Page 40 of Scandalous

The Dutchman had lost weight, but Martín grudgingly admitted the man still looked well in his impeccably tailored garments, a realization that made him want to murder him even more.

He strode from the cabin, not caring whether Graaf kept up or not. “I have several errands,” he flung over his shoulder. “So you’d best reconcile yourself to the fact that this won’t be a pleasure journey.”

“Any time not spent in my cabin will be a pleasure journey, Captain,” Graaf contradicted, breathing heavily as he all but sprinted to keep pace.

“Beauville!” Martín’s bellow drew his first mate’s attention away from the cluster of men awaiting their shore leave assignments.

“Yes, Captain?”

“I’m taking Captain Graaf out of his kennel for a little walk. Give me one of those men to accompany us. I’d hate to find myself suddenly overpowered and thrown into the bay by the good captain.” The men roared, and even the somber Beauville cracked a smile.

Martín left the ship with Graaf and a large, quiet black man known only as Banks. All Martín knew about Banks was that he was an escaped slave. The only reason he knew even that much was because Banks had volunteered the information to Beauville before he’d been hired. Martín didn’t know whom he’d escaped from or how he’d done it, and he didn’t care. As he knew only too well, the last thing an escaped slave enjoyed was questions about his life as another man’s chattel.

The three men made their way through the crush of people who milled between the harbor and the small town.

“What is our first destination, Captain?” The Dutchman’s voice was breathy as he tried to keep pace with Martín’s aggressive stride. Banks kept up the rear, his eyes on the prisoner. Martín was not worried Graaf would try to escape; he’d just wanted to humiliate the man by assigning him a guard as if he were a common prisoner. Graaf seemed unaware of Martín’s intention and looked around with open curiosity, clearly pleased at having gotten off the ship.

“We are going to an optical shop.”

“Are you purchasing something or having something repaired?”

Martín stopped suddenly, and Graaf careened into him. “If you plan on babbling like a woman the entire time, I’ll have Mr. Banks gag you or take you back to the ship.” Martín secretly wished to see the former scenario.

Graaf smiled, as if there were nothing he liked better than being threatened. “My apologies, Captain. I didn’t realize we were engaged in a mission requiring secrecy.”

Martín resumed his journey without comment, more than a little disappointed the Dutchman was proving so difficult to provoke.

The optics shop was in a small building at the very end of the main commercial street. Martín had been coming here for years and had purchased his first sextant from the old Scotsman who owned the shop.

A small, stooped man came out of a back room to greet them as soon as they opened the door. His gnomish face broke into a genuine smile. “Ah, Captain Bouchard, what a pleasure to see you again. It has been too long.” He extended a small, bent hand.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Farquhar. And how is your business?” The old man’s fingers felt like a bundle of dry, fragile twigs, and Martín was glad when he could let go of them.

“Oh, excellent, excellent. You’ve brought friends, I see?” The Scotsman peered up at the spindly Dutchman and hulking black man.

“This is Captain Graaf and Mr. Banks, one of my crew.”

“Welcome, gentlemen. Feel free to look around and ask me any questions.”

A long pause followed as Graaf and Banks stared at Martín.

He sighed, realizing he couldn’t keep the object of his visit a secret. He was also cheered by the fact that the old man was wearing glasses. “I am here to inquire about a pair of spectacles.”

Farquhar nodded. “You have developed a problem seeing things up close?” Martín’s surprise must have shown on his face. “Oh, it is nothing unusual, I assure you. All the greatest men wear them if they are lucky to live so long. Even your Mr. Jefferson wears spectacles,” he added, as if Martín would be comforted by the knowledge that an American slave owner was similarly afflicted with poor vision. Martín let the comment pass, for the moment more interested in the issue of his vision than a disputation on slavery.

“This is a common problem, then?”

“Oh yes. Come with me.”

Martín scowled at Graaf when he made to follow, and the Dutchman held up his hands and turned away to look at a display of spyglasses.

Farquhar led Martín to an ornate glass case at the back of his shop. Inside the case were dozens of pairs of glasses. The old Scotsman opened the cabinet and extracted four pairs from different trays, setting them out on a piece of velvet.

“There are different strengths. You are young, almost too young to need them, but a person never knows. Take me for instance—I have worn spectacles all my life. These I have on were invented by the brilliant Doctor Franklin.” He gestured to his glasses, which had a curious split across the middle. “These are for people who need help seeing both close and far. That is not what you need, I think. Here try these first.” He opened a pair and handed them to Martín, and they proceeded to narrow the choices with a series of simple reading tests.

When Martín saw the vision charts he almost wept with relief. Thank God—or Sarah—he was able to recognize the letters Farquhar set before him. It would have been most embarrassing if he’d had to confess he was unable to read.

After Farquhar had determined which pair best suited him, Martín bought three pairs, hating to think he would ever again not be able to see well enough to read. The old Scotsman was well pleased with the sale and escorted the men to the door while thanking Martín profusely the entire way.