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It was well past midnight when the rains came, chasing Marin and Phillipe off to their beds. Marin lie in his father’s old study, immersed in the storm – the whistling wind, the murmur of the rain, and a lightening all but bereft of thunder. The room had no windows, but he could see the flash of stark white light seep under the door, as it filled his old bedroom where Opaline and Phoebe lie. He wondered if Opaline was aware of the storm, or perhaps she was sleeping, and the light and sounds of the storm were being transformed into the symbolic fabric used to weave dreams. And if so, what were those dreams? While he wondered about the dreams of Opaline, he slipped into a few of his own.
***
“Marin, it is Eight-Thirty. Opaline is making Johnnycakes. If you want one you had better make your presence known,” Phillipe said from the other side of the hallway door.
Marin sauntered down the stairs and peered out of the stairwell window to witness a world sheathed in ice. Walking into the kitchen he saw Phillipe sitting at the table buttering a steaming hot, golden brown, Johnnycake. Across the table from him sat Phoebe, chomping her way through her Johnnycake. Opaline stood over the hearth tending to another one.
“This one appears to be yours,” she said to Marin.
“Phoebe, how are you feeling?” Marin asked, but with her mouth filled to capacity, and her fork loaded and waiting, she could only nod in response. He turned his smile to Opaline, and asked, “Did you sleep well, Opaline?”
“Until you woke me, yes.”
“I woke you?”
“You do not recall waking me up to ask me about the storm?”
“No,” Marin said, scratching his head.
Opaline flipped Marin’s Johnnycake, and turned to him. “You sat on the bed and discussed the storm with me ...well, there was no actual discussion; you talked and I listened.”
“What did I say?”
Opaline noticed both Marin and Phillipe awaiting her reply. She looked back at Marin, her eyes filled with hesitance.
“You asked her if she was afraid of the lightning,” Phoebe garbled, right before swallowing another mouthful.
Opaline turned back to the skillet.
“When she didn’t answer you, you commented that you had never experienced such muted lightening, and you wondered what it meant,” Phoebe added, before refilling her mouth with another forkful of Johnnycake.
“Why would it mean anything?” Phillipe asked.
Phoebe started to comment, but waited a few chewy moments, and then after swallowing half of her mouthful, she said, “You said you thought it was odd that it was the thunder that scared people, when it’s the lightening that does the damage. Thunder is only noise, you said. Then you told her you have never been afraid of thunder or lightening, but lightning without thunder left you in suspense without relief. You said you found silence much more—”
“That will be enough, Phoebe,” Opaline interrupted. “Here is your breakfast Marin,” she added, holding a plated Johnnycake in her outstretched arm.
“Much more what?” Phillipe asked.
“Terrifying,” Marin said, accepting the plate from Opaline.
“Then you tucked the covers up under my chin and went back to your room.” Opaline said, ending the conversation.
Marin buttered and honeyed his breakfast offering, poured himself a cup of coffee, and left the kitchen without adding comment.
He sat in the library eating his breakfast, and as he was finishing, Opaline came and stood in the doorway and studied him. He sat perfectly still as she mused over him as if she were searching through a painting in a gallery, trying to grasp the artist’s concept and the meaning of each detail. The longer she stared, the longer he posed, until there came an aggressive knocking at the front door, shattering the silent meditation. Opaline went to the door and greeted Jude Prince and Mister Oscar.
“Mourin’ Miss,” Jude said. “We’ve come to fetch the Captain. Time to review the crew.”
Opaline ushered the two through the door and pointed to the library. Mister Prince made his way into the library while Mister Oscar remained outside the room’s entrance.
“Let’s go see what the Navy has scared up for us, shall we?” he said to Marin.
Marin rose from his chair and walked to the coat tree in the foyer and donned his coat, scarf and hat.
“It’s a big sheet of ice out there, Captain. Best watch your step,” Mister Oscar advised.
“You as well, Mister Oscar,” Marin replied.
As they slipped down to the harbor, Mister Prince made more than one mention of Aja.
“She is some kind of woman, that one is,” he said, without specific reference as to whom he was referring. But Marin knew. “Turn a man inside out, leavin’ him broke and pantin’ for more,” Jude added. Marin said nothing, but Jude noticed his jaw muscles bulging, so he poked further. “She’s a true ‘lady of the evening’, that one is. Not one of your, ‘cum one, cum all’, slags.”
“Such as Phoebe?” Marin asked, picking up his pace ahead of Mister Prince.
That shut Jude up.
As they approached the Magister Maris, they noticed a small swarm of men huddled together on the icy dock.
“Ya wouldn’t suppose that rag bag o’ duffers and dudders would happen to be our crew, would ya?” Mister Prince muttered, more a declaration than a question.
Marin walked up to the gathered group and introduced himself. “Gentlemen,” he said with a nod, “I am Captain Carpenter. The man to my left is my First Mate, Mister Jude Prince, and the fellow on my right is the Magister Maris’s carpenter, Mister Oswald.”
The men mumbled about, looking at one another and occasionally nodding their heads. One of the scruffier looking lads asked,
“Are we to get something to eat? They said we would get something to eat.”
Marin glanced aside at Mister Prince, and asked, “Where the hell is Captain Fairchild?” Turning back to the gang of men, he added, “I know nothing about any arrangement to feed you lads. Perhaps the Navy—”
Jude interrupted him with a tap on the shoulder. He pointed to an approaching coach.
As it stopped, Captain Fairchild stepped out and said to Marin, “Well, I see you have met your crew.”
“Just,” Marin said. “This one tells me they were promised a meal.”
“Patience, gentlemen,” Fairchild said, addressing the group. “I am Captain Fairchild of the United States Navy. Perhaps we should board the Magister Maris, get below deck and out of the elements.”
Mister Prince led the way on board and proceeded down into the crew’s mess hall. The men gathered around the long empty table and looked around, as if expecting food.
Mister Fairchild managed to get their attention, saying, “Perhaps we should start with some—”
“Breakfast,” someone called out.
Mister Prince placed his hand upon the Fairchild’s epaulet and said, “Allow me, Captain.” He placed both hands palm down on the edge of the table, leaned in and addressed the hungry throng.
“Just a word or two about the menu before we continue, gents. THERE WILL BE NO GRUB, YA SALTY BASTARDS.” He stood up straight and in a calm, but sturdy voice, added, “Now then, either ya give each of the Captains the courtesy of your attention, or haul your raggedy, hungry-ass off the Magister Maris.”
Four of the men stood up, and Mister Oscar escorted them out of the room.
Marin sighed before asking the remaining dozen men, “How many of you have ...any experience on a square rigger?”
One hand went up. It belonged to a, by comparison, neatly dressed, middle-aged blonde man, who spoke with a British accent.
“I have, Sir.”
“And what might be your name?”
“Vincent Collier, sir.”
“And what experience have you, Mister Collier?”
“Yeoman of the Powder Room, sir.”
“With the Navy?”
“The Royal Navy, sir.”
Marin paused a moment before repeating Mister Collier’s words, “The Royal Navy?”
“Yes, Sir”
“And when was this service?”
“I served aboard the frigate, His Majesty’s Ship, Henry Wayne, sir ...during, The Rebellion.”
“The War of Independence,” Marin corrected him, “and you fought against us as a Gunner’s Mate, is that correct?”
“Yes sir,” Mister Collier said, no remorse forthcoming.
“Well, The Magister Maris is a merchant ship,” Marin advised him, and asked, “What are we to do with a Gunner’s Mate?” The man stood silent. “How is it you came to reside in America? Did you defect during the War?”
“No sir. After the uprising concluded, I left the Royal Service and immigrated to America.”
“And what is your profession now?”
“I was a foreman on a fishing trawler for twelve years.”
“Was?”
“Became a bit of a rum-face, sir.”
“And now?”
“My complexion is clear, sir.”
Marin laughed and said, “You will serve as my boatswain, Mister Collier.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Collier said.
Mister Prince turned a puzzled look toward Marin.
“Anyone else?” Marin asked, searching through the display of faces for a reply.
An attentive nod from a young man at the far end of the table drew his attention, but it was the man’s piercingly iridescent blue-green eyes that captured Marin’s observation - or perhaps it was the glimmer of blue-green light coming from a small translucent stone, dangling from the vertex of a silver necklace draped around the man’s neck that secured the Captain’s gaze. He stared at the object longer than he had intended to.
“...and who might you be?” he finally asked.
“I might be Dorian Murel,” the man replied.
Marin’s eyes again drifted to the talismanic stone. He found its resemblance to a human eye, disconcerting.
Mister Prince, noticing Marin’s loss of attention to the matter at hand, took the lead.
“And what might be yer experience?” Jude asked.
“I am an explorer,” he answered.
Jude looked to Marin for a reaction. Marin was otherwise occupied.
“And can ya tell us, for a fact, what it is you’ve explored?” Jude continued.
“The sea,” he replied, with eyebrows raised.
“Well haven’t we all,” Jude said, through a hearty laugh.
“No,” the man countered.
Jude stepped forward to peer around into Marin’s eyes. Marin came to.
“Well, I admit to being a little confused,” Marin said, “but never mind. On what sort of boats have you served, what were your duties, and what was the extent of your, ‘explorations’?”
“I own a small, call it a one man, sloop, and I have explored the waters of the North Atlantic from Cape May to Newfoundland, and as far east as Sable Island,” he answered, with no small measure of certitude.
“I would have thought that landscape well mapped by now,” Marin said, more to Jude Prince than Dorian Murel.
“I do not explore the landscape, sir; I explore the sea. I know the wind and the waves, the currents and the fetch of this stretch of waters, better than any man alive.”
“I see,” Marin said, in mock admiration. “And have you sailed these waters, in all their conditions, all by yourself, in your little sailboat?”
“Yes sir,” Mister Murel crossed, “I have. And may I add, I understand your skepticism, and I am quite sure your sailing experience is greater, and ranges much farther than my own.” His left hand caressed the blue-green stone around his neck. “But I assure you Captain, no one can read these waters as well as I.”
“Very well,” the Captain sighed. “You shall be my Second Mate, serving under Mister Prince.”
Mister Prince looked at Marin and gave a tilt of his head, as if it had been knocked off center.
“I am curious Mister Murel ...that stone you wear, is that a talisman of some sort?” Marin asked.
“No sir,” Mister Murel answered, “that is my third eye.” There ran a note of reverence through Murel’s voice that stunted any ridicule Marin may have otherwise offered.
“Alright then, what about the rest of ya,” Mister Prince shouted out. “Have any of ya so much as stepped a toe into blue-green pond?”
The silence was palpable.
“Do any of ya have any skills at all?” Jude bellowed.
“I can cook,” said a burley gentleman, whose acquaintance with food was quite obvious.
“And yer name?”
“Mister O’Brien, sir”
“Gentlemen, meet yer cook, a Mister O’Brien.”
“Can we have somethin’ to eat, then?” someone spoke.
“Who said that?” Jude snapped.
“Never mind, Mister Prince,” Marin interjected. “Can anyone here sew?”
Everyone exchanged glances.
“Me mother was a seamstress,” one man volunteered.
“How encouraging,” Jude sniped. “And do ya know yer way ‘round a needle and thread, then?”
“Not so much.” the man said, prompting tatters of laughter among the others.
“Well yer bound to learn,” Jude informed him. “What did yer mother call ya? “
“Scott, sir. Scott Wayne.
“Well then, Scott Wayne, you’ll be tendin’ ta the sails. As for the rest of ya, startin’ this afternoon, after Captain Fairchild treats you to lunch at the Red Boar,” and he paused to appreciate the look of surprise on Fairchild’s face, “we’ll be meetin’ back here for some schoolin’ on the ropes. Yer dismissed.”
As the men were getting to their feet and chatting among themselves, Fairchild said to Marin,
“I am not prepared to buy lunch for a dozen men.”
“And I am not prepared to set sail with them,” Marin countered.
Everyone except Marin adjourned to the Red Boar. Marin walked home to find Opaline sitting at a table in the library across from an elderly gentleman who was taking notes as she spoke. Marin stopped short of entering and simply watched, until she looked up at him and asked,
“Well, are you coming in, or do you prefer to simply lurk about?” Marin approached the two and extended his hand to the stranger. “Mister Echo Harter,” Opaline said, “this is Captain Marin Carpenter.”
Marin looked at Opaline as the gentleman took Marin’s hand in greeting. He glanced down at the paper on which the visitor had been writing and noticed his own name peppered here and there among the notes. He looked up again at Opaline.
“I invited Mister Harter to the house to give me some legal advice concerning the trial tomorrow.”
“Hearing,” Mister Harter corrected. “A trial involves a jury. Your case,” he said to Marin, “will be adjudicated by a judge.”
“Why would you need legal advice?” Marin asked Opaline. “You are not on trial.”
“No, she is not,” Mister Harter answered, “But it would serve you well if she were to speak on your behalf.”
“Are you my lawyer, then?” Marin asked.
“No. You do not need a lawyer at a civil hearing. As I understand it, Mister Berry is no longer pursuing criminal charges against you. He is seeking monetary damages.”
“What?” Marin asked.
“This is a civil hearing. The judge can return criminal charges against you, but it is not likely. And even if he were to do so, it would call for a trial. This hearing is simply your word, against Mister Berry’s.”
“Then why involve Miss Downing?”
“At issue in the case, as I understand it,” he said, giving Opaline a quick glance, “is the definition of assault. There seems to be no question as to whether or not you gave Mister Berry a proper thrashing; at issue is whether or not you were defending Miss Downing’s honor. And so, Miss Downing is—”
“He hit her. I was more than defending her honor.”
“Miss Downing has informed me that she spat upon the gentleman, prior to his striking her.”
“So?”
“So then, the question becomes, was Mister Talmadge Berry guilty of slander against Miss Opaline Downing, at the outset of events?”
“No, the question becomes, am I to allow Miss Opaline Downing’s reputation to be dragged through the muck, simply to avoid paying for the pleasure of having thwacked some turd in a waistcoat, and sending him down into the mud where he belongs?”
There followed a brief calming of silence.
“Mister Carpenter,” Mister Harter rejoined, gently breeching the silence, “Miss Downing’s reputation will be, as you put it, ‘dragged through the muck’, whether or not
she is in attendance; Mister Berry’s case depends upon it. I would think her presence would be advantageous to your defense.”
Opaline reached out and took Marin’s hand. “Marin, I want to be there,” she said.
“Let that be your decision,” Marin said. “Is there any chance I can simply pay the little grubber off, and avoid this entire odious ordeal.”
“It is my opinion that Mister Berry is not interested in the money. His only desire is to humiliate you and debase Miss Downing. Nothing else makes sense.”
“But why?” Marin asked, casting his glance to Opaline.
As soon as her eyes caught his, she looked away. Marin took a step back from the table and thanked Mister Harter, and then excused himself from the room.
Phillipe was in the kitchen tidying up when Marin entered.
“How was your meet and greet with our new shipmates?” Phillipe asked.
A smile grew wide on Marin’s face as he spoke, “You have your work cut out for you, dear brother.”
“M-m-m, I enjoy a good challenge.”
“Well, this one is a real monkey’s fist ...for the both of us. I’m going back down to the ship this afternoon, should you care to join me.”
“I would,” Phillipe said.
“Could you make an effort to dress ...more like a seaman, and less of a dandy.”
“A dandy, you say? How dare you refer to me as a macaroni.”
“I didn’t refer to you as anything of the kind. I was referring to your ...oh never mind. Costume as you wish.”
***
After Mister Harter had left, Marin attempted to grab a moment of Opaline’s time, but she advised him that she had a patient waiting and had to leave. He offered to take her in the carriage, but she preferred to walk.
He watched her walk out the door and down to Thames Street. As soon as she was out of sight, he climbed the stairs and went into her bedroom. He opened the drawer of her nightstand and took out her diary. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding pieces of her past in his lap. He knew well, he had no right to explore her private thoughts, but he feared he was on the verge of marrying a woman whose very quintessence was comprised of mostly private thoughts. Why had Talmadge Berry called her a ‘whore’? What was the bases of the Berry family’s objections to Jonathan marrying her? What did she mean when he overheard her saying to Phoebe, “I have teased men to their knees, and dangled my permission over them just to watch them squirm. And sometimes I have lent myself to them, but only for my own pleasure, not giving a whit for their own.” What else could that have possibly meant, except...
His thoughts were blunted by Phoebe’s appearance in the doorway. Her eyes danced up and down between the face of the diary and that of Marin’s.
“I haven’t opened it,” Marin offered her, looking back down at the diary.
“But you were about to,” Phoebe replied, more of a question than an accusation.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “She is such a closed book.” He looked back at Phoebe, her round angelic face pregnant with forgiveness, her eyes waiting. “I’m in love with a mystery,” Marin said, surprised at his own words.
“Maybe that’s what you love about her,” Phoebe replied.
Marin’s look turned inward.
“Miss Ruth says, ‘A man loves a good mystery’,” Phoebe added.
“Miss Ruth would know,” he said, and he placed the diary back into the drawer.
***
When Marin and Phillipe arrived shipside, Mister Prince had the new recruits chipping ice off of the deck, as Navy guards stood around all the while.
“Can we go below, Captain?” Jude asked.
As they entered the Captain’s Quarters, Marin noticed his strong box had been moved. While there was no clear evidence of anyone having forced it open, he gave Jude a disturbing look.
“Everything shipshape, Captain?” Jude asked.
“Someone has been rooting through my quarters, not that I am surprised. What do you suppose is the real purpose of the Navy posting their guards aboard?”
“To protect the cotton balls, Captain,” Jude said, with a wink. He turned to Phillipe, gave him the once over, and asked, “You’re not going to sea in that outfit, are ya?”
“This outfit is called a cassock. And yes, I will be wearing it at times. I thought it best for the men to see me dressed in my role as the ship’s cleric. Besides,” he added with a snide tilt to his voice, “I haven’t any, leather britches.”
Marin, showing his impatience, asked Jude, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Mister Prince?”
“The so called, crew, sir. As I was explaining the basic layout of the ship, and most of them don’t know a sail from a bedspread, one of them asked me...” and he paused as if he himself couldn’t believe what he was about say.
“Yes?” Marin urged.
“Well sir, he asked if we couldn’t refer to the Foremast as ‘Mast A’, the Mainmast as, ‘Mast B’ and the Mizzenmast as, ‘Mast C’. He suggested it was easier to remember that way.”
The Captain appeared somewhat amused by the comment, his tight smile holding back his laughter.
“That’s not all, Captain,” Mister Prince continued, hoping to weight down his Captain’s smile, “He wanted the Mail Sail referred to as, ‘Sail Number One’, The Top Sail would be called, ‘Sail Number Two,’ and, well, you get the idea, Captain.”
“To clarify,” the Captain said, entertaining Mister Prince, “The Main Mast, Main Sail would be called—”
“Mast Two, Sail One,” Jude finished for him.
“And how about the rigging?” Marin asked.
“You’re pissin’ inta the wind, sir,” Jude grunted, “God help us.”
“Hear that, Phillipe? That’s where you come in, and, as I said, you have your work cut out for you.” Turning back to Mister Prince, he asked, “What about Mister Collier? Surely he knows the proper terms.”
“Yes sir, he does. And it seems the both of you find the situation somewhat of a laughing matter.”
Marin put his arm around his old friend’s shoulder, and said, “Even the Gods laugh, Jude. Must be, sometimes, we laugh along with them. Between you and I and Mister Collier, we’ll sort it out ...and we will not sail until we do.”
As Marin and Phillipe were returning home, Phillipe asked, “What happens if those men cannot learn the proper terminology?”
“Any man can learn if he chooses to, Phillipe, and any man that does not, will not be setting sail with us. And that includes you, my dear brother.”
“But why must I—”
“Because your Captain says so. You will have your sea duties aboard the Magister Maris, just like everyone else, Phillipe.”
Phillipe remained silent the rest of the way home.
***
Arriving back home they found Phoebe dusting the mantelpiece above the library fireplace. Marin came and warmed himself beside the fire.
“Will Jude be coming back,” she asked in such meek voice that Marin did not hear her, forcing her to ask again, a little more bravely, “Do you think Mister Prince will be coming back to stay with us?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Marin replied. “Do you want me to ask him?”
“No,” she responded immediately.
“Phoebe?” Marin tested, “You are quite fond of Miss Downing, correct?”
“Yes sir. I think she’s a kind and understanding sort.”
“Understanding?”
“Yes sir. She seems ta know me better than I know m’self.”
“Perhaps you have a lot in common.”
“Well, we are both women, sir.”
Marin smiled and said, “Yes, I have noticed. What else might you have in common?”
“I think the both of us had a rather rough go of it, sir, and I appreciate Miss Downing’s wise counsel.”
“For example?” Marin angled.
“Her telling me not to put too much stock into what others think o’ me.”
“What is it that others think of you?”
“That I’m a whore.”
Marin thought for a moment before asking, as graciously as he could, “Well...aren’t you?”
Phoebe’s downcast eyes wore the pained weight of the word, as she meekly offered, “Miss Downing says, that’s a horrible word.”
“What word would you prefer?” Marin asked.
“Don’t know,” she replied, stiffening a little. “Why does there need be a word at all?”
“How else would we distinguish between a woman who sells her favors, and a woman who does not?”
“Why is that important?” she asked.
“So that there be no confusion between the two,” he explained.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but is there a confusion between a man who pays for a lady’s favors, and a man who don’t?”
Marin was left with but one response, “No ...there is not.”
Phoebe looked down at her feather duster, ran her fingers the length of one of the feathers and said, “I meant no disrespect, sir.”
Marin smiled and said, “None taken, Phoebe.”
Returning to her original inquiry, she asked. “Do you think Mister Prince went away because I lost the baby?”
“I think that Jude...” he began, but pulled up short of finishing the reply. Phoebe’s patient, want of an answer, forced Marin’s tongue. “Mister Prince is a good man, Phoebe. I don’t believe you’ve seen the last of him.”
***
It was late in the evening when Opaline returned home. Marin came from his room and stood at the top of the stairs watching her ascend. She was holding a stuffed cuddly bear under one arm, and a calendar, the New Testament and a leather-bound journal in her right hand. About midway up, she noticed him, and slowed to a halt.
“Phoebe’s things,” she explained. “I know you would like ...that is, I know we need to talk, but Marin, I am so very tired, and tomorrow promises to be a long day for the both of us.”
“I would only like to be forewarned as to what surprises I might expect at court tomorrow,” he said.
Opaline continued to the top of the stairs, paused and reached out to him with her empty hand, and asked, “Do you love me, or do you not?”
Marin smiled, pulled her to him, kissed her on the cheek, and sent her off to bed with, “Sleep well, M’Love.”