Even in a darkened cottage, in the midst of a burned out city, where scavengers roamed, some light was cast. Madam Fortunata recalled the honeyed days of her youth and, as if invoked by the recollection, a young man in a flowing gray coat with long tails came downstairs and took her in his arms. The two of them embraced and reenacted the deeds of a happy past. And when it was done, and the young man had retreated to his post, Fortunata lay long in her rumpled bed, ravished past the edge of desire, hovering on the verge of a dream as a hoarse voice from the shadows called, “Come again.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BUTTOCKRACY
And then it must have been Folly’s turn.
When General Hobsbawm finally came fully awake it seemed as though his prayers had been answered. He was lying in a hospital bed in Port Jay. After the battle had turned against the colonial army his doctors had conveyed him hither in some haste. He’d been recovering from his wounds, for the most part tranquilized by the laudanum his doctors had prescribed, and receiving briefings on the progress of the war. He’d learned that the Indians had been cut to ribands by Colonel Milquetoast’s force, which had arrived on their rear just as the troops under Hobsbawm’s command had been retreating in disarray. Milquetoast had caught the Indians unprepared and unequipped and they had been soundly vanquished. The pincer action which had so pleased Hobsbawm had worked like a charm. He’d written an account of the battle and included it in a report to the King. In order to get it to the King the report had had to be carried by messenger to one of the ships of the line under Colonel Milquetoast’s command, as the docks at Port Jay had not been rebuilt since the great fire.
Colonel Snivel’s force had also recently returned to Port Jay with the gratifying news that the slave mutiny had been put down. It had been a glorious victory. The slaves had been massacred and the resulting fire had only destroyed less than half of the leading plantations. It was starting to appear very much as though things were on their way to getting back to normal.
This morning Snivel was seated next to General Hobsbawm’s bed. The windows were open. Sunlight poured through and a gentle breeze was playing with the coverlets. Snivel was eagerly describing a new project he’d undertaken. He’d decided that the victorious campaign against the slaves should be memorialized in a book, and of course he would be the author. “It would be a real book, you know, with dedications to notable individuals, prefaces, forewords, the works. And of course an index. I love a good index. I might make the index a separate volume.”
“Yes, I’ve seen books such as the one you’re describing.”
“And a frontispiece of course, a picture of me, emblazoned with the Snivel family arms.”
“All you need now is something to put between the forewords and the index and you’ll be all done.”
“Oh, that’s one of the abstruser parts of the book. Gentlemen of wit and discernment generally don’t peruse those passages.”
“. . . How have you ascertained the habits of gentlemen of wit and discernment?”
“By ascertaining my own, of course.”
“It was my understanding that that portion of the work was the one in which the author took the greatest pains, where he sought to display in the best light his learning, judgment, eloquence and wisdom.”
“Which is precisely why those passages are ignored. My word, you show an astounding ignorance of the publishing profession. I’ve even selected an appropriate citation for the title page.” He produced a paper and read, “’Basima eacabasa eanaa irraurista, diarba da caeotaba sobor camelanthi.’ It’s from book one of Irenaeus, chapter eighteen.”
“What does it mean?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know Latin.”
They were interrupted at this point by the unexpected arrival of Colonel Milquetoast and his staff.
“Ah, how convenient,” said Milquetoast. “You are both here.” The members of his staff took up positions blocking the exits.
“Colonel Milquetoast, allow me to congratulate you on a well-executed campaign. I would have come in person to deliver these felicitations, were it not for the grievous wounds I sustained in defense of the realm.”
“Yes, of course.”
“So it is very gracious of you to come here and allow me to praise you face to face.”
“I have come because I opened the report you wrote for our royal monarch.”
“Of course you did. My missives to the King are of a highly secret nature. No doubt they’ve been read by every messenger and sub-adjutant between here and Kashahar.”
“I read it and destroyed it.”
“Then I will have to be at some pains to write another. I wish you hadn’t destroyed the first one.”
“What was in it?” asked Snivel.
“A description of the battle fought against the Indians,” said Hobsbawm.
“Yes,” said Milquetoast, “one which said the Indians received their greatest harm from the Hercules cannons. But this was not the case. It was I who defeated the Indians. So I replaced it with this letter that tells the true story.” He produced the document from the briefcase he held at his side.
“You can’t tell the King the truth. He will never believe it.”
“Very well. I have included some fictions also. I included an account of General Hobsbawm’s death and the battlefield promotion of Colonel – now acting General – Milquetoast.”
“I see.”
“Snivel,” said Milquetoast, producing a pistol from that same briefcase, “you can go along with this and retain your current rank, or else I can retire you as well.”
“You’re not going to murder General Hobsbawm in cold blood are you?” asked Snivel.
“I don’t think of it as murder. I think of it as earning a promotion.” Hobsbawm snorted. “Also seeing that justice is done.”
“Justice? And what is it I’m guilty of?”
“You’re guilty of withholding assistance from an entire city that was burning. You’re guilty of sending Colonel Dunder and the Eighteenth Regiment to their doom. You’re guilty of allowing the Hercules cannons to be destroyed. I’d say that’s enough.”
“This is ridiculous. It was Dunder who led the Eighteenth Regiment to its doom and it was you who allowed the Hercules cannons to be destroyed. I really thought better of you than this. Don’t you see the precedent you’re setting by allowing your staff to witness the execution of your commanding officer? Put that pistol away. You’re not going to use it.”
Milquetoast remained where he was, suddenly indecisive.
“Come on, Milquetoast, we’re soldiers,” said Snivel. “We follow orders. That’s the way to get promoted. Not by shooting your senior officer every time he does something stupid.”
“Yes, having come all this way, now I’m finding I can’t pull the trigger. I actually feel sorry for you somehow.”
“Shooting me was a good idea,” said Hobsbawm. “It’s probably the first idea everyone comes up with around here, and then you all stop trying to think of anything better. It doesn’t take much thought to come up with an underhanded and devious plot. On the other hand, it takes a great deal of thought to come up with something blindingly obvious. So let me spare you the effort of thinking and present you with the perfect solution. I will rewrite the report you so hastily destroyed and bring it in person to the King. I will be feted as a living, breathing hero. Have you any idea how starved the world is for heroes? I’ve managed to put down a slave uprising and an Indian attack while the city was being burned to the ground. I’ve been wounded in the service of my country. I shall be promoted and made the head of all the King’s generals. This will of course leave an opening for you here, Milquetoast. You can take charge of this colonial misery with my blessing.”
“I see,” said Milquetoast putting his gun away. “Your plan does seem to work for all of us.”
So it was done. Colonel Milquetoast returned to his headquarters, accompanied by General Hobsbawm who then departed for the old country o
n a man of war, while Milquetoast got down to the work of restoring order to the Coast. There were still many bands of criminals and vagrants making the roads unsafe, and the task of rebuilding Port Jay had to be taken in hand.
Also there were the pirates of San Luno Bay to be dealt with. Barnacle Jack, once he arrived back at the Seahawk in Kashahar spent some time with Ruby, the second mate, below decks. The two of them emerged, as the Seahawk was sailing to its rendezvous with Crazy Dog, having put together a plan to take the old pirate down a peg or two. It had to be done. This whole venture was turning out to be near a disaster. They’d lost the emerald, as well as most of the booty from the Queen of Bel Harbor. They’d suffered severe losses in their battle with the priests of Slothikay, not to mention the lads that had been murdered by Vincenzo and his accomplices. And now Crazy Dog wanted to sit on some despot’s throne and rule the world? Maybe it was time to head back to San Luno Bay.
Crazy Dog meanwhile was passing the time amusing himself with Blanche, the tavern keeper’s daughter. He told her all the many ways he was going to do her in in between bouts of frenzied lovemaking. He took a great thrill from her terrified eyes as he told her he would hack her to pieces even as he lunged between her legs. The exhilaration he felt during the days spent awaiting Jack’s return was winding him up to undertake something desperate.
When the Seahawk pulled in to the slip near the tavern, Crazy Dog, with Blanche on his arm and a fresh coat of blue on his beard, walked proudly aboard. He was greeted with cheers from his crew and both Barnacle Jack and Ruby snapped salutes and called him Captain. The first thing he did was take Jack and Ruby with him down to his cabin, which he found they already had made use of.
“So, Jack,” said Crazy Dog, “how quickly will you be removing your possessions and these other knickknacks?”
“There’s no hurry,” said Ruby.
“This is the Captain’s cabin. And did I not hear you call me Captain?”
“Well sure, if you’re the Captain, I’d —” Jack began but Crazy Dog cut him off pretty quick.
“If? Did I hear if? If I’m the Captain? This did not used to need an if.”
“I’ll put it plain before you, there’s been naught but hard times and ill use ever since we first saw Cutthroat Bay. This venture has not been a prosperous one, nor has it been properly managed.”
“And are there some think they could have managed it better?”
“Aye, there be some.” There spoke Ruby.
Crazy Dog reached for the knife at his belt. He held it up before the others in the room. “You see this blade. This was the blade did in old Chitty Face when first I took command of this vessel. I slit his throat and then slept in his bed that night, this bed here.” He threw the knife so it stood trembling in the wall, notching a tiny gash in Jack’s cheek on its way thither. “I always said when the time was come I was no longer feared or heeded there’d be one who’d take that knife and do the like to me. Well, there it is. And here,” he stretched his collar down to give them a good look, “is my throat. If the time’s come you think you’ll be better off without me then do it.” He stood there, but no one moved. “There’s no trick. Do it. Blanche, that holds for you as well.”
All three looked at one another, but none went for the knife.
“Alright, you made your point,” said Jack. “We called you Captain and we want you for our Captain. But not like it’s been this bloody summer. Can we not get back to the ways of pillaging and plundering as we did before?”
“You’d not set your sights higher than that?”
“Your grand plans and your higher destinies are all very well for them with the stomach for them, but for me I’m content to skim the cream and murder the merchants. Let’s away from this place and no more trying to steal the reins from history’s hands.”
Crazy Dog laughed. He took his knife from the wall and returned it to his belt. “I knew you wouldn’t do it. None of you have the stomach. You need me. Your lives would be piddling little things were I not in them and well you know it. I promise you a day will come when I’ll murder the three of you, but that day is not this day. So let’s away.” He strode out of the cabin and up the hatch. “I feel the tide has turned. Affairs here are no longer fit for a man of my stature. San Luno’s shifting currents call to me, so let’s set sail for a friendlier shore.”
Sail was let out and the Seahawk went on its way west. And whether they came to San Luno Bay, or whether they sailed across the Ocean and defeated the cannibals and conquered the Isles of Pearls, or whatever other idiocies they got up to, this tale has naught to tell.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
OBSESSION
That night they stayed at the tavern, and Tom did not sleep on the straw in back. He and Katie went to bed together upstairs. Tavish spent the night in a spare room on the ground floor, but sleep did not come near him. He remembered the night before and the kisses they’d shared. He rose from his bed and opened his door, but then went to bed again. Now he knew how sweet she was, and how much sweetness hurt.
There were two windows and he looked out of each, but the views they held left no impression on his mind. It was a lesson he’d learned: one can never have what one wants too much. He saw he’d left the door open, so he rose and closed it.
May, the miller’s daughter, in a room of her own on the ground floor, was in a bit of a turmoil over a lad she’d fancied. When she heard the noises from Tavish’s room she plucked up her courage, and after he’d shut the door there came the littlest knock, he thought he mayn’t have heard it, but was sudden certain Katie had tired of Tom and come to him, so he listened to see if the knock would come again and sure enough he heard it once more.
He opened the door and there stood May in her nightgown with a taper to light her way. He knew at once why she’d come.
“Can you not sleep?” she asked.
He saw her hair was the color of straw. Her cheeks, which had looked white and pasty by day, were gentled over by the taper’s light. He saw her great breasts under her gown. He looked at her face again and her eyes were brown in the candle light and he thought she wanted to smile but wasn’t sure. He wanted to tell her he knew what ailed her and he didn’t want her near because he couldn’t mend it, but what he said was, “I can’t . . . Well don’t just stand there. Sure you’ve made your mind up to disturb me, so come in.”
“I wouldn’t if I was disturbing you.” She came in, and the smile now came with her. “Are you unhappy?” She kicked herself. Why had she said that?
“Sure I’ve made my mind up to be unhappy. I’m as unhappy as I want to be.” He also had no notion why he’d said that. Was it true, he wondered.
“Well, since neither of us is sleeping, there’s no point doing it on our own. We’d do it better if we did it together.”
They stood where they were, looking at one another, trying to discover what would happen next.
“Have you any brothers or sisters? Or is it just you and your father lives here?”
“It’s the two of us. My Ma died, so I look after Da.” Then she added, “There’s a few lads we hire sometimes. One left today . . . Mostly it’s my Da and me.”
He could have held her face and kissed her. Instead he said, “It’s a lot of work for two people.”
“Not if you keep your mind on what’s to be done.” Seeing something in his face, “Shall we sit?” she asked. “I’m getting tired standing.” So they looked about but there wasn’t a chair.
“There’s room on the bed.”
“Are you sure?”
Was he sure of anything? “It’s a comfortable bed,” he said, sitting on it.
“But not one you can sleep in.” She sat next to him. Their hips touched. A feeling of warmth rose and burst like a bubble, but didn’t vanish.
“Not the bed’s fault.” He could smell her scent.
Silence like a secret stretched, till, “Where did you come from?” she asked.
“Port Jay.”
“What made you come so far?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“You must know. Otherwise . . .”
“There was a lady. I thought she needed protection from the troubles on the Road.” He pulled away. Had someone put her up to this? Was this some kind of joke? Oh, wasn’t he that tired of women and their ways.
“Did she need protection?”
“She probably needed protection from me.”
“Why, are you that wicked a man?” She inched closer. He gave her a long look. “. . . I’m sorry if you thought I was calling you wicked. That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” He wanted to put his hands on her. Shame covered him like a wound. He said, “I am that.”
“Oh . . .” There was a pause. “Would you like some wine? I could get some.”
He thought about it. “That would be nice.”
“Ever since my Ma died, my Da has been lonely. It’s done something to him . . . There’s many men are lonely and undesired.” She paused and looked at him.
Tavish wondered if she’d finished. Just then the taper guttered and went out, leaving them stranded in the starlight. They laughed like they’d been caught at something.
“Well, I’ll get that wine.” She rose, but instead of going to the door she looked out a window. “This is one of my favorite rooms. I love this view.”
He got up from the bed and stood next to her. There was a pond and a little hazle-brake. She stood there like she was waiting for something. Unexpectedly he ran his hand quickly down her back. Tentatively. She didn’t move. Then she looked at him. It’s unclear what she saw, but finally she said, “I’ll be right back.” She left, closing the door after herself.
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