Noble Intentions

17. Shipwrecked

We had kicked ourselves to within ten yards of the strand when I sighted him and said to Gillian, "A man runs toward us. Give me your lobster and roll to your front."

"Hola! Hola! Poor favour. Salvador," came a panting call.

"Spanish! Poor Spanish with an English accent," Gillian said in a quiet voice.

"Aye." Then, seeing him now midway between the blanket and us, I called, "Please, advance no further. Respect my lady's modesty."

The man stopped. "You are English?"

"We are. And who are you?"

"Peter Martin." He paused to catch his breath. "Shipwrecked." He pointed seaward. "She lies there. Barely covered by the tide."

"How many of you?"

Peter grimaced. "Violent storm. Of those who swam or washed ashore, eighteen survive."

I winced. Then, pointing toward our blanket, I said, "Please, behind you in that basket, you will find bath sheets. Bring them here to allow us our modesty; then, we will assist you."

As he fetched them, men straggled from the depths of the glade, and at his orders, they stopped. I stood and waded out of the water, holding the lobsters toward him when he neared, "Take these, turn your back and bid your men the same until we are proper."

A minute or so later, with Gillian wrapped in a bath sheet, I covered myself with the other one, and we headed up the strand. "Thank you, Mister Martin. How long since the wreck?"

"Eighty-seven days." He pointed toward the shrubbage. "Our shelter is in there. We woke to a repeated thwacking, and some recognised it as the sounds of caulking. Wasted half an hour trying to get through the tangle of mangroves and swamp to find the ship. Now, taking the long way around."

"Aye, we are careened in the bay. Half the crew there, repairing, and the remainder are at ease along the strand as we recover from a pirate attack."

Peter nodded. "We heard cannons firing yesterday forenoon."

I winced. "Lost two-thirds of our crew and passengers from that."

"What ship?"

"Atlantica, London-bound from Kingston."

"I know her well. A fine ship from a fine company."

"Thank you. And your ship?"

"Belmonda, an inglorious slave trader, Virginia-bound."

"And your position?"

"First officer." He shrugged. "I had hoped for a position in one of your company's ships, but none was available. Should have remained ashore until one was."

I extended a hand to him. "Jarvis Overton."

He set one of the lobsters on the sand and took my offered hand. "Related to the owners?"

"I am the owner. This voyage was to confirm me as Captain, and with the losses, I have assumed command."

"The owner? Then, why the need to confirm as Captain?"

"The policy my father established. We cannot expect the finest unless we not only understand what is entailed, but also we have the experience of doing it."

Peter nodded. "Thus, the reputation of the company."

"And we must continue that. We are in need – there remain only the master and I sufficiently qualified. What is your experience?"

"Seven years in Her Majesty's Navy. A Lieutenant awaiting post when the war ended."

"Aye, as with many officers in our ships." I nodded toward Gillian. "We need privacy, that we may dress. Please, would you all honour us and again turn your backs?"