104
SLEEPING WITH A SHARK
STEPHEN BONNET was as good as his word—if that’s how one would describe it. He made no sexual advances toward her, but did insist that she share his bed.
“I like a warm body in the night,” he said. “And I think ye might prefer my bed to the cargo hold, sweetheart.”
She would most emphatically have preferred the cargo hold, though her explorations—once free of land, she was allowed out of the cabin—had revealed the hold as a dark and comfortless hole, in which several hapless slaves were chained among a collection of boxes and barrels, in constant danger of being crushed should the cargo shift.
“Where are we going, miss? And what will happen when we get there?” Josh spoke in Gaelic, his handsome face small and frightened in the shadows of the hold.
“I think we’re going to Ocracoke,” she said in the same language. “Beyond that—I don’t know. Do you still have your rosary?”
“Oh, yes, miss.” He touched his chest, where the crucifix hung. “It’s the only thing that keeps me from despair.”
“Good. Keep praying.” She glanced at the other slaves: two women, two men, all with slender bodies and delicate, fine-boned faces. She had brought food for Josh from her own supper, but had nothing to offer them, and was troubled.
“Do they feed you down here?”
“Yes, miss. Fairly well,” he assured her.
“Do they”—she moved her chin a little, delicately indicating the other slaves—“know anything? About where we’re going?”
“I don’t know, miss. I can’t talk to them. They’re African—Fulani, I can see that from the way they look, but that’s all I know.”
“I see. Well . . .” She hesitated, eager to be out of the dark, clammy hold, but reluctant to leave the young groom there.
“You go along, miss,” he said quietly in English, seeing her doubt. “I be fine. We all be fine.” He touched his rosary, and did his best to give her a smile, though it wavered round the edges. “Holy Mother see us safe.”
Having no words of comfort to impart, she nodded, and climbed the ladder into the sunlight, feeling five sets of eyes upon her.
Bonnet, thank God, spent most of his time on deck during the day. She could see him now, coming down the rigging like a nimble ape.
She stood very still, no movement save the brush of windblown hair, of skirts against her frozen limbs. He was as sensitive to the movements of her body as was Roger—but in his own way. The way of a shark, signaled to and drawn by the flappings of its prey.
She had spent one night in his bed so far, sleepless. He had pulled her casually against himself, said, “Good night, darlin’,” and fallen instantly asleep. Whenever she had tried to move, to extricate herself from his grip, though, he had shifted, moving with her, to keep her firmly by him.
She was obliged to an unwelcome intimacy with his body, an acquaintance that awoke memories she had with great difficulty put away—the feel of his knee pushing her thighs apart, the rough joviality of his touch between her legs, the sun-bleached blond hairs that curled crisply on his thighs and forearms, the unwashed, musky male smell of him. The mocking presence of LeRoi, rising at intervals during the night, pressed in firm and mindless hunger against her buttocks.
She had a moment of intense thankfulness, both for her present pregnancy—for she was in no doubt of it now—and for her certain knowledge that Stephen Bonnet had not fathered Jemmy.
He dropped from the rigging with a thud, saw her, and smiled. He said nothing, but squeezed her bottom familiarly as he passed, making her clench her teeth and cling to the rail.
Ocracoke, at the dark of the moon. She looked up into the brilliant sky, wheeling with clouds of terns and gulls; they could not be far offshore. How long, for God’s sake, ’til the dark of the moon?
105
THE PRODIGAL
THEY HAD NO TROUBLE IN FINDING persons familiar with Anemone and her captain. Stephen Bonnet was well-known on the Edenton docks, though his reputation varied, depending on his associations. An honest captain was the usual opinion, but hard in his dealings. A blockade runner, a smuggler, said others—and whether that was good or bad depended on the politics of the person saying it. He’d get you anything, they said—for a price.
Pirate, said a few. But those few spoke in low tones, looking frequently over their shoulders, and strongly desired not to be quoted.
The Anemone had left quite openly, with a homely cargo of rice and fifty barrels of smoked fish. Roger had found one man who recalled seeing the young woman go aboard with one of Bonnet’s hands: “Great huge doxy, with flaming hair a-loose, flowing down to her arse,” the man had said, smacking his lips. “Mr. Bonnet’s a good-size man himself, though; expect he can handle her.”
Only Ian’s hand on his arm had stopped him hitting the man.
What they had not yet found was anyone who knew for sure where Anemone was headed.
“London, I think,” said the harbormaster, dubious. “But not directly; he’s not yet got a full cargo. Likely he’ll be going down the coast, trading here and there—perhaps sail for Europe from Charlestown. But then again,” the man added, rubbing his chin, “could be he’s bound for New England. Terrible risky business, getting anything into Boston these days—but well worth it if you do. Rice and smoked fish like to be worth their weight in gold up there, if you can get it ashore without the navy’s warships blowing you out of the water.”
Jamie, looking a little pale, thanked the man. Roger, unable to speak for the knot in his throat, merely nodded, and followed his father-in-law out of the harbormaster’s office, back into the sun of the docks.
“Now what?” Ian asked, stifling a belch. He had been trawling through the dockside taverns, buying beer for casual laborers who might have helped load Anemone, or who might have spoken with her hands regarding her destination.
“The best I can think of is maybe for you and Roger Mac to take ship down the coast,” Jamie said, frowning at the masts of the sloops and packet boats rocking at anchor. “Claire and I could go up, toward Boston.”
Roger nodded, still unable to speak. It was far from being a good plan, particularly in light of the disruption the undeclared war was having on shipping—but the need of doing something was acute. He felt as though the marrow of his bones was burning; only movement would quench it.
To hire a small ship—even a fishing smack—or take passage on a packet boat, though, was expensive business.
“Aye, well.” Jamie curled his hand in his pocket, where the black diamond still lay. “I’ll go and see Judge Iredell; he can maybe put me in touch with an honest banker who’ll advance me money against the sale of the stone. Let’s go and tell Claire what’s to do, first.”
As they turned off the docks, though, a voice hailed Roger.
“Mr. MacKenzie!”
He turned, to find the Reverend Doctor McCorkle, his secretary, and the Reverend McMillan, carrying bags, all staring at him.
There was a brief scuffle of introduction—they had of course met Jamie when he came to fetch Roger, but not Ian—and then a slightly awkward pause.
“You—” Roger cleared his throat, addressing the elder. “You are leaving, then, sir? For the Indies?”
McCorkle nodded, his large, kindly face set in concern.
“I am, sir. I regret so much that I must go—and that you were not able to—well.” Both McCorkle and the Reverend McMillan had tried to persuade him to return to them the day before, to take his place at the service of ordination. But he could not. Could not spare hours to such a thing, could not possibly engage himself to undertake the commitment with anything less than a single mind—and while his mind was in fact single just now, it was not toward God. There was room in his heart just now for only one thing—Brianna.
“Well, doubtless it is God’s will,” McCorkle said with a sigh. “Your wife, Mr. MacKenzie? There is no word of her?”
He shook his head, and muttered acknowledgment of their concern, their promises to pray for him and for the safe return of his wife.He was too much worried to find this much solace, yet still, he was touched by their kindness, and parted from them with many good wishes in both directions.
Roger, Jamie, and Ian walked silently back toward the inn where they had left Claire.
“Just by way of curiosity, Ian, what did ye do with Forbes’s ear?” Jamie asked, breaking the silence as they turned into the wide street where the inn was.
“Oh, I have it safe, Uncle,” Ian assured him, patting the small leather pouch at his belt.
“What in the name of G—” Roger stopped abruptly, then resumed. “What d’ye mean to do with it?”
“Keep it with me until we find my cousin,” Ian said, seeming surprised that this was not obvious. “It will help.”
“It will?”
Ian nodded, serious.
“When ye set about a difficult quest—if ye’re Kahnyen’kehaka, I mean—ye generally go aside for a time, to fast and pray for guidance. We havena time to be doing that now, of course. But often, while ye’re doing that, ye choose a talisman—or to be right about it, it chooses you—” He sounded completely matter-of-fact about this procedure, Roger noted.
“And ye carry it with ye through the quest, to keep the attention of the spirits upon your desire and ensure your success.”
“I see.” Jamie rubbed the bridge of his nose. He appeared—like Roger—to be wondering what the Mohawk spirits might make of Neil Forbes’s ear. It would, probably, ensure their attention, at least. “The ear . . . did ye pack it in salt, I hope?”
Ian shook his head.
“Nay, I smoked it over the kitchen fire at the inn last night. Dinna fash yourself, Uncle Jamie; it will keep.”
Roger found a perverse sort of comfort in this conversation. Between the prayers of the Presbyterian clergy and the support of the Mohawk spirits, perhaps they had a chance—but it was the presence of his two kinsmen, stalwart and determined on either side of him, that kept him in hope. They would not give up until Brianna was found, no matter what it took.
He swallowed the lump in his throat for the thousandth time since hearing the news, thinking of Jemmy. The little boy was safe at River Run—but how could he tell Jem that his mother was gone? Well . . . he wouldn’t, that was all. They’d find her.
In this mood of resolution, he led the way through the door of the Brewster, only to be hailed again.
“Roger!”
This time, it was Claire’s voice, sharp with excitement. He turned at once, to see her rising from a bench in the taproom. Seated across the table from her were a plump young woman and a slightly built young man with a cap of tightly curled black hair. Manfred McGillivray.
“I SAW YE BEFORE, sir, two days ago.” Manfred bobbed his head apologetically toward Jamie. “I . . . er . . . well, I hid myself, sir, and I do regret it. But of course, I’d no way of knowing, until Eppie came back from Roanoke and showed me the ring. . . .”
The ring lay on the table, its cabochon ruby casting a tiny, calm pool of ruddy light on the boards. Roger picked it up and turned it in his fingers. He barely heard the explanations—that Manfred lived with the whore, who made periodic expeditions to the ports near Edenton, and upon seeing the ring had overcome his sense of shame and come to find Jamie—too much overcome by this small, hard, tangible evidence of Brianna.
Roger closed his fingers over it, finding the warmth of it a comfort, and came to himself in time to hear Hepzibah say earnestly, “Ocracoke, sir. At the dark of the moon.” She coughed modestly, ducking her head. “The lady did say, sir, as you might feel some gratitude for the news of her whereabouts. . . .”
“Ye’ll be paid, and paid well,” Jamie assured her, though he was clearly giving her no more than a fraction of his attention. “The dark of the moon,” he said, turning to Ian. “Ten days?”
Ian nodded, his face shining with excitement.
“Aye, about that. She didna ken whereabouts on Ocracoke Island this was?” he asked the whore.
Eppie shook her head.
“Nay, sir. I ken Stephen’s got a house there, a large one, hidden in the trees, but that’s all.”
“We’ll find it.” Roger’s own voice surprised him; he hadn’t meant to speak aloud.
Manfred had been looking uneasy throughout. He leaned forward, putting his hand on top of Eppie’s.
“Sir—when ye do find it . . . ye’ll not say to anybody, will ye, about Eppie telling ye? Mr. Bonnet’s a dangerous man, and I wouldna have her imperiled from him.” He glanced at the young woman, who blushed and smiled at him.
“No, we won’t say anything about her,” Claire assured him. She had been scrutinizing both Manfred and Hepzibah carefully while they talked, and now leaned across the table to touch Manfred’s forehead, which showed a stippling of some sort of rash. “Speaking of peril . . . she’s in a great deal more danger from you, young man, than from Stephen Bonnet. Did you tell her?”
Manfred went a little paler, and for the first time, Roger noticed that the young man looked truly ill, his face thin and deeply lined.
“I did, Frau Fraser. From the first.”
“Oh, about the pox?” Hepzibah affected nonchalance, though Roger could see her hand tighten on Manfred’s. “Aye, he did tell me. But I says to him as it makes no difference. I daresay I’ve had a few men what are poxed before, not knowing. If I should get it . . . well. God’s will, innit?”
“No,” Roger said to her quite gently. “It isn’t. But you’ll go with Mrs. Claire, you and Manfred both, and do exactly what she tells you. Ye’ll be all right, and so will he. Won’t they?” he asked, turning to Claire, suddenly a little uncertain.
“Yes, they will,” she said dryly. “Fortunately, I have quite a bit of penicillin with me.”
Manfred’s face was a study in confusion.
“But—do ye mean, meine Frau, that ye can—can cure it?”
“That is exactly what I mean,” Claire assured him, “as I tried to tell you before you ran away.”
His mouth hung open, and he blinked. Then he turned to Hepzibah, who was staring at him in puzzlement.
“Liebchen! I can go home! We can go home,” he amended quickly, seeing her face change. “We will be married. We will go home,” he repeated, in the tones of one seeing a beatific vision but not quite trusting in its reality yet.
Eppie was frowning in uncertainty.
“I’m a whore, Freddie,” she pointed out. “And from the stories you tell about your mother . . .”
“I rather think that Frau Ute will be so happy to have Manfred back that she won’t be disposed to ask too many questions,” Claire said, with a glance at Jamie. “The Prodigal Son, you know?”
“Ye won’t need to be a whore any longer,” Manfred assured her. “I’m a gunsmith; I’ll earn a good living. Now that I know I shall be living!” His thin face was suddenly suffused with joy, and he flung his arms around Eppie and kissed her.
“Oh,” she said, flustered, but looking pleased. “Well. Hm. This . . . er . . . this penny—?” She looked inquiringly at Claire.
“The sooner, the better,” Claire said, standing up. “Come with me.” Her own face was a little flushed, Roger saw, and she put out a quick hand to Jamie, who took it and pressed it hard.
“We’ll go and see to things,” he said, glancing at Ian and Roger in turn. “With luck, we’ll sail this evening.”
“Oh!” Eppie had already stood up to follow Claire, but at this reminder of their business, she turned to Jamie, a hand to her mouth. “Oh. I’ve thought of the one more thing.” Her pleasant round face was puckered in concentration. “There are wild horses that run near the house. On Ocracoke. I heard Stephen speak o’ them once.” She looked from one man to the other. “Might that help?”
“It might,” Roger said. “Thank you—and God bless you.”
It wasn’t until they were outside, heading for the docks again, that he realized the ring was still clutched tight in his hand. What was it Ian had said?
“Ye choose a talisman—or to be right about it, it chooses you.”
His hands were slightly bigger than Brianna’s, but he pushed the ring onto his finger, and closed his hand around it.