O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [111]
“I’ll not have you wait. You are too fine a man to take this. In due course, you will come to hate me, and my reputation will be skewered.”
When he realized the full impact of her rejection, his hurt turned to anger.
He suddenly poked out his chin and balled up his fists. “Well, Amanda, it appears you’re well on your way to becoming a Marine’s whore.”
• 35 •
NOR’EASTER
Early December—1891
The decision to make a December run to Immigrant Reef smoked with challenge. At best, it was audacious. In the end, Horace Kerr won begrudging admiration for sheer bravado.
Halfway through the 390-mile course, Lochinvar III was sideswiped by a nor’easter and thereafter assumed a hero’s role in getting home.
Malcolm navigated brilliantly, sensing the heavy air and direction of the roiling seas, and darted the boat away from the monster’s anger.
The Chesapeake crew, used to finer weather, worked the pressure off the mainmast to keep it from snapping, managed to switch mainsails, and kept a split rudder intact.
It was Horace Kerr at the helm, bullying the bully storm, growling at enemy whitecaps. The man and the moment converged, and Lochinvar III limped home to whatever bells, whistles, cannons, and foghorns remained in Newport.
The deck was a tangle of snapped stays, ripped sails, and rigging lines, yet not a man had been lost or badly injured. They got down the gangplank on their own two feet. Was it brilliant seamanship, hand of the gods, or shithouse luck that had brought them through? Some of each. Horace Kerr would certainly convert the incident into a fate that served notice at the New York Yacht Club.
An upscale bed, board, and brothel had been rented for the crew to go cattin’ in the satin and drink from a bottomless well of booze. Damages would be paid, immediately.
Horace had a handsome bonus that he kept in the company safe for his lads until after their party. No one was quite sure what they were celebrating.
The Butterfly? Didn’t work. In simple terms, the movement of the undercurrents flowed through the tabs, relaying information to the sails faster than the balance ball could react. When the storm blew full fury, the balance ball tilted the hull in stuttering misdirection until the system was locked down. The goddamn engineers at Dutchman’s Hook were in for a long winter.
On the other hand, some of the responses from the keel gave encouragement for further experimentation.
Daisy was on the dock, having returned from Baltimore. Horace looked his wife over with a yummy grin that had been missing for some time. A small reward.
Horace, Donald, and Malcolm returned to Tobermory re-invented as brothers.
The Turk was on hand to steam them on hot rocks, lay them out like three slabs of beef, and knead them into a state of stupor. Horace’s early lust was spent by the hot rocks. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was snoring.
When he came awake, Dr. Quincy was holding his hand and taking his pulse. “Have you seen my brothers?”
“Yes, my partner is attending to them.”
“How are they?”
“Lumps. Up we sit. Take off the nightshirt. Let’s have a listen.”
“My old gal Lochinvar was a real warrior. What do we call them, Amazons, Brunhilds . . . ?”
“Damned fools. She’ll run no more match races.”
“Then we shall send her to Valhalla properly. Chrissake, Quincy, don’t poke my ribs.”
The lacerations, knots, and bruises were acceptable, given the fierceness of the ride. His right eye was encased in purple.
“Little beefsteak on that eye. Might want to tape you up later—”
“The devil!”
Daisy tiptoed in and expressed relief with the results of the examination. Nothing broken, nothing badly torn, the usual medications.
“I’ll look in on you again in a few hours,” Dr. Quincy said in departing. “You are very lucky.”
“It’s called seamanship,” Horace shouted after him. “Daisy, get me out of this goddamned deathbed.”
She helped him to his office and to a comfortable easy chair. He uncapped a decanter and babbled about