Chapter Eighteen

 

“To Jamaica’s lovely daughters,

We bid a fond adieu.

We'll ne’er forget the hours,

We spent in lovin’ you!”

 

Usually the crew’s lusty chanties made Rosalyn want to gnash her teeth—or lodge a complaint with the captain. But today in the bright tropical sun, with Mr. Robbins barking orders, and the men scurrying for all they were worth to haul anchor, secure cargo in the hold, and climb the rigging, she felt only a huge sense of relief to be leaving a land riddled by so much hatred and violence.

Farewell, Kingston! Finally! The moment she’d been waiting for had finally arrived!

Everything was shipshape. Third Mate Warburton had the decks and hatches gleaming with a fresh coat of varnish applied during their short stay in Jamaica.

Grant ran up the narrow ladder, having inspected the hold. “Nice work, men!” he called. Taking the wheel from Warburton, he signaled the crew to unfurl the spanker and enough lower mizzen and mainmast sails to make their departure from the bay as inconspicuous as possible.

The Fair Winds sat lower in the water now, her hold full to capacity with sugar and rum. The slow working of her timbers produced a gentle creaking, as she moved out of the harbor under calm seas. Viewed as a good omen by the men, a school of lively porpoises came sporting about the bow and sides of the gallant ship. Heading round the island, they veered north by northwest toward the Windward Passage and the currents that would carry them back to the Carolinas. Her topsails in full bloom, she caught the breeze and began to pick up speed.

Rosalyn, holding onto an overhead rope, scanned the feathery clouds, as the Fair Winds glided along under briskly crackling sails. The sight of sea birds skimming the waters and soaring on the wind brought an unexpected surge of nostalgia. Unexpectedly the sails fluttering overhead against a brilliant blue canopy of sky made her think of her father and his sail logy—and all she’d left behind in Boston.

’Twas late December as they began the return trip under highly favorable conditions. Only two days before Christmas, she realized, with a slight catch in her throat. Never had she spent the season of jollification so far from home, lifelong friends, and family. She remembered with a good deal of fondness all the familiar faces—her father, and Mrs. Cookson, and all their crotchety but well-meaning neighbors—Mrs. Avery, Mrs. Cottington, and, grudgingly, even the Widow Blankenship! Perhaps it was the season, but oh, how she wished she could spend Christmas in Boston. What fun she and her friends used to have skating on the harbor ice—probably frozen solid by now! And last year she'd helped Mrs. Cookson whip up a plum pudding and other Christmas treats. She could almost smell the aroma of baking, as she hearkened back to earlier Christmases. What joyful times they had enjoyed together! She and her father had always made a game of hiding their gifts from each other till Christmas morning.

Oh, Papa, Papa, she grieved. I miss those happier times. Life was so wonderful when Mama was still alive. Even with all the hardships in the early days, her parents had passionately loved each other. Sighing, Rosalyn looked high into the rigging, watching a pair of gulls flirt with the flapping sails. Aye, well, nothing was to be gained by looking back, or wishing things were different. She must accept her life for what it was now and press on.

She glanced about, comparing her lot now with life ashore. In doing so, she noticed that many of the sailors were her own age, some younger, most of them older. Oh, surely, with Christmas nearly upon them, they missed hearth and home as much as she did.

Of course! She recalled Mrs. McManahan’s gracious gift of three large rum fruitcakes, plus dried raisins, sweetmeats and coconuts. Why not bring a bit of cheer to the men of the Fair Winds? she thought. Gathering up her skirts, she ran back to her cabin to enlist Mercy’s help. Together they visited the galley cook and swore him to secrecy. This would be one Christmas feast the officers and crew wouldn't soon forget!

The first sign that anything out of the ordinary was taking place—right beneath his nose, in fact— came about when Grant noticed Mercy and Rosalyn scurrying back and forth all day long between their cabin and the galley. But he was much too busy to give it much thought. His main concern was keeping the men busy mending canvas and holding drills, least they ran into rough seas off the Carolina coast. Even so, his curiosity was gradually aroused by the unusual amount of activity in the galley, the flavorful aromas of baking, and the ladies constantly underfoot.

All this did tend to rouse his suspicions. But when Cook went crazy and slaughtered ten chickens and a two hundred pound tortoise that evening, he felt it was time to step in. The reckless misuse of rations could leave them in dire straits out at sea unless he didn't lay down the law.

“What the hell is going on?” he roared, invading the gallery.

Startled the cook dropped a large spoon into the giant kettle simmering over hot coals in his small galley. “Just makin’ soup, Cap’n,” he stammered. Assuming a casual air of innocence, he wiped his hands on his dirty apron. “The ladies are cookin’ up a wee surprise for the men, sir.”

Grant narrowed his eyes. “Going a bit overboard, killing ten chickens and a tortoise to make soup,” he frowned doubtfully.

“Not everything is for the soup, Cap’n. Just the turtle.”

“And the fowl? Why do you require so many?”

The cook grinned sheepishly. “Best ask the ladies, sir. ’Tis their secret!”

“Aye, I intend to do just that!”

Striding off to the cabin they had stolen from him, Grant hammered unceremoniously on the door. Inside he could hear the pair laughing hilariously. Ha-ha-ha! No doubt talking nonsense, such as only two giddy females could appreciate, he thought, scowling. What right had they to tell the cook to wring the necks of ten chickens? Ten, by God! He stormed through the door, uninvited, only to be brought up short by the sight of both ladies decorating a huge white cake.

“And what are you two wenches up to?” he demanded.

“We ladies,” Rosalyn corrected him, without pausing from her labors, and treating him as if he had as little consequence as a fly buzzing about the cabin. “We are preparing a Christmas feast.”

Grant felt his jaw drop. “You’re what?”

“Have you never heard of Christmas, Captain?” she said with a smile. Having disarmed his frontal attack, she proceeded to jab lightly. “Surely you don’t object to a bit of jollification?”

Flustered, Grant cleared his throat. “You could blow me over with a puff of wind,” he confessed. “The last time I celebrated Christmas, I was a lad of ten! My stepmother and the Old Man stuffed a goose, and my brother and sisters and I had a grand time, as I recall.”

It was the girls’ turn to look surprised. “You mean you haven’t observed Christmas in all the years since?” Mercy asked, exchanging a quick glance with Rosalyn.

“One day kind of flows into the next at sea.” Boots planted on the cabin floor, he scratched his ear and stared at the huge iced cake they had decorated with sprinkled coconut. “I guess I just forgot,” he admitted, clearly dumbfounded.

“Then it’s fortunate that Mercy and I did not forget,” Rosalyn informed him, “because tomorrow we’re having plum pudding, raisin pie, cookies, fruitcake, plus this lovely coconut cake.”

“And the best baked chicken and dumplings, yams and mashed potatoes and carrots you ever ate,” chimed in Mercy. “And for the first course—turtle soup!”

Again his jaw fell slack, making Rosalyn burst out laughing. “Surprise!”

“I confess I never expected all this when I came barging in here. I beg your pardon! Your kindness will warm the hearts of every man on board,” he said.

Mercy bobbed a pert curtsy. “Thank you, Captain! We aim to please.”

“It’s a wonderful gesture. Thank you, ladies.” Casting a longing glance at the beautiful cake, he ducked his head to avoid a low beam and exited the cabin.

Accustomed as she was to his sarcasm, Rosalyn hadn’t expected such a tame response. She gazed pensively at his retreating back, thinking how difficult his childhood must have been, and how different from her own. Clearly there was much she didn’t know about her partner.

“Can you imagine?” Mercy mused. “No Christmas since he was a lad.”

“It pleases me all the more that we’re making the effort,” Rosalyn said. “Who knows when any of these men last spent Christmas at home?” She hugged Mercy happily. “And to think, I woke up yesterday feeling sorry for myself!”

Her friend squeezed her back. “We may not have roast goose, but it will be the best Christmas I’ve had in years!”

“I know what would make it perfect,” Rosalyn hinted. “Why don’t you and Charles get married?” She blushed. “When I woke up last night, I found you gone. Why not make it legal?”

“He’s a good man. I think I love him, only—”

“You think? Why, Mercy Wallins! Don’t you know?”

“I suppose I do. But sometimes I can’t help wondering what I ever did to deserve him.” Her eyes, glistening with moisture, met Rosalyn’s across the cake they were frosting together.

“You’re a good person, Mercy!” Rosalyn asserted. “What’s all this about having to deserve his love? Just be glad he loves you and wants to do the honorable thing by you.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Mercy sighed. “Only when I think of all the men I’ve known—”

“You can’t change the past, Mercy, but you have your whole life ahead of you! Marry him, and make a new life together.”

“My gracious! I never thought that you, of all people, would be so full of advice!” Mercy joked. “Besides, his cabin is so small,” she prevaricated

Rosalyn drew in a breath excitedly. “If you and Charles tie the knot tomorrow, I’ll give you this cabin! I could take Charles’s,” she said impulsively, hoping to aid the two lovers.

“Rosalyn!” Mercy gasped. “You forget yourself. This is Captain Watermann’s cabin. He may have stepped aside for you, but it would be wrong for the ship’s carpenter and his wife to move in here. No! Absolutely not!” She shook her head vehemently.

“And it seemed like such a good idea,” said Rosalyn, looking downcast.

Mercy hugged her. “Thanks, anyway. At times I think you’re more romantic than I am.”

“Don’t be silly.” Rosalyn cocked her head and gazed at their creation with pride. “Now let’s put this cake where the mice can’t get to it before the celebration tomorrow.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next day the entire crew paused in their labors to enjoy their Christmas repast together on the main deck under balmy, tropical skies. Charles had made a long table out of spare planks to accommodate everyone, and with such a feast laid before them, everyone including the Captain was in an unusually talkative mood.

“I guess you might say I was a headstrong lad,” Grant admitted in response to Rosalyn’s question.

“What a mean stepmother, to send you off to sea when you were barely twelve,” she smiled, as she passed around a second platter of fried chicken.

“'Twas the best thing that could have happened to me. I was hard to handle, with my Old Man always away at sea.” Grant bit into a drumstick, at the same time commandeering a slice of rum cake as it was passed around. “It forced my father to step in and make me toe the line.”

“And now you’re following in his footsteps.”

“The man was a genius! Taught me nearly everything I know about the sea and ships.” His face broke into a handsome grin. “But when it came to inviting trouble, nobody could get the best of my Old Man. He was a wild man—on land or sea. Always in the thick of a fight.”

Rosalyn laughed. “Ah, so you do take after him!”

“In some ways perhaps. But I don’t go looking for trouble the way he did.”

“I can hardly believe that, after your daring rescue.” Rosalyn glanced at him, her eyes softly shining. He seemed different somehow today; more outgoing, though he still had that lean and hungry look, and his eyes still had that disconcerting way of drifting over her person.

Whatever his true feelings, he only laughed and shrugged off her praise. “I got a little carried away,” he said with a modest chuckle. “Once a fight starts, I do know how to finish it!”

“I am certainly glad you do.” She blushed, thinking what might have happened if he hadn’t come to her rescue in time.

He set down his tankard of ale and gazed at her, his hazel eyes serious. “First, let me say how grateful I am for all you and Mercy—and Cook—have done to make this fine Christmas dinner today. But—” and he chose his words carefully, “—I still feel like we’ve been courting trouble since the day you came aboard the Fair Winds. Don’t get me wrong, Rosalyn. There is much I like and admire about you—” Hoping to sidestep another blow-up, especially since he probably already had both feet sunk in quicksand, he took a deep breath and forged ahead: “I am still in a quandary as to where you fit in the grand scheme of things.”

“Really!” she exclaimed. “You make it sound as if I am but a piece of equipment on board this ship, something you can just set on a shelf and forget until it suits a man’s need.” The words were barely out of her mouth, when Rosalyn realized how her remark might be misconstrued. She clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late to take it back.

Grant leaned in close, his tawny eyes dancing with mischief. “I assure you, every piece of equipment on this ship is put to good use on a daily basis. ’Tis a pity I can’t say the same about you!”

“Damn you, Grant Watermann!” she whispered, wishing she could brain him for his impertinence. Too late she regretted being wedged between him and the bo’sun at the crowded table. “All I can say is I’m glad I’m not lashed to this ship like a piece of rope, or a hook, or a belaying pin!” she said hotly.

“Alas, fair Rosalyn,” he drawled. “My father’s last will and testament has us hog-tied together, like two pigs in a trough, whether we like it or not.”

“Only until we get to England. But no farther!” she vowed, and half-rose from the table, hoping to put an end to the argument.

“Who knows? A lot can happen before then,” he grinned, and gave her a bold wink.

She shuddered. “It already feels like an eternity.”

Just then a gust of wind stirred in the topsails. Grant stood up and gave Garrison and his men a high-sign. “Men, it’s time to get back to work. Ladies, thank you. This was the finest spread we’ve ever enjoyed!” Saluting the two young women and Cook with a hearty cheer, he and his crew drained their tankards of ale and filched the few remaining cookies, thus bringing the festivities to an end.

Mercy stared at the long table piled with dirty dishes, discarded chicken bones, and soiled linens. “And now for the clean-up,” she sighed.

“Time to roll up our sleeves,” Rosalyn agreed, suiting action to words.

“Becker and Morton, give the ladies a hand with the dishes,” Grant ordered. “And Charles, if you will break down the table?” He bowed politely to Mercy and Rosalyn. “Ladies, it was grand while it lasted.”

“Mercy and I are quite capable of doing the clean-up,” Rosalyn assured him.

“Oh, I only meant they should help clear away and swab the decks. I leave the washing of dishes to you charming ladies.” And turning aside, Grant called to the men scrambling up the rigging to unfurl the topsails, so they could pick up speed.

Rosalyn and Mercy made short work of carrying serving bowls and dishes to the galley. Then while Cook heated water and put away leftovers, and Mercy scraped plates, Rosalyn picked up a broom and returned to sweep the deck. As she tossed bones and scraps into the sea, a tall shadow suddenly blocked the sun, causing her to shade her eyes with her hand.

“We need to talk, Rosalyn.” Grant had a trace of urgency in his voice.

She raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise. “Oh? I was of the opinion that we already had.”

“No, the wind came up and ended a dead calm. We sail at the command of the winds; you know that.” He looked at her intently. “But I still mean to finish what I was going to say.”

“Surely that’s not necessary, Grant,” she said calmly. “Though sometimes I wonder if you even like me.” She bit her lips and took in a deep breath. “We never seem to get along.”

“That’s my point exactly, Rosalyn. We cannot go on fighting like two caged tigers. How about a truce?” he suggested, taking her hand in his.

She gave a nod. “I agree. It’s foolish, all this bickering. I really don’t know why we do it.” Blushing, she stared dejectedly at their joined hands.

“I think you know why,” he started to say, but just then two sailors began to swab the deck, so they had to move. “Carry on, men,” Grant said, moving her out of the way. With the winds picking up, he seemed distracted by the demands of ship and crew.

Rosalyn, too, felt a mutual desire for a truce, yet clearly the time was all wrong for resolving their differences. “Grant, you'd better take advantage of this good weather.” She wet her lips, gazing up at him earnestly.

“Aye,” he grinned. “We shall fight again another time.”

“Fight! Is that all you ever think about?”

“No, not all.” He kissed her hand and released it, preparing to leave her. “Go now to your pots and pans, fair lady.” He paused. “But before I forget—” His tawny eyes glittered like a friendly tiger’s, sending tingling shockwaves coursing through her body. “Fear not, my lady. Your secret is safe with me. Though I am gratified to know you’re still saving yourself for me!”

“What?” Suddenly his wicked grin reminded her of Mercy’s threat to divulge her narrow escape from rape. “If we were in private, Captain,” Rosalyn whispered furiously, “I would give you the proper dressing down that remark deserves!”

He raised his eyebrows, as if eager to test her bold claim. “Indeed? My cabin, or yours? Oh, I forgot! You already occupy my cabin in true pirate fashion. Though I can arrange to take it back anytime—and you along with it, Mrs. Watermann!”

Eyes flashing, Rosalyn lunged at him, her hair tangling in the wind. “You, sir, are despicable!” she said, shaking her fist at him. “I would never—”

“No?” He caught her before she slipped and lost her footing on the wet deck. She stood there struggling in his arms, her eyes promising him hellfire and brimstone, which only seemed to amuse him more. He dropped a light kiss on the tip of her nose and released her. “What a pity. But don’t worry. I promise not to put any sudden moves on you. Next time, my sweet, you will have to make the first move.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Captain! I promise you now: It will be a snowy day in July, before that ever happens!”

“Fie, my lady, such a fiery temper! Well, should that day ever come,” he laughed heartily, “I look forward to reminding you of your reckless words.”

“Ooh!” she sputtered. There was no winning an argument with such an impossible man! Frustrated, she turned her back on him and tapped her toe.

“I shall deal with you later, spitfire,” he promised. Giving her a jaunty salute, he bounded up the steps to the quarterdeck and, taking the wheel, set sail into a truly spectacular sunset.