by Jill Zeller
“I’m so glad you are all right, Armand,” I said to him.
Mrs. Pantone’s eyes widened even further.
Armand bowed. He looked thinner, and paleness patched the skin of his cheeks and forehead. “Just a small fire, very small. A crewman dropped a lamp.”
Somehow, seeing Armand safe and well, unscarred, I hoped, by the Picou’s heartless entertainment, I felt a shard of my grief slide away.
And I wondered how much I would miss Philip; should I despise, or pity him?
Mrs. Pantone left me shortly after Armand refreshed our tea. I walked the promenade, smelling town-smells of fish and mud and spice. Around me crewmen and cranes worked, swaying cargo on and off the ship, shouting, laughing, singing. On the dock, drays hauled by scrawny mules waited to be unloaded.
Overhead gulls cried and swooped. Children ran along the dock, pestering passengers as they came and went.
“See the town, kind lady?”
“Beautiful gems, pretty beads.”
Their voices happy birds, ecstatic with spring.
Tomorrow Leopardo would sail for Colon. I was eager for the waters to take me across the border to an unknown land; just as they had transported me away from the New York skyline, now I would go away from Haiti.
Above the harbor to the east stood a fortress of white walls with a zigzag roadway carved in the green hill. I could see the spires of a cathedral to the south, deep inside the town. And across the wharf from the Leopardo was a tiny islet, where a great cistern stood from which the steamers could drink like thirsty cattle.
I couldn’t leave the ship if I wanted to, I thought. Something, or someone, would prevent it. Everything had happened here in this ship with its little world of citizens and class. And I was like that fortress, still and stone.
The next morning we left Port au Prince before dawn. The sky was clear and gold with rising sun; the town never quiet, sang us a song with drums and bells as Leopardo pushed her slow growling way through the harbor.
Awake, having slept only a little, I stood at the rail; a sip of my cordial and my sketch book had brought me out onto the promenade to watch the sailing. A handful of people moved in the purple dimness. Fire burned in a metal can.
Someone stood alone on the pier watching the ship, different in that he was taller than the rest and garbed in black. Still, while others moved in white or brilliant colors sketched in the soft light of dawn.
The Caribbean Sea seemed to be made of liquid gems, here a pool of emeralds, there a river of sapphire. As Leopardo continued her southward journey to the Canal, the passengers became giddy, laughing and dancing in the saloon as the band played popular songs. I took my meals with them, laughed with them, even danced with them, while I felt like stone inside, stone from a dark, cold cave.
I had acted the fool, as thoughtless and selfish as a child. My grand journey, this idea that I could throw caution to the wind and live outside stale societal rules had not only wounded me, but deeply wounded others. I stood at the rail in the evenings, cooling my skin with sultry breezes, listening to the hissing of the waves against the ship’s hull, and wishing I could roll back time, undo all I had done, avoid Phillip Picou and his sister, enjoy the gentle friendship of the Farraguts.
In the two days it took to reach Colon, I did not see Harriet once. I looked for her, on the promenade deck, at the pool, in the saloon. I did see Mr. Farragut, taking his meals solo, but I never was seated at his table again. Roland Levesque seemed to have disembarked in Haiti, no doubt to continue his assistance of the Picous in their vicious charades.
I spent time with the Asher twins and Mrs. Pantone. I talked with Etienne whenever I saw him, even gave him a book of Kipling’s Just So Stories, when I learned that the crew were not allowed to borrow books from Leopardo’s lending library. Armand continued to serve me, smiling politely, but was a little reserved and did not look me in the eye.
Colon was a town of colorful houses on the Panama shore, crowding a spit of flat, green land. It was crushingly hot and close the day Leopardo would become one ship in a cohort of freighters, fishers, and an elaborate yacht, all joining the queue to enter the channel that would take them to the first set of locks.
For the first time in 12 days I disembarked; we had a few hours here while the ship took cargo on and off and collected the mail. A market lined the strands facing the docks and I looked at rows of silver jewelry and tiny dolls woven from wool, but my heart was not delighted by them.
The shore smelled of fumes and fish. It was noisy, too, workers whistled and sang along with the clank of cranes and the calls of gulls. Across a narrow channel I could see a train yard, where smoke pillars reached into the sky from the locomotives.
I stood for a moment, unable to move. People jostled me, carrying bundles of bananas and baskets of live chickens. A strange urge sprang up, to just stand here forever like a rock in the rapids, and let everything pass by, only grazed by cold water and nothing more. I had, with Philip, jumped in deep and nearly drowned, careless and carefree, I thought. But now I saw how foolish I had been.
Perhaps it was Arthur’s fault, I mused. His death cut me loose from something that had never really shackled me.
Someone touched my arm. I turned, and looked into the face of Mr. Farragut.
Deeper wrinkles pulled at his thin face; his hand dropped to his side and he pressed his lips together. Behind his glasses his eyes were reddened and bleary.
It seemed a century as we stood staring at one another. My voice froze in my throat—me with the easy voice and quick repartee, could think of nothing at all to say.
Mr. Farragut squinted at me. Behind him, the setting sun haloed his straw boater, which he jerkily removed, and then just as jerkily he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
It stabbed me, seeing his handkerchief. It was another man’s handkerchief that began it all.
“What will you do when we get to San Francisco?”
I found myself looking over his shoulder toward the bay where the entrance to the Panama Canal lay, the Canal Mr. Farragut and his son had helped to build. The setting sun made shadowy silhouettes of the ships lying there. Tears pooled suddenly in my eyes. It must have been from the glare.
I found my voice, somehow. “I’ll find a job. I have a letter of introduction from my editor in New York.”
Of course, I had told them that. Or at least I had told Harriet.
Nodding, Mr. Farragut sighed. “Your friends, the Picous. That was a sorry business.”
My hand found his arm. I felt him flinch, and dropped my hand to my side. “How is Harriet? Is she, has she . . . recovered?”
All this time, he had not really looked at me. But now he did. “She’s come to see that Picou woman lied to her, just for theater. Disappointed, and then angry.”
“Could I see her? I would like to explain—”
Mr. Farragut shook his head. “I would rather you didn’t. She’s only just starting to . . . be herself again.”
The sun cast an orange glow on everything, on the handkerchief as he touched it to his cheek. “You see, it’s difficult, seeing all this again.” He swept his hand toward the low green land, nearly hitting a passing sailor in the shoulder. “This is where it all happened. My son, you see, he was never happy here. I tried to interest him in our work. He was a talented draughtsman, like you, Miss Lynch. But his temperament. I worried he was too soft, and he became enamored of the people here. The West Indians, you know.”
He gave me a smile, but I couldn’t see his eyes; his glasses gleamed from the orange rays, concealing them from me. “Daniel liked to spend time with people who did not have his best interest at heart.”
Pressing his lips together, Mr. Farragut was silent a long moment. My heart beat under my ribs, willing him to speak, to share his pain with me.
Then, he said, “You see, I never told Harriet what really happened. I just told her he died of the fever. But I don’t think she believed me, even though she tried to.”
Secrets and lies. It was not just the Picous, but all of us who lied, and held back the truth.
Again, I could think of nothing to say. Mr. Farragut wiped his face again, pulled his watch from his pocket.
“Time for you to be getting back to the ship, I think, Miss Lynch. Good day, then. And good luck to you.”
Touching the brim of his hat he turned away, began to weave his way through the throng that had been, until now, parting around us like water around two rocks. But I was moving, became one with the water, and caught his arm.
“Please, Mr. Farragut, tell Harriet I think of her every day. Tell her . . . may . . . write to her?”
He turned to face me, a crease in his forehead deepening. “I don’t think—”
“I will, you know.” The words were out of my mouth before I knew it. “I will write. And you can hide my letters or tear them up. But I will write.”
His lips parted, and I thought I shocked him. He turned, a little unbalanced, then moved away and I couldn’t see him anymore for the bundles and baskets and noise. I didn’t know where the Farraguts were staying but I would find out. Mr. Farragut wouldn’t have spoken to me at all, if there wasn’t something else he wanted to say, if Harriet had not, perhaps, persuaded him.
Part 2
Twenty Days of Revolution
We were meant to call at Acapulco, and here we had done so, but our ship sat on the rocks several miles to the southwest of the town, blocked from us by a towering mountain with cliffs chewed by the sea. The only way there, the third mate said, was by boat.
And boats were on the way, he said. The port had been wired about our wreck, and all was good.
“A US warship is in the harbor, I heard,” the mate said, standing on a felled palm trunk. He looked very young, about eighteen I guessed, with a round face and small eyes, and had, I thought, a high opinion of himself.
“Very safe, with us Yanks here to protect the citizens.”
“Protect us from what, I wonder,” Asher whispered in my ear.
Rebels, I presumed. An encounter with rebels would be a welcome distraction from my contemplations of my sins. I had, on the entire voyage so far, been unable to do anything right.
Mrs. Pantone had a terrible cough. I didn’t feel so well myself; I’d had to leave behind my little bottle of Dr. Lynch’s Tonic.
The Cavendish twins did the best they could to shield us from the wind and rain; I helped them tie rain slickers we found in the lifeboat from tree to tree as a sort of wall. Under the meager shelter of blowing palms the passengers huddled, watching Leopardo founder several hundred yards from the shore. We had all been thoroughly soaked as the crew rowed us to the beach through a dawn of breaking cloud and hard showers; the wind and rain were eerily warm as it ran down our faces, through our hair.
Word was a wave had hit us, lurched us sharply to starboard, and one of the engines had failed. With only one great screw to guide us away from Acapulco’s reefs, the captain had done his best to steer us clear but we hit anyway, and started taking on water.
I wiped my hair from my eyes and kept my arm around Mrs. Pantone. She worried for her little dog, Pierre, a poodle in the hold with other pets. As the sun rose on the other side of the mountains, it was easier to make out where we were, and to see the outline of the Leopardo as she sat impaled on the reef. The passengers huddled and stared at her lights, and the pale ghosts of the boats as they bucked over the waves.
As the boats brought goods to shore from the Leopardo, the crew ran back and forth up the beach, and I saw the steward Armand scramble past with a crate on his shoulder.
“Armand”, I shouted, rising, tripping on my skirt. I wished I could pull off the stupid garment; I could move so much easier in just my pantaloons.
Setting down the crate under a canvas lean-to the crew had erected, Armand approached. His white uniform, under his life vest, was smeared with mud and sand.
“The pets, in the hold. Is someone getting them out?”
Water ran down Armand’s face as he smiled. “Yes, miss. Yes. The animals are safe. No water there.”
I conveyed this message to Mrs. Pantone and she thanked me with a rattling cough.
Asher Cavendish sat down beside me. I could now distinguish him from his twin because of a small scar on his left ear, which he had pointed out to me one day after I called him Arnold one too many times.
“They say we’re out of the worst of it,” Asher told me. He was the serious one, earnest, I thought, a little darkness behind his blue eyes. His twin Arnold loved to laugh, and was always playing jokes on his brother. Their aunt Mrs. Pantone, an inept chaperon in that they mostly ended up taking care of her, was often angry at them for embarrassing her.
The captain had warned the passengers about the typhoon, and advised that Leopardo would alter her course away from the shoreline to ride out the storm deep in the sea. But with the loss of one engine, we were doomed to the reef just north of Acapulco Bay.
The passengers were nervous. The young deck officer assigned to corral us explained, echoing carefully what the captain had told him to tell us, that the rebels operated far in the east, hundreds of miles away, near Mexico City.
Acapulco, he told us, was a shipping port, with comfortable accommodations for us. There we could wait for the next steamer, due in these waters in a week or so.
“A week!” Mrs. Pantone tried to press her hair back onto her head. “A week in this godforsaken jungle with banditos all around. That captain should be horsewhipped for crashing the ship right onto the rocks.”
Behind her Arnold rolled his eyes. “Nine lashes, Aunt, or maybe a hundred.”
“A hundred wouldn’t be enough.” Mrs. Pantone ran her hands along her dress, as if to wipe off the smears of sand. “Fires on board, and now storms. This voyage is turning into a disaster.”
“Cursed,” said Asher, and he winked at me.
Mrs. Pantone had a way of describing these events as plurals. There so far had been only one storm before this one, and only one fire.
Armand struggled past us with a heavy canvas bag on his shoulders. His hands still glistened from the scars of the fire in the crew quarters. Etienne had hinted that the fire was not caused by just a dropped lamp. And Mr. Farragut, when he finally started speaking to me again, advised that he thought the crew were performing a cleansing ritual.
Sitting under the trees as the sun broke through shreds of clouds trailing the typhoon, I closed my eyes and fingered the locket Arthur’s wife had sent me, a locket he had bought for me the day he died. That was what was in the package waiting for me in Colon. But all I could think about was Phillip’s face, the line of his nose and his eyebrows and his green eyes. The taste of his skin.
What if I had begged him to stay on board with me and sail away from Port au Prince without his sister? I chided myself over and over about that, just wishing that at least I had asked, even knowing that he would have declined.
I knew that would have all been impossible. I myself, I thought, might have been considered worth throwing off the ship as well, but only I knew about my true role in things.
He would never leave her, I overheard him tell his sister that first night on board. And now I knew why.
Sickened at the memory, I watched the crew struggle to bring the last of the supplies to the beach. We passengers walked and sat in the sand, talking amongst ourselves about what would happen next.
I remembered words from my mother’s letter, the one she had written to me before I left, currently left behind in my stateroom.
Ondine, you are a free spirit. But watch how high you fly.
I was not homesick, not much, although a little when I thought of our home in Brooklyn, with its lines of colored trees, smells of wood smoke and cinnamon, shouts of children, rumble of trains. It seemed all so alien from these warm, sultry green mountains and birds busy in the trees, it was like trying to remember a fading dream. I thought too, how odd that now I thought so much of Mother, wh
en I had been so much closer to my father.
And my sketches, one of Phillip among them that I never showed him, since he told me he hated to look at his image, where still on Leopardo. I hadn’t looked at them—in fact, I had almost torn them to pieces, but stopped myself.
Now I understood why he hated to see himself, a man more than handsome, almost beautiful. It was because he saw what he was, a man who came from, and lived in, a land with different rules, a lonely world with broken rules, where a sister and brother— .Why was I thinking of all this now, ship-wrecked in a jungle, days and a thousand miles away from all that? It was wrong, so wrong, and everything I had felt for him soured into disgust.
Getting up, I walked toward the sea, stepping over fallen palm fronds, across rocks scoured clean of their blanket of sand by the waves. The breeze, soft and brisk, tasted of salt and mollusk. Under my feet were thousands of broken shells. Looking down I saw a whole ne—a kitten’s paw, an irregular ruffled shell streaked with gray. Picking it up, I vowed to keep it always.
It was then the rebel soldiers found us.
M
They were not, as the young deck officer had proudly proclaimed, “us Yanks.” They were Mexican, thirty or so young men carrying carbines, bandoliers of bullets on their shoulders. Emerging from the palm wood, they made no noise and spread out, cutting off all escape except into the ocean.
Several leveled their guns at the passengers. There were many more of us than there were of them; we numbered two hundred according to the passenger lists. But none of us were armed, except for the deck officer who wore a pistol.
Gasps whispered through the passengers and I saw several of the men get to their feet. I stood on the beach, virtually alone except for five crewmen near the life boats who froze and stared. Near the stash of provisions stood several sailors and stewards, a few crewmen, the ship’s surgeon’s assistant, the purser and one of the engineers.
The rest of the crew remained on the crippled Leopardo, trying to prevent her from rolling on her side and sinking.