A chill descended upon her, unlike the physical cold of the ocean breeze on her wet clothes. A sense of fear rippled down her neck to the base of her tailbone. She couldn’t see the spirits of the departed sailors, but she perceived a cumulative presence in the air around her—a feeling of confusion and terror. The dead men were unable to comprehend their state of physical non-existence. Violent or tragic deaths were known to have kept some poor souls from completing their journey to the other side. And what could have been more violent than that deadly storm?
She looked over her shoulder to be certain she was alone—as alone as a person could be with the hovering entities of lost souls.
“There’s no reason to be afraid,” she whispered aloud, knowing that Masters was too far away to hear her talking to the dead. Though she did not know the men, she could not help the swell of sadness in their plight. Tears filled her eyes. A sob caught in her throat. “Look for the light. You’re going to be fine. Just head toward the light. It’s time for you to go.”
She continued to talk to the wind, sensing that each spirit was listening to her. Some went easily. Others took a bit longer. Eventually the air around her felt clearer, as if the weight of fear had been lifted. She had no way of proving any of it. Yet she sensed it in a way that was as normal to her as breathing. Scientifically, there was nothing to convince a person who didn’t have this psychic awareness. But there was also nothing that could convince her differently of her own unique perceptions about life and death.
By the time the two boats from the Valiant reached the breaking surf along the beach, Blake had performed the unhappy duty of inspecting all the bodies that had washed ashore after the southeaster. Of the two crewmen still alive, only one was able to move about to identify his dead shipmates. The other was barely alive but looked as if he would survive.
When the familiar bark of a dog caught Blake’s attention, he shaded his eyes against the reflective glare of the sun on the water. On the first of the two longboats, his large black mutt stood with its front paws braced on the bow, barking excitedly. The canine leaped out, splashing into a receding wave, then bounded toward Blake as four of his crew hauled the boats by the gunwales onto the sand.
Meeting the rescue party halfway, Blake knelt on one knee to give Bud a moment of praise and attention before he stood to greet the men.
“Good to see you, Cap’n,” said his first mate, Mr. Bellows, with a mile-wide grin, followed by a similar hearty greeting by seaman McGinty.
“Aloha, Capnee!” added Lopaka, a dark-skinned Sandwich Islander. “Aloha nui!”
To the white merchantmen, Lopaka and others from the Pacific Islands were individually called Kanaka, a variation of their own word for “man.” Addressed as a group, they were Kānaka with a line over the first “a”. And they held the unusual and envious position of working for themselves, hiring out to hide-trading ships along the coast without being tied to a contract like a regular sailor.
Blake grinned at the enthusiastic young man. “Yes, Lopaka, a big hello to you, too.”
Then he turned to Keoni Pahinui, who was the ship’s cook and, on occasion, the doctor as well, owning an impressive collection of knives that served both purposes. He was also a cherished friend of many years. There was not another man alive for whom Blake would lay down his own life.
“Aloha, Kaikua’ana,” Hello, big brother, Blake greeted him.
The large, smiling Kanaka shook his head, then grabbed Blake in a gruff hug and slapped him heartily on the back. Highly improper behavior, but Keoni was not one to follow protocol. Ever.
“You scare da hell outta me, Kaikaina,” he scolded, referring to Blake as his little brother. “Thought maybe you make.”
“If you thought I was dead, you’d have carved up ol’ Bud by now and had him for dinner.”
“‘A’ole, not this Kanaka. Others eat dog. Not me. Bud, he my family, too.” Keoni lifted his head, distracted by something behind Blake. Following his friend’s curious gaze, Blake saw the short-haired woman in men’s clothing coming down the beach toward the men. “What is this?”
Blake almost smiled at the ease with which Keoni could drop his Islander dialect for the educated demeanor taught at the missionary school on Oahu. “A wahine, my friend. Or have you forgotten what a woman looks like after all these weeks?”
All four of the Valiant crew stared in silence as Mrs. Edwards approached. He couldn’t blame them. He, too, felt a strange dumbness at the sight of her, despite her unconventional clothing and cropped dark hair. She was truly unlike any female he had ever seen. An exotic mixture of heritage, none of which he could determine.
It was Bud who broke the spell. His tail wagged slowly back and forth as he walked cautiously up to her, his head lowered.
Without fear or hesitation, she dropped to her knees and looked into the dog’s eyes. “Hi, there, fella.” She glanced at Blake, then back at the dog. “What’s his name?”
“Bud.”
The dog twisted his head around at the sound of his name, his tongue lolling out the side of his huge mouth as the woman scratched him behind his ear. Wishing he were the recipient of similar affection, Blake felt a lopsided grin quirk his mouth but quickly stifled it.
He cleared his throat and turned to his first mate. “Mrs. Edwards could use a blanket and some food. I assume you brought supplies with you.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” Mr. Bellows turned to McGinty and Lopaka. “You heard the captain, men. Bring the lady those blankets and the basket of food.”
As the two trotted off down the beach to the longboats, the widow walked up, with the dog at her side. Blake introduced her to the first mate, then the cook, who raised the back of her hand to his lips like a gentleman suitor. The blush that stole over her cheeks did not sit well with Blake, who was all too aware of the easy way his adopted brother charmed the woman. Keoni was a fine-looking Kanaka, a few years older than Blake. He was also a man from a culture that enjoyed the pursuit of physical pleasure between the genders without the guilt and restrictions of civilized countries.
Blake felt a nudge beneath his hand and looked down to see Bud gazing up at him. At least someone had noticed he was still around. He stroked the top of his dog’s massive head, then spoke to Mr. Bellows. “Did the Valiant fare well?”
“Beautifully, sir.” The first mate gestured toward the cliffs. “Would that be the Mystic, then?”
“Aye, it is. We will need to check for any survivors aboard her.”
“McGinty and I will take care of it, sir.”
“Good. I’ll have Lopaka help me. Keoni—” Blake turned to his friend. “There is an injured sailor in need of your attention.”
Mrs. Edwards spoke up. “Please, may I ask a favor of the men going to the Mystic, Captain Masters? Could they look for my leather backpack?”
“Your leather what?”
“Back—um . . . baggage. Bag, that is. My leather bag. I had it with me on the ship.”
“I doubt they will find it aboard the Mystic, but I will have them look for it.”
By midafternoon, the bodies had been buried in the clay soil on a low hill overlooking the sea. Blake and Lopaka were walking back from their unpleasant duty when the search party of two returned to give their report of the shipwrecked Mystic.
“Sir, she was washed clean of most everything that wasn’t nailed down,” answered Mr. Bellows. “She’s busted up real good. The tide’s taken quite a toll through the hole in her starboard quarter. Here’s the captain’s papers, though.”
Blake had already learned from a conversation with Captain Johnson that the Mystic had arrived from Boston only four months earlier with dry goods to trade with the cattle owners on the ranchos. Unlike the Valiant, which was nearing the end of its two years on the California coast, the small brig had a long way to go to fill its hold with hides before it could return to the East.
“Thank you, Mr. Bellows. Did you find the leather bag?”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.�
�
He noticed the way the sailors eyed the widow Edwards, sitting at a small fire Keoni had built to warm her and the two other survivors.
“That will be all,” he stated firmly, dismissing the men to make ready for the return trip to the ship. They had finished their work here in San Pedro on the previous evening, so no hides would be collected today. Had it not been for the storm, they would already have been halfway to San Diego by now.
He clutched the scrolled papers in his left hand, lightly tapping them against his thigh. Turning toward the driftwood fire, he approached Mrs. Edwards, who sat with her back to him, still huddled in the woolen blanket. Her head hung forward between her shoulders with the posture of someone who was exhausted.
In the bright afternoon sun, he saw the color of her short hair was not black, as he had assumed during the storm, but actually a rich, deep brown. So were her eyes, he recalled. She appeared to be close to his own age of thirty, perhaps a bit younger, but no woman of his acquaintance had ever looked quite so physically strong and as able as any young sailor. Yet she certainly did not possess any other masculine qualities.
He felt a resurgence of his own wanton desire for her.
Chapter 4
Blake quelled his lascivious thoughts and addressed Mrs. Edwards. “May I speak with you privately, ma’am?”
The widow woman brought her bowed head up suddenly, as if startled. “Wha—? Where—?”
She craned her neck around, squinting up at him through sleepy eyes that made him think of waking up next to her in the early morning. What insanity to think such things! He dismissed the wild notion and held out his palm to help her to her feet.
“I would like to talk to you for a moment.”
Taking his hand, she struggled to stand but faltered, her knees buckling. Instinctively, his arms went around her, pulling her up against him. Despite the layers of garments covering her feminine curves, she elicited an instant response in the lower regions of his own body. He was attracted to her, of that there was no doubt.
“I’m so sorry. My right foot went to sleep.” With her palms resting on his chest, she looked up with an apologetic shrug.
A man could lose himself in the dark depths of her velvet-brown eyes. A weaker man than himself, he thought, determined to keep a level head while around her.
“It should be okay in a minute.”
“It is better to walk it off.” He shifted her to his side, supporting her weight with his left arm bracketed around her waist. When she hobbled unsteadily, he tightened his grip, damning the blood warming in his veins. This was not a wench who was teasing his body with her caresses.
Little by little, she straightened her spine and her step grew surer. “I think I can go it alone now.”
Must you? Surprised and relieved that he had not asked the question aloud, he lowered his hand to his side. “Yes, of course. How is that?”
“Fine, thank you.” She gathered the wool blanket around her shoulders, pinning it together at her chest with one fist. “You said you wanted to talk? Your men didn’t find my bag, did they?’ ’
“No, but that is not why I asked to speak to you. It is a matter of your company aboard the Valiant.” He felt obligated to see to her safety, perhaps now more than ever. Even his own men could not be trusted. Could he? In the twenty-four months they had been away from their home port, the only females available to the sailors were Indian women whose husbands brought them down to the beaches and shared in their profits.
His long pause drew a soft “Ahem” from the widow, reminding him he was not alone with his thoughts.
Realizing she had been patiently waiting for him to continue, he grew uncomfortable in the awareness that this strange woman had caused all kinds of addled thinking in the brief time he had known her. What effect would she have on him as more time passed?
“I must warn you,” he began again, “your presence on board may be awkward, at best. Some sailors believe it is bad luck to have a female on their ship. When they learn you were a stowaway on the Mystic, they may blame you for its disastrous end.”
“Do you believe such nonsense?” she asked, locking his eyes in her straightforward gaze.
“I believe,” he said gruffly, “there is no such thing as bad luck where a lady is concerned. However, my opinion hardly changes the fact that it would be better if you did not show yourself on deck during the voyage.”
“Do you mean I must hide in the hull?”
“No.” He smiled faintly at the idea of locking her away as if in a dungeon. “You will be given suitable accommodations, comfortable for the short duration of two days and nights.”
“Before I am confined to my quarters, would it be asking too much if I could interview—that is, talk to—the two crewmen of the Mystic?”
“Regarding your son, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“I will talk to them.”
“I’d rather do it myself, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, Mrs. Edwards. Those men would not trust you enough to speak one word to you. It would be best if you leave the questions to me.”
“It looks like I’m expected to leave everything to you,” she muttered.
“Precisely. I’m glad you see my point.”
“The only thing I see is that I’m pretty much at your mercy.”
“Or the mercy of this beautiful but brutal foreign wasteland.” He gestured with a sweep of his arm at the desolate scenery. “The nearest civilized town—if it could be called civilized—is Pueblo de los Angeles, which is thirty miles distant. You may take your chances here, madam, or come with me and follow my orders. Which do you choose?”
The woman narrowed her eyes as she gazed eastward from the hill on which they stood. The gentle sea breeze lifted the short layers of her dark hair, combing it in a manner that tempted him to raise his hand and touch it, touch her.
Finally, after a long and silent pause, she spoke directly to him, challenging him with a defiant gaze. “I want to be with you when you talk to those men about Andrew.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she held up her palm. “I won’t speak. I will only listen. I promise.”
“On your honor?”
“Cross my heart and hope to—” She stopped. “Never mind.”
“You have changed your mind?”
“No,” she quickly answered. “I swear I’ll keep my mouth shut. How soon can you speak to them?”
“We must do so now. They’re not coming with us.”
“Why not? There’s nothing here for them. You said so yourself. Isn’t San Diego a better place for them to find work?”
“They have decided to remain behind and take their chances that the owner of the Mystic will have sent another ship, though I doubt it.”
“Then tell them to come with us. There’s no food or medical help here to keep them alive, especially for the one who needs at least a couple more weeks of care and attention.”
“Aside from leaving behind a fair amount of food, I am afraid it is out of my hands.”
“But you’re the captain.”
“Of the Valiant, my dear. Not the Mystic. They have no allegiance to me.”
“So? Those men might die if they stay here.”
“They would rather take the risk.”
“Over what? Sailing with you?” After a momentary pause, she continued with an amazingly accurate appraisal of the situation at hand. “It’s me, isn’t it?”
He reluctantly nodded. “So it appears.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Be that as it may, they’ve made their decision. Now, as for you, do you still wish to listen when I question them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“No talking?”
“No talking.”
When asked about a blond boy they might have seen three months earlier, the sailors described a mischievous little liar with wild stories and a mean streak. He had somehow slipped aboard ship in San Diego. Found in the c
aptain’s quarters, the boy had been accused of thievery, though he’d had no coin on him. The captain had beaten the lad. Not surprisingly, the boy had fled the next day.
The story jogged Blake’s memory. He recalled the latter weeks in December, when the Valiant had been anchored off the beach of San Diego to deliver a cargo of cattle hides to the hide houses on shore. He had witnessed the return of a young cabin boy to the Mystic. Captain Johnson had offered a ten-dollar reward for the lad, half the price of an able-bodied sailor who deserts his ship. Blake had seen enough of these runaways to harden his heart to their plight. Still, he’d felt sympathy for the scrappy young blond boy. But he’d forced it out of his mind. He could not save every frightened green hand who had yet to double the Horn. Time and work toughened the stronger ones and turned the weaker ones away from any notion of further adventures at sea. Such was the way of a nautical life, and he had no authority to intervene.
Blake listened as Mrs. Edwards learned that the boy, quite likely her own son, had endured unspeakable punishment from the captain. He stepped closer to her when the tears trailed down her cheeks. But she bravely insisted on hearing everything. The boy had managed a successful escape with the help of two shipmates. They had hidden him on one of the boats when they rowed ashore at San Juan Capistrano for hides. The mission priest had agreed to take the boy in.
When the sailors finished their despondent tale, Mrs. Edwards turned to Blake. “I need to go to Capistrano.”
“San Juan,” he corrected. Although he would agree to make an unscheduled stop, he had no intentions of leaving her there alone and on her own.
On board the Valiant, Blake escorted the widow to his cabin at the stern of the ship. Followed closely by his dog, he was certain his guest would find the spacious captain’s quarters to be more than suitable accommodations. Mullioned windows allowed an abundance of natural light and a picturesque view of seascape from port to starboard.
Mystic Memories Page 5