Fire and Ice

by Hart, Catherine

  “He had her built according to his specifications, yes,” she answered hesitantly.

  “Well, he sure knew what he was about. I’ll say that. This frigate handles beautifully. I’ve never sailed one better. Her lines, her craftsmanship, and her response are all magnificent. She’s one of the best on the seas, Kat. A ship to be proud of.”

  “Papa would agree with you I’m sure,” she said noncommittally.

  Two weeks later, nearly two-thirds of the way to Grande Terre, everything was going smoothly—too smoothly.

  They had good trade winds; smooth sailing. Although they’d had some days of choppy seas and rainstorms, there were no dramatic storms of consequence. They were making good headway.

  Then the wind stopped. The sails slackened and the ship rocked to a standstill. All eyes turned upward to the lagging sails. All on board held their breath, hoping they were mistaken. Silence permeated the ship. Reed glanced quickly in Venley’s direction a quarter mile to their starboard. The Seafire was in the same fix.

  Kathleen had been wandering about the quarterdeck for some afternoon exercise. She caught Reed’s eye immediately and gained no comfort in what she found there. They had encountered a calm, one of the most dreaded phenomena of the sea.

  A low buzz of voices started near the bow and worked its way to the sterncastle. Reed stepped to the rail of the bridge. “Men!” His voice boomed across the frigate. “You all must realize we’ve hit a calm. Some of you have experienced this before, and some have not. There is no need for panic. We do, however, need to plan and be prepared. We have no idea how long this will last, perhaps not long, at least we all hope not. In the meantime, I am cutting all water rations in half. Use it for drinking purposes only. Your life and that of your mate may depend on it. Anyone caught taking more than his share or attempting to steal water from the barrels will be hanged on the yardarm at the first offense. There is no room for leniency under these circumstances. Obey orders, try to stay cool, do not overexert yourself or tax your strength. Stay calm and we will all be better off.

  “Tempers may grow short, so all weapons except short knives will be collected today, to be reissued when we are again underway. Try to find quiet, easy ways to occupy yourselves, and if you know how, pray.”

  Reed turned from the men to the quartermaster and boatswain. “See that awnings are constructed today extending from the forecastle and sterncastle. They will provide some respite from the sun. We are far enough south now that we’ll bake, even in the shade. Also, select a few trustworthy men to see to the water rationing and guarding of the barrels. And be sure to collect those weapons right away. We have enough problems without a mutiny, though God knows how they would sail anyway. If I die, I do not want it to be at the hand of some madman slitting my gullet.”

  The first day went fairly well. Everyone was anxious over the situation, but carried on pretending normalcy. The evening cooled things off nicely. The second day was slightly worse. On the third day, some of the men were starting to grumble irritably. The sun was a blazing white ball in the cloudless sky, and the glare off the clear water pierced their eyes. The heat was stifling; the dead air suffocating, searing the lungs and drying the mouth.

  There were no attempts to steal water. All feared the captain too much. By the fifth day, Kathleen was hard put not to tear her hair out at some of the gruesome tales the men were telling of calms they had heard of. Horrifying stories of ships found foundering with nothing but the skeletal or half-decomposed remains of the crew. There were appalling accounts of cannibalism, all too vivid descriptions of deaths, mutinies, and suicides, narratives of how one ship could be stuck in a calm while other ships passed her, too far away to hear a cry for help or helpless to do so for fear of also becoming becalmed.

  On this day, Reed ordered that any livestock that died or was killed be served up cooked on the rare side so as to preserve as much of its juices as possible and provide more fluid and nourishment to the crew. He also cut water rations again.

  The seventh day again dawned clear and bright, offering no relief. The men now lay around listlessly, too tired and thirsty to talk; too irritable to play checkers or cards, or to whittle. Too depressed to do anything but pray for wind, clouds, and rain. That evening Reed suggested to Kathleen that she bring her guitar on deck and play for the crew, to distract them from their agony.

  Kathleen started out strumming soft and low until men started milling about, gathering in groups to sit and listen. Once she had their attention, she played a few lively Irish ditties and even managed to pick out Yankee Doodle after one sailor hummed the tune for her. Some of the crew managed to sing along hoarsely through swollen lips. As her final number, Kathleen had saved something special she had learned at school from her Spanish roommate— the fandango. She began strumming softly, slowly and gradually increasing the tempo. Clear, sweet tones issued miraculously from her parched throat, blending in perfection with the vibrant chords of her guitar. Her audience beheld her spellbound, as her fingers flew over the strings, building ever faster, louder, to a crashing crescendo and sudden silence. The men were quiet, almost reverently so, for quite a few seconds. Then they began to disperse, sauntering away to sleep, or think, or reflect on their lives; their turbulent spirits soothed somewhat by the music they had shared.

  Kathleen felt drained. She lay her instrument aside and walked to the rail, peering at the still water beneath. She drew in her breath and let it out slowly. Bit by bit, she slipped into her unique reverie with the sea. Inwardly, almost unaware, she begged the sea to hear her plea and move her waters; create waves where there were none now; to communicate in nature’s way with the wind and urge the filling of the sails once more. Tears flowed down her cheeks from swimming emerald eyes as she recalled her love for the sea. Tremors swept her body and huge sobs shook her as her emotions surfaced and broke.

  Reed had again noticed her queer behavior and stood nearby, observing her carefully. He knew her tears, were not from fear alone, but from the strange rapport she shared with the gods and goddesses of the deep. He imagined her imploring them for help. “Daughter of Neptune, if you can’t make them listen, nobody can,” he decided thoughtfully.

  Late that night as Kathleen slept dreamlessly, the sky clouded over. A slight breeze ruffled the sails. Steadily it built, waking Reed from his fitful slumbers. He raced on deck, throwing his muscular arms wide to receive the wind. “Bless you, Kat,” he breathed inwardly. “Somehow I feel you are largely responsible for this saving grace. I don’t know how for sure, but thank you, love.”

  Chapter 5

  THANKS to Reed’s prudent measures and Kathleen’s private petition, the two ships sailed into Barataria Bay on the last few drops of their water supply. They dropped anchor in the bay and were rowed ashore to be greeted by a curious throng. Reed pulled Kathleen close to his side, sheltering her from the pushing crowd. Over the tops of heads, he scanned the faces, finding the one he searched for. His features split in a wide grin, exposing his white teeth, startling against his deeply tanned skin.

  “Jean, my friend!” he shouted, dragging Kathleen forward.

  When he stopped, Kathleen was surprised at her first impression of the famed privateer, Jean Lafitte. Before her stood an immaculately groomed man approximately Reed’s age. He was slim, about three inches shorter than her husband, but he seemed taller than he was because of his proud bearing, his dignified air. He was light complected beneath a slight tan, with curly chestnut hair and lively hazel eyes. He sported a spotless white shirt, with dark trousers neatly tucked into shining black boots. His facial features were those of a born aristocrat. Altogether, he presented a handsome picture of an elegant gentleman.

  He took Reed’s outstretched hand, embracing him in a brotherly show of affection. “I was beginning to think something had happened to you, Reed.”

  “Something did.” Turning toward Kathleen, Reed added, “Kat, this is my good friend Jean Lafitte. Jean, meet my very Irish wife, Kathleen. We wer
e married seven weeks ago.”

  Surprise registered momentarily in the hazel eyes, to be instantly replaced by warmth and open admiration as he studied Kathleen. Reaching for her slim hand, he pressed it to his lips, his eyes steadily on hers. “Welcome to Grande Terre, Kathleen. May I call you that since you are the wife of one of my closest friends?”

  “Of course, Monsieur Lafitte.”

  “Jean,” he corrected. “Come. Let us go to the house where we can share refreshments and conversation in comfort. It is uncommonly hot for the middle of June.” He threw his arm across Reed’s broad shoulders and they walked toward Lafitte’s house, Reed still clasping Kathleen’s small waist.

  Grande Terre was a long, thin island; one of two blocking the entrance to Barataria Bay. The shoals around it were tricky to navigate, and only those familiar with them or an exceptionally skilled captain dared enter there. A fort had been erected on the southwestern tip, bordering the Gulf of Mexico, making an advantageous observation post. Men were constantly on alert for approaching vessels.

  Jean’s home sat some distance from the fort, set apart from the other houses. It overlooked the Gulf, but was set high enough so that he also had an excellent view of the bay. It was a sprawling two-story mansion with huge white pillars supporting a wide double gallery, which completely encircled the house.

  Across from the fort were the prisoners’ barracks and a small hospital. Nearby there were about twenty small homes for officers and guests. Numerous ships, docks, and storehouses crowded the bay’s waterfront. Farther down were the auction block, and the slave quarters. Across from the docks, on the Gulf side, the rest of the residences of Lafitte’s men were built. At the far northern end of the island, where it widened out, vegetables and produce and a few farm animals were raised by a number of trustworthy, loyal slaves.

  The island foliage was lush; semi-tropical, with palm trees and Spanish moss, and brightly colored flowers of every description. Parrots and other colorful birds delighted the eye. North of the bay, the swamp was also beautiful to behold, but deadly to enter. Many men had entered its maze, never to be seen again. Alligators, venomous snakes, and bogs of quicksand lay silently lurking, awaiting the foolhardy.

  Jean had first stopped here in 1804, to bury his wife Rachel. She had died bearing their third child on their way to New Orleans. He had befriended the native Baratarians, and later chose this site for his base. The Baratarians had shown the Lafittes the twisting waterways, and they were wary of the dangers. They had learned routes through the swamp to New Orleans and other towns, and some that circled back to the Gulf. His men knew the routes well, traveling them safely almost daily carrying merchandise by flatboat from Grande Terre to Jean’s private warehouses in New Orleans. His island base was nearly impregnable. Jean had selected his site well.

  As they neared Jean’s house, a young woman ran out of the door toward them. She had light brown skin and black hair flowing down her back. White teeth flashed in a smile. As she ran, her full red skirt flew up, revealing long, brown legs. Her voluptuous breasts bounced dangerously, nearly popping from her low-laced blouse. Black eyes full of joy, she flung herself at Reed, nearly knocking Kathleen down in her urgency.

  “Reed, lover, what took you so long this time? I thought I would die for missing you!” She planted full red lips firmly against his in a passionate kiss.

  Kathleen stiffened visibly.

  Reed pried the woman’s arms loose from his neck and stepped back. He chanced a glance at Kathleen and winced inwardly. Jean came to his rescue.

  “Rosita! Calm yourself!” he commanded. “I would like you to meet Reed’s new wife.”

  “His wife!” she shrieked. She gave Reed a searching look, then turned a hate-filled face toward Kathleen. Hands on hips, she walked slowly around Kathleen, scrutinizing her from every angle, her lips pursed in distaste. Kathleen eyed the girl cooly, but stood still, saying nothing.

  “Bah!” Rosita spat. “Such a skinny thing! How can she warm a man’s bed on a cold night? Such a prim and proper lady cannot know how to please a man as a warmblooded Latin such as I!”

  Kathleen continued her silence, but a catty grin turned up the corners of her mouth.

  “What is so funny, skinny one?” Rosita demanded.

  “If you must know, I was thinking you have probably had much practice and should indeed know how to please a man,” Kathleen replied bitingly.

  The wicked smile on Rosita’s face melted as her anger rose even higher. “I ought to scratch your ugly green eyes out!” she screeched.

  “Don’t let anything but fear and good common sense stop you,” Kathleen taunted.

  Rosita lunged, claws extended toward Kathleen’s face.

  In a flash of movement, Kathleen grabbed Rosita’s wrists firmly, swung her right leg behind Rosita’s knees, and shoved. Rosita landed on her rump in the sand.

  Before she could rise, Jean stepped forward. “Rosita! Enough of this jealous display! Reed and his wife are my guests, and I demand that you show respect or suffer the consequences. Now go—and don’t return until you can behave decently.” Lafitte’s voice, though quiet, demanded obedience. Rosita picked herself up and flounced off, swaying her ample hips as she went.

  Jean turned to Kathleen, arms extended in entreaty. “Kathleen, I am so sorry. Please forgive Rosita’s rude behavior. I trust it will not happen again.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I’m not really sure it is completely Rosita’s fault either. She is obviously smitten with Reed, and it came as a shock to her to find he had married. I can understand that, but I will not forgive the attack on my person.”

  “Your point is well taken. Shall we go into the house?” Jean offered her his arm, which she accepted, leaving a bewildered Reed to bring up the rear.

  Their drinks were served by a house slave in the gallery facing the Gulf, where they enjoyed the first privacy since docking. The gallery sat on the edge of Lafitte’s flower gardens, which were beautifully laid out and tended. Kathleen let the men talk as she enjoyed her lemonade and admired the gardens. She noticed several statues that intrigued her. At the first opportunity, she interjected, “Monsieur Lafitte.”

  “Jean,” he insisted.

  “Jean, may I presume on your hospitality and inspect your lovely gardens?”

  Jean started to rise.

  “No, please,” she added. “Continue your conversation with my husband. I’ll just wander about by myself, if you don’t mind.”

  “Indeed, enjoy yourself,” Jean said.

  Kathleen gave Reed a questioning look. He nodded his assent.

  Those intriguing statues were even more interesting up close. They were figures of sea gods and goddesses. Neptune, god of the sea, was the most prominent, with trident in his right hand and dolphin in his left. He was majestic looking, with his flowing hair and beard.

  Kathleen stood before him for a long time, green eyes shining, and as she studied his stony face, he almost seemed to come alive.

  Reed and Jean sat talking of Reed’s voyage and the Kat-Ann. Reed explained to Jean how Kathleen believed he married her for the frigate and the estate. “She refuses to believe otherwise, Jean. She’s very warm and tender at times, then she turns either cool or angry. I’ve never professed to understand a woman’s mind, but Kat really has me baffled.”

  He glanced up, catching sight of Kathleen still standing before the image of Neptune. “There is another puzzlement,” he said, gesturing toward her with his head.

  Jean followed his friend’s look, frowning to show he did not understand. “What are you referring to, Reed?”

  “Jean, tell me if I’m wrong, but watch Kat for a while. Those statues in your garden are of sea gods and goddesses, and unless I miss my guess, Kat is completely entranced already, and she’s not past Neptune yet.”

  “Still? I know those things are fascinating, but she’s got to have been standing in one spot for ten minutes,” he reasoned.

  “Exactly! Now watch her,�
�� Reed said as she snapped her head about and strolled to the next figure.

  This one was of Nereus, the old man of the sea: aged, bearded, holding his scepter. She stopped for a moment, appeared to nod, and went on to the next, Nereus’s daughter. Nereides was a sea nymph. Her hair hung over her shoulders, shielding her breasts as she sat proudly astride her dolphin. Again Kathleen stood for a long while. Finally she reached out and stroked the dolphin. Walking on, she came to Apollo, who controlled the winds of the seas. He was a beautiful sight to behold. Handsome beyond belief, his face was a study in perfection, his body well muscled.

  “He reminds me of Reed,” Kathleen mused. Touching his thigh, she murmured, “Thank you for guiding us so well.”

  Moving along, she passed statues of Pontus, god of the Black Sea; Doris, mother of Nereides; and Rana, another sea nymph with seaweed tangled in her tresses. Last, she stopped before Venus, the goddess of love, most beautiful of all goddesses; Venus, who mythology says was born of the foam of the sea waves. She stood in the center of an open sea shell, her hair flowing down around her slim hips. On her delicate face there was a unique look of innocence and sensuality. Her eyes were wide set over fine cheekbones; her nose small, her lips full and inviting. She was long of limb and beautifully proportioned, with high breasts, a small waist, and nicely rounded hips. She looked every inch a goddess of love. Her look seemed to beckon Kathleen, as if she would divulge her timeless secrets and share her wisdom.

  Kathleen was mesmerized before her, as if she waited for her to come alive and speak. Indeed, it seemed she had, for as Reed and Jean looked on, Kathleen closed her eyes. When she opened them again she stood before the goddess, arms outstretched in unspoken plea, eyes trained on the lovely face. Kathleen’s lips moved in silent communication, a look of reverence on her face. Silently she poured out her heart to the love goddess, speaking of her love for Reed; the passions he awoke in her; his treachery; her turmoil over wanting revenge, and yet not wanting to destroy her heart’s only desire; her confusion and feelings that Reed would never truly love her, but seek only to win her, then break her heart. She pleaded to Venus for guidance and wisdom; to plant in Reed’s heart seeds of love.