Chapter Eleven
CAPTAIN, CAPTAIN
Ritcherd felt awkward with the pistol in his left hand, but Garret was patient and had a way of making Ritcherd be more patient with himself. The rifle was awkward as well, but Garret gave him plenty of time to just get a feel for holding the firearms and maneuvering them.
“And when you’re up to it,” Garret said, “we’ll do a little target throwing over the water.”
“Really?” Ritcherd said, sliding his right hand over the stock of a rifle with craftsmanship more beautiful than he’d ever seen. He wished that he could feel the intricate carvings with the fingers of his right hand.
As if Garret sensed his discouragement, he said, “You learned to eat with your left hand, didn’t you?”
“Enough to keep from starving.”
“And you learned to write as well?”
“Not that anyone can read it,” Ritcherd replied.
“Give it time,” Garret answered matter-of-factly. “You were forced to learn how to do the things you needed to survive. You need to know how to fight to survive. Give it time.”
Garret proved to be right. In just a few days Ritcherd gained a certain amount of confidence in using both the pistol and the rifle. When his work was done, Garret took Ritcherd to the rail of the ship, where Patrick was waiting with a crate full of pieces of broken dishes and pots. Ritcherd was a little unsettled by the memory they provoked regarding his mother’s china. He was glad for Garret’s explanation, which distracted him.
“I get them from a potter in Jamaica,” he said. “He appreciates getting a fair price for his failures and accidents. And I make good use of them.”
Ritcherd watched in amazement as Patrick tossed the pieces of clay into the air and Garret hit nine out of ten with the pistol, and ten out of ten with the rifle. He then handed the rifle over to Ritcherd. In response to his hesitance, Garret said in a voice that only he could hear, “A ship is always safe in the harbor, but that’s not what a ship is made for.”
“What?” Ritcherd asked, not catching the connection.
Garret leaned closer and added, “If you don’t try, you’ll never learn.” He motioned with his head to indicate the small crowd that had gathered. As if he’d read Ritcherd’s mind, he said, “They all know you were wounded. Just get on with it.”
Ritcherd scowled. “And do they also know I’m a turncoat?”
“Of course,” Garret said. “But they like you anyway. Get on with it.”
Ritcherd missed the first five shots. But he hit the sixth and marveled at how it made him feel when the men cheered. He missed the next three, then hit four in a row.
“Now the pistol,” Garret said, trading Ritcherd firearms. When he’d missed more than ten times, he was ready to give it up. But Garret wouldn’t let him. “Ye’re not eatin’ until ye ‘it at least one.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not shootin’ what we’ll ’ave for supper, eh?” Ritcherd said and the men laughed.
“Blast it t’ bits, Buckley!” one of them shouted and the rest echoed his cheer. Ritcherd hit the next three shots.
“Very good,” Garret drawled, then he motioned the other men forward and gave them each a turn. Ritcherd could see that this was a typical exercise to keep their skills honed. He was amazed at the proficiency of these men and recalled George saying the crew was not many in number, but they were quality.
That evening while Ritcherd was sitting at the table in the cabin, playing with Kyrah’s brooch, Garret tossed a leather-bound book down in front of him.
“What is this?” Ritcherd asked.
“It’s a journal,” Garret said. “Take a look.”
Ritcherd opened the book and thumbed through it, stating the obvious. “The pages are blank.”
“That’s because you haven’t written anything on them yet.” Ritcherd lifted his brows. Garret just set a pen and inkwell in front of him. “You should be recording your experiences at sea. It keeps the head clear. And if you don’t feel like writing, do it anyway. It’ll improve your penmanship and strengthen the muscles in that hand. And you’re going to need all the strength you can get if you intend to use a sword with any skill whatsoever.” He sat down and added, “You’ve made some progress with shooting, although some daily practice would be to our benefit.”
The way he said it made Ritcherd wonder if Garret considered his inability to fight a hazard to himself and his crew. If for no other reason, Ritcherd was determined to prove that he could master this.
“Fencing, however, will not be so easy,” Garret added. “Now start writing, and we’ll get at it tomorrow.”
Garret left the room. Ritcherd stared at the first blank page of his journal for more than an hour before he found words in his head that he felt prone to put on paper. And it was another twenty minutes before he worked up the courage to dip the pen and begin. What little hand-writing he had done since his injury had looked worse than the scrawling of a four-year-old. And the first few pages that Ritcherd wrote were no better. But as days passed, Ritcherd could see a gradual improvement in the appearance of his written words. And he was beginning to understand what Garret had meant when he said it cleared the head. As he became more comfortable with his journal, he began to pour his feelings into it—feelings he couldn’t express to a bunch of hard-nosed sailors.
In correlation with his writing skills, Ritcherd gained skill with the firearms a little every day. And each day Garret had him working with a sword in his left hand. Ritcherd appreciated the way Garret could remind him to be humble when it was necessary without forcing him to lose his pride or become defensive.
“After using your right hand all your life,” he said when Ritcherd hit a particularly discouraging moment, “it’s going to take perseverance to use your left with any kind of skill. Were you any good with your right hand?”
“Good enough,” Ritcherd admitted. “I could hold my own.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Garret said, and they got back to work.
The long, straight-bladed cutlass Garret had given him was heavier than what he’d been used to, but Garret told him that was what pirates fought with.
“Are we pirates?” Ritcherd asked.
“In a way, I suppose,” Garret said as if the thought amused him. “Although pirates are a dying breed. Still, we’ll pretend to be whatever we need to be to get the job done.”
Ritcherd gradually became accustomed to the weapon and found that he was gaining the strength to maneuver it rather well. Garret had told him it carried more threat if one learned to handle it to its best advantage. And with time, Ritcherd could see what he meant.
When maneuvering around the furniture in the captain’s cabin became difficult, Garret had a place cleared in one of the holds below deck where Ritcherd could practice to his heart’s content, away from the crew’s curiosity. He spent time there on his own every day while Garret was busy at other things, and Garret also spent a couple of hours with him each day, coaching him through his skills. Ritcherd was amazed at how quickly the days flew now that he had purpose to fill his time. He began to look forward to writing in his journal each day, where he poured out his love for Kyrah and his determination to make right all that he had wronged on her behalf.
After several days of hard work below deck with the sword, Garret decided it was time for some action. He cleverly muted the ends of two swords, but Ritcherd was disconcerted when Garret made it clear that their little fencing match would take place on deck. The men’s interest was roused immediately, and they all gathered around, apparently enjoying this opportunity to see the two captains engaged in this lighthearted match.
At first Ritcherd knew that Garret was going easy. But as Ritcherd began to maneuver the sword with more confidence, Garret gradually pushed more skill into his offense. Ritcherd was impressed with the sleek way that Garret fenced with his right hand casually behind his back, moving his feet with natural fluency. He felt good as he started to
loosen up, and it occurred to him that he had lost a great deal more confidence than he’d wanted to admit when he’d lost use of his right arm. Not only in fighting, but in every aspect of his life. As he felt that confidence surging back into him, he started to enjoy the playful match. He actually laughed as he momentarily caught Garret off guard and almost gained the advantage.
Ritcherd knew immediately when Garret let his full strength and skill come forward. He concentrated with everything he had on staying in control, and he felt sweat rising. But still he enjoyed it. Even when Garret’s sword came against Ritcherd’s neck, he laughed out loud as Garret shouted, “This cap’n wins round one, eh?"
They each stepped back to catch their breath before they lifted their swords in a unified gesture to begin a new match. The men moved back to create more room as the footwork increased, and they circled around each other, while Garret occasionally let out a whoop to indicate that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Ritcherd’s sword was swept strategically from his hand, and Captain Garret won round two—and round three. But he kept his lighthearted attitude that left no room for Ritcherd to become defensive.
They both took a few minutes to stretch their arms and breathe deeply before round four began. Ritcherd felt fresh life surging through him and realized that even having lost three rounds, he felt like more of a man than he had since he’d awakened in a hospital bed with his arm half gone. The fourth round became intense with a match of skill, and it seemed to go on forever. When Ritcherd turned quickly then lunged forward, Garret landed on the ground with a sword against his chest. He looked completely surprised, but laughed boisterously as he relaxed on the deck. Ritcherd threw down the sword and joined in the laughter as he reached out his hand to help the captain back to his feet. George joined in with a “Yo ho ho!” And the sailors all broke into laughter.
“Well,” Garret said, removing his glove to wipe the sweat from his face, “I think we’ve accomplished what we set out t’ do.”
“’Ave we?” Ritcherd asked. “I was killed three times before I got ye down.”
Garret looked thoughtful then shouted, “Patrick!”
“Aye, sir.” The magician stepped forward.
Garret picked up his sword and fingered it thoughtfully for a moment before he handed it to Patrick, who was near Garret’s height, but much more muscular.
“Th’ cap’n needs t’ fight a right ’anded man,” Garret said and stepped back, holding out his arms elaborately to indicate that they proceed.
Ritcherd sensed a seriousness come over Garret, and he looked skeptically at his new opponent, who was tying his hair back to keep it from inhibiting him.
When Patrick was ready, his sword was returned to him. Ritcherd was about to bend and retrieve his own when Patrick lifted it skillfully with his toe and it sailed through the air, right into Ritcherd’s hand. By the time Ritcherd got the sword into position, Patrick was en garde, facing him with an amused intensity in his eyes. Ritcherd took his stance, and a hush fell over the men as they began.
It took only seconds for Ritcherd to realize that this was completely different. Fencing a man who used the same hand left him working opposite his maneuvers as he faced him. But now his opponent was fighting on the same side, with the opposite hand, leaving Ritcherd at a great disadvantage. He knew Patrick was going easy on him, and Ritcherd wondered what maneuvers he could pull to even the odds a bit before Patrick brought forth a skill that Ritcherd already sensed was remarkable. He moved with eloquent ease into each lunge and thrust, fencing with intensity and striking rhythm. It took almost no time for Ritcherd to be defeated.
“I believe we’ve ’ad enough fun t’day,” Garret said immediately. “If none o’ ye can find anythin’ t’ do, then swab th’ decks.”
The men all laughed as they dispersed, and Ritcherd assumed it was a joke among them. He stood solemnly watching Garret, sensing expectancy in him, while Patrick pulled the string from his hair and shook it down, giving the sword back to Garret.
“I’m impressed with your skill,” Ritcherd said to Patrick, who smiled humbly.
“Cap’n Garret taught me t’ fence,” he said. “I never ’eld a sword afore I started sailin’ with ’im.”
“But it didn’t take long for the student t’ outdo the teacher,” Garret grinned. “This man’s a natural.”
“So I see,” Ritcherd replied, and there was a moment of silence. “Will ye teach me?” Ritcherd asked Patrick, who exchanged a glance with Garret.
“Aye,” he smiled wryly. “I’d be ’appy t’ ’elp ye what I can.”
“T’morrow,” Garret said, slapping Patrick on the shoulder. “We’ll start t’morrow.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Patrick replied, then nodded toward Ritcherd and went below deck.
“He’s good,” Ritcherd said.
“Yes, he is,” Garret replied. “And he’s a good man. You’ll like him.”
The two captains walked along the rail while the men went about their duties. Ritcherd sensed there was something Garret wanted to say to him by the way he stuck close by as Ritcherd came to his comfortable spot at the bow. He leaned his forearms on the rail and looked westward. Garret stood near him in the same manner, but when they remained in comfortable silence, Ritcherd just gazed out over the water, enjoying the company of this man that he admired more and more.
Garret finally broke the silence by saying, “How would you describe the sea, Captain Buckley?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“No,” Garret laughed. “It’s just . . . food for thought.”
“How would you describe the sea?” Ritcherd countered.
“No, that’s not fair. My answer might influence yours. I want to know how you would describe the sea.”
Ritcherd gazed out over the endless stretch of blue and contemplated his answer carefully. Through their weeks at sea he had seen the water take on many different moods, and he searched for words that would summarize his feelings. Garret didn’t seem impatient. He seemed to expect his question to be taken seriously.
“Provocative,” he finally said and ventured to explain. “It has an alluring quality that . . . you want to get hold of but you can’t quite grasp.”
“Very good,” Garret said. “And I must say that I agree on that point. What else?”
Ritcherd inhaled the salt air deeply and said, “It’s breathtaking. Every time you turn around, you see something about it that takes your breath away all over again.”
“Well said.” Garret turned his back to the rail and leaned his elbows behind him.
“This isn’t my first time at sea, you know,” Ritcherd said.
“I know. I would assume, your being a redcoat and all, that you were shipped to the colonies and put on the battlefront, then you were probably shipped back when you became a liability.”
“That’s right. On the voyage out I didn’t pay much attention to anything. I was too depressed; oblivious I guess. And on the way home, I was holed up in my cabin, too full of infection to get out of bed. So,” he added, taking another deep breath, “this is the first time I’ve really . . . felt the sea.”
“And what do you think?” Garret asked.
“I already told you.”
“Tell me more.”
“Well,” Ritcherd chuckled, “I don’t think it’s in my blood the way it’s obviously in yours. But . . . I feel like it’s trying to teach me something. It’s . . . challenging! That’s the word. It would never let a man get bored for too long, because it would continually put a challenge before him.”
“How right you are,” Garret said. “And again, I agree. In fact,” he pointed north, “you see those clouds?” Ritcherd nodded. “We’re in for a storm. You find new meaning in the word ‘challenging’ when you ride a storm at sea.”
Ritcherd felt momentarily afraid from the intensity in Garret’s eyes. He glanced away, wondering how Kyrah might whether the storm if the ship she was sailing on had less than a week’s headway.
“It’s interesting,” Garret said, “I’ve asked a lot of people to describe the sea. No one’s ever echoed my feelings the way you just did.”
Ritcherd turned back to meet his eyes. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“I don’t know, Ritcherd,” he said. “What do you think it means?”
Ritcherd chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m not the philosopher that you are.”
“Am I?” Garret snorted dubiously. “Not likely. I just . . .”
“Think very deep,” Ritcherd said. “But that’s all right. I like it. It reminds me of . . .” Ritcherd stopped himself from saying Kyrah’s name. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel he could tell Garret about her. Perhaps he was more afraid that he couldn’t talk about it without falling apart. The pain associated with thoughts of her was too deep and too fresh.
“You know,” Garret said, turning back to look over the water, “I got into this describing the sea thing many years ago. My grandfather asked me to do that very thing when I was approaching adulthood. He was one of the few people in my life who really knew me. He told me that my views of the sea might change through the years, as I matured and learned to understand myself more fully. And now I know he was right. He also told me that . . . when I found a woman who made me feel the way the sea made me feel, I should take hold of her and never let go—even if it meant giving up the sea.”
Ritcherd watched Garret closely, wondering if the man knew more about him than he was letting on. Or were Garret’s words just stirring something in him that he found too poignant and ironic to think about too deeply? Garret went on to say, “If you turn that around a bit, you’ll find that the way you just described the sea would perfectly describe the woman that could make you happy.”
Garret sighed and looked away. His voice picked up that gravelly quality as he added, “Is that the way she is, Ritcherd?”
“Who?” Ritcherd retorted, wishing it hadn’t sounded so defensive.
“The woman who is at this very moment somewhere west of the Phoenix. Is she provocative, breathtaking, challenging? Does she have an alluring quality that you want to get hold of but can’t quite grasp? Every time you turn around, do you see something about her that takes your breath away all over again? Is she capable of keeping you from getting bored because she continually puts a challenge before you?”
A knot gathered in Ritcherd’s throat that made it impossible for him to speak. Garret tossed one more quick glance his direction before he walked away. But his words echoed over and over in Ritcherd’s mind. Tears coursed down his face and dried quickly as the salt-tinged wind blew them away. How had Garret managed to so perfectly describe Kyrah, and everything he loved about her? But he hadn’t. He’d only repeated what Ritcherd had said. But how had he known there was a woman? Ritcherd hadn’t said a word—not even to George. Was he so transparent? Gazing out to sea in a way that had become habitual, he wondered if his longing and heartache were so readily evident.
Not willing to wonder, he answered the unspoken challenge that Garret had left hanging in the air. He found Garret in the cabin, bent over his book work. He glanced up and seemed to sense that Ritcherd had something to say. Ritcherd tossed his gloves to the table. His voice came firm and steady. “Yes. She is. She’s all that and so much more. And next time you want to know something, just ask me. Don’t lure it out of me like some fisherman with a baited hook.”
Garret stretched out his legs and crossed his booted ankles. He folded his arms over his chest and sighed. “I think you misunderstand me, Ritch. When I need information that concerns me or my crew, I ask. When I am concerned about a friend, I might not know how to ask. I have no reason to believe that you know me well enough to trust me when it comes to personal matters. I just wanted to let you know that it’s not necessary to carry your burden alone—whatever that burden may be. But of course, that’s up to you. Forgive me if I was out of line.”
Ritcherd sighed and sat down. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said more humbly. He contemplated a way to tell Garret that his concern was appreciated—and perhaps needed. But the supper bell rang and he followed Garret silently to the galley. When the meal was finished, Garret was called away to deal with some matter concerning supplies. Ritcherd found himself again at the rail, pondering the things he was learning on this journey that he’d never considered possible.
He was startled from his thoughts when George came up beside him. “That was quite a match,” he said.
“Yes it was,” Ritcherd half-smiled.
“Whose idea was it . . . to do all this left-handed stuff?”
“Garret brought it up.”
“He’s a good man, you know.”
Ritcherd looked him in the eye and had to ask, “Have you been talking to him in the last few hours?”
“No, but the tension between the two of you at supper was a bit obvious. Now, don’t change the subject. As I said, he’s a good man.”
“Yes, I know,” Ritcherd admitted. “I’ve gained a great deal of respect for him since we’ve been on board.”
“Why is it that you share a cabin when there are several others empty?”
“That was his idea, too. He said the captain’s cabin was huge compared to the others, and if one of us slept elsewhere, the men would see a differentiation of authority. I told him that he was the captain who needed the authority, but he insisted we were partners and the men would see it that way.”
George chuckled. “Garret knows human nature well. Once you look past his brusque exterior, you can’t help but find a man worth knowing.”
“Why are we talking like this when we’ve hardly talked at all since we set sail . . . and about Garret?”
“We haven’t talked for two reasons,” George said in his light way. “Either I’ve been busy,” he smirked and added, “I’m just one o’ th’ mates. Or,” he went on in his normal voice, “as the men say, ‘Captain Buckley looks like he’d rather be left alone. He’s got something on his mind.’”
Ritcherd looked seaward. So, he was transparent. “All right, we’re talking now. Why about Garret?”
“You and Garret are partners,” he said, “but I wonder if you’ve really thought about what that means. I wonder if you know anything about him. I doubt he’d tell you himself.”
“He seems to know a great deal about me, and I didn’t tell him.”
“Well, I told him very little, if that’s what you’re implying. Garret is a perceptive man. He puts pieces together. That’s why he’s good at what he does.”
Ritcherd sighed. “I’m sorry, George. I need to learn to not take my anger out on you—or Garret.”
“Apology accepted. Now stop changing the subject. I think it’s time you knew what kind of man Garret really is.”
“What is there to know that matters? I like him for what he is.”
“He’s a baronet.”
Ritcherd tried not to look surprised, but it truly took him off guard. He’d noticed right off his refined speech and manner. But a title? Suddenly the entire situation became terribly amusing. He laughed as he said, “He’s an aristocrat?”
“Hush!” George insisted. “It’s a secret. He doesn’t like people to know.”
“Then why did you tell me?”
“Because this partnership he’s making such a point to clarify needs to be understood. You need to know that he is, in every sense of the word, your equal—and very much like you. Things like that are important to know when life-and-death situations come up.”
Ritcherd looked into George’s eyes and felt another layer of reality settle into place. What they were about was no game. While George had his attention, he added, “Let me just make a suggestion, Buckley. You don’t need to tell me what’s going on, but if you’re smart, you’ll tell Garret. You need him. And he needs you. That’s all I have to say.”
George slapped Ritcherd on the shoulder, as he had come to realize was a common gesture among these men. He walked casually away, leaving Rit
cherd with more food for thought than he knew what to do with.
“Hey, Buckley,” George called back suddenly, startling Ritcherd. “Yo ho ho!”
Ritcherd gave him a sarcastic salute and George walked lightly away.
By the time Ritcherd figured out that he should likely take George’s advice and have a good, long talk with Garret, storm clouds were gathering and the wind had picked up considerably. The crew bustled around, obviously well versed on their preparations. They all seemed confident enough. But Ritcherd couldn’t help feeling unnerved by the dark threat in the deepening clouds.
He found Garret near the main mast, pointing upward and giving instructions to one of the men. Ritcherd waited for him to finish before he asked, “Is there something I can do?”
“Everything’s under control,” he said as if the previous exchange between them had never occurred. “The best thing to do is stay in the cabin, hold on tight, and let the storm ride. When it’s over I’ll put you to work. I’m certain we’ll have a mess then.”
At first Ritcherd did as he was told, not wanting to admit that this situation was unnerving. He was reminded of his feelings going into battle, knowing that danger was imminent—and beyond his control. But as the storm dragged on, he began to wonder what Garret was doing through all of this. He managed to make his way down the hall and up the stairs, feeling like a weed being tossed on the wind as the ship lurched back and forth. He emerged onto the deck only to be slapped with an onslaught of water, a combination of pelting rain and salt spray. Captain Garret was at the helm with Patrick at his side. As always he appeared calm and in control, doing his best to guide the Phoenix safely over the violent waves.
Ritcherd knew absolutely nothing about getting a ship through a storm, but it was evident that the members of the crew each had a position and a job to do. Ritcherd wasn’t going to bother asking Garret what he might do. But he wasn’t going to be the only one below deck while everyone else risked their lives to keep his ship above water. He noticed one of the older men gripping a rope for dear life. He didn’t know the rope’s purpose, but he sidled up next to the man and took hold of the same rope, wishing he had enough strength in his right hand to make more of a difference.
The man nodded in appreciation and they were soon pelted with a fresh wave that rose over the deck. He realized that he didn’t have a clue what this man’s name was, and he made up his mind that if they survived this, he was going to find out.
When the storm subsided at last, Garret left Patrick at the helm and wandered the ship to assess the damages in the pre-dawn light. When he saw Ritcherd sitting on the deck, leaning against the mast, he snapped, “What are you doing up here? I thought I told you to—”
Ritcherd saluted tersely and retorted, “Just attempting to pull my weight, sir.”
Garret walked away looking angry, and Ritcherd wondered if the sarcastic use of his title had prickled a nerve—even if he believed that Ritcherd had no idea of the connection.
Through the day the men took turns catching some sleep and working to clean up the mess. And there was indeed a mess. Ritcherd worked side by side with the others, talking with them in a way he’d never broached before. He found out that the man he’d shared the rope with was called Mort. He was amazed at how asking a few simple questions could get a man to talk. When Ritcherd asked how he’d ended up at sea, Mort said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Watched m’ wife and four kids take th’ fever an’ die. Couldn’t stay there.”
Ritcherd felt a little queasy. He thought of the love he felt for Kyrah and tried to comprehend what this man had been through, then he realized that he couldn’t. He could not possibly imagine. “I’m so sorry,” Ritcherd said when the silence became uncomfortable.
“We all got our grief,” Mort said, then he smiled as if to say that he knew Ritcherd had his own burdens.
Ritcherd worked his way around to different parts of the ship to help with the repairs and cleaning. He talked with Joe, who had run away from a workhouse where he’d been put at the age of seven, working sixteen hours a day for barely enough to feed himself. He’d run away at twelve and gotten work on a ship. He’d been sailing ever since.
Ritcherd met Willard, who was not yet sixteen. He’d been sailing since he was eleven, and all he remembered of his life before that was stealing to eat and staying out of the way of those who would gladly beat him to death to take what he’d stolen.
Ritcherd forewent his turn to sleep. He was enticed by the opportunity to talk with Eugene and Lou. They were brothers whose father had regularly beaten them—and their mother. They’d been at sea for more than twenty years—since their mother’s death.
Charlie grew up as a servant in a manor where his parents had both worked from their youth. But Charlie had been beaten up and left for dead after he’d confronted the lord of the manor, who had gotten his thirteen-year-old sister pregnant. After his sister died in childbirth, he left and never went back.
Albert had grown up in an orphanage where food and a blanket had been his most prized possessions. Reed was the son of a merchant who got deeply in debt when business went bad. Both of Reed’s parents had died in debtor’s prison. Fred’s parents had been killed in an accident when he was young. He’d been passed around from one relative to another, never feeling wanted or cared for. And then there were the men who wanted to be known only as Curly, Botch, Sonny, and Greenie. They had all grown up in port towns, where going to sea was the only way they had to make a living. The remaining members of the crew seemed prone to keep more to themselves, and Ritcherd didn’t bother approaching them.
It was evening before Ritcherd finally realized he’d gotten all the confessions he was going to get. Suddenly exhausted, he trudged down the hallway to the cabin, grateful to find himself there alone. Unwillingly he sank to his knees and pressed his head into his hands. He felt the burden of each sad tale on his shoulders, a burden that opened up a perspective of life he’d never bothered to contemplate. He marveled at the horrors of this world, the atrocities of hunger and abuse and disease. And he realized that he had no idea how it felt to really be hungry, or unwanted, or alone. If not for his years at war, his comprehension would have been even further removed from the reality of life. He contemplated his own upbringing, and the injustice of aristocracy settled into him in a way it never had before. He thought of people like his mother, hoarding their money and their possessions, looking down their noses at those less fortunate, as if they had made some ill choice that had deemed them worthy to live lives of misery.
Ritcherd groaned and wrapped his arms around his middle, feeling his burden deepen. He crawled onto his bunk and actually found it difficult to sleep, in spite of his exhaustion. But as he pondered again the stories he had heard, he recalled the contentment and happiness he had observed with these men through their many weeks at sea. A new perspective settled into him, and he marveled at the resiliency of mankind. Each of these men had risen above their circumstances to find some level of happiness and peace, and they were doing it without getting drunk and groveling in the gutters of the world. They had a cause, and they were willing to risk their lives to fight for the freedom of people who likely meant nothing to them.
And then, for no apparent reason, he heard Kyrah’s words in his memory, as clearly as if she had spoken them just today. I wonder if you can accept that you’re going to have to lower yourself to my social level, because I’m not capable of raising myself to yours.
He had thought that she believed she wasn’t capable of being a lady, of fitting into his life. But he knew now that wasn’t what she’d meant at all. Of course, he knew that people would regard his marrying her as lowering himself socially. But he didn’t care about that. And he knew that Kyrah hadn’t been talking about that, either. Had she been able to see what he couldn’t? Through her struggles to survive her father’s death, and to keep her and her mother fed, Kyrah had experienced a level of life that Ritcherd had never comprehended. But he understood now. He
’d been given a glimpse into real life, not the aristocratic veil that shielded those of noble blood from having to view the trenches of reality. Yes, he understood. But he didn’t feel as if he’d been lowered to anything. He felt lifted up, enlightened, and grateful to have the shades removed from his eyes that had, in spite of all his efforts, kept him in the same realm as people like his mother.
“Thank you, Lord,” he murmured and drifted immediately to sleep.
Ritcherd awoke to find it still dark, and Garret absent. Since he’d fallen asleep in his clothes, it took little effort to wander to the deck. He found Garret leaning his back against the rail at the stern, gazing upward.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Ritcherd said, startling him.
“Nah,” Garret said, looking upward again. “This is when I do some of my best work.”
Ritcherd moved beside him and imitated his stance, looking at the stars as if he’d never seen them before. Garret was obviously concentrating, and he allowed him to do so. After several minutes of silence, Garret said, “Now that the clouds have cleared, I know where we are.”
“And where would that be?” Ritcherd asked, not liking the tone of his voice. When Garret hesitated, he said, “Please don’t tell me we’re lost.”
Garret chuckled. “No, Ritch. We’re not lost. As long as I can see the stars, we’ll never be lost. But we’re way off course—even worse than I’d suspected.”
Ritcherd’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t even begin to express how that made him feel—especially when Garret had no idea of his own personal quest. He managed a steady voice as he asked, “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means we’re going to Jamaica,” he said firmly.
“I see.”
“Do you want to know why?” Garret asked. In a light tone that Ritcherd realized was meant to subtly mimic him, he added, “If you want to know, all you have to do is ask. You don’t have to lure it out of me.”
“All right, Garret. Why are we going to Jamaica?”
“Our supplies of food and water are fine. I learned a long time ago to allow for plenty of extra. Of course, stocking up with more never hurts. Our cargo stayed dry. We can thank the good Lord for that. But the materials we need to repair the ship properly will not be readily available in the colonies. We’ve used a lot of our backup materials to make repairs, and I will not return to England without two of everything. We’re a lot closer to Jamaica than any American port that would do us any good anyway.” He turned to look at Ritcherd. “There. I have given a full report to the owner of the Phoenix. Does it meet your approval, Captain Buchanan?”
Ritcherd swallowed his inclination to get angry. The subtle terseness in Garret’s voice was not enough to get angry over. And perhaps Garret had cause to be angry. He wondered how to rebuild the trust they had been building. But not knowing the answer, he stuck to the matter at hand. “Yes, Captain Garret. I don’t especially want to go to Jamaica, but I’m more grateful than you can imagine to know that the captain of my vessel knows what he’s doing and takes his responsibility to his crew and his cause very seriously.” Since he had Garret’s attention, he added for good measure, “On a more personal note, I’d like you to know that I have a great deal of respect for you—philosophies and all.” Deciding he didn’t really want a response to that, he walked away saying, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some sleep.”
Ritcherd was almost to the stairs when he heard Garret holler, “I’m goin’ t’ bed. Stay awake up there.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” a voice hollered back from the crow’s nest high atop the main mast.
“Goodnight, Mort,” Ritcherd hollered upward, recognizing his voice.
“Tis almost good mornin’, Cap’n,” Mort hollered back.
“Aye, so it is,” Ritcherd replied. “Good mornin’, then.”
“Good mornin’, Cap’n Buckley. Rest well, eh?”
“As long as I know ye’re up there, I’ll rest just fine.”
Garret slapped Ritcherd’s shoulder as he caught up to him. “The feeling is mutual,” he said and went down the stairs. Ritcherd followed, wondering how Garret managed to become more likable every day—when he could be so difficult to understand. Then it occurred to him that perhaps Garret considered him difficult to understand. That wasn’t too hard to believe. As they both crawled into their beds and settled down, Ritcherd had a feeling that he was in the process of uncovering a friendship here that would last far beyond the delivering of smuggled goods to the colonists.
The following morning at breakfast, Captain Garret announced the change in plans. “We’re goin’ t’ Jamaicer,” he said simply and the men all groaned, perfectly expressing the ache in Ritcherd’s heart. “We’ve been blown way off course. We’ll be there in less than a week. Then we’ll proceed with th’ original plan.”
When the meal was finished, the men returned to their work and Ritcherd went below to spend some time with a sword in his hand. He worked up a healthy sweat in his effort to push thoughts of Kyrah out of his mind. When it simply wouldn’t work, he pressed his head to the wall and groaned. Every day that passed seemed to draw him further away from Kyrah, and the possibility that he would find her before the circumstances changed too drastically. He couldn’t even entertain thoughts of his fears on her behalf. And now, the time and miles between them were only becoming greater. Please God, he prayed for what seemed the millionth time. Please keep her safe and strong. Putting the matter in God’s hands was the only way he could find any peace.