A Ripple In Time [A Historical Novel of Survival]

by Zugg, Victor

  “Well enough,” she said.

  Mato cocked his head.

  “It’s a long story, my friend.”

  Mato gave a subtle nod. “Maybe you tell me one day.”

  “Maybe,” Mason said, as he grabbed his rucksack and started to rise.

  Nathan cleared his throat. “Won’t that stand out?”

  “I’ll manage,” Mason replied, as he stood and hefted the rucksack. He strained at the weight of the eight hundred silver coins inside. “I’ll get back here as soon as possible.”

  Nathan gave a slight wave of his hand.

  “What do we say if someone asks what we’re doing here?” Jeremy asked.

  Mason took a moment to scratch the back of his head. “I can’t really think of an explanation for you two. Let’s hope no one asks.” When Jeremy nodded, Mason turned, climbed out of the boat, and stood up on the wood planks of the dock. He helped Dorothy up, gave a hand to John, and then moved out of the way as the two braves scrambled up.

  Mato passed the three stacks of bound skins up to his braves and climbed out of the boat. He lifted one of the stacks to his shoulder. “This way,” he said, as he started walking.

  Dorothy fell in behind the three natives.

  Mason watched her head jerk from one side to the other as she walked. She was like a kid entering Disney World for the first time. Mason couldn’t even imagine what was going through her mind at the sights, sounds, and smells, especially the smells. The general odor wafting through the air was a combination of fresh baked bread, rotting fish, body odor, urine and feces. Dorothy had warned him, but the reality was worse than he imagined.

  CHAPTER 15

  The men working on the dock barely noticed as Mason and his group passed by. They were all tough men, obviously used to hardship, hard work, and hard times. They were lean, sinuous, and dressed in various levels of clothes, all of which would be worthy of Mason’s rag hamper back home. Some were bare-chested with dark, sweat covered skin gleaming in the hot sun. Some wore thin, linen type shirts, but nearly all were dull, stained, and threadbare. The men’s breeches were equally tattered for the most part. Some were bare-footed, some wore a light, almost slipper type of shoe, and a couple wore high, leather boots. One man turned his head, grinned, and examined Dorothy up and down. The man’s most prominent feature was his rotten and missing teeth.

  The group walked the length of the dock without mishap. They passed through the narrow opening in the wall and stepped onto a mostly sand, gravel, and oyster shell street that ran the full length along the back side. The street was wider than Mason expected even for a major thoroughfare. Narrow buildings on narrow lots lined the other side of the street. Most were rough frame, two-story structures; some had shops on the bottom with living quarters on top.

  The street bustled with all kinds of people. There were several women, usually walking two or three together. They were dressed in ground-length dresses or skirts and long sleeved tops with a variety of patterns and colors. Their heads were usually covered with a bonnet. The men, at least the Caucasians, were mostly dressed in knee length or full length breeches, long-sleeved shirts rolled to the elbow, and three-point or wide-brimmed hats. There were several black men, slaves Mason presumed. Dingy breeches and shirts clung to their sweat drenched skin as they went about pulling wagons or carrying heavy loads. Of all the third world places Mason had ever found himself, this was the most foreign. And even though he spoke their language, he felt like the proverbial fish out of water.

  A few yards north along the street, Mato turned left onto a narrow lane, an alley really, and proceeded confidently as he dodged others coming and going with all manner of goods.

  Mason saw chickens in crates, pigs on leashes, large bundles of tobacco, and all sizes of wood barrels. One barrel was broke open allowing rice to spill onto the ground.

  As on the dock, the people did not seem to pay much attention to the Mason parade, other than an occasional glance at John. He was the least authentic looking of the bunch.

  Mato finally stopped in front of a rough wood, single story building. A carved, wood placard above the door simply read tavern. The Indian glanced at Mason and then stepped through the open doorway. Everyone followed.

  The smell of stale beer, or more likely some kind of ale, is what struck Mason first. He had been in plenty of dive bars, but all shined in gleaming opulence compared to this one. The people reeked. And it was made worse by the dim, tropical sauna like condition inside. Mason felt the sweat beginning to bead around his neck.

  The room was narrow but longer than Mason expected. The ceiling was low; the floor and walls were wood planked. A short bar occupied the left side of the tavern’s front third, leaving room for a few tables and chairs near the door. Most were occupied.

  As Mason’s eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, he was able to make out more of the details. The back of the room was stacked with all manner of skins and pelts, dry goods, tools, utensils, and even bolts of cloth. Mason couldn’t imagine that the town’s people came here to trade. He figured its location on a back alley was set up for those less desirable types, like the Indians.

  Two men stood behind the bar. One was a tall, burly character with a thick beard. He could have been a Paul Bunyan lookalike. He even wore a checkered shirt. He stood with both arms crossed; his eyes were locked on Mason and Mato as soon as they stepped through the doorway.

  The other man was shorter, thinner, clean shaven, and dressed more like Mason expected a merchant to dress. He wore the standard coarse linen shirt with the long sleeves rolled to the elbow, a vest left unbuttoned, and dark breeches. He also sported a flintlock pistol tucked in his waist band. His demeanor wasn’t all that pleasant with the man standing across the bar from him.

  The inebriated man, barely able to stand, apparently wanted to trade an obviously well-used smoking pipe for a tankard of ale. The tavern owner, Mister Edwards presumably, wasn’t interested.

  “No one would want your chewed up piece of shit for a pipe,” the owner said. He glanced at the lumberjack standing slightly behind and to his side.

  The lumberjack dropped his arms and took a step.

  The man in front of the bar suddenly grabbed the pipe and hurried out the door without a word or even a glance back. The man’s stench nearly knocked Mason over when he passed.

  Mason noticed that Dorothy turned her head away and put the back of her hand to her nose as the man passed her.

  “What can I do for you gents?” the owner asked, as he peered at Mato.

  Mato and his two braves stepped forward and placed their stacks of skins on the bar. “Trade for two muskets, powder, shot, axe, cooking pot, four bags rice—”

  “Hold up there,” the owner said. He began leafing through the skins, taking his time to examine several in detail. “I can give you two bags of rice, the axe, and the pot. No guns, powder, or shot.”

  Mato shook his head and started to pick up one of the stacks as if he were going to leave.

  The owner slammed his hand down on top of the skins forcing the stack back down to the bar. “Three bags of rice.”

  Mato shook his head again. “Two guns, powder, shot, axe, pot, three bags of rice.”

  Mason couldn’t help but notice that an axe and a pot were among Mato’s list of goods. Apparently he needed to replace those he had ‘traded’ to Mason. He wanted to repay Mato now that he had the means, but wasn’t sure if he should intervene in the negotiation between the two men. Doing so might embarrass Mato, or worse, piss off the tavern owner. Mason decided to remain quiet.

  The negotiations went on for another twenty minutes. During that time Mato threatened to leave several times, but each time the owner stopped him by placing a hand on the skins. Finally the owner closed his eyes, tightened his lips, and massaged the back of his neck. When he opened his eyes he stared at Mato for several moments.

  “Two guns, powder, shot, and two bags of rice,” the owner said.

  “Three bags rice,
” Mato said.

  “Fine, anything to get this over with.”

  Mato pushed the three stacks of skins to the owner’s side of the bar.

  The owner nodded at the lumberjack “Get the man his goods,” he said, with a slight smile.

  The lumberjack came around the bar and disappeared into the dimly lit back. He returned a few minutes later with the guns, a small keg of what Mason presumed was powder, and a leather pouch of what was probably the shot. He laid the items on the bar, returned to the back of the tavern, and reemerged carrying three bags of rice. Mason estimated they were twenty pounds each.

  Mato and the two braves picked up the items and walked out of the tavern with Mason, Dorothy, and John in tow. Mato led the way back to the boat and began handing the items to Jeremy and Nathan. With the items secured aboard, Mato turned to Mason. “We go now. If we stay here someone take.”

  “I’d like to spend a little time looking around,” Mason said. “Maybe you could camp back at the inlet and meet here tomorrow morning.”

  “You stay alone?” Mato asked.

  Mason eyed each of his people and turned back to Mato. “Dorothy, Nathan, me, and John will stay here tonight.” He lifted his chin at Jeremy.

  Jeremy finally nodded.

  “Meet morning here,” Mato said.

  Mason put a hand on Mato’s shoulder. “See you in the morning.” He turned to Nathan. “You okay with staying.”

  “Sure,” Nathan said, as he began climbing out of the boat.

  Mato and his two braves climbed in. Jeremy and one of the braves manned the oars.

  Those left on the wharf watched them row the boat out and down the river until they were well on their way.

  “Is this really a good idea?” Nathan asked.

  “We came here to see the town,” Mason replied. “Let’s go see the town.”

  ◆◆◆

  Going out with the river’s flow was much easier than rowing against the current, so they made much better time. They crossed the channel to Shutes Folly Island and on toward Sullivan’s Island at the mouth of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers.

  Mato and the two braves seemed deep in thought and Jeremy saw no reason to break the silence. He used his oars to navigate the little boat around the point as they hugged the coast heading east.

  Soon Mato raised an arm, pointed, and grunted in Jeremy’s general direction.

  Jeremy twisted his torso and neck in the direction of where Mato pointed and saw a sandbar in the distance. The sandbar formed a natural barrier between the actual coast and the open ocean.

  He found the tide pool considerably deeper than he expected—four feet or so. Jeremy had no problem rowing through the water and beaching the boat’s bow into the sandy shore.

  Everyone hopped out while Jeremy secured the oars. He stepped out and helped pull the boat farther up onto the sand. With that done, Jeremy took a moment to scan the area in all directions. That’s when he spotted a tall ship with full sails just visible on the horizon, apparently heading into the Charles Town harbor. He took a moment to admire its form and contemplate the history unfolding before his very eyes. He finally broke free of his reverie and helped the Indians transport most of their belongings from the boat and into the trees. It was a good place to camp. The ocean breeze would keep most of the mosquitoes at bay.

  With pretty much everything done, Jeremy took a seat in the sand and rested his back against the trunk of a small oak. He gazed out on the water and watched the sailing ship grow larger as it approached Charles Town. He thought about Mason, Dorothy, John, and Nathan and wondered how they were being received. He thought about the rest of the clan back on the beach in Myrtle Beach and wondered if all was well. His focus settled on Lisa in particular. Her tight jeans flashed through his mind.

  “Trading ship,” Mato said, as he pulled up a patch of sand next to Jeremy.

  Jeremy nodded. “Have you ever been on one?”

  “No, but some my people have.”

  Jeremy cocked his head.

  “Slaves; later escape.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jeremy said.

  Mato cocked his head to one side as he stared at Jeremy, apparently not understanding the remorse displayed by a white man.

  When Mato started to rise, Jeremy got up at the same time. “Fish for dinner?”

  Mato smiled. “Fish for dinner.” He turned and walked toward the two braves who had just finished gathering wood for a campfire.

  Jeremy followed.

  ◆◆◆

  Mason and his compatriots walked up and down the main streets and several alleys. None of the streets were identified with a sign, but Dorothy, being thoroughly familiar with the town in this time period, was able to rattle off the major thoroughfares: Bay street along the water, paralleled by Church and Meeting Streets, intersected by Tradd, Broad, and Queen. All the main streets were mostly composed of sand and gravel, deeply rutted by wagon and cart wheels. The few sidewalks, surprisingly, were brick or stone.

  The town included a number of what appeared to be churches, but they were greatly outnumbered by the taverns and houses of ill repute. It was a rowdy town, growing more so as the day meandered toward dusk and more and more ships’ crewmen filled the streets. They had already bumped into a number of inebriated souls barely able to walk and stinking to levels Mason didn’t think possible.

  While they walked, Mason had been able to identify a trading post he intended to visit, but the more pressing concern was finding a place to spend the night.

  “Where does one find lodging in this time period?” Mason whispered to Dorothy, as they continued to saunter along the sidewalks.

  “I’ve seen two taverns so far that appear to take borders,” she said, “we could try one of those.”

  “We need to get a place lined up, like now,” Mason said, as he stopped and did a three-sixty. He pointed to a two-story, clapboard tavern they had just passed. “I wonder if they have rooms for rent.” Mason took a step in that direction, but stopped when he felt a tug on his arm.

  “Let me go ask,” John said. “I probably look the most civilized of the four of us.”

  Dorothy’s chin bobbed up and down.

  “Okay,” he said, as he wiggled a shoulder out of the rucksack straps and slung it to his front. He unzipped the main compartment, reached inside, and stopped. He raised his eyes to Dorothy. “How much for a room?”

  “One of those Spanish dollars should more than cover it.” She turned to John. “See if you can get two rooms for the silver piece.”

  Mason extracted a single piece of silver and handed it to John. Then handed him another one. “Just in case. We need a room no matter the price.”

  John nodded and walked off toward the tavern.

  Mason watched him disappear inside the establishment and turned to Dorothy. “Period clothes would go a long way toward helping us blend in,” he said. “How would one go about getting something to wear?”

  “Everything was handmade,” she said, “most of the time in the home. Cloth and clothes in this time were a person’s biggest expense. The more elaborate articles of clothing, for those with the money, were ordered directly from London to fit. They also imported simpler articles of clothing and altered them as needed upon purchase.”

  Mason smoothed his beard with one hand and shook his head. “How long to have something altered?”

  “Depends on who’s doing the altering,” Dorothy said.

  Mason heard a shoe scuff on the sidewalk behind him and turned around expecting to see John returning. It wasn’t John; it was probably the last person he expected to see.

  CHAPTER 16

  “You’re the last person I would expect to see on this street,” Captain William Darby said with wide eyes.

  He still wore the blue coat, white waistcoat, white breeches, off white stockings, and the white cravat around his neck, but all were considerably less rumpled than before. His white shirt had been replaced with one that included ruffles extending f
rom the end of his coat sleeves. He also wore a manicured wig beneath his three-point hat. He stood next to a taller, fiftyish gentleman even more elegantly dressed with a gold handled walking cane.

  “I could say the same thing,” Mason said.

  “I didn’t get your name before,” Darby said, as he raised his chin slightly.

  “Stev— Stephen Mason. Most people call me Mason.”

  “Okay Mason,” Darby said, “may I ask how you come to be here.”

  Mason glanced at the man standing next to Darby.

  “I’m sorry,” Darby said. “May I introduce William Rhett, planter extraordinaire, sea captain, and devourer of pirates.”

  Mason heard Dorothy take a deep breath and hold it. Apparently, William Rhett was someone with a historical back story.

  John edged around the two men.

  Mason motioned. “Let me introduce Dorothy Weiss and Nathan Sims. And this is John Tifton,” he said, as John approached.

  Darby turned his head to Rhett. “I last encountered Mason here just after said pirate absconded with my ship and part of my crew.”

  Rhett nodded. “And what brings you to our fair city?” His eyes examined up and down every part of Mason and his group.

  Suddenly Mason was at a complete loss for words. Nothing he could think of came across as plausible. What was he doing here? “Came in search of a boat,” he finally said.

  “A boat,” Darby said, “what sort of boat?”

  John cleared his throat. “A small sloop would do nicely.”

  “And you have the money necessary to purchase such a boat?” Rhett asked.

  “Depends on the price, but yes, I believe we do,” Mason said.

  “You have a very odd accent and manner of speaking,” Rhett said. “And your clothes.” His eyes reexamined Mason’s black jeans. “From where do you hail?”

  Darby nodded his head up and down as he faced Mason with an expression of expectation.

  “It’s a long story,” Mason said, “but basically we’ve been in the Far East.”