An Officer but No Gentleman (8 page)

7

The crew gathered at the railing as six of the longest serving crew members carried John Sinclair’s shrouded body on a wide board into their midst.  Every man doffed his hat in respect.  Charlie read the twenty-third Psalms and said a short prayer.  The board was tilted and John Sinclair’s body was committed to the sea.

Charlie had intentionally kept it short and excluded the mate from making comments.  The men filed by one by one, saying all the platitudes one says at funerals and shaking Charlie’s hand.

Most of the men would not meet her eyes. They continued to act coolly toward hers as they had since she locked Morty in the brig and she suspected those who spoke kind words to her, did so more out of respect to her father than in sympathy for her.

The mate surprised her by asking if she would like to take the rest of the day off.  “Not until we are underway,” she said, flatly.

The repairs seemed to drag on forever.  Sails, rope
s, winches, blocks, masts, yards all seemed to have sustained damage.  Each had to be inspected and determined whether it needed to be replaced immediately or at a later date.  The crew would remain at
all hands
until they were underway.

As the first sheet was carried aloft, a cry of, “Sail ho!” rang out from the crow’s nest.

The other ship skipped along the horizon and Charlie hoped since their ship, at the moment, was a mere skeleton, that they would be less visible.

Within minutes of spotting the distant ship, it changed course.  Every man seemed to feel the pressure.  They knew they were sitting ducks to any ship with nefarious intentions.

With the
Arcadia
adrift as she was, the other ship ate up the distance between them at an alarming rate.  One by one the sails were placed.  Air filled those sails, but the ship was slow to move under such limited power.

“Sail ho!” came another cry from aloft.  Charlie scanned the horizon and could barely see a sail off in the distance.

The first ship, a French corsair, soon sailed within cannon range and fired a shot across the bow of the
Arcadia
.  The corsair displayed twelve large cannons.  The
Arcadia
had only one.  There was no chance of outrunning her or outfighting her.

For the second time in twelve hours, the
Arcadia
would have to lie-to and be boarded.

“Sirs!” came a call from the crow’s nest.  “The second ship….”

The second vessel flew through the water.  It had to be making twelve to fifteen knots.

“She’s a Baltimore clipper—and she’s flying the Stars and Stripes!”

“Run up our colors as well,” Charlie ordered. “We want them to know we’re allies.”

Like a cat playing with a mouse which was suddenly swooped by a bird, the corsair’s attention was drawn from her prey.  It turned to align their cannons
, but the clipper was faster and sent their first volley seconds earlier.  Round after round the two ships danced—volley after volley. The smoke so thick at times, one ship or the other would disappear from view for a few seconds until the winds dissipated the smoke.

She’d heard tales that Baltimore Clippers could practically stand on their beam and
spin, and after seeing the ship nimbly outmaneuver the corsair at every turn, she decided that was a fair description.

The corsair was no match for the faster, more heavily armed, Baltimore clipper.  The acrid smell of smoke lay heavy in the air when the corsair sent up their flag of surrender.  Men from the privateer and the
Arcadia
cheered. 

The Baltimore clipper,
The Dragon’s Lair
, pulled abreast of the French corsair.  Grappling hooks were thrown and men began boarding their prize.

Charlie joined the mate on the quarterdeck.  She couldn’t believe her eyes.  It was the same Baltimore clipper they had seen as they left port.  She scanned the deck for the captain
, but didn’t see him.

“They are bound to have injuries.  I can help,” she said.  When Byron seemed reluctant she added, “That ship was going to board us and take everything. They just saved us.  It’s the least we can do.”

“Make it so, helmsman,” Byron acquiesced.

Charlie handed him the key to the hold’s padlock.  “A case of rum and fifty pounds of sugar might be a welcomed show of our appreciation as well, but I’ll leave that decision in your hands.”

As she handed him the key, she thought of Morty for the first time all day and a sad smile touched her lips.  He had been locked in the brig with no word of what had happened.  It may have been the only thing which kept him from being impressed by the British.  She realized maybe she wasn’t as alone as she thought.  Thoughts of her friend comforted her and she looked forward to having someone with whom she could talk openly.  She knew Byron would release him from the brig as soon as he remembered he was there unless she could come up with a plausible excuse why she locked him up.  She only hoped Morty could keep her secret.

By the time she retrieved two medical books and Dr. Kirk’s bag filled with all manner of supplies, the
Arcadia
had been maneuvered yardarm to yardarm with
The Dragon’s Lair
.  The decks of the clipper were abuzz with activity.  She was amazed by the size of the crew.  Easily double her ship’s crew, Charlie quickly deduced that they had been rescued by a privateer.

There were no officers nearby to ask permission to board
, so she embarked without permission and went to the quarterdeck where she saw an officer overseeing the operations.  As she approached, she could see he wore the chief mate’s uniform.

“Sir,” she shouted to the quarterdeck.  “Permission to
come aboard?”

The mate looked at the young man in the second mate’s uniform and frowned. “We’re a bit too busy for a social call right now,” the tall, handsome mate said.

“I thought I might help with your injured.  I’ve had a bit of training.”

His expression changed.  “Oh, thank the heavens,” he said.  “Romy, take this man down to the crew’s quarters.  He’s here to help with the injured.”

Charlie stretched her back as she finished patching up the last injured sailor. 
Four sustained injuries that would keep them off duty for a day or more; one man had been peppered with splintered wood when a cannonball tore through a railing, some cuts were deep and the wood had to be removed, but most were superficial. Another man’s finger had been sheared off in a winch when he was distracted by cannon fire. The next man was knocked unconscious hitting his head on the deck after being struck by a recoiling cannon and the last had rope burns to his hands sliding down a line to get out of the rigging before the corsair fired upon them.   A fifth man had died within minutes of her arrival.  He had been victim of his own gun misfiring.  It had essentially exploded in his face.  His care was beyond her knowledge.  All she could do was dribbled a measure of morphine into his mouth for his pain and hold his hand.  She knew his death was at hand and wasn’t sure if he was aware of his surroundings at all, but she spoke to him in calm, low voice.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “My name is Charlie.  You just save my crew and me from that corsair.  You are a true hero.  We owe you a debt.”  She didn’t know if he believed in a higher being
, but softly spoke the Lord’s Prayer into his ear.  And then he was gone.

“Sir,” a boy of twelve or thirteen said as she repacked the doctor’s bag.  “Captain Bloodworthy asked for you to come to his cabin when you’re finished here.  This way.”

Charlie stuffed the last of the clean bandages into the bag and picked up the books.  “What’s your name?” Charlie asked as he led her from the forecastle aft.

“Vinnie, sir,”

“I’m Charlie, Charlie Sinclair.”

The door to the captain’s quarters was partially open, but the cabin boy knocked lightly anyway.

“Mr. Sinclair’s here, sir.”

She had only seen the captain of
The Dragon’s Lair
from a distance, but even from a distance he appeared impressive, his tall lean figure with his jet-black hair untethered, blowing in wind as he order the cannons to fire upon the French. He was as fine of form and resplendent as she remembered. Upon seeing him up close, she sensed his power, not just physical strength, but a certain confidence and aloofness that she knew men would follow blindly and she found herself very attracted to his confident bearing.  He was tall, at least an inch or two above the six-foot mark, lean, but muscular.

Her gaze met his steely blue eyes.  She could feel the speed of her breath increasing.  He was strikingly good looking.  The contrast between his light colored eyes and jet-black hair fascinated her.  In all her worldly travels, she found most people with black hair almost always had brown or black eyes.

He had a wide masculine jaw, full lips and a scar that slashed from his forehead, across the bridge of his nose to the opposite cheek.  It only made his good looks more rugged—some probably thought he looked dangerous, but the only danger she felt was the power his attractiveness would have over her if she couldn’t control her reaction to him.  She had to mentally tell herself to stop staring.  He believed her to be a man.

Captain Jaxon Bloodworthy glanced up as Vinnie walked in with the loblolly boy then dropped his eyes back to the chart on his desk. In the brief moment his eyes fell upon the junior officer, a spark inside his mind told him there was something incongruent about the young man. He raised his eyes again and took a longer look. Criminy, he looked like a girl dressed in a man’s uniform. Jaxon couldn’t quite say why he thought Mr. Sinclair looked like a girl. Neither his wide sea-legged gait nor his carriage bore any femininity and yet something niggled at his subconscious. Perhaps it was his youth. He was young, too young for the uniform—no sign of whiskers graced his jaw.  This boy was still wet behind the ears.

Jaxon’s glance traveled down, looking for some sign to tell him for certain that the surgeon’s mate was, in fact, male.   He could detect no signs of breasts
, but under a shirtwaist and coat who could say for certain. 

By the tailoring of his uniform, he was probably a rich man’s son who bought his way into his position.  The crew of the
Arcadia
probably resented taking orders from this snot-nosed brat and that was why they sailed away without him as soon as they’d replaced their sails.  Inwardly, Jax groaned, knowing Charlie Sinclair would be a thorn in his side.  No doubt he had a sense of entitlement bigger than the ocean.

Jaxon realized the young man had not broken eye contact since he walked into the room.  It had been such a long time since anyone other than family looked him in the
eye; it made him a bit uncomfortable.  He didn’t know if it was because he had medical training that a few scars didn’t bother him, but he suspected this boy hoped to prove by holding his gaze, he and Jaxon were equals.

Begrudgingly, Jaxon admitted they needed someone aboard with medical knowledge if they were to be privateers, so he would give this kid a chance to prove himself.  His Baltimore clipper was fast enough to chase down the other ship and give Sinclair back if it wasn’t going to work out. As s
econd mate of his ship, he would, no doubt, know the ship’s heading so it should be easy enough to calculate their course if necessary.

He narrowed his gaze at the young man waiting for him to avert his eyes. Having men look at his chest or chin fel
t normal since being scarred—who would want to look at the monster?  But not this one.  He continued holding Jaxon’s gaze.  It was almost as if he didn’t see the scars at all.  Jaxon knew exactly what to say to get him to back down.

“If you’re finished staring at my scars….”

She barely noticed his scars
, but it was better he think that than to know the truth—the truth that she couldn’t take her eyes off the most handsome man she had ever met.  She hoped he was not aware of the attraction crackling to life inside her like flint being struck by iron. If he thought her male, and they always did, because it just never occurred to anyone to doubt what was in front of them, this meeting could end quite poorly and even follow her back to her ship.  Aye, it was definitely better he think she was staring at his scars rather than lost in the depths of his steely blue eyes, captivated by the shape of his mouth, enthralled by his strong jaw and the way the muscle worked at its hinge and drawn to his confidence.

She cupped her chin as if deep in thought.  “Aye, I’m finished,” she vexed
, but got no reaction from him.  He may be gorgeous, but he had no sense of humor.  The corner of her mouth tugged upwards.

His brow furrowed.  Perhaps because this young man was not a member of his crew, he felt he could act familiarly.  Nobody ever joked with Jaxon.  Nobody.  Ever. 

Jaxon knew he was too serious by nature, his mood nearly always dark as pitch since that fateful day many years ago.  He allowed it without challenge.