The Dreamer (3 page)

“What if I had been someone else?” he demanded, carefully keeping his gaze on the contents of the trunk as he rummaged through the clothing. “You didn’t bother asking who it was before you invited me in. What if it had been one of the crew? Don’t you realize how dangerous your position is?”

“Who are you commissioned by? Any perplexing problems aboard?”

He grounded his teeth. “How can I make you understand?”

“You don’t know how fortunate you are, Captain. Why, fate has chosen
you
to be my vessel. I am here for a grand purpose. We must discover what it is.”

Finding what he was looking for, the captain pulled out a long dress and tossed it behind him without looking. “There, put that on if you insist on being up. I shall take my instruments and leave. You are to lock the door behind me and stay inside. The storm is getting worse, and it is dangerous for you in so blasted many ways.”

“Oh, wonderful! A dress appropriate for the period! See? Everything falls into place.” Overhearing the men’s conversation had unnerved me momentarily, but I was sufficiently recovered. I was more than a match for any obstacles.

I went to the bed, and Tucker went to his desk and absently fingered some instruments. “There was something else I wanted to tell you,” he began, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“George I is king of England,” I said while I inspected the dress.

“It’s about your position here.”

“As a result of Queen Anne dying childless.” There were beautiful buttons down the skirt.

“We are still four weeks from land.”

“He is the first of four Georges in a row. Funny, isn’t it?”

“My first mate suggested it – I wouldn’t have dreamed of it otherwise.”

“The king is German, though I understand he doesn’t like his new adopted country. Refuses to speak English just to spite people.” Which was the front of the dress and which was the back?

“But if we created a bit of fiction ….”

“I wonder if I shall meet him.”

“Between you and me ….”

“Handel is writing music.”

“The men might be better kept in line.”

“Novels by Defoe,” I murmured. The dress was pink. Hmm. I never usually wear pink.

“I’m afraid things have already been set in motion ....”

“Optics by Newton.”

“And it’s up to you, you understand, to agree when confronted, as no doubt you will be.”

Front or back, the buttons needed to be unbuttoned, so I unbuttoned them.

“Miss? Miss, are you listening? Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh! I know what that is.” I went to him and fingered the instrument he was holding. “A Davis Quadrant. Invented in the sixteenth century by a John Davis, I believe.”

My hand was on it, and when I tried to take it from him, Tucker spun around and wrenched the instrument away from me, nearly roaring as he did so. “Are you daft? Pay attention! Or so help me, I’ll invite the crew in myself.”

Goodness. He was more cantankerous than I realized. I must adjust my approach to him. I’ll be sure to make note of it.

Chapter Three

Notes: Territory bewildering. Culture unfamiliar and unnerving. Preparatory education inadequate and useless. Discouraged and duly humbled.

Aid from the captain essential. Exceptionally shrewd and daring. And there is something else. Behavior is forbearing, generous.

After a late night scratching notes onto a piece of paper aided only with a small, pitiful candle, I fell asleep rather quickly and slept soundly until I was awakened the next morning by the sound of voices.

Outside I heard commotion, many footsteps on the upper deck. The men were gathering. As quickly as I could, I threw on my dress, collected a pencil and some paper, and hurried out the door and up the steps.

A hundred men, it seemed, had gathered together, perhaps the entire crew, all their attention on something located at the mast of the ship.

I began to elbow my way into the crowd. It was not difficult to do, my small stature allowing me to duck under their arms. But also, I found that when I did touch the men, and as soon as they set eyes on me, they would practically shrink away from me, sometimes lifting their hats politely.

Quickly I stopped short and silently gaped at what I saw, shock and horror rendering me immobile and suddenly nauseous.

Before me was a man stripped naked to the waist, his hands bound around the mast, his back facing me. I recognized him from yesterday. The man with the dice.

Behind him was a man I did not recognize, and he was holding a long, black, wicked whip up over his head, ready to bring it down onto the exposed back of the poor, helpless soul.

I was horrified. I wanted to look away, but I found myself walking closer. I had never seen anything so barbaric in my life and my stomach churned and tightened in protest. I rushed towards the captain, knocking shoulders along my way, heedless of my direction, creating quite a ruckus. In my stumbling progress I fell, and felt a small gust of wind at my cheek. The gust was so slight, yet the powerful CRACK that accompanied it was almost deafening. I closed my eyes instinctively, realizing what was about to happen.

But it never did. When I opened my eyes I saw the whip lying on the floor between the flogger and myself. The man was pale, and his knees seemed unsteady. He swore and put a hand to his forehead. “Thunder an’ turf! Are ye crazy, lass? I could ha’ killed ye!”

My eyes found the captain behind him. He too, looked shocked. His eyes were wide, and a set of gloves lay at his feet as though he’d been holding them at his side and they slipped from his hand. He took a step towards me and I rushed the rest of the way to him. By the time I was next to him, every gaze rested on us.

“What is the meaning of this, Captain? This is barbaric!”

Finley stepped out from the crowd to address me. “Miss Madera, you should not be here. It is no place for a woman.”

“That is insulting, sir!”

“And you know nothing of the circumstances,” he finished as though I hadn’t spoken.

The captain said nothing. He simply stood very still and watched me while his henchman cautiously picked up his whip.

“Then explain them to me.” My gaze did not waver from the captain’s stern countenance.

Again, Finley answered. “Tipkins is being brought to justice.”

“Justice?” I shook my head. “Captain,” I said accusatorily. Surely he should know better. “Justice requires court, testimony, and then judgment. He requires a proper hearing.”

Finally the captain spoke. “It is unnecessary. Step back.”

“How can it be unnecessary? It is the mark of a civilized society. If we cannot have justice, what do we have?”

“Move aside,” the captain told me, his voice like ice. He told his henchman to ready the whip. I stayed where I was, not out of active disobedience, but more because I was too disappointed to move. Though, looking back, I see the fault in my action.

The men began to murmur, and the large, still crowd started to move.

“Miss, please! Step out of the way,” Finley begged.

“Miss Madera!” The captain’s hard voice shook me out of my disappointed stupor. Oh, I did think more of him than to allow such injustice to occur on his own ship, but what could I do? I turned to go, passing closely by the accused.

Tipkins, whom no one had been paying attention to, had somehow freed his hands and to my horror grabbed me as I passed him.

And he had unaccountably acquired a dagger.

I cried out in surprise and pain when, with little effort he twisted my arm behind my back and held the deadly dagger to my throat. He held me close to him, his face next to mine, his breath at my ear. “Ye bilge-sucking fool. What ye be do’n now, Capt’n?” He laughed.

My arm shot out for a blow to his ribs but with ease Tipkins caught my hand and forced it down against my side again. I struggled and strained, every muscle bursting in attempt at escape, but with no use. He held me still with one arm around my middle, binding my arms to my side, his other hand occupied with the knife that was pressed to my throat. He nuzzled my ear and sneered, “Aye, a feisty lass, ain’t ye? I be havin’ some fun wi’ ye yet.”

Nothing in my life before could compare to this terrifying sensation of helplessness and danger. My eyes frantically searched for the captain.

The captain stood, looking not at me, but at Tipkins, his eyes cool, calculating. Finley begged, “Let her go, Charles.”

He laughed again. “No, I don’t be thinkin’ I will.”

“What are you going to do? You have nowhere to go. And you’re far outnumbered,” the first mate told him.

“Well, what ye be sayin’ bout the first point, I don’t be argu’n wi’, Fin. But the last – well, we just be seein’ ‘bout that.”

Captain Tucker took a step forward, and Tips increased the pressure of the knife on my throat, slightly piercing my skin. I felt the sting as well as the bead of blood that escaped and trickled down the neck of my new dress. The captain stilled, a muscle moved in his jaw.

Tipkins turned to the sailors and addressed them. His grip on me changed, too, becoming less firm and more caressing, his fingers spreading apart, their pressure changing. Bile raised in my throat.

“What say ye, me buckos? Is Finny here right? Am I to be outnumbered by ye?” He smiled confidently. “Are you really the patsy pudd’ns he say ye be? I tell ye this, boys. I ain’t be hav’n quarlms ‘bout sharin’ the wench now wi’ ye if ye do be tak’n my side.”

The crowd of men began to murmur.

“What are you suggesting?” Finley asked, shocked. “Charles, you wouldn’t. Don’t make things worse for yourself.”

“Pretty, ain’t she,” Tipkins continued, turning his face towards me and taking a deep breath. “The Capt’n’s wench. He always be savin’ the best for hisself, don’t he?”

“Tip, leave her alone,” Finley pleaded again.

Tipkins said, “This ain’t be no ship. We be in a prison here, mates. Always he be tellin’ us where to go and what to be doin’. Argh! Be we men? Or be we animals?”

“We be danc’n wi’ Jack Ketch soon as we reach port if we be go’n gains’t the Capt’n,” a disembodied voice called from the crowd, though others moved forward, tempted by his offer.

“’Ave our necks stretched for a bit of fun?” another voice from the rear called. “Yer crazy to be thinkn’ so, Piney!”

“You’re talking mutiny, Tip!” Finley exclaimed.

“Mutiny,” Tipkins scoffed. “We be standin’ up under oppression, more like. We won’t be hanged for defendin’ ourselves.” He leaned down to kiss me. “And enjoyin’ the spoils.” He brought the dagger down a fraction and flicked it on the top of those pretty buttons of my dress.

The button went flying and dropped quietly on the deck at my feet, but the sound seemed very loud to me, as loud as the church bells across the street from my apartment building. The next button quickly followed, exposing my neck and the beginning swell of my bosom. The world darkened, my heart racing and I nearly swooned.

“P-Please don’t ….” I whimpered, looking at the hungry gaze of some of the men.

“She be a sweet, round wench, ain’t she?” another man called.

“Sweet as nectar.”

“Leave her be! Ye’ll be keelhauled for a spot o’ fun,” came another voice.

Tipkins caressed my neck. Some of the men began to push forward, their hands on their cutlasses, their eyes on me. Finley let them pass.

How could he let them pass? He put his hand on the hilt of his cutlass, as though to draw it, and I prayed he might. But it remained where it was, and he let them pass, and they knocked his shoulders as they went, the heavy cross bouncing against his ribs.

But as they looked for the captain, he was nowhere in sight.

“Where be the Capt’n?”

“Find him,” Tipkins cried. “He can’t be go’n far!”

It was then that the boom swung as though out of nowhere and crashed into the back of Tipkins’ head.

*** *** ***

Tipkins toppled forward and collapsed on top of me, though he didn’t remain there for long. Almost as soon as he fell, he was lifted up again and tossed away.