Becoming Lady Lockwood (11 page)

“Corporal, I am glad to see you,” Amelia said quietly, not wanting to wake the doctor.

“And I am glad to see you too, Miss Becket.”

Amelia turned, knowing the corporal would follow. Tobias had begged a favor of her, and she intended to see it fulfilled. Walking across the deck onto the companionway, she saw evidence of the battle all around her. The air still stank of smoke and powder and sweat. The companionway stairs were covered in a mixture of sand and blood. When she reached the upper decks, she saw jagged holes where cannonballs had blasted their way through the bulkheads. The carpenter’s mates were boarding up the damage as quickly as possible by candlelight.

The attack had begun in the morning, and she realized that it was now past dark.

Amelia found the sailmaker’s mates on one of the decks, surrounded by sail canvas. One of the men, Mr. Croft, pointed and directed the others. He must be Tobias’s replacement. She did not allow her mind to fully form the thought and turned to the man instead.

“Mr. Croft, are we to repair the sails?”

“Aye, Miss Becket. But first we’ve a task of a more unpleasant nature. Sailmakers are charged with preparing our dead for burial. Sewing them into shrouds.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “If you’re not up to the task, miss, none of us will hold it against ya.”

Amelia’s stomach turned, but she did not let her apprehension show on her face. These were her shipmates. “I am up to the task, sir. But I should like one of you to fetch something first, if you please.”

Once Mr. Croft had dispatched a man to retrieve the pouch from Tobias’s trunk, Amelia steeled herself and reached into her pocket for Tobias’s palm. She strapped it on her hand and buckled it. “Show me the way, sir.”

William stepped through the dark
doorway of the operating theater, lifting his lantern, but saw only Dr. Spinner fast asleep upon a barrel. Where was Amelia? Sidney had reported searching the stern’s hold and then discovering that the woman had apparently spent the entire day assisting the surgeon with the wounded. The lieutenant had recounted the events of his interaction with Amelia and even confessed to embracing her when he had seen her devastation at the death of her friend, Mr. Wheeler. How William wished he had been the one to comfort her.

William raked his fingers through his hair. Why hadn’t he ordered Corporal Thorne to remain with her and shield her from the unspeakable things she must have seen? She should never have been exposed to such atrocities.

In all his years at sea—most of them during war time—William never ceased to be amazed by the depths of violence men were capable of inflicting upon one another. There were no words for the depravity and horror of battle, and to think that his joyful, softhearted Amelia should be a witness to men’s most savage acts caused him immeasurable sorrow.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts in order to focus on what needed to be done. It was crucial that he get this ship out of the French waters immediately. But it was not only the French that concerned him.

He had spent the last hours in conference with the lieutenants discussing a letter found in the captain’s quarters of the enemy ship. The marines and officers had stormed the damaged French vessel, continuing with their swords the fight begun by cannons. As she sank, Sergeant Fairchild had the presence of mind to search the French captain’s documents.

When the missive was delivered to him, William had read it and felt as if he’d been struck a blow. The message detailed the
Venture
’s mission and course and even went so far as to offer a reward should the frigate be defeated. A betrayal.

Very few people would have had access to the information concerning the mission. Which of them had designed this trap? He’d questioned the French captain relentlessly, but the man had revealed nothing.

A theory began to niggle itself into William’s mind. Amelia’s father, the admiral, would have known their course. He was likely the man who had chosen it. And he had a personal interest in at least one of the passengers. Amelia had mentioned that her father had been surprised to find that the plantation had not become his property upon the death of his wife. Would he have gone to such lengths to obtain it? Admiral Becket was a ruthless man. William might even go so far as to question the admiral’s ethics, but the man would not endanger the lives of eight hundred men and a vessel worth nearly eighty thousand pounds, would he? And the very thought of the admiral killing his own daughter to obtain her inheritance—that was far too reprehensible to consider.

Besides, the theory did not take into account the suit for her jointure after Lawrence’s death. The admiral would receive nothing from the Lockwood estate should Amelia die. It could not be her father. William stopped his train of thought and pushed it from his mind.

He left the room and walked up the companionway. The carpenter and his mates were removing damaged wood from the bulkheads and hammering new boards in place. William walked along the starboard side of the middle deck, watching the men’s progress by the flickering light of the lanterns. The deck was slowly being returned to its orderly state. Sailors reassembled the partitions to section off the individual cabins.

William stopped at Amelia’s partially reconstructed quarters. Next to the porthole, an enormous, jagged opening had been blown in the bulkhead. Blood and sand covered the deck, and splinters of wood were strewn everywhere. Though it was only a matter of time before the men cleaned and scrubbed the floor and repainted and repaired the damage, he wouldn’t allow Amelia to return to such a reminder of the violence that had occurred here.

He walked to the stern, searching for her trunk, which had been moved and stowed with all the other items from the various cabins. Once he’d located her belongings, it was just a matter of shifting a few other trunks, and he was able to open it.

A soft feminine smell greeted him as he lifted the lid, and he paused a moment to experience it, inhaling slowly. He immediately discovered what he was searching for—her blanket. When he found her, she would no doubt be cold. He removed it and began to lower the lid, but something caught his eye. A pink ribbon tied in a bow wrapped around a letter—his birthday letter—and a scrap of sail. Holding it closer to the lantern, he studied the picture embroidered upon the canvas and realized it must have been a gift from Mr. Wheeler.

Would Amelia ever be the same after witnessing her dear friend’s death? She was a strong woman, but how would she recover from something like this? He carefully replaced the items then stood and continued up the companionway to the lower gun deck.

Corporal Ashworth saluted as he neared, and William found Amelia nearby. She kneeled upon the one spot of cleared deck with the other sailmaker’s mates. By candlelight, she was carefully stitching shrouds of the thick sail canvas around the dead men’s remains.

Amelia’s jaw was tight, her face set and grim. Her hair had begun to fall from its braid and hung in wavy strands around her face. When he approached, she looked up. William’s stomach hardened. Dark circles stood out beneath her red eyes. She was exhausted.

He stepped toward her and helped her to her feet, leading her a short distance away from the other men—and the bodies. After setting the lantern upon the deck, he pulled her to him, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. She stood in the circle of his arms, resting her head against his chest. For an instant the horrors of the day melted away, and there was only the two of them.

“William,” she said softly, and he held her tighter.

He pressed a kiss on her soft hair. “Come, Amelia. You must sleep. This chore is . . . gruesome. Please, leave it to the men.”

“I cannot.”

He stepped back and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Cupping her chin, he lifted her face. Her eyes looked back at him dully. It was painful to see her expression devoid of its typical liveliness.

“I wish I could somehow cause you to unsee what you saw today. It has stolen the light from your eyes.”

The sides of her lips lifted in an attempted smile. “A lady might take offense to such a statement.”

“When did you eat last?”

She shook her head; the loose curls swayed around her face and brushed her shoulders. “I do not remember.” Her gaze moved toward where the men continued to work and then back to William. “But the task at hand does not lend itself to an increase of appetite.”

“Won’t you allow me to take care of you, Amelia? Please, come away from here.”

She nestled back against his chest. “Tobias would want the job done well. I feel like I cannot abandon it, William. Please understand.”

They stood silently, and he found that he did understand. Amelia felt as though she was paying tribute to a person she had been very fond of, and if it helped her to heal, he would not stop her.

He stepped back and put his hands on her shoulders. “I must return to the quarterdeck. Send for me if you need anything.”

“This is what I needed. I feel much better now.” Her words warmed his insides in much the same manner as a hot cup of tea.

He left Amelia and walked quickly up the companionway, realizing he had been gone too long from the upper deck. With the state of the rigging and the damaged mast, he needed to check how many knots the ship was capable of in her condition. He vowed to leave the Bay of Biscay as quickly as possible.

***

An hour later, he and Sidney stood over the charts, studying the readings. The results were not good. Tomorrow, the riggings would be repaired, and William hoped that within two days the sails would be completely mended. But in the meantime, the ship moved at the whim of the tide, and that was not necessarily a good thing. Earlier, he had found himself quite discouraged and felt the task of repairing the ship and returning to England nearly insurmountable, but the brief encounter with Amelia had rejuvenated him. It was amazing, the effect that particular pretty lady had on him.

“Captain, I find your schedule optimistic. I believe it will take us at least a week, possibly two, to get out of these cursed waters.” Sidney rubbed his palm over his cheek. Though the lieutenant tried to hide it, William could see the despair on his friend’s face.

“Melancholy spreads like a plague, Mr. Fletcher. You and I both know this. And I’ll not allow it to take hold. Our rations are low; the men’s spirits are even lower. If they feel that we can get the
Venture
ready to sail at full speed in merely a few days, they will work hard to accomplish it. And I believe they can do it.” It was imperative that the officers appear positive, as the men would follow suit.

“But in her current state, we shall not be able to withstand another attack.”

William looked thoughtfully at Sidney. His first lieutenant had been correct in his assertions this entire voyage. They had been led into a trap, and Sidney had every reason to worry that another warship might come upon them while they wallowed in enemy waters. “Then it is essential to get this vessel in shipshape condition. And it will not happen unless the men believe it is possible.” He placed his hand upon his oldest friend’s shoulder. “Mr. Fletcher, it seems to be a particular talent of yours to remain lighthearted in the most unsuitable of times. I trust that you will put your skill to use and maintain a façade of optimism in these dire circumstances.”

After leaving his quarters, William made another round, inspecting the progress of the repairs. The carpenter reported the ship was taking on more water, so with a great clanging, the men began to run the pumps.

When he reached the main deck, the captain saw that the sailmaker and his mates had carried the shrouded bodies up the companionway and had arranged them on the deck in preparation for the burial service. The site of nearly thirty men wrapped and sewn in heavy canvas was sobering, and he knew there would be more in the days to come as men succumbed to their injuries. He scanned the deck, hoping to see Amelia, but she wasn’t there.

The ship’s bell rang six times. It was nearly dawn. William walked to his quarters and donned his full dress uniform. He sat at his desk and, opening the drawer, drew out the Bible that rested inside. The cover was worn and cracked. Sea air was not discriminatory in its harshness to objects, even those of spiritual importance.

One other object lay in the drawer, and he picked it up. He studied for a moment the portrait miniature of Amelia that he’d found in his brother’s effects, tracing his fingers around the frame. He noticed now that the picture portrayed her with a reserved smile. She looked out of the frame with gentle eyes. Obviously the artist failed to capture her intelligence or her passionate spirit. The image was a subdued imitation of the real thing, a ghost of the lively person he had grown so fond of. He dreaded the idea that Amelia would become a wilted shade of herself. He must not let her despair rob her of her enthusiasm for life. A feeling of nervous urgency began to grow inside him. The
Venture
must leave French waters without delay, before this blasted war stole another piece of Amelia’s vitality.

He crossed the sitting room and paused at the door, breathing in one deep breath and setting his hat upon his head. Then he stepped out onto the quarterdeck.

The sky was beginning to glow, but they would not be able to take bearings this morning. The only indication that the sun was rising was a lightening of the heavy fog from dark gray to not-as-dark gray. The gloom was not going to help the men’s moods.

Sidney stepped up onto the deck. The dark bags beneath his eyes and the day’s growth of whiskers indicated that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to sleep or shave.

“I don’t like this fog, Captain,” Sidney said in a low voice. “The Frenchies could be anywhere, and we’d not see them until they were on top of us. If only the ship could be repaired silently.” He grimaced. “They’ll hear us hammering and running the blasted pumps for miles.”

William nodded. “We’ll forego the gun salute this morning, Mr. Fletcher, but remember, if we can’t see them, they can’t see us either.”

At William’s signal, the boatswain summoned the men with the call, “All hands bury the dead!” The ensign was lowered to half-mast. The sailors silently walked up the companionway and filled the main deck.

The men stood in their divisions. Amelia had positioned herself next to Riley, and as William watched, the boy patted her arm, whispering something to her, and she smiled gratefully at him in return. William was growing fonder of Riley by the minute.

The first body was laid upon the platform and covered by the flag. Sidney, as the deceased man’s division commander, stood at attention next to the captain.

The sailors bowed their heads.

William opened the Bible and read the verse, even though he could have repeated the words of the ceremony in his sleep.

“For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God.”

“Edward Baker,” Sidney quietly told William the dead man’s name.

The captain continued. “We commit the body of Edward Baker to the deep.”

The boatswain and one of his mates tipped the platform. The body slid from beneath the flag and plunged into the sea.

The marines held out their guns, and each sailor saluted.

The ceremony was repeated twenty-seven times.

When Tobias Wheeler’s body was released, William looked to where Amelia stood. Her jaw was clenched, and she maintained a stoic countenance—just like any good sailor. He rather wished she would cry—it was terrible to watch her stare at the deck and struggle to keep her emotions in check.

As she stood, she trembled. Even in the darkness of the fog, he saw the weariness in her pale face. She had been awake for an entire day and night. In that time, she had worked as constantly as anyone aboard the ship. And he was certain she’d not eaten. He thought how she must have looked as a young girl at her own mother’s funeral, and now she had lost Tobias, whom William suspected was a father figure to her. Her weariness and pain tore at him, and he wished he could take it from her.