Persia imagined that she could hear the very words from the captain’s sarcastic lips. She bristled. A delicate lady indeed!
“Well, that’s just fine, Dawkin,” she answered in an annoyed tone to the innocent steward. “But you tell your captain for me that, if I’m to remain here, this will no longer be referred to as the ‘master’s stateroom.’ And I want no further intrusions upon my privacy. If he would like to have a word with me, he may speak to my man Fletcher and arrange an appointment, as he would if he were a gentleman.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dawkin replied, bowing his way out of her compartment. He wasn’t sure how Captain Hazzard would react when he delivered her stinging message, but he didn’t relish the thought. He decided to tone it down a bit before passing it along.
During the remaining time that the ship was at Gray’s Wharf loading its cargo, Mrs. Blackwell and Captain Hazzard had no trouble keeping their distance. Zack spent most of the time making final arrangements in town for the loading of the ice and provisions. As for Fletcher, he had yet to meet the captain. Persia had sent him ashore to enjoy his final days of freedom before they sailed. The weather was foul, so for the time being she kept to her cabin. She saw no one except for the steward who brought her meals, and he made no mention of the ship’s master, knowing the animosity that already existed between the pair. She still didn’t know the captain’s name, but she refused to ask Dawkin, knowing that he would report her curiosity to the man himself. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
Persia read, she slept, she wrote final letters to family and friends. Until—if luck were with them—they happened to speak a homebound ship at sea, there would be no further opportunities for posting mail until they reached Bombay in four months’ time.
When Fletcher came on board at dawn the morning they were to sail, Captain Hazzard was far too busy to notice the man. More dirty weather was blowing in, and there wasn’t a moment to lose if they wanted to get under way on the appointed day.
Fletcher spied the captain at a distance. The ship’s master was shouting orders to First Mate Barry, trying to be heard above the rising wind. Persia’s servant noted the scar running through his wild beard and the tangled mass of silver hair whipping about his grizzled face in the wind. The man looked evil. Fletcher shivered with a premonition of disaster, then hurried below.
Although Persia had kept to her cabin, awaiting their sailing, she’d followed, by the sounds, all that was taking place above to ready the ship for sea. Now, on the very morning of their departure, she could go down the list as if she’d had an active part in the loading operation. The day before, provisions for the journey had been brought on board. She had heard the clucking and squawking of chickens, geese, and ducks. Even now she could hear a dozen or so pigs grunting in their sty on deck. The sheep and the vegetables—winter squash, turnips, carrots, potatoes, and pumpkins—would be safely stowed belowdecks until their time to grace the table. Barrels of flour and molasses, hogsheads of water, jugs of wine, demijohns of rum—all were in their places. The last item to be loaded would be the hundred barrels of Baldwin apples, literally worth their weight in silver on the market in India.
As she sat in her little velvet rocking chair, she could hear the tramp of boots coming up the gangway. That would be the crew, returning from their final shore leave. Fletcher would be among them. She wondered if the captain had stayed on board last night, or if he was the sort to seek out a woman in these final hours before land and its intimate comforts slipped away. If he had stayed on the ship, where had he slept? Were those his boots she’d heard pacing the smaller compartment next to hers late into the night?
Persia rose and flung the book she hadn’t been reading onto the bunk. She was annoyed with herself for even thinking about the man. Why did she let him upset her so?
Besides, she had much more important things to concentrate on. Finally, after dreaming about it all her life, she was about to set sail for India! She refused to allow anything—even an arrogant captain—to spoil the excitement of this moment for her. And, too, she was about to embark on a whole new life—as a wife, and eventually, she hoped, a mother.
She decided not to wait for Fletcher to come for her. If he was back, he was probably busy stowing his own gear in his assigned compartment. There could be nothing wrong with her going on deck alone. She pulled on her veiled bonnet, flung a warm cape around her shoulders, and left the cabin.
The harbor pilot, who would see them safely down the Charles River, was on the quarterdeck, talking to the captain, whose back was to her. The gangway was hauled aboard. The lines were cast off.
Persia stood back, out of the way. This was a precarious time, she knew. Everything had to be done with split-second precision in order to get the Madagascar under way without a hitch. Orders flew back and forth faster than seagulls on the wing. Persia leaned against the rail, eyes closed, savoring the song of the sea.
“Heave short!” She heard the groan of the hand-operated capstan and the creak of the anchor cable as the slack was taken out of it.
“Set the tops’ls!” This order was followed by the flap-flap of canvas in the wind as the six topsails unfurled. She knew without opening her eyes that the sailors aloft in the rigging were overhauling the running gear while the sails were set.
Then came the most exciting call of all: “Break her out!”
The anchor was up. They were under full sail. And Persia’s heart was singing.
The motion of the ship and the sound of the wind zinging through the rigging, pushing the canvas before it, worked together to fire her blood and spark her imagination. She didn’t even notice when the ship slowed to allow the pilot to climb down into the smaller craft that would take him back to the Boston Light.
Not until Mr. Barry and Second Mate Stoner began choosing the starboard and port watches did Persia’s attention return to the ship’s crew. The sailors—dressed smartly in black tarpaulin hats, red-and-white shirts, blue bell-bottomed pants, and pea coats—queued up at the vessel’s waist for this routine procedure. The two mates took their places near the poop deck. Persia viewed the whole scene with interest, knowing that these few moments would decide with whom each man ate, slept, and worked for the next four months. As the sixteen sailors were called, name by name, each man moved to the starboard or to port, to work either with Barry or Stoner.
The captain was nowhere in evidence. Persia knew he would be in the charthouse, recording the bearing taken shortly after the pilot’s departure, noting the weather in his log, and plotting the ship’s exact position on the charts.
“Starboard and port watches chosen, Captain, sir!” the first mate boomed out suddenly.
Through the black veil, Persia saw the tall figure as he came out on deck as if through a haze. He stopped just outside the charthouse door, and his gaze seemed to lock on her. A strange chill ran through her veins, only to be followed a moment later by a curious, caressing warmth. The man was magnetic, if nothing else, she had to give him that.
Releasing her now from his imprisoning gaze, he stood before his crew, raising his big hands for silence, even though there was no need for such a command. He was tall, craggy, whipped by the wind and the seas like a tree trunk turned to driftwood. Persia thought she had never seen a man who looked so cruelly used by life—his hair and beard white before their time, his face scarred and lined. She couldn’t imagine why she felt attracted to him. Maybe it was those eyes, so dark and burning, or the powerful stance that made him seem a part of the ship he commanded.
Suddenly, his voice boomed in the quiet. “Hear me, men of the Madagascar! I am a hard taskmaster, but just. You will heed my orders. You will do your duty. You will put this ship and its cargo first at all times. Or you will pay the price for your shiftlessness and insubordination.”
Persia stood frozen, mesmerized, listening to his voice. There was something so familiar about it—not from their first encounter aboard ship a short time ago, but
from the distant past. The inflections, the huskiness, the very tone of it, sent a delicious shiver through and through her.
He continued, “We have a lady on board… a missionary’s wife.” He inclined his head toward Persia, and several of the crew members turned to stare. Some eyed her coolly; some smiled at her. “You will belay the rough talk whenever she is about. I will not have a lady insulted in any fashion while she’s on my ship. Am I understood?”
“Aye-aye! Yes, Cap’n!” the crew chorused.
“Very well, then. We understand each other.” He waved a hand at the men as if dismissing them, then added, “By the way, for those of you who don’t know it already, my name is Hazzard. Captain Zachariah Hazzard.”
Persia felt her knees go weak beneath her. She gripped the railing to keep from sinking to the deck. A red haze filmed her eyes.
Zachariah Hazzard? It couldn’t be!
Her gaze was frozen to the man. Her Zack? The only man she’d ever loved… the man who should have been her husband and the father of her children? Her heart pounded a frantic tattoo. A kind of joy filled her that had been absent since that snowy night in Boston long, long ago. She started toward him. She had to tell him.
“Zack, darling…” The words trembled, inaudible, on her lips.
Her tears were brimming. She mustn’t cry—not now! Slipping her left hand under the veil, she brushed at the dampness on her cheeks. When she did, she felt cold metal chill her flesh. The freezing sensation went straight to her heart.
Withdrawing her hand, she stared down at her wedding ring as if it had suddenly appeared there out of magic. Evil magic!
Now her tears came in earnest. She had no right to Zack any longer. She was another man’s wife. How could fate have played such a cruel trick?
She turned and started back to her cabin, but his voice stopped her. “Mrs. Blackwell, please, might I have a word with you?”
She faced him, fighting for control behind the veil. “Yes, Captain?” Her voice was a muted whisper. Her whole body was trembling.
“I want to apologize for the other day. I shouldn’t have burst into the cabin, even though I did think it was mine. And I certainly should not have lingered there, embarrassing you so. I hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t think we should begin this voyage with bad blood between us.”
His full lips quirked in a smile, and she felt herself melting before him. Zack! Yes, it was truly her Zack!
He went on, “This ship isn’t large enough to contain petty quarrels. I thought we might put an end to our differences over dinner tonight.”
She waited so long to give him an answer that he finally asked, “Mrs. Blackwell, are you all right?”
“Yes, Captain. Quite,” she replied at last. “I accept your apology, but I must decline your offer this evening.”
“Oh, really. I’m disappointed. Perhaps some other time?”
“Yes, Captain, thank you.”
She didn’t wait for him to say anything else. She couldn’t stand another moment of gazing into those warm brown eyes, of hearing that voice, of knowing he was back but that she couldn’t have him. Turning quickly, she hurried below to the cabin.
Barring the door, she tossed her hat and cape aside and fell to the bunk, sobbing her heart out.
“Zack, Zack,” she cried. “Why now? Why here? Why after all this time, my love?”
Zack stared after the woman. What an odd way to act. He could almost swear from the quiver of her voice that beneath that black veil she had been crying. But surely a simple apology couldn’t have moved her to tears. Still, who could ever figure out women? He certainly never expected to be able to. For instance, why had she declined his invitation to dinner? Didn’t she know that it was customary for the ship’s master and the supercargo to take their meals together? Didn’t she understand that there was a certain ship’s etiquette to be observed? He was trying to be civil, but if that didn’t work…
By God, he could demand her presence at his table! And maybe he would!
“Captain, we’re passing the Cape Cod Light,” Mr. Barry called.
Zack turned, his attention shifting from the woman to the last sight he would see of American soil for a year or more. He leaned against the rail, staring out over the sea as the light flashed dimmer and dimmer. There was a fresh wind. They were moving well. Soon even the faint echo of the light on the clouds would be lost to him. It was time to face the other direction—to look ahead, not back.
Suddenly, a strange melancholy stole over him. It always came at this point in a voyage. Perhaps it always would. Leaving behind his native shore meant that he was also leaving Persia behind. It didn’t seem to matter that he hadn’t seen her in ten years or that he probably never would again. His heart remembered and ached for her still.
As Persia lay in the roomy cabin, exhaused emotionally and physically, the walls seemed to be closing in on her. What was she going to do? She couldn’t stay cooped up here for four months in order to avoid him. Her black veil would serve for a time, but only until they passed out of the cold climate. She certainly couldn’t continue to smother herself in netting once they crossed the equator and passed into the tropics. Sooner or later, she knew from hearing her father tell of those dreadful times, they would be caught in the doldrums. Not a breath of wind. Only the blazing eye of the sun scorching everything in its view. During those long, stifling days, everyone lived on deck in order to survive. She would die of the heat if she stayed belowdecks.
But all that was weeks away. The here and now were what worried her most. She had to become accustomed to the idea of having him close to her again before she let him know who she really was. She decided to tell the steward, Dawkin, that she was indisposed and would be forced to remain in her cabin for the time being. No one would think it odd that the only woman on board was feeling a bit queasy the first days out. She might even stretch her isolation into a full week. They would probably assume that it was her time of the month. Yes, it might work! And she would have time to adjust to Zack’s presence and figure out what to do next.
Satisfied with her plan, she forced the matter out of her thoughts. She undressed and climbed back into bed, taking her Bible down from the shelf. Surely reading it would calm her. After a short time, she dropped off to sleep.
Fletcher’s knock woke her early in the evening. She donned a dressing robe and unlocked the door.
“Miss Persia, excuse me, please. I did not know you were napping.”
“It’s all right, Fletcher. Come in.”
The man stood very erect beside the door, nervous at being in his mistress’s bedchamber.
“Is there anything I can get for you or do for you, Miss Persia?” he offered.
“No, thank you, Fletcher. I can’t think of a thing.”
“Well, then I will be in the galley with the cook, if you don’t mind. The fellow is from Pitcairn Island, the same as I. We have much to talk over, Rolf and me. We may even be cousins!”
“That’s fine. I shouldn’t be needing anything this evening. See to it that Dawkin brings my supper. I plan to turn in early. And I won’t be about tomorrow at all. I’m not feeling very well.”
Concern distorted the tattooing on the man’s face. “Miss Persia, should I ask the captain to bring the medicine chest?”
Horror struck at Persia’s heart. She had forgotten for the moment that the ship’s captain also served as physician to the crew. The last thing she needed was for Zack to come to her bedside and learn the truth there!
“No, don’t do that. I’ll be fine. I’ve just had too much excitement these past few days. You go along now and enjoy your visit with the cook.”
Persia was trembling when she closed the door behind Fletcher. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. It was one thing to plan one’s life carefully and know exactly where it would lead. It was quite another to have fate tangle and twist it until nothing made sense any longer.
S
he sank to the bed, staring at the calm sea out the stern windows. It was sunset. Patterns of apricot, plum, and scarlet quilted themselves across the face of the waves. The sight was beautiful beyond anything she had ever seen in her life. Tears filled her eyes again, but this time she wept with pure joy.
The thud of boots in the compartment next to hers brought her out of her tranquil mood. It was him She was sure of it.
How had he happened to sign on to the Madagascar? Her conversation with Seton Holloway suddenly came to mind. If it was Zack’s name on the other ship’s cargo manifest, it meant that he hadn’t been long in port. He must have applied to Mr. Tudor’s office when word spread about Captain Gideon’s accident. And he’d signed on without ever knowing she would be aboard. That must be it. If he’d known, certainly he would have said something immediately.
Then another thought entered her mind. What if he had simply forgotten all about her? Ten years had separated them. And how many sea miles… how many other women?
She was glad when Dawkin arrived with her supper. She didn’t want to think about it any longer.
“The cap’n sent this with his regards, ma’am.” Dawkin placed a bottle of chilled wine on the table. “He said to tell you he hopes you’ll be dining with him soon.”
“Thank him for me, won’t you, Dawkin?” She managed a smile for the steward. “But tell him that I’m a bit weary. I plan to stay in my cabin for a few days, until I’m rested up and have my sea legs under me.”
“I’ll pass the word right along to him. Eat hearty now, ma’am. There’s nothing makes sea travel harder to take than an empty stomach.”
Hours later, Persia was still tossing in her bed. She had only nibbled at the breast of chicken and baked winter squash and sipped at the wine. She had no appetite. And sleep refused to come. The cabin felt stuffy and too warm. Outside the windows, the moon was playing silver tricks with the sea, while a million stars cast down their gleaming reflections. Suddenly she remembered the night of the aurora borealis. The air had been so cold and clean that long-ago evening, just as it must be up on deck this very minute.
Hot Winds From Bombay Page 23
