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CHAPTER ONE
Baltimore, Maryland As DeCoursey Rogers walked through a misty rain toward the Light Street docks, he thought a good many people would consider him crazy if they knew of his activities over the past two days. His former shipmates had called him a fool. Not that it mattered. A warm south wind was blowing up the last showers of April, but in spite of the rain the night was balmy as a summer's eve. Coursey shrugged his shoulders, brushed dark hair out of his eyes, and looked around him. Dusk was falling in the city and he paused to watch a lamplighter move along the street. Other parts of the city had electric light, and the trolley lines had reached the harbor, but the lights on the south side were still on gas. The man stopped at each post to turn his key and then light the flame with a slow match on a stick. Even at twilight, teamsters maneuvered four-horse wagons onto the docks. Cargo nets swung over the sides of the steamers and sailing ships that were moored cheek by jowl against each other. People moved freely about the busy wharves and strolled along the brick street heedless of the showers. A thin young woman dressed in a white linen bonnet and a dark cloak walked past. A Quaker or Mennonite, likely. She glanced at him, then turned away, determination in her firm step. When Coursey's gaze met her clear green eyes, he felt a fleeting moment of recognition, although he knew he had never seen the girl before. She glanced from the paper in her hand to the names painted on the prows of ships lining the quay. Her face wasn't pretty in the conventional sense. The eyes were too large and wide apart, the cheekbones too prominent. A few dark gold curls had escaped her severe bonnet, and her lips were set into the firm line of someone who refused to allow anxiety to impede her purpose. Coursey thought she had no business anywhere near this place without a male escort. Still, because of her somber dress, not even a drunken sailor could mistake her for a lady of the night. As the thought crossed his mind, two rough looking sailors jostled the girl in passing. Coursey started forward to offer his protection, but she fled into a crowded shop. He shrugged and took a deep breath. Mixed with the freshness of rain, he inhaled the unmistakable scent of vanilla, sage and cinnamon from the spice warehouse near pier 11. It stood diagonally across from where the Austin & Weymouth steamboat wharf. Soon Coursey would board the paddle-wheeler Lily Austin. By midnight they'd be steaming down the Bay toward home. From a distance, Coursey watched a woman dressed like a prostitute hurry along Light Street. Red high heels slipped on the rain-slick bricks as she stepped around puddles. There was something familiar about the way she moved. Her low-cut dress exposed a bony expanse of chest. The ruffled hem, a good five inches shorter than most people considered decent, revealed equally bony ankles. Except for her dress, and the cheap feather boa around her thin shoulders, she didn't look like a "hooker," a word Baltimoreans had coined for women who lived in the "hook," an area defined on city maps as Fells Point. By the light of a street lamp, Coursey saw the woman's face and felt a real jolt of recognition. Sarah Mae Slater had been a respectable wife and mother when he had left Killraven Island seven years before. Though her hennaed hair gleamed red in the lamplight, she still looked more like a frightened child than a woman of the streets. Coursey paused as Sarah Mae approached the Lily's gangplank, unsure whether she would be glad or sorry to be recognized in her present situation. The steamboat's mulatto cook strode along the street wearing a black sou'wester and gum boots. Looking relieved, Sarah Mae hurried toward the woman. "Zula…? Did you see Mama? Is Louise all right?" Coursey slowed his steps as he realized the two women had planned to meet. The cook raised a hand and placed it on Sarah Mae's shoulder, turning her away from Coursey, as they spoke quietly for several minutes. Finally, Sarah Mae handed something to the taller woman. "Tell Mama, I love her. Tell her I'll send more money soon. I want Louise in school this year, sure." "I'll do that, honey." The stout woman paused, looked at Sarah Mae as she clutched her shoulders and hunched forward in the rain. "Now, you go find someplace to dry off. You're bound to catch your death running around dressed like that." "I will." Sarah Mae hurried away, stumbling across the trolley tracks that snaked across the street. On an impulse Coursey followed her. She went to stand under the awning in front of the shop where the Mennonite girl was still asking questions. Coursey could see the girl's white cap nodding at the counter inside. He smiled at Sarah Mae and was about to approach her when a burly man grabbed her by the arm. Though Coursey couldn't hear what he said, the man's intent was obvious. Sarah Mae took a step back and shook her head. The man refused to let go and dragged Sarah Mae out into the rain. He took no notice of her efforts to resist. The Mennonite girl came out of the shop, standing under the awning, obviously waiting for the shower to let up. She glanced at Sarah Mae and the man, then looked quickly in the other direction. Halfway down the block, Sarah Mae was still trying to twist free. She shouted and kicked at the heavyset man who hauled her along and paid no attention to her protests. Without another thought Coursey sprinted after them. When she bit him on the arm, Sarah Mae's would-be customer cuffed her across the face, punched her in the stomach, then kicked her when she fell to the ground. He was so intent on inflicting harm, that he didn't notice Coursey's approach. What happened next was swift and brutal. As Sarah Mae scrambled to her feet and limped away, Coursey delivered three hard punches to the man's mid-section. The first doubled him over; the second dropped him to his knees; the third left him retching on the wet paving. Coursey shook his hand and flexed his fingers. Then he turned and called after the fleeing woman, "Wait, Sarah Mae! It's me, DeCoursey Rogers." "Oh. . .hey!" She stopped and waited, but she stared at the ground. Coursey hurried after her. "You all right?" Sarah Mae shrugged. Then she shivered. "I guess." She shivered again, looked back at Coursey over her shoulder. "He's one of them likes to hurt people. I don't go with his kind." Coursey wanted to ask her what she was doing here, how she had come to this, but he couldn't. Instead, his gaze wandered half a block away and locked with that of the girl in the black cloak. She closed her mouth, swallowed, glanced down at the paper in her hand and hurried away down the street. Coursey turned his attention to the shivering woman at his side. He had a thousand questions, but when he opened his mouth all he said was, "We stand here much longer, we'll both drown. How about I buy you dinner?" Sarah Mae's teeth chattered when the rain increased. It fell in a steady rhythm as Coursey led her to the Saratoga Restaurant. The café was the one respectable place on the block. It catered to family groups who traveled on the Austin & Weymouth line. The prices on the bill of fare served as an effective barrier to whores and sailors, trade the owners wanted to discourage. "I cain't go in there." Sarah Mae adjusted her drooping boa and held back, looking worried. "They don't allow no working girls." But Coursey thrust her through the door in front of him, gave the waiter who hurried forward a dark look and a silver dollar, and led the way to a table. He held Sarah Mae's chair as she sat down, then sat across from her. The waiter brought coffee and filled two thick mugs. Sarah Mae cupped the coffee mug with both hands as if to warm them. "I heard tell you sailed off to parts unknown." "That's right." Coursey smiled, took a sip. Java coffee. He recognized the flavor. Sarah Mae tried a swallow, winced. Her jaw had already started to swell. "I knew you weren't the kind to spend the rest of your life licking your wounds." Sarah Mae nodded and drank more coffee, then a tide of red crept up her face."Heard you went a-whaling. You leaving soon again?" Coursey shook his head. "I'm going home. Gran's sick." Sarah Mae's mouth twisted and she sipped more coffee. "Most people from the island don't talk to me no more. I left my husband two years back. Mama—she thinks I learned to run one of them fancy new typewriting machines." "Likely you could, if you wanted." Sarah Mae shook her head as the waiter set two steaming bowls of stew on the table. "A person does what-all they know how." Her voice sounded wistful. "But my Louise's going to have better." Coursey dug his spoon into hot savory stew, and said with a mischievous grin. "You ever realize what a terrible crush I had on you when I was a kid?" In spite of her split lip, Sarah Mae laughed out loud. * * * *
Hope Voeschell lifted her plain gray skirts and all but ran down Light Street, splashing through puddles as she hurried to get away from the violence she had witnessed. Hope had led a sheltered life, back on the farm, in the strict religious community where she had been raised. But it had not been so sheltered that she failed to recognize the kind of woman those men had been fighting over. At first the dark-eyed man had seemed pleasant. Hope took a deep breath and scolded herself for behaving so country stupid. She hadn't even realized he was following the woman until the two men started fighting over her. Hope paused under a gaslight to stare at the crumpled clipping from the newspaper. Then she lifted her chin and set off once more. Cathay might be a strange and distant land, but it was still better than the workhouse. Hope walked farther down the ill lit street. She stared at the piers, the ships, the rough clothed dock workers and sailors who walked with a rolling gait. Three men came out of an alehouse reeling with more than having spent too many weeks at sea. Hope stepped aside to give them room and was almost run down when a loaded dray rattled past. Thick-muscled horses strained against their collars. The teamster cracked his whip and cursed. Hope stepped around a small lake, and searched in vain for a sign of Pier 23. Twenty was the last wharf of the row. There was nothing past that, but a warren of even darker, narrower alleys. Hope peered in the direction she knew the water must lie. Black as a cave. She stepped forward, but a rat scuttled across the toe of her shoe. Hope tried to divine whether God had sent the rat as a warning, or a test of her courage. Condemning herself for a coward, she turned and moved swiftly back toward the brightly lit area around the steamboat wharf. The tall dark-eyed man and his female companion came out of a restaurant as she passed. The man tipped his hat, although his companion was clearly no lady. Hope took out the clipping again, surprised to see them parting so soon. The numbers had come right down, fourteen, thirteen, twelve. Twenty-three must be back along the way she had come. "Excuse me, but you appear lost." The dark-eyed man stepped into her path. Hope's mouth went dry, she took a hasty step back and almost lost her balance. The man put out a hand to steady her. Hope stared at his knuckles, raw, scraped, bloodstained. "May I be of help?" "Yes—thank thee—I seek Captain Donovan of the ship China Pearl." Hope thrust out the advertisement and the man took it, moving under a light to read. Hope knew it by heart. WANTED: Young gentlewoman without family ties to act as governess to daughter of a ship's master traveling to the Orient. Apply Capt. Horace Donovan, China Pearl, pier 23. "I wish to apply for the position. Does thee know where I can find him?" "Yes, but--" Dare she ask him to show her the way? Walk with him down that dark alley with the rats? And what possessed Hope to smile back at a man who thought nothing of fighting over a fancy woman in the street. "Ma'am, I know the Pearl. She's a hogged old four-master." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked uncertain. "The captain of a leaky tub like that wouldn't be likely to take family aboard. Don't go there, Miss." "Nonsense. The captain is looking for a governess--" "I'm afraid that's unlikely." The man sighed and handed her the clipping. "If you hire on with him, you're just asking for trouble." "How can thee say that?" Hope pushed a strand of wet hair back beneath her bonnet and stared up at him. "Does thee know the captain?" "I know his filthy tub of a vessel and I suspect whoever answers his notice will most likely find herself sold to some Chinese Lord at the end of her journey. The clues are there if you care to look. 'Without family ties?' That way no one would ask questions if you disappeared." Hope gulped, stared from the stranger to the paper in her hand. "Surely thee is mistaken!" "A fair woman is worth a lot of money at the slave auctions in Shanghai." The man's brow knotted with concern. "Please, go home. This is no place for someone like you." "I have no home." A wave of illogical anger washed through her. Hope turned and hurried away. Saying nothing, the man kept pace with her. He reached out to steady her when she tripped on the rough pavement. "This was my last resort. No one wants a teacher of my faith. They take one look at me, smile politely, and send me away! It's not fair." "No ma'am." He stared down at her. "I will not make myself over to please some committee of witless school officials too blind to look beyond the surface!" "No ma'am." "I should rather be sent to the workhouse than to pretend I'm other than I am." "Yes ma'am." The dark eyed man tipped his hat and helped her onto the trolley. Hope wanted to thank him, but her throat felt too choked for speech. She looked back as the car drew away. The stranger stood watching her out of sight, oblivious, as rain from another heavy shower pelted down upon him. All the way back to Towson, Hope thought about the man whose casual question might have saved her from what the more lurid popular novels termed "a fate worse than death." Back in her room at the Normal School, she stripped to the skin, dried her small-boned body with a rough towel, then slipped into a flannel nightrail. At last, she sat down at the desk, drew out a sheet of foolscap, and addressed a letter to her only friend, Miss Elyza White "My dear Elyza--" Hope's hand was still shaking, The quill pen scratched and sputtered a spray of ink to blot the lines. "I hope this letter finds thee well and happy. As for myself, I know not how to tell thee of the trouble my sinful ways have brought me, nor how to resolve the dilemma of my present circumstance." * * * * The Crab's Claw Killraven Island Thirty leagues away, a long-haired man sprawled on a filthy blanket before the fireplace in a cabin on an isolated and wooded spit of land known in local waters as the Crab's Claw. In silence he ran his thick fingers through a bundle of well-cured furs. The firelight reddened his face, burnished the muscles of his powerful forearms. He smiled to himself, well content with his cache of skins. Yes sir, them furs would make him a nice start at getting back what was rightfully his. Firelight caught brilliant on a silver fox, gleamed darkly off the muskrat and mink hides, thick and rich. The furs would bring good hard cash. He'd meet the steamboat at Oysterback tomorrow and sell them to the fur buyer there. Wouldn't take the first price offered, neither. Cash money. That's what he needed. Money to add to the store he was saving up. One day the wicked would pay for the evil they had done. Look down on a man for no good reason. Treat him like dirt under their feet? Acted like they thought they were all Christ Almighty, and he was some little piss ant. Well, one day soon they'd all take rightful notice of him. One day soon, they'd pay—and pay in blood. |
