HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (13 page)

William narrowed his eyes, barely covering a grin, and straightened his jacket. “Would we? Or would our own steam engines block the sound of their approach?” He clapped him on the shoulder as he departed. “Don’t let them kill you if they come.”

Nic resumed his pacing along his portion of the steam clipper’s deck. This was the first time the captain had elected to fire up the steam engines, since a steady wind had accompanied them from Uruguay on. But here by the islands the wind had abruptly stopped, an odd occurrence this time of year. It had set all the sailors on edge. The engine made a terrible racket, and they missed the soothing rush of wind and water.

Nic didn’t care one way or another. He only wished for them to return to eating up the miles that lay between him and his life. His life … what was that? Where would he go? What would he do with his time? How would he make money? He leaned against the rail and stared into the dense fog, the passing ship sending it swirling into forms that would make many a sailor believe in ghosts. He shivered, but forced himself to remain where he was. He had to admit that while he missed the release of the ring, it was a relief to not be constantly healing. Life aboard ship was strengthening new muscles, and once his hands healed from that first encounter with splicing ropes, he had had no other injuries.

He rolled his left shoulder, feeling the familiar ache of an old boxing blow there. By the time his father was twenty-seven, he had taken over the helm of St. Clair Press and seen Nic born. He was settled, a success. Happy, at peace. Why couldn’t Nic find the path that would take him to such a position in life? These last years had been a relief—the new towns, new women, new fights an escape, a diversion. But standing here, preparing to round the Horn and make their way toward North America again, Nic thought he felt much the same when he stood on the bookshop’s stairs for the last time in Colorado Springs. He’d experienced much, but little had changed inside. Would life always feel unsettled for him? Would he always have this constant need for something
else
inside? What food would fill him, what liquor would ease him, what woman would soothe him? And why couldn’t he discover it?

Chapter 7

By the pale hours of the morning, the seas eased, like a spent monster at last taking slow, steady breaths. The weary passengers fell asleep against walls in the parlor, huddled together—depending on one another to sound an alarm in case the monster regained its fury—and they’d secured Gavin and another injured man to two settees, tying them down with long strips of old cloth to keep them from rolling off after they’d dressed their wounds.

Gavin was sitting up a couple hours later, complaining of a headache, but jesting with Moira and others around him, when the captain announced they were clear of any further danger, and they could all return to their cabins. Daniel rose to go, without looking Moira’s way.

“Daniel,” Gavin called.

The man stopped in the doorway and then looked over his shoulder. He was plainly weary, as they all were, but Moira wondered what else was behind the sorrow in his eyes.

“Daniel, thank you for getting me—and Moira—up here,” Gavin said. “We are indebted.”

Moira shifted under the inference of Gavin’s statement—that they were a couple—and watched as Daniel looked from Gavin to her and back again. He gave him a slow nod and then disappeared into the hallway.

“We’re all indebted to him,” said a man to Moira’s right. Another woman murmured her agreement.

Moira thought back to the dark cabin, being trapped, and what might have happened if the ship had indeed capsized.

“My men will have your door repaired in a quarter hour, Miss St. Clair,” said the captain, patting her shoulder in a fatherly way.

“Thank you,” she murmured. But inside, she trembled. Entering that cabin, and closing the door behind her, would take an act of courage in itself. Her eyes shifted to the empty hall doorway and she found herself wishing—

“Will you be quite all right, Moira?” Gavin asked, slipping his warm hand beneath hers. “You must’ve been terrified.”

“Oh, I’ll fare all right, I’m certain. I’m more alarmed over you. Are you certain your head is quite all right?”

He smiled and knocked on the other side of his head, the side that wasn’t injured. “Hard as rock, this one. I’ll be up for ballroom dancing on the morrow. Care to take a turn?” He grinned and she couldn’t avoid matching his smile. He was so charming, even in the midst of trauma.

“I’d be delighted, Gavin.” And in that moment, she could see herself in his arms, gliding across a parquet floor. The image of being on shore, in her finery, at his side, restored her confidence, focus, and she rose, shoving thoughts of Daniel to the back of her mind. “Will you be so kind as to escort me to my cabin?”

“Indeed,” he said, rising slowly. He straightened his shirt and offered his arm.

“Should you be taking my arm instead?”

“Most likely,” he said with a small laugh. “Most likely.”

Nic thought he had his sea legs, thought himself utterly comfortable atop the lanyards, until the
Mirabella
attempted to round the Cape Horn. After three days of fighting thirty-foot swells, the steam engine quit, and the crew was called upon to lash sails, unfurl sails, and lash them again in the midst of forty-knot winds and driving wind so hard it stung a man’s cheek as it landed. Weary sailors began to make mistakes, and men fell to the boards again and again as the waves washed across the deck.

Two were washed overboard that morning. One had lost his footing and then was washed over the rail. While he clung there, his mate tried to pull him in. Another wave, a monster, came and pushed them both into the frigid seas. Nic had watched it happen from across the deck, as if it were a dream. He could barely see between the rain and the wave spray streaming over his eyes. But he had seen the men, struggling there. And then the wave. And then the empty deck.

He’d rushed over, intent on tossing the sailors a line, but all he could see was dark, roiling seas, as if she had sucked the men under immediately, giving them no chance to call for aid, no hope. He was so stunned by the sight, another wave took him by surprise. He was only glad that he had been clinging to ropes, rather than the slick rail, when it came.

Nic followed William up the ropes as the first mate called, a bare whisper over the whistling wind, asking for a second sail. He was obviously trying to stabilize the ship’s progress, aid her in exiting this storm rather than languishing in its eye, where the storm would slowly, methodically tear the
Mirabella
apart. And yet it was a delicate dance, for if there was too much sail aloft, with this much wind and such odd swells, she could list too far, too fast for the crew to right her. They’d end up capsized, and Nic was sure, no matter how hard he could swim, eventually, the seas would drag him down too. He’d disappear, just as his mates had disappeared that morning.

The ship crested a giant wave and then heaved to her starboard side. Above him, William shouted as he turned in the air, following the ship’s progress. He held on to one rope with his left hand, but then he was spinning, his legs flayed out, the rope arcing farther. His body slammed into a mast and he lost hold, slipping several feet, before gaining his grip again. He swung back toward the ropes where Nic clung. “Here! William, give me your hand!” Nic screamed above the wind.

William reached for him as he neared, but their fingertips only barely touched before the ship swayed again and his friend was swinging back toward the mast. He rammed into it, lost hold of the rope, and fell to the deck, twenty feet below. Nic lost sight of him as another wave washed over the deck and the whole ship tilted, threatening to capsize. Had the bilge pump failed? Weren’t they riding lower in the water now, plowing through waves rather than sliding over them? Or were the waves simply growing larger?

“Belay the order! Belay the order for second sail!” called a man from beneath him on the nets. The wind had increased to such a keening wail that they could no longer hear captain or mate from the bridge. They were down to passing along orders. He looked up to the three sailors ahead of him, two already clinging to the second lanyard, high above. “Belay the order!” he screamed. “Belay it!”

The man ahead of him nodded and appeared to shout to the two up top, but Nic could hear none of it. He took a step down, pleased to be heading toward relative safety. Up on the higher lanyards, in seas like this, sailors talked of being “shaken loose like a monkey out of a tree.” He glanced through the holes of the net as he climbed and at last saw William, cradling his knee, his face contorted in pain. But then there was another wave.

“Dear God!” Nic screamed at the sky. “Enough! It is enough!”

He paused a moment, as if hoping his furious words might be heard by the Almighty, but only the continued sounds of wind and wave greeted him. No sudden calm. No beam of light from between parted clouds. He laughed at his foolishness, tasting the salt of the sea on his tongue. After all, he’d sworn off God years before, when “the good Lord” had seen fit to take one brother after another, and then his sister and mother. Why would God listen to him now?

“Fine!” he shouted upward. “Let me have it! You’ve never held back before!”

“St. Clair!” shouted a man above him. “Move! Go!”

Nic glanced from the black skies, still streaming with rain and wind, to the men above him. He was blocking the way.

“You want us all to meet our death?” shouted the man. “Go!”

Nic hesitated and then mechanically moved down the ropes. Did he want to die? Was he really ready to die? Disappear beneath the waves this night? Never see his sisters again? He shook his head, as if there were water in his ears and he couldn’t hear himself think. He reached bottom, and the other crewmen passed him by, the first angrily shoving him aside. But Nic just stepped to his left, one fist full of net in case another wave came, as he stared at the deck. Men were striving to keep their feet, stay alive, while the sea seemed intent upon taking them down.

Bryce sat down heavily at the kitchen table. Odessa was asleep, as was Samuel, and a full moon shone through the window. To his left was the conquistador gold bar, found in Louise’s cabin several years ago, and to his right was his brother’s letter. He cradled his head in his hands, trying to figure out what was the best route. He had to have a plan, answers to Robert’s questions before he asked them.

If he cashed in the gold, he might stave off financial disaster for a time, but it didn’t resolve his ongoing problem of having too few horses—the only way to fix that was to bring in more Spanish horses, fresh bloodlines, at the lowest cost—and have cash to sustain them on the ranch while he rebuilt the herd. The gold bar was likely to bring him a huge amount of money.

And yet if he left Odessa to go to Spain, he might indeed be risking his health. If he suffered a consumption attack and died while abroad, what would happen to Odessa and Samuel then?

He sighed and put his head in his hands. “Lord, I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “Show me. Please show me the way I’m supposed to walk. Help me provide for my family and keep them safe. Help me, Jesus, help me.”

A knock sounded at the back door, and Bryce opened his eyes in surprise. Swiftly, he stashed the bar on the couch and casually threw his coat across it. Then he went to the door and peeked outward.

“Tabito,” he said, opening the door for his friend.

“Saw your light. Knew you must be troubled, to be up this late.”