by Eris Adderly
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
The Devil’s Luck
by
Eris Adderly
* * * *
Text copyright © 2014-2015 Eris Adderly
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Eris Adderly. Stock model image by Taria Reed/The Reed Files.
Prologue
Prometheus
Kingston, Jamaica, 1706
Roaring tongues of flame licked out of the two northernmost windows of the monastery. The sandaled feet of dozens of half-awake, panicked monks slapped the ground as they swarmed to the source of the black smoke roiling up to the heavens in the wee hours of a Sunday morning. Vows of silence were broken in the dark as bucket lines formed in haste. Shouting holy men worked together in earnest to quell the blaze threatening their sanctuary.
Bertrand Symes crouched just inside the mouth of an alley, clutching what were now the last of his earthly possessions. Remorse, anger, and urgent fear waged war within his labouring chest. Those monks had become his friends, and it was from the windows of his own rooms at the monastery that the fire poured out into the night.
Those bloody slaves! Why couldn’t they have just kept the peace? He’d meant his words to teach them about God, not incite a rebellion. Tonight was a perfect example of how no good deed ever went unpunished.
He was lucky to have escaped when he had, before the first torch came spinning through the window. As soon as he got wind of the uprising, he’d known they would come for him. And once they discovered there was no charred body in whatever remained of his rooms, the hunt would be on. Nathaniel Blackburn would send dogs and men to scour Jamaica from end to end until they flushed him out.
Bertrand shrank back further into the alley and made himself as small as possible. Another noisy group of men went tearing down the street past his hiding place, running toward the commotion of the fire.
He had to find a way out of Kingston, a way off this wretched island entirely, and before sunrise. What he needed was to board the first ship out of the harbour, no matter what port it made for.
Who can I trust? Who will come to my aid, now that one of the most powerful men on the island wants me dead?
Ivey.
Nicholas Ivey. The bookseller, his one friend in the city proper. Ivey would understand; he would help. He must, or this would surely be the last night on earth for Bertrand Symes.
His new destination fixed in his mind, he backed away down the alley to where it let out behind the row of buildings and began to skirt his way through the back streets toward the part of town where Ivey’s shop waited in the dark.
He darted from building to building in fits and starts, keeping his ears open for further sounds of shouting and running men, anything that might warn him of pursuit. It was all he could do to make such haste and keep what was left of his books and papers securely in his grasp without spilling the lot of them into the street.
Ivey’s shop was closed, of course, at this foolish time of the morning, but Symes saw a light still burning in the small window upstairs. His friend’s propensity to stay up reading all hours of the night would save him here; he wouldn’t have to shout or make any conspicuous disturbance to rouse the man out of bed.
“Ivey!” His call was a hoarse whisper, the loudest he dared from the walk outside the open window.
After a tense moment, a head popped out looking this way and that into the night.
“Down here!” he said again, drawing the eye of his saviour to where he stood below.
“Symes?” the voice asked, in the unsure tone of someone who has stayed awake too long and is now not certain whether they’re seeing things that are actually there.
“Yes! It’s me! Let me in!”
The head withdrew into the room and, after an excruciating moment of waiting out in the open, the front door of the shop cracked open. Ivey stood in his untucked shirt and breeches, the remainder of his white hair disarrayed in tufts after likely reading while lying in bed.
“What are you doing here, man? Do you even know what time it is?”
“Let me inside, Ivey!” Bertrand pushed past him into the shop. His friend closed the door behind them and stood there staring at him in disbelief.
“Symes, what’s come over you? You look as though the Devil himself was at your heels.”
“Worse. Nathaniel Blackburn. Ivey, I need you to get me out of Jamaica. Before dawn.”
“Blackburn?” The bookseller sputtered, nearly dropping the candlestick he’d been holding. “My friend, what have you done?”
“Let’s talk upstairs. There isn’t time, but I’ll tell you what I can. If you can hold onto these things of mine for a time, my good friend—I’ve a need to travel light. Now what do you know of ships leaving port this morning?”
* * * *
Chapter One
The Mourning Dove
* * * *
Bristol, England, 1716
Harbours always stank of dead fish and hopeless striving; at least that was the opinion of one Hannah Collingwood. The clinging damp of the morning sea air lay upon her like the mire of a dream and she felt, with a fitting irritation, that she was ready to wake from one herself: a self-imposed dream of boredom and isolation that had gone on for three years too long.
Her brisk steps took her through Bristol, along streets latticing the shores of the Avon. Hannah was relieved to be engaged in some other activity than sitting in the common room of that stuffy inn, with its close air and unwelcome odours a reminder of the stuffy life she wished to leave behind.
Tea. She was looking for a shop that sold tea. Should that be so difficult? Less than an hour ago she’d made a promise to procure some for that pleasant young woman she’d been speaking with at the inn.
“You mean you haven’t any tea at all among your things?”
“No, I’m afraid not, Madam. Can’t say as I’ve the coin for such things.” The newly married chandler’s wife who sat across from her seemed embarrassed to be questioned so by a lady of status she’d only just met this morning.
“Well my dear woman, we simply must obtain a supply for you. Do you know that tea serves as a remedy to all manner of illness that one might be afflicted with aboard a ship? A most necessary item to bring on a journey of this length. I’ve heard this from very knowledgeable sources. I’d give you some of my own, but it’s already packed well away and will be far too much trouble to fish out. I’m not even certain which trunk it’s been stowed in.”
“Oh, no, Madam, there’s no need to do all that,” the woman said. She glanced around looking for her husband in hopes of some firm agreement that Hannah’s worry about the tea was quite unnecessary. The man was chatting with a ruddy patron of the inn who was speaking with broad gestures of his hands.
“Nonsense, I insist,” Hannah assured the woman, a Mrs Hadley
, if her memory of their short conversation served her properly. “I’ll make it a gift—a pleasant start to our friendship over these next few weeks. Heaven knows we’ll need someone to talk with besides these men!” She laughed as she rose from the long table.
“Are you certain, Mrs Collingwood? I’m sure I’ll be fine without the tea.” The woman’s dark eyes held concern at accepting such an expensive gift.
“Of course, Mrs Hadley. I won’t see you getting ill along our way,” Hannah said, hoping she had the woman’s name correct. Mixing up her name would be no way to begin a pleasant traveling relationship, especially since she’d only just determined, from their conversation, that she would be the only passenger of means to have purchased passage on The Mourning Dove.
“Brigit!” She called to the maid her father had hired for this journey. “Come along, we’ve an errand to be about.”
As all errands did, this outing was taking longer than she’d expected. Gliding into yet another tiny shop selling sundries and dry goods, she moved past tables of wares that held no interest. Hannah approached yet another balding, rotund man behind a counter—it seemed they cast them all from the same mould—to inquire into his stock of teas.
To her relief, this man seemed to have an acceptable tea for sale, and the price he named was only barely outside of reasonable. She slid the small coin at him and a gawky young man—either an apprentice or the shopkeeper’s son, or both—wrapped the tea in an outer layer of paper and tied it off with a bit of string. The boy was versed enough in social graces to hand over the parcel to the maid instead of to Hannah herself.
Transaction complete, she made her way back toward the inn, her sullen maid trailing along behind her. Brigit. How perfectly Irish. Hannah only wished the girl would be more pleasant. She’d hardly spoken two words all morning, and even those were glum. The occasional smile would no doubt brighten her face, and heaven knows it could use it, marred at it was with smallpox scars.
None of this mattered, of course, as Hannah would only have need of the homely young woman for the length of her journey across the Atlantic. She would simply tolerate the maid her father insisted she have along, scowls and all. It wouldn’t be proper, he’d said in his usual practical tones, for her to travel unaccompanied.
The marriage he’d arranged for her hadn’t been proper either, she noted, but then chastised herself for the thought. Her father hadn’t known, and was not to blame.
Coming to the port without any sort of male chaperone, and instead the company of a hastily-employed maid had been an unpleasant necessity. Her father would have seen her off himself, but he had left for Westminster three days gone and wouldn’t return to Bristol for weeks yet. The House of Commons would not be kept waiting for one Member, or so he was fond of telling her.
At the ripe age of twenty-eight, one would imagine she should at least have a husband to escort her out to the harbour. That task, however, fell to one Ashley Collingwood, and Mr Collingwood was as dead as the good Queen Anne.
No, the best her father could do was set her up at an inn to wait for the arrival of The Mourning Dove, and see her safely lodged there with Brigit before he’d set off himself. This particular inn was acceptable for a brief stay, but Hannah could already feel herself growing restless inside its walls after only a night or two. Today was surely the day, she told herself—more to fend off her growing boredom than anything else—that at last she would have word her ship was ready to sail.
* * * *
He’d watched her go out, and he’d watched her come back, both times trailing that sow of a lady’s maid. The pretty blonde hair she didn’t conceal with a powdered wig and the haughty tilt of her chin were, to Rowland Graves, the song of a siren.
This day was the last he’d haunt the streets of Bristol and Rowland knew he had to secure this fine bit of potential to try against his best efforts before his flight from the harbour. A mouth like hers would surely produce some delicious, ungodly screams before he finally wore her out. And I always wear them out, he sighed to himself. She was the very picture of the sort of doxy he liked to break, and the bottomless grave of the sea made him certain that no one would be the wiser, once he’d done so.
Though perhaps she’s the One, Rowland. Maybe she won’t break. Maybe she’ll bend just how you want. Just think: no more pain.
Yes. He would need to make inquiries if he was to succeed in caging this unsuspecting dove.
“You there. Boy,” he said, hissing the words at a passing lad probably no older than eight or nine years. The boy turned him a sceptical eye.
“How’d you like to earn a bit of coin?”
He had the lad’s attention now, and proceeded to explain to the youth what it was he wanted of him, the questions the boy would need to ask, and the importance of discretion.
At the end of his instructions, the boy held out a grubby palm for the coin, but Rowland pinched it between his bony fingers and held it away from his hired ear.
“Not until you’ve returned with answers,” he told the filthy child. Determination sparkled in young eyes as they gazed at the coin and the urchin darted off around the back of the inn where the object of Rowland’s darkest drives had only just returned.
He knew the boy would be back for his reward, and sure as day, after not too much time had passed, the little imp came sprinting along to exchange information for payment.
As he listened to the child’s careful recital of the answers he’d received, some gleaned from the liveried servants of the inn and others from the pack of observant urchins who loitered along that particular length of the street, a plan began to take shape in Rowland’s mind.
Once he’d learnt enough, he asked the boy a final question before relinquishing the promised coin. “Have you any friends or brothers, any boys a bit older than yourself? Say twelve or thirteen?”
The young man nodded his round little head that he did have such a friend, and Rowland Graves risked the bribe of another token from his purse to set the rest of his designs in motion.
* * * *
A lad of about thirteen stepped into the common room, eyes flitting about, nervous. He cleared his throat and made an announcement to the room in the cracking voice that came between boy and manhood: “Those passengers who’ve paid in advance for a separate cabin aboard The Mourning Dove, we’ll be taking you on board now. All other passengers will be sent for in short order.”
Hannah looked around the room again. None of the other patrons stood. It seemed she was the only such passenger, and this made her aware of her status in an uncomfortable way. Still, she gathered herself up from her seat as Brigit followed suit. Turning to Mrs Hadley, now in possession of Hannah’s gift of tea, she excused herself for the time.
“I’m certain to find you again shortly, Mrs Hadley, once we’re all settled on board.” The woman gave her a warm smile in return and agreed that she would seek Hannah out that afternoon.
As she approached the youth who’d made the announcement, he turned first to her and Brigit with expectant eyes, and then swept his gaze over the rest of the busy room.
“I believe we’re the only passengers who’ve paid for such accommodations, young man. My maid is traveling with me,” she nodded to Brigit.
“Follow me then, Ma’am,” the boy said, and turned on his heel to head out into the street.
“What of my things?” Hannah asked him, keeping her steps quick to avoid losing him in the crowd. She glanced behind her to be sure the ever silent Brigit was still trailing along.
“Oh I believe the man waiting has a cart for those, Ma’am,” he said over his shoulder.
The boy wove the three of them through the busy street until at last the nameless bustle of bodies pushing and scurrying along the quay gave way. The throng parted to reveal a gnarled root of a man with a lank, iron grey tail of hair trailing down his neck and a hawkish nose splitting the morning air. When he saw the boy leading them, he came slipping along the stones toward their group. Hannah
wrinkled her nose in distaste at his approach. It was clear he’d been quite some time without the luxury of a bath.
“This the passenger for The Mourning Dove?” he asked the boy while jerking a nod toward Hannah and Brigit. His dark eyes glinted over her in a way of which she did not approve.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then see about her things as I told you,” he said, passing off to the young man the hand cart he’d mentioned earlier. The boy trotted off again in the direction of the inn to fetch her trunks.
“Will you be sailing as well, Mr …?” Hannah attempted to be polite toward the man while they waited for the boy to return with her luggage.
“That I will, Ma’am.” His gaze glittered from her to her maid and back again. “I’m the very surgeon what works aboard the Dove herself. Doctor Rowland Graves, at your service, Ma’am.” He turned her a yellow smile that made her wonder what sort of medical feats a man such as this could possibly perform, and why anyone in command would task a ship’s surgeon with fetching passengers in the first place. From the looks of him, Hannah thought she might know more about the dressing of wounds and healing arts, though her knowledge only came from books.
After several uncomfortable moments where Hannah endured the surgeon’s appraising glances her way, the boy came back, tugging along the cart with her things. He brought it to a stop before Graves and the two women. The surgeon tossed a coin at the youth who plucked it spinning from the air and called a quick thanks over his shoulder as he loped off into the crowd, returning to the inn for the next group of passengers, she presumed.
Graves took up the cart once again, now laden with her trunks, and yanked it into motion behind him with a dry grunt. “Follow along then, Ma’am,” he said over a knobby shoulder, bothering with no further formalities before he moved off with her things.
This self-proclaimed surgeon appeared to be at least as old as her father was and made entirely of bones and leathery flesh, as if the years had boiled every ounce of fat from his bones. He walked with the gait of an experienced seaman, though, and she noted that he was tugging along the heavy cart with what looked like a minimum of effort.