Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  NINE

  Given Professor Bourget’s grand age and gout, Jacob took it upon himself to make evening calls at the slave shack over the ensuing weeks. He also accompanied the doctor in his general practice so that he might learn some of the professor’s techniques and remedies. In this way Delpech was able to assist with burns, fractures, dislocations, and other wounds.

  He brought down the child’s fever by giving her barley water and oil of vitriol, as described in his medical book and confirmed by the professor. When she was up and laughing again, he made a point of dropping by no more than a few minutes at a time.

  Elias Verbizier let him do as he pleased. After all, the Huguenot was doing him a favour by saving the girl. If all went well, in nine or ten years’ time, she would be breeding home-grown slaves. A new generation of workforce that would not cost a sou, and would not have memories of Africa to distract them into lassitude and suicide. Moreover, soon the planter would stop importing worthless indentured male whites who had a limited term. Instead, to respect the race quota imposed by Paris, he would buy up white females only and get them to breed with the blacks. If only his old mother back in La Rochelle could see him now, he often thought; she always said he had a head for business. In the space of a generation, he would have a massive plantation and his own workforce of mulattos.

  Jacob busied himself more and more with overseeing the slave workers. He could intervene when the slave drivers—some of whom were black Africans themselves, though of a different tribe—lashed out unnecessarily. And Verbizier again, at first, let him have his way.

  However, after some discussion with Father Jeremy, it became apparent to the planter that this form of soft resistance was healthy neither for the plantation nor for the settlement. He sensed a wind of rebellion could well create havoc among his labour force, for even the indentured workers were beginning to talk back to their overseers.

  So, after numerous warnings and efforts from both planter and clergy, it was decided that Jacob Delpech was beyond redemption. And now that the new mill and the wells were practically finished, he would have to be disposed of.

  But that was easier said than done. Were he a rebellious, run-of-the-mill black slave or an indentured white labourer, it would have been as easy as putting a mad dog out of its misery. Article 38 of the Code Noir clearly endorsed it. Fugitive slaves absent for a month should have their ears cut off and be branded. For another month their hamstring would be cut and they would be branded again. A third time they would be executed. But Jacob Delpech was a Huguenot, and a gentleman.

  Even Monsieur Dumas, the governor’s lieutenant, was at ends with what to do with the shit-stirrer. The man was making everyone uptight.

  ‘I know what to do, Sir,’ said Captain Renfort as he and Father Jeremy deliberated over the matter with the lieutenant governor in his office.

  ‘What is that, Captain?’ said Dumas.

  ‘Execution, Sir. Spaniards do it all the time. Takes away the rotten apple and decontaminates the rest by example.’

  ‘We could have him on a charge of heresy if that’s any help,’ said Father Jeremy, eager to find a solution, it being nearly time for lunch. ‘He has been blatantly divining in full sight of everyone.’

  ‘He was searching for water, Father?’ said Monsieur Dumas.

  ‘Indeed, Sir, but it is still considered as witchery.’

  ‘But you yourself have used one, Father,’ said Captain Renfort.

  Father Jeremy stared indignantly at the blockhead who was not getting the hint, and said, ‘I am only trying to help, Captain!’

  ‘I was thinking we could have him up for unlawfully assembling with that niece of his,’ said Captain Renfort. ‘I have a full report of their heretic movements and actions.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the lieutenant governor, pushing himself back in his mahogany chair, ‘but that would mean burning him at the stake, as well as all those involved. It would stir up feelings.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Father Jeremy, raising an eyebrow slyly at the lieutenant governor, ‘that’s the last thing we want. There are far too many former Protestants here in the Antilles.’

  Removing his hand from his chin, Monsieur Dumas said, ‘I have an idea. Leave it with me.’

  TEN

  Jeanne sat at the sturdy kitchen table, cut out of a single piece of trunk. It stood solidly on trestles, and its edges were bevelled, the corners rounded. It perfectly illustrated the Fleuret family’s abode and their nature, robust and effective, thought Jeanne.

  She was half-turned towards Ginette, who was preparing flageolets in a copper pan at the sink, which was a hollowed-out stone slab with an outlet that channelled water through the stone wall. The fire smouldered and cracked in the deep hearth, and both women were rosy-cheeked, in the little cottage near the sawmill down by the river.

  ‘You’ll be eating with us, Madame Jeanne?’ said Ginette.

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it, what with all your preparations.’

  ‘Preparations? Far as I can see, you’re the one double-threading the buttons!’

  ‘Well, it’s no time to be giving you two extra mouths to feed.’

  ‘Get away with yers. You ought to know by now no one escapes Ginette’s kitchen without breaking bread and a warm bowl of stew inside of ’em! Besides, it’s as much work for five as it is for seven!’

  ‘All right then,’ said Jeanne with a laugh, secretly glad to be with the Fleurets on their last day in Geneva. She had grown fond of going there to spin or to sew while Paul helped at the mill with Pierre. Ginette then changed the subject, as she often did to give vent to her thoughts.

  ‘Do you really think Madame Rouget was a lady’s maid?’ she said, with large eyes.

  ‘If she says so. Why?’

  ‘Well, I think she was more a washerwoman. A lady’s maid is chosen for her finesse, and Madame Rouget’s got forearms like skittles. Haven’t you noticed?’

  Jeanne could only laugh. She would certainly miss their sessions and Ginette’s exuberant talk about the church ladies.

  ‘And what about the pauper?’ said Ginette, pouring the washed flageolets onto a linen cloth.

  ‘The who?’ said Jeanne, already with a smile parting her lips.

  ‘Monsieur Crespin. I call him the pauper ’cause he’s got that scrounger’s look about him.’

  ‘Ginette! You are being unfair. He helps a lot, and he always takes the cloth from me so I don’t have to carry it.’

  ‘Yeah, does the same with my Jeannot, turns up to help just before lunchtime. That’s what they do, you know, paupers, tramps, and profiteers. They make themselves useful just at the right time; then they get a free meal.’

  ‘You are being harsh, Ginette. He used to be a woodworker, a cooper, I believe.’

  ‘Jeannot says he’s plenty resourceful and even useful, but a carpenter he’s not.’

  ‘Neither am I a proper weaver, and you might also say I’ve just turned up for a meal.’

  ‘Get away with you!’

  ‘Anyway, I’m just sorry it might well be our last together,’ said Jeanne. ‘There.’ She placed the coat on a chair with a pile of other over-garments whose buttons she had reinforced. The humble abode with its functional furniture, and its bed alcoves in a bit of a shambles, might not be how Jeanne would have organised it, but it had Ginette’s homeliness and her take-me-as-you-find-me feel about it. Jeanne then took up her own green coat and turned it inside out.

  ‘And you and your boy, Madame Jeanne,’ said Ginette, ‘what are you going to do?’

  Jeanne did not know what she was going to do. Her means to create revenue had been removed when the authorities had told her to sell her loom or risk having it seized. ‘I am all at sea to be honest,’ she said, scrutinising the stitching of the lining of her coat. ‘Wait and hope. That is what I shall do.’

  ‘That green coat of yours, I don’t know how many times I’ve seen you darning it.’

  ‘Strengthening it, Ginette.’

&n
bsp; ‘Whatever. I will never forget the first time I saw it, like a song of hope, and I knew we would be all right. And I am not the only one. So, my dear Madame Delpech, if it don’t bring you hope when it’s been a ray of goodness for so many of us, then I say t’ain’t fair!’

  ‘I shall miss you too!’ said Jeanne, pausing her needlework to look up with a smile.

  ‘I s’pose it isn’t bad at all at the vicar’s, but if you choose otherwise, there’s still time to come along with us.’

  Ginette’s empathetic nature lent itself to confidences, and Jeanne had confided in her about the pastor’s proposition, which he had reiterated. Now that she had lost her loom, he insisted that she take up residence at the vicarage until news came of her husband, especially as she now only had the revenue from spinning. Jeanne knew the pastor’s offer to be honourable and sincere; however, she had so far refused. Otherwise, it would be like giving up on her husband, and by the same token, on her children.

  She said, ‘As much as I would like to, I cannot leave yet.’

  ‘You know,’ said Ginette, ‘you have to let go, my dear lady, let go of your departed child. She is with God now, is she not?’

  Ginette had hit the nail on the head, as she so often did. It was true; Jeanne felt that going a step further than Geneva would be physically removing herself further from her living children left in Montauban, and her dear Louise’s and Anne’s graves.

  Pouring the flageolets into the cauldron of ragout hooked over the fire, Ginette continued, ‘Your children will be with you in spirit and in your heart, whether you are in Geneva or Siberia.’

  ‘God forbid,’ said Jeanne, trying to hide her emotion under a jest, but Ginette was not duped.

  After replacing the lid on the fat pot, she turned around to face Jeanne and said, ‘Distance won’t keep them from your mind. That is how I was able to leave Aigues-Mortes. My dearly departed children are all alive. They are with God, they live in my memories, and they are also here,’ she said, patting the top side of her left bosom.

  ‘Thank you, Ginette,’ said Jeanne, ‘but you have your husband to urge you on. I do not.’

  ‘But I still often feel insecure, and afraid. We know not where we are setting our feet. But whenever the dark thoughts come on, especially at night, I try to force them to one side, because fear is a gnawing demon. It will suck all the puff out of your sails if you let it, till you lose all will to move forward. So, I decided I wouldn’t let it. I decided I’ll always travel with hope in my heart and God as my guide. My dear Jeanne, do we have any other choice?’ she said, suddenly overcome with emotion.

  Jeanne put down her coat to one side, got to her feet, and took her friend in her arms. ‘Are you saying I am weak, Ginette Fleuret?’ said Jeanne with false comedy, to show she was not offended.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Ginette drying her eyes with her pinafore. ‘You are the strongest woman I’ve ever met. You can make a golden cloak out of a cast-off robe, you can make order where there’s chaos, and you are as brave as they come. No, my dear, but allow me to say that you are only human, and you may have felt weak at some stage. But you must keep striving forward in hope. I say only this: live in hapless hope and fall into despair, or help yourself and God will help you.’

  ‘I admit it is not always so easy. At the moment, I know not if my husband is dead or alive.’

  ‘He’s alive and kickin’ in your heart, is he not?’

  Before Jeanne could answer, the door burst open and in walked Pierre and Paul, followed by the pauper carrying a basket of wood cuttings and cones.

  ‘When you talk of the wolf, eh . . .’ said Ginette in a low voice, while Jeanne cast her a look of reproach.

  ‘Good day, Mesdames,’ said the pauper cheerfully and smiled at Jeanne, standing with her green coat still over her arm. ‘Monsieur Fleuret told me to bring these down to the house,’ he continued. He then proceeded to pour his load into the basket at the hearth so that it would not be empty in case they were delayed. ‘Have you heard? There’s news of a ship lost off the shores of Martinique, all but a few lost to the sea, they do say.’

  *

  It was ridiculous, and totally out of character, but Pastor Duvaux had to know. The track lined with tender-leaved trees meandered round, and at last he could see the house near the mill, half-screened by a weeping willow. Paul playing in the distance with Pierre and his sisters, Rose and Aurore, confirmed what the baker’s wife had told him, that she was helping the Fleurets down by the river. As he approached in his black soutane, he suddenly felt conspicuous and foolish, even though the children had not noticed him yet. He checked his step as if he had forgotten something.

  ‘Turn back, you fool,’ he said to himself.

  But if he had been seen en route, how would he explain it if asked at church what he had been doing there? It wasn’t as if he could present himself at another house either; they were few and far between on that side of the river. And the letter he had come to deliver to its addressee had travelled far. There was no reason that the news it carried could not wait another few hours. It now seemed obvious to him that the very act of bringing it so far out of his way made him look desperate. Yet he had to know.

  He had thought up a story, to save face. He was on a visit to the Fleurets to thank them for their support; he had received the letter and thought he would take it along. That was the pretext that had driven his stride this far. But these people were not stupid. Where had he put his common sense? He now admitted freely to himself that he had left it in his heart, for he was in love. And love was now so near. ‘Stupid, stupid, silly old fool!’ he told himself as he realised he could not take another step forward. He was about to turn back when there came a voice from behind.

  ‘Ah, Pastor. What brings you so far this side of the river?’ It was Jeannot Fleuret. He was carrying a pair of snared rabbits slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Monsieur Fleuret, ah, you quite made me jump.’

  ‘Going down to the house, are ye, Pastor? Madame Delpech is there.’

  ‘No. Yes. As a matter of fact, I thought I would call in on yourself and your good wife, to thank you for all your efforts. I rarely get enough time at church what with so much toing and froing, you know.’

  ‘I see, Pastor. Well, that’s jolly nice of you.’

  They began to amble down to the house.

  ‘When are you leaving, Monsieur Fleuret?’

  ‘Tomorrow, weather permitting. And that’s if we can get on the boat.’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid they do get packed. I have asked the syndic to lay on more.’

  ‘Oh, they have, Sir. It’s just what with the mild weather, everyone’s got the same idea, haven’t they? It was bad enough in April. But now, the days are longer and the nights not so cold . . . And everyone wants to get to Brandenburg before the grand elector pops his clogs.’

  ‘Actually, I believe he has.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Fleuret. ‘Are you the bringer of bad news, Pastor?’

  ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t let it worry you. His son is as vehemently against your king as was his father before him.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jeannot, reassured.

  A few minutes later, they were met by the children outside the door. Jeannot opened it and offered the pastor to enter in front of him.

  ‘Oh, Gigi, look who’s come to visit.’

  The two ladies inside had turned the moment the door was pushed open.

  ‘Pastor Duvaux, what a surprise to see you here,’ said Ginette. ‘I expect you’ve come to check on Madame Delpech,’ she continued. She did not keep her tongue in her pocket at all.

  ‘As I was telling your husband, I was on my way here anyway to bid you farewell. Though it is true, the baker’s wife did mention Madame Delpech might be here, I thought . . .’ He paused as it suddenly dawned on him that this was neither the time nor the place.

  Locking her eyes on him, Jeanne said, ‘Pastor, is there something the matter?’

  ‘Goodness gracious, no, not as s
uch. You have received a letter, Madame, that is all.’

  ‘Do you have it?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ he said, bringing out the letter from his pouch. ‘Thoughtless of me. I should have thought you might like to read it alone, in your own time.’

  Jeanne had been waiting for this moment, had been praying for it. ‘You can hand it to me here. We are with friends,’ she said. She knew she might have to face up to a catastrophe. But if catastrophe there was, she would rather know sooner than later—and she would rather be surrounded by friends.

  She took the letter. On focussing her eyes, she instantly saw it was not the hand of her husband. Her heart sank; neither was it the hand of her sister. A stranger’s hand had written this. Was it to notify her of a tragedy? She closed her eyes, then slipped the knife Ginette handed her beneath the Dutch seal.

  Inside the letter, she found another one which made her take her seat on the chair in front of the table. Again she slipped the knife under the seal. It was the seal of Jacob, the one he carried in his writing case. With her hand to her mouth to avoid the show of emotion, she scanned the first words—Cadix, La Marie, Islands, London, when I escape . . . These were the words her eyes stumbled over.

  ‘Seigneur!’ she said, ‘Oh, Lord. It is Jacob. He writes from Saint-Domingue! He is alive!’

  ‘Dear God, hope. There’s hope for you, my dear,’ said Ginette.

  The pastor stood holding his hat, a forlorn smile of defeat on his face. ‘That is good, Madame, but pray,’ he said with feeling, ‘what is the date on the letter?’

  ‘It matters not. All I care is that it is his hand that ran across it. For all I know, he is already on his way to London,’ she said, and took her son in her arms. ‘That is where we must go!’

  ‘But, dear Madame,’ said the pastor gently, ‘look at the date.’

  ‘The twenty-seventh day of February.’

  ‘Is it wise to travel now? I mean, without confirmation.’