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Authors: Eileen Charbonneau

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BOOK: The Randolph Legacy
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He ground his teeth. “That was Fayette’s idea. I feel like a cured slab of meat. He has been very peculiar lately.”
She laughed, handing him the garment. He examined the seam. “It has ripped here before,” he observed.
“At the shoulder? Yes. Always reaching, that’s Papa.”
Belonging to her father. A shirt, then. “I will show you a lockstitch.”
He was amazed at the way the gleaming needle eased among the strands of the shirt’s weave. He followed Judith Mercer’s straight stitches to the rip’s end. Then he doubled back on them, and around the selvage. “Loop, see? Then lock.”
She leaned in closer. “Do it again.”
He did, more slowly.
“Let me try!”
He held the cloth between his fingers as she plunged the needle through. She was so close, a wisp of her hair glanced his chin. The silver strands were soft but strong, he could feel that even through the heat of his blush. Those strands, they would work well in the task he had in mind for them, he was sure of it.
She sighed. The rose part of her scent intensified. “I’ve gone too wide, haven’t I?”
“Try placing them closer. And do not—don’t—” he amended, “pull so tightly.”
She went back to her task, absorbed. Could she hear his heart? Would the sound frighten her away? He tried to think of the design for the ketch, of keeping watch for unfamiliar officers, of anything he’d once thought important.
“There!” she called, triumphant. “What genius thou has!”
He exaggerated a scowl. “I am not an artist?”
“An artist in the Quaker tradition. An artist of thy life.”
“Judith”—he summoned laughing eyes—“tell me what that means.”
“We Friends desire to be remembered by our deeds, so our lives become our art. We take great joy in a well-planted field, a straight, strong seam. We see God in these things.”
“But why do you not see God in plays, painting, poetry, songs?”
A whisper of a sigh escaped her. “Fayette has been speaking of our morning talks on deck?”
He bowed his head. “Yes.”
“Washington, my father and I have tried to convince him that we Friends do not denounce. We have a loving approach to life. It’s just that, for us, we see what thou calls art as an imitation of life, and so distracting from life itself. No, we have no poets, as thy dear friend reminds me daily. But we have fine botanists, scientists, and husbandmen.”
“You would not like my ships.”
“Ships?”
“I make them out of bones, scraps, things others throw away. They are not useful, my ships. They do not even sail.”
“But perhaps they would be useful for teaching. Teaching children about ships, navigation?”
“Do you have children, Judith?”
She lowered her eyes. “No. There is only my father and me. But I visit many children.”
“As you visited the prisoners at Dartmoor?”
“Yes.”
“And these children you visit, they would like my ships? Learn from them? So you will give me your hair?”
Judith touched her cloak’s hood. “My hair?”
He shook his head. “I am not doing this in the correct way.”
She touched his arm. “Do not be distressed. Speak plainly.”
Washington let the calming warmth of her touch spread through him. “I cannot raise the sails on my ships. I had found nothing fine enough, or strong enough, or light enough. The combination of all three, you understand? Until I saw your hair. It would flow through one of your needles, it would become the lines my ships need to raise the sails. To be complete.”
Her hand left his arm. “I would be privileged to contribute the leavings of my brush for thy purpose,” she said.
“And this would not violate your precepts?”
Judith laughed again. Hers was a religion of joy, Washington decided. Why did Fayette scorn it so? She pulled a bound book from her scarlet bag. Washington felt a familiar tingling at the tips of his fingers that the sight of a book always produced.
“Look,” Judith Mercer said. “Nature’s own art, the shadow.”
Centered on the first creamy white page was a black paper silhouette. A portly gentleman in a wide hat stood, his attention absorbed by a broad leaf in his hands.
“Who is that?”
“Eli Mercer. My father. He collected plants during our time in London. The windowsills were full, vines around every doorway.”
“Who made this, Judith?”
“I did. In partnership with nature’s shadow, of course. I’ll bring Papa tomorrow night, so thou can judge the image with reality.”
“Good,” he said, meaning it, but hoping she would not bring Eli Mercer every night.
“But he needs his sleep, so I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer my company alone for most of the crossing.”
His smile widened. A spot of color appeared at her cheek as she returned her attention to her black paper sheets. “It is a simple craft, but I take joy in finding details to heighten, illuminate my subjects.” She turned the page.
“There’s Stanley, the captain of the forecastle!” Washington exclaimed.
“Yes! How do you know him?”
“By his swinging waistcoat, his wild hair, his hold on the rope.” Washington turned the next page eagerly. “And here’s the purser with a tight grip on his keys and lips both. And First Lieutenant Mitchell, tilted from wearing only one epaulet—so long has been his wait for promotion! Judith, how do you do this?”
She leaned over the book, pointing her slender fingers at slit collars backed with white paper and delicately cut buttonholes. Her deep, richly
toned voice explained the craft that had captured the crew of the
Standard
as they engaged in their daily living.
“Shall I bring my scissors and my black paper tomorrow?” she asked.
“And I’ll bring one of my ships. We can raise the sails together, yes?”
Captain Willis spun the fine crystal glass by its stem. The mulatto
servant in satin livery poured brandy to fill it again.
The captain’s sneering smile cut through the ugly saber-scars. Despite his manners and the polished reflection of his quarters, this was a man who’d abused his privilege of power, Judith sensed. And he bore the intemperate palsy of the hunted. How much longer would this interminable meal last? She watched the steam rising from her tea.
Judith usually slept during this time, the dog watch between four and eight in the evening, so that she could join Washington later under the stairs. Tonight, she’d planned to craft his silhouette as he carved the graceful Irish ketch.
“I fear I do not command your full attention, Miss Mercer.”
Judith lifted the cup, swallowed. The tea burned her throat.
“Tending my health has turned my daughter into a night owl, Captain Willis,” Eli Mercer explained, smiling pleasantly.
Judith pressed her father’s hand. Eli would protect the knowledge of Washington’s existence as fiercely as she did.
The captain changed tack. “My officers praise your daughter’s reading of the story of Noah and the Flood to the seamen.”
“We’ve felt warmly accepted by all the ship’s company.”
The sneer, again. “I, too, sought upon occasion to enlighten, and even to make merry with my men. While at our common diversions I must have seemed the loving, even indulgent, father of this ark. Then I would need to ‘ship my quarterdeck face’ as we say, to become lord again. No more. It was not fair to the men. I saw hope in their eyes. Hope of rising above their station. Worse, I saw thoughts that they may, in some capacity, be my equal.”
“Art thou attempting to goad us into debate, Friend?” Eli Mercer
asked, the tone of his voice remaining banter-light. He even used the older English Quakerisms in his speech. Judith wondered if she would ever achieve her father’s diplomatic skills.
“Debate?”
“Our Society is based on equality.”
“Actual equality, not an ideal?”
“Just so.”
The silent servant filled Judith’s cup. “My father and I have no quarterdeck faces to ship,” she affirmed sharply.
Captain Willis leaned across the table, his dress uniform advancing on her in the polished brass, too. “Ah, now, at long last a taste of fire, Miss Mercer! Your indignation is somewhat legendary. It persuaded even the British Admiralty to overrule my objections and permit you to board the
Standard
for the crossing.”
“We didn’t meet with thy approval?” Judith asked.
“And I have made you so welcome you never suspected my initial opposition! You will report as much, I trust, in one of your future missives to the Admiralty. I know there will be several. With many admonitions.”
“Suggestions.”
“Of course, suggestions. Gentle persuasion. Quakers. Why was the
Standard
chosen as your escort over the waves to your native land? Did you wonder?”
“I did not.”
“Allow me to enlighten you. This ship has roamed the French and Barbary coasts unmolested in times of heaviest fighting. Our twenty-four-pound guns have remained silent through the late unfortunate hostilities between your United States and Great Britain. Silent since our glorious victory over the French at Trafalgar, to be precise. Ten years. The wisdom that presides over our Admiralty must have imagined this frigate the safest of passenger barges for your return.” He swallowed his glass empty again and turned to Judith’s father. “We are something of a Quaker man-of-war, wouldn’t you say, Eli Mercer?”
Her father smiled. “Were thy ship’s magazine empty, perhaps.”
The captain glared at them both. “Is that another step in your loathsome process?”
“Friend?”
The sneer returned. “Will you heave my ammunition overboard? I’d best keep my sentries on guard against this devious Friend and his daughter, practicing her own black art in her charming silhouettes. What if you should convert my men, Mercers? A crew of Quakers does not suit a man-of-war.”
Cruel laughter erupted before he demanded more brandy with that curious, silent twirl of the glassware’s stem. “Tell me, Judith Mercer, do you think the American ships are run substantially different from His Majesty’s?”
Judith thought of Washington’s eyes, which still were full of his love of the sea despite his long captivity. His time in his American vessel must have given him that. “I am not well versed on that subject,” she said quietly.
“The ideal of equality is maintained in your sacred documents, but its actual practice is not. Slavery, for instance?”
“We feel everyone is on his own path in the journey toward the Light.” Her father came to her aid.
“Or the darkness. Don’t you people acknowledge the existence of Hell, of punishment?”
“Acknowledge it, of course,” Judith replied. “We do not choose to dwell on the darkness.”
“Is it as easy as that, woman?”
Open your heart to him.
She prodded her fear to unlock her paralyzed throat. “That choice stems from our will. And free will is God’s blessing, is it not, Friend Willis?”
He leaned across the table again. “What if the darkness has a life, a will of its own? What if it visits nightly?”
Judith felt a spark of the Light pierce through the darkness, through her fear. “Speak to it,” she urged in a faint whisper.
“What?”
“Speak to it, find what it requires of thee.”
He turned abruptly. His boots sounded hard, even on the Persian carpet, as he prowled around his heavy chestnut furniture. His sword rattled in its shaft. “I know what it requires of me, woman! I should have been made a commodore after Trafalgar. By now I should be on my way into the Admiralty! Instead, I am cursed, pitied, laughed at by enemies, attached to this useless frigate like a Roman galley slave. That’s what my demon requires of me!”
Her father laid his hand protectively over Judith’s arm. “Thou could resign thy commission,” he said.
The captain stood his ground. “Go down, sir? Admit defeat by the hands of an insolent boy who did not know his place?”
“What boy?” Judith whispered, her heart racing.
“You know very well what boy, Quakeress! The one who would not fight! You know the story, you’ve heard it from that arrogant Frenchman. Have a care who you choose as your friends along this voyage, Mercers. Lafayette, indeed. His name is no more Lafayette than mine is
Nelson ! He signed on to escape the guillotine’s blade, most likely. He could have jumped ashore on any continent. He must have made powerful enemies around the globe!”
“Or perhaps powerful friends here,” Judith said.
“Oh, they speak well enough of him below, with his salves and remedies—that’s kept the lash more than once from that crafty Frenchman’s back. But I have my eye on him. I’ve had my eye on him since he carried the body off.”
“Body?”
“The cat-o’-nine-tails did not kill that boy, his own unyielding heart did! Don’t let any tell you differently. I was going to make that powder monkey my cot boy after the battle. He would have lived here, serving me with those fine-boned hands.”
“From where did this boy come?” Judith asked.
“The
Ida Lee.
He was weeping like a child over a dead midshipman. It was supposed to be a warning shot. It was off, that’s all. Such things can’t be helped. The boarding of the
Ida Lee
was my sworn duty! We were heading toward Trafalgar shorthanded; I had to supplement the crew.”
He shrugged—a heavy act in his medal-laden uniform—before turning his back on her scrutiny. He leaned on the shining brass railing, and looked over the calm sea beyond the cabin windows.
More. Tell me all of it,
she demanded silently.
“I picked him up myself, by the scruff of his neck—he was that small,” he began. “‘I will provide you with someone to serve who is worthy of your tears,’ I told him. He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak a word to me until his defiance during the battle.
“Soon after the boarding, the
Ida
Lee
sank in a gale off the Bermudas, all hands lost. I had saved him, Miss Mercer, saved him from that fate, by taking him on the
Standard
! Why do those angry, accusing eyes visit me nightly? This ship is a man-of-war. Why does he glide around its glorious purpose—war?
“I gave him control of the lashes. He only had to pledge allegiance—to me, to his new country. Boys that young are green branches; they can mend, they can be taught to grow in a different direction. But not him. His leg cracked, his heart followed. Weakness. A failure of the heart. He was a suicide, then, wasn’t he?” He turned from the window abruptly. “What does your Society of Friends think of suicides, Miss Mercer?”
Judith touched her forehead. “I am terribly fatigued and must beg to be released.”
His smile creased through the saber scars. “Released? Released? You
are hardly my captive, dear lady. Of course you are free to go. Go, come, all decks, all times, as the Admiralty ordered. Even I am not that free. But of course you are used to freedom. You are an American.”
 
 
W
hen she felt her foot slip on the step, a firm grip took her elbow. It eased her down.
“
Mon dieu,
Judith, you are as pale as a lily.”
Fayette’s concerned eyes so relieved her she rested her head against his broad chest. His arms enfolded her. There. Safe. “They said thou was on duty in sick bay,” she said.
“I’m just going off. Where’s your father? Are you ill?”
“I must see him, Fayette.”
He looked behind him. Satisfied by the empty silence, he pulled her into the shadows. “Now? Why? He’s sleeping.”
“Please.”
He shook his head, but took her arm. They descended the stairwell until there were no more steps. They stood in the lowest caverns of the
Standard.
Judith smelled apples, the cold iron of the anchor and chain, earthy potatoes, and briny seawater as they walked past the lockers. At the far end of the dank hallway, she saw a small, rounded door. Fayette retrieved a key from his vest pocket.
“He’s locked in?” she asked.
The Frenchman frowned. “The curious are locked out. He has a key. Tied around his neck.”
He opened the door, stooping to enter. Judith’s head touched the planked ceiling. The room was nothing like she’d imagined, nothing like a dungeon, except for the darkness.
As her eyes adjusted, they scanned a capacious gilt armchair, some tacked-up netting studded with conch shells. And shelves. They were set low, as if for a child, or a man who could not walk. Books—an astonishing number, perhaps a hundred. Beside them were Washington’s wondrous miniature ships, their white sails raised on lines woven from her nightly hair-leavings. She had never seen the ships like this, together in their graceful beauty. They had helped keep him sane through his captivity, Judith realized. That alone would have been enough to give them full Quaker purpose.
A breeze from the hallway cleared the air. Fayette raised his lantern. Suspended from the low ceiling hung a hammock. From it, even breathing sounded. Judith stepped closer.
Washington shifted and sighed deeply. No blanket covered him, only
a rough gray frock, mended many times with his even stitches. Judith felt a distinct rush of pleasure being able to see him like this, unobserved except for Fayette’s wary eye.
Any lingering distrust of Fayette had been vanquished during Judith’s time in the captain’s cabin. The Frenchman was her ally. He was the reason the cocooned dreamer was alive, and so much more at peace than he who lived in splendor above.
Judith laced her fingers in the strings of the hammock. She pushed, watching fondly. Fayette’s hand glided gently down her spine before his fingers fanned out at the small of her back. An intimate gesture. Judith didn’t stiffen. Beneath their joint gaze, Washington smiled in his sleep. His cheekbones were sharp, his frame not meant to carry so little weight. It would all be remedied—the thought birthed itself in Judith Mercer’s heart—once she brought him home.
He opened his eyes. “Judith?”
“Yes,” she whispered, sweeping the hair back from his forehead. “It’s only me, collecting my wager from Fayette. No snoring comes from thy hammock.”
“Wager? He will not even allow me to swear, and you two are wagering?”
“Shhh,” she whispered, rocking. “Back to sleep now.”
“You’ll come? On deck? Tonight?”
“I’ll come.”
“When do you sleep, Judith?”
Fayette shook his head.
“Les questions, seulement les questions. Avoir sommeil, petit général,”
he admonished.
Once Washington’s eyes closed again, Judith felt dazed, underwater, which in fact, there in the hold, she was. Fayette led her from their quarters, locked the door. They climbed to the deck above. They walked past the sick bay and the counting room of the purser’s steward to the apothecary. The somber man behind the half door had his head in a medical treatise.
BOOK: The Randolph Legacy
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