The Emerald Key - By Christopher Dinsdale Page 0,62
opportunity. Are you Mohawk, too, Hawkeye?”
“Iroquois yes, but not Mohawk. I’m Oneida. My tribe is from the southern shore of Lake Ontario.”
Jamie squinted and moved closer. “Say, what’s that around your neck?”
Hawkeye held out his chain for Jamie to see. Jamie’s eyes widened as he recognized the pendant hanging from the chain as a finely carved Celtic cross. “That’s a beautiful Celtic cross you’ve got there. Where did you get it?”
“Actually, my grandfather gave it to me. He says it’s been in the family for generations. There’s a story attached to the cross, and he said he’ll get around to telling me about it, someday.”
“I bet there is,” said Jamie, surprised at its similarity to the legendary St. Patrick cross he had seen in illustrations back home.
“Well, I better get back to work before the boss here sees that I’m slacking off.”
“Too late,” growled Big John as Hawkeye disappeared from the wheelhouse. “So you still want me to drop you off in Prescott? What could possibly be in that small town for you and fourteen Irish orphans?”
“I hope you understand, but it’s better you don’t know.”
Big John grinned. “A task that is too secretive to share with your good old buddy Big John? I really don’t gossip … much.”
“Trust me,” said Jamie, seriously. “It’s better for everyone this way.”
As the men stood in silence, a piercing cry carried through the open door and into the wheelhouse. Jamie stuck his head outside and shielded his eyes from the midday sun.
“I thought I recognized that call,” muttered Jamie. “He’s following us.”
“Who is?” asked Big John.
“There’s a falcon up there, following the boat.”
“So?”
“A Wendat friend told me not long ago that a falcon would help show me the way. With our flying friend leading us forward, I’m starting to feel a little better about the crazy plan I’m hatching.”
Denny Ferguson strolled along the dock of the Prescott Shipbuilding Company whistling a tune he had heard at the county fair earlier that afternoon. It was too bad he couldn’t have spent the evening at the fair as well. His wife’s gooseberry pie was up for tonight’s judging, and he hoped she would win the contest for the second year in a row. Another blue ribbon would look fine on the mantelpiece, and he could once again crow to all his friends that after work he was lucky enough to have a beautiful wife and the best desserts in the county waiting for him at home.
The setting sun was shimmering scarlet on the river, and the colour reminded him of gooseberries, just like the ones in that slice of pie in his lunch pail back at the gatehouse. She had slipped it into his dinner before he’d headed off to work. She gave him a kiss at the door and said the slice would bring her luck at the fair. Although his mouth was watering at the thought of his treat, he decided that he could resist temptation until the sun went down. Until then, he had better finish his patrol.
He walked along the shipbuilding company’s long dock and examined once again the three moored ships. The smallest and furthest from shore was the high-bowed fishing boat Daytripper. The boss was doing a friend a favour and had repaired its hull in dry dock after the boat had run aground on a shoal near Brockville. The second ship was the Mary Jane, a Great Lakes cargo carrier that had been brought to them by the York Shipping Company. They were willing to pay Prescott Shipbuilding a handsome sum to convert her from sail to steamship. She was next in line to use the company’s dry dock.
The nearest boat was the pride and joy of the Prescott Shipping Company: the Carpathia II. Built and designed right here in Prescott, her sleek silhouette shimmered in the twilight sky. Freshly painted twin smokestacks rose up from behind its streamlined superstructure. Between the smokestacks, two imposing walking arms were poised and ready to pump power from brand new steam engines into the two massive paddlewheels that were mounted on either side of the ship. The pilothouse rose up like a proud forehead above its graceful wooden bow. Lines of portholes marked the comfortable berths that would soon carry passengers for the owner, the Western Star Shipping Line.
Denny strolled up to the new ship and rubbed his hand along the side of her spotless white hull. Everything was quiet, as it always was at this time in the evening. He