AHMM, November 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  Mr. Dawson had calculated nicely. The two ships lay side by side, well within speaking distance. He had dropped the mainsail, braced the cross-jack yards sharp aback, and put the helm aweather, so that they matched the westward drift of the big bark. Lucy could make out the bark's captain at the rail of the quarterdeck, a miniature dandy in a stovepipe hat, the speaking trumpet obscuring his face.

  "Ahoy there!” he bellowed. “What ship is that?"

  Beside her, Mr. Dawson grumbled, “By God, his manners could stand improvement, begging your pardon, ma'am."

  Eban, imperturbable as always, overlooked the Salem captain's breach of etiquette. “The Mary Small, out of Searsport, bound for Whampoa!” he shouted back.

  There was a pause as the other captain digested the information. “The Everett Parsons out of Salem, back from Shanghai and the South China Sea, bound for San Francisco,” he finally offered.

  "You must have been fighting the trades for some time, Captain,” Eban said tactfully. “You'd do better on a more northerly course."

  The other captain didn't seem to understand the implied criticism. “Yes, it's been a lonely voyage,” he said. “Yours is the first ship we've seen since Samoa. The wife will be glad of the company. She's already arranged with the steward for two guests for dinner."

  Eban looked perplexed. “Is he inviting us aboard for a gam?” he said to Lucy.

  "Yes,” she said. “But not, it seems, Mr. Dawson.” She had participated in enough gams to know that the first mate usually accompanied the captain and his wife, while the second mate took charge of the ship.

  "That doesn't bother me, ma'am,” Mr. Dawson said. “But he didn't say anything about allowing an exchange of visits by the men in the forecastle. That cannot be a happy ship."

  Eban shook his head. “I suppose we'll have to do it. That top-hatted booby may not mind losing a day's sailing, but he seems to take it for granted that we won't either."

  Lucy's hands flew to her hair. “I must be a sight. My hair's a bird's nest. And I've been wearing this old gingham wash dress since the Horn."

  "Don't despair, my sweet,” Eban said. “There's time for you to change."

  Mr. Dawson nodded toward the men still laboring to clew up the topsails. “I'll get up a boat crew to row you over, Captain.” He grinned wolfishly. “We'll need at least four hands. No, six! And a coxswain. By God—excusing my language, ma'am—we'll give at least a few of our boys the chance of a gam!"

  * * * *

  The other captain's name was Phineas Potts, a roundish man with a sun-blotched face adorned with a fine crop of muttonchop whiskers. He was dressed a little too formally, even for the kind of master who left the quarter-deck mostly to the mate. It occurred to Lucy that he wore the stovepipe hat in imitation of the Everett Parsons whose dominating figurehead graced the bark's bow. That was another thing. The shipowners of Searsport had dispensed with the frippery of figureheads for a couple of generations. The bow of the Mary Small was decorated with a simple carved billet-head.

  Now they were in the ship's saloon, and Captain Potts was introducing them to his wife. Lucy had time for no more than a hasty glance at her surroundings before Mrs. Potts was rising from an elaborate Chinese chair, a pudgy hand extended. There was a fleeting impression of mahogany paneling, velvet upholstery, a luxurious Belgian rug—no doubt a Hong Kong forgery—and a stained-glass skylight that cast long splotches of rainbow light around the interior. In the center of the saloon a rosewood dining table had already been set with fine china and crystalware that should have been packed safely away for the calmer waters of a port anchorage. Some of the dishes had already slid to the edges of the table and fetched up against the fenders.

  "So good of you to come,” the woman said in a mannered voice, just as if she were in a Boston drawing room and not in the middle of the ocean sharing an impromptu encounter between two passing ships.

  "Delighted,” Lucy replied in the same artificial tone.

  The woman went on obliviously, “And this is our passenger, Mr. McKay. Mr. McKay joined us in Shanghai and stayed with us while we completed a charter party to Canton. I believe he has business in San Francisco."

  "Charmed, I'm sure,” McKay said, straight-facedly mimicking Mrs. Potts while giving Lucy a twinkle of complicity. Mrs. Potts did not appear to have noticed that she was being made fun of.

  "I don't know what we would have done without Mr. McKay to entertain us,” Mrs. Potts went on. “He's such a marvelous storyteller. And he plays the harmonium so well. He knows all the latest music hall songs from England.” She smiled archly at McKay. “I'm afraid some of them are quite naughty."

  Eban broke in with a question directed at Captain Potts. “You mentioned a charter party in Canton, Captain,” he said. “I take it you were able to find sufficient coasting business to keep your ship busy whilst you were plying the China seas."

  His voice was casual, but Lucy knew that he was pumping Captain Potts for information about the current state of coastal commerce at their destination. She knew very well that he had substituted the word “busy” for the less tactful “profitable.” And that he had slyly flattered Potts by calling the four-masted bark a ship. Some of the older captains insisted that no vessel, no matter its size, could legitimately be called a ship unless it had three masts, all fully square rigged—a matter of considerable annoyance to the captains of the larger vessels like Potts.

  Potts visibly preened. “Yes, indeed, Captain Hale. I unloaded a cargo of Yankee cuckoo clocks at Canton for a good profit, then sailed to Peking to discharge my consignment of case oil, in the meantime filling the empty portion of my hold with rice. At Peking, or I should say Tienstin, I picked up a passenger—a wealthy Chinese merchant named Woo Lin, who chartered me for Shanghai and then Canton. He had business with Mr. McKay in Shanghai, and Mr. McKay joined us there."

  Mrs. Potts was pouting at being left out of the conversation. She interrupted: “The Chinese are mad for cuckoo clocks. Phineas picked up a deal of them from a clock maker in Connecticut on our way south from Salem and sold them at an absolutely exorbitant price to the co-hong at Canton. And got paid in gold, not silver, to boot."

  Eban smiled politely at Mrs. Potts, but turned his attention to McKay. “So you know Woo Lin, do you, McKay?"

  McKay gave a laugh of amusement. He was a tall, spare man, dressed like a dandy, and Lucy decided that she didn't like him. He was a little too affable, and his eyes kept straying to her bosom.

  "Who doesn't know the old reprobate?” he said dismissively. “If you want to do business on the coast of China, that is. He's rich as Croesus, and he runs the co-hong like an autocrat. And he isn't above doing a little underhanded business if there's a few dollars in it for him."

  "Why Mr. McKay,” Lucy said with an innocent flutter of her eyelashes, “your business with him wasn't underhanded, was it?"

  He laughed again. “I'm afraid so, Mrs. Hale,” he said. “He sold me some antiquities that must have come from the Forbidden City. That's what he was doing in Peking. If he'd been discovered, he would have been beaten to death in the Hall of Supreme Harmony."

  "Phineas had nothing to do with it!” Mrs. Potts said hastily. “He bought a perfectly legal cargo of Chinese export porcelain from him, made in one of the Whampoa factories!"

  "The beggar insisted on being paid in gold instead of the usual silver specie,” Captain Potts grumbled. “He got half of my profit from the cuckoo clocks. He knew I had it in gold pieces, y'see."

  "Of course he did,” McKay said. “There's nothing Woo Lin doesn't know. I had to pay him in gold too. He wouldn't deal otherwise. My theory is that he's at the bottom of the East China Sea, weighed down by all the gold he was carrying."

  "Bottom of the sea?” Eban said, raising an eyebrow.

  "Just a thought. He vanished somewhere between Shanghai and Canton. No one saw him leave the ship except the Chinese cook, who swears he saw him disembark before daylight, when we anchored
overnight at Foochow."

  "Disembark? But not on the captain's gig, though?"

  "No. On one of those pesky sampans that swarm about a ship as soon as we make port, trying to get aboard to sell things."

  "To steal things, you mean,” Mrs. Potts said.

  "Of course, there are always scoundrels among them,” McKay agreed, “but mostly they're just competing with one another for our custom."

  "Be that as it may,” Captain Potts said, “but we'd had a job of it fending them off when we arrived. Our mate, Mr. Willis, frightened them off with a few shots from his pistol. They backed off to a safe distance, but they wouldn't go away. I suspect they were competing for the chance to take Woo Lin ashore. They'd spotted him on the quarterdeck, and some of them jabbered up at him in their heathen gabble, but Woo Lin paid them no more mind than the dirt under his feet."

  "We don't know that, Phineas,” Mrs. Potts said. “He might have signaled one of them somehow. You never can trust these heathens."

  "I suppose a sampan might have sneaked up alongside during the night,” Captain Potts allowed. “The cook says that's what happened. But there's something peculiar about it. As persistent as those beggars are, by first light they'd all fled."

  "And what do you make of it, Mr. McKay?” Lucy asked.

  McKay appeared to be thinking it over, but Lucy had the impression that he was faking his hesitation.

  "Well, the cook says he saw Woo Lin leave,” he said. “But it's deuced strange that no one else saw him. Mr. Willis and the larboard watch were below, of course, but Gilkins, the second mate, should have been on deck."

  "I wouldn't set much store by what Gilkins said,” Captain Potts grunted. “He probably was spinning yarns with his old friends in the foc'sle when Woo Lin parted company with the ship. Our first mate, Mr. Willis, doesn't have much confidence in him."

  Lucy kept her expression neutral, but she knew what she thought of a captain who would disparage his own officers in front of visitors. “Gilkins,” she said thoughtfully. “That's a Searsport name. I wonder if I know his family."

  Captain Potts had missed the iciness in her tone, but McKay had not. He spoke quickly to smooth things over. “And then there's the matter of the sampan fleet taking off. That's not like them. You're right, Captain. They didn't want to be anywhere near us."

  Potts nodded. “Some cheeky character among them sneaked Woo Lin off the ship, and there was no reason for the others to hang around."

  "No, that's not it,” McKay mused. “They still had their vegetables and other goods to sell. They would still have been hovering nearby, hoping for the best."

  "You're suggesting they were afraid to be near us,” Eban said.

  "Exactly right, Captain Hale. It bears out what I said earlier. Either Woo Lin missed his footing when he attempted to transfer to the sampan and sank like a stone with all his gold or, more likely, was knocked on the head by the cutthroat he'd hired and then dumped overboard after his gold was taken. Either way, the other sampan rabble fled. Woo Lin was a mandarin, after all, and the Chinese authorities are merciless. The beggars would have been afraid of being implicated. A public beheading would have been the usual thing."

  "Please, gentlemen, let's not talk about such dreadful things!” Mrs. Potts said.

  "I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Potts,” McKay said. “I didn't intend to upset you."

  She favored him with a forgiving smile and said gaily, “Let's all sit down to a lovely dinner.” She turned and raised her voice. “Briggs!” she called. “Where is that rascally steward?"

  A withered old sailor in a patched smock came hurrying into the saloon, a towel draped over his arm. “Yes, mum,” he said in what Lucy took to be a pronounced Welsh or Shropshire accent.

  "Is the roast done, and is the gravy ready?” Mrs. Potts said.

  "Yes, mum,” he replied.

  "Did you have any trouble from the cook?"

  "Oh, he didn't like my taking over the oven, as usual, mum. He'd killed a chicken special for the men, seeing as there was company in the forecastle.” His eyes went to Lucy and he gave her a nod to indicate that the Mary Small's sailors were being taken care of. “He waved a knife at me, but he calmed down all right when I showed him my pistol."

  "He had no right to kill a chicken without permission,” Mrs. Potts said indignantly. “Salt beef and biscuit are quite sufficient for the forecastle.” She turned to Lucy. “I'm sure that your men are used to it."

  "We all are,” Lucy said dryly.

  Mrs. Potts went on without skipping a beat. “Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding are Captain Potts's favorite, but of course we consumed our fresh beef on our outward bound voyage. But I had Briggs slaughter a pig for a nice pork roast, and we took on plenty of fresh vegetables and provisions at Samoa. Briggs makes a quite acceptable Yorkshire pudding, and I made a prune whip and a special cake myself. Briggs put it in the oven with my instructions, and it came out very well."

  She dismissed Lucy and turned her attention to Eban. “And I'm sure the fine claret you brought will go perfectly with my little repast, Captain Hale."

  At this point a small boy came running breathlessly into the saloon and went to Mrs. Potts with hardly a glance at the Hales. He was dressed in a little blue sailor suit with short pants and an imitation straw sailor's hat.

  "Ma, Ma!” he blurted. “Can I eat forward with the men? They're telling such fine stories and Pulver is playing his fiddle and Cookie made a plum duff!"

  "Where are your manners, Nathaniel? Say hello to our guests.” To her husband she said, “He's been climbing up the rigging, Phineas. And he's got tar on his suit again. I don't like him associating with common sailors."

  "Nonsense,” Captain Potts said. “It's perfectly natural for him to want to climb the rigging. I did when I was a boy on my father's ship, and I'll wager you did, too, Captain Hale. Why the boy climbs like a monkey, and it's good for him. And there's nothing wrong with him hanging about with the crew if they'll put up with him and he doesn't interfere with their work. Run along, lad."

  He gave little Nathaniel a pat on the rump and the boy ran eagerly off.

  Mrs. Potts grumbled, “They're so lenient with the boys. When I was a girl I wasn't allowed forward of the mainmast. Unseemly, my mother said. And then when I was ten they sent me home to stay with relatives and go to finishing school. I didn't go to sea again till I married Phineas."

  Lucy saw her chance to make amends with Mrs. Potts. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I was so jealous of my little brother having the run of the ship and climbing to the highest spar, while I was stuck aft with Mother, learning to sew. I had to stay with relatives, too, and finish my education at Searsport High School while Josh stayed at sea and was tutored by Mother."

  Sweet, loyal Eban added, “And that's why she's a better navigator than I am, Mrs. Potts. Searsport being the seagoing town that it is, the high school takes you all the way to the trigonometric formula given in Bowditch. The girls learn it, the boys are at sea. I picked up navigation as best I could from my father, who picked it up from his father."

  "It's not seemly for a woman to have anything to do with the running of a ship,” Mrs. Potts sniffed. “She should confine herself to womanly occupations in the cabin."

  "You Searsporters are an insufferable lot, all right,” Captain Potts interjected with a heavy-handed attempt at humor. “Sail into any port in the Orient and the harbor's already full of ships from Searsport. I've heard that in the early days of the China trade, the Chinese thought Searsport was a country becuse the ships from your little flyspeck on the Maine coast outnumbered the ships from some of the European nations."

  Eban laughed. “We're hardly a flyspeck, Captain Potts. We're a healthy town of two thousand people. Of course, about two hundred of them are sea captains."

  Lucy added wickedly, “And we've got eleven shipyards. One of them was started by Eban's great-grandfather."

  Captain Potts opened his mouth to retort, but before he could s
ay anything the companionway door was flung open and a burly man in rough clothes and a knit cap came stomping in. With no more than a glance toward Eban and Lucy, he made for Captain Potts and said, “I've left Gilkins in charge, Cap'n. Both watches are having their dinner. I hope he doesn't let the men get out of hand."

  With a warning glance that indicated the Hales, Potts said brusquely, “We'll allow the men to have a gam with their visitors, Mr. Willis.” He turned to face Lucy and Eban with a forced smile. “This is my first mate, Jack Willis,” he said. “He'll have dinner with us."

  "And Mr. Gilkins?” Lucy said, though she knew the answer.

  "He'll eat at second table,” Willis growled.

  "Mr. Willis...” Mrs. Potts began, and trailed off. Lucy didn't know what she intended to say, but she could tell that Willis made her uncomfortable.

  Willis remembered whatever passed for manners with him. “Ma'am,” he said grudgingly, “Captain."

  "Let's all be seated, shall we?” Mrs. Potts said brightly. Willis took a spot at the far end of the table. He did not remove his cap. Mrs. Potts rang a bell for the steward, and he brought in the first course, some sort of clear soup served in little cups that Lucy recognized to be Chinese export ware in the ubiquitous Mandarin pattern—probably from Potts's cargo. Nobody seemed inclined to talk; Mrs. Potts appeared flustered and distracted, Willis sat like a sullen lump, and even McKay, whom she would have expected to have a ready supply of small talk, sat silent, with a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. Lucy cast about desperately for a topic of conversation, and her eyes lit on the central serving platter—a huge reticulated dish that was decorated with a garden scene of peacocks and blossoming trees.

  "That's a spectacular centerpiece, Mrs. Potts,” she said. “Wherever did you find it?"

  Mrs. Potts came to life again. “Isn't it impressive?” she responded with sudden animation. “Mr. McKay loaned it to me for the dinner party. It's from his collection. Wasn't that good of him?"

  Lucy looked inquiringly at McKay. “Collection?"

  "More like booty, Mrs. Hale,” he said with a veiled hint of boastfulness in his tone. “It's part of the lot of antiquities I got from Woo Lin. Private cargo."