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“You alright, young lady?” asked a burly voice. I coughed again, trying to sit up. The young man put his hand on my back, so warm, cautioning me.
“Take it easy,” he murmured in an American accent.
“Oh!” I cried, tears streaming down my face. “Where am I? Where is my husband?” I looked around. The sailors exchanged glances, all fluffy beards and big arms. They were dressed in dirty clothes, ready for their voyage across the ocean except for the young man dripping beside me. A few of them were English, most were American.
“You're in Liverpool, England, miss,” said my savior. I began the hysterics, something I’d mastered long ago, explaining I was on my way to New York with my husband from Dublin. Our ship caught fire, men were fighting, women were screaming, there was an explosion, and everyone was panicking.
The men all muttered in surprise.
“Wonder if it were those mafia,”
“Maybe something in the kitchen,”
“Poor girl!”
“What will I do? How will I get to New York? My husband! Oh, he must be dead!” I started a whole new round of wails; the men each patted my back or rubbed my arms soothingly as some more sailors came over to assess the damage. “Thank you for saving me, sir. But… I—I’m afraid I haven't any money now, how will I get home? I may as well be stranded!” I flung myself into his broad chest and his arm wrapped around me nervously.
“Now, now, miss. All is fine–we are heading toward New York City today, you’re more than welcome to join us!” an older man exclaimed, smiling down at me. No doubt he believed he was bringing me some sort of solace. The others joined with a chorus of affirmation and I sniffled, letting a few stray tears make their way out.
“Would you really?” I whispered, attempting to wipe my tears as I gazed into the hazel eyes of the man holding me.
“Yes, of course,” he said, his gaze searching mine. “We will need to get you another dress…” I felt his hand on the skin of my side, a familiar warmth tingled within me at the touch. I cleared my throat, unfurling my fingers from his damp shirt. “We’ll need to contact someone about searching for any survivors.”
“She looks about the same size as my wife, sir. I’d be happy to run on over and grab her another.” The youngest of the men spoke. My rescuer nodded and the sailor ran off, saying he'd be back within a half of an hour. Coming to his own feet, my savior slowly helped me to mine.
“Will you be alright to walk? Are you hurt?”
I shook my head, “I do not believe so, just horribly shaken,” I muttered. His arm was still wrapped around me for support. “You gentlemen are so kind, I know not how to repay you.” I leaned into the warm body, hamming it up nicely. They all waved me off, saying it was the least they could do for a woman in distress.
The group began to move as one, following the young man and I onto the ramp leading up and onto the ship. Many stood back as we passed, making our way toward the captain’s quarters. Inside, the space struck me as homey. Finely furnished with deep rich woods and blue fabrics, maps, and instruments for travel everywhere. There was a spilled inkwell on the desk, stacks of papers splayed out in a chaotic mess. Over that mess, stood a man of no more than forty with a cup of tea in his hand. He smelled of tobacco, dressed in a matching blue suit and hat. The captain turned, immediately smiling to his men.
“Very nice recovery, crew!” he exclaimed proudly, “Is the young lady all right? Fetch a doctor?”
“That won't be necessary,” I panicked. I’d made the mistake once of letting a doctor look over me–I had to kill him afterward. They all gazed cautiously at me, then one another.
“She appears to have been in a shipwreck, sir. We offered her passage to New York,” the hazel eyed man relayed, guiding me to a small table in the corner set with tea. I took a deep breath when I sank into the chair, letting the tension ease from my shoulders.
“Sounds fine, seeing as she is in such a... state,” the captain joined me at his tea table and poured a warm cup. “Drink up, miss...?”
“Mrs. Rosemary Blackwell,” I muttered, taking the cup.
“Mrs. Blackwell,” he bowed his head, “we’ll need to contact the coast guard, son. It is horrible to think anyone else may be out there on the water.”
“Ron has gone off to get her a new dress,” the captain’s son, my hazel eyed savior, replied, voice tight. I stared at my ruined skirt, ripped to the thigh, skin exposed. The side of the dress was torn from my underarm to my waist and such a swath of my bare side was visible. No doubt they could see the curve of my breast.
The sailors and captains all looked with me, clearing their throats and turning away quickly. On the inside, I laughed at each of their hastened hearts, the sound loud and clear for only my ears to hear. On the outside, I looked down at my tea in embarrassment, covering my side with my hand.
The captain’s son wrapped a tattered flannel around my shoulders, a gesture I least expected, but a tender one.
“We will get you to New York, Mrs. Blackwell. Have you kin there?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“That is indeed a good thing,” the captain replied stiffly, “where are my manners? I am Captain Nicholas Reynolds, at your service. This is my son and co-captain, James; you will be staying with us in the captain’s quarters, if you don't mind.”
I peeked over at James, the man who saved me. He was a boy much like his father – tall, well built. He had a strong jaw and brow, a crooked nose which bore the history of a break. His eyes were hazel green, his father’s dark brown. Both the men had shaggy, sandy hair–the captain’s slicked back, James’s dripping over his forehead. I watched him take a seat on the small sofa across the room, wrapping himself in a similarly worn flannel blanket while his father poured him tea.
“I am so grateful, Captain Reynolds. Thank you,” I finally said. They would not hear of any repayment, nor would they hear any protesting of imposing. Their hospitality was great and they genuinely seemed happy to help me.
