Chapter Seven
Seven
What is it about chaos and fear that inspires such poor decision-making? I know with certainty that I should stay below when I hear the crew screaming up on deck—but as I watch four or five men scramble up the stairs, somehow my instinct is to follow them.
I pull on my shoes and jacket as quickly as I can manage, leaving my cravat and waistcoat behind as I stumble from the room and directly into the far wall by the stairs.
The ship groans in protest, and all at once I could vomit.
I swallow back the urge and pull myself up the stairs as the ship is hauled back and forth.
I don’t even make it halfway before I am soaked through, freezing rain hammering onto my body like tiny shards of ice. I gasp for air, as if I’ve just been thrown into the ocean.
I can barely see anything in the dark. A few torches seem to be surviving the onslaught of rain, and the intense reek of grog as I stumble past one is a hint as to why. I cling to whatever rigging I can find as I work my way away from the railing.
Despite having adjusted to the sway of the ship—developing my “sea legs,” as Tristan puts it—I am not at all prepared for the sudden lurch of the waves.
I topple and roll inelegantly across the deck, slamming into the rail.
For a moment, as the Deliverance teeters on her side, the world seems to slow to a crawl.
I grab on to whatever I can find, holding on for dear life as my sodden clothes cling to my skin and my hair whips across my forehead, dropping salt water onto my lashes.
I fear this is the moment I will die, and the thought has me frozen with terror.
I have also somehow lost a shoe, which is annoying.
I rather like this pair of shoes, and they hadn’t been cheap.
Though I suppose that won’t matter when my body is sinking down to Davy Jones’s locker.
The voices of the crew as they shout orders to one another are a distant buzz over the thrumming of rain and wind.
When I come back to myself, Renard is standing over me with one hand gripping the rigging. He is yelling at me—or rather, to me—but I can’t make out his words. My heart is pounding too loudly in my ears, and the storm is drowning out whatever other sounds I might otherwise pick up.
“What?” I holler over the wind.
Instead of answering me, he hauls me to my feet by the front of my jacket and shoves me back towards the middle of the deck.
I stumble, my balance thrown off by the lack of a shoe and the violence of the waves.
When I finally get a firm grip on the mizzenmast rigging and turn back to look at Renard, he has already moved on to whatever task he’d been doing when he found me curled on the floor.
There I remain for what feels like an eternity but is likely only a few hours—or perhaps minutes. It’s all a blur of screaming and ropes and salt in my eyes. Why did I come up here? What was I thinking?
To make matters even worse, as another wave sends the Deliverance tipping once more on her side, whatever remains of my stew dinner comes back up, and I am left shaking with tears in my eyes as I gasp to catch my breath.
Now I am certain that I will die—and strangely, the face I most desire to see is not my father’s, or Kitty’s, but Captain Sharpe’s.
I want nothing more than to see him one last time.
Somehow I know that if I can find him in the crowd, I will be safe.
The next few waves that crash down over the deck wash away both my pride and the vomit on my shirt. I retch once more, but it is naught but salt water.
And then I lift my head, and Billy is standing over me, untangling my limbs from the rigging and leaning his lips to my ear so he needn’t scream in my face. “Hold on to me!”
I do. I hold on to him for dear life. He stumbles twice as he hauls me across the deck, towards the stained-glass door that promises shelter from the rain, if nothing else.
At least I won’t be hurled overboard—though the possibility of being tossed about in a room with a wall full of weapons is nothing to sneer at.
And being inside won’t matter if the entire ship goes down.
“You’re all right, Kit!”
There is more to what he says, but truly, I think I black out for a moment.
The next thing I know, I am sprawled on the floor of Captain Sharpe’s cabin, the door slamming behind me.
The room is drenched in darkness, and the ship groans loudly as she does battle with Poseidon outside.
I crawl on hands and knees across the floor and tuck myself under the large desk, praying the bolts securing it in place will hold true.
All I can think is that I’m not ready to die. I’ve hardly begun to live.
Hours later, when the Deliverance has finally tamed the waves, I see the faint glow of the blue hour outside the gallery windows reflected on the framed map behind Captain Sharpe’s desk. I’m hunched and shivering—still cold, and wet, and wearing only one shoe. My hair is stiff with salt.
I am pulled back to myself as the door to the cabin bursts open.
I don’t know whether I slept or merely sat here crying and shivering, but as I listen to the familiar fall of Captain Sharpe’s boots on the wooden planks, I am all too aware how ridiculous I am.
My trunk, full of clean and dry clothes, is mere feet away…
and yet here I sit, whimpering and wet under this desk.
I really am a coward.
The door to the cabin closes, and I think I should make myself known.
A heavy rustle and the sound of metal clinking against the floor tells me Captain Sharpe is removing his jacket and belts.
Oh God—I am about to humiliate myself further by bursting out from under his desk, wet and sniveling, while he undresses!
The shadow of booted feet appears in front of me, and he opens his top desk drawer, then rifles around inside.
I should say something. I listen as he strikes his flint a few times, before the glow of candle flame slowly brightens the area around his desk.
He’s dripping all over the floor. I should really say something!
And then Captain Sharpe—in his shirtsleeves, locs loose and blackened by rainwater—drops to one knee.
His white shirt is soaked through, clinging to his skin in a way that would have me hot and bothered if I weren’t also cold and dripping with snot.
For the first time I glimpse black marks that trail all the way up his arm and shoulder, marks that must be some kind of tattoo.
Fascinating.
He sighs as he stares at me and holds out his hand. “Come on, Kitten.” Humiliated as I am, I don’t hesitate. I take his hand and let him pull me out from under his desk. “What were you doing on deck?”
“I—”
He shakes his head to silence me. “Don’t do that again. Unless you’re called on deck, you stay below after curfew or during a commotion like that.”
“Yes, Captain,” I say—and it’s a miracle I don’t break down crying right there in front of him. Somehow he has managed to scold me without making me feel small. My father could learn something from him.
Captain Sharpe looks me over and smiles. “You’ve lost a shoe.” I sigh dramatically in response, and he steps towards his bed, peeling his shirt away from his skin. His tattooed arm is facing away from me. “Go on, Kitten. Get yourself some dry clothes and get back to your hammock to sleep.”
“Yes, Captain,” I say again. I slide out of my lone shoe and peel off my soaked jacket.
It’s likely ruined now, but I can figure that out tomorrow.
For now, I am desperate for my hammock, despite its foul odor.
I grab a dry shirt, breeches, and smallclothes by feel, not worrying about what they look like.
For the first time in my life, I find it hard to care about my appearance.
I avoid looking at Captain Sharpe as he undresses by his bed. The man I was at sunset would have stolen a glimpse and said something lewd. He would have invited himself to stay, then suggested a much more interesting activity than sleep.
I try not to think too hard about how changed I am from this storm as I push open the cabin door.
“Good night, Kitten,” says Captain Sharpe from somewhere behind me.
“Good morning, Captain,” I answer, closing the door once more. I proceed cautiously across the slick, wet deck of the Deliverance as she sways with the swell of the remaining waves. No one says a word to me as I make my way down into the fo’c’sle.
Billy is standing by the door, speaking softly to Mr. Tydes, when I pass by. He looks up at me and smiles, but mercifully he, too, says nothing. I am left to change into my dry clothes and crawl quietly into my hammock, my wet things abandoned in a heap on the floor.
My last thought as I succumb to sleep is of my engagement party, of a Christopher-Henry who thought that the worst thing about living at sea was the lack of personal hygiene.