And then the day after the storm she’d been so agitated. He’d wanted to apologize for his charged words during the storm, but their conversation had proven too awkward and short to find the right thing to say.
He measured the ship’s course with his sextant. They’d traveled a barely passable distance for being at sea a week.
Ironically, ithadn’ttaken him long to learn the name of another lady passenger: Betsy Brower. Or, as she had informed him, “Mrs. Betsy Mason Brower to you, sailor.” The irritating woman he’d told off during the storm had a knack for finding Will wherever his post was. It was a miracle she wasn’t next to him at the wheel checking the course this morning.
The woman carried a small, leatherbound book with her, and Will was nigh certain she thought it was her duty to run the entire sailing operation. She never corrected or spoke with the captain; she kept every bit of advice for him.
Since the storm, she had disapproved of how taut they’d cleated the sail. Then yesterday she’d told him that several of the sails were luffing and weren’t capturing any of the wind.
The captain approached Will and began discussing the sailors’ posts and if they should change up some of the duties. In the middle of the captain’s first sentence, as though she read his mind, Mrs. Brower’s head popped up from the middle deck hatch, closest to their position.
“Mr. Boyd,” she called, squinting into the sunlight and looking all around, “you best come down here right now, the galley stove’s havin’ a problem.”
Will swallowed and looked straight ahead, feigning the wind was so strong he couldn’t hear the woman. The galley stove’s worst problem was the disgusting food it produced. A man could only eat gruel that tasted like shoelaces for so many days before turning irritable. But that wasn’t the stove’s fault, rather the cook’s. If the old woman wanted to be helpful, she ought to go teach the ship’s cook a thing or two about flavor.
She called toward him one more time. If he kept his focus diverted, maybe she’d just go away. Captain Fairfield seemed to miss Mrs. Brower’s admonition too and continued to speak with him. The captain had lost a bit of his hearing a few months back when powder exploded near him on their last trip from America to England. Will had to admit he was quite glad for the misfortune at present.
But Mrs. Brower wasn’t one to be silenced. She crawled out of the hatch and barreled down the waist, her adamant arms flapping like seal flippers covered in long brocade cloth. He didn’t divert his gaze from the horizon, but his periphery was shooting all kinds of alarms to his mind. Most of them akin toIgnore the crazy lady.
“Regarding the crew,” Will said, continuing with the captain, “a few of the younger men have been complaining that—”
The captain peered down toward the waist of the ship, and Will cringed as the man’s gaze settled on the woman below.
His eyes shot back to Will. “Are you going to attend to this woman?”
“Sir, she has taken to informing me about all the ways I am remiss in my duties.”
The captain raised an eyebrow high. “Andareyou remiss in your duties?”
“Of course not, sir!”
The captain let out a short gust of air. “Then she shouldn’t be a threat to you. On the contrary, perhaps you ought to listen instead of ignoring her, or she may cause you to lose credibility among the passengers.”
Will couldn’t believe the captain would side with the old bat, but he did have a point. Though if something really was wrong, surely one of the sailors would come and fetch him. “Excuse me, sir.” Will said, through grated teeth.
The captain dismissed him.
Will hurried to the middle deck where Mrs. Brower waited.
“The cook stove, Mr. Boyd.” Mrs. Brower said, and Will noted her downturned brow seemed even more determined than yesterday. “Your sailors told me to come get you. It’s loose.”
“Loose? What do you mean?”
“The brackets, Mr. Boyd, have come plumb off.” She heaved a breath. “You best come right away.”
“Mrs. Brower, I assure you—”
“It’s near nine hundred pounds, and if it were to take to rolling ...”
Will shook his head. He’d inspected the galley just yesterday and found nothing awry. But he went down the ladder behind the woman, just in case.
Ann carried herbs Elizabeth had given her in the folds of her apron, careful to spill none of them as she walked through the darkly lit steerage and made her way to the galley. Hopefully she could find her mother and make some sort of curative to improve Addy’s congestion. Her niece grew sicklier with every passing day. It was one thing to share a cabin with several other adults and hear their coughs, but it was much more heart-wrenching when a little babe kept sputtering, unable to breathe clearly.
As she neared the cooking area, Ann saw the two cook’s assistants. “Excuse me, but have you seen Mrs. Fowles? I am her daughter, and I need some boiled water—”
“Hold steady,” someone bellowed from the far side of the galley. Neither of the cook’s assistants even glanced her way. Everyone seemed focused on something near the floor. “The bracket’s bending every time we pitch!”
She took one more step before noticing the cook himself on his hands and knees, holding onto the base of the stove leg with two white-knuckled hands. Ann craned her neck to see if her mother stood around the far side, when suddenly the ship pitched.
