Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Sorry, my old friend, but you’re not the answer this time.” He rose and stowed the rum bottle, then slumped back down in his chair, running a hand through his hair.

  “Persia, Persia,” he sighed.

  How could he make her understand how much he loved her and needed her? Theirs hadn’t been merely a one time fling on a snowy night—a lark for a sailor ashore. Maybe if he told her about how he’d been shanghaied… But that seemed the coward’s way out. A lame excuse to cover a deeper problem. He should never have left her and gone to the tavern, demanding that she meet him “within the hour!”

  He rose slowly and left the cabin. Stopping outside Persia’s door, he raised a hand to knock but changed his mind. All was quiet within. Perhaps she was sleeping. He had no right to disturb her again.

  The air on deck was warm and moist. Before long, they would be crossing the equator. There were several men on board who had never crossed the line before. That crossing would bring wholescale tomfoolery as the initiates were ushered into the fraternity of seamen. He smiled to himself, thinking that perhaps the event would lighten Persia’s mood.

  He glanced up. The night sky was like a glittering dome with a million stars blinking down at him. Somehow they always looked closer and brighter at sea. He watched the fiery trail through the sky as one fell from the heavens. He almost made a wish but stopped himself, thinking that it would take more than idle wishing to get what he wanted.

  Zack sighed and moved on across the deck.

  “Evening, Captain,” the first mate hailed.

  “Mr. Barry.” Zack nodded. “How goes it tonight?”

  “All’s well, sir. We’ve a fine, fresh breeze out of the western quadrant. I’ve had the men add extra canvas as you ordered. And the sea’s so calm the helmsman’s handling our girl with one well-placed finger.”

  “Carry on, then.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  One well-placed finger, Zack mused, conjuring up in his mind a vision of Persia stretched naked on her bed.

  “Damn!” he said quietly. There were no two ways about it. He meant to have Persia Whiddington! She might think he was lying back, letting her go right ahead with her plans to be another man’s wife. But it would be in spite of all his cunning and, in the end, over his dead body!

  His final decision made, he went below, more than ready for sleep.

  Persia felt drugged. She lay in her bed after Zack left her, going over everything in her mind. Yes, she still loved him. No, she did not love Cyrus Blackwell, and she probably never would. It would be so simple to arrive in Bombay, discharge her duties as supercargo, and then sail on to Calcutta with Zack. Reverend Osgood had told her that Blackwell probably would not be there to meet the ship when she arrived. The reverend had instructed her to send a message to the island of Eiephanta, six miles off the coast, where Blackwell lived. So there would be no dockside recriminations. Not if she simply failed to send word of her arrival.

  Then, after they returned home, she could get an annulment of her proxy marriage and wed the man she had wanted for so long. She smiled in the darkness, feeling the rightness of her plan. But after only an instant her pleasure faded.

  Once before she had gone against society and brought disgrace upon herself and her family. Had heartbreak really caused her mother’s death? Certainly it had contributed. There was still her father to consider. He had weathered all storms so far, but he was old and weak now. What would it do to him if she stirred up more scandal?

  A tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye and dribbled down her cheek. She was not a child any longer, and she knew right from wrong. Right was accepting her place as Cyrus Blackwell’s wife. Wrong was bringing more sorrow to everyone by forsaking her holy vows to be with Zack.

  She turned her face into her pillow to muffle her sobs. But they never came. She lay there, feeling empty, used up, all alone in the dark night… in the dark world.

  Chapter Twenty

  The days at sea progressed in a calm, bright blue procession. The only storms raged within. Persia battled blizzards of loneliness and uncertainty, while Zack faced the driving onslaught of thwarted hopes and dreams. They were overly cordial to each other, but Persia was always careful to keep her distance, and Zack felt reluctant to press her just yet. And all the while, looming ever present in both their minds, like the black clouds of a typhoon on the distant horizon, was the featureless visage of a man named Cyrus Blackwell.

  Still, life aboard ship went on as usual. Their cargo of “Yankee blocks” lay secure in its own cold below. Their course unfolded before them in a calm stretch of aquamarine, as the trade winds sped them ever closer to the invisible line at the waist of the world.

  “We’re in for a treat tomorrow,” Zack told Persia as they shared their nightly dinner in her cabin. “We’ll be crossing the equator.”

  Persia, who had been feeling sad all day and was only picking at her dinner, looked up. Her eyes glittered with excitement at his words. Since she’d been old enough to dream, she had longed for the day she would sail into the Southern Hemisphere.

  “Just wait till you see what goes on tomorrow,” Zack continued. “We’ve at least three greenhorns on board. They’ll be in for it!”

  “All of them?” There was mischief in her tone.

  “Yes, all!” he answered. Then he laughed. “Not you, of course. It would be beneath the dignity of a married woman to be dunked upside down in the flour barrel or hauled aloft by her pretty ankles.” A wide grin spread across his face. “On second thought, it would make an interesting sight!”

  “Zack Hazzard, don’t you even think such things,” she threatened. “Or I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?” The challenge was there; she heard it plainly.

  “I’ll lock myself in this cabin and refuse to come out—ever!”

  He laughed and reached across the table, casually squeezing her hand. She looked so lovely with her cheeks flushed that way, mirroring the rose tint of her berib-boned India-cotton gown. She was so wonderful to look at… so wonderful to be with. And they had grown comfortable with each other in the past weeks. It almost seemed to Zack that because he had been denied her physical love, he had learned to love her in other, deeper ways.

  “Please don’t lock yourself away, Persia. Then you’d miss all the fun.”

  Just as casually as he had taken her hand, he brought her fingers to his lips, but she snatched them away. She looked down, concentrating all of her attention on the cold slice of pork that had not interested her at all earlier.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I forgot myself.”

  She made no reply, nor did she raise her eyes to acknowledge his simple apology. She couldn’t let him see how much she wanted him.

  Persia awoke the next morning to a raucous racket coming from the deck. A drum was pounding out a solemn rhythm while tin pipes tooted and whistles shrilled. She sat bolt upright in bed, trying to think what could be happening.

  Just then someone pounded on her door. “Rise ‘n’ shine, Persia! The initiation is about to begin.” She recognized Zack’s voice and grinned.

  The equator!

  Scurrying out of bed, she pawed through her gowns until she found exactly the right thing—a bleached muslin with a wide neck and full skirt. In this heat—it must be eighty degrees already—she would need something cool. She slipped quickly into the dress, whipped a brush through her hair, and tied it back with a sunshine-yellow scarf. Then she hurried out to see what was happening.

  “Ah, there you are,” Zack called. “We couldn’t start until you got here.”

  She noted that even the captain was dressed casually for today’s fun and games. He wore a full-sleeved shirt, open at the neck. No stock, vest, or jacket. In spite of herself, her eyes lingered on the V of dark-tanned flesh and the silvery thatch frosting his chest. She felt a little shiver run through her and forced her gaze away. But his trim waist and tightly encased h
ips and thighs gave her little ease of mind or conscience. Dressed as he was, anyone could tell that his silver hair was premature, for never had a man of advanced age possessed such a powerful and perfect body. Persia found herself blushing shamefully as her eyes strayed time and again to the bulging outline of his crotch. But when had she ever been timid with Zack Hazzard?

  “Ahoy, mates!” Second Mate Stoner called out. “With the captain’s permission, I mean to call this little shindig to order now.”

  Stoner, his wide, flat-featured face grinning broadly, turned toward Zack, who nodded. “Permission granted, mister.”

  “Very well, then. Spratt, Callisio, you boys bring out the prisoners!”

  Persia couldn’t help it. She squealed with delight when she saw the three unfortunate fellows who were crossing the equator for the first time. She had wondered how they would handle the initiation with a woman on board, since usually—she knew from tales her father had told—the men were stripped naked for the event. These sailors looked far more embarrassed by what they were wearing—canvas diapers, fashioned for them by the sailmaker. They stood before her—all hairy legs and knobby knees—looking everywhere but at her.

  Following a roll of the turtle-shell drum. First Mate Barry paraded onto the deck, gesturing regally to his mates and offering Persia a deep, majestic bow. She curtsied, bringing a delighted whoop from the other men. He was costumed as Neptune, Lord of the Deep, in a robe of canvas sheeting, a crown made from a broken rum jug, and a belaying pin as his scepter. Sticking out of his back pocket was a large ripe fish. The men had caught the wahoo several days before especially for Neptune’s use today.

  “Hear me, you sorry sons of landlubbers!” boomed His Lord High Majesty of All the Ocean Seas. “You dare to cross my oceans without asking my permission or paying homage to me?”

  He threatened the three victims with the belaying pin until they chorused, “Aye, sir!”

  Neptune turned to the other sailors. “What say ye, mates? Shall I take what’s rightfully mine out of their tough, horny hides?”

  Stoner, bowing and scraping, came toward the first mate. “Begging your pardon, Your Most Holy and Briny Lordship, but the boys and me’ve been talking.” He leaned over to whisper into Neptune’s ear.

  By the time the second mate was through, Neptune was grinning maniacally and nodding so that his crown slipped down over one eye.

  “You’re an evil, cruel lot, lads,” he said to Stoner and his cohorts. “My blessings upon you all! We’ll do it your way. Cook! Front and center!”

  Suddenly, an unearthly yell split the air. Heads jerked to starboard, and all eyes fastened on a dark, evil-looking figure standing on the quarterdeck—bare feet planted wide apart and hands stretched toward the heavens. In his right fist, he clutched a wicked blade. The wind whipped his long hair wildly about his face, and his lips were curled back in a vicious snarl.

  “Why, it’s Fletcher,” Persia said to Zack.

  “Aye,” he said with a chuckle. “Your manservant insisted upon taking a part in the festivities. Seems he and the cook have been plotting this below in the galley for days.”

  “The seven seas save us,” Neptune gasped dramatically. “It’s himself, the devilfish man from the cannibal isle of Goonie-Goonie, come to carve up you hapless mates for his big black pot.”

  One of the diapered men laughed, and Fletcher sprang toward him, brandishing his sharp knife.

  The cook, a rotund man with a perfectly bald head, hurried toward Fletcher, who had the man by the hair while the blade of his knife rested on the quaking fellow’s throat.

  “See here, my good man,” the cook said to his kinsman; “you can’t just dice these sailors up for stew. Who’ll tend the sails and the rigging? Who’ll swab the decks? Who’ll grumble about my cooking?” The cook looked thoughtful, then sour. “Go ahead! Slice ‘em up! Make stew of them. An ungrateful lot they are, anyway!”

  “Don’t want stew, want make pictures,” Fletcher answered in pseudocannibalese, pointing with the tip of his knife to the tattooing on his own face.

  The unfortunate chap whose hair Fletcher was pulling gasped and clutched at his chest in horror.

  “Oh, well, if that’s all…” the cook began, immediately producing a pot of indigo dye. “Here, this should do nicely.”

  “Cap’n, please!” wailed the terrified seaman.

  Zack stepped forward, frowning. “We’ll have no disfiguring, Cook!”

  The fat man gave him a twisted little smile. “Then how about dismembering, Captain?”

  “Maybe later.” Zack walked back to where Persia stood.

  “Officers just take all the fun out of these things,” the cook complained in an aside to the pale, frightened initiates. “Well, since we can’t tattoo you, I suppose we’ll just have to do the next best thing. Bring out the barrel, Fletcher.”

  Persia expected the flour barrel, since Zack had mentioned it earlier. She did not expect to see the initiates’ heads dipped into the molasses barrel to come out dripping sticky goo—each man coughing, snorting, and trying to dig the sweet muck out of his eyes, ears, and nostrils. When the lot of them had been doused, their mates brought out bags of feathers, saved from the many fowl that had gone to the butcher block to provide meals for the crew.

  Soon the air looked like a New England snowstorm. And the three poor fellows on deck looked like creatures from a nightmare. Persia felt for them and was glad she was a woman, not forced to endure such discomfort and ridicule. But they did present the funniest sight she had ever seen. She struggled to catch her breath through gales of laughter.

  “Think it’s funny, do you?” Zack whispered to her. “Well, your time is coming, madam!”

  She sobered immediately and turned to flee to her cabin, but he caught her arm. “Stay,” he commanded, and she had little choice.

  Neptune was storming about the deck now, waving his belaying pin in all directions. “Look at this bloody mess you’ve made! And I suppose you plan to dump them into my ocean to clean them up. Well, that’s just fine—sticky goo and feathers all over my mermaids, my pearls, my coral reef. Now you three are really in for it! You’ll pay for this!” He reached out and flicked some goose down from the end of one sailor’s nose, making him sneeze. “Bring out the cat-o’-nines!”

  Stoner rushed forward, his hands flung up in protest. “That’s fine. We’ll get the whips for the floggings. They’ll pay for their sins, Your Brinyship, but all in good time. What say we have a little entertainment first?” The second mate motioned to his musicians. “Play us a bit of a tune, lads. Let’s see if these savages can dance.”

  Not one of the three was listening. They hadn’t heard a word past “cat-o’-nines.” Now Stoner held the evil-looking whip with its twisted, knotted leather thongs in his right hand, impatiently flipping it this way and that. When they failed to respond to the music and the first mate’s request for a dance, he touched them up about the bare legs with the whip. They were doing a jig soon enough.

  Zack noticed that Persia, surely unconscious of her own actions, was swaying gently to the music. He caught Lord Neptune’s eye and nodded toward her. “His Brinyship” sauntered over and stood before them.

  “This must be the other one,” First Mate Barry boomed. “I heard there were four in all.” He bowed again to Persia and smiled. “Which shall it be, my lady, the molasses and feathers, or will you give us a dance?”

  “Oh, no…” Persia tried to protest.

  But Zack wouldn’t let her. Pushing her gently toward Barry, he looked into her eyes, laughing, and said, “Oh, yes!’”

  The Lord of the Deep held Persia’s hand lightly and went into a lively cavort. At first, she was too embarrassed to join in, but soon she grew used to all eyes being on her. She executed a few simple dance steps, and Barry passed her on to Stoner. Soon the men were whirling her from one to the other. Her head was spinning, her skirts flying, her hair—loose from its scarf—was str
eaming in her eyes. And in the background—over the lap of the sea and the flap of the sails, the hands clapping and the music playing—she could hear Zack, laughing and shouting encouragement to her.

  Suddenly, another man took her. But this one didn’t clasp her hand gently as the others had. Instead, he pulled her hard against his chest as he whirled her round and round. Her pulses were racing. She felt perspiration running down her sides and making a river between her breasts. She would faint from exhaustion if he didn’t release her soon.

  “Please,” she cried. “Let me go! I can’t dance any longer!”

  He stopped, but he didn’t let go. When her head stopped whirling and her vision cleared, she looked up at him. Zack! She should have known. But he wasn’t smiling now. He was gazing down at her with an intensity that made her shiver deep inside. She went weak all over. She couldn’t summon the strength to push herself out of his arms.

  Still holding her prisoner with his gaze, he called, “Be on with it, men!”

  “Aye, Captain!” they called back.

  Zack led Persia back to the shaded area where they had been standing earlier. But he kept a possessive grip on her waist and an even stronger hold on her soul with his eyes.

  “Grog, ho!” went up the call, and all hands answered with a cheer.

  Each man, including the three unfortunates, was served his portion of one part rum to two parts water.

  “If you want long sweetening in it,” the cook said, “just ask one of these sorry clods to let you scoop some of that blackstrap off his noggin.”

  When Fletcher brought a mug to Persia, she said, “No, thank you.”

  “Drink it,” Zack ordered. “You’ll need the fortification for what’s coming.”

  His voice was so ominous and his face so deadly serious that she turned the tankard up and drained it, feeling a lightness in her head as the rum hit her empty stomach.