feeling we'll have a good wind and calm seas all the way to Santa Barbara.
"McKinnon nodded. This time the helmsman didn't tap his knuckles on the wood of the wheel—Captain Quinn's hunches had earned his respect.
Jordan's experienced gaze swept up along the rigging and across the sails as he walked to the rail. Putting his foot on a deck cleat, he looked back at the foaming wake of the Kerry Dancer . To the east fishing boats clustered near shore, and in the distance he saw the purple peaks of the Andes. The city of Valparaiso was a receding shimmer of white to the south. He couldn't see the Yankee .
"Probably if you got close up," McKinnon said as though he had followed his captain's thoughts, "you'd find your blond lass had the scars of the smallpox."
"Worse, she's undoubtedly a shrew. I could tell by the cut of her that she has a mind of her own. Give me a senorita any day."
As he looked across the sun-glittered sea, in his mind's eye Jordan pictured the girl on the Yankee. Tall for a woman, slim but generously fashioned—the wind had shown him that, blowing her gown against her body. Hair the color of a new-minted gold piece. Her eyes, he knew, must be as blue as the Caribbean. Suddenly he had a feeling—a premonition, a hunch, call it what you will. He knew, as surely as he had ever known anything in his life, that he would see her again. And soon.
CHAPTER TWO
`
Able Seaman Peters was on his knees swabbing down the deck as the Flying Yankee , three days out of Valparaiso, sailed north before a strong southwesterly wind. Sam Peters moved sluggishly, stopping often to rest.
"Get the lead out of your ass, sailor!” the bosun shouted.
Sam nodded and doggedly returned to his work. All at once he dropped his brush, staggered to the rail and vomited over the side. He leaned on the rail, retching.
"Peters!" It was the mate. "Haven't got your sea legs yet?"
Sam shook his head. Amos Malloy took the seaman by the shoulders and turned him so he could see his face. Peters looked wretched, shivering and hunched over. The mate frowned.
"How be you?" he asked, not unkindly.
Peters took a gulping breath of air. "My bowels feel like the hand of God's twisting them."
"Best go below," Malloy told him.
Sam turned and began weaving his way toward the forecastle.
"Wait," Malloy ordered. "Not to your bunk—take the one fore of the galley. Best to keep away from the others, whatever it is you have. I'll see you get a good dose of laudanum."
Sam Peters looked fearfully at the mate. "My bowels are loose, too, sir. What do you reckon it might be?"
"You had shore leave in Valparaiso?"
"That I did, sir."
"No doubt something you ate. Don't worry, you'll be good as new by tomorrow's sunrise."
Sam nodded and, one hand clutching his belly, shuffled to the ladder. As soon as he was out of sight, the mate strode aft, hurried down the companionway and knocked on the paneled door at the bottom.
Captain Bradford opened the door and motioned the mate into his cabin.
"It's Seaman Peters, sir," Malloy said. "He's come down with the cholera."
The captain's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure, Mr. Mate?"
Malloy described the symptoms.
"Aye," the captain said heavily. "Nine chances out of ten it's the cholera. I'll see that Alitha gives him laudanum and brandy. After that, he's in God's hands."
"Do you think that's wise, sir?"
"I don't follow your tack, Mr. Malloy." The captain drummed his fingers on the table. "Laudanum and brandy are the best remedies for cholera. Are you questioning my judgment, mister?"
"No, sir. Not at all, sir." Malloy shifted his feet. He couldn't help recalling the ancient law of the sea: The crew reports to the mate, the mate to the captain, and the captain to God. "Not the treatment, sir, I didn't mean that. I was thinking of your sending Miss Alitha to nurse the man. After all, we don't know how cholera is passed along."
"Don't say 'we don't know,' Mr. Malloy. Because you may not know the
"McKinnon nodded. This time the helmsman didn't tap his knuckles on the wood of the wheel—Captain Quinn's hunches had earned his respect.
Jordan's experienced gaze swept up along the rigging and across the sails as he walked to the rail. Putting his foot on a deck cleat, he looked back at the foaming wake of the Kerry Dancer . To the east fishing boats clustered near shore, and in the distance he saw the purple peaks of the Andes. The city of Valparaiso was a receding shimmer of white to the south. He couldn't see the Yankee .
"Probably if you got close up," McKinnon said as though he had followed his captain's thoughts, "you'd find your blond lass had the scars of the smallpox."
"Worse, she's undoubtedly a shrew. I could tell by the cut of her that she has a mind of her own. Give me a senorita any day."
As he looked across the sun-glittered sea, in his mind's eye Jordan pictured the girl on the Yankee. Tall for a woman, slim but generously fashioned—the wind had shown him that, blowing her gown against her body. Hair the color of a new-minted gold piece. Her eyes, he knew, must be as blue as the Caribbean. Suddenly he had a feeling—a premonition, a hunch, call it what you will. He knew, as surely as he had ever known anything in his life, that he would see her again. And soon.
CHAPTER TWO
`
Able Seaman Peters was on his knees swabbing down the deck as the Flying Yankee , three days out of Valparaiso, sailed north before a strong southwesterly wind. Sam Peters moved sluggishly, stopping often to rest.
"Get the lead out of your ass, sailor!” the bosun shouted.
Sam nodded and doggedly returned to his work. All at once he dropped his brush, staggered to the rail and vomited over the side. He leaned on the rail, retching.
"Peters!" It was the mate. "Haven't got your sea legs yet?"
Sam shook his head. Amos Malloy took the seaman by the shoulders and turned him so he could see his face. Peters looked wretched, shivering and hunched over. The mate frowned.
"How be you?" he asked, not unkindly.
Peters took a gulping breath of air. "My bowels feel like the hand of God's twisting them."
"Best go below," Malloy told him.
Sam turned and began weaving his way toward the forecastle.
"Wait," Malloy ordered. "Not to your bunk—take the one fore of the galley. Best to keep away from the others, whatever it is you have. I'll see you get a good dose of laudanum."
Sam Peters looked fearfully at the mate. "My bowels are loose, too, sir. What do you reckon it might be?"
"You had shore leave in Valparaiso?"
"That I did, sir."
"No doubt something you ate. Don't worry, you'll be good as new by tomorrow's sunrise."
Sam nodded and, one hand clutching his belly, shuffled to the ladder. As soon as he was out of sight, the mate strode aft, hurried down the companionway and knocked on the paneled door at the bottom.
Captain Bradford opened the door and motioned the mate into his cabin.
"It's Seaman Peters, sir," Malloy said. "He's come down with the cholera."
The captain's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure, Mr. Mate?"
Malloy described the symptoms.
"Aye," the captain said heavily. "Nine chances out of ten it's the cholera. I'll see that Alitha gives him laudanum and brandy. After that, he's in God's hands."
"Do you think that's wise, sir?"
"I don't follow your tack, Mr. Malloy." The captain drummed his fingers on the table. "Laudanum and brandy are the best remedies for cholera. Are you questioning my judgment, mister?"
"No, sir. Not at all, sir." Malloy shifted his feet. He couldn't help recalling the ancient law of the sea: The crew reports to the mate, the mate to the captain, and the captain to God. "Not the treatment, sir, I didn't mean that. I was thinking of your sending Miss Alitha to nurse the man. After all, we don't know how cholera is passed along."
"Don't say 'we don't know,' Mr. Malloy. Because you may not know the
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