Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  With the blanket around her, Lorna struggled upward. For something to say to relieve the sense of heavy anticlimax she felt, she said, “Do you think he lives over there?”

  “Probably. Most of the larger islands, the ones that have water available, are livable enough. Between what you can get from the sea and what you find growing wild, there’s plenty to eat, providing you know what to look for, of course. But the damned old wrecker most likely came by to be sure I hadn’t piled the sloop up on the reef, being so entranced with my companion. It would have been fair game then.”

  She laughed, shaking back her hair, so that it rippled like a gold silk flag in the breeze. “He will be disappointed.”

  “By the grace of le bon Dieu,” he agreed, his sidelong glance droll, “and he isn’t the only one.”

  Her clothing was dry, flapping in the trade wind. The leaves of the sea grape trees that lined the shore rustled with an inviting sound, while bees hummed in the thick undergrowth beyond. If she dressed, it was probable that they would leave this quiet place with its somnolent peace, sailing back to the bustle and noise of Nassau. She sniffed at the blanket around her, wrinkling her nose at its aroma, which had been made riper by the heat of the sun. Tilting her head, she asked, “Do you think we could just hide until he goes on by? Another dip in the water would be lovely.”

  He glanced at the fisherman, then back to her, a warm smile moving into his eyes, curving his mouth, so that his teeth flashed white. “Anything you say, chérie, anything at all.”

  Dusk was falling, lying purple across the opalescent blue water, when finally they sailed into the long harbor that lay between Hog Island and New Providence. The palm trees were silhouettes against the soft, dark blue of the sky. Fort Montagu loomed gray and stolid in the dimness, while the lights along. Bay Street and on the ships lying at anchor were like fairy lanterns: small, scattered, and pulsing, reflecting over the water.

  Lorna was sitting in the prow, facing forward, her face lifted to the soft breeze. They were no great distance from the Lorelei when she saw it. She was watching the ship that Nate Bacon had been fitting out these past weeks, a merchant tub, trim, but without the grace of Ramon’s ship. They were within a few yards of her when two men caught her attention. One was Nate himself, unmistakable in his bulk and flowing brown hair shot with silver. The other was a man of medium height with a sharp, pointed face, made oddly fox-like by a bushy growth of carrot-colored side-whiskers and wearing a small, flat hat on the back of his head. They were shaking hands, the pair of them, firmly, as if to seal a contract; then, the fox-faced man did a strange thing. He took out a pipe and a metal box of matches from his jacket pocket. He opened the box and extracted one, striking it in a flare of sulphur-yellow flame. Instead of putting his pipe in his mouth and applying it, however, he stood holding the match in his fingers, watching it burn, laughing. Nate Bacon gave a rich chuckle, too. Then as the man shook out the match, the two clasped hands once more.

  Lorna turned in her seat to see if Ramon had noticed. He was staring ahead at his ship, where Chris stood waiting at the landing stage. Following his gaze, wondering what problem had come up in their absence that made it necessary for the young second officer to meet them, she forgot the incident she had just witnessed.

  The trouble was minor, a hitch in the loading that was soon straightened out. By mid-afternoon the next day, the ship was sitting low in the water and the last of the stevedores had padded away down the gangplank. The passengers, four gentlemen, had made their way to the dock and were waiting impatiently with their trunks and carpetbags about their feet for the order to board. Lorna had gathered her things, ready to depart. She and Ramon had said their goodbyes the night before, but still she lingered for a final parting. He was busy with Edward Lansing and a port official in his cabin, going over the bills of lading, signing documents for harbor clearance.

  Lorna walked to the railing, running her fingers over the smooth, freshly painted surface. She did not want to go. The thought of returning to the hotel was a leaden weight inside her. The days that lay ahead stretched endlessly. She would much rather venture the dangers of the trip than endure the hours of waiting, of not knowing, to say nothing of the stares and whispers she could not avoid.

  Her gaze narrowed. One of the passengers below had a familiar look. It was the fox-faced man she had seen the night before. She could not be mistaken; she would have recognized those orange side-whiskers and wide flaring tufts of beard anywhere. A chill ran over her as she stared at him. She did not like it, she did not like it at all.

  She had tried to tell Ramon about the man and his action the evening before. He had been indulgent, teasing her about her feminine intuition and the lack of logical reason for her instant suspicion simply because she had seen him with Nate Bacon. He was inclined to discount the damage one man could do, anyway, especially when surrounded by his officers and crew.

  She thought of speaking to him again, of suggesting that the man be denied passage. Would he listen or would he merely smile and kiss her into silence? She stood frowning, trying to decide.

  At the sound of footsteps, she looked up. It was Chris. He stopped for a few moments beside her, saying goodbye, promising they would return as quickly as the old girl, meaning the ship, could bring them. As he walked on, slim and straight in his uniform, with the sun shining on his soft brown hair and glinting on his wire-rimmed spectacles as he glanced up at its position, a vague idea came to her. She considered it carefully for flaws, a gleam appearing in her gray eyes that gave them a silver sheen.

  She had learned in the past few weeks that an action delayed could become useless. In a swoop of skirts, she swung and picked up her straw bag. With it in her hand, she moved swiftly back toward the companionway and ducked inside.

  An hour later, she stood in her room at the hotel dressed in a pair of natty brown and green plaid trousers, a crisp white shirt, a brown silk cravat, and a forest green jacket. Her hair was coiled on top of her head and covered by a soft wool cap. The shirt was rather wide across the shoulders and long in the sleeves, the jacket the same, but the trousers were an excellent fit. If she waited until dark and chose her time well, no one would notice the other deficiencies, or discern that she wore slippers instead of boots.

  While the sun sank slowly into the ocean, she reviewed her preparations. In her straw trunk, she had food enough, ordered from the hotel kitchen, for the three-day voyage, as well as a jar of water, a comb, one muslin gown, and her underclothing. In one pocket of Chris’s jacket, she had the last of the money that Ramon had left her, and in the other, Nate’s derringer, loaded with recently purchased powder and ball. There was nothing else she could think of that she would need.

  She would approach the ship during the dinner hour and walk on board with her baggage in her hand, for all the world like some late-arriving passenger. Once below, she would slip into the ladies’ cabin, just as she had done before. Only on this occasion, there would be no female expected, so there should be no reason for Cupid to have any interest in that cabin. All the conveniences necessary for human comfort were to be found there, and she saw no reason why she should not take advantage of them. With luck, there was no reason why she should have to emerge before they reached the passes of the Cape Fear.

  On the other hand, it was possible that, through some miscalculation, she might find the ladies’ cabin in use. The male passengers might well have spread their belongings into it, since it was not supposed to be occupied. In that case, she would go to the hold and expect to show herself after twenty-four hours or so, when it was too late to turn back and put her off.

  It wasn’t that easy. The watch on deck was Chris. The others she might have fooled, but it was unlikely that he would fail to recognize his own clothes. She loitered along the wharf, keeping to the shadows, starting at every movement and staying well away from the men who passed to and fro. As the minutes passed, she grew afraid that she was making herself conspicuous, that she would draw t
he attention of the second officer just by being there. At the same time, she had to stay close, so she could seize any chance offered to go aboard.

  This could not go on. They would be leaving soon. Already, there was light gray smoke coming from the stack as the boilers were stoked for a full head of steam.

  As she stared at the ship with a frown between her eyes, a young Negro boy of perhaps ten or eleven wandered past where she stood. He was a soft brownish-black, with huge dark eyes and, as he caught her gaze, a melting smile. He was eating a sugar apple, spitting the seeds out on the ground. He had several of the knobby green tropical fruits in a sack over his shoulder.

  “Buy a sugar apple, lady,” he said, his voice mellow and lilting as he prepared to show his wares.

  She had seen him before, playing about the wharf, peddling fruits of one kind or another, jigging to the music of the goombay players for pennies from the sailors, and swimming with several others on the beach west of the town. Well known to the crew of the Lorelei, he was always certain of a sale to Ramon, whom he addressed simply as “the captain.” For reasons best known to his mother, he was called Largo. That he had penetrated her disguise so easily was disturbing, though at any other time his immense tolerance for the odd doings of the white folks might have been amusing. She had no time to dwell on this however.

  “If you will do something for me,” she said slowly, “I will buy all you have.”

  The boy played his part well, wandering out to the end of the dock, pretending to slip, flailing about in the water and screaming for help. Chris ran to look, then stripped off his spectacles, peeled off shirt and boots, and went over the side.

  Lorna did not hesitate. Taking a firm grip on her straw trunk, she ran for the gangplank, darted up it and across the deck, and flung herself down the companionway. She paused for a moment at the bottom to listen, then moved with swift care to the door of the ladies’ cabin. She looked quickly both ways, then turned the knob and swung inside.

  She stopped suddenly with a whispered oath that would have been a credit to Frazier, or even Ramon. The room was stacked high with crates and barrels and bundles. There was barely room for her to edge inside enough to close the door. Once it was shut, she was left in darkness, with no idea of what lay in front of her or what she was going to do for three days in a room bulging with merchandise.

  She could not stand there. The best thing she could do, she decided finally, would be to find a way to one of the bunks. If she could clear a space to sit or lie down, she would be all right. Leaving her trunk beside the door where she could not lose it in the dark, she set to work.

  It was a heavy job, lifting bundles of odd shapes and sizes, setting them aside, piling them one on the other until they reached the low ceiling. With the portholes closed, holding in the heat of the day, it was stifling, too. She was soon streaming with perspiration as she strained, trying to work silently, feeling her way in the blackness. Doubts about the necessity of what she was doing crowded in upon her. She paused once to wipe her face with her sleeve, wondering why she didn’t just walk out the door and go to Ramon. She could take him by the collar and talk until he listened to her. But no, he would be so intent on getting her safely off that he would not heed her. Setting her jaws, she went doggedly back to her task.

  By the time the ship started to move, she had cleared a weaving path around the bales of cloth and barrels of what must undoubtedly be lead, which she could not move. She had found a bunk with its china toilet appointments underneath. Clearing it of boxes, she wound her way back to the door to retrieve her small trunk. She was returning when she felt the ship surge forward, picking up speed. She felt the bundles on her right move, heard a bumping, slithering sound. The cargo was shifting. She had disturbed its placement. She put up an arm to protect her head, taking a quick step forward, but it was too late. The bundles and bales slid, toppled. Something big and heavy hurtled down on her, knocking her to the floor. Her temple struck something sharp, and pain exploded in her head. The darkness rushed in upon her. The thudding, sliding sounds continued for a moment, then all was silent.

  When she opened her eyes, it was daylight; she could see it in shafts and splinters of brightness coming through the crates and bundles that covered her. She groaned softly. Her head ached with a dull throb; her body felt like a solid bruise; and so stiff was she from lying in one position on the hard decking that it seemed unlikely she would ever be able to move again.

  She did, however, with gritted teeth and slow care. She inched upward, pushing aside a gross of bon-bon boxes, a bale of velvet, and a wooden crate marked “field glasses.” As she sat up, she saw towering above her a stack of long wooden boxes, each stenciled with the word “hardware.” From their shape, she thought they could only be filled with guns, though there was one that might well hold a field cannon. If those had fallen on her, she would have felt far worse than she did.

  Digging her trunk out from under, she took her water from it and drank deep. Putting it back, she dragged herself over the piled merchandise to the bunk. She dropped down on it and struggled out of her jacket. Folding it for a pillow, she lay down with her head upon it, closing her eyes. Within moments, she was asleep.

  The next time she woke, she was ravenous and it was dark again. She ate cold roast chicken and bread from her trunk, plus a sugar apple, washing it all down with water. Afterward, she spared a little of her precious liquid to wet a handkerchief and wipe her face, scrubbing at the sore place on her temple to remove the dried blood she felt caked there. Pushing to her feet, she stretched, wincing at the multitude of sore places her movement made known to her. She then made her way to the porthole and unlatched it, pulling it wide.

  The night wind was fresh; the sound of the gurgling sea moving past the ship and of the rush of water over the paddle wheels was familiar and welcome. The mist that drifted in at the opening, settling on her lips, had the taste of salt. She steadied herself against the plunging of the ship and breathed deep. She was here. She had not been discovered. Her needs were met. It was going to be all right. It was.

  They made good time, or so it seemed. The days passed quickly between sleeping, reading, staring out the porthole to watch the waves and the streaking silver-winged shapes of flying fish, and thinking; she spent far too much time thinking. The delicious aromas that wafted from the galley at certain hours tantalized her. Now and then, she heard the voices of the men: Ramon, Cupid, Slick, Chris, and others she did not recognize. It had been difficult, once she knew they had passed beyond the Abaco lighthouse, which marked the last island of the Bahamas, past the point of turning back, not to emerge. She did not want her presence, her safety, to influence any decision that Ramon might be forced to make, however, and she was reluctant to relinquish the advantage there might be in surprise.

  It was the change in the sound of the engines that warned her they were approaching the mainland. The steady beat that had marked the miles of sea slowed. Sliding from the bunk, she moved to the porthole for the thousandth time. In the distance, through the dimness of the night, she could just make out the white line of breakers that was the North Carolina coast. The hour was near midnight, she thought. Slowly, they drew closer. They must be passing through the outer squadron of the blockade, making ready to turn for the run down the coast.

  Soon now, if she were correct, would be the time of greatest danger from the fox-faced man. Lorna turned from the porthole. Picking up her jacket from the foot of the bunk, patting the derringer that rested in the pocket, she prepared to face it.

  The Lorelei had swung, moving south, by the time Lorna let herself out of the ladies’ cabin. She paused to listen in the passage, straining her eyes to see in the darkness. There was no one moving about in this section. She pulled her cap down closer over her hair and turned toward the companionway.

  The wind was fresh, blowing a stiff breeze on the deck. The smell of burning coal and smoke wafted about the ship in the down draft. A score or more of men were on dec
k. Among them there was strung a taut excitement. A few stood around the smokestack. One or two were perched on the low housing of the deck cabin, while several others were standing on the steps of the wooden paddle box over the splashing wheels, night glasses trained ahead. There on their port bow was a federal cruiser, some distance away, sailing majestically past with her lights like stars caught in her rigging.

  It struck Lorna that, though there was tension and a lively recognition of danger hanging over the ship, there was also confidence. It came from the man in command; was fed by the measured tones of his voice, the deliberate orders he gave, his calm control. His men leaped to do his bidding as much out of respect and liking as for the sake of their lucrative berths. Pausing to watch as Ramon stood near the wheel, conning the ship through the dangers of the night, she felt such fullness in her heart that it brought tears welling in her throat.

  She turned sharply away, searching the dimness for the fox-faced man. She identified him by his scraggly side-whiskers, which flapped about his face in the wind, and by the outline of the small, flat hat he wore. He was standing on the port paddle box, holding to the railing that arched over it. Beside him was a portly man, an Englishman, judging from his accent. He was holding forth in a garrulous whisper, waving an unlighted, but well-chewed cigar for emphasis.

  “I’ve hunted tiger in India, ridden in a cavalry charge or two, and been chased by heathen pirates in the Aegean, but never have I come across anything to beat this. What an exhilarating pastime!”

  “As you say,” the fox-faced man commented in sour tones.

  “Who can deny it? Playing cat and mouse with a goodly portion of the federal fleet, all armed to the teeth while we are as defenseless as babes, standing over enough gunpowder to blow us to kingdom come, trying to find the mouth of a small river on a featureless coast in pitch darkness, while daylight threatens to expose us. That’s if we don’t run aground from keeping too close in to shore. My God, just think of the responsibility for the lives in the captain’s keeping, to say nothing of the fortune in goods entrusted to his care. I wouldn’t have the job, no sir, I would not. I’ll warrant there are few who would!”