by Anne Groß
“Useless efforts,” agreed Bill. “Oh look. They’re going at it again.”
From Elise’s height, the men below looked like toy soldiers come to life, each movement choreographed for an audience of three sitting up in the nosebleed section. But when the kneeling rank fired, followed by the standing rank, there was no mistaking the reality of the company’s deadly purpose. Smoke obscured the faces of the men for a just a moment before the ocean breeze swept it away.
Elise wasn’t the only one affected by the display. Bill was leaning over the edge of the platform to such a degree that her alarm bells went off. Gently, she touched his elbow to pull his attention back to his surroundings. She was just beginning to like the kid, and he wouldn’t be nearly as much fun with his brains spread all over the deck.
The thought gave her a headache. Elise put a hand to her temple as pressure behind her right eye increased.
“Mrs. Ferrington? Are you quite alright?” asked Bill.
“Yeah, just the change in the weather I guess.”
Suddenly, Gerry shot to his feet and pointed out onto the horizon. “Sail,” Gerry cried. “Sail ho!” He was practically swinging over thin air. “Sail ho,” he called again.
“Jesus! Be careful!” Elise clutched the ropes as the platform bounced under Gerry’s shifting weight. The space behind both her eyes were now throbbing in a dull pain.
“Is it one of ours?” cried a voice from below.
Gerry gathered his feet under him, pulled a brass telescope from his breast pocket, and trained it on the horizon. Bill had climbed to his feet as well and was shading his eyes with one hand and squinting, ready to take the spyglass the second it was offered. “Can you make her out?” asked Bill. “Is she French?”
“No colors, sir!” Gerry hollered down to the officer below who was waiting impatiently.
“A merchant ship?” Bill suggested
“A single merchant ship with no convoy? Unlikely. Not in these seas.”
“Then a French ship?”
“Possibly,” Gerry said, “but the French have been tied to their shores by English naval barricades. Perhaps she’s a privateer.”
“What’s a privateer?” asked Elise, rubbing her temples.
“May I see?” Despite the fact that Bill shook his hand next to Gerry’s head to get his attention, it was still the politest “my turn” whine Elise had ever heard.
“She’s sailing away,” Gerry mumbled to himself. Then stepping back to the edge, he called down, “she’s sailing away!” Elise grabbed the back of his jacket just as Bill grabbed the glass.
A sloop in their fleet veered towards the marauding vessel. “The Staghorn is turning. She’s going to give chase!” said Bill excitedly.
In the far, dark reaches of her mind, Elise felt the lightest touch, a familiar feather stroke. She raised her hand over her chest and felt the scarab where it lay hidden. A rush of heat made her dizzy, almost as though the scarab had ignited her brain like a spark. Then her headache eased. Elise stared out towards the quickly retreating ship and felt a disconcerting sense of familiarity that she couldn’t place.
“The privateer is too far away,” Bill said. “I’d wager she came upon us by accident. Why else would she run? The Staghorn will never catch her.”
“The Staghorn will catch her. You’ll see.” Gerry’s eyes shone bright with enthusiasm. “I wish we were there instead of here. They’re going to have all the fun.”
Below at the foot of the mast, a small crowd had gathered. The men looked stiff, ready. Soldiers were fingering their muskets. Sailors were facing the forecastle, waiting for orders. A few were hanging on the rail looking out towards the horizon where the ship had been sighted. They all had become so bored with the drudgery of ocean life that they welcomed a fight, hoped for it. Minutes rolled by without a command. “The privateer’s gone,” Gerry announced to no one. He’d retrieved his spyglass and now it was so tight against his face that Elise wondered if he’d give himself a black eye.
The Staghorn, however, was still in plain view, although a slowly diminishing presence on the horizon. If the two ships did battle each other, Elise imagined it would be boring. To call all the ships traveling together a “fleet” was misleading. Sure, the water slipped past their hull with a certain degree of efficiency and left a pretty wake, but they weren’t anywhere near fast or fleet.
“I hope there’ll be some cannons fired tonight. Perhaps we’ll even see the glow of guns!” Gerry sighed wistfully at the thought. “I do so wish I was on the Staghorn. There aren’t that many chances to engage the enemy on a troopship.”
Gerry just confirmed Elise’s thought. The chase, such as it was, would probably last all day and into the night.
“Our navy guns are fearsome enough,” said Bill, “but we also have the British Army at our disposal. A privateer would be sorry indeed to engage a ship with the 45th on board.
“The Royal Navy doesn’t need the army to win a battle. We can best any fleet in the world. Admiral Nelson proved that during the Battle of Trafalgar.”
The sun slowly emerged from behind a long smear of clouds as the boys’ discussion got heated over the merits of army versus navy. Elise leaned back to lie flat on the wooden planks. Despite the fact that the three of them were crowded on a platform that was barely larger than a dining room table, she felt she had, finally, enough space to breathe. She reached her hands back behind her head towards the mast and uncurled her vertebrae, nubby bone by popping nubby bone, along the boards. Seen through the mesh of ropes, the sky above was even more vivid than a Tucson sky, more clearly blue, entirely free from smog and dust. Elise squinted into the sun and smiled for the second time since she’d been married. It had been so long, so damn long, since she’d felt the warm sun.
Chère Mademoiselle DuBette,
I am gladdened to hear how much progress has been made with the Rosetta Stone. At this rate, I would not be surprised if we were able to begin the translation of the Thoth tablets by next year’s end. That I had even a small part to play in this fills my heart with pride.
In answer to your question, I have not had a letter from Mademoiselle Lenormand and am, as you are, disturbed by her silence. Concern, at this point, seems well merited given the circumstances of her last communique. It would surprise me to learn that she blocked herself from contact on the astral plane. I do not think this to be the case. I, too, find myself growing more and more concerned about the possibility that we have over-estimated her abilities, or perhaps under-estimated the threats against her.
It is with these thoughts in mind that I applaud your decision to ask for help in finding the emerald from those of our gender who may have a more questionable bent to their magical practices. In light of this decision, I agree that letter writing is preferable. It would not do to have our conversations overheard in the void by dark forces now alerted to the presence of the scarab. It should, however, be mentioned that if we succeed in translating the Thoth tablets before Napoleon’s alchemists do so, all women shall benefit, even those of us with questionable proclivities. If, Goddess willing, such a thing were to occur, I hope you’ll agree that we must be more inclusive. In any case, I am not displeased to have the excuse to receive such lovely letters from you.
I do hope Mlle Lenormand took our words to heart and is handling herself with the intelligence and substance of character we know to be her style, and will recover the jewel quite on her own. I’ll admit to being troubled by her silence. But perhaps it is mere petulance on her part to be silent—a behaviour which should come as no surprise to any of us—and not an indication of anything dire.
Thank you for informing me of your decision. I’m sure I need not call to your attention the coming of the new moon. I shall remain extra vigilant as the Goddess leaves our night sky, and look forward to her return. For no reason that I can articulate, my heart quails this cycle of the moon.
I remain your Sister in heart and mind,
Mrs. Ursula Southill
PEOPLE CAN’T FLY
The days were finally what summer should be—warm and full of sunshine, lazy, languid. A cool breeze lifted everyone’s spirits and filled the canvas sails, pushing the Valiant onto her side so that she cut through the ocean at a neat clip. Elise, bored but content, ended up spending her days with Amanda, taking her turn with baby Edwina when the young mother needed a break, and hiding whenever Doctor Russell approached.
Babysitting wasn’t her first choice for stimulating activity, but it was better than spending the day polishing the buttons on Richard’s waistcoat and jacket, a chore he was dead set on her performing, as was, he said, her duty as wife. Their arguments had calmed a bit now that she was spending more time with Amanda, but that wasn’t to say Richard wasn’t finding ways Elise could improve upon herself. Sometimes his suggestions were oblique, sometimes bold, but they were always coupled with beseeching eyelash batting and sad looks that got him nowhere.
Every evening since Elise first climbed up the mast, she returned to the fighting top while Richard, released from his own duties, reluctantly polished his own buttons and fiddled his fiddle. Elise cherished her time under the open sky where the sun’s slanting rays would warm her bones without crisping her skin. The boys, Gerry and Bill, had grown accustomed to her presence and either ignored her altogether, or brought her into their discussions. Her opinions were totally dismissible or blew their minds. For her part, the youth of her companions was a relief—Elise felt relaxed enough around them to be herself, knowing that they hadn’t lived long enough to have solidified into jerks. She liked them enough to drop seeds of modern thought into their still-forming brains and felt smug when they ascribed her ideas to being radically “American” instead. An easy friendship developed between the three of them.
It was the last day of their journey. Elise had heard that hopeful rumor many times before, but this time Gerry assured them it was true. He’d looked at the charts and done the math during his navigation lessons and could say with conviction that they’d rounded the corner. As far as Elise could tell there were no corners in the ocean, but she took his word for it. If they were approaching shore, that would explain why they were seeing more birds in the sky.
The wheeling of the gulls had sparked a lively debate about flight that Elise was mostly ignoring. Bill was of the opinion that the ostrich had the best feathers for creating a set of wings, but Gerry thought peacock feathers were a better choice. It was, apparently, not enough for the two of them to spend all their waking hours as high as possible on the ship, they wanted wings to fly. Both thought that the bigger the feather, the better the possibility. After twenty minutes of argument, Bill turned the question over to Elise.
“What do you think, Mrs. Ferrington? Ostrich or peacock? Mrs. Ferrington? Are you listening?”
Elise, flat on her back, pushed herself up onto her elbows and squinted at the boys. “It’s the shape of the wing, not the length of the feather,” she responded authoritatively, then laid back down, hiding her face from the sun in the crook of her elbow.
“That cannot be right,” Gerry shook his head. “Have you never eaten the wing of a bird? It is a measly meal, all gristle, a mere sliver of skin and bones. So it must, by logical reasoning, be the feathers that lift the animal as the flesh is so obviously lacking.”
Elise sighed and pushed herself back up onto her elbows. Both boys were looking at her seriously. “Have you ever seen peacocks or ostriches fly? No? That’s right, because they don’t,” Elise shot back, “so how would those feathers get a man off the ground if they can’t do it for the bird? Huh? How? They wouldn’t. Those feathers are like Mrs. Letchfeld—they’re good for decoration only.”
Bill hooted with delight, but Gerry was less amused. “You shouldn’t speak of your betters that way.”
“She’s not better than me. She’s just richer.”
“Really, Mrs. Ferrington, must you pull your skirts up that high? It’s quite shocking.” Gerry’s eyes were fixed at a spot on the mast as she hoisted her dress up her thighs. His sunburned face couldn’t get any redder, however.
“I like to feel the sun on my legs.”
“It’s terrible for your complexion. You’re already turning quite brown.”
“Good.”
“Is that a knife? Have you tied a knife to your thigh?” Gerry’s shock made his voice crack.
“Leave her be, Gerry.” Bill defended. “Her knife is none of your business.”
“I dare say it is my business when she insists on pulling her skirt so high.”
“They’re legs.” Elise said. “You have a pair of them too. What’s the big deal?”
Both boys stared in surprise, then doubled over in laughter. “You are entirely cracked!” laughed Gerry. “What’s the big deeeaaallll,” he mimicked. Bill was laughing so hard he had to sit down to keep from falling off the platform as they traded choice Eliseisms in exaggerated American accents.
Elise closed her eyes, hiding her smile behind the arm she once again slung over her face. Lying there, soaking up the sun, she could almost make herself believe she was on some kind of exotic vacation. Vaguely she thought of how much a long vacation on a tall ship would cost in the twenty-first century. The thought made her feel somewhat better as slowly she fell into a drowsy nap.
When she woke, the boys were arguing again.
“You didn’t guess correctly, Bill. You’ve not won.”
“Yes, I did. I guessed King George.”
“But I wasn’t thinking of him.”
“You’re thinking of him right now. I could have said, ‘the moon’ or ‘Sergeant Taylor’ and I’d still win. No matter what I say, that’s what you think of.”
“Yes, but you’re supposed to determine what I was thinking immediately before you make a guess.”
“It’s called, ‘What Am I Thinking?’ is it not? No one calls the game, ‘What Was I Thinking?’ I don’t understand how you can be so dense about this.”
Elise blinked sleepily and sat up. The sun had moved slightly to her left. Or had the ship moved? She leaned forward over her outstretched legs and peered between her feet at the horizon. As she blinked away the bleary film of her nap, she caught sight of something on the ship directly in front of them. Anyone on the deck of the Valiant wouldn’t notice, but from her vantage she could see that a large crowd had gathered on the Galahad’s bow. Faintly, the sound of cheering came across the water. Elise cast her eyes to the horizon in front of the fleet and felt a surge of joy. “Shut up you guys,” she said, “I think I see something.”
To the boys’ credit, they were instantly on the alert. Gerry wound one arm and one leg into the protective ropes and leaned far out over the platform as he opened his glass and placed it to his eye.
“Bless your sweet green eyes, Mrs. Ferrington. Land ho!” he cried to the officers below. “larboard-side bow!”
The hoots and huzzahs that rose into the air made Elise grin. Despite having become somewhat accustomed to Gerry’s squirrelly ways, she still felt the need to grab a part of him to prevent him from falling. Far below, men poured out from the hatches to swarm the deck, emerging like so many red ants spilling onto the grass. It had been a long and mostly unpleasant trip. News that it was nearly over was a relief for everyone. Even the officers allowed the good cheer to soar unchecked, while staying well away from the enlisted rabble.
“Look! Is that Private MacEwan?” Bill pointed down into the crowd and rested his arm across Elise’s shoulders. “No, cannot be. That ol’ bastard’s never smiled a day in his life.”
Elise looked to where Bill was pointing and sure enough, Thomas, his shirt sleeves rolled well over his elbows and a sailor’s kerchief tied around his neck in flagrant disregard for army regulation, stood staring up at her with his scar-twisted smile. He ran his hand through his thick black hair, then gave a shy wave. Elise felt her throat close in response and she gulped hard.
“Well, look at that! The bruiser’s waving at me! Ahoy
, MacEwan!” Bill yelled down, waving vigorously back.
That evening, the fleet dropped anchor well outside the mouth of the Mondego River. In the narrow space between sunset and total darkness, the crew of the Valiant had neatly furled the sails, coiled and stowed the lines, and otherwise prepared the ship for disembarkation in the morning. Spirits had been high as the work was completed, and they remained high as the men tucked themselves up in their blankets for a few hours before the morning. Few actually slept, however.
Richard, after having exhausted himself playing for the celebrating officers, tossed and turned on the hard packing crate, jarring Elise awake every time he moved. “Please stop kicking me,” she begged. “Go to sleep!”
“Oh? You think it’s just that easy, do you? Maybe if you’d stop stealing the blanket I might find some peace.”
Elise considered pushing him off the crate, then sat up and draped the entire scratchy blanket over him and tucked it around his arms and legs, swaddling him tight just like Amanda’s baby.
“I can’t move,” he said sullenly.
“That’s the point. Shut up.” She cradled his head in her arms and waited. Slowly he began to relax. His chest rose and fell at a steady rate; his jaw dropped slightly open.
“Richard?”
“Hmm?”
“My hand’s gone numb.”
He rolled onto his side to use his own arm as a pillow and untucked himself, throwing a corner of the blanket over Elise. “You’re not so bad, I suppose,” he murmured, and then fell fast asleep.
As Elise massaged the blood back into her arm, she noticed a bulge in Richard’s sleeve. Carefully, she dug her index finger inside the cuff and hooked out a handkerchief. Her stomach clenched. The letters E. L. were embroidered in a fanciful script on the corner of the delicate lace kerchief. She pushed it back up his sleeve. Just a snot-rag, she told herself. Whatever, she sniffed.
It was such a familiar feeling for Elise that she almost didn’t notice when despair surged again. She shouldn’t care, didn’t care. Of course Richard would be using every charm in his arsenal to climb the social ladder. Elise had chalked his newly optimistic mood to the return of sunshine, but perhaps it’d been the return of hope in the form of someone else’s pretty wife: Lady Elizabeth Letchfeld. It seemed, Elise thought with a rueful smile, that bad boy musicians were just as irresistible to women in the nineteenth century as they were in the twenty-first.