THE SOUNDING SEA

PRELUDE

THE PRIZE

June 13, 1719, off the North Carolina coast.

        With a shuddering lurch, the ship plowed headlong into yet another wave that reverberated throughout her. Deep within the Elsinore's hold, in their cabin near the stern, the O'Malley family huddled together and prayed that the storm would end soon. They had endured many storms during the three weeks they had traveled across the Atlantic, and this was far from the worst of them. The frequent storms were only one of the hardships that the O'Malleys and their nearly two-hundred fellow passengers had suffered on this voyage. First, seasickness had spread throughout the passengers, and the stench of vomit still permeated the stale air. Then much of the meat had been discovered to be spoiled, and everyone was rationed to meager portions of food. Several passengers had died on the crossing, including two children. Their families would be beginning their new lives with uncertain prospects, no home, almost empty pockets, and emptier hearts. Despite all of this, everyone was certain that the promises that the Colonies offered would make their trials worthwhile. Anything had to be better than the overcrowding, poverty, and social unrest that they had left behind in England and Ireland.

        Six-year-old Mary O'Malley squirmed away from the hold of her parents. "I think I'm going to be sick, mama. I'm going up to the deck."

        "Not without me, you don't," her mother Katherine announced. "It's far too rough for you to go by yourself."

        Taking her mother's hand, Mary followed her into the corridor and up the stairs to the main deck. The sea was slightly rough, but the sky was clear, Katherine observed. She glanced overhead. Every sail on the Elsinore was unfurled and full, pressing the normally lumbering ship along as fast as the choppy waters would allow. Why are we going so fast through such seas? she wondered.

        In Katherine's distraction, Mary had slipped from her hand and headed along the rail toward the bow. Katherine immediately knew where she was going. For every day of the voyage, Mary had come out and spent time pretending to hold conversations with the figurehead. She supposed it gave the child a feeling of comfort to pretend that the ship was alive and protecting them. Katherine knew better. She knew that ships were flimsy matchsticks against the power of the sea, and the fact that anyone, including them, made it across from one continent to another was a miracle.

        "Mary, you must stay with me!" She shouted, and hurried across the rocking deck after her.

        One of the crew members was clamboring down the shrouds from the main mast as she passed. "Tis not safe to be out here, ma'am," he said.

        "The child is sick," Katherine called, and as she turned, she cleared the cabin house, and her heart stuck in her throat.

        The black ship was almost upon them. Cutting diagonally across the waves, it had closed on the hopelessly sluggish Elsinore. Katherine could see the the black soot marks from countless battles streaked across its sails. The deck was lined with men, waiting for the distance between the two ships to close so they could come across and board them. They were pirates, and Katherine knew how pirates treated most of their prey. She knew that the best she could hope for was a quick death for her and her family.

        "Mary!" she shrieked and began to run. The child was almost to the figurehead, a smiling mermaid with her black hair blowing back in the wind and her tail turned in a "Q". Mary stopped and turned, puzzled and weary with seasickness. Out of the corner of her eye, Katherine saw the orange burst of flame from the pirate ship, and the figurehead exploded in a shower of splinters. Mary screamed, and ran for her mother. The bowsprit collapsed into the waves, pulling the foremast and the upper half of the forward mast down with it. Mary ran into her mother's arms, and they crouched for cover behind the forecastle as rope and timber fell to the deck around them. One of the crewmen plummeted to the deck only a few feet from them. Katherine held Mary's face to her dress, whispering "Don't look, don't look, don't look" even as she herself could not turn her eyes away from the blood spreading from the sailor's crumpled body.

        Someone grabbed hold of Katherine's dress and pulled her to her feet. She would never be sure, but she thought that maybe it was Captain Hardy. "For God's sake, get belowdecks, both of you!" He nearly dragged them to the companionway, where he stood between them and the approaching invaders as Katherine ushered Mary down the steps. Just before she herself started down the stairs, she saw grappling hooks flashing through the air and catching on the rails. Captain Hardy's men attempted to throw them overboard, but there were too many, and they were soon overwhelmed by the swarm of pirates leaping the ever-narrowing gap between the ships. Captain Hardy slammed the companionway hatch closed behind her, cutting off her view, but the shrieks of dying men told her plenty.

        James O'Malley was in the corridor along with many of the other confused passengers. They had heard the explosion and clatter of the collapsing mast, and rushed into the corridor, only to find the stern hatch bolted shut. James' stomach sank as he saw the expressions on his wife and tear-streaked daughter.

        Before he could ask what was happening, Kathering blurted, "Pirates! Pirates, James! We're being boarded! We must hide our valuables!"

        "Wait," someone said. "It sounds like the fighting has stopped." Indeed, the screams had ceased--all too quickly, Katherine thought--and now there was only the sounds of boots upon the deck overhead.

        "We're stopping," someone else said. The rhythmic shuddering of the Elsinore cutting through the waves was fading, and soon stopped altogether.

        A flash of light gleamed in the palm of a young man's hand. "Let them come!" he said. "I'm ready for them." Katherine saw with horror that the man held a small flintlock pistol. He had the self-sureness of youth in his eye that frightened her more than the pistol. He had no inkling that such a trifling weapon was no match against an entire hoard of pirates. She was certain then that they all would die.

        "Are you mad?" James said. "Put that away or they'll kill you for sure!" The others began hounding him as well, and soon the young man retreated to his cabin. He emerged a few moments later empty-handed.

        Then the slow stride of boots passed overhead. They heard the bolt being slid back on the companionway hatch, and then sunlight knifed through the hold, silhouetting a figure at the top of the stairs.

        "Everyone topdecks! Captain's orders."

        "Did you hear that?" someone said. "The Captain must have won!" As they filed up the stairs, Katherine feared that his assumption was very, very wrong. Her fears were confirmed as they were lined up on the deck before a hard-faced man with a neatly-trimmed black beard and hair pulled back in a braid. It was not Captain Hardy. However, his clothes were not that of a pirate, but rather those of an English gentlemen. Katherine realized that this must be one of the English privateers she had heard of, pirates working under the authority of the King in exchange for a share of their takings. Although they were ostensibly protectors of the British colonies, they were really little more than well-dressed versions of the high-seas thugs they emulated.

        Once all of the passengers were arranged on deck, the privateer captain cleared his throat and spoke. "Greetings. I am Captain Stillson. I apologize for interrupting your voyage, but we shall try to be quick about our business and let you on your way in due time. By the way, does anyone here have any sailing skills?"

        An older gentleman in the back meekly raised his hand.

        "Excellent," Stillson said, "because your skills will be needed by the rest of your passengers once we are gone, as the regular crew, I'm afraid, are all dead."

        A gasp ran throughout the passengers, and one woman began to wail. Stillson tilted his head toward the woman. "Johnson, please. I can't stand crying."

        "Right." Johnson stepped into the crowd of passengers and extracted the wailing woman. Still crying, he led her to the stern, out of sight of the others. A bloodcurdling scream filled the air, followed by a splash. When Johnson returned, he was alone. Katherine held her daughter close, her hand over the child's mouth.

        "Now," Stillson continued. "While my men search the cabins, does anyone here have any valuables that they would like to turn over voluntarily, before we search you individually?"

        One by one, the passengers stepped forward and deposited watches, gold chains, and a few pieces of jewelry into a small pile on the deck.

        "Is that all?" the pirate captain asked. "Surely you come to a new country with more possessions than that."

        One of the passengers stepped forward. "Sir," he said with an Irish accent. "We are laborers and farmers. We are not rich people to begin with. Most of us sold everything of value we had in order to afford passage."

        "That's too bad," Stillson said. "I hate going to the trouble and risk of capturing a ship for nothing. My men work hard, and put their lives at risk each time we do so, and they expect proper compensation. I'm afraid that if I cannot reward them monetarily, then I shall have to instead allow them the pleasure of killing you all. Men!"

        The passengers cowered as the pirates surrounded them. "I want you all to know that I am not a cruel man," the captain continued. "We shall separate the men, women, and children as to spare the young ones the trauma of witnessing their mothers die, and the women the trauma of seeing their husbands' blood spilled."

        Men, women, and children alike began crying aloud at this news, causing Stillson to wince. "Please, please. No crying."

        "NO!" Katherine shrieked, as Mary was torn from her grasp and pulled from the crowd. Stillson's eyes turned toward the sound, and his eyes locked on little Mary. Never before had he seen such beautiful innocence, such angelic features. His pirate heart tore at him. He was not supposed to feel compassion for his victims. Especially, he needed to harden his heart toward the little ones. Too many had fallen to the blade of his cutlass to allow himself to feel emotion. If he began to feel emotion for his victims, he might as well dock his ship and retire to a Caribbean island somewhere. His days of conquer would be over.

        He tried to lock his sympathy away, but he heard a voice coming from himself, as though observing one of his men, not himself. "Wait," he said. "Bring the child to me."

        The mate led Mary to the captain, who took her hand. He crouched and wiped the weeping child's cheeks. "There, there," he said. "It's all right. Please don't cry."

        He turned toward Katherine. "Madam, please step forward.Is this your child?"

        Katherine stepped to the front of the crowd. "She is mine. Please don't hurt her. She is so small."

        Stillson waved a hand to dismiss her fears. "What is your name?"

        "Katherine. Katherine O'Malley."

        "And the child's?"

        "Mary."

        "Katherine, would you agree to granting me a promise in return for her life? Indeed, for the lives of everyone on board?"

        "Yes, anything!"

        "If you should settle in the place of my choosing, where one of my men can check in on you from time to time, would you agree to give me Mary's hand in marriage ten years hence?"

        Katherine's hand flew to her mouth. She turned to her husband, who nodded insistently. She turned back to Stillson. "Yes, yes! Anything for her life!"

        "Very well, then." He released Mary's hand, and she ran to her mother's arms. "I release you all. Mrs O'Malley, please settle in Charleston. I have associates there who will assure your husband gainful employment. I shall return in ten years to collect my due. Men!"

        Stillson and his men turned toward the black ship. Lifting Mary and clutching her as tightly as she could, Katherine rushed to her husband's side.

        "What have we done?" James whispered.

        "The only thing we could," she replied. "We spared our daughter's life."

        "And condemned her to what future?"

        "Please, James. We have ten years to find a solution."

        From behind them, a voice said, "I'll make sure nobody has to give up anything to that cutthroat ever again." It was the young man who had flashed the flintlock down in the hold. He reached down and removed the pistol from his stocking.

        "No, man!" James shouted. "They're letting us go! Don't ruin this!"

        "Out of my way, old man!" The younger man, little older than a boy, rushed forward, flintlock held outstretched in his trembling hand. Stillson was ascending a plank conjoining the two ships' decks. The young man took aim at the back of Stillson's head.

        "Somebody stop him!" a voice screamed. A hand reached out and grabbed the man's wrist. The gun fired with a deafening explosion, and the pirate immediately behind Stillson fell and tumbled into the sea.

        Stillson wheeled on the plank and strode fearlessly to the gunman, who lay subdued on the deck, his arm with the pistol still outstretched toward the pirate. Stillson kicked the gun away, then pressed his boot upon the man's fingers.

        "You are a fool. What were you thinking?"

        "Pirate filth!" the man spat.

        "I've changed my mind," Stillson said to his mate. "Kill them all." As an afterthought, he added, "Don't worry about sparing anyone trauma."

        The pirate captain strode back to his ship. In a way, he was relieved at this turn of events. The irrational youth's actions neatly dissolved Stillson's emotional dilemma. He could go on his way with a clear conscience.

        He was almost back to the gangplank when a commotion caught his attention. "Come back here, you!" one of his men yelled. Stillson looked to see what was the matter, just as Mary came running across the deck, the first mate chasing after her, and began tugging at the hem of Stillson's coat.

        "Please," the little girl cried. "Please spare them!"

        Two pirates held Mary's parents, and were about to deliver them to their executioner. The captain looked down into the child's tear-filled eyes, and once more he was filled with a conflict of emotion.

        "Please," she said again.

        He would regret this. He knew he would. Yet, he could not do anything else. He was trapped between his two selves. Either decision would be his ruin. And if he were to be ruined, this innocent child might as well be the sole benefactor of his downfall.

        "Hawthorne! Davies! Bring them here."

        The two pirates led Katherine and James to the captain.

        "Why?" James asked. "Why punish us all for the reckless actions of an ignorant youth?"

        "Because I am a bastard," Stillson replied cooly. "The child is pleading for your lives. Tell me, ought I spare you?"

        "Whatever will persuade you not to take the life of our daughter," James replied.

        "Does our previous agreement still stand?"

        "If that is what it takes, yes."

        "Very well. Then I shall give you and your wife the opportunity to live. The girl, however," he took Mary's arm and pulled her to him, "comes with me."

        "No, you can't!" Katherine started forward, but Hawthorne caught her arms and pulled her back.

        "This group has shown me that they cannot be trusted to carry out their promises. The child is mine now." To his two men, he said, "Put these two on a lifeboat, then burn the ship." He turned to Mary's parents, eyes devoid of sympathy. "They shall have their chance to live." Then he reboarded his black ship, pulling the shrieking Mary roughly along behind him.

*****

        Stillson closed the shade on his cabin porthole before the burning hulk of the Elsinore slipped beneath the waves. He had retreated to his cabin as soon as he returned to the Black Wing. Mary was sent to the first mate's cabin and locked in. She would be all right there until the mate came off of watch. Until then, Stillson could worry about himself instead.

        What had he done? He had brought a child on board a pirate ship. A female child. A boy could have been put to work, and trained in the ways of plunder, but a girl could only get in the way. Many of his men considered a female aboard ship a jinx. They would soon turn against him, he was sure. Worse than bringing a jinx aboard, he had shown weakness. How could the men ever respect him after this? Slaughtering the remaining passengers and burning the ship had restored his status somewhat, but now a permanant reminder of his emotional weakness was aboard. Perhaps, he wondered, he and Johnson should kill all of the other men before the reached port. He could recruit a new crew, one that was unaware of today's events, who would never doubt him...

        In the hold, Hawthorne and Davies were separating and securing the day's meager takings. A handful of watches and jewelry, a few pieces of gold and silver. Even the passenger ship's food stores had been nearly depleted, and what was not depleted was spoiled. All in all, it had been a miserable day's work.

        "What d'y'reckon the captain was thinking? Bringin' that girl on board an' all?" Davies asked.

        "Dunno, mate, but that's not like him, not like him 't'all. All I knows is 'at a female on board the ship is bad luck all aroun'. I don' like it."

        "Maybe he's--" Davies tapped his head with his finger.

        "Or maybe he's thinkin' 'bout givin' up the life, becomin' a fam'ly man."

        "Cap'n goin' soft?" Davies glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. In a lower voice, he said, "If 'e's on his way out, that means one of us could take command."

        "What, one of us two? Naw Mr. Johnson's first mate; it'd be a natural step up for 'im."

        Davies thought back on all of the beatings he'd received at Johnson's hand. He didn't know if they were done with Captain Stillson's authorization, but a captain is supposed to know all that occurs aboard his ship, so he assumed that the captain was aware of Johnson's violent methods of discipline, if not directly ordering them. Captain Stillson was a fair and decent captain, all things considered. One could only assume that a ship ruled by Johnson would be run like a torture chamber. Johnson would not get the opportunity to be captain if Davies could help it.

        "What if... What if Cap'n Stillson doesn't get the chance to make Johnson the new cap'n?"

        "What are you saying?" Hawthorne asked carefully. He knew damn well what Davies was saying, but he needed Davies to say it directly. He was only as loyal to the captain as he needed to be to survive. But he sensed a battle for power was coming, and the loose tongues of others could be useful to him in parlaying a position within the new heierarchy.

        "I'm saying, let's you and I take care of both Cap'n and Johnson the next watch change, when they're both asleep. After slittin' that girl's throat and dumpin' her in the drink, that is. Then you and I become cap'n and first mate."

        "Who's cap'n and who's mate?"

        "Well, I reckon I'd be cap'n, seein' as I came up with the plan and all."

        "'ey now! I got rank. I been on this rat-infested hog longer 'an you."

        "Fine. We'll flip a coin."

        "I ain't got a coin."

        "Well, then we'll use one 'a  these 'ere..."

        From his hiding place in the shadows, Johnson waited. He waited until the coin-tossing had turned to dice-rolling, when he could be sure that they would not suspect him of having overheard anything of consequence. Then he casually strolled around the corner and said loudly, "What's this? Gambling on watch?" Both men jumped to their feet, and Johnson noticed the glance they exchanged. Yes, boys, he thought, wonder how much I heard.

        "Sorry, sir," Hawthorne spluttered.

        "Relax, boys," Johnson said reassuringly. "It's been a long day, with blessed little to show for it. I'm willing to look the other way this time, but in return I need a favor of one of you."

        Both Hawthorne and Davies thought frantically. Johnson was playing at something. He never let an infraction of discipline go unpunished. He was luring them into something, but neither could figure what. The one thing they were certain of was that he had not overheard their damning conversation. If he had, he would have killed them outright.

        Finally, Hawthorne said, "What would that be, sir?"

        "The girl Captain Stillson took prisoner. She's being kept in my cabin for the time being. I come off of watch for two hours. I need one of you to clear out a space in the forward store room and set up bedding for her."

        "Sir?"

        "You didn't hear me, Hawthorne? Or are you questioning a direct order from a superior?"

        "No, sir. I mean, right away, sir."

        "Good. And do a good job of it. She's going to be with us for a while, and the Captain wants to maintain his reputation for treating his prisoners humanely."

        Both Hawthorne and Davies knew that Stillson had never taken a prisoner before.

        Davies spoke hesitantly. "Sir, if I may say--not speakin' from personal prejudice, but speakin' of a fact of the sea--a woman on board is bad luck for the ship, sir. If, as you say, the cap'n intends for her to remain, then the only result can be doom, uh, sir."

Oh, there will be doom, all right, Johnson thought. "The Captain is well aware the superstitions of the sea. He did not obtain the command of this ship by following the laws of superstition. If the Captain brought the girl on board in the first place, then it was for a reason. If he intends for her to remain on board, then that is also for a reason. Are there any other questions?" His expression told them that he expected none.

        "No, sir," both said simultaneously.

        "Good. Please inform me when the forward store room is prepared." Johnson strode away, smiling beneath his cold expression of command. He had handled the situation well. He had disarmed them by dismissing their dereliction of duty--something he normally would have given ten lashes for--and he had lured them into admitting their doubts about the Captain's judgement, and he had squashed that neatly. He was especially pleased with his improvised use of the word "prisoner." As first mate, part of Johnson's job was to ensure that the captain was never questioned aloud. A captain whose crew begins to openly question him cannot remain in authority. But Johnson himself had his own doubts about his captain. The decision first to offer to spare the ship's passengers in exchange for the girl's hand in marriage...unbelievable. And then to waffle and order her killed, only to change his mind again and bring her on board. The Captain was obviously no longer in a position to command decisively. There would have to be a change soon. Johnson realized that the caption knew that he had two choices: replace the crew, or be replaced himself. Either way, the change was going to happen by force. And Johnson knew which side he would be on.

        Stillson sat at the small table in his cabin and contemplated the final swallows of amber liquid slopping back and forth at the bottom of their bottle. He had worked the puzzle of his dilemma in his mind for hours, and still no solution presented itself without blood. To take the graceful but disempowering way out, or fight and rebuild his command from bloody tatters? Either choice would end his career for at least a while, say six months to rehire and condition a crew. By then, others would have moved in to claim his territory. He would have to shift his hunting grounds elsewhere, to unfamiliar territory. His takings would be slim for at least a year after that. Perhaps he should return to the familiar waters of his native English isles. No, he was too well-known there, and the King only tolerated income taken far from the home shores.

        A knock sounded at the door. "Come."

        Johnson entered, and closed the door behind him. "Pardon the intrusion, sir, but I would like a word if I could."

        "Certainly, Johnson. Sit."

        Johnson sat opposite the captain at the small table. "I need to talk to you about the men, sir. Permission to speak freely?"

        "Consider this an informal meeting, Johnson." He pushed the nearly-empty bottle across the table. "Help yourself."

        "No, thank you, sir. Sir, the men are beginning to question your judgement in the matter of the girl you brought on board earlier. I've intervened and made them understand that they are to follow your lead in all matters, regardless of appearance. However, I cannot stop them talking among themselves off-hours. I'm afraid the situation does not bode well. I thought you should know."

        Stillson nodded. "I surmised as much. Do they think I've gone mad?"

        "Some of them, I'm afraid so, sir. Others don't know what to think."

        "Do you think I'm mad."

        "I don't know what to think, sir."

        "Tell me, is there talk of mutiny?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "Has it been taken care of?"

        "Two of them suffered a mishap at the end of their watch, sir. There may be others that I am not aware of."

        "The conclusion is inescapable to any of them with half a brain." Stillson sighed heavily. "The fact that they question my actions makes them realize that I am vulnerable. They will know that I realize that as well. Small reasoning will tell them that this state of uncertainty cannot exist for long aboard ship. The inevitable conclusion is, I go, or they do. They know that I, wielding the greatest power, will choose to replace the crew. Thus, their only chance of survival is to mutiny and eliminate me before I can eliminate them. The fact that we are at sea and more than a day from land gives them the upper hand. The question is, how quickly can they communicate these thoughts to one another and organize to act against me?"

        "Sir," Johnson interjected, "if I may, I have an idea as to how you might arrive at a solution...agreeable to all."

        "What is that?"

        "The girl sir."

        Stillson's eyes slanted. "What of her? I suppose you want to murder her and throw her to the sharks as well."

        "No, sir. But she cannot remain on board. She will be a constant reminder to the men of what happened aboard the Elsinore. And those men who do not already doubt your judgement in capturing her believe that, as a member of the fairer sex, she is bad luck to the ship. That, I believe, is where your true danger lies."

        "All right. Point well made. Continue."

        "I suggest that we make for the nearest port that does not have patrols. We put the girl ashore, telling the people there that the goodhearted Captain Stillson was compelled to take responsibility for the life of this innocent when her parents were unfortunately caught in the midst of battle while we defended our territorial rights."

        "That's very good. The girl leaves the ship with her throat intact, I regain my standing with the crew, and my reputation among the people gets shined a little. Yes, that's very good."

        "Thank you, sir. Shall I act upon that, sir?"

        "Yes. Go make it known that tomorrow we are to make for the nearest non-patrolling settlement."

        "Very good, sir."

        Johnson got up and was at the door, when Stillson said, "By the way, Johnson, you're one of the most reliable, capable hands I've had serve on this ship. Don't ever make me have to kill you."

        "I'll try not to, sir."

        Two days later, the Black Wing made anchor near the villiage of Simone, North Carolina. Mary was brought to shore in a skiff, accompanied by first mate Johnson and Captain Stillson. Stillson made his speech about taking pity on the girl and rescuing her from certain death, and pleaded for a kindly family to take her into their household. The last thing he did before returning to the ship, Stillson kissed Mary on the cheek and whispered, "Don't forget your promise, now."

        Mary was taken into the home of a young couple who served as groundkeeper and housemaid to the land baron who lived in the palacial house overlooking the ocean. Mary grew up living a happily uneventful life, and blossomed into a beautiful young woman. Only sometimes did she recall the horror aboard the Elsinore, and those black images that came in her dreams lingered throughout her adolescence. She never forgot the words that the pirate had whispered to her on the dock that day, and she would occasionally gaze out to sea, knowing that someday he might return to claim her.

        And one day, he did.

PART I

-----

CHAPTER ONE

THE WILL

Dec 12, 1906, Manchester, New Hampshire

        It was by good fortune and somewhat unusual circumstances that Jonathan Keller came to occupy the house overlooking the sea near Simone, North Carolina. A math professor at blah blah blah University, Jonathan's mind was not on obtaining real estate this chilly December day. He was on his way home from a funeral. One of his colleagues in the math department, Dr. Martin Sloan, had passed away following a brief bout with pneumonia. Keller shared a carriage with three of his fellow professors.

        "Shame, happening so close to the end of semester," Burroughs said.

        "Semester, nothing," Jonathan said, "Shame happening so close to Christmas. There will be no joy for his family this year."

        "Sloan didn't have any family," Reicher said. "Those two gents sitting up front during the funeral were his nephews, and I'm sure they were only there to make sure no money got buried with him. Naw, nobody'll miss Sloan this Christmas."

        "Well, I will," Jonathan said. "He was a nice old man, even though we never spoke much."

        "More than he spoke to any of the rest of us!" laughed Highteller. The youngest of the group, four years Jonathan's junior, Highteller was fresh out of teaching college, and had a tendency to laugh nervously at inappropriate times.

        As Jonathan recalled, Martin Sloan had visited his house only once, on the occasion of a faculty holiday gathering the previous Christmas. Sloan had remained quiet and introspective throughout most of the evening, milling about holding his drink in one hand and examining Jonathan's books and artwork.

        "Tell me," Sloan had said to him, "did you paint this landscape of the university? The signature looks like yours."

        "Why, yes, I did," Jonathan had told him.

        "I didn't know you were an artist, lad."

        Jonathan had blushed. He somehow did not find it proper for a mathematician to dabble in the arts. "It's sort of a hobby of mine. I don't paint often," he added a little too hastily. "I become far too absorbed in my academic work to trifle with paints anymore."

        Sloan had looked up at him from beneath his imposing, unkempt eyebrows. "It's good to do something to take your mind away from numbers once in a while. Otherwise you get in a rut of logic and you can't think your way out. Say, that reminds me, how is the book coming?"

        "Oh, fine, fine," Jonathan lied.

        "What's this? Did I hear you're writing a book, Keller?" Reicher had wandered over unnoticed. Jonathan wondered if he had heard about the paintings.

        "Um, yes." He really hadn't wanted to talk to anyone else about it, in case his fledgling efforts collapsed into failure. "I'm attempting to tie together my theories on variable infinities. I haven't gotten very far, though. You know, so many words, so little time."

        "Still on that idea that infinity can vary in size?" Reicher sneered. "You'll be run out of the field, just like Cantor. Why don't you stick with something more popular, like the energy and matter theories Herr Einstein is working on?"

        "Oh, fiddle," Sloan said. "Einstein is only dazzling with obfuscation. He simply states and restates the obvious. None of it adds up to a hill of beans." Sloan was gesturing wildly with his half-full wine glass, and Jonathan wondered how drunk he was. "Now if young Keller here can prove that some infinities are larger than others, then the whole field of physics will change." He turned to look Jonathan in the eye. "If ever I can assist you, son, let me know." He leaned in conspiratorially. "We need to show these young pups a thing or two about real math, eh?" He chuckled, and a bit of red wine fell from his bushy mustache onto the carpet.

        Now that he thought about it, that had been the longest speech Sloan had made outside of a classroom that Jonathan had heard.

        Burroughs broke into Jonathan's reminiscing. "Couldn't have waited until the Christmas break, could he? Someone is going to have to administer his final exams for him," grumped Burroughs. "I can tell you, it's not going to be me. I've far too many responsibilities this year as it is. Far too many."

        "I suppose I could do it," Jonathan said. "If I can get the lecture hall, I can do both groups at once."

        "You are right welcome to it," said Reicher. "Of course, having seniority, we could just delegate the responsibility to young Highteller, here."

        "Say, now!--" Highteller protested.

        "Relax, Will," Jonathan said. "I'll do it. Oh, here we are." He leaned his head out the window. "Fourth house on the left, driver!

        "Well," he said, as the carriage lurched to a stop. "I'll see you all tomorrow, then. Thank you for the ride."

        "Couldn't have waited till a Monday, could he?" groused Burroughs.

        When he opened his front door, an envelope lay waiting for him on the entry floor. Odd, Jonathan thought. There's no mail delivery on Sunday. He picked up the envelope and laid it on the hallway table while he took off his overcoat and boots. Then he got the envelope and took it with him into his sitting room. Sitting down, he sliced it open with a letter opener and removed the folded sheet within.

        "Reading of a will?" he said aloud. "Estate of Martin Sloan? Now why on earth would I be invited to that?"

        One day short of a week after Martin Sloan's funeral, Jonathan Keller arrived for the reading of his will at the office of Francis L. Epicott, attorney at law. A light snow was falling, and Jonathan stamped the slush from his boots at the doorstep. Stepping inside, he removed his hat, which left a trail of melting snow drips upon the carpet, and entered the room where the receptionist told him the reading was being held. He stuck his head in the door.

        "Sorry I'm late," he said.

        Mr. Epicott, a slight man with a frock of hair falling unbidden across his forehead and half-moon glasses perched on his nose, peered at Jonathan from his rich leather chair and smiled. "Please, come in and have a seat. We were just about to begin."

        "Thank you." Jonathan took an empty chair beside two other men, whose similarity in their flinty eyes and dispassionate expression led him to conclude that they could only be brothers. One wore a full beard and a worn farmer's overcoat; the other had only a moustache and an expensive-looking, worsted-wool topcoat.

        "Who's this, then?" the bearded one demanded. His brother laid a hand upon his arm and shook his head subtly.

        "I believe what my brother means," the mustached one said, "is that we have not yet had the honor of your aquaintence."

        "Oh, I'm Jonathan Keller." He extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr...?"

        The well-dressed one reached across his unresponsive brother to take Jonathan's hand. "I'm Courtroy Sloan. This is my brother Malcolm. Did you know our uncle well, Mr Keller?"

        "I'm afraid only slightly. We were colleagues. I was quite surprised, in fact, to receive notice of this reading."

        "Yes," Mr. Epicott interjected, "well, the late Mr. Sloan must have remembered you in some fashion, for your name is mentioned in his will."

        "Really?"

        "He's after what's rightfully ours," Malcolm muttered under his breath. Jonathan saw Courtroy's hand tighten around Malcolm's arm.

        Epicott gave Malcolm a look over his half-moon glasses, but ignored the remark. "Let's get started, shall we?"

        There was the usual verbiage about being of sound mind, etc, some pronouncements about his books going to the university library, and some silver candlesticks to a still-living cousin somewhere, and then the heart of the matter.

        "'To my nearest living kin, my nephews Courtroy and Malcolm Sloan, I leave my home in Manchester, and all possessions not dealt with aforehand, to do with as they shall agree.'"

        Both Malcolm and Courtroy leaned forward in their chairs, as though in anticipation of something. "'And to my colleague, Professor Jonathan Kelly, who was once kind enough to invite me into his home and charm me with me his dreams of publishing his mathematical theories and of painting, I leave my estate of Windmere in Simone, North Carolina.'"

        "What?" Courtroy broke his composure and leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair.

        Malcolm leaned forward and pounded his fist on Mr. Epicott's desk. "Now, see here! That land is ours!"

        Epicott held up his hand. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please calm down. There is more. 'The bulk of my liquid assets have been converted into a trust soley for Mr. Keller's use to preserve the history, grandeur and beauty of Windmere. My nephews, I'm sure, will understand, as they are all too aware that their chief talent lies in dissolving history and beauty into quickly-squandered cash.' That is all." Epicott laid down the papers on his desk.

        There was silence in the room. Malcolm fell back into his chair with a heavy exhalation. Courtroy, unwilling to break his dignity by righting his chair, folded his arms and stood there. Jonathan, too stunned to think of words, sat staring at the stiff, formal pages of Martin Sloan's will.

        "This is not right," Courtroy finally said. "We have no choice but to contest the will."

        "That is your right," Epicott said.

        "Madness," Malcolm uttered. He gazed sideways at Jonathan with contempt in his eyes. "Because he likes to paint. Don't get too comfortable in your new house, Keller. This isn't over."

        Courtroy's hand descended on Malcolm's shoulder. "Let's go." As they passed on their way to the door, Courtroy nodded slightly at Jonathan. "Good day, Mr. Keller."

        Malcolm was less polite. "You ain't heard the last of us," he snarled. Courtroy all but pushed Malcolm out the door before he could do any more verbal damage.

        Epicott attempted a sympathetic smile. "It's always difficult when the pain of grief is compounded by disappointment when the will is read. Congratulations, Mr. Keller."

        Jonathan's eyes were glazed, still attempting to comprehend what had just happened. "I never even know Professor Sloan had an estate."

        "Apparently he did. Now, there is some paperwork that I will need you to sign..."

        But Jonathan was not conscious of anything else Epicott said. His mind was too busy reeling with the news of what he had just been given.

CHAPTER TWO

WINDMERE

May 29, 1907, Simone, North Carolina

        Jonathan Keller arrived in Simone in his rented wagon a little after noon, his trunks and bags stacked high in the bed. He had ridden from the nearest train station, ten miles away. As he crested a low rise, the town unfolded before him, a villiage virtually untouched by time, perched on the edge of the Atlantic, skinny fingers of fishing docks jutting into the water. The white houses gleamed in the midday sun, their gardens and yards bright green in their springtime splendor. Jonathan stopped to admire the ocean sparkling in the sunlight. He had seen the Atlantic several times in the past, but never had it looked so bright and welcoming. In New England, the Atlantic is like a dark woman, tempting and foreboding at the same time. He immediately felt that he was going to like it here.

        Beyond Simone, a large hill angled skyward, dwarfing the little town. Atop the hill, squatted a low, dark, boxlike structure. Against the sharp blue sky, the building was silhouetted and featureless, a paradoxically dark spot amid all the brightness.

        Jonathan spurred the horses on and descended into the town.

        He had not been given an address to the house, only the name Windmere. Jonathan surmised that Simone was a small enough community that everyone just knew it by name. There was only one primary street through town, a wide expanse of rutted, packed dirt. At the end of the street, he saw a new building being constructed. From a distance, it appeared to be a government building, squat and square, and built of pipestone block. At least the town was still growing, he thought.

        It didn't take Jonathan long to find the post office, an outhouse-sized building next to a dry goods store. A bell jangled as he entered the post office. The desk was deserted.

        "Hello? Anybody here?" He leaned over the counter and peered through the doorway to the back room, but saw no one. "Hello?"

        A few moments later, a greying man with a round middle came through a door that apparently connected the post office with the dry good store.