by V. E. Ulett
“Slavery gives rise to excesses, wantonness, and cruelty.” The doctor seemed absent for a moment, a pained and almost savage expression on his face. He shook himself and gave Aloka a kind but thin smile. “The head injury bears watching, Mr. Blackwell. And a reduced duty, if there is to be any duty—”
“Oh there shall be, Doctor, if I have my way. I have one or two I must return to without loss of a moment.”
“You may put on your clothes, Mr. Blackwell. For the next twenty-four hours you are to rest. And I do not like that rash upon your torso, sir.”
“Why, Doctor, the place was full of vermin, you know. These are nothing more than insect bites.”
Two weeks later the bites had not disappeared and Aloka was inclined to believe good Doctor Sparrman in the right; it was a rash. Still he did not think it of sufficient importance to call upon the Blonde’s surgeon, Mr. NcNeath. He could certainly not spare the time now, with Emma waiting for him to escort her on deck. The ship was becalmed, but they would eventually pass through the variables and then there would be the heavy work of sailing round the Horn. Aloka wanted to make the best of this time with Emma before duty consumed him. He finished dressing, pulling his shirt out a bit from his breeches so the cloth would chafe less. The officers had been allowed to dispense with waistcoats, and many wore straw hats in place of their Naval scrappers.
Aloka ran up the after companion ladder to the upper deck, feeling giddy and with a racing heart. There had been signs in their relations of late that Emma would soon grant him the ultimate favor a woman could bestow, and invite him to her bedchamber. In this Aloka had refused to make the first move, she being so young and innocent, but he knew the Hawaiian ladies had been working upon her. Since his imprisonment in Brazil they’d been particularly strident in urging Emma to seize life and all it had to offer.
Such advice could not displease him. He fairly leapt up on deck, and was staggered by the brilliance of the day. Really, it was shockingly bright. Aloka put his head down, hurried the few steps to the door of the coach that gave onto the upper deck, and knocked on Emma’s door.
“Who’s there?” Her sweet voice answered at once.
He was glad she continued to follow this protocol, impressed upon her while they were yet aboard Albion.
“Mr. Blackwell, at your service.”
She immediately emerged from her apartment, looking lovely as a spring day—an English spring day, he couldn’t compare her to the airless stillness they were experiencing at present—and wearing a demure little bonnet to shield her face from the glare. Aloka clapped his own hat on his head with a happy smile, and gave Emma his arm.
They made a circuit together of the deck, walking down the starboard gangway to the forecastle, and then back along the larboard side. Forward of the break of the quarterdeck was the area where the men and the watch on deck gathered, so Aloka did not stop or linger, but moved steadily along. The seamen knuckled their foreheads, and the other officers greeted them. All eyes, he was aware, were on his companion.
The only time they halted was when Kimo approached them, one of Admiral Kapihe’s servants. The boy had adopted Aloka, acting as his servant as well aboard ship, while intimating it was the old admiral’s wish.
“The Admiral sends to invite you and Wahine Blackwell to join him under the tapa.”
Captain Verson had caused an awning to be rigged on the lee side of the quarterdeck, for the comfort and convenience of the King’s suite. It was to the shade of this sail-cloth covering they were invited. Aloka and Emma directed slow steps to the quarterdeck.
Several of the Hawaiians were playing a game very much like English draughts, with fourteen rows of black and white pebbles laid out and undisturbed by the ship’s gentle, rocking motion. The Blonde’s head was gradually drifting through all points of the compass. The Hawaiians had brought their soft, woven mats up on deck, and many lay reclined full length upon these, watching the ship’s business, or with eyes closed and half-smiles on their broad faces.
Kapihe was one of the lollers about, but one eye popped open at their approach. He welcomed Aloka and Emma with uncommon zeal and invited them to a seat upon his mat, which, however, he knew they must refuse. Aloka because he was a ship’s officer and could not sit upon the quarterdeck, and Emma because she was his companion. She often sat upon these same mats in the cabin, in company with Li‘liah and the ladies.
“I had a dream about how you should be tattooed,” Kapihe said, smiling on the pair of them.
“Did you, sir? I am obliged to you for the condescension. May I know in what the design consists?”
Aloka’s formal way of speaking Hawaiian always pleased Kapihe. The old man launched into a description of the complicated symbols for waves and sea that he envisioned, acting out some of these with the motions of a hula or dance.
Emma and Aloka listened with great attention and respect, grave looks upon their faces, except during the hula parts when they had to smile.
“I do not propose the designs be on your backside and loins.”
Aloka glanced quickly at Emma, he was unsure how much Hawaiian she understood. She stood with her gaze cast down and a slight flush on her face. He could make nothing of that, however, for it was a warm day.
“No, that is a thing the present generation cannot like,” Kapihe said, “as being of their grandfather’s day. I propose you put the tattoos here and here.”
The old man grasped Aloka’s upper arms and beamed into his face.
“Could be, he’s afraid of the pain, Kapihe,” Kuanoa said, flexing his own biceps and chest muscles.
This made Kuanoa’s tattoos stand out, the name of the great king Kamehameha I, and the date of his death. Aloka suddenly became aware he was exposing Emma to bare chested men and loose talk.
He tried to keep guilt from his face as he stepped back a pace, and gripped Kapihe by the forearms. “Thank you for relating your dream, sir, I shall consider of it deeply and we may discuss it again. There are many days between now and when we shall reach the Islands, so I trust I will have sufficient time to work up courage for the event.”
Aloka stared pointedly at Kuanoa as he uttered this last. Kapihe’s face broke into a wide grin, and he clapped both Aloka and Kuanoa on the shoulders. After taking leave of the Hawaiians, Aloka drew Emma’s hand back on to his arm. He escorted her to the taffrail, where Aloka thought they could not be heard by the King’s people.
Emma was relieved to be away from them; she liked all the Hawaiians except for one. She could not like Kuanoa, nor the way he stared at her, suspecting from her father’s questioning he’d had to do with Aloka’s imprisonment. She turned to Aloka, they were somewhat alone at last, the officers on the quarterdeck having moved considerately away.
“My Hawaiian is grown quite good, you know, spending so much time with Li‘liah and the ladies.”
She gave him an arch look, and it had the intended effect. Aloka smiled, then laughed, and she watched the tension go out of his shoulders.
“I’m sorry to expose you to such talk, Emma. Lord knows Father would not like it.”
“And yet Papa’s the one with the tattooed arse.”
“Hush, woman!”
Aloka’s eyes belied his stern tone. His look of kindled affection stirred something inside her, something that fluttered in the area of her womb. Emma stepped closer to him, though she did not touch him.
“Perhaps you’d like to come to the coach tonight, and show me all the places your tattoos might go?”
“Oh, Emma! My dearest—”
“Just say yes.”
Any other answer would be unbearable, after she’d worked her courage up so to ask him.
His answer had been yes, yes with all his heart. Aloka stood the second dog-watch, feeling a bit ashamed of how he fluttered inwardly with anticipation. One would think he was the maiden and not she. When the watch ended he went below to his cabin to have a little refreshment and wash. He was to meet Emma at a quarter past n
ine, and he would not be on duty again until midnight.
Aloka’s heart would not stop racing, and he felt oddly weary and uncomfortably hot in his cabin as he stripped before the bucket where he would wash. He removed his shirt and gave a low moan. The rash was much worse, it covered his torso, arms, and with his shaving mirror Aloka was able to see it was all over his back. Light headed, he climbed into his cot to think. Much as he had hoped and dreamed of intimacy with Emma, he could not go to her blotched over with this...whatever it was. He had a vague notion of sending for Mr. McNeath.
His thoughts were disordered, and he sat in his cot with his head drooping, his chin on his breast. Aloka was aware of a great feeling of anguish in his breast, but after a time he couldn’t recall the exact reason why it was there. His head hurt intensely, much as it had when he’d woken in the cell in Botofogo. He felt so entirely wretched, especially at recollection of those dark hours, that he lay down. Aloka told himself he would rise directly for he had a strong sense he must be somewhere, there was something he had to attend to.
Promptly at nine Emma was washed and perfumed. She’d decided it wasn’t proper to meet him in a dressing gown with her hair loose, even though she’d invited him for that purpose. She was fully dressed with her hair pinned up, and doing her best to control her anxiety. Emma remembered what her mother once told her, ‘All men want is what is different to themselves, and to be loved and respected’, and the more earthy advise of the Hawaiian ladies, who could be quite graphic. When the ship’s bell struck four times—her heart pounding in time, for it was now ten o’clock—her anxiety was reaching a fever pitch.
A tap came at the coach door and Emma sprang up from her cot. She stopped herself before opening it, and called out “Who’s there?”
“A message from Lieutenant Blackwell.”
Emma flung wide the door and Kuanoa pushed his way in. He literally bumped her with his chest, shoving her backward into the apartment, and pulling the door to behind his back. Emma’s heart began to beat harder.
“What are you doing here, sir? What message have you from Aloka? Where is he, what’s happened to him?”
“That I don’t know. I do know he has missed his meeting with you, and I’ve come to take his place. I will initiate you into the ways of Venus. He will thank me for it.”
“No, he won’t!” Emma heard the squeal of panic in her voice. She took a deep breath. “You must leave at once. I do not want you here. I do not want you, and I shall scream for Captain Verson.”
Kuanoa snorted and shook his head, reaching out strong, muscular arms for her.
“Captain Verson! Mr. Montelongo! Blondes! Blondes, to me!”
Kuanoa wore a shocked expression at her cry. Had he truly believed she would submit to him? His amazement increased when Captain Verson burst in. The captain was followed by Mr. Montelongo, with his dirk in his hand, and by the midshipman of the watch, Mr. Whittemore. A marine private brought up the rear. Emma’s apartment was suddenly crowded with five men and herself.
“Miss Emma?” Captain Verson said, glaring at Kuanoa.
“He said he bore a message from Aloka, so I opened the door to him, sir. And then he would not leave.”
“Sir, you will return to your quarters and never distress or disturb this young lady again.” Captain Verson stood directly before Kuanoa, looking up at him. “I will brook no irregularity in this ship. You are an honored guest, but it is all one to me whether you pass your voyage in the great cabin or below in chains. Your behavior shall determine which. Do you understand me?”
Kuanoa regarded them all. Emma was standing before her berth with her trembling hands clasped in front of her, Captain Verson stoney faced, Mr. Montelongo beside him still gripping his weapon. He shrugged and nodded, pushing past Mr. Whittemore and the marine at the door.
“Mr. Whittemore, Mr. Price, accompany Mr. Kuanoa back to his quarters,” Captain Verson said.
Kuanoa’s quarters were no more than a few steps away, in the great cabin itself. Mr. Montelongo shut the coach door and, like a brother, held out his hand to Emma. Emma rushed over to him relieved. She’d always found Captain Verson a stern and forbidding man, somewhat like her own father.
“Captain Verson, forgive me. He frightened me so, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did right, Miss Emma. And there is nothing to forgive. Mr. Montelongo and I were taking a lunar on the quarterdeck when we heard your cry. The question is can you be comfortable, even with the latches upon the doors, with that man so close by? We can try signaling your father’s ship tomorrow, and have you removed to Albion if you wish.”
Emma felt she’d set a disaster in motion. The last thing she wanted was to explain this disgraceful sequence of events to Captain Blackwell and her mama. She was searching for words to decline, when a tap sounded on the door and a young voice called in, “Miss Emma! Miss Emma! Do come, Aloka has the sickness.”
Captain Verson whirled round, crying out “What in God’s name!”, and threw open the door. Kimo stood there shaking with distress.
Emma could hear them talking in the wardroom, just the other side of the canvas door separating Aloka’s cabin from the officer’s dining space. Captain Verson, Mr. Montelongo, and Mr. McNeath. They said ‘gaol fever’ and ‘ship fever’, while Emma wiped Aloka’s sweating face with a damp towel. She’d stayed in the cabin when the surgeon examined him, off in a corner next to Mr. Montelongo, and seen the ugly rash covering him, and how he could make no coherent responses to Mr. McNeath’s questions. Aloka was in the throws of a fever, a hectic flush and sheen of sweat overlay his tanned skin.
She had not meant to listen to the officers’ conversation, but it proved impossible not to attend to every word. Emma gathered there was a great fear of contagion. Mr. McNeath talked of miasmas and tainted air, and Captain Verson had already rousted out any sleeping officers and sent them away and posted Mr. Whittemore at the door to prevent anyone coming in. Emma hesitated much in rising to go speak to them; hadn’t she been schooled in the fact a ship’s business and men’s affairs was none of her own; but the sight of Aloka decided her. She leant forward and put her cheek against his burning forehead and kissed him, then handed the towel to Kimo and went out of the cabin.
“Captain Verson, gentlemen, pray forgive the intrusion. I could not help but hear your discussion.”
They’d fallen silent immediately when she stepped out of the second lieutenant’s cabin.
Emma knew she must address herself to Captain Verson. “Sir, with respect. May I suggest Aloka be moved to the coach, where I can be in constant attendance on him? The officers may have their quarters back and he will be separated from the crew. The Hawaiians are near, but will know to keep off because of the sickness. In the morning you might signal Albion and have us both taken off if you judge it proper.”
Captain Verson bowed to her. There was relief, she thought, possibly even admiration on his face. “You have great good sense, Miss Emma. But are you quite sure you will expose yourself to the risk of—”
“Quite, quite sure, sir. I thank you for your kind concern. I have the leisure to care for him. Under Mr. McNeath’s direction, of course.”
“Mr. Whittemore, go ahead and clear the way to the coach. All hands to stand aside, I do not want any more men involved. Then return and bear a hand with Mr. Blackwell.”
The four officers; Captain Verson, Mr. Montelongo, Mr. McNeath, and Mr. Whittemore; bore Aloka bundled in his cot aboard a stretcher, to the coach. The most difficult part was the change of decks, negotiating the stretcher up the companion ladder. There was a great deal of sweating and maneuvering, and calling of directions to one another. The seamen having been warned to stay back, watched their officers’ efforts with frowns and disapproving looks. At last they thumped Aloka down on the planks in the coach, removed him from the cot by means of a blanket placed under him, slung the cot anew and heaved him back into it.
“He shall be very well here, at least for the pres
ent.” Mr. McNeath took Aloka’s pulse one last time, and gave Emma instructions for Aloka’s care. He turned to Captain Verson. “Let us discuss the fumigation of the wardroom, sir.”
They were most assiduous in their precautions, the wardroom was fumigated with charcoal, and Captain Verson caused the berth deck to be washed with vinegar and water. The plan to remove the sick man to Albion was given up next morning, a fresh breeze having come up. Albion, lighter and faster, had already moved away and out of sight. The Blonde must proceed as she was, one lieutenant short, and Captain Verson set a course to round Cape Horn.
Emma’s world shrank to the space enclosed by the bulkheads of the coach, and care of Aloka. In this she was assisted by Kimo, who helped clean up when Aloka vomited, and held him while he relieved himself into a pot. Emma was no stranger now to all those places his tattoos might go, for she washed him, and dressed him in a nightshirt that he would then sweat through. Her friends did not forget her. Besides attendance from Mr. McNeath and his mate, one or more of the officers stopped by daily. They took it in turns to see she had air and exercise on deck, and Li‘liah offered to sit with Aloka while Emma slept in her berth.
On one of the last visits Captain Verson made to the coach before the working of the ship took up all his time and energy, he ordered another fixed berth built into it.
“I fear he may be too flung about in his cot,” he told Emma. “It will be easier to lash him into a fixed berth.” He gave her a conscious look. “We have been most fortunate, no one else has sickened.”
“Amen, sir.”
“May I say, Miss Emma, you are a very sensible woman. Just like your mother. I hope that doesn’t displease you.”
Emma assured him quite the opposite was the case, and sat down again on the three legged stool beside Aloka’s cot after Captain Verson had gone. She propped up Aloka’s shaved head and tilted water from a cup into his mouth.
“I licked moisture from the walls in my cell,” Aloka said.
