Easton's Gold by Paul Butler Page B

apothecary, who is doing me a great favour in joining me; and a young girl, Gabrielle—I believe you noticed her when you entered—who I plan to make my ward.”
    Henley hesitates, turns and looks through the open door behind him.
    â€œThe dark, pretty one. I’m sure I saw you exchange glances.”
    Henley adjusts his collar, which seems to have become tighter all of a sudden. “I thought she was your servant,” he says.
    â€œThat’s just her fancy, Captain. She likes to dress like the others and go around the house doing odd jobs. It’s time she married, of course, but I want it to be a man more like myself than those merchants, lawyers, and government men I see around me. Too many Londoners prefer dry land. She was born for the life of the sea.”
    I laugh, and Henley politely joins in. But for him there is an edge to it, I can tell. His eyes are glistening.
    â€œStill, my lord,” he says repositioning himself, “five cabins.” He is condescending no more, I notice. Rather, he is deadly serious. “I am commissioned to bring livestock and sundry supplies to the various fishing colonies, as well as wines and spirits to the new landlords of the plantations. Since you are proposing to purchase some of our supplies and bring them with you, I must procure more and find room to store them too. It’s simple science, sir. There is too much to fit.”
    I lean back and sigh.
    â€œI can see you are an honest and honourable man,” I say. “And I understand your position better than you imagine. Many times we captains are forced against our natures to be creative with supplies and numbers, to drop so many pounds from these sacks or those barrels, to count twenty when we have eighteen.”
    Henley’s pale eyes are working their way through the problem.
    Ninety degree turn; ninety more and we’re there
.
    â€œIt isn’t safe to play games anymore,” Henley says, crossing his legs, his fingers covering his mouth. “Some London merchants will board a ship and check supplies the night before they sail.”
    â€œThen we go a day early.”
    Henley gazes at the floor, scratching his ear and pondering.
    â€œGabrielle!” I call. Captain Henley stiffens and takes his hand from his ear.
    I know Gabrielle is not far away. In a few moments I hear the swish-swish of her dress. She appears in the doorway and enters. Henley gazes at me, a little intimidated. He shifts sideways in his chair then stands.
    Gabrielle backs off a little as he turns to her.
    â€œGabrielle,” I say calmly, “this is Captain Henley. He will be taking us to Newfoundland in four days.
    Captain Henley bows rather stiffly. Gabrielle’s eyes dart from Henley’s to mine then back again.
    â€œWould Captain Henley like me to fetch him something?” she asks softly.
    I laugh and slap the desk. Henley laughs as I hoped he would, but Gabrielle just looks confused.
    â€œOnly yourself, my dear,” I say at last. “Only your company when you can spare it.”

C HAPTER S IX
    T he lantern’s halo skims the laurel bush. Fleet scans the green flesh, leaf by leaf.
    It’s almost too soon, he thinks. Four days, the reply said. That’s three by sunrise.
    Fleet crouches, peering below the lowest branch. The light catches something, and he pulls the sack closer to the bush. He reaches in below the foliage, his fingers skimming the moist grass. Gasping, his face close to the earth, he feels for the shell, secures it under his fingernails then carefully lifts the creature from the bark. He puts the snail into the sack and hears the gentle tap of shell against shell. He will need dozens more before the night is over. It will be difficult as there has been no rain for days.
    The thought of Newfoundland makes Fleet breathless. It will be his first return, and the full-circle pattern sends shivers through him. He wonders if those turbulent shores will