“Ah, mister,” she said addressing Charlie. “I’m awful sorry. Give me a minute for my head to clear and I’ll clean that up.” Her eyes closed and she fell back to sleep.
“Damn.”
Charlie looked at his father who was now conspicuously close to the door, his head turned toward an empty corner as if the sight of it might make him sick as well. His ill-concealed amusement seemed to say, It serves you right. “I’ll send someone to help you.” Then he was gone.
Charlie set the basin aside—nearby, just in case, then stripped the quilt off the bed—no easy task with the woman still in the bed. It seemed to be the only thing soiled. He carefully gathered it up and set it on the floor by the door. A moment later, a knock tattooed against the heavy oak door. When he opened it, he found the cabin boy, Benjy, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Benjy looked around the cabin nervously. He was rarely in the second mate’s quarters and to be awakened and sent there by the captain was unheard of.
“Open the porthole, get the quilt and the basin and get out.”
Charlie shed the dressing robe and pulled on the shirtwaist he discarded earlier. As he used his shaving mirror to attach his collar and stock, he watched Benjy in the reflection.
“Damn,” he said under his breath as he realized Benjy had seen the woman’s exposed breast.
“Are you still here?” he shouted, tersely. He was not in the habit of coddling anyone, especially not the cabin boys. They needed to understand the hard life at sea while they were still young enough to apprentice another vocation.
“Aye, Mr. Sinclair,” he said jumping guiltily at the tone of the second mate’s voice. “I’ll be right back to finish cleaning up.”
“You know I don’t want you in my cabin. Just cleaned those things and go back to bed.”
As Benjy exited, the quilt held at arm’s length, Hugh McNamara poked his head in.
“A word wi’ ye, Mr. Sinclair. Oh, I see ye’re busy. I’ll come back later.”
“Come in, Hugh. I was just getting ready to take her ashore, but I’ve always got a few minutes for my friends.” Even if swamped with work, he would have made time for Hugh or Morty. His other close friend, Michel Dupre, left the ship when the decision to temporarily stop sailing to his home country of France was made. The conflict between France and England had escalated to the point where they stayed out of both countries.
“I dinna suppose ye might need a hand?” the Scotland native asked scratching at his red beard.
“When have I ever needed a hand with a wench?” Charlie bantered with his usual cockiness as he flicked the cigar butt out the open porthole.
“Tis Morty again.”
“He’s not back yet?” Charlie asked shrugging into the black broadcloth uniform coat.
“Nae, I dinna ken what’s bouncin’ ‘round in his skull these days. Skunked from morn’ ‘til night while he’s on shore leave and in the sulks the rest of the time—takin’ chances like there’s nae tomorrow. If I dinna ken better, I’d swear he’s goot woman problems. Twas hopin’ ye would let me go ashore to look fer him.”
“Maybe I could use a hand with the wench.”
Charlie also noticed a change in his friend. In years past, the big blond was the most jovial of the men—well-liked by officers and crew alike. But for the last few months, he had lost his cheerful, boastful ways and had been unnaturally solemn.
“Grab an arm,” Charlie said as he pulled the woman’s blouse back into place.
He wondered if Hugh’s theory had any validity. Morty had always been a man of healthy appetites. Fire-headed wenches, as he called them, were Morty’s preference. Everyone knew and saved the redheads for him.
So how did Charlie end up with a woman who had auburn locks?
“When was the last time Morty bedded a carrot-top?” Charlie asked. “I think you’ve hit on something, Hugh. I think this girl he’s pining over is a brunette.”
Hugh laughed, relieved to have proof to excuse Morty’s behavior. “Unrequited love?”
“Aye.”
They made their way off the ship before Charlie asked, “Who do you think she is?”
“Probably a wee shop girl who doesna ken he’s alive.”
“If he’s in love with her, how can she help but know he’s alive? Morty isn’t exactly shy.”
The Scot shook his head. Morty, with more than six feet of sculpted muscles, was not a man who went unnoticed. “She’s an innocent?” Hugh speculated. “He’s afraid of offending her with his coarse manners?”