Chapter 1 #2
The captain shrugged. “That will depend on the ferocity of the complaint. Each sailor takes his own life in his hands if he brings such problems to me. I have a wife, Mrs. Adams, and I have learned well to stand by and let her have her way in all things. I know my domain, and my authority is restricted to this ship. All else on this earth is hers.”
“I foresee a long life for you, Captain,” Abigail said, smiling comfortably. “And a happy wife by your side.”
“That is all any man can hope for, Mrs. Adams.” He turned to the man beside him, a young chap who was grinning rather freely. “Walters, accompany Mrs. Adams for the time being, until she has things well in hand. Anything she needs, she receives.”
“Aye, Captain.” Walters nodded at him, then gave Abigail a slight bow. “Mrs. Adams, if I may?” He offered her a polite, gallant arm, and she took it proudly.
As he escorted her down to the lower deck, Abigail leaned closer. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Walters, but am I to understand that the captain has given me leave to reign mistress on board without any offense?”
Walters chuckled with surprising warmth. “I believe you are correct, Mrs. Adams. Such leave has been granted, and very likely encouraged.”
“One should never give encouragement to an ambitious woman, Mr. Walters,” Abigail warned with a smile. “We will take an inch and have it several miles long before a man is any the wiser.”
The laughter that erupted from the young man boded well for his future, indeed, Abigail thought. He would make some bonny-faced girl very happy one day, if he was not doing so already. And his mother certainly ought to have some pride in such a sensible, good-humored son.
Once returned to the living quarters of the ship, Abigail set her hands on her hips, looking around the space with an assessing eye.
“Mr. Walters, I shall require your assistance in procuring a few lads to assist me in the cleaning of this space. To maintain the dignity of my daughter and the other two women in the staterooms, I will do the scrubbing in there. But along with the additional hands, I need scrapers, mops, brushes, and infusions of vinegar along with as much clean water and lye soap as can be spared.”
“Aye, Mrs. Adams. I’ll see it done now,” Walters said with that same easy smile. He left her in the dining room to await her assistants and accoutrements.
Allowing herself a moment’s respite and reflection that did not revolve around health or death, Abigail pulled out one of the worn chairs and sank onto it, her hands collapsing into her lap.
Taking a voyage across the sea had never been part of the plan for her when John had been designated to go to France.
He had been adamant that such a journey was not something he would wish upon his wife and daughter, knowing too well the difficulties and dangers of it.
But as the months had dragged on, as his frustrations with the process of his diplomatic mission had built, he had altered his opinion.
If you and our daughter were with me, I could keep up my spirits.
I am weary, worn, and disgusted to death.
Her husband often expressed himself with dramatic passion, but his letter held more than his usual disgruntlement and frustrations; there was a rawness to his words and desperation in every stroke.
John needed her—his dearest friend. He needed her, and in spite of her fears of crossing an expanse of water that surely God had intended as a warning barrier, she had been helpless to refuse him.
As his wife, as his friend, as his confidante, Abigail felt called to go where she was needed.
She could not abandon him in his hour of greatest need.
She had hoped to travel with Mr. Jefferson to France, but securing passage on the Active had not been something she could adjust or delay a few more weeks to match his own voyage.
Traveling with him certainly would have lessened her anxieties and eased a few of the difficulties, not to mention enjoying his company while forced into this rocking prison of filth and disease.
Alas, they did not have Mr. Jefferson, but they would shortly have cleanliness, and that would certainly improve matters.
Ladies were not meant to travel upon the seas; Abigail was convinced of that.
Being at sea could render a body so incredibly unwell that basic functioning was a trial, and even the servants brought along to assist ladies with necessities could be brought low.
Thus, there was no assistance to be had with dressing or washing for any of them, and no man on board could be trusted to preserve modesty and dignity.
It was a shameful business, even among decent men as the captain and crew.
She wasn’t certain how long they had until they reached England—their port of disembarkation, despite her final destination being France—but if she truly had grown accustomed to the motions of the sea and its effects on her body, she was determined to make the most of it.
The scuffling of feet straightened Abigail’s spine, and she stood to greet the newcomers.
Mr. Walters led the way, two young cabin boys and a third larger man following with all the items she had requested.
She clapped her hands and made quick work of introductions and assignments, then carried her bucket of water and soap into the stateroom she shared with Esther.
She would scrub every surface in that room until her fingers bled, if she had to.
Then she would repeat the action for Nabby and Miss Adams—no relation to her husband—with the same fervor.
Mop or scraper or brush, she would use whatever was at hand to clean everything she found disgusting, filthy, or malodorous.
And she was not about to leave that task to the hands of sailors who hadn’t seen anything wrong with it.
Several hours later, her knuckles aching and her skirts drenched, Abigail stood, wiping her brow as she surveyed the nearly spotless kitchen.
She had ignored the cook’s grumbling and glares during her vigorous ministrations, but at least she could be satisfied that their meals would not worsen any illness on board or bring them all to the brink of death.
That had been in serious question prior.
But the kitchen was the last space required to be cleaned, and by then, her assistants knew what she was expecting and how to bring it about, leaving her supervision unnecessary. And now the Active looked like an entirely different ship—clean, habitable, well-ordered, and fit for any inspection.
Had wood the ability to sparkle in sunlight with any luster, it would have done so now.
The satisfaction surging through Abigail’s veins was nearly overwhelming.
As was her fatigue.
But fatigue from hard work was preferable to the fatigue of the weak and ailing. And now that she did not despair of her surroundings, she could tend to the other ladies and attempt to enjoy her time on board the ship.
If there was enjoyment to be found.
“Mrs. Adams, will you not now take your ease?” Mr. Walters demanded in a long-suffering tone, his young face wreathed in concern.
He’d been asking her for at least two hours and been on the receiving end of some rather biting remarks from her.
But now she sighed and tossed the brush into the bucket of water at her feet. “Yes, Mr. Walters. I think I shall. Is there a place hereabouts that I may do so?”
His smile was as bright as the noonday sun. “Indeed, Mrs. Adams. I will fetch you a chair.” He picked up her bucket and hurried away.
Abigail smiled at his retreating form and returned to her stateroom to fetch a book on the political life in Great Britain and a handkerchief that needed hemming. Then she ventured back on board the deck and to the chair that Mr. Walters had placed in warm invitation.
“Thank you most kindly, Mr. Walters,” Abigail said with real feeling as she sank into the chair, biting back a groan of weariness.
He nodded and left her to her peace.
Peace. On this ship.
She hadn’t anticipated that, but now, looking out onto the surprisingly peaceful, becalmed ocean waters, she felt a sense of awe wash over her.
She had never seen such a stupendous, majestic sight before.
Beauty was all around her, even amidst its dangers and horrors. Beauty in spite of all the rest.
One only needed eyes to see it.