PROLOGUE: PROVENANCE 22 February, 1860
WIND AND rain ushered in the morning.
A mistral that charged down the Rhône Valley under the cloak of night lashed the Mediterranean along the Gulf of Lion as fishermen in the village of Providence gathered in the bay at first light, relieved to find their little barques still where they had been beached at sunset.
“God bless any poor fellows at sea,” a Corsican salt named Massallo cried to his young neighbor Herrera. “If they woke and found themselves upon a lee shore they will never get off again.”
Waves rolling into the bay edged closer to the boats, so the mariners hurried to drag their vessels high above the reach of the prowling water. When finished Herrera shouted, “I’m for the house. This is not a day to be out in.”
One of the other fishermen replied, “Only the most devout will receive their blessings and ashes today. If I do not have the whole house blown down I will consider myself fortunate.”
Noticing Massallo studying the sea, Herrera peered out too. “I don’t see any ships coming in the horizon. Do you?”
“None. I hope there may be none.” Massallo walked away, looking bedeviled. “If you see a flare or hear a gun, let me know.”
* * * *
Out upon the rampaging Mediterranean, Cleveland Scout, formerly of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, stood at the helm of the merchant vessel Kettleness, his hands clutching the ship’s wheel. It did not matter that the rudder was busted and the sails and masts were gone. This is how Scout intended to meet his maker as his mate Jack Pringle, who had served with him since their bluejacket days, reported the pumps were choked and useless. The Kettleness was at the mercy of the weather and waves, and with the wind set dead shore Scout could no longer keep her head out to sea. “She strove hard and resisted long.”
“Ay, she carried us through most of the day.”
“Best fire the guns and flares.”
“We cannot expect assistance.”
“It may give warning to those on shore. There is no telling how far we may be driven towards the land. We may even be set right on to the beach.”
“So we might.”
The comrades traded last smiles. “Give the order, Jack.”
Thirteen souls were aboard the Kettleness not counting the captain and mate: the crew, cook, and seven passengers. The crew, seeing land ahead, obeyed Pringle’s command with alacrity, alternating between guns and signal flares every half-minute. Meanwhile one of the passengers emerged from the companion to broach the ship’s master. Even under current circumstances the traveler remained a remarkable sight. His emaciated frame was wrapped within a fashionably cut coal-black suit with matching bisht trimmed with gold scorpions and grasshoppers, while a pale and placid wax mask crowned with a lengthy jet-black wig veiled his features. Deep-sunk eyes and cadaverous lips were visible through slits in the false face. Always reserved but gentlemanly, the passenger inquired in a melodious voice that somehow cut through the din, “How long do you think it will be?”
“Until when, sir?”
“Until we shall be wrecked.”
Scout admired the man’s sangfroid and wished he knew the passenger’s name, but the stranger had paid a ridiculous sum to sail incognito with a large box of confidential cargo that had been stored in his compartment since they departed the Port of Varna. “Well, sir, we strike in five minutes, perhaps twenty. If we are forced in upon the shore in a direct line, we expect the shortest time.”
“And if we should not meet with any obstruction we may be thrown far on shore.”
“Yes. That is the village of Providence. You can just make out the Châteaux de Pelfrey on the cliffline. If we had the time I could tell you stories about that old manse and its smuggler past.”
“I would have liked to have heard them.”
“I only wish I had the means to steer the Kettleness within fifty or a hundred yards of the shore. There would be a better chance of some of us reaching the beach.”
“Which is now rather more than uncertain.”
“It is so.”
“I understand.” The passenger thanked Scout and returned to his compartment.
A few seconds later the Kettleness rammed a sunken rock.
The jolt toppled everyone deckside as the sea breached over the schooner and carried off Pringle and three crewmen. Scout contrived to lash himself to the wheel, but a second breach dashed him against the stump of a mast. Blood dyed the deck before another wave washed it away and swallowed the man.
The Kettleness heeled about in the shallow water. Now and then great waves lifted the ship and pounded it higher on the rocks. Each shock scuttled the keel and tumbled mariners and passengers into the boiling foam until only the stranger remained, emerging from the companion with an object clutched beneath his cloak as he struggled against the indefatigable fury. Lifting his left hand he made as if to wave to someone on shore or to throw something away before a mammoth breach engulfed the ship.
* * * *
Herrera alerted Massallo of the gunfire and red flares shortly before sunset.
The pair roused their fellow fishermen to join them on a crag overlooking the bay.
The sky was heavy and the rain incessant, but the mariners could make out the death throes of the merchant ship. Above the bellowing wind the old Corsican shouted, “There are but bare rocks under her and she will not settle into any place.
“Ay, ay,” Herrera acknowledged. “She will be beaten and bumped until she breaks and splits to shivers.”
The gathering did not speak again until a loud shriek borne upon the hoarse wind was heard above the roaring ocean. A fisherman clasped his hands and prayed: “Heaven have mercy on them, for I fear the sea will have none.”
Massallo led the way towards the beach.
Upon reaching the bay the crash of breakers and the thunderous gales became one strange and awful sound of furious character over which Herrera asked Massallo, “Do you see anything upon the water?”
“Nothing. They are most likely dashed to pieces.”
Another fisherman prayed, “God help them, poor fellows. If they are not to be saved, may they soon have an end to their tortures, for the strife after life must be dreadful.”
“It is.” Massallo watched the sea with eyes that observed nothing outside himself. “Such sufferings are endured under excitement, so they are not so much felt as when a person has been saved. Passing the barrier of life…becoming insensible to all…and then being recalled to life is an agony not to be described.”
That same moment the rain and wind softened and the moon peeked out as the heavy clouds incrementally dissipated.
“Well,” said a sailor, “I did not expect to see the storm abate so soon.”
“I did not,” said another, “though the sea will not abate for many hours.”
The fishermen kept their vigil a while longer to assure they had done all that was possible, but as it became apparent nothing or no one was going to be carried ashore, each returned home one by one until only Massallo remained. The old seafarer was too beset by memories to abandon all hope yet.
Approaching the waterline, Massallo stopped upon an all-too familiar spot and looked back towards the cliffs where a vast and spacious grey stone mansion overlooked the bay. Massallo first saw the Châteaux de Pelfrey from this spot on a terrible day seventeen years earlier when a storm like this had delivered him to Providence.
Massallo had been in love with a Corsican girl whose relations intended her to marry a rival with more money. Through her intercession Massallo obtained time to increase his fortune, which he invested in a merchant vessel. It was a time for devils to be abroad, however, and a few years later he and his shipmates found themselves chased into a tempest by Algerians. Knowing the best they could hope for if captured was to be turned into slaves, Massallo and his companions sailed perilously close to shore, where they were compelled to pump and cut away the wreck.
All was confusion.
Not a sound could be distinguished over the wind, rain, waves, and thunder.
The speaking trumpet was useless.
Then just before the Algerians could overtake them the pirates sheered off.
Before Massallo’s vessel could do the same or run bump ashore lightning splintered the mast to atoms and left the stump burning. The strike killed two of his best hands and rendered the remaining crew senseless, leaving no one to man the pumps and the ship out of control.
Massallo’s vessel crashed.
All hands were thrown into the roiling sea.
Massallo thought he had drowned only to find himself lying alone on the familiar spot on the beach. Too exhausted to move his head, all the Corsican could see through the rain was the looming cliffline and the Châteaux de Pelfrey upon its precipice.
With his fortune lost Massallo remained in Providence, where, somewhat like Odysseus on Ogygia, he prospered and lived a tolerably happy life. Massallo hoped he would never see another storm like the tempest that brought him here, but he could not help wondering at a man’s ability to adapt himself to unexpected circumstances. Before he wondered very long, he spotted a body thrown up by the breakers, rolled hither and thither, left on the shore by one comber before being withdrawn by another, until a high roller carried the body further ashore and spat it out on the beach.
Massallo retrieved the body and was surprised to find its face covered by a pallid mask. He was even more surprised that the dead man was clutching a metal lockbox with intricate arabesque and a lock with three keyholes. Like most Mediterranean sailors Massallo had heard about such coffers and knew whatever it contained was probably very valuable or important, but he was more curious about the reason for the mask. He attempted to unfasten it but its waterlogged straps refused to be untied, so the fisherman cut them with his whalebone handled knife. Beneath the mask Massallo found the ghastly face of a miserable carcass.
In the same instant a bony hand snared the Corsican’s wrist in a furious grasp.
Massallo winced and dropped his knife.
A shadow fell over him and Massallo screamed.
And then he died.
