Death in Salem (14 page)

 

Chapter Twelve

After a few moments staring at the closed door, Rees turned and walked back to his horse and wagon. Clearly, Jacob Boothe had been a regular visitor to this household. It was less obvious which cousin he had visited. The fashionable and attractive Isabella seemed the most likely choice, especially considering Georgianne's prickly dowdiness. But it was she who was grieving and frightened. Still, Rees was certain neither woman had murdered Jacob Boothe; like Xenobia, they did not have the strength. But he thought Georgianne knew more than she'd said. How he missed Lydia's insight, especially into the female mind.

Rees struggled to guide Bessie through the narrow Salem streets, busy with carts and wagons, buggies and pedestrians. He began to wish he'd stopped at Mrs. Baldwin's and left his wagon and Bessie there. The traffic became much worse as he approached the wharves. Finally, he pulled over to a livery stable and paid a farthing to leave Bessie and the wagon there for a few hours. He could move much faster on foot. He reckoned by the angle of the sun that it was already approaching four o'clock. Seagulls screamed overhead, more and more of them as Rees approached the docks.

Although it sported a figurehead, the bust of a woman,
Anstiss's Dream
was instantly recognizable as a whaling ship by its differences from the elegant schooners that plied the Cathay trade. Bolted high on the mast was a pair of spectacle-shaped rings. Of course, Rees realized, they were for the lookout, necessary if the crew were to spot the whales. A series of cranes and long slim boats circled the whaler: whaleboats that could be lowered to the water to chase their prey. And a shelf, bloody red in the light of the setting sun, was positioned over the gangplank. Rees couldn't even guess what purpose that filled. All the sails were down, the ropes forming a complex web above the deck.

A sailor in white duck trousers and blue jacket stood by the gangplank, marking off each cask of the parade as it went up into the ship. “Raisins,” he muttered under his breath. “Pickles, onions, cheese.” Rees neared the man, but paused, waiting until he'd checked off the final cask. Like most of the other sailors Rees had seen, this mate wore a bandanna around his neck. A circular tattoo like a rope decorated his left forearm. Finally, the sailor looked up from his list.

“I'm looking for Adam Coville,” Rees said.

“Not sure if he's still here,” the mate replied. “Come aboard.”

Rees followed the mariner up the gangplank but remained near it. The War for Independence was not so distant that Rees did not remember the impressment of Americans into the British Navy. He was pretty sure the British still followed that custom. For all he knew the American sailors did as well, and he had no wish to go to sea, especially not upon a whaling ship. Underneath the salty tang of the air, he smelled old blood and oil and the stink of men crammed into too small a space. Two deckhands, both dark-skinned, worked on the deck.

“You see the Master?” the mate asked the darker of the two. He was a black man, one of the so-called Black Jacks, and not above twenty, Rees suspected. He shook his head. “Mr. Brewster?” The harpooner kneeling by the metal tools jumped to his feet.

“No, sir.”

“Let's search him out, you and I,” the first mate said to the black sailor.

As he and the deckhand disappeared belowdecks, Rees turned his gaze to the metal tools spread out upon deck. Blackened with oil and scarred with use, the sharp edges glittered in the sun.

“You been on a whaler before?” asked the harpooner. Rees looked at the man. Although tanned almost as dark as the African, this sailor had eyes of a peculiar light blue-green. Rees shook his head no and turned back to the tools. He recognized harpoons, long and sharp with wicked barbs. Several hooks of different shapes and sizes accompanied the harpoons, and next to them were a variety of long metal implements with leaf shaped ends.

“What are those?” Rees asked, pointing to them.

“Them? Them be lances.” The sailor stood up. As tall as Rees, he was broader at the shoulder. Tattoos, almost invisible against his bronzed skin, smudged one calf, his bare back and a bicep. The last, Rees thought, might be a compass. “You push a lance into the whale and twist until it kills the beast.” He picked up a long knife with a long square blade and a long handle. “This here be a boarding knife, for cutting up the blubber and bringing it on deck. And this,” he picked up another tool with a razor-sharp curved blade, “this be a blubber gaff for taking the blubber.”

Rees held up a hand. “Enough.” Shuddering, he removed his eyes from the lethal tools, his gaze coming to rest upon the brick stove in the center of the deck. Two enormous iron pots were positioned within the brick shell, over stone slabs blackened by fire.

“That's the tryworks,” the harpooner said. “We stoke up the flames and throw the blubber into the try-pot and boil out that oil by the barrelful.”

Rees looked at the greasy black film staining the bricks. “Does the ship ever catch fire?”

“Sometimes.” The harpooner grinned, his teeth a startling white against his dark skin, and stretched. With the movement of his muscles and under the sheen of perspiration, the pictures on his skin seemed to move. Rees realized he was staring; the effect was curiously mesmerizing.

“You want to sign on to the crew?” asked the man. “You be a big strong man. Good money in whaling. Even for a green deckhand the lay can be a thousand dollars or more.”

“No, thanks,” Rees said, stepping back a few more steps. “Good money in weaving, too.” And he didn't have to kill anything.

“Mister Coville's gone,” said the officer, reappearing on deck trailed by the deckhand. “He got a message from home and left. I'm sorry. His sister died,” he added helpfully.

“Will he return tomorrow?” Rees asked. He didn't fancy a second journey to the Covilles' house on Salem Neck.

“'Spect so. First thing in the morning. We're getting ready to sail in a few days; a lot of work to be finished before then.”

Rees nodded and thanked the man before turning to descend the gangplank to the dock. He wished he could have spoken to at least one of the Coville brothers before they learned of his visit to their house and his conversation with Mother Coville and Dickie. But it couldn't be helped. The mate followed him down. As Rees walked away, he heard the mate take up his list of supplies once again. “Candles. Ship's biscuit.”

And now it was time for supper, Rees thought, looking around him. He must find a likely tavern. It would soon be dark, and shopkeepers and sailors alike were heading home. He began walking back to the livery stable, following a rowdy gang of sailors. Bronzed a deep brown by a southern sun, they talked in loud, raucous voices. He followed them to a nearby tavern, the Witch's Cauldron. The walls were weatherbeaten to a grayish brown, but the sounds of laughter and conversation beckoned him inside. It was not a prepossessing establishment. The floors were slick and the tables greasy and he was the only non-sailor in the room. A few of the men, both ragged deckhands with bare feet and officers in their blue jackets and shoes, turned to stare.

Avoiding the most obvious pools of tobacco juice, Rees found a seat in the back, away from the clusters of seamen at the front. After a few moments, a girl with a low-cut blouse and stained apron came to take his order. He watched the slattern fry his cod over the fire. With a mess of fried potatoes and a side of bacon, the fish was hot and filling. When the cook looked at him as though he were strange when he asked for coffee, he made do with ale. It was thin and sour. Since all of the men around Rees were drinking rum, he guessed the tavern did not bother with good beer.

As he ate, he watched the sailors on either side. Many languages contributed to the cacophony: Portuguese, French, even some Indian tongues. It was a well-known fact that some of the local tribes produced the best harpooners.

And there, seated at a table on the other side of the room, was Matthew Boothe. A wide-brimmed straw hat banded with a black ribbon shadowed his eyes, but the sharp nose was unmistakable, and Rees could see the faint shine of the boy's foolish mustache and thin beard. He was talking to a rough-looking fellow with a swarthy complexion and thick wavy black hair. A gold earring glittered in the visible ear. He appeared dangerous, as though he would knife a man as quick as look at him.

The serving girl appeared at Rees's elbow, asking if he wanted anything else. Rees shook his head and handed the girl a few pence. When he looked back, Matthew was gone. Only his companion remained, swigging rum from a jug. Rees stood up and looked all around. No Matthew.

All right, Rees thought, he would just question that swarthy seaman. But as he threaded his way through the tables, a noisy conversation suddenly erupted into a drunken fight. Matthew's companion jumped to his feet and ran for the door. Rees followed, pressing himself against the walls and barely avoiding swinging fists and feet. By the time he fought his way outside, the pirate had disappeared.

Rees went down first one shadowy lane and then another. The pungent odor of strange spices tickled his nose. Rees recognized ginger and cinnamon but not the others. He inhaled, enjoying the suggestion of different food, different customs from the other side of the world. Two young women exited one of the buildings, shrouding their dark hair with filmy colorful scarves. Gold and silver glittered on their arms. Rees sucked in his breath. The fabric that covered their heads swept up from long skirts and over their bodices, but left their midriffs bare. Rees could clearly see the navel of the young woman closest to him. Yet she did not comport herself like a whore. Her eyes were modestly lowered and she kept a firm grip upon the arm of the woman by her side.

He was so captivated by the women that he did not hear the footsteps approaching him from behind. Suddenly an arm went around his throat, cutting off his breath. Rees tried to struggle but the arm tightened. “Get out of Salem,” said a husky voice behind him. “You don't belong here.” Abruptly the arm released him and Rees fell into the refuse littering the alley floor. Choking and fighting for breath, he turned to stare over his shoulder. But the man was running away, and all Rees saw was the curious rolling gait of a sailor before he disappeared around a corner.

Rees struggled to his feet. He knew he would never catch his attacker now. Cursing under his breath, he headed to the livery for his horse and wagon. Well, he knew now that Matthew Boothe was involved in something. But it had not been the Boothe boy who assaulted him. That man was a sailor, at least as tall as Rees, and probably black. Rees had a confused impression of a dark arm going about his throat. Rees's investigation had upset someone.

Now alert to everything around him, Rees speeded up to a fast walk, pausing only once to purchase a pocketful of Spanish oranges from a fruit seller on his way home. He did not slow down until he was safely inside the stable yard at Mrs. Baldwin's.

By the time he unhitched Bessie from the wagon and moved her into Mrs. Baldwin's stable, the sun had dropped completely below the horizon. Although a few filaments of purple streaked the sky, in the stable it was almost too dark to see. Candlelight spilled out from Mrs. Baldwin's window and Rees could see her and Billy eating dinner at the table. Rees stopped at the trough and washed up, the cool water tingling pleasantly on his sweaty sunburned skin. Then, too tired even to peel one of his oranges, he went upstairs for bed.

 

Chapter Thirteen

Rees woke early. His throat hurt where his attacker had grabbed him and his right knee was bruised from his fall. Ignoring these trivial hurts, Rees tossed a few oranges into his jacket pockets for later and went down to the yard. It was just past dawn and Billy was leaving for the docks. Without speaking, the two fell into step together. They tramped in silence down the already crowded lanes, all the traffic heading to the wharves at Salem Harbor. As they neared the harbor, they passed the brothel and when Rees looked up at the second-floor window, he saw Annie again, staring down at them. Billy offered her a tentative wave and Annie smiled in return. Almost without thought, and knowing that the older woman would be summoning the servant girl back to her chores, Rees reached into his pocket for an orange. He whistled and when she looked at him, he held it up and then tossed it at the window. She reached for it but missed and the fruit soared into the room behind her. She disappeared as she ran for it. Oranges were expensive, and she probably ate them rarely, if at all.

Billy looked at Rees in surprise. “She looks hungry,” Rees said.

When they reached the waterfront, Billy surged into a run, sprinting away towards the ropewalks. Rees followed at a quick walk but could not keep pace with the boy, who disappeared into the glare from the rising sun.

When Rees arrived at
Anstiss's Dream,
he found the same officer he'd met the previous day standing at the foot of the gangplank. He was still checking off casks as the deckhands rolled them onto the ship. Rees could almost believe he had not moved at all. Stacks of staves for barrels were also carried aboard. Rees assumed they would be used to construct barrels for the oil.

As Rees approached, the officer's pale blue eyes passed over him. Holding up a hand to halt the flow of the goods onto the ship, the sailor turned and shouted to the black crewman. “Get the Masters, will you?”

“Aye, sir,” the deckhand responded and moved out of sight.

“The Covilles'll be down soon,” the mate said. His blue jacket was worn but the brass buttons were polished to a shine. Rees, from his advanced age of thirty-six, thought the sailor couldn't be more than twenty-five, but his waist-length brown pigtail was already flecked with gray.

Rees withdrew to the side to wait, watching the loading of the
Dream
with interest. He had not realized how much food and water had to be carried, but, of course, it made sense. The sailors could not stop at a little store or barter with a farmer for a chicken in the middle of the ocean.