Winterwood, p.21
Winterwood, page 21
part #1 of Rowankind Series
“Good ship, the Mary Anne,” he said and sat in a chair pulled right up to the meager fire. The varnish on the chair’s front legs, blistered by the heat, testified to a fiercer fire in more prosperous times. I noticed the coal bucket was almost empty.
“It’s about my father, sir.”
“Good man, ’bout time he captained a ship of his own. Wasted as a first mate. Tell him to come and see me. I might be able to speak to a few people. Might have forgotten where I anchored my ship, but I never forget a good sailor.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Minna says I’m a mad old man, but I have a long memory. Now if only I could remember where I put it, hey?” He laughed.
Minna came back in with a tray balancing a teapot, two china cups and saucers, a milk jug, and a bowl with the tiniest amount of sugar in the bottom.
“Are you not having a cup yourself, Mrs. Pargeter?” I asked.
“I’m . . . we’re not . . . It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Of course it would. Let me pour for the captain while you get another cup.”
Minna bustled out.
“I’m trying to contact family,” I told Captain Pargeter as I handed him his tea, making sure I put the cup handle into his right hand, as that seemed steadiest. “When my father first came into your employ, do you happen to know where he came from?”
“Simpler to ask him yourself, boy. Well, sit ye down. Don’t make the cabin look untidy.”
I sat on the only other chair. “He’s not yet returned from his latest voyage,” and never would, “and this is a matter of some urgency.”
“Seem to recall he was from somewhere inland. Odd for a sailor, but seemed to make no difference to his quality. I can tell the quality of a man immediately, and your father is the best.”
“My mother told me you stood witness at their wedding.”
“I did, sir, and happy I was to do it. Have you seen my ship? She’s taking on cargo for the colonies. We sail on the tide.”
“I spoke to your first mate, sir.”
“Bowers.”
“Yes, Mr. Bowers, that’s the fellow. He said to tell you that the cargo was still on the quay, sir, and not to worry, he would send a boy for you once it was loaded. I fancy it might be tomorrow’s tide, now, sir, or even the day after.”
“That’s good news, Ezra.” Minna returned with a third cup. “I would so like you to stay at home for a little longer.”
“Of course, my dear, of course.”
She came to stand behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. He reached up and patted it with his left hand, and she grasped his trembling fingers to steady them and shook her head at me.
I wasn’t going to get what I’d come for, so I stood to take my leave and placed my cup and saucer back on the tray. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”
“It’s always good to see old friends, Mr. Goodliffe. Chard.”
“What, sir?”
“Chard. It’s where your parents came from.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“You’re welcome, son, I’m sorry I can’t offer you a position. Already have a damned good first mate, name of Teague Goodliffe. Do you know him?”
“I’ve had that honor. Good day to you, sir.”
Minna followed me to the door. “Take no notice, sir, he mostly doesn’t know what day it is and his mind drifts back thirty years or more. There’s nothing improper goes on in this household. Nothing the church wouldn’t like.”
“Of course. But I see you take good care of the captain. He did my father a great service many years ago. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“We manage, sir.”
“Of course.” I resolved to have Dan send some bags of coal. “Good day, Mrs. Pargeter.”
I almost skipped back to the Ratcatchers. Chard was one of the places Philip had mentioned. Coincidence? Maybe, but it was the best lead we had.
I had arranged to meet the Heart, fresh from her refit and repairs, off the Cornubian coast, so all we needed was passage on any vessel sailing west out of Plymouth on the evening tide. I’d called her, so the Heart would find us. Dan secured us passage on the Troubadour. With three hours to go before the tide turned, David and I sat in Dan’s kitchen, drinking tea. I knew I’d lose enough fluid once our ship reached the open ocean, so I needed to coat my stomach now. I heard the outer door and then Dan’s voice and another, slightly raised. A slight scuffling followed. By the time the kitchen door opened, I had one of my pistols out of my petticoat pocket with the doghead drawn back. As he barged through the door I was already pointing it at Mr. Corwen’s chest. The look of surprise on his face was entirely gratifying.
“Mr. Corwen. If you’d be so kind as to sit down please. I don’t want to hurt you, but I must protect my own interests.”
Mr. Corwen took a step toward me. “I came to warn you that a party of gentlemen—not the watch—came looking for you at the Twisted Skein. They almost tore your room apart looking for something. Please, I’d hate for you to shoot me accidentally. I mean you no harm. Surely I’ve proven that already?”
“I’m not in the habit of shooting anyone accidentally, I can assure you.” My hand was steady. “And all you’ve proven to me is that you know things about me which are dangerous. Dangerous to yourself, I mean. Right now I don’t know whether to shoot you or thank you, Mr. Corwen, but you truly are the most annoying man I’ve ever met.”
“I won’t tell anyone where you are, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He ignored the pistol pointing at his chest, stepped forward against the muzzle, narrowing the gap between us, close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating from him. “I would suggest that you leave the town as soon as possible if you have all the information you need.”
“How do you know what I need?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“There won’t be a later.”
“I’m not the one you need to fear.”
Hookey would have shot him by now, as would Will, but I wasn’t them.
I looked into Mr. Corwen’s face, searching for any duplicity, and found none. I released the doghead of the pistol slowly and nodded. “Thank you. Please go before I change my mind.”
I watched him walk out of the door, hoping I was a good judge of character.
20
The Troubadour
THE TROUBADOUR was an American barque, a real workhorse, three-masted, fore-and-aft rigged on the mizzenmast and square-rigged on the fore and main. Though built in Liverpool, she now sailed out of Baltimore. Her captain, Henry Foster, ran a tight ship. I liked him for it. His no-nonsense attitude reminded me of Mr. Sharpner.
There were eleven passengers altogether. David and I shared a cramped cabin with a graying widow and her three boys, impoverished gentlefolk traveling to relatives in the New World. Another cabin housed a merchant and his niece, and a third accommodated three gentlemen, all traveling separately, one of whom had not yet come on deck.
With no guns on board, I found myself thinking that the Troubadour would be a soft target for pirates.
“Ma’am.” A pleasant looking American gentleman of late middle years strolled along the deck, tipped his hat to me, and passed by as I stood by the aft rail watching Sutton Pool, the pier, and the navy’s Victualling Office slide past. We sailed beneath the Citadel’s gun emplacements and the battery on the hill across the water. Boney would have a hard time of it if he tried to invade Plymouth from the sea.
“Do you miss Plymouth?” David came to my elbow.
“Not really, do you?”
“When Missis brought me here . . .” I noticed he rarely called her Mother, though he would sometimes refer to her as our mother. “I was homesick for Kent and my first family. Plymouth felt too big, too noisy, and it stank of fish, but after a while I found I liked it. Evy was kind to me, and I could always make a bit of time for myself between doing the missis’s fetching and carrying. And Missis taught me more than just letters and numbers. When Evy and the stable-lad were sent to other places last year, I had the whole ordering of the household.”
“You could have escaped then if you’d wanted to.”
“I could, but who would have looked after the missis? She wasn’t unkind to me, and it was plain I’d get my freedom sooner or later. I figured the closer I was to grown and educated, the more chance I had of keeping it. And besides, I was starting to come into my magic during those last few months, and being around other people would have been dangerous. Missis was too sick to notice.”
“What do you remember about Philip? Did he have magic when he was at home?”
“Not that I knew of, but he wasn’t around much. When Missis broke the news to him that the money was all gone and he’d have to be done with Eton College, he kicked up a real fuss and went up to London to stay with friends. I heard Missis say she disapproved of his sponging off people, and that caused another row. Soon afterward she received news of his death, and that was the beginning of the end for her.”
David turned to stare as the Citadel slipped by off the starboard side, but I could tell he wasn’t really watching the view. He lapsed into silence and we stood at the rail, both lost in memories.
As the harbor tugs let go of the hawsers and the Troubadour shook free and filled her sails, the last passenger emerged from the gentlemen’s cabin, and I recognized his silver hair even before I saw his face.
“Mr. Corwen. Should I have used my pistol this morning?”
“Why, Mrs. Webster, what an unexpected but very pleasant surprise.”
I was about to give him chapter and verse on surprises when the Troubadour crossed the harbor bar. The first wave from the turbulent waters of Plymouth Sound slapped into her flank, and she pitched and rolled. One minute I was spitting angry, the next I was miserably seasick. I barely made it to the rail in time. David was already there. We could resolve the question of Corwen when the Heart came. I put him out of my mind as I made my way down to our tiny, cramped cabin, squirmed into my hammock, no mean feat in a dress, and tried to sleep through the successive bouts of nausea.
David found it easier in the fresh air, but I liked the enclosed darkness of the cabin. The Widow Montague and her boys wisely gave me as much peace and privacy as they could. I can’t have been a charming companion even after I got past the stage of dry-heaving.
By midafternoon on the second day my head was as clear as it was going to get, so I sponged down what bits of me could be sponged with half a pint of cold water and felt much better for it. We felt to be running calm with a steady breeze, and the Troubadour cut through the gentle swell without yawing. I decided to go up on deck. Maybe I’d tackle Mr. Corwen if he was about.
He wasn’t, so I settled myself on a raised hatch by the mainmast and closed my eyes, breathing in the salt tang of the air and listening to the sounds of a well-run ship. The Troubadour handled beautifully, and Captain Foster, a fine seaman, had full measure of her.
“Sail off the starboard bow!”
I heard the lookout and stared across the water, but from deck height I couldn’t see anything.
“Ship in distress, Cap’n,” the lookout called from the tops.
The captain swept the horizon with his glass to one eye and ordered a change of course. No sailor left another in distress upon the sea.
David trotted down the deck. He still looked faintly green from the sickness, but the news had begun to put color in his cheeks. “Do you think it’s the Heart?” he asked.
“Possibly. There’s no way Mr. Sharpner will take risks with us on board the Troubadour. He could be running a rig, playing the bird with the broken wing to get the Troubadour close enough to hail.”
But it wasn’t the Heart. It was a schooner with her sails in tatters listing several degrees to starboard. There was no sign of life aboard, but her spars and timbers were undamaged.
Our passengers crowded to the starboard rail to view the stricken vessel, two of the gentlemen admiring her clean lines and guessing at her salvage value. I hovered by the head of the companionway where I could see everything Captain Foster did because, just as when you fight a man you should look at his eyes, not his hands, aboard a well-run ship you should always watch the captain. He remained cool and professional and sent two more lads up aloft to look in all directions for survivors or boats.
I had a bad feeling about this.
“Captain Foster, may I borrow your glass?”
He looked surprised. “Mrs. Webster, I’m somewhat preoccupied at the moment.”
I held out my hand, palm up, and rather than argue he slapped the glass into it.
I gave it a little magical boost and my blood ran cold when I saw, at four points along the port deck rail of the distressed schooner, piles of canvas that had no need to be there.
Patting the pistol in my pocket I said, “Captain, she’s carrying eight guns. See there—the crumpled canvas.” I handed Foster the enhanced spyglass. “She’s a pirate running a rig and we’re already precious close.”
He raised the glass. “By God, you’re right. Mr. Ramsden, bring her around.”
As the Troubadour wheeled away I heard a shout from one of the gentlemen passengers. Pirates erupted onto the schooner’s deck and they began clearing canvas from four six-pound culverins on the port side—aiming to fire a broadside at us. They swiftly chopped away the tattered sails and hoisted a clean mainsail—gaff rigged, fore and aft—into place.
We were five hundred yards away and already had the wind in our sails, but if she brought her guns to bear quickly she’d rake us from behind without a by-your-leave.
I yelled at Mr. Corwen, “Get the passengers for’ard belowdecks and keep them down.”
I heard Mrs. Montague’s voice rise to a shriek, but Mr. Corwen had the smaller of the boys in one arm and was already shepherding the others away from the vulnerable stern. Their mother followed, flapping like a seagull. The merchant and his niece bolted for the for’ard companionway, as did one of the gentlemen, but the pleasant American was slow to move, and when the broadside came he was caught with a long splinter of timber in his thigh as a lucky shot struck below the aft rail. Another ball ripped through the top rigging, but two fell short.
Mr. Corwen and a sailor dragged the American to safety and delivered him to a man who came running with a bag of what I hoped were clean bandages.
I started counting. “Three minutes, Captain Foster, and then you can expect another one of those, but better aimed.”
Will’s ghost appeared on deck.
Where’s the Heart, Will?
Just over the horizon. She’s on her way up from the south. The pirate’s one of Gentleman Jim’s fleet. The Bitter Bird. Captain’s a sly bugger called Jackson.
“Useful, isn’t he?” Mr. Corwen had sent his charges below and was now staring at Will.
So Mr. Corwen could see ghosts, and hear them, too. I didn’t have time to follow up on the information, but I stored it away. I had an idea, now, where I’d seen those eyes before. Though my rational mind told me it was an impossibility, the magical world was stranger, more wonderful, and possibly more terrifying than I had ever dreamed. I yanked my thoughts back to the job at hand, away from Mr. Corwen and my suspicions.
“Captain Foster. That schooner’s one of James Mayo’s fleet.”
“You seem to know a lot about this, Mrs. Webster.”
“Let’s say I’m in the shipping business. Two and a half minutes.”
“What?”
“Since the broadside.”
Foster gave his orders and lengthened the gap between the two ships with deft seamanship. At three and a half minutes a second broadside thundered out. Two balls went wide and long, but one clipped the mizzenmast and another ploughed into the stern, dangerously close to the water line.
“Count three minutes, Mr. Corwen.” I put my hand on Foster’s arm. “Turn south, Captain. And I’ll give you a fair wind.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This.”
A fresh breeze filled his sails and I heard him yelling orders to trim canvas. My stomach lurched but I pushed the seasickness away.
“Two minutes,” Mr. Corwen called.
But with every minute we were leaving the schooner behind.
“Three minutes.”
At three and a half minutes another broadside boomed out, but we had more of a safety margin now.
“Sail, ho!” The lookout cried.
“That will be the Heart,” I heard David say, but I was still too wrapped up in giving the Troubadour wind and water.
The Heart put a single shot across our bow, more of a question than a warning. And I let the breeze die back.
The Widow Montague and her sons had come up on deck, and she set to screaming again until the merchant put his hand on her arm.
“What’s this?” Foster, roared. “Another one?”
“No, Captain, she’s a friend.”
“We’re holed, Cap’n.” The first mate sprang up from the aft companionway. “Just above the water line.”
“Is she shipping water?”
“Aye.”
“Get below and plug the leak, Mr. Ramsden. Hands to the pumps.” He turned to me. “I hope you’re right about yon ship, Mrs. Webster.”
“I am, sir. She’s the Heart of Oak sailing under letters of marque from the British Crown. Let her get within hailing distance and you’ll have your proof.”
“And if this is another trap, I have a pistol with a ball in it for you.”
I reached into my petticoat pocket and pulled out one of the pair of gold-burnished pistols. “As indeed do I, Captain. You may hold this for me as a sign of my good faith.”
“Don’t they come in twos?” I heard Mr. Corwen ask David quietly.
The Heart of Oak eased to within a hundred yards of us. I pointed aft to where the schooner, the Bitter Bird, was on the horizon.
