Maude Horton's Glorious Revenge by Lizzie Pook

Author:Lizzie Pook [Pook, Lizzie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

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Inside, the space was dark and filled with smoke. A fire hissed at its center and dozens of men congregated at makeshift tables. In the corner, a limp American flag hung from a rusting stake. Furs were strewn all around. We hovered at the door, unsure of whether our presence was welcome. I felt my shoulders widen and my nose tip up. Assuming my actor’s posture, just as I had that first morning on the Makepeace.

“Ah, the Brits are here.” A man rose from an upturned barrel and clapped his large hands. From his dress I deduced that this must be Captain Ellis, head of the whaling fleet, although there were no shining epaulettes on his threadbare jacket. He was tall and sturdy, and if not large enough to be called imposing, he emanated the sort of easy authority you find in men with unflinching strength of mind. With a large, fixed smile, he moved across the hut towards us and opened his palms in greeting.

“Ignore this miserable horde.” He had an unplaceable accent. “The cold’s got to them. Or is it the blood?” His teeth flashed white. “Make yourselves comfortable. Stanford! Get the men a drink.”

The whalers afforded us a cursory glance, eyeing the officers’ jackets with amusement. Some grunted, and eventually a man in a stained waistcoat detached himself and went to fetch us rum and water.

We took our seats, filling the shadows, cross-legged on furs, grateful for the comfort but unsure of how to make conversation with the Yanks. I tried to ignore my rising sense of unease. What if they ferreted out my female scent? Would they tear me to pieces like their dogs chained up outside? I assessed the weapons that easily littered the hut—the rusty blubber knives, the staves, the hatchets, and the pistols. The air carried an acrid tang: the reek of unwashed souls who’ve locked themselves away from society.

At one point the door behind us opened, letting in a blast of freezing air, and the whaler who’d locked eyes with Mance stepped in, shirt still soaked in blood. He was slight and short for a whaler but had the sort of grizzled features hewn by experience. I turned to check for Mance’s reaction. He blinked twice quickly, glanced at Stowe, then moved his eyes to his boots.

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