The Lady and the Captain (19 page)

Newgate Prison’s punishing bleak interior was not unknown to the patrons inside. The people who sat around the rough wooden tables laughing and joking were gamblers, robbers, and loose women. It would not have surprised Robert to know that members of the black-market, pirates, kidnappers, and paid assassins, as well as other evil assorted mercenaries, lingered over tankards, in the darker corners.

On the tavern’s small stage, surrounded by smoking footlights, sat a young woman in a red-velvet, high-backed chair. Wearing a gaudy costume made of flashy green liberty silk and torn lace, the song bird was in the middle of singing
Charlotte, the Harlot
a bawdy sea shanty, to the accompaniment of an accordion she held in her hands.

Her legs were spread wide like a man’s. One was swung over an arm of the chair. It kicked out in time with the music and as it did so several men let out catcalls and high-pitched whistles of appreciation.

She wore no modest bloomers. Her shapely legs were completely exposed up to her thighs. The audience could spot the red garters she wore to keep her black-netted stockings up.

The singer’s low alto voice was not particularly good. But it could be heard over the raucous noise. This undoubtedly was why the owner of the tavern had hired her. It certainly wasn’t for her taste in music. The songs she sang were raunchy ditties sung in the form of well-known sea chanteys, allowing the patrons to join her in the familiar choruses with their own warbling drunk voices.

Robert had chosen to disguise himself as the first mate of a merchant ship running illegal rum. It would not do to look as if he were in any way connected with the English government. Not unless he wished to have his throat slit.

He had carefully chosen to wear a seaman’s wool overcoat, minus its insignia and a long dark blue cap, the sort French sailors wore. His clothes gave him the air of one who had spent a lot of time away from England. He had not shaved that day and rough stubble covered his jaw.

In the dark smoky lights of the tavern room, he could not make out Jemima Kaye’s face, only her form and voice.

Making a slow circuit through the crowded room, he went up to the bar.

“What do ye want?” asked the barman, a bald man wearing a long white apron, wiping a wet spot in front of him.

“A tankard o’ your darkest brew,” he said, placing a shilling down.

The ale was placed before him.

He took it and made his way up to the tables located nearest the stage. He stood in the shadows of the tavern walls, catching his first glimpse of the face of the woman performing.

Illuminated by the stage lights, he saw a familiar face, one he had not expected to see . . . it was Jeremy! The singer on stage, Mrs. Jemima Kaye, was the young deserter.

He looked again, not quite believing his eyes.

But it was true. Mrs. Jemima Kaye, the widow of a sea captain with nasty acquaintances, was also the young seaman and suspected murderer of the steward. She was none other than Jeremy Kaye.

He gagged on his ale, spilling some of the brew onto the sawdust-covered floor. Numbly, he sat down on a bench by the back wall. In the shadows he watched with fascination the woman who had successfully disguised herself as an ordinary seaman.

Taking inventory of her features and physical aspects, he could discern the well-formed muscles of a seaman’s arms as they pumped the accordion in front of her. Her bared limbs were without a doubt those of a topsails man used to climbing up and down the riggings of a three-mast frigate.

Not being large breasted, he imagined how easy it must have been for her to flatten her breasts by wrapping linens tightly around herself. She had successfully disguised her feminine hips and curves by wearing baggy breeches, successfully hiding all evidence of her true sex. Jemima’s black hair was naturally curly. At present, on stage, she wore long colorful peacock feathers stuck into them with a silk scarf tying it back. Aboard The Brunswick, she had worn a concealing fisherman’s cap.

He recognized in the oval face what Sarah had first remarked upon when first meeting the young seaman, Jeremy . . . that he was a “pretty youth.” But the grim line of Jemima’s painted red mouth was set in an insolent manner.

She silently gave a cool look to those observing her.

It was as if she said, ‘What do you think you’re looking at? You’re no better than I am. And you sure as the devil are not manly enough to handle someone like me.’

Robert shook his head again in disbelief.

How had he been fooled? Why hadn’t he noticed before the belligerent regard in which she looked at everyone, including him? How had it been she failed to escape his notice for so long? He had always prided himself on the attention he paid to his crew.

There was, he had to admit, a simple enough explanation. She had not before been important enough to merit his attention.

As long as ordinary seaman Jeremy Kaye never faltered at his job as a topsails man, there had never been any reason for him to speak to her. His second in command and the petty officers would have been the ones in direct contact with her, passing down the orders.

If she stayed out of their way and did her duty, there had been no reason to scrutinize any of Jemima’s actions. It had apparently been quite easy to conceal her true identity from the ship’s masters, as well as the ranked officers who served aboard.

What reason would anyone aboard have had for doubting her identity if she did her duty correctly? None whatsoever . . .

Aye, the revelation concerning Jeremy’s true sex explained a myriad of mysteries about the deserter. Starting with the obvious reason the ordinary seaman had been shy and prudish about taking his clothes off to his aloof top-lofty attitude towards the entire crew. And this all added up to the obvious reason why she had never revealed anything about her personal life ashore to anyone.

He had many questions spinning around in his thoughts. Some which only Jemima could answer. What had made her decide to become a seaman? To what purpose had she planted herself amongst his crew? Had it been a personal reason, a private vendetta? And more importantly had she been the one to poison Captain Jackson and murder the steward, Stafford? If it was not her, then who?

He looked up at her at the moment she broke into another bawdy ditty.

Or maybe she had come aboard for another reason altogether? One he had not yet thought of. One perhaps only another woman would understand.

The revelation of her hidden sex brought to his thoughts tales of such ladies serving aboard British naval ships in disguise. Some women had been known to disguise themselves as seamen because they had a lover serving aboard.

Other ladies had done so out of sheer desperation. In order to earn money, food, and passage home after being widowed, abandoned, or shipwrecked. And there had been a daring few who had done so simply because they wanted to be seamen. They did so in order to earn an honest day’s wages instead of working as a servant or harbor prostitute.

He looked back uneasily at Jemima’s painted red mouth and shook his head.

Nay, the last assumption couldn’t be right. She had not come aboard The Brunswick because she had wanted to be an ordinary seaman. With her, he sensed, it had to have been something more complicated and personal.

There was, he noted, something unsettling and mercenary about Jemima Kaye. The singer’s features, her dark eyes, hair, and the curves of her hips and breasts which made up her body were pretty and feminine. Aye, she was not some desperate scrawny lass looking for a patron. She could have her pick among many seamen, including he imagined, officers in his majesty’s navy.

However, that chillingly unpleasant sneer troubled him. Something was not quite ordinary about her. There was an uncontrolled passion in those eyes. It was most unsettling.

When Jemima took her rest, he stepped out of the shadows and made himself known. Robert stood in front of the smoking lamp lights that lit the small wood stage.

She recognized him straight away.

“Oh, it be you, Lieutenant Smythe,” she said eyeing him over. “So you’ve tracked me down at last. I suppose you want to talk to me about Stafford.”

“Aye, I do,” he said, stunned by her overconfident manner, the way her dark eyes flashed at him coolly meeting his stern look. “Where can we meet?”

“After I’m done singing here . . . meet me in the front alley in an hour. By then I should be finished amusing this lot.”

The look she gave him sent a prickling warning shiver down his spine. It was the sort of sensation he had experienced once upon maneuvering a heavy bottomed third-rated ship of the line through sharp, hull-tearing reefs. An innate sixth sense told him to be wary. It was a clear sailor bewares sensation. And he, an experienced seaman, impetuously decided not to take heed.

“By the by, Commander . . . come alone,” she said, dismissing him with a shrug of one of her muscled shoulders, “or don’t bother to come at all.”

He nodded, agreeing. It was a mistake he would later regret.

*    *    *

Sarah restlessly paced the quarter-deck of The Brunswick waiting for his return. Something was amiss, she sensed it. She should have gone with him, or at the very least followed at a distance. He had promised to be aboard before the next high tide. And that had come and gone an hour ago.

The devil take it, where was he? Why hadn’t he returned as promised?

She remembered the face of the dead steward’s ghost in the hull. The feeling of something dreadful having occurred, nagged at the back of her thoughts, leaving her numb and cold. She rubbed her arms for warmth.

Her fancies of what could have happened to Robert were running away with her.
Get a hold of yourself, Sarah, or you’ll be of no use to him
.
If he is in trouble, you cannot fall to pieces with fear,
she reprimanded herself, her eyes scanning the dock for any sign of his approach.

He did not appear.

One hour later a single lantern glowed in the evening sea fog. She saw its approach in a blur. She had briefly fallen asleep on the top deck with a blanket wrapped about her. She had been sitting in the same chair that Captain Jackson had once occupied when ill, waiting.

The light came from a small quarter boat approaching the frigate by water. A large giant of a man was putting his back into rowing. A ship’s lantern swung from a hook at the bow.

She peered out. It was Master O’ Grady and someone else was with him.

At first she did not recognize who the other man was. His bent form was wrapped in a blanket and propped up against a potato sack. The man appeared to be asleep or dead drunk for he made no movements.

The giant tied the small boat to the dock. He then bent over and slung the other man over his broad shoulders, carefully walking up the gangplank.

She hurried to greet him, wondering which of the crew he carried. She did not have long to find out. Upon gazing at the bruised face of the man O’Grady carried on his shoulder, she let out a gasp of instant recognition.

“Robert . . . and he’s been beaten!”

“Aye, ma’am,” said the giant, nodding. “Best take him to the captain’s cabin to lie him down. He’s badly hurt.”

She led the way to the cabin, opening the door for him. The master gunner lay his commander down on the narrow bed. He turned to her.

“For sure now, he’s in a bad way, ma’am. Do ye think you can help him?” he asked. “Or do ye want me to fetch a surgeon?”

“No, I can take care of him,” she said softly, looking at the mass of bruises marring the first lieutenant’s face.

She turned and without wasting time on futile questions went to fetch the medicines she carried in her sea chest. Grabbing a handful of herbs and bottles, she set about doing what she knew best, healing.

Mrs. O’Grady, having been woken out of her slumber by her eldest son who’d been on watch, appeared by her side.

“What can I do to help?” the gentle Irish woman asked, her brow wrinkling at the horrible sight of the wounded man.

“Fetch some strong spirits, cold water, and clean linens,” Sarah said, gently feeling about his head to see if his skull had been cracked open.

Thank the heavens above, she inwardly sighed with relief, the skull was intact.

A bad lump with a marring bruise appeared at the base. It had undoubtedly been brought about by the blow that had caused his senses to leave. She noted that his breathing was strong and even . . . another good sign. Perhaps if he was fortunate, none of his innards had been harmed.

“Open his shirt for me, Master O’Grady,” she said, as she ran her hand skillfully down his legs, arms, and chest, feeling for any broken bones, almost afraid to discover what other harm had been done.

Robert bore dark blue bruises and fresh red scrapes all over his body. He had been horribly thrashed. Whoever had done this, she doubted not, had done so with the evil intent of leaving him for dead. He was truly blessed to be alive.

The remainder of the night was a restless one for both healer and patient. Fearful he would fall into a deep unending sleep, she awakened Robert several times and forced him to walk around. In the early morning hours, as the sun appeared on the horizon, he regained consciousness.

In the morning Robert could not recall the fight that had brought about his present downfall. A sharp pain throbbed at the back of his skull and spread to the front of his temple.

He placed a hand on the large lump at the base of his neck and looked about. He tried to get his bearings. What was he doing lying in the captain’s cabin instead of his own?

“Where am I? What happened to me? Ouch . . . I feel as if a boom was dropped on me. Is that what happened?”

He made an effort to rise, but nausea overtook him. He swayed back onto the bunk.

“The Brunswick, how is she? Did we go through a tempest gale? My crew—are all hands safe? And why are you here, Sarah?”

“Do not worry. Everything is right as rain. The Brunswick is safe and secure at port. The crew was dismissed two days ago. We’re tied up to the dock in Portsmouth. Don’t you remember?”