Chapter 10: The Gathering Storm


    The morning was bright and clear on Meeting Island.  But within the travel caravan of An Sat Simi, the Eurasian actress, a tempest was brewing.  Inside the mobile home of the famous Asian actress, the resident was slowly raging to others within.  She paced back and forth along the narrow confines of the living area, puffing furiously on a cigarette sans holder while beating a rolled up newspaper against the palm of her left hand.  The shredded remains of two other local papers were scattered about.

    “Why, why, WHY?” the Burmese shrieked in French.  “Why should this thing have happened?”

    Three other figures listened to the tirade.  A smaller and older Burmese female stood to one side, being stoic in the face of her mistress’ (daughter’s) tantrum.  In the corner of the small room cowered the director of the Golden Harvest Film Company, Jing Feng Fu.  The pig was no longer wearing his director’s togs but a rumpled suit of brown linen.  His hands were nervously spinning the brim of a matching hat all the while An Sat Simi was having her tantrum.  Only the third person present seemed to be enjoying the scene while seated in a rattan chair.

    Bernhard Beckmann drew quietly on his own cigarette, smiling as he blew smoke into the air. Last night had been a gold mine for the German naval intelligence officer with his meeting the two humans at the Marleybone.  And now he was thoroughly amused.  The Burmese’s tirade over the front-page articles about the attack on the café on Casino Island was an added bonus.

    “Damn you, Jing, what were thinking about?”  The actress turned swiftly on the porcine figure who tried to make himself smaller before her burning gaze.  She took the cigarette from her lips.  “What made you think that attacking this human would make things right for me, eh?”

    All the director could get out was a strangled croak before giving up on trying to speak.  He simply bowed his head in shame, the hat still spinning between frantic fingers.  Then An Sat Simi spun to face the Weimaraner.

    “And don’t you go off about my not being serious in getting the information from Captain Stanbridge as you had asked!”

    Beckmann merely smiled, further infuriating the Burmese.

    “I don’t have to, my dear,” he said in English, using the British accent and inflections from the previous evening.  He spoke and understood French quite well, he just preferred to use English instead.  “You made it quite clear that your intelligence training had been overruled by your feminine wiles.  You dared to let your emotions, and desires, supercede any chance of obtaining information concerning the operations of the Spontoon Island Navigational Aid Service.”

    He knocked ash into an ashtray and continued.

    “And I do not believe your director had anything to do with this attack.  In my opinion, those responsible acted on their own volition.  This ‘Beverly Plumb’ was not the intended target.  She just happened to be having a midday meal with the rabbit woman who was.  Remember that this Jennifer Monroe flies for Captain Stanbridge and was responsible for the death of those hirelings.”

    Then the canine’s attention was turned to the cowering pig.  “I understand that one of those in the taxi died from gunshot wounds?”

    Jing merely nodded.

    “And the body disposed of?”

    Again there was a nod.

    Then the German brought his attention back to the smoldering Burmese actress.  He lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes before delivering his verdict:  “Your failure is inexcusable, and as such I will make a full report of it to your superior.  And we both know how he will deal with this.”

    Stubbing out his cigarette, the Weimaraner stood up and squared his hat on his head.  As he started to pass the Eurasian actress he paused momentarily to whisper:  “He’s out of your hands now, and into mine.  It’s best you went home soon and forget about Captain Stanbridge as you’ll never see him again.”

    After the canine was gone the feline took her own smoke and stabbed it hard into the ashtray, like a dagger plunged into an unfortunate’s heart.  Anger, like a volcano, bubbled deep within her; anger over how Beckmann treated her handling of this mission.   And angry with herself as she had acted like a neophyte on her first mission in allowing her emotions to muddle the whole affair.
She took several deep breaths to clear the fog from her mind as she tried to calm herself.
 
    That’s going to change now, Celine thought.  After today, there will be nothing, and nobody, to stand in my way when it comes to getting something done, or my heart’s desire.

    By now her temper had cooled as she tried to keep her voice under control as she spoke over her shoulder.  “Jing, is everything packed and stowed on the ship?”

    The pig bobbed his head.  “Yes, mistress, everything has been put away, and the people are ready to leave at your command.”

    Taking a deep breath, Celine Monvel turned and smiled, which further frightened the director.

    “Good.  Let everyone know that they have today to finish up whatever shopping or sightseeing they have left.  And inform the captain that we will be departing tonight when everyone is on board.”

    Jing Feng Fu bobbed his head so furiously that one would think it would fall off.

    “Yes, mistress!  At once, mistress!”  Without another word he was gone.

    A feeling of wellbeing settled over the Burmese actress.  Humming to herself she took another of her clove cigarettes from an ornately carved teak box and fitted it to a single piece of the bamboo holder.  Celine’s mother came forward with a lit match.

    “Be aware, daughter, this German will do as he has said.  And even I won’t be able to deflect the anger of Ruihong Yisheng.”

    Blowing smoke into the air, the Burmese actress said, “Maybe so, but he will never have Captain Silas Stanbridge for very long.  I will see to that personally.  And have no fear about any repercussions from Master Ruihong.  He will never learn of what will happen this evening, despite your years of being his mistress, and I his daughter.”

    The older Burmese stared wide-eyed at her daughter.  An Sat Simi smiled, the kind of smile that indicated that her opponent had been outmaneuvered.  “Oh, don’t look so shocked, mother.  Do you think I really believed that that effeminate French tom in Bangkok was my real sire?”

    Celine’s mother’s aged amber eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “You have learned much, my daughter, and such knowledge can be dangerous.”

    The actress shook her head, the end of her dark mane brushing her hips.  But her own amber eyes flashed the anger that still lurked within as she took another drag from her clove cigarette.

    “Dangerous knowledge it may be, but very useful to me at the moment.  Now call Fu and the others here, for I have work for them tonight.”

    As the older Burmese left the caravan, 'Celine Monvel', or An Sat Simi, settled into a padded rattan chair to plan her work for the coming evening.  She knew that Beckmann would make his move to capture Silas Stanbridge.  And she would let him, though the German’s possession of the human would be very brief.  After which, the Burmese actress/operative of the Kuo Han will have her way with the man, in ways that will satisfy her curiosity as well as her intimate needs.  That idea brought a tinkle of laughter to the feline’s throat, such that she cocked her head back so that it would blossom into heart-felt laughter that rang around the caravan.

    That same morning, Silas Stanbridge awoke earlier than usual, feeling refreshed and alive. The night before had been the most memorable time he could remember, as he gathered his things for a quick shower.  The other officers of the billet were quite surprised, and a bit alarmed, at hearing a baritone voice singing loudly in the showers at such an early hour.  But Silas didn’t care, as he shaved and brushed his teeth.

    Donning a clean uniform for the day, the human made his way to the mess hall for breakfast.  He chuckled over the headline article about the shooting at the café and how much the reporter was making of the lone human woman working her way among the wounded in patching them up.  Silas chuckled again, shaking his head as he compared the photograph of the disheveled blonde woman on the front page to the beauty he spent last evening with.
 
    Beverly Plumb was indeed a woman of many talents, he thought.  A nurse whose skills came to the fore in yesterday’s incident, a lovely image in evening dress as they danced around a ballroom floor, and a determined gambler at the craps table, even if she was smoking a cigar.  Then after escorting her back to her hotel, Beverly proved to be a randy woman by trying to get Silas up to her room.  The captain graciously declined, saying that it wouldn’t do for his image as an officer and a gentleman, and that she would have to wait until their wedding night.  The woman pouted but reluctantly gave in.  However, she promised Silas that after that night they wouldn’t be getting out of bed for two days.

    With brief case in hand, Silas Stanbridge made his way down to the docks and the Ida Lewis. He spoke briefly with Orin Clements about the status of the vessel.  Then he passed on what went on the previous evening at the Marleybone Grand Hotel and casino.  The simian’s eyes grew large and round at hearing of the engagement, as well as at the amounts Silas and Beverly had won.
Taking the man’s hand into his own big ones, Orin tried to pump water out of his captain.  “Congratulations, sir!  It’s about damn time, too!  And what are you both going to do with all that
money?”

    Silas shrugged.  “Oh, I don’t know, really.  Maybe pay for a wedding.”

After speaking for a few more minutes the man retired to his cabin to do some paperwork.  The first thing he did was to make a telephone call to a certain detective, and was awarded with a terse hello.

    “What the hell were you doing done at the Tum-Tum Club the other night?”

    Taken back by this Silas slowly outlined the reasoning to Jake Breckenridge.  The man could image the mallard mulling over this.

    “Think it will help?” was the tinny reply.

    “Can’t say, but it could shake things up a bit down on the wharves.  And I trust Nola to be good on what comes through.”

    Silas heard some off-color muttering on the other end of the line.  “And have you dug up anything in your wanderings, Jake?”

    The detective answered with a negative.  “The only thing I can add to your empty list was stumbling across a table full of German sailors that night you were there.”

    Silas frowned.  “You sure they were German?”

    “As sure as a Babe Ruth homer.  But they just weren’t your normal dockside water-rats.  Their clothing was too new and too clean.  For some reason they looked and acted to be naval types.”

    That made things click into place in the human’s mind.  “Kriegsmarine.”

    “What?”
       
    “German navy,” explained Silas, “though why they would be in that dive when the consulate has expressly made it clear for all military personnel to steer clear of such places...?  Listen, Jake, you’ve been a big help, and what you’ve just told me is making my work a bit clearer.”

    There came a chuckle from the other end of the wire.  “And the rates are still the same.”  With that the mallard detective hung up.

    Sitting back in his chair, the captain of the buoy tender mulled over those things that finally are making sense.  And he knew that he had to pass that information on.  Quickly the man finished his paperwork concerning the ship, wrote an addendum to a prior report before packing it into his briefcase. Then he stepped out onto the flying bridge.  The chimpanzee First Officer was leaning against the rail, pipe in hand.

    “Orin, do you think your missus will be up to dealing with guests tonight?” Silas asked while packing his own pipe.

    The simian’s dark face turned toward his captain.  “It’ll be on short notice, but I think she can deal with it.  What’s up?”

    Blowing a streamer of smoke the human answered.  “I did say that I would be coming by later in the week, and I promised Beverly a home-cooked meal, and I thought it would be nice to introduce her to the only family I have now in the islands.”

    Orin’s broad smile broke open.  “Oh, Marge will love that!  She’ll be busting a seam when she finds out you finally found someone.”

    Nodding his understanding, Silas outlined briefly what he will be doing most of the morning before returning to the ship.  They exchanged salutes as the man headed down the gangway.

    “Do you know if she likes fried chicken?” was called down from above.

    “I hope so.  She told be last night that she was tired of fish as she dug into a steak!”

    Laughter followed the captain as he cleared the deck and headed towards the base headquarters and another meeting with Admiral Sebastian.

    The admiral was in his office and willing to speak with his only human captain.  Silas handed over the paperwork he had been working on earlier and waited for his commander to read through it.  The sheepdog looked up.

    “Rather a farfetched notion, isn’t it?  I mean, a submarine entering the passage through Spontoon Islands?  A submarine, of all things?”

    The human shrugged before taking a sip of his coffee.

    “I would believe you as well, sir.  However, I did see a periscope following my ship the other day when we returned from Little Orpington Island.”

    The admiral looked incredulous.  “A periscope? In the channel?”

    Stanbridge nodded.  “I know it does sound like a fanciful thought, but it was there briefly.  Unfortunately, I can’t provide collaboration on that, either.  Still, the channel is deep enough for a German Type VII submarine to enter into the inner waters of the island.  So I’m quite positive that such a thing can, and did, happen.”

    The sheepdog sat musing for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desktop.  When he looked up under his bushy eyebrow there was grimness set into his expression.

    “And why would a submarine enter the Spontoon Islands, eh?”

    Setting his cup down on the corner of the desk, Silas Stanbridge began ticking off points on his fingertips.

    “As I had mentioned the other day, I don’t believe Chipangu would bother with us now, as they have their hands full of China.  I believe the Kuo Han are being used as a front for someone else, based on the three my Pilot Officer Monroe and her crew dealt with on Little Orpington Island, and the medallion found on the bodies.  Outside of any American submarines operating in the area... and they would have strict orders to steer clear of us unless the American Navy in Hawaii notified us of their presence
.  
    “The only other power in the Pacific that has any interests in the Spontoon Islands would be the Tsarists out of Nicholasgrad, up in Vostokiya Zemlya.  Whether the Tsarina Anastasia is active in this venture or has given consent to her naval staff, I can’t nor won’t begin to speculate.  All I can say on this matter is that I’ve heard that there are some secret negotiations going on between Berlin and Nicholasgrad.  Both parties hate Joseph Starling and the communists in Russia so I wouldn’t be surprised if there is some little side venture going on down here in our neck of the woods.” He then added what he had learned from his mallard detective friend earlier.

    The sheepdog mulled over this piece of news before leveling his gaze on the other.

    “This detective friend of yours, another American, if I recall.”

    Silas nodded.  “What he said this morning when I talked with him, gives me the idea that that submarine may have been making a practice run of dropping agents or soldiers off.  If such is possible, then a small party with explosives and heavy weaponry could destroy the docks and wharves of any island within the archipelago.  Maybe even put the naval base here on Moon Island to shambles before a counterattack could be mounted.”
 
    With a quick nod of his head the admiral stood up, indicating the interview was over.

    “I still must say that this idea of a submarine in the inter-island channel is farfetched.”

    “Maybe so, sir,” answered the captain standing up, “but I believe the White Russians are trying to make another attempt at gaining the islands.  If I remember my history, they’ll still be wanting revenge for the beating they took in the Gunboat Wars earlier in this century.”

    “Hmmm,” was all the sheepdog said at the moment as they shook hands.  “Best keep this information under your hat, Captain Stanbridge.  For the moment it’s all hush-hush and all that rot, eh?  But I’ll have this update of yours passed onto the Syndic for their determination.”

    “Thank you, sir,” said Silas as he saluted before leaving his commander’s office.

    The captain caught a base taxi as it was passing by.  He instructed the driver to head back to the docks and his ship.  He thought about what Eustis, the ship’s cook was preparing for the watch crew, as the rest would be on leave.  From there he would give Beverly a call at the hotel and outline his picking her up for dinner with the Clements family. And he needed to see what was playing at the base theater.

    A gentle breeze filtered through the screening of the porch as Orin Clements folded the evening paper to continue his reading.  His home, in officer country, faced a southwesterly direction and offered a good view of the bay.  With Casino Island and South Island to the left, and the southern tip of Main Island to the right, they allowed the sou’westers to come into the channel and keep the homes cool on Moon Island.

    The simian officer was sitting on an old divan, the cuffs of his shirtsleeves rolled up, slippers on his broad feet, a full curved pipe dangling from the corner of the mouth.  Through the open front door came the sounds of his wife, Marge, and their eldest daughter, Ellen, finishing laying out the tableware.  From another part of the house was the soft tinkling of a piano.  Little Brigit, at eight years of age, was proving to be quite the virtuoso when it came to ‘tickling the ivories’, as Silas had often said.  Just as well; he was the person who got the youngest Clements interested in taking up the instrument.  And paid for it, too!  And Peter, the second son and number three in the children’s lineup, was sequestered in his room, struggling with his arithmetic.

    From down the street came the familiar rumble of a small four-cylinder engine.  Presently, a motorcycle with its two riders appeared around the corner and halted before the Clements home.

    Orin stood up, taking the pipe from his mouth.

    “Mother, our guests are here,” he called through the door.  He had noted the dark line of clouds to the southwest earlier when he came out to read.  Now they appeared to have edged a little closer.  His seaman’s sense told him that a storm was fast approaching, possibly a big one.

    Two women stepped out of the house.  Margaret Clements, called Marge, wiped her hands on her apron, then touched the large bun of black hair at the base of her skull.  Her eldest daughter stood by her, smoothing back her own shoulder length wavy mane.

    “Ellen, go fetch Peter and Brigit, please,” rumbled her father as he set pipe and paper aside.
    Silas and Beverly walked up towards the bungalow, arm in arm, smiling.

    “She is lovely,” whispered Marge to her husband.

    “Aye, she is, and the right catch for our captain.”

    Orin let the humans in through the screen door as the rest of the family appeared.  Brigit entered with her brother, took one look at Silas’ date, and frowned.

    “Does this mean I don’t get to marry you, Uncle Silas?”

    Noting the pout on the young simian’s face, the captain replied, “Doesn’t look like it, honey.  But you can be the flower girl at our wedding.”

    Then Marge Clements surprised everyone by stepping forward to take Silas in a rib-cracking hug.

    “Well, it’s about damn time!  I’ve almost given up on you!  Congratulations!”

    Then she released the man and gathered a bewildered Beverly Plumb into a gentler embrace and offered her congratulations on ‘tying this ol’ seadog down’.”

    Everyone headed into the house to settle around the dinner table where a quick grace was made and the food passed around.  To Silas the meal seemed to take longer than usual, as the conversation and questioning appeared to be nonstop.  Beverly barely got a bite to her mouth without one of the Clements children interrupting about her work, her home and family, and the incident yesterday.  But she did manage to have a slice of pecan pie with her coffee before Marge and Ellen rose to clear the table.

    “Let me help,” said Beverly as she got up with her plate.

    Marge turned around, dinnerware in both hands.  “Oh, no, you’re our guest.  Let us take care of clearing the table, dear.”

    But Ellen turned sheepishly to her mother.

    “Mom, I’m suppose to meet Jill and Carolyn in half an hour at the library.  Our study group, remember?”

    The older chimpanzee rolled her eyes upward.  “Oh, dear, I forgot all about that.”

    Beverly smiled.  “Then I’ve got an excuse to lend a hand, then.”

    Marge could only shake her head and laughed.  “Alright then, you two.  Let’s get a move on.”

    Silas and Orin laughed as well as lent a hand in clearing the table.  When the food was put away in the refrigerator, the two males headed out to the porch while the children scraped plates and bowls into the slop bucket as the women began the washing and drying.

    “I thought there was something of the South about you, girl,” Marge commented as she passed a wet plate to Beverly who dried it.  She in turn handed the dried dinnerware to one of the children to be put away.

    Beverly shrugged.  “I don’t think you could call Missouri being part of the South.  I mean, sure part of the Civil War was fought there because it had been a slave state at the time.  But it doesn’t compare with North Carolina.  Was that where you said you and Orin are from?”

    The simian woman nodded, her bun bouncing against her neck.

    “Oh, yes, and they don’t take kindly to our kind there.”

    “Your kind?”  Beverly looked confused.

    Marge turned large brown eyes on her guest.  “Black furs.”

    “Oh,” was all Beverly could say.  “We didn’t have many in Columbia, other than at the university.  There were a few black human families in town and I didn’t see too many of them other than out shopping or at school.  But I never gave much thought to segregation because it was never a part of my life then.  Only after the influenza struck and I was busy treating people, both humans and furries, that I gave any thought as to why there was a separation between the species.”  The woman bowed her head a moment before looking her hostess in the eye.  “Maybe that’s why I came to the islands.  With the decimation of my people I began to notice how the furs and feathers started to treat the survivors harshly, as they themselves had been treated.  Here,” Beverly spread her arms wide, dishtowel dangling in hand, “everyone gets along pretty much better than in the states.  It’s only the tourists that are boorish and condescending to the islanders.  On Little Orpington Island, the natives see me as a healer, not just a human, and they love me for that.”

    Drying her large dark hands, Marge Clements took Beverly Plumb in a familial hug again.  When she pulled away there was mistiness in those big brown eyes as she held the woman’s hands in hers.

    “Welcome home, girl.”

    It struck Beverly what was implied as was meant, such that she took the chimpanzee into her own arms.  The two women stood like that for a long time, just holding and rocking slightly, until Brigit spoke up.

    “Are we going to finish the dishes first?”

    There was laughter shared by all in the kitchen as the first bonds of friendship were tied between the human and simian women.  When the dishwashing was done and all put away, the small party headed out to the porch where the menfolk were quietly sipping drinks and smoking their pipes.  Silas passed his glass to his fiancé.  She took a sip, then remembered the bite of the rum and cola from the night before.  Then Beverly got a surprised as Marge began packing a small corncob pipe and light it.  She in turn surprised her hosts when she fitted a familiar small cigar to a short black holder.
 
    It was quiet on the porch as the adults smoked while the children went out into the yard to chase fireflies.

    “A nice quiet evening,” commented Silas as he blew a streamer of smoke into the hazy atmosphere.  “It would be nice if we all went out and did something.”

    “What did you have in mind, Silas?” asked Marge as she knocked the dottle out into the ashtray.

    The man gave a shrug.  “Oh, I was thinking it would be a good night to see a movie at the base theater.”

    Something in the man’s attitude and speech caught Orin’s attention.  “What did you have in mind?”

    Silas smiled.  “Oh, I thought we all might enjoy seeing ‘Treasure Island’.”

    The First Officer closed his eyes and moaned.  “Oh, God, you would.”

    Beverly looked confused.  “What’s wrong with ‘Treasure Island’?”

    The simian looked at her.  “It’s one of Silas’ favorite books, and he often quotes from it so much that it can be monotonous.”

    The captain leaned forward, squinted his left eye shut, and chortled, “Aye, and ye can lay to that!’”

    Orin groaned again as his friend and commanding officer burst out laughing.  Afterwards, Orin could only smile as he stood to roll down his shirtsleeves.  He called out into the yard.  “Peter, Brigit, get cleaned up.  We’re going to the movies!”

    There came a chorus of cheers as the two simian children raced into the house.
    

    Night had settled over Moon Island as a small party of theatergoers headed down the street, laughing and talking about the movie they had just seen.  Peter Clements was giving a running commentary on what I liked about the movie and some of the characters.  Little Brigit was calling out, “Pieces of eight!  Pieces of eight!”  The adults laughed in turn at the children’s antics as well as commenting on certain scenes of the movie.

    “Of course, when Robert Louis Stevenson wrote the book, he pretty much took what was considered historical and embellished it a bit,” was Silas’ comment on the subject.

    Beverly looked at him.  “You mean, the idea of peg-legged pirates, parrots, and buried treasure wasn’t real?”

    Silas shook his head.  “Not the least bit of it.  Who wants to wear a coat with birdlime down the back?  And anyone with an eye or limb missing wouldn’t be allowed to sign on as crew.  And the only time treasure was ever buried was when William Kidd heard about his being declared a pirate.  And that was to keep it safe as a means of bribing some official.  Which didn’t work out as he had hoped.”  He sighed.  “Still, Wallace Beary and Jackie Cougar both did credible jobs of playing the characters from the story.  It’s just that I miss a lot of the human actors that came before them.”  He looked at his fiancé.  “You know, Ben Blue, Ben Turpin, Laurel and Hardy, Harold Lloyd, and Charlie Chaplin.  Those people who laid the groundwork for early movies.  I’ve nothing against the furries and feathers coming up through the Hollywood machine, but I sometimes wish there were still some human actors on the silver screen!”

    His date took his arm in her hands and rested her head against his shoulder.

    “I know, dear, I know.  But that is how things are these days.  Our time – humanity’s time – on this earth is numbered, and we just have to make the best of what is left for us.”

    The captain smiled down at her.  “Yes, to make the best of it,” he said before gathering her up in his arms for a long kiss.  Orin and Marge wisely turned away and kept walking, ushering their children ahead.  When the human couple broke they followed, hand in hand.  Then Silas broke into song:

    Then he surprised Beverly by continuing into the song.  She never knew that there was more to it than the ‘Yo, ho, ho’ part.  But Orin and family would join in on the chorus until Beverly fell in with the crowd.  Once more the woman was startled when Orin took up the second verse, with everyone belting out the chorus.

    So it was as the party continued down the street until the final chorus was song slowly into its end.  On both sides of the street came a smattering of applause from the residents enjoying the night air.  Silas and the others thanked them and wished them all a pleasant evening.

    “The way you got into that song, Silas, I’d almost think there was a bit of the piratical in you,” said Beverly.

    The man chuckled.  “You’re close, my dear, very close.  Actually, I come from a line that can boast of two privateers who served under King George II of England.”

    Beverly brightened at this.  “Oh, really?”

    Silas nodded.  “Back during the Seven Years War, as it was called in Europe.  In the American colonies it was known as the French and Indian War.”

    “Who were they?”

    “Two brothers known as Edmund and Thomas Coates.  They sailed the waters here around the Spontoon Islands, capturing French trading vessels and whalers.”

    The woman mulled over this bit of news.  “What ever became of them?”

    Thumbing back his hat, Silas looked off to the southwest, noting the flash of heat lightning amongst the thunderheads that slowly pushed their way closer to the islands.

    “According to Thomas’ personal journal and ship’s log, they had been working these waters pretty good for a few months before Edmund, the eldest, decided to call it quits and sail back to England.  They had more than enough loot to fill their two ships, with plenty to be left stored hereabouts for a later trip back.  Now Thomas thought the idea sounded reasonable and had ordered it so.  But before they could depart, a couple of French warships appeared and began shelling the island that was home here in the Pacific.  Edmund ordered Thomas to leave and he would catch up with them along the Mexican coast.
 
    “So Thomas headed for the Baja coast and wait.  But Edmund never arrived.  After two weeks lingering there Thomas ordered the schooner, Fortune’s Foole , homeward to Bristol.  When they arrived back at port, he had to make his to London and report to their backers.”

    “What happened?”

    The man shook his head.  “Nothing good, really.  There were a few powerful men in the king’s court who had put up the money to outfit the expedition, along with some notable merchants who had hoped to make a killing on the venture.

    “When he reported what had happened on the island when the French showed up those gentlemen were not pleased.  They accused Thomas of hoarding the rest of the booty for himself and his brother.  Afterwards, these gentlemen had Thomas arrested and thrown into prison.  But my ancestor did remain so for long.  Seems there had been other privateers who sympathized with his plight.  So they bribed the guards to release Thomas and he was spirited away.

    “He made a long and arduous journey homeward to Stamford Bridge, up in the North Country.  When he got there he learned of a warrant sworn out for his arrest and that his family estate was to be confiscated.  But his mother, the dear old soul, wasn’t the least bit worried.  She had most of the valuable household goods packed up and ready to be carted northwards to Scotland, her home.  With a kiss and suggestion that he hie it for the Americas, the widow Coates pushed off for the highlands while her remaining son legged it for Liverpool.  Once there he signed on as a hand on a merchantman bound for Boston.”

    Beverly looked confused.  “Wasn’t he afraid that the authorities would catch him there?”

    With a shake of his head Silas continued:  “Not really.  Before he left home he shaved off his beard and dressed more as a common seaman than a ship’s captain or mate.  Also he had signed on as ‘Thomas Stanbridge’ instead of Coates.  Once he reached the colonies he caught a coaster up to Maine where he settled for the rest of his life.  Except for a brief stint as a privateer during the American Revolution he pretty much led a quiet life as a fisherman and master of a coastal trader.”

    The woman let this all settle in before asking, “Is that how you got your family name; ‘Stamford Bridge’ being contracted into ‘Stanbridge’?”

    The man smiled.  “Yup, and ever since then the eldest son had ‘Thomas’ as a middle name.  I even have the original journal passed down from father to son.  I finally donated it to the university over on East Island for safe keeping.”  Silas gave a deep sigh.  “I sometimes wonder whatever happened to ol’ Edmund.”  He waved a hand off to the south. “Somewhere out among the numerous islands and atolls his bones are resting with a heap of treasure still waiting to be found.”

    “And what would you do with the treasure, Uncle Silas?” piped up little Brigit.

    Silas shook his head.  “I don’t know, honey.  Maybe sell off some of the good stuff to universities and museums and donate to money to a good cause.  I just don’t know.”

    Beverly took his arm and rested her head against it.  “Maybe found a nursing school?  That would be my dream.”

    The captain looked down at his fiancé and smiled.  “That would be a worthy cause.”

    The distant mutter of thunder cause everyone to look up and hurry along a little faster.  They had just rounded a bend in the street and saw the Clement’s house when Silas noted a familiar figure seated on the stoop.

    “What the hell?” he murmured.  The mallard in a tan suit stood at their approach.

      Jacob Breckenridge walked over to the human then guided him away from the others.

    “Silas, something bad has happened.”  He held up a brown paper bag, the top rolled over.

    “What’s wrong, Jake?”

    The duck detective gave a quick glance at the others over his shoulder before lowering his voice.

    “I got a call about an hour and a half ago from someone claiming to know you.  They say that they have a friend of yours and want a meeting with you.  They also said that if you don’t show her body will be found under the docks.”

    That set the man’s mind into a whirl as he tried to make sense of what he had just heard.

    “Did he say who he was and why he needed to see me?”

    Jake shook his head.  “Gave no name but sounded like he had a British accent.”

    The man’s face screwed up into a frown.  “Jarvis.”  Silas looked to his friend.  “And ‘her’ would be Jenny Monroe, my Pilot Officer.” Then he looked at the sack.  “Is this his proof?”

    The mallard nodded and handed the bag over.  A heavy weight settled into Stanbridge’s stomach as he took the bag and slowly opened the top.  A glance in caused him to swear loudly and screw his eyes shut.

    Beverly came over.  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

    Quickly Silas closed the bag before looking at her.

    “They’ve got Jenny and are going to kill her if I don’t meet up with them”

    The woman’s eyes went wide.  “Jenny?  Who’s got Jenny?  How do you know they have her?”

    “Someone we met the other night, at the casino.  He’s going to kill her if I don’t meet up with him.”

    Swallowing hard, Silas indicated the bag.

    “Please, let me see?  She’s my friend, too.”

    For a long moment Silas simply stared at Beverly, then opened the bag.  The woman peeked in.  With a gasp and a cry she turned away, a hand jammed into her mouth to stifle the sobs bursting forth.

    The bag was filled with honey-blonde curls.

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