by Peter Greene
“N-nothing, sir,” said Jonathan.
“Blazes!” said Harrison. “I have a mind to open this treaty and see for myself what this is all about!”
“Sir, that would break the seal and invalidate the dispatch,” offered Quinn.
“I realize that!” snapped Harrison. “And now, we have missed our meeting with our contact in that godforsaken cove!”
Harrison stood and began to pace. Then he was reminded of the fact that there was little room to do proper pacing in such a small area. He would have had Streen, the carpenter, already building him a private locker somewhere outside his cabin, but the foremast had taken all of the man’s time. An area large enough to hold all he had in his locker and chest would clear several square feet, giving him room to think. After a minute, he turned to his officers.
“We will sail up the bay to the village and anchor. Quinn, you will then come with me into town in the morning. We will take a small complement of marines and some of the newer deckhands with us and see if we can scare up our contact. I assume the townspeople will see all the uniforms, and word will get out quickly that we are ashore.”
“Yes, sir,” said Quinn.
“Lieutenant Alexander,” Harrison continued. “You and Mister Moore are to stay with the ship and the treaty. We are at peace—at least we were when we departed England.”
“If we see the Echo, sir?” asked Alexander.
“If she reappears, signal with three guns. I will return immediately.”
“Jenkins, first thing in the morning, send in Streen!” the commander said. “Dismissed!”
The crew spent an uncomfortable night on deck, but once the sun came up, all activity seemed to return to regularity. Crews were ordered to secure the guns and to string hammocks in place belowdecks, allowing those off duty to spend a few well-earned hours in sleep. Jenkins was ordered to take a small party into town to see about fresh water, food, and supplies. Upon his return, Berkeley, with the assistance of Boston, began preparing the over two hundred eggs that had been purchased. Supplemented with some thick slices of fresh bread, the men welcomed the only hot meal they had eaten since leaving London.
Fawcett piloted the Paladin five miles north into the bay toward Telašćica under only the main topgallants. Unlike the tall and foreboding cliffs they had seen as they searched for the cove, the mainland about the jade-colored bay was comprised of gently rising and falling hills, populated with lush scrub and dark-trunked trees in various shades of green. White rock outcroppings accented the area, matching the few small and rocky beaches. As beautiful as the men found this place, Fawcett knew that sailing these unknown waters could be dangerous; reefs and submerged boulders were visible just a fathom or so under the crystal-clear water. He concentrated mightily, and using lookouts on all points, attempted to avoid disaster. Several islands within the bay interrupted his direct course. They rose from the emerald-green water, appearing as gently sloping mounds of white rock and sparse scrub, some as tall as three hundred feet and spreading possibly twice that in diameter.
At the northernmost point of the bay lay the town of Telašćica. Several white, stone-walled houses lined the waterfront, and farther inland other simpler houses and huts dotted the hillsides. The inhabitants had seen the Paladin approaching and had prepared a mooring for her in the deep water alongside the outer edge of the long pier.
“No mooring there,” instructed Harrison. “Fawcett, we will sit nicely in the center of the bay. Jenkins, attend to sails. Topgallants furled and anchor at the ready.”
His orders carried out to the letter, Harrison returned to his cabin. Shortly, Streen appeared as requested, with hat in hand. A personal request from the captain was a chance to shine, to gain favor, and many of the crew would give a right arm to be awarded such a chance.
“Ah! Streen!” said Harrison still in a sour mood. “Just the man I want to see.”
“Yes, sir,” said Streen. “What kin I do for ya, sir?”
“Well, I need space,” said Harrison, chewing on his eggs and biscuits.
“Space?” asked Streen. He usually used space, not created it. He was confused.
“I need a place to store some things that now take up space in my chest and locker, and I want them out of here, so I will have more space.”
“Hmm,” said Streen, looking at the cramped room. “A cap’n does need ta pace—we all know that.”
“Exactly! You catch my meaning then,” said Harrison.
“I could get a few o’ the bigger ’ands, and we could move the chest ’n locker down ta the lower deck. That would do, wouldn’t it, sir?”
Harrison frowned as he gulped down a little coffee and then shook his head.
“Almost, Streen. I want the items close by, where I can get to them quickly. I can’t be stomping down to the lower deck every time I need something.”
“Yes, sir,” said Streen, now concerned that he was not pleasing the captain. He certainly was correct: a captain can’t be stomping down ladders all day. Maybe…
“Sir? If I may?”
“Of course, Streen. An idea?” asked Harrison.
“Yes, sir. Thar’s a space next to the ladder right outside yer door. I could thin the ladder out just a bit, maybe an inch or so, and then remove a plank in the side bulkhead. Then, I could add a thin door ’n a lock to it, seal it up on the inside. That would give ya ’bout the same room as yer chest there, but sideways. Maybe a little more?”
“A lock, you said?” asked Harrison.
Smiling, Streen just nodded.
“See to it then!” said Harrison, now almost happy. “And I thank you, Streen.”
“My absolute pleasure, sir,” said Streen. “Might be a bit o’ noise fer a while, though.”
“Not an issue, my good man,” said Harrison. “Carry on!”
After finishing a lonely breakfast in his cabin, Harrison emerged, mustered his shore party at the gangway, and boarded the jolly. The short rowing exercise brought them to the town’s pier, and from there, the party proceeded into town. In a most flamboyant manner, they immediately began attracting attention by laughing loudly, speaking to any who happened by, and generally being seen.
14
Two Letters
The excitement in the Bracknell home was at a level so high, it seemed that some extraordinary event of unexpected delight and good fortune had been bestowed upon all three Dowdeswell girls at the same time. They squealed in joy, especially Penelope and Rebecca, and ran through the mansion alerting Lady and Lord Bracknell, the servants, the cook, and the valets to the news that not one, not two, but three letters had arrived from the Admiralty. Each one had been addressed to one of the young ladies: Penelope had a letter from none other than Marine Private Sean Flagon, Rebecca one from Commander Thomas Harrison, and Delain received a special correspondence from Midshipman Jonathan Moore.
“Let us read them to each other!” shouted Rebecca as the girls retreated to their bedroom suite.
“Oh, Yes! What a wonderful idea!” said Penelope. “It will be triple the pleasure!”
“Delain?” asked Rebecca. “Surely you will read yours aloud!”
“You are quite incorrect, dear sisters,” said Delain. “My correspondence is my own. Keep your torrid love letters to yourselves, and we will each keep our own secrets. It may make your lives more exciting that way.”
Rebecca continued to plead, goad, coerce, and finally, threaten, but Delain held her ground. Finally, to get some small measure of peace, she retreated to the confines of the horse stables and sat on a bale of hay to read in private. The Airedales were present, rooting about in the dark shadows, chasing some small rodent, or worse, and eventually capturing it. Delain tried her best to ignore their gruesome activities.
At times, she could hear squeaks of delight coming from inside the home—and giddy laughter. She was happy for her sisters. Nothing could please her more than the thought of Thomas Harrison and Rebecca becoming betrothed. Additionally, the idea that Se
an Flagon had taken an interest in her younger sister was at least entertaining—especially since Sean mostly concerned himself with Jonathan, his marine uniform, eating, and sleeping.
And though Delain’s heart was beating considerably faster than normal, she tried to contain her excitement as she opened her letter. Looking at the envelope as she proceeded, Delain could see many postmarks on the outside: one from Gibraltar, another from the Canary Islands, one from Chatham, and the final from London, with the Admiralty stamp clear and bold, almost covering her name. Taking out the letter, she began to read.
April the eighth, 1802
Gibraltar Station
HMS Paladin
Bracknell Estate
Hampstead, England
To Miss Delain Dowdeswell, Adventurer
I hope this letter finds you well. I will tell you that you are missed, and I look forward to my return. Hopefully you will find some time in your busy schedule to enjoy ice cream and possibly a picnic in the park?
The Paladin has acquired a small deck gun from the Drake, courtesy of Captain Blake, his gift to Harrison for capturing a ship for his use. I told Sean that for such a small, dainty gun, it has a sharp tongue and can certainly leave a mark if fired. I suggested that it reminded us of someone we all know, and also that we name it “The Stowaway” in your honor. Commander Harrison agreed.
Unfortunately, as I am embarrassed to say, the gun and I committed a grievous error, and due to a malfunction, the gun severely damaged our foremast, and she is hindering our progress. My fault for not inspecting it. Needless to say, I am straining my relationship with Thomas Harrison.
One bright spot, at least a cause for laughter, is Sean’s and the crew’s insistence on following and believing in the most ridiculous rituals and superstitions. It is quite maddening, actually, and the only person benefiting from all this is Stewie, the cat. One such belief is that cats are lucky, and to keep that luck, one must keep them well fed. He is now quite portly.
We encountered our sister ship Echo today as we approached Gibraltar. She is almost as beautiful as the Paladin, though second place is all I can convince myself of in this matter. It was a strange encounter as its new commander, Captain Andrews, was peculiar in that no one knew of him except for Quinn, our new lieutenant. The Echo crew seemed like novices, but then again, I am used to serving exclusively on only the finest ships in His Majesty’s fleet, so any common ship is not up to my standards (humor). As with all things nautical, I am not sure when we will return, but hopefully, soon.
Thoughts of my family and of course, you, keep me in good spirits, and I anxiously await our reunion.
Your friend and coconspirator,
Midshipman Jonathan Moore, HMS Paladin.
The next morning, Delain had the unfortunate responsibility of attending school. Tedious, deskbound and repetitive, the classes were more than tiresome. All this she could learn from her own reading, she thought. Of course, the etiquette lessons were sheer torture, and only by exaggerating her movements, diction, and posture to try the patience of her teachers could she remain sane.
When the day’s classes were complete, Delain purposefully walked to the office of Master Franklin, the history and language professor. He was the only tolerable instructor of Delain’s, and he was quite fond of her, mostly because he fancied himself a writer, as well as other lofty titles. He had approached Delain to propose he act as a possible author of a book based on her experiences aboard the Danielle and subsequent role in the Battle of Fire. Delain humored him, and from time to time, spent a few moments telling her tale. Unlike Harrison, her embellishments were few. However, she was visiting him for some other reason. She needed his expertise in languages.
His office was large, containing an old wooden desk and chairs; racks of strange oddities from around the known world; and books, books, and more books, towering higher and higher on surrounding shelves and tables.
Franklin sat at his desk, his slight frame bent over some volume, his countenance frowning and firm, nose inches from the pages, murmuring to himself as he studied. Noticing Delain, he immediately lit up in a huge smile, exposing a full set of slightly yellowed teeth.
“Miss Dowdeswell! How wonderful to see you!”
“A pleasure as always, Master Franklin,” she replied. “I hope I am not interrupting anything?”
“No, no, no,” Franklin said, rising from his chair and setting another to the side of his desk for her.
“Please sit down. May I offer you some tea? My assistant has just brought me a fresh pot.”
“That would be most welcome,” Delain said.
“Sugar and cream?” asked Franklin, as he moved to a small side table to prepare her cup.
“Just cream,” said Delain. “Lately I have been advised to grow up, become a lady, and the addition of sugar seems…childlike.”
Franklin laughed. “And who told you that?”
“A friend,” said Delain. She wondered at that moment if she and Barbara remained friends, especially after Delain had insulted her during the ride home from the Wilders. Though holding different views from her own about living as a woman in today’s world, she missed her time with the extremely likable woman and knew that sooner or later, she must make amends.
“So shall we begin our book writing?” asked Master Franklin. “I was thinking of a title—it helps me set the right frame of mind, not only for me, the writer, but for the prospective reader. I was thinking of The Adventures of Delain Dowdeswell, and the volume would be called Voyages at Sea.
“It is too long a title, don’t you think?” suggested Delain.
“Hmm,” muttered Franklin. “Do you really think so?”
“Before we begin,” said Delain, changing the subject, “I have a favor to ask.”
“Of course, Miss Dowdeswell,” said the teacher.
“I have in my possession something from one of my…adventures.”
“Indeed?” asked Franklin, now visibly excited. “Is this a new adventure?”
Delain thought for a moment, then smiled.
“Master Franklin, there could be a second book in the making, and it all depends on your assistance in my…investigation!”
“Investigation? A second adventure? How may I be of assistance?”
He was now hooked, and Delain knew he would assist her willingly. Eventually, she would need to actually give him detailed information of her past adventures, and though that was the unwritten agreement between them, Delain had not concluded that being the subject of a book would be in her best interests. For now, she would play along.
She reached into her pocket and produced a folded piece of paper.
“I found a letter in a curious place, and it seems to have been written in a foreign language, or a code of some sort. Knowing that you speak several languages, I thought possibly you could translate it for me?”
He smiled as he set the cup of tea down before her.
Delain handed her copy of the letter to Franklin. Gazing at it, he muttered a few words as he returned to the desk.
“Yes…um-hum…yes…Yes, it is Russian,” he said as he scanned his finger across the lines.
“Russian?” said Delain. That was a surprise. Though nothing really should have surprised her about the letter. “Can you read it to me?”
“Yes…and no,” answered Franklin. “I only am partially familiar with Russian though…and some of the passages are a little strange.”
“Can you try?”
Franklin smiled once again and then concentrated on the text.
“Dear L. W.” He paused, reading ahead.
L. W.? thought Delain. Surely that was Lord Wilder.
Scratching his head, Franklin continued. “Um…It…has been…a long time since we have…corresponded. I…hope? Yes, I hope…all is well with you. I…understand you have…successfully finished the job of…no, task of delivering the artwork to…my gallery, and I am sure…you will be pleased…to know that…the order was received in
perfect condition. I noticed…eighteen pieces, short of the twenty-four or thirty-six you had promised, however…the gallery manager is quite satisfied. Please…accept? No, please see the payment for…the delivery. In addition…I understand the second delivery will be late, and I cannot express my dissatisfaction. I will…of course…default to your better …judgment.”
Franklin paused. “I am not sure if my translation is perfect here, my dear, though it is clear this letter is referring to artwork and a gallery of some sort.”
“Yes,” said Delain, slightly disappointed. She was hoping the letter would reveal some highly sensitive international spy network, or a plot to assassinate a duke or the king of Prussia, or even a simple murder-for-hire scenario. It seemed that Lord Wilder was simply buying artwork and selling it.
But no, that couldn’t be all, she thought. Why so secretive about that? Many art dealers worked in London, and none needed to have payment delivered by mysterious Black Riders that hide money and invoices in bookcases.
“Is that all?” asked Delain.
“Yes, just a salutation at the end,” said Franklin, looking back to the letter. “Something like ‘May God be with you,’ and then a single Cyrillic letter K.”
After meeting with her sisters in the school library, the Dowdeswell girls were escorted home by Steward, who entertained them with his somewhat off-color renditions of sea chanteys, though Delain could only wonder about the translation of her letter. Was the Black Rider “K”? Or did “K” write the letter, and the horseman was simply a delivery man? Somehow, this needed to be discerned, and then possibly she could understand what involvement Lord Wilder had in all this. It was a tough problem, and she certainly needed more information, more clues. Then the answer struck her like a bolt of lightning. Her old naturalist teacher, Mister Tupper, had always told her that to find the true answer to a problem, one must get as close to the evidence as possible—not to settle for hearsay or conjecture. One must add new evidence and facts until the only possible conclusion had to be the right one. Delain now realized that she had some clues but not enough. And there was only one way to acquire more information.