Dunham

Chapter 6

6

March, 1780
Atlantic Ocean, Trade Route

The morning sun shone bright on Celia’s face. Below her, on the main deck, activity was lazy and, for the most part, curtailed, the crew engaged in menial tasks that nevertheless must be done. Two of the women aboard were mending sails and rope. Two more were in the galley baking the day’s bread. Another was with the men who sat along the rails fishing. Yet another was aloft with Kit, keeping watch. Mary and Solomon were behind her at the communal secretary, Mary dictating correspondence to Celia’s moneylender concerning Celia’s accounts and holdings.

She turned the wheel a bit, allowing the wind to strike her face sharply. In great need of some respite from her restlessness, she took a deep breath as the Thunderstorm sliced cleanly through the waters and listened to the music in her head.

“For, unto us a child is born … ”

Work halted around her when she began to sing to them, her men and women, even the ones who did not know her voice had kept her as safe as her scars and her sword.

“Oh, child,” Mary sighed happily.

“Unto us … A son is given … Unto us … A son is given … ”

Johann’s tenor answered her soprano immediately: “For, unto us a child is born.”

’Twas only a half measure before the men and women who could, in fact, sing, joined her lustily.

Wonderful

Counselor

The mighty God, the everlasting father, the prince of peace … 

It had taken time for her and surgeon’s mate Gasparo, a highly trained Italian evirato, to teach the crew to sing thusly, but now they did so with vigor and skill and the length of a watch could be easily passed in near-complete abandon.

Bridge’s deep bass rose as her soprano faded away, then Johann’s tenor slipped in and out. Gasparo’s countertenor joined their voices.

Then she heard a violin expertly playing the recitative before the soprano’s next aria. Someone else had found his recorder flute, and a third had fetched his squeezebox.

She was certain Maestro Handel had not intended his piece to be performed on the deck of an American privateer by a crew of ne’er-do-wells for no one but themselves, yet here they were.

And suddenly, there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying—

“SAIL HO!” Kit bellowed from the platform.

“God’s teeth,” Celia gritted, instantly on the alert. She was at once disgruntled at the loss of her respite and glad of the termination of her boredom—if only for a while.

If it were British, they would either take it or blow it up.

The instruments were put away and the menial chores abandoned for preparations of battle. Everyone who could not fight went below immediately, taking their work with them if they could. Mary and Solomon hurriedly gathered up the parchments and pens, books and ledgers, and disappeared.

Celia waited for more information before giving her orders.

“British, but not navy. Looks like a merchantman. Off the larboard bow. Alone.”

“Are you certain?” she demanded, wary of a trap, and waited patiently another ten minutes before the answer came:

“Brit-built. Square-rigged. Two masts. Ten guns, if that. Aye, Cap’n, I’m sure.”