Chapter 11
The next morning, when Annabelle woke, she rubbed her temples, wincing at the ache her late night bout of tears had caused. She sighed. Why had she allowed herself to be so emotional, so vulnerable, in front of him? She felt humiliated. What must Hawke think of her?
She dressed and peeked around the edge of the curtain, relieved that his berth was empty.
If she stayed away from the quarterdeck, she should be able to avoid him again today.
Hawke would, no doubt, be hoping to avoid her as well, and the two of them could return to their former state of reluctant cabinmates who interacted briefly, and only when necessary.
Annabelle blinked when she stepped out into the sunlight. The weather was much warmer now as they drew near to the Caribbean Sea.
Hearing a throat clear, she looked around, finding Shadbolt standing in the shadow of the cabin, leaning against the bulkhead beside the door. He stepped toward her.
“Good morning.” Annabelle smiled at her friend, hoping her eyes weren’t swollen from weeping. “Were you waiting for me?”
Shadbolt gave one of his typical tight nods. “Belle, changing course to Tortuga is a good plan. The tonic . . . We must take this chance.”
Annabelle realized the last time he had seen her, she had been yelling at Hawke in the chart room. She blushed, embarrassed by the outburst. Shadbolt must believe that she’d spent the entire night in distress, and he sought to reassure her first thing.
“Yes,” she said brightly. “It is a good plan.”
Shadbolt’s only response was a slight lift of his brows, which, for the laconic man was equivalent to his mouth falling open in shock.
Annabelle chuckled inside. It was rare that anything surprised him. “And what task will you give me today?” she asked. As first mate, Shadbolt was responsible for organizing the crew’s duties.
He scratched his chin. “Beattie could use help in the galley,” he said. “His hip pain grows worse. And Murray is repairing some damaged crates on the lower deck.”
Shadbolt knew how much Annabelle enjoyed assisting the ship’s carpenter, and she grinned in anticipation of driving a nail into a board or using a saw. Things that a London noblewoman never would do.
“But eat first,” he said. “I believe you missed supper last night.”
At the reminder, Annabelle’s stomach rumbled, and she pressed her hand against her middle. “I shall. Right away.”
She hurried to the stairs, making an effort not to glance up at the quarterdeck as she went.
Grieg met her as she descended. He put a hand on her shoulder, speaking in the cautious voice one might use with an untamed cat.
“Belle, I believe Captain Hawke has the crew’s best interest at heart.
Tortuga isn’t far, and if we can prevent this illness, I think we should trust him.
” One side of his mouth pulled in a grimace as if he were bracing himself for her response.
“Very well,” Annabelle said brightly.
Grieg blinked his eye, stepping back and tipping his head. “Well, then, I believe that is settled.”
“I believe so.”
He let out a relieved sigh and moved to the side, out of her path. “Off you go.”
Annabelle patted his arm as she passed, stepping lightly down the remainder of the stairs.
“Belle,” Grieg called after her.
She turned.
“You’d better eat before starting any work,” he said. “You missed supper last night.”
She gave a nod and smiled, grateful for friends who looked out for her.
On the lower deck, the ship’s carpenter, Robert Murray, had cleared a space beside the galley, and he and Tim Kelly were pulling out nails from damaged and rotted crates.
“Good mornin’ to you, Belle,” Murray said.
His hair and thick beard were rust-colored, and he spoke with a Scottish accent much like Beattie’s, although the men had informed her multiple times that their accents were not similar at all, since they hailed from very different regions of the Highlands.
“Shadbolt thought I might assist you after I help Beattie,” she said. She glanced at Tim. “But you may not need me after all.”
“’Course I do, lass,” Murray said. “Tim and I would be grateful for some extra hands.”
Tim set a board carefully on a stack and nodded his agreement.
Annabelle stepped into the galley, and Beattie greeted her with his typical good humor, although she could see by the tightness in his eyes that his hip was causing him pain.
“You missed supper, Belle.” He pressed a bowl of porridge into her hands.
She insisted Beattie sit and rest while she ate. Then, at his instruction, she scooped beans from a barrel into a pot of water, setting it aside to soak.
Beans, salted beef, and pickled turnips were a standard from Beattie’s galley, and while the meal was by no means a favorite, the crew tolerated it.
Especially as they knew it was preferable to what would be found on most other ships.
And soon enough, they would reach land and be able to eat a variety of fresh foods as well as restock the larder.
While Annabelle straightened the galley and wiped down the preparation surfaces, Beattie started to sing in his strong tenor voice. Murray, working just outside, joined in on a lower register. Annabelle recognized the tune right away as “Wee German Lairdie.” The song was one of Beattie’s favorites.
She hung her cloth and came out of the galley, singing the spirited tune along with the men. “Our hills are steep, our glens are deep. No’ fittin’ for a yairdie. And our norlan’ thristles winnae pu’, thou wee wee German lairdie.”
Tim hummed along, tapping his foot as they moved through the verses.
Their voices echoed through the lower deck.
It was only within the last few years that Annabelle had come to understand the song’s lyrics and realized how bawdy they were.
She couldn’t hold back a mischievous smile.
Her mother would fall into a fit of vapors knowing these men had taught it—and others like it—to a child.
Not only were the words rude, the song mocked the ruling English monarch, King William III.
As the morning drew on, they continued singing the songs Beattie had taught her over hours of stirring and pouring and wiping in the galley.
A bright sun shone through the latticed hatch in the deck above.
Annabelle’s cheer was tinged with nostalgia.
An ache grew inside her heart as she thought of how she would miss mornings like this. Why must everything change?
Murray sawed boards. Annabelle and Tim held the crates square while the carpenter drove in the nails. She and Beattie took turns tending to the cooking fire and stirring the beans. They sang as they worked, the music somehow making the time go faster.
At last, Murray stood, pressing his fists into his lower back as he surveyed the newly repaired crates. “Fine work, both o’ ye,” he said, nodding to Tim and Annabelle. “Now, let’s get this deck shipshape afore the crew comes for the midday mess.”
They hurried to their tasks, Tim gathering the scraps of wood while Annabelle swept.
Beattie had returned to the galley and was stirring a boiling pot of salted beef. “We’ve time for another song,” he said, wiping his brow with a cloth. “Come on, then, lass. Sing us ‘Over the Seas and Far Away.’”
Murray pressed his palm to his chest and sighed. “’Twould do my heart good t’ hear.”
Annabelle complied. “Come all fast friends, let’s jointly pray .
. .” At the sound, all three men stopped what they were doing, and the mood of the deck shifted, the air growing heavier.
The tempo of this song was slower than the lighthearted tunes they’d been singing all morning, and the melody was somber, mournful.
“And pledge our vows on this great day,” Annabelle continued, the soft melody carrying through the deck.
Beattie took the hanging cloth and used it to wipe his eyes.
Murray’s gaze was turned downward, his hand still resting over his heart.
Both men had fought in defense of the deposed King James II, and along with the other Jacobites, they still felt anger at the injustices against the Stuart dynasty. And sorrow at all they’d lost.
From the corner of her eye, she saw some of the other crew gathering silently to listen.
As she came to the last verse, Annabelle slowed the tempo even further, singing the words clear and loud. “But I hope he shortly will be home. And in good time will mount the throne. And then we’ll curse and burn the law that kept our king sae long ’awn—”
The music caught in her throat as her gaze landed on Hawke.
He leaned against the mast, one side of his mouth lifted in either a smile or a smirk—Annabelle was uncertain.
She narrowed her eyes and continued, not allowing his interference to ruin the song for her friends.
She’d had plenty of practice at ignoring him.
Luckily, no one seemed to have noticed the pause.
She sang the final line even slower, drawing out each word.
“He’s over the seas . . . and . . . far . . . away.”
As the sound of her voice faded, Murray clasped his hands together. “Magnificent, lass.”
Tim applauded.
Beattie blew his nose noisily into the cloth then held out his arms. “Oh, come here to me, Belle.”
Annabelle allowed the cook to embrace her, doing her best to avoid the cloth as well as reminding herself to replace it before the preparation counters required wiping again.
“You know, this could be considered heresy.” Hawke had come up behind her.
She released the cook’s embrace and looked back at him, trying again to understand his expression. Was he mocking or simply teasing? “And are you going to report me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice and expression equally ambiguous.
“Belle was just singing, Hawke.” Tim looked between them with worried eyes.
Hawke continued to watch Annabelle.
Of course Hawke was not serious, but Tim didn’t know that. “I am hardly a threat to the crown,” Annabelle said, hoping to show Tim there was no reason for concern.