Ransome's Crossing (23 page)

Something about it struck him as odd—it wasn’t anything Ned had ever seen a sailor do. It was…well, it was the way a woman might do it if she did not have a man to pull the chair back for her. Perhaps Lott had picked up the mannerism from his mother.

Several hours later, when Ned went about the ship for evening inspection, he had a hard time keeping his gaze from drifting to Lott when he was on the upper gun deck. Not very tall, Lott’s uniform only served to emphasize his slim, almost delicate, frame. And though he stood in the same position as the rest of the midshipmen and lieutenants—feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind the back—to Ned, Lott did not look like one of them.

He dismissed the crew and returned to his cabin, unsettled. He found Howe’s journal under a stack of Parker’s paperwork he’d been working on for the past several days. He thumbed through it, finding two places where Lott’s name was mentioned. The first was upon Lott’s reporting for duty. Howe had been impressed with the boy’s
book learning, but once he saw Lott in action, he worried whether the lad would be strong enough to survive a transatlantic voyage.

Lott seemed to have proven the former first officer wrong on that account.

The second mention was a recounting of the poisoning “misunderstanding.” Howe seemed to think Kent at fault, but he praised Lott for his forbearance in not retaliating and accusing Kent with no firm evidence.

Ned closed his friend’s journal and set it aside. His steward entered and tried to assist him in readying for bed, but Ned preferred to undress himself. The steward bustled about straightening everything in the room but the paperwork on the table and taking the pieces of clothing Ned discarded as each item came off.

Finally, he dismissed the servant, doused the lamps, and climbed into his hammock. With the gun port closed, no light penetrated the small room. Ned closed his eyes and was instantly bombarded by images and voices of everything that had happened in the past five days. One by one, he dismissed each errant thought until only one remained.

Charles Lott. Everything about the boy struck Ned as odd, slightly off. Not right. He was too delicate, too small, his proportions not quite right for a fifteen-year-old. He was too effeminate.

Even that epithet did not put Ned’s mind to rest. Effeminate tendencies were not unusual in the Royal Navy, but there was more to it with Lott. Rather than being a man with a few feminine mannerisms, it was as if Charles Lott were a woman with a few masculine mannerisms.

Ned’s eyes flew open. Yes, that was it. That was what felt so wrong about Charles Lott. He looked and moved more like a woman than a man.

And directly on the heels of that realization—

Ned bolted upright, nearly flipping himself out of the hammock. Surely not. Charles Lott…Charlotte.

No. It could not be. Charlotte Ransome had no reason to disguise
herself and put herself through the arduous life of a midshipman on a warship. Not when she could have traveled in comfort with Julia and William as a passenger on
Alexandra.

But it fit. As soon as her name came to mind, he knew it was her. He had avoided her as much as he could while in Portsmouth, but he had admired her from afar often enough to know, almost beyond a doubt, that Charles Lott was Charlotte Ransome.

He now wished that instead of taking promotion to acting captain of
Audacious
he had thrown himself overboard.

They would make port in Madeira in a few more days. By then, he would confirm Charlotte’s identity and turn her over to her brother. Yes, that was the best course of action. He could not be responsible for the welfare of Commodore William Ransome’s only sister.

No matter how much he admired her for being able to fool a ship full of experienced sailors and officers, she would be in constant danger of discovery. And if the men on this ship discovered they had been taking orders from a woman, mutiny would be the least of Ned’s problems.

The sooner he got her off this ship, the better.

J
ulia was bored. She tried to hide it, but the difference in her demeanor was obvious. William wished he could spend more time with her, but he had to be seen by the men as not neglecting his duties on account of his wife. Her injured foot kept her from taking walks on deck. The only thing he could do to try to give her some relief from the daily monotony was to invite his officers and midshipmen to dine with them. At table, with several people surrounding her, the sparkle rekindled in her green eyes, the wan expression left her face.

After supper he assisted her into the day cabin. “How are you at calculus?”

She looked at him askance. “Calculus?”

“Yes. You see, Dr. Hawthorne was instructing the midshipmen in calculus. And now that he’s aboard
Audacious,
no one is keeping up with their lessons. I thought I remembered your saying you studied all of the same lessons as Michael, even after he went to sea.”

Julia sank onto the sofa and swung her legs around to stretch them out on the seat. “I would probably need to review the textbook. But it will be difficult for me to join them out on deck and stand while instructing them.”

“They will come to you—in the dining cabin. You can sit at the head of the table.”

“Will they take issue with being instructed by a woman?”

“You are not ‘a woman.’ You are Mrs. Commodore, and as such they will pay you proper respect—or I will teach them proper respect.”
He picked up the mathematics book from his desk and handed it to her. “Best review it tonight. Hawthorne marked his place. Your first lesson is at four bells in the forenoon watch tomorrow.”

Julia opened the book and scanned a few pages. She gave him a questioning glance. “Will Dr. Hawthorne be rejoining us at Madeira?”

“I hope so. But only as long as the injured men he is treating are sufficiently recovered. If he does not feel comfortable leaving them to
Audacious
’s surgeon’s mate, then he will stay.”

She looked over another page and then closed the book. “How do you suppose Ned is getting on with the
Audacious
crew?”

William shrugged out of his coat and draped it across the back of his chair before sitting. “He told me before we left Portsmouth that the first lieutenant expressed concerns about some divisiveness amongst the crew. But I know Ned Cochrane, and I know of what he is capable. He will get them sorted.”

“So if it is not worry over Ned that kept you awake most of the night, what was it?”

He took his turn casting a questioning glance at her. He had lain still, staring at the patch of moonlight coming through the open gun port almost all night. He had not tossed and turned. She, on the other hand, had seemed to sleep soundly.

“I was thinking of Charlotte and the trouble with Lord Rotheram. I know there is naught I can do, yet I spent the night thinking through everything I should have instructed Collin to do to ensure her safety.”

A slight smile interrupted the concern on Julia’s face. “But I know Collin Yates, and I know of what he is capable. He will get it sorted.” She adjusted her dress to cover her feet better. “I know it is different—trusting Ned to sort out an unruly crew comprised of men you do not know, and trusting Collin to take care of your sister and solve the legal dilemma she found herself in. But will God not be as faithful and steadfast in both instances?”

Something he found endearing—and, at the same time, annoying—about Julia was her tendency to remember and challenge him
with his own words. “Aye. But if you have difficulty putting your faith in me and coming to rely on me, when I am here with you, you can see how much more difficult it is to let go of doubt and rely completely on God.”

Julia sighed. “Now you understand my plight.”

He looked up from his folded hands, uncertain she had truly grasped what he said. Humor danced in her eyes. He shook his head, but not before his own grasp of the irony drew a smile from him.

Julia laughed in response, and the sound acted as a salve for his worry-abraded soul. She had not laughed enough since their marriage—at least, not when she was alone with him. He feared it was the necessity—and habit—of hiding his own emotions wearing off onto her.

“You deserve better.”

The levity instantly left her. “Pardon?”

“You deserve better—a happier, more interesting life than what I can give you.”

“You believe I am not happy? And that my life is not more interesting than the majority of women can boast already? William, if you tried to make it more interesting, I do not know I could survive it.”

“But you are not happy here, aboard
Alexandra.”

“Only because a ship is no place for a woman, even if she is ‘Mrs. Commodore.’ And especially if she is tied by the leg from doing anything—quite literally.”

William tried to take her at her word, and yet a remnant of insecurity remained. Not an hour ago, she had talked and laughed and told stories from her life in Jamaica to the rapt lieutenants and midshipmen. Here, in their private quarters, she rarely laughed; and, though they enjoyed conversation in the evenings, the subjects tended toward more serious topics such as theology, politics, the war. She tried to elicit anecdotes from him about his experiences, but he firmly believed the past should stay in the past. He did not want to become like Admiral Glover, whom people avoided at social gatherings rather than be regaled, again, with tales of his exploits. But perhaps an occasional story of his life would not be amiss.

He opened his mouth to begin to relate the history
of Alexandra’s
brief posting in the waters off Sicily—but was preempted by a loud knocking on the door. “Enter.”

Dawling came in. “Mr. Kennedy’s compliments, sir, and a message is coming in from
Audacious.”

William stood and donned his coat. “Thank you, Dawling. Please see to Mrs. Ransome’s comfort.” He inclined his head toward Julia but left the cabin without registering her expression. Disappointment, no doubt, that their private time had once again been cut short by his duty.

He made his way up to the stern of the poop. Kennedy stood with telescope to eye in the waning sunlight, reading out the message being raised in the bow of the ship following them. One of the younger midshipmen recorded it in the log book.

Finally, Kennedy lowered his glass. “Commodore Ransome, sir,
Audacious
reports two more have died. They will be buried at sea within the hour.”

William checked the time. “Send word to the fleet: All ships are to raise black pennant until three bells of the second dogwatch to honor the dead.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Rather than return to the cabin, William wandered the ship, stopping to speak with the midshipmen and officers only to set their minds at ease over his unusual behavior. A decision lay before him. Either he could make an effort to open himself—his past, his emotions—to Julia and risk becoming more vulnerable by deepening his attachment to her, or he could continue on as he had started his marriage, providing Julia the protection of his name, the hope of a future family, and a modest level of affection.

Indeed, the same choice lay before both of them. The fear that he would choose the opposite of Julia’s choice kept him anchored to the quarterdeck, staring out at the silver-streaked ocean long after he knew Julia would have retired for the night.

Ned made sure he was on deck when the third watch reported at eight bells in the afternoon watch. Once again, Midshipman Lott had been the first to calculate and mark noon. The more he watched Lott, the more certain he became that Charles Lott was Charlotte Ransome. Although he could fathom no explanation for why she would choose to put herself in such a position, he grudgingly admitted she performed the duty of a midshipman admirably. Though not as strong as a lad of fifteen, she had mastered the fine art of command in a way that most lieutenants of one or two years’ experience had yet to learn.

The majority of the crew liked and respected Midshipman Lott, including almost all of the young men with whom she was berthed. He cringed and closed his eyes a moment. If anyone in England learned she had spent more than a fortnight living in the same room as seventeen men, her reputation would be ruined—and it would reflect poorly on Commodore Ransome and his entire family.

That consequence of revealing Charlotte’s identity—in conjunction with the crew’s expected negative reaction—kept Ned from dragging her into his cabin and confronting her with the truth. And if he handed her over to William when they made port in Madeira tomorrow, it would leave
Audacious
dangerously understaffed in command positions. Now that he’d had almost a week to observe and meet all of the midshipmen, he could not think of another who would be capable of assuming her role as midshipman of the watch.

He paced the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back, head down. When faced with so dire a dilemma, William would have counseled him to pray for a solution. But though Ned formed the reverent words in his mind, such a prayer seemed to do no better than his continual mulling of the facts.

The late August sun beat down on him unmercifully. He left the quarterdeck and paused in the wheelhouse to review the log board before retiring to his cabin. He exercised his prerogative as captain and did not speak to anyone in the shaded area in front of his cabin—especially Midshipman Lott. It was not like him to run away or hide from a problem, but in this case, not sure what he should do and
afraid he would give Charlotte away inadvertently, avoidance seemed the best policy.

Seemingly endless reams of paperwork gave him the excuse he needed to stay in his cabin the next several hours. Later, after supper, when he’d started to think about turning in, a knock came at the main door.

“Enter.”

Midshipman Jamison entered and saluted. “Lieutenant Gardiner’s compliments, sir. Signal from lead ship—they have sighted Madeira. We are to prepare to drop anchor before noon tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jamison.” Having stopped at Madeira a few times to resupply over the years, Ned could picture the approach to the harbor clearly. Even following a dozen ships in, the task should be simple. However, as it had been a few years since the last time, he pulled out the most up-to-date charts to make sure there had been no shifting of sandbars or reefs since his last anchorage here.

He plotted the course and mentally went through the orders to the crew to make it happen. Maneuvering into position at the rear of the convoy in the predawn darkness would add a bit of hazard to the experience, but so far this crew had given him no reason to doubt their ability to pull together when necessitated.

After a few fitful hours of sleep, he dressed and joined the midshipman of the forenoon watch on deck.

“Good morning, Mr. Lott.” Ned squinted against the sunlight at the lump of land beyond the bow of the ship.

“’Morning, Captain Cochrane.” She did a good job of keeping her voice pitched lower than what he’d become accustomed to hearing in Portsmouth.

The first lieutenant joined them at the binnacle.

“Mr. Gardiner, signal all hands to prepare the ship for making anchor.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” The young officer carried out the order, and soon the formerly calm, quiet ship was teeming with sailors hoisting sails and manning the capstan in preparation for lowering the anchor.

For the first time in a week, Ned caught sight of
Alexandra’s
bluff lines. Though both ships had come from the same yard,
Alexandra,
nearly twenty years older than
Audacious,
had been built during a time when craftsmanship was more important than haste when it came to the finishing touches.

Ned was about to start calling orders when he remembered his position. “Take us in, Lieutenant Gardiner.”

The first lieutenant, rather than appear excited, looked as if he were about to lose his breakfast. “Aye, aye, sir.” He stepped forward and began yelling the same commands Ned had planned last night, leaving Ned nothing to worry about—except for Charlotte Ransome, who, even now, hung twenty feet above the deck supported by the ropes and ratlines of the foremast shroud.