Scalpdancers (7 page)

“Run!” Vlad shouted. “Run, you whore's son! Tell your master I'll break my fast on Penmerry's vitals and nothing else!”

“He meant no harm, Captain,” Abdul said, entering from the hallway. Vlad spun around and leveled the pistol at his black lieutenant. Abdul took little note of the weapon pointed at his solid midriff. He calmly patted dust from his white blouse and black satin pantaloons and picked his path among the eggs, diced pork, smoked eel, and rice cakes littering the floor. The Moroccan shook his head in dismay. He'd known hunger in his day and hated the waste of food.

“Shoot me, Captain, and you'll never hear the news I bring. Good news to make your heart light as the summer breeze.” He nudged a rice cake with the toe of his boot, knelt and picked it up, brushed away the dirt, and sampled the morsel. The texture was chewy and flavored with almond, honey, and orange, almost imperceptible, that lingered on the palate.

Vlad cursed and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the walled courtyard with its untended gardens and lichen-covered fountain crowned by a marble goddess whose head had been shot away by some drunken brigand. Several of Vlad's crewmen were taking their siesta in the shade of the vine-covered walls or beneath domed porticoes, where small gray birds flitted among the slanting shadows.

The clouds above quickly sealed the fissure through which the sunlight had reached the earth and became once more a solid charcoal-colored barrier blocking those warming rays. Shadows dissolved and the moist still air awaited yet another downpour. It was just past noon, Vlad noted with regret. Beyond Peacock Alley the whores that frequented the Avenue of Innocents would have yet to arrive. The Russian exile wanted a woman. He could send for one of Chiang Lu's courtesans—but in truth, Demetrius Vlad wanted no more to do with Chiang Lu since the merchant had failed to back the Russian and allowed Morgan Penmerry to depart to the safety of his ship and crew. Yes, a woman would help. He conjured a pleasant image and enjoyed his fantasy for a single sweet moment. Then reality intruded in the sound of the Moroccan's deep, gravelly voice.

“What did you say? What news?” Vlad asked.

Abdul swaggered across the room, retrieving a couple more rice cakes as he moved to join his captain on the balcony.

“There is a seaman named Boiler. Whiskey loosened his tongue and my dagger kept it wagging. He used to be cook aboard the
Hotspur
, but he quit because Penmerry had no money to pay his wages.” Abdul's eyes twinkled and a grin revealed a ragged row of teeth. “Why not wait till Penmerry sells his hides, you be asking, and I answer, 'cause there are none. All his prime pelts damaged in a fire, blackened, burned, or tainted by smoke.”

“No pelts at all? Everything ruined?” By the blood of the Almighty, this was even better than a whore's dalliance!

“Just about.”

“Then Chiang Lu wagered against nothing, a key to an empty warehouse.”

“Now you're full sail onto the truth of it, my captain,” Abdul said.

Vlad laughed, then winced for the effort. He had to subdue his delight or writhe in misery. As much as he hated Morgan Penmerry, he respected the fur trader's ploy. He had plucked a silk purse of coins right from the warlord's own belt. It was sheer thievery, a calling Demetrius Vlad had ample experience in. Morgan Penmerry, a common high seas robber after all!

If only Chiang Lu knew. To see the diminutive merchant puff himself up in outrage, to watch him sputter and fume—now that would be amusing.

“That Captain Morgan, he's a sly one right enough.” Abdul cocked his head to one side. “But if you pull a whisker from a tiger, you better hope he does not waken, eh?”

Vlad read his lieutenant's intentions. The Russian touched his bandaged face, fingers toying at a strand of gauze as his thoughts worked out a scenario in which he might have his revenge on Morgan Penmerry and Chiang Lu both, and turn a tidy profit in the bargain. Set the dogs upon each other and while they're at each other's throats, raid their masters' villas.

“Send word to Chiang Lu of Penmerry's deception,” he ordered. Vlad glanced over his shoulder and studied his reflection in a mirror hung inside the room. He could easily recognize the brawny Moroccan outlined against the backdrop of gray light. But Vlad's own finely sculpted face was ruined forever. Morgan Penmerry was to blame for that, and now he would pay.

Demetrius Vlad whirled and fired, startling Abdul. The gunshot reverberated off the walls of the courtyard and brought several of the Russian's crew staggering out from their quarters, muskets in hand.

The lead ball thudded into the figure atop the fountain, blasting away the goddess's left breast. The crewmen below milled about in confusion, realization slowly dawning that they were not under attack and that the echoing gunshot was but a product of Demetrius Vlad's rage. The guards plodded back to their station at the gate. The remainder of the men lowered their muskets and returned, grumbling, to their women and rum and makeshift beds.

Vlad lowered his gaze to the balustrade, where a small brown beetle worked its way along the top of the stone. “Tomorrow, that bug will still be alive and whole, but I'll wear Morgan Penmerry's mark forever.”

Captain Morgan Penmerry didn't wait for permission to board the
Magdalene
, Emile Emerson's ship. He walked up the gangplank to the deck and no one moved to stop him. It was obvious he was in a foul mood and his temper as easily triggered as the brace of flintlocks tucked in his belt. No one wanted to end up like Demetrius Vlad. In truth, the duel at the cockfight had become the talk of the waterfront. Although most men applauded Morgan Penmerry's victory, they kept their delight to themselves, for Vlad's enemies too often disappeared. The combined fear of Vlad and a healthy respect for Penmerry enabled the fur trader to reach the deck of the
Magdalene
unchallenged.

It wasn't a large ship. Morgan estimated it to be about one hundred twenty feet from bow to stern and about one hundred forty tons. He judged that the seventeen men who readied the ship were all the crew she needed.

Morgan glanced around and caught the nearest man by the arm. The seaman stepped back and raised a knuckle to his forehead. He was a mulatto and sweat beaded his coffee-colored features.

“Where's the reverend?” Morgan asked.

“Reverend Cap'n Emerson ain't about,” the seaman said, hefting a fifty-pound sack of rice flour to his shoulder. He started to elaborate, but a shadow fell between them and he hurried off toward the stairwell amidships leading to the hold.

Julia Emerson had emerged from the captain's cabin and advanced toward Morgan. The reverend's daughter was as sternly clad as before, in a high-necked dress with a gray bodice and charcoal skirt, but the otherwise somber effect was offset by a gaily patterned apron depicting an elegant flotilla of brightly stitched swans.

“Captain Penmerry, indeed have you had a change of heart? Do you intend to pilot us to the northwest coast of the Americas after all?”

“I'm looking for Drexel Reilly, one of my crew. I was told he hired on with you yesterday.”

“Then he is the
Magdalene's
carpenter now,” Julia stated flatly. She folded her hands upon her apron and studied this brash, bold-talking sea captain.

He wasn't a pretty man; there was certainly no trace of the dandy in his rough features and brawny physique. He'd founder on the floor of a ballroom, to be sure. If the cloth he was cut from was coarse, it was also strong and resilient: It might never dress a prince, but it fit a man. Her eyes dropped to the thatch of black curly hair matting his chest where his shirt had come untied. Then she lifted her sparkling emerald gaze to meet Morgan's dark eyes. She remained uncowed by his stern visage, and Morgan Penmerry could only sigh and allow his scowl to melt away.

“I thought parsons' daughters were a weak-kneed, trembling lot.” Morgan ran a hand through his hair.

“On the contrary, Captain Penmerry,” Julia replied, fastening a bonnet in place and tying the ribbon beneath her chin. “A minister and his family must be able to endure even the most austere hardships. We may turn the other cheek, but we don't back down. So you see, there is a great deal you have to learn about ministers and their daughters.”

“When is school in session?” Morgan asked. “I just might sign on, if the right teacher is about.” He stepped back and flashed her a daring grin. He was becoming more and more intrigued by this woman. He liked her spirit as much as her well-curved figure.

“As this is my last day in Macao, I should like to visit someone special. It is a long walk, but as you have a carriage…” She looked down the gangplank to the carriage and mare tethered to a post alongside the walkway. “I assume it is yours.”

“Don Rodrigo's. You might say I borrowed it.” Morgan chuckled, adding, “And he might say I stole it.”

“Good. Then I'll allow you to drive me. And in return, I will tell you all about daughters of ministers.”

She held out her arm, waiting for him to escort her down the gangplank. Morgan looked at her in disbelief. His own ship, the
Hotspur
, was undergoing feverish preparations so that she could sail away under cover of night and escape Chiang Lu's wrath. He had no business following some missionary around the port city no matter how appealing her auburn tresses and delicate high-boned features or the way her abundant bosom swelled with each breath, rose and fell like the billowing tides of the sea.

“Agreed.” Morgan bowed gallantly and took her arm in his. “On one condition. This someone special had better not be a wealthy nobleman or his arrogant young offspring in heat.”

Julia's expression changed. Morgan sensed he had touched a nerve and he wondered if she was going to back out. But her reaction lasted a moment, then vanished, though when she spoke, a note of hidden sorrow colored her tone of voice.

“Don't worry, it's a woman,” she explained. “My mother.”

A
GNES
M
ARIE
E
MERSON

BORN
A
PRIL
11, 1774

DIED
O
CTOBER
5, 1813

F
AITHFUL
S
ERVANT

OF THE
L
ORD

The marker was carved of native stone, the letters scratched in an irregular, though legible, style. The Christian cemetery was atop a hillside north of town. A wheel-rutted path led from the cluster of villas beyond the city and wound through the lush green countryside until it reached the top of the hill. A Portuguese priest had erected a statue of the crucified Christ near the wooden gate. The cemetery itself was surrounded by a wall of stones piled two and a half feet high. A path of crushed shells led from the gate to the mission church and school approximately fifty yards from the cemetery. A small wood-frame house for the missionary's use stood to the side of the school. In stark silence, still as the grave at Morgan's feet, the Cornishman kept a sympathetic vigil with the girl.

“I prayed to God not to take her,” Julia sighed. “I made a pact with God. I'd give up everything if only she would live. It was a cough that just wouldn't leave. It grew worse and worse, and then one morning she died. Early … before sunrise, I was sitting beside her. She reached out and touched my hand and asked me who I was—then she died.”

Morgan was no stranger to death; he had faced the grim reaper on several occasions. But this was different. He watched a rivulet of tears spill down Julia's cheek and envied the young woman's courage. Captain Morgan Penmerry did not fear death. But he dreaded being so close to someone that he could not endure a final farewell. He lacked her courage to be brokenhearted.

“God…” was all he muttered.

“Don't you pray?” Julia asked.

“Did it do you any good?” Morgan replied with a question of his own.

Julia had no answer, for in truth the captain had touched upon a grievous doubt she was loath to share. The loss of her mother had shaken Julia's own faith. She reached into an apron pocket and drew forth a wooden and cloth doll her mother had made for her long ago, a lifetime it seemed. Flowers were not enough to leave on this last visit to the grave site. She looked around at the other graves and markers—some with Portuguese names, some with Chinese, others with English names—joining the dead of different nations by a common faith and a common fate. They had all perished in a foreign land, far from home.

The missionary's daughter knelt by her mother's headstone and placed the doll against it. On this last day she must leave something of herself, a part of the innocent past when everything was sure and good and bright. Maybe it would be again someday. Or, perhaps, sensing the shadows on the edge of the brightness was all a part of growing up. She rose and faced the man at her side.

“Why did you want me to come along?” Morgan's question hung softly on the stillness.

Julia turned and started toward the gate. Morgan dutifully followed. When they reached the carriage, Julia Emerson suddenly spun about and wrapped her arms around Morgan's neck and kissed him full upon the lips in a bruising and passionate display that caught the captain totally off guard. By the time he managed to respond, she broke away and backed toward the wheel of the carriage. Her bonnet had come off and hung down her back. Her chest rose and fell with each breath.

“Today I visited my mother for the last time. Today I kissed a man for the first time,” she said, attempting to regain her composure. “Everything is changing. Everything I knew and trusted and counted on. Nothing will ever be the same again. And neither will I.” She unbound her hair, letting the auburn tresses fall, and her eyes flashed with defiance. She laughed aloud, a brittle sound, and turned to climb into the carriage. She glanced toward the church to find her father standing in the doorway, watching her. There was no doubt he had witnessed her behavior. She held out her hand and allowed Morgan to help her up, then scooted over, making room for him beside her.