As he surveyed the deck of his ship, a ship that had brought him home safely through battles and storms, Fallon fought down the urge to cut the cable and sail out to sea. By any measure he had to admit he had a good life: a beautiful woman who loved him, a father who adored him, a business partner who respected him. A good life, just not the one he wanted.
He rowed back to the dock, keeping his ship in his vision as the sinking sun cast a warm glow on her oiled hull. Tonight, he would visit his father at the White Horse, which, as his father liked to say, was the oldest pub still leaning in Bermuda. It had been in the Fallon family for generations and his father would be working there, as he had been every day that Fallon could remember. Tonight, they would share something wet, perhaps a good laugh or two, before Fallon would stumble upstairs to bed.
Tomorrow was another day, he reminded himself. At the office.
THREE
EZRA SOMERS had a truly remarkable library, full of books on astronomy, geography, history, philosophy, and the natural sciences. Fallon and Somers had spent many afternoons after the day’s work was done talking about the world outside their windows. Lately, they’d been discussing philosophy and one particular precept that intrigued Fallon: Everything you needed to solve a problem was within a few feet of where you were standing.
It had often seemed true in Fallon’s life, particularly in his sailing life, when cornered by enemies or besieged by weather. But it hadn’t seemed to work on land, at least not until one early afternoon after a packet ship arrived bearing a letter from the Windward Islands, Antigua to be exact, English Harbor to be particularly exact. The letter was delivered to the office by a dock boy, and it seemed to float upon the sea of papers on Fallon’s desk. He looked at it carefully, somehow knowing it was going to change everything but not knowing how. Surprisingly, he was fearful to open it, for it bore the official seal of the Royal Navy. It sat there only two feet from his nose. Slowly, Fallon picked up the letter, held it a moment, and tore it open.
His good friend Rear Admiral Harry Davies, in charge of the Leeward Islands station at English Harbor, was asking a favor. And he was willing to pay handsomely for it.
THE MOON low and silvering in a light fog.
The narrow streets of St. George Town, barely wide enough to handle a buggy, were almost deserted of traffic. The only faces were the gossips at the windows. In November, the evenings came sooner, descending on the little town with a speed that made lingering summer nights a memory. By ten o’clock every alley was blacker than black.
In an old fisherman’s shack at the edge of the marsh, Fallon and Elinore Somers lay on the bed and whispered. She was beautiful in the moonlight that filtered through the window by the bed, her blonde hair tumbling out on the pillow, and her face, half illuminated and half hidden in shadow, revealing both excitement and contentment. This, of all places, was her favorite. The shack had belonged to her uncle, who built it to get away from the women in his house when he wanted to be by himself. A small, simple building with a bed, a few shelves for books, a woodstove on the edge of a circle of rug, a table with one chair. This shack was where Fallon and Elinore had first discovered each other, all angles and dark spaces and secret signals, not this but that, more there, yes. There.
Tonight, they’d taken their time, not rushing the moment, lingering over a this or a that they might have missed. At last they were glistening and spent, each wondering if the feast was over or were seconds still available. The only sound was their breathing, unless Fallon’s mind made a thinking sound, which he prayed it didn’t.
Actually, it did. Or it must have because Elinore knew something was circling around in his head, in a wrestling match perhaps, two sides moving warily, seeking advantage before making a move. She had felt it at dinner, felt it more on the walk to the shack, but had put it aside to be close to him, one with him, knowing whatever it was would declare itself in good time and could certainly wait until—well, until now.
“Talk to me, love,” she whispered.
My God, she’s a mind reader, Fallon thought. He always believed he was so damned clever, when in fact he was as transparent as glass. Elinore saw right through him. He began to form a lie in his throat, but it would not do. Wound me with the truth, Elinore had always told him, not lies. He shifted his weight and placed his hand on her belly, as if he could send his thoughts through her skin and not have to say them out loud.
“Ahem,” was the beginning. A long pause. “Ahem.”
Elinore refused to help him, wanting him to deal with it. Really, how could a man who could fight pirates and face broadsides without flinching be unable to say a hard thing to the woman he loved? Clearly, it was something important that needed saying and needed talking about.
Come on, Nico.
“Ahem,” he began again, “I’m not … ahem … fit to be tied to an office, Elinore. I am trying to be interested, but I’m not doing a good job of it. I have learned so much about trading and balancing books and tonnages of salt, and I want very much to like it all and be a good manager but … I promised I’d try it for several months, and I have. Please tell me you understand.”
A pause. Made longer by a deep breath.
“Yes,” said Elinore bravely. But Fallon thought he could hear her spirits sink in her voice.
“I belong at sea,” Fallon said simply. “I need to be at sea.”
Elinore squirmed next to him. Bermuda men went to sea. That’s what they did, what they’d done for hundreds of years. And somewhere in the ancient script of her genes it was written that brave women knew when to let their men go.
“I received a letter from Harry today,” said Fallon, plowing on but trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “He’s asking me to undertake a special assignment for the Admiralty. It seems I’m to take a senior intelligence agent to Cuba. I’m to pick up this agent off Port-au-Prince, where Harry is evacuating British troops from Saint-Domingue. I shouldn’t be gone long, Elinore.”
That was sort of a lie, for at sea nothing was certain. But at least the whole of it was out in the open, not burning a hole in his heart anymore. Fallon was glad it was pitch black in the little shack, for his face was wincing, hating to do this, to say it all out loud and hurt Elinore, afraid she would see it as Harry versus her, and losing.
Elinore reached deep, wise beyond her years. Knowing that if she won she would only lose, eventually.
“I know you would rather be at sea than in an office,” she said softly. “But here I have you, so I want to be selfish. But …”
Another long pause. The sweat drying on their bodies now. A moment when the night could grow colder.
“But,” she continued in a whisper, very close to his ear now. “I will still love you at sea. Just not like this.” And she trailed a fingernail down his chest, slowly giving him a good reason to reconsider going anywhere.
FOUR
THE NEXT MORNING Fallon came to the office on Aunt Peggy’s Lane knowing he must tell Ezra Somers he was ready for sea again, and not knowing at all how it would go. Somers was at work early, as usual, energetically managing the affairs of the Somers Salt enterprise like the skilled businessman he was. The thought occurred to Fallon that Somers didn’t need him; what he did was completely superfluous. Somers had offered him the job for the future, against the time when Somers would die, wanting the business to go on without him.
Giving Fallon a running start.
But Somers looked too young to die. And Fallon felt too young to die, at least in an office. The idea was simply ahead of its time. Now, how to say that to Somers and not get shot.
Fallon went through the letter from Davies, even showing it to the old man, suggesting he was needed more there than he was here. It was a good job, but not good enough to fool Ezra Somers.
“The other thing, Nico,” Somers said with a grin, “is that you can’t add two and two. Hell, you’ve barely got the patience for one plus one.”
And he laughed. Laughed a big Ezr
a Somers laugh that was probably heard at the harbor. In a second Fallon joined in, and they both laughed until Somers gave Fallon every assurance that the partnership would continue no matter where he went as long as he fought the company’s enemies, which were also Great Britain’s enemies. They shook hands, then hugged, then shook hands again. Somers being a man you could count on.
Now there was one visit left. Fallon walked briskly down Suffering Lane to Beatrice—Beauty—McFarland’s house, a bit wary of coming so early but determined to see the thing through. He desperately wanted Beauty to sail with him, but he was unsure that she would leave Bermuda again. He had seen her so infrequently over the past few months that he wondered if she felt her place had been taken by Elinore, which in a sense it had. But perhaps there was something else, too.
As captain of a privateer, Fallon could choose his crew regardless of gender or experience or penal record. As a result, Rascal’s crew of ninety came from a collection of former occupations, but all excellent sailors as befitted Bermudians on the whole and Bermuda men in particular, most of whom were at sea at any given time. Beauty and Fallon had grown up together sailing skiffs in close races on St. George’s Harbor and, as he would be the first to admit, he often followed her stern across the finish line. He had been there when she’d almost drowned in a sudden storm and had pulled her to safety. And he had been there when her leg had been amputated below the knee after an infection had turned gangrenous when she was in her late teens. He had held her hand tightly when the doctor had raised the saw to do his work. Beauty’s bravery had often been tested in the years since and, to no one’s surprise who knew her, she’d been found fearless.
They were not lovers and never had been; in fact, Beauty’s affections went the other way, that is, not toward men. But they were best friends, and he valued her for a keen mind that knew when to tack and when to bear off.
At last he came to Beauty’s door and knocked. He heard her coming down the hall, her wooden leg thumping along until the door opened.
“Yes.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes, what?” Fallon said, the bewilderment showing on his face.
“Yes, I’m ready to go to sea again.”
“How in God’s name do you know why I came here?” Fallon looked at his best friend like he’d seen a witch.
“Simple, Nico. I watched you walking up the lane and you were positively floating. You’ve been poxed working in that office for months and I know it. I hear things in town. When I saw you coming you were smiling ear to ear, so my little brain figured something was up to make you so happy.”
“By God, you scare me sometimes, Beauty.” And he looked at his friend with a huge grin. “May I come in?”
They sat by the fire in the living room, Fallon watching Beauty as she added a new log, easy with him as always. He told her about Davies’ letter, a simple request to land a secret agent in Cuba; he didn’t need to add that Rascal would also be available for opportunities that might come sailing by. That went with the territory if you were a privateer, particularly a privateer in the Caribbean. The French were about, as were the Spanish, uneasy allies at war with Great Britain. Both countries were intent on protecting and attempting to expand their business interests, which largely consisted of trade and agriculture, which meant the Caribbean was a veritable feast of potential prizes for a determined privateer.
But the possibility of prizes could not be the sole motivation for Beauty to leave Bermuda, Fallon reasoned. So, an unanswered question hung in the air, and Fallon debated asking it.
Finally, what the hell.
“Tell me, Beauty, are you sure you’re ready to leave again? You certainly don’t need the money after our last cruise. I’m not trying to pry, but I’ve barely seen you about for some time and I … I mean, I’m curious.”
Beauty stabbed at the fire with the poker, sending sparks flying up the chimney and a little belch of smoke into the room. Then she made a few more unnecessary pokes before turning to face her friend, her back to the fire.
“Nico, you know a lot about me,” Beauty said tentatively. “More than any other person in the world.” She was thinking of a lot of things, a lot of times, not least the time Fallon had seen her with another woman, which he’d never brought up to her, respecting her right to be who she was.
“I may be in love, Nico, I don’t know,” she said. “But my friend wants to sort out how she feels, to understand what it means to be in love with another woman on this tiny island. She isn’t strong like I am; she cares what people think. I’m afraid for her, honestly. And by leaving I can give us both time apart to decide if this is what we want. Can we live with the island, and can the island live with us?”
It was quite a confidence, and Fallon stared into the fire a moment, appreciating his friendship with this remarkable woman.
“Thank you for trusting me with that, Beauty,” he said softly.
“Tuck it away deep inside, Nico. And let’s go to sea.”
FIVE
The Middle Passage
SOLEDAD WAS a square-rigged, wormy, and ill-used slaver with three 6-pound cannons per side and a swivel gun in her bows loaded with grapeshot and aimed inboard to put down any rebellion in short order. On deck were great kettles for cooking, mostly yams and beans. The stench from the holds was overwhelming as more than five hundred souls were forced to lie in their own excrement in ninety-degree heat. It would take most of a month to get to Martinique, where the ship would wood and water, before heading northwest to the market at Charleston. The dead or insane would be thrown overboard each day, while the stench would only grow stronger, able to be smelled a mile away if the wind was right.
The warrior lay in his space and listened to the moans of the men and women mix with the sound of water moving past the hull. There was no night and no day, only darkness. His shoulder still burned horribly from the branding and his mind, rabid with confusion and humiliation, struggled to understand what had happened to him. The man next to him was older and had grown quiet after screaming for hours. The warrior wondered if he had died, and indeed nudged him in the ribs but got no response.
On the ship plunged across the ocean, plowing a furrow that countless slavers had plowed before her. These were just a handful of slaves compared with the millions who had made the Middle Passage to the West Indies, ripped from families and friends and a world they understood to sail into the dark, unfathomably cruel life that lay ahead. Each day they were fed one meal with a small bit of water, but were rarely let above decks, for they had a 10-1 advantage over their wardens who feared rebellion above all else. Hence the swivel gun. Women stopped menstruating, children stopped talking, and men stopped hoping to escape; they were broken both physically and mentally.
Oddly, after a week someone in the hell below decks began singing. At first, the warrior thought it was the ranting of another slave going insane. But it was beautiful, not frantic, and there was enough similarity to his own language that he understood some of the lyrics. The song asked the question: Where are we bound in this world? Someone, a woman he thought, answered with a sing-song voice: We are going to a new land. Another sang out: We will all die. And after a pause, the woman sang again: Keep Africa in your hearts.
The guards above them were oblivious to this singular form of communication; it puzzled them but, really, slaves were crazy anyway. And so the singing continued off and on, day after day, the slaves singing to each other and answering. They sang of their homeland, of their families, of sun and fields and times remembered. And when each day more slaves were thrown overboard, the survivors sang of the departed.
And then one day a man sang out: Can we be free? It became very quiet below decks, no one moved, and no one sang back.
The Blue Above
SOLEDAD SAILED for day after monotonous day along the route from Africa to the West Indies. At last she reached Martinique, but not even that port provided respite for the slaves, who were only briefly allowed on deck while the
ship was resupplied. Then it was back down below to the black and closed world of the lower decks. With her water casks filled and wood stored, Soledad set off for the final push to the U.S. coast, Lebron already counting his money.
The ship had a favorable slant of wind and sailed to the northwest past Montserrat, eventually leaving Porto Rico well to the east as she clawed her way north of Spanish Santo Domingo which, along with the French Saint-Domingue to the west, formed the island of Hispaniola. By now the singing below decks had ceased. A general lethargy possessed the weakened and dissipated bodies lying there.
And then came the terror.
The sound was like nothing the slaves had ever heard: loud like thunder but somehow sharper. The ship shook and they could hear the crew shouting above them on the upper deck. The ship shook again, and this time the thunder was louder and directly over their heads. Again and again the thunder roared, and suddenly an iron ball came through the side of the ship and killed a slave where he lay, smashing his head to red pulp.
All the slaves began wailing in fear and confusion, but the warrior’s shouts rose above the din as he urged the slaves to escape up the ladder to the deck. Some of the slaves were quick to understand what he wanted them to do, then slowly they all seemed to understand and began hobbling in their manacles to the ladder. The warrior was now their leader, and he climbed first, but the grate was bolted and locked from the outside.
On the upper deck, Lebron’s crew was firing their 6-pound cannons as fast as they could at two attacking sloops that were closing quickly. The battle was a hopeless mismatch with an inevitable outcome, and Lebron knew it.
Suddenly, a broadside from one of the sloops ripped into Soledad and one of the slaver’s cannons was upended just at the moment the dying crewman touched the match to the touch-hole. The upended cannon exploded, sending its shot straight down through three decks of humanity and out the bottom of the ship.
The Black Ring Page 2
