Midshipman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 1)

by David Feintuch

  My hand on the latch, I hesitated. “Mr. Branstead, please ...” I glanced at his face, saw no opening. “I was wrong. Forgive me. My name is Nick Seafort. I—”

  “Are you really from Hibernia?”

  “Yes.”

  His skepticism was evident. “You don’t look like the sailors we see hereabouts.”

  “We’re officers.”

  “Why should I believe that?”

  I took out my wallet, handed him my ID.

  His glance went to my face and back. “A midshipman.”

  “Not anymore. It’s an old card.”

  “They wouldn’t have you?”

  “They had no choice. I’m, ah, Captain now.”

  “You’re the one!” He studied me. “Everyone’s heard, but I don’t think they said the name ... Why lie about it, for heaven’s sake?” His tone had eased to one of curiosity.

  I had to do something to make amends. “My friend Derek.”

  “Yes?”

  “Derek Carr.”

  “Is he related—Oh!” He sat.

  Gratefully, I did the same; my knees were weak. “He’s a midshipman now, and he’ll sail with us. Before we left he wanted to see ...” I found it hard to raise my eyes. “Mr. Branstead, I’m ashamed.”

  “Well, there are worse things than deceit.” His voice was gruff. “You’re going on to Carr, then?”

  “Yes. He’s very nervous about it. What will the manager—Plumwell, you said—do if he visits?”

  His fingers drummed the table. “All our plantations are family owned. There’s never been a case where the owner isn’t in residence. Until now. Will Derek come back to stay?”

  “Count on it.”

  “Winston wasn’t well, the last few years. He relied heavily on Plumwell. If it weren’t for Andy, they could have lost most everything when credit was so tight. Plumwell may have saved the estate.” A pause. “So if he’s come to think of it as his own ...”

  I waited.

  “He feels strongly about it. They’ve petitioned Governor Williams for a regulation granting rights to resident managers, though that change could take years. If an heir showed up now ...” He glanced at me, as if deciding. “Yes, perhaps it’s best to use another name.”

  “Is it safe to go?”

  “Mr., ah, Seafort ... Hope Nation is far from Earth; settlers have handled their own affairs for years. We have a certain spirit of independence that’s hard for you visitors to understand. When a problem gets in the way ... we remove it.”

  “Would he—”

  “I don’t know. I won’t mention you if I run into Plumwell.” Branstead stood.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry I deceived you. I see now there was no need.”

  “You couldn’t know that.” Branstead, somewhat mollified, walked me to the door. “Tell me, has the Navy ever had a Captain your age? How exactly did it come about?”

  I owed him that, and whatever else he asked. I forced a strained smile. “Well, it happened this way ...”

  Early that afternoon, rain turned ruts and chuckholes into small ponds. Secure in our watertight electricar we hummed along past thousands of acres of cultivation. Branstead gave way to Volksteader, then Palabee. Derek asked nervously, “Sir, what will you do?”

  “Don’t worry.” I’d decided not to tell Derek about Branstead’s warning, for fear of making him even more nervous. He would be my cousin. I was practicing how to introduce him when a new mark appeared on the wooden signposts. A few miles beyond, we came to the entrance road, marked with a painted metal sign. “Carr Plantation. Hope Nation’s Best.”

  He slowed. “Wouldn’t you rather head back? We’ll have more time for the Ventur—”

  “Oh, please.” I pointed to the service road.

  It was a long drive, past herds of cattle grazing in lush green pastures, heads bowed away from the rain. Then, endless fields of corn along both sides of the road. Finally a dip revealed an impressive complex of buildings about half a mile ahead.

  We came to a stop at a guardhouse with a lowered rail. The guard leaned into the window. “You fellas looking for something?”

  “We’re on a trip up the coast road. Can we stay the night?”

  He nodded reluctantly. “There’s guest privileges. Every place has them. But why stop here?”

  I grinned. “Back in Haulers’ Rest they told us whatever else we missed we had to see Carr Plantation, ’cause it’s the best and biggest on Hope Nation.”

  He snorted but looked mollified. “Not the biggest. Not yet, anyway. Go on in, I’ll ring and tell them you’re coming.”

  I waved and we purred off down the road. The rain had stopped, and a shaft of yellow sunlight gleamed through the clouds. Derek hunched grimly in his seat.

  “Your middle name’s Anthony?” I asked as a hand sauntered out of the house.

  Derek gaped. “Yes, of course. Why—”

  The two wings of the huge, pillared plantation house stretched along a manicured gravel drive edged by a low white picket fence. Beds of unfamiliar flowers were interspersed among clean, strong grasses mowed short.

  “You the two travelers?” The ranch hand.

  I stepped out of the car. “That’s right. Nick Ewing.” I put out a hand. Well, I’d told the truth. At least some of it.

  He broke into a grin. “Fenn Willny. We don’t get many come through here anymore, the word’s got out the boss doesn’t like it. He’s soft on joeykids, though. Hasn’t got any of his own.” He gestured to the mansion. “We tore down the guest house last spring. Travelers stay upstairs. You eat in the kitchen. Come on, I’ll take you to the boss.”

  We followed him inside. The mansion was built on the grand scale. Polished hardwoods with intricate carving decorated the doorways, bespeaking intensive labor at huge cost. The furniture in the hallway was elegant, expensive, and tasteful. Fenn Willny led us to a large office on a corridor between a dining room and a sitting room furnished with “Swedish Modern” terrestrial antiques that must have cost a fortune.

  The manager’s eyes were cold and appraising. He made no move to welcome us. I glanced at Derek, my stomach churning. What if the manager asked some question I couldn’t answer? Why had I ever agreed Derek was a cousin?

  “Mr. Plumwell, these are the two travelers, Nick and ...”

  “My cousin Anthony.” I grabbed Derek’s arm and propelled him forward. “Say hello to Mr. Plumwell, Anthony.” I jostled his arm.

  Derek shot me a furious glance. “Hello, sir,” he mumbled.

  I leaned forward confidentially, speaking just loud enough for Derek to hear. “You’ll have to pardon Anthony. He’s a little slow. I look after him.” Derek’s biceps rippled.

  The plantation manager nodded in understanding. “Welcome to Carr Plantation. You’ll be leaving in the morning?” It was a clear suggestion.

  “Yes, sir, I guess so.” I looked disappointed. “Actually, I was hoping—well, I know it’s foolish.”

  “What’s that, young man?” He looked annoyed.

  “We only have two days left of our vacation, Mr. Plumwell. I work, and Anthony’s in a special school.” From Derek, a strangled sound. I said, “We’ve never seen a big plantation before, and I was hoping somebody could show us around. Of course I could pay ...”

  I couldn’t read Plumwell’s expression, so I rushed on. “They said to see either Carr Plantation or Hopewell, because they were both special. But Hopewell’s too far, and I don’t know when we’ll get out together again.” I spoke loudly to Derek. “Anthony, maybe next year if I get a few more days vacation we’ll go to Hopewell. That’s the bigger one.”

  Derek’s color rose. He breathed through gritted teeth.

  Plumwell frowned. “I suppose you’re city boys and don’t know. It’s an insult to offer money for hospitality on a plantation; that comes with the territory. Anyway, Hopewell is nothing special. We’re the innovative ones.”

  He paused, looking us over. “We’re not in the tour business, but I
guess I could spare a hand for a few hours, seeing your brother’s retarded. But don’t let it get around back in Centraltown or we’ll be flooded with freeloaders.”

  “Zarky!” I nudged Derek. “Did you hear? He’s going to show us a real plantation, Anthony.” Derek’s lips moved, but he turned away and I couldn’t see what he said. “He’s real happy, sir. It’s all he’s talked about since Centraltown.” I rolled my eyes.

  Plumwell winked in understanding. “Why don’t you boys stow your gear in your room. I’ll have Fenn take you around the center complex before dinner.”

  “Great, sir!” I shook hands. “Shake hands with Mr. Plumwell.” Derek fixed me with a peculiar stare. I pushed him forward. “Anthony, remember your manners, like we taught you!” Livid, Derek offered his hand to the manager, who gave it a condescending squeeze. “Good boy.” I patted Derek on the back.

  Fenn led us up a grand staircase to the second floor, and continued on a smaller staircase to the third. The rooms were clean and adequate, but less ornate than in the lower part of the house. “I’ll wait for you in the front hall.” He loped downstairs two steps at a time.

  I closed the door behind us, dumped my duffel on the bunk. White-faced, Derek glared lasers across the room.

  “Something wrong?” I sorted through my belongings.

  Without warning he launched himself across the bed, clawing at my neck. I caught his wrists as I fell backward. He dove on top of me, seeking my throat.

  “Listen!” It had no effect. He strained to break from my grasp. “Derek!” He thrashed wildly until his wrists broke free. “Stop and listen!” At last, he got his hands on my windpipe.

  Unable to breathe, I twisted and heaved, throwing my hips and bouncing him up and down. When he bounced high enough I thrust my knee upward with all my strength. That stopped him. With a yawp of pain he rolled to the side, clutching his testicles. I rolled on top of him. Sitting on his back I forced his arm up between his shoulder blades, and waited.

  He grunted between his teeth, “Get off! I’ll kill you!” I slapped him sharply alongside the ear. He struggled harder. Each time he heaved I pulled his arm higher behind his back. Finally he lay still. “Get off!” A string of curses.

  “When you’re ready to listen.”

  “Off, you shit!”

  I slapped him harder. I liked him, but there were limits.

  Finally he lay still. “All right. I’ll listen when you get off.”

  I let go and sat on my bed. “You have a complaint, Derek?”

  He bounded to his feet, sputtering. “Your retarded cousin Anthony? You say that in my own house?”

  “Do they want company, Derek?”

  My calm question gave him pause. “No, not much. Why?”

  “What did I get us?” He was silent. “A guided tour,” I answered myself. “A tour of the whole place. Anyway, you said I should call you my cous—”

  “I’m a little slow? A SPECIAL SCHOOL? How DARE you!”

  I let my voice sharpen. “Think! You can ask anything you want and they won’t take offense. They won’t even know why you’re asking.” As the realization sunk in he sank slowly onto his bed. “I got you in, when you didn’t have the guts to come. I arranged a guided tour. I heard Vax call you retarded, and you took it. What in God’s own hell is the matter with you?”

  “That was the wardroom,” he muttered. “Not my own house.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “You’d have to be one of us to understand. In your home you have respect. Dignity.”

  I shrugged. “You’re just a middy. You don’t get dignity until you make lieutenant.”

  I think at that moment he’d forgotten entirely about the Navy. He looked at the marks on his Captain’s neck and gulped. “I’m sorry, sir.” His voice was small.

  “I have a right to dignity too,” I told him. “Look what you’ve done to mine.”

  “I shouldn’t have touched you.” His gaze was on the floor.

  Well, I’d told him to treat me as senior midshipman rather than Captain. Look where it got me. “You’ll be sorrier. Seven demerits, when we get back to the ship.” Oddly, it made him feel better. It made me feel better too. My throat hurt. I giggled. “I admit, though, you had provocation.” I snickered, recalling his fury in Plumwell’s office. The more I thought about it, the funnier it seemed.

  Watching me roll helplessly on my bed in silent mirth Derek glowered anew, but after a while he couldn’t help himself and began to laugh with me. After a few moments we stopped. I wiped my eyes.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re a peasant,” Derek told me. “You don’t understand dignity.” It started us going again. This time when we stopped all was well between us.

  “Come on, aristocrat, let’s inspect your estate.” We left the room and hurried down the stairs. “Just remember to play along,” I whispered at the last moment. Daringly, he punched me in the arm before we reached the main floor.

  24

  THE HELICOPTER SWOOPED ALONG the dense hedgerow marking the plantation border, while sprinklers made mist in the early-morning light. We were exploring the more distant sections of the estate, having toured the main compound the evening before.

  “How much wheat do you grow?” Derek had to shout above the noise of the motor.

  “A lot.”

  “No, how much?” Derek insisted. Fenn, in the pilot’s seat, pursed his lips.

  I leaned across from the back seat. “Just say anything. He won’t know the difference.”

  Fenn frowned at my insensitivity. “No, I’ll tell him. One point two million bushels, same as it’s been for years.”

  Derek furrowed his brow. “Is that a lot?” Since dinner the previous night he had burrowed deep into his role.

  Fenn smiled. “Enough. And then there’s six hundred thousand bushels of corn. And sorghum.”

  “I like corn!” Derek said happily. I nudged him, afraid he would overdo it. “Nicky, why’d you poke me?” His tone was anxious. “Am I bothering him too much?” Nicky? I’d kill him.

  “You ask too many questions, Anthony.”

  “He’s no trouble,” Fenn said.

  Derek’s look was triumphant. “See, Nicky?” He turned to Fenn. “Is this all yours and Mr. Plumwell’s?”

  “Don’t I wish!” Fenn brought us down on a concrete pad outside a large metal-roofed building. “I work for Mr. Plumwell, and he’s just the manager.” His tone changed. “Course, he’s been here most of his life.”

  “Doesn’t the owner live here?” I asked.

  “Old Winston died six years ago, but he was sick long before that. This place was started way back, by the first Randolph Carr. He left it to Winston.”

  “I take it he had no children.”

  “Are you kidding? Five.” Fenn opened the gate. “They say his oldest boy was a heller. Randolph II. He gave the old man so much trouble Winston sent him all the way to Earth to college. He never came home while Winston was alive.”

  Derek was attentive.

  “Will he ever?” I asked.

  “Randy was supposed to be on the ship that docked this week, and we expected we’d find ourselves working for him. But he died on the trip, so it’s all up in the air.”

  “What will happen?”

  Fenn gestured toward the building we were about to enter. “This is the second-largest feed mill on the planet. It’s entirely automated. Takes only three men to run it.” We looked in. “Randy had a son, some snot born in Upper New York. They say he’s on the ship. The joeyboy’s never even been here, so he doesn’t know squat about planting. I guess he’ll be sent back to Earth for schooling. I don’t know; Mr. Plumwell’s made the arrangements. The joeykid won’t have any say until he’s twenty-two.”

  “Then what?” A new tension was in Derek’s voice.

  Fenn grinned. “Between you and me, boys, I wouldn’t be surprised if by that time Carr Plantation’s books were in such a state he’d need Mr. Plumwell more than e
ver.”

  I grinned. “The Carrs should have stayed if they wanted to run the place.”

  Fenn looked serious. “You’re righter than you know. Someday we’ll have a law about absentee owners. Sure, they’re entitled to profits, but a resident manager who stays all his life and runs things, he should have rights too. The management should pass down in his family, not the owner’s. If—”

  “Now wait a min—” Derek broke in.

  I overrode him fast. “Anthony, don’t interrupt!”

  “But he—”

  “Haven’t you learned your manners?” I shoved Derek with force. “Apologize!” He looked surly. I squeezed his arm. “Go on!” Derek mumbled an apology, and I breathed easier. Perhaps when he calmed, he’d realize he’d nearly blown our cover.

  Fenn asked, “Aren’t you a bit rough on the joey?”

  “Sometimes he needs sitting on.” My tone was cross. “His father let him believe he was too good for discipline.” Derek shot me a deadly glance but kept quiet.

  “You see how it is,” Fenn said. “Mr. Plumwell’s been here thirty years, and he knows every inch of this plantation. Last year we cleared thirty million unibucks, even after the new acreage. Carr Plantation has to be run by a professional.”

  “Where do you keep all the cash?” Derek was back in character.

  Fenn smiled mirthlessly. “Some of it goes to the Carr accounts at Branstead Bank and Trust. The rest goes for salaries and expenses.”

  “So the Carr boy gets to play with the money even if he can’t boss the plantation,” I said.

  “Not quite. The account is in the Carr name but Mr. Plumwell has control until a Carr shows up who has the right to run the estate. Mr. Plumwell makes sure the right people are on our side, that sort of thing. That money pool helps protect our way of life.” He looked at me closely. “How did we get on this subject?”

  “I’m not sure.” My tone was bright and innocent. “What’s this conveyor belt do?”

  That night we were invited to dine with Plumwell and his staff. I made a show of nagging Derek about his table manners; he retaliated by calling me “Nicky”. All the while Derek’s penetrating glance was taking in the oil paintings hanging above the huge stone fireplace, the fine china, the crystal glassware, the succulent foods and drink. He eyed Mr. Plumwell’s place at the head of the table with something less than delight.