The Dreamer (2 page)

“She’ll live, sir.”

“Any idea who she is?”

“None, sir, though she must be foreign.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Her strange clothes, sir. Though I know little of women’s things.”

The words were quiet, as though coming from a great distance. I stirred but couldn’t open my eyes.

“We are still four weeks from land … the men liked the look of her.”

There was silence.

“They’ll be hard to persuade. I can’t hardly blame them after a year at sea.”

I stirred and sighed, trying to pull myself from the darkness, but it was so difficult.

“Captain, she’s in real danger.”

“What do you suggest?”

“They would be more easily persuaded if they believed someone had a claim on her … if
you
had a claim on her.”

“Me?” he sounded alarmed. “What am I to do with her?”

“It would only be until we reached land. I know it wouldn’t be your first choice, but really, sir, it would be the saving of her.”

Silence.

“At least think about it, sir.”

With great effort, my eyes finally opened. I looked up, straining to focus, as though I were looking through a thick fog, and I could just make out two men staring down at me. It was the captain, and he was standing with another man. They stood side by side, accentuating their differences. Where one was dark, the other was light. Where one was muscularly built, the other was slight. Where one was young, the other was old. But in their careful expressions, the ready form of their stances, the look of wariness in their eyes, they were similar. In fact, the ways they were the same greatly outstripped the ways that they were not, and one might have easily fallen under the conclusion that they were somehow related.

A surge of excitement burst through me, and my pain dissipated somewhat.

“Who are you?” the captain asked curtly. “Where did you come from?”

I thought feverishly. “I-I’m Rachel Madera. I’m from ... the Americas. The ship I was aboard sank. I seem to be the only survivor.”

The shorter, older man looked kindly at me and said, “You ought to sleep now. Rest. We’ll try to keep you safe.”

“What year is it?” I asked them when they turned to leave. My voice sounded odd, like it was coming from someone else, weak and young. I cleared my throat.

Both men looked at me in surprise, and then at each other. They were concerned. It was an odd question.

“The year … tell me what it is. You don’t know the significance!”

They eyed me curiously and the older one told me it was 1714.

1714.

I stared off into the distance in ecstasy. They must have left soon after because when I looked up again, they were gone.

Momentarily I had difficulty believing it. I worried it might all just be a dream, an imaginary manifestation of the passionate pursuit of my work. But the impression was fleeting, and I soon embraced the reality of my situation.

I’d finally achieved my goal merely by jumping off a deadly cliff? No wonder the answer had eluded me for so long. Though I must admit the answer is still somewhat elusive, for obviously not every person who has jumped off a cliff has been thrown back in time.

As of yet, I’m ignorant of the specific function I’m to perform or why I was dropped in this particular place at this particular time. However, I anticipate a role of some significance. I’m also unaware of the possibility of returning to my place of origin.

Consequently, throughout my visit I’ll keep a detailed journal of my adventures, in preparation for all eventualities. If I myself am unable to get back to the future, I hope my writings might be found and studied, used to increase and improve our knowledge and understanding.

My name is Rachel Davis Madera, age 26. I was born in 1986 to Carol Beth Jones and David Richard Madera. I have lived most of my life in Northern California.

The year is now 1714.

Against all odds, in rebellion of all established law and understanding, in defiance of my academic colleagues and associates, I have successfully traveled through time.

I am gratified.

Chapter Two

Notes: Captain informed of position. Anticipate cooperation. Personality disorder a possibility. Further analysis necessary before final diagnosis. Vital error in preparation: Apparel education overlooked.

Captain, as per culture, restrictive, excessively harsh.

A crash of thunder.

My head was steadier, the frigid cold gone. I was exhilarated at my success and eager to begin my adventure. I jumped out of bed to explore, but my attention was soon captured by a sound at the window. I went to it and peered out.

A storm was gathering. And the captain was on the deck. Though his dark hair and eyes were largely hidden by his three cornered hat, I could clearly see the wide line of his jaw and his slightly crooked nose. His chin was covered in stubble and a thick scar at his neck was visible under his collar. I would not have called him a handsome man, but his face was not unpleasant.

He buttoned his coat, and seemed to take note of the weather, looking at the sky and increasingly choppy waters. He didn’t seem overly concerned. I could easily guess that he’d been through storms before.

A smudge on the railing caught his attention, and he stopped to wipe it away, carefully rubbing his fingers over the grime. His fingers removed most of the dirt, but still he removed a kerchief from inside his coat and cleaned off the rest, polishing the rail until it shone.

I began to move away to join him but there was a noise. The captain turned toward it, and I peered out again to observe.

A group of men emerged, dressed in their black coats and wool caps, their forms dark and difficult to make out. They held something between them, and they deliberately kept their voices muffled and quiet. The wind assailed them, and they crouched to their knees, but not out of the captain’s sight.

There was laughter, and then it was quickly hushed. An arm stretched out from the human amoeba and jerked back down again. I realized they were playing dice.

The captain watched them for a few seconds, and when the laughter grew louder, he stepped forward, deliberately making his footfall audible.

I watched as the men stood and turned around, and when they saw who it was, they quickly removed their hats. The wind caught up their disheveled hair and teased it further.

“Are ye be comin’ to join the lot o’ us, Capt’n?” came a cheeky remark.

The captain said nothing, just silently held out his hand. The dice were obediently given to him.

“To whom do they belong?” he asked.

A man was ejected from the amoeba.

“A night in the hold,” he told him.

“Arg! Now wait thar jus’ a minute. Jus’ fer a set o’ dice?”

The solemn mouth became hard, and a certain ugly fire flashed in the captain’s eye. He took a step forward.

The other men quickly took a step back. One of them mumbled, “Don’t ye be mak’n it worse, Tip.”

Paying no heed to the others, the captain repeated, “A night in the hold, and no food tomorrow.”

“Ye scurvy dog! Ye be hav’n some nerve!”

The captain had an almost imperceptible change. His eyes became cooler, his jaw clenched, and his hands came out from inside his coat pockets. “You know the rules.”

“Rules,” Tip spat. “Aye, I be aware of yer rules. Thar be no drinkin’, no gamblin’. Nothin’! Other capt’ns don’t be havin’ such rules.”

“Other captains don’t have such crew,” the captain told him, his voice hard.

“What ye be mean’n by that?”

“If you don’t depart immediately for the hold, you’ll be flogged come morning.”

“Flogged! Just fer —”

“Immediately.”

“Why ye … ” the sailor began, and put his hand in his pocket, but he was suddenly caught up by the throat and lifted off his feet.

“Remove your hand, rascal! Remove it!” the captain shouted. His eyes were afire and his face crimson.

I pressed my face against the glass.

The other men shifted and backed up. “Please, Capt’n,’ one of them said, “’e be a sprog and don’t know no better. He don’t mean no ‘arm.”

“Aye! He bein’ a scallywag, is all,” another ventured. “No need to be keelhaul’n the poor devil.”

But the captain didn’t heed them. He only pinned the squirming sailor against the rail, unconcerned at how blue his face was becoming.

“I said remove your hand, swine!”

Tip removed his hand from his coat pocket, and clutched in it was a wicked looking dagger.

The captain wrenched it from his grip and tossed it overboard. He shoved the man onto the deck where he crumpled to his knees and coughed wretchedly.

“Take him down to the hold, Finley,” the captain said to someone approaching. “No food tomorrow. He’ll be flogged in the morning.”

Finley emerged, and I recognized him as the man who’d tended to me earlier. His soft white hair was too short for the wind to tease, and I noticed there was a heavy cross at his neck that he was fingering. He took the sailor away, seeming not at all surprised by his orders.

The captain dismissed the men and turned as though to enter the cabin I occupied. He stopped short, however, when a voice from behind said, “And ‘ow do ye find the lady, Capt’n?”

A crowd erupted into laughter.

I frowned.

The captain turned quickly. “However I choose. As for you men, all contact is forbidden. That’s an order.”

“Then it be true what they be say’n, Capt’n? We’ve a lassie aboard?”

“Fished out of the briny deep sea like carp she is.”

“A mermaid, more like!”

“A
maid
you say? You sure?”

“The capt’n’ll see to that!”

Laughter.

I snorted.
Cavemen
.

“Men!” The captain commanded. “As far as you’re concerned, there is no lady on board. Understood?”

There was silence, and I thought that the captain had finally reached them. But then a big sailor with a shaved head and a gold tooth licked his lips and gritted, “Ye be expect’n us to be eunuchs, like ye?”

“What was that?” the captain asked, his voice like ice.

There was a moment of silence, and then I could hear the captain say quietly, “Go. All of you. Tend to the ropes and pray to God you have the self control to keep your hands off her.”

The men fell silent. And then one by one they began to snicker. “Didn’t know ye had it in ye, Capt’n.”

“She be a lucky lady, if I may say, Captain Tucker,” someone told him carefully.

I sighed as the men dispersed, expelling a breath I didn’t know I held. Tucker. So that was his name.

*** *** ***

There was a knock on the door, reverberating throughout the small cabin, even disturbing the glass of water that sat nearby.

“Come in,” I called.

The captain … Tucker … burst in, striding through at a gallop.

“Forgive me, miss, but ….” He stopped and jerked backwards, whacking his head on a hanging lantern. He cursed viciously. “What the blazes are you doing?”

I was bent over his desk, searching.

“You’re indecent! Get back into bed.”

I laughed. Finley’s nightshirt fell halfway down my legs. These puritans.

“Captain!” I hurried, hardly sparing him a glance. “A pencil, paper. It is urgent. Appropriate clothing. I must get started. There is so much to do.”

“Get some bloody clothes on,” he shouted. He went to a trunk located near the bed and opened it.

My hand emerged from a drawer holding a small, primitive pencil, simply a stick of graphite wrapped in string. I opened another drawer to continue looking for an obliging scrap of blank paper. “I have a number of important questions for you. First, what kind of ship is this? How large is your crew? What is your cargo? Are you – do you have a lick of paper in this desk?”