A Different Sort of Perfect Read Online Free PDF Page B

shown every courtesy. Move my
dining table into the great cabin—" he winced again "—and sling a
hammock for me there. My lady, we'll speak further in the morning."
He bowed, withdrew through the still-open door, and closed it
behind himself.
    As if escaping from her presence.
    Definitely rude. And unromantic. And dratted. But he
hadn't sent her ashore and that had to be worth something.
    Now, if she could only convince him.

Chapter Four
     
    Cats.
    Fleming paced the weather-side quarterdeck. Nineteen
steps for'ard, brushing his scraper against the mainmast shrouds as
he turned. Nineteen steps astern, to the carved, curved taffrail.
Once, as a mathematical exercise, he'd calculated that one thousand
seven hundred and sixty steps equaled a rough mile, and twelve
steps into the ninety-third length of the quarterdeck gave him the
benefit of that much exercise. Of course, it was other captains,
less physically active ones or those who dined to excess, who
needed such benefit, and not him. But the common sailors, the
fo'c'slemen and reefers and waisters, were hidebound and
superstitious to a fault. They liked what they knew, knew what they
liked, and considered anything else unlucky. During the last
cruise, the Topazes had grown accustomed to seeing their captain
pacing the weather-side quarterdeck while he planned the next line
of attack. To keep them happy, he'd pace the weather-side
quarterdeck until he dropped.
    Calico cats. Orange tabbies. Purring kittens or
yowling barnyard bruisers, sailors as a rule didn't like cats. Cats
were considered unlucky at sea, and while Fleming had known notable
exceptions, felines of almost every description unaccountably
vanished during long voyages. It was a wonder the balmier Pacific
isles and the Canaries weren't swarming with former ships' pets,
scrambling into cutters and launches for rescue when frigates sent
boats ashore for watering.
    Clergymen, too, generally weren't welcomed aboard and
most captains refused them passage. Blue-light captains who felt
their faith strongly learned to camouflage their parsons as clerks,
pursers, or schoolmasters for the midshipmen — anything except what
they actually were. Better treated than cats, they weren't often
abandoned ashore, but shipping a clergyman tended to create an
unhappy crew.
    And corpses. Unluckiest of the three unlucky Cs,
carrying a corpse darkened a ship's spirits dreadfully. During
battle, it wasn't unusual for sailors to tip the fallen overboard
rather than hold them for a funeral service. Even a former best
mate wasn't safe once breath left the body.
    Nineteen steps for'ard. Brush the shrouds in the
turn. The dim quarterdeck, lit only by the stern lantern and the
few stars not yet eaten by the clouds marching down from the north,
stretched ahead of his restless feet. Fleming paced on.
    A Jonah approached the summit of unluckiness aboard
ships, but most sailors were hard pressed to define just what the
term entailed. It might be a failed master's mate, a
thirty-plus-year-old "young gentleman" passed over without
promotion to lieutenant, either from poor understanding of a
seaman's job or a lack of influence within the Navy Board. It might
be a survivor from a mutiny, who'd managed to convince the
court-martial captains he'd been knocked unconscious, awoke to find
the ship had been seized by the crew, and no blame could attach to
him. Whatever the Jonah's past circumstances, everything bad always
seemed to happen on his watch, to his gun or mast, when he was
around. And once a man — sailor, warrant officer, or commissioned
gentleman — was branded a Jonah, his days aboard ship were
numbered. His life continued only if he found his way ashore, post
haste.
    Fleming paused, gripping the taffrail. The dwindling
breeze caressed his left cheek and only a few stars still gleamed
in the south, behind him and over the Brittany peninsula. The wake
had waned as Topaze lost speed, but in the glow of the stern
lantern its remains still