The Long Voyage

By Wm. McCall

It has been said that there are no new stories, that every conceivable plot has been explored, that each “new” story is an iteration of some oft told tale. Yet, dear reader, in this story I believe that you will find adventure and love between a man and a woman of a sort that has not been told before. I will say no more lest I spoil the story for you.
In the year 1849 an outstanding humanities professor at the University of Edinburgh is offered the position of first chancellor of the new University of Sydney. A fortuneteller has told his wife he would never get to Australia. She fears for his safety but reluctantly gives her assent for him to make the long voyage and assume the offered position. He sails on The Invincible, one of the first of the great Yankee Clippers.
Who has not fantasized what it would be like to be stranded on a South Seas Island with little hope of rescue? This story may take your fantasy to its limits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wm. McCall
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476010731

Wm. McCall

Taught HS for many years. Owned and operated a dairy in Camp Verde Arizona. Got my Masters at Arizona State College in Flagstaff. Now retired, writing full time and enjoying life with my Dutch wife of 36 years. Have three children: Billy, Kristen and Laurie. Although I'm 3rd generation removed from Ireland, I feel Irish to the core.

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The Long Voyage

A Novel By William Connelly McCall

Copyright 2012 by William C. McCall. All Rights Reserved

Cover Design by Roberto Ball

Smashwords Edition

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The following biographical account by Colin Stewart is the result of interviews with the principals of the events chronicled, conducted over the course of six weeks. This story first appeared serialized in the London Times, 1883

CHAPTER 1 - OCTOBER 2, 1882

THE NEW ARRIVALS

Simon King loved surprises, and this evening he had a great one ready. Had it been any other man, the word that might have best described his feelings would be smug, but Simon King was too big for such an unworthy emotion. So let it be charitably said that he was anticipating, with great amusement, the stir he was about to create amid the staid, well ordered ranks of London Society. As his splendid carriage made its way through London's crowded streets toward Covent Garden, Simon’s eyes twinkled with the thought that he was about to release into it a cast of fairy-tale characters, or at least as close to them as real people ever come.

On his right sat a handsome young man of, perhaps, seventeen and on his left, a radiantly fresh young girl who appeared about the same age. As was his wont, Simon, now in his mid-fifties, was expected to arrive on such occasions with a beautiful woman on his arm, and who that would be this evening was the subject of much speculation. With that thought in mind, an involuntary smile crossed his face and he momentarily raised his eyes to look yet again into the angelic, ineffably radiant face of the woman seated across him. Her eyes met his, and she smiled at him with such kindness that his crusty heart warmed, as it did every time she smiled at him. He considered her God's masterpiece – His ultimate expression of femininity, the epitome of refinement. He could not imagine that a single feature of her face or figure could be improved upon, and that such a pure and noble spirit should reside in that ethereal form was cause for still greater wonder. His eyes drifted to the silver haired man seated beside her whose deeply lined face and kind eyes bespoke the presence of an unquestionably noble soul. Simon smiled again, imagining the effect his unwitting guests would have upon the expectant throng awaiting his arrival.

As for Simon himself, there was not a lord, lady, high-born personage or wealthy socialite in all of London who did not seek his presence at their social functions and none who did not curry his favor or cringe at the prospect of being shunned by him. He had contrived, by the sheer force of his wit and personality, to ensconce himself firmly as the undisputed and, for the present, uncontested lion of London Society. It was truthfully said that there had been no one since Samuel Johnson who ruled society as he did and, like Johnson, his wit was both admired and feared. His conversations were strewn with literary and scientific allusions comfortably nestled amid humor and cheerfulness. He hated pomposity and was ever ready to return to earth those who dared display such in his presence. At the same time, his kindness and good manners were so firmly established that if, on occasion, he did puncture an inflated ego or verbally skewer a pretentious pseudo-intellectual, one could be certain it was well deserved.

Whatever the occasion, it was Simon’s habit to arrive fashionably late and this evening was no exception. Rumors were rife that he had acquired a new paramour, a stunningly beautiful woman of mysterious origin, and he supposed that a large crowd would be milling about the theater entrance, awaiting his arrival. In this, he was correct. At kerbside a waiting throng jostled one another for an advantageous view of the street, necks craned, looking for the first sign of his coach.

* * *

To relate what happened next, I leave you in the capable hands of my friend, Darby O’Connor whose article in the London Observer must supply you with the events of the evening because the principals have been too modest to recount the effect they created. Besides, Mr. O’Connor was present at the event while I was not. Finally, I want you, the reader, to realize there are others, beside myself, who have felt the same awe upon encountering the subjects of this story. With this in mind I ask you, as does Mr. O’Connor, to suspend any disbelief arising from his account until their entire story has been told, at which time, I believe you will find no disbelief is warranted.

Colin Stewart

* * *

The London Observer, October 23, 1882,

Opening Night at The Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden

by Darby O’Connor.

As my regular readers know, I am a commoner whose task it is to cover that part of London society that, normally, we are permitted to view only from the kerbside as their splendid carriages roll past or, perhaps, by standing on tip-toe, to catch glimpses of them as they enter theaters, grand hotels and palaces. However, being an anointed member of the fourth estate and assigned by the powers-that-be to chronicle the daily comings, goings and doings of royalty and the aristocracy, I am permitted an intimate view of their affairs. As I have intimated previously, it is not the unalloyed pleasure one might imagine. Often, it is not only tedious, but absurd, and one is quickly disabused of any notion that these people, despite their airs and pretensions, are, somehow, better than the rest of us.

This being so, it was with not a little reluctance that last evening that, at my editor’s insistence, I dutifully donned my best attire and trudged off to attend the opening of the Royal Italian Opera at Covent Garden where posters proclaimed the evening's grand event, Tristan and Isolde. I admit to being blasé because these occasions have a way of being all too similar, one to the next. But what a surprise awaited me! I humbly ask the reader to forego any disbelief evoked by my description of what I saw. I have a rule never to indulge in hyperbole, yet, as you read this piece, some of you will surely think I’ve gone a bit daft.

At affairs bringing out London’s high society, Simon King’s appearance is eagerly anticipated and this evening was no exception. He arrived in his usual grand style, his stately hackney, drawn by a brace of high-stepping, perfectly matched bays, halted in a dramatic fashion in front of the theater. With an agile leap from his high seat, his top-hatted coachman rebuffed an attendant who had hurried to open the carriage door. This was to be his job tonight. The sulking attendant then joined others struggling to restrain the crowd.

The first to emerge was a sublimely beautiful woman and, except for a few audible gasps of amazement, the boisterous crowd hushed and watched in silence as she held the coachman’s hand and stepped gracefully down. She wore an elegantly simple, low-cut, cream-colored silk dress and, though not in the style of the day, judging from the expressions on women’s faces, it would soon be copied. An exquisite emerald necklace and matching earrings (exactly the green of her eyes) were her only jewelry. Her blond hair was swept up in a stylish coif. There was about her, a presence, so that when stepping into the crowd, it parted as if she were Moses parting the Red Sea, no attendants being required to make people take a respectful distance.

Here, I digress to tell you what I went through before composing this account. The woman in question was so hauntingly beautiful that upon returning home to write this story, I felt I it necessary to allow myself time to reflect upon the nature of feminine beauty, to wonder if it’s possible to define it, and to ask myself if there such a thing as perfect beauty in a woman? There are so many attractive women of diverse appearances that, heretofore, I would have thought it impossible to say there is such a thing as a most beautiful woman. But seeing her, and noting the reaction of both the men and women who gazed upon her, the answer came: Yes, because hers is a beauty surpassing all envy – so exotic it begets no jealousy. With that realization, I began to write.

Next to exit the coach was a tall man whom I imagined to be close to eighty and also of singular appearance. Although he walked with a slight limp, he exuded an air of virility and, apparently oblivious to any stir he was creating, made his way to the woman's side, whereupon she slipped her arm through his. In looking at him, I discerned a man of character and wisdom – one who has seen much of life. His eyes were clear and steady and, like the woman at his side, he was perfectly at ease.

Next, a lovely young woman exited the coach closely followed by a handsome young man, each having the same self-assured manner as those who had preceded them, but which, owing to the innocence of their years, was not as remarkable. They were of obvious good breeding, and had it not been for the dazzling beauty of the woman, the young lady might well have been the center of attention. Finally Simon King himself descended, a roguish smile playing upon his face and, feigning no notice of the effect his guests were having upon the awestruck onlookers, nonchalantly led them into the theater.

The kerbside crowd had remained silent and, as Simon’s group made its way toward the great foyer, those inside waited in anticipation. From the moment she stepped from the coach, it was whispered from person to person that a striking, but unknown, woman had arrived with Simon King. The word had spread quickly, each forwarder adding his or her own superlative until her description seemed to lack all credibility. There could be no such woman, at least not in this world but, when they saw her, many women ruefully concluded, there was. I heard one bystander whisper to his friend, Did you see the beautiful, beautiful woman? and understood his loss for words.

I watched as she entered the theater, noting that she moved with a grace and freedom that no amount of practice could duplicate and which, if attempted by another, would seem affected or provocative. She exuded confidence but was not haughty, and as she proceeded down center aisle she let her eyes roam where they would, taking in the sights of the great theater and those in attendance. Those whose eyes met hers said they saw a radiance in them or, as some swore, an emanation. I repeat myself, but it is almost beyond one’s imagination that a woman of such astonishing gifts would not be viewed through jealous eyes. But, to my knowledge, she was not. Her face was so open, honest, so uncomplicated, so lacking in guile, so devoid of any hint of intrigue, that it brought to mind Keats' words that Beauty is Truth, truth beauty. And although Keats maintained that was all we know on Earth or need to know, the sight of her ethereal beauty raised a thousand questions.

As Simon’s party continued toward his seats there were audible gasps as all eyes followed her, and if any were searching hopefully for a hint of conceit or arrogance, for some thing, however slight, that might justify a deprecating remark, they found none. Upon reaching the third row center, Simon showed them in. First the young man, then the young lady, then elderly gentlemen, the woman and, last, himself. This seating arrangement gave the first clue as to the relationships of those in the party, and people immediately began to speculate. The older man? Her father? Obviously! Simon, a match for the woman? Possibly. The young couple? No definite answers. The elder man’s grandchildren? Possibly. The theater was abuzz with the muted susurrations of a hundred whispered questions and a hundred whispered answers.

In honor of the Queen’s customary attendance of the opening night performance, the audience rose to sing God Save The Queen and turned, en mass toward the State Box. As the woman joined in the singing, still the cynosure of every eye, those immediately around her fell silent, wondering at the beauty of her voice. Gradually, as her voice reached further, the hushed circle expanded, as one after another fell silent to better hear her. It was as though her voice was a distillation of honesty and purity. Truly, thought many, it was angelic. By the time the song neared it’s close, all other voices had hushed so that she was left to conclude the song alone because the conductor had muted the orchestra so that she sang nearly, but not quite, a cappella:

She stood, tall and unassuming, with no more thought to the attention being directed at her than if she were singing for a group of school children. When she had sung the last, pure note, she sat down. Those in the audience were slower to take their seats as the circle phenomenon was repeated, this time with those seated nearest her sitting down first and gradually, as those on the periphery got another good look at her, they sat down, creating the effect of a ripple emanating from a single point until it extended to the furthermost reaches of the hall.

The attention neither amused nor abashed her. She paid it not the slightest heed, but with a smile toward the elderly man seated at her left, turned her attention to the evening's program. In observing the wondering looks on many faces it occurred to me, as it must have to others, that she might literally be an angel

As I reread this piece I was hesitant to submit it knowing it must present to the reader the picture of a woman of such transcendent beauty as to be unreal. With apologies, I cannot bring myself to dim the picture or retract a single word. But, in reflecting on the evening past, I have discovered a truth which the ladies may take to heart. As stunning as her beauty was, it was what she utterly lacked that made her so radiant – artifice and guile – and I am convinced that any woman may immediately become more beautiful by ridding herself of these vain encumbrances.

So that you may believe that I’ve not lost my senses entirely, or that I’ve been handsomely paid to write such grandiose encomiums, I offer a first for this writer, a quote in my column from my friendly rival at The World, Ryan MacFarland. Regarding the woman he wrote:

"Hers is an incandescent beauty so arresting that I was forced, involuntarily, to stop in my tracks and, forgetting all good manners, stare. It was not the surreal beauty of her form alone that was so mesmerizing, but that it was suffused with such a spirit of innate goodness that, in beholding her, the old belief that beauty, by its very definition, cannot be evil, leapt to mind. One can only hope that she will remain to enliven and illuminate our dear old London Town and that we may be often privileged to share her company. I leave you with this from Chaucer.

" . . . she charmed the sense

And gathered every heart in her embrace,

They loved her all that looked upon her face."

My thanks to Darby O’Connor and, indirectly, to Ryan MacFarland, for allowing me to quote them, and to Chaucer whose lines give me further insight into the woman’s seemingly mystical charm, for who could envy someone they love?

CHAPTER 2

INTERVIEW

I want to acknowledge my debt to Simon King for involving me in what became the most interesting project of my career. It was his idea to have me interview the aforementioned individuals with the idea that their story could become a book – a dramatic account of their extraordinary adventures. It was his hope that my work, when completed, would sell well enough that a portion of the proceeds might provide them with sufficient income for them to live reasonably well. That they could be in need was, at first, an impossible thought. Then I heard their story.

Simon’s friend, Conn MacLeod, arranged for them to live with him until I had