20.3.16

In For A Penny - Part 8

If you have not already, please start here! 

...Previous

   It took Tiller a moment to find his legs. They were the easiest, as they were still attached. It took a longer moment to find his trousers. The longest moment was spent negotiating for his shirt, which one of the girls was still wearing. She insisted that it be wrestled off her.
   She didn’t leave him any time to look for his socks. He abandoned them to the wilds, pulling his boots on over bare feet.
   He knocked on another door down the hall. A soft voice invited him in. One of the ladies of the house greeted him with a smile. She was sitting upright in a chair by the bed, and had been reading a book.
   “Well,” said the woman. “Ahoy there, sailor.”
   Tiller smiled at her coyly. “Trixxie said the little lad was in here…?”
   The woman nodded at the bed. Tiller closed the door and crept forward to see the baby curled up in a pile of blankets, deeply and peacefully asleep.
   “Ah,” he sighed. “Good. Hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”
   “Trouble? He’s the best patron we’ve had in a long time. Way more fun than the usual lot.”
   Looking around the room, Tiller could see this was true. There were fingerpaintings drying on a table, done up in lipstick reds and eyeshadow blues. Balloon animals were all over the floor. Tiller picked one up, a dog, and studied it carefully.
   “Weren’t used, was it?”
   “Oh god no. We’re not THAT uncivilized,” said the woman, with a wink. Tiller smiled at this, and sat down on the bed next to the sleeping boy. He gently brushed a few curls off his face.
   “Last night,” said the woman, “you said you weren’t the father. I’m havin’ a hard time believing that, the way you look at him.”
   Tiller withdrew his hand, shying away from the both of them.
   “No, no, its true. I never had kids. Too many o’ these things,” he said, bopping the balloon animal into the air. It rustled to the floor with a sad squeak.
   “Why do you have a kid hanging around, then?”
   “It’s…” began Tiller, and sighed. “It’s a long story. I’m just lookin’ after him until mum gets back.”
   The woman stood, and came around the end of the bed where he sat. She leant in and kissed Tiller on the forehead, one hand on his shoulder.
   “And a fine job you’re doing, it seems,” she said quietly. “This little monkey’s lucky to have you.” She stood straight, hands on hips. “You two are welcome back any time, y’hear?”
   She paused in the doorway to blow him a kiss.
   “Good sailing, you two.” Then she was gone.
   Tiller took another moment, a very long moment, to sit with the boy, before gathering him up in his arms.

   Adam knew the trading routes across the Moonfall Sea. And, as always, the biggest cities had the most traffic; a fact unchanged since the first horse had pulled the first cart from one village to another. This led him to choose Charleston as their best chance to meet the ship.
   By the time they reached the harbour, afternoon was already starting to fade into evening. Long rays of sunlight cut through the pilothouse windows. Squinting through them, Adam guided the tug around the edges of the bustle in the bay, skirting the docks entirely.
   “What are you doing?” demanded Susan.
   “Just checking,” said Adam. “No point paying dockage if they aren’t here.” He skimmed past a line of tall ships, all in a neat row off one branch of the docks. When he reached the very end, he tugged a lever and turned hard on the wheel; the SS Cartleblat rotated on a dime, bow pointing back into its wake.
   “There,” he said. He brought the lever up, putting both engines back to work. They chugged forward, straight back in the direction they’d come. “At the end. That’s them. Let’s find a spot and get going.”

   They got going to the nearest guardhouse. It was a small thing, just an outpost, though one of several in Charleston. Port Victor had only one outpost, that doubled as a post office. These fancy big city coppers didn’t have to share a front desk.
   The officer on duty was taking an array of stamps to a pile of paperwork when Susan walked in, Adam close behind. The officer looked up at them, giving his full attention and a polite little smile.
   “Good afternoon,” he said, “how may I help you?”
   “We’re here to report a kidnapping,” said Susan.
   The officer’s smile faded. His eyes widened. Most commonly, the response to his offer of help was news of a pickpocketing, a lost dog, a tab not paid.
   “I see,” he said, noncommittally. “Of whom?”
   “My son,” said Susan. “He was taken by pirates!”
   The officer stood as he flicked through a stack of papers.
   “Forgive my presumption; would you happen to be Ms. Carruthers?”
   “Yes! Yes, that’s me.” Her hands tightened on the desktop. The officer selected a telegram from the stack and held it up to read.
   “Yes, I see,” he said. “We’ve received several messages concerning your plight, Ms. Carruthers. This one came from Coraqua this morning. We received another originating at Port Victor a few days ago.”
   Susan gasped and grabbed Adam by the arm.
   “Mom!” she whispered.
   “According to these, ma’am, your son was taken from Port Victor?”
   “Yes, he was.”
   The officer’s eyes ticked back and forth between Adam and Susan, studying them carefully.
   “Several days’ sailing from here, if I recall. You’ve come a long way to report this in person.”
   “We…we’ve been following the ship,” said Susan, after a pause. Neither she nor Adam could think of a better excuse than the truth. “We didn’t want to lose it.”
   The officer gave them a perturbed look, though he kept his silence for now.
   “I see,” he said curtly. “And do you know the persons that took your son?”
   “His name’s Weatherdecker,” cut in Adam. “Richard Weatherdecker.”
   The officer nodded; not in revelation, simply to confirm what the telegram had already told him.
   “Fortunately for you two, he is already well known to the Guard.” The officer pulled a clean pad of paper towards him. “Would you be able to tell me, ma’am, when you last saw the ship in question?”
   “It’s at the docks, right now,” said Susan. “We came straight from there.”
   The officer looked up at her, pen in hand. He hadn’t written anything.
   “Is it?” he said. “Did you note the name it bore?”
   “It didn’t have one,” said Susan. She glanced up at Adam. “Did it?”
   Adam shook his head. “Blank trailboard, as far as I could see.”
   The officer’s eyebrow was peaked; a faint smile touched his lips.
   “I see,” he said, intrigued. He turned to the open door behind him, through which the bars of a drunk tank could be seen. “Edison! Blaine!”
   Two fresh-faced young constables appeared, hurrying to their Corporal’s side, eagerly awaiting his word.
   “Get your coat, Edison. We have an errand to run.” As one ran off, the officer turned to the other. “Blaine, please see to Mr. and Ms. Carruthers, here. Tea, coffee, anything they’d like.”
   “Oh, er, actually—“ said Susan, but the officer was already addressing her.
   “If you’d be kind enough to wait here a few moments, ma’am, we wouldn’t mind asking after a chat with the Captain.”
   Hope swelled in Susan’s chest. Her body prickled with excitement.
   “Would you?” she breathed.
   “I make no promises, ma’am, but Edison and I will see what we can see. Captain Weatherdecker is a tricky man to pin down; any chance we have to catch up is always much appreciated.”

   There was one clothes iron aboard The Ship. Most would have won the bet, if asked to guess to whom it belonged. Its owner was the only person to ever touch it. Mr. Airedale would have happily lent it out; to his dismay, no one ever asked.
   It was a task he was not willing to pass on to his subordinates. Trousers, perhaps. Shirts, perhaps. A bit of toasting on either of those would not spell his ruination. His jacket, however, stayed firmly in his care and his care alone. It was easier to see to the lot himself, while the iron was kept warm on his tiny cabin stove.
   He carefully unpinned every badge and medal before taking the hot iron to his jacket. Easiest to do a proper job in port, with a minimum of waves to throw off his hand.
   Mr. Airedale was just replacing the last medal on his tastefully smooth jacket when there was a knock at his cabin door.
   “Yes?” he called.
   “Uh, Mr. Airedale, sir, there’s…there’s a problem at the plank.”
   He paused for a moment, to reflect on what these words might mean. Then he left the jacket be, careful to move the iron far from it, and strode to the door. He opened it on a single quivering crewman.
   “A problem, Moulton? Whatever do you mean by that?”
   “It’s the police, sir,” whispered Moulton, as if it were a terrible curse. “Two watchmen askin’ to speak to an officer. What should we do, sir?”
   “Hm,” said Airedale thoughtfully. “You, Moulton, should return to your station, and think no more of this. Do not worry yourself or the men.” He crossed the little room, back to his desk, and pulled on his still-warm jacket. “Thank you very much for bringing this to my attention. I will see to it from here. You are dismissed.”
   Moulton scampered away, still pale and shivery with fright. With calm hands, Mr. Airedale snatched his bicorne from the coathook by the door as he followed.

   He was careful not to stop. Not to look over the railing, or hesitate. Anything but a bright, pleasant smile would arouse suspicion. If there was one man who exceeded at diminishing arousal, it was Timothy Airedale.
   He met the pair of officers at the bottom of the plank, and bowed his head graciously.
   “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am first officer Timothy Airedale. How may I assist you this afternoon?”
   The officers hesitated a moment, taken aback by the eloquence from this supposed pirate.
   “Good afternoon,” said one. “I’m Corporal Dunwhaite of the Charleston City Watch.” He pulled a wallet from within his heavy wool coat and opened it for Airedale to examine; it contained a gold shield badge with the arms of Charleston engraved in it. He replaced it before he’d finished his preamble. “This is Constable Edison. We are investigating the disappearance of a small child, and we have reason to believe he may be aboard this vessel.”
   “My goodness,” sighed Airedale, adding a touch of softness to his voice, “how tragic. I assure you we will do everything we can to assist your inquiries.”
   “Good to hear,” said Dunwhaite. “You can start by letting us on to have a look around, if it’s not too much trouble.”
   “Certainly, it is not,” said Mr. Airedale. “It would be my pleasure to let you aboard…however, I am but a lowly first officer. It is my Captain’s permission you require to grace our decks.” Dunwhaite opened his mouth to ask after just such a thing when Mr. Airedale continued: “May I retrieve him for you, sirs?”
   The two guardsmen exchanged a curious look.
   “Certainly, Mr. Airedale. Thank you.”
   Mr. Airedale nodded graciously once more, and headed up the plank.

   Whilst Airedale had been busy at ironing, his captain and crewmen had been keeping themselves otherwise occupied. They had pulled several barrels from the kitchen stores, forming them into a ring in the centre of the mess hall after freeing the tables and sliding them to the walls. From the animal pens, just off the kitchens, they had also stolen two healthy roosters.
   When Mr. Airedale walked in, the fowl were still locked in combat. There appeared to be no clear champion, as yet. Men from all sides were still shouting encouragement at both birds. One man had a book open on top of a barrel marked SARDINES, and was scratching in some final bets as other men shook coins at him. Across the ring, leaning against PICKLES, was Captain Weatherdecker, laughing and sloshing grog around on the makeshift tabletop. Airedale joined the other men jostling against him. He leaned in to whisper.
   “Policemen at the plank.”
   It was meant only for the Captain’s ears, and it succeeded in that; only Weatherdecker heard. It was also meant for his brain, but it took a few more moments to travel that distance. After a horrible pause, he turned to frown at his first mate.
   “What’d you say?” he demanded.
   “There are policemen at the plank, Richard. They wish to come aboard.”
   “What?” he spat. “Here? Now?”
   “Yes, here, now,” agreed Airedale. “Thoughts?”
   The captain’s distress had become obvious to the other men; some of the shouting died down. The curses and yells got quieter. The clucks and screeches of the roosters, however, remained in full ear-bursting force.
   “Can’t you just tell ‘em to fuck off?” said the captain.
   “I could not. In fact, I could not even ask them to leave politely.”
   “We got rights to do that, y’know. They can’t search nothin’ if they ain’t got a warrant.”
   Mr. Airedale leaned in, speaking in a lowered voice. Most of the fightgoers were focused on him, now.
   “While you are correct, Richard, I urge you to think about what will happen if we deny them. If we send them off now, they will simply come back with a warrant later. We will not be able to turn them away indefinitely, and the less contact we have with them, the better. It will go harder for us every time they return. Let them on, now. Let them see nothing is out of the ordinary, and let thema go on their way thinking we are sweet little angels.”
   The captain thought for a moment, staring into Airedale’s eyes; then he shoved his grog aside with a growl.
   “The fuck they want with our goods, anyway?” He grabbed Airedale by the arm, to everyone’s surprise, most of all the first mate’s. Weatherdecker pulled him a few feet towards the stairs so nobody, but nobody, could overhear. “Did someone let slip on the smuggle?” he hissed. “Do they know about our Benefactor?”
   “They mentioned nothing of the sort, Richard,” said Airedale, pulling his arm gently out of the offending hand. “They are here for the child.”
   The captain’s eyes grew wide. He stood straighter, spoke louder.
   “You fuckin’ kidding me?” he snapped. “That bitch is sendin’ cops to my boat, now? The fuckin’ nerve!” With a grunt, he whirled on the assorted crewmen, still clinging to the barrels. “Clear this away! Right now! All of it back to the kitchens and not a word out of any’you, y’hear?”
   They did as commanded, rolling away barrels, scraping tables back along the floor and securing them in place, and, for an unfortunate few, prying the thrashing animals apart, still gobbling and clawing at eachother. Feathers flew as Mr. Airedale led his captain up the stairs, to the sunlit deck.

Next...

13.3.16

In For A Penny - Part 7

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   It was full dark when The Ship reached Charleston. The wind had cleared most of the clouds away to reveal a thin sliver of moon. The night stayed breezy, but warm, the air muggy and thick with the smell of past rains. After their roiling ordeal on the stormy sea, the men were more than eager to go on a roiling ordeal of alcohol and women.
   Mr. Tiller leaned against the cool plaster wall of the Red Rooster. Bright candles burned behind red sheer curtains, giving the street a glow of scarlet. He listened with half an ear to the revelry inside, thinking hard.
   The only men who’d stayed behind on the ship were the ones that even prostitutes wouldn’t touch, so Tiller wasn’t entirely keen to return there with a child. Though, he didn’t think a brothel was any place for a baby. He’d walked with the rest of the men that were headed to the Rooster, but hadn’t followed them inside. He wasn’t sure what his plan had been. Just…to go. To take the boy for a walk. Neither going nor staying. The boy chewed Mr. Tiggles in his arms, offering each bite for inspection. Tiller approved them all, half-heartedly.
   The weirdos hadn’t seemed quite so weird, last Tiller remembered. The scarred and limbless men in the bars didn’t seem so threatening. The shady characters wandering the streets had never seemed dangerous before. Before he’d had a little one to look after. Now, they were all a threat. Potentially. Unwholesome, that much was clear. Why had it taken a child for him to notice that? It was obvious, once he stopped to look.
   Tiller snapped out of his reverie at the sound of a lady’s voice.
   “Now, what are two handsome young things like you doin’ out here?”
   He grinned sheepishly at the well-bodiced woman leaning against the wall beside him. He hadn’t noticed her there until she’d spoken.
   “Shouldn’t you be inside?” She punctuated this question with a wink. Tiller chuckled and hoisted Damian higher on his hip.
“No, no, it’s no place in there for this little fella. Really, I’d love to,” he insisted. “Thanks for the offer.”
Tiller looked to the little boy in his arms, who was staring at the prostitute with wide-eyed wonder, fingers in his mouth.
“Say hi,” urged Tiller quietly. “Go on! Say hi to the nice lady.”
“…hi,” came the soggy, fingerful squeak.
Tiller beamed. Damian stared. The prostitute also stared.
Suddenly, there were four, crowding around him and Damian. Tiller shied back, clutching the baby close, as they chattered away.
“Oh, how sweet!”
“Ooh, look at his little shoes! What a dear!”
“Doesn’t he look just like his papa!”
“Oh, I-I’m not the dad…” stuttered Tiller. “I’m just lookin’ after ‘im…”
“And such lovely curls!”
“What a cutie!”
“Free of charge.”
One of the girls grabbed his hand while another lifted Damian out of his arms. Tiller instinctively reached for the little boy.
   “Wait, hold on! I don’t know if he—“
   But Damian was already squealing with laughter in the young woman’s arms. She boo-booed him relentlessly, eyes crossed and tongue out. Tiller relaxed a bit, though he didn’t take his eyes off Damian.
Then, a previously unregistered thought took hold in his brain. He turned to the lady holding his wrist.
“What’s free o’charge?” he asked, squinting. The lady yanked him close. She started to walk her fingers up his chest.
“We’ll look after your little darling, darling, if you wanna come upstairs…”
As she brushed her fingers under his chin, he lit up like a pink touch lamp.
“Oh! Well…I mean…me?”
“Why not you, handsome?” said the lady. “I’m sure you want a break from child-minding. And you deserve it!”
“Such a good father you are!”
“We’ll take good care of him, we promise!”
The hand around his wrist tightened, and started to pull him towards the door.
   “And I promise,” said the lady, “I’ll take good care of you.”

   St. Anders was a tiny town, tinier even than Port Victor. It had a dock, and a church, and not much else, but it was sheltered from storms. Adam saw no other people about as he tossed a rope over a bollard, drawing the tug against the dock. No harbourmaster, nobody to check on them. Only a couple of lights in the village. The wind was much quieter here, but the rain still poured with a vengeance. He went back belowdecks, already soaked from his brief trip outside.
   Susan was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, listening to the raindrops on the deck of the tin can. There was one thought in her head, circling again and again: Damian. Damian, Damian. She didn’t remember her own name anymore, only her son’s. Damian.
   Adam stopped in the doorway a moment, watching her brood in silence.
   “I, uh, I have tea,” he said. “Do you want some tea?”
   “Sure,” sighed Susan. He left her to stare blankly at the wall some more. He returned ten minutes later, carrying two steaming tin mugs. Susan hadn’t moved an inch.
   “I have to use the kettle on the boiler,” explained Adam, as he handed her a mug. “So it’s not, y’know, properly steeped or anything. Sorry about that.”
   “It’s fine. Thanks.”
   “I put sugar in it.”
   “Thanks.”
   She hadn’t looked at him once. He sagged a bit. Cradling his tea in both hands, he sat down beside her. They stared at the wall together.
   “You can have the bunk tonight,” said Adam. He kicked halfheartedly at the nest of blankets and pillows he’d thrown together for his passenger. “I’ll take the floor.”
   “It’s fine,” said Susan.
   “No, you should have a turn in a real bed. You need some good sleep.”
   Adam jumped as Susan started to laugh, a high pitched giggling laugh. It wasn’t a sound he was used to hearing these days. She looked over at him, staring back at her in surprise.
   “A real bed,” she giggled. “You’re right. I would do well by a turn in a real bed. Too bad we’ve only got this lump of moldy cotton.”
   Adam looked away, smiling. He felt his heart rise in his chest. When the silence settled back over them, it felt warmer, Calmer. More like the old times.
   “Susan,” he said, “I’m sorry we had to turn away. I promise we’ll find them once the storm clears.”
   She looked over, but only to his hand, gripping the mug of tea on his knee.
   “I’m sorry too,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You were right. It’s dangerous out there.”
   “It’s okay. You were worried; I get it. I’m sorry I even got you into this mess. That’s where I went wrong, not the storm.”
   “I’m the one who should be apologizing, Adam. I’ve been so short with you, but you’ve been working just as hard to get Damian back.”
   “Well, sure,” said Adam, with a shrug, “but it’s my fault he got kidnapped in the first place.”
   “Well, it’s my fault he got near you.”
   He seemed to have no response to this. After a pause, she looked up. He hadn’t said anything, but he had smiled. The sight of it made her smile, too. That was when he returned her gaze.
   “Alright,” he said, “so whose fault is the kid? That way we’ll know who’s really to blame.”
   She shuffled in closer, resting her hand gently on his forearm. She set her head on his shoulder. He leaned into her, just a touch.
   “I feel like we’re both a little guilty on that one,” said Susan. Adam transferred his tea to his other hand and slipped his arm around her shoulders. Another quiet pause filled the air between them.
   “It’s okay, you know,” she murmured. “That you don’t love him the way I do. I’m sorry I expected so much. It was stupid. I’m sorry I was so silly.”
   He hugged her more tightly. He knew there was more to say, and let her have the time to say it.
   “I don’t love you as a husband, but, I love you as a friend. However you feel about Damian, I still want you to be a part of my life.”
   He nuzzled in to kiss her on the forehead. She squeezed him around the waist.
   “I will be, Susan. Of course I will. I want the same thing.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The kid’s just fine by me. Unexpected, but, just fine. I may not feel what you do, but I wanna see him grow up. He’s part of my life, now. Our life.”
   She looked into his eyes, a bright broad smile on her face. Adam leaned in closer.
   “You’re sailing hundreds of miles to save that kid, that’s how much you care about him. Well, I sailed hundreds of miles to come back to you.”

   The lump of moldy cotton was small and misshapen, but it did the trick.
   She grabbed two fistfuls of his coat and pulled, hard and steady, holding his chest against hers. He smelled exactly as she remembered; unshowered, unshaven, a little bit salty. It wasn’t a nice smell, but the sting of it was exactly what drove her wild. 
   She savoured the sea salt taste on his lips, relished in the scratch of his stubble on her cheek.

   God, she smelled nice. Clean, just a bit flowery. That soap smell was intoxicating. There was something else there, something a little earthy. It smelled like Port Victor. He thought of home only briefly.
   He nuzzled his way down her neck, kissing, biting, scratching her with his week old beard. She nearly tore his coat, pulling hard as he breathed hot against her collarbone, the scratch of his shadow amplifying the heat.
   “I missed you,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
   Neither of them noticed that the rain had stopped.

   The young folks in Charleston went to the Red Rooster. Their parents went to Fennigan’s, a few blocks further into town. The lamps flickered yellow and orange, there, not red. Beer was the primary thing bought. Quiet chatter was the mark of an enjoyable evening, not hoots and hollers.
   Mr. Airedale walked in, again without his hat, and spotted Mr. McCrea at the bar. He was also hatless this evening. He was gazing deep into his whiskey, and paid Airedale no mind. There was a brown paper package next to his elbow. It was tall, and lumpy, shaped like a lamp that was both priceless and hideously ugly.
   Mr. Airedale took the chair next to him. They were two of only three at the bar; the other was so far away they remained mostly alone.
   “Arsegnac,” he told the barman. “Neat. Thank you.”
   The barman nodded and left them be. In the wait for the drink, Mr. McCrea slid the package to him along the counter.
   “Next stop,” he said quietly.
   Airedale picked up the slide, pulling it next to his own elbow.
   “There’s more. I’ll have it at the docks tomorrow,” assured McCrea. “In the evening. Before you go.”
   “Destination?”
   “Port Nichols.”
   Airedale thanked the barman again as he set down a snifter of thick purple-brown liquid. They said no more of the package. McCrea still had not looked at him. After a sip, and a satisfied nod, Mr Airedale asked:
   “Was our Benefactor angry?”
   Mr. McCrea scrunched his nose and shook his head. “Nah. Little annoyed, that’s all. With the captain, of course, not you.” He took a sip of whiskey, thoughtfully. “Where is the old devil, anyway? I notice you’ve been doin’ all the drop-offs lately.”
   “He has been busy,” said Airedale, “and I prefer it that way. Tonight, he is with the crew at the Red Rooster.”
   “Ah, the Rooster. Don’t let me keep you, y’know, if you wanna catch up with them.”
   “Thank you, but, no,” said Airedale. “I would rather not.”
   “Really?” asked McCrea.
   “I prefer a well-spoken woman, and dignified. The Red Rooster offers neither.”
   “Dignified,” mused McCrea. “Well spoken. Hm. Kinda like Miss Bankshead.”
   Mr. Airedale turned a stony look on him. Though his face was rigid and blank, his eyes were dark.
   “A similar type, yes,” he said quietly. Deadly quietly. McCrea smiled into his whiskey.
   “I getcha,” he agreed. “I like a lady that can hold a conversation.” He extended the fingers of his left hand; there was a tarnished gold band on the fourth finger. He smiled and curled it back into a fist. “You know, there are some nice places around here, if you’re lookin’. Not every bar’s the Rooster.”
   “I am not, tonight. Thank you all the same.”
   Mr. McCrea picked up his glass by the rim and tapped the heavy base against Mr. Airedale’s snifter. They rang together.
   “To dignified ladies,” he said, and downed the last swig. Mr. Airedale sipped politely at his liqueur.

Next...

5.3.16

In For A Penny - Part 6

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous 

   Adam and Susan found themselves outside the One-Eyed Gull for the second time that evening. They had tried to enter the establishment with two guardsmen in tow, but the bartender had seen Susan and quickly put a stop to it. One officer minded them outside in the street while the other vanished into the dim depths of the bar. Their chaperone said nothing; he and his partner already had the information they needed. Adam waited in patient silence. Susan fiddled; with her dress, with her fingers, with her hair.
   The other officer returned after a dishearteningly short absence. He gave his partner an entirely noncommittal look, that special coded look that civilians could not read. He cleared his throat and turned to Susan.
   “Miss, the, er, gentleman in question did not seem to know what I was asking about. He said he wasn’t aware of any child aboard his ship.”
   Her fidgeting fists clenched immediately.
   “Liar,” she spat. “You liar!” she shouted at the din of the open door. “Where’s my baby?!”
   Both officers made a move to grab her as she lunged, but Adam caught her first, by the arms.
   “Susan, please,” he murmured. The officers both gave her the coded policeman’s equivalent of a grimace.
   “Miss, we understand you patronized this bar earlier today?” said the investigator.
   “Yes!” she snapped. “I went in there to give that FUCKING LIAR a piece of my mind!”
   “When I spoke to the bartender, miss, he said you’d destroyed his property and assaulted several of his customers?” It was a question, but barely so.
   “So? That man has kidnapped my son! He deserved everything I gave him!”
   “I see. Have you been drinking tonight, miss?”
   “Are you listening?” she shouted at the officer. “My son is being held hostage! My child has been taken from me! Why are you standing here asking me stupid questions? You should be in there getting him back!”
   “Miss, we’ll do our best to investigate,” said the officer calmly, “but we need your cooperation and your patience. If you believe your son to be aboard Captain Weatherdecker’s ship, we’ll need proper warrants to search it. Our job is to uphold the peace. We’re not a cavalry.”
   “This is no time for paperwork!” spat Susan. “They have my baby!”
   “Do you have reason to believe he might be in danger, miss?”
   “They’re pirates! Of course he’s in danger!”
   “Weatherdecker wants money.” Adam cut in over her shoulder. “From me, I mean. He knows I won’t pay if something happens to Damian. The kid won’t be hurt; the debt depends on that.”
   “How are you so sure?!” Susan snapped at him.
   “I know him well enough. He’s stupid, Susan, but he’s not that stupid.”
   The officer cleared his throat, drawing Susan’s glare away from Adam.
   “I can’t promise a miracle,” he said, “but I can promise a full investigation. We’ll put out a cable with the description of your son, and ask everyone to be on the lookout. Every guardhouse in the Moonfalls already has an eye on Captain Weatherdecker, but they’ll use both at our request. In the meantime, we’ll have the paperwork put forth for a search. It’ll take some time - a privately owned vessel requires a lot of back and forth with lawyers - but we’ll go as fast as we can, miss. I promise.”
   She searched. Oh, how she searched for something to get angry about in those words. But, all of a sudden, she felt tired. The rage inside her disappeared like a candle flame in a draughty room. She settled back into Adam’s embrace. His hands tightened on her shoulders.
   “Thank you,” said Adam. “We really appreciate your help.”
   “It’s what we’re here for, sir,” said the officer, with a nod. “Our best isn’t always ideal, but we do it anyway. Now, the both of you should head back to Port Victor. Get some rest, stay safe, and leave things to the professionals.”
   “Go home?” said Susan. “Who’ll follow the ship? What if they get away?”
   “Miss, that is no longer your concern. You’ve done well, but you need to keep your distance. This is now a criminal investigation; we can’t allow civilians to be involved. It’s dangerous, and irresponsible on our part. We’ll be watching them. Don’t worry.”
   “How?” she demanded. “What if they sail out of your jurisdiction? What if they enter international waters?  You have to send a boat after them or—“
   “Susan, I’m sure they have a plan,” said Adam, squeezing her shoulders. “He told you not to worry, right? Let’s go. The sooner we’re on our way, the sooner they can get to work.” He began to guide her down the street.
   “Adam, how can you—“
   “We’re leaving,” he said firmly. He nodded at the guardsmen. “Goodnight, officers. Thank you again for your help.”
   The candle flared up once more, white hot. She was so furious at Adam’s insistence that she temporarily forgot how to speak. She remembered, thankfully, once the officers were out of earshot.
   “What the hell are you talking about, Adam?!” she snapped, pulling out of his grasp. “We can’t just go home! If we let that ship out of our sight, who knows where they’ll go?”
   “I know that, Susan, that’s why we’re not going home,” said Adam quietly. “Who do you take me for? Of course we’re gonna follow them. You just can’t say that in front of the bronze, y’know? Especially after they told you not to.” He took her by the hand. “Let’s get back to the tug.”

   The baby didn’t care much for sardines. Cheeses were fine. Biscuits worked, as long as they were properly mushed up. Mr. Tiller had picked up some fruit in Coraqua; the baby liked that best of all.
   The baby was a boy, as Mr. Tiller discovered at the first diaper change. He had carefully taken apart the puzzle of pins and cotton, and put it back together again clean. He’d picked up a few more of those in Coraqua as well.
   They were well underway to Charleston, the wind at their backs along with Coraqua. Also at their backs was a small, shabby-looking tugboat. Mr. Airedale kept an eye on this as he saw to his correspondences during afternoon tea. He had a book propped in his lap as a makeshift desk.
   A strange squealing noise made him look up from his work. He glanced over his shoulder at the aft deck ladder. A small bobbly head of brown curls was peeking up over the edge.
   “C’mon,” he heard another voice say. “One more!”
   The baby was boosted up over the lip of the deck. It pulled itself to its unsteady feet and started to toddle furiously, to nowhere in particular. Mr. Airedale did not seem to exist in its eyes. It ran in circles, and fell over, and got up again, and ran some more. The limp stuffed tiger in its hand flopped like a flag with each step.
   Mr. Tiller came up the ladder next, keeping a close eye on the baby. He hovered near the precarious edge as he spoke.
   “Mornin’, Mr. Airedale. Hope we’re not disturbin’ you.”
   “Not at all, Mr. Tiller. The company is most welcome.” The baby completed another arc across his field of vision. Though he did not mind terribly, he was reminded why he had avoided having children of his own. While resilient and resourceful, they did look rather foolish. “Lovely to see you again. It has been far too long.”
   “Certainly has,” agreed Tiller. He leaned against the railing. “I’ve been busy with this little tyke.”
   Airedale contemplated the child, currently slapping a baluster repeatedly for no apparent reason.
   “As I can imagine. Has he been behaving himself, Mr. Tiller?”
   “Oh, very much so. He’s a lovely little boy, this one.”
   “I am very glad to hear it. I do feel awful, keeping this mite from his parents, especially so young. But, he has found a friend in you, I see. That makes it a bit more bearable.”
   Tiller beamed proudly. He tried to ruffle the baby’s hair as it ran past, ignoring him completely.
   “Certainly does,” he agreed. Then he gave a little chuckle. “Like havin’ my own little first mate!”
   Mr. Airedale did not return the chuckle, but he smiled curtly.
   “Amusing,” he agreed. That was the closest one could get to a laugh from Timothy Airedale. The baby toddled over to Tiller and demanded to be picked up. Tiller swept him up in his arms like he’d been doing it for years.
   “You don’t have kids, do ya, Airedale?”
   “No,” said Mr. Airedale, after a moment of silence. “No, I do not. I had a brother,” he reflected. “Six years my junior, though he died in infancy.”
   “Oh,” sighed Tiller. “Sorry to hear that.”
   “Inevitable, I am afraid. He fell ill, and would have suffered the effects for the rest of his life. It was a mercy, really.” He paused to take a sip of tea, staring at the sloshing ocean. “Other than that brief interlude, I have not spent much time around children.”
   Mr. Tiller was about to respond when the boy suddenly wrenched his arm loose from Tiller’s chest, pointing urgently at the eastern horizon.
   “Wa!” he shouted.
  “Yeah, yeah,” assured Tiller. “Lots of it out there, little guy.”
   “Wa!” insisted Damian.
   Mr. Airedale twisted around in his chair, to see what all the shouting was about. He set down his teacup and stood, slowly. A sudden smile had taken his features.
   “That is the boy’s word for ‘water’, is it?”
   “Yeah. He can only do one bit at a time. Still a baby, really.”
   “Wa!”
   “We know, little guy! Lotsa water.” Tiller guided the boy’s arm away from the sea. “Mr. Airedale an’ I were talkin’, eh? Don’t interrupt,” he said sternly.
   “Why, he was not interrupting at all, Mr. Tiller. Perhaps you should have a look where he was pointing.”
   The boatswain turned slowly, and froze. Huge black stormclouds had gathered to the east. Though distant for now, the wind was a near guarantee that the ship would be set upon soon.
   “Storm!” came the holler from the crow’s nest. “Storm brewin’ east! Batten down!”
   “It seems your first mate is quite the seasoned sailor, Mr. Tiller. Perhaps we will have a crewman of him yet.” He bowed his head as he moved past them to the ladder. “If you will excuse me, I believe we have some maneuvers to run.”

   Susan stood at the bow of the SS Cartleblat, her hands tight on the railing. She didn’t look up, even as the rain started to fall. Even as the sky darkened and the wind began to bite, she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the ship ahead.
   The wind whistling in her ears grew louder as the tug’s engines started to fade. Startled, she looked back at the bridge. Adam was busy at the controls, ignoring her completely. The hull started to drag against the waves, slowing, drifting sideways.
   Susan ran down the deck, now slick with rain, and charged up the bridge ladder. She busted down the door with some help from the ever-rising wind.
   “What’s wrong?” she demanded.
   “This storm is getting ready to let loose,” Adam said firmly. He pulled a lever on the console, and the tug started to turn in place. “We have to get to a port. St. Ander’s is only a few minutes away at full steam.”
   “What?” she snapped. “Adam, we have to keep going. We can’t lose them now!”
   “We don’t have a choice, Susan.”
   “Why not?!” she barked. “Adam, you can’t do this. You said we would follow them!”
   “I said that BEFORE the hurricane started, Susan! I don’t have time to argue about this because I’d rather live!” He readjusted the lever, and the tug began to grind forward through the wild waves. The sky outside was nearly black, now. The windows of the pilothouse were rattling in the gale. Susan took a deep, calming breath.
   “If they can sail through—“ she began.
   “They have a galleon. WE have a sardine can. We’ll be lucky if the wind doesn’t tear off the roof!”
   “But—“
   “Which is it, Susan?” snapped Adam. “You wanna risk losing them, or you wanna risk your life?”
   She thought about arguing, and then she thought of the children at the home. The poor little things whose parents had died at sea.

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