they crossed the deck to the ladder and the waiting ship's boat.
As they were being rowed to the wharf, Alitha glanced behind her toward the Pacific. The fog had risen, and in the distance she saw the Kerry Dancer under full sail.
"Jordan Quinn," she said half-aloud.
"I beg your pardon," her father said.
"Nothing, father. I'm just daydreaming again."
Jordan Quinn. She repeated the name to herself, liking the sound. I don't know when, Jordan Quinn, she thought, and I don't know where, Jordan Quinn, but one day we'll meet, you and I.
The compass read north by northwest. Captain Quinn nodded with satisfaction.
"Steady as she goes," he ordered the helmsman. Already he could feel the well-remembered surge of the ocean beneath his ship.
"Aye aye, sir," Jack McKinnon said.
"Ah, and wasn't she a beauty, Mr. McKinnon? Have you ever seen her like before?"
"The Flying Yankee's been the pride of the Beachum Yards ever since she was launched."
"You know as well as you know port from starboard that I wasn't referring to the ship."
"Might you mean the lass who waved to you from the rail then? The bonny lass with the long golden hair?"
"You know damn well I mean the lass. Did you ever see such a beauty in all your days?"
"A likely looking wench, I'll admit, but not one for me nor for you, either. Myself a happily married man and you about to join our fraternity. In another two months or sooner if this wind holds." He tapped his knuckles on the king-spoke of the wheel.
"A bit of dreaming never harmed a man."
"In another year," McKinnon went on, "if I know the ways of these senoritas, your new bride'll have you living ashore, a Californio like the rest of them, complete with a rancho, herds of cattle and all."
"You're mistaken, Mr. McKinnon. I'll never leave the sea, not for long, certainly not for any woman. My father always said if they sliced into a Quinn's veins they'd find a generous portion of salt water mixed with the blood. When my time comes, I'd like to go as he did, struck down on the deck of a frigate trading cannon shot with a Limey man-o'-war."
"You may have your wish, Captain. These are troubled times."
Jordan smiled. "All times are troubled, Mr. McKinnon, to the men who have to live through them. It's only later we forget the bad and remember the good."
"Aye, there's truth in what you say. You'll have to write that in your journal."
Jordan tensed, ready to lash back at McKinnon with angry words. Though he knew his journal was no secret, he didn't like having it mentioned. At sea being labeled a literary man was a sign of weakness, even in a captain. Jordan checked himself, though. McKinnon's words had been lightly said--the man meant no harm. Jordan prided himself on running a good ship and knew men were eager to sign aboard the Kerry Dancer . He didn't want that to change. He said nothing.
Jordan broke a long silence. "You're right enough about the times," he said. "No sooner is the war with England won than we're on the verge of another with Spain over Florida. Not that the Spaniards don't have enough on their hands with revolutions up and down the length of South America. And in Mexico. The consul in Valparaiso even passed on a report of pirates off Acapulco."
"Pirates? In the Pacific? I thought Lafitte and his crew kept to the Caribbean."
"These buccaneers claim to be patriots fighting for their freedom from Spain. According to Burns, they're led by a renegade Frenchman named Bouchard who's set himself up as an admiral in the navy of the Republic of Buenos Aires, whatever in the name of God that might be."
"Pirates ahead of us and pestilence behind," McKinnon said,
"Pestilence?"
"Last night while I was enjoying a drop of rum, I heard whispers of cholera in the city. The alcalde isn't admitting it, of course, but I was told a hundred or more have died since last February."
"I'd rather face pirates than the plague," Jordan said. "Not that we'll have to face either. We keep a spruce ship and I have a
As they were being rowed to the wharf, Alitha glanced behind her toward the Pacific. The fog had risen, and in the distance she saw the Kerry Dancer under full sail.
"Jordan Quinn," she said half-aloud.
"I beg your pardon," her father said.
"Nothing, father. I'm just daydreaming again."
Jordan Quinn. She repeated the name to herself, liking the sound. I don't know when, Jordan Quinn, she thought, and I don't know where, Jordan Quinn, but one day we'll meet, you and I.
The compass read north by northwest. Captain Quinn nodded with satisfaction.
"Steady as she goes," he ordered the helmsman. Already he could feel the well-remembered surge of the ocean beneath his ship.
"Aye aye, sir," Jack McKinnon said.
"Ah, and wasn't she a beauty, Mr. McKinnon? Have you ever seen her like before?"
"The Flying Yankee's been the pride of the Beachum Yards ever since she was launched."
"You know as well as you know port from starboard that I wasn't referring to the ship."
"Might you mean the lass who waved to you from the rail then? The bonny lass with the long golden hair?"
"You know damn well I mean the lass. Did you ever see such a beauty in all your days?"
"A likely looking wench, I'll admit, but not one for me nor for you, either. Myself a happily married man and you about to join our fraternity. In another two months or sooner if this wind holds." He tapped his knuckles on the king-spoke of the wheel.
"A bit of dreaming never harmed a man."
"In another year," McKinnon went on, "if I know the ways of these senoritas, your new bride'll have you living ashore, a Californio like the rest of them, complete with a rancho, herds of cattle and all."
"You're mistaken, Mr. McKinnon. I'll never leave the sea, not for long, certainly not for any woman. My father always said if they sliced into a Quinn's veins they'd find a generous portion of salt water mixed with the blood. When my time comes, I'd like to go as he did, struck down on the deck of a frigate trading cannon shot with a Limey man-o'-war."
"You may have your wish, Captain. These are troubled times."
Jordan smiled. "All times are troubled, Mr. McKinnon, to the men who have to live through them. It's only later we forget the bad and remember the good."
"Aye, there's truth in what you say. You'll have to write that in your journal."
Jordan tensed, ready to lash back at McKinnon with angry words. Though he knew his journal was no secret, he didn't like having it mentioned. At sea being labeled a literary man was a sign of weakness, even in a captain. Jordan checked himself, though. McKinnon's words had been lightly said--the man meant no harm. Jordan prided himself on running a good ship and knew men were eager to sign aboard the Kerry Dancer . He didn't want that to change. He said nothing.
Jordan broke a long silence. "You're right enough about the times," he said. "No sooner is the war with England won than we're on the verge of another with Spain over Florida. Not that the Spaniards don't have enough on their hands with revolutions up and down the length of South America. And in Mexico. The consul in Valparaiso even passed on a report of pirates off Acapulco."
"Pirates? In the Pacific? I thought Lafitte and his crew kept to the Caribbean."
"These buccaneers claim to be patriots fighting for their freedom from Spain. According to Burns, they're led by a renegade Frenchman named Bouchard who's set himself up as an admiral in the navy of the Republic of Buenos Aires, whatever in the name of God that might be."
"Pirates ahead of us and pestilence behind," McKinnon said,
"Pestilence?"
"Last night while I was enjoying a drop of rum, I heard whispers of cholera in the city. The alcalde isn't admitting it, of course, but I was told a hundred or more have died since last February."
"I'd rather face pirates than the plague," Jordan said. "Not that we'll have to face either. We keep a spruce ship and I have a
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