“Good evening, signorina,” Luigi hailed as soon as she ducked into the fo’c’sle.
“Good evening,” she replied, glancing at the men already seated on benches around the drop-down table. As soon as they finished, the benches and table would be folded back up against the bulkhead, out of the way, until the next watch came below. She sniffed but smelled only hemp rope and damp wood and hardworking men, all overlaid with a tinge of salty sea spray. Not a hint of cooking food. They were eating something, though.
Jonesy stood up from the table as she entered. The three other sailors nodded and tugged at their forelocks but didn’t rise. In answer to her unspoken questions, Jonesy held up a plate with tiny brown lumps in some kind of sauce, and two lighter colored lumps. “When it blows like this we get beans and ship’s biscuits.” Ah, that’s what ship’s biscuits looked like. Even she could bake biscuits that looked more appetizing.
“No, no, signorina,” Luigi called, hurrying over. “You no eat cold beans like a tar. The Old Man, he has warm stew.”
“And hot coffee,” Jonesy added. “He’ll probably share if you get there quick.”
Old man? “You mean Tucker?” Why would the old sail maker get preferential treatment?
“Nay, missy, the captain. He’s in his quarters.”
Harriet nodded her thanks and hurried to the captain’s cabin, blowing on her icy fingers to warm them.
She paused at the closed door. Should she knock first? She’d been staying in there for the last three days. In some respects she was entering her own quarters.
“Enter,” was the reply to her knock.
Sheffield stood as she closed the door against the draft billowing down the passageway. The table was set for two, her bowl of stew cooling, his bowl half empty already. “Was wondering how long it would take you to find the food.” Grinning, he sat down without waiting for her and resumed eating.
She gravitated to the small brazier and held her hands out to its warmth, ignoring the slight spatter of rain coming in the open window. “I thought I should eat in the fo’c’sle.”
Sheffield shook his head. “With any luck, we’ll reach Spain long before you have to eat cold beans and hardtack.” He took another bite. “What?”
“I was just wondering why they called you an old man. I know for a fact you’re not a day over twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-six, but every captain is referred to as the Old Man.” He shrugged one shoulder and gave a wry smile. “Or worse.” He pushed the silver coffee pot her way when she sat down. “This is the best it’s going to be today so drink up.”
Harriet poured and took a sip. And spat it back out. Sheffield thumped her on the back while she coughed. “This vile, bitter stuff is the best?”
“At this point, yes. It will get even more bitter the longer it stays on the coals.”
Harriet quickly took a bite of stew to cleanse her palate. Not as good as what they’d had at the beginning of the trip, though still edible. Undoubtedly better than cold beans.
Sheffield stood, taking his empty bowl with him. “Drop your things off with Luigi when you’re done. See you in a few hours.” With that, he was gone.
Harriet ate her stew before it got any colder and tried not to sulk. Of course Sheffield couldn’t stay at table with her like a gentleman. They were not at a country house party, though she did feel like an unwelcome guest. He was going back on deck in that storm, getting soaked and chilled while she stayed dry and relatively warm. Alone.
He’d probably want to come warm himself by the brazier before turning in, wherever it was that he’d been sleeping, so that was something to look forward to.
How pathetic. She missed Betsy, if only to have someone with whom to chat. In whose presence she felt comfortable. Betsy never seemed to take up all the space and air in the cabin, as Sheffield did.
Just then Harriet noticed the coiled rope and canvas hanging on a hook by the door. That hadn’t been there before, she was sure. They must be storing it there to keep it dry during the storm.
The bells rang for the second dog watch. After finishing her rapidly-cooling meal, Harriet made her way forward to the galley and dutifully gave her dishes to Luigi. What did he do, dunk them in a net overboard to clean them?
Ignoring the outraged voice of Madame Zavrina in her head, Harriet perched on a barrel rather than retreating to the cabin and listened to the sailors tell tales after their meal. Drawn from their varied backgrounds in the navy, piracy, and fishing, the stories were much tamer than she expected. The most ribald involved a drunken bos’n who fell overboard and was rescued in a fishing net.
At last Harriet no longer felt chilled, as the body heat from five sailors in close quarters warmed the space. They were snug and dry here, though the ship moved more violently beneath her feet. Must be particularly nasty on deck, with no protection from the weather.
The watch changed again, and the men who came below were soaked and shivering, their lips blue. A couple spared her a glance, but they all began changing out of their sodden garments and hanging up hammocks, heedless of a female presence. Harriet beat a hasty retreat to the cabin and prepared to spend the fourth night in a row trapped within her sturdy and now sadly wrinkled brown woolen gown. She was sure Sheffield would happily unbutton her gown, but she wasn’t sure he’d stop there … or if she’d want him to.
* * *
Harriet sat up, immediately wide awake. The cabin was still pitch dark, and the ship still lunged up and down with every swell as rain pounded the deck and waves battered the hull. But something was different.
Snoring.
