Peggy Henderson Adventures 4-Book Bundle. Gina McMurchy-Barber

think Dr. Sanchez is grouchy now, wait until you find out what he’s like if he doesn’t get his morning potty time!” I squirmed — now that was a seriously gross image.

      “Why is it called the head anyways?” I asked to change the subject … slightly. “Kind of silly when they could just call it a toilet.”

      “That term came before the days of toilets. In the old days sailing ships had a tiny platform at the bow for sailors to use as a makeshift outhouse. By being in the very front of the ship, the area naturally became cleaned by splashing waves, and since the wind came from behind, it kept odours away from the rest of the crew. The bow also happened to be where they always fastened the figurehead of a beautiful woman or a bronze eagle or something. So if a sailor needed to relieve himself he would say he was going to the head of the ship.” Amanda had a way of making even the history of crapping sound interesting. Definitely some trivia TB would want to know when I got home.

      “I’m going on deck to check in with the captain. So why don’t you settle yourself in and come on up when you’re ready.” After Amanda left I crawled up onto my bunk and unpacked my clothes, placing them into a small compartment above. I felt like I was in a cozy little cave, being gently rocked by the waves. It must be how a baby in a cradle feels. Soon the rocking made me a little tired. I decided I’d lie down and read some of Captain Whittaker’s journal — just for a few minutes.

      February 27th, 1812

      All is ruined!

      Yesterday, while I was afoot in the village making arrangements for the grand dinner party in honour of King Kamehameha, I foolishly left Mister Lockhart aboard. The king arrived early and asked for a tour of the ship. When they came to the weapons room Mister Lockhart rudely refused our guest access, telling him “coloureds” are never permitted in our weapons storehouse. As told to me by my first mate, Mister Carver, the king was enraged — his face red with anger over Mister Lockhart’s comments. Thereafter he hastily left the ship.

      Typically it is my rule to never encourage aboriginals to board the ship in the event that their motives prove to be hostile. But on this occasion the king was guest of honour, so to refuse his request was not only foolish, but lacking manners. Had I been aboard this never would have happened.

      With Mister Lockhart’s previous failures in decorum we were already on shaky ground with the king. Indeed, the dinner aboard the Intrepid was intended to mend this rupture in our standing.

      The moment I returned to the ship I knew something was amiss from the wide-eyed stares of the men. When I was told the story I immediately sent out a messenger, but he was met at Kamehameha’s fortress by angry guards. When he came back visibly shaken I knew then that relations with the king had been severed.

      After the murder of my dear friend, Captain James Cook and his crew, I knew full well the potential danger with which we were faced. I ordered the men to be on the ready and to prepare for departure. After we had become enemies of King Kamehameha, I was sure that none of the chiefs from surrounding islands would do business with the Intrepid.

      Clearly we had no choice but to leave. Miserably, Mister Smythe, our assistant blacksmith, and two other crewmen, Mister Archiebald and Mister Lloyd had not yet returned from the east side of Big Island where they were exploring for usable minerals. I waited for them for as long as I felt was reasonably safe. If things had been different I would have sent forces to bring them back, but the longer we lingered the greater the risk to the rest of the crew and to the ship.

      When Kamehameha’s men started gathering by the hundreds on the shore I decided there was nothing further to be done and ordered that we pull up anchor and set sail. The best I can hope for now is that future relationships with Mister Astor’s fleet are not jeopardized and that the three crewmen left behind will go unharmed. My men were horrified that I left without Smythe and the others, but none will have to bear the guilt with which I am now burdened. I vow that on our return to New York I will find the first ship departing for the Sandwich Islands and instruct them to search for my men. I pray they remain safe until then.

      We are secure in our food source. The cattle which we brought from St. Catherine’s were in good circumstances, having been well refreshed on shore, and we were successful in procuring a good supply of grass for them. Nevertheless, I am worried about the men’s reaction and I fear we are in for an especially difficult stretch. They know to whom they can thank for this abrupt departure from paradise and the abandonment of their friends. I fear there may be some retaliation. For a time I will need to keep close eye on the crew, and keep Mister Lockhart close at hand so that no harm comes to him.

      Captain James Whittaker

      “Okay, Peggy, what needs to happen should we discover there is a leak?” asked Dr. Hunter as the crew sat around the galley that evening. I knew it was important to make a good impression, so I had to get this right.

      “Okay, once the deck hatches are opened, a crew member starts the bilge pump, while another gets out the extra buckets. The engine is not to be shut off, unless the leak is from the engine hoses.” The captain kept a steady gaze on me that made me a little nervous.

      “What if it’s not a leak? What if there’s an explosion or fire?”

      “Right, well then all crew needs to be ready to go overboard … with a life jacket. If possible use fire extinguishers. If not, cut off air to the area. If that doesn’t bring the fire under immediate control, someone should be on the radio calling out MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY!” I shouted, forgetting this wasn’t a real drill. “Use flares if help is in sight, gather all flotation devices available, and prepare to abandon ship.”

      “Good. What if the emergency is a man overboard?” Dr. Hunter continued testing.

      “MAN OVERBOARD, MAN OVERBOARD,” I shouted. “You keep shouting that until the skipper cuts the engine, all the while you never take your eye off the person in the water. When you can, throw a life ring or seat cushion to him. Whatever you do, don’t jump into the water to assist. That could mean two drowned crew members.” I suddenly realized those last words were written by Captain Whittaker in his log as he watched poor Albert Smedley drowning. The memory of it oozed back into my mind like soggy mud and made me shudder. I was glad that I was a strong swimmer.

      “Good work, Peggy. Now I can see why Edwina has so much faith in you. You’re a bright young lady.” I squirmed as the rest of the crew applauded — well, everyone except Dr. Sanchez. “Okay, it’s getting late. We’re going to let down anchor and catch a few hours of sleep.” I glanced out the porthole and was glad to see the town of Powell River nearby.

      “Dr. Hunter … I mean Captain Hunter … it’s only eight thirty. I’m a kid, and even I never go to bed this early.”

      “By the time we secure the boat, update our location with the Coast Guard, and tuck ourselves in it will be nine p.m. We’re up again at three thirty so we can get an early start before the wind and waves pick up.”

      Up at 3:30 a.m.? What was the point of going to sleep at all?

      Soon enough everyone aboard was fast asleep … everyone except me. I had all the ingredients for a good sleep … cozy berth, gentle waves, my favourite pillow from home … and I’d had a long and exciting day. But all the same I couldn’t sleep a wink. I reasoned it must have been because of the nap I’d had earlier in the day after reading Captain Whittaker’s journal. I tossed for a while longer hoping that I’d eventually nod off, but soon I knew it was futile. I had the top bunk so when I quietly rolled out of bed I did my best not to rest my feet on Amanda’s bunk. I sighed with relief when I heard her snoring softly. Then I made my way down the narrow hall, passed the engine room, which was eerily quiet, and on to the galley. I flicked on the small lamp that set off a warm glow in the tiny room. I noticed for the first time a small bookshelf above the porthole. On it was a neat row of books. I scanned the titles: Essays in Maritime Archaeology; Techniques for Identifying Trade Beads; Historic Relations Between European Traders and First Nations of the Northwest; and Methods for Preserving Artifacts Removed From a Saltwater Environment. They were all titles that would put your typical kid to sleep — but not me. I was about to