The Midwife's Apprentice: The Money Ship, #4

By Joan Druett

By making Nelson O'Cain his partner, Michael Gardiner has disinherited his daughter, Jerusha, who is in faroff Massachusetts, learning the skills of a herb-woman and midwife. So he devises the crazy idea of an arranged marriage with Nelson, to salve his conscience and set matters straight. Unconvinced, yet aware of the logic of a convenient arrangement, Nelson voyages from Borneo to Boston, bearing a letter to Jerusha that sketches out her father's proposal. Before she can make a decision that will change both their lives, a violent encounter in the dark of a rainy night intervenes. The dramatic outcome sends them back to the South China Sea and the Dragon Stone, in their ongoing quest for love and pirate treasure..

• Language: English
• Publisher: Old Salt Press
• Release date: Dec 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540152763

Joan Druett

Joan Druett's previous books have won many awards, including a New York Public Library Book to Remember citation, a John Lyman Award for Best Book of American Maritime History, and the Kendall Whaling Museum's L. Byrne Waterman Award.

Book preview

The Money Ship

Book Four

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The Midwife’s Apprentice

1

Captain Nelson O’Cain was sailing nervewrackingly close to a totally unfamiliar Massachusetts coast. The breeze was light, there was a strong onshore current, the scene was veiled with thick fog, and he had very little idea of where he was.  Not only did he not have a good position, but it was no use looking up the charts, because they were so old they told him nothing.

For the thousandth time Nelson cursed Michael Gardiner’s pigheadedness in refusing to come with him. While it was a very long time since Gardiner had sailed here, his knowledge of this coast would have been a blessing right now, no matter how outdated.  He could see some sense in Gardiner’s argument that an appearance of normality should prevail on the Coti River, with the trading for orchids and antimonial ore going on as usual, but it did look as if the American was huddling over the Hochman trove like a broody hen with her eggs.

Again, like many times before, Nelson wondered why the hell he had agreed to make this voyage to Boston. The best that could be said about it was that it was a break from the appalling routine of retrieving the Hochman trove. The blame for his decision could be laid on the ship beneath his boots, he moodily decided — the same ship he had bought with the first great haul of gold doubloons. When he had sailed this ship back to the Coti, Michael Gardiner had not just been jubilant at the sight of a dream fulfilled, but brimming with new aspirations, too. Why pay freight to Buckler, commission to Van Loon, and then freight again to Boston, when they had a vessel of their own? 

That, Nelson had supposed, made sense — but only if Gardiner commanded her.  It was a wonderful opportunity for him to visit the daughter he hadn’t seen for years, or so Nelson had argued.  But no, that had not been part of Michael Gardiner’s mad plan. Instead, he had renewed his arguments for an arranged marriage.  If Nelson wed Jerusha, it would set things straight, or so he had argued after Nelson had signed the papers that made him a full partner.  It would salve Nelson’s conscience, take care of his scruples about usurping Jerusha’s legacy. And so another letter had been written and produced, a letter from a fond father advising his daughter to get married — to the bearer!

That goddamned letter, Nelson mentally swore, while all the time he tried to peer his way through the fog. Would Jerusha find the idea as crazy as he did? With luck, they would be able to share a hearty laugh.  But, he thought glumly, she was more likely to be extremely angry, not just at her father for not coming to fetch her, but at Nelson for having the nerve to deliver the letter.  It was very likely she would laugh with scorn.  He had been tempted many times to throw the letter overboard, but his conscience wouldn’t allow it.  Because of the ship, he brooded, because of the ship...

The lookout in the foremast hamper screamed out in English, Vessel close to starboard!  An enormous hull loomed up out of the murk, just about to fall aboard of them. Nelson roared orders that were followed by shrieks in various languages from his crew. There was an audible scrape as their spanker boom touched the stranger’s quarter — and then the ship was safely by, leaving an echo of the word Bristol trailing in the mist.  Bristol?  England? With rum, perhaps? No. Nelson sniffed the unmistakable stench of old oil.  A whaler, out of Bristol, Rhode Island.  So where the hell were they?  Off Block Island, or near the Nantucket shoals?  Nelson hadn’t been able to take a sight for three days. When a scow blundered slowly out of the fog, and the offer of a pilot was made, he was very glad to accept.

It was a bizarre figure that clambered on board. For a start, this coastal pilot was very young, no more than eighteen, or so Nelson estimated.  As tall as Nelson himself, he was very much thinner, quite insect-like, in fact.  He wore dungaree overalls over a red-striped shirt, the bottoms of the legs tucked into sea-boots with the tops turned over to show the red-dyed inners. There was an unmistakable aura of sea-wrack and mud about him, and the raw-knuckled hands that dangled at his sides were callused. 

However, the triangular grin was friendly, and the lad’s eyes, as he glanced about the deck and hamper, were very bright, particularly as he took in the fact that all the seamen were Malay, while the old mate was Chinese.  From the Orient, sir? he said. His tone was oddly wistful.

Aye, Nelson said shortly. Secretiveness had become habitual over the past five months, ever since he had left the Coti on a pirate prahu, carrying a sea-chest full of Spanish gold that would have guaranteed his murder if anyone guessed its contents.  He gave the other a sharp glance and said, What do you call yourself, anyway?

The Yankee braced up, and stood straight.  To Nelson’s involuntary amusement he drew off his bobbled cap, sketched a low elaborate bow, and cried, Cap’n Preserved Fish, at thy service!

"Preserved?"

Preserved-Be-The-Words-Of-The-Lord.  My father, bless his memory, was a thorough-going Quaker, and my mother, God rest her, was like-minded. And I am a true captain,  for all that all I command is a barge.

So who is in charge of it now?  The flat-bottomed craft was following in their wake.

My brother, said Captain Preserved.

And his name?

Consider.  Consider-The-Paths-Of-Peace Fish.

Good lord, said Nelson.

Indeed, sir.

Preserved must be more muscular than he looked, Nelson mused, because the barge looked like perfect hell to handle.  He asked with some awe, How far do you sail your command?

Between Massachusetts Bay and Pickering Wharf at Salem, sir.  We call at the fisherfolk villages, and carry their harvest to the Boston market.

My God. The little he knew of this hostile coast made this a respect-worthy feat.  There are places I’d rather sail.

This is thy first visit to Boston, sir?

I’ve never been to America before.  Nelson paused, because the fog was flicking away, and there were sand dunes on the port quarter, along with a lot of other vessels.

Cape Cod, said Preserved Fish, with a wide gesture. And yonder, ahead, be Massachusetts Bay.

So they were nearly there.  Thank God, thought Nelson.  He said to the Yankee boy, Do you know of an agent by the name of Jacob Trilby?

Aye, sir, said the other, after the slightest hesitation.  I deal with him often.

Then I would be obliged for directions to his office.  I have a commissioned cargo to deliver.

"Of tea, sir? Lacquer-work?  Chinese curiosities? Sandalwood, gold, pearl-shell, cinnamon, pepper, and silks and beche-de-mer?"

Preserved enunciated the exotic words as if he loved them, Nelson thought — and yet he would wager his ship that the boy was not able to read or write.  Which was a pity, he thought, for it seemed so evident that Preserved Fish ached for adventure.  Scow-skippering on this treacherous coast was not hazardous enough for him.  Like the young adventurers of Salem a generation back, he longed to make a fortune in Oriental seas. 

Nelson laughed. Nothing as romantic as that. Antimony, he said, without mentioning the orchids.

And then ...?

I need a cargo for Singapore. Tobacco, he thought, remembering Gardiner’s list, and rum from Newport. Definitely some Yankee notions, depending on what Trilby had available, or what he could buy in Rhode Island.  Clocks and mirrors...

And I have a letter to deliver, he said. Do you know a hamlet called Sleepy Hollow?

Clams, fish, and agricultural produce, said Preserved wisely. An hour’s ride south of Salem, a few miles off the Boston road. I know it well, sir.  You wish me to carry a letter?  I can leave it with a drover, when I dock next at Pickering Wharf.

No, said Nelson. I’ll take it myself — it’s for a friend. 

A lady friend, sir?

What makes you think that?

Preserved Fish’s face widened in one of his triangular smiles. I think you’ve come to America to get thyself a wife, Cap’n.

Good lord, thought Nelson. He said, What the devil gave you that idea? 

You may be here for just a week or two, sir, but we marry fast, in America.

Then, while Nelson was still shaking his head in wonder, Preserved Fish called for tacks — the wind was picking up, the tide was with them, and outward bound vessels were beating out, passing to both sides.  They stretched past Rainsford Island, with its castle, then George’s Island, with its fortifications, and all at once they were fairly within Boston Bay. Canvas was then reduced, so that the barge took the lead, clearing a way through a bustle of shallops, sloops and a dozen different kinds of smacks, all darting about the bright pewter-colored water. 

Time to overhaul the anchor, sir, said Preserved Fish, and Nelson passed on orders to his mate.  Two more long stretches, and — Clew up the tops’ls, said the pilot, and — Let go the anchor! 

Sun shone on the clutter of buildings of the shore-front and the rows of plain-fronted mansions on the higher slopes, tall but unassuming, as if the merchants who lived in them thought the outward appearance of wealth to be imprudent.  Only the gold dome of State House hinted of hidden riches: Nelson could see the round gold shape of it glinting like a turbaned sultan in common company, standing among rope lofts, sail lofts and chandleries. The greatest evidence of the prosperity of this city was an excitement in the air — for this was Boston, the richest town in America, the spot where speculators weaved mercantile webs that stretched about the world, dealing in cod, pepper, spices, whiting; cod, Chinese cloth and tea and porcelain; cod and tobacco and diamonds.

Nelson sighed, and stretched to ease his shoulders.  We’re here, he thought. After many leagues of voyage, he had at long last arrived.  But to what?

2

Jess was standing outside the village church when she noticed that something was up with her fellow worshippers. It was a full three weeks since she had attended Sabbath service, as she had been over at North Haven nursing a man with a broken leg, and so it took her a while to notice the difference.

It was a beautiful early spring morning. As always, just about everyone was there, clustered about the porch of the church, or beneath the filmy leaves of the trees. The only people missing were the sick, the dying, the recently confined, those who cared for them, and those who made their living on the sea. As usual, too, it was a demure and somber crowd.  Jess, in a gold-colored gown, was by far the most colorfully dressed. If Aunt Tempy had been present, the ancient woolen country cloak she wore — sent from England by her nephew many years ago, and a most brilliant red — would have provided another splash of gaiety, but Aunt Tempy was in North Haven, watching over the deathbed of the broken-legged stranger, who was expiring of the gangrene.

Then Jerusha’s attention was caught by the almost frivolous glint of a cameo on the breast of one of her companions. Not only that, but Pegsy Gamble’s best bonnet had been trimmed with oyster-grey tabby silk, and Betsy Warren wore a nosegay of violets on her wrist.

She spied a neighbor and hissed, Luke, why is everyone so nicely got up?

Luke’s grin was knowing. I’ll tell ye if you tell me what’s about with that fellow with the Whites — him and his money-belt.

Jerusha, feeling impatient, knew exactly what he meant. A sea-captain had arrived at Captain White’s side door, and after dropping off the hurt man, along with a sum of money for his care, had sailed away again. Then, when the man had been undressed by the hastily summoned doctor, it was discovered that he had a money-belt about his waist. Jess had been one of the first to know about this, as Mrs. White had promptly decided that the seaman was rich enough to hire a nurse, and had sent for Jerusha Gardiner.

Now, Luke, she said. He’s just a seaman whose captain was kind enough to bring him ashore for a doctor, and honest enough to leave him with his belt.

D’you reckon the Whites’ll be honest enough to leave him with that belt when he’s dead? said Luke with his insinuating grin, and then nodded at the porch as he finally answered her question. They’re all in a pother on account of a visitin’ preacher.

We’re losing Dr. Cruickshank? Jess asked. And not before time, she thought. Dr. Cruickshank was so unbelievably ancient she expected Aunt Tempy to lay him out at any moment.

Nope, this ’un’s a learnin’ preacher, come from some smart college in Connecticut. Godspeed be his name, and all the gals do wish he’d make godspeed in their direction, on account of they all reckon he’s desperately handsome.

As Jess decided after taking her seat in the church, Mr. Godspeed was indeed somewhat handsome, if not desperately so, being tall, with an interesting scholarly stoop and an extremely earnest manner, and with golden side-whiskers fluffy enough to soften his rather fanatical face. Though he was no great shakes as a speaker, he gained enraptured attention, and she thought that old Dr. Cruickshank, presently dozing in the sanctuary, would never find the same respect that he had in the past.

Then the proceedings were interrupted by none other than Mother Temperance Gardiner herself, garbed in her red cloak.

How’s the patient? whispered Jess.

Dead, said