Miss Whittier Makes a List (14 page)

Pushed along by the prevailing winds, the
Dissuade
sailed steadily on a course toward England. Hannah peeled great quantities of dead skin from her arms and legs and as far as she could reach on her back, and admired her golden tan, which was
better
than despairing over the loss of a ladylike complexion. She did not miss the confinement of her Quaker bonnet, with its long wings, like blinders on a
carriage
horse. The abandonment of corsets she suffered without a backward glance.

There were even moments, sitting on the deck crosslegged and barefooted, when she was perfectly at peace with the life that had been thrust on her. True, her first crunched weevil had sent her flying topside to lean over the railing, to the amusement of the junior officers
’
mess. She still held her breath until Captain Spark had taken his sip of his first morning cup of coffee, and pronounced it fit to drink.
Wh
en she lay in her hammock at night, swinging idly over the great gun below her, she still agonized over what her parents must be going through. For a few moments, she would be wild to be home, and then the moment would pass, and she would remember the pleasure of the wind on her face, and the feel of the white deck under her bare toes.

She entered into the life of the commerce raider as far as she was able, secretly pleased that Captain Spark found her useful. After that first gunnery practice, when she had peeled enough potatoes to get back into Cookie
’
s reluctant good graces, she had been summoned on deck by a peremptory command from the captain.

Hannah hurried up the gangway. The captain pointed to the afterhatch and she sat down, mystified. He nodded then
, and
the bosun
’
s mate, grinning from ear to ear, deposited a large pile of old rope at her feet. Puzzled, she looked up to the quarterdeck.

“
That, Miss Whittier, is oakum. It will be your task to separate the strands and place them in that sack.
”

Doubtfully, she took up a piece of rope and began to unwind it.

“
Excellent!
”
Captain Spark said.
“
When you have finished, there is always more. You ould be amazed at the amount of rope we go through.
”

“
Captain, tell me ...
”
she began as she worked.

“
What do we use it for?
”
he asked, finishing her thought.
“
When we spring a leak, we patch it with oakum. It has a thousand uses, I suppose, but that is the one we are fondest of.
”

She found herself observing Captain Spark from her usual perch on the aft hatch as she sat, day after day, picking oakum. He never sat down on deck, or even leaned against the railing, but ramrod straight, paced his quarterdeck, king of all he stared at. His eyes were often on the sails, and even more often on the brooding cannon below on the gun deck, which were exercised more and more often, the closer they came to
England
, and the dangers of a world at war for twenty years.

The hint of war came rushing to her the first morning they ran out the guns and practiced with live ammunition. Her
heart
in her mouth, she made herself small against the angle of the main deck and the quarterdeck and watched in terrified fascination as the guns boomed, the ship heeled to one side with the force of the discharge, then righted itself.

The men worked in silence for the most part, so they could hear the shouted orders of Lieutenant Lansing, who commanded the gun deck. There was only the screech of the gun trucks as the cannon were wheeled out to fire, and back to reload, and the sound of the explosion. The broadsides were painful almost, with the starboard guns and then the po
rt
guns roaring off together. Even worse, to Hannah
’
s way of thinking, was when
Lansing
ordered his crews to fire as soon as they reloaded. The continuous roll of thunder as the g
uns belched fire set her whole bod
y vibrating and her ears tingling in agony.

While the guns were roaring and the ship was he
eling crazily from side to side,
the lieutenant of Marines sent his detachment of men into the riggings with their muskets, where they clung to the lines, aimed, and fired at imaginary Frenchmen.

Accidents were an inevitable
part
of practice
—
powder boys tripping on the gun ring bolts as they ran with the cloth bags of powder; fingers crushed from a moment
’
s carelessness in the hypnotic rhythm of swab, load, tamp, and fire. Andrew
Lease
was always there, a canvas bag of
rudimentary medications and bandages slung over his shoulder, to help those in pain on the gun deck. He worked swiftly d surely, his face set, his eyes calm, then sent them back to their posts.

She had so many questions, but there was no one to ask. The surgeon spent most of the t
ime on the lower deck in the phar
macy. In the evenings, he often stood on the coveted weather side of the quarterdeck with Captain Spark, conversing softly.
Wh
en he did come onto the main deck during the day, Lease never failed to stop and talk with her, inquiring after her health, asking how she did, rather like they sat together over tea in a drawing room. She could only sigh after he left and conti
nue picking at the endless rope,
and wondering at the air of sadness he wore like a cloak.

Hannah kept her own counsel for the first time in her life. There was no one to giggle with, or share secrets, so she was silent for the most part
,
an observer. She began to anticipate the bells and the soft splash as the officer of the watch dropped the log in the water, then watched its speed to dete
rm
ine knots per ho
ur
before hauling it in. Even the twittering of the bosun
’
s pipe resolved itself into distinct orders as plainly understood by her as by the crew that assembled to receive them, or carry them out.

She came to dread Fridays, when the bosun, at the command of the lieutenant of Marines, would pipe all hands on deck for floggings. To her way of thinking, the infractions were so minor: spitting
on
the deck; oversleeping when called on watch; exceeding the daily fresh water ration of one gallon per man. Eyes wide, scarcely breathing, she watched as the offender,
shirt
removed, was tied by the hands to the rigging.

The bosun took the cat-o
’
-nine tails out of a red bag and flourished them before
getting
down to the business. As crew and officers watched in silence, the lash came
down quickly and thoroughly, turn
ing the malefactor
’
s back crimson. She watched in horror, forgetting to breathe almost, and then gulping air until she became light-headed.

It was on the tip of her tongue to protest
.
She glanced at the captain, standing tall in full uniform with his brother officers, his face impassive. He was watching her, too, as if expecting an outburst. She closed her mouth into a fi
rm
line and wish
ed that the ship would stop spin
ni
ng about. Dizzy and sick at heart
, she watched as the sailor
’
s comrades cut him down, sluiced him off with saltwater, and replaced him with another offender. He took his ten lashes with little gasping noises.
< />

But she was the one making the noises. The ship seemed to whirl faster and faster until al
l
she could hear was one continuous lashing after another. Hannah tried to get up from her customary perch on the aft hatch and make her way silently below deck, but her feet wouldn
’
t move. In another moment, someone pushed her head between her knees and held it there.

“
Now stay that way until you feel more the thing,
”
said Captain Spark, his hand on her head. When she finally nodded, he released his grip.

Hannah sat up
carefully;
waiting for the verbal flogging Spark was so capable of administering.
Instead,
his eyes were kind as he looked at her.

“
I
t
’
s a sight that
’
s felled strong men, Miss Whi
tt
ier,
”
he said. He motioned to Lieutenant Futtrell to help her below.
“
Perhaps we
’
ll make a sailor of you yet.
”

She shook her head, and then groaned as it began to pound. Captain Spark
turned
his attention back to the misery on his deck, punishment which he had decreed. The lash whistled and popped and she went gratefully below.

But there were glorious days of sailing, when all the canvas was loaded on and the frigate ran toward home. The humming of the rigging became music to her ears. She watched the sailors climbing
about like
monkeys in the
jun
gle, scampering up rigging that seemed to stretch upward and out of sight
,
like an Indian fakir
’
s magic rope.

And then one morning,
she set down the ever
lasting hemp in her hands and s
tarted toward the rigging herself. It wasn
’
t a conscious thought that drew her there like a moth to flame, but more of an involuntary movement, the result of watching others climb up and down the rigging. She knotted her
shirt
firmly, so the wind would not whirl it above her head as she climbed, rolled her trouser legs to the knee, then began her ascent
.

She kept her eyes ahead, looking steadily at the unoccupied lookout on the mainmast. There was usually a midshipman there, bare feet dangling over the ed, spyglass in hand, but they had all been summoned to the deck by the sailing master for a lesson in shooting the sun. The wind tugged at her hair the higher she climbed, until it was swirling about her face and in her eyes.
“
Drat and botheration,
”
she said, wishing she had tied it tighter at the back of her neck.

She reached the lookout and was contemplating her next move when s
he heard a shout from far below,
and made the mistake of glancing down. She gasped and clutched the rope tighter, astounded at the great distance between her and the deck. Lieutenant Futtrell stood far, far below, pointing up at her and waving his
ar
ms about. Then others were looking at her. She clung to the rope and stared at their upturned faces. As she watched in growing terror, the wind picked up and the mast began to sway. She closed her eyes and wished herself back on the aft hatch, safely picking oakum. Climbing the rigging had looked so easy from the deck.