Chapter Three

 

Descending from the carriage, Mercy led Rosalyn up the walk. Even before she reached for the door knocker, the energy and spontaneity of the Hills family could be felt through the walls—and heard! The clatter of young feet coming down the staircase from the upper floors, amidst happy shrieks and giggles, was followed by a noisy struggle to see who would answer the door. Clearly the winner, a freckle-faced young lad got there and stood gawking at the two well dressed young ladies on the family doorstep.

Recovering from the excitement of having beaten his siblings to the door, he whirled about, announcing to the rest of his family: “It’s Mercy, Mum and Da’! Put the kettle on, Bertie!”

Giving Mercy an exuberant hug, he next spotted Rosalyn and reaching out his hand, pumped her hand enthusiastically. “Welcome, welcome! Come right in, miss!”

The entire family chimed in with such heartfelt and unpretentious delight that Rosalyn was made to feel instantly at home. Ushered into the hall, they surrendered their cloaks, while Mercy introduced her to her uncle’s children, trying to keep all the names straight.

“Oh, my,” she gasped, “everyone has grown so tall since I last saw you! Especially you, Jack.”

“That’s me, Jack Hill,” said their precocious young greeter, with a school boy’s bow, “How d’ you do, Mrs. Watermann.”

“Please, call me Rosalyn,” she said, laughing amidst all the effusive greetings. “I am very pleased to meet you. Will you introduce me to your parents?”

Remembering his manners, young Jack did just that, even surprising her by displaying a fair amount of poise. Soon everyone was assembled in the parlor, and Betsy Hill, a cheerful and energetic woman, set about serving up the tea, along with providing a condensed family history.

“Jack, bless him,” she laughed, shaking her head, “used to be a Page of Honor to the Prince of Denmark—always smart as a whip, my son! Attended St. Albans, he did. Of course, he’s much too old now to serve as a Page, so I’m hoping he can get on where I work.”

Rosalyn gratefully accepted a steaming cup of tea from her hostess. “And what is it you do, Mrs. Hill?”

“I’m in charge of the laundry in the young Duke of Gloucester’s household. My husband here—” She gestured to Mr. Hill, a frail looking gentleman wrapped in a shawl and sitting in the corner, “—He was in business until the ship he owned went down four years ago. Things were tight around here for a bit, but my niece, bless her, married well. She’s the one who found me a position as head laundress,” she said with an important nod.

Hearing this somber tale, Rosalyn wondered how she would fare, if the Fair Winds met with a similar fate.

Finally getting a word in edgewise, Mercy spoke up, her cheeks still flushed with happiness from the loving welcome she had received. “Rosalyn is looking for work, Aunt Betsy.”

“Things are a bit tight at the moment. What can you do, dearie?” Mrs. Hill asked.

“I'm hoping to find work as a governess or companion,” Rosalyn replied.

Mrs. Hill nodded obligingly. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“I expect cousin Sarah could find you work,” said Jack, “being as how she’s friends with the Princess Anne and the young Duke.”

“Thank you very much!” said Rosalyn, surprised that the Hills were so well connected.

Next it was Mercy’s turn to share the good news of her impending marriage. “I’d like you to give me away, Uncle Elihu,” she said with glowing eyes.

He patted her hand and nodded. “Yes, yes, I’d be happy to do that. And we’d better start announcing the banns this Sunday.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a happy uproar of lively chatter and rollicking good humor. Rosalyn was starting to think perhaps she and Mercy might be in danger of wearing out their welcome, when a loud thud on the door knocker announced the arrival of a late visitor.

Pamela, one of the Hills’ daughters, leapt to her feet. “That must be Cousin Sarah now!” she said eagerly.

This time the children made a rather more dignified exodus into the hallway to greet their illustrious cousin. Aunt Betsy ushered into the parlor a lady of great consequence, clad in an exquisite blue afternoon gown, decorated with pearls and lace.

“Lady Sarah, may I present Mrs. Rosalyn Watermann, all the way from Boston. Mrs. Watermann, this is my niece, Sarah Churchill, the Duchess of Marlborough.”

Never expecting to meet such a high ranking member of the royal court, Rosalyn sank into a low curtsy. “Your Grace!” she exclaimed and instantly became tongue-tied.

The Duchess of Marlborough had a knack for putting people at ease. Upon learning from the Hills of Rosalyn’s desire to enter into service, she graciously informed Rosalyn of a position that would soon be opening up, perhaps in a fortnight, in the household of Princess Anne.

“At the moment, Mrs. Watermann, England is under siege!” said the duchess, helping herself to another tea cake. “A most delicate situation, requiring the utmost tact and diplomacy. Perhaps you might be able to help me?”

“Oh, but— Certainly. I am your service, ma’am,” Rosalyn stammered, already in awe of this beautiful lady.

“I’m sure you all have heard of the difficulty we’re having at court,” the duchess said with a confiding smile. “All because of that ill-mannered Russian barbarian!”

Rosalyn’s eyes widened with alarm. Surely the Duchess, experienced with court intrigues and visiting foreign dignitaries, didn’t need the help of an unsophisticated colonial!

“He has the manners of a boor!” The duchess set aside her tea cup with a sigh. “Do you not see, Mrs. Watermann?” she said earnestly. “The king is exhausted, trying to keep him occupied and out from underfoot during his visit here. But I have hit upon a plan.” She raised her jeweled pinkie for emphasis. “And that is where I rather think you can help me.”

“Your Grace, I have no idea what you are talking about.” Rosalyn blushed, in a complete quandary. “Who is this person?”

Lady Sarah chuckled amusedly. “How droll! How could you know, having arrived so recently to our shores! I refer, of course, to that young oaf, Peter, the Tsar of All of the Russias!”

Rosalyn gulped down her tea too fast and nearly scalded her throat. “What use would I be? I don’t speak Russian!”

“Language is not the problem. The king has assigned Admiral Mitchell as Peter’s official escort and translator,” the duchess assured her. “However, this . . . this creature from the wilds of Russia has expressed a desire to visit our hospitals, schools, factories, and the treasury building. He also has a reputation for liking a pretty face. And with negotiations going on to form an alliance to fight the Turks, well, we mustn’t offend the Tsar, don’t you see.”

Rosalyn felt her cheeks grow warm. “But, your grace, I couldn’t—”

“Of course, you can!” The duchess reached over and patted her hand lightly. “As a personal favor to me!” she laughed and shook her curls. “All you need to do is keep the Tsar happy and out of the king’s hair, my dear! And in return, I shall recommend you for an excellent position in Princess Anne’s household.”

Rosalyn glanced at Mercy, who rolled her eyes humorously toward the ceiling, as if to say, “Take the offer!” “In that case, your Grace, I gladly accept! As long as my services are only required as a diplomatic escort,” she said cautiously.

“But of course! Leave all the arrangements to me, my dear. You are quite lovely, you know.” She patted Rosalyn’s cheek reassuringly. “I'm sure Tsar Peter will be quite smitten with you—although you must stand your ground, of course.” She shook her finger chidingly. “I shall be in touch in a day or two.”

Kissing all the children goodbye, Lady Sarah retrieved her fur-trimmed cape from the pile of wraps in the hallway. As she descended to her coach, waving gaily, it dawned on Rosalyn that the Duchess of Marlborough was not only charming and politically astute, she was also an expert at diplomacy.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

With repairs underway on the Fair Winds, Grant Watermann roamed the waterfront and uptown, searching for a buyer for premium tobacco. In his travels he came across Will Dampier, an adventurer and buccaneer like himself for a number of years, as he came out of a small print shop not far from his lodgings.

“Will!” he exclaimed” Where’ve you been keeping yourself, man?”

“Mostly trying to keep my bills paid and stay out of jail.” Still fit and steely eyed, Dampier clapped Grant on the shoulder. “How about a drink for old times’ sake?”

Soon installed in a smoky corner of the Whalers’ Pub, Dampier leaned forward, nursing a pint of ale. “I heard your father died,” he said. “Buccaneering won’t be the same without him.”

“The life was never as good as some made it out to be,” Grant admitted. “But what man can shake off a lust for the sea, once it’s in his blood? I’m sailing cargo now. How about you, Will?”

“Taking a short breather. I came back home to publish my latest book.”

“A book? What about, if I may ask?” Grant asked.

“Navigation. Ocean currents. ’Tis something I put together to help seafaring men like yourself.”

“In that case, put me down for a copy. You were a damn fine buccaneer, Will, but your heart was never in it. You were always drawing maps!”

“It’s all in my book; the most current information I could put together.” Dampier drained his mug of ale.

“Should come in handy in my new line of work.” Grant gazed with admiration at Dampier, whose skills and daring were renowned. “I’m starting a shipyard in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I plan to build a fleet of ships to move cargo between the colonies and England.”

“Maybe I’ll sign on with you one of these days, now that the excitement of capturing a rich prize at sea is lost to me.” Dampier grinned, and his reddish-brown hair gave him a devilish look against the rising smoke in the crowded pub.

“I’d be proud to have you anytime. So, when’s your book coming off the presses?”

“Next week. I call it A New Voyage Round the World.” Dampier rose and shook hands. “Well, I’m off to meet a lady, so I’ll be shoving off. Glad I ran into you, Grant.”

“Aye, the pleasure’s all mine. Take care of yourself, Will.”

Grant sat over a draft of dark ale, musing over the fortunes of Will Dampier. ’Twas a good thing Will preferred exploring to piracy. Otherwise he’d be all washed up. He was just lifting his tankard to finish it off when a burst of raucous laughter drew his eye to a group of men pushing their way through the pub door, talking animatedly in a Slavic tongue.

One man he noticed in particular: a roughly dressed giant of a man, so tall that he bumped his head on the low ceiling. In any language, it was obvious this giant was a proficient swearer, as he cursed and laughed, slapping his companions on the back.

Grant thought the well dressed British naval officer who accompanied these foreigners looked vaguely familiar. “Brandy all around, my good man!” the officer called to the barkeep.

“Right away, sir.”

While the tavern maid poured drinks, the foreigners stopped beside a large round table to watch two sailors playing chess. After a few minutes, the tall newcomer, fascinated with the game, reached over, grabbed a bishop with his dirty hand, and moved it on the board.

“Hey, mate!” one of the sailors objected. “Hands off! This is my game.”

The Englishman quickly interceded, speaking in a low voice, and slipped the man a few shillings. The disgruntled player picked himself up and motioned to his friend. “C’mon, mate. Let’s move on. These fellas want our table.”

But as the sailor attempted to collect his chess pieces and board, he was stopped. From where Grant sat, the tall foreigner’s imperious gestures seemed completely out of place with his station in life. But he was large enough to be intimidating, so the two sailors left with sore looks.

Instantly the group commandeered the table. Serving as interpreter, the British officer seated himself next to the dominant figure. His curiosity aroused, Grant signaled the barmaid to refill his tankard, while he studied the men around the table.

In strident tones, the young giant spoke Dutch with the Englishman, who seemed to be explaining something that held the tall Slav’s interest. Clearly needing a good barbering, the man had a real thirst for English brandy. Only pausing to raise his glass and shout “Nostrovia!” he tossed down four drinks in rapid succession.

Though the other patrons couldn’t understand a word of the Slavs’ increasingly boisterous celebrations, the dark-haired giant and his friends soon began to dance, arms locked, boots stomping out the rhythm, while their comrades sang lustily off-key. After some time, the Slavs began to settle down to a more tolerable roar. Pulling a long Dutch pipe from his pocket, the young giant began to converse with the British officer, while his companions continued to drink.

Suddenly the tall foreigner cast his black eyes in Grant’s direction.

Not sure what to make of him, Grant tipped his cap and went on nursing his tankard of ale.

The foreign giant had begun to set up the chess board. Abruptly turning in Grant’s direction, he beckoned for him to come join his party. Before he could refuse, the British naval officer appeared at his elbow. “Excuse me. You’re Captain Watermann, aren’t you?”

They shook hands.

“The same. And you are—?”

“Admiral Mitchell from His Majesty’s Navy.”

“A privilege to meet you, sir. Although I’m surprised to see you with such a rowdy bunch of foreigners.”

“I’m translating for the Russian Tsar Peter—that’s the tall fellow over there. He’d like it very much if you’d join him for a game of chess.”

“My game’s a little rusty, but I’d be honored.” Grant started to rise.

The Admiral touched Grant’s forearm. “I must caution you, sir. Don’t let on you know who he is. He has this compulsion about being incognito.”

“Tall as he is, it must be hard not to be noticed. What is he? Seven feet?”

“Close enough. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

Speaking Dutch, Mitchell introduced him to the Russians, explaining that Grant was the Master of the Fair Winds. Then, in English, he presented the young Tsar as Sargeant Pyotr Mikhaylov, a carpenter.

Without further ado, Peter gestured to the chess board and invited Grant to be seated. During play, the Tsar displayed an almost childlike excitement. He made his moves with a grand flourish, crowing with delight when he took any of Grant’s chess pieces, and groaning audibly when things were reversed. For forty-five minutes the two played intently, competitively. Finally the Tsar checkmated Grant, who congratulated him heartily and shook his hand.

Through his interpreter, Peter asked if he might visit Grant’s ship the next day.

“Tell him the ship is in dry dock, being repaired,” said Grant. “However, he's welcome to visit.”

Mitchell conveyed the information, and Peter beamed. “Da. I come! Tomorrow morning,” he declared with a vigorous nod of his shaggy black locks.

“Good.” Grant raised his whisky glass to salute the strange young emperor.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next morning Peter and thirty of his entourage showed up with the Admiral to inspect the Fair Winds. Peter soon impressed Grant with his almost fanatical fascination with everything on board. Through the interpreter he was able to answer most of the Tsar’s questions and explain how everything worked, from the smallest iron hook to the cooper’s wooden hoop rings that helped his men operate the spanker sail in the aft part of the ship.

The young giant even visited the Captain’s cabin, which Grant had yet to occupy, and viewed with pleasure the homey touches introduced by Rosalyn and Mercy, including the drapes, comforter, dresser scarves, and the braided rug on the floor. Suddenly, with a sly wink, he scooped up a fragile piece of feminine lingerie from the far side of the bed and dangled it for all to see. His companions laughed uproariously.

Grinning, Grant retrieved it and stuffed it in his pocket, vowing to return it the next time he saw Rosalyn or Mercy. “It belongs to Mrs. Rosalyn Watermann,” he said a little sheepishly. To his surprise, Admiral Mitchell translated his comment for his guests.

Next they visited the hold of the ship, to inspect the Carolina tobacco. Instantly Tsar Peter’s interest heightened perceptibly.

Mitchell explained to Grant, “The Czar recently legalized the use of tobacco in his country. He hopes to encourage his subjects to adopt Western ways. He is presently negotiating an exclusive trade agreement with King William, to bring tobacco into Russia.”

Grant needed no better entrée. “Tell him I’m looking for a buyer for this premium tobacco. I will sell it to him for a fair price.”

Mitchell drew him aside, saying, “If you like, I can put you in touch with the Marquis of Carmarthen. He acts as a go-between in such matters, since His Imperial Highness wishes to maintain his disguise.”

“Thank you. I should like very much to meet with his business agent,” said Grant, amazed at this stroke of good luck. “What did you say his name is?”

“The Marquis of Carmarthen. Better known as Peregrine Osborne. He designed the yacht, The Royal Transport, as a gift from His Majesty to the Tsar.”

“How likely is it that England will get this tobacco contract?” Grant asked Mitchell in an aside. Meanwhile the Tsar and his entourage continued to explore the foc’sle.

“It’s a foregone conclusion,” said Mitchell. “Right now the Dutch are smuggling an inferior grade of tobacco into Russia, but Peter wants to upgrade everything in his country by improving technologies. It is to their mutual advantage for William to supply him with tobacco. It will strengthen the economy and relieve the need for further outlays from the king’s personal coffers.”

“Perhaps we could arrange a trade,” Grant suggested. “I need steel, flax and hemp for the ships I will be building in Boston Harbor when I return to the colonies this fall.”

Mitchell bowed. “I shall convey your suggestion to His Imperial Majesty. Meanwhile, shall we continue the tour?”