Free Miss Whittier Makes a List by Carla Kelly

appreciatively. A little man with a peg leg stood at the large galley range stirring vigorously.
    “ That you , Trist, you old bastard? Tell the captain to slow down and dry off them long limbs! I ’ ll have his porridg e in two shakes, and not before. ”
    Hannah, her eyes merry, cleared her throat, and the cook spun about on his wooden leg. He stared at her in surprise, then hurriedly dumped the spoon back in the pot, muttering something about “ losing ten years off me plaguey life. ”
    Hannah ventured closer. “ I didn ’ t mean to startle you. ”
    He continued stirring, as if too shy to look at her again. “ Well, you did, miss, you did. ” He stopped then. “ Is there something that you need? ” he asked, as if eager to end her presence in his galley.
    She nodded, wondered briefly if a small prevarication of good intentions was as bad as an outright lie, and plunged ahead. “ I am under orders from the captain to prepare him a cup of coffee. ”
    The cook gestured to the coffeepot on a back burner, its lid chattering away as the brew boiled and strengthened. “ Already done, miss. ”
    “No, you don ’ t understand, ” she insisted. “ I am to make it my way. ” She overlooked the mulish look on his face and dimpled her smnedt him. “ Oh, please, sir! I don ’ t know what I ’ ll do if you say no! ”
    She had no intention of crying, but there must have been a plaintive note in her voice that triggered the cook ’ s immediate response. Without a word, he hurried to the ship ’ s stores and pulled down a sack of green coffee beans. “ Don ’ t cry, miss, don ’ t cry, ” he pleaded as he held it out to her.
    It was a simple matter to roast the beans, grind them, and add them to a smaller pot of water simmering on the other back burner. She worked quickly; silently amused at how hard the cook watched her when he thought she was unaware. She added the ground beans to the strainer and returned it to the pot, wishing for a clock to time it precis ely. She lifted the lid finally, and sniffed.
    “ Now you boil it? ” the cook asked, his eyes hopeful.
    “ Oh, no, ” she said.
    The cook turned back to the range, his back stiff with disapproval. “ Then it can ’ t be regulation navy, miss, ” he muttered, “ and the captain is particular about the rules. ”
    She opened her eyes wide. “ I didn ’ t know coffee had rules! ” She waited until she thought he could not stand another moment of suspense, then poured a cup of the brew into a measuring tin.
    “ Wouldn ’ t you agree that was better? ” she asked.
    He sniffed, his eyes suspicious. “ Don ’ t rush me, miss. ”
    As she watched in amusement, he sipped at it, nodded, and turned back to the porridge. “ Good enough for the king, ” he mumbled, “ even if you are a Yankee. ”
    He didn ’ t say anything else, so she could only take it for a compliment. “ Why, thank you, sir, ” she replied.
    To her surprise, he tu rn ed about on his peg leg again and held out his hand. “ Call me Cookie, ma ’ am. ”
    “ I will, ” she assured him. “ And you may call me Hannah. ”
    He drew back in shock as though she had grabbed him. “ I could never! ”
    “ Miss Whittier, then, ” she amended hastily. “ And I promise only to invade your galley to make coffee for the captain. ”
    His face rosy with shyness, the cook held out a large white mug. “ He says he likes it blacker than a coaldigger ’ s arse , ma ’ am. ”
    “ He would , ” she murmured , mentally crossing the captain off her list yet again as she accepted the cup. Her eyes on the brimming mug, she left the galley, looking back only when the cook called to her.
    “ If you ’ re ever bored, miss, there ’ s always something to peel, ” he offered, and then ducked inside again, his face aflame.
    She smiled to herself and kept her eyes carefully forward. Timing her stride to the roll of the ship, she looked up from the gun deck to see the captain, dressed and