Bald Head Island: Chapter 8
My Dear Cousin Chauncey,
As always, a letter from you brightens my day. I was pleased to learn that you took my unsolicited advice to heart, and that the repairs to Good Providence, your father’s estate, are proceeding successfully. I am further pleased that dear little Cousin Marie is enjoying the gift you procured for her.
Yesterday I noticed that Montague, who nowadays insists that I call him Andy, had taken a hiatus from the perpetual whacking at balls with which he misspends his waking hours. Taking care not to be spotted I followed him at a safe distance. He was headed for the harbor, where he purchased a ticket for the ferry bound for South Port. Being restricted to stay within the confines of the island this was a disappointment to me, as I would be unable to observe him and his doings.
An ocelot, undoubtedly bound for the Promenade, caught my attention, snarling and growling in a small cage sitting among other goods that had arrived from the mainland that morning. As I had given up my pursuit of Montague – he will never be Andy to me! - I stopped to study the elegant feline. While I was doing so I was approach by a boy wearing a sailor’s blue uniform. He recognized me and, like everyone else, was well aware of the strict curbs imposed on my license. He suggested that if I felt inclined to visit South Port for the day he would smuggle me onto the ferry for a small fee, an offer I readily accepted.
The short journey across the water was quite comfortable, since the boy and, as it would turn out, the skipper had prepared an old bourbon barrel for the purpose. Apart from the pleasant odor of Kentucky’s gift to humankind the barrel contained a comfortable cushion, a electrified light, and had ample ventilation thanks to a fan sucking fresh air through a cleverly disguised opening. The considerate mariners had even provided a flask of brandy to stave off seasickness. Indeed, I could have spent all day in that barrel without many complaints.
Once safely on the docks of South Port I could not see Montague anywhere. I assumed he must have disembarked before I was unloaded and continued on to wherever he was headed. As it would be a shame not to enjoy my first taste of freedom in many weeks, I decided to explore.
As every other port the harbor and surrounding quarters housed a bounty of establishments for the recreation of sea-wary sailors. I quickly found a gambling hall that fit my taste, one with suitably high stakes and low skills, where I in short order managed to increase my modest wealth rather considerably until the atmosphere turned such that I decided it was best to leave.
With ample time left on my hands I considered it a pity not to sample what else South Port had on offer. I was trying to decide between a dark skinned beauty waving to me from a window and a buxom, blond Valkyrie working hard to entice me from a window across the street when I saw Montague stepping out from a bar, where judging by his gait he’d put a few shots under his vest.
I followed him from a safe distance as he entered a narrow alley of the kind one rarely enters after dark. He stopped outside a green-painted door and knocked. After a while a woman appeared, whom I immediately recognized as the mother of the poor child that had become the alligator’s victim. Without ceremony he handed her a heavy purse, and she promptly shut the door.
Montague returned to the ferry station and bought a ticket for the next departure for the island. Since there was plenty of time left before the last evening ferry would depart I decided to retrace my steps back to the street where I had seen the two competing beauties. Instead of acting like Buridan’s donkey, I suggested to the two sirens that the three of us spend the afternoon together, and to my utter delight they found my plan agreeable.
Waiting to be poured back into my barrel, I remain yours etc. etc. etc.
Charles B. Beauregard