Chapter Five
Hannah dined in the junior officers’ wardroom that night, washing down salty mutton with boiled coffee. She watched Captain Spark’s lieutenants and the three midshipmen tap their sea biscuits on the table to drive out the weevils, and wondered why she ever complained about Mama’/font>s cooking. While the others looked on in amusement, she rapped her biscuit on the table, and gave a little shriek when two well-fed worms rolled out, and in the glare of publicity, huddled themselves into tight balls.
“Some prefer them in the biscuit,”
Lieutenant Futtrell observed.
“They claim it gives the food more crunch.”
Hannah shuddered at his words and gave a more vigorous tap to the biscuit. Another worm tumbled out.
“When in Rome,”
she murmured, and took a bite, dreading the thought of any crunching.
“Bravo!”
said the lieutenant named Lansing. The three midshipmen, none of them a day over twelve, looked at each other and giggled, then turned red.
“Don’t mind them,”
Lieutenant Futtrell said generously.
“They’ve been at sea since they were ten, and don’t know much about ladies.”
Hannah sighed.
“No one does. See here, sirs. I do not wish to continually be running afoul of Captain Spark. Tell me what I must do to prevent further disaster.”
Futtrell pushed away his plate.
“Stay off the quarterdeck unless invited. And that will never happen. But if it ever does, stand on the lee side with us, and not the weather side with him.”
Lansing laughed.
“I think coming between a captain and his wind must be like getting between a mother bear and her cubs.”
She nodded. “And?”
Lieutenant Lansing stared thoughtfully into the mutton fat congealing on his plate.
“Do not—I repeat—do not come above deck before eight bells. The captain likes a shower under the wash pump about then. God knows how he can tolerate it, but he washes in seawater, no matter the weather.”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness,”
she reminded them, amused at the thought of the dignified captain capering about naked in cold weather. I wonder if he removes his hat, she thought.
“The captain inspects the ship on Sundays,”
offered one of the midshipmen, who blushed beet red and ducked his head when she looked in his direction.
Hannah smiled and crossed her heart.
“I promise to keep my bed made and all my numerous possessions put away.”
She glanced at Lieutenant Futtrell, who was eyeing her, a smile on his own well-weathered face.
“Surely he would not inspect my cabin?”
Futtrell shrugged.
“He runs a taut ship, Miss Whittier.”
He nodded to the orderly hovering in the shadow of the bulkhead, who hurried forward to remove the plates.
“He likes everyone on board to be useful, Miss Whittier. You might study in your mind how you can do this. We’ll be another six weeks at sea.”
“Six weeks!”
she exclaimed in dismay. Six weeks to England, and at least another six weeks home. It would be months before her parents knew she was alive.
“Six weeks,”
she repeated, her voice softer.
“I could become most amazingly bored.”
The lieutenants looked at each other and grinned.
“Best make yourself useful,”
Lansing said. He took a last sip of his coffee before the orderly removed it and made a face.
“And start by doing something about this coffee. I swear it is made of bilge water, or deck swash./font>”
“Does the captain complain about his coffee?”
she asked.
“It’s probably the only thing he complains about, at least, until you came aboard,”
Lansing said, getting to his feet and ducking his head to avoid the deck above.
“Oh, dear,”
she said.
“I wish one of thee could tell him that I didn’t throw myself off the Molly Claridge with the expectation of being picked up by a frigate of the Royal Navy, Captain Spark commanding.”
She sighed.
“But I owe him my rescue, at the very least.”
Futtrell smiled and pulled out her chair as she made to rise.
“One thing else, Miss Whittier. It might be better if you said ‘you’ instead of ‘thee.’ Makes me feel like a guilty sinner.”
“Well, is thee?”
she asked, her voice crisp. She reconsidered immediately.
“I am sorry. I will try to remember. Can ... you ... think of anything else?”
“Only this,”
said Lansing as he ushered her toward the companionway.
“When the captain gives an order, obey and don’t ask why.”
She put her hands on her hips.
“That is fearsome undemocratic.”
Futtrell bowed elaborately, to the amusement of the midshipmen.
“Thee is in the Royal Navy now, Miss Whittier.”
The air was much fresher on deck. As Hannah took several gulps of the brisk air, she vowed to spend as much time on deck as possible. She was not alone in this desire. Adam Winslow sat on a forward grating, deep in conversation with the other Nantucket sailor. He raised his hand to her, but made no move to come closer.
Their voices low, other sailors had grouped themselves about the scuttlebutt for one last drink before going below to sleep. As she watched, they pulled their hammocks from the webs of rope lining the railings.
“Why do they keep their hammocks there? Isn’t it dreadfully inconvenient to do that?”
she asked Futtrell.
“You would think so, until those hammocks stored there deflect cannonballs during battle.”
“Oh,”
she said, her eyes wide.
“Does thee ... do you ... think we will run into trouble with the French between here and England?”
He nodded, not a trace of humor in his voice.
“You can depend upon it, Miss Whittier. It is only a matter of time.”
She took that bit of news below deck with her as she prepared for bed. She wondered what she would sleep in, as she said good night shyly to the sentry at the door and entered her tiny cabin. Draped across the cannon was one of the captain’s nightshirts. It was not the one she had worn, greasy with salve, but a fresh one. She picked it up.
“Captain Spark, thee is a strange man,”
she murmured out loud. She fingered the shirt and thought of her friend Charity Wilkins, recently married, declaiming on the simplicity of men. Thee does not know Captain Spark, if thee thinks men are simple, Hannah thought.
In a matter of moments, she was in the hammock, still dubious about dumping herself out, then reassured as it enveloped her again in its comfort. She squirmed into a comfortable position and folded her hands across her stomach. As she lay there, waiting for sleep, she thought of her list. It seemed so long ago that she had composed it. Now it was a meal for the fish, along with nearly everything else that had once comprised the Molly Claridge. But I won’t think of that, she thought, for it makes me too sad.
She concentrated on the list. I asked for a handsome man with blond hair and blue eyes, she thought, and considered Captain Spark, with his rather fine curly hair and somewhat disturbing pale eyes. Perhaps I am too arbitrary, she considered. There is nothing wrong with dark, curly hair.
“Not that I am for even the smallest minute considering thee as a possible husband,”
she said firmly.
“But perhaps I should not be too picky about color of hair and eyes.”
She turned gingerly onto her side, less from worry over her sunburn, than the lively fear of involuntary expulsion from the hammock. She tried to remember the other conditions on her list: patient, kind, devout, loves me. She stopped, her face even more red, thinking of her ejection from the quarterdeck. She was not a grudge holder; soon philosophy—and approaching sleep—took over.
“Hannah Whittier, at least thee is now perfectly capable of telling the difference between love and pointed dislike, thanks to Captain Spark. As if thee had any doubts!”
She concluded that the way to finding a husband was fraught with true peril. I begin to wonder that anyone attempts it, she thought as her eyes closed at last and she slept.
She woke to the sound of the wash pump working on the deck and the clicking of heels outside her door as the Marine guard changed. She listened to the water pattering overhead as it fell onto the deck, and the sound of someone—it could only be Captain Spark—singing rather tunelessly. The air was cool and she shivered, wondering how he could stand to shower under that pump, and in seawater.
Her cabin was still dark, but it was a simple matter to climb from the hammock and dress. She tugged her hair back at the nape of her neck, tied it with a string salvaged from the sea chest, and opened the door. The guard, his face wooden, gave her a sidelong glance.
“Lieutenant, I wish you to escort me to the galley.”
she said firmly.
He grinned.
“Ma’am, I am a corporal. This way.”
She followed him silently, picking her way carefully through the gun deck, and overlooking those men still asleep in their hammocks. The clank of the wash pump ceased. She kept her eyes forward, hoping that the captain, in whatever state of dress, would not go below until she was out of sight in the galley.
Her hope was realized. She ducked through the door that the Marine held open for her, and sniffed appreciatively. A little man with a peg leg stood at the large galley range stirring vigorously.
“That you, Trist, you old bastard? Tell the captain to slow down and dry off them long limbs! I’ll have his porridge in two shakes, and not before.”
Hannah, her eyes merry, cleared her throat, and the cook spun about on his wooden leg. He stared at her in surprise, then hurriedly dumped the spoon back in the pot, muttering something about “losing ten years off me plaguey life.”
Hannah ventured closer.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He continued stirring, as if too shy to look at her again.
“Well, you did, miss, you did.”
He stopped then.
“Is there something that you need?”
he asked, as if eager to end her presence in his galley.
She nodded, wondered briefly if a small prevarication of good intentions was as bad as an outright lie, and plunged ahead.
“I am under orders from the captain to prepare him a cup of coffee.”
The cook gestured to the coffeepot on a back burner, its lid chattering away as the brew boiled and strengthened.
“Already done, miss.”
“No, you don’t understand,”
she insisted.
“I am to make it my way.”
She overlooked the mulish look on his face and dimpled her smnedt him.
“Oh, please, sir! I don’t know what I’ll do if you say no!”
She had no intention of crying, but there must have been a plaintive note in her voice that triggered the cook’s immediate response. Without a word, he hurried to the ship’s stores and pulled down a sack of green coffee beans.
“Don’t cry, miss, don’t cry,”
he pleaded as he held it out to her.
It was a simple matter to roast the beans, grind them, and add them to a smaller pot of water simmering on the other back burner. She worked quickly; silently amused at how hard the cook watched her when he thought she was unaware. She added the ground beans to the strainer and returned it to the pot, wishing for a clock to time it precisely. She lifted the lid finally, and sniffed.
“Now you boil it?”
the cook asked, his eyes hopeful.
“Oh, no,” she said.
The cook turned back to the range, his back stiff with disapproval.
“Then it can’t be regulation navy, miss,”
he muttered, “and the captain is particular about the rules.”
She opened her eyes wide.
“I didn’t know coffee had rules!”
She waited until she thought he could not stand another moment of suspense, then poured a cup of the brew into a measuring tin.
“Wouldn’t you agree that was better?”
she asked.
He sniffed, his eyes suspicious.
“Don’t rush me, miss.”
As she watched in amusement, he sipped at it, nodded, and turned back to the porridge.
“Good enough for the king,”
he mumbled, “even if you are a Yankee.”
He didn’t say anything else, so she could only take it for a compliment.
“Why, thank you, sir,”
she replied.
To her surprise, he turned about on his peg leg again and held out his hand.
“Call me Cookie, ma’am.”
“I will,”
she assured him.
“And you may call me Hannah.”
He drew back in shock as though she had grabbed him.
“I could never!”
“Miss Whittier, then,”
she amended hastily.
“And I promise only to invade your galley to make coffee for the captain.”
His face rosy with shyness, the cook held out a large white mug.
“He says he likes it blacker than a coaldigger’s arse, ma’am.”
“He would,”
she murmured, mentally crossing the captain off her list yet again as she accepted the cup. Her eyes on the brimming mug, she left the galley, looking back only when the cook called to her.
“If you’re ever bored, miss, there’s always something to peel,”
he offered, and then ducked inside again, his face aflame.
She smiled to herself and kept her eyes carefully forward. Timing her stride to the roll of the ship, she looked up from the gun deck to see the captain, dressed and on his quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back. He tapped his toe on the deck, and every line of his body seemed to scream out impatience. He touched her under the chin, leaving the smell of cloves as he went back down the companionway.
“Maybe this cruise I will get lucky.”