Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

saw that she was no longer of interest to him as he was now focused on the Captain. The smile on his face seemed forced and their greeting, while cordial, was not the greeting of two old friends. Words were being spoken, and as they spoke, he withdrew an envelope from his coat and handed it to the Captain. The Captain only glanced at it before putting it in his coat. She could not hear what else was said. However, after a moment, the stranger turned and spoke to his men. Then, turning back to the Captain, he nodded and they headed below.
After an awkward moment of silence, the crews of both ships became one amid much fuss and bother. Their gestures and the sounds of their voices spoke more of a shared common bond, than did the cold cordiality of the two captains. Again, Christine became uneasy when she saw several heads turn in her direction. From the many gestures and laughter that ensued, she knew that she was the object of their attentions. She turned and retreated toward the safety of her cabin below.
Once below, she had to pass the Captain’s door, which was ajar, and as she did so, the sounds of serious conversation could be heard. Again her curiosity was piqued, so she paused outside the door. Hardly daring to breathe, she looked in while straining to hear what was being said. The guest had his back to the door and the Captain stood opposite, holding what she presumed to be the letter in his hand. She tried to understand the look on his face as he stared at him. Was it shock? Dismay? Disbelief? She couldn’t be sure. Their words were muffled, but the few she did understand spoke of unrest and disharmony. She was about to move closer when the sounds of voices about to descend the stairs gave her a start and she quickly fled to her cabin lest she be caught.
She pressed her door shut and, leaning against it, inhaled deeply and held her breath lest the sounds of her breathing lead to her discovery. She could hear footsteps approaching. She prayed they would pass by. They didn’t. There was a knock. She exhaled and took several breaths, hoping to still her pounding heart before answering that knock. That unseen hand rapped again, and this time she heard the cook’s voice through the door. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss. The Captain has requested your presence.”
The sound of his kindly voice calmed her and she opened the door. He repeated what he had just said: “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss. The Captain has requested your presence.”
“Thank you,” she said, stepping out of her cabin as he turned toward the Captain’s door. She followed.
The cook’s knock on the door pushed it open wider. Christine saw the Captain quickly turn and place on the table behind him the piece of paper he had been holding. Then, turning back, he said in a strong voice, “Come.”
The cook pushed the door fully open and retreated, leaving her alone in the doorframe. The two men were standing, facing the door, in front of the Captain’s table. This time there was no hiding as the Captain’s guest stared at her. As she had noted before, his appearance was unkempt, with his clothing in need of replacement for there was little that had not been repaired many times. He was stout and looked to be a powerful man, one who would be a formidable adversary in a fight. His beard was flecked with grey and was in need of trimming, and what skin was exposed was rough, ruddy, and pocked. His eyes were close-set, as black as night, and moved about constantly. Only when he stared directly at her did they become still, and she could feel them bore into her with a gaze so intense that she could almost feel him undressing her. She shivered, then crossed her arms in front and held herself as if to prevent her clothes from being removed.
The Captain stood with his hands clasped behind his back, blocking her view of the table. She had the feeling that it was not for her to see whatever was on it. She hesitated, then, he motioned at her to step forward. Tentatively, she moved toward the two men as he said, “Miss Armitage, this is Mr. Josiah Whitbey.” Then he added, even though he had already said so to her on deck, “He is an old friend of your uncle’s in Newport, Rhode Island.”
    Alfred stopped. He stared at the page and reread that last sentence: “… this is Mr. Josiah Whitbey. He is an old friend of your uncle’s in Newport, Rhode Island.” He couldn’t believe what he was reading. He grabbed some papers covered in scribblings and