The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor Read Online Free Page B

encounter Skinner below decks. He is a man to delegate most tasks. The bo’s’n hurries off.
    “Mrs. Willisams.”
    Skinner is of moderate height and some forty years, impressively broad across the chest, his face permanently burnished by years of weather. His eyes are brown and intelligent, or penetrating at least, but a heavy chin and high-bridged nose give the impression of rather too much character.
    “Captain Skinner.”
    “How are you faring, Mrs. Willisams?”
    “Well enough, captain. We must all bear up as best we can.”
    “Yes. Well, you bear up well. Your husband”—and here he hesitates just a little too long for true civility—“seems … not as well.”
    “He may have a fever.”
    “Parsons is our man in charge of illnesses here.”
    “I’ve spoken to Mr. Parsons, captain, but he has nothing more to offer.”
    “If you should need to rest a little from your tasks, Mrs. Willisams, may I suggest you join me some evening at table. I find a change of setting a cheering thing.”
    “Thank you, captain. But I must attend my husband.”
    “Of course you must. But should he be sleeping well and you would perhaps enjoy some conversation, please speak to me.”
    The flicker of a glance the captain tosses her way tells Charlotte that she will not soon be joining this man for supper.
    She brings the water back to Tommy. He guzzles it, wiping his mouth and licking the drops from his fingers. Then he shivers, though the hold is stifling. She takes the scarf she’s wearing and wraps it around his neck. “Try to rest some,” she tells him and heads back to the sleeping quarters.
    To pass the time, the men often gather on the upper deck to listen to the captain tell stories about crossings past. On the evening of July 6, Charlotte joins them, staying well back of the men. She wants to hear the chronicle but also hopes to avoid Skinner’s glance. She knows he thinks she’s fair game for the suggestive attention he pays to her. She finds a secluded spot behind the rigging and listens to his description of the shipping business and the islands in the Caribbean. She learns that hundreds of ships cross these waters every year from May to October, some to the West Indies, others to British North America. Those that are late arriving have to winter over; if it’s in the West Indies, soft summer breezes, fruit falling out of the trees and palm trees laden with coconuts make the stay a pleasure. But those who get stuck in British North America are as likely as not to perish in the dreadful winter months. She’d heard about the ice and snow from the men who met with her father to discuss shipping routes and cargo. She’d listened to tales of the savagery of the Indians and the ferocity of the beasts that roamed the forests. Her father had told her about the French Acadians—traitors, he said, who plotted against England and were a constant threat to the good British settlers who struggled to make shelters and find enough food to stay alive. The West Indies, in contrast, sounds like paradise.
    “There’s where you’ll shape your future, boys,” Captain Skinner is saying. “For women, of course, it’s a different story.” Charlotte leans closer. “Concubines are commonplace on Jamaica.” Murmurs of assent all round. “Marriage—well, marriage is hardly heard of—and there’s some here aboard who’ll be glad of that, gentlemen, I tell you.”
    General laughter. Charlotte’s face reddens. There could be no mistaking it: he is speaking to her.
    “There’s little monogamy there,” says Captain Skinner, warming rapidly to his topic. “Every man may have several wives and several children with each one. Their real families are back in England—where they belong!” Laughter. “A man may buy himself a whore for what he pays to fill his pipe!”
    Loud and sustained laughter.
    Several men turn to look back to where Charlotte stands. She struggles for her dignity but cannot tolerate such raillery. She