Chapter 26: FORTUNE'S WHEEL

"I might have known with Mistress Lightfoot aboard, ye’d not be far behind," chuckled Ed Hart, as he handed Jack a jug of his best rum. "It gladdens me to know when my people swear an oath to each other, they see it through."

Jack sucked down a liberal portion of the rum, which made the friendly acquaintance of the brandy he’d had, earlier, steadying his nerves somewhat. Hart had invited him and Tory into his stern cabin to have a word in private.

"'Twas Nada recognized her in that Basseterre hellhole," the captain went on, nodding to his mate who crouched in the open doorway, where he could keep one eye on the companion ladder out in the passage. "I’d have thought all females were one to Nada, but it only shows how well ye may think ye know someone and still be surprised by 'em." Hart grinned fondly across at Nada. "He felt it reflected poorly on the dignity of the Providence for one of her crew to be sold into slavery."

Nada grunted off this evidence of his concern, and glared up the hatchway.

"I never even saw him in the place," Tory continued the tale, eagerly. "I was blinded by the lights around me, and he must have hung back in the shadows. Afterwards, I was so intent on getting away with Van Brugge and onto his ship, my guard was completely down. I never saw what was coming."

"Fought like a hellcat, she did," Hart chuckled. "Clouted poor Nada in the belly and damn near unmanned him before he had a chance to reason with her. He had to knock her on the head to get her aboard quietly."

Nada muttered something belligerent in Spanish about the female sex.

"Then, you were not forced to go with the Dutchman, this Van Brugge?" Jack asked Tory.

"He had a ship," she explained. "I had to get out of Basseterre."

"She was in a rare temper when she woke up," the captain continued. "Mad as a wet hen."

"Until I saw where I was, and with who," Tory smiled. "It was like a miracle."

"It’s Blesséd Providence," Hart agreed, taking another swig of rum.

"But how do you even happen to be in the Leewards?" Jack asked the captain. "We thought you were off to the Republic of Colombia."

"Oh aye, so we were. But Bolivar had alrady waged his last campaign at some Godforsaken outpost in Peru, on the far side of the continent, before we ever joined the fray. We sailed up the coast to Mexico for a time, to join the Mexican fleet blockading the Spanish garrison at San Juan de Ulua. But that’s not what any man would call action, certainly no fit duty for the Providence. It’s police work, and none of the men had any heart for it. We later heard that Bolivar’s ships had taken some rich prizes out of Havana, Spanish supply ships bound for San Juan de Ulua, and some of the men wanted to slip off home to Cuba and collect our share of the spoils. But the hell of it is, Cuba has become a way station for Spanish troops and warships trying to regain a toehold in Mexico, not only Havana but Santiago de Cuba. We can’t go home to Cabo Cruz with half the Spanish fleet stationed in our back yard."

He gave a bitter shake of his head and passed the jug to Tory.

"By the time we caught up with the Colombian fleet, it was stranded off Cartegena without enough seasoned hands to work their ships nor so much as a reale left in the Colombian treasury to pay 'em. So ended a damned unprofitable year, and an unlucky one. The fleet, as she pleases to call herself, is still off Cartegena for all I know, but we peeled off to cruise the coast to Caracas on our own account. But we didn’t like to disturb the commercial shipping bringing supplies to Bolivar’s republic—that’s what politics does to ye, warps your perspective."

"But what happened to the Providence?" Jack asked.

"Ah, what didn’t happen to her? As if the general wear and tear on that thankless cruise to Mexico and back wasn’t enough, she was pummeled in a gale in those rocky isletas off of Caracas."

"Pummeled?"

"Dismasted, for one thing. Her sternpost rattled, missing stays. Oh, we jury-rigged her, got her fit for the sea again, but she’s not what she was. But then our fortune changed." Hart’s black eyes lit up with cunning. "Fast as she is, we took this sweet prize out of Curacao; a smuggler all loaded up for market into the bargain. Ye must never, ever underestimate the value of surprise, especially when your enemy is a complacent fool."

"Maldito holandes," muttered Nada.

"Aye, another Dutchman, he was," agreed Hart. "Funny, ye rarely see ‘em in the pirate trade hereabouts, but every other merchant or smuggler you meet is one of ‘em. This fellow was a damned poor specimen of the breed, no sense of adventure, and a poor sailor. Had commercial interests all though the Indies, but none of his crew liked him much. When I asked who wanted to come aboard the Providence, damn if every man jack of ‘em didn’t volunteer! The lay of it was, we needed a faster ship until we could get the Providence in trim again, and this sloop needed a new captain. So we put the Dutchman and his steward into a boat, and entered into this venture with his crew. Half of ‘em went into the Providence with our men to sail into a safe anchorage while the rest of us complete this smuggling cruise up the Antilles. We’ve taken a few prizes along the way; amazing how much more attractive the trading ships of Europe become when they’re carrying supplies to their own fat colonies. We’ve increased our profit into the bargain, and everyone seems satisfied with the arrangement."

Jack took another turn at the jug and wiped his mouth, surprised to feel a short stubble of beard against his fingertips. "But where is the Providence now?"

"Saba. A little Dutch outpost above the Leewards. She’s not a sugar island, so no one pays any mind to what goes on there. Her people are smallholders, mostly, and Dutch merchants. And the occasional contrabandista or picaron in need of a friendly port."

"And you’re sure you can trust ‘em with the Providence? These fellows from the sloop?"

"I left Cuervo in command," Hart shrugged. "He'll keep 'em in good order. Salvador Gris and Rudy and Diego and a few others are on board to see to her handling; with a bit of babying, she ought to do fine. I’ve kept Mr. Bustamante and his best gunners here on the sloop; she’s only got four six-pounders, but that’s all ye need with such a fleet sailer, if ye know what you’re about. The rest of this crew are Dutchmen, and a few Brits, late of the French wars. As it happens, the second mate is a Hanoverian name of Dykstra. One of Bolivar’s German mercenaries. Shipped out of Caracas a few times under my command, and we struck up an acquaintance."

Jack grinned. "Is there anybody in the Indies you didn’t ship out of Caracas with, sometime or other?"

"Not many," the captain laughed. "All the flotsam and jetsam of Europe has floated down to the Indies these last twenty years, and I've sailed with most of 'em. This Dykstra’s a good lad. Reads books, if ye can imagine, navigates like a fish, and solid as a gold Spanish ingot. Took to the smuggling trade after Bolivar carried his revolution inland. Fellow of his mettle deserves his own command. I’m giving him the sloop after we split the profits, and I get the Providence back in trim. But they all know if anything goes awry, I’m keeping her." He sent a satisfied grin round the cabin that encompassed the entire ship. "Trim little strumpet, isn’t she? Fleet as the wind. Christened her Fortune when we took her, Rudy ran up the ensign himself."

"A gold compass rose on a blue ground," Jack nodded. "That’s how I knew her."

"Some of the lads call it a ship’s wheel under the Pole star," said Hart. "Myself, I see a gold doubloon marked with its cross."

Jack nodded, again; every doubloon was stamped with a cross for cutting it up into quarter bits.

"The coin of Fortune under the stars," mused the captain.

"Or Fortune’s wheel," Tory smiled at Jack.

"But I confess, I’ll not be sorry to leave the smuggling trade," Hart went on. "Ledgers, bookwork, timetables; it’s a job for an accountant. Dykstra takes to it like a cat in cream, the man’s got a ledger-book for a brain! But once we get the Providence back to rights...Hellfire, it’s like old times already having ye both back aboard! However did ye find us, Jack?"

"I came after Tory. I’ve been trailing you for weeks," he told her. "Ever since Marcus got back to Charlestown to tell us—"

"Did he?" Tory cried. "All by himself? Oh, thank all the gods, I’ve been so worried! Was he all right?"

"Shaken and scared, but he’s a plucky little fellow." Jack could not smother a grin of pride.

"He would sooner die than disappoint you," Tory nodded. "I should have known nothing would stop him."

"Alphonse and I—" Jack began again.

"Alphonse came with you?"

"He wouldn’t let me go to Basseterre alone. We tracked you all over the damn island, even up to the Birney place and back, but you were always one step ahead of us. Fortunately, Alphonse—" Jack paused; this was probably not the moment to tell her all he knew about Alphonse, "—has powerful friends. Someone saw you carried aboard this sloop. When we learned she was still cruising St. Kitts, I sent him back to the others."

"But how did ye follow us?" Hart wanted to know. "Not by sea; we’d know if we were being pursued."

"From the coast. On horseback. On foot. We explored this part of the coast once before, remember, Rusty? I could only guess what your destination would be tonight."

"But the gamble paid off," Hart nodded approvingly.

"Aye, but that I nearly got my bowels blown away into the bargain," Jack replied. "When have you ever wielded a pistol?" he demanded of Tory.

"Since I joined a smuggling crew," Tory declared. "The watch is always armed. Can’t afford to surrender our cargo to any common brigand that boards us. You’re lucky I recognized you in time."

"You’re lucky you turned around at all, or you’d be nursing another headache now."

"I knew exactly when to turn around; I timed it to the instant."

"You never heard me board!" cried Jack.

"Up the port bow to the windlass to the mainmast," Tory countered. "Why do you think I kept my back to you all that time?"

"Because you had no idea I was there!"

"B’God, it’s good to have the both of you aboard again!" Hart’s bark of laughter interrupted them. "These contrabandistas are a clever lot but they haven't much in the way of conversation."

Jack darted a sheepish glance at Tory. How well she looked in her borrowed male outfit, completely at her ease. Coloring just a little from their exchange, fit and sun-browned, with a new dusting of soft, rusty freckles just below her throat in the V of her unbuttoned shirt collar. He’d been expecting to rescue her from abject misery and degradation, but she had rarely looked happier. He had never wanted her so much, nor felt so awkward about it. He couldn’t think how to put into words everything he had gone through to get here; he could only quarrel with her like an obstinate child to conceal his confusion.

"Ah, there’s our boat coming back," Hart announced, as Nada moved out to the hatchway and nodded to him. A deep, cheerful booming carried over the water above the muted slap of oars just outside the sloop. "That’ll be Dykstra gloating over the bargain he’s made. Make yourself a berth wherever ye please, Jack. Mistress Lightfoot will show you the lay of things." And he disappeared up the hatch after Nada.

Jack glanced again at Tory. All this time, he would have moved heaven and earth just to see her again, and now he was as tongue-tied as a boy.

"I can string up a hammock in any corner," he told her. "I’ll never know the difference."

Tory nodded, smiled at him a little, hesitated.

"You never heard me board," he added, and her smile bloomed.

"Of course I did. Who do you think taught me?" She put out a hand to touch his unshaven cheek. "I am so glad to see you again, hombre. I’ve missed you so much."

Jack reached for her hand and pressed it to his mouth, then held it in his lap in both of his. "Are you sure you’re all right? We heard so many—I didn’t know what to expect."

"I’m fine. Now. Now that you’re here."

Jack smiled, gently squeezed her hand. She leaned toward him and lightly kissed his cheek.

"Get some sleep," she whispered. "We’ll talk later."



Tory was glad to see that a watch below, lulled in a seaman’s hammock, seemed to fix Jack right up. When she saw him again in the morning, he was frisking about like a boy, as eager as she had been to find himself at sea again. When the captain invited him to go aloft, Jack flew up into the shrouds, and scrabbled through the Fortune’s rigging, getting the feel of her.

After breakfast, Jack renewed his acquaintance with Bustamante, the Cuban gunner, falling easily into the Spanish they had spoken for years aboard the Providence, and toured the ship with Captain Hart, learning all about her particular quirks. He met Mr. Dykstra, and thanked him for agreeing to allow Jack to come aboard. He made a friend of the young Cornishman who heaved the lead on their journey into the channel for their last port of call, the Dutch half of the divided island of Sint Maarten. Tory even glimpsed him off in the bows, jesting with Nada.

Every time she saw him, her heart rose. She and Jack were home at last. It wasn’t the Providence, but at least Tory was at sea, with work to do and people to care for. She was a free woman, again. And now she had Jack back too.

That evening, as the Fortune sped for Sint Maarten with the last of her cargo of French wine and champagne, Captain Hart invited Tory and Jack up to take a turn on the quarterdeck.

"We’ll raise Saba in two more days, if all goes well tomorrow night," he told them. "It’ll be a fine thing to see the Providence again. We’ve lost so many seasoned hands," he added, shaking his head. "Arne. Mateo, we sent him ashore in Barbados, did you know? Hector went home to Cuba, refused to leave his woman alone for so long a time."

Tory glanced at Jack. Hector, the African who was Jack’s closest compañero, had taken passage as a slave to get back to Cuba. When they'd met him by chance last year in Tortola, he'd run away from his master, insisting Jack and Tory turn him in for the reward. That was how they'd paid their passage to St. Kitts.

"Once we’ve put the Providence to rights, I’d be pleased to have both of you back in my crew," Hart went on. "I can offer you nothing but a fair share of the profits, and the freedom of the seas. But so long as I draw breath, I’ll see ye never receive anything less."

Tory’s heart was pounding; she wondered how her frail flesh would ever contain so much joy.

"Captain—do you mean it?"

"It must be Blesséd Providence sent ye back here," Hart chuckled. "I'd be a rare fool not to make use of such fortunate circumstances."

"Then, yes!" Tory cried. "Si, gracias, Capitan. You can’t know what this means to us! Oh, Jack—" but as she spun around and saw Jack’s expression, her exuberant words died in her throat. He stared at her for a moment, his dark eyes anguished, glanced at the captain, then looked away.

"Captain," he murmured, slowly raising his eyes again. "I am honored beyond words by your offer. But...I can’t."

"What?" Tory gaped at him.

"I have to go back to the others," Jack told her. "I owe it to them."

"And you owe nothing to me?" she cried. "I thought you came all this way to find me."

"I did! But there are...other considerations." He looked miserable.

"What other considerations?"

"Alphonse, for one. I can’t simply disappear after all he went through to help me find you. He cares very much what happens to you. And then there’s Marcus. I promised him I’d come back. If I don’t, he’ll think we’ve both perished. And he’ll think it’s his fault. I can’t let him bear that kind of guilt."

"But—"

"He’s nine years old!" Jack’s eyes were pleading with her. "It will cripple him for the rest of his life. I can’t let that happen."

Tory put a hand out to the rail, to steady herself. She felt as if the ship were being scuttled, the deck sliding sideways out from under her. Jack had been fifteen, almost a man, when he ran off from his foster parents; they had died alone soon after, and Jack had spent the better part of his adult years trying to throw his own life away out of guilt and remorse. He would do anything to spare Marcus that kind of misery, anything.

"Can you not...send him a message? By way of Cybele?" She was struggling to appear rational.

"He would never believe it." Jack shook his head. "Would you? If you were only nine?"

"But perhaps we could...visit. Let him see we’re all right..."

"And abandon him again? Besides," Jack added, eying Hart, "the captain isn’t running a transport service."

"We-e-ell," shrugged Ed Hart, "we might offload ye one time—"

"Not at English Harbour. That’s where they are by now."

"The Leeward Island Station, is it? Not the safest port for a smuggler, at that," Hart agreed. "Much as I’d like to see Mistress Lightfoot happy—"

At that moment, Nada signaled the captain from where he and Dykstra stood at the binnacle, and Hart went to join them.

"There’s more," Jack admitted to Tory, when they were alone. "We are engaged to play at the Bath Hotel next winter. Four months, for the season. Friday evenings in the ballroom. Upon a real stage." His fragile attempt at a smile failed. "I signed the contract."

Tory stared at him. "When did this happen?"

"Just before you...disappeared."

"And you never even asked me?"

"Ours is a gipsy profession. How could I deny Cybele and the Bruces the right to earn a steady income?" Jack reasoned.

"How could you deny me the right to choose for myself?"

Jack looked away. "I...didn’t know what you’d say."

"You knew I would refuse!"

He nodded, looking wretched. Tory was ashamed of herself for causing his wretchedness, and furious at Jack for forcing her to do so. All the long, lonely time without him, wanting him, needing him, and this was how she was treating him? She didn’t want to badger him like a fishwife, but she must make him understand.

"I can’t go back with you, hombre," she reasoned, as calmly as she could. "I’m a legal runaway ashore, an outlaw. There might be bills posted for my capture. I can be taken up and sold at auction."

"I know," Jack whispered, meeting her eyes again. "I could never ask you to take that risk. But I can’t stay with you."

"You could if you wanted to badly enough!" she cried, in desperation. "The fact is, you care more for your engagement and your damned stage than you do for me! You may go back to your gipsies, Jack, but my profession is the sea!" And she heeled round to the hatch and stormed off below.



(Top: Wheel of Fortune Original drawing by Lisa Jensen © 2010.)

Chapter 24: SOMETHING ON ACCOUNT

Mr. Theophilus Jepson, gentleman of business, sat back in his comfortable armchair in the private apartment above his warehouse overlooking the docks of Basseterre. He had offered to pour his visitor a glass of port from the crystal decanter that occupied the small end table between them, but his offer had been graciously declined. As ever, his old friend Belair was one for getting straight to the business at hand.

"I need not tell you how grateful I was to receive your message," said Alphonse. "I had begun to think our cause was lost."

"Never give way to despair," Jepson advised. "Anything may happen. Growing up in these islands ought to have taught you that."

Alphonse had thought himself beyond any more despair until these last few days. Jack grew more haggard and ashen with each false lead that came to naught, each informant who had nothing to barter, each day that Victoria’s trail grew colder. A gaunt and withered desolation was stealing into the the limbs that had been so agile, the face that had been so alert with pleasure when Jack was playing Harlequin. The role Alphonse had duped him into playing, at such cost.

"Even so, if you have any news at all, you must consider me forever in your debt," Alphonse replied.

"Oh, come, my friend, we are beyond such petty score-keeping after all this time," Jepson chuckled. When he smiled above his glass of port, in that open-faced way, round-cheeked and merry-eyed, his curly brown hair cut short above neat side-whiskers, he looked to Alphonse very like the enterprising Bristol merchant who had sired him. Brought up in the family business when his father’s legitimate heirs proved unfit for the labor, Jepson had a nose for profit and an aptitude for delicate negotiations that rivaled that of any full-blooded Englishman in the Indies. "It’s my pleasure to return a favor to a friend. Have we not always fought on the same side in all of our battles together?"

"Against all reason," Alphonse admitted. On the petition endorsing slavery by the free people of color in Basseterre, the signature of Theophilus Jepson had been notably absent. "But I must say I find your morality somewhat aberrant among free gentlemen of your class."

"Slavery is bad for business," Jepson replied crisply. "You and I both know it. A fellow needs to earn something on his own account to take an interest in the work. Raise your laborers to the lash, and you breed a work force of sullen rebels itching for revenge, a damned reckless situation and an unprofitable one. Factor in the expense of keeping 'em all fed and clothed, and tending their sick, and your profits dwindle even further. No, the institution cannot last, and any aid we can give toward its demise shall only improve everyone’s lot in the long run." He took another sip of port and set down his glass. "I employ only free persons who earn a wage. All of them, domestics, clerks, porters, warehousemen, even the sailors on my ships, have an interest in the business, a stake in our mutual success. It is amazing what a vast and loyal network they have become. Very little occurs in Basseterre that escapes their notice. Or cannot be found out."

Alphonse straightened in his armchair. This was what he had come to hear at this late hour, in this private place.

"My people have been making discreet inquiries for days to no avail," Jepson continued. "It seemed that your friend had disappeared from the very sight of Almighty God, himself. But this morning I spoke to one of my boatman. He has a lady friend whose cousin is a slave jobbed out in private service. He often walks abroad at night along the waterfront. This fellow has a story to tell that might interest you."

"It might, if it is true. I have heard a great many stories this week that were not."

"There is nothing to be gained from lying. I have offered no reward. From what my people have gleaned since he came to us, his tale seems very plausible, indeed."

"Is the person I seek alive?" Alphonse asked quietly.

"As far as anyone knows. There is no reason to suspect otherwise."

Alphonse allowed himself to breathe again, grateful not to have to imagine Jack’s face if the answer had been different.

"Is she—?"

"More than that I cannot reveal at this moment," Jepson interrupted calmly.

Alphonse cast him a sharp glance. He knew his old ally far too well, the canny trader. Too clever by half. "Because there is a price?"

Jepson inclined his head very slightly, as if to duck the implication of Alphonse’s word. "A condition only, and a very slight one."

"What sort of a fellow bargains when a woman’s life is at stake?" Alphonse demanded. "Has he no conscience?"

"He has. That is why he came to me," Jepson replied. "But I have a conscience as well. And so do you, my friend." When Alphonse did not respond, he went on. "It is a wrong and shameful thing that has been done to your friend. But wrong and shameful things are done to people every day in these islands. I can tell you where your friend has gone. But I will need something on account."

There was nothing but still, black night out beyond the shuttered windows. A warm, conspiratorial darkness surrounded them in their two armchairs, lit only by a single lamp upon the little table between them. A dark, secretive place for striking bargains. But the shadows were alive to Alphonse. He could see Victoria’s vibrant, laughing face as she tumbled about in her Columbine patches, then he imagined her broken, bowed, and enslaved. Because of him. He saw Jack’s desolate face of these last few days, without hope, his life in ruins. Because of him.

"What must I do, Theo?"

"It is a small thing only that we ask of you," Jepson assured him. "A pledge. There are persons on the island of Nevis who may be in need of your particular skills and knowledge in the future."

Alphonse knew it was not his skill and knowledge of the juggler’s art to which Jepson referred. And he had heard enough rumors on Nevis to understand the gravity of the situation there.

"Are you not engaged to play at the Bath Hotel next season?" Jepson went on. "Never mind how I know, that is the very point of having informants. You must understand that your position as a trusted employee of the Bath Hotel, coming and going as you please, could be very useful."

In the event of a rising, or some other foolhardy action, Alphonse supposed. He saw again the flames of Whitehall, and shook his head.

"The cause of freedom needs no more martyrs," he said.

"Yet every man and woman has a right to be free," Jepson countered. "You of all people would not dispute that principle. Who are we to judge who may gamble with Fortune and who must bide their time in chains?"

"What is it you ask of me?"

"Only what any friend may ask of another. That if someone comes to you in need of assistance on Nevis, you will place yourself at their service."

Alphonse tried to shut out the shots and the screams and the acrid stench of death from Whitehall. The tentacles of riot and ruin were reaching out to engulf him again. It took all of his will to turn away from Betsy’s innocent, youthful face, and focus instead on Victoria’s face. And Jack’s. His partners and friends. Wounded and despairing, but still alive. So far.

"You have my pledge," he murmured.



"A smugglers' auction?" Jack echoed, dismayed.

"It is not so legal as the public vendue, yet the participants—"

"I know what goes on. But how did Tory fall into their hands?"

"She was delivered there." Alphonse breathed a grim sigh. "By the chief constable, himself."

Jack stared back at him. "Old mole, canst thou work i’ the earth so fast?" he muttered, almost to himself. Then he added, with chilling calm, "I’ll murder that bastard."

"Business before sport," Alphonse advised. "The high bidder was a Dutchman, who left the place with Victoria late that night. But he turned up the next day claiming he’d been waylaid and his... purchase made off with. He was known to be drunk the night before, so no one paid him any mind, supposing that his new slave simply got away from him."

"Might that not be so?" ventured Jack.

Alphonse shook his head. "Our witness saw the Dutchman and the woman leave the tavern. Because he is accustomed to hailing a boat for the Dutchman when he is in his cups, he followed them to the beach. He saw Victoria carried off by the crewmen from another ship, perhaps a rival ship. They sailed that night."

"But...why?" Jack frowned. Stealing hands to serve in ships was as old a practice as sailing itself. His own seafaring career had begun when he was knocked on the head outside a Thameside grog shop and spirited off aboard a merchant craft of such ill repute, she could not obtain a crew by any other means. But it was men who were snatched up in this manner, not women, and there had apparently been no doubt on this night of Tory's gender. Who would steal a woman in the dead of night? A slave trader, like those that still plied the Gold Coast of Africa? A procurer recruiting boat girls for the sailors at English Harbour? "Was this...rival ship some sort of slaver?" he asked Alphonse.

"I do not know. The witness believes it is another smuggling vessel, disguised as a coaster. He is acquainted with many smugglers in this neighborhood, but he knew no one from this ship, although he has seen her before."

"Does he know where she went, this ship?"

"He does not. But Mr. Jepson employs many people in the seaports and waters of this island. The ship we seek was seen sailing into the waters off of Sandy Point Town last evening. It would appear her people still have business on this island."

Jack was not at all surprised. There were dozens of private planters’ docks nestled in the reeds and scrub and hidden inlets of this coast. He and Tory had explored many of them on their first journey around St. Kitts, when he was teaching her the juggling trade. Any ship laden with goods the planters desired, that did not care to pay a call at the Custom House in Basseterre, might be kept busy for weeks along the coast, trading on her own account. It was not impossible to imagine that such a vessel might traffic in slaves.

"What does this ship look like?" he asked.

"A sloop with a single mast. Gaff-rigged and shallow draught, I was told, if that means anything to you."

"Fast, like a cutter," Jack nodded. "A smuggler, all right."

"She sometimes sails into port under Dutch colors, but not always."

Jack frowned. "That describes half the vessels in the Indies. How will I know her?"

"She flies a small pennant with a particular device. A gold circle marked with a cross under a star on a blue field." Alphonse shrugged. "It is some mariner’s symbol, perhaps?"

"It might be a compass rose, a charm for navigation. It doesn’t matter. I’ll find her." Jack got to his feet and plucked his purse out of the small litter of his few belongings on the scarred little table of their hired room, withdrawing two coins. "Have one of your people hire me a post-horse, the fastest in Basseterre," he went on, handing the coins to Alphonse. "I want it here in a quarter of an hour. And see if your friend Jepson can lend me a spyglass."

Alphonse hopped down to the floor, his face furrowed in irritation. "You know I do not ride—"

"Nor do you swim, and you sail only under protest," Jack agreed, pulling his things together. "That is why I must go on alone."

"But—"

"You have done everything you can, Alphonse. I'm grateful beyond words, but there is nothing more you can do. A good horse will get me to Sandy Point Town in three hours, much faster than a carriage. Even another ship, assuming Jepson had one to spare, would have tides and wind to contend with, getting out of Basseterre road at this hour."

"But suppose the ship you seek has gone?"

"I’ll find her again," Jack declared. "There are smugglers’ coves all over this island and I know where most of 'em are."

"Victoria might not even be aboard—"

"But someone on that ship will know where she went," said Jack, sliding his knife into his waistband with cool, expert precision.

"This is foolishness!" Alphonse insisted. "You will need my help again."

"I need your help now," Jack urged him. "Please, Alphonse. Help me. We are wasting time."

"What am I to do after you are gone?" Alphonse grumbled.

"Go back to Cybele. I will feel much better knowing Marcus and the others are under your protection."

"What shall I tell them?"

"The truth. I’ve gone after Tory. But I must do this thing alone."

Alphonse nodded.

"And tell them..." Jack paused, and saw again Marcus’ small, dark, tear-stained face, awash with guilt that he had abandoned Tory and was sending Jack off to his doom. What could he possibly say to the boy? There was nothing more to be said, only work to be done. He turned abruptly back to his things. "Tell them I wish them well," he muttered.

"You may tell them yourself. When you bring Victoria back to us."


(Top: Urban Porters, Rio de Janeiro, 1819-1826. Image Reference vista06, as shown on www.slaveryimages.org, sponsored by the Virginia Foundation for the Humanities and the University of Virginia Library)