Scalpdancers (8 page)

Julia grabbed the whip and applied it to the mare, and the carriage lurched forward. Morgan had to grab the edge of the seat to keep from being dislodged as they sped away from the hillside and the watcher in the doorway. Once they were out of sight beyond a granite outcrop, Morgan managed to wrest the lines from the woman's grasp and rein the carriage to an awkward stop. Julia tried to regain control, but he caught her arms and drew her close, to take a kiss of his own.

“No,” she halfheartedly protested. “We sail at first light. And I shall never see you again.”

“All the better,” Morgan said and took his kiss, overpowering her token resistance. She was fire in his arms.

“I know a place …” he bega.

“Take me there,” she said.

4

Temperance Rawlins bellowed for the trio of men unloading the barrels of salt pork to cease their efforts and wait for him by their wagon. Then Temp trotted up the gang-plank and with a nod to young Tim Britchetto forced the younger man to stand aside. Tim set down the barrel of provisions he'd just carried aboard.

“When it comes to my salt pork, I like to inspect the wares,” Temp said with a wink. “Now I've eaten more'n my share of stale bread, but I'll not be goin' to sea with wormy meat.” The first mate drew his cutlass and worked the tip of the blade under the barrel lid and pried the covering loose. He lifted the lid. The odor would have bowled over a buzzard. “Now that'll steal the wind from your sails,” Temp gasped. “Tainted. Look at them maggots wiggle.” He sliced a chunk with the cutlass and lifted the tip of the blade to hold the rancid morsel beneath Tim's nose. The chunk was riddled with maggots feasting on the rotted flesh.

Tim grimaced, almost gagged, and tried to look innocent, but Temp wasn't buying his act.

“How many times have I told you to inspect these supplies before they come aboard?”

“But they come from Don Rodrigo. He's a friend, ain't he?” Tim protested.

“The only friend a sailor has is common sense,” Temp retorted and he rapped a knuckle against the youth's skull. “Let it sink in, lad; listen to old Temp Rawlins and maybe one day you'll captain your own ship like Morgan Penmerry. Why, if it weren't for me takin' him under my wing so to speak when he was but a young pup and learnin' him the ways of the sea, he'd have wound up danglin' from a yardarm or tossed into the sea for shark bait, mark me well.” Temp glanced about the deck. His eyebrows arched. “Speak of the devil, the captain hasn't showed yet?”

There was little activity on the deck, though Ansel Arvidson and a half-dozen men labored below deck, repairing the burned-out timbers in the ship's hold.

“Not that I've seen,” Tim replied, eager to shift attention from the salt pork. “And we've a dozen men gone again. They figured once we outfitted the ship there'd be nothing left to warm their palms but blisters. They want their wages in advance.”

“Damn their black hearts,” Temp cursed. Then he cocked an eye and stroked his stubbled chin and studied the youth across from him. “What say you, Tim Britchetto? Do you and Jocko plan to cut your losses and jump ship?”

Anger flashed like distant lightning in the young man's eyes. He drew himself up, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and assumed a defiant stance, planting his feet firmly on the deck as if daring any man to try and move him.

“I'm Penmerry's man. So is my brother,” he stated.

To Tim's surprise, Temp laughed in his face and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good lad,” Temp said. “My doubts was all pretend. You might not know salt pork from saltpeter, but you'll do.” He waved toward the wagon at the foot of the gangplank. “Now get this barrel back where it come from and I'll see Don Rodrigo.”

Temp started down the gangplank as Tim refitted the lid to the pork barrel and hoisted it to his shoulders. The afternoon was drawing on. Though the captain's business was none of his concern, Tim voiced the question anyway.

“Mr. Rawlins, just where is Captain Penmerry?”

Temp turned sharply as if to admonish the youth. Instead, he shrugged. The question was plaguing him as well.

Not that there was anything for the captain to do. It was Temp Rawlins's job to see that the
Hotspur
was ready to take to sea. The first mate had an uneasy feeling that Morgan had gotten into trouble—not with Chiang Lu though. Worse. Morgan had left that morning to look over the crew of the reverend's bark in hopes of finding some of the
Hotspur'
s crew. If he had found the missionary's daughter instead …

“You worry about your duties and don't be frettin' over the welfare of Captain Penmerry. He can take care of himself and you and me as well.” Temp tugged a wool cap onto his almost hairless skull and continued down the walkway and onto shore.

A burly seaman named Gude and Jocko Britchetto, under the watchful gaze of the wagon driver, a slim, sullen-faced Chinese in the employ of Don Rodrigo, had begun to inspect the pork barrels, pronouncing the contents of one spoiled and another just beginning to turn.

The
Hotspur's
first mate strode toward the warehouse. A mongrel hound nipped at the man's heels. Temp sent the animal baying with a well-placed kick to the side. A local merchant named Chi Do spied Temp from a nearby stall and managed to intercept him.

“Out of my way,” Temp growled at the Oriental man.

“Indeed. As you wish. But I have prepared three baskets of smoked fish, my honorable friend,” the merchant declared. “I refused to sell them to any other ship until I visit my good friend Captain Penmerry and my good friend Mr. Rawlins.” Chi Do had to hurry to keep abreast of the long-legged old seaman.

“Name your price, Chi,” Temp said without breaking stride.

“One thousand patacas will lift me from poverty,” Chi Do proposed. Today he wore a threadbare brown silk coat, but Temp had seen him in finery and parading among the rum houses and taverns with an entourage of courtesans.

“Two hundred and fifty,” Temp countered without pity. “If you wish to rise high, why not climb the Thousand Buddha Cliffs?”

“Seven hundred and I will still be able to marry off my daughters with handsome dowry,” Chi Do appealed. “And may Buddha bless you.”

“Five hundred,” Temp said. “I know your daughters. One of them is already married. As for the other, there's not enough gold in Macao to see her wedded or bedded.”

“Agreed.” Chi Do shrugged and bowed. “I fear you have spoken the truth. My eldest is an arguesome child with all the appeal of a goat. But all is not lost. I know a blind farmer just beyond the China gate….” Chi Do bowed again as Temp paid him; then the merchant hurried back to his stall to attend to the baskets, the smallest of which stood five feet tall and was heavy with a load of smoked and salted fish.

Temp continued on to the warehouse. He glanced anxiously at the ominous sky. If the weather worsened and they couldn't slip away at sunup, there would be hell to pay. Damn Penmerry, would he never take things seriously?

Temp hauled the double doors to the warehouse open; they banged against the back wall as the irate seaman barged into the storage area. Gray light streamed in behind him and illuminated a pyramid of pork barrels and crates. “Don Rodrigo, you scheming blackguard. Show your-self Those new barrels fooled us, but my nose found you out. I'll have decent salt pork or by heaven it will be your hide in the barrel.” Temp's voice carried throughout the warehouse and returned unacknowledged, for the Portuguese merchant was either hiding or had business away from the pier.

“He doesn't seem to be here,” a mild-mannered voice said from the doorway leading into Don Rodrigo's office.

Temp, startled, swung around and recognized the missionary, Emile Emerson. “You looking for the tricky little bastard too?” the first mate asked.

“No. I thought I might find Captain Penmerry here,” Emerson replied, trying to keep himself under control. His hands firmly clasped his Bible. He feared to loosen his hold upon the Holy Scripture for fear of picking up a gun. “Is Captain Penmerry aboard ship?”

“Here? That young rake? Hardly,” Temp scoffed. “If I know the captain, he's probably found him a properly disposed gal and enticed her to mischief.” Temp started to laugh, then realized to whom he spoke. He gulped and tried to fumble his way out of the hole he had dug for himself and the captain of the
Hotspur
. “What I mean is these Chinese gals can be mighty willing—uh, I mean for the right price … the ones that work in the Banyan Gardens or House of Heaven. That's what I mean.”

Emerson's fingers tightened on the Bible, the knuckles bloodless. “I see….” the missionary managed to say. Without another word he turned and walked from the office, his shoulders sagging as he made his way past the first mate and out into the street.

“Temp Rawlins,” the first mate muttered to himself, “sometimes you talk too damn much.” He followed Emerson out of the warehouse and watched as the black-clad figure made his way along the pier. How bright the man's tight white collar seemed, even from a distance, even in feeble light.

What few rooms the Jade Willow Tavern could offer were airy, lushly appointed accommodations that belied the inn's austere, brown-washed facade. Julia took note of the way Madame De Builliard, the tavern's proprietress, fussed over Morgan Penmerry. Though Madame wore too much powder and rouge, and her attire was suggestive, to say the least—her bosom all but exposed beneath a bodice of lace frills—she had aged with grace. Her body was trim and desirable; her eyes sparkled and her appetite for life was infectious. She appraised Julia frankly and glanced knowingly at Morgan as she gave them a key to the last of her available rooms. Julia knew that her own high-necked and purposely drab dress had roused Madame De Builliard's curiosity, and she had the distinct feeling her presence in the company of Captain Morgan Penmerry would be the subject of gossip throughout the Jade Willow Tavern.

Once in the room and alone with Morgan Penmerry, alone with and for the first time in close proximity to a man other than her father, she tried to conceal her misgivings as she crossed to a velvet-draped window and peered out at the street below—a noisy thoroughfare with what seemed an unending parade of humanity. There were children at play, fish merchants, silk peddlers, a silk-clad hawker hauling a two-wheeled cart piled high with caged birds. A girl sold preserved eggs from a makeshift stall.

Where were they all going? Where was anyone going? Julia shifted wearily. She sensed Morgan studying her and drew her shoulders back. Julia noticed a set of toylike brass figurines on a metal base. Her first impression was one of innocent admiration for the piece until closer examination showed one of the figures to be a goat standing on its hind legs, its phallus erect. Julia touched the base of the figurine. At the slightest jostling, the animal plunged its organ between the open legs of a plump, elfin lass, who eagerly accepted the animal's sex. In and out, the goat merrily plunged home. Julia blushed and lowered the brass work to the table.

She needed a drink. No, several drinks. The reverend's daughter averted her gaze from the frolicsome goat. The room's main article of furniture was an elaborate four-poster bed whose carved headboard displayed a magnificent array of naked maidens erotically entangled with a host of willing and obviously aroused lads.

Morgan Penmerry kicked off his high-topped boots and sank into the down mattress and clasped his hands behind his head. He grinned, amused by the young woman's discomfort, for every furnishing—from the japanned bed table to the needlework on the curtains, from the design on the paper screen masking the dressing area to the ink-on-rice-paper drawings adorning the walls—displayed acts of foreplay and intercourse. Though by no means were the renderings crude or tasteless. Each depiction was the work of an anonymous but highly skilled artist.

“Oh, God,” Julia muttered under her breath. Spying a bottle of rice wine and glasses on a table near the door, She made her way across the room and helped herself to the strong, bitter drink. Actually being here, alone with the captain of the
Hotspur
, had taken some of the wind out of her sails. She gulped her drink and poured another, emptied it into her gullet and poured yet a third.

“Better go easy on that,” Morgan said. “Madame De Builliard brews her own drink. It starts off civilized but turns into an ogre by and by.”

“I can handle myself, thank you,” Julia reminded him. She finished her drink and helped herself to a fourth. Sweat beaded her upper lip. The room seemed terribly warm. She walked back to the window and tried to figure out how to open it. The latch resisted her efforts.

“Your father saw us,” Morgan said.

“Does that frighten you?” Julia said, facing him. The room shifted unsteadily like the deck of a ship. “He might call the wrath of God down on you. Don't worry. He can call all day and night, and there'll be nothing.' Nothing.”

Morgan couldn't miss the resentment in her voice. “Last night you were prepared to scratch my eyes out when I braced him in Don Rodrigo's office. Now you hate his guts. I'm curious. Why?”

“I don't hate him!” Julia snapped, protesting too vociferously to be believed. She softened her tone. “I do—and I love him. Both, you see. No, how could you? What do you know of love?” Julia drained the contents of the wineglass. The warmth in the pit of her stomach was seeping up to her chest.

“All these years, teaching children of the Christian God, the one God who hears the cry of the poor. My mother gave up everything to follow my father. She thought him a saint. But she was the saint. Always dutiful and quiet and caring. Always able to laugh at hardship.”

Julia Emerson filled her glass yet again. She spilled some down the front of her dress and didn't care. “And then she took sick and never got better. I prayed and prayed, but she died anyway. My father told me to have faith. In what? I say.” She sat on the edge of the bed and as Morgan reached for her, Julia realized what she had done and stood again, out of his grasp.