The Shadow of Nisi Pote Read online

  The ShadoW of

  NIsí PΩté

  ❖ H. C. Storrer ❖

  Tree Hole Press

  prologue

  Lisbon, November 1, 1755

  “G AA!” Edwin exploded, hurling his tricorn hat to the wooden planks at his feet. The squawking gulls above and bitter taste of the salty morning breeze were doing very little to improve his mood. “These blasted religious rules make commerce with the Portuguese impossible.”

  “Sir?” Tiago, his translator, blinked.

  “No, don’t translate that.” Edwin sighed as he ran a hand through his thick black hair.

  “Que foi?” the dockmaster, object of Edwin’s contempt, pressed.

  “Nada, nada, ele está frustrado.” Tiago turned from the dockmaster and spoke to Edwin. “You see, it is All Saints Day, it is going to be—”

  “I know what day it is, blast it all! It doesn’t change the fact that I need to get underway as soon as bloody possible!” He smacked his hand on the nearest crate, setting the glass bottles inside clinking from the blow. “Am I supposed to just let my shipment rot away on the dock? I have to load!”

  Since the crown’s embargo on French wine, selling port had become a lucrative business between London and Lisbon. To this end, Edwin had sunk every guinea he had into filling this small portion of the dock with each bottle and barrel of wine he could lay his hands on. However, it would be of little use if he couldn’t get underway before the the war between France and England came to an end.

  “Not today, nor tomorrow. Only on Monday!” the dockmaster yelled back in Portuguese.

  Instantly, Edwin and the dockmaster started in on each other in dueling tongues and wagging fingers. The handsome Englishman leaned over the much shorter dockmaster, trying to impose his will.

  Taking a step back from the posturing Englishman, the dockmaster pointed to Tiago and demanded, “You tell him it is either Mass or the king’s men! If they insist on breaking the law, I will have him and all of his crew arrested! He cannot load today!” With that, the dockmaster set his jaw and folded his arms.

  Tiago turned to Edwin deflated. His translation of the dockmaster’s edict sounded more like an armistice for the defeated.

  “E Missa?” the dockmaster pressed. He didn’t speak English well, but he knew what was going on.

  Tiago ducked his head. “He also requests that we attend Mass.”

  Edwin spun in frustration. “What a fine pickle. No wonder the English kicked the Pope from his high horse.”

  “O que ele disse?” the dockmaster asked.

  “Nada, nada,” the translator attempted to sooth the man with open palms. Turning, he put his cheek to Edwin’s ear. “Sir, I think maybe I can help. Here in Portugal, there is always a thread of business woven into the rules.”

  Edwin started to nod, tucking a hand into his sharp blue coat. “He wants a bribe.” It was a long shot, one that could send the whole lot of them to prison, but it was the only path Edwin could see left.

  Quickly, Tiago gripped his boss by the wrist. “Please, let me handle this. It must be done… delicately.”

  “Fine,” Edwin exhaled.

  “Senhor.” Tiago turned back around, the leather coin purse behind his back. In a flourish of Portuguese he negotiated with the dockmaster, “These English are all born with a nose like a hound for money, but they miss the gentle refinements of life. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  The dockmaster smiled slyly. “And so now you wish to give me a spoonful of honey. I will not relent. They will not load the wine. Understand?”

  Tiago nodded. “I explained this to him. He is a good, God-fearing man with a wife and child. I think he is just worried about returning home before the weather sours.”

  The dockmaster raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “I have explained to him our laws, Senhor, and he understands, but do you not think it our duty as Catholics to re-educate the English how to celebrate the day? I am sure they would not mind relaxing with our generosity. And to show his thanks, my patron is willing to add a case of our country’s finest wine and three gold sovereigns to enhance the festivities; that is, as long as he and his crew have access to the dock this evening, after sundown.” Tiago smiled innocently.

  “Hmmm,” the fat man mused. “It would take at least eight sovereigns to keep the magistrate’s men from spoiling the day.”

  Relieved that the dockmaster was willing to barter, Tiago countered. “I am sure four sovereigns and another case of wine would do it, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The dockmaster narrowed his eyes on an oblivious Edwin. “Yes, that, and they come with me to Mass.” He was pliable, but still religious.

  Tiago turned to Edwin and whispered the details to his ear.

  “Yes, yes. Tell him I will go to Mass, the whole blasted crew will! I’ll be baptized a Catholic if it means he will let us load after dark,” Edwin crowed.

  Holding his hand out, the fat dockmaster wasted no time taking to his palm sovereign coin from Edwin’s satchel.

  “Two cases.” Edwin’s two digits aimed skyward.

  “Sir?” The first mate looked confused.

  Edwin shuffled his head back toward the dockmaster. “Mr. Harris, I need two cases of the 1746 sent to his office.”

  “Ahhh,” Harris instantly understood, “Billy, Tom, get up, ye swabs—”

  “Also, Mr. Harris, inform the captain and gather the crew. We are going to need to become religious for a day,” Edwin interrupted.

  The first mate’s weathered face pulled back, ready to laugh.

  “Y’ur serious?”

  “As the grave, Mr. Harris, as the grave.”

  ***

  In an organized procession, Edwin’s crew marched single file as the dockmaster paraded them towards the ringing bells of the cathedral of Santa Catarina a Misericórdia. The morning was beautiful and still, the sun warming the Earth as it climbed into the sky. Halfway to the cathedral, the column of men paused to take in the restful bliss of a splashing fountain, the rhythm of the cascading water mesmerizing.

  “Somfin ain’t right, Sir,” one of the sailors was the first to speak.

  Edwin turned an ear to the eerie barking. He hadn’t noticed the noise; his thoughts were with the wine on the dock. “That is peculiar.”

  “Bawoo,” the distant baying grew with intensity, echoing among the tall buildings as if the hounds of hell had been loosed. Just up the path, three horses struggled with their masters, trembling and whinnying against the reins holding them in place

  Without warning, the ground under foot began to throb as the air fell dead on the sailor’s ears. Like cracks of thunder, fractures began to twist up the plastered walls of the grand medieval buildings in shattering pops.

  As quick as it came, the shaking ceased.

  “What was that?” the Bos’n was the first to speak.

  Edwin surveyed his crew. Every face had turned ashen, a few salty lads even crossing themselves. Stillness fell over every soul as the seconds passed like a tonic on their nerves. Whimpering, several stray dogs scurried up the street to the crest of the hill, their whines fading in a deafening rumble as the earth began to move once more.

  With grating pops, the cobbles savagely cracked and twisted like the devil himself was under the stones tilling the earth with the edge of his iron fork; his violent thrust hurling the sure-footed sailors from their feet. The fissures tore apart the road, racing into a building on their right. With straining groans, the plaster and stone relented, and the structure collapsed upon itself, sending a great cloud of dust billowing through the lane.

  Instead of offering a reprieve, the quaking continued, growing in intensity as another building began to break apart with huge
chunks of masonry dropping into the street. “Move!” Edwin stumbled towards the dockmaster, coxswain, and ship’s carpenter yelling. Lurching to his knees and then to his chest, he watched in horror as the crushing weight of the building buried all three men instantly. Edwin gripped the ground in terror, the quaking beneath him shaking like the rush of a thousand horses as lime plaster and stones the size of fists pounded his back. Unable to close his eyes, he saw his own mortality reflected in the bloody, tattooed hand of the ship’s carpenter groping from under the rubble until it became still, inches from his face. An image of his wife and child flashed through his mind unbidden, and within a second, he re-lived their years together. There was a trust and some money, but would it last? Edwin was no stranger to the cruelty of the world, and the haunting image of them left as carrion to the evil of men was almost more than he could bear.

  Too slowly, the quaking began to ease, then it stopped altogether.

  First, no one dared move. The cacophony of neighing horses, barking dogs, and far-off noises just minutes before had now stilled; the great city was as quiet as a tomb. Coughing, Edwin sucked in a breath of wonderful life, the shock and gratitude of his survival pushing him to his feet. All too quickly the uncertain, terror-filled tranquility was punctuated by disjointed moans and wails rending the air.

  “Back to the boat,” he croaked. Reaching down, Edwin pulled a man to his feet and yelled, “Back to the boat!”

  “Sir?” one of the new hands balked in confusion, his eyes fixed on the dead.

  “We can’t ’elp ’em, Hastings!” Mr. Harris leaned upon Edwin’s shoulder. “The boss is right. Back to the ship! Step lively, lads, the water don’ shake like this.”

  Once again, the earth beneath their feet started to tremble, then stopped immediately.

  ***

  “Load what you can. Now!” Edwin ordered as the crew rushed to the dock. The neat stacks of wine cases and barrels they had left on the pier minutes before were now strewn about like children’s blocks in a broken, bleeding mess. Hefting a case that dripped with crimson wine, Edwin handed it off to the nearest sailor. He was scared but had not lost his grip; Edwin still felt certain he could salvage a profit for his family’s sake.

  “You ‘eard him!” Captain MaCaslan yelled from the deck, “Move yer backsides, ye swabs!”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n’.” The men snapped to, order and discipline overcoming their shock.

  At the head of the brigade, Edwin was not above getting dirty as he passed the tinkling crates he wanted in the boom nets first. Fear had replaced the normal banter, and without mumbling a word the crew loaded the goods into the hold of the ship. Confident that everything was in hand, Edwin mounted the gangplank to board the Mary May. Midway up, he paused and watched in horror as the steep, thirty-degree incline shifted downward before his eyes until the ship’s deck had sunk lower than the pier, its keel squelching into the silt of the exposed sea floor. The Mary May’s oaken boards settled with a great creaking groan as it came to rest, pressing against the strained pillars of the dock.

  “What the devil?” Captain MaCaslan climbed off the deck and atop the pier. Crawling up to his feet, he stood next to Edwin, looking in stunned disbelief as the ocean emptied out towards the west.

  “It’s like an ‘ol is opened up and swallowed the deep,” one of the crew blurted out.

  “Could it?” Edwin asked, his eyes wide.

  “I don’t know…” Though not a religious man, Captain MaCaslan crossed himself.

  Turning from the awful sight, Edwin followed the sound of hundreds of footsteps as the citizens of Lisbon rushed to the docks in a frenzy to escape the destruction and choking ash of the once great city. The Lisbon they had arrived at a mere week ago, with its great gothic structures of stone, was now all but gone. It was as if a fine gilded mirror had been dropped; the stately buildings now lay shattered and broken, plumes of smoke reaching heavenward.

  “Lord have mercy!” The words drew every eye to the sea as low billows of white sprouted in the distance. Moments passed as the swelling white rose higher in the air; back on the pier the refugees screamed, scurrying back into the burning city. What had been a dull, distant rush, like a gust of wind, began to build into a ferocious gale as the deafening rumble of water, now reaching forty feet in the air, approached faster than a frothing horse under whip.

  As the shadow of the crushing deep cascaded forward, Edwin crumbled to his knees with a plea for immortality. His breath growing quick and shallow, he bowed down to the earth as the roaring bulwark of water pounded into his very being, flooding his lungs with a hope of forgiveness. Forgiveness for failing his wife and child.

  PART 1

  Cornwall - London

  chapter 1

  Penzance 1757

  “W hy, of course she’s pretty,” a solitary feminine voice squawked. “She’s French!” The high, screechy timber of her exclamation continued to echo through the entire chapel, long after every other murmur had silenced.

  Standing next to the altar, Jacques cringed with a smirk of embarrassment for the batty woman. To many of the other prattling hens of the village Ms. Puddlemire was a paragon of virtuous gossip; to most everyone else she was proven more the fool each time she shouted her thoughts like a barker. Whatever she was, her embarrassment was a welcome relief for Jacques’ worried mind. At only twelve he could feel something amiss with his newly minted stepfather, but like a royal guard he stood motionless to that fact. Perfect to the part, he was a handsome lad with coal-black hair pulled back by a white ribbon, his bleached ivory waistcoat pinching at his middle.

  When the matter had ended, that was how Jacques preferred to think of the wedding, he was pleased to take his place in the waiting carriage. There, he could bask in the radiant glow of his mother’s hopeful smile as the throng of villagers shouted hurrahs at the happy couple. It was a rare instance of sunshine that eased the knot in his stomach as the driver cracked the whip over the horse’s ears, sending the carriage bouncing towards Shellstone Manor.

  Jacques had always loved living in the grandest home in town. For Penzance, Shellstone was a great, crowning residence, maybe not equal in grandeur to the homes of the Cornish gentry, but worth much more to the villagers as it represented the success of a common, local hero. It was only fitting that Edwin had filled such a glorious home with Margaux’s foreign beauty.

  Taking notice of his mother’s eye, Jacques buried his unease by offering a practiced smile. For a moment all was well while she sat with her head resting on his stepfather’s shoulder, her light blue dress floating in wisps from the breeze coming through the carriage windows. The moment was ruined as Nathan put a clumsy hand to her chestnut ringlets that jostled loose.

  “Like holden back wa’er,” he finally laughed at his futile effort.

  Margaux’s eyes filled with smiles as her ruby lips coyly cracked at the comedy of it all. The exchange instantly repelled Jacques, who preferred to think upon anything else. Nathan was too perfect. Even his smile was cold like stone, holding a masonry tension as if his lips contained a secret ready to jump out at any moment.

  “We will go ’unting game, you an I.” Nathan broke Jacques contemplation, running a confident hand through his own golden hair. “That is, when me and yer mum return from our trip.”

  “Yes,” Marguax agreed. “Lord Chestworth invited your father many times. I zink he would be happy to ’ost ’iz son.”

  Jacques painted on his smile and nodded in agreement.

  Like so many men before him, those held in highest esteem of life, Jacques’ real father had become a near object of deification upon his passing. As the most profitable merchant in town, Edwin had gained considerable wealth while alive—wealth that buoyed the local economy. Now dead, it seemed as if he was both Robin Hood and King Arthur in the eyes of the villagers. There were even stories that circulated about him in Herculean proportions. When the great Lisbon quake of ’55 came, he had somehow outrun the rolling earth to board h
is ship, hefting the first mate upon his back. As the story goes, he tried to save his ship and crew, and had nearly succeeded, failing only when the ocean opened and swallowed the Mary May whole. Not that anyone really knew what had happened—his father could have been running for his life with every other inhabitant of the doomed city. To Jacques, it didn’t matter: any man who thought to replace Edwin would be either the incarnation of Richard the Lionheart or Caligula. Nathan may have looked the part, but he was not Edwin.

  As Shellstone came into view Jacques leaned out of the carriage with a wide grin, the grand structure gleaming in resplendent glory with ribbons and boweries of fresh flowers prepared for the wedding feast.

  “Jacques! Vous obtiendrez tous vos vêtements sales,” Margaux admonished as she pulled him back to his seat.

  “Oui, mère.” Jacques sat back contrite.

  Nathan looked on with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “While I am not one for French, it does sound mighty beautiful coming from you, my dear.” Leaning down, Nathan brushed his lips to Margaux’s as Jacques looked away. “But, for my benefit could we please speak in English? Just so I can understand.”

  “But of course!” Margaux laughed at Nathan’s mock pout, “It was just a force of ’abit. We ’ave been too long without an Englishman in our home, eh, Jacques.”

  “Oui, mère,” Jacques replied, his innocent smile hardly able to contain his disgust.

  With a laugh, his mother ruffled his black hair. “You naughty boy! It is not polite to tease your new father!”

  With another grin Jacques turned and rushed into the house, but not before seeing the smile slip from Nathan’s face.

  The freshly trimmed grass of Shellstone’s opulent garden was quickly trodden under foot by the throng of guests who feasted upon nods and whispers as much as the succulent pork. Eager to avoid the gossip, and despite his social standing above the other children from the village, Jacques was all too willing to soil his bright white breeches in playing games. It was in this pursuit—his burnt black hair slowly freeing itself from the ribbon on the back of his head—that he became engrossed in a more important task: finding the beautiful Anna. She was a pretty thing a year older than himself, and he couldn’t wait to see her light golden ringlets dripping from her white cap, the image of her perfect nose over mature lips intoxicating to his thoughts. Consumed with this quest, he became the object of teasing to the other children as they called out, “Jack, Jack, ’es on ’is back.”