Ransome's Crossing (26 page)

“Enter.” Ned pushed his empty breakfast plate back and looked down to inspect the white expanse of his waistcoat for crumbs or spills. He saw none.

The purser entered the forecabin, knit cap in hand. He knuckled his forehead. “Cap’n Cochrane, sir.”

“Yes? What is it, Mr. Harley?”

“I thought you should know, sir, that food is missing from the stores.”

Ned started. “Food missing? How much? When was this noticed?”

“Cook brought it to my attention this morning, sir. It is not a vast quantity. A chunk cut from a wheel of cheese and a tin of biscuits, but it means someone has broken into the hold and stolen food meant for the crew, sir.”

Ned was well aware of the implications of even the smallest amount of food missing. Stealing anything from the ship’s stores was a hanging offense.

“Should we search the ship and have every sailor turn out his belongings to see who took it, sir?” An eager flicker of retribution gleamed in the warrant officer’s eyes.

Ned considered saying no. The evidence was probably already gone—consumed by the thief, the tin and wrappers thrown overboard when no one was looking. However, a public search of everyone’s
belongings would either reveal the thief or discourage him from doing it again.

He stood and buttoned his coat. “Come with me, Mr. Harley.” He exited the cabin and stepped out from under the shade of the wheelhouse into the bright morning light.

“Pass word for Bosun Parr and the captain of the marines,” he commanded Midshipman Jamison.

“Aye, aye, sir.” The teen scurried away.

Ned scanned the faces of the men currently on deck. Had one of them done it? Would that man, there, soon be standing before Ned to receive his punishment? And just what punishment would that be?

Lieutenant Gardiner joined him. Ned inclined his head in acknowledgment of his first officer’s presence but did not say anything to him. Gardiner frowned, but he did not press Ned for an explanation.

The boatswain and the captain of the marines both joined him at the same time, followed by Jamison.

Ned tapped his hand against his leg, but stopped as soon as he realized he was doing it. He clenched his hands into fists instead. “Lieutenant Gardiner, Mr. Parr, Captain Macarthy, it has come to my attention we have a thief aboard. Purser Harley informed me that food is missing from the stores. We must discover the responsible party. Mr. Parr, you will pipe all hands for berth inspection. The three of you will conduct the search.” He swallowed and looked at Gardiner. “The entire crew’s dunnage is to be searched—including the officers, midshipmen, and marines.”

Gardiner could not keep his shock from his expression. “Sir, you cannot believe that an officer would steal?”

“I hope not, Mr. Gardiner, but as I cannot be certain, I must not be prejudicial against the seamen. Search the officers’ and midshipmen’s berths first. If the foodstuffs are not found, they are to help inspect the remainder. Men are to be released to duty as soon as they clear inspection.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Gardiner’s voice still held incredulity, while the purser’s and the marine captain’s held nothing but excitement.

“If you find the thief, bring him to me.” He looked at each of the three men and received their acquiescence. “Bosun Parr, pipe all hands.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Parr stepped forward and repeated the order to his mates, who had followed him to the wheelhouse. Simultaneously, all four of them raised brass whistles to their lips and blew a short series of notes that carried throughout the ship.

Dutifully—but with questioning looks and murmuring amongst themselves—the sailors, midshipmen, and marines on deck went below, leaving only a skeleton crew manning the sails.

Though he could see the question in the sailing master’s eyes as he passed the binnacle, Ned said nothing. He had just given an order that could forever alter his officers’ opinion of him. By including them in the search, he put them on the same level—if even just for a moment—of the lowest landsman in the crew. He hoped they would understand his need to react in the strongest manner possible to even a hint of misconduct. If not…he was still their captain, and they would have to continue to obey him whether they resented his actions today or not.

He tried to settle down to his reports back in his cabin, but imagining the officers’ and midshipmen’s reactions to having their personal possessions searched kept him from being able to concentrate. He spent the rest of the morning pacing. Almost two hours after sending the three men to begin the inspection, a knock rattled the door.

“Enter!” Ned’s arms vibrated with the desire to yank the door open.

Lieutenant Gardiner entered, followed by the boatswain and the marine captain.

“Repo—” The end of the word caught in Ned’s throat when behind Captain Macarthy came a decidedly nervous-looking Midshipman Lott.

Ned had been correct—he should have jumped overboard before taking on this command.

T
he fear in Charlotte’s—Charles Lott’s expression nearly matched Ned’s own. He began to pray as he had never prayed before for deliverance for himself and for Charlotte. How would he explain to William Ransome that he, Ned Cochrane, had sentenced the commodore’s little sister to hanging for stealing less than a full meal for one man?

“Sir, Midshipman Lott told us something very interesting when we arrived to inspect his berth.” Gardiner motioned Lott forward. “Tell the captain what you told us.”

“Sir…” Lott cleared her—his—throat when it squeaked. “Sir,” Lott said in a lower timbre, “when I returned to my berth last night after the entertainment on deck, I discovered someone had gotten into my sea chest and rummaged through it.”

Ned grabbed onto the top rung of the chair before him, relief weakening his knees. “How do you know this?”

Lott explained about finding the lid ajar and splashed with ink, the clothing inside no longer folded, and the ink bottle tipped over.

“It should be easy to find the guilty one, then, by looking for someone with ink on his hands.” Ned straightened.

“Not so easy, sir.” Gardiner shook his head. “One of the mids knocked over a bottle of ink at the midshipmen’s table this morning when several were updating their log books before breakfast. Eight
of them now wear ink on their hands. None would admit to the act when questioned, sir.”

Ned looked at the thin, pale midshipman dwarfed by the men surrounding him. “Was anything taken?”

“No, sir. I believe when the ink bottle began to leak, it frightened him and stopped him before he did whatever it was he’d set out to do.” Lott worried the lowest button on his coat—in much the same way Charlotte Ransome had twisted the end of her sash around her fingers on her visit to
Alexandra
so many weeks ago.

Ned started to worry again—but this time for a different reason. He looked at the other officers. “The three of you continue your inspection. Mr. Lott, stay a moment.”

Before the door closed behind them, Ned started pacing, turning whenever he reached the head or foot of the table. From the corner of his eye, whenever he passed the center of the room, he could see Lott standing in the same position, tense and nervous.

Twice he paused, opening his mouth to tell Charlotte he knew who she was. Both times as soon as he looked at her, fear and indecision got the better of him. He should not have been so hasty in dismissing his inspectors. He could have questioned them further, biding his time until he had decided what to do with Charles Lott.

Even when clinging to the ratlines of the foremast shroud, Charlotte had not experienced fear akin to what she now felt. The dread that Ned had indeed recognized her was greater even than the horror she experienced when the first lieutenant, the boatswain, and the marine captain had arrived in the cockpit and announced they would be inspecting everyone’s belongings for food stolen from the hold. She had not looked through her sea chest thoroughly enough to ensure that the stolen food had not been stashed there.

“You are certain nothing was taken from your sea chest?” Ned
finally stopped pacing, coming to stand directly across the table from her again.

“Aye, sir. When the first lieutenant removed everything, I was able to see that nothing was missing.”

“And are you certain that someone else did this? That in your haste to report for duty, you did not yourself leave your sea chest in such a state?”

Charlotte understood his need to find the simplest explanation for the incident. If the person who stole the food was not the same person who had gone through Charlotte’s trunk, it meant there was more than one wrongdoer for Ned to deal with. Of course, she could have given him a list of midshipmen she personally suspected of either or both crimes, but to do so would appear to be divisive at best and, at worst, vindictive.

“I am certain this was done by somebody else.” Charlotte ran the backs of her thumbs along the outside seams of her pants. “I always keep my clothing neatly folded, and I know my ink bottle leaks when tipped, so I put it away very carefully each time.”

Ned folded his lips together and began pacing again. After a few more turns, he paused again. “Do you have any idea who might have done this to you?”

She hesitated before answering. “No, sir.”

His brows raised. “No?”

“No, sir.” She tried to infuse confidence into her answer this time.

“You do not suspect anyone, or you are not willing to say?” He crossed his arms.

Charlotte lowered her gaze, not wanting to admire the breadth of his shoulders, the flattering cut of his coat, or the way the indigo wool emphasized the unusual gray hue of his eyes. “I do not know who did it, sir, therefore I will make no accusation without supporting proof.” She risked a quick look at his face to gauge his reaction.

Ned looked as if he wished to yell—or swear—at her for not giving him what he wanted: a name, some way to rectify the situation, the
truth behind the mystery. He grabbed the top of the chair again, his fingers twitching as they wrapped around the rung.

“Is there anything else you wish to tell me?” he asked, his eyes locking with hers.

He knew. She knew he knew. He knew she knew he knew. Her knees quaked and stomach churned—all while her heart leapt at the idea of telling him and having him not only swear to protect her, but confess his undying love for her. Since that was as unlikely to happen as Kent’s confessing to everything he’d done to Charlotte since she’d come aboard…“No, sir.”

“Very well, then. You are dismissed, Mr. Lott.”

Charlotte spun and dashed from the cabin, paying no heed to the startled yells of the sailors she brushed past in her haste to find a quiet spot to collect herself. At the bottom of each companionway, around every turn—men. The officers still worked at inspecting the sailors’ belongings. Those who had already been cleared stood around watching the spectacle, wanting to see the guilty one caught.

Down she continued, past the main gun deck, past the lower gun deck. Finally, she stepped off the bottom step and looked around. A fraction of sunlight trickled through the multiple layers of gratings in the decks above her. With the officers searching for someone who had stolen food, here—on the deck containing the hold and food storage areas—was probably not the best place to be.

She started back up the steps, her legs weak and wobbly. If Ned knew who she was, why hadn’t he said anything?

“Mr. Lott!” She turned. At the other end of the crowded lower gun deck, Lieutenant Gardiner motioned her toward him. Stifling a groan, she wended through the sailors crowding the deck.

“Ah, good, Mr. Lott, if you are finished with the captain, we need help completing the inspection. Take two boys from your watch and go to the aft section of the deck and begin your search there.” Lieutenant Gardiner’s expression was made even grimmer by the light flickering up from the lantern in his hand.

“Aye, aye, sir.” And while she searched the ship for stolen food, was
someone even now in the cockpit once again searching through her belongings?

A few hours later, Charlotte was able to lay off searching to report for her watch. Then, after two hours of nothing more interesting than recording the ship’s speed, bearing, and location on the log board, Lieutenant Gardiner, Boatswain Parr, and Captain Macarthy arrived and were admitted to Ned’s cabin.

The sailing master looked at Charlotte with raised brows. “They didn’t bring no one with them. Must not have found the thief.”

Charlotte shrugged and tried not to picture Ned’s handsome face set in concentration as he listened to his officers’ report. A few minutes later, they left again.

As a woman, Charlotte wanted to go into the cabin and comfort Ned, offer him the opportunity to speak of his frustration with the obviously fruitless search for the offender. As a midshipman—after more than a month on
Audacious,
she no longer thought of herself as merely pretending to be one—she trusted him to make whatever decisions necessary to ensure the safety and order of everyone aboard.

And, as a midshipman, Charlotte turned her mind toward her duty and tried to shut down the part that wanted to dwell on Ned’s handsome face, his fine figure, his distinguished mantle of authority.

Eight bells chimed and Charlotte exchanged a terse nod with Kent, who always came to the wheelhouse to report for duty before he took over as midshipman of the watch and rested his oars in the forecastle. She needed to write in her journal, needed to express her thoughts and feelings from everything that had happened today.

In the blaring sunlight and the equatorial heat, she longed for one of her lightweight muslin gowns, a wide-brimmed bonnet, a fan, and a parasol. The heat was even more stifling below deck as she started down the stairs toward the midshipmen’s berth in the bow of the ship. Lady Dalrymple’s garden, with its vine-covered bowers and ancient, towering oaks, was a lovely place to pass a hot afternoon. She could picture herself sitting there now, eating a lemon ice, flirting with Ned—no,
with Henry Winchester. But it was Ned’s face, Ned’s impeccable uniform, that filled her mind.

Her eyes took a while to transition to the dimness below deck as she descended the companion stairs, but she was now so familiar with the ship she knew exactly how many steps there were between decks. She counted them to try to rid herself of the all-too-pleasing fiction of being called upon by Ned Cochrane. Five…six…seven…

Her ankle hit something hard, hovering above the eighth step, but her momentum carried her, pitching her forward into the darkness. She raised her arms to try to catch hold of something, anything to break her fall. Too late. She twisted and covered her head with her hands. Her shoulder and the back of her head took the worst of the blow when she hit the deck below. Bright lights flickered in her closed eyes, and she could not catch her breath.

“Who goes—?” Footsteps shuffled over to her. “Mr. Lott? That you?”

Charlotte jerked, trying to breathe, tears smarting her eyes. Finally, she gasped and glorious—though hot and foul-smelling—air filled her lungs. Along with it came the awareness of pain in her shoulder, her head, and her back.

“Yes,” she croaked. “It is I.”

“What’re ye doing down there?”

“I…” What had happened? She inventoried the pains throbbing in her body. Her head had hit the deck. Same with her shoulder and back. So why did the front of her ankle throb? “I tripped on something and fell down the last four steps. There is an obstruction on the eighth step coming down.”

The sailor—a man from one of her gun crews—stepped up to inspect it. “I don’t see nothing, sir.” He came back down and thrust his hand toward her. She gladly accepted his assistance up. “But we’ve all taken a fall now and again. That’s life in the navy.”

Charlotte grabbed onto the edge of one of the steps as a wave of dizziness crashed into her.

“Ye all right there, Mr. Lott?”

“I think…” She gulped a few steadying breaths and the motion of the ship seemed to settle back to its regular pitch-and-roll motion. “I believe I will be fine. Thank you.”

The sailor knuckled his forehead and strolled away.

Charlotte made her way forward, to the cockpit. Sitting on the table and making full use of the open grating above, she pulled up her pant leg and examined her ankle. A red streak blazed across the skin right where it hurt. She touched it and flinched from the tenderness.

“What happened?” Jamison looked up from writing in his journal.

“I…” Charlotte glanced around. The berth was almost empty—only two other boys, both on Jamison’s watch, both formerly of Collin’s crew, were in here with them. She lowered her voice. “I believe someone tripped me apurpose when I was coming down the stairs just now.” She told him what had happened.

Jamison’s expression grew dark. “When you relieved me of watch, I returned here and found Kent and his mates huddled around the table whispering together. I was convinced they were up to no good, but they dispersed as soon as I entered. I had no cause to say anything to them.”

A trickle of fear mingled with the thread of annoyance that cut through the throbbing pain in Charlotte’s head. “And once again, there is no proof. Only suspicion.”