A Light For My Love (2 page)

Only a few ships were in port this morning.
Where was the Pacific Star? Suddenly she heard the deep-chested
bawl of a horn and looked through the lifting mist to see the huge
barkentine being towed downriver by a tugboat. Indistinct figures
moved on the deck.

Too late. Oh, God, she was too late.

“Wait!” she yelled at the top of her voice.
She jumped up and down, waving the letter like a flag. “Quinn,
don’t go! Quinn! Come back.” But the river was wide and her words
were lost under the noise of the tug’s steam engine and the
screeching gulls hovering over the docks.

She stood like a statue on the planking and
didn’t try to stop the tears that blurred her vision as she watched
that ship carry away her brother and the man who had convinced him
to go. For no matter what he said, China would always blame Jake
for this. The vessel would continue its westerly course down the
last seven miles of the Columbia River and then it would cross the
bar into the Pacific Ocean. After that, any fate could befall her
brother—disease, accidents, drowning were all common to sailors. It
was entirely possible that she would never lay eyes on Quinn
Sullivan again.

China took bitter pleasure in knowing that
Jake Chastaine faced the same risks.

Astoria, Oregon

January 1888

Jake Chastaine stood on the dock in the
waning daylight, the long shadow of a main mast falling across his
shoulder and over the planking. He glanced back at the tall ship
behind him, a graceful barkentine named the
Katherine
Kirkland
. Then he pushed his hands into his back pockets and
took a deep breath as he scanned the town laid out before him.

The steep streets looked the same,
reminiscent of San Francisco’s. More homes had been built, but up
behind them lush forests still rimmed the town, dropping back to
Saddle Mountain to the southeast. From the crown of those
high-hilled streets, he knew, a person could watch fog creep in
from the Pacific Ocean. It stole up the Columbia River and spread
out over Young’s Bay, cloaking in soft gray mists the tall ships
anchored at the wharf.

Or if the weather was clear, the bones of the
Desdemona
showed themselves. They rose from the sandbar
named for her, the first ship to run aground there in 1857.

On the west end of town, sitting proudly on
its own block, was the biggest house in Astoria. It was an
impressive structure, with red shingles and a three-story turret,
and within its sturdy walls lived a sea captain’s beautiful
black-haired daughter.

Every night a hall window on the second floor
glowed with a lamp that burned for all the men gone to sea and all
the souls lost forever to its dark, icy depths.

Jake lifted his eyes to the faraway red roof
on the hillside. He’d faced a lot of uncertainties since the
long-ago day he sailed from Astoria. But he knew that lamp was
still—and would always be—there in the window. Nothing would change
that.

After all, it had burned in his heart,
kindled by hope, consumed by futility, for half of his life.

*~*~*

Jake paused just inside the door of the Blue
Mermaid, taking in the chaos before him.

The noisy, hot saloon was in the heart of
Astoria’s toughest district, aptly known as Swill Town. The dirty
windows were steamed over, and the place was jammed with seamen,
loggers, and fishermen. A nickelodeon played in the corner. Dancing
to its tinny melody, a nearly comatose sailor shuffled around the
floor with a bored-looking saloon girl. He held a gin bottle by the
neck while his head sagged on the girl’s powered-white chest.
Kerosene lamps hung from the ceiling, their smoky flames adding to
the haze. There were so many spittoons placed around the floor, a
person had to walk carefully to avoid stepping into one. Like most
of the buildings on the waterfront, this one was built on pilings
over the Columbia River, and the stench of low tide drifted up
through the floor. Added to that were the smells of fish, beer, and
whiskey, all overlaid with a trace of opium smoke.

Jake smiled. The Blue Mermaid was like any of
the other fifty such establishments in Swill Town—dirty, crude, and
raw. But to him it felt like home.

“By God, I don’t believe my eyes! Jacob
Chastaine!”

Jake turned to see Pug Jennings vault over
the bar, an amazing feat for a man of Pug’s short stature. He
plowed through the crowd, and when he reached Jake, he gave him a
hug that crushed the breath right out of him. The saloon owner
stood not one inch over five feet, but in his compact body he had
the strength of a bear. Any patron foolish enough to challenge him
came to regret it when he found himself on his duff in the street,
his broken nose bleeding into his lap.

“Lemme look at you,” Pug said in his gravelly
voice. His entire face lit up with an ecstatic smile as he held
Jake back at arm’s length. “I can’t believe it’s you. You sure got
big since you’ve been gone. But I knew you. I’d know you anywhere.
When did you get in?”

Jake laughed with honest pleasure. Here, at
least, someone was glad to see him. Even if it was Pug Jennings,
and even if this was the Blue Mermaid. Thank God, it looked the
same, right down to the painting of the coy nude that hung on the
back wall. “Early this morning. It’s good to see you, Pug. I wasn’t
sure you’d still be here after all this time.”

“Of course I’m here. Where would I go?” he
questioned, waving Jake toward the counter. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
The little man returned to his post behind the crowded bar,
playfully slapping one of the saloon girls on the rump as she
passed. He stepped up on an eight-inch riser that ran behind the
bar and brought him up closer to Jake’s height.

Jake let his gaze wander around the place,
recalling the man times he’d sat on the end bar stool when he was a
kid, drinking root beer and hiding from the truant officer. No one
had thought to search for a youngster in a dockside saloon. Pug
hadn’t nagged him much about skipping school. It had been plain
that he took for granted Jake would end up a fisherman like his
father, Ethan Chastaine.

“Hey, you gob!” Pug snapped at a sailor
passed out with his head on the scarred oak. He reached over and
shoved the man’s arm until he stirred. “Go sleep it off somewhere
else and make some room here.” The sailor dutifully roused himself
and staggered to the door.

Pug set two glasses on the bar, then unlocked
a cabinet and produced a dark bottle. “This calls for the good
stuff.”

Jake chuckled again, taking the vacated space
at the counter. He remembered “the good stuff.” On his fifteenth
birthday Pug had declared him a man and bought him his first scotch
right here. Quinn’s aunt Gert had thrown a fit when she found out
about it.

Pug poured them each a hefty measure, then
raised his glass to Jake’s. “To bowlegged women.”

“To bowlegged women,” Jake repeated, clinking
his glass to Pug’s.

The little man leaned a beefy arm on the
counter. “How is it that you’re home after all this time?”

That was a good question, Jake thought. Since
the morning he left, he’d wondered if he’d ever see Astoria again.
After all, he’d had no reason to come back, even though his memory
had turned toward this town nearly every day for the past seven
years.

Then, five months ago, in a New Orleans
saloon a lot like this one, a small miracle had occurred. And it
had changed everything—his status, his future, his possibilities.
He’d had to return.

Jake took a big swallow of the smoky,
peat-mellowed whiskey. “That big barkentine tied up at
Monroe’s?”

Pug nodded. “I saw her. She looks like a real
lady.”

“She is,” Jake agreed. He put his elbows on
the bar and leaned forward. “But she needs some work, so I brought
her to Monroe. Then I’ll be looking for a cargo for her.” Jake
smiled with a sense of quiet exaltation. “She came to me thanks to
the owner’s folly and a pair of threes.”

Jake almost laughed at the bartender’s amazed
expression.

“You mean she’s yours? And you won her in a
poker game?”

“She’s mine, all right, Pug. Every inch of
her canvas.”

Pug slammed the flat of his hand down on the
bar, his face split with an incredulous grin. “Well, I’ll be damned
for a one-eyed dog! She’s really yours? What’s her name?”

“The
Katherine Kirkland
.”

Obviously impressed, Pug straightened his
stained white apron and back up to salute him. “So it’s Captain
Jake, is it? And a tycoon, too? I’m surprised you’d want to come
back to the old Blue Mermaid.”

“Come on, Pug,” Jake mumbled, slightly
embarrassed. “I’m not any different. And I’m sure as hell not a
tycoon.”

Pug punched him in the shoulder, his smile
undimmed. “I’ll bet your old man is proud of you. What did he
say?”

Jake looked away and drained his glass. “I
haven’t seen him.”

“You probably will while you’re in port. You
might even catch him in here—the rheumatism keeps Ethan on shore
most of the time now.” Pug poured them both another drink.

Jake sipped this one more slowly. With his
stomach empty, that first shot had gone straight to his head.
“Things weren’t so good between Pop and me before I left. You know
that.”

“Yeah, I know. He didn’t like the company you
were keeping, hanging around up at Brody Sullivan’s house, if I
recollect.”

Jake took another drink of scotch. “That and
some other things.”

Pug glanced at him, then pushed a bar rag
down a short length of countertop between them. “He meant well, but
you and him were too much alike to keep from butting heads. To him,
you being friends with Quinn was bad enough, but wanting to leave
Astoria . . .” Pug shook his head, letting the
sentence hang unfinished.

Jake wasn’t comfortable with this topic. He
and Pop were nothing alike. A familiar pain, a dull anguish he had
believed healed long ago, suddenly rose in his chest. His thoughts
turned down old paths he’d rather they not take. Especially when he
thought of the reason that had driven him to leave Astoria in the
first place. The echo of arguments and accusations rang through his
memory: Pop’s voice raised in fury, Jake’s own voice shouting back,
an image of his father’s set, angry face.

Changing the subject, Jake said, “Can a man
still buy a meal in here? I haven’t eaten since daybreak.”

Pug’s face took on the expression of a
concerned hen. “Anything you want, we can cook it for you. You want
oysters? We got oysters. Steak? Fish? Ham? The food isn’t fancy,
but it’s good.”

“A steak would be fine. I haven’t had one in
weeks.”

“You got it, and all the trimmings.” Pug
turned toward the kitchen door. “Jimmy!” he shouted.

No one appeared.

Pug shouted for his cook again. “Jimmy, damn
it!” He turned to Jake. “He’s a nice kid and a good cook. Came from
Piraeus by way of a Lisbon steamer. But he hasn’t got much English,
and I don’t know any Greek except for swear words.” After a third
try, Pug went to the kitchen himself, yelling to Jimmy in his
limited Greek.

Jake grinned, recognizing every curse. He’d
worked with a few Greek sailors himself. Good old Pug—except for
some gray hair he hadn’t changed one bit, and Jake was glad for
that.

He nursed his drink while he waited for his
dinner, drawing solace from the fuzzy, relaxed comfort the whiskey
gave him. That made it easier to push thoughts about Pop to the
corner of his mind for the time being.

But the chief cause of their old
arguments—well, she was as clear as ever. How would she view him
now? If China Sullivan saw him today, captain and owner of his own
ship, would she still look down her nose at him? Or would she
instead see him for the man he’d become?

Now and then he glanced at the mirror on the
back bar, casually watching the people behind him and next to him.
He listened, too, to bits of conversation going on around him. It
was a habit he’d acquired over the years—never letting down his
guard, especially while he was in a waterfront saloon.

After a few moments he became aware of two
men to his right. Something about them seemed off kilter. They wore
expensive suits. That alone caught his attention. A dive like the
Blue Mermaid didn’t attract the upper crust, but that description
didn’t fit these two, either. They were a little too rough.

“Well, I’d feel better if Williams was out of
the picture. He’s getting to be a goddamned pain in the ass,” the
younger of the pair complained. “Every time I turn around, there he
is, stirring up a ruckus. Last week he stood outside Maggie Riley’s
saloon, handing out leaflets and ranting like a preacher at a
revival meeting. He went on and on about the ‘poor sailor’ being a
victim of ‘the new slavery.’ He’s like John Brown back from the
grave. The
Astorian
even ran an item about it.”

The other man nodded, holding a match to his
cigar. The of the Havana glowed like hot coal. “I didn’t pay him
much mind when he started this a couple of years ago. But he’s a
persuasive firebrand, and people are beginning to listen to him.”
He let out a huff of laughter and a cloud of smoke. “It’s a good
thing city hall doesn’t.”

The first man went on. “But up till now he’s
always worked alone. Lately I’ve heard a rumor that he has a
partner helping him, maybe financing him. We don’t need that.”

“Larry, you worry like an old lady. I’ve
heard that rumor too. But at fifty or sixty dollars a head, there
are too many people making too much money for that Williams
character to be real trouble for business.” The man shrugged.
“Anyway, maybe we can find out who his partner is. Who knows—with a
couple of double eagles in the right hands, we could teach them
both a lesson.”

Jake continued to sip his whiskey, elbows on
the bar and shoulders hunched, giving no appearance of
eavesdropping. He knew the “business” of these two businessmen.
They were crimps, shanghaiers. They took blood money from captains,
the fifty or sixty dollars mentioned, to find crewmen for outbound
deep-sea vessels. That usually involved getting a man drunk,
drugging him, or somehow tricking him aboard a ship. Most captains
got their money back by deducting it from the sailor’s pay. Jake
saw it as a regrettable but necessary part of sea trade. He knew it
was also very profitable for men like those next to him, as well as
bartenders, boardinghouse landlords, and brothel owners. Captains
who resisted working with the crimps could get the holy hell beaten
out of them or find their vessels damaged. The crimps sure wouldn’t
let some crusader—or his sidekick—get in their way. It wouldn’t
matter how zealous this Williams was. To these people, he was only
a fly speck.