Passenger (Passenger #1) - Alexandra Bracken Page 0,39
table and move the conversation—by force, if necessary—past Wren’s staggering tale of past valor. As far as Nicholas was concerned, half-truths only added up to a whole lie.
Glancing around the table, he gauged each diner’s reaction. From his prize crew, the men who had boarded the Ardent with him and assumed control of it, was Trevors the bosun, deep into his cups, his teeth stained with port. The man had actually nodded off, clutching a stomach distended from eating his own weight in lobscouse and buttered parsnips. To his right was another surviving officer from the Ardent’s crew: Heath, the sailing master. The older gentleman’s right ear was bandaged beneath a flop of a wig, and he spent the entirety of the dinner turning in his chair to try to hear what was being said by Miss Henrietta Spencer, who inhaled her meal with a wolfish enthusiasm that Nicholas found himself appreciating.
Henrietta Ironwood? he wondered. The old man’s letter had been vague—there hadn’t been an indication either way—but she seemed to lack the venom that pumped through the family’s heart. It was entirely possible, however, that she was the kind to nestle close before sinking her fangs in for the kill.
His eyes shifted to her right, where the newly appointed surgeon and all-around milksop, Goode, was focused on cutting his food into bites small enough for a chick.
“Miss Spencer, you haven’t touched a bite of the lobscouse. I can’t recommend it enough,” Heath blurted out, nearly shouting over Wren’s quieter tones. Nicholas had been in his position before—the agonizing ringing and temporary deafness of coming too close to cannon fire—and couldn’t fault the older man for his booming voice. “It’s Cook’s specialty.”
Knowing that they’d be eating hard biscuits and turtle soup every night if he let one of the prize crew take control of the galley, Nicholas had reluctantly agreed to let the Ardent’s cook stay in his position after meeting him. The man had all but shackled himself to the stove, stoic and grim, as he offered up a pastry as proof of his skill. He kept his appearance well enough, with a trim dark beard and hair queued neatly. More importantly, “Cook” had tolerated his presence on the ship, having clearly lived through any number of boardings in his time.
“It’s made from salted beef that Cook hangs over the side of the ship, until it freshens,” Goode explained. “The stew is merely beef, potatoes, onions, and a little pepper if he has it.”
Henrietta—no, Etta—no, Miss Spencer—favored Jack, one of the cabin boys, with a small smile as he sprang forward to spoon the stew into her bowl.
They watched as she took a careful bite, compressing her lips at the taste, swallowing hard. She managed to choke out a single word: “Delicious.”
“There’s a good girl,” Chase said with a chuckle.
As fair-haired as an angel and as big as a bear, his friend, the first mate for the remainder of their journey, was a study in contradictions. An open, round face, perpetually tinged with pink, displayed his irrepressible good nature. He had been one of the few to sneakily thumb away his tears of relief when Miss Spencer had awoken. Moments later, he’d been back at work, assisting the others in patching the hull and singing bawdy songs in the highest register he could manage. And tonight, following the dinner’s conclusion and the final watch, he’d be in his hammock, darning his and the crew’s stockings with exquisite care.
On the deck, however, Chase was as formidable as a mountain; there was no quarter for shirking duties or disrespect, not without fear of the cat-o’-nine-tails or a fist sailing toward your soft parts. Usually, a good pint or glass of wine was enough to put Chase in high spirits, but Nicholas was almost relieved that the other man looked as surly as he himself felt. Maybe he wasn’t the only one exhausted by this whole ordeal.
Wren smiled fondly at Etta—Miss Spencer—and gestured to his bowl, still full from the first serving. “I don’t like it much myself. The curse of having a refined palate, I suppose. But, I swear to you, I would have eaten this every day rather than starve on the island with the others—”
Bloody hell, would there be no mercy from this?
By some unfortunate act of God, Wren was another surviving officer of the Ardent, which unfortunately granted him the privilege of attending meals in the captain’s cabin, outside of where he and the other men were being