“Just a moment, please, my dear Mr. Wakefield,” said Osgood, the natural diplomat. “This man did
“Let us consider why he would do that, what opportunity that might afford him,” Wakefield mused, squaring the lower part of his face by placing one finger on each curve of his dusty-colored mustache.
Herman swatted his hand at Wakefield's head, knocking his hat high into the air. The breeze took the hat right down to Rebecca, who caught it.
“Search this man,” ordered the captain, a hairy, square-shaped man who had joined in the circle. He pointed at Herman, and the stewards seized him. They pulled out a watch and a calfskin pocket-book from Herman's tunic pocket.
“Are these yours, sir?” the captain asked Osgood.
“They are,” Osgood admitted with dismay.
“I will knock your damned guts out, and yours, too!” Herman growled to Osgood and then Wakefield.
“Threats will do nothing,” said Wakefield, though his hands trembled as he straightened the pin in his cravat. He accepted his hat back from Rebecca, bowing courteously again as a means of suppressing his trembling.
Two stewards rapidly wrestled Herman into submission and secured the thief. Most of the women covered their faces with their handkerchiefs or cried out, but Rebecca, standing next to Osgood, kept watching him in a mesmerized stare. Herman looked across at Osgood. “You louse! I'll feed your legs to the sharks, mark that!”
The voice was grating and deep, a baritone that made one wish one had never heard it.
“Go to the devil, villain!” He turned to a steward standing near him. “Take him below deck! The police in London will know how to deal with him.”
THE SHIP'S SURGEON concluded that Osgood's injuries were superficial. The captain offered him a special tour of the ship, including the brig, where Osgood was surprised to see an array of strong cells befitting a battleship.
“The construction of all the major English liners are subsidized by the Royal Navy, you see. In return they are built so they can be converted into warships,” the captain explained. “Cannons, prison cells, and what-you- will.”
Herman, slouched on the floor in the corner of one cell, praying to the red-hot furnace outside the cell, glanced up at his visitors, then looked back at the furnace. To the evident satisfaction of the captain, the man appeared worn out. Yet Herman retained a slippery grin of the strangest type, as though everyone else aboard were in prison, and he was the one completely free. His feet were bound together by a chain, and his wrist chained to the wall, and rats ran back and forth over his legs. His turban had been removed and his head was shaved clean, except for coarse patches of hair at the temples. Osgood found-from fear or humility-that he could not look into the eye of his assailant.
As Osgood and the captain climbed up the stairs again, the prisoner began singing a children's rhyme.
Then there was a sound, like a rat squealing.
THE DAYS AFTER THE attack saw Osgood feted at the captain's table at supper and given a hero's greeting every time he met his fellow passengers. Coming onto the deck for a morning walk now attracted a procession of the single women. Rebecca would sit on her deck chair and watch this grudgingly from under her hat.
Her roommate, Christie, sat down next to her. “What a picture of romance Mr. Osgood is!” She smiled at Rebecca, leaning in. “He is more admired now than ever!”
Rebecca did her best to appear occupied by the book in her lap. “I find nothing to smile about. He might have been hurt,” she said.
“Well, then just what is your idea of romance? Perhaps you haven't one, miss.”
Rebecca kept her eyes on her book and tried to ignore her. But, contrary to her own determination, she spoke. “Till the judgment that yourself arise, you live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.”
Christie listened to the verse from the Shakespeare sonnet, then said, “Beg pardon?”
“Romance is not an idea, Christie, but a moment. An unspoken glance when someone looks into your eyes and knows exactly who you are, what you need.”
The other girl sat up with a mischievous energy. “Well, ain't that nice! Let us get a gentleman's opinion on the same question.”
“What?” said Rebecca, taken aback.
She turned her head and saw to her horror that Osgood was standing behind the chairs. She wondered with a slight shiver how long he had been there.
“Now, Mr. Osgood,” said the loquacious Christie, “how does a real Boston gentleman like yourself define real romance?”
“Well,” Osgood said, blushing, “self-sacrifice for one's beloved, I suppose I'd say.”
“How very endearing!” replied Christie. “You mean such sentiment on behalf of the man, I guess, Mr. Osgood? Oh, it is much more charming. Don't you think, Miss Rebecca? Oh, how dreadfully you look, dear girl.”
Rebecca stood up and straightened her dress. “The ship is shaky this morning,” she said.
“I'll walk you to your cabin, Miss Sand.” Osgood offered his arm with concern.
“Thank you, but I'll find my way, Mr. Osgood. I wanted to visit the ship library.”
Rebecca left Osgood standing, while Christie continued to gaze at him, tossing her hair. “Miss didn't need to have such a conniption fit, did she, Mr. Osgood?” Osgood gave her an awkward nod before hurrying away.
“You have become more popular with the ladies than the captain himself!” Wakefield said later as he and Osgood shared cigars in the main saloon.
“I shall fall on my head tomorrow again then,” Osgood said. His companion seeming alarmed at this proposal, Osgood recited to himself his rule not to try jokes.
“Well, I suspect with a young lady as you have singing second in your duet, the feminine attention should not turn your head too much.”
The publisher raised his eyebrows, “You mean Miss Sand?”
“Do you have another beautiful girl in your trunk?” Wakefield laughed. “I apologize, Mr. Osgood. Am I wrong to presume you have designs on the young woman? Do not tell me: she comes from another class of society than you, she is just a career woman, and so on. I am a philosophical person, as you'll learn, my American friend. It is my conviction that we make ourselves who we want to be and not chain ourselves to the notions of busybodies who wish to judge us. Neglect your friends and family, neglect your dress, go to the devil generally, but do not neglect love! Do not lose that siren to the next Tom or Dick who is not as cautious and proper!”
Osgood had a rare feeling in his throat: he was at a loss to respond appropriately. “Miss Sand is an excellent bookkeeper, Mr. Wakefield. There is not another person in the firm whom I would trust as I do her.”
Wakefield nodded thoughtfully. He had a habit of caressing his own knee-sometimes kneading, sometimes tapping to an unheard but thoughtful rhythm. “My father used to say that I
“To place trust in your confidence, Mr. Wakefield, she is a divorcee only in the last several years. By the laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, she may not have romantic ties for another full year, or her divorce grant will be revoked and she will lose privileges for future marriage.” Osgood paused. “I say this to point out that she is a most sensible person, by character and by necessity. She does not fancy excitement for its sake like many girls.”
After his time in the saloon, Osgood was surprised to notice Rebecca standing on deck looking out at the ocean.
“Is something wrong, Miss Sand?” Osgood asked, approaching her.
“Yes,” she said, turning to him with a forceful nod. “I think so, Mr. Osgood. If you were a pickpocket on a ship, would you not wait until the end of the voyage to steal?”
“What?” Osgood asked, unprepared for the subject.
“Otherwise,” Rebecca went on confidently, “yes, otherwise when someone reports the theft to the captain, the criminal would be trapped with the stolen goods.”
