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.
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