Authors: Brenda Novak
Lieutenant Cunnington jiggled the rope. “Well, Vicard? Are you coming?”
His light brown hair was neatly combed and held back in a short queue. His face, though rather long, was otherwise unremarkable, except that his skin looked a good deal paler than the average seaman’s. She found nothing objectionable in his appearance, but his calm, almost pleased expression unnerved her.
Forcing herself to move on rubbery legs, she took hold of the rope and began to struggle through the climb.
The moment she reached the top, her dog jumped out of the lieutenant’s arms and began to wag its tail and bark. But Bull’s warm reception contrasted sharply with Cunnington’s icy glare.
“I warned the lad what running away might cost him.” The bumboat man’s pegleg thumped on the wooden deck as he crowded closer. “There is no need to wrestle with your conscience on that point, Lieutenant.”
Abruptly, Cunnington stepped aside and dusted his sleeve where the man had brushed against him. “You have no more business here, Will. Pack up your bladders and go, or next time I will not turn the same blind eye to your gin-selling.”
Will blinked. “Aye, sir. Immediately, sir,” he said and scraped away.
The lieutenant turned his attention on Jeannette. “Wait until the captain learns of this. You know what will happen, don’t you? I can hardly think of anything less pleasant than seeing someone take a whip to virgin skin. The scars last a lifetime, you know.”
His body language indicated eagerness, not regret. Jeannette swallowed hard. “Please...I—I made a mistake joining up. You said it yourself, I am not cut out for this type of work."
His eyebrows rose over eyes that held less warmth than the sea. “That is no longer your decision, young Vicard. It is my job to teach you what it means to serve in His Majesty’s navy. And that means I will ask the captain to order a full dozen stripes for you.”
“But...I am sorry,” she protested. “Surely you can forgive this one indiscretion—”
“I am afraid this lesson is best learned early on. It is my solemn duty to report it to the captain.”
“Please,
m’sieu
—”
“You give me no reason to show mercy. I despise the French. All frogs are cowards.”
Forgetting her fear, Jeannette bridled. Who was this man to feel so superior and act with such cruelty? She wanted to spit in his face. “And you are so courageous,
m’sieu
? A brave man does not order the flogging of a boy,” she bit out. But she regretted her hasty words when his hand clamped down hard on her arm.
“Evidently you know little about the navy.” Cunnington’s breath bathed her face. “The whip will teach you readily enough. The bosun’s mate wields it with uncommon skill. I daresay you will keep a civil tongue in your head and stay where you belong in future. So will everyone else when I am finished making an example of you.”
They were drawing more than a few curious stares. Jeannette glanced at the seamen around her in silent appeal, but they remained impassive. No one would risk worse punishment of his own by interfering. “Let me go,” she said, trying to wriggle away.
Cunnington tightened his grip and dragged her toward the captain’s cabin. Bull snarled, but he gave the dog a kick that sent it howling.
“Do not hurt her!” Jeannette cried as her dog cowered several feet away, creeping forward and then back with its tail between its legs.
“Your mongrel is the least of your worries, Vicard,” he promised.
A flogging. Even if it didn’t proceed to actual blows, she couldn’t withstand the kind of scrutiny that would result from disciplinary action. And being found out frightened her more than the cat-o-nine. Captain Cruikshank would realize the truth. Then, as soon as Treynor and the others put her appearance on the ship together with what they had learned from the baron’s solicitor, he’d return her to St. Ives.
Think
, she ordered herself.
Lifting her chin, Jeannette stopped fighting for her freedom. “I can walk on my own,
m’sieu
, if you please.”
Cunnington didn’t release her, but her cooperation caused him to relax his grip. They strode past the mainmast, then Jeannette jerked away and plunged into the milling crowd.
She heard Cunnington curse as she darted between bodies that reeked of perspiration and unwashed clothing. Dodging coils of rope, the last of the bumboat stalls and crates, and several of the goats that roamed freely on deck, she charged forward, where the crowd was thicker. With any luck, she could disappear from sight.
Depending on the weather, London might be less than a two-day trip by sea. Two days was not so long to stow away on a frigate.
“Stop that lad! Grab him!” Cunnington shouted as the startled cries of those he shoved out of his way resounded behind her.
Jeannette’s blood turned to fire, heating her body until sweat ran freely. She was losing him. Her nimble feet and small size gave her the advantage, and she was using both to weave in and out, widening the distance between them. The sound of his voice grew faint, blending with the general tumult and giving her hope—until her foot landed in something soft and wet and slid out from beneath her.
The stench of dung rose to Jeannette’s nostrils as she landed hard on her backside.
The jolt befuddled her brain. She shook her head to clear it and tried to scramble to her feet, but a wall of people cut her off, finally moved to action by the lieutenant’s cries.
Cunnington came to stand over her, his nostrils flaring. The chase had loosened his queue, but he smoothed his hair back into place and brushed off his uniform. “You will pay for that,” he growled.
She stared up at him with all the defiance she could muster. She cursed him in French, but she had little doubt that he understood.
He lowered his voice to a promising whisper. “You will take your lashes like a man, little frog, tied over a barrel, nice and tight. The bosun’s mate knows how.”
Jeannette almost blurted that she wasn’t a man and would take no lashes at all, but she managed to hold her tongue. Surely the captain would come and put a stop to this madness. Cruikshank had seemed both fair and kind.
Carefully avoiding any contact with the dung in which she’d landed, Cunnington pulled Jeannette to her feet and began dragging her to the closest grate. But Bosun Hawker stepped out from among the crowd and placed a hand on her arm, forcing Cunnington to stop long enough to address him.
“What’s ’appened? What’s the boy done?”
The lieutenant’s eyelids lowered halfway in a look of haughty contempt. “He tried to desert.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Then I will state it simply, Bosun Hawker. Evidently you care less for your new servant than I was led to believe, or you would have done your duty and stopped this piece of French scum from running off in the first place.”
Cunnington glanced meaningfully at the hold Hawker had on Jeannette’s arm. The bosun released her, but kept pace with them despite the buffeting crowd.
“’E wanted to come aboard,” he pointed out. “Why would I feel the need to watch such a one?”
Cunnington relinquished Jeannette into the hands of a brawny, stubble-faced sailor. “Nonetheless, he cannot disappear whenever he likes. He is in His Majesty’s service now.”
“But—” The bosun looked at Jeannette, and the pity in his eyes made her yearn for the relative safety of his cabin. “Mrs. Hawker was a mite hard on ye, lad, but she meant ye no ’arm. What led ye to the devil’s mischief?”
Jeannette could only shake her head as the crowd closed around her like a fist. She couldn’t explain; there was no time, anyway.
“Make his lash, Hawker. If you want to help. I am going to speak to the captain.”
Mention of the lash caused panic to rise in Jeannette’s throat like bile. Surely the captain would not approve. “Please! I am not who you think—”
Her captor’s thick fingers jerked her so hard her teeth clacked together. “Enough. Ye want more trouble? Do ye?”
They weren’t listening. The crowd was too loud, Cunnington’s hurry too great. As the first lieutenant turned away, she opened her mouth to—
“What is going on here?"
Her scream still stuck in her throat, Jeannette almost fell as she was released. Then the crowd parted, and Lieutenant Treynor came to stand at the forefront, a flush to his face revealing some strong emotion simmering beneath his calm demeanor.
“Do I understand this correctly, Lieutenant Cunnington?” He caught the first lieutenant before he could leave. “Do you mean to have this boy flogged before we so much as leave port?”
Lieutenant Cunnington’s lips lifted in a snarl. “Do not interfere.”
Jeannette felt Treynor’s blue eyes flick over her and blinked hard to hold back the tears that threatened. Could he help her?
Would
he?
Treynor lowered his voice so that only those closest to them could hear. “Is this really necessary? I think the boy has learned his lesson.”
Jeannette saw the same tic in Treynor’s cheek she had witnessed earlier, when he and the captain spoke of Cunnington, and felt the deep-seated enmity between the two men.
“Everyone knows there is no discipline in the navy without the lash,” Cunnington replied. “I think it is time to remind the entire crew.”
“What have we here?”
The crowd shifted again. This time Captain Cruikshank emerged, his white eyebrows drawn into a single, furry line. “Cunnington, what are you about?”
Cunnington’s attention shifted reluctantly from Treynor to the captain. “I witnessed this boy trying to flee, sir. At a time when we need every able body we can get, I feel it imperative that he be brought to quick justice. The appropriate punishment is outlined in the Articles of War—”
“I know the Articles, Mr. Cunnington,” the captain said.
“This is a young boy, only thirteen," Treynor chimed in, appealing to the captain now, too. “And he is new to the navy. With that in mind, surely there must be some other more fitting punishment.”
“This from a man who takes a party to shore and comes back with less than the number he started with,” Cunnington added derisively.
The captain raised a hand to silence them both, but Jeannette could tell by his expression that he’d already decided against Treynor. Whether her fate had been determined more by Cruikshank’s desire to prove his point—that he would not interfere between his lieutenants again—or by the appropriateness of her punishment, she didn’t know.
“After Dade’s disappearance, I think it time to remind the men of the consequences of such actions,” he said. “We cannot have them running off every time we put in.” To Treynor, and loud enough for the others, he added, “Discipline is inherent in the smooth functioning of any ship. Vicard might be a boy, but the rules apply to all.”
“Twelve lashes, then?” Cunnington asked.
“Ten,” the captain replied. “And for God’s sake, use some discretion.”
“Indeed, Captain.” Cunnington gave Treynor a gloating smile. “Let’s clear the deck.”
“Captain,” Treynor said, but they both moved away as he spoke and Jeannette could no longer hear what was said. The captain shook his head, listened some more, shook his head a second time. As they disappeared from view the deck erupted once again in chaos.
An hour crawled by and not a soul dared talk to her. Following that initial eruption of energy, a strange hush had fallen over the ship. Jeannette needed nothing to bind her in place-her fear was more than enough-but the burly sailor stayed with her. Every once in a while, she shot him a glance. Could she survive a lashing without giving away her gender? She didn’t see how...