“No, it is not,” answered Neville. “Being on land helps, where there are some trees – albeit leafless – to break the wind. The breeze on the Bay was frightful cold, though, was it not?”
The two sat in an open two-seat carriage, finding its way through Baltimore from their hotel to the Stillwater place of business. Traffic was light, unlike the bustle of commerce in the streets when Marion had found the warehouse the previous spring. The horse pulling the carriage seemed to snort his approval of the weather as he negotiated the cobbled street. Maintenance had obviously been neglected here for some time – several cobbles were missing, giving the street a rather toothless look. Clumps of dirty snow to the sides didn’t help its appearance.
“Verily. But it’s better amongst these buildings, particularly when we are in a patch of sunshine.”
“Is this right, Ma’am?” asked the coachman.
“It’s Miss,” she responded, “And yes, here’s our destination at the corner. You can see the sign now.”
“Stillwater Rum Trading Company,” read Neville.
The thin-wheeled carriage found a hole, and the left rear of it dropped a foot.
“Oof!’ Marion exclaimed as the carriage drop sent her across Neville’s chest.
The driver reigned in his horse out of habit. The carriage could go nowhere for a while. “Sorry, Sir,” said the coachman.
“We’ll walk,” Marion said to him. “It’s only a few steps, and someone here has had the courtesy to clear the sidewalk of snow. Come on, Neville. Please pay the man. We can see he needs it now.”
Half a block along the street they pushed open the big, wooden unlocked door to Stillwater’s sales salon. A good-looking young man at a desk to the right of the door looked up as they entered. He immediately stood and approached to greet them. “Good morning Sir; Ma’am,” he said. “May I help you? Are you sure you mean to be here in the warehouse district?” He looked directly at Neville.
“Quite sure, my good man. May I know your name?”
“Oscar,” he said. “Oscar Goodman, chief salesman.” He looked to Neville again, “May I know your business, then, and your names?” he asked politely.
Again, Marion answered. “You already know mine, I believe,” Marion said. “It’s Stillwater. Marion Stillwater. Is my father about? Or Mister Arnold?”
Now the dumfounded Oscar looked back and forth from Neville to Marion, blinked twice, and gulped. His jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly, as a good salesman should.
“Miss Stillwater. I am so honored to meet you,” he gushed. He extended his hand, as he would to any man – but not a woman. Marion rewarded him with her firm handshake. Neville was now forgotten.
“Mister Goodman, this is my fiancé, Captain Neville Burton of the British Navy.”
Captain Neville Burton was a reasonably handsome young man, even dressed as an affluent civilian. Although he wasn’t a particular stickler for an unblemished uniform, he kept his clothes un-rumpled and himself tidy and close-shaven. When wearing his captain’s uniform, he might be described as striking. His build was “stocky”, but certainly not “heavy”, and his fathom of height helped offset his sturdiness. Above his sparkling bright blue eyes, he kept his light brown hair combed into a ponytail in the Naval officer’s fashion of the day. A black grosgrain ribbon kept it neat. His horrible left-handedness didn’t show, of course. Neither did his financial status. He kept his considerable money from previous prizes in Hoare’s Bank on Fleet Street in London. The amount would astound most captains but Neville would never divulge such a personal thing. Even at his young age, Neville had learned the advantages of keeping one’s life private.
“Oh, yes, sir, yes. I have heard of you.” He shook Neville’s hand quickly, but returned his gaze to Marion, as well he might, even if she were not his employer. A petit young lady of only five feet and two inches, even when holding her well-developed figure with straight posture, she commanded the notice of most men. Her hair, of a color between brown and blonde, was piled on her head like a large bun in a style currently popular in London. The pile of hair gave her a slight height advantage and left her small-featured face open for full view. Her quick smile, and lively, twinkling eyes gave evidence that she enjoyed being in her element.
“No, Miss, your father is not here, but Mister Arnold is in the back. I shall fetch him directly.”
Marion touched his arm as he turned, saying, “No need. We’ll go in. We’ll call if we need you.”
She and Neville pushed politely through the door into the office area where they spied Mr. Arnold at his desk.
Arnold looked up from his work to see who had come to invade his space and immediately jumped to his feet when he recognized Marion. “Hello, hello, hello,” he said. “It’s so very nice to see you again.”
“The feeling is mutual Mister Arnold,” she said.
“There’s a letter here for your father, but I believe it is your own handwriting. It arrived only this week past. It is marked ‘confidential’, so you see I have left it closed, and I wondered if it should be forwarded.”
“No need, Mister Arnold,” Marion said. “I wrote the same letter to my father twice. I wanted to be sure he knew our travel plans, and since I had no idea where he might be, I thought it best to send one here and one to Jamaica. Since he is not here, I must presume he is at home and will now stay there until we arrive. So, how goes the business here, Mister Arnold?”
“Quite well, Miss. We had some brief difficulty after you left and we had that Stearns fellow on for a while. When he left, we hired a rascal who did not much more than making big promises. He managed to keep on for about a month, but I finally discovered his deceit and sent him on his way. Mister Goodman, whom you just met, has been quite the opposite. He’s a straight up, knowledgeable salesman, with good connections to the Washington navy yard, it appears. We have our foot quite well in the door now.
“Since I have mentioned Mister Stearns, whom I had for a sales manager for a time last June – He dropped by two weeks ago…”
Marion and Neville exchanged concerned glances. “You didn’t suggest you’d hire him back, did you?” asked Marion.
“No, Miss. Your father made it quite clear when I informed him of the man last July that if I were to have him again, he would put me out.”
“And rightly so. The man has gone ‘round the bend, and he is very dangerous. He challenged Captain Burton here to a duel a year or so ago. I’m pleased to say it ended with Captain Burton’s sword through Mister Stearns’ shoulder. He attempted to kidnap me in France some months ago as well, and I later had the pleasure of sticking my dirk in the same shoulder. The British took him into custody for abducting one of their senior bureaucrats, but he has escaped. He has been here since then, you say? Did he divulge anything of his plans?”
“No, Miss. France? Why were you there? And participating in a knife fight…?”
Marion paused a moment, taken aback by her own revealing of information she should have considered sensitive but, without trying to sound snippy, answered simply, “Trying to sell some rum, of course. I’m sorry, Mister Arnold. I find I am still quite tired from our passage. Since father is not here, we shall book passage as soon as we can for Jamaica. Please prepare a full accounting of the business records for us to take along.”
“Yes Miss, but it will take some time for the copying.”
“I understand, but I doubt we can book passage in less than a fortnight.”
3: Speedwell
Neville entered after stomping his boots outside the door, and approached Marion and Ellen, still brushing snow from his cloak.
“You’re late, Captain Burton. As you see, we have begun our luncheon,” Marion said.
The hotel’s dining room was much warmer than the outdoors. The two women sat near a large fireplace built into a stone wall at the room’s end. Rich local walnut paneling covered the remainder of the room’s walls. The wood reflected the warmth of candle light from several decorative
sconces placed above the dining tables, giving the entire room the ambiance of a proper London gentlemen’s club. Snow piled on the muntins of the window panes and the muted sunshine of an overcast day gave proof a storm had begun. A valet appeared from some unknown hiding place and took Neville’s cloak to hang where it might dry.
“Another chair please,” Neville said to the valet. He addressed the ladies: “I have good news and bad, my dears. Which would you like first?”
“I’ll always take the good news first, Neville. I’m sure the bad news has something to do with the storm outside.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, but first – the good news. I have found a ship for us. She is the English brig Speedwell. I’m told she’s quite a fast ship. There will be only five passengers, one of whom is a doctor, and she was to have sailed four days ago.”
“Was, Neville? What do you mean ‘was’?”
“There’s the bad news, I’m afraid. You have noticed it’s snowing, as you’ve said. Snow has piled up about three inches just this morning, and it shows no sign of stopping. Surely, a ship might sail in this if she were ready, but the streets will not allow the carriage of supplies and might also delay the arrival of the ship’s company if they have gone on leave.”
“And so…?” queried Ellen.
“So, we wait, of course. I suspect at least a week. We can hope for a midsummer’s wedding in Jamaica, Marion. I, myself, intend to tramp about in the snow a bit to find a good book… Waiter, a tankard of ale, please.”
* * * * *
Speedwell stood from Baltimore’s harbor in mid-March of 1807, carrying five paying passengers and a cargo of ice.
“Ice, Master Carstens? In winter? Whatever for?” Marion asked. “It’s no wonder the ship is so cold below. I suppose it explains the reasonable passenger fare.”
“Ice, yes,” answered Carstens, ignoring the latter comment. “It’s a relatively recent trade started by a Mister Tudor. They harvest ice in New England and ship it to places that will never otherwise have any. You can keep your milk or a bit of raw beef cool in an icebox for several days without spoiling, you see?”
“Why doesn’t it all melt before we get there?”
“We pack it in sawdust. It keeps for months.”
“Oh,” Marion said. She changed the subject to one of the other passengers. “Is Mister Barron all right? He looked a bit gray the last I saw him.”
“I think he’s gone to see Doctor Stortford about some stomach ailment. I pray ‘tis nothing more than the confused seas we have experienced over the last few days. If you are feeling chilled, I might recommend you sit in the general mess near the cook’s fires. It is warmest there.”
Marion grunted a weak, “Thank you,” and went off to find Neville. She found him exactly where Master Carstens had indicated, sitting by the cook’s fires, reading the book he had found in Baltimore: “A General History of The Pyrates,” by Captain Charles Johnson (1724). Ellen had found the warm space, too, and sat reading her book of poetry by the American Mercy Otis Warren. They both looked up when she entered.
“Have you heard about Mister Barron? Master Carstens tells me he has gone to see the doctor about a stomach ailment. This seems too much like our last passage. Do you remember what his business is?”
“Almost the same as Mister Garby’s, I believe. I haven’t spent too much time talking with him. He is either secretive or has been lying ill in his cabin.”
“Perhaps you should go see him and ask, Neville.”
“Should we all go? If he is ill, he might appreciate knowing he has our best wishes.”
“If I have a choice, I’m staying away,” Ellen said. “If it is anything like Mister Garby, I don’t wish to take a second chance at some illness.”
“She’s right, Neville. And you wouldn’t want to see your fiancée ill either, would you? Will you go check on him for us?”
Neville gave them both a blank stare, closed his book, and walked from the room. He returned in about twenty minutes to find Ellen still reading and Marion stitching something on a small piece of white cloth. His expression was difficult to grasp, but it did not look good to Marion. “What is it, dear? You look a bit… disconcerted. What did you discover?”
“Mister Barron is not only in the same business as Mister Garby, he is Mister Garby’s assistant – or maybe I should say, his successor.”
“Mister Garby has decided not to travel on to Jamaica and sent Mister Barron in his stead?” asked Ellen.
“Not exactly. Mister Barron inherited the mission when Mister Garby died.”
“Died?” parroted both Marion and Ellen.
“Yes, the disease had apparently almost consumed him by the time he arrived in Baltimore. He lasted only another week, despite appearing better than he had in months.”
“What did Doctor Stortford have to say about Mister Barron, then?”
“What he said sounded very much to me like what Doctor Notter had said about Mister Garby.”
“So, did you tell him how Doctor Notter treated Mister Garby?”
“I thought about it, but we now know his treatment did not succeed. I thought it best to let Doctor Stortford try his own methods.”
* * * * *
“We are into the Great Stream already, Master? Only a day and a half away from the Chesapeake Bay? This seems quite rough,” Neville said.
“A bit rough, aye, but it means we have warmer weather coming soon. It should take less than a day to cross.”
Master Carstens’ estimated correctly. One day further along their course to Bermuda took Speedwell into a day of blue skies and warm sun. The ship’s motion became far gentler here than it had been in the Stream. The passengers, absent Mr. Barron, gathered on deck for a chat in the fresh air.
“Doctor Stortford,” Ellen said, “how is Mister Barron today?”
“Not well, I am afraid. Just when it seems he is ready to get up, he falls again.”
“Should we put him ashore somewhere, Master Carstens? I am sorry to sound harsh, but we now know his predecessor died – probably of this disease. It doesn’t seem wise to expose the rest of us to this danger a second time.”
“Not wise, perhaps, but certainly impractical. Captain Burton, you know our sailing situation. We are on a sou’-east course but will turn south – east of the Bahamas – before sailing as far as Bermuda. Our other alternative, which does not intrigue me given the weather, is to double back to Baltimore. After we have gone some days south from Bermuda, there are more ports in the United States from which to choose. I will not order a course change at this time, but I will ask Doctor Stortford to continue watch over Mister Barron and advise me if he believes a change in his condition warrants more immediate action. What is your opinion, Captain Burton?”
“I must agree with you, Master Carstens, as much as I would like it otherwise. If you will all excuse me, I believe I am feeling the heat in this strong sunshine. Perhaps I’m a bit tired, as well, from standing a watch for you last night…”
“For which I am thankful,” Carstens said, “It was a great help.”
“Right, then. I’ll take my book to my cabin for an hour or so.”
“A history book, Sir? It should put you right to sleep.”
4: Delirium
“Where’s Neville now?” asked Ellen at the beginning of supper. “I’ve never known him to miss a meal.”
“Neither have I,” Marion said. “Quite unusual, but I agreed with Master Carstens that his history book should have put him to sleep. I’ll go knock on his cabin door.”
The supper assembly of passengers and ship’s officers heard a shriek from forward not two minutes later, and Marion came running, holding her skirts up in front to do so. She burst into the salon and yelled, “Doctor, please come quickly! Neville won’t wake, and he’s quite hot.”
“Pray not another,” the doctor said, jumping to his feet. He followed Marion back the way she had come.
After a quick examination, Dr. Stortford t
urned to Marion and said, “it looks much like Mister Barron, I’m afraid. I am amazed it has come on so suddenly.”
“Not if you consider we have been aboard ship with Mister Garby for over two months,” Marion said.
After a few minutes more of looking into Neville’s eyes and feeling his pulse, Dr. Stortford departed to consult his books for some poultice he might try. He left Marion and Ellen to swab Neville’s head with a cold wet cloth.
“Oh, Ellen, what is happening? I couldn’t bear to lose him now…”
“You won’t lose him, Marion,” comforted Ellen. “He is a much stronger man than Garby or Barron; and younger, too, I am sure.” She sat next to Marion on the edge of the bed and held her free hand. “Say prayers for him and believe in your fiancé. He will be with us for many years.”
In half an hour, Neville’s temperature had dropped considerably.
“Let’s leave him now, Marion,” Ellen said. “He’s resting comfortably, and you need something to eat if you’re going to continue to help. Maybe the cook can find us some hot soup.”
* * * * *
Neville realized he was lying on the deck of a ship. His head thumped. I’m confused. I thought I just saw Marion and Ellen, but under very different circumstances. What’s all this pandemonium? Men were running about and shouting. A cannon fired nearby. Oooh, my ears are ringing – and my chest hurts. Something is on top of me… ah, someone’s lifting it off. A face appeared above him.
“He’s awake, you say?” some man asked.
“Aye, down here.”
“Lieutenant Miller?” he asked, “of La Desirée?”
“Aye. Of course, La Desirée – in the battle off Cabo Trafalgar, Sir. You’ve been unconscious this last quarter glass.”
Miller turned and yelled to a pair of passing sailors, “Take him below!”
The Delirium Passage Page 2