Gaston nodded, his eyes still on the heavens. “Someone will solve that matter,” he murmured.
“So what did that planet look like?” I asked Pete.
“LikeALittle OrangeBallWithLines. AgnesAn’Rucker SayTheLittleDots AboutItWereMoons. LookedLike MoreStarsTaMe.”
“That would be Jupiter. If they cross the disk of the planet they are moons,” Gaston said.
I still sat holding his hands and marveling that the reddish dot could be resolved into a ball with lines. “What color are the lines? And which way did they run?”
Pete was delighted to tell me, and thus we spent several hours discussing the things they had seen with the telescope and the other lenses Agnes had received. Pete was apparently now quite convinced all water should be boiled. In addition to viewing the things only a lens could see in water, Agnes had taken to examining all manner of things, and Gaston became quite distracted from his troubles while questioning Pete on what had been observed.
When at last Gaston and I curled together to sleep, he seemed relaxed and much more himself. I rubbed his back and wondered how we would keep him in this state.
In the darkest hours before dawn, Bella proved her loyalty – or perhaps that of the Gods – by beginning to give birth. Gaston happily immersed himself in ministering to Bella’s needs as best he could – not that she needed much, as she was a dog and well versed at this activity. Nothing else existed for him. I thought even I was a phantom at the edge of his memory. When at last Bella had finished delivering six blind and mewling pups the size of my two fists held together, I crawled to her and kissed her nose in thanks.
The following morning, Gaston and Pete took great care and delight in fashioning a sling so one of them could carry the pups once we arrived in port.
“I suppose they can stay in the stable,” Striker said as he watched them from the tiller.
“Stable?” I asked. “You have horses in town?”
He shook his head quickly. “Nay, it is more a shed. There is talk of buying a jackass or pony for a small cart, and to help with the water wheel.”
At this, Gaston looked up from his work to regard Striker as quizzically as I.
Striker sighed and smiled. “Sarah had Fletcher come to town and construct a water wheel and buckets and troughs to lift water to a high cistern.” He held up a hand to stave off the obvious question. “It’s for the bathing room. I’ve not been to Bath, but Rucker claims he has, and that it is a thing similar to what the Romans had. Apparently they were as fond of bathing as the two of you. So there’s a room with a great raised tub and tile all about. It can be filled from a pipe from the cistern that sits well above it, and heated by coals in a tray underneath, and emptied with a spigot.”
Gaston and I exchanged a look of happy surprise and grinned like thieves.
“Sarah felt you would be pleased,” Striker said with a grin of his own. “It’s nice. Pete and I’ve made use of it, and Agnes and Rucker – though I felt he did it more to see what it was like than out of need or enjoyment – but alas, Sarah was too big with child by the time it was completed to get over the edge, and the midwife said bathing isn’t healthy for a pregnant woman anyway.”
Striker looked to Gaston for confirmation of that, and my matelot shrugged.
“I would think it would be a poor thing to do in dirty water,” Gaston said thoughtfully. “But perhaps the midwife knows a thing I do not. My knowledge of the anatomy of women is lacking. I have never dissected one.”
Theodore and I grimaced.
“TheyGotThe SameOrgans?” Pete asked.
Gaston snorted disparagingly, but awarded Pete an indulgent smile. “Aye, they are much the same as men in all respects save their sex, and that is the part I know little of. For instance, I do not know if they have muscles within their sex to keep themselves closed, such as a man’s anus possesses.”
Theodore colored a little at this, and Striker grimaced in thought.
I sighed. “They have muscles in their sex. A woman can close up around a man if she chooses, not like an arse can, but similarly. Whether it could keep water from entering her, I do not know.”
“Truly?” Striker asked with interest. “Is it a thing they just do, or must they learn it?”
“I feel all of them have the ability, but the skill of pleasing a man with it is rather a thing they must be taught.” Then I realized we discussed my sister. “So there is a bathing room, what other wonders does this house possess?”
Striker frowned at the change of topic, but Pete chuckled and Theodore appeared relieved. Gaston was frowning much as Striker was, but I thought his furrowed brow was on the matter of women and their sex and not specifically his sexual fulfillment, or my sister.
“It is a dwelling like no other in Port Royal, of that you can be assured,” Theodore said.
“Aye,” Striker said with a shrug. “It’s much like Doucette’s house on Tortuga. The whole of it’s like a big horseshoe, with a courtyard in the center. The rooms downstairs all open into the yard. The sleeping rooms upstairs all open onto a balcony that looks down upon the yard. There are lots of windows upstairs for the breeze. Downstairs we kept the outer windows small. More secure that way. I didn’t want windows a man could feel he could just climb in opening onto the alley or the street.”
“That is wonderful,” I said as I pictured it. “Was there much problem with the construction? I imagine the carpenters and brick masons were unfamiliar with the design.”
Theodore snorted and sighed. “Oh aye, but your sister was quite stubborn on the matter, and when they found that Striker supported her on it and that she was willing to pay a little extra, it was built readily enough. She has established quite the name for herself, though. Mistress Theodore says she is talked about nearly as much as your wife.”
I shrugged, and was pleased to see Striker express the same nonchalance on the matter.
“Rucker will be the first to tell you that meek women are recorded in the annals of history even less than meek men,” I said.
“That is all very fine if one wishes to be remarked on in the pages of history,” Theodore said with a smile.
“Having one’s deeds recounted is the mark of a great man,” I teased.
“Aye,” Striker intoned. “Or the mark of a great pissing idiot.”
I laughed. “Aye, men remember the great and the stupid with equal alacrity. Average men are the only ones spared.”
“Well, pardon me for striving to be an average man,” Theodore said.
“Well,” I said. “Since many men strive to be great and fail, and then are renowned as fools, you are probably noteworthy for not engaging in the quest at all. I, for one, will say that I feel you have failed in the endeavor, though. I feel you are a great man.”
“As long as you keep your opinion quiet, I will still succeed,” Theodore said with a smile. “Because Lord knows, men take heed at your utterances.”
“I wonder who that makes the fool of,” I said.
My mood dimmed as I thought of all the times I had heard of other men thinking me a fool: most notably Cork, the man who led us to Porto Bello to rescue his matelot. He had thought me a lucky fool who accomplished what no one else could because I did not know I should not attempt it.
“You are not a fool,” Gaston said quietly in French.
I looked up with surprise that my shift in emotion had been so transparent. I found our friends were still amused by the string of jests, only my matelot had seen enough to gaze at me with concern and regard. I was heartened in that. It meant that he was no longer suffering such from his madness that he could not pay heed to his surroundings; and that only he, who knew me so very well, could see through the mask I wished to show the world.
I went to sit beside him as Striker told a tale of some great pissing idiot he had known. I did not ask Gaston how he was: his kiss upon my cheek and the regard in his eyes spoke more than words. So I took his hand and we sat and listened to stories and the water beneath t
he hull and the mewling of puppies.
When we at last came in sight of Port Royal on the evening of the third day, Striker remarked how good it was to be home. I looked at the orderly rows of buildings crammed together on the cay at the end of the peninsula and tried to recall how it had appeared when first I arrived here two and a half years ago. There had surely been fewer buildings. I remembered standing on the deck of the King’s Hope with Dickey, Harry, Tom, and Belfry, and wondering about this new town I was to call home. But I had never called it home. Thinking on it, and counting on my fingers, I judged that in all the months I spent in the West Indies, and on Jamaica herself, I had spent far less than a month of days in Port Royal. They had been days filled with turmoil and momentous decisions and actions, to be sure; but still, only about twenty days. I wondered how long I would be in the damn place this time. And once again, the stage was set for all manner of drama. All things considered, I doubted I would ever be willing to live in Port Royal: despite it being the place I met Gaston, most of my memories of the place were poor. It represented civilization and my father, things I wished to avoid.
There were no ships anchored about the cays and passage into the bay, but a number of masts could be seen near and beyond Port Royal’s proper wharfs on the north side of town.
“What ship did the Marquis arrive on?” I asked as we entered the passage.
“A proper French merchantman, two hundred tons, sixteen guns. She’s anchored yonder,” Striker said, and gestured toward the bay. “The merchants were happy to see her, though she sold most of her cargo on Tortuga. When she leaves she’ll be full of goods.”
“So they stopped at Tortuga first?” I queried Theodore. “Did they make mention of Doucette?”
He shook his head and frowned, as if Striker’s information were new to him.
I wondered if the Marquis had seen Doucette, or what was left of him. After corresponding with the man for ten years and sending him money for his son’s upkeep, I thought it likely Gaston’s father would want to meet him. And even if he had not spoken to Doucette, it was likely he had inquired as to what occurred to change the arrangement.
I glanced at Gaston: he was napping next to Bella, with the puppies between them. I thought I should wake him so he could prepare himself before we landed, but I also wished to allow him the peaceful bliss of slumber for as long as I could.
I was able to give him little time, as the winds were brisk and Striker soon had us maneuvering around two buccaneer sloops in the Chocolata Hole: the small shallow bay tucked into the western edge of the cay. It was crowded with men, with several small vessels upon the wide beach, canoes darting here and there, and clumps of buccaneers haggling with merchants or simply sitting about passing bottles. Men with whom we had sailed before called out greeting, and Striker was teased by one of the sloop’s captains about missing his ship.
I shook Gaston gently as we approached the beach, leaving Pete to admonish Striker about not running us up onto it until the puppies could be situated so as not to alarm Bella when our craft listed.
“We have arrived,” I whispered.
Gaston’s face, initially happy to greet me, fell, and he took a long steadying breath.
“You have puppies to tend,” I added.
He awarded me a knowing smile; and I kissed his cheek.
“It is good we brought the dogs,” he whispered.
“Oui, oui, else I would have had to wound myself to see you so distracted,” I said.
He grinned. “Though I would appreciate the sentiment, I would be quite vexed with you. You have a propensity for harming yourself as it is.”
“Well, I will view it only as an option of last resort,” I said with mock somberness.
Pete, in a moment of wisdom or charity, agreed to allow Gaston to carry the precious puppies, and they took great care in arranging them in the sling under Bella’s anxious gaze. Only when they were secure did we push the boat ashore. While Pete and Striker secured our craft, Theodore and I gathered weapons and bags, and Gaston reassured Bella with calm words and kept Taro from running off to sniff this or that. Soon we had apportioned the weapons and baggage and begun to wend our way through the buccaneers, merchants, carts, and piles of cargo on our way to Lime Street.
A man stepped in front of us as we neared the street. He was stout, with wide shoulders and burly arms, and it was muscle and not fat that prevented his tight coat from closing. I studied his square face and small eyes and decided I had not met him before. Then I noticed he was eyeing Gaston intently.
“Excuse me,” I said, and dropped my hand to the pommel of a pistol.
The stout man had no interest in me. “He is the one,” he said in French. Then he addressed Gaston. “Gabriel, you are to come with us.”
Pete hit the stout man with an uppercut that rocked the man back on his heels. Time seemed to still for a moment as we waited for the man to fall back. He did not. With a great defiance of the hold the Earth should have had upon him, he stayed upright and snapped forward, head lowered to glower up at Pete.
“YaNa’BeSpeakin’ Ta’ImThatWay,” Pete growled.
Though I was sure the language was lost upon the stout man, even if he had understood Pete’s pronunciation, Pete’s intent was not.
“Get them!” the stout man roared in French and lunged at Pete.
I sensed movement around us. It was too late for the stout man, though; I had already pulled my piece and fired.
My left hand was holding Gaston’s medicine chest. My matelot’s right hand was likewise occupied, and his left arm cradled the sling with the puppies across his chest. In the precious first moments of the battle, we essentially only had one free arm between us – thankfully it was my right. I pulled a second pistol. A man clutched at me, attempting to prevent me from bringing the pistol up. I saw something other than sand at the end of the barrel. I pulled the trigger. The man yowled and fell away. I pivoted so the chest and Gaston were behind me, and drew my rapier, but by then, it was over.
We stood in a circle of cursing, or quite still, prone men. Around that, there was a great circle of buccaneers with weapons aimed at the men on the ground. There was still a cacophony, much of which seemed to be the growling of dogs and Pete yelling at them.
I made a more careful perusal. Gaston was well, though he had no weapon drawn. He still held only the puppies and the medicine chest. He awarded me a taut smile. I grinned in return. Striker and Pete had thankfully not been laden with a medicine chest, or puppies. They had accounted for four of our seven assailants. Not all of those men appeared to be dead. I had shot two: the stout man was dead, and the other, the one who had clutched at my arm, was rolling about and yowling with blood gushing from his right thigh. Bella and her mate had seen to the seventh, and it appeared Pete’s intervention was the only reason that bleeding man was yet able to crawl slowly backwards toward the legs of the men with pistols pointed at him.
“These Frenchies been standin’ about lookin’ fur someone fur near a week now,” a man was telling Striker. “We been wunderin’ what they be about.”
I did not see Theodore. Gaston swore and began to set the chest down. I followed his lead and turned enough to see Theodore collapsed on the sand behind us.
Gaston quickly had his fingers at Theodore’s throat, and then relieved at what he found there, felt down our friend’s body, searching for injury. My heart pounded painfully as I dropped to kneel beside him. I sighed with relief when my matelot did.
“He has fainted,” Gaston said quietly.
I chuckled.
Above me, Striker was swearing. “Jesus! How bad is he?”
I waved him off. “He is…” I thought it would be difficult for men to ever forget Theodore swooned. “He must have taken a clout on the head. He is not wounded, though.”
Gaston and I pulled Theodore upright to lean against the chest as Striker and the others discussed what to do with our surviving assailants. There were apparently members of the militia pre
sent, and it was decided that the men should be taken to the gaol until the matter could be sorted through. I heard Gaston’s name mentioned once. I thought it likely we had a long day of explanations ahead of us. I hoped I could spare Gaston most, if not all, of it.
Theodore came around quickly when Gaston put salts under his nose. He sputtered for a moment and patted his body with alarm.
“You are well,” I said lightly.
Gaston gave me an admonishing look to say that he would be the judge of that.
“Do you feel well?” he asked Theodore. “Is there pain?”
“Only my pride I feel,” Theodore whispered. “Did I… swoon?”
We nodded.
“I told all you took a blow to the head,” I said kindly.
He appeared greatly relieved. “Are we…? Are they…?” He looked about.
“Dead or wounded,” I assured him. “We are all well. The survivors are being taken to the gaol. I would imagine the dead will be too.”
Gaston was frowning at the man I had shot in the leg.
Behind me, one of the wounded was protesting in French as men hauled him to his feet. “But he is French.”
“We know ya be French!” one of the men holding him upright yelled in English.
I stood. “Nay, he is saying that my matelot is French, which is wrong. He is an English citizen now.”
The men from the militia, not all of whom were buccaneers, turned to regard me.
“Is that Lord Marsdale?” their leader asked Striker, who nodded and shrugged.
“Would you know what this is about, my Lord?” the militia man asked me.
I sighed. “Aye, I feel I do, but I do not wish to discuss it here.”
There was a great deal of grumbling in the crowd around us.
I addressed them. “It concerns my matelot, who is an English citizen now.”
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