Amaryllis, p.7
Amaryllis, page 7
Mulworthy continued to scowl even as he downed the last dregs in his cup. With a screech of chairs legs against the floor, he shoved away from the table.
“All of ye. On deck at eight bells.” His derisive gaze sliced into her. “Dinna be late.”
The ominous message sent a ruffled chill over her shoulders. An urge to argue arose, but she knew the danger in challenging him. The man would cling to his resentment like a scar on skin. Doubtless, whatever waited for her on the deck would be unpleasant, perhaps even vile. For her disobedience, it was retribution at eight bells.
He marched from his quarters in a huffy flutter of righteous anger. Only when the door slammed behind him did she breathe again.
A silent message passed between Flint and Church. In unison, they stood.
“We must be off,” stated Flint with forced cheeriness, but his darting, evasive gaze suggested trouble. “I wish to say, madam, how delighted we are to have such a lovely guest among us.”
“Thank you both.” She could scarcely form the words in her anxiety.
When they were gone, she expected some rebuke from Griffin for her blatant disregard of the captain’s orders. I’m a civilian. I deserve respect, she wanted to shout and steeled herself to his certain argument. However, his expression remained a blank mask as he sliced into his ham.
Lily fingered her coffee cup and wished she could will herself to New York as quick as a swallow of the dark brew. Mead offered her the platter of kippers. Nauseated by the smell, she declined.
“Since we are ship acquaintances, Miss Fitzhugh,” the physician said as he set his fork and knife across his empty plate, “you must tell me about yourself.”
At this, Griffin raised his head.
“There isn’t much to tell. I’m on my way to see my father.” She’d begun to tell her story when she heard the clang of bells.
Mead glanced warily at the door. “We are summoned. Our conversation will have to wait for another time.” Without another word, he left the room.
In her head, Lily counted along with the bells. Her nerves ticked up with each toll.
“It’s time.” Griffin stood.
She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t obey. Up to the challenge, Griffin hauled her to her feet. Hand at her back, he prodded her forward on feet heavy as iron anchors. Anne Boleyn, solemn and head bowed, trudging to the chopping block, figured in Lily’s mind. “I wonder what awaits us.”
Griffin replied with an unpleasant growl. “We’ll soon find out.”
There was something telling in his stoic expression. She figured he knew, but for some reason, he declined to enlighten her.
When they stepped into the fresh air, the winds plucked at her hair. Mulworthy presided center stage, on the poop deck, elevated higher than the crew, a commander in supreme charge. Flint and Church flanked each side. Griffin touched her arm, and they joined them.
“Mr. Church, sound the whistle,” the captain ordered.
The shrill whistle pealed three times. Within minutes, the entire crew had assembled on the quarterdeck. Dressed in a motley assortment of stripes, washed-out colors and ragged bandannas, they assembled in rows, like a haphazard army on parade. While they waited for the captain’s address, they whispered among themselves and stared at her as though she were a freak of nature. It appeared they were due for a performance of sorts. With growing certainty, Lily anticipated it would not be a pleasant experience.
Suddenly, the crowd stirred. The men shifted. Their heads swiveled as they cast furtive glances over their shoulders. In the center, some shuffled aside, creating a path through their ranks. The man who’d taken her money and secreted her aboard, the man called Tubbs, stumbled up the makeshift aisle followed by two burly sailors. When the three reached the captain, they stopped. Tubbs lifted his gaze and spotting her, sneered.
Lily reared back. Her heart pummeled her ribs.
Mulworthy’s voice boomed so all could hear over the flutter of the sails. “Mr. Church, read the charges.”
A book propped open in his hands, Church sang out. “Sometime between the hours of…” He read the date and time along with the charges of theft and dereliction of duty. “Twenty lashes.”
Racked with guilt, Lily clasped her fingers in a tight grip. She’d never considered the fallout of her sneaky action. Never imagined someone else might be hurt or punished. If only she hadn’t listened to Cecil Jones. Yet there was no other choice when a father needed you.
“I’m sorry,” she mouthed to Tubbs. With his gaze straight ahead and his spine rigid, he refused to grant her forgiveness.
“Captain! You mustn’t do this.”
Mulworthy wrinkled his nose. “Mr. Faraday. See to the lady.”
Instantly, Uncle Percy’s words, you’re no lady came to mind.
Griffin inched closer, and the comfort and reassurance from his steadfast manner gave her a glimmer of hope. “Can’t you make him understand?”
Her soft-spoken plea had no effect on her childhood friend. Face wooden, he remained silent. Anger burned a fast path up her throat and paralyzed her jaw. To do naught made him as much a monster as Mulworthy.
“Tie him to the grating,” directed Mulworthy.
Horrified, she watched as a brawny sailor grabbed Tubbs by the scruff, thrust him face forward against a wooden trellis and bound his wrists above his head. Another sailor stripped the shirt from his back.
“Ye may begin.”
From among the ranks, out stepped a swarthy man, a coil of leather gripped in his hand. No one made a sound as the flogger drew his muscled arm back and unfurled the whip.
Crack!
Tubbs and Lily jerked in unison. The biting slash reverberated in her head.
Crack!
Sickened, she considered fleeing to the cabin but knew Mulworthy would drag her back.
Crack!
Tubbs grunted in pain. Three scarlet gashes glinted across his back.
Crack!
Repeatedly, taut leather lashed against muscle and skin. In its wake, it left a haphazard grid of gaping, ripped flesh. Her hands fisted as blood oozed from the wounds and mixed with the man’s glistening sweat.
On and on, the relentless snap of the whip and the rasp of pain resounded in her head and echoed the length of her body. She cupped a hand over her mouth. Bile stung the back of her throat, bitter and vile. She turned to leave. Just as fast, Mulworthy gripped her forearm. “Stay.”
“I won’t.”
“I insist.”
Jaw clenched, she faced the tethered man. She hated Mulworthy with such intensity she feared it might consume her like a ball of fire. No doubt, he would have taken pleasure had it been her bare back cut to bloody ribbons. In defiance, and because she could no longer watch, she stared across the vast gray ocean, imagining she floated away. Yet the bite of leather and the pained groans juddered in her head, on and on until at last, it ended.
A guard cut Tubbs loose. Bloodied and wan, he sank to his knees. Mead went to him. Bending low, he spoke in his ear.
At Mulworthy’s direction, Church declared the proceedings finished and ordered the men back to work.
“Consider it a lesson,” Mulworthy snarled. “Now get below.” He turned his back on her.
“Come, Lily.” Griffin touched her elbow.
Furious, she wrenched away. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “You’re all barbarians—the whole lot of you.”
Her skirt clutched in a tight fist, she fled and sought peace in the cabin. The men, the relentless sway of the ship, the salty air, everything fell away as she raced into the quiet space and slammed the door. Stumbling the short distance to the bed, she fell across the madras cover and cried.
Moments later, someone knocked.
“Go away.”
Griffin stuck his head inside. After a frank assessment, he came into the cabin and kicked the door closed with a foot. He held a bottle and two tankards.
“I’m not in the mood for visitors.”
As if he were deaf, he crossed the room and set the items on his desk.
She stifled an offensive remark, appalled when he poured the liquid. He offered her one of the pewter cups. “It’s beer. It’ll make you feel better.”
She sat up. Get out hovered on her tongue and she remembered it was his cabin. With some misgiving, she took the beer. The brew tasted warm and yeasty.
Further annoying her, he folded his long limbs into the desk chair, clearly intending to stay. After taking a hearty swig, he said, “The first flogging I witnessed almost made me spill my supper on the foredeck.”
A big manly man like you, she wanted to snort in derision.
“Twenty-five lashes.” He grimaced as though it was his skin lacerated by the whip. “Not a pretty sight.”
She sipped and studied him over the rim of her cup. His admission had a purpose. Implying she wasn’t alone in her agony, he meant to soothe her hurt and anger.
His tone softened. “Flogging is not a sentence anyone likes to see.”
“It was cruel and unnecessary. I shall hate him forever.”
“Mulworthy?” He bared a lopsided grin. “He’ll be heartbroken.”
At the same instant her palm itched to slap him, a weight lifted in her chest.
“Don’t waste your emotions on the man.”
She fingered her cup, curious about Griffin’s sudden kindness when he’d been stiff as granite during the flogging. “Couldn’t you have stopped it?”
“A captain is master of his ship.”
“You must have some influence over Mulworthy.”
“It’s not my decision to make.” He propped an ankle over the opposite knee and hunkered loosely in the chair. “Besides, Tubbs deserves his punishment.”
Outrage stole her breath.
“Tubbs flouted the rules when he allowed you to board.”
“But the punishment is so extreme. Surely kindness…”
“It may seem harsh, but the consequences of ignoring one’s duty could result in the death of the crew, the loss of cargo, or even conscription by an enemy vessel. England is at war. For all anyone realizes, you could be a spy.”
“Spy?” A nervous giggle rippled from her lips. “I’m hardly a threat to the ship.”
In his languid fashion, he studied her with a censorious glint and stirred a wave of discomfort. Surely, he had no reason to suspect her contract with Cecil Jones. When he glanced out the window, she relaxed.
“Rules are rules,” he said. “Tubbs ignored rules when he allowed a stranger to board the ship. His greed did him in.”
“Will Tubbs be all right, do you suppose?” She curled her legs beneath her on the bed.
“He’s a hardy lad.”
“And the other fellow? Twenty-five lashes, you say.”
His smile was grim as he stood. “Mulworthy made you watch so you would appreciate the seriousness of Tubbs’ actions.”
“I won’t deny it made a nasty impression. Still, it all seems so savage.”
“It’s not a world you’re accustomed to. What happened today is not so unusual, given the hardships of a sailor’s life.”
“If what you describe is typical of a sailor’s life, God help them.”
“God help us all.” He downed the last of his beer. “Remember, we aren’t all barbarians.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll avoid Mulworthy.”
“Just as well. He’s confined you to quarters.”
Chapter Nine
“As fit as a fiddle,” Sloane declared.
Griffin studied the bow-legged fellow who wore streaks of grime down the front of his apron. “And how, my good man, did you determine the fitness of Miss Fitzhugh?”
“I asked her, sir. When I arrived with coffee, she was at the desk writing. I inquired as to her health, and she smiled at me.” A rhapsodic glow bloomed over the man’s bony face, which nettled Griffin. “A pretty smile she has—”
Griffin waved a hand impatiently. “Go on about her health, man, not her physical attributes.”
“Well, I set the tray down on the table and inquired as to her welfare. To which she replied, ‘Prime, my good man, prime.’”
Griffin rolled his eyes.
“Her exact words, sir. Then she asked if I would bring her soup, bread and cheese. Don’t reckon a person can eat so much if they be sick.”
“Thank you, Sloane,” Griffin grumbled, astounded he should be so unaccountably annoyed. No doubt the sour mood would soon pass. “You may go.”
Sloane turned. Before he reached the door, Griffin added, “If she should refuse food or be in any way aggrieved, inform me immediately.”
The man agreed and left Griffin to his thoughts and coffee.
After pouring a cup, he eased once again onto the only comfortable chair Samuel Church owned. Out of necessity and privacy for Lily, Griffin had yielded her his cabin and agreed to Church’s offer to share his tiny quarters. Three nights bedded down on a straw-filled pallet on the floor left him cranky while his achy hips and spine cried out for a more accommodating arrangement. Even worse, Church’s love-struck comments about the lovely Miss Fitzhugh drove him barmy. Clearly the man was besotted, as he supposed was half the crew.
As to the ship’s only temptress, he suspected Lily would choose the solitude of her room, confined or not, rather than risk a chance encounter with the captain. Each day, he checked on her. Though polite and sparse in her comments, it was clear she didn’t want his company. A rap on the door swelled his hopes it might be her.
“Yes?”
Church stuck his head inside, a black slip of hair angled across his forehead. “French ship off the starboard.”
Griffin’s heart kicked a beat. “Thank you, Mr. Church. I’ll join you topside in a moment.” He spoke in an even, unrushed manner; his gut, nevertheless, churned with excitement. The news harkened the arrival of the pirate ship and the guns. He closed Shakespeare’s Henry IV, shrugged into his jacket, and bounded from the cabin. Breathing faster, he stepped next door to his cabin and rapped.
No answer. Alarmed, he opened the door. “Lily?”
Dishes, an apple core, and several books decorated the table. A nightgown lay on the bed, and something new graced his desk—a miniature oval portrait. But no Lily.
“Damn.” Why today, of all days, did she venture out alone? If she saw the guns come aboard, it would raise unnecessary questions. He wanted her below, out of Mulworthy’s sight. Where had she gone? Topside, most likely. He headed in its direction.
A bank of gray clouds hovered in the sky. On deck, brisk wind riffled Griffin’s hair. He glanced beyond the complicated network of masts and riggings but didn’t spot Lily.
Church flanked Mulworthy near the starboard rail. Spyglass plastered to his eyeball, the older man tittered with delight. Griffin joined them, astounded to see the rapid approach of a frigate, the fastest known vessel on the seas. The black painted craft slipped through the waves, its forward motion as sleek as a porpoise.
“Is it Le Chien Noir?’ Griffin asked.
“Aye. The Black Dog. See for yourself.” Mulworthy handed over the spyglass. Griffin adjusted the monocle. The picture clarified. Bold as ever, a flag of a black dog snapped in the stiff wind. A thrilling jolt shot through his body. “Are the conditions right?”
Mulworthy squinted at the horizon. “Aye, it’ll be rocky, but we’ll manage.”
The vessel drew nearer. Griffin no longer needed the spyglass for he could plainly see the crew of the visitor ship loading a launch with cargo. An exhilarating charge surged the length of his arms and pulsed in his fingertips as he gripped the teak railing. The arrival of the military officer and the English guns would serve the Colonial army well. Once they’d transferred the property, his mission would be one step closer to completion.
“Mr. Church, raise the flag and sound the canon,” Mulworthy directed. His pebble-sized eyes gleamed with intensity. “We’re about to have guests.”
The fellow hustled away, barking orders like a seal. The men scuttled to perform their duties with hasty efficiency. Within minutes, the big gun bellowed a message of welcome. Moments later the first launch set off from the Black Dog and cut across the choppy water to the Providence.
“Is something amiss?”
At the sound of the feminine voice, Griffin spun around, his heart in his throat. Lily stood just beyond the ladder of the poop deck, a paisley shawl around her shoulders, her expression curious. So lovely.
“Go below,” he snapped.
Hurt flared in her face.
“You need to go below.” He forced an even, insistent tone. This was not the place for her. Not here. Not now. “Please, Lily.”
Mulworthy flapped a hand, seeming oddly unconcerned by her sudden appearance. “Let her stay. Saves me the trouble tae fetch her later.”
“What do you mean?” Griffin asked wary at the man’s unexpected calm.
“‘Tis where she gets off.”
“Off?” Lily repeated, coming closer.
“I’m unloading ye.”
“You can’t,” she cried before Griffin had a chance to protest. As if he sported three heads, she gaped at Mulworthy, incredulous for an instant before fear and anger twisted her face. “I won’t go. I won’t be hoisted about like a sack of oats.”
“Captain, consider—”
Cut off with an arm wave, Mulworthy cocked a coarse brow, his stony expression absolute. “I aim to see the back of ye today, girlie.” The snorting, mirthless laugh raised the hackles on Griffin’s neck.
What scarce color Lily possessed drained away. “My uncle will see you in jail.”
Mulworthy hesitated, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue. “Perhaps. ’Tis more likely Lord Coventry will have my hide if I dinna send ye back.”
In a clear dismissal, he rotated away from her. “Ah, gentlemen. Good of ye to join us.”
Two men, off the first launch, picked their way across a deck congested with barrels, rope and animal pens. Griffin knew Jacques Dumelle, Captain of the Black Dog from when he’d arranged the theft of guns in London a week ago. The other man, Commander Moreau, he’d never met but knew from shared correspondence.
