From Haven to Hell

by Rebecca Diem

  “But that’s just it, isn’t it? She’s proven to be a mistress of deception and lies. Putting on airs and such – where did she come from anyhow? It’s just too convenient she was able to get the grain and save the crew with nary a bullet fired. No one is that good. How do we know we can trust her?”

  “The Captain Duke trusts her. And Trick. And Nessa. And Cat and Mouse, and by Victoria, those two can sniff out if someone’s being dishonest.”

  “Well, the way I see it, Captain’s judgement might be a bit clouded when it comes to her, if you know what I mean—hey now, don’t get like that, I’m just saying she’s a pretty one. Here he’s blaming Robbie but what’s more likely? That a good pilot is gone traitor to us all, or the Captain’s been blinded by a pair of fine legs?”

  “I will not stand to hear ill of Clara. She’s a fine lass, like I said. A good, decent woman who has never done harm.”

  The past week had revealed more and more of Robbie’s attempts to pick off members of the crew. Innocuous comments made during meal times, comments overheard during daily duties. And although the crew was kept busy with repairs to the ship, checking inventory and training, the extended break to allow Nessa to recover permitted a great deal of time for leisurely pursuits. They had delayed their departure for another week to allow her to rest. While he and Trick were busy checking the movement of Tradist cargo and examining the accounts, Robbie had ample opportunity to gather support. And his favoured strategy seemed to be casting doubt on Clara’s intentions.

  The two voices continued in their argument as the Captain Duke listened from around the corner, growing more furious by the second. Luk, one of Robbie’s men, was arguing with Peg as she prepared food for the midday meal. The Captain was somewhat reassured that Clara had her own defenders among the crew, but Luk’s arguments were disconcerting. Not that he believed a word of it. He knew Clara was genuine in her desire to be part of his crew. He had felt her tremble in his arms that day on the airship when she confronted the soldiers and saved them all. She lied to the lieutenant, yes, but her character was not deceitful. She was open and honest with him and his crew, showing reluctance only when pressed to reveal the details of her past life. But, if Robbie and his men intended to sow dissension in the ranks, they had found a grave weakness.

  He listened until the two stopped their argument and waited until the sound of Luk’s footsteps faded down the hall before slipping in to the kitchens. Peg was alone, preparing vegetables for something certain to be delicious. She didn’t even pause in her rhythmic chopping as the Captain Duke approached.

  “It’s not looking good, sir.”

  “They are persisting with these tales of Clara’s duplicity?”

  “Aye, Captain. That’s the third to approach me in the last two days alone. All Robbie’s closest. They seem to do his bidding, no knowledge of any plots. They are earnest in their defense of his virtue. All but that French one, Renault. And Maggie,” Peg sniffed.

  The Captain Duke wisely concealed a smirk. There were a number of Margarets on his crew, and at some point Maggie had cast aspersions over Peg’s pet name. No blood was drawn over the affair, but the two had been at odds ever since. Thankfully, Madge remained above the conflict, preferring her potions and experiments over petty squabbles. Never a good idea to anger those who prepare your food, he thought, sneaking a small apple into his pocket. Peg winked in response, but then grew serious, setting down the knife and wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Captain, is there anything to know? About Clara? I adore the girl, but if there’s anything–anything–that could ease the others’ minds…”

  “Her secrets are her own.”

  “Aye, sir, but just think on it a moment. I don’t appreciate all this sneaking about. Troubles should be faced out in the open. Robbie’s up to something, of that I’m sure, but your own actions have played a part.”

  “My actions?” he knew his voice was angrier than warranted, but could not stand to have one of his most loyal crew doubting his leadership.

  “Apologies, Captain. It’s not my place.”

  “Please continue,” he said icily.

  “It’s just the way of it Captain. Robbie’s whispers only work because the crew is missing the old ways. You’re more cautious now. It’s not a bad trait in a captain, but they need tales to tell around the fire.”

  A kettle began to whistle on the stove. The Captain Duke grabbed the offending implement and slammed it onto the wooden counter to quiet it. Peg raised a brow. He let out a huff of breath.

  “Peg, you know I appreciate your insights.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “I’ll deal with Robbie. We’ll be back in the skies before you know it.”

  The Captain Duke left the kitchens and walked through the halls of his home. He had built this, all of this, and would not see it destroyed or taken without a fight. He needed to deal with the matter of Robbie before the loyalties of the crew could be divided further. He felt as though he were poised on the edge of a blade, where any small thing could upset the delicate balance. It was an unpleasant sensation, manifested in the tightness of his chest and many restless nights.

  In truth, he knew little of Clara’s family or life. She had come over from the Isle of Wight, she had a brother named Archie, and had shown up in the cargo hold of a Tradist ship in a dishevelled ball gown, surrounded by gunpowder. The Captain Duke frowned as he considered how Clara’s appearance would seem to the crew. It would certainly be easier if he or any of the others could vouch for her past. As far as he knew, she had confided in no one. Nessa would be the likeliest bet, or perhaps little Cat or Mouse, but certainly he would have heard something by now if it were so. He considered writing to his contacts on the Isle, but it chafed him to resort to such measures when the simplest solution was to gain her trust. Clara was an unknown element in a fractious situation. He needed certainties for his plans to work.

  As he reached the door to his study, a voice called for him.

  “Captain!”

  Speak of the devil, he thought. She was hurrying down the hall toward him, face lit with an easy smile.

  “Captain, I received a message from Mrs. Cottingham over the wireless. She says the clothing is ready for delivery. Are you free to discuss the scheme? I’ve done a great deal of research, but I do wish to review the details about the Tradist’s manner and customs.”

  “Not now, Clara.”

  “Well, when? We would do well to take a few of the crew for a practice run of our plans. See how it works at one of the smaller ports first.”

  “I do not think they would take to it at the moment.”

  He watched as her smile was replaced with a frown.

  “Why?”

  “It’s nothing for you to be concerned with. I have business to attend to, go train with Nessa.” He opened the door to enter his study.

  “Is that an order?”

  He turned, “Does it need to be?”

  “What is the matter with you?”

  “Clara, I don’t have time for this.”

  With bright eyes and a stern mouth, she crossed her arms, “Make time. You’re acting oddly and I would like to know what I have done to offend you.”

  “Must every little thing involve you?”

  Her face burned, but she still met his glare, “I was only trying to help.”

  “Is that why you’re here? To help? To help by changing everything?”

  “You said you liked the plan! It would decrease the risk to the crew.”

  “You are the greatest risk to my crew,” he shouted.

  Her silence hung heavy after the outburst.

  “I know nothing about you, Clara. Who or what are you running from? Why the devil were you in a ball gown when you found us? You are all questions and no answers.”

  “I do not know what has sparked your mood but I will not stay to be abused by it. Pardon me for trying to assist where I am unwelcome,” she said with an angry salute before turning on h
er heel.

  The Captain Duke watched her skirts swish around the corner before slamming the door to his study. He ran his hand through his hair, angry at himself for losing his temper. He leaned his forehead against the wall and tried to take deeper breaths. First he had upset Peg, and now Clara too. He was not in a state to make allies today. He pounded a fist against the heavy door, and was surprised by a knock in response. He opened the door to discover Robbie on the other side.

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  “What do you want, Robbie?”

  “I came to give you an update on my findings. I think I know how our last raid went awry.”

  The Captain Duke glared at the man. He was not in a mood for excuses, but it had been a week since their return to the Haven. He opened the door further and allowed Robbie into his study.

  Sitting in one of the armchairs, Robbie waited for him to take his seat behind the large desk. Instead, the Captain Duke stood before it, towering over his former officer.

  “Well? What have you found?”

  “Rumours, Captain. Just rumours. But interesting ones at that.”

  The Captain Duke waited in silence for Robbie to continue.

  “When we returned to the Haven, I began to look into the origins of the gunpowder. I heard nothing back from our usual sources, as you are aware. But, I have a policy of staying in touch with characters of a particular repute, and one of them had a tidbit of useful information. I checked the logs, and the origins of the goods were quite clear.”

  “The Isle of Wight?”

  “Yes. Clara’s home it would seem. One of my contacts there is quite interested in her whereabouts, even more than the location of the gunpowder.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just saying, the answers we seek may be found through the girl, not the goods. There have been a great many coincidences around this Clara. She was there for the raid, was she not? You said she rescued you all, a snip of a girl against a ship of soldiers.”

  The Captain Duke was outwardly calm, showing nothing of the tempest that raged within him. Even if he had his own questions about Clara’s origins, she had been nothing but genuine, kind, and brave.

  “Thank you, Robbie. I’ll consider the matter,” he said.

  Robbie sat a moment longer, “Captain, she may be a spy.”

  “Enough,” the Captain Duke barked, causing the other man to jump in his seat.

  Regaining his composure, Robbie stood and made a short bow to the Captain before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

  The Captain Duke pushed his hair back, letting his breath out in a huff as he mulled over his options. Every mystery led to more secrets and he was no closer to the truth. He wished he could solve his problems with a good fight. He could teach Robbie a lesson. But the rumours would persist. Whispers could not be struck down as easily as the whisperer.

  Swearing, the Captain kicked at nearby trunk. A number of packages fell out as the clasp broke, which did nothing to improve his dark mood. As he bent to retrieve them, the red binding of a book caught his eye. The Press and the Public Service by Grenville-Murray. It was the book Clara had given in exchange for her pilot’s commission. He knelt and smoothed the pages. Another mystery. Why this book? He sat on the floor and skimmed through the opening pages, leaning against the upturned trunk. Slowly, his curiosity overwhelmed him and the solace of exploring a new book eased his temper. Taking a deep breath, he shook off the morning’s trials, pulled the apple from his pocket and began to read.

  Chapter 7: In which our heroine hears a song of the past

  Clara stormed up the staircase and down a hallway, furious with herself for rising to the Captain Duke’s provocation. How dare he presume to know her situation? How dare he demand her trust when he refused to reveal anything of his own history? And to infer, once again, that her reticence to delve into her past would endanger the crew. She had demonstrated her commitment and loyalty. She had saved them all from certain capture or casualty. Twice.

  Training every morning with Nessa, sorting the accounts every afternoon with Trick, retiring every evening to the study to research a strategy for their scheme, Clara had never worked so hard or so happily in her life. She enjoyed the time spent together and she finally felt like a true member of the crew. To have him dismiss her hard work so casually—the very injustice of it stung.

  Letting out a huff of frustration, Clara frowned as she reached the end of the hall. She looked upon the unfamiliar furnishings and realized she must have taken a wrong turn. She blamed the Captain for putting her in such a state as to become lost, another black mark on his reputation as far as she was concerned. She was turning about, trying to orient herself within the manor, when a faint melody caught her ear.

  The sound was coming from a door on her left. Clara leaned against it, trying to determine its origin, and jumped back when the floorboard creaked under her weight. The melody stopped, and footsteps approached. She took a few steps back, embarrassed at being caught as an eavesdropper. But it was the smiling face of Trick who greeted her as he opened the door with a violin bow in one hand.

  “Clara! How may I be of assistance?”

  “My apologies, I did not mean to interrupt. I heard music.”

  “Yes, of course. Please, come in. I keep quarters in this wing so as not to disturb the others, but a keen ear is always welcome here.”

  Trick opened the door further and, to Clara’s joy, revealed a parlour room filled with instruments of every shape and size. A grand golden harp reigned over a sunny corner, while one wall held an array of guitars and stringed instruments that framed an upright piano. An old bookshelf held the brass and many folios of sheet music, with a number of drums stacked neatly beside it. Trick’s accordion held a place of honour on a small end table. The room was bright and well-appointed with comfortable furniture.

  “Trick, it’s beautiful,” Clara said in awe. She took a few tentative steps into the room, amazed at the collection that surpassed any she had encountered or could ever have hoped to see. He beamed in appreciation and led her around the room to show his favourite pieces, pointing them out with his bow.

  “I really ought to have invited you here earlier, only I never thought to do it.”

  “How did you come by so many?”

  “Oh I liberated a few here and there from undeserving souls, to be sure. But truly our business has put me in a position to seek out rarities for my collection. See this? This one’s called a sitar, I traded a kind Indian pilot one of my bodhráns for it. Beautifully crafted. Look at the way they’ve inlaid the wood. He strummed the instrument lightly, plucking out a delightful tune before returning it to its hook on the wall.

  “What were you playing just now?”

  “Oh, just a little ditty of my own making. It’s nothing, really.”

  Sensing the performer’s desire for encouragement, Clara goaded him into a performance, seating herself on one of the sofas. Trick retrieved his violin and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply as he drew the bow across the strings. Clara listened, breathless, as the melody pulled at her core. Soon, his warm tenor filled the room with a tale of home. He moved around as he played, lost to the music, weaving around the furniture and instruments in a familiar stride. Clara lost all track of time as she sat and listened to him play. The final notes lingered as he sat down across from her.

  “Thank you,” she said, when she had found her voice again. Clara put her hand over her heart, “Thank you, Trick.”

  “It was one of my first compositions once I grew tired of playing other men’s songs. I still remember that night. I was terribly homesick.”

  “Homesick. Yes, I know that feeling. It’s been nought but a month and yet it feels as though a lifetime has passed since I was on the Isle.”

  They sat in silence, deep in thought, until Trick broke the silence, “I won’t inquire as to your own motivations for this life, Clara, as I suspect they may not yet be truly clear to even you. But
I’ll share mine with you, if you’ll hear my story.”

  “I would be honoured, Trick.”

  He rose and carefully placed the violin and bow in its case, covering it with red silk before tucking it away.

  “When I was a boy, my father could hardly tear me away from the piano in his shop. He was a successful businessman in our little town, selling spices and tea and dry goods from all over the world. Many of our neighbours lingered in their errands to hear me practice and take their refreshment at the little tables he had set up in the corner, and he would proudly tell all of his plans to send me to school on the continent for music.

  “After the East India Trade Company was disbanded, a new group rose to take its place. I’m sure you know of this, but perhaps not the whole tale. For a brief time there was a good and fair exchange between the merchants and shops. But the Tradists had powerful ears in their service, and passed new laws in their own favour that pushed the smaller merchants out of business if they refused to join. This new monopoly—and trust that it is so, no matter what falsehoods they present to the world—it permitted the Tradists to set tariffs and prices out of reach for any who were not in their favour.”

  Trick rose and walked across the room, absent-mindedly picking up instruments and setting them down, “My father was one such unlucky man. They sold him low-rate goods and charged extra for the smallest convenience. His supplies dwindled as prices rose. His customers, even those who swore they would stand beside him, one by one they would no longer meet his eye as they passed him in the street.” He brushed his fingers across the keys of the upright, “The piano was the last thing he sold.”

  “I remember the day they took the shop from him. He stood tall as he signed the papers. The three men wore fine red coats and shiny boots. The shop would go to one of their officers. He bought the piano for his daughters’ amusement. We took our small bundles of clothing and left without looking back. As we walked down the street, my father took my hand – I was only nine years of age – and he leaned down to whisper in my ear: ‘There will always be more, my boy. The music is inside you; they’ll never take that from ye.’