TWENTY-SEVEN

RASCAL PLUNGED ALONG ON A BOWLINE, CLOSE-HAULED ON LARBOARD, for the wind had stubbornly come east southeast and remained there day and night. Since English Harbor was almost due south from Bermuda, putting the ship about to tack against the wind and sail on starboard took them further away from their destination. Barclay fretted about it but the wind was the wind and didn’t care about his fretting, apparently. For his part, Fallon had already made plans in his own mind to sail through the Mona Passage between Santo Domingo and Porto Rico to get into the Caribbean Sea. They were making leeway to the west anyway, and they were sailing as fast as they could.

When Fallon had explained the situation on the Barbary coast to Beauty while still in Bermuda, at least as far as he knew or guessed it, she was in full agreement to leave at once. The ship was well stocked from their fast passage from Boston, and within twenty-four hours Beauty had everything else aboard that was needed.

Fallon and Elinore were to be found either walking on deck or, if thrashing to windward became too wet, snuggled on the stern cushions in his cabin. Elinore talked about the wedding often, trying to engage Fallon in planning, if just a little. But Fallon mostly nodded yes and was content to spend much of each day dozing in Elinore’s arms. Beauty kept the ship moving without his help, knowing there was important business being done down below.

Rascal ate up the miles, always and forever on larboard, and the men grew accustomed to it and tended to lean a certain way, walk the decks a certain way and even eat and drink a certain way, for there was no tacking to relieve the angle of the deck. Still, the ship’s routine was in full effect and the hands went to their duties with unquestioning obedience.

On the third day at sea Fallon took a stroll around deck to satisfy himself that all was well. Always alert for any unrest in the crew, he chatted amiably with those on watch and knew that everything was as it should be. Beauty seemed happy enough, as well, reveling in Rascal’s performance as she continued to coax every ounce of speed out of the ship just as she had when racing skiffs on St. George’s harbor. It was simply the way she liked to sail; in fact, insisted on sailing. And Barclay was allowed on deck more often by Colquist, walking with the aid of a cane to keep his balance, getting on well enough, it seemed. The carpenter had made a special wooden shelf and attached it to the binnacle to hold the slate so Barclay could write upon it with one hand when he was able to resume most of his duties. So it was a happy ship that bounded along like a hound after a rabbit.

“Nico,” said Barclay after Fallon had taken a noon sight and they had conferred on their position. “I believe we will sight Porto Rico’s western headland tomorrow morning and slip into the Mona Passage by noon. You are familiar with the Mona Passage, I know, having sailed through it a number of times.”

“Yes,” said Fallon. “I have been through it before. But no matter how many times I’ve sailed it I must say it has never been the same passage twice. Why I don’t know.”

“It is a strange body of water, without question,” said Barclay. “Not always dangerous, but far from certain. The currents sometimes run against the wind in winter and produce high seas. And the wind can be northeast to southeast, or both in a day!”

Fallon had experienced the high seas in the Mona Passage and knew that, although it was ninety miles wide, it could be treacherous for an inattentive captain. He had known of sailors who said the land on either side of the passage shook on occasion, with coconuts falling from the trees. Whether from the wind or something else, they couldn’t say. But Rascal had sailed through before without incident so at least part of the reports about the earth shaking and mysterious currents he put down to myth.

Late that afternoon Beauty joined him and Elinore for dinner and, as always, it was like family.

“Beauty,” asked Elinore while the wine was being poured. “I would like to ask you a question, if I may.”

“Anything, Elinore, as long as it’s not about Nico. Because if you ask me about him I’ll ask you about him and we both might end up knowing more than we wish we did.”

They all laughed at that, not least because it was probably true.

“I want to ask if you’ll be my maid of honor, Beauty,” said Elinore with a smile.

Beauty was thunderstruck.

“Why, I’ve never been called a maid, or even a maiden,” she said, smiling herself. “And yes, it would be an honor. So I accept, Elinore! Thank you.”

A careful observer might have noticed the emotion in Beauty’s voice and Elinore, of course, was a careful observer. For Fallon’s part, he was just happy Beauty had said yes. It was another wedding detail taken care of, albeit an important one for Elinore.

The next morning Porto Rico lay off the larboard bow as Barclay had forecast. He was quite proud of himself, and accepted Beauty’s and Fallon’s congratulations for the accuracy of his navigation.

It was a beautiful morning, warm and clear, and a shout from the masthead directed the crew’s attention to a pod of humpback whales sounding not a cable’s distance away. It was a glorious sight, their bodies arching magnificently and the spray from their blowholes shooting fifty feet in the air. Everything seemed wonderfully right with the world as Fallon looked around the deck before going below to have breakfast with Elinore. Soon Beauty would be loosening the sails just a bit to bring them into the passage and he planned to be back on deck for that. He had just turned to go below when a hail came from the lookout.

“Deck there!” came the call. “Looks like a ship’s boat off the starboard bow!”

Beauty and Barclay had just been conferring at the binnacle and Beauty reached for her telescope as Fallon joined them. Nothing was to be seen yet from the deck, of course, particularly a small boat on the water.

“Fall down to leeward, Beauty,” said Fallon. “Let’s see what we have here.”

Elinore had been below but heard the lookout’s hail and came on deck, standing unobtrusively off to the side. This was Nico’s business and it wouldn’t do to get too close. Besides, she enjoyed watching him do his captain’s work.

After another quarter mile the bobbing boat could be seen from the deck, off to the southwest, but no one seemed to be aboard. It was not completely unknown to come across a ship’s boat adrift; there could be plenty of explanations for that. But, of course, the fact that this was the Mona Passage added a layer of mystery which Fallon fought not to think about.

“Beauty, heave-to and have my gig lowered, please,” said Fallon as the schooner drew closer. After the ship settled Fallon and a small crew climbed down into the gig and began rowing towards the open boat, a small knot slowly forming in Fallon’s stomach which he tried to ignore. Things like this happened occasionally at sea, he told himself, and it could well be nothing. Or it could be something that wasn’t good.

As the gig approached the boat Fallon stood up in the sternsheets to get a better view. It looked like something was in the bottom of the boat, and as the gig pulled alongside he could see it was a body laying face down on the floorboards. A body in uniform.

Fallon transferred to the drifting boat and held his breath as he rolled the poor soul over. The man’s face was horribly bloated in death and sunburned a bright red. The lips were cracked with dried blood, and the man’s tongue had swollen to twice or three times its normal size and forced his mouth open.

But, unmistakably, it was Micah Woodson.

Fallon gasped at the sight of the American officer and had to cover his mouth with his hand, for he feared he would be sick, so grotesque was Woodson’s face. He steadied himself for a moment and then ordered the gig’s crew to take the skiff under tow and row back to Rascal’s side. He had seen many men die at sea, and horribly, but he had never seen death this way.

As the body was lifted from the skiff he glanced at Elinore, who looked as if she would be sick, as well, and she left to go below. He turned back to the small boat and saw something written on the floor boards underneath where Woodson had lain. Apparently, he had scratched out a word before he died.

Mona.

What did that mean, if anything? He had no idea beyond the obvious, for they had found Woodson at the entrance to Mona Passage. Fallon put that away to think about later as Woodson was placed on deck and Colquist bent over the body searching for wounds.

But there were no wounds.

“Micah Woodson died from thirst, captain,” said Colquist sadly, “pure and simple. His body is shrunken from loss of water. I suspect he was put adrift to die in the sun.”

Fallon and Beauty recoiled at the thought of dying of thirst. It was a wicked, evil thing to do to Woodson and it brought up a deep anger in both of them. He had been a decent man and he had been treated cravenly.

The American lieutenant was stitched up in canvas, the sack weighted with shot, and he slipped into the sea before noon with a prayer and a few words of friendship from Fallon said over his body. It was a dreary, sad business and left Fallon in a morose state of mind. Elinore had come on deck for the burial, but not even her comforting presence could rouse him from despair.

“What happened, Nico?” asked Elinore after the ceremony.

And then Beauty added, “What evil fucker would do that?”

“Pirates, I would think,” said Fallon. “They have no use for prisoners. And they are bastards at their core, without rules or regard for life.”

They were all quiet for a moment, each with their own thoughts.

“What do you make of Mona on the floor board beneath him?” Fallon asked Beauty.

“I assume Woodson was set adrift in the passage and was trying to tell whoever found him,” said Beauty. “His last act.”

“Yes,” said Fallon, “that’s what I suspect, as well. Perhaps a warning, too.”

Elinore looked at Fallon and shuddered. Fallon’s life wasn’t all pretty skies and brisk winds; it was murder, as well. Horrible murder.

Barclay was standing nearby, rubbing his chin and staring into the passage. Rascal was still hove-to but would be falling off the wind soon to go inside.

“There’s something else it could be, Nico,” Barclay said. “The island dead center in the passage is called Mona. Rumor is it’s a pirate haunt of late. I wonder at it.”

They all fell silent, considering the possibility. Finally, Fallon seemed to make up his mind. He looked at the sky and felt the wind on his cheek and clenched his jaw hard.

“Set a course to bring us just to leeward of Mona Island, Mr. Barclay,” he said firmly. “I want a very close look. If it’s nothing, it’s nothing. But I want to be close enough in case it’s something.”

Soon Rascal fell off the wind and began sailing into the passage, the contradictory current throwing off choppy waves. Barclay gave the helmsman the course which would take them directly towards Mona Island, taking into account leeway from the east wind.

“You know, Nico,” said Beauty seriously, “you have a look that’s looking for trouble.”

“I know,” said Fallon reflexively. “And I hope we find it.”