Charlotte's Promise Page 2

  Hearing a yell, Alden turned his attention back toward the lad in the rigging. He and Dobson watched as Bert Ivory, the boatswain, waved his arms around and called up direction from the deck beneath the boy. The man’s long braid swung back and forth across his back as if it were giving directions as well.

  The boy had placed his foot onto a ratline, but it slipped off again. He kicked out, sticking his other leg completely through the ropes of the rigging up to his hip. Pulling with his arms, he struggled for purchase with either foot, but it was no use. Charlie was stuck.

  Alden shook his head, muttering a curse.

  At Ivory’s order, Tom Stafford, an experienced seaman, scampered up the ratlines to help the lad. Wrapping a muscled arm around the thick cable shroud that ran from the mast to the bulwark rail to steady himself, Stafford tugged on Charlie beneath the shoulder, pulling him up until he was untangled and his feet found a hold. Stafford showed the boy how to move up the rigging, holding with hands on the angled shrouds and stepping on the ratlines like one would on ladder rungs.

  Charlie followed Stafford’s lead, placing a foot and then putting weight on it to take a tentative step upward, but he slipped through the ropes, one hand losing its grip.

  Stafford’s arm shot out, and he grabbed the boy again, saving him from falling.

  Dobson winced at the pitiful demonstration. “He’ll learn . . .”

  Alden gave the quartermaster a flat stare. Leroy Dobson might appear surly and bad-tempered, which inspired a healthy amount of fear in the crew, but behind the barking voice and scowls, the man’s heart was as soft as a goose-down pillow. Alden sighed and started across the deck. Apparently it was up to him to send the lad on his way.

  Stafford jumped down from the rigging and stood with Mr. Ivory, watching as Charlie climbed down. His descent was every bit lacking in grace as his climb.

  Alden found it painful to watch.

  When Alden joined the other men, they nodded a greeting. Stafford’s jaw was tight as he glanced back toward the boy, but Alden didn’t give it much attention. Frustration was Stafford’s typical expression.

  The boy had nearly reached the bulwark rail.

  Alden stepped up beside the rigging and looked up at where the lad was on the ratlines. “Bower?”

  Charlie started and gave a yelp. He twisted around, one foot slipping, and lost his grip, falling to the deck and landing hard on his backside.

  Mr. Ivory shook his head, and Stafford’s jaw tightened even more.

  Alden reached down to help the boy to his feet.

  When Charlie took his hand, the boy’s cheeks reddened, and he turned his gaze downward. “I beg your pardon, sir. You startled me.”

  “Charlie.” Mr. Ivory’s voice was heavy with exasperation. “This is Captain Thatcher.”

  “Oh.” Charlie shuffled his feet, tugging on his trouser leg. He winced and straightened, clasping his hands behind his back, and giving a bow. “How do you do, Captain?”

  Alden stared, and for a moment he was speechless. Charlie Bower was not a boy at all, but a young woman. He glanced at the other crewmembers, but they did not appear to notice anything out of the ordinary, aside from Charlie’s ineptitude in going aloft. How did they miss the blush? The near-curtsy? The squeal? And those huge eyes? Surely the others weren’t fooled, were they?

  He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. A young lady running off to sea for a splendid voyage to divert her from her dull life was the last thing Alden needed. She no doubt imagined a romantic adventure where she’d fall in love with a dashing sailor, and the two would sail away happily to a flower-covered tropical island. Well, in that she was certainly mistaken. Love stories were just that: stories. And they didn’t end happily. A fact he knew firsthand.

  “Charlie, is it?” Alden studied the young lady. She was certainly small, but he thought her age of eighteen might be accurate. She was slender, but beneath the men’s clothing she wore, he could see the curve of a waist, and he imagined she’d likely tied a cloth tightly around her chest to disguise her figure. The cap she wore covered her hair, but some strands still poked out around her ears and neck. Apparently she’d cut it short. She was certainly committed to her adventure, he’d give her that, but she’d regret the hasty barbering soon enough.

  “Yes, Captain.” She clasped her hands then apparently thought better of it and let them hang at her sides, pushing down her shoulders. “I mean, aye, aye, Captain. Charlie Bower at your service.”

  “And you think to join the crew of the Belladonna?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Mr. Stafford is teaching me how to go aloft to . . . ah . . . tie up the sails.”

  “Furl the sails,” Alden said.

  “Oh yes, that was the word he used.” She gave a thoughtful nod, her brows pulling together in a solemn look that made her eyes enormous.

  Alden supposed that expression was exactly what had aroused the tender feelings in the quartermaster.

  Charlie glanced toward the other men. “But I shall have to practice, I’m afraid.” One side of her mouth pulled into an apologetic smile. “Mr. Ivory said perhaps I would do better as a swabbie.” The uncertain smile revealed dimples in her freckled cheeks.

  She was attempting to charm him. Alden forcibly restrained his eyes from rolling. This young lady would be bored, tired, and hungry within a day at sea, and whining to return home to her soft bed. Sailing a ship was difficult, not romantic and thrilling like it was portrayed in the novels of which she had undoubtedly read too many. And there was not a member of Alden’s crew he would consider dashing. Surly, perhaps. Scarred, smelly, and pockmarked. And in Mr. Gardner’s case, bald.

  Alden, of course, didn’t consider himself to be un-dashing. In fact, he took quite a bit of pride in his presentation. He smoothed fingers through his hair, flipping back the curl that fell jauntily over his brow. He was a tradesman who worked with investors, vendors, and salesmen, often sweet-talking and charming them to win their business. Entrusting money and goods to a merchant sailor was, at the best of times, risky. But during wartime the liability was downright hazardous, and he thought it important the owner and captain of the Belladonna make a good impression.

  The crew of the Belladonna were serious sailors, working a difficult job, taking daily risks, and falling exhausted into their berths at the end of their watches. None had the time, energy, or disposition to be smitten and carried away in a silly young girl’s pretend world.

  His annoyance deepened to anger. She thought this a game, considered the challenging profession of a seaman an amusing way to pass the time, and while she chose to foist her starry-eyed fantasy on him and his crewmembers, he would be the one to manage the inevitable consequences when she grew tired of it. Not to mention dealing with an angry father accusing him of tarnishing the young lady’s reputation by taking her out to sea with a ship full of men.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward. “Mr. Bower, I am very sorry to—”

  The sound of raised voices interrupted him.

  Charlie’s eyes widened. She darted a glance toward the dock, and her face went chalk-white.

  Surprised by the reaction, Alden followed her gaze. Two rather seedy-looking men stood at the gangplank, arguing with the quartermaster. They wore dirty boots, wide-brimmed hats, and coats that were much too large, very likely with hidden pockets for stashing valuables they lifted from careless passersby. The sight of such men on the docks of a large city such as Savannah wasn’t unusual, and Dobson would deal with them well enough. Alden turned back to finish speaking with Charlie, but the girl had disappeared.

  “What the deuce?” Where had she gone? His curiosity piqued, he glanced around the deck as he strode toward the gangplank, slowing his steps to watch the interaction beneath.

  The quartermaster stood at the foot of the gangplank, arms folded and legs apart. Dobson co
uld truly look threatening when he wished to. “I told you I’ve not seen a girl,” he said to the men. “And there’s certainly not one aboard this ship.”

  “Perhaps we might come aboard and have a look, sir.” One man, the taller of the two, spoke through a tobacco-blackened mouth. “She may be hiding.”

  His voice made Alden think of oil slipping over water. And the way his companion’s eyes darted about made him wary of the men’s intentions. They were surely up to something nefarious.

  “You’ll take my word for it,” Dobson said. He made a shooing motion. “Now, off with you.”

  The suspicious-looking men shared a glance, and the taller held up his hands as if to assure the quartermaster that they meant no harm. “If we—”

  The sound of Alden’s boot stepping onto the gangplank stopped the man’s speech. “What’s all this about, Mr. Dobson?” Alden asked.

  The quartermaster turned, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “These men here are looking for a runaway. A girl. They think she’s hiding aboard.”

  Alden descended partway down the gangplank, his position above the men making them have to crane their necks to see him. “You think a girl boarded this ship without my knowledge?”

  “We do, sir,” the tobacco-chewing man said.

  The shorter man made a very wet sniffing noise.

  If one drop of fluid—any fluid—got onto Alden’s decks, the men would be sorry they’d gotten out of bed this morning—or out of whatever filthy den such men slept in.

  “Could have slipped aboard while everyone was sleeping.” The shorter man looked toward the portholes as he spoke, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “She’s wearing a blue dress and her hair in long braids.” He made a motion down the side of his head and chest to indicate the length of her hair.

  Alden took a few steps closer, making certain he was still positioned higher than the men. He didn’t feel one bit guilty about using intimidation. “And what is this girl to you?” He looked between them. “Why are you searching for her?”

  The taller man’s brow furrowed then smoothed. “She’s our sister, sir. Our dear sister.”

  “Our poor ma misses her so.” The smaller man looked at the smear on his sleeve then sniffed again.

  Alden’s lip curled, disgusted at both the leaking sinuses and the obvious lie. “What’s her name?”

  “Who? Oh. Uh . . .” The taller man’s brow furrowed again. “Mary.”

  “Anna.” His companion spoke at the same moment.

  The two looked at one another, eyes widening.

  One would think men of their low caliber would not be such superbly terrible liars.

  “Maryanne,” the shorter man said, looking proud of himself for the quick thinking. He tipped his head and gave what he must have thought appeared to be a loving smile, but was exactly the kind of forged innocent expression Alden knew firsthand led to a schoolmaster’s paddle.

  The taller man nodded. “How we miss our dear Maryanne.”

  The hairs on the back of Alden’s neck prickled. He thought again of the frightened look on Charlie’s face. The anger he’d felt toward the young lady found a new recipient in these men. If he had anything to do with it, they would never see her again. He crossed his arms. “I have very little tolerance for liars, gentlemen. This girl, wherever she is, should consider herself lucky not to be in your company. Now, move away from my ship, or we’ll see how you like the taste of buckshot for breakfast.”

  “How dare you?” The tobacco-chewing man spat, narrowly missing Alden’s toe. He did, however, make the mistake of dirtying the gangplank. “Give her to us at once.”

  From behind, Dobson called a command to arms.

  The crew of the Belladonna appeared at the rails with muskets trained on the men.

  Alden held the man’s gaze steadily. He stepped over the offensive splash on his polished gangplank and grabbed him by the collar, wary of the brown liquid at the edges of the man’s lips. Standing on even ground, Alden was still taller. “Gentlemen”—he kept his voice low, forcing it to remain even—“no girl is aboard my ship. Now, I’ll not ask again.” He gave a shove, and the man stumbled backward.

  The two glared at him. The dripping-nosed man muttered a curse, but they made the first wise decision of the day and scurried away.

  Alden shook his head. A sick feeling turned his stomach. Slave traders. He’d been wrong about Charlie. She wasn’t a spoiled girl after all. She’d been captured—likely by Indians—and sold to those repulsive men. The nausea moved to constrict his throat as he considered what the young lady had likely endured, and he understood the need for her disguise.

  He turned back, climbing the gangplank again and nodding to Dobson as he passed.

  The men returned their weapons, save for two who remained as guards at the top of the gangplank, should the slave traders return with reinforcements.

  Alden didn’t think there was much chance of that. Those men were cowards. While he himself had done his fair share of not entirely legal importation of goods, there was a line he’d never crossed. He had no respect for men who resorted to outright murder or thievery and even less for human traffickers.

  Unfortunately, in the merchant and privateering business, it was often necessary to remain on civil terms with the dregs of society. But Alden had vowed never to stoop to their level. He’d witnessed slave auctions, seen frightened babies and children torn from their helpless mothers. And the sight had been heartbreaking. He didn’t consider himself an overly sensitive person, but he couldn’t understand how anyone could look upon such a thing without feeling compassion—and guilt. No amount of money could make trading human lives into anything but sheer evil.

  He stepped down the companionway onto the lower deck and thought again of the terror on Charlie’s face when she’d heard the voices and feared she’d been discovered. A surge of defensiveness rose inside him. He had no sisters but had spent his early years in an orphanage in Washington City before being adopted. The younger children had looked up to him as a leader. Well, not a leader, precisely. Jester was perhaps a better term. He’d found it much easier to laugh at the difficult situations in life than to face them. His joking helped the other children forget their sorrows. In some cases, laughter worked better than a comforting word. And making a joke seldom involved uncomfortable emotions.

  Scowling, he realized how much had changed. Laughter was a rare element in his life these days. He felt like that part of him—the part with jokes and smiles—was a disguise, a wall to protect his feelings. Alden sighed. It appeared he hadn’t changed so much after all.

  He sent for Charlie, and a few moments later, she stepped into his cabin. The captain’s quarters on the Belladonna were the most luxurious of all the sleeping spaces by far. That being said, the room was very small, with only space for a wooden berth, a trunk, a chair, and a washstand that doubled as a desk.

  “Sit down.” He stood aside and motioned toward the chair.

  She glanced around the confined space, and her brows pinched together nervously, but she sat straight-backed on the chair, with her knees together and her hands folded. Hardly a masculine posture. Alden’s lips twitched as he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. “Where are you from, Charlie?”

  “Bay Minette; it’s a small town in the Mississippi Territory.”

  He nodded. The area was notorious for a violent Creek Indian faction, the Red Sticks. He studied her face for a moment. Charlie held her chin up and her jaw tight. Her muscles were tense, and her gaze scanned her surroundings as she watched him carefully. Hers was not the attitude of a confident young lady but of a survivor, bracing herself. Alden rubbed his chin, feeling a kinship with the girl. It appeared she had walls of her own.

  “You were raised on a farm?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Then you are not a stranger to physical labor,” he said. />
  “No, sir.”

  “I require my crew to work hard.” He folded his arms. “You won’t be cut slack just because you’re . . .” He tipped his head, regarding her, and decided for the sake of her pride and the order of his ship to keep the secret of her gender. “Because you’re the smallest crewmember.”

  Her eyes brightened but still held caution. “I understand, sir. I know I need to practice going aloft.” She winced, as if remembering her fall from the rigging. “And Mr. Ivory said he will teach me how to maintain the decks.”

  Alden lifted his chin. “I take pride in the appearance of this ship. I expect the decks to shine.” He looked over her thin clothing, wondering where she’d gotten it. Perhaps she’d traded the blue dress for it. Or her hair. The idea of her having to resort to such means to escape her captors made him respect her determination and also gave him a pang of sadness. “Do you have a coat?”

  Charlie shook her head. “No.”

  “Not very prepared, are you?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her brows pulled together but smoothed when she saw his words weren’t a reprimand.

  “The sea is very cold this time of year, even in the Caribbean. I’ll have Mr. Ivory find you one.” A coat would cover her figure even more, ensure her secret remained hidden—and it would keep her warm.

  Charlie looked relieved. Dimples appeared with her smile. “Thank you, Captain.”

  Alden considered again whether to reveal that he knew her secret but decided against it. After what he imagined she’d endured, posing as a man would give her a feeling of safety, especially surrounded by an all-male crew.

  “Welcome aboard, Charlie Bower.” Alden extended a hand to shake hers. He didn’t regret permitting her aboard. He’d never allow any person to be taken by the likes of those men, but an uneasy twist moved through his gut, and he wondered exactly how much disruption the decision would cause.