gun deck.

Charlotte tried to ignore the fact that Captain Parker cut a fine figure in his uniform. In the dim glow of light from the candle-filled lanterns, he looked a good few years younger than William and Collin. He walked past most of the cannon and gun crews with barely a glance.

Until he reached Hamilton. He made quite a show of inspecting Hamilton’s station and finding fault with the angle of the fuses, the condition of the cannons, the comportment of the men on the crews.
None of which Charlotte could see were any worse—and actually looked better to her—than anyone else’s.

“If you ever expect to be recommended for lieutenant, Mr. Hamilton, you must do better than this.”

Charlotte’s skin tingled with dread when Captain Parker turned his attention on her.

“And you are the new mid, just reported. Tell me, Mr. Lott…are you going to live up to the expectation you’ve created by making us wait a week for you to decide to grace us with your presence?”

She swallowed the panic rising in her throat. “Aye, sir. I mean, I will try to, sir.” Embarrassment flamed in her cheeks at the high-pitched squeak in her voice.

Captain Parker laughed. “We shall see. We shall also see if we cannot get you talking like a man before we reach the West Indies.”

He turned and looked around the deck, where everyone still stood at the ready. “Kent!”

“Aye, Cap’n?” A reed-thin midshipman stepped forward, across from Charlotte. His white-blond hair seemed to glow in the lamplight.

“My quarters at one bell in the first dogwatch for supper.”

A smug smile broke over Kent’s sharp face. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Lieutenant Howe, dismiss the crew.”

At the shouted order from Howe, Charlotte—and the rest of the gun captains—yelled “Dismissed!”

“Come, Lott. No rest for the wicked.”

Charlotte followed Hamilton back up into the blinding sunlight on the quarterdeck. “What do we do now?”

Hamilton motioned larboard. “More cargo to haul.”

She leaned her head back and groaned.

“Take heart. By this time tomorrow, we will be out at sea. Or at least clearing Spithead.” Hamilton threw his arms out and swelled his chest with a deep breath. “The open sea again at last.”

Somehow, she had to survive until then. By the time eight bells sounded the beginning of the first dogwatch and Charlotte sat down to her supper of stringy, fatty mutton and soggy peas, she could barely
raise the food to her mouth. Her entire body ached. And having slept only a few hours last night made it difficult to keep her eyes open.

“You there!”

She wished everyone would quiet down, even for just a moment. Her head swam from hours of ceaseless noise and voices.

“You—new boy!”

Something hard slammed into Charlotte’s shoulder—a fist. She yelped in surprise and pain.

“Do not ignore me when I call you.” Kent towered over her, a sneer marring what could have been a striking—if not handsome—face.

Standing did not gain Charlotte any advantage, as Kent still stood more than eight inches taller. “Since you did not address me by name, how was I to know you were speaking to me?”

The cockpit grew silent. Charlotte sensed she had overstepped a line, breached some sort of protocol she was unfamiliar with.

Kent leaned closer. Charlotte clenched her fists at her sides and stood her ground.

“I am senior officer of this mess.” A tittering of dissenting voices behind Kent drew his attention from Charlotte momentarily. “I have served Captain Parker longer than any other mid here, and that means I’m in charge of the cockpit and everything that happens down here.”

More grumbling—which sounded like it came from a few boys seated across the table from her with Hamilton. But Charlotte did not turn to look, afraid to take her eyes off Kent.

“I need a clean shirt to wear to supper with the captain. Give me your spare, new boy.”

Charlotte stared at Kent, incredulous. “Wear your own shirt.”

Kent grabbed her jaw and shoved her back. Charlotte braced her hands on the edge of the table to keep from falling backward into her food. She gulped for air, trying to keep panic at bay. This could not happen to her again.

She desperately wanted to fight back; but since Kent seemed to enjoy the captain’s favor, she could not risk being disciplined for fighting.

“And I believe I’ll borrow your neckcloth as well.”

Charlotte swallowed a cry of pain when Kent’s fingers pressed against her throat. But then his hold on her jaw eased. She took the calculated risk of pushing him away. She straightened her uniform and worked her jaw back and forth.

“What—what happened to your throat?” the boy beside Kent asked.

Her hand flew to her neck, now exposed. “A marquess wanted…something from me. And when I would not give it to him, he tried to take it by force.”

“And did he get what he wanted, after giving you those bruises?” the boy on Kent’s other side asked.

“No, he did not.” She looked directly at Kent. “He got my fork in the side of his neck.” She felt around behind her on the table and wrapped her fingers around her utensil.

The movement of her arm when she brought it down to her side caught Kent’s eye. He looked down at her fist—now wrapped around a fork—and took a step back.

His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Charlotte raised her brows in what she hoped was a good imitation of the haughty expression she’d seen him wear. “I plunged a fork into the neck of a
marquess.
What makes you think I would be afraid to defend myself by whatever means necessary from you?”

Kent’s chest heaved, and his already-thin lips practically vanished. “We’re not finished, Lott, you and I. But I don’t have time to teach you manners right now. Jamison!” He kept his narrowed eyes on Charlotte. “Give me your spare white shirt.” With one last sneer, Kent finally walked away to harass a clean shirt out of Midshipman Jamison.

Once Kent left the cockpit, the rest of the mess returned to their chatter and eating. Charlotte tried to finish her meal, but the greasy meat caught in her throat.

“Lott, I don’t know if that was brave or idiotic.” Hamilton leaned his elbows on the table across from Charlotte. “But if you’ll accept
some friendly advice, try to get along with Kent. He has Parker’s ear and favor.”

“Is he truly the senior officer of the mess?” She shoved her plate away, feeling a touch ill.

“No.” The tall, homely, dark-haired boy she had seen Hamilton with most of the day shook his head. “Ham and I are both eighteen with six years’ service, one year senior to Kent on both counts. But as he said, Kent has the captain’s favor.”

“And he has a mean streak,” Hamilton added. “You should have a care. When he promises retribution, he always takes it.”

“But when he does these things, cannot you speak to the first lieutenant?” Charlotte’s stomach churned a bit more.

“Martin, tell Lott what happened when you went to Howe.”

The dark-haired boy—Martin—nodded. “I made the mistake of trying to exert my seniority over Kent the second day he was here. You see, Ham and I—and a little more than half the mids here—all served on
Audacious
under Captain Yates. Ham and I shared command of the mess—he over one watch, I over the other. But when Parker arrived with half a crew from his previous ship, they took over. Kent and his mates came into the cockpit and told the rest of us how everything would be run. I asked him his experience and informed him Hamilton and I have seniority over him. We ended up in fisticuffs…I say ‘we,’ but Kent came through with nary a bruise on him, though I am confident I landed several blows. I, however, sported a blackened eye and split lip. Lieutenant Howe tried to advocate for me with Captain Parker, but the captain said he did not believe that Kent could have been fighting with me since he bore no marks.”

While Charlotte could understand the captain’s reluctance to believe that Kent, who was a few inches shorter and many pounds lighter than Martin, would have won a fight between the two of them, it did not make her think any more kindly of the handsome captain to hear of his bias against Collin’s former crew. “What happened?”

Martin rubbed his left wrist. “I was seized to the rigging for a watch, then assigned thirty-six hours’ continuous watch.” He cast his gaze
at Hamilton. “When Captain Parker heard Hamilton arguing with Kent over the command of Hamilton’s own gun crews, he mastheaded Ham—six hours up on the mainmast top alone.”

Even now, Kent could be telling Captain Parker the things Charlotte had said and done. The idea of being tied up in the rigging or being forced to climb up to the masthead and stay there for hours on end, while preferable to whipping, frightened her.

She shook off the fear and straightened her shoulders. She had survived the dandies and bucks who had fawned over her at the ball—some making no pretense about being more interested in her legacy than in her person; she could put up with Kent.

She had no choice.

After supper with William’s lieutenants, Julia set about organizing her few personal items—replacing her stationery and writing supplies in her desk, finding a place for her sewing basket where it would be convenient for use but out of William’s way.

Each time the bell sounded, her stomach gave a jolt. William had not spoken directly to her since Cook’s accident below deck. She wavered between the resolution to apologize to her husband the moment he entered the cabin and the determination to not speak of it until or unless he did.