All the Colors of Time (14 page)

I spent a lot of my free time (when Charley didn’t have me
dancing the hornpipe) searching the forward hold for my disclite. No luck. I
began to pray that it had been eaten by a large and desperate rat, but knew
there was little hope of that.

I also managed to spend some time with the incredible Mary
MacCormac. Everybody managed to spend time with her, from the youngest swabbie
to the hoariest tar. There was an absolute rash of minor ailments and injuries
aboard the
Essex;
ailments and
injuries the doctor would patiently check before sending the suffering to his
inestimable wife for liniment or bandage or sympathy. And while good Mary
worked on the poor, wounded souls, they would gaze up into her great ocean eyes
and smile and dream of mermaids.

I was not nearly so clumsy. I simply frequented the
MacCormac’s province as a matter of friendliness and courtesy.

So did Captain Charley. He dined with them every evening,
placing them before any of the rather wealthy passengers at his table. I was
also included in the select “head-of-the-table” grouping, I suspected, so that
Ian MacCormac would have someone to talk to while Charley monopolized his wife.

She was bright as well as beautiful and charming, and I
wondered how the young doctor had been so lucky as to catch the eye of such a
girl. So, apparently did Charley, for he made a point one evening of asking her
how they met.

Mary dimpled splendidly, then flashed her quiet husband a
brilliant smile. “Well, I must own, it was all due to my clumsiness.”

Ian MacCormac colored. “Nonsense, darling,” he murmured. “You
are not capable of clumsiness. It was that idiot horse of yours.” His eyes
worshipped her, and I liked him a little more for that.

Mary laughed and continued with her story. “I was riding in
the park when my gelding took exception to a feathered hat. I agree with him
that it was in the most dreadful taste, but I’d not have bolted at the sight of
it. Strawberry, however, found it quite alarming and took off at a dead run. He
shied again at a gaggle of white geese—I can only assume because they were also
wearing feathers—and off I came. Ian—”—and she covered his hand with hers—“was
out for a stroll and witnessed my unseating. He very kindly bundled me up and
took me home and looked after my poor concussed head. He looked in on me every
day for a week and by the time I was right again . . .”

She blinded us with another smile which, ultimately, ended
up caressing the enviable Ian. He smiled in return and I grudgingly admitted he
was not completely without charm, grace or beauty. Obviously, though, this was
the sort of patient-doctor attraction one finds in psychology texts.

“You’re a lucky man,” I told MacCormac as we strolled the
deck after dinner. We had caught the Trade winds and were now heading into the
Horse Latitudes; the weather was mild and pleasant.

He followed my gaze to where, up on the poop deck, Captain
Charley allowed Mary to handle the wheel.

“I’m well aware,” he said. “Well aware. Although, I must
admit, I sometimes wish my dear wife was a bit more homely. I’d love her
regardless, and other men might not be so attentive.” He laughed and shook his
head. “Oh, I’m wrong about that, I know. She could have the face of a cow and
still be Beauty incarnate. You know what I mean,” he added, seemingly
embarrassed.

“I do,” I assured him.

He laughed again. “I sometimes have this irrational fear
that one of her many admirers will try to eliminate me.”

“Nobody would be as stupid as that,” I said. “That would
hurt her. She obviously adores you.”

“Yes, she does. Incredible, that. And you’re quite right. No
one would hurt Mary. I haven’t to worry.”

I had to worry. There was no sign of my disclite and I was
haunted by the suspicion that someone was watching me as I searched for it. I
considered telling the Captain I’d lost an odd family heirloom and hope someone
would come forward with it.

But I didn’t have to. Someone came forward anyway.

I was returning from one of my clandestine visits to the
hold when a tall, very solid shadow blocked the companionway just outside my
cabin door. It was Reardon.

“A word with you,” was all he said, then followed me into my
cabin.

It seemed exceptionally crowded in the cubby suddenly. I
offered him a seat on my bunk. He declined, so I sat there, waiting for him to
speak.

“May I ask,” he said finally, “why you have told the Captain
your name is Dunbar?”

“Because it is.”

“You said Foreman.”

“I lied . . . a little. Foreman is my mother’s
family name. (Also a lie.) You see, I knew the Captain’s name was Dunbar and I
didn’t want him to think . . . well, you understand.”

His brow puckered. “I suppose. Now may I ask what you find
of such interest in our forward hold?”

I saw no reason to dodge. “I lost something. A very rare
family heirloom.”

“Oh? What, then, a pocket watch? A ring?”

“A . . . belt clip. It’s a disc about so big—”
I made a circle with thumb and forefinger. “It . . . well it’s
luminescent.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “You mean, like this.” He held out
his hand. The disclite sat in its palm.

“Yes! That’s it!” I reached for it. His fingers denied me
access.

“Can you explain by what principle it works, Mr. Dunbar?”

I scratched my head. How many people could explain the
principle behind any contemporary piece of technology, even one they used every
day? Windmills were probably a mystery to all but the miller.

“Not really,” I said. “I believe my uncle said it had
something to do with, um, phosphorous and the absorption of sunlight.”

“Your uncle?”

“An inventor,” I lied glibly and smiled. “He makes less
money than Aunt would like, but enough to finance his projects.”

I gestured at the disc. “This one was supposed to help
miners see what they were digging up.”

“I should say it works quite well—better than I would expect
from a light-absorbing phosphorous. I find it rather astounding that your uncle
makes such a modest living. Common wisdom has it that everything of value has
already been invented—that all we may hope for is further refinement of what we
already possess. Something like this . . .”—he flipped the
little medallion in his hand— “would revolutionize the mining industry . . .
and stun the patent office.”

He was not buying this. Next he would tell me he was raised
on the moors and knew all about phosphor-producing plants.

“I was raised on the moors, Mr. Dunbar. And I’ve never seen
such a light as this.” He thumbed the thing on and hit me in the face with a
splash of yellow light.

I blinked. “My uncle has quite a few new tricks up his
sleeve, I guess.”

“Someone does,” he said and pocketed the disc.

My eyes followed it. “That means a great deal to me,” I
said. He could have no idea now much. If QuestLabs found out I had lost a
techno-gadget like that in Regency England . . . “Please, sir,
may I have it back?”

The Oliver Twist gambit failed miserably. “Don’t whimper,
man,” he ordered me. “You are a sailor . . . at least for the
time being.”

“But what will you do with it?” My eyes never left his
pocket.

“I don’t know. Perhaps the Captain will find it of interest,”
he said, and left me where I sat.

oOo

I was a passable cabin boy, according to Captain Charley.
I was quick and thorough and showed good humor. Meaning I put up with his
moods, his autocratic style and his hazing. We came to an understanding when I
began to return his pranks with stunts of my own. Replacing his mustache wax
with boot-blacking was my grand finale. I was not prompted to give an encore.

Charley also liked the way I handled the passengers. There
were seven on this trip—two couples and, between them, three children. I
entertained them, which meant Charley didn’t have to. Instead, he could spend
supper gazing soulfully at the Doctor’s wife.

“She’s a powerful woman, isn’t she, Arthur?” he asked after
supper one evening. We were seated in the bows on a couple of empty crates; he,
smoking a pipe, I, attempting to whittle something. The night was exceptionally
balmy and
Essex
ghosted under flying
jib and reefed foretopsail.

I knew who he meant, of course, but pretended not to. “Who?”

“M—Mrs. MacCormac.” His tongue stumbled over the title,
straining toward her first name.

“Mary?” I grinned, realizing that, I, a lowly cabin boy, had
been allowed a privilege of which he but dreamed. “Yes, she is exceptional.”

He leaned toward me, elbows on knees, his pipe stem pointed
at my nose. “Powerful, boy. She pulls a man. Pulls him like the Sea.” He raised
his head and gazed over-sides at phosphor kittens playing pounce with dark
troughs. He seemed bemused. “I’ve never known a woman like her, Arthur. So
quiet and deep one moment, playful the next.”

He might have been describing the Sea and I said as much.

He nodded, looking sage, and drew on his pipe. “A man might
be able to trade the Sea herself for a woman like that. She’s Ocean’s
daughter—has her mother’s eyes. I sometimes feel as if she was sent.” There was
a long moment of silence while he ruminated over his smoke. “She’s wasted on a
man like MacCormac.”

Something in his tone made my teeth itch and my arm hairs
stand at attention. I laughed wanly and whittled too big a chunk out of my
wooden whale’s fluke. It would make a fine dolphin.

“Oh,” I said, “he’s not such a bad sort once you get to know
him. He’s seaworthy, I’d say. Says he can’t take being landlocked. He loves her
madly, of course. And she, him.”

My last observation sent the Captain’s pipe overboard. He
swore and stalked off to his cabin, face black as a rain-filled thunderhead.

For some reason, after that, I began to watch Black Charley
very carefully. My mother always said I was fey and right now my teeth and arm
hairs were whispering of dark deeds yet undone. Charley, increasingly
companionable, pushed the whisper to a five bell alarm.

“Arthur,” he said one morning as I cleared our breakfast
dishes, “tell me the future.”

“Sir?” I clutched the plates tighter as the deck tilted
sharply.

“I’m in the mood for some soothsaying. Tell me what the
future holds.”

“The abolition of slavery,” I said, hoping it might shock
him into forgetting what I knew he really wanted to hear.

He was thoughtful, but unsurprised. “Aye. Ungodly system,
that. I’ve no doubt men of intelligence will soon put an end to it on English
soil. But, say on. I want to know—”

“A Queen,” I said quickly, as if inspired.

“A what?”

“A Queen will end slavery in Britain. A Queen named
Victoria.”

His eyes grew wide. “Indeed? Imagine that.”

“Women will vote in elections soon, too,” I continued. “And
the first country to grant the right will be . . .” I closed my
eyes as if concentrating. “New Zealand in . . . 1893.”

I opened my eyes to find him staring at me. “Well,” he said,
after a moment, “if all women were like our dear Mary, then they should have
the vote already.”

Damn, I thought.

“I’d in mind something a wee bit closer to home.” He smiled.

I made a sorrowful face and looked away from him out the
mullioned panes of his cabin windows.

“What?” He rocked forward in his chair. “What is it, boy?
What have you seen?”

“The Prime Minister . . . the Prime Minister
will die next year . . . in November.”

He blinked. “Pitt? Ah, well, he’s that old. He’ll be sore
missed, of course . . . by some.”

I glared at him. “You don’t believe me! You don’t believe a
word I’ve said. You’re making sport of me.”

He came to his feet as the ship, in the teeth of a fresh
squall, pitched into a trough. He seemed not to notice it. I was nearly dashed
off my feet—would have been, if he hadn’t grabbed my arms to steady me.

“Arthur, lad! I’m not sporting, believe me. I can’t say as I
believe all you’ve told me, but then I can’t say I don’t. I find it fascinating’s
all. And I credit it could happen as you say. But it’s not Pitt or slavery or
some unheard of Queen I care about, you see. I want to hear about me. My life.
Tell me, boy. Do you see me wed . . . to her?”

“No, sir,” I said, then bit the pill and told him what I did
know. “You will marry, but your wife’s name will be Maureen. Maureen Llewellyn.”

He let go of me then, and the little fever-light in his eyes
died. “Ah, it’s all superstition, anyway,” he said, and went up on deck.

oOo

The storm worsened. By midday the decks were awash and the
passengers had completely disappeared. I could imagine them, cruelly, moaning
in their berths, ready to repent of everything and meet the Reaper. I, of
course, have never been seasick in my life, but this storm challenged even my
constitution. The waves were twenty-footers and the rain drove horizontally
across the slippery decking.

I was helping batten down a loose cannon when I heard a
shriek that was not the wind. I turned from my lashing job, peering through the
chaotic, colorless whirl toward the poop deck.

Beneath the wildly swinging spanker boom, my eyes locked on
a tumble of activity. It took me a moment to realize that someone had fallen
from the mizzen mast.

The cannon forgotten, I launched myself aft. The deck
writhed under my feet like an angry whale. I’d just reached the steps below the
poop deck when Captain Charley came sliding down them and virtually into my
face.

He grabbed me, shouting, “The Doctor! Get the Doctor! We’ve
a man down!”

I did as ordered, nearly falling into the aft companionway.

I brought back, not only the Doctor, but the Doctor’s wife
as well. Mary MacCormac was determined to aid her husband and she was not, I
discovered, a woman to be argued with.