Without another word, Mr. Pugh strode toward theWayfarer. Jane hoisted her heavy bag and labored to keep pace. Aunt Hester struggled similarly. When Ashford spared them a glance, he rolled his eyes and snatched Jane’s bag beneath one long arm. “Help your aunt with hers. Mr. Pugh seems disinclined to wait.”
Though peeved by his forwardness and patronizing tone, Jane did as he suggested. Sharing the burden of Hester’s bag allowed them to catch Mr. Pugh by the time he climbed the gangplank. Once they arrived on deck, the bosun wheeled on them.
“My eyes have witnessed the scum of the empire wash across the decks of a dozen ships, dressing like men, walking like men, and talking like men. But I know different. Every sailor is a shameless scoundrel, a shipwreck of a soul, the underbelly of a shiftless society. Myself included. However.” He swept them all with a judging finger. “I wouldn’t trade the lowest of the low for the likes of you. On this ship, you are less than the barnacles we scrape from the hull. You are beneath what the gulls deposit on our decks. As such, you will do as I say, when I say, and not cease your labors until I say. Am I clear?”
Shocked by the brutal diatribe, Jane could only nod. A sidelong glance at Aunt Hester and Ashford revealed similarly cowed expressions. Even Barlow seemed taken aback. Mr. Pugh only growled.
“Do not nod your fool head at me, missy. You say, ‘Yes, Mr. Pugh,’ and nothing else. Savvy?”
“Yes, Mr. Pugh.”
“Better. Beyond demanding your absolute obedience and unrelenting effort, I possess only one rule. I allow no idle chatter from anyone aboard my ship while they are on duty. As you know nothing about anything, shut your bone boxes and keep them so. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Pugh,” they said in chorus.
He grunted. His hand flew out to waylay a passing sailor. “Grubbs. Show this worthless gentleman where to stow his bag and then put him on the chain. You women. Follow me. Your presence on deck has already caused bad luck enough not to risk another moment of it.”
Jane and Aunt Hester wrangled their bags again as Mr. Pugh led them belowdecks to what passed for a galley. The cook, a sleepy-eyed older man, seemed startled by their presence.
“This is Chops,” said Mr. Pugh. “Obey him as you would me.”
Jane wondered if the cook derived his name from the impressive muttonchops swaddling his jowls or from his skill with a blade. She hoped the former.
“Where will we sleep, then?” she said.
Mr. Pugh glared death at her, his jaw locked in granite dismissal. She dipped a slight curtsy and tried again.
“Mr. Pugh, sir. If it pleases you, and only if it pleases you, would you kindly assign us a humble place to sleep? Although we will work the entire two days if you require, I fear we may need a few hours of rest during that time.”
She curtsied again. Mr. Pugh’s left eye twitched three times before the knot of his jaw relaxed. He stabbed a finger toward the corner of the galley adjacent the hull. “You may sleep there, when and if Chops allows.”
“On the floor?”
A vein began pulsing on Mr. Pugh’s temple.
“Of course, Mr. Pugh,” she added quickly. “As you wish, Mr. Pugh.”
He grunted and left them to the cook. Jane and Hester faced Chops. He eyed them as if a pair of fairies had suddenly graced his galley.
“Do ya’ know how to scrub pots?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And swab floors?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And peel potatoes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’ll get along right fine.”
She eyed the mountain of potatoes and wondered if the blackened floor had ever been swabbed. At least she would not suffer the indignity of toiling above deck as Mr. Ashford must. The vision of him languishing beneath Mr. Pugh’s iron rule brought a wry smile to her lips. She hoped he would suffer. If not a lot, then a little. He was an Ashford, after all. Whatever suffering he endured was merely deserved.
Chapter Five
Adam was suffering. A lot. He rose from the anchor chain to examine his formerly gentle hands, now raw from three hours of scrubbing corroded metal. A trail of rust along the deck beneath the anchor chain gave evidence of his limited progress. He shook his head again, understanding now the amusement of the sailor who had left him to the task. Despite aching fingers and palms, he was determined to work doggedly and without complaint. The driving force behind his determination was Miss Hancock’s certainty of his impending failure. He intended to prove her utterly wrong, even if it killed him.
