Loving Sarah

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Sarah knew the precise moment they’d hit the open sea. The boat began to pitch unlike anything she’d ever known before. Of course, it didn’t help being in the farthest front compartment as the bow sliced through the waves. Perhaps that was why people didn’t sleep in the bow unless in a hammock and why only sails were stored here. Sails couldn’t get beat up, like over-confident, impulsive ladies who didn’t think before they got themselves locked in the forward hold.

Thankfully the sailcloth provided her some protection, but she was still tossed about the small compartment. Once she even hit the solid oak rafter of the deck above her. Sarah heard a voice issue orders above and the scurry of footsteps as the command was carried out.

This went on for quite a while, and Sarah contemplated banging on the hatch to have someone let her out. She was thirsty and hungry and needed to relieve herself. She had no idea how long she’d been down here, nor how far out of Liverpool they were. Another pitch and she felt weightless again, bracing herself for another hit against the rafter.

This was insane. She wanted adventure, not broken bones. When the boat turned hard over, Sarah flew into the right bulkhead. She vowed that the minute she heard footsteps above deck she would scream for the man to let her out. Having no idea how long the seas were going to be rough, or when anyone might open the hatch so she could get some fresh air, she decided she just could not wait any longer. Oh, what was she thinking? No one even knew she was down here. It was then she realized spare sails didn’t need fresh air, just protection from water. If she didn’t die from smashing her noggin on a beam, she’d surely suffocate.

It seemed an eternity before she heard voices and footsteps headed toward the bow. But as soon as she did, she let out with the loudest, longest scream she could muster.

Ian stood at the wheel with his eye on the fore-and-aft sail and foresail. Scanning the horizon once again, he caught sight of Avenger and knew Lucky followed. He had an approximately six-minute lead out of the box, which meant nearly a mile separated the two vessels in this first ever Atlantic Crossing Challenge. Now, almost two hours into the race, ahead of him were one square-rigged vessel at full sail, and the Ann McKim. By luck of the draw, nineteen of the thirty-two boats entered in the competition left the starting box before him. Ian allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as he realized all that stood between him and the lead were the two vessels ahead, especially since the Revenge was a three-masted topsail schooner, which at first glance might not look nearly as fast as the Ann McKim with her long jibboom and four headsails, but was in fact much quicker.

He knew a race such as this wasn’t won on the number of sails or masts. A skilled captain was essential, but what some sailors tended to overlook was the one thing Ian considered most important. The hull and the keel. And these two boats had been retrofitted specifically to his design. If he was right and he won, then his entire fleet of schooners would be designed the same.

As he set a course to the next way point, Ian pondered the things he could do with that winning purse, the first being to hire a decent, reliable cook. It was during his musings that one of the crew shouted something to him from the bow. Looking out at the flying jib and seeing nothing awry, he motioned for the man to speak up.

“Cap’n, there’s a lad stowed away in the sail locker!”

Ian handed the wheel over to his second and climbed down from his raised poop and strode the ninety-odd feet to the hatch in the bow. “Did I hear you correctly? You said there was a stow-away?”

“Right, Cap’n, sir. He’s a hollerin’ up a storm down there.”

“Are you sure that’s what you heard?” Ian asked as he held onto the railing on the side of the ship. Just then he heard it too, a voice, bellowing up from below.

“Get him out of there and ask him if he can cook. If he can’t, lock him up. We’ll turn him in when we return. He gets minimal ration, too. I’m not feeding some little whelp a full three squares if he’s broken the law and stowed away.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” the man said as Ian turned back to his post at the wheel.

A few minutes later, as Ian contemplated who was going to cook now that Seamus was planning to plant some roots somewhere in the countryside for the remainder of his years, his crewman shoved a scrawny kid in front of him. His oil cloth slicker, two sizes too big, was buttoned to the chin and the knitted cap covered his head. “Cap’n, sir, he says he’s your brother.”

“I don’t have a brother,” Ian said without needing to look down at the scamp. “Lock him up in the lazarette. I’ll deal with him later. And fetch Mr. Johnson for me.”

“Where’s Lucky?” the definitely female voice squeaked with fear.

Ian’s gaze shot to the figure before him, and he looked down into the deepest sapphire-blue eyes, eyes he’d seen only twice before now. He didn’t need to see the color of her hair or the slender feminine form that had plagued his dreams last night to know who it was. “Holy Mother of God,” he swore, unable to take his gaze from hers. “What have you done?”

“Obviously stowed away onto the wrong boat,” she replied, her determined little chin lifted and lips taut.

His crewman looked confused a moment, then quickly realized she wasn’t a boy.

“Lock her in my cabin, instead,” he ordered the crewman.

“I don’t want to be locked anywhere, Mr… um, Captain.” Lucky’s sister said. “I want to see the ocean and feel the wind. It was rather stifling, not to mention dark and very dangerous down in the forward hold. I should have known the bow wasn’t the best place to hide.”

He shook his head. The last thing he needed right now was this added encumbrance. And she came with significant repercussions no matter what he did. “Get in my cabin. I’ll deal with you later. Right now, I’m busy.” Nodding to the crewman to take away their guest, he forced his gaze to the horizon and tried to concentrate on whether he should overtake the square-sail barquentine in front of him or turn back to Liverpool.

“Come, miss,” the man beside her said as he took her elbow and led her toward the companionway. The only reason she followed him, Sarah told herself, was so she might find a chamber pot. And perhaps a meal. After having been closed in that darkened hold for who knew how many hours, she was not only in need of relief, but also immensely hungry.

“Well, that went better than I thought.” She smiled at the young man escorting her. “Thankfully I remembered to call him Captain. It wouldn’t do to disrespect the man, seeing as I’m aboard his ship. I really did mean to get on my brother’s boat. The boy from the Evangeline said this was the Avenger. I paid him to bring me out to her.”

“‘E prob’ly couldn’t read,” the man replied with a chuckle.

She hadn’t thought about that. And both boats did look very similar, if not identical, to each other. “You’re more than likely correct, sir,” she said. “I should have known better.”

The crewman held open a door for her, and she entered the cabin. She set the satchel down on the table, then scanned the room, wondering where the chamber pot was hidden. After the man left, she locked the door and began to search for it. The tiny cabin held no furniture to speak of. What furnishings it had were either built into the bulkhead wall between the portholes or bolted to the deck. There was a chair, a four-drawer bureau, and a narrow clothes press with a string of hemp holding the doors shut. Sarah laughed to herself, because the doors looked as if they might burst if she removed the twine.

Remembering her mission, she began to lift the seats on the bench, which ran along one wall below the portholes, and found only clothing. Rain gear, boots, books, and tools were all jammed into the bins in a rather disorganized fashion. She pushed aside a mound of paperwork and more books from the corner seat. Finally finding the object of her most immediate necessity, she made use of it quickly, then spying an open porthole, she took the container and disposed of the contents and replaced the receptacle in its holder.

After unlocking the cabin door, Sarah took her cap off and unbuttoned her coat, tossing both onto the seat. Peering into the cloudy-looking glass over the bureau, she ran her hands over her horribly mussed and perpetually frizzed hair. If her maid could see this mess, she’d have a fit. She untied the leather binding holding the thick braid and ran her fingers through her hair, detangling it. She took the comb from her satchel, returned to the mirror, and began to smooth the mess out, then proceeded to re-braid it. The braid turned out crooked and fell over her right shoulder instead of straight down her back as it should. It would have to do, she thought, as she knelt on the bench in front of the open porthole and hung her head out, staring at the horizon and the Atlantic Ocean.

Sarah smiled. Her adventure was underway. She intended to experience and note every minute detail. She wished she had remembered to bring her journal. Then she could have written about it all, starting with how clear the water was and capturing the beauty of its dark, bluish-green tint. But more amazing than that was the absence of birds. She supposed it was too far from shore for land birds. Gulls and such might be able to rest on the waves, but she didn’t even spy them. Large gray fish, porpoises likely, swam alongside the hull, and off in the distance, several jumped waves following the school and their boat.

It was an odd, almost eerie sensation, being way out on the great, wide ocean where the horizon held no shoreline. So very different from when she sailed her little twelve-footer around the tiny lake at home. Then, the sounds of birds were always off in the distance. You could almost always hear them, except perhaps when the wind whipped the waves into white caps.

But out here? She looked left and right, taking in as much as she could of her surroundings, and she saw no land.

Resting her chin on her hands, she closed her eyes and smelled the unique salty tang. Unlike that in a coastal town where you had an overwhelming mixture of faint odors, this was pure, fresh, and salty. No smells of the city, nor that grass and fresh-turned earth scent of the country. It was so different and so amazing that she just wanted to savor it all while she had this opportunity.

Ian handed the wheel over to his first mate, Mr. Nigel Johnson, and made for his cabin. He was going to have to keep her in there, though he didn’t know how he would accomplish that. His crew were tough men, not town dandies. Most were neither polite nor accustomed to dealing with the whims of well-bred ladies. He would explain this to her and hope she understood. If not, he’d lock her in for the duration. He had to. It was for her own safety.

He filled the wooden bucket with fresh water and climbed down the companionway. When he reached his cabin door, he stopped. Perhaps he should knock. She was a lady and he’d hate to embarrass her should he catch her indisposed. He knocked once, then twice. After getting no reply, he tested the lock, then opened the door.

The sight that greeted him was quite fetching indeed. Lady Sarah, her back to him, leaned out the open porthole, leaving her perfectly curved derrière clad only in boy’s trousers exposed to his view. He knew then that her presence was sure to test his resolve to behave in a gentlemanly fashion. After he hung the bucket on the hook near the washstand, she still hadn’t heard him, so he coughed, startling her. She bumped her head as she drew it back into the cabin, and her hand went immediately to the injured spot and rubbed. His tongue froze in place, thankfully behind his teeth, leaving him unable to speak.