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Odalisque
Chapter 6
Inconstant in Constantinople (part three)
VI. September, 1854, Athens
Gabrielle Francesca loved the sea and sailing in ships on it. She had traveled by ship, now, more times than she could count, yet she never tired of the exaltation of a fine ship spanking the waves before a brisk wind on a clean, bright day. There was nothing more numinous for her in all the world. No, not even touch-loving with Felicity. This... was better than sex.
She stood in the bow of the Bella Donna like a flesh-and-blood figurehead, the guardian spirit of her vessel and its enterprise. Like such a spirit, the petite woman gazed into the mists ahead, struggling to pierce the veil of doubt at the horizon.
She knew that she could see no farther than her vision would allow her sight to fly, but that she made the attempt comforted her and those dependent on her for such comfort. To them, she was a talisman of luck. Her ability to peer ahead had saved her and those in her company many times in the past. By now, her fellow adventurers had come to trust her for the vision that guided her choices, both for herself and for her followers.
It hadn't always been that way. The sailors of the Olympia fleet were as superstitious a lot as any afloat, and they did not cotton to having women aboard ship In any capacity, let alone as owner, owner's agent, or--the gods forbid--captain. Yet she was, or had been, all three, with the absolute power of command at sea held firmly in her small hands. But she had proven herself a good leader and a lucky one, and now the men of the fleet vied to serve under her. To crew the Bella Donna was a plum assignment and only the best men served in her.
For all of that, it gave the men comfort to see the tiny figure in her flowing black and gold silk shirt, bolero jacket, tight green breeches, and sturdy black sea boots, her copper hair pulled back in a proper seaman's queue that hung to her waist, a cutlass they all knew was well-blooded and suited to her hand hooked naked at her belt, standing on the bowsp'rit, holding fast to the stays, her level green-eyed gaze directed across the seas ahead. What she saw they knew not. Considering some of the places she'd led them, most preferred not to know, shuddering at the thought. She'd never been one to shy from danger. There were pirates in all the waters they sailed and more than once she'd found herself in the melee, repelling boarders hand-to-hand, a smile on her bow mouth, a damn-all laugh in her throat. Yet still she traveled where she would on the company's business, and damned be he who'd try to say her nay. For that they loved her, calling her their Fanny, and they would follow her to the very gates of Hell and beyond if only she would ask.
While Gabrielle Francesca was looking ahead, there was another who was looking behind, and soon enough he saw what he had been awaiting. He grunted and left his place at the stern rail and made his way forward. For the most part, his passage went unremarked, (if not unnoticed), but here and there, odd members of the crew greeted him with a polite, "Cap'n," as he passed, which greeting was returned with a nod here, the quiet speaking of a man's name, a clap on a shoulder. Like the woman in the bows, the captain was well-liked among the crew. It made for happier voyages, despite the fact that they sailed at constant risk.
Finally he came to stand beside the diminutive factor. He stood there silent for a moment, waiting for Gabrielle Francesca to acknowledge his presence.
She gave him a sidelong glance, grateful for his discretion, and let her whirling mind wind down, trying to get herself calm and centered for what she knew was to come.
James Book was a slender man, of average height. He had gray-green eyes and the sandy red hair that was so common among his Highland forebears. He'd gone to sea as a boy and been fortunate enough to land in Hephaestus's service before the rougher life elsewhere at sea in his time ruined him, leeching him of all basic humanity. He'd risen rapidly through the ranks in the gods' fleet, coming to a sea command of his own before he was thirty. A strict disciplinarian, he ran a tight ship. But he was not a man for frills, and that included what he considered to be the frivolous meddling on the part of his fellow commanders into matters that were none of their business. He did not demand that his crewmen shave, for instance, or keep their hair cut to a certain length. He only demanded that they be clean--a standard that was somewhat more difficult to meet, but one that made more sense. Life aboard his commands was commensurately more pleasant, and service under him was much sought after. With him in command and the factor in the owner's cabin, the saying went, any ship was doubly-blessed.
As a result of his even-handed administration, his crews strove to set and meet a higher standard than he would have ever been able to force from them unwilling. The appearance, seamanship, and demeanor of the Bella Donna was second to none in the world. Of that, the crew made certain.
He wore a coat as a badge of office, although the sight of his hair and the sound of his voice carried more authority than any mere rags ever could. He refused to dress the part of a fop, as was the fashion of the time among naval and merchant captains alike. It got him a reputation as a bit of a preacher or a schoolmarm. If either bothered him, he never showed it. When asked, he would calmly explain that his job was to lead his crew, not best them in peacockery. As for other captains ... he'd dismiss them all with a contemptuous wave of his hand. They were not his concern. Other than the coat, he dressed simply as one of the crew. The striped jersey and white canvas trousers he wore were of no better make than those issued to the men. And if the occasion arose, he would shuck his coat and clamber into the rigging with the best of them, but heaven help the man whose slacking made it necessary for him to leave his customary place beside the wheel. Once the crisis was over, there would be a captain's mast and punishments meted out. It didn't happen often.
"Well, Book," Gabrielle Francesca began in her husky voice. "A fine day for a bit of a sail in Poseidon's ocean, eh?"
"Aye, Miz Fanny. It is all of that," he replied amiably in his Scottish burr. "And ahead? Hae Ye seen aught?"
Gabrielle Francesca laughed, a low throaty sound. "No, Book. That I have not. I suspect there's naught to see."
Book laughed in philosophical agreement with her droll observation. "Aye. 'Tis a truth ye've hit upon. Whit there is t' see is hid fra arr ken."
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, chuckling over the perversity of life, then:
"We're out of sight of land, Miz Fanny," Book informed her. "Yer uncle said we was to open his orders once we were clear of Piraeus." It was part of the concealing masquerade of the gods, this fiction that Hephaestus was uncle as well as guardian to the diminutive daughter of the East. "D'ye reckon we're clear enough?"
"I reckon," she replied with a smile. She jumped down the half step to the boards of the main deck from the bowsp'rit where it plunged beneath them. "Let's go find out what errand the old devil has cooked up for us this time."
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