by Barbara Best
“Sorry Father, we are just two barristers having a Saturday night out,” the gentler and more sober Mr. Casey explains and pats his partner’s back.
“No doubt and well enough,” Cambrio says. “I’ll not be judging you. If, that is, you will do the same.” He uses his hand to indicate the black frock of his religion and glances at his drink.
The smaller man’s grin widens, “This here’s my dear friend, Mr. Gibbs. And I am Mr. Casey. At your service, sir.”
“Friends, ah, brothers from another mother,” Cambrio chuckles openly. Secretly enjoying their puzzled frowns, he raises his tankard and efficiently segues to, “I am Father Cambrio. Likewise, gentlemen. The pleasure is mine.” Cambrio swallows the acidic liquid, the taste of burnt vinegar and iodine, in a salute to the men’s accepting nods.
“May I have a look at that?” Cambrio inquires. Intrigued by the pamphlet on the counter, he juts his chin in its direction.
“By all means. But be warned, it will make ye hopping mad. The audacity,” the lanky Mr. Gibbs spits.
Father Cambrio quickly flips through the poorly printed pages. “I see what you mean.” He clears his throat and quietly slides the pamphlet back to the men. “Slavery is a perpetual boil on the stinking ass of mankind.”
Both men break out in uproarious laughter. “We will drink to that, Father.”
“Truly,” Cambrio says. “Slavery is repugnant to the moral sensibilities of most Brits, is it not?” He hunches forward and lowers his voice. “Yet, look around. Your port overflows with cotton. Slave interests are prevalent still. Some might say this city is the most pro-Confederate place outside the Confederacy itself.” When Mr. Casey and Mr. Gibbs goggle at him, openmouthed, “Come my lively gents, can I buy you another drink?”
Both men wince at the same time and a level of discomfort eclipses their enlightening conversation.
Mr. Casey gives his friend a subtle kick under the counter in warning. Liverpool is a hotbed of intrigue. There are Union and Confederate agents among them and he has no intention of getting chummy with this stranger. Man of the cloth or not.
“Now that is mighty generous of ye, sir. But you see, Father, we must be going.” Mr. Casey plants his hat firmly back on his head and studies the hands of his timepiece. With a snap for closure, he tugs at Mr. Gibbs who has a habit of talking too much when he is in the suds. Confessing himself donkey and braying to this priest is the last thing either of them would want this fine evening.
“Very well, then. Good evening, gentlemen.”
When the two men exit, Father Cambrio shrugs and turns back to his drink. He is sure more than ever it is a sign from God. He has been unexpectedly thrust into this unbelievable situation for a reason and will make it his mission to stamp out the evil that has been done. Right now, there is no way to think much less gain a lucid perspective in his cloudy level of intoxication. However, when his mind clears, he will commit a plan to set things right.
Chapter 26
MIXED MUSINGS
Ben! Sophie forms her first coherent thought in the early hours of a new day. She works to recall his face in the morning stillness. With no photo or stream of digital images to remind her of their times together, she is terribly afraid she will forget. She touches the wedding band on her finger. The only symbol of their love she has left. A single tear rolls along the side of her nose. She rubs it away and sighs, closing her eyes again to a dark room.
Pulling a corner of their scratchy wool blanket over one exposed shoulder, Sophie adjusts her position. Her knees ache from being awkwardly pressed against the iron bars at the foot of their bed where the mattress is slightly firmer. Feeling every muscle in her back complain, she spends a moment listening to random cracks and pops in the walls and ceiling. Rain, the trademark of Great Britain, patters softly on the windowsill, but it fails to lull her back to sleep.
Sophie never minded the rain before. Those cozy days of reading, watching movies or rain gazing out the window of her office in Savannah is replaced with a sticky discomfort that mats her hair and makes her unwashed chemise, a form of 1860s cotton slip, stick to her skin.
So far, she has worn her chemise day and night. Sophie thinks it is weird and unsanitary to use a soiled daytime garment to sleep in. The modern silk nightgown with spaghetti straps and manufactured lace she wore under her cape through the portal is unsuitable for this era. It has been taken apart. Colette saved a few squares of the blue fabric, thinking they may use it later.
Sophie’s knowledge of period necessities from Civil War reenactments is helpful. The layers of clothes she wears, although heavier and more intricate in construction, are similar to the lady’s impression she presented at events. She enjoyed civilian encampments with her A-tent and cooking over a campfire, yet there were always conveniences hidden from view. By comparison, their garrison reenactments at Fort Pulaski had a modern kitchen and public bathrooms.
Her traveling thoughts turn to buying a decent nightdress and nightcap, and perhaps a few other things. She has made a mental list and knows there are shops nearby that sell ready-made sundries. They will be leaving soon, so she must ask Colette about it today and hope the tightwad Father Cambrio will give them enough money to get what they need.
Ask? Sophie’s mind quickly crashes into a roadblock. The strong words she identified herself with — independent and self-sufficient — have become disjointed and irrelevant. There is no use kidding herself. Her life is entirely different.
The walls of Sophie’s stomach flex, reminding her she is hungry. She is always hungry with the long gaps between meals. If she were home, she would have already headed for the kitchen to get a banana or fruit yogurt out of the fridge. Last night, after bathing with a nice garden scented soap that the proprietress provided for an additional fee, Colette brought them a tray with bread, cheese and steaming bowls of oyster stew. Sophie had to admit the dish was quite good.
Sampling a salty muscle floating on the surface of a runny white broth overpowered by the smell of bacon, she asked Colette if they might be taking a chance eating oysters. When she fretted over a chip and hairline crack in her bowl, Colette laughed and said they are in the ‘R’ months for oysters and not to worry so much.
Sophie’s concern about food poisoning is real, but what can she do? There are no guidelines for the proper handling and cooking of food. The local people know nothing about bacteria, parasites, viruses and toxins. She has to eat their victuals and drink their tea, boiled barley, and bitter ale for the sake of herself and the baby. Drinking water that isn’t vigorously boiled first is obviously off limits. Her strong craving for milk and the amount of calcium she needs in her diet can’t be found in the dairy case at the corner convenience store. Milk is usually reserved for children and the invalid. Still, Colette manages to smuggle her a small glass-full most days.
Running her tongue over her front teeth, Sophie ponders how a simple toothbrush has become such a highlight in her life. Colette surprised her with one their first night in 1863. It had been hastily tossed into their carpetbag with a tube of Colgate and other small miscellaneous items from Colette’s bathroom cabinet. Toothbrushes and tooth powders with ingredients like chalk, orris root and charcoal are available in this time, yet far from refined. There are also published ladies’ guides to instruct women on the fundamentals of true female beauty, including the preservation of teeth and washing of the mouth.
Colette snorts and sneezes twice. She scrubs her nose with the palm of her hand and rolls over to her side. It pulls the blanket off Sophie again. The allergens in their environment would inflame anyone’s sinuses. Colette is looking forward to getting out on open water, away from all the irritants.
Crossing her arms, Sophie tries to let go of her morning barrage of mixed musings. There is no use yearning for the trappings of her other existence. There is no use wallowing in self-pity over what she has lost or can’t have. Her change is as dramatic as a snake that has shed its skin. It is as radical as a caterpillar
that spins itself into a silky cocoon to transform into a butterfly. She is loath to give over to this resurrection, this bloody new life that awaits her, but somehow she must.
Might as well get up, she decides.
Inching out of bed and trying not to make a sound, Sophie feels her way to the bidet in the corner of the room. It sits by the window that Father Cambrio jokingly called a “butt sink.” She also learned the bidet got its name from an extinct donkey that one would straddle to ride. The 1800s toilet, a European luxury, had been arranged for their stay along with a small screen for privacy.
“Are you all right, madame?” Colette whispers. Her voice is hoarse from sleep.
“I’m okay, just need to pee.”
“It is too chilly in here.”
Their quiet is suddenly disrupted by the jolting crow of a rooster, then another from somewhere in the alley below.
“Miserable urban chickens,” Sophie grumbles. Wherever they go, chickens are nearby, competing in an anticipatory predawn race to beat the morning sun.
Rising too, Colette uses her tool to coax embers to ignite dry wood on the hearth and lifts the window sash wide enough to clear the air. She pours hot water from a kettle hanging over the fire into a bowl they will use to wash up.
“You must be a morning person,” Sophie yawns. Colette always stirs to life with an attitude and energy that never fails to brighten a dull mood.
“Oui, but of course,” Colette smiles, satisfied the fire is doing its job. The room is warm and cheery. The sweet smell of soap they used the night before lingers. “Who says Liverpool is deplorable,” she chuckles, poking fun at Sophie’s description. “It’s a new day. We have much to look forward to, no? Father Cambrio will find us a ship. And, we will sail the Seven Seas.”
“Seven! I sure hope not,” Sophie scowls. “One sea is enough for me, thank you.”
Chapter 27
THE NANNIE DEE
Sophie winds her way with her forced companions through the noisy crowd and maze of hazardous objects on the docks of Liverpool, England. The late-morning sky has miraculously burned off the thick fog soup that blanketed all the city. A crack in the clouds spills rays of light onto the industrious scene of a bustling port. The sun seems to reheat the swirling amalgamation of offensive odors. Sophie likens it to the stench of a witch’s brew from Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
Round about the cauldron go; in the poisoned entrails throw — root of hemlock, mummified flesh, the gullet of a shark and gallbladder of a goat. As she dodges another puddle of human garbage, Sophie adds brine, seaweed and dredged muck to the rancid ingredients.
“I can’t believe you dragged me down to this place,” Sophie says crossly, knowing full well she is being coaxed along like a bad-tempered child. She shoots a glance at Father Cambrio. He and Colette had insisted she venture out, but frankly, she takes no delight in their little jaunt.
She wants her life back, she wants Ben, and surprisingly she even wishes she were on Gough Island again. Locked away under the thumb of Salva was better than this. At least she would be coping with Ben by her side. The length of her despondent funk is contrary to the upbeat, quick-witted personality she normally projects. It is only made worse by the surging hormones of pregnancy. Whatever the reason, Sophie is having a hard time snapping out of it.
“Ah, but the walk will do you good.” Cambrio says, making sure his steps are in tempo with the two women. He halts briefly while Colette helps Sophie manage her full skirt.
“The smell is worse here. Totally rank, if that’s even possible,” Sophie says. Refusing to release her mood, she tugs at the tulle of her mourning veil that hides her indignant expression and perhaps filters some unhealthy molecules that invade the delicate olfactory receptors of her nose.
“Hush now. Someone might hear,” Colette reminds softly.
“Excuse us,” Sophie calls out to the commotion blocking their path. They can hardly go around.
“Pardon, miss,” the man lifts his cap to them. “Make way fer da lie-dees!” he orders in a strong cockney accent. The men stop what they are doing and jostle a few things to let them through.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Cambrio nods respectfully.
“Any day, Father.”
Clutching the top vertical band of her hoop, Sophie follows Colette in sidestepping unsafe obstructions. Her skirt takes up so much room it is difficult to keep the hopelessly soiled hem from catching on something.
When they pass, the men resume muscling wooden barrels onto a flatbed wagon with iron wheels. Another wagon stacked high with crates is being laboriously rolled down a ramp.
“Tobacco,” Sophie remarks on yet another ingredient for the cauldron of foul odors.
Helping her disposition deteriorate further, a scrawny hound dog covered with scabby lesions brushes her skirt. It stalks a cluster of seagulls that are fighting over a huge fish head covered with flies. Finding the scrap too big to lift into the air, the largest bird dives and pecks at the prized morsel and everything around it, shrieking uh-uh, uh-uh in warning.
Father Cambrio takes Sophie’s arm. “A break in the rain is a blessing, don’t you agree? But, let us be vigilant. The docks can be slippery,” he smiles mechanically.
“We must regard your own precious cargo, no?” Colette adds gently.
“Cute,” Sophie says, giving Colette a crooked smile. She observes, “I don’t see any women here.”
Cambrio pauses and the women pause with him.
“Oh, there will be plenty of women on board,” Cambrio says. “I saw a number of families on the ship’s roster yesterday. A long list of willing souls.”
His interest eagerly falls on the main attraction, “There she is, ladies! Isn’t she a beauty?”
“That?” Sophie scoffs. “By whose standards?”
“Come now, where is your sense of adventure?” Cambrio cajoles.
“I’m afraid I left it in 2013,” Sophie answers snappishly.
“Tolerance, my dear.” Cambrio rolls his eyes heavenward. He feels the urge to give a booming lecture about the grace of God and the gravity of their survival. At present, however, he will desist and side with understanding.
He expounds, “She is as sturdy as they come. A packet ship meant for transporting people, mostly immigrants. All those who seek economic opportunity, religious or political freedom, or the chance to join family members who have gone ahead. Cargo and mail will fill its hull.”
“Looks like a floating prison to me,” Sophie mumbles through tight lips. Jumping from one confinement to another seems to be the story of her life. It is the disturbing consequence of her innocent involvement in Jane’s disappearance and sending Bryce deliberately to his fate. She reminds herself again, she deserves every bit of what she gets. And, poor Ben. Her throat grows thick with pain. She quickly averts her attention to some other gloomy notion that suits her frame of mind.
Her eyes follow the hawser lines from the dock up to the taffrail near the stern of the ship, which casts a substantial shadow. Sophie is sure the massive ropes are an easy way for rats to go aboard. A shiver runs through her shoulders.
“Can we afford decent accommodations?” Colette asks.
“Yes, quite. Our currency goes a long way in this period,” Cambrio says. He cocks his head in the direction of the sailors working on board, their sinewy bodies swarming the deck. Higher up, men hang like monkeys, using their bare feet and arms to grip the boom as they wrestle one of the sails.
“She is in excellent order. They tell me one of the best in both construction and crew. A bit seasoned, yes, but we are lucky to have her.”
Cambrio continues with excitement. One hand perched on his hip draws up to shield his eyes from the sun, “She’s called the Nannie Dee after the witch in a Robert Burn’s poem. Absolutely enchanting,” he breathes his satisfaction. “All is well for our departure. You and Colette are assigned a well-to-do cabin to assure your comfort. It is away from the saloon. I felt you might have more privacy ther
e.”
“Appreciate that,” Sophie says with stiff politeness. She is not looking at this trip through rose-colored glasses. They will be packed like sardines. Their quarters will be cramped, the food will be terrible, disease rampant, and there is the danger of storms at sea.
“How long will it take to cross the Atlantic?” she asks, when memories of seasickness materialize.
“A westward crossing with westerly winds,” Cambrio considers, “Under the best conditions, they say about five to six weeks. She has a good sailing record, having crossed many times.”
Cambrio recounts the fine details of the Nannie Dee. She is made of fine East India teak and American rock elm and has one of the most advanced shapes of its time. “The Nannie Dee can take more sails and be driven harder than others in her fleet. She is stronger than any before her,” he concludes.
“Yeah, but these things sink too,” Sophie’s words wobble.
“That’s enough!” Cambrio’s impulse is to give the ungrateful shrew an open-handed slap for such reckless behavior. Instead, he plays to her sensibility. “I pray every day God will protect us, Widow Downing. What would you have me do?”
“Sorry. But seriously,” Sophie says, filled with a creeping dread. History is bloated with maritime disasters. “It looks like it’s top-heavy and will bob like a cork in the water.”
Tracing the massive ship’s hull at the waterline up to the very peak of its crow’s nest high above causes a familiar dizziness. Sophie’s heart flutters in her chest. She swallows hard to stave off mental queasiness and can feel herself turning pea-green on the spot.
“My last experience at sea was absolutely awful. So bad, I thought I was going to die. And that was on a modern ship with stabilizers.” Sophie is thinking of the troubled voyage she and Ben took from Amsterdam to Gough Island. Her seasickness was so severe dying would have been a blessing. “I don’t like any of this.”
“Piace o no. Like it or not, you have no voice in the matter,” Cambrio shrugs arrogantly.