An Officer but No Gentleman Page 2

  “Necessity. Must keep up appearances.”

  Charlie took a slow, deliberate drag on the cigar and schooled his expression to cover his hurt over the casual mention of his mother. He barely remembered her, but her death left a huge void in Charlie.

  John Sinclair placed his hands behind his back and rolled forward on the balls of his feet—a gesture Charlie had seen a million times before. It was useless to argue a moot point.

  “You know we sail with the tide,” he said indicating the woman with a movement of his head.

  “I’ll have her off the ship in time.”

  “See that you do.” He moved closer to Charlie and poured himself a glass of brandy. “You know I don’t approve of you bringing these harlots aboard like this.”

  “You want your crew to know your son likes women, don’t you? Besides, she’s better off with me for the night than she would be on the docks.”

  “Granted. But I suggest you get her off my ship now, because if you’re not back by the time we sail, I’ll sail without you.”

  Charlie thought that that would be all right with him. “Aye-aye, Captain. Will there be anything else?”

  “Aye. Rent the wench a room where she can sleep off her alcohol.”

  The wench in question suddenly opened her eyes, shot bolt upright and retched, the shoulder of her blouse falling down exposing most of one breast. Exchanging the snifter for the basin, Charlie quickly rushed to her side. Only when she finished, did she become aware of her surroundings. She groaned as she slumped back into the pillows. Charlie wet a cloth and bathed her face with tepid water.

  “Ah, mister,” she said addressing Charlie. “I’m awful sorry. Give me a minute for my head to clear and I’ll clean that up.” Her eyes closed and she fell back to sleep.

  “Damn.”

  Charlie looked at his father who was now conspicuously close to the door, his head turned toward an empty corner as if the sight of it might make him sick as well. His ill-concealed amusement seemed to say, It serves you right. “I’ll send someone to help you.” Then he was gone.

  Charlie set the basin aside—nearby, just in case, then stripped the quilt off the bed—no easy task with the woman still in the bed. It seemed to be the only thing soiled. He carefully gathered it up and set it on the floor by the door. A moment later, a knock tattooed against the heavy oak door. When he opened it, he found the cabin boy, Benjy, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Benjy looked around the cabin nervously. He was rarely in the second mate’s quarters and to be awakened and sent there by the captain was unheard of.

  “Open the porthole, get the quilt and the basin and get out.”

  Charlie shed the dressing robe and pulled on the shirtwaist he discarded earlier. As he used his shaving mirror to attach his collar and stock, he watched Benjy in the reflection.

  “Damn,” he said under his breath as he realized Benjy had seen the woman’s exposed breast.

  “Are you still here?” he shouted, tersely. He was not in the habit of coddling anyone, especially not the cabin boys. They needed to understand the hard life at sea while they were still young enough to apprentice another vocation.

  “Aye, Mr. Sinclair,” he said jumping guiltily at the tone of the second mate’s voice. “I’ll be right back to finish cleaning up.”

  “You know I don’t want you in my cabin. Just cleaned those things and go back to bed.”

  As Benjy exited, the quilt held at arm’s length, Hugh McNamara poked his head in.

  “A word wi’ ye, Mr. Sinclair. Oh, I see ye’re busy. I’ll come back later.”

  “Come in, Hugh. I was just getting ready to take her ashore, but I’ve always got a few minutes for my friends.” Even if swamped with work, he would have made time for Hugh or Morty. His other close friend, Michel Dupre, left the ship when the decision to temporarily stop sailing to his home country of France was made. The conflict between France and England had escalated to the point where they stayed out of both countries.

  “I dinna suppose ye might need a hand?” the Scotland native asked scratching at his red beard.

  “When have I ever needed a hand with a wench?” Charlie bantered with his usual cockiness as he flicked the cigar butt out the open porthole.

  “Tis Morty again.”

  “He’s not back yet?” Charlie asked shrugging into the black broadcloth uniform coat.

  “Nae, I dinna ken what’s bouncin’ ‘round in his skull these days. Skunked from morn’ ‘til night while he’s on shore leave and in the sulks the rest of the time—takin’ chances like there’s nae tomorrow. If I dinna ken better, I’d swear he’s goot woman problems. Twas hopin’ ye would let me go ashore to look fer him.”

  “Maybe I could use a hand with the wench.”

  Charlie also noticed a change in his friend. In years past, the big blond was the most jovial of the men—well-liked by officers and crew alike. But for the last few months, he had lost his cheerful, boastful ways and had been unnaturally solemn.

  “Grab an arm,” Charlie said as he pulled the woman’s blouse back into place.

  He wondered if Hugh’s theory had any validity. Morty had always been a man of healthy appetites. Fire-headed wenches, as he called them, were Morty’s preference. Everyone knew and saved the redheads for him.

  So how did Charlie end up with a woman who had auburn locks?

  “When was the last time Morty bedded a carrot-top?” Charlie asked. “I think you’ve hit on something, Hugh. I think this girl he’s pining over is a brunette.”

  Hugh laughed, relieved to have proof to excuse Morty’s behavior. “Unrequited love?”

  “Aye.”

  They made their way off the ship before Charlie asked, “Who do you think she is?”

  “Probably a wee shop girl who doesna ken he’s alive.”

  “If he’s in love with her, how can she help but know he’s alive? Morty isn’t exactly shy.”

  The Scot shook his head. Morty, with more than six feet of sculpted muscles, was not a man who went unnoticed. “She’s an innocent?” Hugh speculated. “He’s afraid of offending her with his coarse manners?”

  “Aye. I’ll bet you’re right.”

  “Maybe ye should talk to him?” Hugh suggested.

  “Me? What do I know about young, innocent girls? Have you forgotten I have not lived among the fairer sex since I was six years old?” Charlie asked. “You talk to him. Surely, that fishing village you’re from had a few nice girls. Didn’t you say you were in love with a milkmaid once?”

  “Aye and that worked out so well.”

  Charlie fell silent when he saw Hugh’s grimace. The woman had broken Hugh’s heart and he’d gone to sea so he’d never have to see her again.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Charlie conceded a minute later, “but after he’s had time to sober up.”

  They deposited the wench on a bed in one of the upstairs room of the tavern where Charlie met her earlier. Since that was the last place Charlie saw Morty, it was the logical place to start looking for him. They were on their way to find the proprietor when Morty’s voice filtered into the hallway from behind a closed door.

  “Oh, honey…honey…." Morty’s voice rang through the air, his voice heavily slurred with drink.

  The men eyed each other with amusement, knowing well enough what the sound meant. Charlie resigned himself to the delay, hoping Morty wouldn’t take too long.

  Charlie leaned against the wall trying to ignore the sounds. He groaned inwardly wishing he could go down to the taproom and have a tankard of rum during their wait. But as his father would be quick to remind him, the ship would sail with the tide and he needed some semblance of sobriety.

  He glanced at his companion and found Hugh listening intently to the sounds of their shipmate’s activity, his eyes half-cast with lust.

  Discomfiture fueling his impatience prompted Charlie to pound loudly on the door. “Show a leg, Morty. It’s time to get back to the ship if you’re sailing with us.”

>   “Hon-ey…Oh, Hon-ey…” came the passionate cry from inside the room.

  “Bloody hell,” Hugh laughed.

  “Come on, Morty. Make short shrift of the wench.”

  Less than a minute later, Morty opened the door. He was naked, but held his shirt in front of his hips. He squinted bleary amber eyes at them. “It’s me mates, damned if it’s not.” He teetered unsteadily until his shoulder made contact with the doorframe.

  Behind Morty, the woman rose from the bed, wiped between her legs with the sheet and picked up her dress from the floor. She displayed no embarrassment being naked in front of the three men or with the door to the corridor being wide open.

  “Charlie, how mooch time did ye say we’ve goot before the ship sails?”

  Charlie saw Hugh’s gaze fixed on the tavern wench and knew instinctively what he had in mind. They would be out to sea for a month or more so Charlie could not begrudge his friend one last conquest before casting off.

  A sly smile lifted Charlie’s upper lip. “You have time if you’re quick about it. Come on, Morty, get dressed so McNamara can have her.”

  Morty teetered uneasily making Charlie think he was going to pass out on his feet.

  “Oh, no you don’t, Morty,” Charlie grunted as he shoved him back into the room. “You keep your wits about you until I get you back to the ship or I swear I’ll leave you where you drop.”

  “Avast there, wench,” Hugh called out moving past Morty into the room. “How aboot it?”

  “Just you?” she asked glancing toward the doorway. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time I was passed around among you tars. It’ll cost you extra though.”

  Hugh cast a look over his shoulder and shrugged as if to say, It’s up to you. “It might take both of us to get Morty back to the Arcadia.”

  “Y’ can keep your shirt on if that’s what’s stopping you,” Morty bellowed loudly slurring his words together. “That’s what you usually do isn’t it? I-I’ve never heard you say any of your wenches fainted at the sight of your scars.”

  “Bloody hell!” Hugh swore, his face as red as his hair and beard. “I-I’m sorry, mate. Forgot aboot yer scars, I did.”

  Charlie saw the look of revulsion flash across the woman’s face.

  “Don’t worry about it, McNamara,” Charlie said. “But I do think I’ll decline your offer. I already wore out one wench tonight; I should probably leave the rest for everyone else. As for you, Mr. Ness, I suggest you get dressed if you’re coming with me. I’ll be down in the taproom waiting for you.”

  Charlie gave Morty a shove towards his discarded garments and pulled the door closed.

  “Blood hell! I dinna mean to be so daft.”

  “He’s ticker-thinned…thicker-skinned, than you give him credit for,” Morty slurred sitting on the edge of the bed trying to get his feet into his trouser legs.

  The wench wrapped her arms around her middle and shivered. “He’s scarred up bad, is he?”

  Both men ignored her.

  Before Morty finished dressing, a loud crash came from the taproom reverberating the floorboards. Morty and Hugh exchanged knowing glances.

  “Thick-skinned, ye say?”

  “It’ll do him good t’ blow off ssteam.”

  “If he was my friend, I sure wouldn’t be up here jawin’ about it,” the wench said.

  There was a second loud crash, but neither man seemed very concerned. “Our mate can take care of hisself,” Morty said as his head emerged through the neck-hole of his shirt then, belying his words, he staggered across the room and out the door.

  When the woman looked at Hugh for conformation, Hugh nodded. “Oh Lassie, watching Charlie fight is a thing of beauty. He learned how from a real Japanese master who worked as cook fer a few years.”

  Morty half-stumbled down the steps to the taproom below. The sight that greeted him was pretty much as he expected. The room was in disarray with two tables turned over and others no longer where they had been earlier. The floor was littered with the splintered remains of at least one chair. Of the dozen men in the taproom, three were involved in the fray with Charlie. Morty could see Charlie had his hands full.

  A short man lay sprawled at the foot of an overturned table. He slowly regained his senses and struggled to rise. A second man, his nose bloodied, attempted to land a punch to the second mate’s face, but Charlie fended off the blow with all the skill their Japanese cook taught him.

  Suddenly, the third man charged Charlie from behind. But before Morty could call out a warning, Charlie turned, his leg swinging high and wide, kicking the man across the face. He dropped like the dead at his feet.

  It always amazed Morty how graceful his movements were and how efficient and powerful the younger man’s blows were.

  Unfortunately, when Charlie was forced to turn his attention to the other man, the bloody-nosed man managed to land a glancing blow to Charlie’s jaw. Charlie staggered backwards nearly tripping on the unconscious body. It hadn’t looked like a substantial blow to Morty, but then Morty out-weighed Charlie by at least seventy-five pounds and the same blow would have been little more than a pinprick to him.

  Charlie appeared slightly stunned, but when the jack-tar swung another fist, he blocked it with his lightning reflexes. Charlie threw one of his strange Japanese punches that started very close to his body with his fist palm up. His arm snaked out, twisting his fist palm down and made contact with the man’s mouth.

  Morty could tell instinctively, the punch carried less than its normal force and he wondered if the man had hurt Charlie worse than he had initially thought. But as long as Charlie was holding his own Morty wouldn’t interfere—not that he’d be much help in his current condition.

  Morty looked around the room to the other bystanders, carefully noting their reactions. Sinclair’s fluid movements and strange fighting style fascinated them. It was unlikely any had ever heard of karate much less seen it.

  The barkeep’s sharp intake of breath brought Morty’s attention back to the fray. Charlie slowly backed into the corner. Bloody-nose drew a knife and the short man had finally regained his senses and approached with a chair leg grasped in his upraised hand.

  Bloody-nose lunged. Charlie moved forward, stepping sideways to avoid the knife and grasped his wrist, twisting his arm and throwing his hip into the larger man’s hip. A moment later, Bloody-nose lay flat on his back, Charlie still holding the man’s wrist. Another twist of the man’s arm and the knife clattered to the floor. It all happened in one fluid motion lasting less than five seconds, but it gave the short man a long enough reprieve to move into striking distance. Before Charlie could turn, the man swung the chair leg catching him squarely across his shoulder blades sending him to his hands and knees, all the wind knocked out of his lungs.

  Charlie’s instincts screamed for him to move before the man struck again, yet pain and the effort of pulling air back into his chest paralyzed him. His back tensed waiting to be smote to the ground with the wooden club.

  Suddenly, the small man collapsed to the ground beside him and Charlie, his breath now ragged, looked over his shoulder to see Morty standing over him. A heavy pewter mug in hand.

  Bloody-nose, halfway to his feet, dropped back to the rough-hewn floor. He looked from one man to the other, a look of defeat and resignation upon his face as he wiped his nose on his arm and hand.

  “You all right, Charlie?” Morty asked.

  When Charlie didn’t get up on his own, Morty straddled his fallen friend’s hips, reached his hands under his arms to his chest and heaved him to his feet. But as he stood behind Charlie, his palms on his chest, Morty felt a swell of bound breasts under his hands. He squeezed clumsily and didn’t miss Charlie’s gasp.

  “Morty, if you don’t get your hands off me, I’m going to unman you with the heel of my boot.”

  Morty’s hands returned to own thighs so quickly, they made a slapping sound on impact, but he hesitantly raised them and turned Charlie toward him. Charlie,
still breathing hard, was too exhausted from the brawl to attempt resistance.

  As the crowd of men around them recapped their favorite moments of the fight no one noticed the tableau before them.

  “Charlie, are you a maiden?”

  “Don’t be daft, Morty. You just felt my scars. Why do you think I won’t take off my shirt,” she said.

  Charlie reached in her pocket, pulled out a twenty dollar gold piece and threw it to the proprietor, too distracted to realize the damages to his place were nowhere near that bad. She turned on her heel and strode out of the tavern leaving Morty to find his own way back to the ship.

  2

  As soon as her feet on the deck, Charlie found herself nearly running to her cabin. Immediately upon entering, she locked the door. The knowledge that Morty had stumbled onto her secret scared her more than the fight when she realized she was in over her head—she’d never intended to fight three men at once, but she didn’t realize the man she’d targeted was not there alone.

  Morty might not be the smartest man, but she knew he wouldn’t believe her lie. She could only hope in his drunken state, by morning, he would forget it all.

  Charlie poured herself a brandy and downed it quickly then poured another, but did not pick it up. After double checking the lock, she began divesting herself outer clothing.

  Damn, her back hurt. She didn’t need to look to know the blow left a mark. At least that was one thing she could probably keep her father from finding out. She excelled in hiding her pain. But this other thing with Morty, how could she possibly hide that? She knew she should wake her father and tell him what happened. This was not a matter that should wait. And yet, she knew Morty would be put off the ship before they sailed and she couldn’t stand the thought of losing her best friend.

  Some blower she was.

  They had been friends for nine years. She was thirteen and had just passed the test to be an able seaman and he was seventeen, straight from the farm and aboard a ship for the first time. She noticed him immediately when he boarded carrying a tattered sea chest that was probably older than him. Morty was the proverbial farm boy, tall, good looking, strong as an ox, and a bit of a hayseed. Morty didn’t pick up new tasks quickly and because he wasn’t carrying his weight, the crew rode his ass endlessly. Charlie felt sorry for big oaf. Being the captain’s son and being so much younger than everyone else had kept her ostracized her whole life so she took pity on him and began working with him when she had time. It must have taken over an hour of repetition to teach him a simple bowline knot. But their friendship benefitted Charlie more than it ever benefitted Morty. He was her first and most loyal friend.