Howel Davis (Post 6)

The next day, I boldly reminded Davis that he was to show me how to “lay aloft.” I had prepped myself all morning, watching the seamen clamber deftly up the ratlines and inch out along the footropes hanging beneath the yards.  I fortified myself with lots of rum (I wondered at my increasing tolerance for alcohol – me, the woman who used to be such a lightweight in college) and followed Davis to the shrouds at the mainmast. Davis indicated the platform about one-third up the mast. “That’s where we’ll stop,” he said.

“We’re not going all the way up?” I asked, hopeful.

“Nay,” Davis replied, then smiled. “Not unless you want to.”

“No, that’s fine,” I said quickly. I observed that Sam sat mending a sail nearby, watching me with keen interest. He had been aloft already, moving like a panther high above the deck, confident and fearless. He was a natural. My eyes met his, and he almost smiled, lowering his eyes and returning to his work, his enormous hands working more nimbly than I thought possible.

Davis made a short, mocking bow. “Shall we, milady?”

I shot him a dirty look and began climbing the ratlines, keeping my eyes on the rope in front of me. Why was I doing this? Oh, right: respect. I wasn’t sure I would earn any if I fell. My arm still ached quite a bit, although I was able to use it now. Davis climbed behind me, grinning like the Devil every time I looked down at him. The rocking became increasingly pronounced, and my palms began to sweat. How far up was that top, anyhow? I looked up. Just too far. I began to press my body against the rope, freezing with fear. My injured shoulder throbbed, the pain shooting through my arm, to my fingers.

“Up we go, lad,” Davis encouraged, his voice faint in the wind.

“I can’t!” I cried, stealing a look down at him.

“Try, Will,” Davis insisted. I took a deep breath and, prying my hands from the ratlines, continued to climb, trying to move with the ship.  I was almost there. I could see the “lubber’s hole” at the end of the ratlines, could almost reach it…

The ship lurched, and my foot slipped. With a horrified cry, I clung to the ratlines tightly, dangling, trying to get a foothold. Davis’ hand was suddenly on my rear, lifting me. My foot touched a line, and as I started climbing again, my injured arm gave out. I slipped again, this time certain I would fall. Then Davis was behind me, around me, his body holding mine up. I felt the tight muscles of his thighs against mine, his body like a rock beneath me. He wrapped one powerful arm around my waist and pushed me back on to the ratlines. Pressed against me as he was, I could smell him – the perspiration mingling with an odor that was uniquely him –  and feel his warmth.

His voice was in my ear: “Have you got a grip now?” I nodded mutely, panting, and felt him push me gently, encouraging me up. I don’t know where I found the strength to climb up through the hole and onto the platform, but I did. I scooted to the mast and wrapped my arms around it, weaving my arms through various lines, desperate not to fall. Davis didn’t even bother with the lubber’s hole, climbing swiftly into the futtock shrouds and hopping easily onto the top, where I sat in a petrified ball.

Davis squatted before me and said, “Handsomely done, lad! Except for the last bit, there.” He flashed me that disarming grin, his cheeks ruddy in the wind.

“How do we get down?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

Davis lifted an eyebrow. “The same way we come up.”

I shut my eyes and whimpered. Davis was going to have a hell of a time prying me off the mast.

I managed to make my way back down to the deck, shaking and covered with a film of cold sweat. I wasn’t sure what had agitated me more, my near-death experience or my encounter with Davis. Not even the laughter and gibes of the crew drew me out of my haze as I mumbled something to Davis and hurried into the cabin where some slave women gathered, cleaning rice. They looked at me curiously as I rushed in, sitting quietly in a corner.

I had to calm down. I sat, trying to breathe evenly, trying to refocus. What was bothering me so much? That I had made an ass of myself? That far from earning the crew’s respect, I had probably earned more of their scorn? I listened to the creaking of the snow, feeling its now-familiar movements. Yes, all those things had bothered me, I suppose. But there was something else, something that over-shadowed the rest: my heightened awareness of Howel Davis’ touch, of his presence. Some four weeks had passed since that fateful day England had captured the Cadogan, and with each day I found that my mood improved, my desire to survive in this strange place renewed. This was in spite of the hateful sailors, the terrified slaves. It was in spite of my dire situation, in spite of everything that had happened to me. There was only one reasonable explanation, only one way I could feel so alive when I had so little to live for.

I was falling for Howel Davis.

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