All the Colors of Time (16 page)

If he ever considered that argument at all, I never saw a
sign of it. He’d just stand there, silent, craggy, inflexible, while I sweated
and stared at his profile.

Then something happened that changed all that. I had no idea
what it was. I only knew that just as we were approaching the Cape of Good
Hope, Charley called me to his cabin for breakfast and behaved as if nothing
had ever come between us.

“Tell me, Arthur, lad,” he said over coffee. “Have you any
more prognostications for me?”

I looked at him squarely, then. That was when I saw the
gleam of—God knows what—in his eye. “W-what sort of prognostications, sir?”

“So, I’m to marry a woman named Maureen, not Mary, eh?
Maureen Llewellyn. You’re certain of that, are you?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.”

He nodded and sighed greatly. “I can no longer claim not to
believe you, boy. You foretold the
Hastings
matter with complete clarity. You have the Sight, no doubt about it. I must
trust what you say. In what year will I marry?”

“Well, sir, that’s debatable. I mean, uh, I can’t really see
that very clearly.” Actually, not only was the year of his marriage a matter of
dispute, but there was even some doubt that he actually married at all. There
has always been some question about the legitimacy of the branch of the family
tree for which Charley is responsible. However, that wasn’t something I could
tell Charley.

“What do you see?” he prodded.

I picked at a crumb on my plate, then looked up with this
Saint-having-a-revelation look on my face. “Britain will win the war!” I
exclaimed.

He waved that aside. “A foregone conclusion—”

“In 1814, the war will end . . . or at least,
it will seem to end. But not before Napoleon takes Vienna and Berlin.”

He stared at me. “The devil—! Are you serious?”

I had distracted him. Relieved, I nodded vigorously. “This
year, Napoleon will take Vienna; next year he will take Berlin. But Lord
Admiral Nelson will rout the French in a sea battle at Trafalgar. The forces of
a British-led Coalition will take Paris in the last days of March 1814 and
Napoleon . . .” I wrinkled my brow. “He’ll be exiled to—to an
island. But, beware!” I warned dramatically. “Napoleon is clever. Out of sight
is not out of power.”

Charley was nodding thoughtfully. “Wise words, boy. Now,
about my future . . .”

I nearly groaned. The stubborn so-and-so. “Three children. A
grand home in the country. Horses. You’ve always fancied fine driving stock.”

He sat back in his chair, beaming. “Aye,” he said. “I have,
at that.”

oOo

We put into Cape Town to offload some metals, farm
implements and foodstuffs and take on ivory. One of our families left us there
and the crew was permitted a brief shore leave. The MacCormacs invited me to go
with them to see what sights there were and to visit what Dr. Mac called “native
physicians.” A less broadminded soul would have called them “witch doctors.”

We traveled by carriage to a place of mud huts and naked
children and there met a colorful gentleman our interpreter introduced as “King
Isaac.” From him, Dr. Mac got a sampling of native cures, while Mary carefully
transcribed the directions for their use into a notebook.

We spent the better part of the morning in that pursuit
before returning to Cape Town in the afternoon. We were crossing the road to
the wharfs when the wild clatter of horse hooves and wagon frame caught my ear.
I saw the thing out of the corner of my eye—a huge freight wagon, bearing down
on us from uphill to our right.

Mary was already on the raised planking of the dock, waiting
for us and watching the ships riding at anchor in the harbor; Dr. Mac was
behind me in the road. Mary was in no danger, but Doctor and I faced imminent
doom. In the split second I glanced at the rig, the driver gave the reins a
last savage jerk and dove over-sides. The team veered toward the center of the
road, putting Ian MacCormac obliviously in their path. I spun back, grabbed his
lapels and tugged. We both sprawled in the African dust, the freight wagon
rumbling harmlessly by at our feet.

Belatedly, Mary screamed. Her first concern when she joined
us in the middle of the road, was for her husband’s safety. His was for the
safety of his native cures. Mine was for the vanished driver of the murderous
rig.

I wasn’t certain if the man was an unwilling participant in
an accident or a willing participant in something far more sinister. From where
I stood, his last tug at the reins looked like a deliberate effort to aim the
rig right at Ian. And from where I stood, I could see only one person who truly
wanted Ian MacCormac dead.

oOo

“And you were unable to locate the driver?” First Mate
Reardon’s brows all but disappeared in the furrows of his expansive forehead.

I shook my head, glancing at Captain Charley’s impassive
face. “I found the rig, but it was loaded with empty crates. No two were from
the same vessel.”

“So, you’ve no idea who might have arranged this accident,”
said Charley, frowning very slightly. “If, indeed, it was arranged.”

“Is it common for people to be run down in the streets of
Cape Town by anonymous freight wagons whose drivers disappear after the fact?”
I gasped for air.

Charley shrugged. “These things occur, although I suppose I
could investigate.”

Right. Putting the rat in charge of the cheese.

“We’re leaving port tonight,” said Reardon. “The would-be
murderer—”

“Is probably aboard this ship,” I finished testily. “The
only reason I can think anyone would want to kill Ian is to get to Mary. And
the only people who know Mary are aboard
Essex
.”

I ignored Reardon’s dark expression and glared at Charley.
The way he was acting, you’d hardly think he cared that he’d nearly caused
another human being to be flattened by that wagon. That a relative of mine—my
own very, very great grandfather, in fact—could do such a thing-

The Very, Very Great grasped my arm urgently. “My dear boy,
surely you’re not thinking that someone aboard this vessel would cause Dr. Mac
harm. Why it’d be suicidal to be at sea without a doctor. I’m sure it was
something to do with those visits he made today.” He screwed up his eyes
expressively and put his finger alongside his nose. “The Hoodoo, you know.”

“A c-curse?” I stammered. “You’re suggesting Ian MacCormac
is suffering from black magic?”

“There was that other time,” said Reardon quietly. “That was
well before he’d met any witch-doctors.”

“What?” asked Charley. “You can’t mean that block falling
from the gaff! Why that was a simple accident! A fluke of the storm. Dr. Mac
was no man’s target that day.” He turned then, as if to dismiss the whole
affair and strolled away ’cross deck, humming.

I glanced back at Reardon and saw that he was turning
something over and over in his fingers. A closer look revealed it to be my
disclite. I blanched, looking consumingly guilty or petrified or both.

“Do you wish to tell me anything, Mr. Dunbar?” he asked me
solemnly.

My imagination saw the gleam of Calvinist fervor in his
eyes.

“If you expect me to confess to witchcraft, sir, I will not
do it. As God is my witness, I am no witch.”

Reardon quirked a brow. “I never supposed you were.”

“You didn’t?”

“Sir, we are civilized men. I believe we can abandon this
talk of witches. This”—he held up the disc—“has nothing to do with witchcraft.
Mechanics, perhaps. Am I right?”

“Yes, but I told you as much.”

“Ah, yes.” He nodded. “Your uncle the inventor.” He smiled
and pocketed the light while I drooled hungrily after it. “When you are ready,
Arthur,” he said and left me.

oOo

I watched Charley carefully after that—watched him from as
close to Ian MacCormac as I could get, firmly convinced that he was the target
of Black Charley’s jealousy. All my fault, too. I’d been such a convincing
Oracle that Charley now apparently saw no option but to take Fate into his own
hands and throttle it. If Fate would not give him Mary MacCormac, he’d simply
take her.

In the week that followed the Cape Town incident, I saved
Ian MacCormac from a falling crate (left mysteriously balanced on the roof of a
deckhouse), a flying capstan pole, and a loose cannon. By the end of the week,
Ian was thoroughly spooked and I was ready to throw him and Mary into the
TeGrEn and whisk them back to London.

“It’s quite obvious,” I told Charley one morning, “that
someone wants Ian dead.”

He glanced at me obliquely, spearing a sausage with his
knife. “Ian, now, is it? Are you developing a fondness for our ill-fated
doctor? That might not be wise.”

“I’d like to keep him alive. And so would you if really
cared for Mary. She loves him, you know. If he dies, she’ll be devastated.”

“For a time. But with the loving attentions of close and
caring friends, I’m sure she will survive—even prosper.” He grinned at me
wickedly, then said, “Dr. Mac seems to have drawn a guardian angel of his own.
That’s unfortunate. I’d hate to see one of the Almighty’s agents sent back to
Him prematurely.”

I blanched. “I’m no angel,” I said. “I’m not anything you’d
understand, but neither am I a helpless medical student.”

“Ah! You lied about that, did you? Reardon thought as much.
And you’re now claiming powers beyond clairvoyance, is that it? You hurl
lightning bolts or some such?”

“Let’s just say I have resources you can’t even begin to
imagine.” I rose and left the cabin then, hoping I’d at least given him
something to think about.

oOo

The storm struck without warning when we were two days out
of Mauritius. It wasn’t much of a storm—a lot of noise and bright lightning for
the most part—but to Ian it was the Apocalypse. A sense of horrible foreboding
seemed to have taken him, though all the while his wife tried nobly to cheer
him up.

When that failed, she donned trousers, shirt and coat and
proposed to take his place among the seasick passengers. He protested the
clothing almost as much as he did the precaution, but she and I outvoted him
and convinced him to stay in their cabin with me as guardian whatever.

He made a last weak protest as she left, his black bag in
hand, looking very dashing in his pants and coat. “Dear girl, whatever will
Lord and Lady Branden think of that get up?”

“Why should I care? My petticoats and dresses are dangerous
in heavy weather as I know only too well. I’ll not be such a fool for fashion
as to die for it.” And she left, green eyes fierce.

Ian was silent for a long while, staring miserably at the
gyrations of the lantern that hung above their cabin table. “Ah, Arthur,” he
said at last, “I’ve become such a hopeless coward, letting that dear girl take
my duties over like that. But I swear I’ve this certainty that I’ll not survive
the night. Someone or Something wants me dead and I’ve no clue as to how I can
fight it. The worst of it is—dammit—the worst of it is that I’ve dragged poor
Maureen along to witness my doom.”

“Ian, nothing is—” I stopped and gaped at him, heart turning
to stone. I’d misheard him. I must have. “Maureen?” I croaked.

He made a dismissive gesture. “Her given name. Mary is a pet
name her father gave her that has stuck like glue. I prefer Maureen, myself.
She’s so much more a Maureen, don’t you think?”

I licked my suddenly Saharan lips. “Ian, may I ask a
frightfully inane question?”

He shrugged, not caring, I’m sure, if I stood on my head and
whistled the Marseillaise.

“Was your wife’s maiden name Llewellyn, by any chance?”

He nodded.

“And her father was Llewellyn, Lord Eachan?”

He nodded again, then waited patiently for me to come back
from the Twilight Zone. Maureen Llewellyn. Here. Now. On this ship. Charley
Dunbar wasn’t trying to fight destiny, he was just trying to speed it up a
little.

“Dammit, Charley,” I muttered, “why do you have to be in
such a hurry?”

“Pardon?” said Ian.

“Nothing,” I assured him. “Say some prayers for both of us.
I’ve got to think.”

What did I do now? If Charley and Mary-Maureen were fated,
should I just stand aside and let events take Charley’s natural course? Was Ian
MacCormac supposed to die or had my presence created a situation in which he
had
to die? Had I saved him already from
a fate he was supposed to have earned or . . . what?

I glanced at Ian. He really was praying, his eyes no doubt
seeing invisible hosts, his lips painting silent litanies for their merciful
pleasure.

Dammit, I liked the man. He was honest, open-minded,
intelligent, good company and he loved Mary. I couldn’t just stand by and let
someone—even a damned ancestor—take her away from him over his dead body. There
had to be a way to get my two progenitors together without taking Ian apart.

“Ian,” I said, rising from the bunk I’d been sitting on, “stay
here and don’t open the door for anyone but me or Mary.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To do a little research.” I started for the cabin door.

“You’re a true friend, Arthur,” he told me. “I promise you
that the first son Mary and I have will be named after you.”

Startled, I could only blink at him and smile wanly. Then I
hustled off the forward hold.

oOo

The database told me no more than I already knew about
Charley and Maureen Dunbar. Some sources said they were married, though one
indicated there was some scandal about the timing of the birth of their first
child, others said she was his mistress and the child, Arthur Llewellyn Dunbar,
was conceived out of wedlock.

I had difficulty seeing Mary MacCormac as anyone’s mistress.

About Dr. Ian MacCormac the data was no less ambiguous.
There was a record of him on the
Essex
up until Bombay, 1805; then he disappeared. Jumped ship, according to the ship’s
log.