The Bastard (10 page)

“Ye’ll do,” the bosun replied with a shrug.

“We thank ye kindly, Lieutenant.” Turning to the chest behind her, Mrs. Hawker withdrew two wrinkle-free shirts. “I finished yer laundry. They’re clean an’ pressed to perfection, that they are.”

“Thank you.” As Treynor reached into the pocket of his knee breeches to hand the older woman a few coins, Jeannette couldn’t help admiring the long lines of his legs.

“When do we sail?” Mr. Hawker asked.

“I can’t say for sure. The captain was just telling Lieutenant Cunnington and me that he’s received orders to wait until tomorrow. There may be a change of plans.”

A change of plans? Jeannette’s breath caught. Certainly that did not bode well.

“We will see London a day later, then,” Hawker said.

“Evidently.” Treynor turned to Jeannette. “You will be all right here, Frenchie.” He flashed her a ready smile. “If you need anything, I am not hard to find.”

“Merci beaucoup, m’sieu,”
she murmured. “You have been most kind.”

Jeannette quelled the urge to beg him not to leave her as he strode through the door and closed it behind him. As Jean Vicard, she’d experienced a very likeable side to the lieutenant. Gone was the cool, unyielding man she had seen in the tavern with the serving wenches, the one she’d met before passion had transformed his reserve into something else entirely. Now that he thought her a boy, he treated her with nothing but frank kindness.

She hoped the Hawkers would do the same.

“Are you listening to me, lad?”

Jeannette looked into Mrs. Hawker’s narrowed eyes and swallowed. For more than an hour, the woman had been drilling her with information and instructions, most of which Jeannette had been unable to absorb. Her breasts ached in their bindings to the point of distraction; she longed to tear the strips of cloth from her chest. How would she survive another two days of such misery? She must have been mad to think she could play the part of a boy for so long. But, of course, she hadn’t known their trip would be postponed.

“Where will I sleep?” she asked and received a scowl for the interruption.

“Mr. ’Awker will sling yer ’ammock over there.” She pointed to a corner of the small room.

“You mean I will stay in here with the two of you?” Jeannette sputtered. For
three
days?

Mrs. Hawker shook her head and chuckled, revealing a scant allotment of teeth. “Aye. Did ye think the captain might give ye ’is cabin?”

Jeannette’s gaze circled the room, noting the small, confined space that contained the Hawkers’ hammocks, a shabby wardrobe, a cumbersome sea trunk, and the small desk where the bosun sat, absorbed in a ledger. A chamberpot sat at the base of a washstand, further proof of the complete lack of privacy in the cabin.

Panic plucked at Jeannette’s nerves. She’d never be able to remove her bindings. She’d be under the Hawkers’ watchful gaze every minute until they reached London.

Mrs. Hawker cleared her throat, her voice growing sharper. “Are ye listening, lad? I said yer not exactly a servant. Yer more like an apprentice, of sorts.”

“Oui.”
Jeannette nodded to placate the woman. Somehow she’d assumed she’d have her own small quarters in a dark nook or cranny. In all honesty, she hadn’t thought beyond the immediate and desperate need to reach London. Had she been able to imagine life onboard the frigate, she might have realized the folly of her plan.

Mrs. Hawker pinched her arm. “Did you ’ear me, lad?”

Jeannette flinched, and Bull growled softly at her feet. “Y-yes!”

“Then what, exactly, did I say?” The robust woman propped her hands on her hips, waiting for Jeannette’s response, and easily glaring the dog to silence.

So much for loyalty, Jeannette thought, glaring at Bull herself.

She searched her recent memory for an answer. “You said your husband is a petty officer and one of the best seamen,” she began, shooting a glance at the bosun, who didn’t seem to be paying them any attention. “His responsibilities include inspecting the ship’s sails and rigging every morning and...and reporting their state to the officer of the watch.”

She almost smiled when she managed to recount this much, but the bosun’s wife simply raised an eyebrow, wanting more.

“If new ropes or...or other repairs are needed,” Jeannette fumbled on, “he informs the first lieutenant. And the bosun is also in charge of...” She wracked her brain but couldn’t remember anything else. “...of repairs,” she finished lamely.

Mrs. Hawker sighed in exasperation and held out a small, silver pipe. “What about this?”

“Oh! He uses that to issue his orders.”

“Right. An’ ’e’s in charge of all deck activities, like raisin’ and droppin’ anchor. What else?”

Jeannette barely heard the question. She had made a grave mistake by joining the navy. As cramped as their quarters were, the Hawkers would find her out in no time. An uproar would break out at the discovery of a woman dressed as a boy, and the
Tempest
’s captain would have her escorted to Plymouth. There, St. Ives’s solicitor would return her to the baron, if Treynor or another of the men didn’t take her to Hawthorne House and collect the promised reward first.

She should have struck out for London on foot. No one would have guessed a French boy begging a ride to the capitol to be the Baroness St. Ives. Certainly such a journey was less risky than shipboard life.

“Lad?” Mrs. Hawker prompted.

Before Jeannette could respond, the bosun frowned at them. “’Is name’s Jean.”

“I don’t care what ’is name is. ’E’d better listen to what I’m tellin’ ’im, or ’e’ll wish ’e ’ad. Bloody arrogant French.” She turned to her husband. “I don’t know ’ow ye’re goin’ to teach someone who won’t pay attention. Maybe ’e’s daft.”

“We ’aven’t even sailed yet, Geraldine. Give the lad a chance to get ’is legs afore ye start ’arpin’ at ’im. There’s nothin’ to replace experience. ’E’ll learn, right enough.”

Sensing an opportunity to beg leave of the cabin, Jeannette cleared her throat. “Speaking of sea legs, I have never been on a frigate before. Do you suppose I could take a turn around the ship?” She appealed to the bosun, knowing better than to ask Mrs. Hawker. His rotund wife was irritated enough to keep Jeannette under her thumb indefinitely.

“There’s no need to go gettin’ in the way—” the woman began, but her husband interrupted without the slightest acknowledgment of her words.

“There’s a good idea,” he said to Jeannette. “Off with ye.”

Jeannette smiled.
“Merci, m’sieu.”

Passing immediately through the door, she planned to “find” a skiff. She had to get off the frigate, and she had to do it while there was still enough confusion to cloak the departure of a young boy.

Jeannette wandered about the upper deck with Bull at her heels, trying to devise a plan. To her untrained eye, it looked like mass confusion reigned, which could only help her. Amid so many, she felt anonymous.

Those in charge were easy to identify because of their immaculate uniforms. Fortunately, they were absorbed in their work. Even Lieutenant Cunnington, who stood in the midst of the fray, seemed preoccupied with giving instructions.

The bumboat men and women were still plentiful, although the prostitutes, or at least the more obvious ones, were nearly all gone. Jeannette didn’t see Lieutenant Treynor, but with so large a crew, chances were small that he would stumble upon her at the wrong moment.

She had nothing to worry about. She hoped.

Lingering along the gunwales, Jeannette watched skiffs and other small craft load up and shove off. Suppose she climbed down and dropped into one?

She could pay the fare.

Her hand dipped into the pocket of her stolen breeches to feel the few shillings Dade had stored there. How much would it cost? If she managed to return to shore, she’d soon need coin to purchase food; she was hungry already.

She whistled to coax her dog to cooperate with his leash and moved back amid the vendors.

“Watch yourself!” A small man with a peg leg shooed her out of his way as he began to pack up his stall.

Jeannette watched him for a few moments before realizing that she’d seen him when she first came on board, selling liquor to a seaman.

She glanced around to be sure there were no officers in the immediate vicinity. “Can I help,
m’sieu
?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

He eyed her dubiously before turning back to his work. “Out of the kindness of your heart, I suppose?”

“No. But I do not ask for money.”

His head snapped up. “Then what? A draught of grog? You know selling liquor is against regulations. I have none.”

“You have none
left,
perhaps. I saw you with a pig’s bladder earlier.”

Sweat rolled down the sides of his face as he hefted a crate to the ground. “If it’s a drink you’re after, I could possibly arrange it, if you've got the coin.”

“I want neither rum nor gin, and I am not out to cause you any trouble.” She scanned the area again and lowered her voice still further. “I simply want you to take me with you. For my part, I’ll help carry and load everything.”

“You’re asking me to help you desert?” A half smile twisted his lips as he shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s your bloody backside you’re riskin’.”

He was alluding to being flogged, of course. Tales of flogging in the navy were notorious. But she wasn’t too worried. She’d joined up only a few hours ago. She’d simply unjoin and go on her way.

“Fair enough,” she agreed.

Together they loaded several more crates, using old clothes to conceal the now empty bladders. While Jeannette dismantled the stall, her new benefactor went to coordinate their departure with a boatman.

Finished before he could return, she sat on top of the last crate until she heard the tap of his pegleg and saw his dirty blue coat. Then she hopped up.

“Let’s get these to the side,” he said, motioning to the crates.

They traipsed back and forth across the deck and used a rope and pulley to lower the merchandise into a waiting boat. Then the man waved Jeannette ahead of him. “After you.”

Jeannette wanted to snatch up her little dog, but knew she’d fall into the ocean if she tried to scale the rope without full use of both arms. Reluctantly, she dropped the leash and left Bull behind in hopes the bosun would take good care of him. Then, without so much as a backward glance, she scrambled over the side, vowing she’d never come so close to one of His Majesty’s vile-smelling frigates again.

The little boat shifted as she released the rope and took a seat. She looked up, expecting to see the bumboat man lowering himself down, but no one was coming.

Her dog yapped from somewhere far above.

Lifting her gaze even higher, she spotted her benefactor peering over the gunwale.

Nausea washed over her when she recognized the person standing at his side.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Jean Vicard?” Lieutenant Cunnington called down. He was holding her dog in his arms.

Jeannette’s stomach convulsed as the oarsman beside her grinned, revealing a handful of yellow, rotting teeth. The air seemed suddenly colder, saltier; the water that swirled between the frigate and the small, brown boat, darker.

She glanced at the dock where she had been so eager to come out only a few hours before. Land had seemed close when she thought she was going back. Now it looked miles away.