Fair Winds to Muscovy

Chapter One

In and out of Cape Fear in one day, the Fair Winds came away from Belmont’s quay with its hold filled to capacity. And even though plantation owner Roger Belmont was up to his old tricks, Grant had stuck to his guns. Those pungent tobacco leaves, sun-ripened, dried, and bound in huge bundles had a better chance of reaching England, he figured, than if he were paid in gold.

Stubbornly turning a deaf ear to Belmont’s objections, he ordered the crew to set sail, knowing in his gut that he'd correctly judged his father’s old comrade-in-arms. The fellow was an out and out scoundrel, all right. When it came to making a profit, he was still a murdering, thieving pirate to the bone.

Sure enough, the Fair Winds hadn’t gone a half-day’s journey when a swift sailing schooner appeared on the horizon, flying the Jolly Roger. Laden down as they were, Grant immediately armed his men and told them to prepare for the worst.

I am perfectly willing to have another go-round with the pox, Rosalyn nervously offered, but he turned her down flat.

Get in your cabin and bar the door, he commanded, tying a bandana around his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes. This time we stand and fight.

There was no reasoning with him! Wringing her hands, Rosalyn watched as Grant and his men armed themselves with dirks and daggers, muskets and pistols. All eight cannon on board were primed and made ready.

"I knew it was a mistake sailing with you!" she stormed. Tears in her eyes, she ran to her cabin and slammed the door.

Pirates! she grimly informed Mercy.

Dropping to their knees, she and Mercy committed their souls to God and the ship’s captain and crew to His care and protection. And then, for what seemed like hours, they waited.

And waited . . . and waited.

Meanwhile the ship rocked and pitched and heaved, its timbers groaning and creaking and snarling under the heavy burden of cargo. Over the howl of winds and heavy seas the captain roared commands, followed by the fast drumming of bare feet running across the deck.

In their cabin, Rosalyn and Mercy held their breath, expecting the worst. Suddenly there came the shriek of a cannonball fired across the bow, followed by the curses of seamen.

This was followed by the short piping of a whistle, and the clang of the ship’s bell.

After that—an eerie silence fell.

Hours passed, and still no battle. Enduring the suspense as long as they could, two very frightened young ladies finally unbarred the cabin door and stuck their heads out.

On the quarterdeck Grant Watermann, an unlit cigar clamped between his gleaming white teeth, gave them a friendly wave.

What happened to the pirates? Rosalyn whispered. Having seen the Jolly Roger with her own eyes, she still felt extremely wary.

Lost ’em in a squall, he said with a cocky grin. Disappointed?

Rosalyn shook her head. Thank the Lord, our prayers were answered, she said, wishing to remind him that their lives depended on more than just good seamanship to evade a pirate ship.

His black hair ruffling in the breeze, he laughed good-naturedly. The wind must have drowned out your prayers. I scarce could hear myself think, let along pay attention to a pair of caterwauling females.

Be that as it may, Captain! she snapped, now truly incensed. "We weren’t addressing you."

He cocked a quirky eyebrow. "Really! Have you forgotten? I’m god on this ship."

She refused to be outdone. Is that so, Captain? ’Tis strange then, that every time we’re in a storm, you find it necessary to talk to yourself!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Two weeks later, Rosalyn snuck up on the captain on the port side aft. We need to talk, Grant.

What about? he growled, hoping she'd take the hint and leave him alone. What he needed about now was an encounter with a wild, lusty wench, not a pious do-gooder. Bad weather ahead, he warned gruffly. He shrugged his collar up around his ears, pulled down his knitted cap, and turned his back to the wind—and to his greatest temptation.

Rosalyn circled, making sure she had his undivided attention. Grant, I’d like you to send Matthew Brackenridge to school when we get to England.

He scowled. Would she never let up on him? Can’t spare him. He’s one of my best sailors.

With more education, he'll be even more useful to you in the shipyard. He is extremely bright, she said, refusing to be put off.

Aye, and I suppose next you’ll be telling me how to build ships, he replied, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Not that he had anything against a man improving his lot in life. His Old Man had sent him back to England for more schooling—shaved off a few rough edges, so to speak. Still and all, hands-on learning usually went a lot farther than the tripe they taught behind ivy-covered walls.

He glanced down, admiring the bright color nipping at her cheeks. They were a long way from the tropics now, yet the northern gusts blowing across the icy deck only made her cheeks bloom more radiantly. He loved the sparkle in her clear blue eyes, and her lips sported the most tempting seashell pink he’d ever been blessed to see. As usual, rebellious wisps of hair escaped the neatly braided crown she wore to confine her chestnut hair. Aye, and a fine, bewitching sight she was, all bundled up against the bitter cold.

I’ll speak to the lad, he conceded, but don’t you be sticking your nose in my business, woman, or—

Or what? she challenged.

He couldn’t very well set her ashore; aye, that would be going too far! So he leered at her instead. Or I shall confine you and your friend to your cabin for the rest of the journey.

Not surprising that she laughed in his face. I am utterly petrified, Captain.

Glad to hear it! Any more progress reports you want to give me about your students? Knowing how it annoyed her, he stuck an unlit cigar between his teeth with a defiant grin.

Kigamatei’s English is much improved, except for a few swear words he has picked up from you and the crew. He is starting to read and write a little. Not much, but it’s early yet.

Glad to hear it. And your other pupils? None of ’em kicking over the traces?

All perfect gentlemen, she said blithely. Grant, you won’t believe their progress! Some are writing letters home for the first time.

Is that so? Well, carry on, Mrs. Watermann. He gave her a careless salute and walked over to the nearest hatch.

Kigamatei is having a hard time believing he’s a free man, she added.

Aye, he was skittish about going into Cape Fear, for fear of being pressed back into slavery. Problem is, taking him back to Africa would take us thousands of miles off course. The only practical solution I can think of is to apply to the Quakers.

"Quakers?" Rosalyn, knew very little about the sect, only that they had been banned from many places in the colonies because of their nonconformist views.

They've made a strong stand against slavery. There’s a Quaker settlement on Nantucket Island, but I think I’ll wait and seek them out when we get to England.

As long as there is slavery in the colonies, England would probably be safer, she agreed. What sort of help can they give him?

Provide work, he shrugged. Accept him as a creature of God.

Well, until then, Mercy and I will focus on teaching him English. When he and the others aren’t working for you, of course.

He uttered a cynical laugh. "I give you fair warning, Rosalyn: Most of my crew can barely mark their X. Improving their ability to read and write may not be all they’re interested in. I suggest you ladies keep your charms well covered up. Grant leaned close, his dimples leaping out at her in a roguish smile. Otherwise I’ll have to double the ration of salt peter."

I shall be pleased to teach anyone who is serious about learning. She couldn’t resist firing one last salvo: Before we conclude our discussion, might I make another suggestion?

Stow it, Rosalyn. And you’d better take cover in your cabin. We expect severe winds this evening. On this warning, he disappeared below.

Staring after him, her teeth chattering, as the icy winds cut through her clothing, Rosalyn spied Warburton at the wheel and envied him the bulky woolen jacket he wore. Retreating to the cabin she shared with Mercy, she flung open the door, bringing the chill air in with her.

Huddled over a tiny metal firebox of hot coals, Mercy glanced up. Come warm yourself, she invited, making room for Rosalyn’s feet next to hers.

Thanks! I put in a word for young Brackenridge, Rosalyn said, extending her hands over the portable stove Grant had installed. When I mentioned how well behaved our pupils have been, he almost seemed disappointed.

Mercy chuckled softly. Charles says the captain promised twenty lashes to any man who steps out of line during class.

You’re joking!

No, but it does explain why some of the older men avoid us like the bubonic plague.

Rosalyn flushed angrily at Grant’s high-handed tactics. That man! I pray the threat of flogging hasn’t discouraged anyone who truly wishes to learn. Irked that he would interfere with her fledgling school, she kicked at the bricks supporting the tiny stove.

He’s just protecting his business interest in you. Mercy snickered and dodged the pillow Rosalyn sent flying in retaliation.

A sudden lurch of the ship and the winds’ heightened shriek had an instant sobering effect on them both. By the way, Grant said to expect rough weather tonight, Rosalyn said.

I guessed as much, Mercy gasped, hanging onto the bed post to keep from being thrown across the cabin.

Perhaps we should batten down now, before anything gets lost or broken, Rosalyn suggested. Gathering personal belongings, she placed them in the trunk at the foot of the bed. Within minutes the entire room was swaying. What am I saying? she gasped nervously. "I think we had better batten ourselves down until this storm blows over!"

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

As it turned out, classes were indefinitely suspended.

Over the next several days, winter storms sorely tested the Fair Winds’ seaworthiness and the mettle of her crew and officers, as enormous waves rolled over the deck, repeatedly threatening to swamp the ship. The foremast snapped, leaving men struggling to free themselves from a pile of rigging and canvas. With the deck awash with salt spray, spume and fish, the men’s horror of drowning increased with every passing hour of grueling toil.

Exhaustion quickly set in. Slicks and leather boots did little to dispel the penetrating dampness. Frigid Atlantic seas, coupled with heavy gales, continued to pound the ship and the men unmercifully. The near-deafening roar of wind and waves only added to the crew’s difficulties. At times, the men couldn’t hear commands as the officers’ shouts were continually drowned out by howling winds. Throats became hoarse and raw in the salty air.

Deprived of rest and dry clothing, the men battled sore muscles, fevers, and discouragement. They were working around the clock in a super-human effort to save the ship, but their stamina was steadily being worn down. If any more of the crew gave way to illness, exhaustion, or injury, the ship might not survive the storm.

Finally, on the third day, Grant called his men together in the officers’ mess. We have four men injured, he reported. Sprains and a near-crushed back. Thompson’s down with lung fever. We can’t afford to have any more men put out of action.

He looked around the roomful of gaunt faces. Garrison was holding forth at the wheel, but everyone else was present. These were tough, seasoned men. Most of them had been trained under his Old Man. Grant was glad now his father had been such a rigorous taskmaster. If there was any way at all to save the Fair Winds, he knew these men would help him pull her through.

At that moment, the ship hove to abruptly. Thrown against the wall, Smythe struck his head and came up dazed.

Warburton spoke up: We need a second set of dry clothing for change-offs, Cap’n. The men are so tired, they sit around below like half-drowned rats. There’s no way we can stay dry when we’re up on deck, but—

I get your drift, said Grant. Have Thompson or one of the other hands keep the stove fired up in the foc’sle, so we’ll have dry blankets and clothes available. That way, whenever someone is relieved of duty, he can dry off, grab some grub, and catch some shut-eye.

Thompson’s in serious shape, sir. I doubt he—

Lamb nodded, confirming the bo’sun’s report on Thompson. He’s burnin’ up, Cap’n. And nobody has time to give ’im the nursing he needs.

Grant’s brows knit together. We’ll remedy that! Lamb, request the ladies to join us. We need every hand, if we’re to survive without loss of life.

Aye, sir!

Let’s get back to other problems, he continued. We have severe damage to the foremast and its sails. We’re starting to list to starboard—not much yet! We need to man the pumps and move ballast. Warburton, get some men on that right away.

Warburton nodded. It’s as good as done, Cap'n.

Have Lamb repair the hatch cover on the foredeck. The foremast damaged the deck and some of the gunwale.

Smythe rubbed the goose egg on his temple. We’re lucky the hull is sound. But the cargo will be ruined unless we repair the foredeck fast. I’ll put Kigamatei and Ramirez on it with Lamb, right away, sir.

Responding to the Captain’s summons, Rosalyn and Mercy entered the mess room, and every head turned. Though somewhat under the weather, the men all quickly doffed their caps.

Ladies, we need your help, Grant announced without preamble. I'm putting you both in charge of caring for the sick and the injured. It will be your job to make sure the men have warm dry clothing and blankets at all times. Do I make myself clear?

Rosalyn and Mercy gazed in astonishment at the roomful of bedraggled and haggard male specimens. Ignoring the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, Rosalyn agreed readily. Captain, we welcome the opportunity to be useful.

Mercy nodded, equally determined. We’re more than willing.

Good, Grant said brusquely. Josh, escort the ladies to the foc’sle. The rest of us, let’s get back to work! We’ve got a ship to save.

Come on, Mercy, let’s get busy, said Rosalyn, leading the way to the foc’sle.

The first thing she did was have more wood and coal brought in for the stove. When she found it was wet, she solved that temporary problem by having Lamb break up dry crates and several empty barrels and use them for fuel.

Next she commandeered all rum and whisky on board, and set about making Thompson comfortable. Wheezing and gasping, he lay in clothing soaked with perspiration and sea water. She made him drink a hearty swig of whisky, and then Mercy spooned fish stew into him.

Meanwhile Rosalyn found Thomson a dry blanket, a shirt, and pantaloons. Together the women wrestled him from side to side, while they turned his mattress. Next they removed his wet clothing—Thompson was too weak to fight them off—and covered him with a dry blanket.

Mercy quickly rinsed out his clothing, reeking with sweat, vomit and sea water. She hung them up to dry on a clothesline strung between two posts. Warm and comfortable at last, Thompson fell into a deep sleep.

I’ll make an onion poultice for his chest, Mercy decided.

She and Rosalyn began picking up wet clothing from all over the crew’s quarters. The foc’sle was not only crowded but filthy. Wood shavings from whittling and carving, plus hair clippings from clumsy attempts to give each other haircuts, littered the floor. There was trash everywhere!

One man, who'd suffered a crushed hand, otherwise appeared to be able-bodied, so Mercy wrapped his injured hand and placed a broom in his good hand, ordering him to sweep up. Take care not to raise a speck of dust, or I shall break your other hand for you, she threatened. Noticing his grimace at her pushy ways, she relented. "Please? she wheeded. Would your wife or sweetheart approve of you living in such squalor?"

No, ma’am. Glowering at her, he began ever so slowly to wield the broom.

What’s your name, sailor? Mercy demanded after watching him dawdle for some time.

Stow, ma’am. William Stow.

Where do you hail from, Mr. Stow?

Bristol. That’s where me family lives.

"Well, unless you want your family to hear from me personally how you men crap out down here, you will keep this pigsty clean."

Yes, Mr. Stow. We are setting up a temporary sick bay, and we expect things to be kept neat as a pin, Rosalyn said, joining forces with Mercy. Put a little enthusiasm into your work, if you please!

He was scarcely able to disguise his annoyance that females had invaded what had always been a man’s domain. Having little choice, he resorted to making disgruntled remarks under his breath while he swept. Damn bossy woman . . . mean, too!

Mercy heard him. Keep your opinions to yourself, Mr. Stow, she warned, giving him an ominous look. Or we shall report you to the Captain.

No need, Miss, no need!

Then look lively! she shouted, plumping her fists on her hips.

Rosalyn discovered that most of the sailors’ blankets were damp. Stringing up clotheslines around the stove—which had begun to warm the area nicely, the two young ladies set about straightening husk mattresses. They soon discovered that the men had lain down without changing out of their wet garb. Their bedding was no dryer than their clothing.

Even a wet dog shakes himself dry before curling up to sleep, Rosalyn said disgustedly. Have they no common sense at all?

Mercy shrugged. Men never outgrow the need of a mother.

Does Grant—? Rosalyn changed how she referred to him in front of the men. I mean, does the Captain expect us to sit here and dry their clothes for them ’round the clock?

Let’s set things up so they can avoid chilling, Mercy said. Look at Mr. Thompson.

‘Yes. He doesn’t look well, poor man. Mercy, if you’ll make him that poultice you were talking about, I’ll hang up all this wet clothing that’s lying about, turn the mattresses, and see to Mr. Thompson till you get back."

Rosalyn briskly worked her way from berth to berth in the foc’sle, flipping mattresses. Sometimes she threw trash into the pile Stow was sullenly gathering with his broom. Soon the room began to look like a hand laundry, and in the process, her house cleaning produced an unexpected benefit: The area acquired added warmth, as blankets she’d strung about the room insulated the foc’sle against drafts and confined the stove’s heat to the area closest to the berths. Although Stow and the other injured seamen resented the intrusion of females at first, before long they began to regard the ladies with something akin to puppy love.

Mr. Stow, please resume sweeping, Rosalyn ordered. And dump the waste overboard.

Right away, Mrs. Watermann. Thank you, ma’am, His voice had new respect in it.

"No. Thank you, Mr. Stow," she replied.

Taking up the slop bucket, he scurried away, while she surveyed the results of her labors. "I expect everyone in the foc’sle to hang up their wet clothes and change into dry ones, no matter how tired they are. Make that clear to all the men. That is an order," she told those present.

Egbert, languishing in his bunk with a broken collarbone, responded without thinking: Aye, aye, sir. Er, I mean, ma’am!

Rosalyn laughed. Even with the waves heaving tumultuously beneath her feet, being useful lifted her spirits. Seating herself beside Thompson once more, she lifted a spoonful of broth to his pale lips.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"Oh, it’s pipe down, man, when you’re feelin’ kind o’ blue,

With a half-drowned ship and a half-dead crew.

When your heart's in your sea boots, and the cold is in your bones,

And you don’t give a damn if she goes to Davy Jones."

On the fifth day of the storm, Grant could no longer hold out against the demands of mind and body. He’d been walking a fine line for days. Finally worn down by fatigue, he struggled to stay on his feet, longer than he should. Finally, fearing he might commit a fatal mistake and endanger them all, he staggered off to his cabin, knowing he'd be of no use to himself, his men, or his ship, being in a weakened condition. Collapsing into his berth without removing his boots or rain-soaked clothing, he sank into an exhausted stupor.

The pounding on his door several hours later finally roused him from a deep sleep.

Come in, he croaked, his throat rasping and sore. His head was throbbing with pain, and he felt feverish.

Garrison cracked open the door, but it was Rosalyn who entered first. In one glance, she took in his disheveled condition and the wet clothes. She turned instantly to Garrison for assistance. Help get him out of those wet clothes.

Grant tried to fight them off. He drew up his blanket, only to have her yank it out of his hands—rather roughly for such a delicate looking woman, he thought, surprised.

I thought I was coming to give you a progress report on Thompson and Egbert, she told him indignantly. But here you lie, sir, courting pneumonia! She didn’t look at all sympathetic; more like an angel of wrath.

I’m fine, he whispered hoarsely. I just need sleep.

Mr. Garrison, strip him down, she ordered. Meanwhile I shall fetch fresh bedding and a dry blanket. She was gone before Grant could protest.

Garrison shrugged. Sorry, Captain. I have my orders.

Nobody orders me around! Grant sat up weakly and gave way to a coughing fit. I need whisky—quick!

Garrison shook his head. Sorry, sir. Mrs. Watermann had commandeered all hard spirits on board. For medicinal purposes only.

Just to soothe my throat, Grant pleaded, swallowing painfully.

She’ll be back any minute, Cap’n. I suggest you get into some dry clothes, or she’s likely to raise hell, said Garrison.

God damn interfering female—! Sitting on the edge of his bed, he braced himself while Garrison tugged off his boots. Oh, all right, he grumbled. Find me some dry clothes then, and a towel.

Right you are, Cap’n.

Grant stood and dressed quickly, discarding his sodden garments in a pile on the floor. Hurrying, least she return before he was decent, he hopped and hobbled his way into a clean pair of breeches, then donned a warm, woolen shirt. His black hair, still damp, hung in disarray around his haggard face.

All right, he growled. Hopefully she’ll leave me be now. Garrison, sneak me some whisky or brandy, will you? All I need is rest, and I’ll be back on deck in no time, mate.

After a soft tap, Rosalyn reentered his cramped quarters. Much better, she approved. Sit over there in that chair, Captain, while I fix your bed. She bustled about, tossing his damp blanket and sodden mattress on the floor with his discarded clothing. Mr. Garrison, kindly fetch me a dry tick from below.

After the First Mate left, she stood, hands on hips, surveying her latest patient. In her opinion, he needed to be whipped into shape as much as her forlorn charges in the foc’sle. You’re a sorry sight, Grant Watermann, I must say.

I’m dog-tired, Rosalyn. Don’t push me, he warned in a surly tone.

How about some brandy? she asked, producing a bottle from her apron pocket, along with a clean spoon.

Never mind the spoon, he said, grabbing it from her. I’ll prescribe the dosage, thank you. Tipping his head back, he proceeded to glug down a third of the bottle, pausing only now and then to cough and wheeze because it pained him to swallow.

Mr. Garrison predicts we’ll ride out this storm in the next few hours, she told him. Everything is under control. She stood watching him consume his painkiller. When he paused to catch his breath, she snatched the bottle from him.

Obviously not everything’s under control, he said in a gravelly voice and glared at her. Leave the bottle.

She slapped his hand away. I have other patients to tend. Back it went in her apron pocket.

He sat there, glowering at her in her dark brown woolen dress. That dress doesn’t do a damned thing for your figure, Rosalyn. Burn it.

I’m not at all interested in how I look at the moment, she informed him prissily.

Bad for the men's morale, he croaked. He felt the hot liquor working its way through his system, relaxing his tongue and easing his fatigue. Still, he wasn’t ready to give her a fight—yet.

Examining him the way she might an errant child, Rosalyn smiled. You will be glad to learn that Thompson has passed the crisis and is on the mend, she reported. He’s not strong enough for work, but at least he’s going to survive.

Glad to hear it. He’s a good man. Listen— His sore throat reduced his manly voice to a near whisper. I haven’t had a chance to thank you and Mercy.

We’re happy to be of help. Long hours, but well worth the effort, she told him.

Where’s Garrison? he asked grumpily. Don’t I get to lie down on a mattress, or am I supposed to sleep on a board?

He'll be here soon enough. Her smile was as reviving as the brandy. Do you mind if I take a look at your throat? she asked.

No! Stay away from me, woman! he hacked, trying to rise out of his chair.

Fiddlesticks. She pushed him back down. She tipped his head back, her soft dainty fingers grasping his unshaven chin, which was replete with five days of rough, black stubble. Open wide, she coaxed. Let me see your throat.

God protect me from this she-devil, he said, giving in. There. He stuck out his tongue. Are you satisfied?

Quite. She straightened, clearly enjoying the chance to order him around. You shall stay in bed until we have you well again.

Rosalyn, don’t try to boss me. He scowled. "I’m in command of this ship, not you."

She laughed and ran her fingers through his hair, restoring a semblance of order to his unruly locks. You put me in charge of nursing the sick and injured, remember?

That doesn’t include me! he barked.

She paused to look in his eyes, cupping his rough, unshaven cheeks between her hands. I promise not to take advantage of your—what shall we call it?—temporary indisposition, she promised. "You may be the ship’s master, but you need a good night’s sleep. And