The dockmaster kept his foot on the gangplank, heel hooked on the end like he was ready to kick it off without warning. Behind him, the port of New Orleans bustled with unrelenting chaos as other ships unloaded their wares, and sailors got the much-needed respite the Archimedes Fish was being denied.
“Landing fee first,” said the dockmaster, then spat into the water.
Émile, standing at the other end of the gangplank, stayed calm and diplomatic, despite Crosby hovering behind him, muttering profanities meant to rile him up.
“We haven’t unloaded our cargo yet, sir,” he said. “It is customary—”
“It’s customary to pay when you’re told to pay,” said the dockmaster. “Dollars or pounds or francs or what have you, but y’ain’t staying here without cash in my hand.”
“I told you…” Crosby grumbled. “I warned you.”
Émile’s pleasant smile stayed static. “If we could be afforded just a few hours to sell our goods, sir, we would be more than willing to pay whatever fee you see fit, in whatever denomination you prefer.”
The dockmaster gave a glance down. “Well see that’s the thing,” he said. “Sell what goods? ‘Cause the way I see it, you’re sittin’ too high in the water to be carrying much of anything.”
A keen observation, and one Émile had hoped he wouldn’t make. It was why they’d kept the bulk of the crew out of sight—they were all looking thin and wasted after weeks without proper supplies. Nobody wanted a beggar ship docking at their port, draining resources from better-heeled travelers…but if they didn’t get ashore soon, they would have to abandon the Archimedes Fish entirely—and that would almost certainly end in a great deal of dying.
“You’re a dead man,” Crosby growled into Émile’s ear. “We leave this port empty-handed, you’ll be flying from the mast, mark my words.”
Émile didn’t react, kept his focus on the dockmaster. “Good sir,” he said, “perhaps an accommodation can be made, given our…unique situation?”
The dockmaster frowned. “Accommodation?”
Émile gestured to the ship’s deck. “A gift for you,” he said. “Whatever catches your eye. In thanks for your understanding and kindness.”
“What are you doing?” hissed Crosby. “We can’t give him—”
“If we don’t, we die,” Émile whispered back. “I can find us supplies, but only if we can disembark. Whatever it costs us, it will be worth it.”
Crosby sneered. “It better be.”
The dockmaster seemed agreeable. He started across the gangplank, already taking stock of what he saw, like he was determined to weasel the best deal possible out of the situation. He hopped onto the deck and gave both Émile and Crosby an insincere hat-tip. “Captains,” he said.
Crosby glowered even more.
They took a leisurely stroll around the deck, the dockmaster pausing every few minutes to pick up a knick-knack of one type or another. He took particular interest in the captain’s spyglass, which had been part of the Archimedes Fish since long before any of the current occupants had joined up. He took a gander through it, scanning the horizon with a greedy grin on his face.
“Fine bit of craftsmanship,” he said. “Glass aligned well, too.”
“It’s not for sale,” said Crosby, looking ready to snap.
“Good thing this ain’t a purchase, then,” said the dockmaster.
Crosby grabbed the spyglass and pushed it away from the man’s eye. “Sentimental value. Not leaving this ship.”
“Then neither, I’m afraid, are you.” He handed the spyglass over and stormed back for the gangplank. “Push off, boys, or I’ll have my men do it for you!”
“Wait!” said Émile, chasing after. “There must be something else we can offer. Maybe if you looked below-deck?”
The dockmaster turned, sneered. “I can smell the rot, sir. You’re all starving. There’s nothing you can offer that I would…” His voice trailed off as he saw something behind Émile. “That’ll do.”
Émile turned to see, and blanched at the sight: the African girl, working at scrubbing the deck like she’d been taught, oblivious to the world around her. The dockmaster prowled closer, watching her move, tapping a fingernail to his teeth as his mind went to dark, awful places. “She’ll do just fine.”
Émile couldn’t even begin to answer the suggestion. But Crosby could: “That’s above and beyond. How much’ll you pay?”
“You’re in no position to be negotiating.”
“Come on,” said Crosby. “Just think of what she’ll fetch at auction.”
“She ain’t bound for auction,” said the dockmaster, tapping his teeth, deep in thought. “But fine. Ten dollars.”
“Ten?” laughed Crosby. “You think—”
Émile grabbed Crosby by the arm and wheeled him around, speaking in an urgent, hushed voice: “You cannot do that.”
“Watch me.”
“Slavery is outlawed,” Émile growled. “Selling her is—”
“Not in America, friend. Down here, anything goes.” He called over to the dockmaster. “Twenty!”
Émile shoved Crosby back, anger reaching a dangerous peak. “You do this, and I walk.”
Crosby laughed. “You say that like it’s a threat, not a treat.”
“If I walk, how long do you think it is before the crew mutinies?” Émile said. “I am the only thing standing between you and a noose. I keep the peace for you, Monsieur Crosby, because I swore to Captain Hamlin that I would uphold the chain of command aboard his ship. But if you do this…I am done shielding you from your own mistakes. Done.”
Crosby looked ready to deck Émile…but then his mind started working through the words that had been spoken, and the truth behind them. He knew it was no idle threat: the crew made no effort to cover up this disdain for him, and how they blamed him for Hamlin’s death. It’s why no one else ever called him “captain.”
He was stuck and he knew it. He sneered. “They won’t love you when we’re starving to death,” he said, and then turned back to the dockmaster. “The girl’s not for sale.”
The dockmaster frowned deeply at that. “How’s that?”
Crosby pointed a thumb back at Émile. “The Frenchman’s got a thing for her. Won’t let her go.”
This pushed the dockmaster over the edge. He charged back for the gangplank, shouting to his men at the other side: “Light the torches, boys! We’re givin’ them a going-away present!”
Émile caught up with him just before he left, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around to a huddle.
“Unhand me, sir,” growled the dockmaster, hand on his pistol.
“Gladly,” said Émile, and revealed, subtly, the coveted spyglass. “With our apologies.”
The dockmaster saw it, realized he was being offered a bribe the ship’s captain didn’t approve of, and it made him smile even broader than before. The thought of inspiring conflict amongst the ranks was the greatest gift of all. He took the spyglass, tucked it in his pocket, and nodded.
“You’ve got a twenty-four hour pass,” he said loudly. “Any longer, and it’s cash in hand.”
Before he left, he gave the girl one last look. “Or services in lieu.”
Émile fought the urge to throw him into the harbour.
The bell over the door jingled as it opened, and the man behind the counter looked up, his eyes gone wide. “Good God Almighty, Mr Deschênes, back from the dead.”
Émile smiled as the bigger man with the graying beard came ‘round to the front and wrapped him in a massive bear hug, tipping him off his feet. “Nice to see you too, Gregory,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
“A while and a day,” said Gregory. “Never thought I’d see you down this way again, but—” He froze when he saw who was behind Émile: the shy eyes of the African girl, wrapped in a sailor’s jacket to cover her ragged clothes, hands wrapped tight around Émile’s sleeve. Terrified, but curious, too. The shop was like the pirate ship’s hold, filled top to bottom with treasures and junk of every shape and size. There, a golden chalice; there, a crystal bauble; there, a water-stained boot; there, the cracked skull of a traitor long forgotten. It was a lot to take in at the best of times, but especially so for a young girl so far from home.
Gregory smiled, bending down to greet her. “And who might you be?”
The girl flinched like she expected to be hit. Émile shook his head sadly. “I don’t know her name,” he said. “I don’t know anything about her. But I was hoping you might be able to help with that.”
Gregory stood tall again, nodded sternly. “Celeste!” he called. “We have visitors!”
The girl cowered again at the loudness of his voice, tugging Émile like she wanted to go, and go now. But then the back door opened and a Black woman in a fine dress entered, and the whole dynamic shifted at once. Celeste gave Gregory a kiss on the cheek, by which point the girl seemed ready to run straight across the room to meet her.
“Ah, Émile, who is your new friend?” she said in English, with a heavy French accent.
Émile ushered the girl forward a bit—not that it took much convincing. “I don’t know her name,” he said, in French. “I saved her from a terrible situation—”
“As you are wont to do,” smiled Celeste.
Émile smiled in return. “I was hoping you might be able to…”
Celeste crouched down, looking the girl straight in the eye, and spoke a quick flurry of words. No response. She tried another language—slower this time, and less proficient—but again, no response. The girl was starting to get agitated again, so Celeste stood back up, gave her space.
“There are hundreds of languages along the African coast,” she said. “Do you know where—”
“No, none,” sighed Émile. “And anyone who knew is dead.”
Celeste’s face betrayed a thought she wouldn’t share. Not directly, anyway. “An orphan. About ten years old, too, non?” She held out her hand to the girl. “Come along, my darling. Let’s go see about a new wardrobe.”
The girl looked to Émile for guidance. He nodded kindly, but let her go of her own accord. And she did, carefully, eyes searching every corner of the shop like she thought someone might jump out and attack her. Celeste gave them a wink before closing the door.
“You never change,” laughed Gregory, pulling a bottle from under the counter and pouring two glasses of rum. “Slavers?”
“Pirates,” said Émile, taking the glass and raising it in a silent toast.
“You back under the flag?” asked Gregory.
“Non, not anymore. Privateers.” He took another sip, hissed at the bite. “Which is actually why I’m here, my friend.”
“Oh Lord, here we go…”
“The pirates cleaned us out. Took everything we had.”
“And left you with the girl?” asked Gregory, then saw Émile’s expression and laughed: “You really never change, do you?”
“I need to ask a favour,” said Émile. “My crew—”
“Your crew? Or your crew?”
A shrug. “My crew needs a lifeline. A way to get back on their feet. And since I know you still send shipments up north, I was hoping…”
“Payment in advance, I take it,” sighed Gregory.
Émile nodded. “I would not ask you if it were not life or death.”
“If you asked anyone else, I’d be offended,” said Gregory, refilling their glasses. “I’ll see what I can arrange. The dockmaster gave you trouble?”
“We have until noon,” he said.
“I’ll have it extended,” said Gregory. “So you can spend a bit more time in New Orleans. Maybe convince you to settle down, instead of racing back off into battle.”
Émile shrugged. “The quiet battles suit me, I find. But speaking of settling…I’ve another favour.”
Gregory took a deep sigh, his kind expression fading fast. “You want to leave her.”
“A ship’s no place for a girl,” said Émile. “It’s all I can do to keep her safe, but I can’t be everywhere at once. She needs safety, Gregory. She needs a home.”
Gregory set down his glass and walked away, staring at a display of golden teeth like they were the most important things in the world. Émile watched him, but said nothing. There was anguish in the way he held his shoulders.
“Last time you were here, Tobias was…what, seven?”
“About that,” said Émile. “Lost a tooth. Was so proud, too.” He realized something awful: “Where is he?”
Gregory scratched his cheek, still not looking up. “Taken. Two years ago this month. Right off the street, right out there. We, uh…we didn’t even realize until later, when the neighbour, she said…” His voice cracked, and he pushed a fist down onto the counter. “By the time I caught up with them, he was already sold. Already gone.”
Émile said nothing.
“I’d have paid anything to get him back. Done anything. But they just laughed at me. Said they’d done me a favour.” He pounded the counter, his fury barely contained. “I, uh…I may have done some things. Burned some bridges. So he’s gone now. And I just have to live with that.”
He wiped his eyes, made sure Émile saw them. “A ship’s safer than the South,” he said. “At least there, she knows to be scared.”
“But—”
“Halifax,” said Gregory. “I’m sending you to Halifax.”
“But the girl—”
“The girl’s going to Halifax, too. They have a settlement there, freemen and former slaves. You get her there, and you use this—” He set a pouch heavy with coins on the counter. “—to buy her a family. Because it may not be heaven there, Émile. But at least it’s not Hell.”
Émile didn’t touch the pouch. He squeezed his friend’s hand, standing in silence as the pain and anger started to fade. Just a little bit.
The door opened and Gregory looked away, trying to compose himself. But Émile gaped, because standing there beside Celeste was a girl unrecognizable to him: not a slave dressed in rags, but a confident young woman, emboldened by the dress she had on, and all the mysteries it held.
“Mon Dieu…” Émile said, his smile growing. “Celeste, you work magic.”
“Marie,” said the girl, and both men stared, curious.
“Pardon me?” asked Émile.
“Her name is Marie,” said Celeste. “She chose it herself, from a long list of options.” She grinned. “Though I admit I only read her the French ones.”
“Marie…” said Émile.
“Marie,” repeated Marie. “Marie.”
Émile glanced to Gregory, and the pouch on the counter. Halifax. A long way north, but if he could get her settled, it might eat away at a tiny slice of the guilt he felt over the mistakes he’d made along the way.
And then he could try again.
“Celeste, I hate to ask, but we will need a second set of clothes for dear Marie. A dress isn’t practical for an apprentice deckhand.”