Falconer's Quest

by T. Davis Bunn

  Reginald sighed noisily and changed the subject. “Lillian was not pleased with your instructions that she remain in Washington.”

  “She might have proved a peril to us all, had she insisted upon making this voyage,” Falconer explained once more.

  “Yes, perhaps. Though I must tell you it was a most difficult decision for her to take. She has sent you a letter. I have it somewhere. She assures me she has held to a pleasant tone. I also carry letters and best wishes from Serafina, three of those, and her parents, one from each. And her husband, Nathan Baring, has written several introductions to people he assures us will be of considerable help along the way. He agrees with your decision not to visit Washington, by the way. He says it was most sensible, and sends you his sincerest regrets over your loss. As do the others.” Reginald pondered the deck by his polished boots. “There. I believe that is everything. Yes.”

  “We shall have ample time to discuss such matters.”

  “Indeed so.” Reginald opened his coat and withdrew his pocket watch. He flipped open the cover, then smiled at Matt’s round-eyed surprise. “Have you never seen such a timepiece before, lad?”

  “No, sir. How does the cover spring so?”

  “I shall show you. And more besides, because the back opens to reveal the most remarkable instrument you shall ever lay eyes upon. But all that must wait a bit.” Reginald nodded approval as the steward directed two seamen to carry Falconer’s chests into the aft cabins. He then called to the quarterdeck, “We are ready to depart, Captain.”

  The captain, clean-shaven save for long sideburns that ended in dagger points, bellowed, “Officer of the watch, prepare to make way!”

  “Aye, sir.” The lieutenant stood by the portal leading belowdecks. He raised his own voice and called, “Cast off there! Bosun, pipe the mainsail!”

  Reginald watched the sailors leap to do the skipper’s bidding. He lowered his voice so that Matt would not hear. “I fear this mission shall prove mortally dangerous.”

  Falconer tasted several replies before settling upon, “Your visit to Salem has already proved a healing balm. I can only hope that I shall be able to return the favor.”

  Chapter 5

  Two days after clearing the barrier islands and entering deep ocean waters, they met with a blow straight from the southwest, the driest of Atlantic winds except when escorting a hurricane. Captain Harkness spent the better part of a day searching the far reaches with glass to his eye and conferring with his chief lieutenant, a studious young man by the name of Rupert Bivens. The captain eventually decided they were in no immediate danger, and Falconer agreed. They held steady to their course and did not turn north.

  The ship was a clipper, as were half of the Langston fleet. A newfangled design, these clippers were distrusted by many sailors. They were narrow at the beam and handled like a racing horse, quick off the mark and very sensitive to any alteration of course or wind. But they flew. Falconer had traveled twice before upon them and remained fascinated at the way they sliced through even the roughest of seas.

  The waves crested as high as the ship’s foredeck, and beneath the blue-black sky the waves marched into the horizon like silver mountains. Their course held them to an angle, so they met the waves just ahead of the starboard beam. The ship did not bob nor sway, as Falconer would have expected. Instead, the vessel gripped the wind in teeth of canvas and cleaved straight through the incoming crests. He spent hours by the wheel, observing how the steersman turned it ever so slightly, such that the ship met the wave’s crest almost head on, and then allowed the departing swell to guide it back on course. Even in these great seas, a light hand was required for such maneuvers.

  Many of the passengers were rendered helpless by the heavy seas. The ship rolled and at times took water over both gunnels. The rigging creaked and the wind sang in the rigging. From his place beside the steersman, Falconer could hear any number of belowdecks passengers moaning in agony. Thankfully, Matt remained untouched by seasickness. He spent hours at Falconer’s side, adopting the wide-leg stance to absorb the motion and viewing the majesty of this new world in wide-eyed silence. From time to time he would ask a question, and Falconer would respond at length, introducing him to the sailor’s lore as he would any new midshipman.

  The crew took an instant liking to the boy, vying for his attention and opportunity to teach him something new about ships and sailing. In the hours when Matt busied himself with shipboard activities, Falconer read and reread the many letters brought from Washington, and even smiled a time or two over the words. Serafina had used Lillian’s most recent portrait of her son Byron to sketch an excellent likeness. Byron was twenty-six now. His upraised chin, narrow nose, and arrogant expression revealed a man who felt born to privilege and power.

  Falconer spent a goodly amount of time with Reginald. But in truth he preferred nothing more than the company of his boy, and Reginald Langston did not press himself very often upon the pair. They spent many hours in quiet companionship. When one of them spoke, it was often to reminisce. Neither of them talked overmuch about the precious days with Ada. The crisp sea air and the growing distance to anything they had shared with the much-loved woman granted them space, and now the space was lit by the spark of recollection.

  Over tin bowls of burgoo one morning, Matt upturned his spoon so that the sloppy mess dripped back into his bowl and asked, “What do you think Mama would have said about this?”

  “Nothing good.”

  The mixture was colored a treacly brown and to Falconer’s mind tasted of tar. Matt continued, “I wonder what her guests would say if she’d served up such a bowl at breakfast.”

  Falconer ate with a seaman’s ingrained habit, spooning the burgoo so fast he tasted little. He set his empty bowl aside. “There are many things in this world that are open to mystery. But one thing I can say for certain. Even if the inn’s very existence hung in the balance, Ada would not have served her guests burgoo.”

  “Mama was a good cook.”

  “She was that.”

  “And you ate a lot, Father John. She loved watching you.”

  Falconer smiled into the wind. “It was not a hard task, doing justice to your mother’s cooking.”

  “Mama used to say if ever you lay abed, you would grow big as a brown bear in a week’s time.”

  “Aye. I remember that as well. Eat your food, son. It’s important to keep up your strength on such a voyage as this.”

  Matt did as he was told. “It’s awful stuff, this burgoo. Do you ever grow used to it?”

  “Aye. But not such that it ever tastes good. At least not to me. Though I’ve met sailors who claim they relish nothing better.”

  Matt scraped his bowl clean. Falconer took it and stacked it upon his own. “I believe you’ve as much on your face as you put inside your belly, lad.”

  Matt used a corner of his shirttail to wipe his mouth. “What was the most favorite meal Mama made for you?”

  Any breakfast, Falconer started to say, but the sudden lump in his throat kept him from responding. In those early days of their marriage, Falconer had taken to sitting in the kitchen, drinking his first mug of sailor’s tea and watching the strengthening light play upon her. His wife. Bustling about their kitchen. She often sang to herself as she worked, and the light caressed her face and illuminated her hair. And the light in her eyes when she glanced his way….

  “Father John?”

  Falconer cleared his throat. “Her apple flapjacks.”

  “I liked them as well. So much.”

  Falconer saw the lancing pain flicker across Matt’s features, a mirror of what he knew his own face showed. Falconer ruffled his son’s hair. “I spy the middies gathering for their morning lesson. Why don’t you join them?”

  Falconer sat alone, his face into the wind, and waited for the sea to work its magic and continue the healing of the rift in the flesh where his heart was.

  Six days out was the first shipboard Sabbath. The morning watch s
et sails over the foredeck. Those passengers who felt well enough gathered for a service, capes and coats gathered tightly about them in the wind. The captain spoke about Isaiah, quoting the prophet at length and not once glancing at the text. As they sang the closing hymn, an albatross took up station by the lee stern. The great wings remained motionless in spackled-gray splendor. A number of the passengers, including Matt, were delighted with the appearance. Falconer, however, had never known the bird to fly this far north. When one of the ladies declared it to be a good omen, Falconer felt a steel edge of fear, as though he knew the words to be wrong, but he had no conscious reason for his certainty.

  Around midnight he came awake with a ragged start. Falconer had spent years enduring nights cut short by nightmares. He swung his feet to the floor and paused to taste the cabin’s air. There was no lingering hint of an already forgotten dream. He dressed swiftly, reaching with a sailor’s ease for clothes he could not see. He checked on Matt, who slept easy in the aft cabin’s other bed, then slipped out.

  The wealthier passengers occupied six cabins arrayed along the rear of the ship. The uppermost chambers were traditionally known as the captain’s and owner’s cabins. Reginald Langston occupied one, and the captain remained in his traditional berth only because Falconer refused to usurp the ship’s commander. He and Matt berthed one deck below. The outer walls to both their cabin and the corridor were angled slightly by the ship’s narrowing girth. From below he heard the rough rumble of the ropes connecting the ship’s rudder to the wheel. From above came the quiet slap of a sailor’s bare feet. Falconer leaned against the wall, slipped on his boots, and climbed aloft.

  The night was clear, the wind steady. The stars thick as froth. The waves shone silver-black and marched in somber majesty beneath a quarter moon. The wind blew from the same quarter, not having shifted a notch, not rising or falling, as stable as any seaman could ever wish for. Falconer spied the lieutenant, who leaned against the foremast where it rose from the foredeck, whistling an idle tune. The steersman continued to meet each incoming wave with handy ease. The watch stood at their stations. All was well.

  Falconer was about to put his sudden concern down to an overabundance of dried peas at supper when the door leading from the poop cabins slammed back. Captain Harkness appeared, his feet jammed into sea boots and his greatcoat flapping over his nightshirt.

  The lieutenant stiffened to a semblance of attention. “Evening, sir.”

  “What’s your report, Bivens?”

  “Wind steady at south by southwest, Skipper. Ship’s making good time.”

  “Is she.” Harkness stumped up the narrow stairs leading to the quarterdeck. “Any sign of storm?”

  “Sky’s been clear all night, sir.”

  “No thunder off the horizon?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  Harkness jammed his fists deep into his greatcoat pockets. He gave the ship a careful study. Only then did he notice Falconer, who stood behind crates of chickens lashed to the main mast. Harkness might have nodded at him, but in the darkness Falconer could not be certain. “Do a sounding.”

  “Aye, sir.” The lieutenant motioned to an able seaman, who took up the coiled slender rope with a heavy brass weight tied to one end. He slung the weight off the lee railing and allowed the ship’s motion to carry it down and back.

  The seaman called softly, “No bottom, sir.”

  “Cast again.”

  When the answer came back the same, the captain grunted and once more inspected the sails. “Have the men go aloft and check the rigging.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  But there was nothing amiss topside. Even so, Harkness remained on the quarterdeck through the dawn. Several times he glanced down to where Falconer stood by the main mast, but Harkness did not address him.

  The seamen had caught their master’s concern. The next day’s watches held to a sense of tight alert. The crew bounded at the first call to whatever duty arose. The passengers who were not prostrate with seasickness went about their business, and clearly the skipper saw no need to voice his concerns to Reginald Langston. The day came and went with the active regularity of a long sea voyage.

  The sunset was another splendid affair. Gradually the sea turned to great copper mountains and deep bronze valleys. The sky, clear as glass, glowed momentarily and then relinquished itself over to the vast field of stars and the same quarter moon. Falconer, exhausted by a day of tension without reason, retired immediately after dinner. His last glimpse abovedecks was of the captain by the quarterdeck railing, strained and fatigued by a day far worse than his own, staring out at the empty southern reaches.

  Falconer awoke again in the middle of the third watch. He lay in bed trying to tell himself that it was nothing. But he had long lived by trusting his gut, and just then, his gut churned with genuine fear.

  He dressed, checked on Matt, slipped down the hall, and climbed the stairs to come out on deck.

  The lieutenant nodded to him and spoke with the respect due a guest of the owner. “All is quiet, Mr. Falconer.”

  “Aye.” But he was not so certain. “Permission to climb aloft.”

  “Of course, sir.” Clearly the young officer had been informed that the stranger had served shipboard.

  “Thank you.” He clambered swiftly up the ropes with the ease of a man whose hands had long been molded to the tarred hemp. He pulled himself into the crow’s nest, nodding to the middy wrapped in his greatcoat. “All’s well, midshipman?”

  “Aye, sir. Thought I saw a whale off the starboard side, but it didn’t sound a second time so I can’t be sure.”

  “Not so close as to be a threat.”

  “No, sir. Not that it seemed to me.”

  Falconer nodded. The most important thing to come from the exchange was the fact that the middy was both awake and alert. “Do you have a glass on you?”

  “Aye, sir.” The midshipman reached into his pocket and handed over his telescope.

  “Thank you.” Falconer extended the spyglass and turned to the southwest. Directly into the wind.

  Then he saw it.

  It came and went in such a glimmering flash he wanted to discount it as an illusion of a sleepy gaze.

  But he knew it was not so.

  “Do me a favor, will you, lad?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Slip down to the deck. Ask the lieutenant to make a careful search into the wind.”

  “But, sir, my station…”

  “I’ll take responsibility, lad.” There it was again. And this time Falconer was ready for it. And the image made it hard to hold to a measured tone. “Hurry now.”

  The middy glanced doubtfully at the stranger but did as he was instructed.

  Falconer held his glass steady south by southwest. Refusing to even blink.

  The flash came again. Now he was sure, and the fear crept up his throat.

  A leaden line had formed between the ocean and the sky, split every so often by a slash of lightning.

  Falconer slapped the spyglass shut. He reached for the rope connected to the crow’s nest alarm bell. He rang it, and it seemed as though his own heart pounded with a terror as brash as the bell.

  He leaned over the nest’s railing and roared with all his might, “All hands on deck! Raise the captain! All hands on deck!”

  Before the bell stopped ringing, the poop door crashed open. This time the captain held his coat in one hand and his boots in the other. His nightdress fluttered about his bare shins as he stared upward.

  Falconer yelled down, “A blow, Captain!”

  “Where about?”

  “Ten points off the windward stern.” Falconer could see the separation now without aid of the glass. “She’s bearing down hard! We’ve got fifteen minutes, maybe less.”

  The captain’s voice rivaled Falconer’s for urgency. “Night watch aloft, rig all sails for storm!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Prepare a storm anchor and await my orders.
Lieutenant!”

  “Sir!”

  “Lash everything double tight!” The skipper looked back up to Falconer. “Have you known tempests such as this?”

  “Aye, Skipper, that I have.”

  “Then I’ll thank you, sir, to take charge of the wheel.”

  “Aye, Skipper.” Falconer was already moving for the ropes. “And please have your steward see to my boy.”

  “Soap!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Captain’s compliments to the owner. Mr. Lawson is ordered to remain in his cabin for the duration. You keep the lad safe.” The captain shrugged himself into his coat. “Look lively, lads! Our very survival depends upon it.”

  Chapter 6

  The storm now was visible to all on deck, a beast of the night that rumbled toward them on legs of fire and wind. Its roar, audible at fifty leagues and more, announced the waves coming at them like enormous fists beating against the ship’s timbers and flinging their froth as high as the topsails.

  Captain Harkness used a canvas trumpet to add volume to his shouted instructions. Sailors raced against the approaching tempest, clinging to ropes high overhead as they hurried to batten down the sails. They clutched the canvas to their chests, drawing their billowing lengths into slivers tight as new moons. Ropes were tossed back and forth in such practiced haste it would have been remarkable to witness had it not been for the monster now claiming all the horizon as its own.

  The midshipmen were ordered below—all but the eldest, a lad of seventeen who helped the sailors hammer wooden chocks around all the portals leading belowdecks. When Falconer felt a grinding through his boots, he knew the captain had ordered all the bilge pumps to be doublecrewed.

  The ship was surrounded by a ghostly illumination. One moment all was black. Then lightning danced upon the waves and the crew’s frenetic activity was thrown into garish view. Yet more lightning split the clouds high overhead into great shards of brilliance. The blasts seemed to punch the billows toward them, boiling up and forward at an impossible speed.