Falconer's Quest Read Online Free PDF Page B

the clothes Falconer had dumped in the seaman’s chest. “Will they be dressed in such as these?”
    “Aye, they will. And shall I.”
    “Then I wish to have the same, Father John.”
    “And a right proper seaman you’ll make,” the steward declared, “or Soap is not my father’s blessed name I wear with pride.”
    Reginald Langston met them upon the clipper’s aft deck. A young midshipman, still several years from needing a razor, had piped them aboard. Falconer raised his hat to the middy’s salute and a second time to the captain on the quarterdeck. The captain frowned and turned his back upon Falconer.
    Reginald dredged up a smile for Matt, then pulled Falconer to one side. “There are problems.”
    “The steward told me of business matters.”
    “Oh, piffle. There are always problems with business. No. I was referring to the ship. Captain Harkness does not…well, he does not approve of you.”
    Falconer glanced over. The skipper still resolutely ignored them. “He knows of me?”
    “No. And that is the problem. He finds it uncommon strange that with a ship full of trusted men, I find it necessary to go outside the company for an ally on this mission.”
    The captain turned, but only to scowl fiercely at Falconer. Harkness wore his landfall uniform, which was no surprise given the fact that the company’s owner was aboard.
    “It is of little import.”
    “On the contrary. I dislike the idea of starting a voyage with hostility in the dining cabin.” Reginald fiddled with his vest’s middle button. “Harkness is an ambitious man. I have chosen to give him a ship regardless, for he is a good skipper, fair in his dealings with the sailors, and scrupulously honest.”
    Falconer interpreted, “He sees this mission as a missed opportunity for his own advancement.”
    “I fear so,” Reginald agreed. “It is the first time I have ever had occasion to set a company’s ship upon such a course, where we sail at my timing and refuse goods for any port beyond London. While Harkness does not know the mission, he does know it is important to me, and he sees you as occupying a trusted position he would like to claim for himself.”
    Falconer studied the captain. A few years older than Falconer, of stern bearing and features to match. A nubby nose, tight green gaze, forward-thrusting chin, hair cropped so close to his skull Falconer could see the scalp from where he stood. “What do you know of him?”
    “Born in Charleston, lost his mother at birth, father an itinerant preacher who carted him all over the former colonies. The man has never known a proper home, save the aft cabin he now occupies.”
    “When you have opportunity,” Falconer said, “tell the gentleman I shall not seat myself at the captain’s table unless he himself requests it.”
    “I shall do no such thing,” Reginald declared hotly.
    “The success of our mission may depend upon working well with him, Reginald. We need him as a willing partner in this venture.”
    “My dear friend, I cannot relegate you to eating belowdecks.”
    “I have grown to the man you see now on burgoo and hardtack,” Falconer replied, referring to a shipboard breakfast for all but the wealthy passengers, a mixture of oat gruel and beef grease, stewed all night long. Once the ship’s fresh produce was consumed, everyone on board ate hardtack, the dry unleavened bread that was served with salt beef pickled in barrels of brine along with salted peas. Falconer said, “Shipboard fare will serve us both well enough.”
    Reginald sighed noisily and changed the subject. “Lillian was not pleased with your instructions that she remain in Washington.”
    “She might have proved a peril to us all, had she insisted upon making this voyage,” Falconer explained once more.
    “Yes, perhaps. Though I must tell you it was a most difficult decision for her to take. She has sent you a letter. I have it somewhere. She assures me she has held to a pleasant tone. I also