Through the Maelstrom (4 page)

***

H
is uniformed companion didn't say much, but Christophe preferred it that way. Unsure about the man's exact station, he studied the back of his head. His dark hair was trimmed short, and his stark white uniform contrasted against the darker tone of his skin. The uniform was far different than any he'd seen before, and instead of boots, he had simple white footwear. No weaponry and a strange black box was attached to his shirt.

The man radiated authority, however, which is what gave Christophe pause. He was sure he wasn't on a vessel belonging to the colonies or England due to how nothing seemed familiar, but until he found out where he was and where they intended to make port, he wouldn't make assumptions. Not after what occurred with the wench earlier. His circumstances would make sense eventually.

He hoped.

A door opened and an elderly woman with equally dark skin and gray hair poked her head out. "Josiah Baker, didn't I tell you I was waiting for you to..." She trailed off and studied Christophe from head to toe. "Who's this?" Must be the Josiah's mother. Any resemblance was harder to determine since age had taken hold of her features.

The man placed a hand on the old lady's shoulder as she shuffled into the hall with her cane clutched tightly in her left hand, a gold ring with a diamond on her ring finger.
Definitely not a ship from the colonies.
He breathed a small sigh of relief upon the evidence of their status. He suspected Josiah's work on the ship brought in wages, as all labor should. Those who were in the position to work as servants deserved wages and to call their life their own. During his brief time in the colonies, this wasn't the case, and he suspected his being pressed into piracy had been a direct result of speaking out against the practice of slavery on more than one occasion. He may never know for certain if the pirates had chosen him by chance or had been paid off.

"Ma, I can't sit and talk to you until my shift ends. I have twenty more minutes." Josiah didn't have the strong accent his mother had, but they did have a similar shape to their features. Based on their cheekbones, his mother had likely been a great beauty in her youth.

Christophe bowed low. "Christophe Jones, ma'am. It's a pleasure." He winked at her as he straightened, and Josiah's scowl deepened. Mrs. Baker squinted and moved closer. She raised both her hands to his face and gently moved his chin side to side. She gasped and took a step back.

"Ma!" Josiah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "You all right?"

But she paid her son no heed. She stared at Christophe and wonderment filled her voice. "Your aura's all wrong. Just like the stories, but...I never fully believed them. This isn't your time, is it?"

He laughed, but the other two stared at him like he'd disrupted someone's funeral rites. "You're serious?" Reading auras and not his time? Madness. Although...it
did
seem like he'd been dragged into an all new land, except they were at sea, and traveling across time wasn't possible. "That is preposterous." His adapted accent slipped. He was from England, originally, but he'd used a bit of a Caribbean flare so he would fit in more with those onboard
The Calypso
. He'd continued using it on this strange ship, larger than any he'd ever seen or known could exist, because he had grown accustomed to it after a while. Somehow, he didn't think he needed to hide it any longer. He wasn't sure why.

The old woman smiled warmly at him. "Does anything make sense to you here? The electricity, for instance?"

"What's...electricity?" The foreign word tasted strange on his tongue.

Josiah opened his mouth and his mother smacked his knee with her cane. "Hush now. Can't you see this man has no idea where or
when
he is?" She pointed to the flameless lights. Christophe had stopped paying them too much attention due to how puzzling they were, along with the ship's build, and the clothing, and the phrasing, and
everything
. "Electricity is a power source we use to create light, or to cook, or warm our water to bathe. Among other things."

"You sound crazy." Josiah hissed, leaning to rub his knee.

Christophe wanted to agree with him. It sounded absolutely insane. His first impulse was to debate her meaning. Could steam create the effect of illumination without a flame? Yet the more he considered the lights, the more he worried it was some great mysterious substance he didn't understand. A string of small lights no larger than fireflies had decorated the upper deck and he'd been stunned by how they didn't flicker nor fly like insects. Once the beautiful woman had distracted him from it, he'd been able to focus on her and not panic about his surroundings. Now, without her there to focus on, it was all too real again.

Electricity, as Mrs. Baker called it, was there in front of him, all over the ship. A ship that was too large and made of materials ships were not made from. Where was the wood? Some was steel, like the railing, and there hadn't been a mast or sails on deck. It was like they were on a suit of painted armor from the Dark Ages—but surely that would sink. Armor didn't float. He'd feared he was lost within a strange dream, except the wench's strike against his face had stung enough to assure him of his consciousness. Could he really be in the wrong time like Mrs. Baker suggested?

It wasn't possible... Still, he heard himself ask the question he figured would be met with snorts and derision, "What year is it?"

Mrs. Baker patted her son's hand when he opened his mouth to reply and she said, "It's the year 2015." Her gentle voice was so soft he'd almost missed it. Certainly he'd misheard her.

Christophe backed up several steps and shook his head.
That is...
"Impossible," he whispered. Was this woman playing on his worries? Did she think him so easily fooled?

Does any other explanation make sense?

Josiah sneered, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger. "What year do you
think
it is?" Then, under his breath, he added, "This oughta be good."

"The eighteenth of June." Christophe hated the waver in his own voice. He couldn't accept the reasoning as truth, but he glanced at Josiah when he added, "In the year of our Lord, 1715." The man didn't like him, and his curled lip and dismissive shake of his head proved as much.
Have I been sucked through the ocean and spat out into another time?

Mrs. Baker merely nodded. "Three centuries. Exactly like the stories. Always in threes." She met his gaze, her dark brown eyes glittering. "Poor soul. You must be so confused, so lost." Clutching her cane tightly, she added, "I want to hear all about it."

Josiah raised a hand to interrupt their discussion, and then a strange noise came from the black box attached to his shirt. Muffled voices followed before a bizarre scattered burst of sounds. Christophe gawked at it.

Definitely not usual. In 1715...
God, he was considering it. He rubbed his forehead, checking for fevered skin, but his flesh remained cool to the touch. Perhaps everything was happening in his head.

"Go finish your shift," Mrs. Baker told Josiah when he cursed under his breath. "I want to talk to our friend."

"He's armed," Josiah said pointedly. Gesturing at him like he'd soon go on a murderous rampage. Christophe couldn't blame him for wanting to argue, and he smirked as they bickered back and forth over whether he would or would not kill her in cold blood before stealing the ship and dooming them all. That they thought him capable of stealing a ship of this size all alone merely boosted his spirits, which deflated again in the confusion of the ship itself and its...electricity.

"He won't shoot me," Mrs. Baker said. Was she some sort of witch? Graying hair, stooped figure, and a cane...she looked the part, but there was less cackling and chanting than he imagined. "I have answers he'll be needing." That was true, and he didn't shoot random people. Usually they deserved it, or it was a matter of life or death.

Josiah pulled his mother away to talk to her privately, but Christophe could still hear the words. "Ma, the tales our ancestors passed down were created to teach morality lessons. To treat
all
others with respect, as you wish to be treated. That you can be rewarded in ways beyond what is possible if your soul is untainted by evil." Josiah leaned down, so they were eye to eye. "That man is no pure soul. There's no such thing as time travel. He's playing you. He's taking advantage of your kindness. Look at him, for God's sake!"

She scrutinized Christophe and nodded. "How do you know if his soul is pure? That sounds like an assumption, if you ask me. He certainly
looks
like a pirate from 1715 if I ever saw one. I bet you cash money the gun and sword are authentic. Care to make that wager?" Her brow arched, and Christophe smothered a laugh behind a fake cough. Age hadn't extinguished her fire at all.

"What are you, a historian now?" Josiah shook his head. "Besides, do you remember what our ancestors were doing in 1715? If he's for real, which he isn't, why would you want to be alone with him?"

Christophe clasped his hands behind his back and met Josiah's glare head-on. "I have never bought or owned a slave, if that is what you're suggesting." Back in England, the practice was not common. At most, indentured servants could be brought in to pay off a debt or passage by sea, but it wasn't until they reached the colonies that the ugly practice had been laid out before his family. Though his father had been granted a position as governor, prompting their move from England, he'd not been able to dissuade others of the barbaric practice, and the Crown was too preoccupied to listen to anything his father had to say on the issue. In short, King George didn't care so long as the colonies remained loyal and taxes were paid accordingly. A situation that wasn't going as smoothly as he'd like.

"That way of life is no more," Mrs. Baker said firmly, her mouth a grim line. "I'm sure this will not be an issue."

Without hesitation, he answered with an honest, "No, ma'am." He'd never liked the practice, and was glad it had been done away with. Perhaps she'd even tell him how that had come about, but by asking, he accepted he had, in fact, traveled three hundred years into the future.

"Good. Respect is
still
difficult to come by, even after so long. The horrors man can impose on one another is truly terrifying." She smoothed a wrinkle in her long black skirt, modest compared to the wardrobe of the younger women aboard the vessel, but far removed from the gowns he'd grown accustomed to women wearing. "I knew you were a decent man—it was in your aura, and you didn't once look to me or Josiah like we were crossing boundaries of any kind. Though I did spy a moment of uncertainty when you glanced at this." She held up her hand with the diamond ring.

"He probably thought you stole it." Josiah placed an arm protectively around his mother. "Men from that time would have."

Rolling his eyes, Christophe pointed at the ring. "If a person from a lower social order had stolen such a trinket, they wouldn't be wearing it so boldly for all to see. I regarded it as a status symbol, confirming in my mind that I wasn't on a vessel belonging to those who carried out such atrocities as you think me capable of." He glanced at Mrs. Baker. "I will understand, however, if you both wish to part ways with me if you fear me guilty by association."

Mrs. Baker nodded and patted Josiah's face. "My son is overprotective since my husband stayed at home. I was traveling to Nassau to visit relatives; it helps to have a son who works for a cruise line and can get discounts for his mama." She squinted at him and added, "Women also have equal rights now. Do you think you can handle a female telling you what to do, possibly even a woman of color like me, without your pride twisting in a knot?" There was that fire in her spirit again. Christophe liked her.

Barking out a laugh, he said, "I had a mother, a governess, and two sisters. I grew up with women telling me what to do." Though he understood why she'd brought it up. Men in his time were used to having all the control. His time. It started to sound more real every time he thought it that way.

Josiah opened his mouth as if to argue further against his mother's continued association with him, but the black box made a second burst of racket, and Mrs. Baker opened her door wide. With a curse under his breath, Josiah bit out, "I will return shortly. Disrespect my mother, and we will have a problem." With that, he spun on his heels and stalked off down the corridor.

"What's your name, young man?" Mrs. Baker asked as he gestured for her to enter the room before him. Christophe may have had to adapt to the pirate life, but he hadn't forgotten how to be a gentleman. Mostly. He cringed, recalling the outrage on the wench's face when he'd offered to pay for her services. Christ, he'd been such an assuming ass.

"The name's Christophe Jones." He gazed around the small one-person cabin when he stepped inside. It appeared more like a room at an inn than a boat cabin. A very fancy inn that didn't belong in 1715. The furniture was nailed down. The sheer luxury of the fabrics, paint, and furniture was shocking—everything appeared so clean and elaborate! The window on the other side was floor to ceiling, and the railing and chairs visible on the other side of it made it apparent that it opened like a door so she could enjoy the ocean view. So unlike the living quarters or the hold aboard any ship he'd traveled on. He had to clasp his hands together to keep from exploring and touching all the surfaces.

"How long have you been...sailing?" She'd intentionally chosen her words.

"Not long." For some reason, he felt it important to justify his appearance. No military uniform, but armed. Very much a pirate from his time. "I was pressed into piracy against my will a little over a year ago. I earned the respect of my men, rose in the ranks. And promptly escaped the moment our ship came under attack."

She nodded and eased onto a bench built into the wall next to the window. "I've read of those times. They were dire, and you did what you had to." She'd begun to fidget with the hem of her sparkly blue blouse, but she did not break eye contact with him, sitting up straighter, as if trying to decipher what kind of a person he was. If his soul was as deserving as her stories would suggest.