Miss Whittier Makes a List (12 page)

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 slee
p
—
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 ov
erhead as it fell onto the deck,
and the sound of someone
—
it could only be Captain Spark
—
singing rather tune
lessly. 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 ha
ir 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 firm
ly.

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 f
orward, 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 porridg
e 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 precis
ely. 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 tu
rn
ed 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.
<

Trist stood beside the gangway, eyeing her with vast disapproval. She held out the cup to him.
“
For the captain,
”
she whispered, her eyes on the deck above.

Spark
’
s orderly backed away, as though the cup contained hemlock.
“
Not unless Cookie brewed it,
”
he dec
lared, his voice as close to virt
uous as possible, for a member of the Royal Navy.

“
Oh, very well,
”
she declared, took a deep breath, and mounted the steps.

Captain Spark had turned at the sound of her voice. He eyed her and the cup with suspicion, then pointedly turned his back again. She stifled the urge to throw the mug at him, and carefully crossed the deck to the ladder tha
t
gave onto the
quarterdeck
.

“
Come to poison me on my own
quarterdeck
, Miss Whittier?
”
he asked, his back still to her.

“
I doubt that even arsenic would have other than a sweetening effect to thy ... your nature,
”
she said.

She climbed the first two steps of the ladder and the captain turned around, eyeing her with frosty distrust under frowning eyebrows.

“
You seem to have a sho
rt
memory, Miss Whittier,
”
he began.