Free The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor by Sally Armstrong

there?”
    “Oh aye, madam. Shiploads we see, comin’ to seek their fortune in that wilderness.”
    “You set your store by Commodore Walker?”
    “Aye, madam. He’s an honest man, and a gentleman. I’ve seen him give us wages from his own pocket when the owners were tardy. And the man can trade with anyone.”
    Sure enough, ponders Charlotte.
    “The English don’t set much store by the Indians and the French Acadians. But our commodore has no problem wi ’em. He’s the only Justice of the Peace in the whole area, so he settles the quarrels and performs the marriages and baptizes the newborns and buries the dead. British, Indian, Acadian—it makes no difference to him. His services are available to anyone who wants them.” He also tells her there are no white women at the trading post, but that she’ll be well taken care of during the stopover before she sails for England.
    “A proper businessman. A modern man.”
    “ ’Deed, I think he’s so.”
    The cabin boy approaches them.
    “Mr. MacCulloch, sir, captain says you are to escort the lady to her quarters.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Harding.”
    “Must we go now?” Charlotte asks Will.
    “It’s only to show you, madam. You’ll have no restriction aboard this vessel. Unless the captain makes ’em.”
    It is apparent that Walker outfits his ships according to a policy different from that applied by Captain Skinner and the company who employed him. Will leads Charlotte to her own quarters, a small cabin quite near the stern, comfortable and not without its pleasing touches. As this is a cargo vessel, there is a crew of only a dozen men commanded by four officers.
    A sailor sets her bag on the bed and departs.
    “I’ll go about my duties, then,” Will says.
    “You have been most kind. My understanding from Commodore Walker is that the voyage should take three weeks, perhaps four if the winds should not be favourable.”
    “That is my experience, madam.”
    “We’ll have plenty of opportunity to speak then.”
    “Thank you, madam.” And he turns to leave her.
    T HE GLIMPSE into Walker’s life offers her a detail of the man as well as the place. She retires to the welcome privacy she’s been allotted to ponder the days ahead and promptly collides with the beam overhead, forgetting the cramped space of a ship, and almost knocks herself senseless. Except for an angry-looking welt on her forehead, she is not injured and seeks relief on the bed secured to the wall. The bed is covered in a huge, hairy animal skin—a forest beast, she supposes. She rolls it back and finds another skin, this coverlet for warmer climes, she assumes, calculating the heat of this day. Beneath the skins, there are sheets—a luxury she hasn’t known since she left home. They are coarse, like jute, but are an appreciated covering all the same. They remind her that inside the trunk she packed so scrupulously that last day in England, she had removed the white cotton overlays from her own bed and tucked them in with the items she felt she may need. What will become of her in the land she is sailing toward? And how is she to cope with the unpleasant events that have gone before?
    S HE WAKENS to a knock, stands, pats her hair, opens the door. Will again. Clearly her minder.
    “I’m sorry if I have interrupted, madam. It’s well past midday.”
    “Is it truly?”
    “Captain Walker and the officers would have you join them for the evening meal, madam.”
    “Will that be the usual arrangement, Will?”
    “I believe so, madam. You will dine with the officers. And most fortunate they are, if I may say so.”
    She looks up with some pleasure, but he is already gone.
    T HE OFFICERS’ MESS, like her cabin, is not without its charms. The walls are well panelled, though not painted, and the brass sconces are of good workmanship. Introductions are accompanied by sherry, with service by the cook and the boy Harding.
    When the five sit down for soup, Jack Primm, the first mate, makes