Daikaijuzine

January 1828

Finnegan never imagined winters in the south could be so wicked. He paced the perimeter of the Fort on cold-stiff legs, his rifle slung across his back. Apart from training, he had not fired the thing but once since joining the Army and that was to shoo away a wild dog. He brought his numb hands to his lips and blew on them to warm them up. Through watery eyes, he scanned the inky Atlantic. At the far horizon, he could just make out the shape of ship sails, silhouetted against the fat Carolina moon.

He sighed, bored and looking forward to a drink of sweet Muscadine wine when Perry appeared suddenly at his side. Finnegan jumped.

“Time for a drink,” said Perry, almost as if he had read his mind. Perry had an odd, ghostly way of simply appearing and vanishing that Finnegan did not especially like. Perry had been at Moultrie since November and was an easy person to get on with despite his hollow, downcast eyes and somber tone of voice. Still, the stealthy way he always moved left Finnegan uneasy.

“Yes, a drink,” Finnegan agreed. He clapped his hands to get some feeling back into them. “I’m not sure I’ll ever thaw.”

Perry spied the sails cutting across the indigo sky. “Ah. ‘Tis she. Charlotte Law, Mistress of the Sea.”

“And how can you tell from here, in this darkness?” Finnegan asked.

Perry laughed a not altogether merry sound. “No man would be as brazen as to sail this close to the reach of our cannons.”

“She must be a fool, then. We could sink her with one shot. A woman knows nothing of sailing, anyway.”

“Oh dear. This is not simply a woman, Private. This is an angel. A nymph. An exquisite creature of golden hair and eyes the color of the oceans far to the south. She haunts my dreams.” This revelation surprised Finnegan. He scarcely ever spoke to Perry. The man was usually alone or in the company of a certain Colonel Drayton, a congressman. Finnegan had heard murmurs of Perry’s fragile mental state from some of the other enlistees. This was indeed the first time he had ever heard anything other than gloom in Perry’s voice.

“Nonsense,” Finnegan countered. “Besides, how do you know her?”

Perry watched as the ship slipped past, cutting around the tiny island and southward to Charleston Harbor.

“Well? Tell me.”

Perry clapped him on the back. “After your shift, come to my barracks. I have rum to warm you.” He started away.

Finnegan frowned. “Rum? Where did y—”

Perry turned and winked. “Shhh. Tell no one. You’ll thaw and learn how I know of the wonder that is Lady Charlotte Law.”

#

Perry poured rum into a pair of tin beakers as Finnegan peeled off his tattered woolen gloves. Perry looked scarcely old enough to drink rum. He claimed to be twenty-two years of age, but Finnegan had his doubts. Slightly built and not remarkably tall, he was a sharp contrast to Finnegan’s well-built frame. Perry had dark hair and eyes and did not appear especially healthy or strong, where Finnegan’s fair hair and blue eyes gave away his deep-rooted Irish heritage.

The barracks were not much relief from the cold outside, but it kept out the cutting wind. There were so few enlisted at Moultrie now that everyone had their own barracks. Finnegan preferred it that way. Judging from Perry’s quarters, Finnegan doubted he could spend more than a few drinks with the man. Clutter everywhere. Papers strewn about, scrawled with sharp handwriting. There were sketches of maps, of trees. He had pasted some pages to the wall with pine rosin.

Finnegan walked around, scanning the papers. “What is all this?”

“Notes. I write. Sometimes.”

Finnegan read aloud a short line, written in Perry’s scrawl. “Near four bright suns–a temporary rest–An oasis in desert of the blest. Away- away- ‘midseas of rays that roll—”

“Stop it,” Perry said sharply. He snatched the tattered slip of stationery from the wall and shoved it into his pocket.

“Sorry,” Finnegan answered. “It’s quite good. Not much to write about around here, though. Sand and salt water and the occasional strange creature coming out of the brush.” He sipped the rum. Shocking at first, like fire hitting the back of his throat. He wished for the sweet Muscadine wine he had hidden back in his own barracks, but at least he was quickly warming up.

“Oh there’s more than you realize, Finnegan. Much, much more.”

#

Furlough. Privates Perry and Finnegan sat before two pints at a table in the shadowy corner of Bailey’s. Bailey’s was an alehouse on that stood on the corner of Meeting Street and Beresford Alley. At half-past twelve, in walked a woman, just as Perry had promised. Several rough-looking comrades followed her, dirty and weather-beaten, but otherwise in high spirits. The lady wore a flowing skirt made of the many colors of the sea. The fabric was from the Gullahs. She had on a man’s shirt–too big–that fell open at the cleft of her breasts. Her undisciplined hair tumbled in waves of sunlight and dusk. Her skin was as pinkish brown as the underside of a scallop’s shell. Finnegan watched her cross to a long table as confident as if she were the owner. One of her deck hands, an older bald fellow with a limp, made his way slowly to the bar and shortly came back with a bottle of rum and several tumblers. From his vantage point, it was plain that this woman was in charge. The men laughed and talked, but often turned toward the head of the long table where she sat, looking very bored, for her approval or perhaps only her notice.

After a while, she stood and scanned the room. She smoothed her blouse and then pushed her long hair back from her face and to Finnegan’s surprise, she began to make her way across the pub toward their table.

Perry stood and offered her a chair. “Charlotte Law, Daughter of the Sea. I might have waited all night for you to realize I was here.” Finnegan stood as well and Perry introduced him. Finnegan clasped her warm hand for a brief moment. She ignored the chivalry and sat down. She poured herself another stiff dose of the rum she had brought with her and smiled. “Hello, love,” she said. “You appear and vanish like the mist. I’m apt to believe that you might be a ghost.”

She offered a toast and the three of them touched glasses. She drank as if she was on a mission to become quite drunk and quickly. Despite that, Finnegan was taken with her immediately. He had imagined a boisterous, sea-toughened woman, but Charlotte Law was just the opposite. She was young, yet she commanded a crew of more than forty men, most of whom would give their lives for her, if only asked to. She was reserved, intelligent, scrutinizing.

Perry had explained briefly in his barracks the other evening how this exquisite creature had come to command the caravel called the Wandering Star, posing as a man to join the small crew. Finnegan could scarcely see how anyone could ever mistake her for a man, but it had not mattered anyway. Shortly, she had revealed herself to the Captain, an English privateer by the name of Early. She had joined in hopes that he would quickly see the light. So many treasures passed through his hands and yet he strictly followed the command of the Royal Navy. Besides, Early was far too gentle to do what it took to become wealthy. After the failed attempt to overtake a French merchant ship that was carrying silver and gold coins back to King Charles from Martinique, Charlotte decided she had had enough. She was no richer than she was before she had boarded the ship. However, returning to Ireland was not an alternative. Her mother was dead and her stepfather had not ceased to try to bed her since the funeral.

One evening, she entered the Captain’s quarters under the pretence of serving him wine. Captain Early asked Charlotte to stay a moment and share a drink, but after the wine, she finally offered Early her secret. She realized that she would not place herself in any danger by allowing him to know, as his demeanor was so forgiving.

“I have something I must tell you, my Captain,” she said softly. She wet her lips with the red wine and then she untied the scarf she wore on her head and removed it. She shook her head, allowing her curls to fall on her shoulders and down her back. Next came her waistcoat and then her shirt. She had bound her breasts and now unwound the tight cotton. Finally, off came her trousers. In the warm orange glow of his lantern, she stood before Early completely naked.

He took her as his lover and his confidant, and made her his Quartermaster. However, in less than six months, he was dead by the steely kiss of a straight razor–a slip as he groomed, stated a teary Charlotte.

Charlotte quickly assumed the role of captain with the promise of riches to her crew. In only a short time, she proved true to her word and her crew pledged their loyalty to her in return.

The blockade of Charleston by Blackbeard was a century past. Charlotte offered no threat to the Carolina coast. If anything, she was a welcome ally, as she and her crew laid claim to many galleons belonging to the French and Spanish, plundering the cargo. She then sold the goods to the merchants of the southern coast, and many times offered gifts of silk, gold, silver and spirits to the politicians that controlled the cities and ports. Her small vessel ruled the southern Atlantic coasts, from Ocracoke to Charleston to Savannah and encompassed the islands of the Caribbean. The commanders of the European galleons, feared her as word spread of her slaughter of a Dutch crew, leaving not one man standing. The four masts of the massive ship had been set ablaze in the darkness off the coast of Tortuga. The crew members perished, burned alive or plunged into the sea only to be eaten by sharks. Charlotte herself removed the head of the captain with the gold-handled cutlass that had once belonged to her Captain.

#

Charlotte always had a room in reserve at Bailey’s, in return for the bounty of wine and Kill-Devil she supplied. She took the bottle of rum and led Perry and Finnegan upstairs to one of the many guest-rooms. The bustle of the tavern was too much, she decided, and ears were always bent to the talk of a pirate in the case the location of treasure might be revealed.

The room was simple, white cotton linen, a basin and pitcher. No vanity or looking glass. Charlotte and Perry spoke casually, as if they were long lost friends, her Irish brogue sweet and familiar in Finnegan’s ears. She had mentioned she was from the county of Wexford. He had left neighboring Kilkenny when he was only a boy.

She lounged on the bed, her skirts rising to show off her long legs. Finnegan saw that belted to one thigh, she wore an elegant scabbard encrusted in aquamarine and emerald. It housed a dagger, dainty handled to fit the slim hands of a woman. For a moment, his eyes riveted to that strip of leather, and imagined pressing his lips to the warm skin there. He wondered how Perry had come to be in the company of such a woman, with his sickly pallor and quiet demeanor. Had they been intimate, he wondered? Assuming they had, he quickly became sulky. Charlotte must have noticed and smiling, she turned her glaze on him.

“Finnegan,” she whispered. “Can we trust you with our secret?”

“Of course,” he replied, eager to please the woman.

“You realize, dear, if you betray me, I shall kill you.”

“Irish eyes be damned?” Finnegan countered.

“Irish eyes be removed,” she answered wickedly.

#

It was treasure. That was the secret, what had pulled Charlotte Law and Edgar Perry together was the knowledge of it. Only a few nights after being assigned to Sullivan’s Island, Perry rode over to Charleston on leave. It was in the very same alehouse that he spied Charlotte. He knew immediately she was a treasure hunter.

Full of rum and lust, he approached her table. The rough crewmen laughed at him. They smirked at his neatly combed hair and his tailored uniform. They commented harshly of his youth and his masculinity. Charlotte ignored them.

Perry bowed deeply, his hat crumpled into one sweaty palm. “Please forgive me, dear lady. I don’t mean to appear brazen, but may I ask you a question?”

Charlotte seemed amused by him. “Only if you buy me a pint.” She squinted up at him. “You are old enough?”

“Of course. I’m eight–hum, twenty-two.”

There was a roar of laughter from the crew again. “The lad doesn’t even know how bloody old he is!”

Charlotte stood and took Perry’s hand. “Come. It is quieter near to the hearth.”

Ever the man, Perry pulled out the chair closest to the crackling fire for Charlotte, and then seated himself across the table from her. He paused a moment, looking intensely into her face, as if he were trying to burn her image into his memory.

“All right. Now, your question,” she prompted.

“What do you know of treasure?”

Her eyes widened. “Treasure?”

“Yes. Upon these Carolina shores.”

She drew back. “Now, why should I tell you?”

“I only wish to write of it. I have no interest in the riches.”

Charlotte shook her head. “”Fibber! All men have interest in riches.” Perry did not respond.

“I’ll tell you what I know, Private. But only if you will help me to find it.”

#

Arm in arm, the three of them left the alehouse. Finnegan and Charlotte sang Irish drinking songs that Perry did not know and the night fell cold around them. Boots clacked on the cobblestones as they made their way down Chalmers Street–which was no more than a narrow alleyway. They weaved and staggered toward East Bay. The wind whipped up from the harbor like the kiss of a ghost on the backs of their necks and the curves of their jaws. They passed the remaining splash of Kill-Devil back and forth, sipping it for warmth. Finnegan draped his topcoat around Charlotte and she snuggled against his side. His heart raced at her gentle embrace. Just ahead stood The Exchange Building and hall on the site of the Court of Guard jail, and below those majestic walls, the Provost Dungeon. Charlotte told them that when the wind blew just right, one could still hear the cries of the pirates doomed to the long-removed gallows. Gentleman pirate Stede Bonnett and his crew swung to their deaths on that site, as had citizens thought traitors by Lord Cornwallis during the British occupation. They reached their destination. Like most Charleston houses, there was a main front entrance into a narrow courtyard and then a side door opening to the main house. They slipped into the pass between the two townhouses and briefly escaped the wind. The moon vanished behind the buildings and left them in bleak grayness. Giggling, Finnegan and Charlotte did a stumbling Irish jig. Charlotte then grabbed Perry’s hand and pulled him into the dance. Clumsy, he two-stepped and then backed away with a shrug and vanished through the weathered green door.

Charlotte reached up and caressed Finnegan’s face.

“Beautiful boy,” she said, “tomorrow we will find our fortune. And then I shall take you with me on the Wandering Star where I will have you every night.”

Finnegan laughed. “You hardly know me. Besides, I’m afraid of the water.”

Charlotte pressed her lips against his cold ear. “You mustn’t worry, darling. I will protect you.”

#

Finnegan had never been to a brothel, but he had heard the tales. Charlotte led him inside and the sudden warmth of the place was stifling after the crisp night air. She drew him into a parlor where sweetly pungent smoke floated up like tendrils of the Spanish moss that shrouded the oaks of Charleston.

The walls were elaborately decorated with silks of the richest colors he had ever seen–reds and purples of all shades, trimmed in gold brocade. And the women–it was more than Finnegan could have ever imagined. They nearly floated, scantily dressed in silks even richer than those covering the walls and windows. Lace up the legs, as sheer as a whisper. They wore their hair in ribbons; their faces painted until they appeared as perfect as goddesses.

A fire roared in a massive hearth and perfumed the room yet more with applewood. Finnegan looked around, mouth agape and eyes wide.

As they passed through, a mocha-skinned girl dressed in rough-hewn but dazzling Gullah Kente cloth grinned up at them from her seat on a young man in an aristocrat’s suit. She bent and flicked her pointed tongue across the man’s throat and pointed upward with a wink.

Charlotte nodded and she and Finnegan climbed the winding staircase. They staggered, brushing the walls, along a narrow, shadowy hallway. Doors lined both sides of the corridor, but Charlotte seemed to know where she was going.

They entered a room of red and blue-black silk. It flowed like water down from the high ceiling and pooled on the floor upon thick, lush cushions and pillows. There was no bed, only a basin stand, pitcher, and small coal hearth that glowed as red as a mythical Boo Hag wraith.

Perry was already there, on a bed of silk, cotton and feather made on the floor. He had removed his coat and his boots. A red-haired woman attended to him. She prepared an opium lamp, then kneeled and began to unbutton his shirt.

The sugary vapor spiraled around him, as ghostly as he was, and Finnegan’s eyes watered. Charlotte took his face in her hands, kissed his lips, and then lapped the tears from his lashes.

“Bring us another lamp,” she said and the red-haired woman disappeared down the hall.

She returned shortly and gave Charlotte the lamp. In a moment, she had it started. She pushed Finnegan back on to the silken pillows and placed the pipe to his lips.

“Easy,” she told him. “Only a little at first.” She took a hit herself, then bent over him and breathed the smoke into his mouth. After only a few moments, he began to feel the effects of the drug. He became hugely relaxed and very much at peace.

Through the layer of smoke, he could see Perry on the other side of the room, lying on his side, eyes half-mast. He smiled and said something Finnegan could not make out. The red-haired woman laughed shrilly. Finnegan laughed softly as well, but was not sure why. He lay back, dazed, and watched the shadows flicker and fade on the ceiling. Charlotte opened the buttons of his trousers and stroked him. When she seemed satisfied with his state, she climbed on top of him and rode slowly, her colorful skirts pooling all around them.

As he came, he thought he saw Charlotte and Perry exchange a cold glance over him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

As he drifted off to sleep in the arms of Charlotte Law, he told himself he must have been mistaken. Perhaps the fire and the shadow made the lady’s expression only appear ominous.