I earned my right to privacy this
afternoon."
"N'owt much o' that on board a ship, lass."
"I am painfully aware of that, Mr. Thorntree.
Still, it isn't asking too much if I am to be kept here against my will for God
only knows how long. And Michael. . . where is he?"
"Topside, lass. Watchin' the Frenchies take their
pound o' flesh."
"The Frenchies?" She turned to the windows
again.
"Aye. They be wantin' a couple o' 'undredweight
o' Cap'n Wade's cargo ter let us in the 'arbor fer repairs. Smacks o' piracy,
if n ye ask me, but the cap'n didn't 'ave much choice. We was takin' on too
much seawater ter make a fair run 'ome."
"Exactly where are we, Mr. Thorntree?"
"Ye knows these 'ere islands?"
"Not well, I'm afraid."
"Mmm. W-a-all, I reckon it wouldn't do no 'arm
fer ye ter know. We be off Saint Martin."
"Saint Martin," she repeated in a whisper.
She tried to remember her geography, but all she could think of was the
immediate area around Barbados. There were so many islands, so many with
similar names and so many that changed hands and nationalities so often it was
hard to keep track from one year to the next. Saint Martin was obviously north,
but how far?
Summer scarcely noticed Thorny leaving. She twisted
the brass key in the lock and hung it on a carved notch in the jamb, wondering
as she did so why the island's name was ringing bells in the back of her mind.
Something about it she should recall . . . but what? The fact that it was in
the hands of the French gave her hardly a moment's pause. An American privateer
or a French general—she and Michael were prisoners either way. The difference
would be the time involved in negotiating a return to Bridgetown. There were
always prisoner exchanges taking place throughout the islands. As soon as
Father heard they were alive and awaiting rescue, he would move heaven and
earth to have them home, regardless of the monetary demands.
Furthermore, the French were gentlemen. The daughter
and son of the British governor of Barbados would be treated with every
courtesy available. Not like this. Not like . . . this.
Summer dropped the quilt from her shoulders and
touched her fingertips to the water in the cask. It was hot but not unbearably
so, and she stepped in quickly, sinking to her knees to chase the reflexive
shivers out of her body. The rising steam smelled faintly of rum, and she
suspected the cask had once been a part of the ship's stores. It was large
enough to sit in with a degree of comfort, deep enough for the water to cover
all but the rounds of her knees and the tops of her shoulders.
She sighed and ladled several pitchers full of water
over her head, letting the heat soothe away the throb in her temples. The soap
earned a distasteful wriggle of her delicate nose, but it lathered well and,
when rinsed from her hair, left it squeaky clean. Twice she soaped her body,
scrubbing with a rough scrap of towel until she was pink and tingling. She
found several old and yellowing bruises to explain the aches she felt in her
muscles and several new bluish ones to explain the rawness that kept her tears
close to the surface.
When she finished scrubbing, she simply sat in the
milky water and let it cool around her, paying no mind to the time slipping
away tick by tick on the gold watchpiece on the desk.
It was the sound of the ship's bell jangling the end
of a watch that finally roused her sufficiently to leave the tub. She dried
herself with a blanket she found folded over the sea chest, then sat down to
shake her hair dry in front of the stove while she contemplated what to do
about clothing. Thorny had not taken her seriously. Her smock and pantaloons,
already badly abused from the travail in the ocean, had been torn beyond repair
by Morgan Wade.
She bolstered her nerve with a deep breath and opened
the teak doors of the cupboard behind her. It held only the bare essentials:
three neatly folded cambric shirts, several pairs of black canvas trousers, a
leather jerkin, and
afternoon."
"N'owt much o' that on board a ship, lass."
"I am painfully aware of that, Mr. Thorntree.
Still, it isn't asking too much if I am to be kept here against my will for God
only knows how long. And Michael. . . where is he?"
"Topside, lass. Watchin' the Frenchies take their
pound o' flesh."
"The Frenchies?" She turned to the windows
again.
"Aye. They be wantin' a couple o' 'undredweight
o' Cap'n Wade's cargo ter let us in the 'arbor fer repairs. Smacks o' piracy,
if n ye ask me, but the cap'n didn't 'ave much choice. We was takin' on too
much seawater ter make a fair run 'ome."
"Exactly where are we, Mr. Thorntree?"
"Ye knows these 'ere islands?"
"Not well, I'm afraid."
"Mmm. W-a-all, I reckon it wouldn't do no 'arm
fer ye ter know. We be off Saint Martin."
"Saint Martin," she repeated in a whisper.
She tried to remember her geography, but all she could think of was the
immediate area around Barbados. There were so many islands, so many with
similar names and so many that changed hands and nationalities so often it was
hard to keep track from one year to the next. Saint Martin was obviously north,
but how far?
Summer scarcely noticed Thorny leaving. She twisted
the brass key in the lock and hung it on a carved notch in the jamb, wondering
as she did so why the island's name was ringing bells in the back of her mind.
Something about it she should recall . . . but what? The fact that it was in
the hands of the French gave her hardly a moment's pause. An American privateer
or a French general—she and Michael were prisoners either way. The difference
would be the time involved in negotiating a return to Bridgetown. There were
always prisoner exchanges taking place throughout the islands. As soon as
Father heard they were alive and awaiting rescue, he would move heaven and
earth to have them home, regardless of the monetary demands.
Furthermore, the French were gentlemen. The daughter
and son of the British governor of Barbados would be treated with every
courtesy available. Not like this. Not like . . . this.
Summer dropped the quilt from her shoulders and
touched her fingertips to the water in the cask. It was hot but not unbearably
so, and she stepped in quickly, sinking to her knees to chase the reflexive
shivers out of her body. The rising steam smelled faintly of rum, and she
suspected the cask had once been a part of the ship's stores. It was large
enough to sit in with a degree of comfort, deep enough for the water to cover
all but the rounds of her knees and the tops of her shoulders.
She sighed and ladled several pitchers full of water
over her head, letting the heat soothe away the throb in her temples. The soap
earned a distasteful wriggle of her delicate nose, but it lathered well and,
when rinsed from her hair, left it squeaky clean. Twice she soaped her body,
scrubbing with a rough scrap of towel until she was pink and tingling. She
found several old and yellowing bruises to explain the aches she felt in her
muscles and several new bluish ones to explain the rawness that kept her tears
close to the surface.
When she finished scrubbing, she simply sat in the
milky water and let it cool around her, paying no mind to the time slipping
away tick by tick on the gold watchpiece on the desk.
It was the sound of the ship's bell jangling the end
of a watch that finally roused her sufficiently to leave the tub. She dried
herself with a blanket she found folded over the sea chest, then sat down to
shake her hair dry in front of the stove while she contemplated what to do
about clothing. Thorny had not taken her seriously. Her smock and pantaloons,
already badly abused from the travail in the ocean, had been torn beyond repair
by Morgan Wade.
She bolstered her nerve with a deep breath and opened
the teak doors of the cupboard behind her. It held only the bare essentials:
three neatly folded cambric shirts, several pairs of black canvas trousers, a
leather jerkin, and
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