Haakon was scampering higher, gait hunched, but not that of a wounded man. One of a man trying to stay alive. Haakon cast them one last look, then bolted into a run.
Thor sank to his knees at a wrenching behind his ribs. His heart wasn’t made for this.
A wagon barreled down the road at full speed. Beyond that, neighbor men were running. All coming to help. Thor didn’t care if they were here to aid him and Jorgan or to put out the fire. All he saw was Haakon.
There comes a time in a body’s life when they learn their name. But Thor learned his twice. His brothers did too. Two fingers pressed together in an H—arcing across one’s eyes—that was Haakon. Thor had spent hours coming up with it for Haakon’s third birthday and could still recall the joy on the kid’s face when he’d taught it to him. Little Haakon smiling up at him as if there were a newness to the world. A gift Thor could give among Da’s brokenness.
At first glance, the motion meant eyes so blue that people spoke of them, but anyone who knew Haakon would note the line of indignation often found between his brows. Or the laughter that sparked there, able to charge the very air. Thor had meant to never use that name again. Not ever. But with Haakon climbing the crest—disappearing amid the thick plume of smoke—his hand shook with the desire to form a good-bye.
Ida didn’t let the men say much as their cuts and bruises were tended to, but once Jorgan, Peter, and Thor were patched up as well as they could be, each of the men told the story a little differently.
First Aven listened with the others as Jorgan described how men had come from all over the area, seeing the smoke. The Sorrels had pleaded for aid in putting out the fire but not so much as a person volunteered. Instead, a freedman from Ida’s church said that should the Sorrels wish for help in rebuilding it, they would be there to aid them. As much a kindness as it was a challenge.
The way Peter relayed it, his ma and the other women had come out of the house. That not all the ammunition had been consumed. While no more shots were fired, a rifle in the hands of Mrs. Sorrel made it evident that she meant to aim it at no one other than her Jed.
Outnumbered, the general had limped off then, taking some of his men with him, and even a few women had followed. The other men had divided away, stating that they didn’t want to be part of the unrest anymore. Mrs. Sorrel allowed those she trusted to stay.
Thor explained it last. Slowly, by paper, describing that both stories were true and that there was more yet. That he believed Haakon had blown the barn to free them all from the burden of the liquor. Though Thor didn’t put as many words to it, Aven knew what that meant. That for his brothers, Haakon had given up his share of the profits he had so desperately wanted. Thor also relayed his sense that Haakon bore regrets. It was only a glimpse Thor had gotten, but the way he described it silenced any further conversation from Aven. She didn’t know what to make of all this, but it landed in her heart in that lonesome place called bitter and sweet.
Though unable to tell any stories of her own, Grete was aimless. Pacing almost as much as she whimpered. The door ajar for her to roam, should she wish, said what they all knew—Haakon was gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
NOVEMBER 25, 1890
“Pardon me, miss!” Haakon steadied the young woman he had just bumped into. She bore an armful of parcels but didn’t drop them, which was good because he didn’t have time to help her pick them up.
He panted as he hurried around her. With a salty breeze drawing him closer to the wharf, he rushed along, dodging workers and shoppers and everyone in between. A priest stood on the corner of a church, trimming a hedge where just above, bells chimed the noon hour.
Masts and sails could be seen along the horizon, obscured by buildings. Haakon stepped around a wagon to cross yet another street that he didn’t know the name of. He had no idea where he was going except to find the ship called The Grel—something or other, in a place called Norfolk. A bustling Virginia port with so many docks and harbors he had been lost all morning. He only hoped he was getting closer because a glance at that sun said nearly as loudly as those bells did that he was going to be late.
For weeks he’d been searching for a way off of this hunk of land, and his luck had struck two nights ago when he’d spent his last twenty cents at a portside pub. While slowly drinking a lukewarm ale, Haakon had heard talk that the huddle of men seated in the far corner was a crew bound to ship out soon. He worked his way through the rest of his pint slowly, weighing what to do with such information. By the time he reached the bottom of his mug, he had just enough courage to cross the smoky room and inquire as to when they would be setting sail. He discovered that they were bound for Morocco to procure oranges and olives. Dates by the ton.
“And from there?” Haakon asked.
The man who answered was a stately one. Dark hair neatly kept and threaded with the faintest trace of silver. The brass buttons on his open coat gleamed in the lantern light. He quirked a brow as if none too pleased with the interruption. While his answer had been charitable, there was authority in his manner that made Haakon realize this was no average seaman.
Confirmed when a serving wench sauntered past, asking, “Another for you, Cap’n?”
The captain gave the lass a nod, then looked back at Haakon. “From there . . . Portugal. If the weather holds.”
“And the maidens are willing,” a fellow at a nearby table said with a guffaw.
Other men laughed, and judging by their ruddy skin and weathered clothing, they were all part of the crew. A mismatched lot. Rough and coarsened, but with a confidence that Haakon respected. More so because they had what he sought. Passage out of here.
With this his chance, Haakon had stepped nearer. “Are there other ships leaving Morocco? Bound for other places?”
“Bound for Davy Jones’ Locker with you on it if you don’t shut up, Squidlet.” That came from a stocky man who sat across from the captain. The gray-haired lout was shuffling a deck of cards in roughed hands. A scantily dressed woman sat beside him, nestling in despite his sweat-stained collar. She whispered in the man’s ear, and he smiled.
The captain didn’t answer until he was dealt five cards. He opened them slowly, moved two around, then spoke without looking up. “Some ships will disembark to England. Others, the West Indies.”
The young serving wench returned with a filled tankard. She set it beside the captain, who lifted his gaze long enough to give her a gentle smile—one that said just how long these men would be at sea.
Lace trimmed the straps of her chemise that settled so low on her upper arms, the lantern over the table illuminated all of her pale shoulders. Unlike the other women about, she didn’t fawn and giggle or flutter a fan. She simply sat on the bench beside the captain, her ivory arm brushing the gentleman’s sleeve. She spoke nothing else as if she, too, knew her place in his presence.
The captain grazed a hand against her corseted waist and, after he drank from his pint, spoke to Haakon again. “Some will be bound for Brazil. With the demand for ice in London, others will venture to Scandinavia.”
Scandinavia.
Home.
Hitching his pack higher up on his shoulder, Haakon braved his next question. But first he introduced himself.
At the words Haakon Norgaard, the man eyed him. “Norse?”
“Yes, sir. Norwegian.” Which meant the sea was in his blood.
It was then that the captain invited him to pull up a stool. They spoke more of it, and the next thing Haakon knew, he was signing his name in a worn ledger along with the promise to be to the dock at noon sharp.
“Ship won’t be waiting for nobody,” said the stocky man as he plunked two gold coins onto the table, raising the stakes.