The form was rectangular with preprinted words in old type showing the registration city, New York. It had been filled out in ink, now faded, on March 11, 1832. The length and width or beam, and the depth of hold of the ship were described. She read, “She was 104 feet long, 25 feet wide, about the size of a small ocean-going yacht. It always amazes me how small these boats were.”
She pointed to a space, “The brig was built in River Sunday, Maryland, in April, 1831.”
“Yes,” said Cutter, “And registered to Williams Tea of New York City on March 11, 1832. “
“You see what is interesting?” she said, looking up at him, her hand on the machine control knob.
Cutter hesitated, then asked, “Why was Peregrine registered a year after she was launched?”
“Perhaps she sailed somewhere else before being listed. She may still have been in the employ of your company. We’ll have to find where she traveled. ”
Katy talked as she rewound the tape. She told him how the owners had to find cargoes to export to the Chinese market. They sold copper, cotton goods, opium, and used silver to buy the tea. It was practically barter, trading one good for another. “Opium was legal to ship from America. It was illegal to import into China.
“I have something else I want to show you.” She put away the microfilm and they returned to her office. He enjoyed the way her hips moved as he followed her. He had hoped he would have more time for the two of them when the ship was on its way. Now he was busy chasing this mystery. So far Katy proved he had cause to worry. Getting to the bottom of this Osprey story was not going to be easy.
At the side of the lobby downstairs, the museum walls had been decorated with a special exhibit of maritime items. They displayed clipper ship memorabilia from Baltimore’s heyday of shipbuilding and trade. Some of the pieces advertised fast passage to the California Gold Rush. Others were worn newspaper notices of shipments leaving for Europe and China. Two small oils in gilded frames were hanging as treasures in the middle of the wall.
“We set up this display last month to honor the building of the Peregrine. The television stations filmed it and interviewed us.”
“I watched you.”
“Many of these ships traded products from Baltimore. It is part of the city’s heritage too. We collected items to show the activity in ships and maritime trade.”
When she reached the painting on the left, she turned to Cutter and said. “We have this oil on loan from a New York City collection.”
The picture showed two primitive images of brigs, their sails set out to run before the wind. “That’s the Lady Baltimore from here and the Siren from New York racing south along the coast of Brazil. These ships were built locally about the time of the original Peregrine. Few paintings of the era and none of the ships themselves exist, so I particularly wanted this picture here.”
Cutter remembered how similar the present day start out in the Atlantic had looked to this painting. They too had run before the wind with their sails spreading large blooms of white.
She explained how the brigs like the Peregrine would trade down to Valparaiso, Chile or Callao, Peru, and then pick up cargoes for Canton. They’d also go to Batavia for opium from Turkey, then sail on to China for tea.
“What about the slave ships?”
She pointed to the other painting. “This is from our own collection. It’s a portrait of a US Navy brig in an encounter with a slaver stopped off Africa. The US and Britain were fighting the international slave trade by this time.”
Cutter noticed how the slave ship had its sails in tatters. Life boats were being rowed to the Navy ship.
“That’s the capture of the Black Joke, launched in Baltimore several years before and sold to slave merchants in Cuba. She had three hundred slaves aboard, including children, when stopped.”
He observed, “It’s as if Baltimore showed two faces with these boats, one good and one evil.”
She said, in a serious tone, “Like most of us, Jim. No one is perfectly good or evil. That’s why I put those paintings side by side.”
No one else was in the room. “More?” she asked, winking over her shoulder, her hand reaching back for his. Cutter nodded. She led him to another section of the museum. “It’s our newspaper room,” she smiled. “I want to look at some of the Baltimore press. Sometimes we can find notices of a ship’s departure and arrival which will help on identifying cargoes and owners.”
At another microfiche reader they began going through issues of the Baltimore shipping reports. Each issue printed tiny listings of vessels coming and going from the port as well as cargoes and origin or destination.
For an hour they went through the newsprint. Near the date when the ship was registered in New York, they found the first notation. “The brig Peregrine, owned by Williams Tea of New York left for China with cotton goods from our Maryland factory.”
She said, “That confirms she was owned by Williams and sailing under the Peregrine name. A large cotton cloth factory existed near Baltimore.”
Katy wanted to verify the sinking. “We have only a little chance that it would be reported in a Baltimore newspaper when it happened in New Jersey.”
Nothing was in the paper of September 1840. She opened another fiche. “I like to check for several months afterwards. Newspapers in those days were often days and weeks behind on news. Wait, Jim. Here it is.”
“October 10 1840. The loss off New Jersey of the Brig Peregrine, built in River Sunday, in the recent terrible storm which was also suffered here, has been reported from New York. It was on a return voyage from China. Captain Tolchester and the crew were drowned. All that was left of the fine brig, one of the fastest in the China Pacific trade, was the jolly boat. By the Lord’s providence was found, within the boat, wrapped in oilcloth, a copy of the Bible belonging to Richard Tolchester, the Captain of the ill-fated ship. One section of the ship’s wooden nameplate with her name was recovered in the surf. This established the brig was indeed the Peregrine, lost with all hands.”
She looked up at him, “You know, saving your butt ought to earn me dinner.”
Later, at her condominium overlooking Baltimore harbor, they were lying in bed. In the dark background the tiny flame from a thick candle spread gently moving shadows over their bodies. Earlier, at dinner in their favorite Fells Point restaurant, they had talked a long time, about the Peregrine, his son, as well as the book she was writing on Civil War costume. He liked talking to her about her interests, listening to her intelligent brain discuss problems, watching the way she moved her mouth as she spoke. Now, in bed, he couldn’t see her face as he gently stroked her bare leg.
“Do you remember how we got together?” she asked.
“Five years ago. I was researching the purchase of factory land for a stateside project. It was a strange job for me because usually Bill had me doing something overseas.”
“You worried about pollution on the real estate.” Cutter remembered how he had gone to the museum to check out an old Baltimore street atlas. He wanted to find out any background on that property.
He said, “You were an assistant curator in those days,” he said.
She grinned, “You were the most handsome real estate man I had ever seen.”
“You were the most beautiful history professor I had ever seen.”
“You took me for a coffee down in the museum cafeteria.” The back of her hand gently touched his cheek.
“I liked that little restaurant.”
“They’d be happy if you told them you thought it was a restaurant.”
“Well, it’s not big but we had fun.”
“You came back every day for a week before you asked me out.”
“I had to have coffee.”
She tapped his leg with her toe. “You liked me and you know it.”
He tickled her stomach. “All right. So I fell for you.”
“You waited until Friday afternoon at closing time before you asked for a date. The women a
t the museum had bets going.”
“I was doing a lot of thinking about my kid in those days.”
“Jamie and I get along great, you know that.”
“He really likes you, that’s for sure.”
“The past wasn’t your fault.”
“He thinks it was. I was always working. My wife found another guy and he’s been good to the boy.”
“I remember I couldn’t get you to walk along the harbor with me. The only thing you talked about besides your son was a garden you wanted to plant.”
“I never liked the water.”
“You told me boats brought you bad luck.”
“I still feel that way.”
“You’re involved in with a sailing ship.”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
She rose up on her elbow. He could see the beautiful shape of her face with her hair just touching her cheeks. “I think we ought to find out if Captain Tolchester had relatives. The Bible might still be around and it could tell us something,” she said.
“Sounds good.” His fingers touched her nipples, one after the other.
She whispered, “Maybe we’ll be lucky.”
He slowly leaned over and lightly kissed her lips.
“I’m lucky now,” he murmured. He moved his body towards her as she reached for him with a sigh of anticipated pleasure.
Chapter 6
June 15, 9 AM
Staten Island, New York
Katy had discovered the location of Captain Tolchester’s Bible, the one from the wreckage of his ship. They were on the way to study it.
“Hotshot driver,” Cutter said as she weaved through the turnpike traffic.
“I like to get there,” she said.
“I noticed,” he grinned. “That’s all right. It’s not a deal breaker to me.”
She smiled, “I thought you Army Rangers liked danger.”
“Not when someone else is driving,” he said.
“Women want control too. I grew up in Southern Maryland racing my father’s Ford pickup against the boys who lived down the road.”
“Did you win?”
“Always. Best they had was a Chevy.”
“Anybody end up in one of those deep roadside ditches?”
“They did.”
Cutter touched her arm as they repeated together, laughing, “They had a Chevy.”
They left the turnpike at the exit to Staten Island. Their destination was the village of Narrows Beach. Beside them was the blue water channel into New York harbor. The span of the Verrazano Bridge arching to Coney Island stretched on the horizon north of them. Cutter took a moment to reread his last Blackberry text. Doc Jerry had written good news. The Peregrine was moving fast and had reached a point about one thousand miles east of Recife, Brazil.
Cutter’s attention was drawn to a car in the rear view mirror. “That guy is still behind us.”
“Who?” asked Katy.
“A red Honda has followed us from Maryland,” he said.
“You didn’t say anything before,” she said.
“You needed to concentrate on the driving.”
“Who do you think he is?”
Cutter shrugged. “Well, whoever, he’s been behind us and he’s gotten off at our exit. Here,” he said, leaning toward her, “Pull off, park and let him go by.”
She stopped and a red coupe rushed by. Cutter could not see the driver who was hidden behind tinted windows. The vehicle went to the end of the street, turned right and was gone.
“It has a bent rear fender,” she said. “Could not spot the license plate.”
“Let’s go,” said Cutter. “You’re a good detective.”
“What street do we want?” he said, thrashing the folds of a map as he tried to find their location. He looked again for the car but the Honda did not reappear.
“Hemlock Street.”
“This map doesn’t have that street. Too bad you don’t have navigation.” He folded it and they watched street signs. The macadam surface changed to tar-covered dirt and finally to packed sand. They were almost at a dead end beside the beach. Katy pulled over. Outside the car dozens of shoreline visitors strolled in colorful shorts and bikinis.
“I’ll ask,” said Cutter. He spotted an elderly man in a red shirt and dark shorts, reading a newspaper.
Cutter stopped in front of him. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m guessing you live around here.”
“Why’s that?” The man spoke with a drawl as he looked up from his seat on a wooden bench.
“You’re not interested in the beach.”
“You got that right. Don’t look at it. Just a place to read the paper until the sun gets too hot. Then I go home. You people lost?”
“We want to find Hemlock Street.”
“Most of ‘em wants the ocean. Can’t tell them it’s really the harbor. They don’t want to hear it. Anyway, Hemlock, that’s in the old part of town. It’s near the quarantine memorial, where they used to keep the immigrants.” The man stood up, gave directions and pointed. He added, “Building is gone. Ain’t much to visit. All run down now. People forget.”
The house Katy wanted was the last in a series of small two-story unpainted wood buildings. No sidewalk existed and several abandoned cars stood rusting in the overgrown weeds. Children with ill-fitting clothes ran barefoot among the vehicles pausing only to stare quickly at Katy and Cutter.
In front of the house was a mound of dirt covered with weeds. What remained of a rotten wooden sign was bent over in tall grass, its message unreadable. Cutter identified a few straggling white perennials among the green.
They ascended the rickety unpainted front porch. Three rusted mailboxes hung by the faded diamond-paned door. The top one was for Miss Mary Tolchester, the person Katy sought. Cutter pressed the doorbell and heard a buzzer sound inside.
As he waited he studied the neighborhood. Past their car he could only see a little of the beach. He spotted a large red tanker heading in to New York oil terminals.
The door squeaked open a crack. A thin elderly woman, her glasses down on her nose, peeked out nervously.
“What you want?” she said in a high pitched voice, her arms poised to slam the door shut.
“Are you Mary Tolchester?” Cutter asked.
“I’m her neighbor. She’s down the hall. I heard her buzzer ringing so I came.”
“Is she here?”
“I always answer for her. She’s there but she don’t come out. I don’t like to hear the door ring too long. It gives me bad headaches.”
“Can we come in?”
She appraised Katy, then Cutter. She relaxed, apparently satisfied they meant her no harm. She said, “You wait now, mister. I’ll go and see.” The woman closed the door, then quickly opened it. “What’s the name? I’ll tell her.”
Katy told her. The woman snorted, turned and closed the door again. They waited on the porch. A small dog had arrived and nibbled at Cutter’s shoe.
“You’ve got a friend,” said Katy.
Cutter smiled. The door opened again. The woman peeked out and asked Katy, “Are you the lady from the museum?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Well, she says you can come in. Bring your man with you.”
“OK,” Katy grinned. “Let’s go, man of mine,” she chuckled and pulled Cutter behind her. The woman closed the door after them. The hall was dark and smelled of burned food.
“We keep the lights off to hide the roaches,” the woman explained. “Mary’s door is the last one on the left. You just walk toward her light coming under the door. She don’t ever turn off her light. Says she’ll die when it goes off.”
Katy reached the Tolchester apartment and knocked quickly. A rasping voice answered, “That you, Doctor Marbury?”
“Yes, it is.”
A big woman, the fat folds of her body overflowing a corroded and worn wheelchair in which she sat, pulled the door open slightly. She asked, “Who’s the man with you?”
; “I’m Jim Cutter. I’m helping Doctor Marbury.”
“Oh,” she peered at him running her eyes up and down both of them.
“Mary Tolchester?” asked Katy.
She nodded. “All right. You two can come on in.” She moved her chair back. Cutter followed Katy and was met with a new smell of stale milk, sweat, and cigarettes. Mary’s hair was short and straight like a style of the Roaring Twenties. Her eyes were bright but her teeth dark with age and tobacco. She invited them graciously to the large sofa at the side of the room. She said, her voice hoarse from smoking, “Just move those newspapers. I don’t have the time to clean up everything these days.” Cutter smiled at her as he gathered the large pile of newsprint. He and Katy sat down and the woman wheeled her chair closer.
She opened a new pack of cigarettes, then lit one. She held the tobacco daintily in her forefingers, and puffed its smoke into the air above her. Mary spoke softly, her eyes constantly inspecting around the room, as if she were afraid someone would overhear them.
“I’m still not sure I can help you.”
“We’re interested in the Tolchester family,” said Katy. “We looked in genealogical files. That led us to you as a Tolchester descendant.”
Katy read from her notes “Mary Tolchester, born Staten Island, 1914.”
“That’s me,” she coughed.
“We’re especially tracking the Captain Tolchester who was in the China Trade. He was drowned in a shipwreck in 1840.”
“My, you are going way back.” Mary wheeled towards a tall sideboard, its center leg missing, and unpacked blue china cups and saucers. “He was a cousin. My part of the family never knew him. He commanded ships for a New York firm.”
She placed the cups on the top of the sideboard on a small tray. “A later Captain Tolchester lived right in this house.”
“We found this article on the later man,” Katy said and began reading:
“Staten Island, sister to Manhattan, has its share of mysterious stories of the sea. There is near it on the western side a shoal called the West Bank, the terrible executioner to many a fine ship caught in a storm entering or leaving the New York harbor.
China Jewel Page 6
