As if he read her mind, Captain Langham greeted Silvia with a warmth that should have quickly set her at ease. He was a stalwart fellow, with bowed legs and large meaty hands. His walk had the smooth rolling gait of a man who had spent his life at sea. With welcome civility, Langham refrained from mentioning her unsightly appearance and spoke as if her comfort were his primary concern.
A black tricorn partially obscured his weathered, though affable face. Silvia strained to her tiptoes to see better. Something about him disturbed her. Yet at a glance his expression was full of reassurance as he insisted Mr. Schlange had given orders for her to occupy a small cabin usually reserved for paying passengers. Only a dull light in his steely eyes indicated all was not as it seemed with the master of the vessel.
Issuing a harsh shout that rang his authority, Langham hailed a deck hand to carry her bag below. Silvia quivered at the loudness of his voice. Turning, she saw no one, but heard the approach of the man from a distant part of the ship. Fitfully her eyes searched the fog, grown heavy again with a shift of the wind, but she could not determine the direction of the sound.
The attack on the dock had left her skittish and frightened and her heart beat wildly in her chest. She edged closer to the captain but just as she took the first step a thick hand reached out of the mist to close tightly over her wrist. A scream froze in her throat. The grizzled stump of two missing fingers bit into her flesh, but the other two fingers and a gnarled thumb tugged strongly, halting her movement.
The man’s face was shielded from her view, but from the place where it should have been she heard a scabrous grunt.
“You musn’t mind Eli,” Langham’s craggy voice rumbled from behind her. “Poor bloke’s dumb. Got his tongue cut out in the West Indies. An able seaman though. Worth two men any day and never a complaint from the dolt.” He laughed hoarsely. “He’ll take your bag, Miss Bradstreet.”
Silvia breathed heavily. Unknowingly her fingers clenched so tightly about the wooden handles that the knuckles were whitened and aching. Having suffered much to retain her meager possessions, she could not easily part with them. As Eli moved closer, his bulk and scraggly hair reminded her of a large black bear she had seen once in a circus. Yet there was a gentle nature in his rough features and his face held no threat. With a sense of relief she relinquished her burden.
Eli’s brawny figure disappeared as he brusquely walked off, effortlessly swinging her satchel and leaving her once again alone with the captain. Apprehension nagged like a little speck of doubt set in her mind and even Langham’s trustworthy appearance failed to completely rid her of it. The entire morning had been a frightening ordeal and she longed to reach the sanctuary of the cabin.
Like a plague of darkness, the fog was all around them now, until the air at her face felt congealed with the density of it. Her throat tightened. She could scarcely see the captain’s back as he threaded his way along the crowded deck. Following, she gasped and trembled when the hem of her skirt brushed against objects hidden by the oppressive thickness of the cloying haze.
With wide eyes, she imagined icy fingers clutching at her from the gloomy mist. Suffering a disquieting shiver, Silvia hastened to Langham’s side until they reached the passageway that led below.
“It’s small, but a sight more comfortable and private than the hold, Miss Bradstreet,” he announced heartily and with a nod of his head indicated the berth which nearly filled the dim cabin. As Silvia stood inside, weary and disheveled, scarcely able to keep to her feet, he pointed out a cupboard where her bag had been placed.
A sympathetic smile gave her a tiny bit of strength and she responded weakly as he lit a small oil lamp and anchored it in a rack set to the wall.
“Thank you, Captain. I’m sure the voyage will be a pleasant one,” she said hopefully. His words and the soothing flicker of the lamplight had begun to settle her nerves and now she sunk limply into a chair, drained of energy.
Langham took a long but polite look at her. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, Miss Bradstreet, you look a bit worse for the wear. Perhaps you’d like to wash and rest a while. We’ll not sail until this blasted fog lifts.”
Somehow when he said her name there seemed a bit of a sneer in his voice. Though before she could be put off by it, he turned, smiling fervently, to open a cupboard and show her a bowl and a pitcher of water.
“I’ll send a tray from the galley, then sleep if you like. Someone will wake you for the evening meal.”
Silvia accepted his suggestion and thanked him further. She was too tired to think clearly or to care about anything but resting. Her misfortune had left her sore and exhausted and even sitting in the hard wooden chair proved painful.
She stared blankly at the uneven planks of the door for a few minutes after he left. How she yearned to climb into the bunk and sleep. With a grimace of pain, she leaned over to unlace her boots thinking that she must be certain to express her gratitude to Mr. Schlange. Wickes had told her of the arrangements for bondservants, makeshift compartments in the hold separated by blankets strung on ropes. He had said only one other woman would be aboard and she with her husband, a smith Mr. Schlange had bought out of prison.
That being the case, Mr. Schlange must have decided she should not travel alone with the dozen or so men he had indentured. Though she had not expected preferential treatment, she wholeheartedly appreciated it and determined she would see that Mr. Schlange did not regret his kindness to her. Slipping free of the boots, she twisted slightly in the chair and placed them beside the bed.
Before she stirred again there was a light knock at the door.
“Miss,” a youthful voice rang out, and for a moment Silvia stiffened in alarm. “Your tray, miss.”
“Come in,” she said feebly, smoothing her hair and covering her stockinged feet with the folds of her skirt.
A boy of no more than fourteen shuffled into the room bearing a covered tray. He deposited it clumsily on the tiny table beside her and backed away looking baffled that a lady’s face should be smeared with so much dirt. At the door he paused and smiled awkwardly.
“I’m Wesley, miss. The cabin boy.” His lanky limbs seemed too long for his slender body and gave him the reedy look of a crane about to take flight. A ragged thatch of brown hair topped his head and a flock of light freckles spotted his cheeks and nose.
“Pleased to meet you, Wesley. Silvia Bradstreet.” She extended a hand and he eagerly stepped forward to grasp it.
His was the friendliest face she had seen today and his sunny smile lit her heart. His cheeks reddened as he wiped his hand on a trouser leg before accepting her hand. A pair of bright eyes beamed his pleasure and Silvia thought how young he was to be out on his own.
“Yes’m I know. Cap’n Langham told me. Said I’m to see to what you need,” he responded happily. “You just let me know, miss.”
“Thank you, Wesley,” Silvia said and exhaled a gentle sigh of contentment. How comforting to know she had a friend on board. Finally she was among people who treated her with kindness and respect. She returned Wesley’s smile and felt a consoling glow of happiness course through her.
“Anything you need, you call. I’ll be here in a snap,” he said in a voice not yet fully deepened. With a jerk, he spun around to leave and smacked right into the door.
“Sorry, miss,” he squeaked, embarrassment staining his thin face as he stumbled out.
Silvia enjoyed the first laugh she had known in ages. Her unease nearly completely gone, she uncovered the tray and realized the extent of her hanger. Rising by degrees to her feet, each movement causing her to wince, she eased to the washstand and poured water in the small tin bowl. When her hands were washed and her smudged face cleaned and her hair smoothed out as best she could manage, she returned to the chair to enjoy a bit of bread and cheese and the small flask of wine Wesley had brought.
Having eaten, Silvia poured the wine into a cup and sipped the sweet red liquid as she removed her clothes. The effect of the wine soon made her drowsily lightheaded. She stumbled lethargically toward the bed. At last she was alone and safe. And she was so very tired. Unsteadily she reached for the clothing she had dropped on the covers.
Silvia held out the dress and examined the skirt. It was soiled and wrinkled and needed attention. She sighed and hung the garment on a peg with her cloak. The cleaning would have to wait until she rested. Her body and brain were numb with fatigue and she wanted nothing more than to lie beneath the welcoming blankets on the bunk.
***
“I tell you sirs, it was Mr. Schlange’s order to berth another passenger in one of the cabins,” Langham’s voice dipped in agitation as the Toller brothers loomed angrily in front of him. They were gathered in the captain’s own quarters.
“And I tell you Langham, he sent word for us to sail on the Eastwind, and he meant us to have the cabins.” Roman spoke with menacing intensity. His chest swelled threateningly and he pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand.
“Well Roman,” Morgan raised a sardonic brow and glanced at his brother. “We can share the other cabin. One of us can sleep while the other stands.”
Roman shot him a look of contempt. “I can scarcely bear to hear you talk, let alone snore. I’ll string a hammock on the deck before I’ll bunk with you,” he jeered.
“Mr. Toller,” Langham said in a carefully controlled voice. The last time the Toller’s sailed with him he had been certain one of them would throw the other overboard before they reached the colonies. His eyes shone with unmasked irony. “Mr. Schlange anticipated the problem. He assured me that though the additional passenger might be a surprise, the two of you would find a satisfactory solution to any problems that ensued,” Langham finished resolutely and rose to leave. “If you gentlemen require me, I’ll be on the quarter deck.” He nodded perfunctorily before departing.
When Langham had shut the door behind him, Roman exploded, his ire only fueled by Morgan’s jocular expression. “Bloody hell, Morgan! Wilhelm told us there were only bondservants on this ship.” He paced a short path across the floor. “I’ve never known him to quarter a bondservant in a cabin. These games of uncle’s are getting tiresome. He treats us as if we were...”
Roman stopped his pacing as he momentarily remembered how he had treated the wench on the docks. A spark of regret showed in his eyes. A waif, a doxy, he didn’t know which. He hadn’t been able to make out her features through all the grime but her eyes had burned brightly and looked at him with a hopeful gaze that had stirred a strange awakening within him. He had been about to take her reverently in his arms and comfort her when he had caught his wits and turned his unwarranted wrath on her instead.
“Well, I’m to the deck,” said Morgan, giving Roman a sound thump on the shoulder as he pushed past. “If I’m to spend this voyage enduring your close company, I’d best take the air when I can.”
Roman ignored the gibe but followed Morgan aloft. The air was sharp and cold. Through the growing breaks in the fog he could see that the sea was calming. Ahead the sun rose high and would soon mark an endless expanse of blue. Roman took a turn about the deck to clear his head, giving a nod here and there to the crewmen who were checking lines and securing crates and barrels.
The night at the Red Feather had not brought him a complete hour of sleep, nor for that matter had the entire week before. Since his ship had docked for repairs after months at sea, and he had met Morgan in London, theirs had been a life of constant revelry. He sighed wearily. Not in a fit of madness would he admit to Morqan that he longed for a night of rest. No matter if bone tired, if a challenge arose he must best his brother in drinking the most ale or bedding the prettiest wench.
He found Morgan leaning against a starboard rail, looking out to sea. “I have it, Morgan” Roman gave his brother’s shoulder a stronger than needed shake.
“If you mean the worst temper in this port, that I know,” Morgan retorted, turning about and scowling at Roman as he set right his tricorn which had been knocked askew by Roman’s impudence.
Roman smiled. “I mean a solution to our problem of the cabins.”
“How’s that?”
Roman pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and let them clink about in his palm before he gave his brother a more than playful shove back the way they had come a short while before. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of it from the first.”
“Thinking is never what you do first,” Morgan said more jovially.
Roman ignored the barb. “We’ll pay the bloke off,” he said. “Offer him enough coin that he will gladly string a hammock in the hold.”
Morgan smiled. “And I will be shed of you and your foul moods.” He put a sharp elbow to Roman’s ribs. “Sometimes, brother, you do have a good thought.”
***
The gentle roll of the ship counteracted the exhaustion that had gripped Silvia as she curled beneath the light blanket in the narrow bunk. Her eyelids were shut fast before she had taken more than a single breath.
Within moments she slept so heavily that she was wholly lost in the musing deepness of dreams of that took her to green lands with warm breezes and genteel people who treated one another with kindness and concern. She allowed herself to drift into the pleasantness and peace and bright hopefulness of the place until somewhere around the edges of her dream a darkness slithered inside. With it, a noise too rude for that perfect place intruded on the quiet of her mind. She pushed both disturbances away and, with a sigh, returned to her paradise. She was safe there—Was she not?
Thank you for reading Dark Prelude.
Silvia’s story continues in the novel . . .