The laughter caught her by surprise. Shouldn’t have, as that had been her own reaction on seeing the pink-speckled sails. Ruford’s crew pointed and laughed. Harriet stiffened her spine, surprised that it bothered her to have other people laughing at her ship.
She also realized the breeze had stiffened, and an offshore wind was pushing them closer to the Polly Ann.
“Now, Bos’n?” she said quietly.
“Aye, Cap’n.” He spoke the commands to Smitty, who in turn instructed the crew to adjust the mainsail and other sheets in his broad American accent. Flynn, Big Jim, and Jack hustled to make the changes. Chang had gone below with Winston, as it was too distinctive to have Chinese and Jamaican crew on a ship flying the British flag. Ruford or his men may have noticed them during their previous encounter.
“I’m surprised Sheffield didn’t run up an American flag and make you temporary captain,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Or don’t you have one aboard?”
Smitty gave her a sly grin.
Harriet couldn’t help returning his grin. “We have a flag aboard for every nationality in the crew, don’t we?”
“And every language spoken fluently, aye.”
Harriet went back to watching their approach to the Polly Ann, wondering what other tricks she’d learn her wily pirate had up his sleeve.
By now, amidst the laughter she could hear Polly Ann’s crew joking and shouting insults. Wondering if the lady captain’s crew wore pink-spotted drawers. Insults that questioned her crew’s masculinity and choice of bed companions. While her crew kept quiet, keeping their accents and native tongues a secret, they had no reticence in offering rude gestures to the sailors on the Polly Ann.
When they had pulled even, Ruford doffed his hat and bent over double with laughter.
“Are you in need of assistance, Captain?” she called, her voice dripping with sweetness and concern. “It appears your ship has taken a beating.” The Polly Ann’s mainmast ended as a jagged stump above the mains’l. A crude patch of boards on the port side was visible off and on as the Polly Ann rolled with the swells. Dieter and Bos’n had made a much neater patch on Wind Dancer, Harriet thought, even painted to match the hull.
Ruford abruptly straightened and put his tricorne hat back on with far more force than necessary, its tall feather quivering. “Thank you for your concern, madam,” he replied, his voice stiff. “But I do not require help from the likes o’ you.”
“Suit yourself.” She waved her handkerchief at him as the Dawn Cinder began to pull ahead.
“Take care, madam, that you not fall prey to the pirates that roam these seas,” Ruford called. “Dangerous ruffians, they be.”
“I shall take your warning to heart, good sir.” Harriet faced her bow, unable to keep a straight face any longer. “Do warn me if you see any such ruffians,” she said to Smitty.
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Behind her, Bos’n snorted with laughter.
Chapter 12
Nick decided to let Miss Chase play at captain until they could no longer see any of the Polly Ann’s mast. Confident Jonesy and Bos’n had everything in hand while he waited below deck for the ships to pass, Nick took the opportunity to eat a meal sitting down in the fo’c’sle, his back against the bulkhead, his legs stretched out on the bench. He stared at Chang and Winston in their hammocks, catching a nap while they couldn’t be on deck, and practiced walking a coin across the back of his left hand.
It wasn’t long, though, before Nick had to poke his head up through the hatch to scratch his itch to be in the middle of things. Miss Chase went through all the tasks he would have done—throwing out the log line to check their speed, using his sextant to take a fix on their position when the clouds parted, and entering the data in his logbook in her precise hand that put his penmanship to shame. She’d performed these tasks before, of course, at his side, when he’d thought she was peppering him with questions, the teacher trying to learn a new subject, merely to stave off boredom.
But on their voyage she’d barely touched the books she’d borrowed from Norton, the fictional tales of romance and adventure. Instead, she pored over Nick’s books on navigation, on seamanship.
Watching her at the helm beside Bos’n, her shoulders back and chin up, Nick’s chest felt tight, a bit congested, and gradually he identified the odd sensation as pride in the way she was handling herself. Her voice had been steady when chatting with Ruford, and how brazen was that conversation? His pequeño wren marrón, little brown wren, was turning out to be a peacock. Peahen. Whatever.
Maybe she enjoyed partaking in amateur theatricals at home, or back at the academy where she’d taught? When they were younger, his sisters were forever staging one play or another, though Nick had thought they were mainly for the entertainment value of ordering around him and the neighboring boys.
Several times Miss Chase and Smitty compared notes between the chart and the coast visible off the port side. Offshore winds this close to land required frequent adjustment to stay on course. Each time he began to think it was time to correct, he’d hear the commands called to adjust the sheets, keeping them on course.
The bell rang to signal the change of watch, and Miss Chase appeared at the top of the hatch.
“It’s getting dark,” she called down. “We can no longer see any of Ruford’s ship, just his lanterns.”
Nick stepped aside as his men went up or down the ladder, depending on their watch. In a traditional show of respect, they’d tug their forelock and say “Cap’n,” as they passed him. With amusement he noted they did the same when they passed Miss Chase on the deck. Within moments she stood beside him in the passageway, Smitty coming down the ladder behind her.
“Join me in my cabin for tea after you’ve changed?”
“With pleasure,” she replied.
