“You are far from home, little one.” Chilled, she wrapped her arms around herself, thankful for the earthy scent of Thor’s shirt as she stepped farther down the lane. “But I do believe you’ll fare just fine,” she whispered.
As Aven neared Jorgan, the bird dipped and turned back the way it had come, wings spread sure and steady. Not so much as a falter in the steady pump, pump, pump as it rose higher. A determination. A steady climbing. And a reminder that just like a bird seeking a haven, the lost would do all they could to find their way home.
SEVEN
APRIL 24, 1895
SPEIGHTSTOWN, BARBADOS
THE CREW STOOD ON DECK AS THE PORT warmed with a Caribbean sunrise. The round glow burned on the horizon—streaking the rolling sea that spread around their anchored ship. Water glittered as liquid gold, and freshly stained decks glistened, filling Haakon with a warmth that promised to thaw the ache in his bones if not his soul.
Just minutes ago the business agents had convened on the dock for the paying of port charges and to price the crystal ice. They would argue anywhere from ten to twenty-five cents per pound. With summer up ahead and with the extensive households of wealthy Englishmen and plantation owners on the island, not to mention a ship full of men needing to be paid, the bartering in British currency was already passionate.
Behind the businessmen stretched white-sand beaches where palms leaned at water-reaching angles. Locals roused for another day of trade and labor amid colonial buildings and rustic huts. Their voices filled the air as English in the island cadence. A welcome and familiar sound, so often the ship returned here.
Haakon leaned against the main mast and waited for the signal to unload. His stomach grumbled despite their early-morning meal of hard biscuits and salt pork. What he wouldn’t give for fresh fruit. With the opportunity only hours away, he tried to ignore the way his stomach complained over the stale breakfast. It didn’t help that a dark-skinned woman treaded along the dock with a basket of such wares on her head, her manner of dress not unlike Ida’s sister, Cora, or her niece, Tess, who often wore such head wrappings.
With thoughts of home haunting him more and more, Haakon forced the noticing aside and watched as the businessmen bartered—this, one of the most unnerving parts of the voyage. It wasn’t un-common for a winter’s worth of work to be sold below market value out of sheer desperation to unload. Worse yet, to anchor in port only to learn that a different company had arrived just days prior, filling every icehouse to the brim. Haakon had seen it before. An entire ship forced to unload its cargo into the bay. Tons upon tons of ice heaved overboard into warm waters to protect ship and crew from the dangers of melting ice on their return voyage.
Restless, Haakon shifted his boots and flicked at a bug that buzzed around his head. Beside him, Tate sighed. With the bartering taking longer than usual, even the boatswain stood tense. A rare thing.
Finally, the signal was given. A deal had been struck.
Tate issued orders, and the crew hustled into action, spirits rising as the sun did. Below deck, a pulley hung anchored to steel hoisting tongs, and men grunted as they hauled up the first block. Standing atop deck, Haakon used a large set of hand tongs to clamp the slippery ice and shove it across the deck. While he worked quickly, he took care with aim and force because a sliding three-hundred-pound block could crush a man’s bones. Every sailor knew the dangers, and it kept the work efficient as they pierced the ice with picks and passed the blocks down ramps to waiting wagons. The drivers would take the frozen cargo to icehouses long since built to laugh in the face of the hottest summer months.
Haakon secured another block and shoved it forward. He kept at it while his muscles loosened and his breath quickened. It was wet work, and while the ice stung his hands even through his gloves, they would soon be numb, and he’d forget about the cold. Clamp and drag. Hold and shove. He did this over and over, sliding the dense blocks across the boards to the next crewmember. Every muscle in his arms and back strained to keep the blocks in control, but he didn’t falter so much as once. While chunks of it littered the deck, crunching beneath their boots like snow, they all took care not to damage or crack the valuable product as each piece was hoisted up, slid toward the ramp, and skidded down where it was loaded for transport—each crewmember laboring as a well-oiled machine.
He worked alongside his fellow men for the better part of the day until the last block had been hoisted from the hold and slid across the deck, down the ramp, and hefted into the final wagon. Though exhausted, the wet and weary men celebrated with whoops and cheers. As crewmembers set about swabbing up water and laying away tools, the captain strode along the decks, tipping his hat to those who served beneath him. He shook hands with anyone in reach, even the youngest of cabin boys. An honor and one they had worked hard to earn.
Haakon shook the captain’s hand, beholden to this man for allowing him on board as a lost young buck long ago in the port of Norfolk, Virginia. The bruises Thor had pounded into him hadn’t even been healed when he signed up to join this crew, and now he’d seen the northern hemisphere half a dozen times over. An adventure he’d only dreamt of as a boy.
While he didn’t wish the last years away, there was one thing he would trade them for.
That he never would have given Thor cause to break down the door that day.
When a deckhand came by with a sopping mop, Haakon moved aside and joined his fellow mates in search of pay and papers. Funds were distributed, each man receiving in full what he was due. Whenever they sold cargo in port, the crew was paid half of their earned balance, but with the voyage at an end finances were squared away—this the completion of their service on the ice trade for the year.
While most of the men inked their names into the ledger for another season of service, Haakon couldn’t get his hand to press the tip to the line.
Though some would seek positions aboard ships bound to new regions, Haakon didn’t wish to sail for any vessel other than the one that had become his home. With such loyalty rallying, he nearly signed his name in that breath, but instead set the pen aside and shot out a sigh. He exchanged a look with the first mate who oversaw such transactions and then with the boatswain who was waiting to go ashore.
There were days yet to decide, so Haakon stepped away. He could come back later and commit once he had a chance to stretch his legs and clear his head. Now, with his wages in pounds sterling, he had a mind to satisfy that craving at the markets. He’d be wise to resupply on clothing and boots worn thin with hard labor and briny air, but the shirt on his back was sound yet, so he’d splurge on other wares.
For a few days, the crew would relish life at port while the captain and first mate procured the next round of cargo to be hauled to distant lands. Then the time would come to load the ship with sugar and spices. Once that was delivered across the deep, Le Grelotter would be chartered for new trades as she always was until winter winds hailed her back to Norway.
Enjoying the stretch of freedom, Haakon strode with his crewmen down the dock. Bobbing along the bay were several small vessels with fishermen towing in nets. On shore, baskets of fish filled carts to be hauled to the marketplace—the same direction Haakon and Tate aimed. Neither of them evoked attention to their fresh pay, Haakon’s coins having been stored in a leather satchel around his neck. The small bag hung beneath his shirt, safely out of sight, and while he’d had thugs bully him about it before, they’d only ever come to regret it.
Just past the beaches, the market spread between balconied buildings and humble shanties. There, air flowed ripe with the smell of spices and fresh foods of the most exotic kinds. Tate secured a handful of roasted bread fruit, and Haakon bought some kind of grilled meat, nearly scorching both fingers and tongue to wolf it down. He got a second for Tate, then purchased a dram of rum, throwing the aged liquor back in one shot. As Haakon returned the wooden cup, Tate admired a colorful ladies fan. He opened and closed it with care.
Haakon eyed him. “Really?
”
Tate chuckled. “Was thinking of it as a gift.” He set the fan aside.
“You’re honestly planning on going home, then?” Haakon bought his own roasted bread fruit and ate the soft flesh as they started on again. It was hardly sweeter than a potato but was easily the best taste he’d had in weeks.
Tate tore off a piece of the spiced meat. “Just as soon as I can procure passage to the States from here. I’ll ask around tomorrow. I spoke to the captain last week and offered my resignation. He was disappointed, but he understood.”
Haakon halted. “You’re being serious.”
“Did it sound like I wasn’t?”
“You’re actually going home?”
“I can’t say it any more plainly.”
“What about your brother?” For a season, Timothy Kennedy had sailed with them, but preferring the Scandinavian lands, Tate’s brother had joined a crew on a well-paying Norwegian vessel in the North Sea. They passed him now and again when they were in that stretch of ocean and had seen him but weeks ago.
“He’s content.” Tate bit another piece of meat, then licked the tip of his finger clean.
“You didn’t try to talk him into coming with you?”
“He’s a grown man. He knows what he’s doing.”
Probably why Tate wasn’t trying to talk him into it either.
It would be so much easier if he did.
Having halted in front of a tavern without realizing, Haakon heard a feminine voice beckoning them from above. The busty islander leaned over an iron railing. Her skin was the color of melted chocolate, a sharp contrast to her painted lips of cherry red. She waved at them, and soon several more women came onto the balcony to garner interest from the newly arrived sailors milling about the market. Tate glanced at the women, then back to the path. Frustration flickered in the tightening of his eyes. He sniffed and crammed his hands in his pockets. Though he appeared collected, his composure always became more strained under such attentions.
Haakon grinned as he followed Tate farther down the street. Why his friend was determined to remain chaste these years at sea was something he couldn’t begin to comprehend. As for himself, he made it a point to secure female company whenever he wished. For the rest of the crew who partook of such comforts, they sought it at taverns upon arrival into ports, but Haakon put off pleasantries of that nature until closer to departure. He bided his time, and it was during the days ashore that he browsed potential conquests.
Though tavern wenches were a tempting lot, he’d chosen to steer clear of them to avoid the disagreeable aftermaths that plagued some of his fellow men, and since he rather liked a challenge. Because of that, it was young women of the surrounding farmlands he sought. His pursuit of them was far from easy, but that was half the appeal.
As for Widow Jönsson, she hadn’t so much as inferred an indulgence would happen between them. He sensed she had cared for him, which made her reasons awfully noble. That humbled him more than he wanted to admit. The fact that he kept thinking about her humbled him further.
He’d spotted her at a distance, during the beginning days of their ice harvest there. Seeing no man on her farm, Haakon had suggested to the captain that they procure some of her goat’s milk. With the captain’s agreement, Haakon had volunteered to hike up to her small farm and trade coin for jugs of the fresh milk she gleaned each morning. She said little to him that first day, but upon the second he learned that her husband had been buried only months before. On the third day Haakon motioned to a break in her fence and inquired as to if he might repair it for her.
And so had passed nearly three weeks of trying to court her. While the familiarity didn’t produce what he’d wanted, she’d endeared herself to him in such a way that it vexed him that he couldn’t remember her name. He’d always made it a point not to remember names, and as much as that shamed what was left of his soul, there was little he could do about it now.
He sensed she’d known that too. The night in her barn, as she’d bundled up the newest addition to her small herd, she’d looked at Haakon, and with the new life beating within her touch, whispered that she’d never seen a man so far away in his eyes. It was as though thousands of miles separated them, despite the fact that they sat side by side that snowy night. He’d hated how close she’d gotten to the truth. It was one of the reasons he’d risen that morning without waking her. He wasn’t used to near strangers seeing more than he meant. Though he doubted she was naïve to the way he’d been living, she couldn’t have been aware of Aven or his shame there.
While he wished for some way to amend that—he didn’t know who he needed to speak to the most right now: the woman from Kristiansand or the woman he’d left behind on Blackbird Mountain. Both were on distant sides of the Atlantic, one much nearer than the other. A reality that prodded him toward what he needed to do. Was he really ready, though? He had to be.
With some help for the journey in sight, Haakon slowed to a stop before an old man seated on a stone stoop. The man was hunched, legs so thin they didn’t look like they would bear his scant weight. A knobby crutch sat beside him, but what captured Haakon’s focus was the basket of coca leaves beside it.
Haakon freed several shillings from his pocket and dropped them in the merchant’s hand. The man stacked six leaves and placed them on a shred of coarse cloth. Dissatisfied, Haakon shook his head. He pointed to the man’s basket and gestured for more. The man babbled at him in words he didn’t know.
“Can you help, please,” Haakon called over to Tate.
Though having picked up languages well enough to secure the position as boatswain, Tate glanced to what Haakon aimed to buy, then shook his head.
“Please?” He was rather desperate.
“Sorry, no.”
Perhaps a different approach, then . . .
Haakon thought of the four French words he knew and used them in random succession. With all of them quite colorful, the old man went wide eyed, then angered. He spat a slew of words back.
Tate rushed over. “What is wrong with you?” he huffed at Haakon, then to the vendor, “Je vous demande pardon.” He went on to explain something more—probably describing that Haakon was ill in the head as a way to appease for whatever it was he’d said. Tate finished with another apology. “Veuillez m’excuser.”
“Veuillez m’excuser,” Haakon mimicked and motioned to the basket. At least he’d gotten Tate over here to help.
But his friend just pulled off his spectacles and used the hem of his shirt to polish the first eye piece. “He says that’s all you get.” He started on the second round of glass.
Irritated, Haakon pulled out enough coin to feed a Barbadian for weeks. The merchant’s eyes widened again. “Tell him this is his if he does a proper job.” In the coming weeks he was going to need all the courage he could get. More courage than he’d ever needed in his life.
“I’m not helping you with that,” Tate said.
“Please.”
“I guess you should learn to make more friends.” Backing away, Tate started off again.
Biting back a growl, Haakon crouched and lowered the money for the merchant to see. With unhurried movements, the man counted out two dozen leaves. Haakon waited and the merchant added four more. Satisfied, Haakon nodded.
The purchase was bound up, tied with a length of grass, and handed over. The leaves inside were valued like gold in some parts of the world. Even buried with the dead. So with care, Haakon stashed the package in the pouch he kept around his neck. Later, he’d hide some in his pack—stitching them inside the canvas as a reserve that even his fellow seaman didn’t know about. If he rationed this, it would last for a few months. He tried not to think about what would happen when he ran out. In that moment, he recalled Thor’s suffering upon quitting the bottle. That had been voluntary, but it had been a fierce withdrawal all the same.
Haakon straightened the cord around his neck and stepped away. Coca wasn’t something that could be procured in the st
ates, let alone Blackbird Mountain.
It made him crazy to be thinking of going home.
Doubly crazy for jogging through the marketplace to catch up to his friend. Downright insane for gripping Tate’s arm, halting him, and with a struggle to catch a breath, asking him to secure passage home not just for one . . . but for two.
EIGHT
MAY 5, 1895
BLACKBIRD MOUNTAIN, VIRGINIA
THOUGH THE MEMORY WAS AS THICKLY HAZED as his delirium had been that long ago day, Thor could recall a time when he had clamored down the hallway of the house, both Jorgan and Haakon trying to hold him down with all their might. It was shortly after his twenty-eighth birthday, and he’d spent days locked in the attic as a way to keep others safe during the hallucinations that quaked him from a loss of alcohol. From the choice he’d made to try and let the bottle go.
It was because of that delirium that Thor had broken out of the attic, forgetting even his resolve to stay shut away. Knowing the dangers, Haakon had chased him down the hallway, tackling him against the wall so hard they’d nearly ripped a hole through. Jorgan put up as good of a fight, and even Ida’s nephew, Al, had rushed in to help. Crazed, Thor dragged them all forward, desperate and bewitched by his cravings. He punched and thrashed, doing everything he could to get free, surrendering on the stairs only when he’d blacked out from sheer exhaustion.
That had been three to one, and still Thor nearly beat them.
So this? The fact that it was with a trembling hand that he removed a box of bullets from the gun cabinet in the cidery?
Thor set the box aside, then withdrew Haakon’s brass-receivered Winchester and laid the levergun beside it. His skin was flushed, but the task was mellow enough that at least he wasn’t out of breath. Still, this wasn’t who he was. Never had something stood in his way that he couldn’t put up a fight with. But whatever ailed him . . . It wasn’t frightened.
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