“And don’t dawdle,” Sheffield added. “You’re her first mate.”
Smitty’s grin practically split his face. “Aye, sir!”
In a blur, Smitty escorted her to the slop chest, calling for Tucker to help them. The men rummaged through the crates of fabric while Harriet loosened her plait, finger-combed her hair, and put it up into a chignon with the hair pins she’d denied herself days ago. She took off her rope belt and put the marlinspike back in its chest. Tucker pinned a length of dark blue velvet around her waist in a makeshift skirt, hiding her dungarees and bare shins, and gave it a few basting stitches to keep it in place.
Smitty handed her a floral-embroidered handkerchief, a yard of frothy lace to tuck into her neckline, and a wide brimmed chip straw bonnet. The bonnet’s feather had seen better days. Tucker stuck a pin in it to keep it upright. She kicked off her canvas shoes and put on a pair of pearl-studded dancing slippers that were too small for her to actually dance in, and unearthed a generously sized shawl in light green wool to wrap around her shoulders and hide her still decidedly masculine shirt and waistcoat.
Smitty put on a jacket of blue superfine. The sleeves were a little too long and the jacket fit so loose he was able to shrug into it by himself. It was similar to Jonesy’s attire, slightly better than the deckhands, not as fine as the captain’s. Like her transformation, it would never pass muster in a drawing room but should be good for a spyglass viewing. Smitty locked up and they rushed toward the ladder.
Word had passed through the crew about the subterfuge. Luigi stepped out of the galley as they passed. “In bocca al lupa, Signorina Capitano.” He tugged his forelock, smiling.
It took Harriet a moment to translate his wish for good luck. “Grazie,” she replied, and gathered her skirt up and out of the way to navigate the steps.
As she got her balance on the deck and twitched her skirt back into place, Jack swung by on his way up the ratline. He tugged his forelock and murmured “Cap’n,” his eyes twinkling, before he began to climb.
Big Jim ushered the goats past her down into the hold. “Cap’n,” he said, tugging his forelock, grinning.
Sheffield had climbed down from the quarterdeck and patted Smitty on the shoulder. “Let’s hear some Cajun.”
“Aye, sir.”
Sheffield turned to Harriet and tugged his forelock as well before going below deck. “Take good care of her, Captain Harriet,” he said quietly before he went down the ladder.
Later she’d reflect on how hearing him utter her given name for the first time had sounded like a caress. For now Harriet climbed the steps to the quarterdeck, where Bos’n was at the tiller, and took her place by the maphouse. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, unaffected by the reassurance of having the second mate directly behind her.
“You’ll do right fine,” he said in his raspy whisper voice.
The stories told in the fo’c’sle said his windpipe had been crushed in a dockside tavern brawl, over a card game or a woman, depending on who told the tale. In charge of the larboard watch, he didn’t seem handicapped by not being able to raise his voice. He used hand signals or specific whistles to communicate commands to the crew.
She knew Sheffield and Jonesy were not far. Bos’n could see what she saw and whisper guidance as needed.
She unclenched her fists to rub her palms on her smooth velvet skirt. “We’re doing this,” she whispered. “I can do this.”
She took the spyglass from the maphouse and checked their position relative to the Polly Ann. They’d come much closer while she was getting dressed. She couldn’t see people on deck unaided yet, though the short mast made it obvious the cutter had suffered damage.
She glanced across at the crew on Wind Dancer’s deck and up in the rigging and noticed the smiles. Their anticipation, their excitement, was almost tangible. Flynn actually rubbed his hands together when he grinned at her.
With a shock, she realized they were enjoying this. They’d engaged in this kind of subterfuge, or something like it, before. Their glee was infectious. The butterflies in her stomach flew upward, making her giddy. She stifled a hysterical giggle.
The forward hatch cover slid open. Jonesy was just visible on the ladder.
Smitty took his spot by Harriet at the maphouse and shot her a big grin. “Laissez les bon temps rouler,” he said loudly in a broad accent.
The sentence didn’t follow French grammar rules so it took her a moment to understand the Cajun idiom. “Let the good times roll indeed,” she replied.
By now she could see Ruford at Polly Ann’s wheel. Which meant he could also see her.
“Do we need to make any changes?” she asked Smitty, gesturing at the pink spotted sails. “How close are we going to be when we pass them?”
He took a look through the spyglass. “About a hundred yards, Mi— uh, Captain. If we make any changes now, it will look suspicious.”
In nautical terms, a hundred yards was like passing another pedestrian on the sidewalk.
“Steady on course,” Sheffield said softly from the aft hatch. He was on the ladder, his head just below the deck.
Harriet took a deep breath and released it, then repeated the exercise. She fingered the good luck charm her father had sent her, the silver H pendant on its chain around her throat.
Should she greet the other captain? On long voyages it was common to stop and chat when meeting at sea, the captains to even share a meal together before going on their way. And if Norton was to be believed, exchange books to read. Obviously that was not going to happen today. She decided she’d choose her actions based on what Ruford did.
