Think
, she ordered herself.
Lifting her chin, Jeannette stopped fighting for her freedom. “I can walk on my own,
m’sieu
, if you please.”
Cunnington didn’t release her, but her cooperation caused him to relax his grip. They strode past the mainmast, then Jeannette jerked away and plunged into the milling crowd.
She heard Cunnington curse as she darted between bodies that reeked of perspiration and unwashed clothing. Dodging coils of rope, the last of the bumboat stalls and crates, and several of the goats that roamed freely on deck, she charged forward, where the crowd was thicker. With any luck, she could disappear from sight.
Depending on the weather, London might be less than a two-day trip by sea. Two days was not so long to stow away on a frigate.
“Stop that lad! Grab him!” Cunnington shouted as the startled cries of those he shoved out of his way resounded behind her.
Jeannette’s blood turned to fire, heating her body until sweat ran freely. She was losing him. Her nimble feet and small size gave her the advantage, and she was using both to weave in and out, widening the distance between them. The sound of his voice grew faint, blending with the general tumult and giving her hope—until her foot landed in something soft and wet and slid out from beneath her.
The stench of dung rose to Jeannette’s nostrils as she landed hard on her backside.
The jolt befuddled her brain. She shook her head to clear it and tried to scramble to her feet, but a wall of people cut her off, finally moved to action by the lieutenant’s cries.
Cunnington came to stand over her, his nostrils flaring. The chase had loosened his queue, but he smoothed his hair back into place and brushed off his uniform. “You will pay for that,” he growled.
She stared up at him with all the defiance she could muster. She cursed him in French, but she had little doubt that he understood.
He lowered his voice to a promising whisper. “You will take your lashes like a man, little frog, tied over a barrel, nice and tight. The bosun’s mate knows how.”
Jeannette almost blurted that she wasn’t a man and would take no lashes at all, but she managed to hold her tongue. Surely the captain would come and put a stop to this madness. Cruikshank had seemed both fair and kind.
Carefully avoiding any contact with the dung in which she’d landed, Cunnington pulled Jeannette to her feet and began dragging her to the closest grate. But Bosun Hawker stepped out from among the crowd and placed a hand on her arm, forcing Cunnington to stop long enough to address him.
“What’s ‘appened? What’s the boy done?”
The lieutenant’s eyelids lowered halfway in a look of haughty contempt. “He tried to desert.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Then I will state it simply, Bosun Hawker. Evidently you care less for your new servant than I was led to believe, or you would have done your duty and stopped this piece of French scum from running off in the first place.”
Cunnington glanced meaningfully at the hold Hawker had on Jeannette’s arm. The bosun released her, but kept pace with them despite the buffeting crowd.
“‘E wanted to come aboard,” he pointed out. “Why would I feel the need to watch such a one?”
Cunnington relinquished Jeannette into the hands of a brawny, stubble-faced sailor. “Nonetheless, he cannot disappear whenever he likes. He is in His Majesty’s service now.”
“But—” The bosun looked at Jeannette, and the pity in his eyes made her yearn for the relative safety of his cabin. “Mrs. Hawker was a mite hard on ye, lad, but she meant ye no ‘arm. What led ye to the devil’s mischief?”
Jeannette could only shake her head as the crowd closed around her like a fist. She couldn’t explain; there was no time, anyway.
“Make his lash, Hawker. If you want to help. I am going to speak to the captain.”
Mention of the lash caused panic to rise in Jeannette’s throat like bile. Surely the captain would not approve. “Please! I am not who you think—”
Her captor’s thick fingers jerked her so hard her teeth clacked together. “Enough. Ye want more trouble? Do ye?”
They weren’t listening. The crowd was too loud, Cunnington’s hurry too great. As the first lieutenant turned away, she opened her mouth to—
“What is going on here?”
Her scream still stuck in her throat, Jeannette almost fell as she was released. Then the crowd parted, and Lieutenant Treynor came to stand at the forefront, a flush to his face revealing some strong emotion simmering beneath his calm demeanor.
“Do I understand this correctly, Lieutenant Cunnington?” He caught the first lieutenant before he could leave. “Do you mean to have this boy flogged before we so much as leave port?”
Lieutenant Cunnington’s lips lifted in a snarl. “Do not interfere.”
Jeannette felt Treynor’s blue eyes flick over her and blinked hard to hold back the tears that threatened. Could he help her?
Would
he?
Treynor lowered his voice so that only those closest to them could hear. “Is this really necessary? I think the boy has learned his lesson.”
Jeannette saw the same tic in Treynor’s cheek she had witnessed earlier, when he and the captain spoke of Cunnington, and felt the deep-seated enmity between the two men.
“Everyone knows there is no discipline in the navy without the lash,” Cunnington replied. “I think it is time to remind the entire crew.”
“What have we here?”
The crowd shifted again. This time Captain Cruikshank emerged, his white eyebrows drawn into a single, furry line. “Cunnington, what are you about?”
Cunnington’s attention shifted reluctantly from Treynor to the captain. “I witnessed this boy trying to flee, sir. At a time when we need every able body we can get, I feel it imperative that he be brought to quick justice. The appropriate punishment is outlined in the Articles of War—”
“I know the Articles, Mr. Cunnington,” the captain said.
“This is a young boy, only thirteen,” Treynor chimed in, appealing to the captain now, too. “And he is new to the navy. With that in mind, surely there must be some other more fitting punishment.”
“This from a man who takes a party to shore and comes back with less than the number he started with,” Cunnington added derisively.
The captain raised a hand to silence them both, but Jeannette could tell by his expression that he’d already decided against Treynor. Whether her fate had been determined more by Cruikshank’s desire to prove his point—that he would not interfere between his lieutenants again—or by the appropriateness of her punishment, she didn’t know.
“After Dade’s disappearance, I think it time to remind the men of the consequences of such actions,” he said. “We cannot have them running off every time we put in.” To Treynor, and loud enough for the others, he added, “Discipline is inherent in the smooth functioning of any ship. Vicard might be a boy, but the rules apply to all.”
“Twelve lashes, then?” Cunnington asked.
“Ten,” the captain replied. “And for God’s sake, use some discretion.”
“Indeed, Captain.” Cunnington gave Treynor a gloating smile. “Let’s clear the deck.”
“Captain,” Treynor said, but they both moved away as he spoke and Jeannette could no longer hear what was said. The captain shook his head, listened some more, shook his head a second time. As they disappeared from view the deck erupted once again in chaos.
An hour crawled by and not a soul dared talk to her. Following that initial eruption of energy, a strange hush had fallen over the ship. Jeannette needed nothing to bind her in place-her fear was more than enough-but the burly sailor stayed with her. Every once in a while, she shot him a glance. Could she survive a lashing without giving away her gender? She didn’t see how…
“I have prevailed.” Carrying a baize bag, Cunnington returned with another sailor. “Meet the bosun’s mate. He will deliver your punishment. But because of your young age, we shall use a light cat. And I just happen to have one.”
The bosun’s mate hesitated when Cunnington shoved the bag holding the whip at him.
“Do as I say!” Cunnington snapped. “Or you will be next. This is captain’s order.”
“Aye, sir.” The mate glanced at Jeannette with sorrow in his eyes, but took the whip.
“That’s it,” Cunnington said in approval, then chucked Jeannette under the chin. “You will be fine. Only ten lashes. ‘Tis nothing.”
Fighting tears, Jeannette looked around for Treynor. He’d joined the group, but he wasn’t saying or doing anything to help her. She couldn’t even tell what he was thinking. His expression was an inscrutable mask.
Cunnington tossed him a gloating smile. “Lieutenant, you may record the proceedings and read the relevant section of law aloud for the edification of all. Bosun—” he turned to single Hawker out of the crowd that was forming “—pipe the men to the deck and maintain order. The rules must be observed.”
Jeannette heard a small, fearful sound and realized it was her own voice. She tried to shrink away, but it did her no good. The burly sailor had too tight a hold.
“Remove her breeches,” Cunnington said.
God, no! She turned beseeching eyes on Treynor. “Sir?”
The man grabbed hold of her trousers, but he didn’t get any farther than that before the second lieutenant stepped forward. He didn’t drag her away from the man who held her tight, as Jeannette wished, but Cunnington didn’t appreciate the interruption even still.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Treynor began unbuttoning his own coat. “Dade’s disappearance was my fault, not the lad’s,” he said, his words terse, his movements quick and decided. “I will take the lashes.”
Cunnington’s jaw sagged. He turned to the captain, who was just now lumbering up from behind, as did everyone within hearing distance.
“I suggest you let the boy take his due,” Cruikshank said. “You will have twice as many if you don’t.” Resolute, he squinted at Treynor, waiting for his response. Despite his words, Jeannette could tell the captain hoped the lieutenant would listen and back down.
But if Treynor understood Cruikshank’s wishes, he did not heed them. Instead, he untied his stock and removed it along with his shirt before stepping up to the grate. “Then I will have twice as many,” he said.
Cruikshank shook his head. “You are a stubborn man, Lieutenant Treynor, but so am I.” With a nod to Cunnington, he turned and left.
A satisfied smile spread over Cunnington’s face as he motioned to the bosun’s mate to do what was needed.
A gasp went through those who watched as Cunnington sent someone to his cabin for a sturdier cat-o-nine, one intended for a man, not a boy. Meanwhile, the bosun’s mate tied Treynor to the grate.
“No!” Jeannette had been as quickly forgotten as she was released—but she had to speak up before it was too late. “You cannot flog him!”
Treynor looked heavenward. His broad back already showed an abundance of scars—previous lashings, swordfights. It looked as though he’d even taken a ball. Jeannette had no doubt he knew what to expect. His muscles bulged beneath his skin, rigid with tension, and he clenched his teeth.
“Listen to me! Please!” Lunging forward, she grasped the bosun’s mate before he could finish securing the lieutenant. “I can stop this if only—”
Cunnington yanked her away. “You can stop nothing. Stand aside, or I will ask the captain to double his lashes.”
Treynor scowled back at her and before she could utter another syllable, a rough hand clamped down over her mouth. Twisting, she tried to pry it away, but whoever held her pulled her back through the crowd.
“Will ye get ‘im double, ye little fool?” Mrs. Hawker snarled.
Jeannette continued to squirm, trying to fight off the much heavier and stronger bosun’s wife. She had to gain sufficient air to cry out the truth. She had to stop the beating before it began. Except she couldn’t so much as breathe. Kicking and flailing, she fought madly as the courier returned with the whip. Then the sound of the rope thongs cracked on the air and Jeannette froze, waiting in agony for Lieutenant Treynor to cry out. But the only sound she heard was the cat singing through air again, striking flesh.
Bosun Hawker came to assist his wife. Between the two of them, Jeannette could no longer move or speak. They held her still, ignoring the tears that coursed down her cheeks.
Treynor’s sandy-colored head fell lower with each bite of the whip. Finally, it dipped below the height of the silent crowd, and she could see him no more.
“Look at that,” Mrs. Hawker whispered to her husband.
Jeannette cringed inside.
“I told ye this lad was up to no good, but ye ‘ad to let ‘im go.”
The bosun didn’t respond, at least to his wife. He stood, still restraining Jeannette and shaking his head in apparent disgust. “I ‘ope you’re ‘appy, lad,” he said at last. “That’s a fine man ye earned a beatin’.” With a nod to Mrs. Hawker, they dragged her below.
* * *
His back was on fire. Lieutenant Treynor lay on his side in his dark cabin nearly eight hours after his whipping, trying to ignore the pain by counting the number of years it had been since his last personal encounter with the whip. As a boy one year older than the slight Jean Vicard, he had been sailing under Captain Edward Hamilton, a man known for his brutality.
A man not unlike Lieutenant Cunnington. Treynor’s muscles tensed as his mind’s eye conjured his superior officer’s face. The first lieutenant was a cruel man, and the money and connections that provided him his rank gave him the opportunity to abuse others without reproach.
With a groan, Treynor shifted in his hammock. Twenty lashes was mild punishment compared with the eighty to one hundred most men received. Those who were flogged around the fleet received as many as three hundred, but they usually died.
Still, twenty lashes left an impression. The trick was to give the pain no audience.
A knock at the door made Treynor frown. Who might want him at this time of night and in his current state? The doctor had already rubbed salve on his back. The cook had brought him a bowl of broth for his supper. He wasn’t due on deck until morning….