Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  At dawn’s first light, Zack rose and dressed. He left more money than was due and went away, not waking her to say good-bye. He felt empty somehow and used up. The ache was gone from his body, but not from his heart or his soul. It never would be, he realized. Not with Persia gone.

  The trip wasn’t starting out well. All the omens were bad, Persia thought. First, there had been the trouble with the Madagascar’s launching; the new ice ship had nearly foundered as she’d slipped down the ways. Then, a dreadful storm had blown up as they’d set out on the bark’s maiden voyage from Quoddy Cove to Boston, with snow thicker than New England clam chowder and the temperature so low that the new masts were sheathed in thick ice. And, finally, Captain Gideon’s dreadful accident. He had been tossed out of his bunk during the height of the storm and, smashing into the bulkhead, had broken his leg in two places.

  “Poor man,” she said to herself. “Such an inglorious way to get dry-docked.”

  Persia was glad her father had stayed at home rather than making the journey up to Boston to see her and his new ice ship off to India. This way, since he knew nothing of Captain Gideon’s misfortune, he wouldn’t worry himself sick over it. First Mate Barry had assured Persia that Frederick Tudor would take care of hiring on another ship’s master before the rest of the ice was loaded at Gray’s Wharf in Charlestown.

  Now things seemed to be going more smoothly. The weather was clearing—still cold enough to make an Eskimo shiver, but the snow had let up and the seas were smoothing out before them. Within the hour, they would make port and begin taking on the balance of the ice, cut from Fresh Pond.

  Persia glanced about her. The captain’s cabin on board the Madagascar was a fine compartment with its firm oversized bunk, chart table, desk, chairs, and bookshelves. She had made it a point before sailing to stock the shelves with books on medicine, religion, botany, and astronomy. Only a few of her favorite romantic novels were among the leatherbound volumes, and she had taken care to hide those behind her prized copy of Dr. Bowditch’s book on navigation. It would never do for a supercargo—or a minister’s wife—to be discovered reading Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe.

  She had protested at first when Captain Gideon had insisted she take the master’s stateroom. After all, she wanted no special provisions made simply because she was the only woman aboard. But, having let him convince her, she was now used to her surroundings and quite happy with them. She only hoped that the new captain would be as understanding as his predecessor and not order her out of his bed the moment he set sea boot on board.

  She sat in the small rocker she’d brought from her bedroom at home. From now on it would be her only anchor to her old life. Even its irritating little creak seemed good and familiar to her. Staring down at her pale hands folded against the dull black of her skirt, she wondered what lay ahead for her. She touched the wide gold band on her left hand. It felt cold and alien to her still.

  “Married,” she whispered. “Wife of the Reverend Cyrus Blackwell. Persia Blackwell.”

  She sighed. Neither the name nor the thought of having a husband seemed right to her yet. She had assumed she would adjust to her new status in a short time. Goodness knows she had reminded herself who she was often enough these past days. But ever since that morning at the pond, she had felt like a craft set adrift with no direction, no snug harbor waiting. And, too often for comfort these days, when she should be looking forward to the future, her thoughts instead lingered on the past… on Zachariah Hazzard.

  A knock at the door came as a welcome interruption.

  “Yes?” she called.

  “Miss Persia, we have made port. Should it please you to come on deck, I shall willingly act as your escort.”

  “Thank you, Fletcher. Give me just a moment.”

  Persia went to the spirits chest, which she was using as a bonnetiere, and drew out her veiled hat. Carefully, she adjusted it on her head so that not a wisp of her bright hair showed. Then with a flip of her wrist, she tossed the thick black netting down to cover her face. Only her gold wedding band and a scrimshandered cross of whale ivory relieved the stark black of her costume. She looked every inch the proper missionary’s wife.

  She went out into the passageway to find Fletcher waiting. She smiled beneath her veil as she took his arm, thinking to herself what an odd appearance the two of them presented. Fletcher, too, had taken to wearing austere black costumes. With his long, oiled black hair and the tattooing on his copper-colored face, he looked like the devil himself. She had noticed the crew’s reaction to her servant from the very first. The sailors all feared Fletcher. It was just as well, she thought. She wanted to keep the men at a distance at all times. Having “the devil” always hovering nearby would ensure that.

  By the time they reached the upper deck, the ship had docked and the loading of the ice was already in progress. Under gray morning skies, a long line of pungs filled with blocks of ice waited alongside the Madagascar. A hand-operated hoist was set up on deck, consisting of a horizontal windlass and two gigs—platforms to hold the huge blocks. The cable wound around the drum of the windlass made a creaking, complaining sound as it strained under the weight. While one of the gigs was below on the platform, being loaded with ice, the other was on deck being unloaded so that the great blocks could be sent below to the hold by way of a large chute. Persia could hear the men in the hold singing as they packed the precious cargo in sawdust. She knew that by nightfall, three hundred tons of the “Yankee coldness” would be stowed below.

  “Mr. Tudor was here when we docked,” Fletcher told her.

  “Oh, I should have come up to give him Father’s regards. Why didn’t you come down for me, Fletcher?”

  “He begged your pardon, but he had an urgent errand. He will return soon. There is much worry over finding a suitable captain. He said, however, that you should not concern yourself, Miss Persia. He has received one promising application and is going to interview the gentleman.”

  “Fine! It will be a relief to have a full crew again.”

  Persia felt a sudden chill and pulled her cape closely about her. “Perhaps I’ll go below now. The wind seems to have shifted. I feel a storm in the brewing.”

  Fletcher glanced at the sky with a keen eye. If anything, the clouds were lifting. A stray sunbeam was peeking through here and there. But he was not one to dispute his mistress. He offered his arm to see her safely to her cabin.

  The storm that was brewing was in Frederick Tudor’s office. The keen-eyed merchant had no liking for the man who had come to interview for the position of captain of his ship. There was a wildness in his dark eyes and a brashness to his speech. Granted, the master of a ship had to be self-assured, but this Hazzard fellow went beyond the limits.

  “See here, Captain Hazzard, as owner of the Madagascar I say what goes. She sets sail the day after tomorrow and not a minute sooner. If that doesn’t suit you, then I’ll bid you good day and offer you my best wishes in your attempt to find a berth elsewhere.”

  The tall, grizzled seaman standing before his desk was strangling the hat in his big hands.

  “I don’t mean to tell you your business, sir, but if some extra men were put on to help pack the ice, the loading could be speeded up and we could be on our way hours ahead of schedule.”

  Tudor bristled. “I don’t remember telling you yet that you would be master of the Madagascar’s crew. Your we seems a bit premature, sir!”

  Zachariah Hazzard felt his temper rising. What did the man want him to do, beg?

  “Excuse me. I was under the impression that you needed a captain.”

  “But I’m not desperate. I don’t mean to sign on just anyone.”

  “Begging your pardon, but I’m not just anyone. I’ve been at sea since I was twelve years old. I worked my way up through the ranks. And I’ve worked harder than most. I was shanghaied ten years ago and spent four long years doing the dirtiest work to be had on the high seas. Since my escape, I’v
e come up to second mate, first mate, and finally ship’s master. I’ve commanded barks out of Havana, New Orleans, the Indies.”

  “But never an ice ship,” Tudor put in.

  “Maybe not, but I know the ice business. And I’m a New Englander, born and bred. That should count for something.”

  Tudor eyed the man up and down. Aye, by God, it did count! And this seafaring man had spunk and a drive that would make him a fine master.

  “All right, Hazzard, you’ve got the job. But mind you, you’ll follow my orders.”

  Zack nodded. He didn’t like the owner’s attitude, but it seemed the Madagascar was the only ship to be had right now. Still, there were some things that needed to be settled before he put his name to paper.

  “I understand there’s a woman on board.”

  Tudor frowned. The subject of his female supercargo was a sore spot with him. He’d been dead set against the arrangement, but her father—his partner—had insisted. Tudor decided it was best not to mention Persia’s official status to Captain Hazzard. Let him find out for himself once he was on board.

  “There is—a missionary’s wife, going to join her husband in Bombaby.”

  “I’m not fond of the idea,” Zack added.

  Tudor offered him a sly smile. “That she’s on the ship, or that she’s married? You needn’t worry about Mrs. Blackwell, Captain. She comes of a seafaring family and she knows the ropes. Besides, she has a manservant with her to see to her needs.”

  Zack’s brows shot up in surprise. He’d never heard of a woman traveling with a manservant before. But perhaps he was one of her husband’s Indian retainers. Zack had been told that they were the most trustworthy servants to be found.

  “A woman is bad luck aboard a ship,” he persisted.

  “Then you don’t want the post?”

  Zack backed off. He got Tudor’s meaning—the woman went, whether the captain liked it or not.

  Tudor read the resolve in Hazzard’s face and shoved the papers toward him across the desk. Zack signed quickly.

  “That’s fine, Captain Hazzard. The Madagascar is berthed at Gray’s Wharf. You may go aboard as soon as you like.”

  Zack shook the man’s hand. It was odd, but suddenly he felt a strange elation, an almost boyish glee. He hadn’t experienced this kind of sensation since he’d boarded his first vessel as a cabin boy.

  “I’ll be going on board within the hour, sir.”

  He turned quickly and strode out of the office.

  Later that afternoon, Persia decided to avail herself of one last homeport luxury before they sailed. During the long months ahead at sea, all fresh water would be reserved for drinking. There would be only brine from the sea for bathing. Thus she had asked Fletcher to heat water for the copper tub and bring extra buckets to the compartment so that she might wash her hair thoroughly one last time.

  When the door flew open unexpectedly, she was swathed in a length of toweling with another wrapped turban fashion around her wet hair. She gave a startled cry and turned her back before the intruder stepped into the cabin.

  “If you please!” she shrieked.

  A low laugh greeted her embarrassment.

  “Whoever you are, leave my cabin this minute!”

  “Your cabin?” The man’s deep voice held a mixture of anger and amusement. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I’m the new captain of the Madagascar, and unless I’m very much mistaken, this is the captain’s cabin.”

  Persia was shivering with cold and embarrassment. “Can’t we discuss this later?”

  “No,” replied the husky voice behind her. “I think we should settle it now. I was told there was a woman on board, but Mr. Tudor also stated that you were a married woman. He mentioned nothing to the effect that I would be sharing my quarters with you. Still, I don’t mind, if your husband doesn’t.”

  “Really!” Persia was furious, outraged. “If you don’t leave this minute, sir, I shall be forced to call my servant and have him throw you out!”

  Zack stood his ground. He didn’t really understand why he was giving the woman such a hard time. It was hardly the gentlemanly thing to do. There she stood with her nicely rounded buttocks plainly molded inside the damp towel, her creamy shoulders quaking invitingly, and her shapely ankles and feet bare for the admiring. The thought struck him suddenly that her missionary husband probably had never seen her so enticingly garbed, with her skin glowing a warm, pearly hue and droplets of water clinging to her slender neck and arms. He should be ashamed of himself for staring… but he wasn’t. All he felt was a peculiar heat flowing through his blood and a pulsing in his groin.

  “Damn,” he muttered harshly. He’d expected the woman to be a matronly crone. He’d hoped so, anyway. But even without seeing her face, he could tell she was a beauty.

  “I don’t see what you expect to accomplish by this humiliation, Captain,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “I can hardly move out of your quarters until I’m dressed, and I certainly can’t get into my clothes with you standing there gawking.”

  He knew he had to leave. Any other man would probably be long gone already. But something in the tone of her voice—its challenge, its boldness—made him offer one last thrust.

  “Shall I summon your manservant to help you dress, Mrs. Blackwell?”

  The question shocked Persia so thoroughly that she almost turned to face the man but stopped herself in the nick of time. It certainly wouldn’t do to offer him a view of her breasts straining over the top of the towel. That would please him far too much, she could tell.

  “Thank you, no. Just leave!”

  Zack smiled at the frustration in her voice. “Then I’ll bid you adieu for now, Mrs. Blackwell. The pleasure, believe me, has been all mine.”

  At the sound of the door closing, Persia turned. He was gone. She stood for a long time, staring after him. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what was happening. She felt warmed through and through. Her heartbeat was rapid, her head light. It almost seemed as if the captain’s rough, strangely familiar voice had fondled her physically. Her breasts were suddenly peaked with desire, and an almost forgotten ache throbbed deep inside her. She sank down into the green velvet rocker, feeling the soft fabric caress the bare calves of her legs. She forced herself to breathe deeply, calmly.

  “Get hold of yourself, Persia,” she commanded. “The man is a cad, a bounder.”

  Then she smiled. Hadn’t she said those same things about Zack at one time?

  Thoughts of Zack brought a new flush to her skin. And she realized suddenly that the strange effect the captain had on her was caused by the fact that his voice reminded her of Zack’s. Oh, the captain’s was deeper and huskier, but certain inflections in his tone were very similar. Zack, dear Zack!

  She forced his name and his well-remembered face from her mind. She was a married woman! It was downright sinful to keep dwelling on the past.

  Suddenly, a real worry took possession of her. How would she ever face the captain after he had seen her unclothed in his own cabin?

  She glanced about the room, frantic. Her eyes lit on the spirits cabinet and relief flooded through her. The veil! She would hide her face all the way to India, if need be. That would keep the brash captain from seeing the flame he brought to her cheeks.

  She rocked slowly, thinking to herself that it was going to be a long, unnerving voyage.

  Suddenly, she sat up straight and her towel dropped to her waist.

  “Why, the man never even bothered to introduce himself! How rude!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Had it not been for Fletcher’s memorable tattooed face, Captain Hazzard might have sailed the entire fifteen thousand miles from Boston to Bombay without ever realizing that Mrs. Blackwell and his Persia were one and the same.

  He had not made any mental connection between the towel-swathed missionary’s wife and the woman he loved. As for recognizing her voice, the woman
whose bath he’d interrupted had alternately shrieked at him and whispered nervously. He certainly had no intention of becoming friendly with her in any case. He was already angry with her for being young and a beauty. That much he’d been able to tell even from the back, with the towel leaving just enough of her uncovered to arouse.

  He grew angrier still when First Mate Barry informed him that she was also part of the ship’s company. The two men were standing on the quarterdeck, passing the final hours before time to cast off. Barry commented that it would be interesting to see if a lady could fetch a higher price for the cargo than the male supercargoes before her.

  Zack stared at the man, stunned, then ranted, “A missionary’s wife, acting as supercargo on my ship?”

  “Aye, sir,” answered the tall, wiry mate. “But she’s not just that. She’s the daughter of one of the owners. Didn’t Mr. Tudor tell you? She supervised the ice harvest and all, too. She’s as good as any man aboard.” When Barry saw his captain’s eyes flash angrily, he quickly added, “Present company excepted, of course, sir.”

  “Well, I don’t give a damn whose daughter she is! Just see she stays out of my way!” Zack bellowed. Then he turned and stormed off across the deck, cursing Tudor under his breath for keeping all this a secret from him—on purpose, he was sure.

  First she had taken over the cabin and now she had usurped his duties. He had known that having a woman on board would be a bad idea, but this was almost too much to abide.

  She’d better stay clear of him, he thought, or he just might tell her so!

  Persia was delighted to stay out of the captain’s way. On the day he’d barged into her room without even knocking, she had packed up her belongings to move to another compartment at his orders. The next moment he’d had her unpacking again. He’d changed his mind, the steward told her. She was to remain in the master’s stateroom. It was the least he could do to make such a delicate lady less miserable in the long months ahead at sea, Steward Dawkin repeated.