Jupiter looked at Archer, still drowsy from his beating and the opium. He continued to watch the crew as they went about the ship’s business, ignoring him and the others. It was all commonplace for men aboard a ship. A well-dressed man did nothing but observe the crew as well. Jupiter assumed he was the captain by his clothes, but he only looked at Jupiter and the rest of the men in haughty silence. He turned away. As he did so, Jupiter thought he smelled the scent of rosewater.
• • •
Archer’s senses were returning but not as fast as he would have liked. His eyes rolled lazily over the deck and forecastle; across the ship were the desperate faces of strangers and the menacing ones of his captors and their accomplices. Then he looked to the black water sloshing noisily in the darkness, and finally to the face of the man Archer had sworn to kill.
“Where are we?” he asked Jupiter.
“On a ship . . .”
Archer sighed. “Why, goddamn it?”
“This ship is desperate for a crew. We’ve been shanghaied.”
“How did this happen? They just snatched me off the street?”
“It happens that way sometimes,” said Jupiter. “Most of the time it’s brothels, saloons”—Jupiter looked at the night sky—“and opium dens.”
Archer recalled the strange visions. Hadn’t he seen Jupiter in a brawl after putting a gun to his head? “How do you know all of this? Were you there?”
“I was in a fight. No one was happy about me beating a son of Ireland. They got me too.”
It was hard for Archer to follow. He was still confused, but he was sharp enough to observe Jupiter and the cavalier way he spoke to him, answering every question without a hint of deference. Was it the war that had bred such confidence? Or was he masking the guilt over murdering the Colonel? Archer wasn’t sure. But he could sense Jupiter was hiding something.
• • •
Jupiter was overwhelmed by the events; he acknowledged their strangeness. Why had they come together in this way? He hadn’t seen Archer in years. Seven? No. Eight—just before Archer had dressed in Confederate grays, on his way to pursue glory and honor, and to protect the South and ensure that Jupiter and everyone like him remained enslaved.
Angry embers glowed in Archer’s eyes. Jupiter understood, given all that had unfolded, but what it was specifically he did not know. He had so many questions, yet sat in silence. What was Archer doing in San Francisco? During the war, he had wondered more than once, as he fired his weapon, if Archer was among those white faces and gray coats. Was the look in Archer’s eyes the result of defeat, or had he gone home to see the Colonel, only to discover that he was dead? An invisible hand had pushed them together. That was the only way that Jupiter could explain it.
• • •
No one spoke among the captured men. They watched one another, waiting for some kind, wise fellow to bestow his knowledge upon the rest of them. The crew allowed this to go on until the sound of plank boots, perfectly timed for the most dramatic effect, came moving up from beneath them.
“Salute your captain,” said one of the men.
“Sir, we cannot,” replied the burly redhead. “We are bound.”
“What is your name?”
“Higgins.”
“Then stand, Higgins,” he said.
The sound of the boots continued, then Jupiter saw a man that stood well over six feet, with broad shoulders. Even outside of this intimidating context, the man would have struck an imposing figure. A windswept beard filled in his gaunt cheeks. His hair was coal-black where it wasn’t bands of gray steel. His eyes were a haunting and murky sea-blue.
“Burns, untie these men,” he said to the first mate, who then followed the order. “Men,” said the captain. “I apologize for the theatrics and any inconveniences I have caused you by bringing you here tonight. But you will find it is well worth it”—he paused there, looking each one of the men in the eye—“for I plan to take you on an adventure. Once this is all over, I promise you shall be thanking me. You think you have been captured or kidnapped or whatever the term is, but you have been freed. What I will show you . . . you have never seen the likes of.”
Higgins rubbed his wrists after being untied. “Listen to the Grand Captain. His High Benevolence. Dope us on shore and then you drag us on board and act like it’s a fair fight.”
“I always fight fair,” said Barrett.
“Fight fair? Club in the back of heads and turn us into slaves, right, mate?” he said to Jupiter.
“Would you like to club me in the back of my head to make it even?”
“Aye, Captain, I would.”
“Burns, toss the man a belaying pin.”
“What, is this some sort of trick?” said Higgins. “I grab the pin, you pull a pistol?”
“No trick. You beat me and you are free to do as you wish. The pin, Burns.”
Burns handed Higgins the pin. He was incredulous at first, tossing the pin from hand to hand. Barrett watched him silently. Then Higgins rushed him.
Barrett stepped aside while hitting him in the windpipe. Higgins stumbled and rushed Barrett again. Barrett threw his elbow into the man’s nose. The sailor dropped the pin and grabbed his bloody geyser.
Barrett snatched the pin. “I think you should stop now.”
Higgins screamed and charged Barrett. Barrett brought down the pin on his head, blow after blow, until he was unconscious. He tossed the pin back to Burns, who recoiled from it, letting it fall to the deck when he saw it was covered in blood.
Barrett used Higgins’s shirt to wipe the blood from his hands. He looked at all of the men. “I think you will all learn that I am truly a fair man.”
The well-dressed man looked on, unfazed, with his hands behind his back. Tall and slight, he had the soft, hairless face of a schoolteacher or office clerk. His eyes barely narrowed at the sight of the bloody Higgins. There was something twisted within him.
“Is this the cooper?” he asked his man while staring at Archer.
“He is, Captain Barrett,” came from behind him. Confusion conquered Archer’s face. What was this talk of him being a cooper?
“Captain, sir,” said Archer, relying on the posture and intonations of his days in the regiment: shoulders back, chest out, eyes straight ahead. “There must be some mistake. I am not skilled as a cooper.”
Captain Barrett gave his men a hateful look, then retreated to one that was deceptively harmless as he looked back at Archer. “You are not skilled in coopering you say?”
“No, sir. I am not.”
“Oh, then it seems we have made a mistake . . .”
“Aye, Captain, it does . . .”
“Well, I am quite embarrassed. In fact, I am mortified—but for you, for you I am horrified.”
“Captain?”
“You can’t make barrels, and you’ve never been on a ship. It wasn’t my intention to crew my ship with idlers. Do you know nothing of the sails above you? Flying jib, topmast staysails, the royals—fore and main? Top gallants? Fore royal, main royal, fore top gallant? Main topgallant. Fore topsail. Main topsail. Main topmast staysail. Main sail. Mizzen top gallant. Mizzen topsail. Mizzen? If you cannot provide the skills I require, then what use are you?”
The crew showed their teeth in menacing half-smiles. Archer braced himself for the worst. Veiled threats came from the crew:
“Long swim back to shore. Has he got the lungs?”
“Doesn’t matter if he does. The sharks’ll get him ’fore he tires out.”
“Nah. The cold’ll get him—then the sharks.”
Archer set his mind on lunging for the captain’s throat if he were to order his men to come at Archer. He hoped that he would be able to force his thumb into Barrett’s eye and take it with him into the afterlife. At least he’d die with honor.
The men began to circl
e Archer. As they came closer, a voice came from behind him.
“Sir, I know something about coopering. I’d be happy to teach him.” Jupiter had known the danger imminent once Archer had confessed his ignorance. That word—coopering—ignited a vivid memory. He could see one of the old avuncular slaves, his hands like weathered leather, placing a copper ring around the curved planks that would make the barrel, and Jupiter’s own young hands hammering them into place. What would go into those barrels? asked the young Jupiter. Anything, was the old man’s reply. That was at the forefront of their preparation.
Jupiter remembered that as he remembered most things that he wished to. It had been some time, but surely he could recall enough to suit the ship’s purposes and save Archer’s life.
Captain Barrett arched an eyebrow as Jupiter spoke up. “So you can cooper?”
“Yes,” said Jupiter.
“And you’re willing to trade your life for his, in the event you can’t teach him how to cooper properly?” Jupiter could feel Archer’s eyes on him, but he kept his fixed on the captain.
“Yes,” said Jupiter. “I am. He can learn. I knew him on land. We have good memories.”
The captain’s rigid grimace softened a bit. “That doesn’t surprise me one bit. One skilled darkie is worth more than ten untrained white men. Tell me, white man to white man, how does it feel to have him come to your rescue?”
Archer seethed. He had come all this way to kill Jupiter, why not now? Especially after such a humiliating reminder that he deserved it.
“World’s gone topsy-turvy since the war, hasn’t it?” said Barrett. “Imagine that—darkies educating.” He turned back to Jupiter. “So you say you have a good memory. I named a number of sails. Repeat them to me.
Jupiter looked at him in disbelief.
“Repeat.”
Jupiter closed his eyes. “The flying jib—”
“Wait,” said Barrett. He revealed his pistol and placed it at Jupiter’s temple. “Continue.”
Jupiter repeated the sails, stumbling on the mainsail.
“Stop,” said Barrett. “Impressive.” Barrett turned and pointed his pistol at Archer. “Continue,” Barrett ordered Archer. He trembled and closed his eyes. “Mizzen top gallant . . . mizzen topsail . . .”
“We’re all waiting.”
Archer remembered the last sail—the mizzen sail—but he was not sure if he wanted to say it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to survive. What would life on this ship be like with a man like Captain Barrett? Would death be a better alternative? Archer stayed silent and waited for Barrett to pull the trigger. He felt the pressure of the gun against his temple, then suddenly ease away.
“Can’t we put an end to all this infernal horseplay and madness?” The dandy appeared behind the captain. “Shouldn’t we be getting on with the ship’s business?”
The playful nature left the captain’s face. “I should remind you, Mr. Singleton, that the ship’s business is our business.” He motioned his head toward his men. “Leave us to it.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Singleton as he turned away, but stopped short of leaving. “But please do remember that our business, the ship’s business, is my business. See to it that it’s minded.”
Barrett looked at Archer. “Impressive, nonetheless.” He holstered his gun. “Like I said, I am a fair man.”
• • •
Archer did not take being embarrassed in front of the other men lightly. Jupiter had killed his father and created a situation in which Archer must be his student or be killed. Archer considered foiling Jupiter’s tutelage. His main purpose would be served: Jupiter would no longer be walking this earth or sailing its seas.
But that would ensure that they both would be put to death. That idea soon passed, as Archer realized that it wasn’t enough to know Jupiter was dead. He would have to see it, plan it, execute it, and live to talk about it. Years from now, on a gloomy day, when his spirits were low, he would think about the man who had killed his father, and that would surely place him in a better mood. No, Jupiter had to die, and Archer had to live.
• • •
San Francisco
Clement entered her room without knocking. He watched her in bed. A half-empty bottle of laudanum rested on her night table. “Maggie . . .” She moaned, then clutched the sheets to her chest.
“It’s done,” said Clement.
“So my troubles are over?” she asked lazily.
“Almost, my dear.” He sat next to her on the bed.
“Now that he’s gone, will it appease Hutchins’s men?” Her lids drooped.
“It’s all been sorted,” said Clement. “They seemed satisfied.”
“And what of Mr. Lin and the Chinese?”
“That isn’t our concern.” He stroked her thigh over the sheet. “None of this should be. You should marry Dalmore and leave this behind you.”
“Is that what the two of you have planned for me?”
“He’s rich. And when he dies, you’ll be richer. Margaret O. Dalmore has a nice ring to it.”
“I could never marry a man like Dalmore,” she whispered. “He doesn’t realize a wolf recognizes another wolf by scent, no matter if it’s in sheep’s clothes. Jupiter knew that.”
“You will be taken care of,” said Clement.
She laughed. “And what will you do? Watch another man have me? Or have you been offered some other consolation? Haven’t you wondered why Dalmore wants to marry me, so?”
Clement grabbed her arm. “Do you think I’m so blind? I’ve killed—and worse—for you.”
Maggie took his hand. “With these?” She kissed his palm.
“Yes,” Clement said before he kissed her. She brought her hands to her chest but Clement eased them away. There were no breasts—just a long scar, waxy and flat, from armpit to armpit where the breasts once were. He kissed her again, softly, down her neck, past her clavicle, and from one end of the scar to the other.
• • •
Maggie rose and dressed before he did. From her window, she watched the fog blanket the city. She heard Clement stir in the bed behind her.
“Clement.”
“Yes, love?”
She did not turn around. “The Prodigal Son leaves this evening. She’s a large ship. With Jupiter gone, you’ll need a head start on the others.”
She heard him get out of bed. “Of course, Mrs. O’Connell,” he said, closing the door behind him.
• • •
Preston Dalmore borrowed a coat from his driver. He did not want to take the chance of being recognized in Chinatown, especially with tensions rising between the Irish and the Chinese. After his last visit, he saw no need to return to the place, but things had become complicated on a personal level. Gao Lin had summoned him—him, a man who, not so long ago, would have scoffed at the request.
He entered through the usual route, the hallway under the saloon, the cast-iron door guarded by a large man with long hair. Dalmore did not have to introduce himself. Another man approached him as he entered the room. “Good evening, Mr. Dalmore.”
He recognized the man from a previous meeting with Gao Lin. What was he doing here? He must have looked puzzled, because the Chinese man patted him on the shoulder. “It’s Tom, Mr. Dalmore.”
“Tom. Yes, of course.”
“Please, Mr. Dalmore. Be seated.”
“Thank you.” He sat at the large table.
Gao Lin sat across from him but remained silent.
“Gao Lin is very disappointed.” Dalmore heard Tom’s voice behind him. “Forgive his silence.”
Dalmore searched the old man’s face. Nothing. “Is there anything I can do?”
Tom paced behind Dalmore. “When you asked for Gao Lin’s help, it was on the condition that there would be no reprisals. Gao Lin lost a grandson.”
“I’ve heard,” said Dalmore. “My condolences.”
Gao Lin did not respond.
“He was beaten to death by an Irish mob,” said Tom. “Hutchins’s men.”
“Are you certain?” Dalmore turned.
Tom hovered. “I am certain.”
Dalmore repositioned his chair to face Tom; it made an undignified screech. “Our agreement was that I would hire more Chinese in my shipyard—which I have done. The attack on Gao Lin’s grandson could easily be related to that.”
Gao Lin said something in Chinese. Whatever it was, Tom did not translate it for Dalmore. “You are in this situation by your own design, Mr. Dalmore. Do not pretend to be doing us a favor or that we are friends.”
“No, I would never be so presumptuous,” said Dalmore.
“You were losing money long before our involvement. The only reason your ships continue to be built is that our people are willing to work twice as hard for three times as little.”
“This is true,” said Dalmore. “The Chinaman—” He stopped himself. “Your people are some of the most diligent workers I have ever come across.”
“We are glad that you appreciate our hard work. All we wish to do is keep them working and safe from your white mobs. But if this was some ploy to have the Irish and Chinese wipe each other out, while you are left to take your pickings from the aftermath, I can assure you, Mr. Dalmore, that that is an unlikely outcome.”
Dalmore felt a trickle of sweat escape his armpit and run down his side. “Of course not,” he addressed Gao Lin. “I am offended by the suggestion. Lin, I have known you for over ten years. We have had dealings before. Why am I being met with such distrust now?”
The old man stood and left without ever answering Dalmore.
The Abduction of Smith and Smith Page 8