Jonesy tugged his forelock as he turned to leave, so Harriet did the same.
The boy followed them out, carrying a large jug. Harriet realized he’d delayed finishing chores and stayed in the kitchen to protect the housekeeper, probably his mother, from three strangers.
Out in the yard, Sheffield tossed her up in her saddle again but didn’t pat her knee. She was pretty sure he stroked his hand down her calf instead. He walked to his horse without a word or look, so maybe she imagined it.
“Ide com Deus,” the padre called, exchanging the full jug of milk for the empty jug the boy carried.
“Obrigado,” Sheffield replied with a wave.
With darkness falling, they didn’t stop again until they returned to the stables where they’d rented the horses, Sheffield leading them with the same unerring sense of direction on land that he used to navigate at sea. On the walk back to the ship, he and Jonesy kept Harriet between them as much as possible. The cobblestone streets narrowed and became noisy and crowded with carousers as they neared the riverfront. Some other time she’d appreciate exploring the city with two large bodyguards at her side, perhaps, but she was exhausted from the emotional and physical tolls of the day. Back on the ship, she barely had the energy to fall onto the bunk, kick off her shoes, and cover up with a blanket before she succumbed to sleep.
* * *
Morning light streamed through the window above the bunk. Harriet sat up and threw back the blanket, eager to go to Bonfim and resume the search. As she went about her morning ablutions, she stifled some decidedly unladylike groans as muscles in her back, legs, and buttocks protested yesterday’s horse ride. Her body ached in places she didn’t know she had muscles. She stretched to work out the kinks, and headed topside.
Bos’n was directing the crew loading crates and barrels up from the dock. Jonesy was absent, as was Sheffield. Surely they wouldn’t leave without her? Perhaps he was in the hold with Bessie for morning cuddles and milking.
Her foot on the first step to go back down the hatch, she heard the distinctive whistle from Bos’n calling for attention. When she glanced at him, he waved for her to join him near the gangboard.
“Mr. Jones went to get the ‘orses you rode yesterday,” he rasped. “Cap’n said he wants ‘arry ready to travel when he gets back, to be gone two or three days maybe. Find Smitty and get a cap and coat from the slop chest, somethin’ to keep you warm and dry if it comes on t’ raining.”
Harriet’s mind raced, considering what to pack and what to pack it in. She paused at the hatch, one hand on the rail. “Where did the captain go?”
Bos’n grinned. “Drinking.”
Chapter 14
Half an hour later, Harriet was back on deck with a packed saddlebag. She debated whether to put on the wool peacoat Smitty had helped her choose, despite the mild temperature and warm sunshine, or see if there was still room to tuck it in one of the pouches without horribly wrinkling it. She wiggled her toes, getting used to the half boots Smitty had also suggested she wear. Unlike the flat soles of the canvas shoes, boot heels would keep her feet from sliding through the stirrups. She’d also swapped her dungarees for full-length duck trousers and stockings, though she kept the plaid wool waistcoat and shirt. She knew how to layer chemise, fichu, pelisse, and shawls for warmth. Fortunately, Smitty had been a fount of advice about how to layer her sailor’s garb to keep comfortable in the changeable late-autumn weather. She even had a wool cap tucked in a coat pocket.
A wagon approached on the quay, distinguishable from the usual cacophony of workers and carts and gulls’ cries because the driver and passenger were singing. Loudly.
An English drinking song.
The driver brought the wagon to a halt just as they finished the chorus, and Sheffield climbed down, nearly falling to his knees before he staggered up to pat one of the horses. He waved up at the ship and had to grab the harness to keep from losing his balance.
The rest of the crew on deck joined Harriet and Bos’n at the gunwale.
“G’mornin’!” Sheffield loudly called, another expansive wave encompassing everyone on board. Only his grip on the horse’s mane kept him upright.
Harriet glanced at the crew. No one seemed surprised or upset the captain appeared soused so early in the day. What the devil was Sheffield doing, getting intoxicated when they had such urgent, important business to attend?
Sheffield gestured at the casks in the wagon. “Load ’em!” He exchanged grins with the driver. “Load ’em all!”
Chang and Jack ran down the gangboard and began unloading the casks from the wagon, while Nick and the driver conversed—the driver in Portuguese, Nick in English-accented broken Spanish, his words slurred. Then Nick staggered up the gangboard, his caped greatcoat flaring out now and then around his boots. Harriet was certain more than once he was going to fall into the river below before he joined her and Bos’n at the rail.
He winked at her before he turned and rested a heavy hand on her shoulder and one on Bos’n, as though he needed their help to stay upright.
What was her wily pirate up to?
Within moments Chang and Jack had the wagon unloaded. The driver and Nick exchanged jaunty waves and exuberant good-byes, then the driver turned his horses and began to work his way back up to town.
“You ready to go?” Nick asked her quietly.
Harriet stared at him with narrowed eyes. His breath had a hint of alcohol, but he enunciated clearly.
Smitty joined them. “Get a good bargain on the port wine, Cap’n?”
Nick retrieved a folded piece of paper from an inner pocket of his coat. “Here’s the bill of sale.”
