by Mark J Rose
“Details,” Ferguson insisted. He reached up and rubbed his temples. Trent knew to wait until Ferguson was looking straight at him. His boss’s eyes had glazed, and he was somewhere far away. Trent knew how to navigate the idiosyncrasies of topping men and he, himself, had become singularly wealthy based on his own parts. He gave his masters precisely what they wanted, exactly when they wanted it.
“He’s comfortable with command,” Trent replied, once his boss’s eyes had cleared. “He never suffered that they took his commission.”
“You don’t like them very much,” Ferguson proclaimed, almost as if he could hear some subtle distaste in Trent’s voice.
“Don’t like who sir?” Trent replied, trying to soften his tone and hide any betrayals from his posture. Trent prided himself in his ability to disguise his emotions. It perplexed him when Ferguson saw right through his mask. Sometimes it was as if the man knew what he was going to say and do before he knew himself.
“You don’t like the East India folks,” Ferguson clarified, and then he looked back expectantly.
Trent tried to be as truthful as he could so as not to risk belaying his boss’s trust. Trent was recruiting new men every week for Ferguson Industries, and one in three had come from The Company. “Distasteful manner about them,” Trent replied. “Too entitled. I’m vexed to fill our ranks with men who act as mercenaries. They’ll make their gold any way they can and damn the consequences.”
“They have an air,” Ferguson said. “I will allow.”
Trent nodded. “You can only employ so many of these men before they corrupt the whole.”
“Shattered ambitions. They’ll not put a period to it until they taste fortune again.”
“I know their designs,” Trent explained, “but ultimately, it’ll be destructive.”
“No doubt.”
“You fear this too?”
Ferguson half nodded. “For now, we should be organized to take full advantage of their ambition without placing ourselves at risk.”
“I understand, Sir Ferguson,” Trent finally said.
“That all then?”
“We must discuss the profit report.”
Ferguson stared back silently.
“Can our manufacturing endeavor to lose money for three years?” Trent asked.
“Let me worry about that.”
“Our hiring is precipitous, and at too high of a wage.”
“I can operate for years without a profit.”
“It’s not certain why you’d want to,” Trent replied.
Ferguson waved him off. “Hire ambitious men at the going rate and let me worry about the cost. Anything else?”
“No sir,” Trent replied. He watched Ferguson open his desk drawer, pull out a heavy leather purse and hand it to him. Its weight was enough to squelch any questions that remained. “Thank you, Sir,” Trent said. He bowed slightly
Ferguson smiled. “Hire this new man. Ferguson Enterprises should be filled with such men.”
“Yes, sir.” Trent turned to put his hand on the door.
Ferguson spoke from behind him as he was leaving. “If Mr. Hawke is out there, you can tell him to come in.”
Trent opened the door, walked through an anteroom that was almost the size of Ferguson’s office, and closed the door behind. He saw Hawke, an impossibly enormous man stuffed into a wool suit and silk stockings, sitting there on a padded chair that he had pulled from a nearby writing desk. Trent walked to him and said, “He’s ready for you now.”
Hawke slowly rose to his feet as he glared heavily into Trent’s face. Hawke always filled Trent with trepidation, but Trent did his best to meet the man’s glare with as much nonchalance as he could muster. Hawke slipped past him without saying a word and let himself into Ferguson’s office. Trent pulled the chair and sat down at the writing desk once he heard the click of the shutting door. He hoped to complete his notes and retire before he heard Hawke count one.
Chapter 8
The Black Ship
Matt lost track of time as the young sailors, Tom Porter and Ebenezer Grey, rowed hypnotically through the smooth, cold water of the Atlantic. They’d bring the boat to full speed, stop to let it glide silently through the water, scan across the fog for shadows, and then listen for sounds through the grey mist. Their oars would touch the water again before the boat stalled and the cycle of row, glide and observe would repeat. First Lieutenant Jay, kneeling in the front of the craft, checked his compass, whispered corrections to their course, blinked his eyes and went back to peering ahead into the fog.
Matt was mostly unable to see around Jay, so he focused on listening. He cupped his hand to his ear and turned his head to give him the best possible chance of recognizing their quarry. Matt was the first to signal. The oars came out of the water, and the four men froze. They held their breath as Matt cupped his hand to his ear again. The sounds that carried in the fog would have been mistaken for the splashing of waves, but not today, when the water was a sheet of glass.
Jay motioned for them to stay low as they silently drifted forward. He pointed with two fingers to the faint outline that had appeared off their port bow, and then put his finger up to his lips. The soft sounds of a man calling out strokes were distinct under the layer of fog. Jay pulled a brass telescope from a case on his belt, extended its sections, put it to his eye and fixed it upon the tiny dark shadow that appeared in between concealing strands of drifting grey fog. “By God, that’s it,” Jay whispered. “Capital, Mr. Miller.”
“Colors?” Matt asked quietly.
“Matters not,” Jay replied, taking his eye from the brass tube. “What do you make of her?” Jay handed the telescope to Matt and then sat to give him an unobstructed view. Matt could just make out the ship’s masts along with the outline of the front of her bow. She was headed straight for them. There was a wide smudge in front of the ship, that first presented itself as an illusion in the shimmering fog, but closer inspection recognized it as two longboats. The vessels were still far enough away to fade in and out of the flowing grey mist.
“Are they towing her?” Matt asked softly.
“Seems,” Jay said.
“We should return to warn the Norfolk,” Matt proclaimed.
“Not until we come around her,” Jay said. “She’s big. We want her guns.”
Matt looked out into the distance and estimated the circumference they’d need to row to have a view of the ship’s side. It seemed impossibly long. “How’re we gonna do that?” he whispered. Jay pointed off to the starboard side of the approaching ship like it was no big deal, but Matt wasn’t convinced “She’ll be on the Norfolk before we have a chance to warn them,” Matt said.
Jay waved him off. “They’ve been at it all night, and it’s church work. They’ll come close and then wait out the fog.” Jay stooped to direct Porter and Grey where to row and to remind them to do it quietly. They set their oars in the water now, doing their best to break and leave its surface with a smooth and silent transition. Jay put the glass up to his eye.
Matt reached down to touch the scabbard of his saber sitting on the floor of the boat. His senses, supercharged with the adrenaline that coursed through him, made the rhythmic sound of the oars seem as loud as a steam locomotive. Jay handed Matt his telescope to not his compass from his pocket and so Matt used the glass to assess their assailant. They were almost able to see the starboard side of the pirate ship to count her cannons. Porter and Grey let the boat glide, and Matt dropped the telescope to listen. The fog hissed as it melted into the water.
“They’ve stopped rowing,” Matt said.
“Resting,” Jay replied. He looked again at his compass and back to the direction of the Norfolk.
Matt raised the telescope to his eye and discovered they had only a little farther to see the entire side of the vessel. “We’re getting there,” Matt said. “I can almost see her starboard.”
“They’ve changed course?” Jay whispered surprised.
“I’l
l be able to count her guns in a moment.”
Jay snatched the telescope from Matt’s eye. Matt scowled angrily at him, but Jay already had the brass tube to his face. There were flashes on the horizon. “Down!” Jay shouted as he turned and dived into his three companions, nearly capsizing their boat. The booming came frantically after, followed by cannonballs whistling all around them and dropping into the water. Their boat rocked violently. “Fifth-rate!” Jay shouted. “She’s turned on us. Take us out of here!” He pointed back in the direction of the Norfolk. The two young sailors grabbed their oars in a panic and had the boat rowing at full-speed almost immediately.
Matt stooped as Jay scanned aft through the glass. “Down!” he yelled again, and they all dropped onto the wet floor of the rowboat. The cannonballs from this second broadside fell short, but a few skipped across the water to splash close behind them.
“Look alive,” Jay commanded. The young sailors sat up again to resume their frenzied rowing as the swells from the broadside rocked their boat. The pirate ship was already disappearing as it melted into the fog. They heard the cannons fire twice more, but they were now far enough out of range for the splashes to fall harmlessly into the water. The fog engulfed them again. There was silence except for the heavy breathing of the young men and the slosh of their oars as they entered the water.
“How big?” Matt asked finally.
“Thirty-six guns,” Jay replied.
“Can we match her?”
Jay shook his head. “We should run.”
Chapter 9
Therapist
Patrick’s head was searing with pain after Hawke left, but it gave him nothing but smiles. On this day, Hawke had earned his gold. The rush of visions hit Patrick like a tidal wave, and he sloshed and rolled in a froth of events and people. He had long since learned to surf the waves; it had been a productive session, filled with images he expected to see again. There was one anomaly on the horizon that was taunting him, though. He was sure that it was Matthew Miller, and he was impatient to meet this shadow.
“Missus Crane,” he called from his desk.
The woman came bounding in, quill in hand. Patrick liked this about her; she was all business.
“I want a grand party at the manor,” he said. “Create a stir.”
“We’ll want a few weeks to plan,” she said. “How big?”
“Fill it.”
“Pretty penny,” she said. “Anyone in particular?”
Patrick waved his hand at the mention of cost. “The American delegation,” he replied. “Whoever’s in London.”
She looked at him knowingly. “Tell me who, specifically.”
“You know me too well,” he proclaimed. “Benjamin Franklin. Franklin is expecting a guest from America, a man named Matthew Miller who should be strongly encouraged. None should know they are singular in any way.”
She nodded. “The invitations will go out still, and our agents will create a stir. Do you have a theme?”
The anticipation was almost too much for Patrick to bear. He’d challenge the unknown for as long as possible. “A masquerade,” he replied.
Chapter 10
Sarah Morris Mifflin
“It’s at the home of Sir Ferguson,” Thomas said, showing Sarah the invitation that she had known to expect. “That estate that fascinates you so.” He scrutinized her face. “Do you find his wealth attractive?”
“Husband,” Sarah said. “I am proud of the life you have made for me.”
“And yet I have not surpassed the success enjoyed by the widow Morris and her beautiful daughter.”
“’Tis only a matter of time,” Sarah replied. He looked at her with some doubt. She stepped forward, kissed him passionately, and lingered at his lips. “The widow Morris’s daughter cherishes much more about you than your considerable success, and ’twill still be thus.” It was the truth, and she hoped that she had been adamant enough to reassure Thomas, a man she respected and loved deeply. She had no admiration for Patrick Ferguson. In fact, she wanted to scream when she thought about the trouble he could cause, but there was no way to explain that to her husband.
Ferguson’s estate had long played an active part in her dreams. She’d gotten better at interpreting her visions of the future, and sometimes could predict events almost as they occurred. She considered this a victory over the universe that had thrust her through a wormhole into colonial America against her will. Unfortunately, the events that involved Ferguson were cloudy. Her dreams swirled around him like colors of paint mixing in a can. She had filled entire journals with the stories she saw in her head, but when it came to Ferguson, her visions were clear as mud.
Matt Miller was less cloudy, so she spent weeks piecing together his future in an attempt to define Ferguson’s, but nothing was certain. Lately, too, some shadow had crossed in front of them all. It was only a glimpse, but it made her suspect that someone else had been caught in the reactor accident, someone they hadn’t met. The ambiguity had driven her crazy enough to convince her husband that she should accompany him on his trip to London so she could “help his business.”
Thomas Mifflin’s import-export business relied heavily on English traffic, and efforts to strengthen his partnerships were essential. When she wasn’t busy with the Morris bakeries, Sarah had demonstrated her worth on a number of occasions by working through the wives and families of his associates. She took supreme satisfaction in being a dutiful wife in public until she could shepherd her sisters aside and discuss the possibilities of a lady’s future in a burgeoning America.
The future she talked about was one that many eighteenth-century women hoped for but feared to discuss. Wives and mothers, once they were comfortable enough to speak, inundated her with their dreams for their daughters. It satisfied Sarah to plant a seed of constructive discontent in their minds, but she also enjoyed the benefit of their wisdom. Older women, especially, taught Sarah about religion, marriage, and family, and she envied their keen sense of community. Active relationships with other women, friends, and relations, fulfilled them in a way that had been foreign to Sarah and her mother.
“We shall want costumes,” Thomas said, interrupting Sarah’s thoughts.
“Costumes?”
“It’s a masquerade.”
Nothing in her visions had told her to expect a costume party, which was vexing. Sarah and her mother had befriended Patrick Ferguson in Philadelphia a decade earlier after he found them using the same cell phone they all brought from the future. He left their home suddenly and returned to England to escape the enemies he’d made gambling. It took Sarah days to realize that he’d stolen her backpack containing four college textbooks. She’d had maybe a dozen visions since then predicting that harm would come from these books.
The theft didn’t bother Sarah much at the time; she didn’t need textbooks to help build a bakery business. Matt Miller was the one who had made her realize the danger of them falling into the wrong hands. Ferguson, an Englishman from her own time with delusions of grandeur and notions of preventing the American Revolution, was the epitome of the wrong hands.
Sarah had hoped to melt into Philadelphia society and forget about Patrick Ferguson forever, but any chance of that disappeared when Benjamin Franklin walked into their lives. As the relationship between Franklin and her mother grew, Franklin became a regular fixture at the Morris bakeries and coffee shops across the city. His fame alone was enough for them to become gathering places for politicians, merchants, and community leaders in Philadelphia.
Franklin, a lightning rod for discourse, was a staunch Loyalist who always argued the Crown’s case. It had seemed natural one day for Sarah to listen to one of these heated exchanges. She met the men’s frowns with the excuse that she needed to get off her feet; they swiftly forgot about her as they argued the issues of the day. When the stunningly handsome and passionate Thomas Mifflin stood up to state his case for an autonomous American government, Sarah’s eyes filled with stars.
; They had been married five years now, and she feared for their lives almost every day. Her love for Thomas made her rue the day she let her guard down and allowed Patrick Ferguson to steal her books, one of which, a college history book, was entitled The American Experiment. It contained dates, names, and actions of every man and woman who played an essential role in the American Revolution. It told of acts of treason punishable by death. She couldn’t remember her husband being explicitly named in the book, but she knew many of their friends were.
Sarah’s intent to join her husband in London was more than fact-finding. She’d seek out Patrick Ferguson and retrieve her textbooks. She was prepared to do whatever it took.
Chapter 11
Thomas Mifflin
Thomas Mifflin studied his wife while he held her waist in his hands. Some days she seemed the opposite of everything he was supposed to think attractive in a woman, and yet she lit a fire in his very soul. She was two women: one in public, another behind closed doors. The public Sarah was a dutiful wife and socialite who talked of trivial things and endeared herself to all. She attended the quilting parties, and she organized events to raise silver to care for the orphans of Philadelphia.
Behind closed doors, though, she was a tigress. Thomas knew her to be more lettered than himself, and she could go toe to toe with any man on those rare occasions when she dropped her facade. It was only he, her mother, and Benjamin Franklin who knew the real Sarah. He learned of her close connection with Franklin one day when he overheard Sarah letting loose with Franklin about an indiscretion involving William Allen, the mayor of Philadelphia. Thomas had proved her often, since, by asking detailed questions about current events, and it was rare when there wasn’t an advanced understanding to be found in her answers.
Sarah leaned against him in her thin silk dress, and he thought of their marriage bed. She had taken him on journeys of marital bliss that he durst not hint of to his fellows in the pub. He knew Sarah had a secret. Despite her attempts to hide her intellect from the world, her uncommon letters were unmistakable, made the more secretive by some pact she had with Franklin and her mother. Thomas had asked Sarah about her connection with Franklin before, and she had reacted the same every time. She’d pull him close, kiss him passionately, and explain that it as an old family issue that concerned her father. “And you want not to fret,” she’d say. “’Tis nothing that would bring us disgrace.”