Death on the Line

The weeks wore on, their routine providing the rhythm of life aboard the ship. A few more passengers died. Food supplies dwindled after the weeks lost following that initial storm. Often, Angus found himself on deck, staring at the sky if the weather permitted.

When the sea was calm, and he felt up to it, Mr. Dixon regaled them with stories about his adventures with Mr. Mason to places with strange-sounding names.

The ship abruptly rocked in the small waves, and Angus glanced at Mr. Dixon.

"Ah, lad, that is nothing," Mr. Dixon held the glance and sat up straighter.

"Why, it was only two years ago, on our way to Sumatra, that the French attacked the ship Charles and I were aboard. Now, that was exciting."

The men leaned closer, waiting for more. Mr. Mason sat alone at a distance, writing at his small travel desk. Angus watched his lips curl into a smile.

Jeremiah leaned in. "We were on a Royal Observatory project to track the transit of Venus. As our ship, the wee HMS Seahorse, sailed south, a French ship appeared on the horizon. They pulled along broadside and fired their cannons. Our brave captain shot back. Both ships were heavily damaged, but neither of them sank. Fortunately, we made our way back to the port for repairs. But the delay required us to take our readings from the Cape of Good Hope instead."

Caught up in the story, Angus glanced again at Mr. Mason and watched him shake his head and chuckle as he wrote in his journal. Angus was in awe of these men.

On other nights, the men played games of cards, a precious item aboard the ship. Sailors shared them in the evening when they were off duty.

"Ah, at last, I won a trick," shouted Liam.

"Must be cheatin'," one man teased, nudging him in the ribs. Liam punched him playfully on the shoulder as he dealt another hand of Whist.

It was November now. Each day was colder than the previous. The card games and storytelling had moved to a small space below deck. Angus left the men and reclined against the anchor chain on the upper deck. He pulled his greatcoat tighter about himself and stared at those same three stars. Orion's belt became easier to find, but the rest of the figure remained elusive. Determined, he closed one eye and peered at the sky. Then he tried closing the other eye instead and searched again.

"Ah, ye daft wee eejit," he muttered. His dialect often came out when he was frustrated. "If ye cannae see it with both eyes, what makes ye believe ye can with one?" In exasperation, he gave up and headed to his berth.

Following a supper of thin broth and dried biscuits two nights later, Angus wandered alone on deck. Supper was meager, though his shrinking stomach felt satisfied, nonetheless. He tugged the rope that held up his breeches a little tighter and straightened his greatcoat about him. Tonight was their last night at sea. They would enter the river the next day.

Unlike Jeremiah Dixon, Mr. Mason was much more reserved. Angus held him in high regard. Though chilly, the evening was clear, and Angus hoped to find Mr. Mason on deck with his journal and writing desk.

Tonight was the night he would speak to him. His palms were sweaty despite the cold. The man's exploits fascinated him, and Angus dreamed of getting to know him better. How do I start the conversation? Perhaps a comment on the weather?

His eye caught movement aft, breaking the spell, and Angus turned. Sneaking furtively along in the dark was a short, stocky crewman peering first one way and then another. Angus watched a taller, slender sailor—possibly an officer—briskly approach the crewman from the starboard side, his cape swirling about him in the wind. Pausing to scan the deck, the two men met.

Angus remained tucked in the shadows. Glancing first forward, then aft, the taller man bent to speak to the other crewman, withdrawing a packet hidden beneath his cape and handing it to him. In exchange, the sailor pulled what appeared to be a small box from beneath his cloak. The exchange made, the sailors parted as furtively as they had met.

Just then, Charles Mason stepped through the doorway onto the deck. Disappointment flooded Angus, who was unsure precisely what he had witnessed. Was it necessary to report what he had seen? Or was it simply private business between two men?

Doubt set in as Mr. Mason approached. "Good evening," Mr. Mason said and passed by on his journey toward the stern.

"Good evening, Sir," Angus replied. He moved to the rail, his mind reeling. The exchange had been deliberate. Secret. Whatever had changed hands, those men had not wished to be seen.

The night seemed colder as Angus gazed toward the darkening western horizon. Ominous clouds gathered low and heavy; there would be another storm. He hoped they would pass before their arrival. Gran's voice filled his mind, warning him about such signs. Though she believed in omens, his scientific mind rejected them.

Tomorrow they would make port—but Angus could not shake the uneasy feeling that something had already been set in motion; something passed silently from one hand to another.