The next morning, Fred and Elmer slept as John made his way from their rack. He spoke with Bosun Garza and collected his seaman’s papers and letter of discharge from The Yankee Dream. With his small trunk under one arm and his duffel bag over his shoulder, he headed down the gangway toward the Giselle-Marie.
CHAPTER 4
The three-island tramp steamer, Giselle-Marie, had been more than well-cared-for. Someone loved this ship. The proud older lady wore a new coat of red paint on her hull, with only a slip of black showing above the waterline—a sign of a nearly full hold.
John stopped at the gangway and studied her deck. She boasted a single center steam stack with two lookout masts, one forward, and one aft. Each pole supported two davit cranes to load cargo. Painted white, the deck, and masts gleamed in the morning sun. A single stripe of hull red around the stack adorned her alabaster skin. A beautiful lady indeed, like her master.
On the deck, Bosun Sweeney directed men in preparation for departure. When he glanced down and recognized John on the pier, he waved him aboard with a broad grin on his narrow tanned face. “Glad you decided to join us.” He gave John a pat on the back. “The bunks are aft—two mates per cabin—when we run a full crew, that is.”
John accompanied Sweeney to the back of the ship while the bosun called instructions to the men. They passed two harbormasters, escorted down from the boat deck by the second officer.
Sailors worked the lines with practiced determination, ready to cast off for the Giselle-Marie's imminent departure.
Sweeney directed John past the open cargo hatch and beneath the aft housing. Down an inside hallway, a cabin door stood open. Sweeney stepped inside. "Have you ever served aboard a tramp?"
John ducked through the cabin door. “Aye. The Dream is a tramp—older than this lady and larger. Her stack is aft, not midship.” John tossed his bag onto one of the bunks and pulled his papers from his back pocket. “The Dream’s cargo holds are forward.” He tipped his head at the adjacent bed as he handed Sweeney his papers. “No bunkmate?”
“Not for this trip,” Sweeney replied. “We’re running with a reduced crew.”
John dropped his trunk at the foot of his rack “Why’s that?”
Sweeney shrugged. “Master Keats will explain it to you, or not, as she sees fit.” He tipped his head forward. “Now that you’re aboard, she’ll want to speak with you in her office.”
John nodded and went with Sweeney down the short hall, across the deck and up a flight of stairs to the master’s suite.
The Giselle-Marie moved slowly away from the dock. The tug guided her through the harbor channel to the opening in the breakwater. The cloudless autumn sky promised clear sailing.
John’s chest remained tight, and his senses tingled, even as he moved toward his goal—one step closer to the woman who bound his heart. The pinprick sensation on his head remained true as a compass, pointing north-northeast of their forward direction.
Sweeney stopped at an open door and knocked.
Inside, Master Keats sat across from the first officer. A map spread between them on the desk.
Keats looked up as she pulled the chart across the desk and folded it closed. “Enter.”
“Seaman John Larson, as you requested, sir,” Sweeney reported, stepping aside for John.
“Thank you.” Master Keats tipped her head to the bosun. “That will be all, Mr. Sweeney. Come in, Mr. Larson”
John entered the office under the scrutiny of both the master and the first officer. He greeted them with a nod and stood silently by the door.
“Mr. Rice, this is the man I met on Bosun Sweeney’s recommendation—Able Seaman John Larson.” The master gave her first officer a quick glance and inclined her head at John. “Mr. Larson, this is my first officer, Kenneth Rice.”
Older than Master Keats, Mr. Rice’s full white beard matched the new deck paint. He nodded to John. “Mr. Larson. I’m glad you decided to join us.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Before we clear the harbor, I want there to be an understanding between us, Mr. Larson.” Keats steepled her fingers as she studied John. “This run will be our first wartime effort, and we’ve found the North Atlantic passage dangerous already.”
John nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Master Keats appeared a different woman from the one he’d met last night. Her braided auburn-gray hair was pinned tight to her head, and she wore an officer’s uniform with Captain’s pips on her epaulets. A master in command of her ship. A remarkable woman.
She tapped one long finger to the closed map on her desk. “We plan to make a stop in Nova Scotia and take on cargo we’re unable to obtain in the States—arms and ammunition for our countrymen in Europe.”
John looked from her fingertip to her calm gray eyes. “And my role?”
“You’ll accompany Mr. Rice when we make the exchange. You’ll be armed, of course, but your size alone is rather intimidating. More importantly, you’ve shown to have a cool head under pressure. That’s what I need most.” She grinned and relaxed back in her chair. “Perhaps it’s that old soul you spoke of, but I need your instincts and knowledge of how men react.”
“I’m more than willing to help.” John straightened his shoulders. “However, you need to know this is a one-way trip for me. I’ll leave your service when we dock in Europe.”
Keats pressed her lips. “I’m surprised and disappointed with this information. I’d hoped to make you a permanent member of my crew.”
“At another time, it would be my wish as well.” He spread his hands. “The Maginot Line won’t stop Hitler from invading France.” He ground his teeth. “And I have loved ones in Europe I must find.”
“Where are they?” Keats leaned forward. “In France?”
“I’m not sure.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll know more once we reach Europe. Where is your buyer?”
Master Keats and the first officer exchanged glances. “I won’t share that yet.” She plucked a brown Captain’s hat from her desk drawer and secured it on her head. “We should be close to the breakwater. Mr. Rice, I’d like you in the wheelhouse.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Rice rose and withdrew from the room.
Master Keats stared at John, elbows on the desk, her hands folded beneath her chin. “You’ll take your watch assignment from Mr. Rice. Unless you hear otherwise from either Mr. Rice or myself, Bosun Sweeney will assign your duties.”
John tipped his head. “Yes, sir.”
Keats nodded. “You’ll be paid before you leave the Giselle-Marie.” She eyed him a moment as if trying to see inside his mind. “I hope you find who you’re looking for in Europe, Mr. Larson. Carry on.”
“Aye aye, sir.” John closed the door as he departed to find Mr. Rice.
* * *
John stood forward watch from ten ’til two for the next three nights. Headed north for an illegal arms exchange, the Giselle-Marie ran lights out and silent. They had waited two weeks for the rendezvous date, sailing just beyond sight of the Nova Scotian beaches.
Alone in the darkness, urgency pounded through his veins, and a pinprick reminder pressed against the side of his head, fueling his memories. Agaria’s many lives stayed with him—haunted him—in a theater of love and loss. Her name and face changed, but she remained the only woman John had ever loved. His teeth clenched as he remembered. Elena limping through a castle, or in repose, laughing beside a stream. Alyse, on horseback, as they raced across the open prairie. Those were but two of the lives they’d shared.
Each time Agaria’s soul passed from life—his grief—and his purgatory, would begin. Forced to wait for the next calling, and the race to reach her side in time.
He turned his head and placed the urgent sting of her direction between his brows and leaned his shoulder against the forward housing as he stared into the night. The myriad of constellations disappeared at the black line of the horizon. She’s out there—my Agaria—she’s alive. Her danger re
al. Her life forfeit should I fail.
The tap on his shoulder startled him, and he stood to face the man behind him.
“You’re wanted in the Master’s Suite.” Sweeney bent his shoulder to the wind and lit a cigarette. In the flare of the flame, he looked at John and spoke from the side of his mouth, “I’m to finish your watch.”
“Aye aye, Bosun.”
Sweeney grasped John’s arm. “Be careful tonight.” His words muffled against his hand as the ember from his cigarette lit his face for a moment. “We’ve never dealt with these men before.” He exhaled smoke above his head. “Everyone’s likely to be a bit jittery.”
“I understand,” John’s quiet tone, matched Sweeney’s. “I’ll be all right, and I’ll take care of the others.”
“That’s good.” Sweeney nodded, the cigarette tight between his lips. “Carry on, John.”
In the Master’s Suite, Mr. Rice issued John a snub-nosed .38 special with a shoulder holster, as well as a Thompson sub-machine gun. John checked the ammunition for each weapon and slipped off his coat to strap on the holster. He nodded to Mr. Rice when ready.
John, Rice, and two seamen John didn’t know moved to the port side of the ship. Beside one of the rafts, men stood prepared to lower the smaller vessel by a winch. The armed men climbed into the raft, and it dropped to the surface of the sea. The Giselle-Marie’s engine had come to a stop, and the anchor chain rattled as its length slipped out of the housing.
Storm clouds were banked above the mainland, blocking the stars but reflecting the light of the late rising moon. John and Rice sat silent guard duty while the two sailors paddled the boat.
A slight breeze, sharp as a shard of ice, slipped beneath John’s jacket collar as he strained to see the shore.
Coves dotted the long seaward edge of Nova Scotia. Hundreds of tiny harbors with thin sandy beaches surrounded by a thick indigenous forest.
This area hasn’t changed much in a thousand years.
Near the beach, John vaulted over the side of the raft, knee-deep in the moonlit foam. He guided the boat onto the sand with one hand while his other held the machine-gun high above his head
They were the first to arrive. The four men stood silently in the chill darkness beside their craft and waited.
“There,” Mr. Rice breathed.
John scanned the rolling waves and caught sight of a small vessel, similar to theirs, riding the swells to shore. Two men jumped from the boat, both armed, and pulled the craft onto the sand.
The leader of the other group stepped from the boat and walked in their direction. His gaze met John’s, then slid to the first officer. “You have the payment?” His English thick with a French accent.
“Aye. As agreed.” Mr. Rice pulled a bulky envelope from his inside pocket.
“Give it here.” The man held out his hand.
“You have our merchandise?” Rice moved toward the smuggler, but John slipped in front of him.
“Let me,” John whispered to Mr. Rice. “Montrez-moi,” John nodded at the smuggler.
“Tu parles français?” The smuggler’s eyebrows lifted.
“You have the merchandise, no?” John replied, matching the smuggler’s heavy accent. “We see it first.” He held the Thompson with both hands and stared at the smuggler.
“Louie—” The smuggler waved his hand.
Two men lifted a long trunk from the boat. They set the crate on the sand near John and went back for another.
“Your merchandise.”
“Marv, take a look,” Rice instructed.
The seaman beside John crossed the sand. He slung the strap of his machine-gun over his shoulder and knelt to unlatch the trunks. After the second lid had fallen open, he turned to Rice and nodded. “They’re all here.”
“As agreed,” the smuggler said. “Now, the money.”
“Give this to our friend.” Rice handed the envelope to the other crewman. “And help Marv move the trunks to our boat.”
The smuggler’s feet remained planted while he counted the money. “I would have asked for more, as the price for weapons have risen since I met with your master.” He nodded to his men, then walked past the trunks filled with small arms to their boat. “But for a fellow Frenchman, this I will accept. Bonne chance, mes amis,” he said over his shoulder as he boarded his watercraft.
Marv and the crewman loaded the guns while the smuggler’s small craft move away from the beach.
“Let them get well away from the beach,” John said to the first officer.
“I didn’t know you spoke French,” Rice brushed sand from his hands.
John waited for the voices of the Frenchmen to disappear. “I have family in France.”
“That’s right.”
“They’re gone.” John slung the gun strap over his shoulder.
“Step sharp, men. Master Keats will be pacing the deck.” Mr. Rice sat on one of the trunks while the two seamen manned the oars.
John kept watch into the darkness, listening for danger while the sting of urgency rode against the side of his head. To the west, lightning flashed through the clouds.
CHAPTER 5
October 1939
Aubrielle Cohen arranged an assortment of colorful lilies, roses, and lavender sprigs in her market wagon and secured the awning. She leaned against her pony, Éclair, and scanned the Champ-de-Mars for customers. Few tourists remained in Paris at this time of year, especially now, after France had declared war on Germany. The exodus of tourists over the last two months left the streets empty. Everyone wanted out. Only soldiers and a few desperate vendors populated the park in the morning chill.
She pulled her old coat tight at her throat and allowed her sight to drift to the top of the Eiffel Tower. If she didn’t make a few sales soon, she wouldn’t be able to refresh her floral stock. Greenhouse flowers came at a dear price this season, and Papa’s decline had left his millinery shop floundering—their savings nearly gone.
Although Papa had stopped using the poisonous mercury to shape felt hats years ago, the damage had already been done. Often, his hands shook so badly he could hardly eat. Thank God her mother’s best friend, Mae Moroney, lived next door. She kept an eye on Papa and brought him lunch while Aubrielle tended her flower cart. If not for Tante Mae’s kindness, Aubrielle would not be able to make her daily trip to the park with Éclair.
At lunchtime, she ate a croissant with cheese, then split her apple with Éclair as she walked the pony and cart around the park. At their slow pace, the long circuit filled most of the afternoon. The sun played peekaboo with passing clouds, but the rain stayed away. Unfortunately, there were no tourists who wanted to purchase her flowers.
As she rounded the corner, near the Tower at the park exit, a young couple approached and purchased a small bouquet of lavender. They were Americans on their honeymoon, and quite obvious about both details.
“We’re leaving for New York at the end of the week,” the man told her, hugging his bride close to his side. “We don’t want to get caught in France when the Germans attack.”
“The Germans can’t attack us. They won’t get past the Maginot Line.” Her assurance, a repeat of what Papa told her every night at dinner while they listened to the latest broadcast news on the radio.
“The Maginot Line?” the American girl asked as she sniffed her bouquet.
“Oui. A line of defense my country built along the German border after the Great War. We are safe,” Aubrielle assured the couple before they hurried on their way.
When they left the park, she walked with Éclair beside the Seine and crossed over the Pont de l’Alma, or Alma Bridge as the American couple would have called it. She passed the Grand Palais then turned down the side alley behind her father’s hat shop, not far from the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, in the Le Marais district.
Aubrielle pushed open the wide gate and Éclair pulled the cart into the yard without prompting. She saw to her pony’s comfort first, then changed the water in each of the v
ases in the wagon. She refilled the flower jars with her mother’s particular water mixture of bleach, sugar, and vinegar. A loose tarp protected the delicate merchandise from Paris’s unpredictable fall weather.
As Aubrielle opened the back door, the aroma of freshly baked bread and braised beef filled her senses, and her stomach rumbled. Music floated down the hall from the radio in the sitting area. She hung her coat on a hook and slipped her shoes off in the cloakroom.
“Aubrielle, is that you?” Her father called over the music.
“It is, Papa.” She kissed his forehead as she came into the kitchen. “Is that dinner? It smells delicious.” She untied the scarf that covered her thick dark hair and smiled at Tante Mae. “Did you close the bakery early?”
“Aye, darlin’. Not a customer since noon.” Mae Moroney rolled her R’s and stretched her vowels with her Irish brogue. She’d kept the bakery open after her husband’s death in ’25 with persistent hard work and determination. Her beloved husband, Oscar, had fought in the Great War, like Aubrielle’s father, and had inhaled mustard gas in the trenches. Oscar came home from war a sick man and never fully recovered. Their decision to relocate to France to be near her dear friend Marguerite and her husband, Lou, never gave her a moment of regret.
Mae set a plate of braised beef and mashed turnips in the center of the table. “Could you get the place settings, Brie?”
“Of course.” She and Papa spoke English more than French these days, even to each other. Tante Mae spoke only her own peculiar English, as did the wealthy American tourists, who had become the largest portion of their meager income.
Now, even those sales have dried up.
Aubrielle set the table for three and filled her father’s plate. “Here you go, Papa.”
“I’m going to open the shop tomorrow,” her father announced. His hand shook as he brought the fork to his mouth. He raised his brow at Aubrielle as he chewed and swallowed. He pointed the empty fork at her to emphasize his word. His thin, spotted hand trembled. “I’ve decided to take on an apprentice.”
Aubrielle's Call Page 3