Ransome's Crossing (17 page)

On the starboard side of the quarterdeck—
his
part of the deck—stood Cochrane and Julia. Though she’d bound her hair in a single, long plait, loose wisps blew around her face. She pushed them back even as she looked up at Ned and laughed at whatever he was saying. She spoke a few words, and then Ned touched the forepoint of his hat and walked away.

William barely touched the steps on the way down to the quarter-deck. The crew parted before him and backed away. He paid them no mind. He would not have breaches in discipline on his ship.

A tiny voice in the back of his head told him he was overreacting, but he doused it and clamped his hand around Julia’s elbow.

“William…” Her expression of delight quickly changed to concern. “Is something wrong?”

“I would see you in my cabin.” He propelled her along beside him, pausing once they reached the wheelhouse. “Mr. Cochrane, reef top-sails.”

He did not stay to observe Cochrane’s acknowledgment, and the dining cabin door slammed on Cochrane’s shouted commands.

As soon as they reached the day cabin, he released his wife’s arm—and experienced a twinge of guilt when she rubbed it. Here, in the
relative silence and privacy of their quarters, his initial reaction to seeing her with Ned seemed unwarranted.

“You should not be on deck in this heavy weather.”

She turned stormy green eyes on him. He waited for her to release the full measure of the temper he knew she possessed. Her whole body tensed. But instead of lashing out at him, instead of rebuking him for his highhanded treatment of her, she closed her eyes and took a few deep, ragged breaths.

The muscles in his shoulders and neck ached for some kind of release. “Have you nothing to say to me?”

She opened her eyes with what appeared to be great effort. “I am sorry if my need for fresh air came at an inopportune time, William. I assure you, I will gauge the wind more carefully before venturing out again.”

He dropped into his desk chair and covered his face with his hands. “Stop. Please.”

Julia wrapped her arms around her middle. “Stop what?”

“Stop apologizing. Stop agreeing with everything I say to you.” Flinging his arms wide, he stood. “Stop being the imitation of a submissive wife and be…be…” Frustration saturated his brain so fully he could not think straight.

“Be what?”

“Be…
you.
Be Julia Witherington. Be the woman who defied her relatives and escaped from their captivity. Be the woman who manages her father’s sugar plantation. Be the woman who convinced him to release his slaves. Be the woman who dressed in her brother’s clothes and climbed the shrouds to the foremast top just to see a French ship.”

“I cannot. That is not the kind of wife you need. My father taught me long ago that a ship’s captain must be seen to have a disciplined, well-behaved family if he expects the men under his command to respect him. If I keep my thoughts to myself and do not disagree with you, it is only out of respect for your position and a desire to see you successful in your command.”

William thrust his fingers through his hair and turned to stare out the stern windows at the choppy sea behind them. At least now he
understood why she behaved this way. “But here, in our cabin, I need you to speak your mind. I need you to be frank and forthright. I have enough problems and frustrations to contend with as commander of this vessel. I need you to react when I ignominiously drag you from the quarterdeck in front of all my officers.”

When she did not reply, he looked around at her.

She moved closer. “I cannot believe you embarrassed me that way before all of your officers, William.” Her chin quivered with the effort to keep a smile from her lips.

“You were distracting Lieutenant Cochrane from his work.”

“Nay, husband. He came to me to suggest I should not be on deck in such heavy weather. I was about to take his advice and return to the cabin when you so unceremoniously came to retrieve me.” She took another step closer.

He settled his hands on her shoulders. “That is the woman I married. I began to wonder if I had accidentally left her behind in Portsmouth and picked up a stowaway in her place.”

“Most men would be pleased with a wife who agreed with everything they said.”

“Then it is well I am not like most men.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze before releasing her and turning to again stare out the windows.

Julia sat on the bench built into the stern wall of the cabin below the windows. “I can see you’ve need to vent your spleen about something other than seeing me on deck.”

William sat down beside her and spilled his worries about the convoy, his concern that the storm could give a predator the chance to steal the supplies, and his frustration over having to slow
Alexandra
to compensate for the more poorly rigged and handled supply ships.

Julia had no advice or insights to offer he had not already thought of, but the simple act of speaking everything aloud to her brought him relief unlike anything he had ever experienced in his career.

Perhaps having a woman aboard was not as bad as he’d originally feared.

A
s soon as he saw Commodore Ransome emerge from the wheel A house, Ned left the quarterdeck and headed to the forecastle. He was not certain if his own interaction with Mrs. Ransome had played into the commodore’s reaction earlier, but he did not want to exacerbate the situation further.

William’s treatment of his wife surprised Ned. He’d never seen the commodore betray such emotion in front of the crew before. He smiled. Indeed, being married was changing William Ransome.

Kennedy, midshipman of the forecastle, touched the brim of his hat when he saw Ned. “Sir.”

Ned returned the salute, turned, and braced himself against the wave breaching the starboard bow, spraying everyone in the forward part of the ship. “Wind’s freshening.”

“Aye, sir.” Kennedy glanced over his right shoulder. “Storm’ll be on us soon.”

Ned’s stomach lurched along with the bow of the ship. With a wind this strong leading it, this would be no typical rainstorm—quickly begun and quickly ended. He turned again to keep from taking another wave in the face.

“Take all due precautions, Mr. Kennedy.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Ned hurried aft. William wasn’t on the quarterdeck, so Ned climbed up to the poop where, as he expected, William stood at the stern bulwark studying the storm through his telescope.

“Mr. Cochrane, call all hands to strike topgallant masts and yards. Mr. Gibson, signal fleet to do the same.”

“Aye, aye, Commodore,” both answered. Ned leapt down the steps to the quarterdeck and called for the boatswain. Matthews immediately appeared at his elbow. Most of the lieutenants, senior midshipmen, and warrant officers were already on deck, anticipating the orders to come.

“All hands to strike topgallant masts and yards!” Ned’s voice, followed by Matthews’s and the boatswain’s mates’ whistles created a flurry of activity—like a swarm of rats escaping a sinking ship—as sailors boiled up onto the deck through the companionways.
Alexandra
plunged and reared over the increasing waves, and Ned thanked God he no longer had to climb up in the shrouds like the midshipmen supervising the sailors, who put their lives in jeopardy to lower the topmost parts of the masts and sails.

Less than fifteen minutes later, the sails, yardarms, and highest sections of each of the three perpendicular masts had been removed, taken below to the gun deck, and lashed together to keep them from damage and the crew from harm.

After the crew belayed the main braces and shortened sails again, William gave the order for the hands aloft to lay off—just as a sheet of cold rain washed over the quarterdeck. The seamen on the deck struggled against the driving rain, the bucking of the ship, and the wind-driven waves pummeling them to cover the hatches with tarpaulins and secure them with battens.

“Dismiss all nonessential crew.” The wind and pounding rain and waves nearly drowned out William’s yelled command. Ned passed the order along. In less than twenty minutes,
Alexandra
had gone from fully rigged and racing along to short sheeted, battened, and storm ready.

Once only a skeleton crew remained on deck, Ned joined William under the awning of the poop in the wheelhouse.

William acknowledged him with a grim expression. “I suppose it is a blessing that the merchant ships have been unable to close ranks
as quickly as I had hoped. At least there is no danger of damage from collision.”

“Aye, sir. But if they have not been able to navigate efficiently enough to complete the maneuvers you commanded, is there danger they might allow themselves to be blown off course in this squall?” Ned removed his hat and shook the excess water from it.

“A scenario we shall handle when and if the time comes. For now, all we can do is pray this weather blows over quickly.”

Charlotte wrapped her arms through the ropes and held on with whatever strength she had left. She’d just finished stringing up her hammock for a much-needed nap when the all-hands signal came. When she’d reported to Kent, he took great delight in assigning her to supervise the crew dismantling and lowering the foremast topgallant and yards. That meant climbing far enough up the shrouds to have a clear view of the sail and its rigging.

One side of the sail bunched funny. “’Vast hauling there. Clear the tackle!” Even with her oilskin coat on, the chill rain permeated every fiber of her uniform. She’d left her hat below in the cockpit rather than lose it to the wind, and she blinked against the water running into her eyes. She risked drowning every time she opened her mouth to scream orders at the crew.

As soon as the tackle that had become twisted in the rigging was cleared, she ordered the continuation of the operation. Her brothers had spoken of having to go aloft during storms, but they had never mentioned the terror that came from looking down to see nothing but sea below as the ship heaved over until it seemed that the yardarms would touch the water—pushing her body into the grid of ropes—and then fell backward until she felt as if she were about to be ripped from the ropes and plunge to her death in the churning waves below.

If she had stayed in England, at this very moment she might well be dressed in one of the beautiful, expensive gowns Lady Dalrymple
had commissioned for her, sipping tea and flirting with a wealthy, handsome acquaintance of Percy and Penelope Fairfax. Though that scenario had been a deciding factor in leading her to this decision, that interminable boredom now seemed preferable to the position she found herself in.

Hot tears joined the cold rain on her face. How could she have been so foolish? She did not want to die like this.

The yards, sails, and topgallants were lowered to the deck below and the order to lay off given. Charlotte repeated it to the crew for whom she was responsible. But even as she watched them scurry across the remaining yards and down the mast to the relative safety of the deck below, she could not bring herself to release the ropes. Each time she thought she could start her descent, the ship pitched and rolled, leaning farther and farther to the sides, assuring her that if she unwrapped her arms and released the ropes with even one hand, she would surely plummet to her death.

She could not move, but she could not stay here. She pulled her right arm out from the grid and clutched a rope beside her. Most of the men had made it to the deck. She could justify her presence in the shroud no longer. And if Kent realized how much this frightened her…

Whimpering, she pulled her right foot off its ratline and bent her left knee. She found the next line down with the toe of her shoe and transferred her weight. She did the same on the other side. Down and down and down until she got to where she had to flip around to the underneath side of the shroud so she was over the deck instead of dangling over the side of the ship. Finally, she was close enough. Waiting until the ship was halfway through its side-to-side roll, she released the ropes and dropped to the deck.

She didn’t time it quite right, and the deck fell out from under her. She slammed into the bulwark between two cannons. Pain shot through her hip and side. But she was alive. And no longer aloft. She hauled herself upright by grabbing the frame of the cannon on her left. She looked up at where she’d been just minutes before and shuddered.

“Secure those booms. Get that hatch covered.” The youngest of the
lieutenants, Duncan, stood amidships trying to direct the chaos of men around him. “Lott. Are your men down from the tops?”

“Aye, sir.” Charlotte tried to control her shivering, but now out of danger, her body shook uncontrollably.

“Get below. There’s nothing more you can do up here.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” She tried to hurry toward the companionway, but every step shot pain through her hip. Lovely. Another bruise to add to her growing collection. Darkness enveloped her when she reached the bottom of the stairs. With the hatches covered, almost no light came through, but she could still see the vague forms of the sailors taking refuge from the storm. All of the lights had been doused, and most would stay unlit as long as the storm raged. They could not risk fire. That also meant no hot meals. Not that she would miss those in the least.

Someone came toward her with a lantern, its glow a warm beacon in the damp darkness.

“Lott!”

She cringed at the sound of Kent’s voice.

“Why are you belowdecks? You’re on my watch, and I didn’t dismiss you.”

“No, Lieutenant Duncan did.” He could not fault her for taking an order from someone superior to him. Although, this was Kent…

“You will address me—”

The ship careened to starboard, throwing everyone off balance. From above a crash, followed by a scream, carried down the stairs. Charlotte looked at Kent, whose eyes widened before he ran up the stairs. Indecision anchored her feet, but only for a moment. She ran up the stairs, gaining the deck just seconds after Kent.

Far above the deck, a sailor dangled upside down from the mainmast topgallant yardarm, his ankle tangled in a rope. The man closest to him on the yard struggled to try to reach him—his own life in jeopardy with the severe motion of the ship.

Charlotte held her breath. A length of rope was fed by the line of men up the mast and along the yard—but it was moving so slowly. The
sailor continued to flail and scream. There—the rope was almost to the man at the end. He started lowering it for his mate to catch hold of.

But rather than let the rope come to him, the dangling man tried to flip himself upright to grab the lifeline—and the rope around his ankle gave way.

Charlotte’s scream was lost amongst the yells and gasps of the men on deck. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her mouth with both hands. But she should have covered her ears to keep from hearing the thud when the man hit the deck.

For what seemed an eternity, only the sound of the storm pounded Charlotte’s ears. Then Parker’s voice rang out clear and calm. “Take that man to the surgeon. Get the topgallant stricken and get those men off the yards. Clear the deck of nonessential personnel.”

Nauseated, Charlotte spun on her heel and ran back down the stairs. She didn’t stop running until she reached the roundhouse—where she emptied her stomach in the necessary.

That could have been her. She could have plummeted to the deck from her precarious position on the shroud.

She sank onto the open grid-work floor, sobbing. She shouldn’t be here. She should be back home, in Gateacre, with Mama and Philip. Safe.

Closing her eyes, she tried to conjure an image of Henry—but all she saw was the man falling from the yard. Did she truly love Henry this much? To risk her life to go to him, when he did not even know she was doing so? What if, when she arrived in Jamaica, she discovered she was no longer in love with him? What if the time apart had changed them?

What if she died at sea and no one ever discovered who she was so they could let Mama know?

Julia stood beside the door of the dining cabin and watched the activity beyond through the narrow window. Most of the crew had been
sent below. William, Lieutenant Cochrane, and Lieutenant O’Rourke huddled in the wheelhouse with the sailing master. The efficiency of William’s crew in striking the topgallants had been impressive.