Authors: C. Marie Bowen
Aubrielle's Call (2 page)
Is she in Poland?
John nodded to the barmaid as she replaced his beer.
She used her shoe to sweep the towel and glass across the floor, away from the dancers.
The stinging point on his forehead would be a distraction until he set eyes on Agaria.
Or whoever she is in her new life.
The adrenaline spike in his chest would ease once his journey toward her began.
He brushed a hand along the back of his neck. There would be no way to reach her for days, even weeks, and he had no idea where to find her.
His heart clenched.
Damn.
John gripped the handle of his mug and raised the foamy brew to his lips.
The white-haired young sailor emptied his glass and chuckled at the dancers. He elbowed Fred and pointed. “See the blonde? I knew a girl in Toledo who moved like that.”
John drank his beer and watched the blonde dancer. He remembered a conversation he’d had with a curly-haired blonde, a lifetime ago. She had claimed knowledge of the future and warned of wars that would encompass the entire world. Wars fought with weapons that didn’t exist in the late nineteenth century. She’d been right.
He and Alyse had learned of events in the Great War by reading newspaper reports from the safety of their Denver home. Thankful for once, they could never conceive a child.
The second war, his friend had warned, would sweep across Europe in what the Germans would call a blitzkrieg. The death toll would be astronomical, especially in Poland.
John drank his beer. If his love dwelt in Poland, she could already be beyond his reach. Even so, she lived. As long as her heart continued to beat, he would feel her call, and the direction he must follow.
He scrubbed his hand over his face.
I’ll have to cross the Atlantic
.
Once in Europe, he’d have a better idea where to find her.
Fred cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. “You’re less than fine, I’d say. What’s on your mind, son?”
John pressed his lips and took a deep breath. “I won’t be sailing on
The Dream
to Panama.” He leaned back and ran his hand through his hair. “I need to find a ship making a North Atlantic run.”
“What?” Elmer set his mug down hard. “Are you mad?”
“Why rush off to war?” Fred narrowed his eyes and put his beaker on the table.
John shook his head. “Not war. Not for me.” He waved his thumb at the radio. “But war means more ships sailing to Europe, more profit.”
“Could be.” Elmer shrugged. His attention returned to the dancers.
“I’d guess you have family in Europe?” Fred held his gaze and sipped his brew.
John rolled his shoulders and gave his friend a slow nod. “I do.” He looked away and rubbed at a point on his forehead. “And I can’t just listen to radio reports and speculation. I need to find her.” He glanced at Fred. “Find them.”
Fred tipped his head toward one of the tables filled with men. “Ask those shipmates where they’re bound.” He gave a nod to several men at the bar. “Those men, as well. The Gull is as good a place as any to find a ship across the pond.”
John gave Fred a pat on his shoulder and rose from his chair. There were five men at the table dressed in sailor’s dungarees. He stopped beside them and nodded. “Good evening, mates. I’m looking for work on a North Atlantic run to Britain or any port along the European coast.”
Five ruddy faces lifted to John.
“Nothing goes to Britain now, because of their tariffs.” A husky man at the table jutted his chin at John. “You a stoker?
John shook his head. “Deckhand.”
“Talk to the men at the bar.” One of the sailors pointed over his shoulder.
“Thanks.” John scanned the bar.
Two mariners threw down bills for their tab and rose to leave.
“Gentlemen,” John said. “I heard you might have a berth for a deckhand heading to Britain.”
One sailor shook his head and shrugged into his jacket. “Sorry, mate.”
The other man narrowed his eyes at John. “You might ask at some of the taverns on the south end of the pier.” He winked and left the bar.
John returned to their table.
“No luck?” Fred asked.
“No.” John picked up his mug. “But they suggested I try south along the pier.”
Young Elmer drained his glass, stood and rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to dance with the blonde. Wish me luck.” He two-stepped his lanky frame away from their table. His focus on the dancers.
Fred shook his head at the younger man. “That boy needs watching. Have a seat, son. You can ask around tomorrow. The south end’s no place for a lad alone at night.”
“This can’t wait.” The adrenaline punch to his gut kept John on his feet. He couldn’t sit still. “I’m going to walk down the pier and ask around.” John threw down money for their next round and ducked outside into the night.
The sharp point of pain on his head swung around his skull like a compass arrow spinning north. He crossed the street and headed south along the pier. To his right, warehouses and darkened alleyways lined the waterfront, a counterpoint to the brightly lit harbor. Past the warehouses, music, and bawdy laughter echoed down a side street. He put his back to the pier and walked up the dead-end road. All around, the scent of the harbor hung heavy in the night air.
Three taverns competed in the cul-de-sac. Several men passed by, headed to the dock. They gaped at John, commented on his height and then burst into laughter.
John ignored their amusement.
As he entered the first bar, the shatter of glass in the cul-de-sac caught his attention.
From the tavern across the way, a mariner fell backward into the street.
A group of men pursued him out the door and stood on the sidewalk, mocking the fallen man.
Without hesitation, John turned from the doorway and into the street. His long stride took him to the man who lay on his back rubbing his jaw.
“Are you injured?” John asked.
The man’s eyebrows rose as he looked up at John’s face.
“I’ll do, friend.” He raised his hand and John hoisted him to his feet.
The men, clustered on the sidewalk, followed their leader into the street. “Found a friend, Sweeney?”
“He’s no part in this, Taylor. Hell, I’ve no part in this.” Sweeney brushed his hands along his thighs and reached down to grab his cap. “She asked me to dance. I didn’t know the whore belonged to you.”
Taylor charged Sweeney and came to an abrupt halt against John’s hand.
“Easy, shipmate,” John said to the thick-necked man.
Taylor’s face flushed. “She’s not a whore,” he yelled at Sweeney. Spittle flew from his mouth, and he wiped the back of his fist across his lips.
“I bet she’s wondering where you’ve gone,” John said in a calm voice. “You should take your friends back inside and buy your lady friend a drink.”
Taylor’s bloodshot eyes focused on John. “This doesn’t concern you, mate.”
“Not yet. I only offer you a bit of good advice.” John eyed Taylor’s friends as they moved to flank him and Sweeney. “You don’t want this fight.”
“Screw you, Goliath.” Taylor barked and swung wildly at John. He missed by four inches. He swung again, but John’s arm held him further than the burly man’s reach.
“Tell your friends to step back,” John demanded.
Sweeney shuffled up beside John—fists raised. “Leave off, Taylor. You’ll get us thrown in the brig over a whore.”
“Get ’em,” Taylor yelled, and two of his friends stepped to either side of John.
John lifted Taylor and tossed him into his nearest man. Both went down with a grunt and rolled in the dirt.
At John’s side, Sweeney dealt Taylor’s other comrade a hard right to the nose and a left uppercut to his gut. The man sat down and gasped for breath.
The last of Taylor’s friends took a step back, spun on their heels, and raced into the bar.
Taylor struggled to his feet and glared at John. “I’ll remember you.” He shook his finger at John as he hastened back into the bar, his friends close behind.
“We’d best move on.” Sweeney brushed his clothing and walked toward the pier. “Shore Patrol will be around.” He stopped at the end of the street. “Come along,” he called to John. “There’s a quiet bar round the corner. I owe you a drink.”
John cast a last glance at the doorway where Taylor and his friends had entered. “John Larson, able seaman on
The Yankee Dream
.” He held out his hand and fell into step beside Sweeney.
“Bosun Sweeney on the
Giselle-Marie
but my friends call me Pete.” They walked south along the pier. “
Yankee Dream
? Is she docked on the south end?”
“No.” John shook his head. “We docked north. We’re just in from a Panama run. I expect Master Riley will make a return run as soon as
The Dream
is loaded.”
“What’re you doing on the south pier?” Sweeney pointed down the next street, and they changed direction.
“Looking for work on a ship bound for Europe.”
Sweeney opened the door of a quiet tavern and ushered John inside. They ordered a draft from the bartender and found a seat at an open booth.
When their drinks arrived, Sweeney took a long draw on his mug and gave John an appraising look. “No ships are bound for Britain or France, mate. Their tariffs make it unprofitable, and now, their declaration of war makes it illegal.”
“Illegal?” John ran his hand through his thick dark hair. “I thought they would want to buy American arms.”
“I’m sure they do.” Sweeney set his mug on the table and cocked one eyebrow at John. “But the U.S. doesn’t trade with belligerent nations, at least not according to Roosevelt and Congress.” He wiped at a wet spot on the dark wood tabletop. “A little thing called the Neutrality Act makes transporting goods, passengers, and arms to a country at war a federal crime.”
“You’re saying there’s no way to sail to Europe?” John rubbed at the stinging spot on his forehead. “I can’t accept that.”
“No, mate. I’m not saying you can’t sail to Britain or France. I’m saying it’s illegal.” Sweeney rested his arm along the back of the bench and eyed John. “Able seaman, you said, and good in a fight, by my own eyes. Tell me—” Sweeney leaned forward, elbows on the table. “If I knew a master, who wanted to help the Brits and Frogs, and make a bit of cash for his crew on the side, would you be interested?”
“Aye,” John replied without hesitation. “I would.”
Sweeney grinned. “That’s good, mate.” He paused as two sailors entered the bar and moved to a table in the back. “It’s too crowded this early,” Sweeney said in a low voice into his half-empty glass. “Come back at midnight. Tell the bartender you’re to meet with me. He’ll give you directions.” He finished his beer and set the mug down hard on the table. “Don’t be late.” He turned his collar up and slipped out the door.
John finished his drink and waved off the barmaid who walked his way. He dropped coins on the table to cover his tab and headed into the night. Men hurried along the wharf in groups of two and three, most moving away from the ships for the evening. He passed the quay where
The Yankee Dream
had moored, and continued north to Gull’s Tavern.
Fred and Elmer were still in the little bar, both cutting a rug on the dance floor. The waitress eyed him as he sat at their table.
“Same as before?” she asked over her shoulder as she cleared the table beside his.
“Yes. Thank you.”
She nodded and made her way through the crowd carrying an armful of empty mugs.
The slow, plaintive melody ended. Fred and Elmer escorted their dance partners back to the table.
“You’re back.” Elmer pointed to the young blonde woman on his arm. “This as Marge.”
Fred seated his tawny-haired date and pulled over another chair. “Charlotte, this is John. He’s a friend of ours.” Fred scooted his chair up to the table and held up four fingers to the waitress. “John wants to find a ship to Britain.”
“We asked some sailors about a North Atlantic run after you left. They said there were no ships bound for Britain.” Elmer thanked the waitress and took a gulp of beer.
John nodded greetings to the ladies. “I may have found a vessel,” he said to Fred and Elmer. “A line on one at least. I meet with the bosun tonight.”
“Be careful, John.” The silver glistened in Fred’s hair as he shook his head. “I’d hate for something bad to happen. Not all masters are good ones.”
“I’ll be all right, Fred,” John reassured his friend. “If all goes well, I’ll be leaving
The Dream
in the morning, so I wanted to buy the table a round of drinks tonight.” He reached over and gave Elmer’s back a pat. “You’ve been good mates, the best a man could ask for.”
Before long, the ladies urged Fred and Elmer to return to the dance floor.
John finished his drink and signaled to the waitress. He bought the table another round and handed the young woman a tip for her service.
“I get off at midnight.” She smiled at him and tucked the bill into her blouse.
He winked at her and slipped on his coat. “You take care walking home, miss.”
The clear fall night had grown colder, and he pulled up his collar to the wind as he hurried back down the pier. He still had an hour, but Sweeney’s warning about being late rang in his ears. He passed the rowdy cul-de-sac and turned up the next street.
Inside the quiet tavern, the bartender leaned against the counter and made soft conversation with a woman at the bar.
John slipped into the same booth he and Sweeney had shared earlier. He waved when the barkeep glanced his way.
Instead of greeting him, the man behind the bar returned to his conversation with the woman.
John didn't mind. He had experience with waiting, even when anxiety clawed a hole in his heart.
After several minutes, the bartender stopped in front of John’s table. “What’ll it be?” The man’s white bib apron stretched over broad shoulders, the ties knotted tight around his ample waist. Despite his midsection, the barman’s biceps bulged as he wiped his hands on a large bar towel.
Perhaps he’s the reason this tavern is quiet
. “I’m waiting for someone. We were here earlier and planned to meet again at midnight.”
The bartender finished with the towel and set his fists on his waist. “Sweeney?”
“Yes.”
Without a word, he returned to the bar, filled a mug of beer, then caught John’s attention by tipping his head toward the back of the room.
John grabbed his knit hat from the seat and followed. He paused as the bartender set the beer on a table before the furthest booth. When the man walked away, John’s gaze locked with the same woman who had been seated at the bar earlier.
She nodded her head and flicked the ashes from the cigarette attached to the end of a six-inch holder. “Sit,” she said and pointed to the bench seat across the table.
John slid into the seat as the barman drew a gauze-black curtain across a high-hung rod.
Her almond-shaped gray eyes studied him. A delicate oval face made her appear younger than her silver-veined auburn hair would put her. Coiffed impeccably, her streaked locks rolled back from her forehead, pinned and adorned by a silver flower hairpin. She inhaled from her cigarette holder and blew the smoke in the air. "Sweeney said you were tall."
John stroked his chin, then shoved his hat in his pocket and picked up his beer. "My name's John Larson."
“I know.” She flicked her ashes and smiled.
“You have me at a disadvantage, Miss…?”
“Master Keats.” She dipped her head but never lowered her eyes. “Tell me, have you ever worked for a woman, John Larson?”
Surprised, John chuckled and ran a hand over his face. “Yes ma’am, I have.”
“You don’t look old enough to have done much of anything at all.”
“I’m told I have an old soul.”
Her laugh echoed across the empty bar. “We shall see, Mr. Larson.” She pulled the stick from her martini and drew an olive down its length with her teeth. She chewed the olive and swallowed. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Where are you from?”
“Most recently, Denver.”
“No oceans to sail in Denver.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Stop with the ma’am nonsense. You make me feel old.” She opened her bag, pulled out a two-foot line of hemp and tossed it on the table. “You may call me Keats, or Master Keats. If—and this is a big if—I decide to bring you aboard, you will address me as sir.” She raised the martini in front of her and took a sip. “Tie a sheep-shank.”
John twisted the rope into a long loose knot and tossed it back.
She pulled it straight. “Now, a chain hitch.”
“On?” John picked up the line and looked around. He pushed back the gauze curtain and wrapped the chain hitch knot around the rod.
“Very resourceful. Untie that and sit down.”
John pulled the knot free, drew the curtain closed and took his seat.
Keats removed the cigarette butt from the holder and crushed it in the ashtray. “One last test.” She peered at John from the corner of her eye. “A double fisherman’s.”
John shook his head. “You know as well as I do, a double fisherman’s knot takes two lines.”
She gathered the rope from the table and shoved it into her bag. “Can you use a compass?”
“I can.”
“Can you navigate by the stars?”
“Yes. And I know port from starboard, fore from aft.”
“Are you familiar with weapons?”
“I am. Both new and old. I’m also a fair to good medic in a pinch.”
“Very impressive, Mr. Larson.”
“We’ve talked about what I can and will do. Now I must tell you what I won’t.” John leaned forward and took a short breath. “I won’t kill a man if disabling him will do, and I don’t kill at all without a damned good reason.”
“A master’s orders aren’t reason enough?”
“No, sir.” John closed his eyes for a moment. The truth could cost him this opportunity.
It doesn’t matter. I won’t lie about taking a man’s life. If need be, I’ll find another way.
He opened his eyes and stared directly into hers. “I’m not telling you I won’t kill a man. I have before, and most likely will again, but I need to know the right of it for myself.”
“So, you would not kill for me?”
“To protect your life, the lives of my mates, and the ship I serve, I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“My husband would have liked you, Mr. Larson. Such honor and honesty are rare commodities these days.” She rapped her knuckles on the wall.
In a moment, the burly bartender pushed the gauze curtain back. He held open her coat and handed her a matching slouch
chapeau
.
She settled the hat on her head. “My ship, the
Giselle-Marie
, is moored at the southernmost pier. We sail on the morning tide. Should you care to join us, Mr. Larson, you would be welcomed.” She faced the barman and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Steven. We should be back in about six weeks if all goes well, but don’t be overly concerned should it take longer.” She navigated the long barroom gracefully and vanished into the night without a backward glance.
John tore his gaze from the door and found the barkeep’s eyes narrowed in his direction.
“You’ll mind your manners and guard her back,” the man said and blinked moisture from his eyes and sniffed.
“Aye.” John offered his hand, and the man shook it. “I can promise to do both.” John pulled on his hat as he crossed the bar to the door.
Fred and Elmer’s berths were empty when John entered
The Dream’s
crew quarters. He removed his dungarees, organized his small trunk, and swung into his berth.
The point of pain moved to the top left side of his head, a stinging sensation both loathed and cherished. God forbid that prick of pain should cease before he set eyes on Agaria again. He held the stinging spark like a lifeline as he fell asleep.
The next morning, Fred and Elmer slept as John made his way from their rack. He spoke with Bosun Garza and collected his seaman’s papers and letter of discharge from
The Yankee Dream
. With his small trunk under one arm and his duffel bag over his shoulder, he headed down the gangway toward the
Giselle-Marie
.