Miss Whittier Makes a List Read online

  She crawled carefully from the berth, wondering at the sharp pain in her feet. She hung on to the berth and lifted one foot to stare in frank amazement at her sole. It was sunburned, too. She lowered her foot and perched back on the berth, deeply aware what one more day adrift on that grating would have done to her. It appears I should be more grateful, she thought as she pulled her arms into the shirt and buttoned it.

  The door to the compartment beyond was open, and she went in, walking gingerly on the black-and-white-painted canvas that covered the deck beneath. The cabin, which stretched across the vessel’s stem, was better decorated than the sleeping compartment, with several comfortable chairs, a table spread with charts, and a rather elegant lamp overhead. It could have been a room in a typical manor, with the exception of the two cannons, secured into their trucks with ring bolts that adorned opposite bulkheads They faced closed gun ports.

  How odd, she thought as she sat down carefully in one of the chairs, favoring her bruised hip. She looked closer at the walls dividing the two rooms. They were fastened to the bulkheads with another series of bolts that could easily be thrown to remove them when the warship went into action.

  “Not exactly your country home, eh?"

  She looked around, careful not to move too fast, to see the ship’s surgeon standing in the doorway, a nightshirt draped over his arm.

  “No, sir,” she replied, embarrassed to be discovered out of her berth and where she did not belong. With an effort, she pulled her knees closer together and crossed her ankles, which made her suck in her breath.

  “My dear Miss Whittier, please do not hold with formalities,” he said, coming closer. “You’ll only do your ankles a disservice, in their present condition.”

  She uncrossed them and took the nightshirt he held out to her. It was soft from much wear.

  “I know I should not be here.”

  He merely shrugged. “It is no concern of mine. I do not think you are out to steal Captain Spark’s silverware. For one, I am glad to see you moving about. Nothing distresses me more than a moribund patient.”

  She smiled in spite of her discomfort. He came closer, pulled her braid over her breast, and peered down her back before she could protest.

  “Hmmm,” he said, sounding like her doctor at home. “Hmmm, I was most worried about your back and shoulders, but you appear to be progressing on schedule. Now, stand up and let me see the backs of your knees. Oh, dear. I suggest you apply my salve liberally there and spend this day on your stomach, Miss Whittier.”

  She made a face. That bad?”

  He nodded, but his voice was full of good cheer. “Nothing’s worse than skin that never gets sunburned. As it is, you’ll probably come through this intact, but with a nice suntan.” He smiled at the look of concern on her face. “And cheer up! Think of this as an adventure. Here you thought you were only going to see Charleston!”

  “Thee doesn’t need to remind me,” she said and returned to the sleeping compartment. The surgeon remained where he was in the great cabin.

  “Miss Whittier, put on that nightshirt and lie on your stomach. I will apply salve to the back of your knees.”

  She did as he said and climbed back into the berth, thankful to be wearing something that allowed more coverage. Thee is a dunce, Hannah, she thought as she settled herself as modestly as possible. This man, and Captain Spark, too, have already seen all thee possesses. At this point, it is fruitless to blush.

  She suffered in silence while the ship’s surgeon daubed ointment on her legs, and then her shoulders. She opened her eyes when he finished.

  “I should thank thee for untangling my hair and braiding it, sir, but I have forgotten thy name.”

  He set down the jar of salve and poured her a large drink of water from the carafe. “It is Andrew Lease, Miss Whittier, and you do not have to credit me for that daunting task. You looked like a wild woman when you came on board. It was Captain Spark’s work.”

  She took the cup from him and drank, wondering at a man with such patience, especially one who was an ogre in a naval uniform.

  “I would have cut it all off, myself,” Lease was saying as he poured her another drink. “Captain Spark allowed as he understood curly hair, and also that he was deep enough in your disfavor without approving such a thing.”

  She drained the cup again and watched as he refilled it. “I am surprised,” she said at last.

  “My dear, life is full of surprises, only a few of them pleasant.” he replied. When she finished the cup, he filled it again and set it down on the table when she shook her head in protest. “I’ll send in Trisk, Captain Spark’s orderly, with some gruel, which you will consume in its entirety. Should you require a chamber pot, it is under this berth. I do not think you will need one yet, though. You are still wondrous parched.”

  With that, he nodded and left the sleeping compartment. She shook her head in surprise, and forgot to be embarrassed. What a strange circumstance I have stumbled into, she thought as she closed her eyes and returned to sleep.

  She woke to a scratching at the door, which opened to admit a small man bearing what looked like a basin of porridge. He didn’t even bat an eye at her situation, but set the basin down on the berth beside her.

  “Captain Spark sends this with his compliments. You are to eat it all, ma’am, or he says he will do something dreadful.” He spoke with a pronounced Cockney twang and wore a pigtail as long as her own.

  She gasped at his words, but picked up the spoon he proffered and began to eat. The orderly left the room without another word. She stayed where she was on her stomach, with the pillow tucked under her breasts and the porridge in front of her. It tasted better than her favorite dinner at home.

  She ate it all, resisting the urge to run her finger around the rim of the bowl. She put the empty bowl and spoon on the night table, next to the carafe and someone’s reading spectacles and was composing herself for a return to sleep when there was another knock on the door.

  “Hannah?” she heard through the door.

  “Oh, come in, Adam, come in!” she exclaimed after a glance around to make sure that Captain Spark’s nightshirt hadn’t hiked up.

  Adam Winslow let himself into the compartment. As he closed the door, she could see a glimpse of scarlet coat with white piping. “I like that!” she exclaimed indignantly. “Does he have a guard on thee?”

  “Oh, no, Hannah,” Adam replied, crossing the room to stand beside her. “The guard is on thee.”

  “Well, I suppose I should be grateful,” she said after a long pause. She motioned for him to draw up the chair, and he sat, resting his arm along the wooden edge of the berth.

  “Thee looks a sight,” he said finally, with the familiarity of an old friend. “I am reminded of lobsters.”

  She sighed. “The ship’s surgeon says I am progressing on schedule, whatever that means.” She reached for Adam’s hand. “Adam, I do not know how to tell thee ....”

  He shook his head. “Thee does not have to. Captain Spark already told me that thee was the only survivor.” His eyes misted over and he looked away. “Poor Papa.”

  Hannah was silent as Adam struggled within himself. Thee is only sixteen, she thought, a year younger than me. And now thee is the head of the Winslow household. Hosea is probably beside himself, and we can do nothing to assuage the sorrows of either of our families.

  “Well, this voyage will not last forever,” Adam said finally. He released her hand. “I must hurry topside. The bosun said I was to take only a minute.”

  “Is ... is thy situation horrible?” she asked as he turned to the door.

  >He shook his head. “I am well enough, Hannah. They are rough men, but we have seen sailors before.” Hannah sighed. “And they have seen me,” she said, reddening further despite her vow to remain unembarrassed by her precipitate arrival on board the Dissuade. “Mr. Lease said I came sailing into everyone’s view during Captain Spark’s sermon yesterday.”

  He smiled then
. “Did he? Ah, yes.” He sat down again beside her. “We were assembled on the main deck. Captain Spark had just finished reading the Articles of War and had announced his sermon when he stopped, ran to the railing, called for a blanket, and climbed down the chains with a grappling hook as thee floated past. Thee was relatively covered and slung over his shoulder like a meal sack as he climbed back onto the deck.”

  He laughed at her expression. “I only knew it was thee by that tangle of hair.” He was sober then. “And I knew what it meant, to see thee floating past on the Molly’s grating.”

  He couldn’t say anything else. He looked at her for a long moment, then opened the door. Hannah raised her head from the pillow.

  “Adam, we must think of something to get us off this wretched vessel,” she said as he disappeared into the companionway and was replaced, to her acute discomfort by Captain Spark.

  “I still think we should chum you for sharks, Miss Whittier,” he said, his face perfectly wooden. “And I will kindly thank you not to incite my crew to mutiny!”

  “Thy crew!” she fired back, wisith all her heart that she could leap up and pummel him, instead of continue to lie on her stomach. Thee snatched him from the Molly Claridge’s deck.” she stormed. “It is most undemocratic of thee!”

  He was obviously going to say something else, but her last charge brought him up short. “Miss Whittier, the Dissuade is not a democracy,” he managed at last, a faint smile on his face. “And you are a dreadful baggage.”

  She thought it was a smile, but it was gone before she could make sure. With a nod in her direction, he closed the door with a decisive click, leaving her to writhe in further discomfort entirely of her own making, and heartily wish Captain Spark to the devil again.

  Chapter Four

  She did not see Captain Spark for another three days, during which time she mulled over her many sins—chief among them hasty words—lay on her stomach, and suffered the ship’s surgeon to slather those parts with ointment that she could not reach. When she begged for something besides gruel at mealtime, he was implacable.

  “But I am tired of it,” she argued on the evening of the fourth day of her tenure on board His Majesty’s Dissuade. “Is there nothing else?”

  “Not for you. Miss Whittier,” he said firmly as he capped the ointment and covered her with a sheet again. “Ship’s fare is entirely too salty, and you are still dehydrated.” He gave her one of his gallows smiles. “I assure you that before we get to England, you will be equally sick of salted beef and weevily biscuit. Hush now.”

  With a sigh, Hannah flopped her chin back down on the pillow. “And now I suppose thee will leave me to my own ruminations,” she said.

  “I should,” he replied, pouring her another large cup of water and standing there until she finally took it and drank. “Except that they are probably most unprofitable these days, and I would not have you think ill of all of us. Miss Whittier, do you play draughts? Checkers to you, I suppose.”

  She brightened up immediately. “Mama doesn’t think I know how, but my brothers taught me,” she said.

  “Well, I would hardly like to be party to your total dissipation,” he began, a twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps I can find an improving book, like Coastal Shoals and Lee Shores of Mediterranean Spain,” he said. “I know Daniel has a copy.”

  “Oh no,” she said hurriedly. “Checkers, if thee pleases.”

  It was hard to think of the captain as having a first name that anyone ever used, she thought as the surgeon tapped on the door separating the sleeping cabin from the great room and was invited in by His Majesty. He was gone a long while; she closed her eyes and resigned herself to another evening spent in isolation. Soon she began to worry about her parents, and Hosea, who was probably beside himself by now, wondering what had become of the Molly Claridge.

  She rested her chin on her hands. When news reached Mama and Papa on Orange Street, there would be a memorial service. It will be a sad one for her family, she thought, and also for the Winslows, mourning both a husband and son. There would be a long, long prayer, the kind that made her squirm, and then a melancholy pilgrimage to the dock, where Mama would drop a handful of flowers into the water and sob on Papa’s broad chest. Her own chin quivered. How much they will miss me.

  “My God, Miss Whittier, such a mournful expression,” came a familiar voice at the cabin door.

  She opened her eyes to see the captain himself standing there, leaning against the door frame, conforming himself gracefully to the roll of the ship. He was dressed in white canvas trousers and a white shirt and his shoes were off.

  “I am contemplating the memorial service my parents will have in the Friends Meetinghouse, when they hear the sad news from my brother,” she replied, tugging the sheet up a little higher on her flaming shoulders in an attempt to dignify her situation.

  “I cannot fathom anyone missing you,” he said frankly. “You’re certainly a lot of trouble to me. Tell me, will they hold a similar meeting of thanksgiving when you finally return?”

  “Probably not,” she replied, her voice formal.

  “I shouldn’t wonder at that,” he murmured and went back into the great cabin. In another moment she heard the rustle of charts, and then the surgeon reappeared.

  “He is so rude,” she whispered as Andrew Lease set the checkerboard down in front of her and pulled his chair up close.

  “The captain?” Lease asked, placing the pieces on the board. “He’s supposed to be. Now, mind yourself, if you plan to win.”

  She won two games out of four as the ship slid silently through the water, taking her farther and farther from home. During the final game, she heard the scraping of a fiddle on deck, and the sound men dancing. Down below in the hold was the rhythmic clanking of the pumps, and faintly, the lowing of a cow.

  “This is a strange place,” she said as she watched the surgeon put the checkers back in their cloth bag.

  “You’ll get used to it,” he said.

  She couldn’t keep her eyes open. The fiddle was soothing. “How long before we get to England?” she asked, settling herself more comfortably in the berth.

  Lease laughed. “You probably plagued your parents on every trip you took, didn’t you? Long enough, Miss Whittier. Time for you to learn to appreciate the HMS Dissuade. Maybe even Captain Spark.”

  “Never,” she said, her voice drowsy. “He is completely undemocratic and a dreadful beast.” She paused to let that sink in as her eyes closed. “And I am equally sure he can have nothing kind to say about me.”

  The surgeon chuckled. He put the back of his hand to her forehead, nodded approvingly, and settled the sheet about her shoulders. He blew out the lamp. “He did mention that he wanted his bed back, and without you in it.”

  “Dreadful man,” she repeated as she wiggled into a comfortable position and surrendered to sleep.

  She felt human in the morning, for the first time since her rescue from the sea. Hannah sat up in the berth and pulled on the captain’s nightshirt, wincing only slightly as it came in contact with her tender shoulders. Her arms were beginning to itch and peel. She tugged idly at the skin on her forearm, marveling how it sheeted off and left a handsome tan behind.

  Mama will be chagrined, she thought. Soon I will be browner than an Indian. She leagainst the bulkhead, holding her breath against the anticipated pain, and letting it out in relief when there was none. I could almost like this, she thought as she settled into the gentle rolling motion of the ship as it rose on each swell, then shimmied into a little spiral as it fell into the trough of the wave. She knew instinctively there was a sure hand at the helm.

  When Captain Spark knocked on the door from the great cabin, she felt decidedly charitable. “Come in, please,” she said.

  The captain, still in stockinged feet, stuck his head in. “I need a shirt,” he said, observing her. “Well, you are sitting up. Does this mean I will be getting my cabin back soon?”

  “As soon as thee can find
me another space, sir,” she replied. “And some clothes.”

  “Done, Miss Whittier,” he replied as he opened his sea chest and rummaged about for another shirt. “I‘ll put my first mate on it right away.” He found a shirt and closed the chest. “All we need to do is dispossess a midshipman and purloin a shirt and trousers from a small crew member. I trust you are not too particular.” He paused in front of her. “By God, you’re going to be peeling for a week, at least.” He touched the end of her nose. “I did that once, and looked about as silly as you do. At least there is no one here you have to impress. I’m afraid it would be quite impossible. Cheers, Miss Whittier.”

  She blinked her eyes in surprise as he closed the door to the cabin. “What an odd man,” she said out loud. That was more words than he had said to her before. She was still marveling at his loquaciousness when his orderly entered with the eternal basin of gruel and coffee.

  She wrinkled her nose at the coffee. “I do not know how anyone manages to drink this,” she said as the little man placed the tray on her lap. “Does thee boil it for hours?”

  He stared at her in surprise. “Of course, miss. Is there any other way?”

  She sighed and took a sip. The orderly shook his head and left the cabin. Before she gave up on the coffee, there was another knock. It was the ship’s surgeon, with white trousers and a black-and-white checked shirt draped over his arm.

  “Daniel informs me it is moving day,” he said after a perfunctory tug on her nightshirt and a professional scrutiny of her shoulders. “The cabin boy died of the bloody flux in the Caribbean, so we have his clothes for you.”