by Jill Barnett
“You come. You come.” The little man nodded, still wearing that toothy expression. He tapped a curved nail on the dark brown silk tunic that covered his frail torso. “Chi Ho. Chi Ho.”
Abner grunted in pain. He had to get out of there while he could still walk. He pushed himself up and Chi Ho repeated, “You come. Chi Ho take you.” Putting his arm around Abner’s bent waist, he helped him into the alley through a small side door.
The medication had hardly dulled the sharp pain. Abner was so consumed by it that he wasn’t even aware of where Chi Ho took him, nor did he care. All he wanted was the relief of a sweet, medicated sleep.
It seemed like timeless hours later when Abner choked on a strange-smelling smoke. He opened his eyes, and the little man stood over him waving a long skewer with a smoldering ball. Abner tried to push it away from his face, but the man persisted. Abner was weak and drained and he could barely hold Chi Ho’s arm. He just wanted to sleep. “Let me sleep . . . please.” The smoke continued to drift at him, and Abner laid there, somnolent, as the black ball of opium paralyzed the pain in a way the laudanum couldn’t.
Chapter Seven
“Ohhh-ohhh, here’s to the man who darts a whale
And lives to ‘poon an-nah-ther-r.
Here’s to the man who irons a whale
And lives to ‘poon an-nah-ther-r.
He’s a hook-ker, yes indeed!
He’s a hook-ker, yes indeed!
He s a hook-ker, yes indeed!
Exactly like his mah-h-ther-r!”
“Shut up, Lee! I’ve almost got it!” Kit crept a little higher in the dirt ridge, but still balancing one Lee’s shoulders. Lee hiccupped. He looked down over his shoulder, giving the famous Howland evil eye to Lee, who was grinning and now humming another verse to his drunken ditty.
Kit tightened his gripping hands on the rough edge of the rock ledge. His reflexes slowly, very slowly reacted to the misty commands of his brain, both being greatly dulled by the quantity of rum he’d consumed. His right leg inched higher up the steep, sandy cliff, until his knee was almost touching his nose. His damp trousers smelled like dirt and crushed grass and . . . he sniffed once—dead fish, old dead fish.
The wobbly shoulder on which he was standing hiccupped again, and Kit almost fell. “Dammit, Lee! Hold still!”
“Can’t. Got th’iccups.”
“Then hold your breath! You were the one who had to have these damn eggs!”
“Um . . . hic . . . um.”
“Murre eggs, for Christ’s sake,” Kit grumbled. “Now give me a boost, I’ve almost got ‘em.” He reached up and felt around the nest until his hands touched the cool eggshells. He carefully handed them down to Lee.
“Now you’ve got your precious eggs.” Kit jumped off Lee’s shoulders and landed with surprising grace for someone whose breath was probably strong enough to crack a mirror. He looked down at his clothes. They were filthy, and soaking, and damn cold. Why he’d let himself get smooth-talked into this escapade was beyond him. He was tired, frozen, and his head was blooming with the seeds of what felt like a real hummer of a headache. He looked at Lee, who clutched his egg-filled hat to his chest like a greedy child holds his first toy. He was still humming.
“Come on, let’s get back to the skiff and off this hellhole of an island. It’s going to take forever to row back to Sausalito.” Kit shoved his icy hands in the pockets of his wool coat and walked along the water’s edge, muttering, “How the hell did they come up with a name like Angel Island? This place is so cold, no angel’d come near it. Or better yet, tread on it.” Kit let loose with a scornful laugh. “I guess we know who the fools are. Right, Lee?”
“Hic.”
Well, at least I know he’s still behind me. Kit stood on one side of the small boat while he waited for his wobbly friend to help him shove off. The snapping cold and the hurt in his head had done a great job of sobering him up. He watched through pain-squinted eyes as Lee gently placed his eggs in a safe corner of the boat.
“Ready?” Kit asked.
Lee nodded, and from his chipmunk like cheeks, Kit assumed he was holding his breath again. They shoved off, both men sprinting into the skiff with a mariner’s ease that even a few pints of rum couldn’t blot out.
“You . . . hic . . . row first. I’ve . . . hic . . . got to ge—hic—et rid of the—hic—ese.”
Kit rowed, thankful for the warming action. It lessened his headache. The only sounds were an occasional hiccup and the quiet swish of the rowing oars.
Suddenly, Lee started to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was th—hic—inking.”
“About what?”
“‘Bout your face.”
“God, you’re drunk.”
“No . . . hic . . . really! You look jus—hic—st like ya did at Millie’s. Hic.”
“And you find that funny?”
“No.” Lee grinned, still hiccupping. “But did you see, hic, Hallie’s fa—hic—ce when the chowder came?”
“She was as red as a snapper, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. That Fredriksen brood is a handful.”
Lee’s face lit up. “Hey, my hiccups are gone. Thinking about that sweet girl cured me!”
Kit’s headache rushed back in full force and throbbed whenever he thought of that “sweet” girl. His hands tightened on the oars and his rowing sped up.
“Who’d have ever thought that awkward girl would grow into the flower she is?” Lee clucked his tongue a few times. “Those are some petals.”
“And that’s one flower you’re not to pollinate.” Kit dug the oars in the water, and the small boat lurched forward with a sudden burst of speed.
Lee pulled out a flask and toasted Kit. “I’ll leave that to you.” He took a swig, straddling the short bench that sheltered his murre eggs.
“Knock it off, Lee, or I’ll throw those damn eggs of yours overboard. The last thing I need right now is a damn woman—girl, whatever—and remember, she’s Jan’s daughter.”
“Unload your muzzle, Kit, I was only giving you a bit of lip. The way I feel about Jan extends to his family, too. You know that. Here,” he shoved the flask toward Kit, “have a swig. You need to lighten up. You were almost your old, fun-loving self a while ago. Drink up!”
Kit wouldn’t touch it. As it was, his head felt like it would explode any minute. “More of that rotgut? Sweet Jesus, Lee, how can you swill any more of that piss?”
“Hell, old buddy, this is great piss rum. Guaranteed to put hair on your chest!” Lee took one last chug and recapped the bottle with a drunken flourish. He leaned back with his eyes closed, resting his head on the side of the bow. It wasn’t too long before all Kit heard was a soft snore.
The last day or so Lee had helped clear Kit’s clogged mind, at least, about the Taber-Fredriksen contract. The rum had helped him forget about his aunt. Like Lee had said, “Why get so upset before she gets here? There’ll be plenty of opportunity for that after she arrives.”
But when he’d found thoughts of Hallie constantly creeping through his mind, he’d forced himself to relive every vicious moment of his marriage to Jo. The shattering memories of his wife screaming that she didn’t want or need his love. All she needed was for him to hop on that precious ship of his and sail off into the blue, then she wouldn’t have to suffer his touch or listen to his claims of love. She really couldn’t have cared less whether he loved her or not.
He had entered that marriage with the naive surety that his marriage would fulfill his dreams of a loving woman, one with whom he could share the fantasies of his heart. He’d had that heaven with Jo those first few years, until that one long, fateful voyage that kept him away from his wife. He had thought the separation was hell until he got home, then he really knew what hell was. Jo didn’t love him anymore; he’d
been gone so long he had lost her.
Those remembrances provided a painful cure to the symptoms that had been plaguing him lately. Ever since Hallie backed into his office, flashes of her kept triggering his mind and his body. The only protection he could use to guard his cracked heart were the humiliating memories of his dichotomous marriage, and then, miserable, he’d stupidly try to cover his cold pain with a blanket of rum. The next thing he knew, he and Lee had left the warmth of Richardson’s supply shack and they were rowing toward Angel Island to get those stupid eggs.
As Kit neared the shoreline, a gust of frigid wind hit his damp back. His teeth started to chatter. He rowed harder, picturing warm, dry woolen blankets, picturing the melting glow of a blazing fire, and picturing the one thing he wanted to forget: a tall blond woman whose touch sent heat blistering through his skin.
The skiff slapped into the sandy shore. While Lee slept on, Kit tugged off his boots and damp coat and flung them onto the beach. He turned and dove into the icy swell, surfacing a few feet from shore. As he bobbed in the freezing water, he justified his impulse with the rationalization that he needed to think about something other than Hallie Fredriksen.
Early Saturday morning Kit sat across from Lee, watching him consume the last two eggs.
“Ummmm . . . perfect.” Lee shoveled another heaping forkful of the red delicacy onto a thick slab of bread. His red-whiskered cheeks bulged when he stuffed enough for three men into his mouth.
Kit shook his head. “I’ve never seen anyone who can put it away like you. The way you’ve been hunched over plates of food lately, it’s a wonder you’re not the size of a whale.”
“I’ve been doing other things besides eating. And it doesn’t matter how much I ‘put away,’ I work it off.” Lee wiggled his eyebrows. “Remember last night?”
Kit groaned. “I’d like to forget it.”
“You probably would, since you weren’t exactly what I’d call lively. I haven’t seen you look that bored since you lost that bet and had to spend three hours at Pastor Treadwell’s prayer meeting.” Lee set down his fork and added, “You know what you need?”
“Yes. But no doubt you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“You need to relax a little. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Lee put a heaping forkful of his precious eggs under Kit’s nose. “Here, try some.”
The smell of eggs and onions, mixed with some bloody-looking thing called a tomato, was enough to make Kit ill. He pushed Lee’s hand away. “God no, you couldn’t pay me to taste that foul-smelling concoction.”
Lee shrugged. “It’s your loss, old friend.” He took a couple more bites and then set the fork down. “What was wrong with you last night?”
“Just tired,” Kit lied. He wished he knew what was bothering him. Last night he’d sat there, in a room full of people, half of whom were friends, and he was suddenly overcome with the feeling that he didn’t belong there. He felt conspicuous, and of all things, lonely. It was the oddest feeling. But then, he’d been antsy and itchy since they’d arrived at Richardson’s Landing.
He drained his coffee mug. The crowd in the small wooden shack was getting to him, along with the smell. He stood up abruptly. “I’m going to get some air. I’ll meet you outside when you’re finished.” Lee gave an egg-muffled reply, but Kit had already made his way to the door.
It was a relief to taste the wind, even though it blew so hard along this stretch of Rancho Sausalito that the locals called it Hurricane Gulch. Kit shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his coat and walked away from the clustered shacks toward the solitary shelter of a group of willow trees. He leaned against a gnarled trunk and watched the activity below.
Water from a wooden cistern gurgled down a trestle pipe that angled past the trees, a respite from the noisy ruckus of the supply tents and bedding shanties. The discordant creak of an unoiled pump sounded as men tapped water from the trestle’s basin into large barrels and loaded them into a water junket docked pierside.
Another ship sailed in to anchor in the deep water beyond the short pier. Kit stood there, trying to make out the ship. Could it be? The sails dropped, Kit straightened, straining to see if the ship was indeed the Sea Haven.
Lee walked toward him, pointing at the newly moored ship. “Do you see that?”
“I sure do. Let’s go.” Kit started down the hill. “I don’t understand why Jan’s anchoring here. He always puts in near Central Wharf so he can head right home.”
The two men watched from the pier for signs of a launch. When none came, they commandeered a dinghy and rowed out to the ship. As they neared her, a crewman shouted something, but the loud barking of seals on a nearby rock drowned out his words. A rope ladder fell over the ship’s port side, and the men climbed aboard. Kit swung over the railing and noticed a few crewmen standing together. He looked past them, searching for their captain. When Jan didn’t appear to greet them, he glanced at Lee, whose shrug echoed his own bewilderment.
A small, sea-baked whaleman stepped forward hesitantly. “Mr. Howland. Capt’n Prescott.” He wrung his hands nervously. “I—”
“Where’s your captain, seaman?” Kit cut in. “Go tell’m to get off his old duff and come greet his friends.”
“Mr. Howland, sir, I’m a-tryin’ ta tell ya. The capt’n . . . he went an’ got himself killed, right outside o’ Magdalena Bay.”
“Oh, God.” Kit slumped back against the hard ship rail. His hands massaged his forehead and his mouth bit into an anguished grimace.
Lee’s face flinched with the same pained look. “How did it happen?”
“We had one o’ them devilfish ironed, an’ the capt’n, he said this ‘un’d bein’ his last, he’d be damned if’n he’d not be a part o’ it. He upped an’ got in with the boat crew. He ‘pooneered her himse’f, he surely did, but when the foul line busted, well . . . he tried ta grap it. That she-devil of a whale rolled an’ crushed the boat an’ crew.” The sailor’s shoulders sagged from reliving the gruesome sight. He looked up. “Ya see, the sharks was so bad, sir, well, ya know what I’m a-sayin’? Not a one o’ them five men made it.”
Silence and grief for the men lost in this death tale weighted the atmosphere with a cumbrous sense of loss, and of guilt, for although not even one of the men lacked sorrow for their mates, each man still left alive was forced, by the death of his crewmen, to remember his own fragile mortality. Deep within each survivor’s mind, every man was secretly glad it wasn’t he who laid in a watery grave.
The poor man looked unsure and a little lost. “Mr. Howland, sir, the capt’n said I was ta come ta ya if’n anythin’ ev’r happan’d ta him. I thought I should come to ya right away. We heared ya was with Capt’n Prescott in Whaler’s Bay, so we figgered we’d sail here ta find ya.”
There was no time now for mourning, Kit had too much to do. His head was filled with conflicting notions of what he should do first, until the most important of his duties pushed any other plans right out of his conscious mind.
Break the news to Hallie.
With that thought, Kit took command. “Haul up the anchor, men, and get her ready to sail about. We’re going across the bay. You coming, Lee?”
“I’ll be ready as soon as I send a message to my repair crew.”
“Fine. I need to check the ships logs and cargo tallies. I’ll be in the aft cabin.” He started toward the steerage, and then, as if in afterthought, he stopped and turned back to the sailor. “What’s your name, seaman?”
“Smalley, sir. Amos Smalley, second mate.”
“And the first mate, where’s he?”
“Dove in after the capt’n, sir.”
After a prolonged silence, Kit asked, “You sailed her back to port fully loaded?”
Smalley nodded.
Although the man was uncommonly jittery, Kit knew he must be c
ompetent if he had managed to get the Sea Haven back home. “Okay, consider yourself first mate and get this ship ready to sail.” Kit turned and headed toward the small aft cabin he knew Jan used for his quarters.
When Lee entered a short time later, Kit was immersed in a pile of papers. He slumped into a nearby chair and scratched his beard while Kit added a column of figures. “So what’s the haul?”
“A little over fifteen hundred barrels and”—Kit scratched some figures on the ledger—”“looks like twelve thousand or so pounds of baleen. No gris.”
Kit picked up a heavy sheet of paper that sat in one corner of the desk and handed it to Lee. “Read this and tell me what you think it means.”
While Lee read the paper, Kit listened to the active scurrying aboveboard. The aft anchor was hauled up and the anchor chain rattled and banged against the outside wall of the cabin.
“Where was this?” Lee asked, still reading, or maybe rereading the paper.
“In the drawer with some other documents.” Kit squirmed a little in his chair. “How would you interpret that?”
“I think, my friend, that you are now proud owner of the Sea Haven.”
“That’s what I thought, but read on.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Well, the way I see it, you appear to be legal guardian of the Fredriksen brood.”
“I was hoping I’d read it wrong.” Kit pinched the bridge of his nose. He slapped his hands down on the desk and stood up. “Damn! I owe Jan so much.” He began to pace back and forth across the narrow room.
Lee looked down at the document. “I don’t see that it’s all that different from what you’ve been doing.”
Kit stopped. “What do you mean?”
“Think about it for a minute. Jan’s only been home a few months out of each year. Who takes care of them while he’s gone?”
“Hallie.”