With a sigh, I settled down in my bunk, pulled out The Young Lady’s Confidante, and began reading aloud to Mary as I had done over the course of the long voyage to help her better herself.
“‘Chapter Three or, Pouring Tea and Coffee. A lady should always pour the first cup of tea from the pot for the youngest guest, as it is likely to be weak, and therefore most suitable for a child,’” I read. “That’s a very sensible idea, don’t you agree, Mary?”
She yawned.
“Miss Hepplewhite says that the way a lady pours tea and coffee is a true sign of her character,” I continued.
Mary snorted. “Where’s the character in pouring a bleeding cup of tea?”
That sounded suspiciously like something Papa would say.
“It requires experience and judgment and exactness to add the perfect combination of sugar and cream to each guest’s taste,” I said earnestly.
“Ain’t nothing special about adding sugar if yer lucky enough to have the money for it.”
“Don’t be obstinate, Mary. Pouring tea is the truest test of a lady. Miss Hepplewhite says that a young lady who can pour a good cup of tea will always find a husband.”
“Jane my girl, I know ya mean well, but I think yer daft. Ya know what I want in a husband?”
“What?”
Mary leaned back against her pillow and stared at a spider working its way lazily across the cabin ceiling.
“I want a man who’ll let me be. Someone who isn’t always telling me what to do.”
I stared at her.
“I’m tired of being told what to do,” she said firmly. “I have a head on my shoulders, thank you very much.”
“Well, my ideal is a man who brings out the best in me,” I said, remembering how kind William had been to see potential in an ill-mannered girl who ran around all day with pie stains on her dress—a girl, it was plain to see, who had no sense.
“Aye, that’s very agreeable,” Mary said, clutching the pillow to her like a sweetheart. “When two people complement each other so perfectly.” When she said it, it sounded like “pair-fectly.”
“If it weren’t for William, I’d be a completely different sort of person,” I went on.
Mary dropped the pillow. “That’s not exactly what I meant, Jane my girl.”
I picked up the pillow. “I owe everything to William. He’s the whole reason I attended Miss Hepplewhite’s.”
Mary looked at me. I could tell she wasn’t impressed.
“If it hadn’t been for him, I would never have become a respectable young lady,” I said.
We were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Samuel, and he was holding a tray. Samuel looked no more than eleven, with wide brown eyes and a gap where his front tooth should be. He reminded me greatly of my old playmate Jebediah Parker.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“This is a very important book, Samuel,” I explained.
“Is that the book about the murdering white whale?” he asked excitedly. “I heard about that book there. You know, I seen whales lots of times and once I think I even seen a sea monster with a—”
“No, Samuel. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of a book about a white whale. It can’t be very popular.”
His face fell.
“But this is a very interesting book. It’s on etiquette.”
“What’s etiquette?”
“It’s how to behave. You see, this book teaches you how to behave.”
Samuel eyed the book suspiciously. “That don’t sound interesting to me. You sure you don’t got no books on white whales?”
“What have ya got there, Samuel my boy?” Mary asked.
“Supper,” he announced, holding out the tray.
Mary got down off the bunk.
“What is it?” she asked, sniffing at it.
“Salted beef,” he said, warily eyeing the gray, gristly lump. He looked up at us and shrugged. “I think.”
“I know rotten horse when I see it,” Mary scoffed.
Samuel nodded. “I wouldn’t touch it. The first mate ate it and he’s been puking up for hours now.”
Mary snorted.
“And,” Samuel said ominously, “the rats got to the breadstuffs.”
“We are going to starve to death,” Mary said in a firm voice.
“You say the first mate is ill?” I asked, curious.
Samuel nodded. “Jehu’s puking up on deck right now. He looked green as an onion.” The boy was quite fond of Jehu Scudder, the first mate, and followed him around like a puppy.
A wave smacked against the Lady Luck, and all at once the smell of the salted beef rose to my nose and the cabin seemed to close in on me. I swallowed hard.
“Ya look a bit green yourself, Jane my girl,” Mary observed.
“Samuel,” I said in an unsteady voice, “would you kindly escort me up on deck?”
“You ain’t supposed to be up on deck, Miss Jane. Captain’s orders,” he said with a troubled look.
Captain Johnson had ordered Mary and me to remain below in the stuffy cabin but I often went above decks when I thought he would not be about. Captain Johnson was a furious Scot, always raging on about something. He hadn’t permitted us to leave the ship when we put in at Valparaiso for fresh water or in San Francisco for that matter. “If you leave this ship, you’re not coming back on,” he had informed us in his usual charming way.
To be plain, he hadn’t even wanted to take us in the first place. “I don’t abide women passengers. Women are nothing but bad luck,” he’d said, spitting a huge wad of tobacco at my feet, a filthy habit if ever there was one. I didn’t feel too bad as he’d told Father Joseph that priests were bad luck, too. It seemed to me that the only lucky creatures on the Lady Luck were the rats.
The ship rocked and I clutched my stomach.
I stood up shakily. “Take me on deck for some air or I shall be sick where I stand.”
“All right, Miss Jane,” Samuel said hastily. “You still don’t got your sea legs? I never seen no one who ever took so long to get their legs,” he said, shaking his head in amazement as he led me up on deck.
I clung to the rails, inhaling great big gulps of salty air, my stomach making an uneasy flip with each slap of a wave. It was mid-April. In Philadelphia the first colorful buds would be pushing up their heads, but here at sea, gray, gloomy skies marked the horizon. I pulled my cape tightly against the icy wind, remembering Miss Hepplewhite’s Helpful Hints on Travel.
“Remember, Jane, a good traveler need only know three things. One, always keep your composure. Two, dress plainly and pack lightly. Three, do not let little irritations sway your cheery nature,” Miss Hepplewhite had said, patting my shoulder.
She had been rather remiss in not mentioning any hints on killing fleas, avoiding rats, bathing with seawater, or being seasick.
“Obeying the captain again, I see,” a voice said.
It was Jehu Scudder.
“Did you have the salted beef, too?” he asked ruefully.
I shook my head.
He nodded, rubbing self-consciously at the angry scar that slashed across his nose and right cheek. No doubt he had received it in a bar brawl like every other vulgar, ill-mannered sailor Papa had ever treated. Whoever had sewn it up had done a poor job. The scar was ragged, with raw-looking pink edges that stood out brightly on his tanned face. Papa would say that the fishmonger could have done better.
The ship rolled hard, and my stomach grumbled in a most disturbing way. I breathed deeply, willing it to calm.
“Still haven’t got the legs?” Jehu observed.
I shook my head violently and leaned over the ship to be sick, but then the feeling passed. Getting one’s sea legs apparently meant adjusting to the rocking of the ship. I rather doubted I would ever, as these men said, get my legs. All I seemed to get was seasick.
“It’s better if you puke on the leeward side of the ship,” Jehu said, pointing. “Then it won’t blow back in your face.”
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“Oh blast you, Mr. Scudder,” I said, clutching my heaving belly, cursing myself for cursing. Miss Hepplewhite always said that young ladies should never use foul language. “Loose tongues mean loose morals, girls,” Miss Hepplewhite preached.
Jehu seemed unfazed by my words. “So tell me, Miss Peck. Why are you making this trip?”
Even though I had been on the Lady Luck for many months, I had not circulated much with the crew and hardly knew what to say.
There were twenty-five men, but only three of them were American—Jehu Scudder, Samuel, and Sturgis the surgeon. The rest were foreigners—Scandinavians, English, Spaniards, Irishmen, and Italians. Most of them had shown up inebriated at the docks, having drunk their wages the night before our departure. No liquor was allowed on board except for medicinal purposes, which seemed to me a very sensible precaution.
I hesitated. Deportment on the Street (Chapter Thirteen) discouraged conversation with gentlemen when not accompanied by a chaperone. I also imagined it discouraged conversation when one was seasick.
“My betrothed is on Shoalwater Bay,” I said at last.
“Your betrothed,” he said, studying me. “Long way to go to get married, especially a young lady like you. What’s he doing there?”
“He is endeavoring to start a timber business.”
Jehu looked at me with sharp eyes. “Hard work, that.”
“William is very capable. He’s a surgeon.”
“You’re marrying a bloody sawbones, you say?” he said, looking out to sea, not sounding the least bit impressed. He looked over at me, rubbing his scar. “I never met a sawbones worth a bean.”
The man was rude.
“I’ll have you know, my father is also a surgeon. And furthermore, William will be a wonderful husband. He’s already built us a splendid house. Two stories with windows and an iron stove,” I said, feeling unaccountably defensive. Oh dear, why had I told a falsehood? In actual fact William had been rather vague on the subject of where we were setting up house, and had written only that he’d arranged comfortable accommodations for us.
“A stove, you say,” Jehu said dryly, eyes twinkling. “You’re gonna need it to stay warm.”
Jehu was most disconcertingly forward. “Mr. Scudder—”
But at that moment, the ship pitched wildly and I tumbled into him. A wave of nausea washed over me and then passed.
As the ship gained equilibrium, Jehu held me firmly, steadying my footing. His chest felt warm against my back, I realized with dawning horror. Miss Hepplewhite always said that a young lady should never allow a man to touch any part of her body, not even her elbow, and here was Jehu Scudder holding all of me!
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Scudder,” I said, attempting to extricate myself.
Then my stomach heaved and I was sick all over his boots. When I looked up, he looked a bit ill himself.
“The pleasure was all mine,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
or,
A Cheerful Countenance
“A true lady is ever cheerful,” Miss Hepplewhite liked to say.
But I was having a hard time being cheerful in the face of Mary’s fevered moaning. I was terribly worried.
Several days had passed, and the rat bite on her arm was now oozing a putrid yellow pus. Angry red welts streaked up to her neck. I remembered a patient of my father’s, an orphan child, who’d been bitten by a rat and later died. “The damnable creatures make disgusting wounds, Janey,” Papa had sighed at the time. Just thinking of him made me wish he were here, although our parting had been strained. He had given his permission, but never his blessing.
I summoned the ship’s surgeon.
“I could lop off the arm,” Sturgis offered. He belched loudly, and the cabin was suddenly redolent with the smell of whiskey. It was rumored that he drank the liquor intended for his patients.
I shuddered.
“Well? Do you want me to lop it off?” Sturgis barked. I looked at his bloodshot eyes and wondered at the wisdom of letting the man near Mary. He wasn’t any class of surgeon that I could tell. One thing was certain. I was determined that Mary would not lose her arm.
“No,” I said.
“There’s always puking.”
Many physicians believed that having a patient puke removed the bad poisons from the body. But as we had spent most of the voyage puking, I hardly saw the value in this remedy.
“I can honestly say that puking has done nothing to improve her health thus far.”
“Then I reckon we could bleed her,” he said, rubbing a hand through his greasy hair. Little white flecks fell to his shoulders.
I remembered Papa’s feelings on bloodletting.
Sturgis picked up a knife and bared Mary’s pale arm. The blue vein beneath her skin seemed so frail.
“No bleeding,” I said firmly. “We can lance the wound.” I hesitated, casting a suspicious eye at his dirt-encrusted fingernails. “I shall do it.”
Sturgis belched again. “You?”
“Yes,” I said, pulling myself up. “My father’s a surgeon.”
He shrugged and stepped aside. I took one of Sturgis’s knives. I was thankful that Mary was in a swoon.
“Know what you’re about there, girl?” Sturgis asked skeptically.
“Yes, of course,” I said quickly.
It wasn’t exactly the truth, although I had learned quite a bit from watching my father before I’d entered Miss Hepplewhite’s school. I had seen Papa lance any number of boils. It was not unlike carving into a rotten apple that had been left too long in the sun.
I sliced gently into the inflamed wound, and the smell of rotting flesh filled the cabin. Believe me when I say that I very much wanted to rush outside and get sick, but I imagined Papa standing there with a rueful grin on his face.
“It’s dirty work helping sick people,” he would say. “But it’s even dirtier work burying them.”
I swallowed hard and steadied my resolve. I used my best needle and a piece of silk thread to stitch it up. Mary’s face was waxy, and she didn’t stir.
“There,” I said, meeting Sturgis’s bloodshot eyes.
“Not bad, girl. You’re good with the needle.”
I looked at Mary’s arm. The stitches were straight, small, and neat. I could almost see Papa’s proud smile. “Well done, Janey,” he would have said. “Well done.”
“Thank you,” I said with a shaky smile. “I had a good teacher.”
Father Joseph agreed to watch Mary while I went above to get some air. I was exhausted from taking care of her, and worse, I was frightened. What if she didn’t recover? It would be all my fault.
The sky was just beginning to turn a dusky pink, the salty air bracing. I looked out at the ocean, at the endless rolling waves, and wondered wildly if we would ever reach Shoalwater Bay. Would we ever be off this ship? My childhood dreams of sailing seemed very silly now.
The only thing that made this long, dreadful trip bearable was the knowledge that William was waiting for me at the other end of it. I clung to this thought even as I clung to the rail.
Captain Johnson was stomping about, shouting out orders. He caught sight of me and roared, “What are ya doing up here, lassie?”
I shook my head wordlessly. The captain scared me fairly to death.
“Well?” he hollered.
“I’ll take responsibility for her, sir,” a voice behind me said.
It was Jehu Scudder. He met the captain’s gaze with steady eyes.
The captain grimaced and then wandered off, no doubt to shout at some other poor soul.
“Thank you,” I said in a low voice.
Jehu nodded.
“Heard from Sturgis that Mary’s taken a bad turn,” he said. “Think she’ll make it?”
It seemed somehow worse hearing him give voice to my worry. I thought of Miss Hepplewhite’s advice to always be cheerful.
“I’m sure she’ll get better,” I said, forcing myself to smile.
He looked at me carefully, as if he didn’t quite believe me, and then nodded shortly and stared out at the water.
I suddenly felt nervous to be standing here, unescorted, with this strange man. I struggled to remember Miss Hepplewhite’s advice on such situations. Rules of Conversation (Chapter Two) had much to say about how to properly request the salt or discuss the latest play, but I didn’t recall it mentioning how to converse with a sailor.
“Have you been to Shoalwater Bay before?” I asked finally.
He shook his head. “No. First time for the captain and me. We’ll be taking on timber.”
It was just my luck that I was on a ship with a captain who had never been where we were going.
“We are not lost, are we?” I asked suspiciously.
“Have no fear, we’re on course by the wind.”
This was hardly consoling. I had many fears, and now chief among them was the captain’s ability to get us to our destination in one piece.
“Will we ever arrive?” I asked, exasperated.
He looked genuinely surprised. “We’re making good time. The Lady‘s a fast girl, one of the fastest brigs to come out of Philadelphia in a while. In fact, Samuel and I have a bet.”
“A bet?”
“The number of days it will take us to get from Philadelphia to Shoalwater Bay.”
“What is Samuel’s opinion?”
Jehu surveyed the cloudless sky, tilting his scarred cheek to catch the ocean breeze. “Samuel thinks she’s a lucky ship and that we’ll make it in one hundred and eighty days, including our stops.”
“And you?”
He grinned. “I believe in luck myself, but I also believe in spring squalls. I reckon we’ll sight Shoalwater Bay in one hundred and ninety days.”
If Samuel were right, that meant we were less than a week away. It couldn’t be soon enough for me.
I looked out at the waves. “My father has this foolish saying. He says you make your own luck.”
“He’s right.”
I thought of Sally Biddle and that rotten apple. “Well, I don’t agree. I’ve been plagued by bad luck since I was eleven.”
He looked at me steadily. “Maybe it’s time you did something about that.”
I retired below to check on Mary and relieve Father Joseph of his duties. She was awake.