Cass tried not to think. There was too much going on, too much noise, and the filth made her wince until she almost closed her eyes and walked on blindly.
“These,” Farrow said suddenly, leaning close to her face, “be the ones that’ll be gone with the morning tide. They have to work fast, y’see, or they’ll be stuck for nearly half a day. The others,” and he pointed to a number of ships at anchor farther out in the river, “are either waiting or have already done their work. Some places, y’see, they don’t have to wait. There be plenty of room ’cause they dug into the land, made lots of piers. Not here. This be mostly private owned, not the city’s. Come when you can and the devil be damned, so to speak, ma’am.”
Then he stopped, frowning.
Cass, in trying to step around a low pile of cartons, had seen the printing on the side of one and had taken away her arm. She touched the nearest crate lightly with one finger; it was filled with Virginia tobacco. The sweet sharp scent of the cured leaves made her swallow heavily. She took a deep, determined breath and looked up.
“Mr. Farrow—and I’ll assume that’s your name—where is the ship I’m looking for?”
His smile was teasing. “You’re looking at it, ma’am.”
She blinked, swept the cowl back from her head, and followed his pointing finger to a small three-master now swarming with its crew. Many were up in the rigging, testing and repairing what sails they’d been unable to during the day. Others were rushing with bits of cargo, and still others were busily polishing the scattering of brass that shone like distorted suns in the torch and lantern light. Its name,
Gull’s Wing
, was painted in huge white letters at the bow; and its figurehead too, instead of a woman or mermaid or scowling male figure, was a large, big-breasted gull whose beak had been painted a gleaming black, and whose wings swept back gracefully to merge with the forward railing. A man stood calmly in the midst of the confusion, leaning on his forearms near the gangplank, a twisted pipe unlit in his stern-looking mouth. Farrow noted him with a finger, then touched at Cass’s shoulder.
“That be the man you’re lookin’ for, ma’am.”
Suddenly she felt ridiculously, blushingly foolish. She did not belong here on the docks, and she knew before she took the first step forward that nothing would come of this insane trip. She should have listened to her first impulse, she should have given Farrow some money and a message—with the promise of more to come if he returned with an answer—and let it go at that. But to come here! She shuddered, imagining that every man who passed, every sailor who glanced down at her over the railing, was undressing her, stripping her of her clothes and her dignity.
“Ma’am?”
“I—I don’t know what—”
Farrow nodded, took her arm again and led her through a maze of crates until they reached the foot of the gangplank. Then he cupped his hands around his lips and hailed the ship until the man glanced down, took the pipe from his mouth, and saluted.
“Ahoy there,” Farrow said, his hands on his hips. “You be the master of this beauty?”
“I am, and I ain’t takin’ on.”
“Don’t need to be. I’m mate on the St. Charles, out of Boston. This lady here, she’d like to come aboard and have a word with you.”
The captain turned around suddenly, pointing and shouting, then returned to his former position, his lips in a tight smile, his eyes looking Cass over skeptically, though she was sure that he did not miss one thing that happened around him, on the ship and on the dock. Then, suddenly, he nodded.
Cass hesitated. It was as though, having come this far, she dared not go farther. If the captain had no word of Eric, she was lost. Yet she could not postpone what she now believed was the inevitable. Instead, she turned to thank Farrow, and put a hand to her mouth when she realized he was gone. He had slipped away while she wavered indecisively, and she could not try to return to Jordan Lane on her own. She pulled the cloak more tightly over her chest in spite of the warm night air, and carefully made her way up the swaying, rope-railinged gangplank until she was on deck. The captain straightened slowly, again taking his pipe from his lips and gesturing a faint salute with it to the brim of his stiff-peaked cap. He wore no jacket, but the white of his shirt shone as though it had an inner flame of his own, the flaring sleeves tapered sharply to cuffs that grasped his- thick wrists, the waist tucked into a wide black belt and almost skin-tight trousers that vanished into knee-high black boots. The only color on him was the flash of silver from painstakingly polished buckles.
“Captain Talbot, ma’am,” he said, his voice the sound of pebbles grating in the hands of a giant. “I hope you’re not looking for passage to England. I’m afraid I’m full up, as it is.”
“No,” she said, immediately sensing that he would help her if he could. “I’m looking for one of your passengers.”
“Oh?” He stiffened, his eyes, deep set beneath overhanging brows, becoming stony as they stared.
Cass smiled weakly. “I’m not here to bring anyone trouble, Captain Talbot. I just—well, I must locate a man who has booked himself aboard. His name is Eric Martingale. You couldn’t miss him. He has a marked English way of speaking, always wears a black glove on his right hand. He’s very handsome, tall, he was supposed to leave with you at dawn.” She watched for signs of recognition in his eyes; when she saw none, she clasped her hands at her stomach nervously.
Then the captain nodded. “Mr. Martingale. Yes, he was booked with me. I recall him, in fact, though,” and his smile was faint, “not quite in that much detail. Haven’t seen him for hours, though. Not since he booked off.”
“Booked off?” A chill gripped her stomach, and the noise of the docks seemed to fade and vanish. “You mean—?”
“I mean that he came aboard late this afternoon and told me—personally, mind you—that he wasn’t going to be coming with me. He was very good about it, he was. He didn’t demand his fare back, nor did he have any complaints. At least, none that he spoke of. He just … changed his mind.”
Cass reached for the railing and leaned against it, shaking her head when Talbot took a step toward her, his hand outstretched. Impossible, she thought. If Eric had come here that long ago to—oh, God, could it be possible?—to tell the captain he’d changed his mind about leaving, he would have gone back to Jordan Lane long before this.
“Are—are you sure?” she asked.
“Miss,” Talbot said with growing impatience, “he came aboard and did his business, went ashore again and got into a carriage with his lady. That’s all I—”
She turned suddenly. “His … lady?”
Talbot suddenly realized he might have made a mistake in talking so much. He sniffed, wiped a hand under his nose, stared at a point directly over her head. “Miss, I hate to bother you, but I do have a ship to run, y’know. Damned—excuse me—army tells you what to do every minute of the damned—excuse me—day. I’m glad I ain’t in this war, believe me. I, uh, take it you wasn’t with him when he came.”
Numbed, the chill settling in her throat and hands, Cass shook her head, thanked him for his time and slowly, weakly, made her way down the gangplank again. At the dock, the captain called to her.
“D’ye want me to tell him you called? If he should come back this way, that is?”
She ignored him, moving away from the ship as Talbot launched into another round of curses and orders, and stumbled out into the open street and stood there, paying no attention to the sailors who swarmed there, the horses that plunged down the street with soldiers and civilians riding them hard.
For a moment she experienced a spurt of joy. He was staying! He was not going to leave her, he was going to stay! But the joy died when she remembered the “lady,” to be replaced by a rage she only barely thrust aside. No judgments, Cass, she told herself. He may have taken a ride, nothing more.
Joy and rage, and the only way to resolve the conflict was to find him. The place to start looking was—she panicked. She had forgotten the name of the tavern Farrow had told her of. What? She clenched her fists, raised them and her eyes and saw a battered hand-lettered sign swinging over the door of a tavern several buildings down. The Tide. Farrow had told her that was the place to find anyone connected with those ships sailing for Britain; certainly Eric’s demeanor and accent would stand out clearly. Gathering the cloak about her, she picked her way over the dirt and debris littering the street, fending off with a stiff arm a drunk who lurched against her, and finally stood in front of the tavern’s bay window. It was divided into a number of smaller panes, all of them encrusted with so much grime and smoke that she could not see inside.
Cassandra, she thought, just remember who you are.
The door was flung open then, and three men raced out laughing. Before her courage deserted her she darted inside.
It was hot; the air was filled with smoke and the stench of perspiring unwashed men, heavy perfume from a handful of women who walked slowly around the few tables, their hands trailing over the shoulders, the heads, the arms of the men who sat there drinking, playing cards, or talking in low voices. There were less than a dozen, all told, and none at all at a small bar that was built into the left-hand wall. Lanterns on ledges provided the only illumination, and it was several minutes before she was able to see clearly enough to move across the straw-covered floor. The bartender stared openly at her. He was an old man, bald, his shirt stained and torn beneath a full-length apron that was just as filthy. When she beckoned to him nervously, he smiled. His mouth was toothless and his gums were black. She tried not to flinch or turn away when he approached and she caught a whiff of his fetid, liquored breath.
“What ’ee want, lass?”
“A—a man,” she said, and closed her eyes immediately he burst into laughter.
“A man, is it? ’Ee have numbers here, lass, take your pick.” And his arm swung wide to encompass the room.
“No,” she said, suddenly angry, suddenly wary of two men who had come in after her and flanked her at the bar, an arm’s length on either side. “A tall man, well dressed, from England. His name is Martingale. I need—” She fumbled in her cape, pulled out a coin, tossed it on the bar, and watched as it vanished as if it hadn’t been; the man on her left had moved quickly close to her and had snatched it up before the bartender could move.
“Young girl like you shouldn’t be tossin’ money like that,” he said, winking at his friend who was now close enough to touch her. “Salty, I didn’t know ye had them kind what pays their own.”
The barman Salty shrugged, then turned away when a man at a near table demanded his attention.
Cass tried to push away from the bar, but a hand on her back stayed her. She felt her blood begin to race, her heart struggle to escape from her chest, but her face remained calm as she turned, slowly. “Take your hands away from me.”
“Oh, lass,” the man said, grinning, rubbing one finger over a scarred, blunted chin. “Ye shouldn’t talk like that to me. I be a big man in these parts, y’know.”
“I know what parts he’s talkin’ about,” his companion said, wheezing his laughter. “And he’s right, y’know. He be damned big where it counts.”
“Let me go,” Cass said tightly. “You can have my money, if that’s what you want. Just let me go.”
“Salty,” one of them called out, ignoring her. “You have place for me and my friend?”
“‘Ee know where it be” the bartender shouted back without looking. “‘Ee change the sheets after, though, ’ee know that, too.”
Cass’s move was sudden; feeling the arm relax, she whirled around with a kick to the man’s ankles, and would have made it to the door had it not been for the other, whose hand grabbed at her cape and nearly spilled her to her back as the clasp gouged into her throat and cut off her breath. Then, before she could do anything else, appeal to anyone still in the tavern, she was swept up the rickety stairs next to the bar and tossed into a room at the first landing. By this time she had filled her lungs again, but she decided against screaming; the first man had his back to the door and was deliberately cleaning his nails with the blade of a knife. The other sat on the edge of a bed that was only a mattress and single sheet.
“Come on, then,” he said. “Pay me and do me, lass. That’s the way ye want it, yes?”
“Bastard,” she said softly.
The man at the door looked up, astonished. The man on the bed grinned.
“Bastard,” she said again. “Touch me and I’ll take your eyes out.”
“Oh my,” the knife man said; and he might have said more but his companion suddenly leapt to his feet and lunged for her, crying out in pain when she lashed out with her foot and caught him in the groin. He fell heavily to the floor, groaning, rolling onto his back, then his side, curling into a tight ball. Cass, meanwhile, had whirled around to face the door. The knife was pointed at her throat.
“Take it off,” he said, gesturing to the cape.
Without moving her gaze from the blade, Cass unclasped the cape and let it drop to the floor. She knew what she had to do, that timing was everything. She put her hands gently to her stomach and spread her fingers over the soft black cloth. Then, smiling slightly—and paying no attention to the man still on the floor, now rolling to his knees and trying to straighten—she slid her palms to her breasts, cupping them, hefting them, her tongue moistening her lips while her eyes saw the point of the blade waver. You’re too damned slow, she told herself; and she took a step forward, exaggerating the thrust of her hips, her hands remaining on her breasts.
“You want it,” she said, “you’re going to have to take it, you bastard.”
The man moved to meet her. She grinned and dropped one hand. When he reached out to take it, she snared his wrist and yanked him forward, jumping aside when he yelled and crashed onto the bed. She raced for the door, sobbing, screamed once when two hands gripped her shoulders and spun her around.
“I’m a bastard, you’re a bitch,” said the man she had kicked. He slapped her once, then again, grabbed a fistful of her hair, half-dragged her across the floor and flung her down on the bed. The other was already working on his belt while his friend immediately straddled her chest, momentarily knocking the wind from her lungs. She saw stars, felt a nausea that welled and became acid. She spat at him. He laughed. The only sounds were their combined panting, snarling, her angry yelp when she felt her skirts being shoved up to her thighs. She tried to lash out with her boots again and was slapped, this time tasting the salt of blood at the corner of her mouth. Thrashing her head from side to side, she refused to beg when her breasts were mauled, pinched, grabbed in two sweaty fists and squeezed tightly.