by Peter Greene
After a moment, a dark-haired woman wearing a simple cotton dress came to the door and stepped barefoot into the twilight. Glancing at the two men, she recognized the older one; he had come with her and the others who had fled their former village in years past. Her eyes were then drawn to the man with the scar. Considering him for a moment, she had an odd feeling. Had she seen him before? He looked familiar. Then, in an instant, she recognized him. A flood of memories came to her, memories from an earlier life that seemed to have disappeared seven years ago, when she had suffered so greatly and all hope was lost. Though it seemed impossible to her that he was here, now, her heart was able to guide her, and she flew to him, weeping tears of joy.
From the door, two young girls appeared. Seeing their mother embracing the stranger, it only took them a moment to realize who had finally come home.
“Tata!” they called, and they ran into the arms of their father.
“Your face!” Daria said, touching the wound tenderly. “What happened?”
He smiled at her.
“A reminder. From one who was generous and chose pity over hatred and revenge,” he said as he held his girls tightly.
“I don’t understand,” said Daria.
“Nor do I,” the man said. “Though he freed me, and I will tell you of him. A boy, Daria—a wonderful boy, just like our dear Dimitri. He freed me from Kharitonov forever, and now I am here to stay.”
The family held each other for what seemed to be ages. Then, after all had cried their tears, Nikomed Aggar was led inside to tell his tale.
After the wedding ceremony of Nathaniel Moore and Miss Barbara Thompson, many attended the splendid reception in the decorated and familiar home of the Walkers. There was dancing, some mild drinking, and of course, delightful food was served, with Steward cackling at Harrison’s poor humor and Claise trying to ensure all had plenty to eat. Yes, tales were told.
Jonathan noticed that his father and his new mother now seemed truly happy. He wondered if he would ever be that way, though he thought, Why fret? Today is today, and tomorrow is not. I will think of my future plans…in the future!
Ask if on cue, Sean motioned for Jonathan to step outside. Exiting, he saw that there, on the front steps of the Walkers’ mansion, lit by the gaslights of the lane, stood Delain. Now in a simple white dress, she tightened a woolen shawl about her shoulders. The evening was warm for early summer: perfect walking weather.
“It’s getting too stuffy in there, Jonny Boy!” said Sean, holding a small, oddly shaped bag in his hands. He pushed Jonathan outside and closed the door gently. “Let us three take a walk.”
With the boys each taking an arm, they escorted Miss Delain Dowdeswell slowly down the drive from Captain Walker’s door to the street and strolled lazily through the lanes to Hay Market, then east to find Charing Cross, then again due south on King’s to Westminster Bridge. Sean stopped them only once, turning down an alley, one familiar to him, and gave his bag, obviously full of food, to a poor boy living in the shadows.
Arriving at the bridge, they stood at the railing. Before them, now at the edge of their town, was the Thames, the river that led to the adventurous sea.
“That ends yet another successful undertaking, my handsome friends!” said Delain with a sigh.
“What’s next, Jonny Boy?” asked Sean expectantly.
Jonathan looked to the water, then to the many gaslights glowing about the city. He noticed their radiance reflecting off the waves in swirling shapes that moved in unison, as if some strange and wonderful creatures were performing a harmonized ballet for his pleasure. The worlds of land and sea met at this place, he thought, calm and welcoming to anyone who was about to sail away to adventure or return home to family and a quiet life.
“For now, we are all together,” he said, placing his arms about them both.
They stared into the waves, each lost in his or her thoughts.
“But when tomorrow comes?” asked Delain, breaking the silence.
Jonathan thought for a while, and then, after a deep breath, spoke with purpose:
“I have no idea.”
The End
of
Book Three
Acknowledgments
I am a true believer in the idea that no one gets through this life alone, and to complete something grand, like the writing of a novel, takes a great amount of encouragement and charity from others. That assistance comes not just during the task, but from a past shaped by many people and their kindness. Most of these are teachers—formal educators or otherwise. In my life, I have had the great fortune to receive advice and direction from many: my parents, my teachers, and yes, even my bosses. Here, I would like to thank the most influential individually.
Jane Beem was my high school English and creative writing teacher at Warren Township High in Gurnee, Illinois. Let’s not mention the year, but suffice to say that at that time, computers were items only available to NASA. We wrote everything with number 2 pencils (I preferred a 3H myself) on lined paper in those days.
I specifically remember one assignment. We were told to write a short story, in class, that had action as the main theme. I wrote a piece about the feeling of flying through a snow-covered downhill racing course on skis, something I did regularly in the rock-quarry-turned-ski-hill nearby. I finished the story in less than an hour and turned it in. I liked it so much, I actually copied it during the passing period so I could have a duplicate to ponder over that evening. The next day, Ms. Beem returned the paper to me. There was a bold “A” across the top—no marks of any other kind, except a single word across the entire script: Wonderful.
And that did it for me. I have been writing stories ever since, dozens of short and full-length screenplays (one optioned) and so many technical manuals and marketing pieces that I thought my head should explode. The Jonathan Moore Series is the newest endeavour, and no matter what the commercial success, the few words of thanks I have gotten from readers have been payment enough for the years I put into the writing. I am a storyteller, and I remember seeing the word wonderful and knowing that someone, somewhere, might enjoy my tales. Thank you, Jane Beem, for starting me on this journey.
Jo Ann Fox was my college acting and creative dramatics teacher at Northern Illinois University. I remember her as a fiery force of talent and energy who believed that anyone could do anything. Jo Ann exploded into the classroom every day, smiling and flamboyant; she didn’t just walk in and sit behind her desk. In fact, I don’t think Jo Ann ever just sat. Conversely, I was shy and reserved—a bad set of traits for an actor—and at twenty years old, I had just switched from a biology major (where I was failing miserably) to theatre education. I thought a class titled “Creative Dramatics” would be about writing plays and such, and I was surprised because Jo Ann had all of us acting as teapots, octopuses, gnomes, cats, Labrador retrievers, and even stones. I don’t think we ever wrote or read a single line the entire semester.
Something happened in Jo Ann’s class for me: I shed my shell. I took it off, threw it on the ground, and busted the living hell out of it. Confidence followed quickly in every aspect of my life.
One day, I was walking down the hallway to the Actors’ Theatre and saw a piano in there. No one was around. I had sat through a few piano lessons when I was younger, and I still fiddled at the keyboard a bit. Being away from my home and my mother’s fire-damaged Howard baby grand, I was always delighted to find a piano that was in tune and available. I sat down to play.
I didn’t know that after my first few notes, the readers’ theatre group that was rehearsing a version of Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree had come in, and not wanting to interrupt, let me play for a few more minutes. The director heard something he liked, stopped me, and after a few minutes of discussion and playing some chords, he cast me as the music to their production.
A week and a half later, I performed a background score I had composed for the play. Jo Ann was in attendance. At the after-performance critique, sh
e asked, “Who is sitting behind that piano? He was as much a force of this delightful production as anyone else.”
Seeing me, she stood, hugged me, smiled, and said, “I knew it!” and told the group something to the effect of “Peter Greene looks like he can do anything. I would not hesitate to cast him in any play in any role. He has no shell; he just is.”
I changed again that day. Those words have helped me attempt and succeed in so many parts of my life, I can’t even begin to count them or to acknowledge Jo Ann’s effect.
Though a bit out of order in the chronology of this list, I met a man named Dorn Kennison, who hired me as assistant manager of a Chess King men’s clothing store. Dorn was rock-star good-looking, an excellent guitar player, and a very young husband and father. He was serious, mostly, but with some goading, I could get him to teach me a few kung fu moves (he was a black belt and would slap me around lightly and laugh, but I always came back for more), and he would draw the most ridiculous cartoons that had me rolling with laughter.
I had been working in retail since I was fifteen, and I had experience, but becoming a manager was a challenge for me. Still in my late teens, I struggled until Dorn decided I was worth working on. He taught me that you had to be honest. A devout Pentecostal, he modelled his management style after his belief in family structure, hard work, simple reward, and honesty. He drilled those necessities into me for a year. He taught me the right way things should be done, the perfect way, and the work ethic that made me realize that whatever it was that I was doing, it was worth doing the best. He even taught me how to print numbers neatly and with consistency for the hand-written stock ledger, cash ledgers, and general ledgers we kept for the business—all done with 3H pencils!
Of the many valuable lessons Dorn taught me, he made me see that being neat and organized—and striving to be perfect and do everything to the best of my ability—now had value to me. It was my job—my paycheck—and not doing it right meant losing my livelihood. I “grokked” this and succeeded. The result was more confidence and an awareness that I had a value to others and to myself.
I worked for that company on and off for eight years, even after I moved to Los Angeles. I was given a great job as a manager, I trained others, and I made a living. It was because of Dorn, someone else who believed in me. I use what he taught me every day.
Once I was in California, Chess King hired me again and sent me to Bakersfield, north of Los Angeles about one hundred miles. Now managing a mall store, the busiest in California, I was mentored by an amazing man who became like an older brother to me: Mike Aguilar.
Mike was like a college professor. He did everything right, he delegated, he was ahead of the game, and he taught me not to sit idle—in my career and in my life. He forced me to grow up. I was doing extra things that made me stand out, and under his direction, I blossomed into more than a manager. I had learned to be industrious. He was also hard on me, and that helped prepare me for failure and gave me the drive to move on, learn, and persevere. I wanted to impress him. He liked my writing as well and encouraged me to continue.
Thanks, Mike. You fine-tuned me as a person, not just a businessman. I remember the day we discussed my competition for the store in Santa Maria, and you said, “Those guys? They can’t hold a candle to you!”
That’s because you helped me.
Two years later, back in Los Angeles, I moved to a different company, Wherehouse Entertainment. At the beginning of that job, I met Steve Brown. He was brash, confident, young, chain-smoking, aggressive, tall, ex-military, a fashion plate, a tornado, and right most of the time. He knew this. Some didn’t like him. I did. One knew what one was getting with Steve. He was my district manager, and for some reason, he thought I had some potential. To be honest, my sales and P and L numbers proved it. Unlike my other mentors, Steve wasn’t interested in honing my skills. That wasn’t his bag.
Steve was a pusher. He taught me the political ropes, the idea of honest self-promotion, being competitive, speaking out, getting off the fence on issues, and kicking ass. He was exhilarating to be around. He put me out in the ocean, figuratively, and said, “Swim back, and then we can talk about your worth.”
The biggest thing Steve taught me was to look for opportunities and attack them. He gave me all the rope I wanted and ate me alive when I hung myself, but mostly he beamed like a proud father when I was recognized for success. I had become, under his tutelage, a mover and a shaker. I was well respected and was given the opportunity to take any job, within reason, at the company.
Steve Brown made me do something big with my talent. I can never thank him enough.
There were two other people who actually tried to tell me all the things I learned from Jane Beem, Jo Ann Fox, Dorn Kennison, Mike Aguilar, and Steve Brown: my parents, George and Virginia Greene, who are now in their nineties.
I remember all of what they told me—all these same things. Quotes like “Try it—you are young! What have you got to lose?” and “You did that wrong. Fix it,” and “You can do anything. Just don’t give up.”
But of all the qualities and skills that both my parents possessed, the one that rubbed off on me was legendary in our family and with our friends: the ability to tell stories.
My mother was a poor girl who lived in the Bronx with her off-the-boat immigrant father and mother, he a barber and her mother, a beautician. She had an older brother and younger sister. The stories she would tell thrilled us as kids. She played piano at Carnegie Hall in a recital at the age of four. After completing her pieces, she bumped her head after her bow and let out a few choice expletives in Italian. Everyone heard. She told us of jumping across alleyways from rooftop to rooftop of the neighbouring apartment buildings, of her rise as a dress designer, her days working at CBS when the new sensation of television was in its infancy, and of her crazy aunt who came after her own family with a kitchen knife—and some darker tales of what we nowadays would call child abuse, but then it was just “not sparing the rod” to raise children. She was always conversational yet at times very emotional in her telling. We always listened. We urged her to tell more.
My father was a master of comedy. Now in his later years, he repeats his repertoire ad nauseam, and he embellishes so much that we wonder what kids he’s talking about when he speaks of our younger years. But when we were young, we couldn’t get enough. His stories of Ivy League college days, pranks of stealing mascots and cannons, goofy cars that had exploding eagle-sculpted radiator caps, navy stories—not of war, but of corpsman duties stateside, playing trombone in the captain’s band in Miami, and silly get-togethers at which he was always the life of the party. Our favorite was his courting of our mother, who understandably wanted to dump him after he left her alone at party after party where he seemed compelled to entertain all the guests. After she told him she would never date him again, he begged her for another chance and promised not to leave her side. At the next party, he actually waited outside the ladies’ room each time she used it and figuratively stuck to her.
We loved these tales. Each was rich and detailed, especially the characters. Most of all, my father was funny. He didn’t just tell a story; he acted them out, changed his voices, did accents, made faces.
How could I have been anything else but a storyteller? Thanks, Mom and Dad. It was a great gift to receive.
So why write sea stories? Because I love them, and I want to help others enjoy them as well. Knowing that sometimes the terminology and jargon can be a bit rough on beginners, I hoped to create a series that would capture the excitement and thrill of being on one of His Majesty’s wind-powered warships during the Nelson era, while taking it easy on the technical aspects of a life at sea.
I am not an expert in sailing matters and have relied heavily on reference material from Dean King’s A Sea of Words, Lavery’s Nelson’s Navy, O’Neill’s Patrick O’Brien’s Navy, my personal correspondence with Captain Richard Bailey of the now fully refurbished and seafaring SSV Oliver Hazzard Perry,
and the novels and biographies of Forester, O'Brian, Stephenson, and others.
It is my fondest hope that my readers will explore these works and continue their own adventures in this remarkable period of history.
—Peter Greene, March 2017