Winston came out to the beach and sat on the sand, his back braced against the log near the fire pit, with coils of rope and a pouch full of sewing supplies beside him. He tilted his head this way and that while he worked, adjusting to seeing with only one eye. A bandage still covered the upper left third of his face, the white linen a stark contrast to his ebony skin.
Harriet sat on the log to peer over his right shoulder. “You’re sewing rope?”
“Whippin’ da ends so dey don’t fray, miss.” He held up the rope in his hand so she could see the neat rows of thread wrapping around the ends of the strands. “Den we marry da short pieces to get a long one.”
Standing on a rope eighty feet above the deck was impossible but sewing she could do. She found Smitty, explained what she wanted to do, and they went below to the slop chest.
“If you’re working with rope, you’ll need these, miss.” Smitty held up a marlinspike in one hand and a leather pouch for it in the other. She’d noticed how the crewmen all had a similar pouch slotted through the belt around their waist—even if said belt was just a length of rope—and a thin rope tying the spike to the pouch. If the spike wasn’t tied, Jack had explained, and you dropped it while working with it, it could injure someone on deck and or fall into the sea.
Supplies in hand and tied around her waist, she settled on the beach near Winston to learn how to splice rope.
* * *
“I’m sorry, Tucker. We don’t have time to stay here while you mend all these.” Sheffield stood at the bow of the brig, close to the beach, surveying the torn and shredded sheets spread across the deck.
“Ach, no, Captain,” Tucker said, his hand to his heart. “You dinna mean…”
“I do.” Sheffield raised his voice. “Bring up the spare set of sails! All of ‘em!”
At the chorus of groans and curses from the crew, Harriet looked up from the rope she was splicing. Soon the crew was hoisting crates up from the hold. Her legs were going numb from sitting in the same spot so long, so she left the rope with Winston and climbed aboard to help Tucker, Chang, and Jack fold the damaged sails out of the way. The watches had kept working their regular shifts, engaged in repairs instead of setting sails. They had already removed and replaced all the damaged yardarms.
“And ‘ere I was ‘oping we’d never ‘ave to use the spares,” Jack lamented as he and Harriet grasped the edges of the remains of a sail and folded it like a bed sheet.
“Why?” Harriet asked. “What’s wrong with the spare set?”
“Ach, lass, ‘tis a crime.” Tucker placed the folded sheet on the growing pile of canvas, gave it a gentle pat, and they started folding another.
“We was carrying a load of beetroot when the Frenchies got us with a lucky shot well below the water line,” Jack said. “Ball busted open several crates, includin’ the spare sails. Beets went everywhere, rolling around in the water what was pouring in the ‘ole in the side.”
“Last year I begged the Old Man to replace them, but he said it ain’t in the budget, and this year is even worse.” Tucker heaved a great sigh as Jonesy wrenched open the first crate.
When they’d stowed all the damaged canvas, Harriet went back to sitting cross-legged on the beach, splicing rope. She knew how to repair a sail but nothing about hanging one, so she stayed out of the crew’s way, and watched the men install the spare sails.
Soon she understood the men’s reluctance, the groans, the curses. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.
Every sail was pink.
Speckles, spots, spatters. Stripes along what had been folded edges. Every sail was stained from the beets. Some places the pink was a pale rose, others it was a rich burgundy, with every shade in between. Some patches were clear, places that had been deep within the folds, while others were solid pink in varying intensity.
“Glad you find my crew’s discomfort amusing,” Sheffield said as he seated himself on the log, his knee close to her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…” She took a deep breath to stifle a giggle. Which made her inhale Sheffield’s scent. She closed her eyes as he slipped down to sit on the sand beside her and opened them in time to see him reach across her lap for the rope she’d been working on.
He gave it a tug, testing the strength, checked how smoothly she’d woven in the first three ends of the long splice, the neatly whipped ends barely visible. Marry the rope wrong, lumpy and uneven, and it would get hung up in the block and tackle. Worse than useless. Winston had her take it apart and start over twice before declaring she’d got it right. She felt a swell of pride when Sheffield gave her an approving nod and gave it back.
“Just what?”
“Just the most inconsistent dye job I think I’ve ever seen.” She waved a hand at the nearest blotchy pink sail. “No woman worth her bonnet ribbons would leave fabric looking like that.”
Sheffield stroked his chin. “You think we ought to boil up a big trough of beets and finish the job? Do them up right and solid?”
Harriet laughed at the image his words conjured. “I think Tucker would keel over with an apoplexy if you made them solid pink.”
Sheffield tipped his head to one side, watching his crew hoist the pink splattered mainsail into place, and glanced at the pained expression clearly visible on Tucker’s face, even from this distance. “You’re probably right.” He patted her on the knee and went back up to the deck.
Harriet stayed immobile, feeling the warm imprint of his hand on her knee. What was that about? Had he interpreted her brash action yesterday in kissing him as giving him permission to touch her? Not that she was certain she minded.
She wasn’t sure if he’d come to his cabin last night. The lantern had burned out this morning rather than being blown out. His blanket was still folded neatly on the bunk. Had he found another hammock elsewhere to sleep in? He didn’t seem upset today that his usual hammock hadn’t been available. Perhaps he’d slept on the beach. He didn’t have the dark circles under his eyes of one who had not slept at all.
