Dawn on a Distant Shore

by Sara Donati

  Captain Mudge traced the owner of the Nell to a public house near the docks, only to find that he would not deal with women or Indians, but was willing to spare Grievous Mudge a few minutes. Runs-from-Bears shrugged off this slight and went off in search of whatever news was to be had of their party in Montréal, leaving Elizabeth and Curiosity to wait with the children in a crowded common room that smelled strongly of fermenting yeast and spruce beer. Somewhere in another part of the house the captains were in negotiations, no doubt over generous portions of whisky.

  A silver coin got them a table near the hearth. The innkeeper’s wife, harried and immune to the miseries that travelers brought to her door, had at least provided a table large enough for them to accommodate the cradleboards. The twins were content to stay strapped and swaddled, as long as they were propped up and could survey the room. There were bowls of steaming beef broth, a loaf of new bread, a dish of baked leeks and onions, and a leg of spring lamb that even Curiosity pronounced well turned. Thus they sat in relative comfort, waiting for word.

  A young sailor in the bright blue coat of the Royal Navy caught Elizabeth’s eye. He had ginger hair much like Liam’s and he inched by their table, sending them a sliding, sideways glance that hesitated on Hannah, and finally jerked away. Elizabeth realized now that while she had seen many Indians on the docks and in the streets, Hannah was the only one in this public house. Suddenly the high cost of the table took on new meaning, which made her distinctly uneasy and vaguely angry.

  “I don’t like Sorel,” said Hannah, calmly dismembering an onion layer by layer. She said it once in English, for Curiosity, and then again in Kahnyen’kehàka, for herself.

  “There’s a bright child,” said Curiosity, stabbing at her meat.

  “Further evidence of her good sense,” agreed Elizabeth. “But we shall make the best of Sorel, nevertheless. I believe there are rooms for rent here, perhaps even a tub and hot water.”

  Curiosity eyed the innkeeper’s wife and snorted softly. “For the right price, maybe.”

  Hannah finished her onion and leaned over to wipe a line of dribble from Lily’s chin. “I’d like to clean up,” she conceded. “If there’s time.”

  “There may well be,” said Elizabeth. “Here comes Captain Mudge and I’m afraid it doesn’t look like good news.”

  In fact the news was not good. The captain and owner of the Nell was uneasy transporting women and children under normal circumstances, and no amount of coin could move him to do so on his first run of the season. Elizabeth sat, digesting this latest setback, in silence. With one finger she touched the spot between her breasts where she wore a single five-guinea gold piece on a long chain, along with her other treasures. No amount of coin, she thought. I wonder.

  Relieved of his bad news, the captain lit his pipe and leaned back on the settle.

  “There’s another boat,” he said in a gruff but apologetic tone. “I know the captain, and he’d take you, for the right price. But it ain’t exactly ladylike on board, Mrs. Bonner.”

  “It is not a very long journey,” Elizabeth said, cast ing a glance at the twins, who blinked back at her. “When does he sail?”

  Captain Mudge gnawed thoughtfully on his pipe. “Sooner rather than later.”

  Elizabeth caught Curiosity’s eye.

  “Seem like there ain’t much choice,” said the older woman.

  “Hannah?”

  She nodded. “We might as well move on.”

  “Well, then,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps we should go talk to this captain—”

  “Stoker. An Irishman,” said Grievous Mudge. With a creak and a groan he pushed himself up from the table, reaching for his tricorn. “You’d best wait here,” he said. “If he don’t want to be found I could be a while putting my hands on him.” He cast a look over his shoulder at the innkeeper’s wife, leaned forward and whispered. “You’ll need a room. There’s one upstairs, she’d give it to you until the morning for a reasonable price. It has a door and a stairway of its own, you see.”

  “This Irishman ain’t exactly made hisself popular, I take it,” said Curiosity, with little regard for whispering.

  The captain raised one grizzled eyebrow in salute of her quick understanding. “It would be a sight easier,” he agreed.

  “What about Runs-from-Bears?” asked Elizabeth.

  The broad mouth turned down at one corner. “No need to hand over a list of visitors.” Another quick peek over his shoulder and then back again to Elizabeth. “No need at all.”

  She might have rested, for the feather beds were freshly made with clean linen, and there had been hot water enough for all of them. The babies, bathed and fed, were sleeping deeply, and so was Hannah, twitching slightly in her dreams. After some urging, Curiosity had even put up her feet and gone to sleep, a worry line etched firmly between her brows.

  But she could not rest, and so Elizabeth sat in a chair by the window, drowsing now and then but mostly staring out at the town and river. There were still some ice floes in the St. Lawrence, poking up here and there like rotting teeth. She counted sails and pennants for a while, stark white and dirty gray, blues and yellows and reds against a fitful sky. A bateau headed upriver with a hump of barrels lashed to its deck, courting a reluctant wind with a single sail. Finally oars went into the water to help it along.

  On the street below, a carter cursed at his ox, his whip flashing. A boy darted out of a shop with a basket of fish, his bare feet kicking up a mist of muddy water that spattered two Royal Navy officers from heel to the brim of their great boatlike hats. They shook their fists at him, but he never looked back. Elizabeth thought of her schoolchildren in Paradise, many of the boys much like the ones on the street below. For a long moment she fought with tears of frustration and doubt and a simple and overwhelming homesickness for familiar things.

  The sight of Runs-from-Bears on the street was welcome. He came around a corner with Captain Mudge, who whirled one arm vigorously in the telling of a story. With the other hand he plucked his pipe from his mouth to point it up the street toward the docks. Then he raised his head and pointed to the window, and catching sight of Elizabeth, bowed, clearly flustered. But it was the expression on Bears’ face that got her attention. More trouble. Elizabeth thought of waking Curiosity, but then she simply picked up her damp cloak and let herself quietly out of the room. At least one of them should be rested. Whatever new trouble there was, she would handle it on her own.

  • • •

  “Gallows?” she repeated, as if she had never heard the word before and could put no meaning to it.

  Runs-from-Bears nodded. “Built yesterday morning.”

  “It don’t mean much,” said Captain Mudge. “The Tories like to hang a thief now and then.” But he would not meet her eye.

  “Bears,” Elizabeth said evenly. “This Kahnyen’kehàka you spoke to, did he see the gallows himself?”

  “Hen’en.” Yes.

  She searched for her handkerchief, and touched it to her forehead. For a long moment she studied the toes of her boots: her sturdiest pair, mud stained, worn now across the toes in a way she would have never tolerated when she was still Miss Middleton of Oakmere. It seemed very long ago.

  “Well, then,” she said, struggling for a confident tone. “We’d best be on our way. Captain Mudge, have you located Mr. Stoker?”

  “I have.” He contemplated the public house for a moment, rocking back on his heels. “I tried to talk him into coming here but he’s a difficult man, is Mac Stoker. He’s waiting for you aboard the Jackdaw. Wants to talk about money.”

  “By all means,” Elizabeth said. “But might I have a word with Runs-from-Bears first?”

  When the captain had stepped away to examine a bay mare tied up outside the blacksmithy, Elizabeth said, “Curiosity will worry. Will you go sit with them? But avoid the innkeeper if you can.”

  He nodded. “And you watch yourself with the Irishman. In Stone-Splitter’s village he is called Grabs-Fast.”<
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  “I’m afraid that comes as no surprise at all,” Elizabeth muttered. She wished for some quiet place to talk to Bears out of public view, but there was no time. “I will be careful,” she agreed. “But deal with him I must. We have to get to Montréal today.”

  “We will get there,” said Bears. “But not at any cost.”

  Of course not, she thought, but again she found herself touching the gold coin hidden beneath her bodice. She had sent a hundred similar coins to Montréal with Will—perhaps he was spending it today, to good end. Curiosity had a hundred more in a leather bag she wore next to her skin. It was a tremendous amount of money for any common sailor; it would even buy a small boat and man it. But for the moment the coins were worthless to her. There was no way to melt them down, and they could not spend a single one of them. Not here with half of the king’s navy on the docks and the river, and a good many redcoat officers in the streets and public houses. They might never get out of Canada if a five-guinea gold piece with the profile of George II came to the attention of the Crown’s agents.

  Bears was watching her face, reading her line of thought as if she had spoken out loud. “Bone-in-Her-Back,” he said, and put a hand on her wrist. “To put the smell of gold in the Irishman’s nose would not make things easier. Use the silver, there is enough of it.”

  Elizabeth blinked hard, embarrassed by her own desperation. “Yes, of course you’re right.”

  “Pardon me.” A young man had stopped to stare openly at Runs-from-Bears. Elizabeth forgot at times how fierce Bears must look to others: the keen dark eyes, a face pitted with pox scars, a tattoo that stretched from temple to temple like the tracks of the bear whose teeth he wore on a leather thong around his neck. An egret feather dangled from his side braid, and from his belt hung a collection of weapons with well-worn handles.

  “Do you require assistance, madam?” Arched brows, and a knowing expression in the gray eyes. She was a lady in intimate conversation with a red-skinned man on a public street; he was an Englishman, sure of his view of the world and his right to intercede. She stared back at him until he began to fluster.

  “Not your assistance, sir,” she said coolly.

  He flushed, bowed stiffly from the shoulders, and walked off.

  “Why are you grinning?” she asked Bears, suddenly very cross with him, but not quite sure why she should be.

  “It’s good to hear you sounding more like yourself.”

  “It is the only way to deal with such presumption and insolence,” Elizabeth said primly.

  “Thayeri,” said Runs-from-Bears. It is proper so.

  Mac Stoker was a big man in his prime, barrel chested and black haired, with blue-gray eyes and a chipped front tooth that glimmered when he smiled. A wide scar circled his neck, twisting white and pink like a lady’s ribbon against the tanned skin. He was the kind of man that women felt compelled to look at when he came their way, the kind who crooked a finger in return and expected to be obliged. He was known from Halifax to the Huron as Sweet Mac Stoker, and once he would have made Elizabeth uneasy to the bone. But no longer.

  She stood with Captain Mudge, watching as Stoker worked alongside his crew, unloading bales of raw wool from the Jackdaw. He liked an audience, that was clear, for while the others wore work shirts of homespun or coarse linen, he worked stripped to a pair of overtight breeches, the muscles in the broad back and arms shining with sweat. Elizabeth was not outraged, as her aunt Merriweather would have expected her to be, and neither was she intrigued; she simply appreciated the opportunity to observe him from a distance and get some sense of him. By the time Stoker came rambling down the gangplank, wiping his neck with a discarded shirt, she had taken his measure and felt composed enough. If he really was the only way to get to Montréal quickly—and in this she had no choice but to trust Captain Mudge’s judgment—she must deal with this Mr. Stoker, regardless of what she thought of him, or how he presented himself to the world.

  Captain Mudge began the introductions, and launched from there into a rambling story of the journey from Albany. Elizabeth kept her eyes fixed on the ragged eelskin that secured Mac Stoker’s queue. He too seemed content to let the older man talk, engaged as he was in close scrutiny of Elizabeth’s person.

  Captain Mudge had worked himself into high voice about the final portage and the capsizing of one of the cargo barges, when he was interrupted by a shouting and waving of arms from the other end of the dock.

  “That’s Mr. Little,” said Elizabeth. She had not seen the captain’s first mate since they had left the bateaux on the Richelieu. Now he stood between a tower of boxes and two taller men; Elizabeth could hear his voice crackling with indignation.

  “A-yuh. And excisemen,” agreed the captain, yanking on his chin whiskers with a scowl.

  Stoker grunted. “That’s Wiggins and Montague, the greedy bastards. They’ll be after havin’ your man Little for breakfast.”

  As if to prove Stoker right, Mr. Little let out a yelp of distress, and they lost all sight of him.

  “Perhaps you had better see what he needs,” said Elizabeth. “Mr. Stoker and I can carry on.”

  “Ain’t got much choice.” Captain Mudge started off with a thump, and then seemed to remember what he was about.

  “Stoker,” he said, one eye narrowed down to a slit. “Take unfair advantage of this lady and I’ll see to it you never run goods down Albany way again.”

  Mac Stoker nodded, touching his forehead with one blunt and grimy finger. When Captain Mudge was gone, he winked at her, the chipped tooth flashing. “You’re lookin’ for passage to Montréal.”

  “I am,” said Elizabeth. “If the cost is right, and the accommodations will serve.”

  He barked out a surprised laugh. “English, all right. Yous’re all the same.”

  The thought of the gallows at the Montréal garrison made it possible for her to keep her composure and her temper. “I don’t see that my country of birth is relevant to our negotiations, Mr. Stoker.”

  With one thumbnail he raked the bristle on his cheek. “All business, eh? I’m told you tried your luck with the Nell first. Don’t take it to heart that Smythe turned you down. He’s the sort what prefers pretty boys.”

  Elizabeth met the blue gaze with a single raised brow. “We were discussing the price of passage to Montréal.”

  He found her amusing. “You’re not easily shocked, I’ll say that for you. The frontier takes that out of a woman. You’ve been far, so I hear told.”

  One of the crew swung by with a barrel on his shoulder: stale tobacco, sweaty clothes, fish oil, rum. The stuff of sailors everywhere. Elizabeth reminded herself that Mr. Stoker was just a man with a ship, and nothing more. Whatever rumors he had heard of her did not matter in the least.

  “The fare, Mr. Stoker?”

  The chipped tooth again in a grin calculated to irritate her. “You’re in a damn hurry to get where you’re goin’, and I’d wager that Jackdaw will suit just fine, rough as she is. Sure, and I’m willing to bet you’ve got the fare, too. Shall we step on board to discuss it?” The grin, daring her. He scratched the pelt of dark hair on his chest lazily.

  “I believe we can conclude our discussions right here,” said Elizabeth.

  His gaze wandered down the front of her cloak and up again. “I’m goin’ on board,” he said. “Stay here or come along. Suit yourself.”

  Not at any cost, Bears had said, and this is what he meant.

  “I will pay you fifty dollars, silver,” Elizabeth said to his retreating back, taking note of the scars: a long cut along the left ribs, a bullet wound at the shoulder, and the evidence that he had lived through more than one flogging.

  When it was clear he was listening, she said it again. “Fifty dollars silver for three adults and three children. And we must have the use of your cabin for the trip.”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Fifty guineas,” said Stoker. “Gold.”

  She managed a smile, even while her heart tri
pped into a quicker beat. “Gold guineas? But you’ve been listening to pirate tales, Mr. Stoker. I am willing to give you sixty dollars in silver if you’re enough of a sailor to get us to Montréal safely by morning.”

  The expression in his eyes was all blue steel and bile.

  “I’m enough of a sailor to take youse and the brats to China and beyond, darlin’. But Granny Stoker raised no fools, and I won’t take on the Royal Navy for a pretty smile alone.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Elizabeth evenly. “I’ve offered you sixty dollars in silver for your trouble.”

  He peered down at her, a muscle fluttering in his cheek. “So you’re telling me that you’ve got no gold. Next you’ll be claimin’ that you’re not the Englishwoman who gave Jack Lingo what he’s been askin’ for all these years.”

  Elizabeth was aware of an ox bellowing nearby, gulls overhead, incessant hammering, men singing. She raised her chin and met his eye.

  “Seventy-five dollars in silver, Mr. Stoker,” she said calmly. “Take it or leave it.”

  “Jack owed me money,” he continued thoughtfully. “It seems only fair that you should take on his obligations, havin’ sent the whoreson to the hell he so richly deserved.”

  Anger crept up her neck. She put a hand there, as if to stop it. “This is not the only ship in Sorel, Mr. Stoker.”

  “Sure, and that’s true,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the Jackdaw with her much-mended sails. “But she’s damn fast, and maybe she’s the only one that’ll get you to Montréal in time to see some American spies swing for their troubles.”