His breathing slowed down as he began to admire the pretty statue’s carved serenity. He had long harboured the nagging suspicion that his was not destined to be an easy life, or even a lengthy one. A realist, he knew the Treaty of Amiens would only last until First Consul Napoleon felt he was sufficiently prepared with new warships sliding down the ways into the sea around Spanish Gibraltar. The war would begin again in more earnest. When that happened, he did not think it would end anytime soon. Like other men of his class and career, he would have to fight on until the armies wore themselves out, and the seas ran with blood.
The more fool he, that on the Atlantic crossing he had begun to imagine for a tiny moment a happy life with Theodora Winnings, who was waiting for him in Charlestown with love in her heart, even after eleven years. What folly. He had no idea where she was.
He looked at the statue with the modest downcast eyes. ‘Any suggestions, madam?’ he asked, after looking around to make certain he was still alone on the street. ‘Please consider the season. My mother used to tell me that wonderful things happen at Christmas.’
Nothing. What now, oh, brilliant man? he asked himself. He could go to Savannah, but for all he knew, Teddy Winnings had been sold down river and wasn’t there. He could also travel north to Boston, which he wanted to see again. Admiralty had no idea where he was, and he had enough funds to chase any number of will-o’-the-wisps.
Do I go north or south? he asked himself, uncertain, perplexed, irritated and above all, sad.
As he stood there, he took a deep breath and another. Each breath brought the fragrance of gardenia, roses and other blooms to his nostrils. Cardinals flitted in the trees. He knew Savannah promised more of the same. His chances of locating Teddy Winnings were slim to none, but he could at least spend one warm Christmas, which might render his misery less excruciating. He remembered Christmas in Boston, and decided he had no wish to be cold and sad. Warm and sad had more appeal; it also made him smile.
He waited for the idea to sound ridiculous, but it didn’t. ‘Savannah, it is,’ he told the statue, and gave her a little salute. ‘What do I have to lose?’
He went back to the shipping office, where the agent behind the counter took his money and informed him that the next coasting vessel would sail on the tide.
‘Towers,’ he said, and returned some silver to Jem’s palm.
‘Beg pardon?’
‘Towers, Sir.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean by towers,’ Jem said, speaking distinctly, and wishing the agent would do the same.
Appearing remarkably put out, the agent pointed to the clock and measured down from two to four.
The mystery was solved. ‘Two hours,’ Jem said, trying to decide whether to laugh or bang his forehead on the counter. He did neither; a post captain in the Royal Navy has some pride.
He took his ticket and left the office, hearing laughter behind him at his expense. He mentally rehearsed blistering profanity that would make him feel better, but only briefly. He decided in the spirit of the season to be a bigger man than that.
It didn’t hurt that the tavern next to the inn had crab cakes, something called okra that luckily tasted better than it looked, and excellent rum. The tavern owner’s slave served him well-remembered spoon bread that went down with equal ease. He finished it all with bread pudding and whiskey sauce, staggered back to the inn to pick up his duffel, and took his way to the wharf again, and Savannah.
He knew the distance between the cities wasn’t great. He secured a deck chair, propped his booted feet on the railing, and slept.
A spanking wind off the mainland brought the little coasting vessel to Savannah by midnight. As slapdash as ship’s discipline seemed to be, Captain Grey had to give the man at the helm all due honour. Jem knew how tricky it was to sail in the dark near a lee shore, but the captain had managed such a feat, a testament to years of practice from the grizzled look of him.
Jem woke up when he felt a difference in the direction of the wind on his face. He went to the railing and watched as the vessel turned west into the river’s mouth and proceeded upstream to the city proper, past the barrier islands of Tybee, Cockspur, Long and Bird, names he remembered from poring over colonial charts when he was much younger. Amazing what a man could remember. Beacon lights burned along the route as the sea diluted itself into the Savannah River.
Now what? he asked himself as the ship docked right at the wharf, tying up handsomely. Dockside, he looked around, overcame his natural reticence and inquired of a fellow passenger where a man might find an inn.
The traveller gave him a leisurely look—Lord God, didn’t anyone do anything in a hurry in the South?—and stated his opinion.
‘You, Sir, appear to be a man of means,’ the man said and pointed. ‘Up a street to Bay, turn right and you’ll see the Arundel.’ He tipped his hat and walked slowly into the night.
Up a street and right Jem went. The Arundel was a two-story affair with the deep verandas he was growing accustomed to. The lobby was deserted at this midnight hour. Opening the door must have set off a bell ringing somewhere, because a man in a nightshirt and robe emerged, rubbing his eyes. In a few minutes, Jem had a room on the second floor. He climbed the stairs, let himself into Number Four and was asleep in minutes.
He slept late, enjoying the quiet, until a soft tap on the door and a quiet ‘Sir?’ admitted a child with water, towels and soap. Jem took his time washing, shaving and dressing, appreciative of the early morning warmth that signalled life in the South. Dressed and hungry, he opened the glass doors onto the balcony and stood in silent appreciation of the city below.
Coasting vessels and smaller boats carried on the watery commerce. He wondered how on earth he was going to find a woman named Theodora Winnings, who was probably married by now and with some man’s name. That is, if she hadn’t been sold downriver to work the cotton, or died years earlier in one of the regrettable yellow fever epidemics he knew haunted these shores.
The folly of his enterprise flapped home to roost on the railing like one of the seagulls he noticed, squawking with its feathered brethren. He knew nothing about Savannah. He hadn’t a clue what to do. How did a man find a slave, or anyone for that matter, in a town where he knew no one? He had already been the recipient of wary looks because of his British accent. How would he even know if anyone would willingly help him? The war for independence wasn’t that long in the past.
He frowned and regarded Bay Street, lined with shops, some of a maritime variety advertising turpentine, tar and candles. Another sign swung in the breeze and proclaimed Jephthah Morton to be proficient at tooth pulling.
Jem shuddered and turned his attention to a larger, better-kept sign next to the tooth extractor, advertising a dining room. He could eat and walk around, to what purpose he could not have said. Savannah was too large to go door to door. Had he attempted that, he could see himself run out of town as a suspicious character.
He looked beyond the sign of the bloody tooth and experienced what was probably going to be his only good idea in Savannah. He squinted. The paint was faded, but he could just make out Savannah Times and Tides, with Weekly Broadside underneath in smaller letters on a building that seemed to lean with age.
He pulled on his suit coat, checked his wallet for money, and walked down the stairs. The fragrance of ham and hot bread coming from the open doors of the dining room was nearly a Siren’s call, but he walked past the tooth puller, where someone inside was already screaming, and in the door beyond.
He entered cautiously, because the building seemed to list