Scalpdancers (6 page)

“Chiang Lu wouldn't knock,” Morgan replied. He opened the door and stepped back; his right hand brushed the flintlock pistol at his waist in a precautionary gesture that betrayed his own nervousness. His hand quickly fell away as Emile Emerson and his daughter entered the office.

Don Rodrigo, seeing a young woman and the reverend, sighed in relief.

“May we speak to you, Captain Penmerry?” the reverend asked, stepping in out of the rain. Water dripped from the hem of his greatcoat and the brim of his sodden black hat.

Julia Emerson flipped the cowl back from her features and met Morgan's frank appraisal with a demure smile.

“I knew it,” Morgan said, speaking directly to the missionary's daughter.

“Sir?”

“I knew you'd have green eyes,” he said.

Julia blushed and lowered her gaze from the brash, rugged-looking captain.

“I am Dr. Emile Emerson,” said the girl's father, attempting to divert the captain's scrutiny. “And my daughter, Julia Ruth Emerson.” The reverend planted himself between the captain and the girl. He was as round as a Virginia ham. His eyes were green like his daughter's, though bloodshot from lack of sleep, the trademark of a worried man. From the way Emerson carried himself, Morgan had the distinct impression that this Bible thumper could spew fire and brimstone with the best of them.

“I must apologize for intruding at such an hour.”

“It isn't late,” Morgan said. “The storm only makes it seem so.” He turned and walked toward the cast-iron stove. Don Rodrigo, the soul of politeness, poured two more cups of tea.

“Here, Miss. Warm yourself.” He indicated an empty seat by the stove. Ever the gentleman, he helped the young woman out of her hooded cape.

“Thank you,” Emerson said, speaking for the both of them, a habit that annoyed his daughter but seemed perfectly natural to him.

Emerson grunted in satisfaction as he removed his greatcoat by the stove and held his hands out to the warmth. Then he reached inside his vest and produced a flask of brandy and added a dollop to his tea. Don Rodrigo emptied the contents of his cup into a nearby corner and took his measure of brandy straight.

“Many thanks,” the merchant said.

Morgan was intrigued by the visit. He usually had as little to do as possible with men of religion. Morgan's truth was a fair wind, calm seas, and the strength of fire and steel. Gold, guns, and a woman … these were things worth living for and all of heaven that he needed to know.

“There are other fires to warm yourself by in Macao, Dr. Emerson,” Morgan said. “And teahouses that serve a better brew than the twice-boiled pitch Don Rodrigo can offer.”

Emerson studied the younger man a moment and smiled despite himself. He appreciated directness.

“I have come to ask you a question,” the reverend said, momentarily setting the teacup aside. He folded his hands across his well-rounded belly. Sweat beaded his forehead and glistened in his snowy side-whiskers and the ruff of white hair that circled his pinkish skull like a wreath. “Tell me, Captain Penmerry, do you believe in God?”

“If you mean do I give anything away, the answer is no. As for God, save your preaching. I believe in what I can see, what I can hold with these two hands, or buy or fight, or … make love to.”

He glanced in the girl's direction and saw the color creeping up her throat.

“Sir. There is a lady present,” Emerson scolded.

“There are no ladies in Macao,” Morgan said. “Only women.”

“And few gentlemen,” Julia spoke up in a silken tone.

Morgan smiled. He liked the show of sparks.

“So, she speaks,” the captain observed wryly. He crossed the room and cleared a space for himself amid the charts and record books strewn upon a wide table set against the wall. Morgan perched between a pair of hurricane lamps.

“Well now, I doubt you've come to convert me, Dr. Emerson.”

“No,” Emerson replied. He wiped a forearm across his forehead, he patted his pocket but could find no scarf. The lamplight played on his hands. His were work hands. They might have been soft once, but twenty years of missionary work in the far-flung places of the world had left his hands as rough and calloused as any shipwright's. “I don't proselytize. I attest to the presence of God through my actions and let the Almighty win souls Himself.” The missionary finished his tea and looked at Don Rodrigo. “That will be all, my good fellow. Now permit us the use of your office and may heaven smile on you.”

Don Rodrigo rose from his chair and, grabbing up his tools, muttered that he had more leaks to repair in the bedroom above. The merchant sauntered off with tools in one hand and a bucket and extra shingles in the other. If there were to be conspiracies, he wanted no part of them.

When they were alone, the reverend felt freer to speak his mind. He helped himself to another cup of tea. Julia declined any more; she continued to meet the captain's gaze. Indeed, she took girlish pride in the way Morgan's eyes seemed drawn to her. Her curved lips and ample bosom did wonders for the somber-colored garments she wore.

“A most impressive performance today, Captain Penmerry,” Emerson said. “I must say, anything that causes Chiang Lu displeasure, I applaud, though generally I abhor violence.”

“Chiang Lu has opposed my father's ministry ever since we helped one of his servant girls escape to Canton. She was a pathetic child and he had cruelly mistreated her.” Julia Emerson brushed an errant auburn strand from her cheek and tucked it behind an ear. “For that he has driven us out of Macao.”

“I'm hardly in his good graces. There's nothing I can say to convince him to allow you to stay,” Morgan replied.

“On the contrary, I want you to help us leave,” Emerson explained. “I bought a ship with the last of my inheritance. A bark. Smaller than you're accustomed to but a seaworthy vessel nonetheless.” Emerson stood and reached inside his vest for a sealskin packet of papers and approached Morgan.

“My mission might have ended, but not my duty. I intend to establish a church at Astoria, on the mouth of the Columbia. However, I shall need a pilot to guide us to our destination. I've brought a list of what we've taken aboard.” He handed the packet to the captain.

Morgan stared in open-mouthed amazement at the reverend. Had the man taken leave of his senses? Not that crossing the Pacific with the missionary's comely daughter didn't have possibilities. Morgan laughed aloud and passed the unopened sealskin-wrapped papers back to Emile Emerson.

“I am master of my own ship,” Morgan said. “Do you think I would give that up?”

“It was our understanding that you already had. After losing your cargo…”

Morgan erupted from the table and caught the reverend by his wide white collar, tearing the material. Emerson's revelation had ignited Morgan's short fuse. Julia bolted from her chair and moved to defend her father.

“Hold it!” the captain growled with such ferocity the girl stopped in her tracks. Morgan, seeing the defiance etched in her features, relented. He eased his hold on the reverend and halfheartedly patted the wrinkles from Emerson's collar. “How did you know?”

“Why, a man asked to join my crew not four hours ago. He was most disgruntled and told me of your troubles. He wanted to ship out as soon as possible. Unfortunately, we were unable to take him aboard,” the missionary said.

“Leave my father alone!” Julia snapped angrily. Her admonition was after the fact, however. Morgan's anger was already directed elsewhere. He left them both and slowly walked to the front of the office and peered through the window at the downpour.

“Damn,” Morgan said under his breath. If Emerson had heard, then it was only a matter of time before rumors climbed the hill to Chiang Lu's villa.

“Perhaps this is not an appropriate time to discuss an arrangement,” Emerson said. “If you wish to join us, we leave the day after tomorrow. I shall do the best I can—with or without you.”

Emerson pulled on his greatcoat and helped Julia into her hooded cape. Their carriage was just outside the door. It would only take a few steps into the deepening night to reach the hitching post and untether the horse. Morgan had become uncommunicative.

Still, Julia chanced another outburst and gingerly approached the captain. Morgan towered over her, but she didn't back down. She placed her hand on his forearm.

“I'm sorry if we brought you bad news,” she said, then followed her father out into the night. And the gloom that mirrored Morgan's own dark mood was almost made bearable by the warmth that lingered where she had touched him.

3

Emile Emerson stared across the breakfast table at his recalcitrant daughter. The arrangement of plates, teapot, and cups was like some battlefield separating two camps engaged in a war of unspoken hurts. The motion of the bark riding the subtle currents of the bay left the parson off balance and dreading the ocean voyage to come.

“Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn child. This is our last day in China. Tomorrow morning we set sail. Can't these final hours see peace between us?” Emerson unclasped his hands and reached toward his daughter, who was still in her dressing gown. She drew back. The reverend was worried. This strange behavior had begun soon after the death of his wife, Julia's mother. But he had tried to help Julia through the grief while intensely suffering his own.

Julia stood and walked to the cabin window at the stern of the ship. The captain's cabin was the only comfortable quarters on the bark. Emerson had partitioned the cabin in such a way that a small area was screened off for the young woman's privacy. She used the captain's bed while her father had a pallet on the port side of the room for himself. A shelf crammed with books would help him endure the long voyage to come.

Emerson waited for her to respond. When she remained silent, he merely sighed aloud and muttered a litany of “Stubborn-stubborn-stubborn” yet again. He stared down at the rice cakes and salted fish and preserved eggs he had purchased from a vendor on the pier. It was his last breakfast in China. He was about to open a new chapter in his life. He was leaving behind the only home Julia had ever known.

“Perhaps my sister was right. I should have sent you to live with her family in London,” Emerson declared with a hint of finality in his voice.

“Indeed!” Julia snapped, turning on him, her arms folded across her bosom. “At least then I would not have been present to see you give up everything you've built and run like a frightened rabbit from that scoundrel Chiang Lu.” She blinked her moistened eyes and dabbed at them with the sleeve of her dressing gown.

“So that's it,” Emerson said. “At last…” He shoved breakfast aside. “Scoundrel is hardly the word for the likes of Chiang Lu.” Emerson felt his pulse quicken at the mention of the man. Had Chiang Lu not wished to keep his public reputation above reproach, the missionary would have been killed for interfering in Chiang Lu's affairs. The hatchets of the Blue Wing dragons were razor sharp and killed quickly, without mercy, in the dark of night. Emerson had seen men with their skulls cleaved.

He had his doubts that the Almighty would somehow intercede on the missionary's behalf and save him. History was full of martyrs. To his own shame Emerson dreaded the consequences of openly defying Chiang Lu. It made far better sense to begin anew, somewhere far from an adversary like the warlord.

“Dear daughter, do you want me to end up like the others who have gone against Chiang Lu? Will that make you happy?” He reached out to her, but she drew away. “I am a man of peace. A man of God.”

“A man of nothing,” she blurted. “If God cared so much about us, He wouldn't have taken Mother. He wouldn't allow the destruction of everything we had or for us to be driven from our home!” Her cheeks flushed; her hands knotted into fists. The role of dutiful parson's daughter had become too wearisome to continue. “I'll show God! And I'll show you! To the devil with this pretense!”

“Daughter, you blaspheme.”

“To the devil, I say,” she repeated venomously.

Emerson slapped her across the mouth. He had acted on reflex, without thought. Julia staggered back, astonished for a moment; then her smarting cheek crinkled as she coldly smiled.

“Thank you, Papa.”

“I didn't want—I didn't mean to…” Emerson began, his voice strained. “Julia, you've always been my good right arm.”

“I'm more than that, Papa. I will be a whole person, my own self. Not God's and not yours.”

Emerson searched her expression and felt uneasy at what he saw. He mustered all his dignity, every iota of authority. “You will not leave this ship. Do you understand? I forbid it. I have business ashore. I expect to find you here upon my return.”

He did not wait for a reply but gathered his frock coat and flat-brimmed black hat and strode from the ship's cabin. The oak door slammed shut with a ponderous finality.

Demetrius Vlad backhanded the servant, spilling the breakfast the poor man had carried as a peace offering from Chiang Lu's own kitchen. No matter the hapless man had brought the platter of covered dishes all the way from Lu's hillside villa to the sun-washed hacienda off Peacock Alley that served as the Russian's base of operations.

Vlad was in agony. The left half of his face, concealed beneath a layer of bandages, burned with the fire of hell, or so it seemed. The servant, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, tried to bow and back away as he scrambled to his feet. Vlad, driven mad by the pain, descended on the cringing servant, who darted for the doorway and received a boot to the backside for his trouble. He caromed off the balustrade and tumbled down the stairs to the courtyard below. Vlad grabbed a pistol from a nearby bedstand and reached the balcony just as the servant dashed through the gates and into the crowded thoroughfare of the street beyond.