Chapter 11
Three days later, Elizabeth pressed against the bow of the Mary Catherine as the Portuguese coast emerged from the morning fog. Beside her, her father adjusted his spectacles repeatedly, his excitement palpable.
The crew worked with urgent efficiency behind them. Measurements were called out. The boatswain shouted orders. Bare feet thundered across the deck as sailors adjusted the sails and rigging. “All hands! Prepare to make port! Signal the harbormaster! Mind the channel markers!”
As the ship drew closer to shore, the first assault on her senses was the smell. It had changed from the clean salt air to which they had grown accustomed to a richer, more complex scent. Wood smoke drifted across the water, mingled with unfamiliar spices and the earthy scent of a working harbor.
“By Jove,” her father murmured, adjusting his spectacles. “It is more robust than I had imagined.”
Elizabeth laughed, her excitement overriding any concerns about the aromatic assault. “Oh, Papa, but look at it. It is so wonderfully alive.”
The harbor bustled with activity. Fishing boats darted between larger merchant vessels like water beetles, their triangular sails bright against the blue-green water.
Portuguese fishermen called to each other in brisk, musical voices, incomprehensible but urgent.
Church bells clanged from multiple directions in a cascade of bronze notes that tumbled down from the terraced city above.
Seagulls wheeled and cried overhead, diving for scraps thrown from fishing boats.
Underneath it all was the constant sound of dockworkers shouting instructions, merchants haggling, and children playing along the waterfront.
“Ready to port!” came a sailor’s call, and Elizabeth felt the ship’s motion change as they slowed. “Strike the colors! Raise the courtesy flag! Drop the lead line!”
As they drew closer to the quay, Elizabeth could make out individual figures on the dock.
Stevedores in rough clothing stood ready to handle cargo, their skin weathered by sun and sea air.
Women in colorful shawls moved among the workers, some carrying baskets and others conducting their own business.
“Look there, Lizzy.” Her father pointed toward the large buildings at one end of the harbor. “Those must be the famous port wine warehouses Gardiner mentioned.”
She followed his gaze to the long, low structures that lined the waterfront, their roofs gleaming in the morning sun. Wrought-iron balconies punctuated white walls. Everything was topped with distinctive red tiles that gave the city its warm, welcoming appearance.
The Mary Catherine was approached by small boats carrying harbor officials, whose animated conversations with Captain Morrison carried across the water―rapid Portuguese punctuated by occasional English phrases and much gesticulating.
“All stop! Dock ahead!”
A thrill ran through Elizabeth as the smaller boats pushed the ship to the dock. They had arrived on the Douro River, the city’s main port. “Our first taste of the wider world beyond England’s shores. I can hardly believe we are truly here.”
“Portugal, Lizzy. Where Prince Henry the Navigator launched his expeditions to unknown lands.” Her father smiled at his daughter’s enthusiasm, though she noticed that he gripped the rail as the ship rocked in the harbor swells.
Elizabeth breathed deeply.
“Miss Bennet.” Tommy appeared at her elbow. “Cap’n says we be goin’ ashore within the hour. G-O. Go. Mrs. Bell sez she’ll be comin’ too. Are ye ready for Porto?”
Elizabeth turned to him. “More ready than I have ever been for anything in my life, Tommy. H-E-R-E. Here. We are here!”
The moment Elizabeth’s feet touched the cobblestones of Porto’s quay, the solid ground beneath her seemed to sway as if it were still the deck of the Mary Catherine. She took an embarrassingly unsteady step sideways before leaning against a wooden post.
“Papa, what is happening?” she exclaimed, laughing despite her mortification. “The earth appears to be moving.”
Beside her, her father was experiencing his own difficulties with Portugal’s terra firma.
He took two careful steps forward, swayed alarmingly to the left, and then overcorrected so dramatically to the right that he nearly collided with a stack of wine barrels.
“My dear,” he said with characteristic dry humor.
“I have discovered why sailors develop such distinctive gaits. The ground refuses to behave the way I expect.”
Prudence and Tommy, who disembarked with the easy grace of those accustomed to transitions between ship and shore, observed their struggles with good-natured amusement.
“Do not fret.” Prudence reached for Elizabeth’s elbow as she took another wavering step.
“In no time at all, you will have your land legs properly sorted. Though I must warn you, when we return to the ship this evening, the deck will be equally challenging until you regain your sea legs.”
Tommy grinned at their unsteady progress. “Aye, miss. Ye’ll be walkin’ like proper sailors ’afore ye know it. Takes a bit o’ practice, like everything else.”
Elizabeth took her father’s arm, and together they attempted what should have been a simple walk along the waterfront. They weaved and swayed with each step. The absurd situation had her laughing heartily. “Papa, we look like a pair of drunken sailors, do we not?”
“We do. Though actual drunken sailors might manage better coordination than the two of us.”
Prudence guided them toward a small row of shops tucked between the larger warehouses.
Their storefronts were adorned with hanging signs that creaked and swayed in the harbor breeze.
“This is where the finest Portuguese exports are sold. Port wine, of course, but also beautiful textiles, pottery, and spices from the colonies.”
The proprietor of the first establishment, a small, elderly man with kind eyes, greeted them with enthusiasm. “Bom dia! Bem-vindos ao Porto!”
Prudence spoke in careful Portuguese before switching to English. “Good morning. These travelers wish to purchase some of your finest port wine.”
Her father examined a wide selection, his unsteady gait forgotten in his appreciation of the labels and vintages.
After much consideration and fervent discussion with the shopkeeper, he selected two bottles of exceptional quality.
“For special occasions,” he explained. “And perhaps as a gift for those at home who are worrying about our safety.”
Elizabeth had tucked into her reticule a beautifully crafted sewing set obtained specifically for trading. Prudence examined it with an expert eye before entering into spirited negotiations with a woman selling exquisite lacework.
“Senhora, this is trabalho muito fino, very fine work,” the woman exclaimed, running her fingers over the silver thimble and delicate scissors. In exchange, Elizabeth acquired six lengths of intricate Portuguese lace and a small pouch of aromatic spices.
“I can hardly believe our good fortune,” Elizabeth told her friend as they completed their purchases. “These are treasures I could never have found in London―certainly not at such reasonable prices.”
“The advantage of trading directly with the makers,” Prudence replied with satisfaction. “No London middlemen to inflate the cost.”
As the afternoon sun climbed higher, she led them to a clean, modest establishment advertising itself as a casa de banhos. “A bathing house,” she explained. “After days at sea, we will find a proper wash most refreshing.”
Tommy approached, his arms full of their travel-stained clothing. He deposited the laundry with the proprietress and then looked genuinely puzzled as Elizabeth and Prudence discussed arrangements for hot water and soap.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” he said to Elizabeth. “Why go to all this trouble? The clothes an’ you’ll jes’ get dirty again.”
Elizabeth smiled at his practical perspective. “You must understand that ladies and gentlemen prefer to smell as fresh as possible, even when traveling. It is simply one of our peculiarities.”
Tommy scratched his head, unconvinced.
“This is the way of boys,” Prudence added. “A little dirt never hurt anyone at your age. When you are older and begin to notice young ladies, you may find yourself more concerned with such matters.”
The suggestion caused Tommy’s cheeks to redden, and he quickly excused himself to oversee the laundry.
Later, a washed and refreshed Elizabeth stood with her father at the harbor’s edge as the sunset painted the water in brilliant oranges and purples. The buildings glowed like a description from a fairy tale as the sound of distant modinha music drifted down from the city’s winding streets.
“What a remarkable first day,” she said, happy that she no longer swayed as much when she walked. “It is wonderful how much one can experience when one simply says ‘yes’.”
Her father clutched his precious bottles of port, also looking more stable on his feet. He nodded with deep satisfaction. “My dear Lizzy, I believe this journey will prove to be the finest education either of us has ever received.”
Elizabeth could never remember sleeping as soundly as she did while moored at the dock.
The Mary Catherine rocked with each incoming ripple of water.
Nevertheless, she woke early, ready for the day.
The evening before, Captain Morrison had informed them they would be in port until Monday, giving them two full days of exploration.
She intended to make the most of every minute.
She had not realized Prudence would be such an accomplished guide. Her new friend possessed an intimate knowledge of Porto. “I see you remembered to bring along your journal, Miss Bennet. I believe you will be happy to have it with you today.”