TWENTY-ONE

AS RASCAL PASSED WASHINGTON THE WIND GREW AND CAME FROM THE west, with warmth in it now. The ship bounded along energetically, pushed several knots faster by the remarkable stream of warm water under her hull. The crew chattered excitedly with every mile made good towards Boston, and their mood was contagious. Barclay was on deck occasionally, strapped into a chair, still pale and thinner than before surgery, trying to get used to having a missing limb. He complained, of course, and had every right to.

Even the packets made good speed, as if they were horses running for the barn and, indeed, in several days’ time it could be imagined that the journey would be almost over. The only sails sighted now were American merchants and the odd American naval vessel patrolling the coast, for the quasi-war with the French had emboldened French privateers to all but enter U.S. harbors in search of prizes.

Fallon and Beauty studied the chart for the approaches to Boston harbor carefully; it wouldn’t do to have come so far and run aground on the rocks at the entrance to their destination. Fallon noticed that Barclay was paying attention to their course and straining to overhear his conversation with Beauty, which he took as a good sign that the sailing master was gradually becoming more involved in the running of the ship. He could not use a sextant with one hand, of course, but Beauty took the sights and they conferred on their position and heading. Even that involvement was a milestone in his return to something like normal.

Boston harbor was chock-a-block with all manner of ships when Rascal came through the channel, and Fallon felt momentarily overwhelmed at the sight. Luggers and wherries and barges and hoys by the tens were crossing back and forth, and brigs, snows, and barques were anchored about. This was the business of a major port, the commerce of nations as goods and cargoes were loaded and unloaded by the ton, ships were re-supplied with water and provisions, livestock hoisted aboard cackling and lowing and bleating in fear and confusion and the inevitable bum-boats of small-time merchants selling tobacco and liquor and baubles right off the decks of their small craft.

Several hours after they’d gained the entrance to the harbor, a harbor pilot directed the packets to a wharf and Rascal dropped her anchor close by. If the crew was disappointed in not sinking the French frigate they didn’t show it, for all knew the ship might well have ended up on the notorious shoals to the west, sunk and dismasted. One could always hope. And, besides, none of the crew had ever been to the United States, much less Boston, and all the hands were agape identifying ships from so many countries going to and fro or swinging to their anchors.

Fallon was a bit agape himself. He was about to call for his gig to take him to the wharf where the packets were off-loading when he saw a small boat coming within hailing distance. Indeed, there was someone rather official looking standing in the sternsheets about to speak.

“Ahoy, Rascal!” called the young officer whom Fallon could now see wore an unfamiliar uniform, one that was different from Micah Wood-son’s anyway. “Harbor patrol, sir! May I come aboard?”

In very little time the young officer was on Rascal’s deck, informing Fallon that he was indeed with the harbor patrol, checking papers and manifests of all incoming ships. It was evident the United States was taking every precaution against her enemies, French or Spanish, as the case might be.

“And how long will you be staying in Boston, if I may ask, sir?” said the harbor patrol officer, handing Rascal’s papers back to Fallon. “You are, of course, welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Fallon had been considering the same question; his mission to escort the salt packets was effectively over the moment they tied off to the wharf. He could linger, of course, and see the famous American town where a protest over a tea tax effectively presaged the American Revolution. Or he could go home.

“I think we will load provisions and wood and water over the next two days and then be away,” he said to the young officer. “Much as I would like to stay longer. But first I will call on our American agent if you will direct me to his office.”

In the event, Fallon was soon away in his gig towards the quay where Pence and Ashworthy were offloading their salt, for the Somers’ office was nearby. The docks were full of activity, and the gig had trouble locating an opening at the dock. At last, Fallon was ashore and in little time found the Somers agent in his office.

His name was John Dingle, an Irish-American, rotund man with bushy side whiskers and a shrewd look about his eyes, no doubt befitting a customs man. After introducing himself, Fallon got to the point.

“I have recently made the acquaintance of Caleb Visser, a fisherman who sails out of Boston. Do you know of him?” Fallon looked closely at Dingle, whose shrewdness seemed to vanish at the mention of Visser’s name.

“Why, yes I know Visser,” said Dingle. “And his brother Alwin and his father, Wilhelm, of course. Cod fishermen they are. Or were. Wilhelm Visser got himself captured by the damned Barbary pirates, I heard, and I have great fear he will never come back to Boston. Caleb and his brother Alwin have left to try to ransom him, but I can’t imagine how that can happen. They are true bastards over there.”

“Have you had other ships taken then?” asked Fallon.

“Oh, yes,” answered Dingle. “So many that no one is sending ships there anymore. Well, no one but Silas McDonald, who is stubborn to the point of obstinacy. He is planning to sail Mary of Dundee for Malta any day and I don’t expect we will see him back either. This war with the Barbary pirates is ruining the trade and ruining lives, sir. And the Vissers aren’t the half of it, though I pray for them, I do.”

Later, in the privacy of his cabin, Fallon settled on the stern cushions with a glass of wine and thought about what Dingle had said. He wondered what Caleb Visser would do without his gold, without his ship, without much of anything now. He genuinely liked the man, and he certainly understood his quest, quixotic as it was, to bring his father home. It seemed impossible now. Perhaps it had always been at least improbable.

Fallon was still musing when there was a knock at the door and Beauty entered.

“We should have stores aboard tomorrow, Nico,” she reported. “Very cooperative, they are, here in Boston. Since we will be leaving so soon I decided not to allow the crew to have a run ashore. They’ll be disappointed, but it might take a week to round them all up in Boston. Do you agree?”

“Yes, I want to be away for home as soon as possible. I have a wedding to plan, remember?”

“I do,” said Beauty, fingering the sea dog around her neck. “I’m surprised you remembered it.”