Captain Charles Bordeaux was not a patient man. But having commanded the Aile Noire for more than eighteen years, he was by now well-acquainted with the behavioral quirks of ship-owner's sons. And for a wealthy young man accustomed to life amid New England's aristocracy to spend the initial days of his first sea voyage locked away in the passenger cabin was not altogether unusual.

As he navigated his bulky frame down the narrow ship's corridor, Bordeaux reflected that young Barnabas Collins, whose father he had known most of a lifetime, had seemed unusually troubled. Determined that he should learn why, he reached the cabin and tapped on the door just as an overzealous wave threw the Aile Noire sharply to starboard. Yawing in protest, she righted herself again, but Bordeaux had not noticed. The roll and pitch of the deck beneath his feet was as familiar to him as steady earth was to most men.

A voice from within the cabin requested his name.

"Captain Bordeaux," he called. "A word with you, Master Collins?"

The door was pulled inward, then left standing half open as the cabin's occupant walked away from it again. Paying no heed to the infraction of etiquette, Bordeaux pushed past it into the room. His passenger had retreated to a corner, where he now sat on the edge of the cushioned bunk, the youthful face devoid of expression. The cabin itself was stifling, smelling pungently of whale oil and damp wood. Bordeaux, taking liberties, threw open the porthole and admitted an immediate gust of salty air and sea spray. "Come now," he chided. "It is hardly fitting a young man on his first tour of the world should so easily be felled by a twinge of the sickness!"

The simplistic reply surprised him. "I am not ill, Captain."

"Not ill?" The familiarity of Bordeaux's tone came from habit. He had known and worked for the Collins family the better part of three decades. "Well, then, to be honest..." He grew suddenly serious. "Ah. I think I do know your difficulty. And you'll forgive me, but locking yourself away the entire voyage is not likely to cure it."

Anger flashed in Barnabas' eyes. "If you refer to the village gossip that preceded my departure, Captain, you are sorely deluded. There was no truth in it."

Bordeaux raised a restraining hand. "Master Barnabas, you mistake me. Would I listen to village tales? I know the truth of it. But by God's truth, I do mean to be honest with you. I know why Joshua sent you on this voyage."

"Do you?"

Bordeaux settled into a chair beneath the porthole, lacing his chubby fingers in and out between each other. "Master Barnabas, I have known your family since before you and Jeremiah were born. Mind you, I am not displeased to have your company aboard, but in truth, the gossips blamed you for a curse of Jeremiah's, and 'twas he, and not you, would have truly profited from a voyage to sea."

Barnabas' reply was guarded. "I'm not certain what you mean." Bordeaux saw anger welling in the dark eyes. "That is not why my father sent me here!"

"Isn't it?

Fists clenched, Barnabas rose to cross the tiny room. "You're saying he believed the tales about me..."

"No. I'm saying he knows the truth. Joshua Collins is many things, but a fool is not one of them. I believe he chose this solution to protect you, as well as to shield Jeremiah."

Barnabas' face grew dark at this implication, so much so that Bordeaux was certain he was about to receive a healthy dose of Collins wrath. Instead, his young passenger grasped for the cabin door, yanked it open and vanished into the corridor without. In his wake, the Aile Moire groaned, listing starboard. Bordeaux remained seated, staring into his steepled fingers in the shifting light of the cabin lamp.

* * *

The eerie, emerald green of St. Elmo's fire was haunting the ship's proud masts, affording Barnabas Collins a deserted deck when he emerged into the moonlight. He paid the shifting lights no heed, believing as he did that they were no evil omen of restless spirits, but a natural manifestation. More important matters dominated his thoughts as he moved to the railing, where black water raced past Aile Moire's hull, sending sporadic showers of salty spray onto the deck. Only yesterday, he had had no thought that this ship would find him aboard her, bound for the trade route to England, France, Spain, the African Coast, and Martinique.

Yesterday, when he had tired of watching the ship's crew make fast for the night, the son of Collinsport's wealthy patron had retreated into the growing shadows to seek out his newfound pastime -- a clandestine visit to the village tavern and certain of its prettier occupants. Having long ago foolishly cast aside the possibility that he might be recognized, he had been unprepared for the confrontation with two of Collinsport's less reputable citizens. Both drunk, they had intercepted him just outside the Eagle pub, beneath the guttering light of a tilting lamp post.

"Look here," one of them had drawled. "Ain't this 'is lordship Collins' whelp?"

"Aye," the other had wheezed. "Barnabas, 'e's called. Out of 'is element a bit, huh?"

"Hah." The first man had clamped a sweaty hand on Barnabas' shoulder. "What I 'ears, this un's not out of ol' Joshua's mold at all. You 'aven 'eard that, Silas?"

"Mph. I see whut y 'mean."

Both of them lapsed into gin-soaked laughter while the object of their derision glared wordlessly at them, invisibly struggling for some means of escaping the situation with dignity. For the son of Collinsport's aristocratic scion to be found here was embarrasing enough. But for his father to learn of it -- or worse, of his liaisons with the tavern wenches -- was unthinkable.

"Now why would 'e be down 'ere? Whut say you, Sheldon?" Silas poked a bony finger into his companion's ribcage. "After some ale 'n' tail,you think?"

Sheldon snorted. "Not the kind you mean!"

To Barnabas, their gabbling exchange had been senseless. He had brushed the grimy hand from his cloak, tried again to pass, and once more found his pathway blocked by the hulking Sheldon. Snatches of music and laughter floated from the Eagle's nearby door.

"The way I 'ears it," Sheldon breathed, "this Collins likes 'is fish different. Real different. Y'see there are some--"

A new voice cut evenly across his sentence, startling all of them. "Release him."

The newcomer, little older than Barnabas and similarly dressed, stepped into the light, but neither antagonist moved to obey his comrand. Instead, Sheldon's lewd grin widened.

"You see?" he whined. "Where one goes, the other follows!"

Silas' rheumy eyes reflected doubt. "You off yer nut, Shel? You know who this is? Ol' Joshua's younger brother, Jeremiah Collins!"

"Aye, I knows all right." Sheldon's tone was in itself a threat, and the sudden appearance of a dagger in Jeremiah's hand spurred him to a string of slurred obscenities. Silas, obviously unwilling to share in his friend's gin-induced bravado, dismissed the scene with a wave of his skinny arms and scuttled crab-like into the shadows, muttering to himself in disgust.

Sheldon howled a derisive curse after him and grabbed at Barnabas in a clumsy attempt to block Jeremiah's approach. But his intended shield drove the sharp heel of one boot into his shin, evoking a yelp that finally hushed the sounds of merriment inside the crowded tavern. The bulky man shoved Barnabas roughly against a wall, striking out with his doubled fist in a fit of rage that might have killed -- had Jeremiah's dagger not interceded. It had been over before Barnabas had realized what had happened, and before the first of the curious had emerged from the Eagle, they had vanished into the protective darkness of the dockside alleys. Jeremiah hurried him through the narrow passage, oblivious to the dim piles of acrid refuse and other obstructions, until at last they had emerged into a tree-lined path that would lead, ultimately, to the Collins estate.

So plagued with unanswered questions was he that Barnabas had scarcely been conscious of the warm dampness and throbbing pain beneath his left eye. How had Jeremiah known where to find him? Or had the encounter been by chance? If his young uncle was aware of his recent exploits... The thought made him shudder, but was countered by another. Had Jeremiah himself never had one of the tavern women? Would he, Barnabas, have known if it were so? The possibility that Jeremiah, married these three years, might ever engage in such a practice seemed so incredible that he dismissed it.

He had not remembered entering the house, only that Jeremiah's strong hands had guided him to a settee, sat him down, and pressed something hot and damp against his injured eye. It had taken several moments for him to become oriented to the dimly-lit room; to realize that they had come not to Collinwood, but to the parlor of Laura and Jeremiah's cottage on the outskirts of the estate. His question broke a lengthy silence between them. "Why did you bring me here?"

Jeremiah busied himself at the sideboard, pouring brandy from a crystal decanter onto another piece of linen. This he put in place of the hastily applied handkerchief. Barnabas winced at the resulting sting, but persisted in his question. "Mightn't Collinwood have been a safer place to go?"

Jeremiah, his jaw set in a way that reminded Barnabas uncomfortably of his father, looked down at him sternly. "Safer? To let Joshua, Naomi, or God forbid, Abigail see you like this? I thought you might prefer giving your explanations first to me."

Barnabas' expression clouded. "The last time I came into this house, your wife 'requested' that I never return. I don't understand her reason, but until now I have honored the request."

"I will decide who enters my house and who does not." The tone, for Jeremiah, was unusually cold. "Now suppose you tell me what you were doing down there?"

"I might ask my most respectable uncle the same question."

"Don t be flippant, Barnabas. I was looking for you Some painted trollop told me just where to find you, too. And now that I think of it, how she knew probably tells me more than I care to know."

"I am of age to do as I wish."

"Barely At this rate, you may not live far beyond it."

Barnabas tightened, the words having jarred his memory of the last hour's events. "Was he...? That man, was he dead?"

Jeremiah dismissed the question with cold disregard. "Thoroughly."

"Then the other one will--"

"Will say nothing, And if he did, against a Collins, who would listen? Forget him."

A lengthy silence ensued, throuqh which the rhythmic tick of the mantel clock grew loud, and Barnabas became aware of the heavy scent of musk in the plushly furnished room. "Jeremiah," he said at last, "what did they mean? What did they mea to accuse me of? It made no sense."

After several moments, Jeremiah's soft voice answered, 'Considering your reason for being there, I wonder you should wonder."

"I didn't understand them. But you did, didn't you?"

With the expression he had always worn when discomfitted by something, Jeremiah poured himself a brandy, an act which was in itself unusual for him, and stood sipping at it, staring into emptiness. Barnabas watched him, but said nothing more.

How little he had understood Jeremiah of late. They had grown up together, had been closer than brothers, until three years ago, when Jeremiah had come of age, and Joshua had arranged for his betrothal to Laura Stockbridge, the daughter of a wealthy Pennsylvania merchant. It had not been a happy marriage. Jeremiah had gradually become brooding and sullen, and Laura's immediate and unexplained dislike of Barnabas had driven a wedge between their lifelong friendship that no amount of concession on his part had found means to dissolve.

As though his thoughts has summoned her, Laura Stockbridge Collins appeared on the stair, descending in an angry swish of silk skirts, blonde curls limply framing her pale, unattractive face like haphazard petals on a wilted sunflower. Jeremiah moved deliberately into her path, his tone one of pure sarcasm when he spoke. "My dear Laura," he said theatrically, "you are just tn time to greet our guest."

Barnabas, the linen compress still held against his eye, felt suddenly conspicuously foolish under Laura's heated glare. But she directed her words to Jeremiah. "I'll thank you to remove your 'guest'. And if you're drunk again, I'll thank you to remove yourself as well!"

Now empty, the brandy snifter Jeremiah had been holding clanked to the table. "This is my house. I will bring into it whomever I please. And I'll thank you to be civtl to them."

Barnabas forestalled Laura's fiery retort by rising and muttering a hasty farewell. Jeremiah stepped ahead of him to the door "You heard the lady," he said. "She has decided that I am drunk. And I never argue with a lady. Come. I'll take you back to Collinwood." Over Laura s thoroughly non-aristocratic curses, he ushered Barnabas out the door, closing it only seconds before some small but heavy object struck it from within with a resounding clunk.

Together, as they had been in childhood, he and Jeremiah had stolen secretly through passageways beneath the Collins mansion until they reached the back stair that led at last to Barnabas' room. It was filled with the pleasant scent of a newly-kindled fire, prepared as it was in every room of the great house by the servants, and it was from this that Barnabas caught the tip of a straw, touched it to the lamp wick, and chased shadows further into the corners of the richly-draped room. Crystal grated on brass briefly as he replaced the lamp globe. "Will you stay here in the house tonight, Jeremiah?"

His uncle's reply was grim. "Somehow I doubt brother Joshua would approve." The fire crackled, and after several moments, he added, "Barnabas... whatever they should say, don't listen to them."

"Jeremiah, I have no conception what those men were talking about!"

A look of sudden discomfort overcame Jeremiah, and he ran a nervous hand though his shock of dark hair. Just when it seemed he might shed some light on his nephew's bewilderment, however, a muffled sound from the hall drew his attention, and he raised a hand to motion silence as he crossed to the door. When, without warning, he pulled it sharply inward, the plump figure of Abigail Collins nearly fell headlong into the room. Neither young man had time to comment before, with amazing rapidity, she had regained her composure, and ignoring Jeremiah for the moment, turned her pedagogue's gaze on Barnabas. She had seen the bruised eye before he could turn away.

"What in God's Holy Name have you been doing, child?" she railed. "Brawling like a common street beggar! Your dear mother has been worried sick about you. And you come home like... like this! Only an ungrateful, wicked child would-"

"Abigail," Jeremiah interceded softly. "Barnabas is not a child. And you are not his keeper."

Suspicion crept across Abigail's puffy face. "I might have known he would seek _you_ out. I should have seen the danger -- kept you apart!"

Jeremiah bridled. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

His outburst had been a mistake, for Abigail never missed such an opportunity to pounce. "Do you think," she piped, "that I don't know what goes on in this house?! You will both be condemned to the fires of Hell for so vile a sin! The Lord will--"

"Aunt Abigail, please." Barnabas' plea came as much from agonized curiosity as it did a desire to halt her tirade. But Abigal ignored him. She stabbed a fat, white finger at Jeremiah in recrimination. "I am shocked, Jeremiah... shocked at the very thought of such abominations, here in this house! My own nephew, and now my own brother!"

"Abigail..."

"Is it any wonder the village runs rampant with evil gossip about this family? The things you--"

"Abigail, stop it!" Jeremiah looked for a moment as though he might strike her, but the unspoken threat did nothing to dissuade her.

"You have read the Word, Jeremiah," she rattled on. "Romans 1 verses 26 and 27! How can you deny that you're committing a sin in the eyes of Almighty God?!"

Jeremiah had given up and turned his back on her to exit. Undaunted by the insult, however, Abigail had followed him out, her shrill voice fading after him into the crisp night air of the hall.

Something she'd said had remained with Barnabas just long enough to prompt his search of the corner book shelf for a little-used volume. There, he had finally begun to unravel the night's series of strange accusations...

When he'd descended the stairs some time later, Aunt Abigail was no longer in evidence, a blessing he did not take time to note, for something more important had made seeking out his father imperative.

Joshua and Jeremiah had apparently been deep in conversation when the study doors were flung back and Barnabas strode with a determination born of fury into the leather-scented room. The head of the Collins household never had time to ask how his son had come by the angry red welt beneath one eye. The open pages of a Bible, rudely shoved before him, commanded his attention instead, and he sputtered in indignation at the intrusion. "Barnabas! What on earth is the meaning of this?"

"Read it, Father. Read it and tell me you weren't aware of this... this gutter-bred village gossip!"

Joshua's anger drained from him visibly, was replaced by the detachment Barnabas knew so well. He closed the book without reading and said calmly, "Close the door, Barnabas. And sit down."

Perplexed, Barnabas had stood his ground a moment longer. He had tried to look at Jeremiah, but the other had avoided his gaze. So he had closed the door and taken a chair, feeling rather like a little child about to be reproached for some minor transgression.

Joshua, ceremonious as always, had cleared his throat before speaking. "I am unhappily familiar," he intoned, "with the gossip to which you refer."

"Then kindly tell me that you, unlike Aunt Abigail, were not willing to believe it."

Joshua's tone hardened. "What I believe or disbelieve is of no consequence here. What is of consequence is that the reputation of the Collins family be upheld -- at any cost. That is precisely why I have taken steps to see that these... rumors... are dispelled."

A knot of discomfort began forming in the pit of Barnabas' stomach. "Steps, Father?"

"Nothing that I should not have done long ago." Joshua cast a glance at Jeremiah, who remained stonily silent in the corner. "It is my firm belief that every young man to come of age, if he has not yet chosen to marry, should travel, see the world, broaden his horizons, as it were."

The statement had a sword stroke finality about it that made Barnabas word his reply with care. "Father, I know we discussed my going abroad next year. But what has that to do with...?" He trailed off, puzzled and only beginning to see his father's intention.

Joshua clarified it for him with terms that left no room whatsoever for argument. "The Aile Noire will set sail tomorrow, bound for the trade route and ultimately Martinique. I have an acquaintance there, a Msr. DuPres, whose young daughter is in need of a tutor. I have volunteered your services. Cpt. Bordeaux has already booked your passage. And I will expect that while you are away, the village tongues will find other subjects about which to wag." His raised hand forestalled any objection. "There will be no discussion. The matter is decided. Your mother is waiting in her room to say her farewells. I suggest you go to her now."

Barnabas tried once more, in desperation, to look to Jeremiah for support, and once again found none. Why would Jeremiah not look at him? And why had he worn that look, so pained and drawn? There had been so many unanswered questions.

He recalled very little of his departure from the study, or the evening's tearful session with his mother. He remembered only that something had compelled him to see Jeremiah once more, to try to learn why Abiqail's twisted lies could affect him so adversely. And so he had left the house again that night, retracing their earlier steps in reverse until he reached the cottage. He saw Jeremiah's lone figure on the porch as he approached, a silhouette in the moonlight, leaning on the porch rail. When Barnabas spoke his name, the reaction was as though someone had fired a pistol shot.

"Barnabas! Why did you come here?"

"Jeremiah, I have to speak with you."

"Go home. There is nothing more to be said."

"Jeremiah--"

"Go home!" His uncle wrenched open the door and disappeared through it, leaving his nephew to ponder this odd reaction. Moments later, his determination rekindled, Barnabas defied family taboo for the second time in one night, and followed Jeremiah into the house.

The darkened foyer of the cottage was deserted, but light fell across the floor from the half-open door of the parlor, and as he approached he could hear voices from inside.

"You're making a fool of me!" Laura Collins' words were slurred together. Through the doorway he could see her now, swaying drunkenly, a half-empty glass in her hand "I won't allow that," she went on. "No more Do you understand? I won't have it anymore!"

Jeremiah's gentle voice countered hers. "Go to bed, Laura."

"Go to bed, Laura!" she mimicked him. "So true. Laura goes to bed a'right. Alone. This night. Every night! And do you know why she perpetrates this little mockery? Because her so-called 'husband' is-"

Jeremiah's broad hand closed over her mouth at that point. "That's enough!" he breathed. "Enough. Do you hear?!"

Derision tainted her laugh as she wriggled free of his grasp. "You poor, deluded ass! Do you think I'll keep quiet forever? Watching you struggle to keep Joshua believing a lie? He thinks Barnabas was to blame, doesn't he? They all do." She scoffed. "You're not only less than a man, you're a coward, as well. Would you like me to explain the whole sordid matter to your handsome, devoted young nephew? Do you suppose he would be flattered? Or repelled?"

Jeremiah sounded as though there were no anger left in him. "You shan't have the opportunity," he said bitterly. "Barnabas will sail for England in the morning."

Her renewed laughter said that no revelation could possibly have pleased Laura more. Barnabas had fled the cottage then, his mind struggling to accept what he had heard and yet insistent on rejecting it as impossible. How long had he walked the dark wooded lanes of the estate, arguing again and again with himself that Jeremiah, his beloved uncle and lifetime friend could not possibly be prey to the abominations in Abigail's book? And if Laura's words were also true, then the man who had been like a brother to him all these years had also made a pawn of him, using his ignorance as a shield, allowing the village -- and Joshua -- to believe the worst of him, perhaps even planting those lies to begin with. That thought had evoked a malignant rage in him that had mingled with a sickened feeling he could not cast off, and for the first time in many years the youngest son of the Collins family had been driven to the point of bitter, tear-choked frustration.

Dawn had been ready to break over the black water beyond Widow's Hill when he had first seen the oddly-quivering light reflecting skyward from the direction of Jeremiah's cottage. By the time he had reached it, the yard had been aswarm with activity; men shouting and running, buckets of water drawn in a futile attempt to douse the flaming cottage. But it had been to no avail.

The muddle of events that followed would probably remain ever so to him. Laura Stockbridge Collins was dead. And Jeremiah, at first feared lost as well, had been found wandering the grounds nearby, dazed and incomprehensible. Barnabas had only conjecture as to what might have occurred between Jeremiah and his wife after he had left the cottage. Had his uncle finally given way to the insane desire to destroy the one thing that he must have hated most in all the world? Had burning the house been no more than a ruse to hide the act that had at long last silenced Laura Collins' acid tongue? Or could Jeremiah's careless anger simply have precipitated her death in the fire -- an accident? He would most likely never know the answers. And if his father knew them, it was certain they would be carefully concealed from the world. To protect the Collins name would, as always, remain paramount.

And in spite of everything, Joshua's decision to send him abroad had stood firm. "Your remaining here would serve no purpose," he had said. "There is absolutely nothing you could do, You will sail today, as we agreed." The words echoed in his mind now as clearly as the roar of the sea before him, and slowly, he becarie aware of another presence on the deck; that of Cpt. Bordeaux.

"I came to offer my apologies!" He had to shout above the wind. "I never meant to offend. But I am a direct man, sir."

Barnabas, his hair and clothing wet with sea spray, did not look at him. "No apology is necessary, Captain." He paused, never taking his eyes from the water. "You were right about Jeremiah. But not about my father. Even if he had known what Jeremiah was, he would never have admitted it, even to himself. What he sought to protect was neither Jeremiah nor myself, but the Collins' name."

Bordeaux grunted. "A son seems a high price to pay for family honor."

"My father would not agree with you. For him, the Collins name means everything. He would uphold it, no matter what the cost. And so I am sent away, and the Collins name -- and by consequence, Jeremiah -- are safe once again."

The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon of churning water. Bordeaux put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Master Barnabas, what say you we forget all that for a time? After all, a voyage on this ship's not exactly a slaver-run, you know. And Martinique..." Barnabas gave him a curious look, but Bordeaux pressed cheerily on. "Let me tell you. I have seen this DuPres' daughter Josette." His brows rose and fell in bushy unison with his hands, a wordless description of euphoria.

Barnabas almost smiled. "Indeed? You shall have to tell me more about her."

Bordeaux grinned. "A pleasure, sir. Say, over a glass of port?" His pudgy hand was extended aft in invitation, and nodding acquiescence, Barnabas followed it.

They had vanished from the deck before the first crest of the sun's disc broke over the water. High above, a remnant of green flame teased the tip of the highest mast, chortled, and winked out.
 

The End