By The Sea, Book Three: Laura Read online

  In a voice goaded into combat, his mother interrupted.

  "Our son, our boat. Half of this boat is mine, paid for fair and square. You accepted my inheritance easily enough—"

  "And the reason your brothers bought out your share of the farm is clear as rain to me: you're like a mare that won't train to harness, a boat with fierce weather helm. You won't be steered nohow!"

  "Why should I be steered? I've paid my half, in money and in sweat. Why can't I make a decision once in a while? You didn't ask me whether you could sign on as one of Mr. Vanderbilt's 'black gang'—you just went and did it, because we needed the money and because you knew it would be exciting for you. And I understand that; that's what life is all about. Well, my motives are exactly, exactly the same. There's no difference."

  Neil heard a fist come down on wood. "There is a difference—you could lose the boat!"

  "The boat can take it, we both know that."

  "It can't take a hurricane, and we're in the thick of the season for 'em."

  "We won't sail offshore; we'll follow the coast down—"

  "Who 'we'? You, my brother, and the boy? Don't make me laugh."

  "I ... I've lined up a first mate; he's sailed around the world on a three-master, and he comes highly recommended, and he's a mechanical genius—"

  Neil sat up in his berth. His mother never told him about any geniuses.

  "Hold on, now," said his father in the voice that Neil dreaded. "You mean to say you've already taken on a crewman?"

  "No, of course not. I'm just trying to see what's out there."

  "There's nothing out there!" his father shouted. "Just a lot of water! No jobs, no future, no money! Get it through your head!"

  Neil held his breath during the long, deadly pause that followed. Then he heard something slap on the table and slide across it. His mother's voice was calm but very clear, the voice of triumph: "There may not be a future, but there is a job, and there's definitely money. Open it."

  Neil heard his father fumble with the wrapping. "Holy—!" he said. "How much is in here?"

  "A thousand dollars. There's another two thousand waiting for us in Pineapple Cay when we deliver."

  "Deliver what? The King of England? No one pays that kind of money for a few hundred board-feet of lumber and some sinks and toilets."

  "I don't know and at this point I don't care. Do you?"

  There was silence.

  "I haven't spent a penny of it," his mother continued, "because I've been waiting to hear what you had to say."

  After a little pause his father said, "What can I say?"

  After that Neil couldn't make out anything, only low murmurs and a kind of nervous excitement. And after that he heard nothing at all, so they must have gone into their sleeping cabin.

  For a long, long time he did not sleep but lay in his berth, listening, thinking; excited and afraid.

  Chapter 7

  The deal that Sam and Laura struck was this: Laura obviously would not leave until the Rainbow had been officially chosen to defend the America's Cup (the racing so far was very even; nothing was certain). Then, if Sam could not sail with her, he had the right to look over the first mate and decide for himself if he was competent. Laura had to promise to reduce sail every night and under no circumstances to press the boat to its optimum, day or night. If she discovered anything fishy and illegal during the course of loading the cargo in Connecticut, the delivery was to be called off (and with any luck the deposit held onto).

  Laura was ecstatic, but Sam went back to the Rainbow's crew quarters aboard the depot-boat in Brenton Cove that night profoundly troubled. In the space of an hour his wife had dragged him through an emotional wringer: she'd angered him, frightened him, threatened him, tempted him, and just plain dazzled his pants off. She was too damn smart by half, and too quick to change moods; he was always a step behind her, and that put him at a loss when they didn't see eye to eye.

  And she was too damn beautiful, he decided, moving his great bulk through the drunks and hookers on lower Thames Street. She was sexier than any tart, but in a wholesome kind of way. He supposed that was how they were made in the Midwest. Suddenly he laughed out loud, causing passers-by to turn and stare. What would Laura say if she knew that he'd never had another woman since the day he'd first set eyes on her? She wouldn't believe him, naturally; he'd taken care of that, with all his bragging and innuendo.

  He felt a surge again just thinking of her.

  But he was old, old, old. Compared to her—God, her energy—he was old. He could see sixty not so far away and beyond that, death. Well, he'd accepted that. Everything ends. It was unseemly to struggle against it like a rabbit in a trap. It just made everything hurt more. He planned to go down at sea, and when he did he hoped he would do it with dignity.

  Besides, he'd had a good life, starting with his early years on the Gloucester fishing schooners, racing home from the Grand Banks with the day's catch. How many years ago? Too many. And now the age of working sail was over—except for the Virginia, slogging away toward the mid-century mark. And he was in command.

  Almost in command. Why did the girl always want to stick in her two cents? Didn't she understand that one yea and one nay equaled a tie? That there can only be one captain on any vessel? Ah ... but he'd given up his command, hadn't he, for the summer. Jumped ship, so to speak.

  And even he didn't know why. Flattery was part of it; he'd pumped up like a puffer-fish when Vanderbilt made the offer. Money, of course, was part of it; they had none. But there was more, something he found impossible to put into words for Laura. It had to do with living on the edge, pushing himself and a boat to the brink. He didn't dare risk his beloved Virginia. But somewhere, in a dusty, forgotten part of his soul, was a need to see if he could excel.

  Harold Vanderbilt's Rainbow was his ticket to that knowledge. The competition so far had been fierce, beyond his wildest dreams. Vanderbilt and the Rainbow crew were a real team of real men, with none of the ego problems he had expected to find. All eyes were on their goal: a big, homely silver pitcher with no bottom that he'd only seen in pictures. There was something about losing himself in a common quest that was humbling, that was unique. He couldn't give it up now.

  But the experience cost him: everything in the world he valued might be leaving in the next few days, and wouldn't be back for six weeks or more.

  ****

  Colin Durant traveled light: he showed up for the job on September 2 with a duffle bag of olive drab slung over one shoulder and a pair of rubber sea-boots and a set of oilskins under his other arm. He was wearing a wool navy blue watch cap, and when Laura expressed surprise that he'd wear such a warm garment in the heat, he said, "You sail your way; I'll sail mine." He hadn't bothered to shave or to change into clean clothes.

  All things considered, Laura would have crossed the street to avoid him if she came upon him after dark. Colin Durant seemed more surly than before; or maybe she'd begun in her own mind to believe the lies she'd told Sam about him. Surly or not, he was the most qualified man she'd interviewed, and Sam himself had said he'd do. In any case, Laura had no choice. The Rainbow had indeed been selected to defend the America's Cup. In the last week she beat her rival Yankee by one second.

  One second had made the critical difference in Laura's life.

  Laura led the Virginia's new first mate belowdecks, through the cargo hold and forward to the cramped forecastle, where Neil and Billy had cleared away their belongings to free up a pipe berth for him. The bunk was the least comfortable of the crew berths. To Laura the entire forecastle looked suddenly shabby and austere, despite her efforts over the years to make it pleasant for Neil. The underside of the decks was peeling, and the cabin smelled dank and confined. How had she never noticed it before?

  "I think I warned you that we're not a yacht," she said, ashamed of her Virginia for perhaps the first time.

  "You've never been in the crew's quarters of a 'yacht,' I take it," he said, ducking to go for
ward and slinging his duffel onto the empty pipe berth. "There's not much difference." He turned and caught Laura peeling away a long strip of paint from overhead.

  She smiled nervously and dropped the strip into her pocket. "A woman's work is never done," she quipped.

  "How do you want me to address you?" he asked bluntly. "Captain? Cap? Skipper? Skip?"

  "'Laura will do fine," she said, annoyed by his detachment. "We don't stand on formality around here. If we did," she murmured, turning away from him and leading the way aft, "I'd have given you the best berth."

  Back on deck they found Neil, who'd just returned from the chandlery with a replacement shackle for the boat. Laura introduced the two, and Durant stuck out his hand.

  "Pleased to meet you, mate."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Durant."

  "I hear we don't stand on ceremony around here. Call me Colin."

  Neil stared. "Colin?" Neil didn't know any Colins in real life. "Are you from the U.S.?"

  Durant glanced at Neil's mother with an ironic smile. "Depends on who you talk to. Hey, pal, how about showing me where to stow my gear?"

  Before Laura could object, Durant and her son had disappeared below. Just like that. It was obvious to her that for all his experience, Colin Durant did not care a bee's stripes about authority on board a ship. It was implicit in his tone, his smile, the arbitrary way he had just about-faced. Had she said she was going to show him the mechanics on deck, or not?

  Laura gave them five minutes, then went below after them.

  She found them in the forecastle again. Neil was looking transported with excitement as Colin, his face animated, was telling what appeared to be a fish story of some kind. There was no excuse for the boy's look of enthrallment. He'd seen whales breaching and dolphins gamboling around the bow of the Virginia; what fish could possibly beat that?

  "Mama! You'll never guess! Colin caught a great white shark when he was sailing off Western Australia! It was eating a seal and he shot it with a 30-30, and it swam away, but in a little while it came back for the seal, so he shot it again—"

  "Mr. Durant sounds a little bored with life," Laura interrupted, wondering at the wide-eyed look in her son.

  "—and again and again," the boy finished breathlessly. "Finally, after he emptied all his rounds into it they gaffed it aboard, but it still wasn't dead! It thrashed and thrashed and nearly took out the mizzenmast and did all kinds of damage before it died. And look at this!" he said gleefully. "It's a ditty bag made of shagreen. That's what they call sharkskin." He whipped the bag from Durant's berth and held it out to his mother. "Feel it, Mama. Feel how sharp it is!"

  She humored him, touched it, found it repulsive. "Since when are you so fond of sharks?" she asked with little amusement. "I seem to remember you thought they were terrifying."

  "Oh, Mama," he replied, embarrassed. "I was just a boy then." His last sighting had been a month ago.

  "Well, who knows?" said Laura, aware that her son seemed to have grown up since she saw him on deck a few minutes ago. "Maybe we'll get to see a beautiful seal being torn to shreds by a ferocious shark." She shot a look of reproof at Durant. "With any luck."

  Immediately she felt the air chill and Neil withdraw, which made her sorry. It wasn't fair to take it out on a boy of eight. She tried to lighten up a little. "So. Have you straightened out who stows what where?"

  "Oh sure. That was easy," said Neil. "I wasn't using the top drawer anyway."

  Laura saw that the once-empty bottom drawer—which stuck and sometimes collected water from deck leaks—now had a few of Neil's things in it. It was petty to resent Durant for having accepted Neil's little offering, but resent him she did.

  "I hope you didn't tell Mr. Durant that you're not using your berth to sleep in, honey," she said, with a smile that she hoped would pass for friendly.

  Why she expected that to make Durant give up the drawer, she had no idea. He didn't, of course, but merely smiled and said, "Thanks, mate. I'm getting a little stiff to be crawling around on all fours."

  What a selfish man.

  "It's time for lunch," she said without looking at either one of the conspirators, and left.

  By the time all of them gathered around the table for a meal of boiled cabbage and potatoes, Laura had composed herself. She was aware of two things: that the balance of power had suddenly shifted aboard the Virginia, and that as a result she was acting irrationally. She prided herself on being mathematical. At the moment it was one of her against two of them, with Billy's loyalties unaccounted for.

  She wanted Neil back in her corner. "Good. You remembered to wash your hands," she said to her son by way of a rebuke to Durant, who hadn't bothered much about his.

  "Oh, Mama," chided Neil, pinking up to the roots of his sandy blond hair and glaring at her with a look that said, if you can't think of anything but motherly things to say, please say nothing at all.

  Foiled, Laura decided to take a shot at being captain. "Mr. Durant, I'd like you to look at the donkey-engine after lunch. Billy got it to run, but it doesn't sound right."

  "Can you be more specific?" Durant asked politely. He'd taken off his watch cap for lunch, and his black hair tumbled in curls over his forehead.

  Distracting her. "It sounds ... odd," she explained vaguely. "It goes pitter-pitter instead of thump-thump. Sometimes it dies, when you least expect it to."

  "Pitter, not thump," Durant said, barely suppressing a smile. "All right. I'll look at it."

  Billy watched the exchange in silence as he shoveled his mouth full of cabbage. He rarely had space for words at mealtime.

  Neil, on the other hand, had scarcely touched his food. His eyes—wide-set, piercing blue, the eyes of his father—were focused firmly on the new guest at the table. "My dad got that donkey-engine for nothing, you know, Colin. He traded some hootch we ran bootleg last year," he confided eagerly.

  "Neil! For pity's sake!" said his mother. So he'd known exactly what they'd been doing, after all. Seven years old.

  Durant looked across the table at the boy and said blandly, "I' m sorry, mate, I didn't catch that. Come again?"

  "Can we move on to the business at hand?" demanded Laura, and she proceeded to outline the workload for the rest of the day, shifting the burden of cleaning the galley trap from Billy's shoulders to Neil's. She was piqued.

  By evening Durant had got the donkey-engine purring like a suckling cub and the windlass to repent and stop slipping its gears. Laura, a farm woman at heart when it came to provisions, had stowed food enough to take them down to Rio and back. Neil, who'd spent the day working (and chafing) belowdecks under his mother's watchful eye, had picked over every last spud for growths, separating the wrinkled ones from the fresh, and had greased every egg with petroleum jelly. Billy had scrubbed out the inside of the new water barrel with baking soda and had through-bolted its mounting pads. They were ready.

  When Laura came up on deck, soaked through with perspiration, it was to see Colin Durant high up in the rigging, climbing up each ratline in turn and—to her breathless horror—jumping up and down as hard as he could on each one. Without thinking she cupped her hands and yelled, "Are you crazy? Get down from there!"

  Considering that he wasn't familiar with the rigging, his descent was impressively fast. He landed like a cat in front of her, and she hissed, "Skylarking is one thing, but that bordered on vandalism!"

  "That bordered on common sense," he corrected her. "I'm not about to trust my life to ratlines I haven't tested."

  "He's right, Mama," chipped in Neil. "How is he to know they're safe?"

  Laura retreated, chastised. Colin Durant had won another round.

  ****

  The next morning was filled with the craziness that preceded any passage. Last-minute stowing, frantic trips to the chandlery, short tempers and misunderstandings—the mood and tempo aboard the Virginia were about par for the course. When at last she gave the order to Billy and Durant to hoist the mainsail, Laura's heart was leapfrog
ging over her ribs from the adrenaline rush. This was it, her first command; pray God she distinguish herself.

  Billy jumped into the yawl-boat to ease the Virginia away from the dock; Durant threw off the bow line while Billy began pushing the bow slowly toward the channel. Then the stern line was handed over to Neil, who staggered under its weight but managed to bring it aboard. Durant jumped back aboard, and by the time the Virginia was clear of the dock he was hoisting the foresail, his arms bulging from the effort. Billy brought the yawl-boat around to the stern to nudge the old girl along; there was little wind.

  Once they cleared the inner harbor, Laura began to relax. So far, so good. Little sailing yachts scattered in their path like so many toys; they knew and respected the real thing when they saw it. Billy climbed aboard, and he and Durant hoisted the yawl-boat on her davits. Next stop: New London. Laura was feeling relieved enough, and mellow enough, to offer a "well done all around" to her crew. When her eyes met Durant's she did not try to conceal the warm regard that she felt; he had done his job well and she was fair-minded enough to admit it.

  Billy brought up the last of the morning's coffee. Durant declined, but Laura hadn't had any, so she let Durant have the helm while she enjoyed a cup and savored the morning. "I think you'll find that the boat is well-balanced. I've never had any trouble handling the wheel," she said to Durant, smiling with pleasure because she knew it was so. She noticed that he wasn't wearing his watch cap, and she wanted to ask him why.

  He nudged the schooner up into the wind until her sails began to luff, then fell off a little, feeling his way through her course. "Feels good. Feels right," he said, his voice low with satisfaction. "It's been a while."

  "When were you last behind a wheel?" she asked, curious.

  Instead of when, he answered where. "The Red Sea, I guess."

  "You've sailed on the Red Sea?" she said, amazed. "Where haven't you sailed?"

  He thought about it. "Great Salt Lake," he replied at last.

  He was looking out for a string of lobster pots buoyed in the bay, and she had a chance to study him as the boat lifted and fell to the filling breeze. As usual, she didn't know whether he was lying through his teeth or not. He looked like a liar. Maybe it was the stubbled beard; maybe it was the restless eyes. There was something about him that she'd never seen in Minnesota, or even out East. She wondered whether he was running from the police.