Free A Scandal to Remember by Elizabeth Essex Page B

things are starting to go wrong—that new foretop we fidded on last dogwatch just won’t take right. That’s just bad luck, sir. Bad luck.”
    “That is just poor skills and lazy working habits. This ship has been out of trim and out of practice for far too long. And a few weeks of daily sail and gun drill will knock the collywobbles out of you.”
    This time there were out-and-out groans from the men. “We can’t put to sea with her aboard.”
    Dance could feel their barely constrained discontent, but he reminded himself that Miss Burke was just a convenient excuse—were she not aboard, they would have made some excuse or trouble about the black-coated, white-collared parson on the expedition, or about the purser’s having absconded—which was damnable bad luck—and the moment an out-of-repair line wore through, they would have blamed their bad luck on the parson. Or upon Able Simmons for joining on late. Or upon him for bringing the new lieutenant aboard.
    Any excuse would do.
    Yet, they all stood there gawping at him as if their complaints were as real as the rot in Tenacious’ s bow timbers. Dance lit the slow match to his temper. “What a load of womanish rubbish. Whether you like it or not, this ship is going down Channel. So look lively, or I’ll look lively for you.”
    The men took their grumbling threat with them and went away. But the bosun had watched his conversation with the men without comment, measuring him out like a short charge of powder.
    “Do you have something to add, Mr. Ransome?”
    Ransome settled his tarred-straw hat on his head, and took his time in answering. “Worried about the men, I am, sir.”
    “I thank you for your diligence on their behalf, Mr. Ransome, but the matter is settled.”
    But Ransome was immune to irony. And tone of voice. He did not know when to leave well enough alone. “It’s bad luck, sir, to take a woman over the line.”
    “Not as much bad luck as disobeying an order, or speaking against a superior officer, or proceeding to sea in a ship that hasn’t been properly kept up, Mr. Ransome. Have those lines in the mainmast’s larboard blocks and tackles been replaced? Or that new cable for the best bower anchor been bent on?”
    “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” Ransome spread his hands before him, all open, excusable innocence. “But you sent Givens to pay for that cable. We’ve done all we can without fetching more. The cable tier is near to empty now. We’ve no more to spare.”
    Fuck all. “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t done your job, Mr. Ransome, and seen to it that Tenacious’ s cable locker and boatswain’s stores are adequately supplied?” Dance had been over the ship from bilge to masthead, making a long list of fittings, rigging, and canvas that were out of repair. “There was cable enough to see to it that the breeching tackles on the guns could be replaced.” He pulled out his book from beneath his coat, and checked for the entry of the bosun’s locker.
    This was exactly why he wrote such things down—so thieving bastards like Givens, and perhaps Ransome, couldn’t swindle him. “Do you mean to tell me that two hundred twenty-six yards of bloody cable the size of a man’s leg have disappeared?” The outrage and menace in his voice could have weighted down an anchor. “Are you suicidal, or just incompetent?”
    “No, sir.” Ransome spread his big, tar-stained palms out wide, as if he had nothing to hide. “I knows my job. There’s cable enough for the guns, sir, just as you say.” And the professional pride that had been temporarily vanquished by Givens was back in his rough voice. “But that Givens, sir.” He growled the name. “Be selling off things, secret like. And now ’e’s made off with all the money.”
    Fuck, fuck, fuck all.
    Every time he thought the situation aboard Tenacious could not get any worse, a devious fate took delight in proving him wrong.
    All the money, not just the money Dance had