The Bastard (22 page)

“All right. I am staying in Lieutenant Treynor’s cabin for the next couple of days if...if you need anything. Otherwise—”

“Are ye Treynor’s girl, then?” Wistful admiration overrode Amelia’s gruff manner. “That man’s ’andsome as the devil, that ’e is.”

Jeannette flushed. Treynor was virile enough to tempt the most virtuous maid, to say nothing of the hussies. Even she had to admit that. “No. He is...he is merely helping me a bit.”

Amelia let out a soft snicker. “A man such as ’e likes to use what ’e’s got in ’is breeches. If ye don’t know that yet, ye’ll be learnin’ it soon enough.”

“I’d better go.” Unwilling to examine Treynor’s motives in front of the other woman, or to even consider them herself, Jeannette stepped away.

A backward glance revealed Amelia draping Treynor’s blanket around her shoulders. With that small reassurance, Jeannette let herself out of the dark hold, but voices on the landing near the companionway caused her to pause in the shadows. A knot of sailors huddled near a lantern that swung there. Fortunately, none of them wore an officer’s uniform.

Ducking her head, she proceeded toward the stairs only to be yanked back by the collar and relieved of her lamp.

“’Ey, lookee ’ere!” The man who grasped her by the coat raised the light to her face. “This lad’s the one what got Lieutenant Treynor flogged.”

The dirt-streaked faces of the others turned her way, all except three who crouched near a lamp of their own, busy with something Jeannette couldn’t quite see. At their feet lay several bottles of colored liquid and a rag.

“Wanted ter run off, did ye? Changed yer mind about a life of rum, buggery, and the lash?”

An aging tar, wearing a greasy bandanna, ripped off a thick, yellow fingernail with his teeth and spat it on the floor. “’Is tender flesh ’as never seen the likes of the whip, I’ll bet.”

Having learned her lesson from that incident with the petty officer, Jeannette kept silent. These sailors hated anything or anyone French. She didn’t want to give them further reason to bother with her.

“Did the lieutenant give ye the beatin’ ye deserved?” It was the man who held her that spoke. “’Tis only right ye get somethin’. I’ve always taken me own stripes.”

That he probably never had a choice left little room for pride, but Jeannette was not of a mind to point that out. She nodded, wincing against the pounding of her head and the fear that was making it difficult to breathe. The slightest provocation could cause them to take to their fists, as the petty officer had done.

The man holding the light glanced up. Without his curly, dark head in the way, Jeannette could see what they were doing. A bare-chested sailor was having his arm tattooed by a tall, gaunt-looking man.

“Jack, ’e’s just a lad. Let ’im go,” said the tattoo recipient.

“Go back ter admirin’ Smedley’s work there, Beaner. It’s all in good sport. This snot-nosed French brat could use a lesson on ’ow to get along in the navy.” He jammed his face in front of Jeannette’s. “Ye see, lad, tattoos are manly things. They might ’urt some, but notice ’ow Beaner acts as though it merely tickles.”

“He’s even paying for the pleasure,” Smedley pointed out with a self-satisfied grin.

“I’ll not give ye a farthin’ unless ye make this bloody ship into a man-of-war. Looks like a stoved-in skiff so far,” Beaner said with a chuckle.

“You couldn’t settle for hearts and anchors, like everyone else,” the tattooer grumbled.

“Like ye said, I’m payin’ for it. I should get what I like, eh?”

The light swayed as the men guffawed, evoking a curse from the one bent over Beaner’s arm.

“Hold bloody still!”

“I got an idea.” Jack pulled Jeannette closer to Smedley and Beaner. “A tattoo might ’elp rid this lad of ’is French cowardice. Make ’im a real sailor.”

“Aye,” one of his companions agreed. “Let’s make ’im look like a gen-yoo-ine tar. Toughen ’im up.”

Hoping to break Jack’s grip and run up the stairs, Jeannette struggled in earnest. She doubted the sailors were interested enough to follow her very far. They’d been drinking—the water on the ship tasted so bad that most sailors consumed little liquid besides ale and as much rum as they could get their hands on. They were just having a bit of fun.

But she couldn’t risk them having that fun at her expense.

“What do ye say, lad?” Jack took firmer hold of the front of her coat and lifted her off her feet with one brawny arm.

Jeannette cleared her throat. “I have no coin.”

“Thomas Smedley’s not a greedy man, eh, Smed?” Jack glanced at the artist.

Smedley cocked an eyebrow at them. “I might find it in my heart to do the wee lad a favor, should the rest of you make generous with your rum rations this evening.”

The group’s enthusiasm dimmed at the prospect of sharing their rum until Jack shored it up again. “We’ll slake yer thirst well enough, eh, boys? What’s a wee draught to us, after all?”

He pulled Jeannette closer, and her trepidation escalated. She couldn’t allow them to mark her skin like a common sailor. And what part of her body would they choose to mar? Her boy’s costume couldn’t withstand much scrutiny, even by drunkards.

“Please.” She twisted in her coat, trying to pry Jack’s fingers away, but flailed helplessly, suspended in air. “I don’t want a tattoo. I have work to do, no? You will get me another beating if I do not get on my way.”

“Ye deserve a taste o’ pain for the lieutenant’s floggin’," Jack said, her coat still firmly in his grasp.

Thomas Smedley used an ink-stained rag to wipe the arm of his current patron. “What should I put on the boy? Beaner’s done.”

Beaner flexed so all could admire the improved frigate tattooed on his upper arm. Then he stood and moved out of the way.

“French bastard,” someone volunteered.

The laughter swelled as another cried, “Son of a French whore.”

“Bloody coward, is more like it,” Smedley responded. “Set him down here, Jack.”

The sight of the needle made Jeannette frantic. “No!
Mon Dieu,
let me go!” Managing to break Jack’s hold, she tried to dash up the stairs, but one of his mates grabbed her arm and hauled her back.

Beaner counted out his coin and tossed it at Smedley.

“Mr. Beaner, please, do not let them do this,” she pleaded, appealing to the one who had seemed most sympathetic to her.

Beaner seemed mildly surprised. “It’s not so bad. I just paid good money for the privilege.” Again, he displayed the result of Smedley’s work, then gave her hat a friendly jerk. “Don’t worry, lad, I’ll make sure they don’t give ye anythin’ too vulgar.” With that he turned to Smedley. “Put an anchor on 'is arm or some such.”

“’E’ll ’ave nothin’ so plain,” Jack argued. “Do a ’eart on his pecker. That’ll give ’im somethin’ to show the ladies.”

Smedley scowled. “I’m not touching his pecker. What do you think I am, a bloody sodomite?”

Jack’s face reddened. “All right. A naked lady, then, on ’is chest.”

That Smedley rubbed his chin as though considering this latest proposition caused Jeannette to redouble her efforts. Regardless of the hands that held her back, she had to break free.

“Let me go, bloody swine.” She cringed to hear herself, but she had to be Jean and not Jeannette to survive.

“Hold him fast,” Smedley said.

Jeannette cried out as four tar-blackened hands pinned her against the wall.

Smedley hunched over to examine the corked bottles that contained the colored inks and tapped his needle thoughtfully on the blue.

“So what’s it going to be?” the others asked, their rum-soured breath bathing Jeannette’s face as they crowded closer.

“Hold him steady, I said, or it won’t look like anything at all,” Smedley replied with more than a little self-importance.

“A naked woman,” one man insisted.

Smedley shook his head. “I’m thinking an English flag might be nice, you know, to remind Frenchy here where his loyalties lie, just in case he ever wonders.”

“Then make it as big as life,” Jack said with a snicker. “So no one else can mistake ’is loyalties either. We’ll be doin’ ’im a bloody favor, makin’ him one of our own.”

“Aye,” Smedley said. “But something as big as all that would take hours. And I’m working for free, remember? I’ll do a small flag on his arm.”

Gripped tight, Jeannette winced as the first prick of the needle drew a bright red drop of blood, which Smedley wiped away with his stained rag. The pain grew worse with each jab, but the tattoer worked quickly, only bothering to glance up when Jeannette’s struggles caused him to miss his mark.

“He’s wriggling,” he snapped to the men restraining her. Then he bowed back over her tender flesh.

Staring at the bottles of ink that would soon permanently mark her body, Jeannette refused to lie meekly beneath their hands. She could not return to her parents with a tattoo on her arm, be it an English flag or a French one.

Booted feet moved on the deck above and Jeannette cried out; she could never gain her freedom on her own. “Help me! Please!"

A callused hand clamped over her mouth, but the sailor who silenced her was too late. Someone had heard, and they were coming. Jeannette’s heart raced faster in hope, then skidded and bumped when she realized who had answered her plea.

Lieutenant Cunnington’s heels tapped on each step as he descended the stairs. Dressed impeccably, as always, he stood tall, his cologne reaching Jeannette long before he came level with her.

When the others pulled back and saluted, Jeannette wanted to run. But she could not. She was encircled by half-drunken sailors, and Cunnington blocked her escape up the stairs. She could only attempt an awkward salute of her own.

“Having fun, lads?”

“Aye, Lieutenant. Didn’t mean no harm, though.” Smedley’s glance flicked toward his mates.

The others averted their eyes.

“Beaner? Don’t you have this watch?” the lieutenant asked.

“No, sir. I ’ave the next one.”

“Which begins in a matter of minutes.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Carpenters have much to do in a day.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Perhaps you are not taking your work seriously enough. At this rate you will all miss muster.”

Jeannette felt no relief at Cunnington’s words. If he sent the sailors scurrying to their respective duties, she might avoid a tattoo, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to escape the first lieutenant. Would he manufacture a charge against her? Take his hatred out on her another way?

“I was just leavin’ when the boys decided to rile this lad,” Beaner explained. “I lingered ter watch.”

There was a quiver in Beaner's voice. Jeannette could almost hear him wonder if he would soon find himself at the receiving end of the mate’s whip.

“Indeed.” The first lieutenant’s gaze switched back to Jeannette. His glacial smile and the memory of his voice through Treynor’s door made her wish she could sink into the deck.

She’d escaped his wrath once; she doubted she could do so again.

“Am I to understand the lad opposes such an initiation into your ranks?” He spoke to Beaner, but his eyes never left Jeannette.

“Aye, sir.”