Voyage of the Dreadnaught: Four Stella Madison Capers (7 page)

Alfred Tennyson

1

Stella Madison walked down the long
dark hallway and deliberately ignored the flutter of fear it gave
her. It was ridiculous, really, considering how many others were
nearby who wouldn’t hesitate to respond to any call for help. Then
a regular jolt replaced that flutter, because she suddenly
remembered how often her own fears had robbed her of her voice in
the most desperate hours. Something which made her revert to the
old childhood trick of darting from safety to safety as fast as she
possibly could.

So, having left the warm
comfort at the side of her sleeping husband, she veered to the
left, toward what had originally been known as the First Mate’s
cabin, to listen for the deep, reassuring snores of Mason Jeffries.
Then to the faint sliver of light shining beneath Gerald’s door
(who still slept with a light on to “orient himself” even though
they had all been aboard the
Dreadnaught
for nearly a month).
After that, it was only a hop and a skip to the galley, where
Millie left a light on over the stove in case anyone should get
hungry in the middle of the night and come looking for a
snack.

In fact, she began to hear
somebody moving around in there, as she got closer, along with the
distinctly delicious smell of
Ovaltine
(why, she hadn’t tasted any
of that in years!). Evidence that someone beside herself hadn’t
been able to sleep, either. How nice it would be to enjoy a quiet
chat instead of wading through the predawn hour all alone. Millie
needing to take one of her pills, maybe, or Lou, up with the baby
for some reason. Although if it was Captain Stuart, she probably
wouldn’t stay long, as he was about the oddest person she had ever
known. Not counting mentally deranged people, which she had seen
more than her share of.

Funny how memories from so long ago
came suddenly to mind at certain times.

“
I guess I'm not the only
one who couldn't sleep,” she spoke quietly as she pushed through
the door, so as not to startle whoever it was. Only no one
answered. Instead, she caught just a glimpse of someone
disappearing through the companionway door on the far side of the
sailboat's galley, that led down to below decks. Someone in a
full-length, light-colored gown, with a dark braid that hung
halfway down their back.

Stella got goosebumps when
she saw that, because none of the
Dreadnaught's
crew had hair that
long. She reached for the corner of the large iron stove to steady
herself, but got even more of a fright to discover it was stone
cold. No one had been heating any hot chocolate in here. Maybe it
had been another stowaway. Considering all the dark nooks and
crannies in this vessel, and how many weeks Lou Edna had managed to
hide her young man without a one of them having the slightest
idea... it was a possibility.

A better one than the alternative,
anyway.

Besides, how could those
terrible things be happening, again, when she was cured of all that
so long ago? Especially when her wonderful new life had just begun.
They couldn't be! There simply had to be another explanation. She
pulled open the narrow cupboard next to the stove where they kept
all the hot drink supplies, and began to rummage through. Teas,
coffee, hot cider, bouillon, hot chocolate... but no
Ovaltine.
That distinct
mixture of malt in it was unmistakable. A realization that turned
the cozy galley intimidating, and made her want nothing more than
to hurry back to where she belonged.

Along with another urge to
have that talk with the colonel about her not-so-ordinary past that
she kept putting off. In a few quick steps she was pushing back
through the door, again, but only to collide with what looked like
an old woman wrapped in a shawl, fairly gliding down the shadowy
companionway.

At the same time Stella toppled
backward, a distinctly male voice hollered, “Away, you foul
spirit!” before tripping right over the top of her and landing hard
on the other side. Along with an empty mug and sauce pan that
clattered across the floorboards. “What—what? Good grief! Stella!
Is it really you?”

“
Of course, it's me!
That's an awful thing to call someone, Gerry.”

“
What are
you—doing—wandering around this time of night in that—that whatever
it is?”

“It's my white terry with a Chinese collar.”
She got to her feet, feeling rather silly now that someone else was
there. “I'm not going to say what I thought you were, with that
cut-in-half serape you always wear on top of everything.”

“I detest being cold, and the rest got in
the way of my arms.” He took the hand she offered, to get himself
up off the floor. “Sorry for the name-calling. But—blast!” It was
part of a Captain Stuart phrase (after a month at sea, they were
all talking like old salts), “You scared the daylights out of me!
Took you for another one of those ghastly apparitions.”

“You mean, you actually saw one?”

“One? They're all over the place around
here. Getting so a man can't even hot up his
Ovaltine
without running into the things.”

So, she did smell
Ovaltine
! Stella
laughed, out of sheer relief. “You don't know how glad I am to hear
that. But the stove's cold, how did you do it?”

“Have a hotplate in my room, but no sink.
And I don't find anything in the least funny about it. All this
rot, it's—it's serious business.” He pushed the black watch-cap
farther back on his head and then picked up his dishes. “Makes me
rue the day I ever went gallivanting after such stuff. If I only
knew then what I know now!”

“I'm sorry, Gerry. I wasn't making fun. I
just had sort of a scare, myself. I'm glad it was you I ran into
and not... something else.”

“Yes, well... I must say, it's things like
this that made it necessary to switch my major to botany from
Medieval history, if you want to know the truth.”

“I thought you told me your degree was in
archeology.” They went back through the cabinway door into the
galley. “Even said you taught a few semesters of it at the junior
level. Remember?”

“Yes, of course. It's how I originally
landed a contract from the private school I worked at for so long.
When a position opened up in the biology department, I jumped at
the chance to get out of it, and back into botany, again.
Especially since I was working on my master's by the time.”

“Oh. I thought you said you were working on
a master's in archeology.”

“I was, originally. However, it was worse
than the Medieval, what with all those curs-ed artifacts we were
forever digging up. Didn't like it at all after I'd finished. And
the thought of spending so many hours in dusty museum basements,
cleaning and cataloging them... well, they were as bad as the
castles—worse even. Then, again, it might have just been me. Now, I
actually think the things followed me over from England. That's
where I first opened the door to them, anyway.”

“The apparitions?”

“Seems like it. I tell you, that whole
castle study was a nightmare. Never even finished out the
class.”

“I don't blame you. There's nothing worse
than being scared out of your wits.” Then she corrected herself.
“Other than being dead, altogether.”

“Sometimes I think I might as well be, the
way it's ruined my life.” He turned on the water at the sink in the
far corner to rinse out his things, and the soft whir of the water
pump went on. “Oh, and that bosh about them not being able to
travel over water? Isn't true. Not one bit. It's been ten times
worse since I came home.”

“You mean, you're not Millie's cousin from
England? Then why do you talk that way?” Stella was beginning to
wonder if Gerald might be one of those compulsive liars, that you
couldn't believe a word from. Or, a mentally unstable type that
could have been helped in hospitals but never qualified for the
programs because they weren't dangerous. The kind more easily
controlled with medication. He did take an unbelievable amount of
pills every day.

“Oh, we're cousins, all right. Born and
raised in the same town. But it's a... well, it's a fake accent.”
He glanced over at her with a slight, apologetic smile, just enough
to show the space between his two front teeth. “Started when I went
to college. You know, to impress people. Now, I can't quit.”

“It's more old English than modern, you
know. I keep expecting you to burst out with “forsooth!” or
something.”

“Or, dastardly,” he added, “It's true, I do
like the old phrases best. Always have. I like to think I was born
out of time, except—with the high infant mortality back then—I
probably wouldn't have made it past the age of three. Rate I'm
going, now, isn't much better, though. Putting up with all this
when I'm hardly past fifty.”

“You attribute some of your physical
ailments to these...um... apparitions, too?”

“Mostly. The shaking, the weakness,
insomnia... that sort of thing.”

Stella gave a thoughtful sigh and sat down
on the tufted burgundy cushions (that were a bit threadbare and
oil-stained) surrounding the dining area. “I've been seeing an
apparition, too, Gerry,” she suddenly confessed. “I thought it was
all in my mind. Hallucinations, or something. But two people can't
both be having the same hallucinations. Right?”

“Highly unlikely.” He came over to sit
across from her, still drying his hands on a blue dishtowel. “What
have you been doing to get rid of yours? We should compare
notes.”

“I never knew you could get rid of them. I
thought they just happened.”

“Of course you can get rid of them. Or, so
I've heard. There's a whole theological philosophy about that.
Haven't had any luck with it, myself, yet, but I've only just
started trying. Meanwhile, mind telling me how you cope?”

“Cope with what?”

“How you deal with it all. You know, the
ugliness, the torment, and—”

“The what?”

“And the out-and-out filth!”

“Good heavens!” She shuddered at the very
thought. “I haven't seen anything as terrible as all that! Only a
lovely middle-aged woman from some bygone era. And only a couple of
times.”

“Then I must caution you to be careful,” he
warned. “They never stay lovely for long.”

2

Stella woke up the next morning to the
smell of freshly brewed coffee and the humming of the engine as it
chugged along underneath them. By the way the sunlight was shining
in through the porthole beside the bed, she could tell it had to be
at least eight-o'clock, already. She had overslept. Either that, or
she was reluctant to leave the cozy comfort of her bed after a
night like the last.

She was determined to have that talk
with the colonel, sometime today. No matter what.

But not during his writing time. He
put so much into his work she didn't have the heart to distract him
with anything else before he finished his “daily stint.” She had
always been in awe of writers. How they could chronicle things in a
way that made you feel you were actually living through the period,
yourself; or even create another world, entirely. She fully
believed reading good books had saved her from some of the darkest
times in her life. It was also why she now had a collection of
thousands.

“
You're missing some
beautiful scenery, dearest.” The colonel popped in with his usual
cheerfulness, just long enough to set a steaming mug down on the
built-in nightstand. “We even have fresh cinnamon rolls, this
morning. Seems our Millie has been out-doing herself in the baking
department, again.”

“
I think it takes her mind
off leaving everything she's ever known, and a kitchen is her most
comfortable place.” Stella sat up and plumped her pillow into a
better position to lean against. “Thank you, dear. I'll be right
out and we can enjoy the view together.”

She threw on a pair of jeans and a
navy knit sweater, then ran a quick brush through her hair. Knowing
it would be a long trip she had it cut a bit shorter before she
left. A month later and it seemed just right to turn under in the
usual manner with her touch of natural curl.

Stella's hair had gone prematurely
white (which she had several theories about). But thinking of it
just now, she realized having white hair was the only thing that
could have allowed her to do what she had been forced to do, all
those years, ago. So, looking at it in the perspective of her
spiritual awakening, she could see how it had actually been
providential.

That perhaps God had been looking
after her even when she didn't know he was. What a comforting
thought! If—in the times when she didn't know how to call out to
him—he had dropped life-saving information and coincidences into
her path, in spite of herself.

Oliver already had their wooden tray
set up in the middle of the couch (or settee, as it was called in
nautical terms) when she joined him. That way, they could each sit
at either end, and watch the beautiful scenery slip away behind
them through the bank of French windows above it.

“
Ready for a refill?” he
asked, taking up the silver and glass French press they made coffee
in every morning, here in their quarters. It had become customary
for everyone to fend for themselves for breakfast and lunch, to
accommodate individual ship-board duties (as Captain Stuart called
them). But they all gathered for family dinners each
night.

“
Just a warm-up,” she
replied. “I still have half a cup. Didn't want to miss any of the
show.”