Alma Katsu - The Taker

Through the fog I saw the ship that would take me to Boston. Its deck was dotted with lanterns, illuminating the preparations being made to set sail: seamen clambered on the masts, unfurling some of the sails; casks were rolled up a gangplank for storage in the hold, the ship buoying gently under its shifting weight.

I know now that it was a common cargo ship, but at the time it was as exotic as a full-masted British ship-of-the-line, or an Araby baghlah , the first real seagoing vessel I’d ever seen up close. Fear and excitement rose up in my throat-they would be my ever-constant companions now, fear of the unknown and an irrepressible willingness for adventure-as I strode up the gangplank to the ship, another step further away from all I knew and loved, and another step closer to my mysterious new life.

Several days later, the ship closed in on Boston’s harbor. By afternoon we had docked, but I waited until dusk to creep out on the ship’s deck. It was quiet now: the other passengers had disembarked as soon as the ship was made fast in its berth and most of the cargo, it appeared, had been unloaded. The crew members, at least those faces I remembered, were nowhere to be seen, probably out rediscovering the benefits of being on land by visiting one of the taverns that faced the harbor. To judge by the number of such establishments on the street, taverns were an integral part of the business of shipping, more important than timber or sailcloth.

We had docked far ahead of schedule owing to good winds, but it was only a matter of time before the convent was notified and dispatched someone to fetch me. As a matter of fact, the captain had eyed me curiously once or twice as I lingered belowdecks, wondering why I hadn’t left already, and even offered to find transportation to take me to my destination if I was unsure of the way.

I didn’t want to go to the convent. In my mind, I’d built it up to be something between a workhouse and a prison. It was to be my punishment, a place designed to “correct” me by any means possible, to cure me of being in love with Jonathan. They would take my baby away from me, my last and only connection to my beloved. How could I allow such a thing?

On the other hand, I was terrified of striking out on my own. The uncertainties I’d faced in Camden were a hundred times worse in Boston, which seemed like a vast, teeming city. How would I find my way about? To whom would I turn for help, a place to stay, particularly in my condition? I suddenly felt every inch the unschooled country girl from the wilderness, completely out of her depth.

Cowardice and indecision had kept me from fleeing the ship immediately, but in the end, it was the thought of losing my child that made me decide to leave. I would rather sleep in a filthy alley and earn my keep scrubbing floors than let someone take this baby away from me. Thoroughly worked into a frenzy, I took to the streets of Boston with only my little satchel, abandoning the trunk to the harbormaster’s office. Hopefully I would find it later when I had secured a residence. That is, if the convent didn’t confiscate it on my behalf when they found out I was missing.

Even though I’d waited till dusk to sneak off the ship, I was surprised and frightened by the amount of activity still going on. People spilled out of public houses and into the streets, they packed the sidewalks, or rattled by in carriages. Wagons loaded with barrels and boxes as big as coffins rolled through the busy streets. I trudged up one street and down another, sidestepping other pedestrians, ducking wagons, unable to absorb the layout of the roads in any meaningful way, unable to tell after fifteen minutes of walking which way the harbor lay. I began to think Boston a cheerless and harsh place: hundreds of people had streamed past me that night but not one took notice of my fear-struck expression, the lost look in my eye, my aimless wandering. No one asked if I needed help.

Dusk gave way to darkness. Streetlamps were lit. Traffic began to thin as people hurried home for the evening, while shopkeepers drew curtains and locked doors. Panic bloomed in my chest again: where would I sleep that night? And the next night, and the night after that, for that matter? No, I told myself, I mustn’t think too far ahead or else I’d fall into despair. Getting through that first night was worry enough. I needed a good plan or I would start to wish I’d surrendered to the convent.

The answer was a public house or an inn. The cheapest possible, I thought, fingering the few coins I had left. The neighborhood I had stumbled into seemed residential and I struggled to recall where I had last passed a public establishment. Had it been closer to the docks? Probably, yet I hesitated to backtrack, thinking that would only confirm that I didn’t know what I was doing and that I’d put myself in the worst possible situation. I was unsure of which direction I’d come from, anyway. Psychologically, it was best to keep moving into new territory.

So frazzled was I that I stood in the middle of the road pondering my next move, oblivious to the traffic that in a busier part of the city would have run me over. In my preoccupation it took me a minute to realize a carriage had pulled beside me and that I was being hailed.

“Miss! Hello, miss,” a voice called from inside the coach. And a handsome coach it was, finer by degrees than any coarse country wagon I’d ever seen. The dark wood glistened with oil and all its appointments were extremely delicate and well crafted. It was drawn by a pair of heavy bays, groomed as ornately as circus horses but fitted with black harnesses like a funeral trap.

“I say, don’t you speak English?” A man appeared at the window of the coach, wearing an extraordinarily fancy three-cornered hat, edged with burgundy plumes. He was pale and blond with a long, aristocratic face, but had a withering, pinched set to his mouth, as though he was eternally displeased. I looked up at him, surprised that such a fine stranger was addressing me.

“Oh, let me try,” a woman said from within the coach. The man in the hat withdrew from the window and a woman took his place. If the first man was pale, she was far paler, her skin the color of snow. She wore a very dark dress of maroon moiré taffeta, which was perhaps what gave her skin its bloodless quality. She was lovely but frightening, with pointed teeth concealed behind lips stretched in a tight, insincere smile. Her eyes were of a blue so pale that they appeared lavender. And what I could see of her hair-she, too, sported an ornate hat, riding high on her head at a daring angle-was the color of buttercups, but heavily dressed and worn close to the skull.

“Don’t be frightened,” she said before I even realized that I was , a little. I stood back as she opened the carriage door and descended to the street, rustling as she moved owing to the stiffness of the fabric and the fullness of her skirt. Her dress was the fanciest garment I’d ever seen, adorned with miniature ruffles and bows, drawn tightly around her tiny wasp’s waist. She wore black gloves and reached a hand toward me slowly, as though she was afraid of scaring away a timid dog. The hatted man was joined by a second man who took her place in the carriage window.

“Are you all right? My friends and I couldn’t help but notice as we passed that you seem at a loss.” Her smile warmed by a degree.

“I-well, that is…,” I hemmed, embarrassed that someone had found me out, while at the same time desperate for any assistance and a touch of human kindness.

“Are you newly arrived in Boston?” the second man in the carriage asked from his perch. He seemed infinitely nicer than the first, with dark features and exquisitely kind eyes and a gentleness that invited trust.