Dawn on a Distant Shore by Sara Donati

  In a single quick movement Nathaniel rose out of the shadows. With one hand he grabbed MacKay by the throat, winding his fist in the white linen to yank him forward. With his other hand he caught the lantern before it could fall. Then he lifted the man off his feet and flipped him onto his back, pinned him down and straddled him, one knee in his soft gut with his hands caught behind his back. The lantern he put down out of reach, and then he grinned.

  “You’re up late tonight, Coo MacKay.” It was the name the sailors called him behind his back, for his shape and his stare, dull as a cow’s. The insult did its work: MacKay’s expression changed from confusion and surprise to outrage. Keeping him off balance was Nathaniel’s best chance of getting the man to say more than he wanted to.

  “I’ll let go now, but I’ll come down hard again if you make a row. Are we clear on that?”

  MacKay nodded. “Aye.”

  Nathaniel wiped his hands on his breeches. “Do you know what I want?”

  MacKay’s face went white under the stubble of his beard. His expression said he didn’t understand plain English, or didn’t care to.

  “For the love of the Almighty, man,” he breathed heavily. “It’s too late tae be playin’ games.”

  Nathaniel settled his knee a bit harder. “Now, that surprises me. After all I’ve heard about how fond you are of games.”

  The long face twitched. “I dinna take yer meanin’.”

  MacKay grunted as Nathaniel drew a knife from his belt.

  “Think hard,” he said. “It’ll come to you.”

  The narrow brown eyes darted from the knife to Nathaniel’s face. “Moncrieff willna like it should ye cut me.”

  “What’ll he do, send me to bed without my supper?”

  “Why dinna ye ask him, and leave me be?”

  Nathaniel contemplated the tip of the knife. A casual flick netted one bone button off MacKay’s shirtfront. A twitching began at the corner of the broad mouth.

  “Now there’s the riddle,” Nathaniel said, studying the man’s heaving chest. “Why would you set out to hurt a child who’s done you no harm?”

  His eyes darted away. “I dinna take yer meanin’.”

  The knife flicked again, and MacKay’s face went one shade paler. Nathaniel kept his own expression flat as he took another button.

  “I nivver laid a hand on the little savage.”

  The knife was sharp, and it slit the corner of the pale mouth with no sound at all. MacKay let out a little sigh and his whole body seemed to fold in, as if Nathaniel had punctured something deep inside him.

  “Cut me, then,” MacKay whispered, his eyes eager and bright. “Go on and cut me. It won’t change anything. Ye’ll burn in hell for your sins, for livin’ among the infidels and fatherin’ more o’ the same. And yer spawn will burn richt beside ye.”

  In the heat of battle it was dangerous to let rage or fear get the upper hand. A man made mistakes when he let himself slip like that, and Nathaniel intended to make no mistakes here. He breathed deep and let the calm flow through him, feeling the knife in his hand and knowing what it would be like to put it in this man’s throat and watch him choke on his own blood. How right that would feel, at this moment.

  MacKay took his calm for fear. He smiled with bloody teeth and began to hiss, sputtering spit and blood and venom: “‘Because I have called, and ye refused. I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when your fear cometh; When your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind; when distress and anguish cometh upon ye. Then shall ye call upon me, but I will not answer; ye shall seek me early, but ye shall not find me.’”

  “Proverbs, chapter one. Mr. MacKay, I suggest you concentrate on the New Testament.” Elizabeth’s voice came cool and calm, just above them. Her head poked through the ladder hole, and then she came down in a rustle of skirts.

  “Boots,” Nathaniel said. “I should have figured you couldn’t sit still. I was just having a discussion with Mr. MacKay.”

  “Yes, I heard. Now, Mr. MacKay, are you familiar with the gospel of Mark?”

  Some of the madness had slipped away from MacKay’s eyes, and he seemed suddenly embarrassed at this situation he found himself in.

  “O’ course. Let me up, man.”

  “And with chapter ten, verse fourteen?” Elizabeth went on.

  He flushed, and set his bloody mouth in a hard line.

  “Let me quote: ‘But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.’”

  MacKay made a coarse sound in his throat.

  “I see,” Elizabeth said. “You are one of those faithful who pick and choose those parts of the scripture that best suit your purpose. And your purpose is to cause a little girl as much agony as possible.”

  MacKay struggled a little, and Nathaniel pushed harder with his knee until he stopped. “You don’t want to be rude, now,” he said, wiping his knife on the man’s shirt. “The lady spoke to you.”

  “‘Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection,’ ” MacKay replied.

  Nathaniel leaned in closer, but Elizabeth stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Let me be blunt, Mr. MacKay.” She came closer, and crouched down to look him directly in the face. “If you come anywhere near any of my children again, if you speak a word within my stepdaughter’s hearing, if you even look at any of them, I will not bother to intercede when my husband next chooses to come looking for you. And more than that, I will see to it that you lose your commission on this ship and never get another. Do we understand each other?”

  MacKay’s mouth contorted. “I understand weel enough,” he said. “Papist savages and whores. Ye’ll fit right in at Carryck, the lot o’ ye.”

  His nose broke with a crack that made Elizabeth jump. Nathaniel hauled MacKay forward by the collar, and let him struggle while the blood ran down his face.

  When he stopped coughing, Nathaniel said, “Right now I’m wondering just how dull-witted you are. You’ll either give your word that you’ll leave me and mine alone, or you and me will finish this conversation face-to-face.”

  Elizabeth was very pale, but she said nothing. And neither did MacKay, who hung limp from Nathaniel’s fist.

  “I will go, then,” she said. “And leave you to it.”

  MacKay’s head came up, eyes rolling in pain.

  “Ye have my word,” he coughed, covering his face with his hands.

  A coward, in the end. Nathaniel let him drop to the floor.

  “I will send word to the Hakim that you need his attention,” Elizabeth said, over her shoulder. “Or would you rather have your wife’s help?”

  “A fine choice ye’ve given me.” MacKay’s shoulders shook, in pain or laughter it was not clear. “Infidel or witch. I’d rather bleed tae death right here.”

  “Let’s hope for her sake you do just that,” Nathaniel said.

  MacKay drew his sleeve across his mouth. “Ye resemble the earl in mair ways than one. Has anyone tolt ye that?”

  “It’s been mentioned,” Nathaniel said. “It means nothing to me.”

  “It will.” MacKay’s mouth twisted. “Soon enough.”

  20

  Robbie MacLachlan sat with his back to the Jackdaw’s longboat and stared unhappily into the bowl cupped in his hands. “Should I nivver eat salt beef agin, it will be far tae soon.”

  Hawkeye raised a shoulder in agreement. Over the brim of his own bowl he was watching Stoker and Giselle, who stood at the rail.

  Quarreling voices rose from the stern, a shout of pain and then silence, but these days Stoker didn’t seem to hear or care about fighting among his men. Giselle gave him enough trouble all on her own. Now he was grinding his teeth, the muscles in his cheeks as tight as fiddle strings.

  “Young love,” said Robbie, following the direction of Hawkeye’s gaze.

  “That’s one name for it, I guess.” r />
  “She’s a braw lassie tae stan’ up tae Sweet Mac Stoker, ye must leave her that.”

  Hawkeye flexed his fingers one by one. “I ain’t sure that I’d leave her much at all, Rab. But I’ll tell you this, watching her wrangle with Mac gives a man a new appreciation for the easements of old age.”

  “Aye,” Robbie sighed. “Better sore joints than stiff ones.”

  Neither of them laughed; not only was the truth of it bittersweet, it was as close as they would come to an agreement about Giselle Somerville.

  Hawkeye studied her, as he did whenever he could be sure that her attention was elsewhere. The skin across her nose and cheeks was peeling and the long plait of hair lying over her shoulder had gone almost white in the sun; her shirt hung loose to show her throat and chest, pink and glistening with sweat. Giselle looked more like a girl these days, nothing like the fine lady who had flown off the Isis. The truth was, she looked like herself at seventeen, when he had first seen her.

  It was hard to believe that it was so long ago. He had gone north because Cora missed Nathaniel and was full of hazy fears for him, so far away in a place she knew nothing about, in a tangle with the daughter of a titled Englishman and a mysterious French lady. Cora sent him to bring Nathaniel home to Lake in the Clouds, with a rich wife, if there was no other way to do it.

  All these years later Hawkeye wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, except that Nathaniel had agreed to leave Montréal without Giselle, and without much of a struggle. Had he grown tired of the girl, or did she just refuse to leave her father’s fine home for a rough cabin in the endless forests? On the way south, glad to be shut of Montréal, Hawkeye hadn’t asked Nathaniel for an explanation, hadn’t known how to ask, and thought it best to leave the boy his privacy.

  What Hawkeye did know for sure was that he hadn’t understood Giselle Somerville then and he didn’t understand her now. The strange, strong girl who had taken him by surprise in Montréal had grown into a formidable woman, one who was smart enough to hide her ironwood core behind smiles and lace fans, and driven enough to take Mac Stoker to her bed if it served her purposes.

  Hawkeye scanned the horizon for the Isis, and was disappointed again. They lost sight of her now and then, but it was more than twelve hours since he had last seen her sails. It made him uneasy in his bones.

  “Here’s auld Jemmy, wi’ a belly fu’ o’ trouble,” said Robbie, bringing Hawkeye out of his daydreams.

  The little man who limped toward them swinging a bucket of tar was one of the few sailors willing to give them the time of day. Now he nodded to them briskly and stopped, scratching a mole on the end of his nose with a blackened fingernail.

  “Wind’s comin’ up again,” he volunteered, tipping his face up and sniffing at the breeze so that his whiskery cheeks twitched. “We’ll be rollin’ gunwale-under by sunset, if the Tories don’t get us first. Tories or sharks, mates, that’s our lot. Tories or sharks.”

  “Ye’ve been through muny a storm,” said Robbie. “And there ye stand, hale and hearty.”

  “Aye, but mebbe not for long.” Jemmy squinted in Stoker’s direction, ready to bolt if the captain’s attention should wander his way. He spat a high brown arc of tobacco juice that cleared the rail neatly.

  He hunched his shoulders toward them as if he had a secret. “Two times I’ve run afoul of the Tories, in these very waters. Once on the Little Bess out of Plymouth—the Casterbridge sank us without so much as a by-your-leave and skimmed what men could still swim off the water like cream off a milk bucket.”

  Robbie glanced uneasily at Hawkeye. “Aye, in the days before the war. But we’re flying American colors, man.”

  Jemmy coughed out a laugh. “As if that would stop ’em. It was eighty-two when the Little Bess went down. Every one of us was American born, and they pressed us, all the same. Didn’t have enough of a navy of our own in those days to do anything about it. Still don’t. Not yet, at any rate.”

  He worked his jaw thoughtfully. “It was more than a year until I could slip away from the Casterbridge. Bad grub, that’s what’s wrong with them Tories. Cost me four pegs, so it did.” He bared what was left of his teeth to show them he was not exaggerating.

  “Jemmy, you lazy bastard!” Stoker’s shout brought the little man up sharp. “Be on your way or I’ll set Granny Stoker on you. You know she’d like nothing more than to peel yer spotty arse.”

  The old sailor shrugged. “Aye, Capting. On my way.” He shambled off, wise enough not to make excuses.

  Stoker came over to hunker down next to them, his hands dangling between his knees.

  “You’ve got shadows under your eyes,” Hawkeye said. “Not getting enough sleep?” There wasn’t a body on board who didn’t know how much he slept, and didn’t sleep. When Stoker’s voice wasn’t raised in an argument he was bellowing like a stag in rut.

  The scar around Stoker’s neck flamed red. “It’s a smart mouth you’ve got, Bonner.”

  “Captain!”

  Stoker raised his head with a jerk. “For bloody Christ on the cross, what!”

  It was Micah, one of the younger sailors, a hard worker and keen-eyed. He pointed astern. “Sails, sir!”

  Stoker’s expression shifted suddenly. He got up and took his long glass from its loop on his belt; when he lowered it again there was a thoughtful crease on either side of his mouth.

  “Trouble?” asked Robbie.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Micah! Keep an eye on her, and let me know when she raises her colors.”

  The boy grinned. “Aye, Captain.”

  Giselle still stood alone at the rail, but Stoker hunkered down again.

  Robbie shot him a sideways glance. “The course o’ true luv nivver ran smooth, so goes the auld sayin’. Take heart, laddie.”

  “Sure and I’ve had more than me share of your old sayings,” Stoker snapped.

  Hawkeye squinted into the sails overhead. “We had a cat lost her tail in a door, once,” he said. “She was mighty jumpy after that, but I think you’re worse, Stoker.”

  “Jumpy, am I? And why should I be any different, with the Tory navy thick as flies in these waters and two old men wasting me time.”

  “You’ll be well paid for your time,” said Hawkeye evenly. “I guess you’ll survive another week of our company to get the gold you’ve got coming to you.”

  “Gold.” Stoker spat the word. “Sure and you like to talk about it, but your pockets look empty to me.”

  Robbie bristled, but Hawkeye laughed softly. “You’re right there. Nathaniel’s got the coin, and you’ll keep up with the Isis if you want to claim it.”

  Stoker frowned. His gaze skittered over to the rail and jerked away again when he saw the way Giselle was watching him. With the simple weight of her stare she was willing him to do her bidding. Cora would have called her fey, a woman who understood men better than they understood themselves. Thinking of his wife, who had crossed these waters to find a better life on the other side, a thought came to Hawkeye.

  “She don’t much like the idea of Scotland, does she? I’ll bet she ain’t eager to head back to Canada, either. Where’s it to be, then? Ireland? France?”

  A random shot, but it found a target. Stoker jerked as if Hawkeye had laid hands on him.

  “France!” Robbie’s head came up sharp. “Why wad Giselle want tae go tae France?”

  “I never said she did!” Stoker barked.

  All three of them came to their feet to stand in a triangle.

  “The Isis is bound for Scotland,” said Hawkeye. “That was our agreement, and you’ll see it through.”

  “Damn me if I’ll stand on me own deck to be ordered about like a bloody tar!”

  Robbie clucked his tongue. “Shame, man. Tae let the lass lead ye aroond by the pecker.”

  Stoker flushed red to the roots of his hair and reached out with both hands to grab Robbie by the shirt. Robbie sidestepped neatly and brought up an arm as hard as a war club to cut him off.
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  Behind them, Giselle said, “I hope this boyish behavior is simple high spirits, gentlemen.”

  Stoker’s head snapped around to her. “There you are, sweetings. These two are asking why you’d want to go to France. What I want to know is, what you’ll live on while you’re there.”

  Giselle pressed her lips together, inclining her head toward Hawkeye.

  Stoker laughed at her. “Do you think he hasn’t figured out that you stand there without a penny to your name?”

  She flushed so that her sunburned skin mottled. “And whose fault is that? Who let Nathaniel Bonner leave this ship with the gold and never raised a finger to stop him?”

  Stoker leaned in toward her. “If that gold had been on my ship, do you think I wouldn’t have known it? No, it’s your doing, sweetings. You let an old black woman and a little girl come between you and the gold.”

  “You can’t prove that!” Giselle spat.

  “And what does it bloody matter?” roared Stoker. “There’s no gold on this ship, and you’re not going to France without it. So shut your bleedin’ gob, woman, and get out of the way of men’s work!”

  Giselle pursed her mouth. “Oh, I’ll keep out of your way, Captain Stoker. As long as we’re bound for Scotland, I’ll make it my concern to do just that. I give you my word on it.”

  “Is that so?” Stoker produced one of his terrible grins. “There are bloody few hiding places on the Jackdaw, me darlin’, and I know every one of them. And I give you me word on that. ”

  “Captain!” Micah called again, his tone urgent enough to get Stoker’s attention. “She’s a Tory frigate, and she’s comin’ this way at speed!”

  “Damn!” Stoker swung away, Giselle forgotten. “All hands! Jemmy, rouse Connor, and tell him to bring Granny up on deck!” He trotted away, shouting orders for more sail.

  Robbie narrowed his eyes at Giselle. “Giselle, ma sweet. Ye ken weel enough why we’re bound for Scotland.”