Side Quest: Calais
I pulled the rowboat high up on Little Jean’s beach and walked into the cottage to see Little Jean, Bessie, and Little Jean’s granddaughter Antionette, playing a raucous game of cards. They were all clearly wasted, likely drinking since sunrise and it was evening when I moored. Bottles littered Little Jean’s kitchen board. Bessie was wearing a new outfit -- sort of. Her new puffy linen shirt was halfway unlaced. A sturdy woolen skirt was hiked up over her bloomers and showed off beautiful new knee length boots. I saw a few other items that possibly belonged to her strewn about the cozy cottage: a wide brimmed hat, a vest, a sword and sheath combo, and several other shirts. Looked like they’d gone on a shopping spree.
“Captain!” Bessie and Antionette shouted. Antionette was very giggly and I noticed Bessie’s book open on the table between them and their discarded playing cards. I would need to warn her about bringing items like that off my ship.
“Nini!” Little Jean lifted his glass to me and everyone drank. They poured – attempted to pour me a glass and I scooped up the wine bottle before more of it could soak through the wooden floorboards. I took a drink right out of the bottle and laughed along with the rest of them. It was toasty in the little cottage and felt welcoming and homey after Aoife and Seamus’ drafty shack. Bessie staggered to the kitchen board and back to me with a plate piled with bread, cheese, meat and grapes.
“Isabelle said–” she slurred. I stopped her from spewing my sister’s orders and dropping my dinner and I put her back in her seat.
“Yes, yes, I’ll eat.” I pushed the girl back into her chair where she proceeded to win the current round of cards (I however lost spectacularly). I was such a lightweight I was caught up to them in cups before too long.
The short sail across the channel had proved lonelier than I expected. After weeks of sailing with noisy, talkative, inquisitive passengers, I struggled to sit in the quiet and peace that existed between the wind and the waves.
Now I sat between Little Jean and Bessie and infused myself with their warmth and talk. He and Antoinette were teaching Bessie French and I chimed in on the lessons as I feasted. Bessie had learned many words and phrases and epithets. They asked me if I found Izzy’s husband and I answered in the affirmative and assured them that the mission was a success and then turned the conversation back to them.
I wanted every detail of their week together to crowd out the horror of my past few days. Antoinette had been living here almost the whole time. Little Jean had recruited her to take Bessie (or Mon Petit Baiser, as they’d taken to calling her) shopping and outfitted. Little Jean giggled as they handed me back a much depleted purse. I dumped it all in the ante pot for the card game and they all cheered and poured more wine all around. I eventually lost every coin on my person but was feeling so warm and cheerful I didn’t care.
Bessie and Antoinette went up into the loft to sleep after a few more rounds of cards and Little Jean and I stumbled outside to watch the moon against the water. He refilled our cups as we stumbled to the beach and collapsed against the side of the rowboat. Everything was funny. The moon was funny. The sand was funny. Little Jean’s face was exceptionally funny.
“So where are you off to next, Nini?” He drank a deep draught and poured more wine on the sand than in his cup. So funny.
“Well, I just wagered and lost six days of work to you, three bolts of fabric to Antoinette,” I ticked the losses off on my fingers, “and I now owe Bessie a fancy new sword. So I guess I need to go to the bank.”
“Bank?” Little Jean laughed at the unfamiliar word. “Nini, we sit here on the bank right now!” We both collapsed with laughter. “Nini, take my goods to Calais for me? We’ll call it even.”
“To Calais!" I toasted him.
“Calais!” he repeated and we drank.
The moon was impressive tonight. Little Jean and I quieted as the alcohol began to take hold in that deep and sinking way that meant a gale force hangover was on the horizon. Ah well, ultimate relaxation was now. Noises from the cottage caught my attention as I separated the lap of the waves from the gasps and moans emanating from the cottage loft. Bessie had taken her book up to the loft with her.
“To youth and beauty and love,” Little Jean toasted in the direction of the loft then fell back against the rowboat’s hull as Bessie and Antoinette explored each other in the night.
I pulled a tarp over him. “To youth.” I drank and kissed his cheeks.
I woke up in the damp sand and bright French sun a few hours later. The tarp was now over me and Little Jean’s footprints led inside off the beach. I couldn’t move. I was so hungover. I pulled the tarp farther over my head and passed back out.
It took two days before I was back on my feet. Bessie helped me load the ship with Little Jean’s perfumes and we set off for Calais on the morning tide of the third day post hangover.
****
“Captain?” Bessie asked after we sailed too far to continue waving to Little Jean and Antoinette. I looked over at her as she leaned against the rail watching the wind in the sails.
“Why are we heading to Calais?”
“I’m selling Little Jean’s perfumes for him as a thank you for hosting us these past weeks.”
“And then after?”
“After we’ll bring him his profits back. I was thinking about buying some outright to store and sell on my own. He’s got talent.” I could turn a huge profit with those in early turn of the century New York.
“How long will we be in Calais?” She went to adjust a luffing sail without my asking. Impressive.
“Calais is a big port. To buy and sell what we need,” I mentally reviewed the items in my hold and the list for the Greenland villagers, “Perhaps a month. Maybe two. It’s a great season for trading. I bet we could make out fairly well.” My last time in Calais yielded me a banner season for The Hundred Acres. Yvonne had been so ecstatic with my success she had cracked a real smile. I thought her face had broken. I smiled at the memory until my heart gripped and I refocused on the water.
“Won’t they be wondering where we are?” she asked.
“Who?” Yvonne and I had had a turbulent relationship but we trusted each other to do what was needed. Even when we —
“Catherine and Isabelle,” Bessie brought me back to the present. “You do remember them, don’t you?” She would never forgive my memory lapses during the start of our journey.
“I didn’t forget. Believe it or not my memory is actually rather good. I just have a lot to remember.” We were bang on course. I relaxed back in my chair and soaked up the sunshine.
“So when do we have to go back?” She mirrored my relaxed posture but I noted her ‘have to’ with a grin.
“'Have to go back?' Do you want to stay here longer?” No one would want to go back to the ice and snow in this glorious weather with all of Calais ahead of us.
“Oui,” she said and beamed at me.
I mused over how to explain this aspect of time travel to her. She and I had had enough lessons together as we sailed to develop a rapport. I had an idea.
“Where’s your book?” I held out my hand for it knowing it couldn’t be far from her reach. She pulled it from her waistband and handed it over. “Okay. Come here” I pulled a pen out of the cabinet as she came over. I flipped to a random chapter somewhere by the front of the book.
But all who knew of the building's true purpose kept it quiet. For were the men of the town to discover that such knowledge was discussed freely and openly among the women of the
town, who were assumed to be content with their tea pots, sewing, and twittering about the latest matchmaking schemes…trouble would knock at the door of each woman who dared to even
whisper the words “what if” within their cocoon of silk and whale bone confines.
And…should any men discover more than simple words were exchanged in the velvet chaises of the tea rooms where ungloved fingertips grazed soft surfaces…
I might pick this book up myself to read if Bessie ever put it down long enough for me to read more than a paragraph. In the upper corner of the page I drew three stick figures, two adult sized, one baby size.
“This is Izzy. This is Catherine. And this is John Henry.” I wrote and labeled each as I said the names. From my notebook I ripped out a page and drew a small sailboat with two stick figures aboard. “This is us. Now, imagine each of these pages is a year.” I put the sailboat bookmark on the same page as the three stick figures. Then I flipped the pages forward a little:
The hot Castillian summer saw most of the town struggling in their buttoned up layers of linen and moral stricture. Life shifted from day to night. When the stars appeared and lifted
the heat of the day up towards the heavens then the townspeople began to move from the moistened perches they’d occupied by windows and doorsteps during daylight. Lady Portia watched
the haze over her beloved town and imagined the whole place was nothing but a mirage this hot summer season; an ever shifting collection of images and visions that only loosely fit
together in the face of this heat.
Now the bookmark rested above the new paragraph. I looked up at her. “We traveled to 1651. To Calais. But,” I flipped back to the page with the figures, “here they are, safe and sound in Greenland 1649. We could go all the way here,” I flipped to the end of the book and put the bookmark back there above a chapter that began:
Sunlight filtered through the gauzy lace curtains of Andrea’s bedroom window; a sight Emilia never dreamed she would see. The line of shadow and sunlight crept up the burnished skin
of Andrea’s leg and Emilia watched as nature’s rays revealed the limb to the small room and Emilia’s hungry eyes.
“And they will still be here in Greenland.” I shut the book on our bookmark and opened the pages back up to the three figures drawn at the top of the page in the early chapter. “They are here, waiting, always.” I opened the book and moved our ship through the pages. “We can open this book time and time and time again and get to Greenland whenever we want. They’re there.” I found the page, flipped around to other chapters, then returned to the Greenland page. “They’ll always be there. All we have to do is find the right place.” I handed the book back to Bessie, who held the page open at our bookmark. “They will never wonder where we went. Well, they might wonder but they won’t know we took a little side trip to Calais for an extra month. Get it?”
“Perhaps, Captain…but I think not really, no.”
“They will barely know we’ve been gone. So do you want to go back now or spend a little more time out and about?” I knew the answer. She knew the answer. We sat back and watched the sun on the water. Bessie held the book open to the page with the simple drawings of Izzy, Catherine, and John Henry.
“Don’t you miss your sister?” She stared at the three stick figures as she asked that. I wondered if she was asking permission not to miss Catherine. If I missed Izzy then it would be okay for her to miss Catherine. Or if I said I didn’t miss Izzy, would she feel relief for not missing Catherine either? I had been traveling most of my life. Loving and missing Izzy was a constant and eternal part of my makeup. I went to visit her as often as possible but the majority of my life was spent away from her. These recent intense few months we’d spent together getting to Bermuda, spent on Bermuda, and then outbound to Greenland, had been the most concentrated sisterly time I’d shared with her since I’d begun traveling at age 13. This little side trip felt completely natural to me, more akin to how I typically lived.
“Knowing I can get back whenever I want and she won’t know the difference helps me miss her just a little bit less," I explained.
“So we can stay?”
“Of course. Now get to work,” I ordered then laughed. There was no work to do right now. It was just the two of us and no one was hungry and no one was tired and no one needed watching in case he toddled off the edge. Bessie took her book over to her hammock and stretched out. I brought out my embroidery project. We’d be in Calais by this evening.
****
The bustling French port of Calais was one of my favorites to visit. There was an enormous amount of traffic in and out of this major port on its way into and out of western Europe. I had a good many friends and enemies here but the place was large enough that I might spend a whole season docked here without meeting any of them.
I paid to have my ship guarded and Bessie and I went to explore the port during the day and sleep on the Try Your Luck at night. We were able to quickly sell Little Jean’s perfumes and musks. The stuff practically sold itself and, trust me, these people needed something to make themselves smell better. I had enough cargo in my hold to barter and buy items for my ship, supplies for the village in Greenland, and obtain interesting acquisitions that might fetch a good price in distant ports and future auction houses. The cargo hold was soon bursting with all sorts of items. I spent an entire day just buying nice smelling soap. French milled soap was as good now as it was in modern times. The ship still smelled faintly of ambergris and the cakes of fragrant soap helped to mask the fermented whale stink. I placed a few cakes of it in Izzy’s cabin as a surprise for her when we got back to her. Calais was always worth the trip.
Bessie stayed at my side and I outfitted her accordingly. I bought her a good sword and taught her how to use it at night while we were alone on the ship. On our way to Greenland I’d begun teaching her how to box and now I added lessons on how to load and shoot the various guns in my weapons locker. After all, she’d handled the rice cooker well enough, she could handle a Colt .45.
I introduced her to my entire arsenal cabinet and told her a bit about what each weapon could do. The cabinet held a supply of grenades, smoke bombs, rifles, pistols, and blades that I kept at the ready just in case anyone tried to board me and needed to be taught a quick and economical lesson. I’m sure Bessie assumed I was a witch, but more of a Glinda the Good Witch-Who’ll-Kick Your-Ass-And-Send-You-To-Your-Grave variety of witch. We couldn’t practice firing most of the weapons but I taught her about safety, protocol, loading, unloading, cleaning, and storage. Next time we were out on the water I’d give her the chance to fire a few rounds from each of the weapons.
Calais was a varied and thriving port and I was eventually able to secure an arquebus musket and several rounds. It was a vastly different type of weapon but the only one we could practice with. After work we traveled out to an empty field for target practice. The thing was enormous. The result being that I couldn’t walk straight because I laughed myself straight into walls watching Bessie part the crowds with that musket (almost as tall as she was) slung across her back. She loved it. I think she took to sleeping with that gun and her book in bed with her at night.
I also introduced her to pants. She was a big fan of pants once I found a pair that fit her well enough. And pockets. First time she strutted about the port with both of us in our pants she couldn’t stop giggling with glee and telling me the entire plot line for the Emilia character and how Emilia would have loved these breeches. Bessie hadn’t mentioned Catherine or Greenland once since we left Saint-Brieuc. Watching her, I recalled how I’d felt my first few journeys far from home. The freedom and excitement being more potent and difficult to recover from than any drug.
Re-entry into family life at Heron’s Landing had been rocky and fraught with arguments and outbursts and groundings until I got ahold of myself. Coming down off the high of being my own master and commander, serving only my own desires and hunger, had made it feel like I would crack if I had to bend to fit myself beneath my mother’s roof and rules. Nevermind the pure torture of sitting through geometry class in a uniform skirt and listening to Izzy and her friends prattle on about the next school dance and expect me to be excited about it when I’d just returned from watching the northern lights.
Eventually I’d learned patience. I'd realized I wasn't stuck and that I could get back on the water and back to what was rapidly turning into my real life. My life at Heron’s Landing became the place I visited when my ship needed repair or when I needed a safe bed and steady meals before returning back to the portal.
Bessie might think on Catherine or John Henry late at night like I thought of Izzy, and, like me, saw what was happening now and how we were feeling now as taking precedence over returning to a place mired with responsibility and expectations. We were happy and carefree and that was everything.
Our favorite tavern was La Poule à Huȋtres and we spent most evenings there. It was a favorite haunt of mine here in Calais and Bessie came to love it too. I knew the bartender, Jaques – and more importantly the bartender would serve women- and there was an active gambling and merchant scene. I kept Bessie glued to my side as we drank and played the nights away.
Two weeks in and everyone knew Bessie too. She was a regular card shark and was soon sitting on a mountain of favors, trinkets, full coin purses, and marriage proposals. This was especially fun for me because I had horrifyingly bad luck at cards and games in general. I never got to win. Maui had been the same way. Even when we practiced playing cards against each other we both still seemed to lose. Birds would steal our cards, waves would wash game pieces away, we’d forget the rules…it was a mess.
Watching Bessie hustle these suckers was a new brand of fun. I’d order a few rounds from Jaques, get everyone nice and drunk and then Bessie would ask if they would to teach her how to play cards. These sailors had all played and won against me time and again and were only too thrilled to put money down on a sure bet. And Bessie was so cute they didn’t even mind losing their shirts to her. By the end of the night we would all be drunk and singing bar songs. Bessie and I would stumble to the Try Your Luck to sleep once Jacuqes kicked us out.
Bessie took her winnings into the port and gloried in buying herself whatever she wanted to wear, whatever she wanted to eat, whatever she wanted to drink, and whatever she wanted to spend her nights with. We had to have a few discussions about safe sex after that and keeping oneself in good hygiene. One severe UTI was teacher enough for her and she paid more attention to my instructions after that.
Walking the port during the day, I was constantly set upon with sailors. I knew most of these old sea rats. Most of them were really getting old too. They wanted news of the new world, layouts of the ports in the Caribbean, the geography of the African coastlines, how to sail around Cape Horn, where in the colonies it was best to put in for a good price on tobacco. I was mobbed with questions from the minute I walked off my ship. I was the Bitch Captain of the Seven Seas; everyone knew me. As my first mate, Bessie sat at my side and soaked it all up.
Two months in and the season was changing, ships left port, fewer sailors were around to gamble with and Bessie and I conversed as much in French as we did English.
“Captain,” she asked as we sat alone in the tavern one night, “you are certain they will not be missing us?”
“Who?” I worked over my ledger of trades and inventory lists. The ship was stocked to the gills, no square foot was wasted.
“Greenland, Captain. Isabelle, Catherine, and John Henry? You do remember them, don’t you?”
“Yes, I remember.” I’d love to trade some of our blue dyed felted wool for paper. It was lighter. The ship was heavily laden as it was.
“You are certain they will not be missing us?”
“Do you want to go back? We could go back.” We were close to the Baltics, I wanted salt. I made a note.
“Perhaps just a few more weeks?”
“Sure. A few more weeks.” If we stored the wool in Izzy’s cabin I could keep it. I made a note.