All the Tea in China Read online

  I must confess that I gave but the barest moment of a thought to Mr. Snowe’s presence in the cabin that night. Yet I saw him only once after Miss Whipple brought my dinner, then not again. When I awoke in the morning, feeling completely like my normal self, he was not present either. However, laid fast on the wooden crate upon which Miss Whipple had perched was a brown dress and various undergarments.

  I rose to examine them. The porthole to my right was still open, and I could see that the cabin was located at the rear end of the ship. A bit of wet salt sprayed my face from the hypnotic wake trailing our mighty ship. I drew a deep breath. This was preferable, indeed, to solitude in the dark with the cattle.

  I paced the cabin’s length and width, if such it could be said to have, to regain my footing. I paused briefly at the large trunk on Phineas’s side of the cabin. What could that large leather box possibly store? It looked quite big enough to hold several dead bodies, which, I realized, I would not put past Phineas Snowe.

  At last I felt that I had use of what I supposed would be vulgarly referred to as my sea legs, and I determined to relieve myself of the nightgown, dress in the provided clothes, and survey my new home outside the cabin. The undergarments were acceptable, though far from fancy, but I wrinkled my nose at the dress. It was of coarse cotton—cotton!—and had not a shred of beauty to adorn it. Flora would have said that she’d see me naked rather than in such attire. I knew such talk to be mere jest, but I did believe that she would find the cotton dress highly unsuitable. I would acquire no more notice than a common wren.

  Thankfully, my own black shoes had been salvaged from my feet after my discovery, but I did pause a moment as I slipped them on to remember the beautiful silk pair that were now, apparently, forever left behind in Flora’s care. I would have taken some comfort in knowing that she, at least, could wear them herself, but as my feet were twice as small as hers, I knew the thought to be mere fancy.

  The door opened. “Miss Goodrich!”

  Thankfully, it was only Julia Whipple. I did not feel capable of seeing Phineas Snowe just yet. She approached me, concern furrowing her brow. “Are you quite well?”

  “I believe that I am. And how fortunate that you have arrived at only such a moment, as I was about to venture forth from this cabin.” I leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper. “I fear I might need a steady arm yet, though I have managed tolerably well taking several turns around the cabin.”

  “I shall be only too happy to lend you my own,” she said, crooking her elbow. “It’s a beautiful day, and I know that the captain will want to make your acquaintance.”

  “Oh dear. I rather hoped that there would be no need for me to meet him before the voyage was concluded. I am sure he is quite displeased with my behavior.”

  “And I am certain that he is a Christian man full of forbearance and willingness to see only to your current welfare.”

  With that hope tucked away, I allowed Miss Whipple to lead me from the cabin. We passed through a dining area with a long table bolted to the floor. “This is the cuddy, the dining salon,” she said. “The captain eats here every night along with some of the officers and invited passengers.”

  “Are there many passengers aboard?”

  “Two married couples and you and Phineas.” She paused. “And me.”

  “Yes, of course,” I murmured. I wondered whether she preferred being the only unattached female, but then I remembered that I was unattached as well, so I held my tongue on that subject. “I thought I heard footsteps overhead, but perhaps it was just people here in the dining area.”

  “I’m sure it was people overhead, for your cabin is below the poop deck. I understand there is quite a lot of noise.”

  “Where is your cabin?” I asked. “Are you not near mine?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “I sleep in the great cabin, which is just below this dining area. I do not hear much noise at night, however, I have no window.” She opened a door, and we stepped out. “And this is the deck.”

  The great ship lay before us. Men in sailor outfits bustled to and fro, moving barrels and crates, climbing the rope ladders that led up higher than I could see to the topmost masts. The sides of the ship creaked, and water seemed to lap on all sides. A sailor swabbed a portion of the deck with a mop and bucket amidships, and a higher deck stood at the bow. Behind us stood a similar raised deck, though not as large as the one at the front. “That is the poop deck?” I asked, recalling Miss Whipple’s words.

  She nodded. “Would you like to see it first?”

  “Of course! I want to see everything on board the ship.”

  We climbed a small ladder and stood on the poop deck. I shivered. The sun shone bright, but the wind chilled. Overhead flew an East India Company flag, its Union Jack in the corner and red and white stripes snapping in the breeze. I felt somewhat disappointed, for other than the boards of the deck itself, there were only crates of squawking chickens and ducks. So I had not imagined their noise!

  “Good morning, ladies,” a sailor said, tipping his cap.

  We nodded, watching as he fed grain to the chickens through their wooden cages. “Is it your job to tend to them regularly?” I asked.

  “Yes, miss,” he said, tipping his cap. “I am the poulterer, John Swinney.”

  Miss Whipple and I watched as he gave them their grain and made certain they had water, making soothing noises that sounded oddly akin to their own. I felt somewhat amused by the thought of fowl riding on water. “Do they have a great need for chickens in China?” I asked cheerfully.

  “No, miss. These birds will depart from us long before we reach the Orient. They’ll be food for the captain’s table.”

  “I see.” I wondered that I had not been intelligent enough to deduce this for myself.

  Several large lanterns hung at the end of the ship. “Excuse me, Mr. Swinney, but what are these for? They are not intended as a side dish with the chickens, are they?”

  Mr. Swinney grinned, rubbing his hands together to disperse the leftover grain. “No, miss. They are for signaling other ships. Excuse me, miss, but I wouldn’t want the captain to find me dawdling about.” He departed with a slight bow.

  During our exchange, Miss Whipple had ventured to the edge of the ship. She stood transfixed, scanning the horizon behind us and the divided path of the water our ship made. “If you don’t mind the fowl, it’s quite beautiful here.”

  “It is interesting to see the wake of the Dignity,” I said. “To think of where the ship has gone, and no one to know we were here . . . unless we are spotted, of course.”

  “And we pray that does not happen,” she said. “I have heard tales of French privateers boarding East Indiamen. I have no desire to see crewmen or passengers killed in such an exchange.”

  “Of course not,” I murmured.

  “But come,” she said, linking arms with me again. “Let’s put such horrible thoughts behind us and examine the rest of the Dignity. Who knows but that we might run into Phineas Snowe?”

  The thought made my nerves jump. Naturally, I should thank him properly for rescuing me, but seeing him now somehow seemed too soon. “I believe I could travel the entire voyage and not miss his presence,” I murmured.

  Miss Whipple squeezed my arm playfully. “And yet you long to serve alongside him as a missionary?”

  I could not respond. Uncle Toby and Flora had each told me—on separate occasions—that spontaneity was my dear friend but a more potential worst enemy. I sometimes rushed headlong like an adventurous calf but took no notice of the gate securing my safety.

  I found walking a trifle precarious, but Miss Whipple assured me that I would quickly gain my sea legs. Amidships, she paused beside the lifeboats lashed to long, thick poles. “What are those?” I said.

  “Spare spars. They can be used to replace a mast or boom or gaff.”

  “The poles that hold the sails?” I struggled to remember any nautical terms I might have learned.

  “Yes,”
she said, then drew a deep breath of air. I did the same, thankful to be outdoors instead of cramped below deck or even in a cabin. The sun shone warm and the air held a tang of salt that tickled my nose in a not unpleasant manner. “It feels good, doesn’t it?” she said. “I can understand why men long to go to sea.”

  “Have you been aboard a ship before?” I asked.

  A peculiar expression crossed her face. “No, but I was raised in Portsmouth. I am familiar with ships and those who sail them.”

  Remembering her own reason for being aboard the Dignity, I endeavored to change the subject. “Perhaps, then, you can tell me the names of some of the sights, for beyond the three masts that I see, I am at quite a loss.”

  “I thought you had learned much from books?”

  “I confess that I know a smattering of names and a general idea of their location aboard ship, but I cannot place the two together.”

  As we slowly made our way forward, I found myself clinging to Miss Whipple as my legs found their bearing on the unsteady deck. I also needed her emotional support as well in these unfamiliar surroundings. She, however, walked gracefully with her head high, nodding at the sailors, some of whom politely responded and others who only grinned and went about their business.

  “Where are the other passengers?” I whispered. At Oxford, I was accustomed to being the only woman in sight, but there I was around gentlemen. Here I felt like a scholarly lamb among wolves, though Mr. Swinney, the poulterer, had been naught but polite.

  Miss Whipple smirked. “The last I saw of the husbands, they were tending their wives below deck. Seasickness, still. You are fortunate to be past that. The sailors told me that sometimes passengers go ten days before they are well. At least the captain’s table will be empty for a few days yet. Besides the officers, Phineas and I have been his sole companions since we set sail.”

  Canvas flapped above my head, and I stopped short. Miss Whipple released my arm, and I leaned back, trying to catch a glimpse of the highest sail. “I feel like a child beneath a laundry line,” I murmured, feeling small and insignificant. “I am sure each sail has a name, does it not? And however do those sailors manage to climb the ropes?”

  “It is called the rigging,” she said. “And as for the sails, I am not quite certain. We shall have to ask the captain. Hello, sir.”

  Startled, I jerked my gaze downward to its normal level. A man of some three score with a white wig and resplendant uniform stood beside Miss Whipple. Fortunately, his ruddy complexion and poorly suppressed smile told me I had nothing to fear. “So this is our stowaway, eh?” he said, affecting gruffness.

  I trembled nonetheless. “Y-yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.”

  “Miss Goodrich, this is Captain Stephan Malfort. Captain, this is Isabella Goodrich.”

  I curtsied.

  “At your service, miss,” he said with a bow. “Pray tell me what was so urgent that you risked life and limb to be with your brother?”

  This I could answer without fear. I explained about my calling from God and how I must get to China. “It is a burning in my heart,” I said, then pressed my case. “I am certain that it is not unlike your passion for the sea.”

  He smiled. “My passion is somewhat more pecuniary than yours, but aye, there is something wanting in my soul that being at sea fulfills. Still, I can’t imagine following a sibling to the detriment of my own health, not to mention avoiding fare passage, as you have done.”

  “I am sorry about that, Captain,” I said. “I hope I can repay the money to the East India Company.”

  A shadow fell across the deck. “No need to worry about that, dear sister,” Phineas said, looping an arm through mine. “I have already paid the captain for your rather unexpected passage. At least for the portion of the trip during which you will be aboard ship. But I must say that I am delighted to find you in better health.”

  I tried not to cringe at his touch. Miss Whipple looked on in amusement.

  “Ah, Mr. Snowe,” Captain Malfort said. “It is indeed a delight to meet your sister at last. But one thing troubles me.”

  The muscles in his arm seemed to tense. “Yes?”

  “Why is it that you and your sister have different last names?”

  He relaxed. “In truth, Captain, we are only half brother and sister, raised by different parents, of course.” The lie sprang a little too easily from his lips. Not an admirable quality for a man of the cloth! “Miss Goodrich was raised by an uncle at Oxford, Mr. Tobias Fitzwater.” That, at least, was not prevarication.

  “Ah,” the captain said, as though it explained everything. To my taste, it certainly did not.

  Miss Whipple smiled. “Captain, just as you joined us, I told Miss Goodrich that we should ask you for the names of the many sails above us. Would you do us the honor now?”

  Snowe released my arm. “As I am familiar with such terminology, you will excuse me if I take my leave then, Captain. Miss Whipple.” He bowed, and upon rising, looked directly at my eyes. “Isabella.”

  The sound of my name in his voice bred confusion in my soul. He headed aft, and I wanted to follow him, for I had many questions yet for Phineas Snowe. Captain Malfort, however, was already pointing up high. “The upper sail is called the main topgallant, below that the main topsail, and the one nearest us is the mainsail. That one is the main topgallant staysail, and the one aft is the mizzen topgallant.”

  Miss Whipple strolled forward, moving our group in the opposite direction Snowe had gone. “And the sails at the very bow are called . . . ?”

  “The flying jib, the jib, the fore topmast staysail, and the fore staysail. That one there . . .”

  I only half listened thereafter, for even if I were put off ship at Cape Town, I would no doubt have a long time to learn the intricacies of the Dignity. And perhaps other information, as well. I did not know if I could maintain my forbearance.

  Though Captain Malfort had to leave us soon, Miss Whipple and I strolled the deck for several more hours. We tried to stay out of the sailors’ way but also to observe their business from a distance. Even when Miss Whipple declared that her head ached and retired to her cabin, I lingered on deck. I found everything fascinating, from standing at the battered rail to scan the horizon to watching sailors tying knots. The last observation occurred courtesy of Mr. Calow, the young midshipman who had directed me to Phineas at Gravesend. The lad seemed surprised to see me, though I was certain my presence aboard ship had become common knowledge once my place with the cattle was discovered.

  He and the other five midshipmen had just concluded a lesson with Captain Malfort, who apparently quizzed them on finding latitude and longitude. Mr. Calow seemed to fare the poorest of the young class and was near thorough humiliation during a knot-tying competition. Captain Malfort seemed particularly harsh on the young lad, but I understood the need for the midshipmen to learn their lessons and learn them well. These were not mere studies on Greek and Latin; the lives of all aboard might hang on whether a sailor had properly tied a line.

  Left to practice on his own, the dejected Mr. Calow worked doggedly with a bit of rope, tying and retying several mysterious knots. I dared a chance to sit beside him on the bench. He sprang to his feet, hastily swiping his eyes. “Miss Goodrich!”

  “May I join you, Mr. Calow, to observe your work, or would that disturb you? I know nothing of knots myself, so I shall be in no position to comment.”

  “I don’t mind if you sit here.”

  We sat, and he worked with the rope. I could see the frustration on his face, and I knew above all else that he would not allow himself to cry. He could scarce have been above twelve years of age, probably not long from home, but he was obviously making a Herculean effort to appear the young man he was expected to be. Two senior officers stood at a distance, watching us, and their presence seemed to have a detrimental effect on Mr. Calow’s confidence. His breath came in quick gasps, and his eyes appeared moist.

  I could bear to see his suffering no more. “
Do you have some extra rope for me?” I asked. “Perhaps I could learn.”

  He retrieved an abandoned line and handed it to me. “What knot is the easiest?” I asked. “I should probably start there.”

  With a minimum of words, he showed me how to tie a figure-eight, a square, then a clove hitch. He seemed to gain confidence as he explained them to me, and when I was capable of executing them with no help, I calmly asked, “What knot were you working on when I interrupted you?”

  “The bowline.” His shoulders slumped, and he jerked the knot free in his line.

  “How does it begin?”

  He held out his line to demonstrate. “There is an old story to remember how to tie this knot. Imagine that the free end is a rabbit, and the other end is a tree with a rabbit hole at its base.” He twisted the rope, and I did my best to follow. “The rabbit comes out of the hole, goes around the tree, and back down into its hole again.”

  I laughed, letting my tangled line fall into my lap. “My rabbit apparently ventured to the backside of the tree, where he was promptly eaten.”

  Mr. Calow stared at the rope in his hands. “I did it,” he whispered. He raised the rope higher for my scrutiny. “I did it!”

  One of the officers moved beside us. “So you did, Mr. Calow. Job well done. But I’ll not warn you again about speaking of those furry things on board ship.”

  Joy diminished from the lad’s face. “Aye, sir. I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “Carry on, then.” The officer tipped his hat and moved on.

  When he was out of hearing distance, I turned to Mr. Calow. “What did he mean by ‘furry things’? And why are you not permitted to speak of them?”

  Mr. Calow leaned closer. “He means those animals in burrows,” he whispered, then made a hopping motion with two fingers. “You know”—his voice dropped lower still—“bunnies.” He clapped a hand over his mouth and looked around to make sure no one had heard. When he was not reprimanded, he relaxed.