The Doldrums: the Sailor and the Virgin Ch. 10

The Doldrums: The Sailor and the Virgin Ch. 10

The quest for the selkie maiden

Author's note: Several months ago, I left off this story after chapter 9. Thanks to encouraging reader feedback, the muse returned. The story is finished.

Sunday

The lass was gone.

Liam moved swiftly about the cabin, endeavoring to think rationally while he pulled items out of drawers and lockers and tossed them onto the berth. What to do first? Then, by Christ, what to do after that? Where had they taken Anya?

The first item was the Colt revolver that he kept stored in a desk drawer -- it had been Franklin Webster's, and Liam had never had occasion to use it. Popping the cylinder open, he found three bullets in chamber — and no more to be found in the drawer. Aye, more bullets, ta be sure. He needed to hurry; 'twas Sunday afternoon, and shops would soon be closing.

He glimpsed his reflection in the looking glass, almost not recognizing the wild-eyed lad staring back at him. His hair was disheveled, his jaw covered with several days of stubble, and his clothes wrinkled and stained. Jesus, anyone would mark him as an anarchist out to assassinate the prime minister. And perhaps he be at that, he thought grimly: his lass was in the clutches of a powerful man of villainous repute; he would do whatever was necessary to get her back, so he would. He stripped and set about tidying himself up, shaving, combing his hair, and pulling on his best clothes. His work boots were his only pair, and would have to do.

He picked up the ulster, laying where Anya had left it last night... was that only last night? When he put it on, his heart was all at once assailed by the faint scent of her upon the collar...he bent his head and pressed his nose to the wool cloth...'twas something sweet, indefinable... like a rare fruit. He inhaled deeply, feeling his heart race. Into various pockets went the revolver, his jackknife, the pouch of gold coins, his watch, his small, worn leather journal, and finally, tucked carefully into the inner pocket over his heart, Anya's precious nightgown. Locking the companionway doors, he jumped to the dock and strode down the pier.

He had made port in Toronto upon many previous excursions, and was well familiar with the waterfront, but he went past the shops in the area, lest he be recognized from previous visits as a common sailor. Heading north into the city, he walked quickly through various neighborhoods till he found himself in a more affluent commercial area. Every elegant carriage that passed him caught his eye, but none be the one that had taken his Anya away. At length he found a general store still open, and went inside.

Nigh all the goods were upon shelves behind the counters. He stood by while the proprietor finished waiting on a woman with a pram, then approached the counter.

"How can I assist you, sir?" the man asked. He was a pleasant-looking older fellow with spectacles and a greying beard.

"I need a few items, sir." Liam did his best to mimic a flat Yankee accent, some instinct telling him to disguise his brogue. "Ah...some tooth powder...soap...willow bark tincture." As the man reached for items upon the shelves, Liam pretended to make specific selections, nodding as the man placed them upon the counter. "And have you a map of the city?"

"Yes indeed." The man reached under the counter and placed a folded map next to the other items. "Are you a visitor to Toronto, young man?"

"Aye...ah...yes. Yes. From Buffalo." Liam cleared his throat. "Do you have cartridges for revolvers?"

"Yes sir. What caliber?" the man asked as he crossed to a counter on the opposite side of the store, and unlocked a cabinet behind it.

"45."

"They come in boxes of twenty. How many do you want?"

"One...no, better make it two."

As the man rang up the items, Liam spoke up. "Are you well acquainted with Toronto?"

"Been here all my life."

"Do you know of a military academy near here? My little brother is dreaming of a career upon the field of glory." Liam smiled wryly. "I've heard tell of a such a school here."

The man paused, tapping his finger upon his chin. "You must mean Brock Hall. That's the only one I know of. But it's quite the regal establishment." He looked at Liam, not unkindly. "I'm fairly certain only the wealthy can afford the tuition."

"Well -- our uncle is the one bearing the cost of his education. I suppose he'll have to assess that. Where is this place...Brock Hall?"

"It's in Markham, about 18 miles due north...here, let me show you." He unfolded the map and pointed. "It's not on the map, but just take this highway north."

"That seems right simple. I'll have look at it. Thank you kindly, sir. You've been most helpful." As he paid and took the parcel, another thought came to him. "Do you have a city directory? I'd like to call upon some old acquaintances."

The man produced a book from under the counter. Liam quickly found the residential listings. Anya had said she would be staying with her aunt...if that be true...he'd have to take it as true. Bourget, Bourget...remembering the spelling from the telegram. There were three listed...but 'twas clearly Charles J., Banker, and wife Elizabeth. He scribbled the address in his book. Below it he added: Brock Hall, Markham. Just as he was about to leave, he had one more thought, and flipped further ahead in the directory. Strachan, Douglas E., Honourable.

Honourable! Like hell! Address noted.

*****

Liam had never seen the like of it before.

Upon leaving the general store, he had made his way further north and west to scout the Bourget address. As the sun set, he observed the character of the neighborhoods changing from the bustling downtown with tall buildings to quiet, broad streets with elegant, free standing houses. On Roxborough Drive itself, the houses were mansions proper, stone and brick with turrets and carved gingerbread adornments.

He walked slowly along the drive in the twilight, his boots crunching the fallen leaves, his eyes registering every detail: the width of the street, the spreading oak and maple trees, the scant traffic of fine carriages, occasional men in suits and top coats carrying walking sticks, a servant exercising a Saint Bernard dog, a nanny pushing a pram...then suddenly a uniformed peeler swinging a nightstick. His eyes were upon Liam as he passed; Liam nodded at him, his heart pounding as he strove to look an upright citizen who belonged in the neighborhood. 'Twas not till he put two blocks between him and the peeler that he breathed normally again.

Eventually he saw the address numbers drop into the 100's, and knew he be near the house. He carefully noted the neighboring houses, their fences and surrounding gardens. Then he was there: number 163. 'Twas across the street from him. He knelt and pretended to tie his boots as he covertly surveyed the property. An enormous stone mansion, it be, with an extensive garden -- nigh an acre round it, filled with towering oak and spruce trees. A wrought iron fence some ten feet tall surrounded it, with an intricately scrolled gate across the drive that stretched from the street to a pillared front portico. Inside the gate, he spied two gardeners raking leaves from the driveway.

The thought that Anya might be near set his heart racing anew. He tilted his head to smell her scent upon the coat collar...Anya, love...then stood and continued walking. He studied the house as he went past: three stories, the height of the third floor windows shorter than the lower levels. Lights were on in several windows. He supposed the ground floor contained the grand public rooms, the second floor the family bedchambers, the third floor...perhaps servants' quarters? He knew little of wealthy households.

He passed the neighboring property, and turned at the corner to go round the block. He identified the rear of the Bourget house. There was another drive and another gate, simpler in design. The drive led to the stables. Next to it were a greenhouse and a small cottage. No sign of activity.

His body and mind were agitated with confused desires. His eyes squeezed shut at the poignant scent of her, and inside the coat pocket his hand gripped the revolver. He forced himself to keep walking so as not to draw notice. He needed a plan; aye, a plan.

He turned at the next street and headed for the docks.

*****

Back aboard the Selkie, he emptied his pockets onto to the desk. He paced back and forth the few strides of the cabin sole, his tense eyes jumping from the revolver to the inward vision of the Bourget house. Should he have stormed the house, brandishing the weapon, and snatched her up? Apart from the obvious problem of trying to escape on foot, scaling a spiked iron fence with a wee lass who'd not his strength -- with likely the whole household in pursuit -- something else didn't sit right with him.

He straightened the knife to align it perfectly parallel with the barrel of the gun. Christ, he was losing his mind. He tried to shake himself out of it, lest he spend the whole night in this state. Suddenly he remembered he'd not eaten since the piece of hard tack that morning -- so long ago it seemed. Now with a purpose, he changed back into his usual work kit, tucked Anya's nightgown into the inner pocket of his pea coat, and headed down the dark pier.

O'Leary's pub --- down a dirty alley off the waterfront --- was frequented by men who made their living on and by the water, and could be counted upon to be open on Sunday, in defiance of polite society. 'Twas not an establishment to which one would bring a gentle lady, but the beer was good and the crack jolly, though usually vulgar. There was a fair crowd inside now, and in one corner a three man band of fiddle, pipes, and bodhran drum was playing lively music. He found a stool at the bar and ordered a pint of porter and a bowl of stew.

As he ate and drank, the sound of familiar jigs and sea shanties, along with the boisterous talk and laughter, gentled his disquieted condition. His mind clearer now, he opened his journal and made notes. Lucas, Anya, Nicholas he wrote. Paramount was rescuing Anya before the wedding...he tried to recall everything she had said about it. The wedding wasn't to be till Nicholas was back from school...Nicholas' class was in the field for a skirmish drill and wouldn't be back in the school till next week. That gave him...a couple of days he'd wager...but 'twas best to take no chances.

All societal decorum dictated that there be no sexual congress till the wedding night, but Liam inhabited the real world -- at least that of the working class. He knew not whether the wealthy adhered any more strictly to such social mores; he remembered all too well Strachan's greedy eyes devouring Anya's nubile body. Would he be after claiming his husbandly rights before the wedding? Was he in the Bourget house? Anya, Anya! Dinna yield to him!

As of 3 o'clock today, he was certain of her love. But would it stand the test of being back comfortably ensconced in her world of luxury and privilege? Would Liam and his simple life aboard the Selkie hold its claim upon her affections? Was she again being manipulated by people with their own motives -- now Strachan and her aunt?

As desperate as Liam be to have her, he wanted her to choose him of her own free will. He had to get to Nicholas, to spirit him away before Strachan had access to him...and thus liberate Anya of the leverage they had over her. He circled the name Nicholas.

There was a soft tap upon his arm. He turned round to see a young woman with curly red hair standing behind him. Her dress was simple, but her powdered face and rouged cheeks indicated her profession. "Are you new in port, sir? Would you be needing some company?" She smiled coyly. Her face, under the paint, was fair enough.

He started to shake his head, but she touched his arm again. "It would be no trouble, sir, for a fine big fellow such as yourself." She lowered her shawl, revealing her unbuttoned bodice and upper portion of her breasts. "I'm a fast clipper -- my hold is ready for cargo."

He shook his head again, smiling ruefully. "Nay, girl. Thank ye. You're right pretty, ye are, but I'm not your captain tonight." He gave her a gold coin. "Here's for your trouble. Ye should get yourself some supper."

Her studied air evaporated, so taken aback was she at his generosity. "Thank you," she said uncertainly. "Are you sure you don't want anything? I can polish your anchor shaft..." Liam shook his head.

Turning back to the bar, he emptied his glass and stared at the trio of names he had written -- and was flummoxed by the sudden realization that he knew not Anya's true surname. He knew right well that "Novikov" was an alias. The location of the school he had, but Nicholas be a common name; to retrieve him, he needed the name. But how to come by it? Her aunt was her father's sister, he recalled. But again, he was ignorant of whether Anya had kept her father's surname or had assumed her stepfather's.

He jumped as a heavy arm suddenly clapped him across the back and a voice shouted in his ear. "Liam, me ole mucker!"

Twisting upon the stool he saw the grinning face of Jimmy McCann. "Jimmy!" he exclaimed in relief, and stood to share a hearty embrace. A Derry lad, Jimmy had been a comrade of the jacket blue in the navy. Now he lived in Toronto and operated a steam tug service. It had been some months since he'd last seen him.

Liam signaled the barkeep for two more pints as Jimmy took the stool next to him, asking, "When did ye get in, mate?"

"This afternoon."

Jimmy looked surprised. "From Rochester?"

"Aye."

"Ye crossed the lake now?"

Liam nodded.

"I'm surprised at ye -- I'd think ye'd know better. Why there was a right proper gale a few days ago!"

Liam took a drink and nodded. "Don't I know! I was in it."

"Well then?"

His eyes distant, Liam shook his head slowly. "I was seduced by money, so I was. Three hundred dollars I was paid for the crossing."

Jimmy choked upon his beer and set the glass down. "Away ta fuck! Three hundred dollars!" He coughed. "Who was yer fare, Queen Victoria?"

Liam opened his mouth, but no words emerged.

Jimmy looked at him and then at his book and pencil upon the bar. "What's up with ye? Are ye having fits with those naval architecture maths again?" he teased, punching him in the arm.

Liam stared into his glass.

"Liam, me brother, what's troubling ye? Ye've got a face like a Lurgan spade. I was calling yer name from across the room -- I've never seen a bloke in such a right trance before."

Liam turned his glass slowly. "Jimmy...I'm set upon a quest."

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. "A quest? Are ye on the trail of a rare edition of Shakespeare?"

He shook his head again. "I'm trying to help a lass who be in danger."

"A lass? Ye were never one to have yer head turned by a wench."

"No wench she be." He turned to Jimmy, distressed, the words now tumbling forth. "She's a sweet, lovely lass...and she's being hounded by two different bastards bent upon fucking her. She's being forced to marry one of them...I have to rescue her! I'll do whatever it takes, by Christ I will!"

Jimmy squeezed his shoulder. "Calm yerself, mate." He pushed the glass into Liam's hand. "Here, knock that down ye." They both took swigs from their pints. "Who is this wee lass, then?"

Liam looked at him for a beat, then leaned closer to say quietly, "Douglas Strachan's fiancée."

Jimmy almost knocked over his glass. "Christ Liam! Are ye a buck eejit!?"

Liam hung his head and shook it side to side. "God help me, I am...I canna help meself...she's beguiled my heart."

Wrapping an arm round his back, Jimmy shook him gently, silently. At last he said, "I dinna what to tell ye, me brother. There be no argument profitable against love." They were both silent for a moment, then Jimmy asked, "Where is she now? What be yer rescue plan?"

Liam glanced around the pub, before leaning close again. In a low voice launched into the sorry tale, striving to coherently acquaint him with Anya's predicament, while censoring out the amorous activities they had shared. "First I need to get her brother out of their reach, so they can no longer bend her to their will," he hazarded.

Jimmy was looking at him solemnly, shaking his head. "That's a fine muddle yer in. Ye'll be needing some help."

"Nay from ye. I canna put ye in danger too." Liam shook his head to stop Jimmy's rebuttal.

"Then God grant that she loves ye too."

"Aye...from your lips to His ears."

They brooded over this wisdom for a while, then Liam straightened and downed the rest of his beer. "Enough of my troubles." He signaled for another round of porter. "How goes it with ye, Jimmy?"

"Right well. I canna complain. The tugging racked up a tidy profit this year."

Two fresh pints were set before them. Jimmy was grinning sheepishly. "But even better than that --- ye'll be the first I tell --- me missus and me are expecting an addition to the family."

Liam grinned and clapped him across the back. "Well done, mate! Here's to ye." He raised his glass; they drank. "Do ye ken when?"

"March, I wager."

"That's a rare piece of good news, Jimmy," he said, inexplicably moved by the fact of this creation of life that attended the love of a man and woman.

They spent the next hour or so drinking and talking, Liam trying to distract himself with their talk on the recent developments upon the lakeshore, and chaffing each other over their escapades in the navy. By and by Jimmy pulled out his pocket watch and sighed. "'Tis homeward now I must go, afore me missus knacks me ballax in."

"Here's luck to ye, Jimmy, ye and your missus and your bairn."

"Thanks, mate." He raised his glass. "And here's luck to yer quest." He emptied it and stood a little unsteadily. "Serious, though, if I can help ye, ye jest ask me."

Liam hesitated, then leaned closer. "I canna foresee what the next few days will bring. If I should need a tow out of the harbor in the wee hours, do ye ken a man who would do it?"

"I'm yer man, Liam."

"I canna ask ye, Jimmy, knowing who I'm up against."

Jimmy squeezed his shoulder. "I'm yer man," he repeated. "Ye saved me hide more times than I can remember on the ole Aberdare."

"Ta. I'll pay ye well, should it come to that."

Jimmy looked wounded. "Och, never ye mind that. What's a favor between ole comrades? Ye can find me here most nights, according to me missus. If not here, me rooms are above the Collins' chandlery."

They embraced and Jimmy took his leave.

Liam drained his glass and pocketed his journal. He motioned to the barkeep for his bill. Turning to face the room, he looked about, taking in the rowdy voices and energetic music. As he counted out the coins, he registered the tune being played.

I wrapped me glad rag round me, and to the docks did steer.

I'll never court a Yankee girl, I'll stick to rum and beer.

Away ye santee, my dear Annie.

Oh, ye New York girls, can't ye dance the polka?

I joined the Yankee clipper, and sailed away next morn.

Steer clear of all the women, boys, you're safer round Cape Horn.

He caught the eye of the fiddle player and regarded him dubiously. Then he shook his head, crossed the room, and dropped some coins into the hat at the fiddler's feet. He headed out into the night.

*****

The gas lamps ended at the waterfront street, and the long pier was entirely dark save for the stars. Liam sat upon the deck of the Selkie, leaning back against the mast, his elbows upon his drawn up knees. A few pints of porter had eased his frantic state, and now he felt warm, calm, and intent. He breathed the cool autumn air and gazed out at the lights of the city that stretched before him. Even at night and a little blootered, his keen navigational sense took his eyes to a cluster of lights in the vicinity of the Bourget house.