Captain Margaret

 

Chapter 1 – The Captain’s Death

It was a beautiful day to die. Lying in bed, with his head tilted back as far as he could manage, Captain Otis had a good view out of the tall windows at the rear of the ship. The sky was a light ash blue with wispy brush-stroke clouds that would be the envy of any artist. Otis thought he caught a glimpse of a seagull, but that couldn’t be; the ship was too far from any coastline. Perhaps his mind was declining along with his diseased body.

“You’ll strain your neck, sir,” Old Man Murdock whispered, adjusting the pillow under his captain’s head.

Otis laughed weakly. “What does one more ailment matter? Fetch Vincent and Margaret. It’s time.” The consumption, or whatever was killing him, wouldn’t be bearable for much longer. 

“If we can get you to a port, a proper doctor could tend to you.” Under his bushy white eyebrows, Murdock’s eyes pleaded with Otis to stay strong.

Otis coughed into a rag already sprinkled with blood. “No, you’re the only doctor I need. Your kindness these long years has been one of my greatest treasures.”

Murdock gave a thin smile, then hurried out of the cabin.

Otis admired the view again. Shame he couldn’t see the water at this angle. At least he could feel the subtle waves. They were kind to the boat today, lapping the hull, rocking him gently as if offering a natural lullaby as his life faded.

He took a painful breath of salty air. It had been a good life, with just a few regrets. But he was ready to have his body merge with the depths of the great ocean that he so cherished.

Vincent stepped into the room, mustache sharp-cut and militant uniform neat and proper, and took his place near Otis’ bed. “Captain.” His voice was firm, as usual, but low in tone.

“My good man,” Otis said, wishing he had the strength to salute. This wasn’t a military vessel, but Vincent loved standing on ceremony. “It has been an honor to serve with you.”

Vincent nodded. “Sir, the honor is mine.”

Old Man Murdock knocked and entered with a large bowl of water to make more cooling wraps.

“You and I have not always seen eye-to-eye,” Otis said to Vincent. The list of disagreements over the years was long, but for the most part the first officer had always conceded. “But you’re an honorable man.” Otis really wanted to believe this now.

“As you know,” he continued, “my concern for my daughter’s future is paramount. In my log and to her ears, I have made it clear that the ship should be taken to a Spanish or English port and sold. Triton has many good years left in her.” His gaze drifted to the dark wood and divots holding the ceiling together. He knew every board, every knot, every scratch, and he loved the way his pipe tobacco had merged with the smell of the wood over the years. “The ship will fetch a good price.”

He reached for Vincent’s hand. “You will receive twenty-five percent of the sale.” He watched for any disturbance in Vincent’s face. Nothing.

“Twenty-five percent will also go to Margaret. The next twenty-five will be split amongst Murdock and the crew chiefs. That leaves twenty-five from the sale and our reserves to be split among the rest of the crew.”

Unfortunately, Otis had not had a chance to update his beneficiary disposition wishes with a bank attorney or naval port authority. Without a son or spouse, his wishes could be challenged. “Is this clear?”

“Of course, sir.” Vincent nodded repeatedly.

His quick reassurance unnerved Otis. A few months back, they had squabbled over dealing with the slaves they found adrift and Otis’ decision to no longer deliver sugar from West Indian islands that used slaves. Vincent’s heart could be a bit cold at times. Would he be not interfere with the sale of the ship?

“I know that years ago I implied you might inherit the ship,” Otis said, his voice raspy. Every word hurt his throat. “But that was before my wife’s death and Margaret joining us. So, now the sale is necessary.”

Vincent patted Otis’ shoulder. “Think no more of it, sir. It will be a privilege to carry out your final wishes.”

Again, unusually agreeable. But Otis didn’t have any more time to ponder the merits of Vincent’s words.

The door squeaked. Margaret peeked in, eyes red and puffy.

Every pain in Otis’ body eased, and he leaned up as much as he could. “My darling, come to me.”

Murdock pushed a pillow behind Otis.

Margaret ran to her father and buried her face in his chest.

“No, girl, none of that. Let me see you.” Otis managed to stop himself before adding, for the last time.

Face to face, Otis marveled at her beauty. He didn’t care that he was biased, she was the brightest gem he had ever seen, even in dirty trousers and a smudge of soot on her cheek. He did miss the pretty dresses she used to wear, and she let her long hair flow free instead of being tied back. Still, she was his pride and joy.

“You’re a young woman now. A woman of great sea worth. Your mother would be so proud.”

Margaret scoffed. “Mother hated the sea.”

Sadly, Otis could barely remember his wife’s face. There was only one small drawing of her at his desk. Another regret, not visiting home one more time while she was still alive.

“Your mother loved you and always said you were bound for greatness.”

“She loved you, too,” Margaret said warmly. “She boasted to everyone that you were the most gallant of men.”

Otis laughed, thankful that he and his wife had always taken walks when they argued about his extended voyages.

Kumba, a lanky colored man, entered the room, setting a tea tray and a lantern on the side table. “Tea, sir?”

“Perfect.” Otis said, but not about the tea. Kumba’s arrival seemed serendipitous. “Come here, my boy.” He tapped the covers beside him and Vincent stepped back to make room. “We must have words.” He reached out for Kumba, waving him to come closer.

Eyes narrowing, Kumba complied.

Otis took Kumba’s dark, worn hand and placed it on Margaret’s. “I know about you two.” He winked.

Margaret gasped and blushed. Eyes wide, Kumba straightened as if he was appalled by the suggestion of impropriety.

“The ship is not so big, you fools.” Otis didn’t suspect anything inappropriate, other than perhaps a kiss when the two were alone at the bow of the ship. The two were constantly making excuses to walk the top deck at night. “The whole ship is aware.”

To ease their obvious panic, he added, “I don’t disapprove.”

Though months ago, when Kumba first joined the crew, Otis would have objected. But Kumba had quickly proven himself to be kind, eager to please, and a hard worker. It was an eye-opener, and Otis recognized his own prejudice. He tried to make up for it by refusing to ship goods from American slave plantations, but he should have done it sooner. Another regret he hoped would leave him when he took his final breath.

“Sir,” Kumba said, which sounded a bit like sire. “You have been always good to me and my brothers. And…” He hesitated as if trying to search for the right words. “My vow is to honor always your daughter.”

Otis felt his heart slowing, but he smiled at how far Kumba’s English had progressed. “I know you will, my boy.”

He glanced back and forth between Kumba and his daughter. “But be mindful. Not many places accept such relationships.”

As far as Otis knew from a few scandalous stories, the best his daughter and Kumba could hope for was to go to England where Kumba couldn’t be enslaved again. Maybe then their relationship might be tolerated as long as they didn’t draw too much attention to themselves.

Otis released Kumba and took both of his daughter’s hands. “Promise me. Ne laissez personne vous décourager.” His French was rusty, but Margaret would understand his concern that others might try to discourage her. Fortunately, no one else onboard spoke French, so Otis could converse with Margaret on private matters.

She swallowed. “Jamais.”

Otis glanced toward Vincent and prayed Margaret could stand up to Vincent if she needed to.

Lightheaded now, Otis focused on his daughter’s beautiful, brown eyes. “You will be fine.” He desperately needed to believe this. He could not die peacefully if he feared he was abandoning her to the risks and treachery of the world. Though there was strength in Margaret, to him, she would always seem like a vulnerable little girl.

“Sir,” Murdock waved a cup toward Otis. “Please drink something. You’re looking very pale.”

Otis stroked Margaret’s cheek and wiped away a tear. “I will be fine as well.” He could feel the end crawling through his veins.

His daughter squeezed his hand. The boat swayed gently, but he felt as if he was floating in a magical current that had entered the room, filling everything with a comfortable heated bath.

“Sir,” someone said. The room became too dark to tell who was speaking.

“Father,” Margaret cried.

Yes, there was no mistaking that sweet voice. What a lovely voice. The last thing he would ever hear. His pain slowly washed away and his mind drifted into a radiant sea that went on forever.

 

Chapter 2 – Vincent’s Truth

About bloody time, Vincent thought as he stood in the corner watching Murdock, Kumba, and Jon wrap Otis’ body.

“Good journey, sir,” Murdock whispered, raising the sheet over Otis’ lifeless head. 

Vincent took a deep breath and stiffened his solemn expression, determined not to reveal his relief that he would never have to look at the stubborn captain’s face ever again.

Margaret sat on a stool in the adjacent corner, weeping into her hands.

Vincent stifled a smirk. Weak girl, just like her father.

He estimated how long he’d have to wait before isolating Margaret and Old Man Murdock and destroying the captain’s logs. Perhaps, after the grand burial at sea he would ask to speak to the two, privately. Then, with his trusty allies Jon and Paul by his side, Vincent would announce the ultimatum: he would take over as captain, and if Margaret and Murdock didn’t like it, they could join Otis at the bottom of the sea.

Vincent rested one hand on his sheathed dagger at his waist. It might be best to kill Kumba and the other ex-slaves, as well as anyone loyal to Otis, just to be safe. Vincent liked Murdock, and the ship needed a doctor, so he could stay. As for Margaret, it would surely be a waste to dispose of such beauty.

He studied her from across the room. Even with dirty hands, grungy bottoms, and a heavy leather vest to conceal her growing female features, she was pleasing to the eye. Her elegant face, lips, and slight curves always hinted at her sensuous femininity. And somehow she always managed to smell like flowers. Roses perhaps. He often found himself passing by her just to remind himself what it was like to be around women.

“How about sunset for the sendoff?” Jon said to Margaret. He was a bulky, muscular man with a thick beard, able to easily frighten the crew into obedience with a glare.

Vincent liked Jon but was irked that the man had addressed the question to Margaret, as if she held some sort of rank for decision-making.

Margaret raised her tearful eyes from her hands. “Today?”

Weak, silly girl. Still, Vincent couldn’t deny that she could tie a good knot and help make an edible soup from scraps. She could make for a reasonable ship wife if she wasn’t so headstrong. He had caught her, more than once, snapping at the crew when they got lazy. But Vincent would rather die a pauper than tolerate a woman trying to handle the burdens of a man.

“Yes,” Murdock answered Margaret with a gentle voice. “I’m afraid so, dear. For the good health of the ship, and it is tradition. And what your father requested.”

“Of course.” She sighed, choked back a sniffle, and hurried from the room.

Vincent and Jon shared a grin. It would be easy to make Margaret yield to his plans, and Vincent was going to enjoy doing it.

 

Chapter 3 – Murdock’s Strength

“Be careful!” Murdock directed the temporary pallbearers as they carried the captain’s wrapped body out of the cabin.

The setting sun cast a red glow over the procession of sailors on the main deck. Fourteen men lined up against the rails, many holding lit lanterns. Two more watched from the crow’s nest of the tallest mast.

There was a light, salty breeze in the evening air. Sails tied up, the ship barely listed to one side. The water was as calm as it could get this far from land. Almost as if the gods of the sea were showing appreciation to their devoted follower.

A pallbearer stumbled and Murdock shot a critical eye at the man. Don’t you dare do that again. If only Murdock’s tired bones were up to the task of helping with the corpse. All he could do was lead the way to a table set up to balance the body at the railing before they cast it into the sea.

Most eyes were downcast. Murdock was sure his own sadness was only rivaled by Margaret’s.

She stood next to the sendoff point, breathing heavily and quickly wiping away the occasional tear. Good for her, trying to be brave. But should she start bawling, Murdock wouldn’t tolerate any sour looks from the crew.

He examined Vincent who waited at the table. Even with eyes cast down, his strong, proud stance gave him an ominous look. Murdock had caught enough sinister whispers to suspect that the bastard might try to take control of the ship. Unfortunately, warnings to Captain Otis had only sounded like derogatory gossip and ill-informed opinions.

Murdock grumbled. He had promised his good captain to help Margaret secure the ship’s sale, but how could he stand up to a man like Vincent? The pompous gentleman seemed ten feet tall when he barked orders. And his lackeys, Jon and Paul were like vicious dogs, ready to lunge at someone’s throat if given the command.

Once again, Murdock felt his age weighing on him. His nickname, created when Margaret arrived, suited him. “Greetings. You can call me Old Man Murdock.” Her lovely youth had made him feel particularly old that day.

“Gently, gently.” He gestured lowering something heavy as the pallbearers placed the captain on the board on the table.

Murdock and the pallbearers took their place in the crowd. Kumba came up behind Margaret. He looked ready to lend Margaret a shoulder to lean into if needed. Murdock was thankful the captain had approved of the relationship; Margaret needed all the support she could get now.

Vincent pinched the tips of his mustache and stood on a small crate. He cleared his throat. “We are gathered today to say our farewell to a man who…”

Murdock barely listened to the polite platitudes that followed. His mind was too consumed with how to stop Vincent if things became violent. Maybe he should secure a kitchen knife, or a dagger for his boot. Or maybe keep one of the ship’s single-barrel pistols under his shirt, tucked into his belt.

He grimaced. Murdock had only fired a pistol once, as a boy. And he certainly had never directed any violence toward another person. If the moment demanded, could he rise to the occasion? Could he harm someone just to honor his dead captain?

He slumped and eyed Vincent and his two brutes. Even in his youth Murdock never had the courage to face such people.

When Vincent finished his tactful speech, he stepped down. Jon and Paul moved to the head of the table, grabbing the edges of the plank under the body.

“May beautiful mermaids lead the way,” Murdock mumbled to himself.

He looked to Margaret who seemed tense from head to toe in an effort to keep from breaking down. Just a subtle tremor in her stance gave her away. Good for her. So brave.

Perhaps she would be all right. He had seen her effectively stand her ground at times. But that could have just been for show, to earn her father’s respect. Other times, she was all young woman, batting eyes at Kumba, exaggerating her laugh, knitting a long red scarf whenever she had time by herself. Truth was, it seemed too early to tell what type of woman Margaret would become.

The captain slid into the sea with a gentle splash.

A long silence followed as the sun dipped into the horizon, releasing the stars.

Murdock sighed, hating himself for not being a better doctor.

“Dismissed!” Vincent thundered.

Most turned to resume their duties. 

“Wait,” Margaret announced, barely audible. She marched round the table and stepped up on the box Vincent had used. “I wish to speak,” she said, much louder.

The crowd regrouped.

Murdock tried to guess what she would say but came up blank.

Margaret took a deep breath. “There is talk about what will happen after we finish delivering our current dry goods. I want to assure you all that your positions are safe.” Her eyes darted to Murdock, then Vincent, then to Kumba. “This ship will not be sold.”

Murdock was sure he had misheard. Surely she wouldn’t betray her father’s dying wish.

“We will carry on. In my father’s memory, I will do my best to lead us with honor and pride.”

Low mumbles of uncertainty flowed through the crowd. Many looked to Vincent, including Margaret.

“With Vincent’s by my side, I hope to offer the kind of leadership that—”

“Leadership?” Vincent cut in with a booming voice that seemed to silence the ocean. “You, captain us?”

“With your counsel,” she offered eagerly.

“Nonsense.” Vincent shook his head. “You’re a girl, and this ship is not a toy for you to decorate.”

Several people laughed. Murdock didn’t.

It was an outrageous idea, but he loved it. The only female ship captains he knew of owned fishing skimmers, but there were legends about women pirates. Plus, he had always dreaded the idea of selling the ship. He had hoped to spend the rest of his life at sea, and surely no other ship would give him a position this late in life.

Vincent spoke to the crowd. “This isn’t what the captain wanted.” He pointed to Margaret. “A girl would ruin his reputation.”

Margaret stiffened. “I am not a girl. I am a sailor.”

Perfect answer, Murdock thought.

Vincent scoffed.

“I admit I am not strictly adhering to my father’s wishes.” She looked at Kumba who gave her a warm, encouraging smile. “But father wanted me to be happy, with income, and have a life with people that I love.”

Murdock checked the crowd. Several nodded in approval—the ex-slaves, the galley mate, and those that were friendly with Margaret. Others frowned—those loyal to Vincent, and the sort of men that could never see a woman as anything more than an ornament of a righteous husband.

“Romanticism nonsense,” Vincent said, glaring at Margaret. “This is a hard life, for men, not a pleasure ride for a foolish girl infatuated with grandiose adventures and savages.” His eyes jumped to the ex-slaves.

Murdock could see Kumba’s muscles tense.

“I only wish to carry on what we already value,” Margaret said. “Profit. Peace. A good life at sea. I want to be more than a lady at tea parties.” She took a moment to pan across the sailors, as if trying to catch the eye of each person, one at a time, to share her sincerity. “If I fail, mutiny if you must. I will yield my position if I haven’t earned your support. All I am asking for is a chance to prove myself, to earn your trust, and to learn from all of you.”

Murdock had no idea that she could be so eloquent. He knew she was well read, but she sounded better than any statesmen he had ever heard. At that moment, he believed she might actually make a great leader, if given a chance.

“Rubbish!” Vincent stomped his polished boot. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” He turned to everyone. “She is defying the natural laws, and God’s plan for us all.” He raised a fist. “Women do not captain ships.”

Several applauded.

Jacob, the ship’s galley mate, buried deep in the crowd, yelled, “Her worth is good enough for me.”

Murdock agreed but dared not speak up in support. The look on Vincent’s face could chase away a sea monster.

Grunts and worried eyes spread through the crowd. Several hands moved to nearby tools.

Murdock looked to Kumba and to anyone else that might defend Margaret. How many had work knives within reach? There was a crate of rifles below deck, and a few pistols in the officers’ cabins. Could they retrieve the weapons faster than Vincent’s thugs? And what weapons might they already have on them?

Margaret’s voice was louder than ever. “Out of respect for my father, I beg you to at least give me a chance. One voyage, a few weeks at best. Then decide.”

With clenched fists, Jon and Paul gave cold glares to their subordinates.

Vincent growled, “Who here dares to defy my reasoning?” He pulled a knife from his waist.

Murdock shot a glance at a bundle of capstans rods a few feet away. The long poles could make do as weapons, if the tension spilled over. But could he, an old man of peace and healing, take up with violence? He racked his mind for another option.

“Enough.” Vincent yanked Margaret off the box.

Kumba lunged at Vincent. “Remove your hands from her!”

Like a sudden storm, shoving and cursing exploded on deck.

“Get them,” someone yelled.

Chaos flowed in all directions. Limbs and angry faces everywhere.

Jon’s hulking fist slammed into the face of one of the ex-slaves.

A lantern smashed, igniting someone’s breeches.

Margaret screamed.

Murdock’s love for his captain and Margaret awakened a rage in him, giving him a strength he hadn’t felt in years. It was frightening, wonderful, and absolutely right. The moment of truth was here, and his resolution was crystal clear. He said a prayer as he grabbed a long rod. With all his might, he swung it at the nearest adversary within reach.

 

Chapter 4 – Kumba’s Regret

Kumba caught his breath as the violent frenzy slowly subsided. The moon peaked, shining its light on the bodies strewn across the deck. Several people doused a fire with water buckets. Vincent and Jon were backed up against the quarterdeck railing as angry sailors closed in on them.

Kumba sighed. Margaret’s faithful had prevailed. But his relief was short-lived. Weakness moved in and the ship spun before his eyes. He reached for the rail to steady himself, but his knees buckled and he fell into a puddle of his own blood.

“No!” Margaret ran to him and cradled his head in her lap.

Even as she cried over him, he took great pleasure from her beauty.

“Fetch Murdock!” she cried, without taking her eyes off Kumba. “We will patch you up.”

“Do not so trouble yourself with aid for me.” He knew the wound was not survivable, and he was determined to savor these last few moments with the young woman who had entered his life like a shooting star that lit up the night of his life.