Photo: part of a painting entitled THE DINNERPARTY painted by SIR HENRY COLE
Chapter 11
Somewhere in the North Atlantic, several weeks prior
Stu stifled a groan as he rolled from the bunk. It was too short by a foot, but there were no hammocks to be had on this monstrous tub. In the old days he would have just found a spot up on the decks, but these steel decks were murder on the spine. While the steam ships were fitted with masts and carried rigging for sails, he hadn't raised a sail in six-no seven-years.
No sails meant no rigging. No rigging meant no shrouds. And no shrouds meant no sleeping above decks with the sea rocking you to sleep like a wee babe tucked in his mother's arms. With a sigh he stretched and promptly let out a string of curses when his hands slammed into the ceiling. At his height and breadth, the crew cabins were much too small.
As he wove his way through the bowels of the ship he frowned. Bowels indeed. A fitting description for the dark narrow passages with the tiny doors between sections. He hit his skull so many times on the low pipes and beams across the "ceilings" down here that he'd taken to wearing his knit skull cap all of the time no matter the temperature for the tiniest bit of padding.
As he was twisting himself into a pretzel* to squeeze through one of the doors when the ship hit a swell and he cursed as his spine slammed into the doorframe. Another string of curses echoed down the corridor as he smacked his forehead on the doorframe while trying to regain his footing and get through the damned doorway. And people wondered why he was always so cross!
His frown deepened as he blinked against the brightness above decks. Grateful to be in the open he took a deep breath to clear his lungs and had to stifled a cough. Walking to the rail he watched a moment as the ship rumbled along, creaking and groaning as it steamed across the waves. Looking up to the sky he saw no clouds but his frown became a scowl.
The smell of the coal smoke hung in the air about the ship and trailed behind them. Used to be a man could step on deck and smell the sea, clean and fresh and pure. Now it was like riding a train. With a growl he turned back headed for the galley.
"Morning Stu."
"Morning Cap'n."
"You know..."
"I know. You're not captain on this trip but old habits die hard-Cap'n." Stu winked.
"Izzy expects you to come and visit with your Goddaughter."
"I'll come visiting for a spell." Stu confirmed. "It's hard to believe she's got four young'uns now."
"They are a spritely little bunch that is for certain. I wouldn't have left, except that James asked it of me as a favor. And I haven't been to sea since...well, since that one time after the Charlotte sank." Bricker shrugged. "I missed the sea. I understand why you're so unhappy these days now that I can see how it is."
"I'm not unhappy, per say." Stu started to argue, "Just-restless-I guess."
"Restless." Bricker fell silent and for a few minutes the two of them stood at the rail looking out over the sea. "Stu? You remember what I told you all those years ago? About the horizon?"
"You mean that I would find whatever was waiting for me out over the horizon?"
"That's it."
"Well, I've been sailing this wide world near all my life..." his voice trailed off.
"Don't worry Stu. You'll find it. Sure as James and Millicent did. Sure as Izzy and Bricker did."
"And you-Grand-père?" Stu chuckled.
YOU ARE READING
The Charlotte Series: Book 3: The Pretender's Gold
HistoryczneStuart Windes was an Englishman and a seasoned sailor; an old salt with 30 years at sea. When his mother passed on leaving his younger sister alone, duty called him home. But his sister, Emmaline, was *gone*! Ran away with a bloody Yankee! Summer M...
