Matt seemed to be chewing upon the strange words. “Have you ever met a pirate?”
“Aye, son. That I have.”
“Was he as fierce as they say?”
“Fierce as thunder at midnight. I once heard tales of a pirate who wove burning candles into his beard before attacking. The pirates I knew did not need to be afire to scare me.”
“You were frightened?”
“Right out of my tiny little boots.”
Matt smiled then. And the sun seemed to dip down closer to earth than was customary, for the light shone from his face. “Your boots are big as boats, Father John.”
“Maybe so. But the rest of what I said is the bare truth. I was so scared I couldn’t swallow.”
“I shouldn’t like to meet anyone who frightened
you,
sir.”
“May God keep you safe from ever doing so. I hope and pray this voyage is a good one for you, son.”
Portsmouth was as fine a harbor as any Falconer had known, with room for steerage and a good sandy bottom. The water was brackish, only a third as salty as the ocean. The inland bay was protected from hard blows by a long string of barrier islands some eighteen miles to the east. Portsmouth was the favored calling point for much of the East Coast traffic, and the city bustled with equal measures of pride and good fortune.
Falconer left their horses at a stable near the inn Reginald had told them to use. Reginald Langston was a man of his word, for the stable hands were ready to meet them. Reginald had agreed to acquire the horses and send the money back to Paul Brune. As soon as the innkeeper saw them enter his front portal, he bustled about, refusing to let Falconer carry his own saddlebags, and ushered them personally into the finest rooms the inn had on offer. After the modest Moravian farmhouse, the rooms were very fine indeed.
Falconer took Matt to what the innkeeper claimed was the best bathhouse in Virginia, a place of stone flooring and brass fixtures and even a stained-glass portal. They were led to a private chamber with two steaming baths. Matt was wide-eyed over the luxury of not sharing his bathwater with the three Brune children, particularly after the long summer drought. Falconer eased his way gradually into the hot water, then rang the bell and summoned the house barber.
He asked the boy, “Would you mind if I cut off my beard?”
Matt had already worked up a full head of lather and had to swipe his eyes clear. “What, Father John?”
“My beard. I was always clean-shaven at sea. Most sailors are. But if you wish I will keep it on.”
Matt looked askance. “The barber will shave you here in the bath?”
“It’s the practice. Might be a good idea if he trimmed your hair as well.”
Matt ducked his head under the water and came up blowing.
“Is that a yes?”
“Mama liked you without a beard. I heard her say that.”
“Aye.” As a matter of fact, Ada would not let him grow one, for she claimed it scratched her face. Falconer had taken to shaving before bed, a practice he had kept as long as she had been with him. He tugged at his damp locks and wondered if he would ever know a day where her absence did not sigh from every crevice. “That she did.”
“Do you think I shall ever grow a beard?”
“Sooner than you think.”
“But it will never be as dark as yours.”
“There are many who say fair hair is handsome on a lad.”
Matt submerged himself again. “How do sailors wear their hair?”
“Many grow it long, and tar the ends. Mine was long enough, but I held it fast in a ribbon. Sometimes a leather thong.”
“You wore a blue ribbon in your hair when I first met you,” the boy recalled. “Did you cut your hair for Mama?”
“No, lad. So I would fit in with the brethren, much as a seafaring dog ever could.” Falconer reached across the distance. “There’s a mirror on the side table. Reach over and hand it to me, please.”
Matt did as he was told. “The scar on your face has gone bright red.”
“It’s the heat.” Falconer doused the mirror to clear away the steam, then found himself tensing as he wiped the surface and took aim.
A stranger stared back at him. A wild dark beard laced with silver. Thirty-two years of age and already time’s wintry hand was etched into his beard, though not his hair, which hung lank and unkempt about his face. His scar, the one that narrowly missed his left eye, could be seen above the beard and was indeed a fiery red. Like most seamen, Falconer had always been fanatical about keeping his hair well tended and his face clean-shaven. But it was not his hair which made him look unfamiliar.
His features had always been sharply defined. More than one person had called them carved from flesh-colored stone. Now they looked cavernous. His skin, leathery from decades of salt and wind and sun, was dark brown after the summer spent farming. He touched his cheekbone, as though testing his own identity. He looked like some fierce hunter of old, a craven beast scarcely removed from the forest and the glen.
When Falconer set the mirror aside, Matt said, “You can shave off your beard if you wish, Father John.”
Langston’s Ship Chandlery was precisely as Reginald had described, fronting the harbormaster’s office and built with the same stout colonial brick. The shop was jammed, but the moment Falconer entered, a stocky man with a heavy limp stumped toward them. “Master Falconer?”
“Aye. The same.”
“Master Langston’s compliments, sir. The owner’s tied up with other business what should have been finished two days back, but wasn’t. On ’count of certain other gentlemen what were late in arriving. He’s sent me in his stead. Soap is the name, sir, which is good for a chuckle given the wares you’ll find here. Richard Soap.” He knuckled his forelock at Matt. “A grand good day to you, young sir.”
Falconer asked, “You’re British?”
“American, sir. American as they come, and proud of the fact.” When the merchant moved toward them, Soap waved him away toward the other customers. “But I was born in Blighty, I was. Righted that mistake soon as I was able. I’ve served fifteen years on a Langston vessel. The skipper made me his steward when my knee gave out. Master Langston offered me a landside berth in this very shop, that he did. But I’ve salt in my bones now.”
“I worked as a chandler myself. Four years. In the Carib.”
“Did you now. Did you. And today we serve the same master, as it were.”
Falconer caught the tone. “Do we speak of Reginald Langston?”
The steward grinned, revealing a gap where his two front teeth should have been. “Master Reginald, he said you was a member of the holy flock. But when I saw this ruddy great giant with a fighter’s scar come through the door, I thought, here now, the skipper could well have taken a false measure of this one.”
“He was not wrong.”
Matt piped up, “Folks of Salem town say when Father John prays, the strongest tree bends its knee.”
“Do they now.” Richard Soap tousled the boy’s blond locks. “Why is it you call your father by such a name?”
“Because he is my second father. My first died when I was five. My ma said I could honor my papa and Father John both with the different name.”
“What a wise woman she must be.” Soap struggled to keep hold of his good humor. “So now you’re off on your adventures while your poor old mam sits alone by the hearth?”
“No, sir. We lost my mother too in the winter just gone.”
Faces turned their way all through the store. Falconer looked at his son standing there, his fresh-washed hair shining and his face so earnest. He felt his heart swell with pain and pride both.
“Now there’s a sad tale if ever I heard one.” Soap looked from one to the other. “I’ve stepped right into the thick of things, and I’m right sorry, I am.”
“No offense meant or taken,” Falconer replied.
“Come with me, young master.” Soap draped an arm around Matt’s shoulders. “We had a shipment arrive this very morning from the Spice Islands. I believe I spied a quarry of cinnamon sticks in one of them chests.”
Matt looked at Falconer, who gave him a nod of assent. As the pair of them moved toward the rear storerooms, he heard the boy ask, “Are the Spice Islands very far away?”
“Far as the moon, or so it feels in the midst of a calm. And never have you seen a calm like the tropics, lad. Weeks with the sails hanging limp as your dear old mam’s laundry, may the good Lord hold her close.” A door creaked open, then shut upon the words, “Why, my little man, there was once a time…”
Falconer stepped toward the rear of the store, where tables were piled with seamen’s garb. He found what he was looking for straight off—shirts which tied at wrist and neck, high-waisted pants with legs that could be buttoned tight to slip into sailors’ boots, even a tricorn hat with stiff curved brims to shield his vision in foul weather. Falconer selected an empty seaman’s chest and began loading his new gear. He tried on a navy greatcoat that looked as though it might have been sewn for him. Then he spied the cutlasses.
The curved blades were stacked behind a locked cabinet with stout iron bars. Beside them were every manner of pistol, gun, and weapon. Falconer knew them all.
Falconer caught sight of his reflection. Beneath the greatcoat he still wore his Moravian homespun, yet already the clothes seemed the barest fable. As though the previous two years had not existed. As though he had shaved off not only his beard but all the months he had spent away from the sea. For standing before him was the man he had once been. Strong and steady and stalwart. A face burned and blasted by far more than sun. Features that shouted danger, lean and fierce. And that scar.
“Father John?”
Falconer drew around. “What do you have there?”
Matt clasped a bundle of twisted golden-brown sticks to his chest. “Master Soap said I should take a double handful, sir. For the journey.”
“Only if he will let us pay for them.”
Soap replied, “It’s Master Langston what’s paying, good sir. And I warrant he’d be right pleased for my pressing them on the lad.”
There in Matt’s young face he saw the only answer the day required. Falconer asked, “Did you thank the gentleman?”
“Yes, Father John.”
“Let him wrap them for you, then wipe your hands clean and come back here.”
Soap jerked his chin toward the locked cabinet. “Master Reginald said to tell you, whatever you need, it’s already aboard the vessel.”
Falconer nodded and did his best to block the boy’s view of the weaponry. “Son, do you wish to wear those clothes on board?”
Matt looked down at himself. “It’s all I’ve ever owned, sir.”
“I know that, lad. I want you to understand, if you’d be more comfortable staying as you are, why—”
“None will object, lad.” Soap listed heavy to port as he walked toward them. “Especially not after one glimpse of your father there.”
Falconer kept his gaze upon the boy. “There are many changes to come. You will be permitted to pick and choose, if I have anything to say about them. Starting with what you wear.”
“Will there be other boys on the ship, sir?”
“Aye. At least a couple of middies.”
“Four,” Soap corrected. “Youngest is but a nob of ten.”
“Middies are midshipmen,” Falconer explained. “They are sent to learn the ways of the sea and ships. There may also be other young passengers.”
Matt pointed at the clothes Falconer had dumped in the seaman’s chest. “Will they be dressed in such as these?”
“Aye, they will. And shall I.”
“Then I wish to have the same, Father John.”
“And a right proper seaman you’ll make,” the steward declared, “or Soap is not my father’s blessed name I wear with pride.”
Reginald Langston met them upon the clipper’s aft deck. A young midshipman, still several years from needing a razor, had piped them aboard. Falconer raised his hat to the middy’s salute and a second time to the captain on the quarterdeck. The captain frowned and turned his back upon Falconer.
Reginald dredged up a smile for Matt, then pulled Falconer to one side. “There are problems.”
“The steward told me of business matters.”
“Oh, piffle. There are always problems with business. No. I was referring to the ship. Captain Harkness does not…well, he does not approve of you.”
Falconer glanced over. The skipper still resolutely ignored them. “He knows of me?”
“No. And that is the problem. He finds it uncommon strange that with a ship full of trusted men, I find it necessary to go outside the company for an ally on this mission.”
The captain turned, but only to scowl fiercely at Falconer. Harkness wore his landfall uniform, which was no surprise given the fact that the company’s owner was aboard.
“It is of little import.”
“On the contrary. I dislike the idea of starting a voyage with hostility in the dining cabin.” Reginald fiddled with his vest’s middle button. “Harkness is an ambitious man. I have chosen to give him a ship regardless, for he is a good skipper, fair in his dealings with the sailors, and scrupulously honest.”
Falconer interpreted, “He sees this mission as a missed opportunity for his own advancement.”
“I fear so,” Reginald agreed. “It is the first time I have ever had occasion to set a company’s ship upon such a course, where we sail at my timing and refuse goods for any port beyond London. While Harkness does not know the mission, he does know it is important to me, and he sees you as occupying a trusted position he would like to claim for himself.”
Falconer studied the captain. A few years older than Falconer, of stern bearing and features to match. A nubby nose, tight green gaze, forward-thrusting chin, hair cropped so close to his skull Falconer could see the scalp from where he stood. “What do you know of him?”
“Born in Charleston, lost his mother at birth, father an itinerant preacher who carted him all over the former colonies. The man has never known a proper home, save the aft cabin he now occupies.”
“When you have opportunity,” Falconer said, “tell the gentleman I shall not seat myself at the captain’s table unless he himself requests it.”
“I shall do no such thing,” Reginald declared hotly.
“The success of our mission may depend upon working well with him, Reginald. We need him as a willing partner in this venture.”