Page 14 of Miss Whittier Makes a List
Futtrellshrugged.“He runs a taut ship, Miss Whittier.”He nodded to the orderly hovering in the shadow of the bulkhead, who hurried forward to remove the plates.“He likes everyone on board to be useful, Miss Whittier. You might study in your mind how you can do this. We’ll be another six weeks at sea.”
“Six weeks!”she exclaimed in dismay. Six weeks toEngland, and at least another six weeks home. It would be months before her parents knew she was alive.“Six weeks,”she repeated, her voice softer.“I couldbecomemost amazingly bored.”
The lieutenants looked at each other and grinned.“Best make yourself useful,”Lansingsaid. He took a last sip of his coffee before the orderly removed it and made a face.“And startby doing something about this coffee. I swear it is made of bilge water, or deck swash./font>”
“Does the captain complain about his coffee?”she asked.
“It’s probably the only thing he complains about, at least, until you came aboard,”Lansingsaid, getting to his feet and ducking his head to avoid the deck above.
“Oh, dear,”she said.“I wish one of thee could tell him that I didn’t throw myself off theMolly Claridgewith the expectation of being picked up by a frigate of the Royal Navy, Captain Spark commanding.”She sighed.“But I owe him my rescue, at the very least.”
Futtrell smiled and pulled out her chair as she made to rise.“One thing else, Miss Whittier. It might be better if you said‘you’instead of‘thee.’Makes me feel like a guilty sinner.”
“Well, is thee?”she asked, her voice crisp. She reconsidered immediately.“I am sorry. I will try to remember. Can ...you ...think ofanything else?”
“Only this,”saidLansingas he ushered her toward the companionway.“When the captain gives an order, obey and don’t ask why.”
She put her hands on her hips.“That is fearsome undemocratic.”
Futtrell bowed elaborately, to the amusement of the midshipmen. “Theeis in the Royal Navy now, Miss Whittier.”
The air was much fresher on deck. As Hannah took several gulps of the brisk air,she vowed to spend as much time on deck as possible. She was not alone in this desire. Adam Winslow sat on a forward grating, deep in conversation with the otherNantucketsailor. He raised his hand to her, but made no move to come closer.
Their voices low, other sailors had grouped themselves about the scuttlebutt for one last drink before going below to sleep. As she watched, they pulled their hammocks from the webs of rope lining the railings.
“Why do they keep their hammocks there? Isn’t it dreadfully inconvenient to do that?”she asked Futtrell.
“You would think so, until those hammocks stored there deflect cannonballs during battle.”
“Oh,”she said, her eyes wide.“Does thee ... do you ... think we will run into trouble with the French between here andEngland?”
He nodded, not a trace of humor in his voice.“You can depend upon it, Miss Whittier. It is only a matter of time.”
She took that bit of news below deckwith her as she prepared for bed. She wondered what she would sleep in, as she said good night shyly to the sentry at the door and entered her tiny cabin. Draped across the cannon was one of the captain’s nightshirts. It was not the one she had worn, greasy with salve, but a fresh one. She picked it up.“Captain Spark, thee is a strange man,”she murmured out loud. She fingered theshirtand thought of her friend Charity Wilkins,recently married, declaiming on the simplicity of men. Thee does not know Captain Spark, if thee thinks men are simple, Hannah thought.
In a matter of moments, she was in the hammock, still dubious about dumping herself out, then reassured as it enveloped her again in its comfort. She squirmed into a comfortable position and folded her hands across her stomach. As she lay there, waiting for sleep, she thought of her list.It seemed so long ago that she had composed it.Now it was a meal for the fish, along with nearly everything else that had once comprised theMolly Claridge.But I won’t think of that,she thought, for it makes me too sad.
She concentrated on the list.I asked for a handsome man with blond hair and blue eyes, she thought, and considered Captain Spark, with his rather fine curly hair and somewhat disturbing pale eyes. Perhaps I am too arbitrary, she considered. There is nothing wrong with dark,curly hair.“Not that I am for even the smallest minute considering thee as a possible husband,”she said firmly.“But perhaps I should not be too picky about color of hair and eyes.”
She turned gingerly onto her side, less from worry over her sunburn, than the lively fear of involuntary expulsion from the hammock. She tried to remember the other conditions on her list: patient, kind, devout, loves me. She stopped, her face even more red, thinking of her ejection from thequarterdeck. She was not a grudge holder; soon philosophy—and approaching sleep—took over.“Hannah Whittier, at least thee is now perfectly capable of telling the difference between love and pointed dislike, thanks to Captain Spark. As if thee had any doubts!”
She concluded that the way to finding a husband was fraught with true peril. I begin to wonder that anyone attempts it, she thought as her eyes closed at last and she slept.
She woke to the sound of the wash pump working on the deck and the clicking of heels outside her door as the Marine guard changed. She listened to the water pattering overhead as it fell onto the deck,and the sound of someone—it could only be Captain Spark—singing rather tunelessly. The air was cool and she shivered, wondering how he could stand to shower under that pump,and in seawater.
Her cabin was still dark, but it was a simple matter to climb from the hammock and dress. She tugged her hair back at the nape of her neck,tied it with a string salvaged from the sea chest, and opened the door. The guard, his face wooden, gave her a sidelong glance.
“Lieutenant, I wish you to escort me to the galley.”she said firmly.
He grinned.“Ma’am, I am a corporal. This way.”
She followed him silently,picking her way carefully through the gun deck, and overlooking those men still asleep in their hammocks. The clank of the wash pump ceased. She kept her eyes forward, hoping that the captain, in whatever state of dress,would not go below until she was out of sight in the galley.
Her hope was realized. She ducked through the door that the Marine held open for her, and sniffed appreciatively. A little man with a peg leg stood at the large galley range stirring vigorously.
“That you,Trist, you old bastard? Tell the captain to slow down and dry off them long limbs! I’ll have his porridge in two shakes,and not before.”
Hannah, hereyes merry, cleared her throat,and the cook spun about on his wooden leg. He stared at her in surprise, then hurriedly dumped the spoon back in the pot, muttering something about“losing ten years off me plaguey life.”
