Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Persia’s mind spun with possibilities. Her father and his partner, Frederick Tudor, were about to launch a new ship, the Madagascar, from the Quoddy Cove yards. For a moment, her blue eyes grew wide atop her bandana cinder guard. Could it be that they were actually considering her for the post of supercargo?

  She looked down at her hands then, embarrassed by her own folly. Of course they weren’t thinking any such thing! This might be 1846, but her father and Mr. Tudor were the same old sea dogs who refused to set foot on one of the newfangled steam-powered sailing ships. She almost laughed aloud at her own wild imaginings. She didn’t have an icicle’s chance on the Fourth of July of being hired on as their supercargo! More likely her father was about to bestow upon her the honor of christening the Madagascar when she slipped down the ways to become seaborne for the first time.

  She removed the linen from her face and offered him a sweet smile. Laying her hand on his, she said, “Father, I do appreciate your offer, but do you think it’s wise? If I christen your new ship, not a person in Quoddy Cove—port, landing, or village—will come down to bid her well. You know how they feel about me.”

  “The whole lot of them be damned!” he yelled. “You’ll send the Madagascar off in style. Aye! But that’s not the duty I had a mind to speak to you about.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s the ice harvest. October’s near gone. In no time now, the Irishmen from down Boston way will be showing up to set to work. I’d like to pretend that I’m up to the task again this year, but the fact is I’m not. I want you to oversee the harvest for me, daughter.”

  Persia could only stare at her father. Never had she dreamed of suggesting to him that she might take on such a job. She could do it, of course. She had observed the process for years. She knew the men who came up from Boston to cut the ice, and they knew and respected her. But to supervise such a rough crew was something no woman would dream of trying to do.

  No woman but Persia Whiddington!

  “Thank you, Father, for your confidence in me.” The words sounded calm and assured, but inside, Persia’s heart was turning somersaults. She could and would do it! Tongues would wag, but didn’t they stay busy at their gossip about her anyway? It was just too bad that old Miss Birdie Blackwell had fallen down her well three autumns back. She most of all would have gloried in this shocking news.

  Persia smiled as a thought struck her. She vowed silently to tell her tidings to the well. That way Miss Birdie wouldn’t be left out since she was still down there. By the time folks had discovered she was in the well, she’d been there too long for them to try to haul up the remains. The smell had been something powerful. So the Reverend Osgood had come and preached her funeral service at well-side, then they’d filled it in. Her brother, the missionary, had sent money for a tombstone to be erected at the site. Persia thought, as did the rest of Quoddy Cove’s residents, that it was just as well Cyrus Blackwell was far off ministering to the heathens in India and hadn’t had a chance to see the stone image of his dead sister. It looked regrettably like her, and that, coupled with the eerie fact that her remains were still down below, had marked the old Blackwell place as a haunted spot.

  “It’s good to see you smile like that, Persia,” her father said. “You’re pleased about your new job, then?”

  “Oh, yes, Father. More pleased than you’ll ever know!”

  Asa Whiddington continued to watch Persia out of the corner of his eye. He half hated what he was doing. There wasn’t an Irish ice-cutter alive who was worthy of her. But, dammit all, she needed a husband, and it was for sure she’d never find one from York County or the vicinity. There might be some single men somewhere in the county who hadn’t heard of her disgrace, but even then it would be hard to find a man who wanted to marry an old maid of twenty-six when there was younger flesh to choose from. But the Irishmen were different. They didn’t care what people said about Persia; they liked her. And she was still a pretty woman, in spite of her advanced age. Working closely with the men, she was sure to get at least one proposal of marriage. And her father figured she’d jump at it, if only to get away from Quoddy Cove and its wagging, cutting tongues.

  “Are you all right, Father?” Persia touched his hand, then felt his forehead.

  “I’m fine,” he blustered. “Don’t fuss over me.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that you went so quiet all of a sudden.”

  He looked at her face as if he were seeing it for the first time—the bright hair like a burnished frame surrounding a portrait of a sad-eyed woman. Her eyes still danced with sapphire lights. But if you bothered to look below the surface, you could see the pain. And her full mouth, which used to curve up all the time in a smile that showered the whole world with love, now had a downward pull to it. Still, it seemed that the past painful years had only made her more beautiful.

  “Persia, do you ever give any thought to marrying these days?”

  She laughed softly, but there was no humor in the sound. “Marriage? At my age? Oh, Father, you are such a romantic!”

  “I’m not talking about romance, child,” he said gently. “I’m talking about a family, a home of your own, and comfort in your old age.”

  She didn’t laugh, and the small smile faded from her lips. “Yes, Father. I think of it all the time. But what’s the use?”

  He patted her hand but said no more. They sat in silence and listened to the melancholy song of the iron wheels and the moan of the whistle echoing off the frozen land.

  Persia’s excitement at the prospect of overseeing the ice harvest had faded at her father’s mention of marriage. She ached for a man to love, to give her a home and his children to bear and raise. But maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe some women were put on earth to do other things. And maybe Persia Whiddington was one of them. Any other possibility seemed highly unlikely at this stage of her life.

  She sighed and stared out the cinder-frosted side windows of the train, searching the forbidding, snow-blanketed landscape for some answer to the uncertain scheme of her life. But the cold, bleak land only intensified her loneliness. She closed her eyes and tried not to think, not to need, not to long for things beyond her reach.

  It was on a Saturday that Persia and her father returned from Boston to the house on Gay Street. Because of their tiring trip the day before, she almost talked her father into staying home from church the following morning. Had she been able to persuade him, her whole future would have been altered, for better or worse.

  As it was, the captain, dyspeptic and disgruntled after the trip, was in no mood for a preacher’s ramblings that morning, either. He might have suggested staying home himself, if Persia hadn’t first. But he was in a temper to argue with the gatepost. Cook made pancakes—his favorite—for breakfast; he wanted oatmeal. Fletcher laid out his black suit to wear; he ordered it away and chose the dark blue. And when Persia said, “Father, I really am quite worn out this morning. And the weather looks so threatening. I think we might be better off staying in today,” he blew up.

  “Not go to church? Have you lost your wits, woman? We’ll have every tongue in town slicing us to bits. They all know we returned last night.”

  “Do you really care what they say? We’ve heard it all before. Besides, if we’re not in church, maybe they’ll be able to concentrate on the sermon for a change instead of staring at me.”

  “Persia, I won’t let you take the coward’s way out. We are going to church and that’s that!”

  She started to argue and tell him that it was his welfare she was thinking of, not her own. But what good would that do? She had seen him like this before on infrequent occasions. She might as well go up to the rooftop and try to win a debate with a howling nor’easter.

  She shrugged her acceptance and went upstairs to get her cloak and gloves. While pulling on her fur-lined boots against the freezing cold and the wet snow they would have to slosh through on their walk to church, an idea formed in h
er mind and a smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. It was madness to walk on a day like this, especially with her father’s gout acting up. But she would never be able to convince him to travel to church any other way than they had always done. However, given his sour temper this morning, there might be a possibility.

  He was waiting in the hallway for her when she came down the stairs.

  “What took you so long, Persia? We’ll be late now because of your fussing before the mirror.”

  “Then we will just have to be late,” she replied haughtily. “If you’re about to suggest that Fletcher drive us in the sleigh, I won’t hear of it. We always walk!”

  For a moment, the old captain looked uncertain. His gray eyes narrowed and a nervous twitch set his jaw muscle working.

  “See here, now! You know my foot’s paining me. If I want to ride to church, I’ll ride! Fletcher, hitch up the team!”

  Fletcher shot Persia an amused glance and said, “As you wish, Captain Whiddington, sir.” He hurried out to bring the sleigh around before Persia’s father could change his mind or figure out what his daughter had been up to.

  So, on that cold, snowy morning, instead of having to slosh along on foot, Persia Whiddington rode in style to meet her destiny.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Persia was relieved when Fletcher stopped the sleigh in front of the church. Unaccountably, her father had brought up the subject of marriage again as they rode along. He seemed obsessed suddenly with the topic. And he was making her exceedingly uncomfortable.

  “Please, Father, you needn’t worry about me. I have other things I want to do before I settle down. Besides, I’m perfectly content making a home for you.”

  The captain continued his harangue as they climbed out of the sleigh. “What other things could you possibly be thinking of? Every woman wants a husband, a family, and a home of her own. As for your caring for me, I’m thinking about going back to sea. Not as captain, mind you, but I make a damn fine supercargo!”

  “Father!” Persia scolded in a whisper. They were practically on the steps of the church, and even if the other arriving worshipers hadn’t heard his curse, God certainly had.

  She noted a group of sailors huddled in a nervous little knot in the lee of the church. They would be shipping out within the week and were expected by their captains and their ships’ owners to make peace with God before setting out to sea. She knew from having observed such reluctant churchgoers in the past that they would wait until the very last minute before slipping in to settle themselves uncomfortably on the back pews.

  On her father’s arm, with her black taffeta skirts rustling softly, Persia made her way down the center aisle toward their usual seats on the second pew. It still seemed strange that the two places beside them—those once occupied by her mother and Europa—were empty now. But Persia had little time to ponder over that before Reverend Osgood mounted to his pulpit and commanded, “Let us pray!”

  After his booming “Amen,” Persia settled back to endure the sermon. But the white-haired clergyman surprised her by veering from his usual Sunday routine. Holding up a long sheet of foolscap for all to see, he announced, “I have in my hands a plea from one of our brethren in a far-off pagan land. You are all acquainted, I feel sure, with the name of Cyrus Blackwell, our missionary to Bombay, India. Not many of you will remember him, since he left us as a mere lad to follow his holy calling. But we all knew and loved his dear sister, Birdie, a saint of a woman.”

  The congregation muttered their agreement, making Persia twist in her seat and bite her lower lip for control. A saint indeed! she thought angrily, remembering the pain the woman had caused her and her mother.

  The minister continued, “Only this week I received a letter from the good Reverend Blackwell with a most unusual request. I will read his words to you.”

  Persia focused her full attention on the bespectacled cleric as he held the rough sheet under his long nose, squinting hard at it. A letter all the way from India! She had no idea what the missionary might be writing back to Maine about, but that didn’t matter. Her imagination was fired by the fact that his words had crossed the oceans of the world. She leaned slightly forward, anxious to hear all.

  The minister cleared his throat loudly, then began reading.

  Bombay, India

  May 23, 1846

  My Dear Brother Osgood and Fellow Christians,

  It is with great sadness and humility that I write to you with a special request. Were it for myself alone, I would never consider making so bold a plea as this. But it is in behalf of the poor brown heathens of this land that I beseech you thusly. Their spiritual needs come first above all others. This is my mission and my zeal.

  One month ago this very night, my dear partner in life, Hannah, was called to serve the Master.

  Reverend Osgood paused, clearing his throat again. He decided to omit the next few sentences of the missionary’s letter, which relayed all the details of Hannah Blackwell’s demise after she’d wasted away for weeks in the throes of a mysterious tropical malady.

  And so it is that I find myself at the mercy of the good Christians of Quoddy Cove. You have supported me faithfully with your contributions, your supplies, and your prayers in the years that I have been here. Now I must ask for the ultimate sacrifice on your part. I need a wife to help me minister to my flock. Is there a good Christian woman, robust of body and spirit, among you who will take up this cross and bear it faithfully and without complaint? If so, I call that woman blessed, for so she will seem to these poor, suffering natives and to the lone soul who now tends them.

  My letter, I know, will take four months to reach you. And my bride four more in arriving. I can only hope that within the year my prayers will be answered.

  The letter went on, with Reverend Blackwell explaining that life in India would be neither easy nor overly comfortable. But Persia heard none of this. Her face felt hot and her hands were sweating and trembling in her lap. Bombay! The exotic name whispered through her mind like a hot, fragrant wind, exciting her senses, making her feel light-headed and giddy. The time, the place, and the man himself were right. What poetic justice that the brother of the woman who had branded her a wanton would now return her dignity by bestowing his respected name upon her!

  The missionary, Cyrus Blackwell, had just handed her her longed for place in society along with her long-awaited ticket to India.

  “Whither thou goest, I will go,” Reverend Osgood boomed, taking for the text of his sermon from the Book of Ruth, first chapter, sixteenth verse. “And where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”

  Immediately following the benediction, Persia was out of the pew and hurrying up the aisle. Her father watched her brush past the other women of the church, who were huddled in excited knots, discussing Reverend Blackwell’s bizarre request.

  Persia heard the exclamations from the church ladies as she passed them:

  “India! Can you imagine? Why, I’d sooner see my daughter headed for hell than that dark, heathen land!”

  “It mightn’t be so bad to go there as Cyrus Blackwell’s wife. I remember him from long ago. A handsome scamp—nothing like poor Birdie in looks or temperament. I always thought, had he stayed here, that he and I might have married. In fact, if it weren’t for my husband, I’d be packing my bags the minute I get home.”

  “You can’t mean it, Clarinda! Why, the very idea! And said aloud right here under God’s own roof!”

  Persia half smiled as she watched the portly Mrs. Archibald Leeds blush, then reply, “God knows my heart’s been Cyrus Blackwell’s all these years. He won’t be shocked.”

  But the other ladies were. Persia was, too. Clarinda Leeds was not a young woman. How old, she wondered, was Cyrus Blackwell? Then she decided it didn’t matter. This was not to be a marriage of love, but one of convenience on both sides. She hurried on as the women be
gan casting wild guesses as to who might volunteer to go on this mission of mercy to India. It was no surprise to Persia that her name was not on their list of possibilities. She smiled, thinking how shocked they would all be.

  Simple shock was hardly the word for her father’s reaction when she told him. By the time he made it up the steps and inside the house—slowly, since Persia, in her excitement, had dashed out of the sleigh and forgotten to lend him her arm—she was in the library already. He found her leaning over his desk, thoroughly engrossed in a navigation chart.

  “Persia, what is going on?” he demanded.

  When she glanced up at him, there was a glow about her face and a glitter to her eyes that made her look feverish. Concerned he went to her, placing a hand on her forehead.

  “Are you ill, daughter?”

  She laughed with the kind of joy she’d exhibited as a girl and whirled away from him, sweeping into a lively waltz about the room.

  “Father, dear Father, I’ve never felt better in my life!”

  She sang the words. He was quite astounded. Although, as a man of the sea, he was not puritanical in his notions about singing and dancing, he did not hold with such frivolities on the Sabbath. A tiny “damn” from a grown man was one thing, but a woman prancing about as Persia was doing only invited the devil.

  “Enough!” he bellowed in his best tone of command, the one usually reserved for mutinous seamen. “Sit! I’ll have no more of this disturbing of my Sunday peace!”

  Persia whirled breathlessly into a wing chair and let her arms fall limp over the sides. She was grinning at him like a cat full of cream. He hadn’t seen her indulge in such foolishness since she was thirteen years old and had tried to stow away on one of his ships dressed as a cabin boy. He had to smile at the thought in spite of himself. Damned if the cunning little imp hadn’t nearly got away with it!