“The Spanish Guarda Costa drove Lemaitre away from Guiana only three days ago, and a day later, the Vengeur was sighted off Trinidad. The Spanish fired upon her once again, but she managed to escape, albeit with damage to her masts and rigging. Trinidad is just a day’s sailing away from Sainte Isabel, for a fast ship. Perhaps more for one in need of repair. But Lemaitre usually lands at night, so he must wait just over the horizon. Then he will come in.”
Bertrand nodded, impressed by the captain’s articulacy. However, he still harbored doubts.
“But,” the priest objected, “why would a cunning bastard like Lemaitre return to his old base of operations? He must know we will be waiting for him!”
The captain nodded at the dark green foliage that lined the trail. The gesture took in the island’s interior, the realm of the outlaws who revered the pirate.
“A couple of dozen boucaniers may try to drive us off, distract us, send us on wild goose chases,” the young man said. “But facts remain facts! The Vengeur is a three-masted barque, and such a substantial vessel needs deep water. There are only two possible harbors for her—the southern cove, or Port Louis itself. He will not brave the guns of the fortress at Port Louis; therefore, to provision his ship, land his wounded, and so forth, he must risk the reef. By moonlight.”
Father Bertrand could not deny the logic of the militia captain’s argument. But it did not make him feel any more sanguine about going up against Lemaitre and his onshore allies in a moonlit battle. Dupont had raised a force of just over a hundred men, all equipped with musket, sword, or pike. There were twenty horsemen, fourscore infantry, plus two small field guns. The priest knew little of military matters, but he wondered how some of the green conscripts around him might fare if they were fired upon in darkness, and simultaneously from both the sea and the land.
“Of course,” the eager captain went on, “we have God on our side, thanks to you! So, no matter how difficult the tussle, we will prevail!”
The captain then picked up his pace and passed along the column, finding a cheerful word for any man who seemed downhearted. Bertrand, feeling that he was about to cry, sniffed and rubbed his eyes. He also sent up a small prayer for the youngster, who had yet to begin shaving and was about to lead half-trained men into battle.
Something brushed what remained of his hair and rattled through the foliage to his left. A dull thud followed it. There was shouting, a ragged volley of musket fire, and he heard Dupont urging all to hasten to the beach. The boucaniers were sniping. The French were shooting back, but had no targets, apart from puffs of smoke in the fading light. Dupont was right—the only logical thing to do was get onto the dunes of the beach and take cover. Otherwise, they would all die on this jungle track and be food for carrion birds.
***
“So far, so boring,” said Joe, breaking off his description. “There’s a ton of stuff here about the actual weapons and tactics, but it’s obviously cut-and-paste paragraphs. Nothing supernatural at all.”
“Yeah, but the weird stuff happens later,” Sara insisted. “And it’s interesting to know that the boucaniers saw Lemaitre as a hero. It goes to show… well, it shows that a bad guy can be admired by some people. Just because somebody does something evil…”
She stopped, appalled, and there was silence for a couple of heartbeats. She had almost blurted out what she knew about Ryan. But if Joe suspected anything, he didn’t show it. Instead, he frowned mildly and returned to reading from the Caribbean folk history site.
“You’ll notice it does mention the priest again,” Sara put in when Joe paused to scroll down. “He’s the hero, isn’t he? I hope he gets out okay.”
“Honey,” Joe pointed out, “all this happened in the seventeenth century. I think it’s safe to say the guy died, no matter how holy he was.”
“You know what I mean!” she said, shoving him. “I want him to survive the battle and maybe get to be a bishop.”
“Okay,” Joe sighed. “I’ll read for another ten minutes, then we need to get back out there.”
***
Bertrand spurred his little mule onward, suddenly feeling an intense concern for the beast’s safety. If she were shot from under him, he would quickly be left behind by the young men now scrambling out of the jungle. The artillerists had already abandoned the heavy bronze cannon and were scuttling away, heads low. There was chaos, more shouting, more shots, then suddenly Bertrand felt the world tilt and thudded painfully onto warm, white sand. His mount had thrown him and galloped away.
“Come on, Father, get into cover!”
The fresh-faced young captain grabbed the priest, dragged him to his feet, and they scrambled over a dune. The sand was garishly lit by the sunset in the west, casting long black shadows along the curved seashore. A ragged line of troops crouched on the seaward side of the dunes, struggling to load their clumsy firearms without standing up. A few shots from the jungle raised spurts of sand here and there, but the range was now too great for accurate fire.
“If they show themselves, we’ll finish them,” shouted Dupont, now hunkered down among a group of marines.
The priest guessed that the governor had intended his words for the snipers as much as for his troops. And they seemed to have the desired effect. No more shots were fired from the landward side. But then a cry went up that sent a chill down Bertrand’s spine.
“Look! The Devil Ship!”
Dozens of heads turned. For a moment, the priest struggled to see anything, the sun was now so low. But then he made out, silhouetted against the bloated solar disc, the outline of masts and sails. It was the Vengeur. He recalled her rakish lines, the way the ship seemed to prowl the waves. Dupont’s sweating, cursing gunners had already turned their small cannon to face outward, toward the reef. The colonel snapped orders and most of the troops, including the priest’s friend, the captain, switched position to face the oncoming pirate.
Bertrand began to pray to the Blessed Virgin, saying his rosary, telling himself that invoking divine power had worked before. Why else had Lemaitre turned his bows away that fateful night? Not because the puny guns of the patrol boat had damaged the Vengeur. No, it was the power of the Good Lord that had driven back a minion of the Evil One.
But the priest could not forget that moment when he had doubted, when he had been utterly convinced that he was about to die, that darkness would prevail. He felt guilt, and fear, and shame. What if his cowardice, his lack of total faith, had left a flaw in the island’s spiritual defense?
“They’re making for the gap in the reef,” shouted a voice Bertrand did not recognize.
He could see the ship turning, sails billowing in the breeze, and a dark flag flying from the mainmast. A ripple of orange flame ran along the side of the pirate vessel, and Bertrand ducked without being told. Cannon-shot whistled overhead. Some of the pirate’s cannonballs thudded into dunes, others crashed through the jungle. The governor’s small field guns roared out in reply, smaller in caliber than the pirate’s ordnance, but deafening thanks to their closeness.
The Vengeur had reached a gap between the island proper and the reef. She was turning, heading into the cove, and showing no sign of slowing or being hampered in any way. The light was poor now, the last sliver of sun barely showing above the horizon. But Bertrand could see doubt on the faces of the soldiers near him, a general muttering of men unsure of what might happen next. Officers cursed and bellowed orders.
“Lemaitre has never been vanquished.”
“Shut up and reload you bastards!”
“That pirate is a devil in his own right.”
“Any man who abandons his post will be shot!”
He began to recite the paternoster, putting as much confidence as he could behind the Latin prayer.
Again, he felt a terrible certainty that he was about to die.
Chapter 8: Twisting Slowly in the Wind
“So, the old priest is just about soiling his cassock while the troops are firing away at the De
vil Ship, to no effect. How will our heroes get out of this one? Plot twist ahoy, I suspect. Kind of hope it’ll be a giant squid but….”
A loud knock at their front door interrupted Joe’s creative re-reading of history. They got up and dressed hastily, then fielded some questions and grouses from Jimmy the foreman. Working together, the Hansens made lunch for their workforce and took it out to the crew, who seemed pleasantly surprised. After that, there were more problems to tackle, more calls to make. Mid-afternoon, Rudy brought his little sister, Hyacinth. She apologized for being late and explained that the only bus on that route had broken down. The young maid then set about tidying up, cleaning, and doing some ironing.
“You got them working, Sara,” Rudy remarked, hands on hips, as he surveyed the site. “Good! Island folk, they can work hard when it’s worth their while. I hear you’re paying over the going rate. That will make you popular.”
Joe grunted and looked unhappy at being reminded how much this was costing. Rudy said his goodbyes and drove away in his customary cloud of dust, wheels spinning. When Joe went to supervise the completion of a sewer line, Sara found an excuse to go indoors and chat with the teenager.
“What do you think about the Devil Ship?” she asked as they folded sheets together. “I mean, do you believe in it?”
Hyacinth shrugged.
“My mama and my aunties all believe,” she said. “Me, I’m not so sure. But you hear stories. Lemaitre, his demon—they are said to take bad people away. That was what my mama always told me and Rudy. She would waggle her finger and say ‘Behave yourself, child, or the Devil Ship will come for you!’”
“And you always behaved yourselves, right?” Sara asked. “Perfect little angels.”
“Of course!” Hyacinth laughed. “We were never naughty!”
“But,” the maid went on, “I do remember when we were little, every full moon, mama would lock the door and pray. Not loud, no, she was quiet, and she only prayed after me and Rudy were in bed. But we could still hear her; we knew what she was doing. Yes, I suppose she took it very seriously, the legend. She believed enough to take precautions. And maybe the fact that it worried our mama, that did make us behave better than we would have done.”
Sara nodded, thinking of Miss Mountjoy and her crucifix. Lots of people had their rituals, safeguards against things that might not exist.
“So, Lemaitre, he takes only the worst people away?” she went on. “I mean, what criteria does he use? Breaking one of the ten commandments? Does being evil in your heart count, or do only deeds matter? Because I’m thinking you won’t have too many war criminals or drug lords hiding out around here.”
Hyacinth shrugged, not that interested in the subject.
“I don’t know, it is something old folk mutter about, but everybody has a different theory, you know? If a man beats his wife, cheats at cards, or steals lobsters from another fisherman’s pots, they say Lemaitre will come for him. Some say there’s less crime on Sainte Isabel because of it. I’m not so sure. I know of plenty of sinning going on, believe me! Especially come Saturday night in Port Louis. But sometimes, when a bad person disappears, they say, ‘Ah, now he is one of the Devil Ship’s crew!’ They said that about Roland le Croix, a boy I went to high school with.”
Sara waited for the story, knowing Hyacinth was pausing for effect. Part of her anticipated a good, spooky tale. But another, perhaps wiser, part of her wanted it to be nonsense, just foolish gossip. She wanted Joe to be right. Hyacinth smiled, put a heap of clean linen in the closet, and resumed her tale.
“He was always in trouble, that Roland—selling ganja, stealing from tourists, cheating at cards. He was a real lowlife. Then, one day, he was just gone. Nobody knew where. But everybody said it was because the previous night had been the full moon, when the Devil Ship sails around the island. Some of the old-timers said they had seen the white sails in the moonlight. Others said they had seen the monkey following Roland, jumping from roof to roof, running along tops of walls.”
Sara felt a slight chill, despite the warmth and brightness of the afternoon. Hyacinth was not in Miss Mountjoy’s league, but the girl could tell a tale.
“And he was never heard from again?” Sara asked.
Hyacinth looked at her impassively.
“He never set foot on Sainte Isabel again. But that’s not so surprising. Turned out, he was in Belize, romancing a rich widow from a place called Des Moines. She nearly married the scoundrel, too, but then the police caught up with him. Last I heard, he was doing two years for fraud in the penitentiary in Trinidad.”
Sara got them both a soda and decided to conduct research into local folklore at the library in the future. Sunset approached, and Joe came in to explain that the workers were keen to get away from the cove before dark.
“Night comes on real fast here in the tropics,” Sara remarked, watching the construction crew piling into their trucks and vans. “But at least they turned up and did a full day’s work. Hell, we even got the sewage lines in. Things are looking up.”
After Rudy had picked up his sister, the Hansens had a pleasant evening meal and drank half a bottle of wine between them. Then Sara insisted that they resume their ‘studies’ and finish the legend of the Devil Ship. Joe suggested they adjourn to bed to get comfortable.
***
“Look! She flounders!”
Bertrand hesitated, but his old eyes could not make out any slowing of the enemy’s progress. He continued to recite the familiar prayer words but then paused again. The Vengeur seemed to slew around, as if some sudden gust of wind had caught the ship and forced it to change course. At the same time, a rumble of thunder boomed above the beach. A cloud, where a moment before no cloud had been, blotted out the red sky above the black ship. Lightning flickered above the masts, then struck down with a sound like ripping cloth.
“The Wrath of God! The Wrath of God!”
A storm arose from nowhere, a wild tempest impossibly confined to barely an acre of ocean. The cry went up all along the beach as the Vengeur seemed to fall apart. Masts and spars fell flaming into the sea while the hull keeled over. Even at a distance of perhaps half of a mile, Bertrand could still hear cries of panic from the pirate crew. There was also a faint rumbling and crashing, punctuated by men screaming, that puzzled him for a moment. Then he realized that the sounds must be down to the pirate’s great bronze cannons breaking loose and rolling down the canted deck.
“Well done, Father!”
The young captain slapped him on the back, and soon all the soldiers nearby were congratulating the priest for his ‘holy miracle’. But Bertrand could only look on as the Vengeur, now sinking and on fire, was driven sideways by the sudden storm onto the reef. There was a sickening crunch as timbers gave way, and within seconds, all semblance of a fine ship was lost. The pirate vessel was a sorry mass of shattered timbers.
“Victory!” cried Dupont, his voice replete with satisfaction. Now, Bertrand realized, this petty nobleman could make his report to the Sun King at Versailles, and tell him one of France’s most redoubtable foes was vanquished.
“Any survivors, give ‘em the bayonet,” shouted the colonel. “Take no prisoners!”
For a moment, Bertrand thought the governor might disagree with the barbaric command. But then Dupont waved a hand dismissively.
“Yes, quite so. Why waste time trying guilty men? Dispatch them all and make it quick.”
A ragged line of troops formed just above the waterline, weapons at the ready. But as the minutes passed and the wreck on the reef was carried off, piecemeal, by the storm, no one made it ashore. Bertrand guessed that the strange squall had done its work so well that not even the best of swimmers could make it through the wind-torn breakers.
“Look! Look, there’s one of the scums!”
The shout went up, and the line of troops moved forward. Bertrand squinted in the half-light, but could only make out a small, dark shape on the surf line.
“It is a child, su
rely!” he whispered in horror, then he raised his voice. “It is a child, sire! Your excellency, your men cannot kill a mere cabin boy!”
Dupont looked over at the priest, seemed to hesitate. But then another cry went up from the soldiers in the surf.
“It’s not a child!”
“Kill it, kill it now!” bellowed the colonel, striding up behind his men, sword in hand. “It’s just a goddamn monkey, you cowards!”
“No,” retorted a voice. “It’s a familiar, a demon!”
“Shut up!” roared the colonel. “No more of that talk! It’s just Lemaitre’s pet, a savage jungle beast. Kill it, you cretins!”
Bertrand jumped at the flash and bang of a musket. But the small, dark shape was already moving fast, bounding up the beach. It hurled itself upward with extraordinary speed and struck a militiaman in the chest, knocking him backward, his gun flying out of his hands. There was a scream, and the tiny figure tore at its victim’s throat. Another soldier stabbed with his bayonet. The soldier on the ground yelled more loudly and the tiny creature darted sideways. There were more shots and lunges, while the colonel yelled orders sprinkled with profanities.
A quick-thinking marine threw his coat over the monkey. Several bayonets plunged into the cloth, and the colonel hacked with his sword. The lump under the coat still moved, but not so vigorously now. The colonel stabbed it through and then lifted it, coat and all, on the end of his cavalry saber. Still, the tiny thing wriggled, chittered, threw the cloth aside, and sought to reach the colonel’s face with its tiny, flailing arms.
“That is no natural beast,” the colonel declared.
“Lemaitre’s familiar!” someone shouted.
The word ‘familiar’ ran around the group, followed by ‘demon’.
Devil Ship: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Devil Ship Series Book 1) Page 11
