Ghost Memories (2 page)

But Wyeth was polite. “Why, Captain, what a surprise,” he said, shaking hands as Bartholomew stood to greet him.

“I was struggling with a large parcel and Captain Miller came to my rescue,” Victoria said.

“That was most kind,” Wyeth said. “Whatever charge you might like to make upon me will be most gratefully paid.”

“Sir, it was a pleasure to help,” Bartholomew said.

“Father! He does not wish to be paid. He is a friend, and friends help friends,” she said.

“Of course,” Wyeth said. He looked at his watch. “But tea time is over, and I have pressing business with which I will need your assistance, Victoria.”

“Father, honestly—” Victoria began.

Bartholomew did not take his seat again. “I must be going,” he told Victoria. He smiled, telling her he understood.

And in his eyes, and in his touch as he delicately kissed her fingers in farewell, he was certain that she knew he would wait for her, a lifetime, if need be.

“I shall see you out,” Wyeth told him.

“Thank you, sir,” Bartholomew said.

The pretense ended when Victor Wyeth led Bartholomew outside. “Sir, you will not come near my daughter again, do you understand? She is a lady, and far above the reach of a pirate such as yourself.”

“I am not a pirate, Mr. Wyeth,” Bartholomew said.

Wyeth waved a hand in the air. “I know your past. You will stay away from my daughter.”

Bartholomew meant to do all the right things, but he couldn't accept such a statement. “What if your daughter is not of the same mind?” he demanded.

“My daughter will do as I say. And I am best of friends with Commodore Porter—I can see to it that you regret any trouble you cause me,” Wyeth said.

Bartholomew stared at him. “I don't bow down to threats, Mr. Wyeth. If Victoria tells me to stay away, then that is what I will do. Good day, sir.”

He turned and left before they could get into a screaming match, or, God forbid, a brawl. He walked down the street with his head high, his stride long and strong.

Bartholomew had expected Wyeth's reaction; he had not known that he would shake so badly once he was away from him, or how bitter the rejection would feel when it was voiced out loud. He was glad, however, that he had not backed down, and he was equally glad that he had not allowed himself to be drawn into an altercation.

He returned to his rooms. He was exhausted. There was a bottle of rum by his bedside, and he drank deeply from it, staring at the ceiling. He reminded himself that the day had been filled with enchantment—no matter what Victor Wyeth said, Victoria had spoken her mind. Love, he determined, would have its way. He wasn't a fool; he knew the world, and he had seen many an affair go sadly as daughters or sons obeyed their parents. His Victoria, however, would not do so. They would be together. He had to believe in the dream, because the most important aspect of the dream had proven real—Victoria herself.

He drank himself to sleep.

In the morning, he ordered a bath from the mistress of his lodgings, and once bathed and shaven, he felt like a new man. He had just completed his toilet when the landlady brought him a note.

It was from Victoria. She was visiting a friend, Siobhan O'Hara, at a public house with a lady's tea room. There was also a lovely outside patio.

And Siobhan's personal apartments were atop the lower level public house.

She would be delighted if he might pass by.

Discreetly.

Immediately, he felt overcome by emotion. And he realized, sadly, that Victoria had understood the extent of her father's temper and determination. That would not deter him. If she wished it, he would be discreet.

And so he donned his hat and set out on the street until he reached O'Hara's. There, he paused, uncertain, but a young lady came from the house, Miss Siobhan O'Hara, as pretty as a picture with her blazing red hair and snapping green eyes. “Why, Captain Miller! How lovely to see you. I have a box that needs lifting around back, if you'd be so good as to assist me?”

“Aye, with pleasure,” he assured her, and so he walked around with her to the rear of the establishment and the delivery entrance. “I really do have a box of Cuban rum,” she told him, her green eyes afire with laughter. “If you would?”

“As I said, dear Miss O'Hara, with pleasure!”

He lifted the box, and set it where she directed just inside the storage room, then she brought a finger to her lips, winked, and led him to a stairway.

“You'll not be disturbed!” she promised, and disappeared outside.

He walked up the stairs. When he reached the door at the top of the stairs and was about to knock, the door flew open.

Victoria was there.

She drew him in.

She did not speak.

She slid into his arms, as if they had been betrothed for years, as if they were known lovers, and she was greeting him as was only proper.

They kissed, and her lips were pure sweetness, her breath was mint, and what she might have lacked in experience, she quickly made up for in ardor. Holding her, he felt his limbs inflame, his desire ignite into fever. He tried so hard to hold back, but she would have none of it.

“Please!” she commanded. “I watched you on the streets forever! We would meet, and you would ask about my welfare and mention the weather. And now we have talked, and we know our hearts and minds.”

“But you are a proper lady,” he whispered against her lips, aching. And yet, he loved her—he would never force anything upon her. He would wait. He would fight. He would die for her.

She laughed. Ah, that melody of sound. Her eyes were wicked as they touched upon his. “I am a proper woman as well, my dearest Captain! One who has dreamed of you…longed for you so many lonely nights!”

Everything within him seemed to explode with a thousand rockets, and his need for her was urgent and desperate, and still…

She would not wait. They tangled in a passionate kiss. She was a determined tease, touching his sex, stroking him through clothing, until they both struggled to rid one another of the cumbersome costume that was only proper on the streets, yet so impractical in such a climate! They were both steaming as they struggled with stays and laces and ties, and he laughed, asking her how he was ever going to put her all back together again.

“You've never disrobed a woman before, Captain?” she teased. “Why do I doubt that?”

“Well, I have disrobed one, but I've yet to re-robe one,” he told her. “And seldom were the woman quite so dressed!”

She never took offense at honesty, and for that, he loved her all the more. And as they talked and laughed, their clothing was at last cast away, and he looked at the beauty of her nakedness, and he was as breathless and in awe as a school boy. But he drew her to him, and their bodies seemed so attuned and so perfect. The feel of her flesh against his was the most wondrous thing that might be imagined, until her lips fell upon his shoulder and his chest, and he could bear no more, lifting her up and carrying to their hostess's bed, where he laid her tenderly down and loved her once again with his eyes.

“Come, come, Captain!” she taunted.

Enough. He loved her then with his kisses, his caress; he adored her from head to toe and back again, until she was crying out for him, and he rose above her at last, sinking slowly into her.

He was her first lover. He had expected as much. And he made love with all the aching tender care a man could summon, until her needs matched his, and they fulfilled the frantic need of their desire in a glorious rush of silver and gold—it seemed that the world turned colors for them, celebrating their sheer ecstasy of belonging, consummating all that had filled their dreams.

Nor was she then shy, decrying her moment of madness or asking if he loved her still. She was tender and thoughtful for long moments as they both learned to breathe again, and then she rolled to him and said, “My father has indeed threatened me. I loathe him! No, he is my father, and I love him, but I detest his snobbery! He has forgotten his own love, forgotten my dear mother. He has it in his head that I must marry a filthy rich banker named Townsend—or that lying little thief of a man, Eli Smith, who is a pirate in truth, but is such a suave and smooth liar that they believe he is merchant when the bastard is none. I know he has taken ships, I just know it. I've seen goods that such a man could not afford among his offerings, but he has thus far escaped the law. I swear that I will not have either man! He will have to understand that I love you.”

“He lost your mother,” Bartholomew reminded her. “He lost your mother, and he forgot about love and dreams. Maybe he had to bury them to salve his grief. I'm glad you do not hate him—a daughter should not hate her father.”

She looked at him in such a way that he felt he could melt like candle wax in her arms. She stroked his cheek. “I love you for all good reason!” she said.

“We will be together,” he assured her.

She nodded grimly. “Aye, we will be together. You mustn't come around—give me time to talk to him. I will make him see life my way. Siobhan is my dearest friend, and her brothers are hardworking men, and her mother is a saint. They will keep our secret. Meet here, not tomorrow but Friday, say, and it will appear that I abide my father's rule. If I cannot sway him to my way of thinking…”

“Then I have a fine ship, and we will sail away to another port,” he assured her.

“Aye. We will sail away to another port,” she agreed.

The hour was growing late, but they were new lovers so enamored of one another that they were careless of time.

They made love again.

Then he knew that she must get home, and he fumbled ridiculously trying to help her back into her corset and stays and all else, but she laughed and guided him and at last, she was dressed. He left first, going into the public house for a beer and a fish pie, and she emerged later, joining Siobhan in the tea room for sandwiches and tea.

He lived for Friday.

On his way back to his rooms, he ran into one of the men who had been seeking Victoria's hand.

Eli Smith.

He greeted the man pleasantly enough; he did not know him well. He didn't like Smith, though. There was something shifty about his eyes—something oily in his speech.

“So, you're not at sea, Bartholomew Miller!” Smith boomed. “I thought you were seeking a life as a merchant?”

“Indeed. I'm heading out to sea soon.” Bartholomew said, trying to be pleasant.

Smith was pleasant enough in return. “Aye, I must take to the sea soon again myself. But first I must press my suit. I believe that Mr. Wyeth is entertaining my request for his daughter's hand in marriage. The lady is not ready to wed, but I will lay roses at her feet and await her love!”

Bartholomew fought to keep his smile.

“Good luck to you, Mr. Smith,” he said, touched his hat and went on.

He loathed Eli Smith.

He was certain Eli Smith loathed him, as well.

Finally Friday arrived and Bartholomew made his way to meet Victoria.

As he moved through the streets, he noted that one of the town's most fascinating women, Dona Isabella, was busy with a bevy of servants.

She was shopping. He'd heard it said that her husband, living in Spain, had tired of his wife's idle days at their island property. He was demanding that she return to Spain.

Perhaps she was preparing for the journey. He stepped out of the way as she and her entourage passed; her eyes touched his. She didn't smile or acknowledge him—he was beneath her. She should take care, he thought—there were still pirates aplenty in the water.

He passed some of the less scrupulous bars in the town, bars where it was said that pirates came, pretending to be good citizens of the town.

He knew of one pirate, Mad Miller, who often liked to come to Key West, to drink with the navy men. Despite his name, Mad Miller was not known for being a killer, just a thief. He was friendly with a bar wench, and it was said as well that he would come for her, and they would sail away together. He smiled, thinking that love knew no bounds.

He knew that so well himself.

He forgot the wretched Smith, the haughty Dona Isabella and the crazy pirate Mad Miller. He met Victoria, and, if possible, they made love more passionately.

“I leave with my mentor, Captain Beckett, on a fishing expedition with friends,” Bartholomew said. “I will be gone but overnight—or possibly for two nights. We are going out to catch majestic marlins, for he has friends who enjoy the fight of the fish. Perhaps, I can cancel—“

“No!” she said with horror, “you must not. People will notice that we are not about, doing as we would normally do.” She was quiet for a minute. “Bartholomew, I know how you love this place, how your dreams were here, but I believe we must run away.”

“My dreams are where you are. But we will not run away. Not unless forced in time. I love you, and I care not about any place, but I know that you love your father, and so I will try through my friend, Captain Beckett, to reach your father. Only if we are forced will we go. Let's give it a few months. I would never have you resent me in time, hate me that you lost the love of your father.”

She cradled his face. “That you can care, when he has treated you so shabbily, makes me love you all the more.”

“Ah, well!” He caught her hand and kissed it. “I will not wait forever.” he teased. “There are places we can go. We can go to Jamaica, Bermuda or even New Orleans. I have friends there still,” he assured her.

“We will wait three months after your fishing trip,” she told him. “Not a day longer. And if we are forced to flee, then later when we have our own precious little daughter, he will make peace with us. He is, at the bottom of his heart, a loving man.”

He agreed; they kissed.

And they knew they must part.

Death

“Ah, what a beauty!” Captain Craig Beckett applauded, watching as Andrew Morton, a businessman from Key West and a good friend, reeled in a giant blue marlin, a magnificent fish in truth. “What a fine beauty! You've done yourself proud, Andrew!”

“Couldn't have done it with the expertise of your young friend there!” Morton said, acknowledging Bartholomew.

“It was my pleasure, sir,” Bartholomew said.

“A round of rum, a mighty toast!” Beckett said, grinning. He looked at Bartholomew—a look that assured him that he was a good man, and a good man making the right connections.

“Rum, yes! Or grog, rather, I believe—we've sugared her down mightily and added a bit of water,” said Peter Yearling, another friend of Beckett's, who worked as an architect.

“Grog, it is! Peter, soon enough Bartholomew is going to need your services, you know. You had best plan to cut him a fine deal. He'll be running merchandise up and down the coast, and bringing back the finest goods from all over the world,” Beckett said, accepting the mug handed to him by the architect.

“A home!” Peter boomed. “Indeed, when you are ready, I will build you a fine home, my friend. And as it is done, I will keep the cost down for you—and expect the best in tea, silk, and so on in return!”

Bartholomew laughed with the men.

The conversation went on, and he was pleased, and he thought that he might have a chance of creating a home here, with Victoria. He was befriending men who were respected in the community; he would make the living he must—an honest living—to be a good husband and provider for Victoria.

“What say you, Bartholomew? Onward to the islands?” Beckett asked.

“Pardon?” He had been thinking about Victoria.

“We've decided to lengthen the trip. Head for the southern Bahamas,” Beckett said.

His own ship was anchored nearby with Jim Torn awaiting his command.

He smiled. “Sir, if you'll forgive me, I will return to Key West. I have many books you have given me, regarding money matters and record keeping. I'd study them before we head to Richmond, sir.”

“There's my man! Stalwart in battle, earnest in peace!” Beckett applauded.

Bartholomew thanked him for his support, said his goodbyes to the others and headed for the ship's ladder down to his small boat. He rowed to the
Bessie Blue,
where his men awaited him, and he assured them all that the expedition had gone well.

Pleased with the day, he was heedless of the wind or the weather. He had been away from his love for only days, but it felt like eons.

It was late, however, when they returned to port. He wouldn't try to see Victoria or contact her that night; he would wait until morning, and head straight for O'Hara's public house. The family was warm and wonderful, coming and going from Ireland, some embracing America and some returning to the Old Country.

They knew of his love. And they all seemed to be in love with love, and certain that all would end right.

Anxious, and dreaming of the morrow, he headed home through dark and empty streets.

His lodging house was quiet as well, not a man about, and certainly not the mistress of the house, his landlady. He did not expect many to be up at this hour, but he hadn't even seen the usual drunks in the street. No matter; he gave it little thought.

He fell back upon his bed, exhausted, yet not quite ready for sleep. He took a small measure of rum, swallowed it down and stared at the ceiling, dreaming. He loved Victoria. He truly loved her. She was goodness and purity with spirit and vivacity—and she loved him, as well. They would make it work.

He closed his eyes, content and anxious, dreaming of Victoria and their future.

He felt a soft touch upon his cheek, and his eyes flew open. He smiled. He'd dreamed her touch, just as he dreamed her there.

“My love,” Victoria said, and a kiss fell upon his lips, as gentle as the air. She seemed to float above him.

“I am all right—I am better where I am, for I chose the ending. I could not live with the memory of you, and the touch of another man,” she said. “But now, you must rise. You must not lie here. You are accused. They will be coming for you. They will want you dead.”

“Victoria, don't fret! No one will come for me. All is well. I am here now. My trip was a great success. We will have many powerful friends. I will convince your father that we can marry, that I can be the husband you deserve and a provider who is strong and resilient and good.”

He heard something outside, some major commotion.

“Run, you must run!” she told him.

“No, my love, I have nothing to run from,” he said.

The commotion grew louder.

He was looking at Victoria, and then he wasn't.

She wasn't there; she had been nothing but a dream. A confusing dream, for he couldn't understand what she had been trying to tell him.

Had he been sleeping?

Then his door burst open. He jumped at the sound, and reached for his sword. He wanted to be a man of business, but he had long been a seaman. He had seen much of war, and he had roamed the seas as a privateer—awakened suddenly, he would always reach for his sword.

He was stunned when men began pouring into the room—David Porter's men, and a few citizens of Key West.

“Bartholomew Miller! You are under arrest for murder!” cried out a lieutenant.

Aghast, stunned, he faced them all with his sword.

“I have committed no murder!” he cried.

“Foul bastard!” shouted another man, a citizen. “You raided the ship
Annabelle Lee
, causing her to sink. You butchered her crew.”

“I did no such thing!”

“You even murdered the young and innocent Victoria Wyeth and her maid!”

“What?” The single word didn't explode from his mouth—it was a whisper of disbelief.

They were lying. What words had come out of the man's mouth were so abominable they couldn't be true.

“No!” he cried, an eruption of horrified protest. “What are you talking about? Victoria Wyeth was on no ship. She is home, certainly—she is home in bed, sleeping.”

“Victoria Wyeth was on the
Annabelle Lee
, heading north to Virginia at her father's command—to escape the likes of you,” the lieutenant informed him.

“And you did draw her out and murder her, in cold blood,” another cried.

He shook his head. “This is not true. Victoria is not dead. She cannot be dead.”

“You were seen,” said the lieutenant. “Your ship was seen, blasting cannon at the merchantman. You lured the ship to the reef, and proceeded to pummel her with deadly powder, and then went aboard the dying vessel to cut down and kill all aboard.”

“No! Never, never! I love Victoria!” he said.

“You loved her, you scurvy bastard, and you couldn't have her, so you killed her,” the lieutenant said scathingly.

Bartholomew still couldn't understand the words that were being said. He couldn't comprehend them. Because it couldn't be true.

And if she was dead…

Nothing else mattered.

But she couldn't be dead. Not Victoria, with her laughter, with her spirit, with her joy and kindness, and absolute beauty in person and in soul.

“You were witnessed, and all know that you are a pirate, Bartholomew Miller,” the lieutenant said. “And according to our law, you will now be hanged by the neck until dead.”

He didn't care. He didn't care what happened to him.

But, Victoria…

And the accusation that he had killed her?
Killed his love?

“Back away!” he warned, swinging his sword. “If what you say is true, if Victoria Wyeth is dead, then gladly will I lay down my life, for it is worthless if she is no longer in this world. But it is a lie, a foul lie. I killed no one, and damn you all and the liar who said it. I was never a murderous pirate. I served king and country, and then the ideal of this country, and I fought the enemies of my state at all times. To murder any woman would be abhorrent to me—to injure a hair on the head of Victoria Wyeth would be anathema, and I am innocent of such a charge.”

“Seize him!” the lieutenant ordered.

There were many after him—a good two dozen. But there was something in him that night. He fought like a caged beast, which, in truth, was what he was. Men fell back before him. He caught the tip of one fellow's nose with so smooth a slice that the man bled like a pig before crying out that he had been injured.

Many another bore a slice, but he had no desire to kill.

No desire to live.

He had a chance to make a clean strike and kill the lieutenant. He watched the man step back in fear.

He lowered his sword.

“Tell me—is it true? Is Victoria Wyeth dead?” he asked quietly.

“Indeed,” the lieutenant said quietly. “Your ship was seen. A witness cries against you, one who fled in terror for his own life.”

“The witness lies,” Bartholomew said.

“You are condemned,” the lieutenant told him.

“Then I will go to my death,” Bartholomew said.

None of them dared go near him.

He shook his head, his heart dead already. He dropped his sword and offered his hands to be bound behind his back.

Finally a man stepped forward, nervously trying to tie the rope. He did the job badly. It didn't matter. Bartholomew intended to make no fight.

He left his room without a backward glance. He was led down the stairs and out to the street, and now, despite the late hour, there were people everywhere, all crying out against him, hurling bad tomatoes and whatever else lay in the road. He felt nothing.

They walked, in the pale glimmer of the moon to the hanging tree. And there he was prodded up on a box, and the lieutenant was taxed with the job of offering him a hood and setting the rope around his neck.

He declined the hood.

“Have you last words?” the lieutenant asked, his voice shaking.

“Indeed! I am innocent of this charge. I was nowhere near the reef, rather on a fishing expedition with Captain Craig Beckett, and when he returns, you will know the truth of my words. I have always shown mercy to my enemies, I have served all well with passion. I loved Victoria Wyeth with every breath in my body. I have but one question. Who accused me?”

Nervous silence greeted his words.

“I have the right to know before I die! Who accused me of this foul crime?”

“Eli Smith,” the lieutenant said.

“Then I hope that he meets his just end—I hope that the truth comes out. I hope that he comes to this hanging tree himself, but that, when he dies, he finds no reward, but rather that he rots in hell for eternity. For myself, all that I loved in life is gone, and therefore I go willingly to meet her. I still stand before you an honest man who loved deeply, but did no ill to anyone in that love!”

He was startled to hear a woman's tears from the crowd.

There was a murmur of protest.

“As per the law and the task with which I am charged!” the lieutenant cried out, and he kicked the box away.

Dying was quite bizarre, and as he had felt nothing since learning Victoria was dead, he was only vaguely aware of the pain.

His neck did not break.

He was suffocated slowly. He tried hard to die with dignity, but he was aware that his body betrayed him, that his limbs twitched and jerked.

Slowly, too slowly, the blackness began to overwhelm him.

This was death…

Suddenly, he was no longer the man swinging from the tree. He was above it all, watching.

Watching as his limbs ceased to twitch.

Watching as he hung limp in death.

Someone walked up to him and stood on the block, and placed their fingers against his throat. “Is there a physician?” he cried.

There was a doctor in the crowd. He came forward and placed his ear to Bartholomew's chest, and waited.

Someone brought a mirror; it was set before his parted lips.

“He is dead—it is done. So die all pirates!” the lieutenant. He tried to cry out the words with conviction and assurance. His voice squeaked.

Bartholomew felt as if he was standing behind the crowd, watching.

As he watched, he felt a hand slip into his.

He turned.

Victoria was there. Her beautiful eyes were filled with sadness. She touched his cheek. They were together but invisible to the others. “My love. My poor, dear love,” she whispered. “I tried…I tried to warn you.”

He stroked her cheek in return. “But you are here. I prefer death with you to any life without you.” he said.

“We are here, together,” she said.

“Who did this to you?” he asked her.

“Smith,” she said, as if even the saying of the name was loathsome. “Smith! He wanted to take me. He meant to kill everyone on the ship and take me with him. I refused to go with him. I could not! My skin crawled at the thought of it. He said that I could die or have him, and I said that I preferred death. And he said that I was hypnotized by evil—you. He said that we would both pay. And he put his hands around my neck, and strangled me…and I died, and yet I stayed. I was on his ship when it returned, and I heard him shouting that my ship had gone down and that…you had done it.” She began to weep with no tears. “My father heard the words and went mad. He took his pistol, set it in his mouth, fired it and died on the spot.”

“I am so sorry, my poor, dear love.”

“Smith must be made to pay for his crime,” she whispered.

“Yes, Smith must pay. And he will do so,” Bartholomew said.

And so they remained, hand in hand, as the days passed by.

Then Craig Beckett and his crew returned. Eli Smith must not have known that Bartholomew had sailed with Beckett that day, because he was in the bar, boasting of his prowess at sea and saying as how he'd have taken on the pirate Bartholomew Miller himself had he but had a few guns on his own sloop, when Craig Beckett strode into the room.