An Officer but No Gentleman (2 page)

“Aye, that’s the scuttlebutt going around the docks.”

“He’s the ship’s owner so there’s nobody to sack him if he works the crew to death,” he lied to the astonishment of his friends. “I wonder if that’s why Mr. Rosemead offed himself like that.” Charlie would have said just about anything to keep the man in front of him from applying for the job.

Michel cleared his throat to keep from chuckling as he raised his mug to his lips.  Hugh was shaking his head while Morty contentedly smoked his pipe.

“If you want the job, I can get you an interview.”

“Aye,” he answered undisturbed by Charlie’s tale.

“Do you have experience as mate?”

“Three years. Why? Were you hoping for the job?”

Charlie shook his head.  “My time will come
, but not yet.  I’ve only just become second mate.”

“He could be mate,” Morty said, drunkenly. “Charlie’s been training to become ship’s master since he wore swaddling clothes.  I bet he already knows everything the captain does.” 

Lionel Byron eyed Charlie speculatively.  “Are you related to the captain?”

“He got me out of the orphanage when I was six.  I’ve been with him ever since.” It was basically true.  After the fire, Charlie was sent to a local orphanage until his father returned from sea.  “He treats me like a son.”

1

1808

P
ressing back into the leather wing chair, Charlie propped his booted feet on the desk built into the corner of his quarters.  He took a draw on his cigar as he eyed the woman sprawled drunkenly in his bunk.  From the outside looking in, this was the epitome of his life:  the woman, the brandy, the cigar, and the second mate’s quarters.  At twenty-two any man should have loved this life.  Absently, Charlie stroked the lapel of his burgundy dressing robe, feeling the cool flawless plane of the silk beneath his calloused fingers.  It was all an act, he thought, as the calluses on his fingers snagged the silk.   It had been three years since he became second mate and he found himself in a no man’s land between the crew and the senior officers.  He was not allowed to socialize with his friends in the crew and although he spent time with his father on Sundays, it was not enough to fill his need for social interaction.  Bringing women back to his cabin, even if they only talked, was an attempt to show some sort of normalcy. Charlie did it because he thought the men expected it of the second mate. 

Annoying
his father was just an added bonus.

Charlie drew on the cheroot again and watched the smoke curl through the air as he exhaled.  His life was so much simpler as a child.  Now as an adult, he questioned his life.  This life was chosen for him when his father brought him aboard after the fire and he didn’t know how to get out of it. 

Charlie emptied the brandy snifter, but held the empty glass mindlessly.  He wished the alcohol would make it all go away.  He tried that route more times than he cared to think about, but getting drunk just left him hung over and emptier than before.

A fix was beyond his reach. 

Charlie lived the majority of his life at sea.  He loved the sea, the travel, the sway of the boat on the water.  But when he thought about someday being the captain of the ship for the rest of his life, it seemed more like a prison.  He thought about his father’s life and his isolation and knew he wanted something more.  Most captains balanced work and home, but the ship was John Sinclair’s home since the fire.  Charlie felt shackled by his circumstances.  How could he live on shore when all he knew of land were the docks, warehouses and taverns?

A rap sounded at the heavy wooden door.

“Enter!” 

Short and concise the way an order should be given.

Through the haze of gray cigar smoke, Charlie watched as the captain entered.

John Sinclair’s weathered brow furrowed at the sight that greeted him.  When he spied the sleeping form sprawled across the Charlie’s bunk, his face contorted into a deep scowl.

Charlie, amused by his reaction, grinned roguishly, placed the cigar between his teeth and poured more brandy in his glass.  He hadn’t intended to have another, but seeing his father’s disappointment in him made him want to antagonize him further.

“May I offer you one, Captain?” Charlie asked, emboldened by the brandy.

“So, I’m to deal with the devil-may-care son tonight?” he asked closing the door. “I’m glad your mother’s not here to see this.  She wanted you gently reared as befits your station.  I don’t doubt she’s rolling over in her grave at this moment.”

“Necessity.  Must keep up appearances.”

Charlie took a slow, deliberate drag on the cigar and schooled his expression to cover his hurt over the casual mention of his mother. He barely remembered her, but her death left a huge void in Charlie.

John Sinclair placed his hands behind his back and rolled forwa
rd on the balls of his feet—a gesture Charlie had seen a million times before.  It was useless to argue a moot point.

“You know we sail with the tide,” he said indicating the woman with a movement of his head.

“I’ll have her off the ship in time.”

“See that you do.”  He moved closer to Charlie and poured himself a glass of brandy.  “You know I don’t approve of you bringing these harlots aboard like this.”

“You want your crew to know your son likes women, don’t you?  Besides, she’s better off with me for the night than she would be on the docks.”

“Granted.  But I suggest you get her off my ship now, because if you’re not back by the time we sail, I’ll sail without you.”

Charlie thought that that would be all right with him.  “Aye-aye, Captain.  Will there be anything else?”

“Aye.  Rent the wench a room where she can sleep off her alcohol.”

The wench in question suddenly opened her eyes, shot bolt upright and retched, the shoulder of her blouse falling down exposing most of one breast.  Exchanging the snifter for the basin, Charlie quickly rushed to her side.  Only when she finished, did she become aware of her surroundings.  She groaned as she slumped back into the pillows.  Charlie wet a cloth and bathed her face with tepid water.

“Ah, mister,” she said addressing Charlie.  “I’m awful sorry.  Give me a minute for my head to clear and I’ll clean that up.”  Her eyes closed and she fell back to sleep.

“Damn.”

Charlie looked at his father who was now conspicuously close to the door, his head turned toward an empty corner as if the sight of it might make him sick as well.  His ill-concealed amusement seemed to say,
It serves you right
.  “I’ll send someone to help you.”  Then he was gone. 

Charlie set the basin aside—nearby, just in case, then stripped the quilt off the bed—no easy task with the woman still in the bed.  It seemed to be the only thing soiled.  He carefully gathered it up and set it on the floor by the door.  A moment later, a knock tattooed against the heavy oak door.  When he opened it, he found the cabin boy, Benjy, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.  Benjy looked around the cabin nervously.  He was rarely in the second mate’s quarters and to be awakened and sent there by the captain was unheard of.

“Open the porthole, get the quilt and the basin and get out.” 

Charlie shed the dressing robe and pulled on the shirtwaist he discarded earlier.  As he used his shaving mirror to attach his collar and stock, he watched Benjy in the reflection.

“Damn,” he said under his breath as he realized Benjy had seen the woman’s exposed breast.

“Are you still here?” he shouted, tersely.  He was not in the habit of coddling anyone, especially not the cabin boys.  They needed to understand the hard life at sea while they were still young enough to apprentice another vocation.

“Aye, Mr. Sinclair,” he said jumping guiltily at the tone of the second mate’s voice. “I’ll be right back to finish cleaning up.”

“You know I don’t want you in my cabin.  Just cleaned those things and go back to bed.”

As Benjy exited, the quilt held at arm’s length, Hugh McNamara poked his head in.

“A word wi’ ye, Mr. Sinclair.  Oh, I see ye’re busy.  I’ll come back later.”

“Come in, Hugh.  I was just getting ready to take her ashore, but I’ve always got a few minutes for my friends.”  Even if swamped with work, he would have made time for Hugh or Morty.  His other close friend, Michel Dupre, left the ship when the decision to temporarily stop sailing to his home country of France was made.  The conflict between France and England had escalated to the point where they stayed out of both countries.

“I dinna suppose ye might need a hand?” the Scotland native asked scratching at his red beard.

“When have I ever needed a hand with a wench?” Charlie bantered with his usual cockiness as he flicked the cigar butt out the open porthole.

“Tis Morty again.”

“He’s not back yet?”  Charlie asked shrugging into the black broadcloth uniform coat.

“Nae, I dinna ken what’s bouncin’ ‘round in his skull these days.  Skunked from morn’ ‘til night while he’s on shore leave and in the sulks the rest of the time—takin’ chances like there’s nae tomorrow.  If I dinna ken better, I’d swear he’s goot woman problems.  Twas hopin’ ye would let me go ashore to look fer him.”

“Maybe I
could
use a hand with the wench.”

Charlie also noticed a change in his friend.  In years past, the big blond was the most jovial of the men—well-liked by officers and crew alike.  But for the last few months, he had lost his cheerful, boastful ways and had been unnaturally solemn.

“Grab an arm,” Charlie said as he pulled the woman’s blouse back into place.

He wondered if Hugh’s theory had any validity.  Morty had always been a man of
healthy appetites. 
Fire-headed
wenches, as he called them, were Morty’s preference.  Everyone knew and saved the redheads for him.

So how did Charlie end up with a woman who had auburn locks?

“When was the last time Morty bedded a carrot-top?” Charlie asked.  “I think you’ve hit on something, Hugh.  I think this girl he’s pining over is a brunette.”

Hugh laughed, relieved to have proof to excuse Morty’s behavior. “Unrequited love?”

“Aye.”

They made their way off the ship before Charlie asked, “Who do you think she is?”

“Probably a wee shop girl who doesna ken he’s alive.”

“If he’s in love with her, how can she help but know he’s alive?  Morty isn’t exactly shy.”

The Scot shook his head.  Morty, with more than six feet of sculpted muscles, was not a man who went unnoticed.  “She’s an innocent?” Hugh speculated. “He’s afraid of offending her with his coarse manners?”

“Aye.  I’ll bet you’re right.”

“Maybe ye should talk to him?” Hugh suggested.

“Me?  What do I know about young, innocent
girls?  Have you forgotten I have not lived among the fairer sex since I was six years old?” Charlie asked.  “You talk to him.  Surely, that fishing village you’re from had a few nice girls.  Didn’t you say you were in love with a milkmaid once?”

“Aye and that worked out so well.”

Charlie fell silent when he saw Hugh’s grimace. The woman had broken Hugh’s heart and he’d gone to sea so he’d never have to see her again.

“I’ll talk to him,” Charlie conceded a minute later, “but after he’s had time to sober up.”

They deposited the wench on a bed in one of the upstairs room of the tavern where Charlie met her earlier.  Since that was the last place Charlie saw Morty, it was the logical place to start looking for him.  They were on their way to find the proprietor when Morty’s voice filtered into the hallway from behind a closed door.

“Oh, honey…honey…." Morty’s voice rang through the air, his voice heavily slurred with drink.

The men eyed each other with amusement, knowing well enough what the sound meant.  Charlie resigned himself to the delay, hoping Morty wouldn’t take too long.

Charlie leaned against the wall trying to ignore the sounds.  He groaned inwardly wishing he could go down to the taproom and have a tankard of rum during their wait.  But as his father would be quick to remind him, the ship would sail with the tide and he needed some semblance of sobriety.

He glanced at his companion and found Hugh listening intently to the sounds of their shipmate’s activity, his eyes half-cast with lust.

Discomfiture fueling his impatience prompted Charlie to pound loudly on the door.  “Show a leg, Morty.  It’s time to get back to the ship if you’re sailing with us.”

“Hon-ey…Oh, Hon-ey…” came the passionate cry from inside the room.

“Bloody hell,” Hugh laughed.

“Come on, Morty.  Make short shrift of the wench.”

Less than a minute later, Morty opened the door.  He was naked, but held his shirt in front of his hips.  He squinted bleary amber eyes at them.  “It’s me mates, damned if it’s not.” He teetered unsteadily until his shoulder made contact with the doorframe.

Behind Morty, the woman rose from the bed, wiped between her legs with the sheet and picked up her dress from the floor.  She displayed no embarrassment being naked in front of the three men or with the door to the corridor being wide open.

“Charlie, how mooch time did ye say we’ve goot before the ship sails?”

Charlie saw Hugh’s gaze fixed on the tavern wench and knew instinctively what he had in mind.  They would be out to sea for a month or more so Charlie could not begrudge his friend one last conquest before casting off.

A sly smile lifted Charlie’s upper lip. “You have time if you’re quick about it.  Come on, Morty, get dressed so McNamara can have her.”

Morty teetered uneasily making Charlie think he was going to pass out on his feet.

“Oh, no you don’t, Morty,” Charlie grunted as he shoved him back into the room. “You keep your wits about you until I get you back to the ship or I swear I’ll leave you where you drop.”

“Avast there, wench,” Hugh called out moving past Morty into the room.  “How aboot it?”

“Just you?” she asked glancing toward the doorway.  “I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time I was passed around among you tars.  It’ll cost you extra though.”

Hugh cast a look over his shoulder and shrugged as if to say,
It’s up to you
.  “It might take both of us to get Morty back to the
Arcadia
.”