Hot Winds From Bombay (20 page)

“Fine! It will be a relief to have a full crew again.”

Persia felt a sudden chill and pulled her cape closely about her. “Perhaps I’ll go below now. The wind seems to have shifted. I feel a storm in the brewing.”

Fletcher glanced at the sky with a keen eye. If anything, the clouds were lifting. A stray sunbeam was peeking through here and there. But he was not one to dispute his mistress. He offered his arm to see her safely to her cabin.

The storm that was brewing was in Frederick Tudor’s office. The keen-eyed merchant had no liking for the man who had come to interview for the position of captain of his ship. There was a wildness in his dark eyes and a brashness to his speech. Granted, the master of a ship had to be self-assured, but this Hazzard fellow went beyond the limits.

“See here, Captain Hazzard, as owner of the
Madagascar
I say what goes. She sets sail the day after tomorrow and not a minute sooner. If that doesn’t suit you, then I’ll bid you good day and offer you my best wishes in your attempt to find a berth elsewhere.”

The tall, grizzled seaman standing before his desk was strangling the hat in his big hands.

“I don’t mean to tell you your business, sir, but if some extra men were put on to help pack the ice, the loading could be speeded up and we could be on our way hours ahead of schedule.”

Tudor bristled. “I don’t remember telling you yet that you would be master of the
Madagascar’s
crew. Your
we
seems a bit premature, sir!”

Zachariah Hazzard felt his temper rising. What did the man want him to do,
beg?

“Excuse me. I was under the impression that you needed a captain.”

“But I’m not desperate. I don’t mean to sign on just anyone.”

“Begging your pardon, but I’m not
just anyone.
I’ve been at sea since I was twelve years old. I worked my way up through the ranks. And I’ve worked harder than most. I was shanghaied ten years ago and spent four long years doing the dirtiest work to be had on the high seas. Since my escape, I’ve come up to second mate, first mate, and finally ship’s master. I’ve commanded barks out of Havana, New Orleans, the Indies.”

“But never an ice ship,” Tudor put in.

“Maybe not, but I know the ice business. And I’m a New Englander, born and bred. That should count for something.”

Tudor eyed the man up and down. Aye, by God, it did count! And this seafaring man had spunk and a drive that would make him a fine master.

“All right, Hazzard, you’ve got the job. But mind you, you’ll follow my orders.”

Zack nodded. He didn’t like the owner’s attitude, but it seemed the
Madagascar
was the only ship to be had right now. Still, there were some things that needed to be settled before he put his name to paper.

“I understand there’s a woman on board.”

Tudor frowned. The subject of his female supercargo was a sore spot with him. He’d been dead set against the arrangement, but her father—his partner—had insisted. Tudor decided it was best not to mention Persia’s official status to Captain Hazzard. Let him find out for himself once he was on board.

“There is—a missionary’s wife, going to join her husband in Bombaby.”

“I’m not fond of the idea,” Zack added.

Tudor offered him a sly smile. “That she’s on the ship, or that she’s married? You needn’t worry about Mrs. Blackwell, Captain. She comes of a seafaring family and she knows the ropes. Besides, she has a manservant with her to see to her needs.”

Zack’s brows shot up in surprise. He’d never heard of a woman traveling with a manservant before. But perhaps he was one of her husband’s Indian retainers. Zack had been told that they were the most trustworthy servants to be found.

“A woman is bad luck aboard a ship,” he persisted.

“Then you don’t want the post?”

Zack backed off. He got Tudor’s meaning—the woman went, whether the captain liked it or not.

Tudor read the resolve in Hazzard’s face and shoved the papers toward him across the desk. Zack signed quickly.

“That’s fine, Captain Hazzard. The
Madagascar
is berthed at Gray’s Wharf. You may go aboard as soon as you like.”

Zack shook the man’s hand. It was odd, but suddenly he felt a strange elation, an almost boyish glee. He hadn’t experienced this kind of sensation since he’d boarded his first vessel as a cabin boy.

“I’ll be going on board within the hour, sir.”

He turned quickly and strode out of the office.

Later that afternoon, Persia decided to avail herself of one last homeport luxury before they sailed. During the long months ahead at sea, all fresh water would be reserved for drinking. There would be only brine from the sea for bathing. Thus she had asked Fletcher to heat water for the copper tub and bring extra buckets to the compartment so that she might wash her hair thoroughly one last time.

When the door flew open unexpectedly, she was swathed in a length of toweling with another wrapped turban fashion around her wet hair. She gave a startled cry and turned her back before the intruder stepped into the cabin.

“If you
please!”
she shrieked.

A low laugh greeted her embarrassment.

“Whoever you are, leave my cabin this minute!”

“Your
cabin?” The man’s deep voice held a mixture of anger and amusement. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I’m the new captain of the
Madagascar,
and unless I’m very much mistaken, this is the
captain’s cabin.”

Persia was shivering with cold and embarrassment. “Can’t we discuss this later?”

“No,” replied the husky voice behind her. “I think we should settle it now. I was told there was a woman on board, but Mr. Tudor also stated that you were a
married
woman. He mentioned nothing to the effect that I would be sharing my quarters with you. Still, I don’t mind, if your husband doesn’t.”

“Really!”
Persia was furious, outraged. “If you don’t leave this minute, sir, I shall be forced to call my servant and have him throw you out!”

Zack stood his ground. He didn’t really understand why he was giving the woman such a hard time. It was hardly the gentlemanly thing to do. There she stood with her nicely rounded buttocks plainly molded inside the damp towel, her creamy shoulders quaking invitingly, and her shapely ankles and feet bare for the admiring. The thought struck him suddenly that her missionary husband probably had never seen her so enticingly garbed, with her skin glowing a warm, pearly hue and droplets of water clinging to her slender neck and arms. He should be ashamed of himself for staring… but he wasn’t. All he felt was a peculiar heat flowing through his blood and a pulsing in his groin.

“Damn,” he muttered harshly. He’d expected the woman to be a matronly crone. He’d hoped so, anyway. But even without seeing her face, he could tell she was a beauty.

“I don’t see what you expect to accomplish by this humiliation, Captain,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “I can hardly move out of your quarters until I’m dressed, and I certainly can’t get into my clothes with you standing there gawking.”

He knew he had to leave. Any other man would probably be long gone already. But something in the tone of her voice—its challenge, its boldness—made him offer one last thrust.

“Shall I summon your manservant to help you dress, Mrs. Blackwell?”

The question shocked Persia so thoroughly that she almost turned to face the man but stopped herself in the nick of time. It certainly wouldn’t do to offer him a view of her breasts straining over the top of the towel. That would please him far too much, she could tell.

“Thank you, no. Just
leave!”

Zack smiled at the frustration in her voice. “Then I’ll bid you adieu for now, Mrs. Blackwell. The pleasure, believe me, has been all mine.”

At the sound of the door closing, Persia turned. He was gone. She stood for a long time, staring after him. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what was happening. She felt warmed through and through. Her heartbeat was rapid, her head light. It almost seemed as if the captain’s rough, strangely familiar voice had fondled her physically. Her breasts were suddenly peaked with desire, and an almost forgotten ache throbbed deep inside her. She sank down into the green velvet rocker, feeling the soft fabric caress the bare calves of her legs. She forced herself to breathe deeply, calmly.

“Get hold of yourself, Persia,” she commanded. “The man is a cad, a bounder.”

Then she smiled. Hadn’t she said those same things about Zack at one time?

Thoughts of Zack brought a new flush to her skin. And she realized suddenly that the strange effect the captain had on her was caused by the fact that his voice reminded her of Zack’s. Oh, the captain’s was deeper and huskier, but certain inflections in his tone were very similar. Zack, dear Zack!

She forced his name and his well-remembered face from her mind. She was a married woman! It was downright sinful to keep dwelling on the past.

Suddenly, a real worry took possession of her. How would she ever face the captain after he had seen her unclothed in his own cabin?

She glanced about the room, frantic. Her eyes lit on the spirits cabinet and relief flooded through her. The veil! She would hide her face all the way to India, if need be. That would keep the brash captain from seeing the flame he brought to her cheeks.

She rocked slowly, thinking to herself that it was going to be a long, unnerving voyage.

Suddenly, she sat up straight and her towel dropped to her waist.

“Why, the man never even bothered to introduce himself! How rude!”

Had it not been for Fletcher’s memorable tattooed face, Captain Hazzard might have sailed the entire fifteen thousand miles from Boston to Bombay without ever realizing that Mrs. Blackwell and his Persia were one and the same.

He had not made any mental connection between the towel-swathed missionary’s wife and the woman he loved. As for recognizing her voice, the woman whose bath he’d interrupted had alternately shrieked at him and whispered nervously. He certainly had no intention of becoming friendly with her in any case. He was already angry with her for being young and a beauty. That much he’d been able to tell even from the back, with the towel leaving just enough of her uncovered to arouse.

He grew angrier still when First Mate Barry informed him that she was also part of the ship’s company. The two men were standing on the quarterdeck, passing the final hours before time to cast off. Barry commented that it would be interesting to see if a lady could fetch a higher price for the cargo than the male supercargoes before her.

Zack stared at the man, stunned, then ranted, “A
missionary’s
wife, acting as supercargo on
my
ship?”

“Aye, sir,” answered the tall, wiry mate. “But she’s not just that. She’s the daughter of one of the owners. Didn’t Mr. Tudor tell you? She supervised the ice harvest and all, too. She’s as good as any man aboard.” When Barry saw his captain’s eyes flash angrily, he quickly added, “Present company excepted, of course, sir.”

“Well, I don’t give a damn whose daughter she is! Just see she stays out of my way!” Zack bellowed. Then he turned and stormed off across the deck, cursing Tudor under his breath for keeping all this a secret from him—on purpose, he was sure.

First she had taken over the cabin and now she had usurped his duties. He had known that having a woman on board would be a bad idea, but this was almost too much to abide.

She’d better stay clear of him, he thought, or he just might tell her so!

Persia was delighted to stay out of the captain’s way. On the day he’d barged into her room without even knocking, she had packed up her belongings to move to another compartment at his orders. The next moment he’d had her unpacking again. He’d changed his mind, the steward told her. She was to remain in the master’s stateroom. It was the least he could do to make such a delicate lady less miserable in the long months ahead at sea, Steward Dawkin repeated.

Persia imagined that she could hear the very words from the captain’s sarcastic lips. She bristled.
A delicate lady
indeed!

“Well, that’s just fine, Dawkin,” she answered in an annoyed tone to the innocent steward. “But you tell your captain for me that, if I’m to remain here, this will no longer be referred to as the ‘master’s stateroom.’ And I want no further intrusions upon my privacy. If he would like to have a word with me, he may speak to my man Fletcher and arrange an appointment, as he would if he were a
gentleman.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dawkin replied, bowing his way out of her compartment. He wasn’t sure how Captain Hazzard would react when he delivered her stinging message, but he didn’t relish the thought. He decided to tone it down a bit before passing it along.

During the remaining time that the ship was at Gray’s Wharf loading its cargo, Mrs. Blackwell and Captain Hazzard had no trouble keeping their distance. Zack spent most of the time making final arrangements in town for the loading of the ice and provisions. As for Fletcher, he had yet to meet the captain. Persia had sent him ashore to enjoy his final days of freedom before they sailed. The weather was foul, so for the time being she kept to her cabin. She saw no one except for the steward who brought her meals, and he made no mention of the ship’s master, knowing the animosity that already existed between the pair. She still didn’t know the captain’s name, but she refused to ask Dawkin, knowing that he would report her curiosity to the man himself. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

Persia read, she slept, she wrote final letters to family and friends. Until—if luck were with them—they happened to speak a homebound ship at sea, there would be no further opportunities for posting mail until they reached Bombay in four months’ time.

When Fletcher came on board at dawn the morning they were to sail, Captain Hazzard was far too busy to notice the man. More dirty weather was blowing in, and there wasn’t a moment to lose if they wanted to get under way on the appointed day.

Fletcher spied the captain at a distance. The ship’s master was shouting orders to First Mate Barry, trying to be heard above the rising wind. Persia’s servant noted the scar running through his wild beard and the tangled mass of silver hair whipping about his grizzled face in the wind. The man looked evil. Fletcher shivered with a premonition of disaster, then hurried below.

Although Persia had kept to her cabin, awaiting their sailing, she’d followed, by the sounds, all that was taking place above to ready the ship for sea. Now, on the very morning of their departure, she could go down the list as if she’d had an active part in the loading operation. The day before, provisions for the journey had been brought on board. She had heard the clucking and squawking of chickens, geese, and ducks. Even now she could hear a dozen or so pigs grunting in their sty on deck. The sheep and the vegetables—winter squash, turnips, carrots, potatoes, and pumpkins—would be safely stowed belowdecks until their time to grace the table. Barrels of flour and molasses, hogsheads of water, jugs of wine, demijohns of rum—all were in their places. The last item to be loaded would be the hundred barrels of Baldwin apples, literally worth their weight in silver on the market in India.

As she sat in her little velvet rocking chair, she could hear the tramp of boots coming up the gangway. That would be the crew, returning from their final shore leave. Fletcher would be among them. She wondered if the captain had stayed on board last night, or if he was the sort to seek out a woman in these final hours before land and its intimate comforts slipped away. If he had stayed on the ship, where had he slept? Were those his boots she’d heard pacing the smaller compartment next to hers late into the night?

Persia rose and flung the book she hadn’t been reading onto the bunk. She was annoyed with herself for even thinking about the man. Why did she let him upset her so?

Besides, she had much more important things to concentrate on. Finally, after dreaming about it all her life, she was about to set sail for
India!
She refused to allow anything—even an arrogant captain—to spoil the excitement of this moment for her. And, too, she was about to embark on a whole new life—as a wife, and eventually, she hoped, a mother.

She decided not to wait for Fletcher to come for her. If he was back, he was probably busy stowing his own gear in his assigned compartment. There could be nothing wrong with her going on deck alone. She pulled on her veiled bonnet, flung a warm cape around her shoulders, and left the cabin.

The harbor pilot, who would see them safely down the Charles River, was on the quarterdeck, talking to the captain, whose back was to her. The gangway was hauled aboard. The lines were cast off.

Persia stood back, out of the way. This was a precarious time, she knew. Everything had to be done with split-second precision in order to get the
Madagascar
under way without a hitch. Orders flew back and forth faster than seagulls on the wing. Persia leaned against the rail, eyes closed, savoring the song of the sea.

“Heave short!” She heard the groan of the hand-operated capstan and the creak of the anchor cable as the slack was taken out of it.

“Set the tops’ls!” This order was followed by the flap-flap of canvas in the wind as the six topsails unfurled. She knew without opening her eyes that the sailors aloft in the rigging were overhauling the running gear while the sails were set.

Then came the most exciting call of all: “Break her out!”

The anchor was up. They were under full sail. And Persia’s heart was singing.

The motion of the ship and the sound of the wind zinging through the rigging, pushing the canvas before it, worked together to fire her blood and spark her imagination. She didn’t even notice when the ship slowed to allow the pilot to climb down into the smaller craft that would take him back to the Boston Light.

Not until Mr. Barry and Second Mate Stoner began choosing the starboard and port watches did Persia’s attention return to the ship’s crew. The sailors—dressed smartly in black tarpaulin hats, red-and-white shirts, blue bell-bottomed pants, and pea coats—queued up at the vessel’s waist for this routine procedure. The two mates took their places near the poop deck. Persia viewed the whole scene with interest, knowing that these few moments would decide with whom each man ate, slept, and worked for the next four months. As the sixteen sailors were called, name by name, each man moved to the starboard or to port, to work either with Barry or Stoner.

The captain was nowhere in evidence. Persia knew he would be in the charthouse, recording the bearing taken shortly after the pilot’s departure, noting the weather in his log, and plotting the ship’s exact position on the charts.

“Starboard and port watches chosen, Captain, sir!” the first mate boomed out suddenly.

Through the black veil, Persia saw the tall figure as he came out on deck as if through a haze. He stopped just outside the charthouse door, and his gaze seemed to lock on her. A strange chill ran through her veins, only to be followed a moment later by a curious, caressing warmth. The man was magnetic, if nothing else, she had to give him that.

Releasing her now from his imprisoning gaze, he stood before his crew, raising his big hands for silence, even though there was no need for such a command. He was tall, craggy, whipped by the wind and the seas like a tree trunk turned to driftwood. Persia thought she had never seen a man who looked so cruelly used by life—his hair and beard white before their time, his face scarred and lined. She couldn’t imagine why she felt attracted to him. Maybe it was those eyes, so dark and burning, or the powerful stance that made him seem a part of the ship he commanded.

Suddenly, his voice boomed in the quiet. “Hear me, men of the
Madagascar
! I am a hard taskmaster, but just. You will heed my orders. You will do your duty. You will put this ship and its cargo first at all times.
Or
you will pay the price for your shiftlessness and insubordination.”

Persia stood frozen, mesmerized, listening to his voice. There was something so familiar about it—not from their first encounter aboard ship a short time ago, but from the distant past. The inflections, the huskiness, the very tone of it, sent a delicious shiver through and through her.

He continued, “We have a lady on board… a missionary’s wife.” He inclined his head toward Persia, and several of the crew members turned to stare. Some eyed her coolly; some smiled at her. “You will belay the rough talk whenever she is about. I will not have a lady insulted in any fashion while she’s on my ship. Am I understood?”

“Aye-aye! Yes, Cap’n!” the crew chorused.

“Very well, then. We understand each other.” He waved a hand at the men as if dismissing them, then added, “By the way, for those of you who don’t know it already, my name is Hazzard. Captain Zachariah Hazzard.”

Persia felt her knees go weak beneath her. She gripped the railing to keep from sinking to the deck. A red haze filmed her eyes.

Zachariah Hazzard?
It couldn’t be!

Her gaze was frozen to the man.
Her
Zack? The only man she’d ever loved… the man who should have been her husband and the father of her children? Her heart pounded a frantic tattoo. A kind of joy filled her that had been absent since that snowy night in Boston long, long ago. She started toward him. She had to tell him.

“Zack, darling…” The words trembled, inaudible, on her lips.

Her tears were brimming. She mustn’t cry—not now! Slipping her left hand under the veil, she brushed at the dampness on her cheeks. When she did, she felt cold metal chill her flesh. The freezing sensation went straight to her heart.

Withdrawing her hand, she stared down at her wedding ring as if it had suddenly appeared there out of magic.
Evil magic!

Now her tears came in earnest. She had no right to Zack any longer. She was another man’s wife. How could fate have played such a cruel trick?

She turned and started back to her cabin, but his voice stopped her. “Mrs. Blackwell, please, might I have a word with you?”

She faced him, fighting for control behind the veil. “Yes, Captain?” Her voice was a muted whisper. Her whole body was trembling.

“I want to apologize for the other day. I shouldn’t have burst into the cabin, even though I did think it was mine. And I certainly should not have lingered there, embarrassing you so. I hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t think we should begin this voyage with bad blood between us.”

His full lips quirked in a smile, and she felt herself melting before him. Zack! Yes, it was truly her Zack!

He went on, “This ship isn’t large enough to contain petty quarrels. I thought we might put an end to our differences over dinner tonight.”

She waited so long to give him an answer that he finally asked, “Mrs. Blackwell, are you all right?”

“Yes, Captain. Quite,” she replied at last. “I accept your apology, but I must decline your offer this evening.”

“Oh, really. I’m disappointed. Perhaps some other time?”

“Yes, Captain, thank you.”

She didn’t wait for him to say anything else. She couldn’t stand another moment of gazing into those warm brown eyes, of hearing that voice, of knowing he was back but that she couldn’t have him. Turning quickly, she hurried below to the cabin.

Barring the door, she tossed her hat and cape aside and fell to the bunk, sobbing her heart out.

“Zack, Zack,” she cried. “Why now? Why here? Why after all this time, my love?”

Zack stared after the woman. What an odd way to act. He could almost swear from the quiver of her voice that beneath that black veil she had been crying. But surely a simple apology couldn’t have moved her to tears. Still, who could ever figure out women? He certainly never expected to be able to. For instance, why had she declined his invitation to dinner? Didn’t she know that it was customary for the ship’s master and the supercargo to take their meals together? Didn’t she understand that there was a certain ship’s etiquette to be observed?
He
was trying to be civil, but if that didn’t work…