Her stomach growled as she went below and wearily searched for some place to hide. She’d been loath to venture into the unfamiliar ship amid five hundred strangers, but Treynor had left her no choice. She couldn’t sit and wait in his cabin, tied to his trunk like a cow, until the captain sent her back to St. Ives. She had to reach London and have her marriage annulled. And the only way she was going to do that was by disappearing until they reached port.
An increase in activity, evidenced by the tramping of numerous feet and the hum of voices, sent fear prickling down Jeannette’s spine. Treynor had to have told the captain about her by now. Were they searching for her? Would they postpone their departure on her account?
Surely a runaway wife was insignificant when compared to the mission of a frigate, especially during war.
But her husband was a very powerful man….
She turned a corner and discovered the steward’s store. A glimpse at the shelves and floor revealed marked barrels of dried peas, hardtack, and slabs of salt pork and preserved beef. A man with his back to her took stock of these commodities while Jeannette stared with longing at stacked rounds of cheese and the fresh bread, dainties reserved for the officers. She would have traded a fortune in gold for just one slice of cheese or even a crust of bread. But, afraid of drawing the man’s attention, she forced herself to move on.
Not far from the steward’s larder, she eased past several carpenters storing their planking and fittings. Staying in the shadows, she hoped to go unnoticed amid the constant motion around her.
A few minutes later, grunting sounds drew her attention to a manger filled with pigs. Two men stood on the far side of the pen, pouring slop into a trough. They were nearly finished—soon they would leave.
Making it a good place to hide.
She hung back until the men took their buckets and left, then sallied forth. Certainly on their first day out of port the animals would require little attention. And this early in the voyage the pens were relatively clean.
Or so she hoped.
After scrambling over the wall, she burrowed beneath the straw along the edge farthest from the trough and cradled her head in her arms. By turning her face into the fabric of Treynor’s shirt, she did what she could to block out the stench and tried not to think about the manure the straw was meant to sweeten.
The hogs grunted as they ate. They were sure to smell her and come rooting around her hiding place, perhaps even step on her. But for the moment she was alone, and even the fear of being trampled by pigs couldn’t keep her from falling asleep.
* * *
Treynor was furious, at himself and Jeannette. He’d taken a risk to help her, and she’d ruined their odds by disappearing from his cabin. Now Cunnington or any of the others could find her as easily as he could.
Perhaps he had one small advantage: They were looking for a woman.
He headed around the carpenter’s walk, hoping Jeannette had somehow managed to hide herself in the narrow passageway just below the waterline. Used mostly by the carpenters to check for leaks, it was deserted now, which would make getting her back to his cabin easier. But what were the chances of finding her in the first place he looked?
None, evidently. There was no trace of her.
Treynor completed his search and headed out, startled to see Cunnington blocking his way.
“No fair maidens?” the first lieutenant asked, evidently coming to inspect the carpenter’s walk himself.
Treynor shook his head, now glad he hadn’t found Jeannette. Towing Jean Vicard behind him might have looked curious. Treynor wanted nothing to connect Jeannette with Vicard, for once such a thought passed through Cunnington’s head, the truth would be obvious. “Not yet.”
“Have you checked the hold?”
“Aye, briefly.” He lied to discourage the first lieutenant from taking any interest in the belly of the ship, just in case. “I doubt a baroness could survive the smell of the place.”
A flicker of distaste passed over Cunnington’s features before his face twisted into a taunting jeer. “Did you descend to the bilge?”
“Of course.”
“I admire your strength. Your back cannot have healed so soon.”
Treynor smiled. “My injuries are nothing to concern yourself with. A woman could have caused more damage,” he replied and walked away.
“Lieutenant Treynor!” Mrs. Hawker called after him, hustling down the companionway to meet him.
From behind, Cunnington hissed something about Treynor’s low birth. Treynor heard the word bastard but, refusing to let Cunnington bait him, he focused on the bosun’s wife. “What is it?”
She waited until Cunnington had stalked away before speaking, then glanced around as though she was still afraid they would be overheard. “I ‘ave the clothes ye need.”
“Thank you. Put them in my cabin, please.”
He turned to continue his search, but stopped when he felt her hand on his arm. “I ‘ope ye know what yer doin’, sir. When ye came to my cabin ter ask for the clothes, ye said nothin’ about the lass bein’ a baron’s wife.”
With the number of officers searching the ship, Treynor wasn’t surprised Mrs. Hawker had already learned Jeannette’s true identity. Nothing escaped the bosun—and the minute Mr. Hawker knew something, Mrs. Hawker knew it better.
“Makes no difference.”
“Aye, it does! Now that the captain an’ Cunnington know about ‘er, you ‘ave to give ‘er up.”
“Why?”
“Because ye can’t ‘ide her forever. Think what it would do to yer career if ye was to be caught doin’ what yer doin’! Cunnington would finally ‘ave a serious complaint against ye!”
Treynor had long known that Mrs. Hawker felt motherly toward him, but he didn’t have time to be waylaid now. “I am not planning to hide her forever. Soon the
Tempest
will be too far from Plymouth to turn back when the captain realizes she’s on board. That could buy her a month, maybe more, depending on the war. She might even be able to get off at another port.”
Mrs. Hawker propped fisted hands on her hips. “An’ if yer caught?”
“We only need a few days. We can manage that easily enough, but not if Knuthson or Cunnington or someone else gets to her before I do.”
Lines appeared in Mrs. Hawker’s forehead. “It makes no sense for ye ter take the risk.”
And Treynor couldn’t explain it. He had a weakness for a pretty face, that was all. He knew he should wash his hands of her, put an end to the trouble she’d caused him. But he hated to send her back to a man who would crush her fiery spirit.
“For some reason, she’s afraid of the baron.”
“And ye feel obliged to play the gallant?” The older woman regarded him shrewdly. “But it’s none of yer affair.”
“It is now.”
Mrs. Hawker heaved a sigh and released him. “Most stowaways try ter get as far below as possible,” she said grudgingly.
“I shall begin at the front hold,” he said, but he doubted the delicate Jeannette would go below—or stay there if she found it. Everything drained into the ballast. On some French vessels, dead men were buried there. Even without human decay, the ballast reeked, awash in bilge. Although the
Tempest
had been fumigated while they were in port, the fumes caused by sprinkling vinegar and brimstone over braziers of hot coals often made one sicker than the original stench.
But the baroness had to be somewhere. Could be anywhere. Which meant he had to look everywhere.
With a conspiratorial wink at the bosun’s wife, he hurried away, shifting in his jacket to keep his shirt from sticking to his back. Part of him was stubborn enough to let Jeannette face the consequences of her actions alone, as Mrs. Hawker evidently thought he should, but another part—a stronger part—urged him to continue looking.
The beat of a sea chantey rose like the pounding of distant drums. All hands were gathered around the capstan, hauling in the anchor so they could set sail. The chanteyman’s verses changed according to his whim, often making good-natured fun of the officers. Treynor smiled to himself when the men joined in for the chorus. He wondered whether his fellow officers would now give up the search and if Knuthson and Pratt had found anything.
Ignoring the lure of the song that beckoned him back to his duty, he headed to a narrow room at the heart of the ship where the spare sails were folded and piled high. But a thorough search of the area left Treynor as empty-handed and even more irritable than before. When he got hold of Jeannette, he’d turn her over his knee and warm her backside as she deserved.
The anchor cable was stored next door to the sails—another good hiding place if they were at sea. For now, Treynor doubted Jeannette would go where men would be coiling the wet, heavy hemp cable on the slatted floor. So he passed the cable room and headed to the gangway that would take him down to the hold.
Before long, Lieutenant Cunnington would surely give up the search to supervise the deck, he thought. The bosun’s mate would pipe, “All hands, up hammocks,” at promptly seven-thirty, and the rest of the crew would go topside. After they stowed the last of the hammocks, the captain would appear at eight bells. Then Bosun Hawker would pipe breakfast for the crew, after which they’d return to their duty as the new watch came up, bringing bags and chests with them from the lower decks to allow for cleaning.
They’d not get much farther into the day before Cunnington or someone else missed Jean Vicard. The “boy” had to make an appearance on deck today, and possibly tomorrow as well. Then the truth could be discovered.
As the baron’s wife, Jeannette would be protected from the rank and file. Cunnington would look the fool and repent having tried to flog her, Cruikshank would treat her like a highly-favored guest, despite the inconvenience, and Treynor’s own career would no longer hang in the balance.
Until then, however, anything could happen.
* * *
The straw made Jeannette itch miserably. She burrowed deeper, trying to fall asleep again, but the scratchy manger and her complaining stomach allowed her no respite. Somehow, she had to find something to eat and drink.
Shifting carefully, she listened for voices or footfalls before poking her head out of her hiding place.
The sun was up. Its rays poured into the ship’s portholes, bright enough to float dust motes. The pigs had settled beside the trough, but her movements gained their attention. One stood on its short legs and grunted, then came to investigate.
Jeannette wasn’t particularly fearful of animals, but coming eye to eye with a pig made her nervous. She nearly burst from her hiding place—but the sound of someone approaching made her sink back into the shelter of the straw.
The pig came closer, rooting around her head and sniffing the air. Hungry for more slop, no doubt. Or her. She bit back a scream as its snout wet her cheek.
Queasy, she tried to twist away without making any noise.
The footfalls passed and receded without pause. Cautiously easing out of her hiding place, she sent the pig scurrying.
Bits of straw clung to her hair, Treynor’s shirt and Dade’s breeches. She brushed herself off, climbed over the wall and headed in the direction of the steward’s cabin. She knew nowhere else to find food. According to Mrs. Hawker, the men ate in small groups, each taking a turn to be mess cook. But she dared not go among them.
The steward’s cabin was locked. Jeannette shoved against the door to see if it would give way.
Unfortunately, her puny efforts netted nothing more than a thump loud enough to wake the dead and a possible bruise on her hip.
Voices rang down the corridor, causing her to jump into the shadow of an adjoining hallway as some sailors trudged past. When they were gone, she tried forcing the steward’s door again, but to no avail. She was just about to give up when she caught sight of a dead fish lying across a sack of biscuits not far away.
Bread of sorts. Probably old bread but old bread was better than nothing.
Blessing the hand of providence and being careful to avoid the carcass of the fish, she stuffed her pockets with the hard, round disks and hurried off to find a place where she could enjoy them.
After descending another deck, she found herself in an arsenal, among containers of priming-irons, wads, shot, and various pieces of hardware used in the rigging and sails. Too bad she hadn’t found the reserves of beef, pork, and other food—although how she’d get into such barrels she didn’t know.
A couple of sailors worked in the dark, cavernous hold, hammering wedges between barrels to keep them from rolling.
Jeannette hovered just outside the light shed by their lantern. Their presence gave her a modicum of peace. This would have been a frightening place to be alone.
Several crates were stacked nearby. She climbed up and set about eating.
Her stomach rebelled at the taste; she’d never tried the likes of the hard old biscuits before. But they were food. Determined not to starve, she chewed and swallowed—and nearly screamed when someone at her elbow murmured, “Do ye ‘ave any more?”
“What?” Jeannette whispered, turning toward the voice that had come out of the darkness. “Who are you?”
“Don’t matter, does it? I’m ‘idin’ down ‘ere, same as ye. Only I’m ‘ungry. I could ‘ave sworn ye were eatin’ somethin’ a minute ago.”
Judging from the voice, it was a woman. “I have got a little bread.”
Whoever it was moved beside her. Then a distinctive odor filled Jeannette’s nostrils—a combination of sweat, dirt, and cheap perfume. She recognized the stench as one she had smelled on the docks at Plymouth. Was this woman a prostitute?
A hand reached out and touched her, and Jeannette steeled herself against pulling away from the faceless stranger. Whoever it was was hungry. She handed over what remained of her supper as the sailors finished their work and moved away.
When their light was gone, the blackness became complete. Jeannette imagined herself as Jonah, lost inside the whale. She hugged her knees to her chest, wondering if she could tolerate the cold, damp darkness.
“Where’d ye find these?” her new friend asked. “I wish I ‘ad a dozen, at least.”