by L. K. Rigel
Kingston would no longer do, though, now that the British were seizing American ships. He would remove to Orangetown at St. Eustatius.
That damned Gohrum. He and his Austrian partner, Augustin Singer, had taken possession of the Maenad for a mere two thousand pounds. Her present cargo alone was worth as much, figs and capers and raisins and painted silk. Blast.
At first, Sande had suspected Lord Branch put the idea in Gohrum’s head to take the ship, but that couldn’t be. The Syren’s captain had it from England that Branch was dead these three years. Sande hadn’t told Circe. The news might drive her even more out of her mind.
But as Branch wasn’t involved, the next likelihood was the East India Company had influenced the sale in Gohrum’s favor. The Company wanted to protect their charter and their exemption from the tea tax—the very exemption that had finally pushed the colonies to rebel against their sovereign. What could be a better business move? Put a profitable ship in the way of a man with the king’s ear and, as important, influence at Lords.
He’d curse the frigate now, if it didn’t feel like bad luck to do it. The Maenad was a beauty and well-fitted-out. She could carry fifty guns, but only had forty. Her captain reasoned better forty smart guns and more room for cargo than the weight of fifty brutes and the powder and men they cost to operate. Sande had liked the idea and reduced the number of guns on all his ships. Well, the gods had had their joke. Sande had got Circe from Branch and lost the Maenad to Gohrum.
Enough. He let it go, for now, and set his mind instead on the moonlight dancing on the waves. The Circe dipped and surged through the dark water. He relaxed and looked to the future. He was glad James had come along this time. He had taken James under his wing to curry favor with the lad’s father, a priest of Voudon with a reputation in the islands, but James’s education had proved a good investment too.
James had a thorough knowledge of figures. He’d already added to Sande’s fortune just by putting the wealth he’d accumulated to work in investments and earning percents. He was remarkable, and only seventeen years old. Perhaps the two of them would visit Eugenie when they put in to Orangetown.
“This must end, Aristaeus!”
Blast. His daft wife had come on deck, barefoot and wearing nothing but a torn shift, her dark hair loose and uncombed. She was becoming more than an irritation. She was an embarrassment. Why some night could she not just go over the side?
“See how you move me.” He kept his back to her.
“I will not have it.” She stepped in front of him. “I’m your wife.”
“You’re my misery.”
“I’m the daughter of a baron.”
“You’re nothing. I keep you for Penelope’s sake.” He stared hard at her. “But I wonder if that is wise. Lately you’ve been more than a little upset. Are you becoming a danger to my child?”
“So you’ll get rid of me, just like your father got rid of Eugenie.”
“You will not speak of my mother.” Where had the temptress gone? Had she been an illusion all along? How could this sorry, dark thing have produced his magical golden child?
“Listen to me,” she said. “I am leaving you at the next port and taking Penelope back to England. Back to civilization.”
“You whore.” He grabbed her arm. “You’ll never take my child from me.”
“Papa!” They had disturbed Penelope. She came running to him, and he released Circe so he could lift his daughter.
“It’s all right, my darling. Everything is all right.”
Circe exploded. “Ah, you American, you pirate! You stole my youth, my life. Even our daughter’s love, you take all for yourself.” She ran at him. There was a flash of metal, and she tore Penelope from his arms. He gasped and clutched his leg where blood spurted out of his thigh, and Circe’s dagger clattered to the deck. She twisted away from him, and scrambled up onto the rail, clutching Penelope. The weight of the squirming three-year-old unbalanced her, and they both went over the side.
“Penelope!” Sande tried to move, but his leg gave way. A shadow flew by, and another body hit the water. “Man overboard!” Sande cried, but the crew was already at work. With the day’s last light slipping away, they threw a boat over and began to bring the sloop around. After an eternity, they hauled out of the water a dark young man with a gold hoop in his ear and a little girl clinging to his neck.
“James, you have saved my daughter!” Sande took the precious drenched bundle into one arm, and threw the other around James.
Penelope touched James’ cheek as he had touched hers that afternoon. “James, you have saved me,” she said in her child’s lisp. Aristaeus saw the bond form between the two, and he was glad.
“I’m sorry, Aristaeus,” James said. “I fear your lady is lost.”
“Don’t torment yourself,” Sande said. “She was lost a long time ago.”
He called the crew together and spoke a few words to commend his lost wife to the deep. He didn’t want the madwoman haunting his ship. In the morning he searched Circe’s quarters, kept her jewels for Penelope, and ordered the rest of her things thrown over the side. In the secret hiding nook he found Philomela Asher’s letter. Ordinarily he would have tossed it with the detritus, but on the chance he could use it against Gohrum, he opened it.
“So Philomela’s got the estate and title,” he said aloud as he read. No wonder the letter drove Circe mad. “Hold, what’s this?” He reread a sentence and counted nine months to be sure.
“Hold, what’s this?” Penelope repeated, sitting cross-legged at Aristaeus’s feet. She’d made a coronet of a string of sapphires.
Aristaeus could read between the lines. He could put together two and two. He said, “It would seem, my princess, that you have a bastard brother in this world.” She was too young to understand him. “Carey Asher.” He folded the letter neatly and locked it away in the box that held his letters of marque.
He moved James into the berth nearest Circe’s—now Penelope’s—quarters. The boy’s father was a priest of Voudon, and it pleased the men to think the ghede loa would keep the drowned woman’s shade away. Penelope called him Uncle James. She followed him everywhere and cried tragically if he left the ship without her.
Penelope and the Prodigal
1809, Jamaica – 33 years later.
Penelope Sande held a decidedly low opinion of marriage. Her father was a rich man and practically an outlaw. She had no reputation to protect and no society to please. At thirty-six, she was a wickedly happy old maid. One day, for some unknowable reason, something changed. She was at a usual place at a usual time doing a usual thing. There was a man, no different from any other man. But he looked at her in a way that pierced her façade and touched her heart, and she wanted his ring on her finger.
Penelope Sande always got what she wanted.
-oOo-
Franklin Adams, late of Southampton County, Virginia found himself in a grog shop in Kingston. He’d come to Jamaica to see for himself the vestiges of the supposedly halted slave trade. He had intended to write a scathing article to be published in a noteworthy newspaper at home. He meant to scandalize his father into freeing their plantation’s slaves. Though importation had been banned for a year now, no man’s conscience could be clean until the institution itself was wiped out.
But it was all a romantic dream. Too many fortunes and ways of life were too dependent upon the evil itself. Everyone knew it was wrong, and no one with any power would act to change things. He was sick in his heart over what man did to man in the name of commerce. He was a fool and a coward. He couldn’t stop slavery. But he wouldn’t live off it either. He wouldn’t return to his family plantation until it had no slaves.
While he puzzled over what to drink, the saloon door opened and in walked the most marvelous being. She was tall and blindingly golden, with a mass of curls half in a haphazard pile on her head and half escaping down past her shoulders. Her costume was the lightest blue. For a moment, Franklin thought she was
the sky and her head was the sun.
“Rum,” she said.
The barman slapped a mug on the counter. No one else in the place was disturbed. The creature seemed to be a natural phenomenon in these parts. Perhaps Franklin’s island visit wouldn’t be entirely disappointing.
Penelope—for that is what the barman called the marvelous creature—was indeed a rising sun in his dark hour. She set the empty tankard on the bar just as she met his gaze. Within two hours they were married. Within three, he was in heaven.
The following morning they breakfasted on the balcony of their hotel room. During their second cup of coffee, a rather intimidating black man materialized beside their table.
“Jesus and Maria!” Franklin jumped out of his chair.
The man wore a pistol and a short curved dagger and a large gold hoop in his left ear. He looked—effective. “Penny,” he said. “You thinking about coming back to the Bacchante now?”
“Uncle James!” His wife sparkled with pleasure. “Meet my husband, Mr. Franklin Adams.”
Her wicked smile was a delight, and Uncle James laughed too. Franklin felt included in the joke. He didn’t understand what world he’d stumbled into, but he was happy. And shocked to realize this was an entirely new sensation.
Then Penelope said, “Let us go meet my father.”
-oOo-
According to legend, all men trembled in the presence of Aristaeus Sande. In Franklin’s experience, the legend proved true.
“I am married, Papa,” Penelope said. “There is an end to it. Mr. Adams is a good man.”
Franklin was half a head shorter than his bride and acutely aware he looked ridiculous standing behind her.
“How dare you marry my daughter, you nothing!”
“I can’t explain it, sir. Except that a mere mortal refuses a goddess on pain of death.”
“Get out!” Sande turned his face from his daughter and poured himself a drink. “He’s a fool. Look at him.”
“Well, he’s my fool.” Penelope continued. “I’m thirty-six years old. I want a child, if it’s not too late. We’re going to Massachusetts to live like ordinary people.”
Thirty-six. Seven years older than himself. He hadn’t thought to ask.
“You’ll die of boredom inside a year.” Sande said.
“I think not, Father.”
“Get out. I disown you. Go. Go to Massachusetts to live your ordinary life.”
She lifted her chin. She didn’t plead. She turned and walked away. Franklin’s heart swelled with pride, and he hurried after her.
-oOo-
At this stage of his life, Aristaeus Sande saw everything coming, but he hadn’t seen this. He’d been sure Penelope would never marry, never leave him. He’d given her the means to live a free life, just so she wouldn’t marry. How then could she marry that—that mite?
No, she wouldn’t be bored. She’d find satisfaction, as she always did, wherever she went. There were streaks of Circe in her. The spark that had captivated him once upon a time. The ferocity that left him with scarred subcutaneous tissue in his thigh and a limp. Somewhere in her ocean grave, Circe howled with laughter.
He removed a locked box from the false bottom in the cabinet behind his desk. He carried the key around his neck, though he hadn’t used it in years. Unlike most sea-going men, Aristaeus claimed he wasn’t superstitious. Even so, he didn’t like to open this particular box. It was bad luck.
The letter was still there, the one he’d found in his wife’s quarters after she went over the rail. The triumphant screed from her horrid sister had driven Circe finally, irrevocably, mad. He’d locked it away not because he minded its revelation but because he hadn’t decided what he was going to do about it. Philomela had run away to Ireland supposedly to visit the other sister, but she’d returned with a newborn child. He’d counted the nine months from their encounter in the hunter’s cottage.
Aristaeus had left plenty of bastards in his wake, but he’d taken an interest in Carey Asher. He made it known he wanted the Maenad unmolested and let everyone believe he intended one day to regain possession. In truth, he’d learned of his son’s partial ownership in her. And now Penelope had broken his heart. Well, damn her to hell, he didn’t need her. He would disown her truly and settle everything on Sir Carey.
“James!” James would know how to do it. But James didn't come.
-oOo-
James waited at the dock with an assortment of trunks and boxes. He’d had them hastily packed and delivered to the Mathilde during Penny’s interview with Aristaeus. When she arrived with her new husband, she took hold of his hands and pleaded. “Come with us, Uncle James?”
He was nearly fifty years old, and Jamaica had always been his home, but there was no question in his mind. “You’re the only human being living who loves me,” he said. “I think my half-brother can count his own money for a change.”
Practical as ever, he made sure to bring along a few boxes filled with gold coin. When the time was right, he’d tell Penny about her greater fortune secure in a Boston bank.
The newlyweds and their valet, as everyone assumed James to be, boarded the Mathilde, a ship of Dutch origin that belonged to a syndicate of British gentlemen. The ship didn’t carry passengers normally, but Penny and James knew her captain.
“You understand I can’t guarantee your protection, Miss Penelope,” Captain Charles said. “Boston Harbor is not so hospitable these days, and I wouldn’t like Aristaeus Sande to hear I’ve killed his daughter.”
“It’s Mrs. Adams now, Captain Charles. Aside from the Bacchante, you have the fastest ship and the best crew I know. Who else would I go to? You can put us ashore in some quiet inlet. And as for killing me, these days my father would take it as a favor.”
Captain Charles looked at Franklin Adams as if to say I hope you can handle her. Aloud, he said, “I wish you both much happiness,” and motioned for their things to be stowed.
-oOo-
A boatswain nearby overheard the conversation between the captain and passengers with great interest, and once the Mathilde was at sea he slipped below to find seaman Zehetner. “Josef, did you not say you were from Boston?”
“Near there,” the smiling seventeen-year-old answered. The young man’s muscles bulged after more than two years’ hard labor, and his hands were more calloused than any farm work could ever make them. Though his freckles had begun to fade, his head was still red and his heart was still full of merriment. Among the crew, he counted many friends.
“Cap’n’s taken on two passengers,” boatswain Jarvis said. “Going to Boston, they said.”
“My thanks, Jarvis. I am right glad to hear it. I’m in your debt.”
-oOo-
Shortly into the voyage, Franklin and Penelope drank their morning coffee on deck as the Mathilde sailed by the Virginia coast. Franklin would have liked to talk about his family, to tell Penelope about the plantation, his horse and dogs, his collection of books and Revolutionary War pamphlets that he would never see again. But she didn’t seem to care about his past or his fortune or his loss of fortune. His wife really was a magical creature, entirely self-sufficient. He thought he loved her.
“Excuse me, sir. Ma’am.” One of the crewmen, a boy really, approached them.
“Yes?” Franklin said.
“I’m told you’re headed up Boston way, and I was hoping you would post a letter there for me.” Penelope gave the boy a wary look. “It’s my mother,” the boy explained. “I haven’t…” He looked about to see if anyone was watching. “I haven’t been able to post. She doesn’t know where I’ve been these past years.”
“The captain is a friend of mine,” Penelope said. “I couldn’t interfere with his crew.”
“The press is a terrible thing, however the British justify it,” Franklin said. “Have no fear, young man.” He accepted the letter and slipped it into his jacket. “Your mother will receive this.”
“Thank you, sir.” The boy’s smile made
Franklin glad of his decision. “Her name is Gisela Zehetner, Mrs. Jonathan Zehetner. She’s at the Singer farm in Shermer Landing. It’s written there on the letter.”
“I will see to it myself.” Franklin noted his wife’s new respect and Uncle James’s look of approval. Perhaps the marriage would not be a disaster after all.
That night the full moon that shone on the Mathilde revealed a limber creature ascending her rigging. Captain Charles was no ignorant master. He understood that men would have their quirks. A luxury to one was an essential to another. Young Zehetner had been haunting the topside at night for the last year. The captain didn’t like it when the pressed men were out like that, where they might take it into their heads to jump ship, wagering their lives that the shore was closer than it seemed. But concerning Zehetner he’d spread the word among the officers that this practice was not to be acknowledged, but neither was it to be quashed.
Josef Zehetner was a leader without knowing it, and the captain didn’t want that quality scuttled. The other men took the lad’s lead and were more willing to put their shoulders to an odious task if he thought the thing worth doing. The captain intended to bring the boy along and promote him when the time was right. So Josef slept close to the stars, and Captain Charles believed he allowed it.
This night, Josef watched Cassiopeia cross the sky and thought of his mother. Every night at sea was delightful to him, and tonight was better than most, for the one burden on his heart was lifted: his parents would soon learn of his fate. When the Queen of Heaven left his view, he slipped down to the deck. For a while, he watched the lights of the distant shore. Captain Charles need not worry. It never occurred to Josef to leave the ship, no matter how close the harbor lights might in fact be.
“I went to sea at your age,” said the dark man at the rail nearby. “I remember how happy it made me.”