P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

She stood and walked over to the stacks, hunting for collections that were perhaps from famous Port Chatham maritime families. If she could piece together the details of the events surrounding the Henrietta Dale , then research the laws and cultural mores of the time regarding the importation and use of opium, perhaps she’d start to have a sense of Michael Seavey’s life in the weeks before his death.

Hunting through folders and binders for more than a half hour, she was about to give up when she found a small packet of papers written by Captain Nathaniel Williams. Opening it, she discovered a sheaf of badly frayed, handwritten pages, presumably from a personal diary, carefully encased in plastic covers. She flipped through them, looking for dates, but most of the entries didn’t have any. There was no telling whether the pages documenting the shipwreck had survived—she’d have to go through what was there to determine if the collection contained any information of use.

Tucking the folder under one arm, she headed back to the small reading table, stopping on her way to snag the binder of newspapers from the weeks before the shipwreck. According to Seavey’s personal papers, Eleanor’s editorial campaign began around then. If Jordan could find the editorial mentioned by Seavey, it might give some clues as to who had been smuggling opium into Port Chatham then, and who might have had a reason to want Seavey out of the way. Then, using Seavey’s and the captain’s papers, she might be able to put the rest of the picture together.

Sitting down, she stacked her reading materials to one side and started sorting through newspaper issues. Minutes later, she had Eleanor’s editorial in hand.

Guarded Secrets

Union Wharf

July 10, 1893

Contraband Floods Our Shores, Ripping

at the Very Fabric of Our Beloved

Port Chatham Society

Opium is a drug many of us may have originally viewed as imbued with a mysterious and sinister beauty, capable of opening the doors to a never-before envisioned, dreamlike paradise. Now it threatens to destroy the very society we depend on as stalwart citizens. Not only does our community lose precious tax dollars from the frequently condoned practice of smuggling this contraband past revenue agents, but the drug itself, addictive in the most horrific sense, slowly and relentlessly destroys its users.

Businessmen well known to all in our town think nothing of increasing their profits through their illicit dealings in this drug. And community leaders turn a blind eye, enamored themselves with the perilous effects of smoking the drug, shielded from view in their own parlors. But as a society, we must stand up to the evil purveyors of this diabolical substance, declaring its import and use outlawed. We must impose stiff fines and jail sentences on those who would flaunt their wares, luring our children into their malodorous smoking dens of iniquity, turning those we love into emaciated, melancholy ghosts who can no longer contribute meaningfully to our town’s prosperity.

We must fight valiantly against the invasion of this devil drug, just as we fought against the invasion of those who introduced the drug to our shores. Let this letter be a warning that this newspaper—indeed, this voice of moral constancy for our community—will not stand mute while local businessmen continue to corrupt and ruin the lives of our citizens.

Standing in the early-morning light on the waterfront docks, Michael Seavey tossed the paper back to Remy. “Dispose of it,” he snapped. “The woman is unhinged, clearly misguided in her beliefs.”

“She grows more dangerous by the day,” the burly bodyguard cautioned.

“To date, she has made no accusations against specific individuals.” Michael slapped his gloves against his pants leg. “Nevertheless, I want to know the minute you hear of any other planned actions on her part.”

Remy’s expression turned sharklike. “You want me to send a message, Boss? I could pay a visit to one of her reporters—”

“No.” Michael hesitated. “Not yet. I’ll let you know.”

Dismissing his bodyguard, Michael stood for a moment, regaining his temper and gazing up at the clipper ship he’d recently purchased. After a lengthy stay at the docks in Port Blakely, during which portions of its deck and hold had been completely rebuilt, he’d had it moved to Union Wharf for the finishing touches to the passenger suites. He’d already spent more than he’d intended to refurbish the vessel, but he was pleased with the result. By the time he was finished, he’d own the fastest ship sailing the local waters.

For his passengers, he’d provide the plushest accommodations, the finest opium, the most ornately designed smoking pipes. Just this week, he’d received a shipment of cloisonné enamel boxes and hand-carved jade smoking pipes from the Orient. Yes, overall, his plans had been executed quite smoothly.

A problem remained, however, that he now needed to rectify: Garrett had somehow managed to discover what he was up to. In the event that his partner was foolish enough—or cunning enough—to expose Michael’s plans to the authorities, further precautions were required.

From somewhere belowdecks, Michael could hear the sounds of someone wielding a hammer. “Ahoy! You there!” he shouted.

After a moment, a grizzled head popped over the railing.

“You’d be Grady MacDonough?”

“Yessir. Master ship’s carpenter, sir!”

“Come dockside, and bring the plans with you. We have much to discuss.”

Michael lit a cigar while he waited. The wharf bustled with activity. Sailors emerged from boardinghouses and brothels, stretching and squinting into the sun, eyes unaccustomed to the bright light after a night of debauchery. Tradesmen, dressed in neatly pressed suits, opened shops for the day’s business. Dockworkers unloaded cargo from flatbed wagons drawn by draft horses that pawed the wooden boards underneath their hooves, impatient to move on.

Gazing back toward his hotel, he caught sight of Jesse Canby, walking arm in arm along the boardwalk with a young woman who looked vaguely familiar. He frowned. Devil take it, he couldn’t place her … ah, that was it: Hattie Longren’s sister, the lovely young Charlotte.

As always, with thoughts of Hattie came the familiar rush of grief, followed swiftly by a surge of rage. Avenging her murder had done nothing to ease his distress. He should have been able to cast her forever from his mind, but all attempts to do so had failed. Damn and blast! What ailed him?

His gaze sharpened as Charlotte laughed gaily at something Jesse Canby had leaned down to murmur into her ear. It seemed the young Charlotte chose to spend her time with lost souls. In the case of Canby, she would be wise to remain more detached.

Eleanor Canby suddenly emerged from the crowds on the boardwalk, taking hold of Jesse’s arm. Charlotte stepped away, her expression guarded. Though Michael couldn’t hear what Eleanor was saying, it was clear that the older woman spoke with some urgency to Jesse, who shook his head vehemently. He jerked his arm from Eleanor’s grasp, then turned his back on her, holding his hand out to Charlotte. After a wary glance at Eleanor, she took Jesse’s hand, and the pair walked away, leaving Eleanor standing on the boardwalk, shoulders rigid.

MacDonough appeared from down below, bringing Michael’s attention back to the matter at hand. The carpenter scrambled down the rope ladder hung over the side of the ship, a thick roll of plans tucked under one arm.

Michael took them and spread them out, studying them intently. MacDonough waited, shifting from one foot to the other, his expression anxious.