Hot Winds From Bombay (19 page)

“You didn’t bring them up. They’ve been hovering over me these past days like a dark cloud. Why
now,
of all times, should I be thinking of Zachariah Hazzard?”

Seton paused on the path and gazed at Persia quizzically. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Seen him? You must be joking. The last time I saw him was in a boarding house in Boston the day we were supposed to be married. We’d had a spat and he stormed out, telling me he’d be waiting at a tavern. But he didn’t wait!”

“Oh!” The tone of Seton’s one-syllable reply said a good deal more than the word itself.

“Seton?” Persia caught his sleeve and turned him to face her. “Have you seen him or heard something about him?”

“No. No, I’m sure not. It was only that the name caught my eye recently. But then Hazzard is fairly common in these parts.”

Suddenly, Persia’s heart was thundering. Her throat went dry and her palms sweaty. It couldn’t be! Sunlight struck the wide gold band on her finger, flashing blindingly into her eyes.
Not now!

“Where did you see the name, Seton?” She struggled to control her voice.

“It was on a shipping manifest that came through our office. There was some legal problem with the entry tariffs. The papers were signed by a Captain Hazzard out of the port of Havana, and the merchandise—tobacco, molasses, and rum—was auctioned in Boston only a few days ago. I’m sure it couldn’t have been Zack, but the name did bring him to mind.” He finished, but she made no reply. “Persia, are you all right?”

“Y-yes, of course. You’re right, Seton. It couldn’t be Zack. He’d have come here, if he’d been as close as Boston.”

“Certainly he would have. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Oh, don’t be. I’m a married woman now.” She laughed a bit falsely. “I couldn’t care less about where he is, or whether he’s alive or dead, actually.”

She turned off the path and started away from her companion.

“Persia, where are you going?”

Fighting tears and the lump in her throat, she waved and called, “To the pond to see how the ice harvest is coming along.” And then she dashed off through the woods.

Seton frowned. He had upset her, he could tell.

The Tail of the Devil was gone, “burnt to a cinder of a cold January night back in forty-two,” Zachariah was told when he inquired of an ancient sailmaker at India Wharf in Boston.

So, his former “home” and the scene of his downfall was no more. Too bad, he thought. He’d planned to pay one last visit to beat the living be-Jesus out of the tavernkeeper, if he was still around. The two men who had cold-cocked him and hauled him off to the
Alissa May
that long-ago night had laughingly confided in him later that his “good friend,” Clancey the barkeep, had set the whole thing up.

“Pay him two dollars a head, we do, to tip us off to likely prospects. Fine man to do business with, the bloke is. No muss, no fuss, no law on our tails.”

The grungy pair had laughed and spat and pounded each other on the back in congratulation when they told him the details of their excellent shanghai operation. Then, without ceremony, they had kicked him down the ladder into the
Alissa May’s
reeking hold, where he was given a few hours in the lonely darkness to recover his senses before he was set to work. He’d been more slave than seaman for the next four years, until the ship had wrecked off Java and he’d washed ashore.

Before taking his leave, however, he’d settled his score with those two. One disappeared over the stern without a trace on a hot, stormy night into the shark-infested South Pacific waters. The other
poor fellow
“lost his footing” in the rigging and plummeted to his death on the filthy, steaming deck of the
Alissa May.
All through the years since, Zack had been intent on planning how the third conspirator would meet his Maker. He had whiled away more hours than he could count, when he was chained belowdecks awaiting his watch, plotting the barkeep’s destruction. He felt almost cheated, hearing from the sailmaker that Clancey had “sizzled like pork fat” as his inn burned down around him.

Zack gave the sailmaker a silver dollar for his time, then he sauntered off down the quay. He was at loose ends now. There was no reason for him to stay on in Boston. And certainly his trip to Maine had been a mistake, opening old wounds that tore at his heart.

Better, he thought, to ship out at once than sit about counting his woes and feeling sorry for himself.

For some unknown reason, his mind wouldn’t let go of the woman in black he’d seen across the pond several days before. He’d been half tempted to go to her and ask her name. Maybe she knew Persia. Maybe she could have told him whether Persia had ever married. But, in a way, he was glad he hadn’t asked. He’d lost Persia; that was all that mattered. His sins were too many to go crawling back to her, begging her to see him again. Finding out that she was happily wed to some other man could hardly have helped him. Still, it was damned unfair!

Heading up the street, he turned toward the United States Hotel. There agents could always be found who were looking for captains ready to sign on. But he spotted a sign in the dirty window of a low brick building that stopped him.

“Ship’s crew needed—
IMMEDIATELY
!” it read.

Immediately
was exactly the time he wanted to ship out. He shoved the creaking door open and stepped inside. The room was small and cluttered.

“Help you, mate?” The pale, shriveled man behind the desk never looked up but answered the bell over the door when it jingled.

“The name’s Hazzard—Captain Zachariah Hazzard, late in command of the
Mazeppa.
I’m looking for a new berth, an ice ship, if there’s one leaving right away.”

“A cap’n, eh?” The tired-eyed clerk looked up, squinting hard at the tall man before him. “A bit odd, ain’t it, for a ship’s commander to be out trying to hire on like a common seaman? You pile your last one up on the rocks, maybe?”

Zack realized that his method of finding employment was unusual for one of his experience and position, but the man’s tone annoyed him nonetheless. “I’ve lost but one ship in my entire career, and that was some years ago off the Irish Coast in heavy seas with a
woman
on board.”

The clerk’s pinched face twitched in a grin. “Ain’t partial to women much, are you, Cap’n?”

“Not on board my ships.”

“Too bad. I might of helped you out otherwise.”

“What do you mean?” Zack leaned over the desk, all attention.

“Well, it ain’t a for-sure, just a maybe, you understand. But the ship’s due to sail in no more than a week. She’s got a ship’s master signed on, but he come down with a broken leg. Ice being a meltable cargo, the owners don’t want to wait for their captain to mend up. He swears he’s still going, but one of the two owners whispered it to me not an hour ago that I’m to be on the lookout for a suitable replacement.”

“What about this woman? Who is she?”

“Oh, some missionary’s wife on her way to Bombay. A Miz Blackwell.”

The clerk didn’t bother to add that she was also the daughter of one of the owners and part of the ship’s company.

Zack’s mind raced ahead. A missionary’s wife would be the least difficult type of woman passenger to take along, if any female was less than impossible. And if she’d spent time in India already, she’d have made the passage before. She would know the discomforts and dangers facing her. Also, the sailors weren’t likely to give a preacherman’s wife a second look. There’d be no grumbling in the ranks over her because even rough seamen dared not cast lustful glances at such a woman. Yes, it might work out all right.

“By God, I’ll take it!” Hazzard boomed, giving the desk a sharp smack with his fist.

“Here now, you just hold on! It ain’t been offered right yet. Give me a list of the ships you’ve commanded and such. I’ll pass that along to the owners and we’ll see what we see. Stop by again in a couple of days.”

Zack’s spirits sagged. He was ready to go
now.
“You’ve got nothing else? Perhaps leaving sooner?”

The man cast a suspicious eye at the tough-looking, scar-faced captain. “It appears to me you’re a mite eager. You sure you ain’t in no trouble?”

“Of course not! I just need to feel the sea under me again.”

Even as he spoke the words, Zack realized the sea wasn’t all he needed under him. The trip back to Maine and his constant thoughts of Persia had put a giant-sized ache in his groin.

When he left the office, after assuring the clerk he would be back, the first person he saw was one of the dockside ladies who plied their trade among seafaring men.

“Buy me a drink, mate?” she asked, putting a long-nailed hand to his chest and bringing her painted face close to his.

Zack started to brush past her, but something in the faded prettiness of her features and the shabby elegance of her attire stopped him. She was young, perhaps twenty, but as well used as the cast-off gown clothing her supple body. He saw that she was shivering. Reaching out, he pulled her threadbare cape more closely around her shoulders. Her feet, he noticed, were clad not in boots against the ice and snow, but in worn-out dancing slippers. No wonder she was freezing!

“You’ve got a room?” he asked gently.

“A cold one.”

Her big eyes, he realized suddenly, were almost the same blue as Persia’s, and her hair was a tawny reddish gold. He felt a new flow of warm blood at the thought.

“Well, it won’t be cold tonight. Lead the way, girl.”

He stopped off to buy brown bread, cheese, and wine. The bright-eyed, warm-bosomed girl—whose name he never got around to asking—took him to her dingy room and into her well-used bed. And all the snowy night through, they kept each other from the cold.

In the deepest dark of the hours past midnight, her full breasts felt good against his bare chest… but not as good as Persia’s. Her kisses were urgent and hot and sweet… but not as sweet as Persia’s. And when he mounted her and entered quickly with a sudden hunger so devastating that it would not be denied, her body opened to him and seemed to welcome his thrusts. But there was none of the depth of love and longing and tenderness that he had known with Persia.

At dawn’s first light, Zack rose and dressed. He left more money than was due and went away, not waking her to say good-bye. He felt empty somehow and used up. The ache was gone from his body, but not from his heart or his soul. It never would be, he realized. Not with Persia gone.

The trip wasn’t starting out well. All the omens were bad, Persia thought. First, there had been the trouble with the
Madagascar’s
launching; the new ice ship had nearly foundered as she’d slipped down the ways. Then, a dreadful storm had blown up as they’d set out on the bark’s maiden voyage from Quoddy Cove to Boston, with snow thicker than New England clam chowder and the temperature so low that the new masts were sheathed in thick ice. And, finally, Captain Gideon’s dreadful accident. He had been tossed out of his bunk during the height of the storm and, smashing into the bulkhead, had broken his leg in two places.

“Poor man,” she said to herself. “Such an inglorious way to get dry-docked.”

Persia was glad her father had stayed at home rather than making the journey up to Boston to see her and his new ice ship off to India. This way, since he knew nothing of Captain Gideon’s misfortune, he wouldn’t worry himself sick over it. First Mate Barry had assured Persia that Frederick Tudor would take care of hiring on another ship’s master before the rest of the ice was loaded at Gray’s Wharf in Charlestown.

Now things seemed to be going more smoothly. The weather was clearing—still cold enough to make an Eskimo shiver, but the snow had let up and the seas were smoothing out before them. Within the hour, they would make port and begin taking on the balance of the ice, cut from Fresh Pond.

Persia glanced about her. The captain’s cabin on board the
Madagascar
was a fine compartment with its firm oversized bunk, chart table, desk, chairs, and bookshelves. She had made it a point before sailing to stock the shelves with books on medicine, religion, botany, and astronomy. Only a few of her favorite romantic novels were among the leatherbound volumes, and she had taken care to hide those behind her prized copy of Dr. Bowditch’s book on navigation. It would never do for a supercargo—
or
a minister’s wife—to be discovered reading Sir Walter Scott’s
Ivanhoe.

She had protested at first when Captain Gideon had insisted she take the master’s stateroom. After all, she wanted no special provisions made simply because she was the only woman aboard. But, having let him convince her, she was now used to her surroundings and quite happy with them. She only hoped that the new captain would be as understanding as his predecessor and not order her out of his bed the moment he set sea boot on board.

She sat in the small rocker she’d brought from her bedroom at home. From now on it would be her only anchor to her old life. Even its irritating little creak seemed good and familiar to her. Staring down at her pale hands folded against the dull black of her skirt, she wondered what lay ahead for her. She touched the wide gold band on her left hand. It felt cold and alien to her still.

“Married,” she whispered. “Wife of the Reverend Cyrus Blackwell. Persia Blackwell.”

She sighed. Neither the name nor the thought of having a husband seemed right to her yet. She had assumed she would adjust to her new status in a short time. Goodness knows she had reminded herself who she was often enough these past days. But ever since that morning at the pond, she had felt like a craft set adrift with no direction, no snug harbor waiting. And, too often for comfort these days, when she should be looking forward to the future, her thoughts instead lingered on the past… on Zachariah Hazzard.

A knock at the door came as a welcome interruption.

“Yes?” she called.

“Miss Persia, we have made port. Should it please you to come on deck, I shall willingly act as your escort.”

“Thank you, Fletcher. Give me just a moment.”

Persia went to the spirits chest, which she was using as a
bonnetiere,
and drew out her veiled hat. Carefully, she adjusted it on her head so that not a wisp of her bright hair showed. Then with a flip of her wrist, she tossed the thick black netting down to cover her face. Only her gold wedding band and a scrimshandered cross of whale ivory relieved the stark black of her costume. She looked every inch the proper missionary’s wife.

She went out into the passageway to find Fletcher waiting. She smiled beneath her veil as she took his arm, thinking to herself what an odd appearance the two of them presented. Fletcher, too, had taken to wearing austere black costumes. With his long, oiled black hair and the tattooing on his copper-colored face, he looked like the devil himself. She had noticed the crew’s reaction to her servant from the very first. The sailors all feared Fletcher. It was just as well, she thought. She wanted to keep the men at a distance at all times. Having “the devil” always hovering nearby would ensure that.

By the time they reached the upper deck, the ship had docked and the loading of the ice was already in progress. Under gray morning skies, a long line of pungs filled with blocks of ice waited alongside the
Madagascar.
A hand-operated hoist was set up on deck, consisting of a horizontal windlass and two gigs—platforms to hold the huge blocks. The cable wound around the drum of the windlass made a creaking, complaining sound as it strained under the weight. While one of the gigs was below on the platform, being loaded with ice, the other was on deck being unloaded so that the great blocks could be sent below to the hold by way of a large chute. Persia could hear the men in the hold singing as they packed the precious cargo in sawdust. She knew that by nightfall, three hundred tons of the “Yankee coldness” would be stowed below.

“Mr. Tudor was here when we docked,” Fletcher told her.

“Oh, I should have come up to give him Father’s regards. Why didn’t you come down for me, Fletcher?”

“He begged your pardon, but he had an urgent errand. He will return soon. There is much worry over finding a suitable captain. He said, however, that you should not concern yourself, Miss Persia. He has received one promising application and is going to interview the gentleman.”