Chapter Seven

 

The next morning Rosalyn awoke with a start. They were already underway! Squinting through the square little window beside her head, she saw nothing but water. Mercy slept in total oblivion beside her, her mouth slightly agape.

Too excited to remain abed, Rosalyn scrambled over her cabin mate and made her way to the privacy corner she and Mercy had set up the night before. The necessities taken care of, she washed in cold salt water and quickly donned a warm woolen dress. Tying on her white house-bonnet to keep her hair neat, and wrapping herself in her heaviest woolen shawl, she hurried out on deck. She had hoped to catch a glimpse of the retreating shoreline, but she was too late. The sun filtered through thick clouds, creating a hazy glimmer on the horizon under an overcast sky. The sea was mostly gray with poor visibility.

Separated from familiar surroundings, Rosalyn was assailed by a sense of loss. She was truly adrift! Would she ever return? And what lay ahead? Hoping the coastline might still be visible from the other side of the ship, she ran to the railing, but could see nothing but a bank of rolling fog in the distance.

Above her on the quarterdeck stood Grant Watermann, his back toward her, conversing with three of his men. He was either studiously ignoring her, or he was too engrossed in his discussion to take note of her. Either way, she reasoned it would be best not to begin the voyage with hard feelings between them. She decided, therefore, to venture forth and greet him with as much good grace as she could muster.

“Good morning, Captain,” she called up to him.

“. . .adjust the mizzen sails, Mr. Robbins. Reef the sails on the main and foremasts only if we run into rough weather. If the winds hold steady, we’ll make straight for the Carolinas.”

“Captain Watermann!” She barely resisted the urge to tap her foot.

“Later, woman. I’ll speak with you presently,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Woman’! Rosalyn stiffened with indignation. His curt dismissal hit like a dash of cold water, squelching any desire to strike a truce with the fiend. Why, he didn’t even have the courtesy to look at her when he spoke! Biting back an angry retort, she glared at the broad expanse of his back, wondering if it was his custom to show disrespect to all women, or only to herself.

She studied the sharp angles of his profile, while he continued to discuss navigational concerns with his men. He had a ruggedly handsome face with strong chiseled cheekbones, a straight nose projecting above sensual lips, and a stubborn set to his jaw. It was a striking face, one she might even have found attractive, were it not presently marred by a scowl.

“Hellfire and damnation!” he suddenly roared, looking straight up into the sails. “Who’s the jackanapes up there in the topmast staysail?”

Startled, Rosalyn’s gaze followed his to a man paralyzed with fear and clinging to the topmost sails.

“New man, sir. Never been aloft before,” his first mate said.

“Assign the bloody fool to the crow’s nest to keep a sharp lookout. A day up there, and he’ll get over his fear of heights quick enough.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Cringing at the rough language, Rosalyn turned to beat a hasty retreat to her cabin, only to be brought up short by Grant Watermann’s cool, contemptuous voice behind her.

“Mrs. Watermann, you wish to speak with me?”

Her head whipped around. She gasped, having no idea how he could have moved that fast. Hands on hips, standing not five feet away, her “stepson” was in a decidedly bad mood.

“A pity you refused my offer," he said. "You must want to live dangerously.”

Rosalyn lifted her chin in brave defiance. “Are you threatening me, Captain?” She watched him pass his hand over his unshaven chin and decided he probably had been drinking. To avoid any ugliness, she changed the subject. “I overheard you mention the Carolinas.”

“Aye. Colonials along the southern coast raise top grade tobacco, rice and indigo. I plan to put into shore around Cape Hatteras, if the weather holds. The Virginia governor has placed strict trade restrictions on Carolina farmers, so there’s always a good profit to be made bartering there.”

“It’s our cargo, don’t forget.” She watched his fierce, tawny eyes narrow at her reminder. “But surely you’re not going to violate trade sanctions. That’s illegal!”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he told her with a most disagreeable curl of his lips. “There is only one captain running this ship. What I say is law.”

“Oh, but—”

“Any argument, and I’ll put you and your friend ashore at first opportunity. Even if it’s unsettled wilderness.”

From the steely glint in his eyes and the harsh tone of his voice, Rosalyn knew he wasn’t making an idle threat. Even so, she stood her ground, refusing to let him think she was afraid of him. “I suppose I am expected to say, ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ like the rest of your crew, or walk the plank?” she needled him.

“Just so you understand who’s in charge here,” was his menacing reply.

“But, Captain,” Rosalyn smiled, enjoying his evident displeasure at having her aboard. “There’s never been any doubt in my mind.”

Grant swore softly under his breath. “As long as we’re stuck with each other, let’s make the best of it, shall we? But don’t ever attempt to interfere with the running of my ship.”

“I’m merely looking out for my interests,” she said mildly.

“Don’t push me too far, Mrs. Watermann. I have chosen to overlook your pirating of my cabin, this once! But I’ll tolerate no further insubordination. Understood?”

“Perfectly.” Rosalyn felt her cheeks heat up like a torch under his scrutiny. “But I own half of this ship and its cargo, Captain, and don’t you forget it!”

He raised an eyebrow at her lack of trust. “Don’t worry, Miss Priss. You’ll get your full share, even though you’re not a working partner.”

“Thank you.” Not about to let him sidestep her concern about his trading practices, she added, “Isn’t it risky trading in the Carolinas? Won’t you hang, if you’re caught?” She preferred not to speculate on what the authorities might do to her as well. She had no desire to swing from a gibbet with this rogue partner of hers!

“Aye, but hanging’s quick and neat. What’s tough is dying like my father.” He tapped his spyglass against his thigh, watching her with an accusing stare.

Unnerved by his prickly temper, she stepped back uneasily, and her back came up against the gunwale. “I thought he died of natural causes,” she said cautiously.

He bent his head, lips grazing her ear. If she'd followed her nose around toward the sweet scent of cloves on his breath, they would have been nose to nose and lip to lip. She didn’t move—she didn’t dare! Instead she watched him warily out of the corner of her eye.

“Just remember: I am in charge, madam,” he told her. “I’ll not tolerate any woman trying to cut my balls.”

Caught off guard, Rosalyn sprang to one side, stung to the quick by his bawdy remark. “Oh! You, sir, are no gentleman!”

“Just so long as we understand each other, Mrs. Watermann.”

“Stop calling me that!” she raged helplessly.

“Whatever you say, Mother,” he said with an insulting laugh. “And now, if you’ll excuse me—” He made a mocking bow and moved away to resume supervision of his crew.

Ooh! What an infuriating man! Spinning around, Rosalyn ran to her cabin, arriving just in time to collide with Mercy, who was making a frantic dash for the slop jar.

“Oh, you poor dear,” she cried, seeing her friend’s sickly, ashen pallor. She grabbed a towel, dipped it into the water basin, and pressed it to Mercy’s forehead. Mercy lost last night’s supper and then continued to heave, long after her stomach was empty.

“Let’s get you back into bed,” Rosalyn said, steadying her companion.

Mercy tottered weakly back to bed and fell back against her pillow. Thoroughly wrung out, she didn’t protest Rosalyn’s unschooled attempts to cure her mal de mer. “Thank you,” she whispered, holding her sore stomach muscles.

Rosalyn cracked open the cabin window to air out the room. Next she piled blankets on top of Mercy to keep her from freezing. After emptying the slops overboard and tidying up the cabin, she perched on the bed beside her friend, ready to rehearse her grievances against the captain. Even bundled in her woolen shawl and cape, and wearing woolen stockings and extra petticoats beneath her dress, she could feel the cold and damp. But at least she wasn’t seasick.

“Don’t worry,” Mercy smiled wanly. “I may look and feel terrible, but I shan’t die.”

Stroking Mercy’s hand, Rosalyn felt the full burden of puritanical guilt hit like the thud of a tree falling against a house during a violent windstorm. “It’s all my fault for dragging you along on this voyage.”

“If you feel you must atone for your sin,” Mercy joked weakly, “pass me the slop jar again.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

For the next four days, while the Fair Winds pitched and tossed through rough seas, Rosalyn kept busy, lending what small comfort she could to her companion. Secretly she was glad for any excuse to avoid Grant Watermann, but it broke her heart to see Mercy so miserable.

She rarely left the cabin, except to visit the galley, where she came to appreciate the cook for his many kindnesses. He sent weak, sugared tea, soda crackers, broth, and occasionally a thin fish stew to alleviate Mercy’s dry heaves. And still Mercy could barely raise her head from her pillow.

During this time the master of the Fair Winds and his crew were fully engaged in a battle against a drenching storm, as they continued to sail south. Quickly Rosalyn grew to have a healthy respect not only for the massive waves that crashed over the bowsprit and threatened to swamp the ship, but for the men who kept her afloat. They had strung safety ropes from stern to bow to help them keep their footing on the slippery deck, and keep from being swept overboard.

Meanwhile Rosalyn and Mercy stayed out of sight, enduring their baptism of fire the best they could. After a few days Rosalyn was tempted to repent of ever embarking on such a dangerous voyage. Then, as the seventh day broke, she awakened to find the ship moving along smoothly through calm seas. To her immense relief, they had reached warmer waters with bright skies overhead.

Her spirits lifting, Rosalyn spoke a word of comfort to Mercy and hastened to the galley, anticipating that breakfast would soon restore her companion’s cheeks to full bloom.

Birds circled overhead. The sea air was fresh and salty on her lips, as the Fair Winds tacked along at a good rate. Rejoicing over this fortuitous turn of events, she leaned over the railing and tossed one of the cook’s hard crusty biscuits to a gull.

Suddenly, behind her a lusty chorus of male voices burst into song, jarring her from her moment of silent jubilation.

 

“O well do I recall the day

I met sweet Maggie May!

She was cruisin' up and down Cannery Place,

With a figure like a frigate of the line,

And me bein’ a sailor, I did give chase!

She gave me a saucy nod, and I like, a farmer’s clod,

Let her take me, hook, line, and sinker in tow!

And away to the tavern we did go.

Next mornin’ when I woke, I was flat and stony broke—“

 

Her cheeks flaming, and her ears burning with acute embarrassment, Rosalyn swung around, pewter platter in hand, a look of shock frozen on her pursed lips. How quickly she had forgotten! But as usual the sight and sound of Captain and crew hauling sail to yet another risqué chanty brought her up short. Dear God in heaven! she thought. Such words. 'Salty' was right!

Quickly she beat a hasty retreat to her cabin, telling herself that if she weren’t so concerned about Mercy’s weakened condition, she would risk another confrontation, right there and then, with Grant Watermann. After all, there were ladies on board!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

That afternoon she and Mercy lay stretched out on the bed, clad only in their chemises and petticoats, trying to overcome a faint queasiness following lunch. The cabin was warm, humid, and stuffy.

Rosalyn gazed lazily out the window and spotted a gull soaring alongside. “Oh, look, Mercy!” she exclaimed. “There’s that same gull that’s been following us since morning.”

Mercy yawned. “How can you tell? They all look the same.”

“No, I’m certain of it! See the black markings.” Through half-closed eyes, Rosalyn watched the sun flash against the gull’s wings, as it swooped close to the side of the ship again. “How beautiful it is,” she marveled. “Free to go where it pleases, do as it pleases. No worries. . .”

She rolled onto her stomach and hugged her pillow to her soft breasts. “I wish I felt that free. Even now, I still feel bound somehow to father, and to life as I knew it in Boston.” She glanced over at Mercy pensively, her eyes glistening like the sparkling seas. “How I long for that kind of freedom.”

Half-sleep, Mercy drifted, trying to ignore her stomach’s rebellious churning. “Every creature yearns to be free,” she yawned.

“I know I do, Mercy.”

Mercy rolled her eyes. Having been schooled by His Majesty’s penal system, her outlook on life differed vastly from her young friend’s. She wondered if there was any point in trying to enlighten Rosalyn; still, it was either that or listen to her rumbling insides and puke, so she decided to have a go at it.

Stretching, she played with the ribbons on her shift, all the while studying Rosalyn’s flushed face through half-lowered lashes. “’Tis a pity you don’t know the power that being a woman gives you—over a man, that is. You can get pretty much anything you want, if you play your cards right.” She closed her eyes, smiling, as she thought of Charles Lamb, the handsome ship’s carpenter who'd been so attentive the past few days.

“To hear you talk, you’d think men ruled the universe. I, for one, am through being bullied and cajoled into catering to their wishes,” Rosalyn said grandly.

Mercy burst out laughing. “Oh, la! Admittedly I’ve had my share of men, Rosalyn, and maybe they did act a bit too free with me, but that only added to my pleasure. It never took away my freedom.”

“Really, Mercy! Sometimes you sound almost as disgusting as Grant Watermann!” Rosalyn covered her ears with her pillow. “I won’t listen to such talk!”

Mercy wrestled the pillow away and saw Rosalyn’s beet-red face and quivering lips. “I’m sorry, Rosalyn,” she said, really meaning it. “Let’s not quarrel. But you need to be practical. We live in hard times. If you hadn’t cancelled my bond of indenture, I’d still be facing many more years of servitude.”

“You’re right. Life is not fair.” Her eyes filled with tears. “My own father threatened me with a public ducking, if I refused to marry that horrid old pirate!”

Mercy nodded sadly. “Aye, but life is no harsher in the colonies than in England. Why, I once saw a poor woman hanged for stealing a handkerchief!”

“Oh, Mercy, I believe all forms of servitude are wrong,” Rosalyn burst out passionately, “whether it involves an indentured servant, a slave, or...a wife!”

Mercy gave her friend a quizzical look. “In that case, who among us can call herself truly free?” She reached over to tuck a rebellious curl behind Rosalyn’s ear. “I’ve always thought of myself as a free spirit. Even when my husband and I were thrown into debtors’ prison.”

“Your courage amazes me,” Rosalyn said admiringly.

“Freedom is more a state of mind, I think," her friend mused. "Nobody can take it from you, unless you permit it.”

Rosalyn sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, and gave her friend a radiant smile. “That’s what I want, Mercy, more than anything else. True freedom!”

“Then I have no doubt you shall find your heart’s desire.” Had she ever seen a more earnest champion of the downtrodden before? Mercy thought not. “It may take you a while,” she said to qualify her remark, “but you know the old saying, ‘Seek and ye shall find.’”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Damn her! She had cast a witch’s spell over him, and well she knew it! Being out at sea without women to ease a man’s need was bad enough, but to see the wench strolling about the deck every morning, with the sweet, swelling curve of her breasts rising with every breath! ’Twas enough to make a saint swear. And Grant Watermann felt anything but saintly, as he studied his father’s young widow across the deck.

The sun grew more intense with every passing day as they neared their destination in the Carolinas. But did she heed his warning to avoid the sun’s fierce, penetrating rays? Most ladies would have instantly sought refuge under a parasol, but not this one. Day after day she went a-strolling, a button or two on her bodice undone, exposing that long white throat of hers.

By the great Neptune! 'Twas more than he could stand, seeing her flaunt her seductive charms under his very nose. Aye, and probably thinking he couldn’t do a thing about it!

Squinting, he scanned her appealing curves and returned once more to all that wild chestnut hair, flirting and tangling in the wind. A glorious sight! But did she have to dry it out on deck? And that innocent, half-mocking smile. She was driving him insane with desire. Aye, well, she had better watch her step, displaying herself like that before him and his men.

Grant gritted his teeth, wishing he could stop obsessing. The little witch had lost no time abandoning her widow’s weeds, he thought bitterly. Were it not that every sighting of her stirred up painful memories of his father, he might give her something to smile about—aye, that he could, faster than a monkey shinnying up a mast pole!

He went back to calculating their position off the Carolina coast, but he couldn’t shake the image of Rosalyn Morgan Watermann, taking her morning stroll out on deck. He rued the day his father ever set eyes on the girl. And now, God curse her, he'd contracted the same malady!

With a salty oath, Grant turned abruptly to bark an order to his bo’sun.

If only he didn’t want so desperately to run his hands over those lissome curves! He’d give up a month’s worth of shrewd trading, just to wrap himself in that luxurious mantle of hair and taste her sensuous lips! He tried not to linger overly long on the potentially pleasurable attributes of his father’s widow. He should stay strictly away. But it was becoming increasingly difficult, when he wanted to explore every inch of her slender, voluptuous, untried body.

A groan came from deep in his throat, as Grant wrenched his thoughts from the spectre strolling past him on the port side aft. He would be better served by setting his sails to catch the fastest breeze to the distant shore. He and his men would need the solace of ready women when they got there. It wasn’t easy curbing normal male urges with two such curvy wenches on board.

Rosalyn took another leisurely turn around the deck. Aye, he thought wryly, the saucy wench was making a show of ignoring him. Suddenly, the veriest of demons prompting him, Grant could resist temptation no longer.

“As long as you’re aboard, you might as well be a working partner,” he called out to her.

Turning her head, she narrowed her eyes at him. One hand grasping the rigging, he looked like a big lazy cat stretching himself in the sun. Definitely not the domestic variety—oh, no, nothing so tame. Even so, he seemed in a genuinely good mood, as he grinned at her across the capstan. Rosalyn leaned against the railing and fumbled with a strand of dark hair blowing across her face. “What did you have in mind, Captain?” she asked.

Grant wouldn’t touch that question with a thirty foot spar! Instead he busied himself retying one of the ropes. “Since you’re going to profit from our voyage, perhaps you might care to learn more about the daily operations of our ship.”

“Do you mind if I make a suggestion then?”

He spread his arms with a nonchalant shrug. “Ask away.”

“For a start, Mercy and I could make the meals on board less monotonous. I have a few recipes,” she said, hoping to tempt him.

He nodded most agreeably. “No doubt, 'twould raise the men’s morale. Be careful dealing with the cook though. He can be touchy.”

“I wouldn’t dream of usurping Cook’s place,” she replied. “But I do know a little about planning menus.”

Thumbs hooked in his belt, he studied her with what appeared to be genuine interest. “Excellent. I’ll send Cook around with a list of provisions this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Captain.” She paused, suddenly shy, but wanting to respond to his gesture of goodwill. “Keeping busy will help the time pass more pleasantly.”

His eyes swept over her, and a faint smile hovered on his lips. “Aye, and ‘twill keep the crew more content. My advice to you and Miss Wallins is that you keep busy and stay out of sight. Unless you’re deliberately inviting trouble.”

A heat wave of anger swept over her, as intense as a tropical sunburn. But then she rallied. “You come back here!” she demanded, leaning into the wind, fists clenched, and wanting to give him a piece of her mind. But he was already walking away, hands in pockets, whistling another of his incredibly lewd sea chanties.

Dumbfounded, she glared after him, so shocked that she didn’t even react when a gull dumped its scat on the deck at her feet. Once again he had tricked her into believing they could be civil, if not friends. What was his problem? Did men never think about anything except satisfying their animal lust?