HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (4 page)

“No. Your resolution is to accept your lot and become a good sailor. That is the only solution you need.”

“I cannot!” He looked beyond the first mate to the captain. “Captain! Cap’n Ross! May I have a word with—”

The punch sent Nic whirling to the deck again. Two men took hold of his arms and brought him to his feet before his head stopped spinning. He blinked, trying to focus on the first mate, who massaged his right fist. He’d have to remember to avoid that punch again—there was a power there that he’d seldom experienced, even in the ring. Terence leaned in toward him, “
I
am the cap’n, as far as you’re concerned, man. You have a concern? You bring it to
me
. Never the cap’n.”

Nic studied him for several long seconds. “Captain!” he shouted, looking past Terence. “I must have a word with you!”

He dodged the first mate’s next punch, stifling a smile as Terence hit Wade in error. But he didn’t anticipate the left to his stomach that came right after it.

“Enough,” said the captain, suddenly beside Terence.

Nic looked up at him, still doubled over and gasping for breath.

“It was a punch like that that took you down in the ring, St. Clair,” said the captain. “Are you slow? Daft?”

“I don’t like to think so,” Nic said, still gasping for breath. “It is a desire to become more … knowledgeable, sir, that begs for an audience with you. I must understand some things in order to make my peace in being aboard your ship and in your service.”

“I could care less about whether you’re at peace. Just do your job. You might or might not get your ‘audience.’” He turned to walk away, paused, and then looked to his right. “Lash him to the mast.”

“Sir, yes’sir.”

The other sailors ignored Nic as the sun set and the chill of night crept over the ship’s edges. Nic stared straight ahead. He was furious.

All he had wanted was a word with the captain. A word! He wanted the man to tell him himself why he felt Nic owed him six months of service. He had not thrown that fight. He had lost money on it himself. And the captain must’ve known that he hadn’t lost for weeks, otherwise why would he have made such a bet? What kind of mad thinking was this? Or was it merely a means to populate his dwindling crew? He’d discovered that he was not alone in his predicament—he had seen at least six others dragged aboard. But none of the others spoke English.

He’d been standing for five hours now, lashed to the massive mast with heavy ropes from shoulder to thigh. His feet were numb and he tried to lift them a bit, pushing against the ropes, to allow some circulation to return. But it was to no avail. He turned his head leeward and squinted into the darkness, his eyes hungry for the dim outline of land. They traveled south, and considering the stiff wind and full sails they had enjoyed since embarking on this journey, Nic guessed they were nearing Uruguay. He’d gathered from talk among the crew that they’d seek new provisions somewhere in southern Argentina before attempting to round the Horn.

A man above him in the nest clanged a bell. “Two bells and all is well,” he called.

Nic didn’t know him. Did he spend each night on watch? It was cold, grim work, shivering in the night wind, trying to see shapes in the darkness until his eyes ached. “Ahoy, there!” Nic called upward.

Silence greeted him.

“Ahoy, mate! May I ask your name?”

In the dim light of the one lantern on deck, swinging before the captain’s doorway, Nic thought he saw a head peek over the side of the nest. But then it was gone.

“Is this your watch, mate?” he tried again. “Every night?”

A man’s voice hissed down at him from the ropes. “Are you daft?”

Nic turned his head, trying to see him, but failing. The man was too far behind him. “More idle than daft, I hope. What’s your name?”

“William. Now cease your chatter and see your lot through. The cap’n will move you from the mast to the bowsprit if you don’t.”

Nic sighed and stared straight ahead again. The farther south they moved, the farther from his apartments, his possessions, his work he became. It was likely lost by now anyway, his temporary home ransacked as word of his imprisonment spread.

For a while, he had lived lavishly off his inheritance, renting stately homes as he traveled to England and Spain and back. Here and there pretty women had caught his eye, and he kept company with them for a while, but when he grew bored, he left for another city. He was restless, always restless, searching for … something.

His search had brought him back across the Atlantic last year and with his funds rapidly dwindling away, he had once again entered the ring. There, some of the old gratification, release, returned to him with each win. And he followed the invitations southward, from Florida, into the chief ports of the Caribbean—where he seriously considered settling, so transfixing were the trade winds and swaying palms and blue waters—but even they grew wearisome in time. He moved southward again, to Venezuela and eventually Brazil, his white skin drawing record crowds and fat purses.

He had been considering a voyage to California for some time; this ship, the
Mirabella
, was to port in Mexico. So perhaps it was all for the best. His own brand of twisted luck that seemed to follow him like a long shadow.

William, a slender but strong man, suddenly was beside him, lifting a ladle to his parched lips. “Figured you might have a thirst,” he whispered.

Nic drank gratefully and considered how the man had crept down the nets again without being heard. Above the wind, he had not heard the creaks of the ropes. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have any rum in your back pocket?”

William laughed silently, a quick flash of white. “Best be back to my perch.”

“Thank you, William.”

“Aye.”

“And my name’s Dominic, Nic to my friends,” he whispered hoarsely over his shoulder.

“Hush now, Nic,” he returned, so quietly that Nic momentarily wondered if he was imagining a voice on the wind. “Try and catch some winks. It’ll make the night pass faster.”

Chapter 3

18 March 1887

A cold bucket of seawater splashed over Nic, and he howled in outrage, sputtering as the water dripped down his face. He had jerked his head up but now he winced, belatedly noticing the mass of knots from his fretful night of trying to sleep while standing up. He squinted and took in the warm golden light of sunrise that surrounded the first mate like a halo.

The ropes about him dropped, and he followed them to the deck, his legs too lifeless to support him. He sprawled out onto the wooden planking and glared at his laughing crewmates, walking aft to receive their morning rations from the cook.

“Pay them no mind,” Terence commanded. He squatted down beside Nic. “It’ll go best for you if you never brawl with another man aboard ship. The cap’n—and I’ll—have none of it.” Nic pondered his words, thinking of another man, warning him not to brawl in his town.

Reid Bannock, the treacherous wretch. Murderer.

It all seemed so long ago.

He pushed himself up with his arms to a sitting position. He shivered involuntarily as the pins and prickles of blood flow once again surged through his legs. Was there further damage to his limbs?

“You’ll recover,” Terence said. “You aren’t the first man to spend a night at the mast. But I’d wager you aren’t anxious to be the next.”

“No sir.”

“Good, then. We understand each other. Join Sherman at the aft deck after you eat. You will spend the next three days splicing rope.”

Nic grimaced. He’d seen what splicing rope did to even an old seaman’s hands. He pictured his fingers and palms, as raw and bloody as freshly butchered meat.

“Agreed?”

“I …” He looked up, saw the determined look on Terence’s face, and said simply, “Agreed.” There was no way to beat a master; one had to befriend them. Otherwise, no favor would ever be gained. The first mate, apparently satisfied, turned away. Nic used his arms to haul himself over to the mast until he could lean back against it. He massaged his legs, ignoring the pain now, determined to restore them so he could once again rise. He felt vulnerable sitting there.

“Here,” said a man, suddenly at his side. “Give it a little time.” He handed Nic a tin cup of water and a crude wooden bowl of gruel. On top was a chunk of salt pork. Nic, having been denied supper last night, eagerly accepted and glanced at the young man. “Thank you. I assume by the voice that you are William.”

“Not quite as handsome in the light of day as I am at night, right?” William said with a lopsided grin. He had long, wavy blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck.

Nic smiled. “All I saw of you last night was your teeth. And I doubt you have difficulty finding favor among the ladies.”

“The ladies?” He arched a brow. “No, I have little trouble with the ladies. It’s their husbands that seem to disfavor me.”

Nic nearly choked on a thick spoonful of gruel. “You’re a rogue, then?”

“I prefer ‘a gentleman among rogues.’”

“And far more willing to chat in the light of day.”

William leaned one shoulder against the mast, arms crossed, and shrugged. “I was on watch. You were … disfavored. It would not have been wise for me to be found out of the nest or speaking with you.”

“Granted.”

“Where do you hail from, Nic?”

“I was …
procured
from Rio, where I had been abiding for the last several months. I’ve been traveling for some time, rarely settling for long. But I consider Philadelphia home.”

“My own home was once in Charlotte. And I’m sorry to hear that you joined us by force rather than by choice. It’s a difficult way to begin any journey.”

Nic chewed on the stringy meat and washed it down with a swig from his tin cup. By William’s accent and language, he guessed him highly educated. “How long have you been a sailor?”

“Not much longer than you. I joined the crew in the West Indies. By tradition the greenest crewmen draw duty aloft.”

“So I might expect to relieve you up there some eve?”

William cocked a brow again. “It’s better than splicing rope,” he said as he shoved off, just a moment before the bell rang six times, signaling the crew that it was time to attend to their various tasks. “I’m off to catch my own winks now,” William said to Nic, walking backward. “Tear a bit from the bottom of your shirt, and wrap your palms and fingers. It’ll leave you some digits to work with.”

“Thank you,” Nic said, lifting his chin.

William smiled again and turned away, disappearing down the steps that led to the crew’s quarters.

Jesse turned to Moira in the carriage to better see her face. The years had been kind to him and a few lines of maturity had only served to make him more devilishly handsome. “Moira, I just arrived. You are asking me to return to London? I need them to beg me to return, not go knocking on their door asking favors. You know how it goes.”

“Come now, Jesse,” she said, pretending to fuss with the fit of her right ivory glove. “Were you not intending to ask the same favor of me? Did you not intend to use my connections here in Paris to secure a role?” She leaned forward and tapped the handle of her umbrella on the roof of the carriage. “Here, stop here!” she shouted to the coachman.