Voyage of the Dreadnaught: Four Stella Madison Capers

by Lilly Maytree

  “Hmm…” He drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair, as if thinking. “Anything else you want to tell me about all that?”

  “Not at the moment.” There would be plenty of time to tell him about those other things. She would tell him little by little. And—who knows—in the telling, maybe she would have more of this peace and contentment to fill her life. And less of those visions like that lady standing at the stove. Where did such things come from?

  “You know, my dear…” He suddenly closed down his laptop and gave her his full attention. “Everyone has something to hide. Every last one of us. Look at Cole and Lou Edna. The lengths they went to pull this whole thing off. And all for seven-hundred and fifty dollars, that made them feel worthless inside.”

  “You have to admit it was clever the way they managed it, though,” she said. Stella knew what it was like to be forced into desperate decisions, and then end up in a worse place because of them. “Her dropping him off in the rowboat on the American side, late at night when we were all asleep, and then bringing him over the next night, again, after the inspection. He’s been aboard all this time, and not a one of us had a clue.”

  “Yes, and if they would put that much effort toward honest work, they’d have more than enough respect to live on by now. Along with everything else that comes from doing what’s right.”

  “Maybe they will, after all this.” Stella closed her book and smiled. “He was certainly surprised when he got promoted to First Mate! Did you see the look on his face? It was like that was the first decent thing anybody ever did for him in his entire life.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if it was. For sure he’ll turn out to be the best hand Stuart’s ever had. Wait and see.”

  “I hope so.”

  “They’ll have a strong bond between them, too. I could see it’s begun already. It’s what comes of sharing something of yourself that gets met with acceptance and fair judgment from others. On the other hand, hidden things eat away at you a bit at a time, over a long period of time. It’s one of the best forms of destruction there is.”

  Stella thought that was probably a good lead-in to tell him her own story. But it had been such a long and trying day. An extreme of highs and lows. The Colonel was right, of course. She knew it in her heart as soon as he said those words. But just as she was contemplating whether or not she was even up to such an ordeal, he smiled that wonderful smile of his.

  “No need to speak of it any more, tonight, Stel. We have all the time in the world.” He answered the question as if she had spoken it out loud. “Besides that, we start with ourselves. Just put ourselves in God’s hands, and let him reveal what we need to change, a bit at a time. Somewhere along the line we become more transparent with everyone else, too. And one day we may just wake up and realize we are actually starting to resemble God, Himself. ‘From glory to glory,’ as the scriptures tell us. Just by watching what He does for us every day. Looking for it, even.”

  “Sounds wonderful when you put it that way, Oliver. Changing for the better, I mean.”

  “It’s a miracle, my dear… an out and out miracle!”

  Author’s Note

  Benjamin Franklin, who was quoted at the beginning of this story, was a man who threw in his lot with others, against impossible odds, many different times during his life.

  Difficulties that were overcome not so much because he was a good businessman, an avid scientist and inventor, or even an amazing diplomat. But because, as he said, “Our prayers, Sir, were heard, and they were graciously answered. All of us who were engaged in the struggle must have observed frequent instances of a Superintending providence in our favor.”

  I find it interesting during research, to discover how much those who do great things seemed to have been "divinely prepared" beforehand. Benjamin Franklin is a good example of this. Even though he was born into a large working-class family (one of the youngest of 17 children), and had to be apprenticed into a trade at the age of twelve, he was raised by Puritan parents, and eventually settled in Philadelphia: that productive "experimental city" established under the Quaker influence of William Penn. The “city of brotherly love.”

  I also found it interesting that Franklin did his most important—and most difficult—work after the age of seventy. In his famous autobiography, he put together a list of personal “virtues” he lived by that he felt were vital to his success, especially in working with others. You can find this short, easy-to-read ebook, for free, via the following link.

  I feel richer for having read it, myself.

  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36151/36151-h/36151-h.htm

  THE PUSHOVER PLOT

  Stella Madison Caper

  #4

  To those who have had to contend with the darker side of supernatural—may you never be left there.

  “A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.”

  Alfred Tennyson

  1

  Stella Madison walked down the long dark hallway and deliberately ignored the flutter of fear it gave her. It was ridiculous, really, considering how many others were nearby who wouldn’t hesitate to respond to any call for help. Then a regular jolt replaced that flutter, because she suddenly remembered how often her own fears had robbed her of her voice in the most desperate hours. Something which made her revert to the old childhood trick of darting from safety to safety as fast as she possibly could.

  So, having left the warm comfort at the side of her sleeping husband, she veered to the left, toward what had originally been known as the First Mate’s cabin, to listen for the deep, reassuring snores of Mason Jeffries. Then to the faint sliver of light shining beneath Gerald’s door (who still slept with a light on to “orient himself” even though they had all been aboard the Dreadnaught for nearly a month). After that, it was only a hop and a skip to the galley, where Millie left a light on over the stove in case anyone should get hungry in the middle of the night and come looking for a snack.

  In fact, she began to hear somebody moving around in there, as she got closer, along with the distinctly delicious smell of Ovaltine (why, she hadn’t tasted any of that in years!). Evidence that someone beside herself hadn’t been able to sleep, either. How nice it would be to enjoy a quiet chat instead of wading through the predawn hour all alone. Millie needing to take one of her pills, maybe, or Lou, up with the baby for some reason. Although if it was Captain Stuart, she probably wouldn’t stay long, as he was about the oddest person she had ever known. Not counting mentally deranged people, which she had seen more than her share of.

  Funny how memories from so long ago came suddenly to mind at certain times.

  “I guess I'm not the only one who couldn't sleep,” she spoke quietly as she pushed through the door, so as not to startle whoever it was. Only no one answered. Instead, she caught just a glimpse of someone disappearing through the companionway door on the far side of the sailboat's galley, that led down to below decks. Someone in a full-length, light-colored gown, with a dark braid that hung halfway down their back.

  Stella got goosebumps when she saw that, because none of the Dreadnaught's crew had hair that long. She reached for the corner of the large iron stove to steady herself, but got even more of a fright to discover it was stone cold. No one had been heating any hot chocolate in here. Maybe it had been another stowaway. Considering all the dark nooks and crannies in this vessel, and how many weeks Lou Edna had managed to hide her young man without a one of them having the slightest idea... it was a possibility.

  A better one than the alternative, anyway.

  Besides, how could those terrible things be happening, again, when she was cured of all that so long ago? Especially when her wonderful new life had just begun. They couldn't be! There simply had to be another explanation. She pulled open the narrow cupboard next to the stove where they kept all the hot drink supplies, and began to rummage through. Teas, coffee, hot cider, bouillon, hot chocolate... but no Ovaltine. That distinct mixture of malt in it was
unmistakable. A realization that turned the cozy galley intimidating, and made her want nothing more than to hurry back to where she belonged.

  Along with another urge to have that talk with the colonel about her not-so-ordinary past that she kept putting off. In a few quick steps she was pushing back through the door, again, but only to collide with what looked like an old woman wrapped in a shawl, fairly gliding down the shadowy companionway.

  At the same time Stella toppled backward, a distinctly male voice hollered, “Away, you foul spirit!” before tripping right over the top of her and landing hard on the other side. Along with an empty mug and sauce pan that clattered across the floorboards. “What—what? Good grief! Stella! Is it really you?”

  “Of course, it's me! That's an awful thing to call someone, Gerry.”

  “What are you—doing—wandering around this time of night in that—that whatever it is?”

  “It's my white terry with a Chinese collar.” She got to her feet, feeling rather silly now that someone else was there. “I'm not going to say what I thought you were, with that cut-in-half serape you always wear on top of everything.”

  “I detest being cold, and the rest got in the way of my arms.” He took the hand she offered, to get himself up off the floor. “Sorry for the name-calling. But—blast!” It was part of a Captain Stuart phrase (after a month at sea, they were all talking like old salts), “You scared the daylights out of me! Took you for another one of those ghastly apparitions.”

  “You mean, you actually saw one?”

  “One? They're all over the place around here. Getting so a man can't even hot up his Ovaltine without running into the things.”

  So, she did smell Ovaltine! Stella laughed, out of sheer relief. “You don't know how glad I am to hear that. But the stove's cold, how did you do it?”

  “Have a hotplate in my room, but no sink. And I don't find anything in the least funny about it. All this rot, it's—it's serious business.” He pushed the black watch-cap farther back on his head and then picked up his dishes. “Makes me rue the day I ever went gallivanting after such stuff. If I only knew then what I know now!”

  “I'm sorry, Gerry. I wasn't making fun. I just had sort of a scare, myself. I'm glad it was you I ran into and not... something else.”

  “Yes, well... I must say, it's things like this that made it necessary to switch my major to botany from Medieval history, if you want to know the truth.”

  “I thought you told me your degree was in archeology.” They went back through the cabinway door into the galley. “Even said you taught a few semesters of it at the junior level. Remember?”

  “Yes, of course. It's how I originally landed a contract from the private school I worked at for so long. When a position opened up in the biology department, I jumped at the chance to get out of it, and back into botany, again. Especially since I was working on my master's by the time.”

  “Oh. I thought you said you were working on a master's in archeology.”

  “I was, originally. However, it was worse than the Medieval, what with all those curs-ed artifacts we were forever digging up. Didn't like it at all after I'd finished. And the thought of spending so many hours in dusty museum basements, cleaning and cataloging them... well, they were as bad as the castles—worse even. Then, again, it might have just been me. Now, I actually think the things followed me over from England. That's where I first opened the door to them, anyway.”

  “The apparitions?”

  “Seems like it. I tell you, that whole castle study was a nightmare. Never even finished out the class.”

  “I don't blame you. There's nothing worse than being scared out of your wits.” Then she corrected herself. “Other than being dead, altogether.”

  “Sometimes I think I might as well be, the way it's ruined my life.” He turned on the water at the sink in the far corner to rinse out his things, and the soft whir of the water pump went on. “Oh, and that bosh about them not being able to travel over water? Isn't true. Not one bit. It's been ten times worse since I came home.”

  “You mean, you're not Millie's cousin from England? Then why do you talk that way?” Stella was beginning to wonder if Gerald might be one of those compulsive liars, that you couldn't believe a word from. Or, a mentally unstable type that could have been helped in hospitals but never qualified for the programs because they weren't dangerous. The kind more easily controlled with medication. He did take an unbelievable amount of pills every day.

  “Oh, we're cousins, all right. Born and raised in the same town. But it's a... well, it's a fake accent.” He glanced over at her with a slight, apologetic smile, just enough to show the space between his two front teeth. “Started when I went to college. You know, to impress people. Now, I can't quit.”

  “It's more old English than modern, you know. I keep expecting you to burst out with “forsooth!” or something.”

  “Or, dastardly,” he added, “It's true, I do like the old phrases best. Always have. I like to think I was born out of time, except—with the high infant mortality back then—I probably wouldn't have made it past the age of three. Rate I'm going, now, isn't much better, though. Putting up with all this when I'm hardly past fifty.”

  “You attribute some of your physical ailments to these...um... apparitions, too?”

  “Mostly. The shaking, the weakness, insomnia... that sort of thing.”

  Stella gave a thoughtful sigh and sat down on the tufted burgundy cushions (that were a bit threadbare and oil-stained) surrounding the dining area. “I've been seeing an apparition, too, Gerry,” she suddenly confessed. “I thought it was all in my mind. Hallucinations, or something. But two people can't both be having the same hallucinations. Right?”

  “Highly unlikely.” He came over to sit across from her, still drying his hands on a blue dishtowel. “What have you been doing to get rid of yours? We should compare notes.”

  “I never knew you could get rid of them. I thought they just happened.”

  “Of course you can get rid of them. Or, so I've heard. There's a whole theological philosophy about that. Haven't had any luck with it, myself, yet, but I've only just started trying. Meanwhile, mind telling me how you cope?”

  “Cope with what?”

  “How you deal with it all. You know, the ugliness, the torment, and—”

  “The what?”

  “And the out-and-out filth!”

  “Good heavens!” She shuddered at the very thought. “I haven't seen anything as terrible as all that! Only a lovely middle-aged woman from some bygone era. And only a couple of times.”

  “Then I must caution you to be careful,” he warned. “They never stay lovely for long.”

  2

  Stella woke up the next morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the humming of the engine as it chugged along underneath them. By the way the sunlight was shining in through the porthole beside the bed, she could tell it had to be at least eight-o'clock, already. She had overslept. Either that, or she was reluctant to leave the cozy comfort of her bed after a night like the last.

  She was determined to have that talk with the colonel, sometime today. No matter what.

  But not during his writing time. He put so much into his work she didn't have the heart to distract him with anything else before he finished his “daily stint.” She had always been in awe of writers. How they could chronicle things in a way that made you feel you were actually living through the period, yourself; or even create another world, entirely. She fully believed reading good books had saved her from some of the darkest times in her life. It was also why she now had a collection of thousands.

  “You're missing some beautiful scenery, dearest.” The colonel popped in with his usual cheerfulness, just long enough to set a steaming mug down on the built-in nightstand. “We even have fresh cinnamon rolls, this morning. Seems our Millie has been out-doing herself in the baking department, again.”

  “I think it takes her mind off leaving everythin
g she's ever known, and a kitchen is her most comfortable place.” Stella sat up and plumped her pillow into a better position to lean against. “Thank you, dear. I'll be right out and we can enjoy the view together.”

  She threw on a pair of jeans and a navy knit sweater, then ran a quick brush through her hair. Knowing it would be a long trip she had it cut a bit shorter before she left. A month later and it seemed just right to turn under in the usual manner with her touch of natural curl.

  Stella's hair had gone prematurely white (which she had several theories about). But thinking of it just now, she realized having white hair was the only thing that could have allowed her to do what she had been forced to do, all those years, ago. So, looking at it in the perspective of her spiritual awakening, she could see how it had actually been providential.

  That perhaps God had been looking after her even when she didn't know he was. What a comforting thought! If—in the times when she didn't know how to call out to him—he had dropped life-saving information and coincidences into her path, in spite of herself.

  Oliver already had their wooden tray set up in the middle of the couch (or settee, as it was called in nautical terms) when she joined him. That way, they could each sit at either end, and watch the beautiful scenery slip away behind them through the bank of French windows above it.

  “Ready for a refill?” he asked, taking up the silver and glass French press they made coffee in every morning, here in their quarters. It had become customary for everyone to fend for themselves for breakfast and lunch, to accommodate individual ship-board duties (as Captain Stuart called them). But they all gathered for family dinners each night.

  “Just a warm-up,” she replied. “I still have half a cup. Didn't want to miss any of the show.”

  “And what a show it is, this morning. See how close we're traveling between these two rocky islands? Look how the water is so still our wake is nothing more than a wide ripple in the shape of a V spreading out behind us.”