by V. E. Ulett
“I wish you would not. His sacred duty!”
“Allowances must be made for the Service, my love. It has fed and sheltered us all these many years. Come, we must greet Li‘liah.”
“Oh, not yet. Just a few more minutes.”
They could only linger together a short while longer. Mercedes was aware Captain Blackwell waited for her. They knocked and walked into the cabin where Li‘liah, two other ladies and two men, Boki and Kuanoa, met them. The Hawaiians were eager to show Emma all the conveniences of the quarters, and while this was happening Mercedes said, “Excuse me just a moment. I shall return directly.”
Mercedes hurried into the passage outside the captain’s cabin, and along the gun deck. She did not mean to go far, in her quest for a midshipman.
A young man in uniform rattled down the after hatchway companion ladder.
“Oh, Jack! Mr. Verson, how glad I am to see you.”
“Miss Mercedes!” Jack exclaimed, as he’d done when he was a boy of five.
Mercedes had been his school mistress, and taught him his letters. He was now a lanky young man, whose face had a hollow appearance from the depredations of his time as a prisoner.
Mercedes gave him joy of his release, and Jack said, “It is an honor to have both Mr. and Miss Blackwell with us this cruise, Ma’am.”
“You are very kind. Do you know if it is Mr. Blackwell’s watch at the moment?” Mercedes looked abashed asking the question, she knew a thing or two about Naval etiquette.
“No, Ma’am, it is not. May I be of service to you?”
“I would be obliged if you would ask Mr. Blackwell to join me in the captain’s cabin, if he is at leisure.” Mercedes looked at Jack Verson, and then she suddenly embraced him. “Bless you, dear Jack.”
The two captains were anxious to set sail on the evening’s tide, the wind being fair to carry them out of Portsmouth. They had discussed the wind and tide, the state of the ships and their crews, and neither being particularly talkative, Captains Blackwell and Verson had long since exhausted their store of conversation. Yet they stood together on the weather side of the quarterdeck, the domain of senior officers only, in a companionable silence.
Captain Blackwell lost his cheerful look when Mercedes and Emma at last appeared on deck, followed closely by Aloka, who gave Emma his arm as soon as they’d gained the deck. A stern expression came over his features, and remained in place during the leave taking. All of the ship’s officers appeared on deck, and they exchanged bows and handshakes, and, in the case of Mercedes and Mr. Montelongo, kisses upon both cheeks. The two women clung to one another. Whatever Mercedes said to Aloka in parting brought tears into his eyes.
The first into his boat saving his coxswain, Captain Blackwell had the satisfaction of guiding Mercedes himself, and settling her safely beside him in the stern. He glanced over at her during the pull to Albion. The sea was choppy and the breeze had turned fresh.
“Come, sweetheart,” he said, putting his arm round her waist and pulling her against his side, “no tears, now. You shall see her again directly.”
He sincerely hoped not too soon, however. If the wind dropped, who knew but that they might be stuck in Portsmouth harbor some days. An idea repugnant to his feelings; Captain Blackwell longed to be under way and at sea. He looked forward to the comfort of naval routine and an ordered way of life, enlivened by the much cherished woman beside him. He wanted an end, or at least a respite, from the complications of shore life.
Emma had imagined a certain closeness to Aloka, walks together upon the deck under a blue and sun filled sky, surrounded by a placid ocean, intimacy and private moments of conversation. Instead there were continual squalls of rain, and a choppy and cross-grained sea that kept the officers constantly at their duty, and the passengers confined to their quarters. Except for a brief stop in Madeira, when the Hawaiians went ashore to recruit themselves, conditions were singularly disagreeable.
She was seasick, along with some of the Hawaiian contingent, and many of the landsmen in Blonde’s crew. During these episodes the last thing Emma wanted was to be seen by Aloka. Even in the worst weather he came to the cabin daily to enquire after her. What Emma longed for when she was low and vulgar with nausea was her mother’s cool hand on her brow, her loving and practical presence. She sincerely hoped Mercedes was being looked after, and not too cruelly flung about. Kuanoa, the King’s treasurer, and Kapihe, his admiral, were seafaring men, both had made voyages to China. They went about unaffected by the sea’s motion. Li‘liah and the native ladies, and the Blonde’s surgeon Mr. McNeath, late of Imperieuse, attended to Emma.
The passage from England to Brazil seemed to Emma an interminable misery, but to Captain Blackwell and Aloka, and the rest of the professional seamen it was nothing more than a bit of squally weather and lively seas. And then they were gliding into the harbor of Rio de Janeiro in splendid weather.
Emma was recovered and up on deck. Aloka approached her, as they passed through the harbor’s narrow entrance, and she felt her heart throbbing like the vibrant prospect before her.
“I am sorry you have been so unwell, Emma,” he said, with a considering gaze. “You are very much paler, but no less beautiful.”
Such words could not be unwelcome at any time, much less when Emma thought she was not in her best looks.
“I shall hope to be a better sailor directly. What a glorious place you’ve brought me to.”
The Blonde slipped past the great rocks on either side of the narrow harbor mouth and opened the view of the bay and anchorage, with steep and forested mountains rising up round it.
“I’ve brought you to? That would be me, Captain Verson, his officers, and two-hundred ninety men.” Aloka grinned and took her hand.
They gazed at the neighborhood of Botofogo away to larboard, and on the opposite shore, amid groves of citrus trees was the village of Pray a Grande. Aloka told her of these places, for he’d been here before, while holding her hand in a firm and caressing grip.
“Captain Verson shall come to anchor just opposite the city. That is the church of Nossa Senhora de Gloria standing on its own upon the hill. Rio de Janeiro has a fine aqueduct and a number of churches and convents. I shall take you on shore, to see the sights, with your Mama if she pleases. There is Albion, already snug in her berth.”
The swift sailing schooner had preceded them. Captain Blackwell had her swinging to her cables. She was naturally easier to bring to anchor than a 46-gun ship of war. The first lieutenant called all hands to moor ship, and Aloka moved away with a final warm squeeze of Emma’s hand.
Aloka did squire Emma and Mercedes to those sacred places. The last shore party they, and others from Albion and Blonde were attending was a great entertainment given by King João of Brazil’s purveyor, Don Eduardo de Paiva. This suave, cunning, and enterprising gentleman courted the company of Kuanoa during the Blonde’s stay in Rio, with an eye to current and future profit. The highlight of the evening was to be a phantasmagoria Don Eduardo was presenting to the Hawaiians.
Don Eduardo and Kuanoa stood together to the side of the long gallery where the phantasmagoria was to be presented, watching a contingent of local officials and their wives file in from the supper parlour. They were followed by the Hawaiians and the British visitors. Captain Blackwell was there, with Mercedes on his arm, Mr. Montelongo representing Blonde, and Aloka and Emma. They took their seats in rows of chairs.
“A fine and elegant creature, Miss Blackwell, no?” Don Eduardo said. “She would be worth a ship’s load of sandalwood in China, perhaps two.”
“I should like to marry with her,” Kuanoa said.
“Is she not promised to the young sprig sitting beside her, all eagerness and attention?” Don Eduardo gave his companion a penetrating sideways glance.
“Maybe.”
Kuanoa shrugged, a gesture among the Hawaiians expressive of many things.
“My friend,” Don Eduardo said, “perhaps we can be of use to one another.�
��
Don Eduardo’s principle pursuit in life was being of use, the preferred partner in trade and nefarious doings, while above all serving his own interests.
The Hawaiians having all sat down, on chairs or on mats as best suited, Don Eduardo and Kuanoa found two chairs. At a signal from Don Eduardo the spectacle began. The Tower of London, London Bridge, and the Thames were first pictured. The variety of craft and commerce upon the river loomed up, the great buildings with steps leading directly down to the Thames, and next the crowded London streets. Excited exclamations rose from the Hawaiians as they recalled seeing these sights for themselves. Next came the Tuilleries in France, and the canals of Amsterdam. They were viewing the Danube when Boki suddenly jumped up and faced the assemblage. The projected image wavered over Boki’s body, and he raised his arms over his head.
“Stop, I beg you.”
“What is it, Mr. Boki?” Don Eduardo was on his feet, waving his hand so that the candle in the projection lantern was blown out. A little groan went up from the gathered company as the image disappeared from the wall.
“I beg you will save some of the pictures for my countrymen in O‘ahu. The Ali‘i of all the kingdom will wish to see them, and we must not use them all.”
Don Eduardo pursed his lips; altruism, self-sacrifice, these were sentiments almost unknown to him. He looked attentively at the expectant faces of the Hawaiians, his esteemed guests, and calculated their worth.
“Mr. Boki, your laudable request shall be honored.” Don Eduardo bowed to Boki, and then turned to the company in general. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your kind attendance this evening.”
There were murmurs of disappointment, even disapproval from the locals in the room. Many felt Don Eduardo ought to have made the nature of the phantasmagoria known to the island savages so the entertainment could continue. Don Eduardo was indifferent to the opinion of these guests. Before the Hawaiians, and Captain Blackwell and his party, Don Eduardo asked to speak to Kuanoa, the King’s man of business, about the remaining projections.
The two men retired into an adjoining room, and the majority of the company left to await their carriages. Captain Blackwell and Mercedes, along with most of the Hawaiians, said their goodbyes and departed. A short while later Aloka and Emma, and Mr. Montelongo, chatting companionably, were moving toward the door. Emerging from the room where he’d met with Don Eduardo, Kuanoa rushed after them.
“Your father?”
“He took his leave. He has returned to his ship.”
“He means to keep the entire amount,” Kuanoa said, his voice ringing with distress. “The whole of the three thousand dollars I gave for our provisions. Don Eduardo says between what has already gone aboard Blonde, our expenses ashore, and these pictures Boki will have, there is nothing due in return.”
“I shall send for my father,” Aloka said.
“No.” Kuanoa reached out and grasped Aloka by the forearm. “There is no time for that. You must help me. Don Eduardo will listen to you, you are an officer in King George’s service.”
Aloka hesitated, glancing at Emma and Mr. Montelongo. They had both assumed neutral, non-committal expressions. He returned the pressure of Kuanoa’s clasp.
“Emma, you will not mind if Mr. Montelongo sees you back to the ship? I shall follow directly. I must support Kuanoa and the King’s people against this sort of ill-usage.”
Aloka could not quite comprehend why Don Eduardo de Paiva was in such a furious temper. He had very meekly asked for an accounting of the items that had been purchased by Kuanoa on behalf of the King’s suite.
“You will have a list, will you? Why then, greens, fruit of a dozen sorts, onions, sweetmeats. Fresh meat, poultry and pork are very dear. And then there is the water and wine.”
“The King’s people do not take wine, sir. The wine and water would have been for the ship’s account.”
Don Eduardo’s face went livid. “How dare you suggest any irregularity of that sort! And then there is the matter of the phantasmagoria. The magic lantern and the pictures upon glass!”
“I did not mean to suggest any irregularity, as you call it, sir.” Aloka took a step toward Don Eduardo. “But three thousand dollars is a grand sum for the King’s people to have spent in a single port.”
Now it was Don Eduardo who leaned in close to Aloka. “I am not obliged to give an accounting to a junior officer. To an insolent puppy who need not concern himself in what is not his business, business he could not comprehend if it was.”
Aloka’s head jerked as though he’d received a blow. His expression grew cold and he stood upright, preparing to make his bow. “I shall make Captain Blackwell acquainted with your proceedings, sir. Good—”
At the same time Aloka bent forward at the waist, he was shoved violently from behind. He fell into Don Eduardo, head butting the older man to the floor. Don Eduardo instantly began to abuse him in much stronger terms than puppy. ‘Black bastard’ was a particular favorite, until he switched from English to Portuguese. Aloka heard him shout “Guarda!”
His hand sought the sword at his side, as he disentangled himself from Don Eduardo on the floor. A trio of soldiers rushed into the room. One dealt Aloka a tremendous blow to the back of the head as he tried to rise.
Men were moving in the shadows between the commercial buildings. Emma and Mr. Montelongo were nearing the quay, in an area of warehouses and storerooms quite deserted at this hour.
“Mr. Montelongo, there are men up there before us.”
“There are several more behind. Your Mama taught you to use the sword? You must take my dirk. I wish I had another blade to give you.”
Mr. Montelongo handed Emma his steel dirk. It was not finely edged, meant as it was for disciplinary purposes.
“Listen now, Miss Emma. I shall set up a great cry for our men, and with the blessing they shall hear, the night being so still. We will meet the attack like the Romans, back to back. And whatever happens, Miss Emma, do not let them separate us.”
Emma barely had time to gather her skirts, and roll material up under the waistband of her gown to give her feet freer play. She adjusted her weapon in a good grip, and the attackers rushed them: three from behind, and two in front.
“Blondes!” Mr. Montelongo shouted. “Blondes, to me!”
Mr. Montelongo yanked Emma down, and a stout wooden cudgel whistled over their heads. Straightening and lunging, Mr. Montelongo paid the man with a sword thrust through his guts. A hand reached out and scrabbled at Emma’s upper arm. She brought the hilt of the dirk down hard into that grasping arm. There was a cry, she stabbed out toward it. The weapon met resistance, she yanked it back and struck at another man fronting her. Emma shouted along with Mr. Montelongo, shrieking the name of their ship into the still night.
They fought close to one another, trying to keep in step. Emma was the taller and larger of the two, but once or twice she reached out and grasped Mr. Montelongo’s jacket or his arm. The ruffians had fallen back after the initial attack. They had no edged weapons, but menaced with wooden cudgels and clubs. Three unwounded men faced them, schooled to respect for Mr. Montelongo’s sword. These men bunched together and circled them, edging round toward Emma. Mr. Montelongo turned with them, as though in a dance, placing himself and his steel between Emma and the attackers.
“Blondes! Blondes!”
They heard the sound of running feet pounding toward them.
“Thank God! The lobsters,” Emma cried.
Musket shots, and their attackers turned from them and ran like hares down the street. Four of the youngest, fleetest seamen sped past Emma and Mr. Montelongo in pursuit.
“Cease fire, goddamn it!” Mr. Montelongo called. The Marines, enthused, continued discharging their weapons. “You shall hit one of ours.”
Mr. Montelongo called back the pursuing seamen. They dragged between them the two wounded ruffians.
“What to do with these sorry fuckers, sir?”
“Mind your langua
ge, Bates, there’s a lady present.”
Mr. Montelongo ordered the midshipman, Mr. Whittemore, the son of the man who’d once been Captain Blackwell’s premier, to proceed to the boat with Miss Blackwell, four of the Marines, and all but two of the seamen. Emma departed with a reluctant glance at Mr. Montelongo but, schooled in the ways of the Navy, she knew an order when she heard it.
The remaining Marines Mr. Montelongo directed to face the street and watch for any approach, while he and the two sturdy seamen hauled the wounded men against the side of a store house. Only one man was capable of responding to Mr. Montelongo’s questions. He was wounded in hand, shoulder, and thigh, and his refrain was “No Ingles, no Ingles.”
“Should we carry him to the ship,” Bates asked, “give him a couple good knocks, to loosen his tongue like, sir?”
“We’re going to leave these men here. Captain Verson does not want scum near his ship. Their mates may come back for them, if they will.” Mr. Montelongo knelt down so he was face to face with the ruffian. Forcefully and directly into the man’s face, Mr. Montelongo said in Spanish, “Tell whoever sent you the Royal Navy doesn’t give up our own at the first salvo. If we find out who is behind this, they will be made to smell hell.”
The last remark gave Mr. Montelongo great satisfaction. He’d once heard Captain Blackwell use it before an action. Many years had passed since then, when Mr. Montelongo was the midshipman interloper from Spain Captain Blackwell had taken into his ship out of pity. He had admired the English mariners greatly then, and his feelings had not changed a great deal since. His party returned quickly to the quay and the Blonde’s boat.
Mr. Whittemore yielded his seat next to Emma in the stern and moved forward to the bow. He greeted Kuanoa, who had slipped into the boat and was taking a place near him.
“Should you like to be rowed to Albion, Miss Emma?” Mr. Montelongo asked gently, as they neared the two ships. “To pass the night with your parents?”
