Very early on, it became apparent that Merlin Herne had no appetite. He picked at the bread, taking a pinch here and there and bringing it to his mouth, only to have to respond with a word or phrase to the conversation that Jared almost single-handedly kept alive. I participated with as much eagerness as I could muster. After being introduced to the very idea of several diverse sexual practices and deviations, even the most dramatic accounts of running a huge plantation such as Avalon seemed pale and trivial.
Once I noticed the ever increasing pile of broken and pinched bread, I snatched at the chance to bring the elder Herne into the conversation. "Both the bread and the soup are most excellent, Mr. Herne. Won't you have any?"
Jared affected a stricken look, as if I had violated some etiquette that only he was aware of. Merlin, however, met my eyes with a wry and sly cast to his features. "I'm afraid that between visitation to the survivors and my visits to the widows of those who died in our employ, I have no stomach for food. If the worst that should happen to me is an empty stomach rousting me in the middle of the night from my warm bed, then so be it; I shan't complain."
Jared and Merlin shared a chuckle over this, and I agreed heartily. "But, what is it exactly that occurred? In the dispatch I received, there were no mention of death involved with the destruction of The White Lady. Your nephew mentioned plague, and the burning of a plague ship I could understand somewhat; sailors and roustabouts being somewhat severe in their reactions. Yet my initial impression, was of a disagreement over which man received the bribes and how much. Not to imply that there was anything in the way of contraband on the ship, but such... arrangements are not uncommon and often an honest man is forced to comply with such outrageousness in the name of efficiency."
Uncle and nephew exchanged looks before Merlin spoke, once again wryly, "You speak like a solicitor, Penrod. Very well said."
My host paused and, with a thoughtful look, withdrew a silver flask from his jacket. He took a deep pull from the canisters before slipping it back into his jacket. With a start, he seemed to realize he'd committed some sort of social faux pox and dipped back into his jacket for the flask. Apologetically, he offered it to me but I declined graciously, indicating my still full glass of red wine.
"I'm sorry, I have never lost a ship docked in its own berth before." He held the flask in his nephew's general direction, but Jared also passed politely on the offer. "It is a decidedly odd emotion. On the one hand, never have I had the chance to so easily salvage lost cargo, and much of it is salvageable, you'll be happy to know.
"On the other hand, the more I discover about the events surrounding the wreck of The White Lady, the more I wish it had been lost, inexplicitly, at sea."
"If nothing else," the young man noted pragmatically, "Lloyd's of London would be much quicker to pay for a ship that vanished without a trace."
The elder Herne nodded knowingly. "If I were in their shoes, I would be curious about so strange a set of circumstances."
Merlin Herne, over the course of the evening, explained what he had learned over the course of the day, and went about painting the scene for us.
It was the sixth day of the month, as I had been told in the first dispatch, that the White Lady approached that dock without following the usual protocols. This was not unusual, for the Herne family fortune was largely responsible for the docks themselves and with Calders Bay in general. Regulations about such things tended to be a casual affair in this port. The harbormaster himself had no complaints.
However, by some cosmic coincidence, a British Naval frigate that had dropped anchor in the harbor one day prior for an unscheduled bit of shore leave. H.M.S. Diomead had, of course followed protocol to the letter, and for no other reason that the Hernes or I could think of, her captain got his bunghole in a uproar over what he thought of as highly suspect behavior.
With a few of his own men not enjoying the port's hospitality supplemented by the several strong-arms the Harbormaster was harried to call upon, Captain Darcy was there to meet The White Lady as it's hull bumped to a rest against the pier it called home.
All present on the dock attest to odd pall that seemed cast upon the sailors above deck. Where there should have been relief in the faces of men returned safely from sea, there were only dark looks or wild, furtive glances. No one answered their hails, despite being but a few feet away.
When the gang plank was lowered, Darcy had his men kick it away while he, himself, made a show of sighting the crew with his pistol. They ignored him even as he demanded to speak with Captain Reginald Dean, whom the harbormaster assured him was the captain of the vessel. His patience at an end, the Brittish officer fired into the air, over the head of the nearest man.
The mariner merely looked blankly at Darcy for a moment before shambling off below decks.
A few moments later, a tall man appeared from the Captain's cabin. "I am Captain Reggie Dean," he announced from the main deck. "I understand you are asking for permission to board my ship. Let me set my gangplank that I might grant you permission to do so."
In contrast to his men, this fellow was as neatly dressed in his dark oilskin jacket as Captain Darcy was in his Royal Naval uniform. His eyes were sharp and focused and his smile was most disarming.
However, he was not Captain Dean, and the harbormaster informed Captain Darcy of this in voice perhaps louder than prudent. By this time, the pier had become crowded with milling roustabouts ready to earn some coin, for the task of unloading ships is the bread and butter of the lower class of Calders Bay. A palpable undercurrent of tension had already been building amongst the colonists who knew they would retire hungry or sober if the ship was turned away.
Captain Darcy had no experience in dealing with Virginian Colonists who very much saw him as a meddling busybody and a foreigner at that. He had, he might not have let himself into such an untenable position. He had but a moment to reflect upon the threat before him as the pretender waved his hand in signal to his crew. Darcy raised his pistol as he heard the wild screams of madmen and aimed his pistol at false mariner.
He should have had the gun pointed behind him, as it turned out. The mob that had previously kept a respectful distance behind His Majesty's Men, suddenly swelled forward and attempted to overwhelm the Authority. Fists flew and voices were raised until a rifle rapport brought sudden silence to the peir. Shocked out of their rage, each man stepped back until the press of bodies no longer held a stunned British Captain upright. A sailor looked guiltily at his own smoking firearm while Captain Darcy completed four steps in a drunken man's jig and fell sloppily to the planking.
As one, the sailors affixed bayonets to the ends of their rifles, their eyes locked grimly on either their Captain's body or the stunned rabble before them.
My host painted quite a poetic and dramatic picture. In my overactive imagination, I could almost hear the staccato of the knives locking into place over the fading echo of the gunshot. Another moment of silence as the lads make a mental adjustment that their captain is no longer around to give them orders and the colonist wonder just what it is that they've done. A gull screams, complaining about the sudden noise.
For a second time in as many minutes, the sailors are taken by surprise from the rear as the desperate and wild-eyed men of the White Lady leapt down upon them from the main deck and forecastle.
"At this point," my host explained, "witnessed accounts begin to vary greatly. Suffice to say, no one claims to know who began the fire, except it was not assuredly they."
"So, Captain Darcy died that very day?"
"Actually, the good captain's wound was shallow." Jared interjected as his uncle was distracted by Naomi, who appeared to pour water into her master's cup much more slowly than needs demanded. A flicker of hunger appeared on my host's pale face as his eyes took in her ample bosom and the dark, delicate curve of her neck. Jared and I politely ignored such open lust so as not to embarrass Mr. Herne, or -- by extension -- ourselves. "Before it could even scab over, however, it became clear that a very ill fate had befallen the captain's mind."
"Whatever malady caused the crew of The White Lady to go mad, it had passed completely to the sailors and laborers by dawn the next day." The elder Herne explained now that Naomi had moved onto me. By god's grace alone did I keep my eyes focused straight ahead, nor did I allow myself to blush as I felt her leg brush up against my thigh as she refilled my cup. "By dawn's light, the surviving crew of The White Lady were poxxed dark and their bodies deformed with swelling of the joints, tongues, and throat. It is a painful and gruesome way to go."
"Indeed!" I said in complete agreement. "Are the inflicted isolated so this terrible plague does not further spread?"
"Thank the Good Lord, yes. I should not like to be known as the man who imported death to the New World." Merlin Herne stopped to admire the Cornish game hen placed before him. "I've made Calders Bay my home, Penrod. I know every man, woman, and child in this fine village. I can't tell you how many sleepless nights I've spent worrying that they might blame me somehow for this disaster."
A small roasted hen was placed before me and my wine glass refilled for the third or forth time. I watched Naomi refill Jared's water and I found myself drooling at the thought that she might be willing to finish what was started but a few short hours ago. I could only have the complete discretion I required if my dark Venus was willing.
I caught a look of amusement in the eyes of Jared Herne and I quickly turned my attention to my food. Perhaps my desires were not as evident, for the amusement seemed directed towards something his uncle had said. Or perhaps not. After all, out of the simple courtesy of gentleman, Jared and I had done I best to casual look to other way when our mutual benefactor turned a licentious eye towards Naomi but a few moments earlier.
I attended to the meal before me, blocking such base thoughts for my mind with a quick, silent prayer of thanks to the Lord for the bounty before me. Neither Jared nor Merlin Herne had offered to say a prayer before dinner and, pragmatic that I am, I failed to make an issue of it.
I had just begun to savor a bit of breast meat when the sound of running feet caused we three men to look towards the double doors directly behind Jared. A young tow-headed boy, wide-eyed and smeared with dirt, burst into the room, followed belatedly by the Negro who apparently attended to proceed the lad, but had failed to keep up.
The lad, no older than twelve perhaps, took a deep breath and forced himself to swallow it so that he might get the words out quickly.
"Mister Herne! You better come quick!" The boy hollered and reached out to grab the arm of a startled Merlin Herne. "They found bones! Bones in your ship!"