The Devil's Luck Ch. 01

As the three of them threaded their way through the swirl of activity on the deck, she glanced about at some of the other members of the crew. A dirty, shifty lot, she decided, if there ever was one.

He led the two of them down first one narrow flight of stairs and then another, the noise of the crew on the upper decks fading to a muffled thumping of boots as they descended into the ship.

Stepping around the two women, the surgeon moved to push open a door that swung inward to a space which could have passed as a closet instead of anything designated as a passenger cabin. A comically narrow berth lined one side wall and Hannah knew immediately she would have a trying time of it in her attempts to sleep there over the next several weeks. It also appeared, as she assessed the tiny space, that Brigit would be forced to bed down on the floor.

Crowding the women through the cabin's entrance, Graves left them no time to quibble about the room. "We aim to make it out on this tide," he told the pair, "before we're run aground on the bed of the bloody Avon. Every hand is at work just now, but as soon as we're out of the harbour proper, I'll have your things brought 'round. Best the both of you remain below until then and out from underfoot of the crew. Once I'm able, I'll return and...show you the lay of the ship."

Hannah appreciated neither his coarse language, nor the concealed humour in his tone at that last bit. The oily way he wet his cracked lips with a flicker of his tongue had her fighting not to wrinkle her nose in disgust at him. She would have a discreet word with the captain once they were underway: he would be quick to weed out disrespect in his crew if he was any sort of officer at all.

The wiry bootlace of a ship's surgeon slunk away to whatever tasks demanded his attention, shutting the cabin door behind him and leaving Hannah with her sour-faced maid for company.

What little she knew of ships and sailing confirmed the words of the surgeon: this would be a hectic time for the sailors if they intended to sail out on what was left of the tide. The deep channel of the Avon had a notoriously varying water level depending on the tides, and any vessel that didn't make it out onto the open sea in time would be stranded in the riverbed until the next swelling of the waters.

This much she knew, at the very least. Having lived in a major port city like Bristol for the greater portion of her years, Hannah expected she should know a great deal more about sea travel than she actually did. Her leisure time, however, had been taken up almost entirely with study, the most of which took place in her father's library and not in some damp, noisy harbour. She had only the barest interest in matters nautical and so had to trust to others for information about ships and docks and tides.

Her attempts to pass the time in the tiny cabin were an exercise in frustration. Trying to engage Brigit in polite conversation earned her begrudging one word answers, and Hannah was not sure whether the woman's reluctance to speak came from a lack of comfort with their difference in status, or if she truly felt Hannah was trying to pry with her questions.

The six or more weeks it would take The Mourning Dove to get to Boston would be a test of her patience, to be sure. There was more waiting ahead of her even now, before the ship would make it to the mouth of the Avon and out to sea. She'd need to seek out that Mrs Hadley as soon as it became convenient, she thought, if she had any hope of pleasant interaction on this journey.

Having given up on chatting with Brigit, and still unable to rummage through her yet-to-be-delivered belongings to occupy her time, Hannah suffered herself to lean against the wall that backed the narrow bed and drifted into a shallow sleep, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship.

When she opened her eyes she found the maid still perched stiffly at the opposite end of the berth, her gaze distant with private thought. The cabin had no window, so Hannah was not able use the cast of daylight to determine how long she'd dozed. It hadn't felt like such a long time, and yet it seemed like that questionable ship's surgeon should have returned by now, or at least had their luggage brought to them.

"I think we've waited long enough," she declared to Brigit as she straightened the brim of her hat. "Surely we've made it out of the harbour by now. I'd like to go above decks and have a word with the captain, if he may be found."

The maid broke from whatever internal concerns held her attention to blink at Hannah as though the words she's just said had not been in English. Hannah ignored the woman's dull response, determined to quit the dim little room for a time.

"Come along, Brigit," she prodded, "We'll have plenty time enough to spend in this dismal cabin over the next few weeks. Let us find out what's become of our trunks." Hannah was loathe to seek out the unpleasant Mr Graves again for such help, but perhaps some other member of the crew could be found to be of assistance.

They followed the same path they'd taken down to the cabin backward now until they stepped blinking into the open air and daylight of the main deck. Hannah took in the scene before her, trying to assess the best way to find who and what she sought.

The sailors aboard this ship did not impress her as a very sophisticated lot. In fact, she began to shift her weight from one leg to another with the nervous energy of a deer that wanted to bolt, as what had started as the occasional glance her way from the men gave over to outright leers and hoarsely whispered asides which drew barks of their grimy laughter. She shot a sidelong glance at Brigit to see if the other woman had noticed these affronts as well. The maid appeared indifferent, but the longer Hannah stood there, the more uncomfortable she became.

Her father had paid good coin for her passage on this vessel, it being the soonest to leave for the Colonies in New England, and him understanding her desire to delay the beginning of her new life no further. Hannah admitted to knowing little about ships and their workings, but the quality of this crew was decidedly lacking, at least for what she'd imagined aboard a respectable ship such as The Mourning Dove. Their blatant disrespect toward a lady passenger was pushing the boundaries of propriety.

She knew life at sea was dirty work, but these sailors were far filthier, their uniforms much less well kept than what she would deem reasonable for a passenger and cargo vessel.

That last thought gave rise to a new one as she panned her gaze over the bustle of activity on the deck: she had not seen anyone else who appeared to be a passenger since she'd boarded. Every face and body seemed to belong clearly to members of the crew. Where were the other passengers? Were they all still content to remain below decks after this amount of time? Surely some of them would want to come out to breathe some fresh air and perhaps look upon the sea.

As Hannah shook her head to herself in puzzlement, she noticed a man mounting a set of stairs to emerge from a doorway which looked like it might lead below to one of the aft decks. This man appeared to stand apart from the hustle and noisy efforts of the other sailors, and from the relative cleanliness and finer cut of his overcoat and breeches, she judged him to be the captain. No other man she'd seen aboard the ship thus far carried himself with this level of authority or poise, and as he was not participating in the hauling of lines or shifting of cargo, then an officer he must be, she decided.

She watched his eyes flow across the decks and rigging, reviewing the efforts of his crew, inspecting their work as he went. When his glance passed where she stood with her maid, out of the crew's way as best as the two women could manage near the gunwale, she saw him give the slightest of starts. He looked about him now, as if to confirm that he was, in fact, on the correct ship, and having not found the answers he appeared to seek, locked his sights back on Hannah and Brigit and strode in their direction with a purpose.

"Captain," she addressed him as he approached, inclining her head in a gesture of respect for his rank aboard the ship.

He reached her side and looked her over in a blatant manner that made her cut a surreptitious glance at Brigit to see if the maid had witnessed his rudeness. His face appeared to be torn between anger and disbelief. This was hardly a greeting between a man of rank and a paying passenger of her standing, she thought to herself, and decided to tell him so.

"This crew, Good Sir, could stand to learn a thing or two about the proper way to behave around a lady," she began in an icy tone, "and courtesy would dictate that a passenger should not be made to wait below decks indefinitely in some windowless room with no sense of how long they're meant to stay there. My maid and I haven't even been brought our things."

"What are you doing aboard my ship?" he demanded, openly hostile.

Indignity flared to life in her chest and Hannah drew herself up. "I beg your pardon? My father, Richard Symes, a Member of Parliament I might add, paid dearly for me to sail on this ship, and if it weren't for that surgeon of yours I wouldn't have managed to find my way on board at all before you left with the tide. He did see us to our room, Captain, but you might see to it he's taught to keep a civil tongue in the presence of women."

"My surgeon?" he repeated in irritated confusion. "That man there?" the captain pointed to the lanky man who'd met them at the quay, now helping another sailor secure some crates to the deck.

"Yes. Mr Graves, I believe his name was? He promised to show us about the ship and to have our luggage sent to our cabin, and that was some time ago."

The scowling captain looked back at Graves with a disgusted curl of his lip before returning his eyes to her. He eyed her again from top to bottom in a most unacceptable manner and, by the look on his face, appeared to make a decision. Looking about him for someone or something he did not immediately find, he caught her upper arm in a firm grip.

"Might I have a word with you, Madam?" he said in a gruff tone that did not sound like a request, "In private?"

Hannah looked with wide eyes from his hand on her arm and back to the man whose demeanor had become decidedly unpleasant in the span of mere moments. She decided then that she would have a word with this uncouth man, and the sort of word that needn't be shared with an audience.

Pretending to ignore the fingers around her arm, she turned to her maid and mustered an unperturbed voice. "Brigit, if you'll return to our room, please, to wait for our things? I'll join you again as soon as I've spoken with the captain."

"As you wish, Ma'am," the woman moved to obey Hannah's words, but her normally indifferent eyes now held a hint of concern that said she wasn't sure whether speaking with the captain alone was such a good idea.

When her maid had disappeared again into the doorway from which they'd come, the man who still held her arm jerked Hannah's attention back to the situation at hand.

"Come with me," he ordered, hauling her along the deck now with quick strides and ignoring her exclamations of protest completely.

"Captain!" she balked at him, "This is most irregular! I will not be handled like a piece of cargo! Are you hearing me?" Her heels skidding on the deck as he dragged her toward the door did little to halt his determined progress and she found herself being roughly herded down a short set of stairs.

His fingers were like iron still circling her arm, and he hustled her through a low ceilinged council chamber that she barely had time to look at before shoving her rudely through a second set of doors in what she only imagined must be his stateroom. He propelled her with some force a ways into the room before heading back to the double doors.

Stepping into the doorway, he turned to look at her again with what she was certain was vexation and no little indecision before slamming the door shut behind him, leaving her in stunned silence.

What in Heaven's name is going on here? Her thoughts tried to frantically catch up to the way she'd been shuffled off the deck by this baffling ship's officer. Was there something she had done wrong? Had they come above decks too soon and interfered with the crew in some way? Still, how dare he handle her that way!

"Mr Till!" Hannah heard his muffled bellow from the council room outside. She stood there bewildered, having no idea what to expect next or how to react. Surely some mistake had been made. What other reason could this captain possibly have to behave as he did?

She hoped whatever he had to discuss could be handled quickly. Hannah had no special love for her new maid, but she did feel guilt for having left the woman to herself with that worried look on her face.

Before she could analyse the situation further, the doors to the stateroom burst open again, and the captain entered with another member of the crew at his heels. He closed the doors behind him and stood with his arms crossed over his chest, sizing her up for what seemed like the tenth time.

The two men were a study in contrast, she noted, the captain being a lean, but fit, whip of a man with a figure suited for the affairs of a loftier station than that of a life at sea. Everything about him spoke of calculated precision, from the clean lines of his nose and jaw to the smooth, straight tail of his dark hair.

The shirtless man standing next to him, however, — the hollered-for Mr Till she presumed — stood half a head taller than the captain and was built as though he had done nothing but lift heavy things since he was old enough to walk. A patchwork of tattoos ran up his massive arms, over his formidable shoulders, and even curled at last over the top of his shaven skull from behind. An appearance, she noted, that would be called barbaric if it were seen among her usual circles.

The difference in rank was made very clear between these two men: one dressed in a fine coat and boots, the other roughly garbed for hard physical work. Hannah wondered what trouble she or Brigit could possibly have caused that would require the captain to involve a crew member with clearly less authority than himself.

The two men regarded her with the curiosity one would reserve for an exotic beast displayed in a menagerie and she began to fidget with her hands under their scrutiny.

"Mr Till," the captain broke the silence, "Mrs Symes here was shown aboard our ship by –"

"Collingwood," she corrected him.

He blinked at her, clearly not accustomed to being interrupted.

"Mrs Hannah Collingwood. Symes is my maiden name," she was ever having to remind people of that point. Once they'd heard her father's name they always assumed it was still hers as well.

"Very well. Mrs Collingwood, who is apparently not a maiden any longer," he noted with a dry smirk, continuing his elucidation of Mr Till, "was shown aboard by that new surgeon of ours."

"Graves?" the other man asked him, a note of confusion hovering on his tone.

"The very same. Our Mr Graves promised, once we were underway, to have Mrs Collingwood's luggage brought to the cabin she's sharing with her maid here aboard The Mourning Dove." The last of his words were pointed with some meaning she didn't understand, but the imposing Mr Till rearranged his eyebrows in surprised comprehension.

Hannah was nearly vibrating in her skin with anxiety over her inability to fathom what unspoken meaning had passed between the two of them. She made her best effort to hold her tongue, though, as it was so often getting her into trouble. If she waited and listened, she was sure to learn what was behind all of the weighted words.

"Shall I have a word with him, Captain?" Till said ominously. Hannah suspected it would be a stern word indeed, and probably the back of a hand for good measure. She couldn't say she didn't think the surgeon likely needed such a lesson, but how could Graves have erred in his assistance in showing the two women aboard the ship?

"You should have several," the captain confirmed, "but not just now."

The captain took a step toward the heavy table that stood fixed to the deck in the centre of the room. With a casual grace he went about removing some of the more dangerous accoutrements of his station and laid them on the tabletop: a sizable curved dagger was followed by a set of pistols, and finally a cutlass that was a larger mirror to the shape of the dagger. She watched him take his time with this little ritual while she brimmed with impatience.

His weapons put aside, he moved around the table toward her, the soles of his boots rolling against the deck in a practised, leisurely fashion. Hannah backed up a step, and then another, as he approached, not certain of what exactly was afoot here, but genuinely sure that she didn't like the way he was prowling closer to her. Even with the blades and pistols out of reach behind him, the impression remained that she was in the presence of a dangerous man.

"Is there a body aboard this ship, Mr Till, who doesn't earn his keep?" the captain took on the tone of a professor, accustomed to asking the expected questions which would receive rote answers from his students. His hands moved to rest at his hips, pushing back the heavy fabric of his coat as he moved slowly across the room.

"No there is not, Captain," his man gave the requisite answer.

"Earn our keep?" she bristled, no longer able to maintain her silence, "And what of the coin my father sent on? The gold earns the keep of a passenger, does it not, Captain?"

"I've received no purse from any Richard Symes," he denied her assertion with a devilish grin, still moving closer. "Did you, Mr Till?"

"I can't say that I did, Captain," Till answered, unfolding his bulky arms from in front of his chest. He tugged absently at one of the several gold earrings dangling from his ears. "I'd be certain to remember taking in any coin for a passenger, Sir. Not to mention two."

"You see, Mrs Collingwood? My ship has received no pay for your passage at all. I'm afraid we'll need to find some productive use for you," her heart jumped when his eyes flickered over the neckline of her gown and she realised with a start that coin was the least of his interests. "It won't do to have my hard working crew seeing a body sitting idle while they toil at the lines."

Before she could think, he closed the remainder of the distance between them in one swift stride and snatched up her wrist in a grip like a vise, jerking her toward him.

Hannah squawked in protest and yanked her arm back, trying to wrench her hand free, but the captain's hold was tenacious. This situation was going very wrong, very quickly.

"Mr Till," he pronounced the other man's name like a summons, as Hannah tried again, even with her captured wrist, to pull away and put more distance between herself and the now menacing captain. She choked out a startled gasp when her half a step backward made her collide with the immovable wall that was Mr Till.

He moved silently for such a large man: Hannah had not even noticed him slide into place behind her. His hands came up to take hold of her arms, just below the elbows, and he had no trouble circling them completely, given her delicate frame compared to the sheer size of the man at her back.

She tried jerking away from him with a grunt of effort, but his grip held fast.

"Let go!" she screeched at him, her voice cracking as the panic rose in her throat.

"Shhh, Mrs Collingwood," Till leaned in and spoke against her ear in a voice far too gentle and intimate for the current situation. He used the tone of a parent who aims to brace their child to have a splinter removed from a tender foot. The implication in his voice that said she would strongly object to whatever was coming next did nothing to quell the clamouring of fear within her.