“How could I be angry with you?” I murmured. “In all honesty, I now feel guilt at the incidences where I have been angry or frustrated with you before. I now understand. I am sorry. I wish you had told me weeks ago,” I said with wry amusement. “It would have made our lives easier.”
He murmured into my neck. “I know. I was afraid. I feel less a man for it, and when asked I have lied. You are the only person I have told.”
“Not all of your scars are on the outside, either,” I said. “I knew this, but not to the degree.”
He held me closer. “As I said before, you give me hope. Now that I have you, I find myself hoping this wound can be healed.”
“I love you,” I whispered and crushed him to me, as his words had made my heart ache again, and not in sympathy to his pain and loss. I loved him with an intensity I had never felt before and could not express. “We will find a way.”
I struggled to even think of a way to confront the problem. Bestowing or receiving touch had not brought him alive. It was a thing of the mind and not the body. That was where he needed to heal.
“We will suture it with patience,” I said, and hoped he could hear my smile. “I will use my blood for balm if necessary.”
“Non, not yours,” he said sadly. “I have given the matter great thought and I fear it is more a matter of lancing and draining and possibly even bleeding. There is one other time when it functions, though thankfully I have never acted upon it; and that is when the madness grips me.”
I could not help myself, I groaned and looked to the stars, not for guidance but as a reminder that unreachable and unfathomable things can be quite pretty to look upon.
I kissed his temple. “It is all tied together in some Gordian knot in your mind, is it not?”
He nodded against my cheek.
“I am sure it would help greatly if you would but tell me what occurred,” I said. “If it is difficult to speak of or remember, we could fill you with rum. I promise no matter what occurred I will never judge you harshly.”
“I cannot.” He choked on the words. “Truly, Will. It is part of the knot. It is a dream, and to even think of the few images I have is to court madness. I know I sinned, and I know my father’s rage was justified, but the how and why of it I do not allow myself to know.”
“Hush, then. We will not attack it directly, or even tonight. Let us sleep and see what the morrow brings.” I rubbed his back, and slowly he calmed, and stopped clinging to me with desperation.
I watched the stars and wondered at the strange turns in our lives, and whether or not we could be considered blessed or cursed to have discovered one another. I decided blessed, as I could not imagine living without him now.
Gaston sniffed away his duress and shifted in my embrace. He pulled his arms from around my neck, and I felt something pressed against my chest.
“Hold this,” he whispered.
“What?” I took it and recognized the jar of hog fat. “Oh, I need that. I have been bitten a dozen times.”
“We will remedy that,” he whispered.
I felt his sticky fingers on my brow, and I closed my eyes and let him coat my face in a thin sheen of the noxious stuff. I ran into his fingers as I started to scoop some out to work on him.
“Non. Allow me,” he whispered.
With amusement I let him do my neck and arms and even my legs. I had not thought the spreading of it could feel so pleasurable as when someone else did it. I sensed his game when his fingers slid up under the legs of my breeches; so did my manhood. I captured his hand as he reached for the jar again.
“Non.”
“I want to.”
“You do not owe me anything.”
He sighed and pulled his hand away and slid it under my tunic. “I want to because one of us can. I learned that last night.”
“If it is for your benefit, then I of course I will not deny you.” My chuckle stopped abruptly when his fingers found a nipple. With a sigh I rested an arm on his shoulder and leaned into him. Then it was his turn to chuckle quietly as his hand slid into my breeches and I gasped. I locked my knees and threw my head back to watch the stars. A pleasurable time later, they all seemed to move of their own accord, and I slumped against him.
I could foresee myself becoming quite pampered. Yet I despaired of ever knowing whether the Gods were on my side or not.
Nineteen
Wherein We Have Dreams
The next morning, I told everyone we would return shortly, and we rode to the Passage Fort. We made a leisurely go of it, and I endeavored to instruct Gaston in riding, or of greater import, becoming comfortable upon the beast. He did well, but I knew it would take him several days to truly become accustomed to it. So I told the livery boy we were not yet finished with the animals, and we paid him for the entirety of the day on the promise he would let the sorrel and the bay to no one else.
In contrast to his demeanor during the pleasant morning ride, Gaston became uneasy as we approached the ferry wharf.
“Is something amiss?” I asked.
He shook his head and sighed. “There is so much noise here. I react poorly to crowds and…”
There was a crash nearby, and I whirled to find a man cursing at another over a broken wagon wheel. The contents of the dray, a series of large copper kettles, had clattered to the ground. When I turned back to Gaston, his arms were crossed and his eyes closed. I tentatively slipped my arm over his shoulders.
He took a deep breath, and released it slowly. His eyes opened and found mine.
“I do not like towns. They are unpredictable. It takes time for me to adjust to them. I must be vigilant or the horse shies.”
“I will endeavor not to let you be thrown,” I said seriously. I kissed his temple.
“Take it elsewhere,” someone grumbled.
I had a pistol aimed at the speaker’s head before I saw him. He threw his hands wide, backed off, and quickly skirted us. I realized we were standing in the road as I returned the piece to my belt. Other people were regarding us, but I thought it unlikely they would say anything now.
Gaston was smirking at me. “You are as skittish as I.”
“Oui, we make a fine pair, do we not?”
“Oui.” He smiled and kissed my cheek. “Let us go before someone dies.”
I kept my arm around him as we walked companionably to the ferry.
“You can recognize this man?” Gaston asked as the boat was pushed off.
“Oui.” I described what I remembered of Creek.
“It is midday. Sensible men, who are not English,” he gave me a teasing look, “avoid the sun and rest in the afternoon here, much as the Spanish do.”
“I would think him prone to sensibility, or drunkenness, such that now is when he would be rising.”
“Then let us go to the wall leading to the Palisadoes.”
Thus when we arrived at the landing, he led me left and east on Thames, into a part of the town I had not ventured before. We took a lane to High Street and proceeded toward the wall. The cay narrowed considerably on this end, so that there was only one set of lots on each side of the road, though they were deep and filled with larger buildings than houses. I was amused as we passed a prison. It seemed incongruous in this place. When we reached the Landward Fort, I was pleased to see that it was indeed a wall of stonework with cannon. It separated Port Royal from the spit of land leading to Jamaica. There was an open gate, and no one was being challenged as they entered.
“What do you propose?” I asked when Gaston stopped inside the wall and looked about.
“That we purchase food, and sit and wait until he comes or goes through this gate.”
We found a shaded spot beside a storehouse, and Gaston left me to watch while he went in search of food. As we had passed a vegetable market of sorts on the way, he thankfully did not have far to go. He returned with a bottle of watered wine and several wrapped bundles.
“These things grow here,” he said as he presented the
packages. I understood his intent and tasted everything. I was not fond of the cassava, finding it a bit plain, but I devoured the fried plantain. I was already familiar with and found great favor in pineapples and mangoes. Thus we whiled away the afternoon talking of foods we liked and why many of the English were stupid for refusing to eat the native foods.
I spied Creek entering through the gate as the evening came upon us. He was dressed in a way that was now familiar, in breeches and vest with a kerchief upon his head. He wore no weapon belt, but carried a cutlass in a crude scabbard over his shoulder, supported by a leather thong across his chest.
The four men he walked with were similarly attired and armed. Except for the lack of weaponry, they looked like any group of buccaneers as they strolled casually through the gate laughing at some jest.
I pointed him out to Gaston and stood. My matelot was a shadow several paces behind me as I walked into the road to intercept Creek’s path.
“Mister Creek, I would have a word with you,” I said amicably.
He frowned at hearing his name and studied me with curiosity. Then his eyes went wide with recognition.
“Lord Marsdale,” he breathed. His eyes flicked back to assess his distance from the gate.
“What’s this, then?” one of his mates asked.
“He’s… he’s…the lord o’ the plantation,” he stammered.
“Well, actually, it’s my father’s and…” I shrugged.
The other men quickly grasped the situation and fanned out defensively, or perhaps menacingly, though I did not feel threatened as Gaston was behind the two to my left. None of them had noticed him as yet. I was not sure how much of an asset they would be to any ship they sought to sail with.
“I.. I.. uh, well, my Lord…” Creek stammered with no end in sight.
I smiled pleasantly. “You either need to return with me or pay the money for your passage.”
“He’s a buccaneer now,” one of the other men said. “He don’t owe you nuthin’.’” He was to my right, large and looming.
“So am I, and I beg to differ.” I kept my eyes on Creek. “So, what ship do you intend to sail on? Most are out hunting the treasure fleets now. But I hear Morgan is looking to organize a large raiding party this winter. Will you be living out there in the trees until then? And what are you doing for money? Beer and wine are horrifically expensive in this damn town, because they expect all who buy here to be buccaneers or planters.”
“I can’t go back, my Lord,” Creek said with quiet fear.
“I guarantee you will not be branded or flogged.”
“He don’t need no guarantee from you,” the man who had spoken earlier said. “He don’t need to go nowhere.” He was the only one with a weapon belt, and he pulled a cutlass from a beaten scabbard. I had hoped things would not decay so quickly.
I felt more than saw something dart through the air. Then there was a knife in the man’s right shoulder. He dropped his blade with a muffled curse.
Creek and his mates finally noticed Gaston. I grinned at their consternation. My matelot now had both pistols drawn. I pulled one of mine and aimed it at Creek’s head.
“Now,” I said with the same pleasant tone I used before, “I care not for the rest of you. I only have business with Creek. I do swear he will not be abused over this misadventure, and if all goes well, you will likely see him again. However, if things go poorly here this moment, you will all likely see one another in Hell.”
The man to Creek’s right proved to be far wilier than his fellows. He stepped back, and I thought he was withdrawing. Then he pushed Creek toward me and the fellow on the other side of him somewhat toward Gaston. Unlike men with a wavering commitment to violence, my matelot and I fired simultaneously. We only swore in the aftermath, when three men lay upon the ground, one of them Creek.
The man to Creek’s left ran. The man with the knife in his shoulder began to do likewise.
I pulled my second pistol. “Hold! The knife! Return it. Do not be stupid in how you do.”
The man stopped, gingerly pulled the blade out of his shoulder, and dropped it on the ground. Then he too was away.
I joined Gaston in reloading while considering the wounded men. The one that had been pushed toward my matelot was shot in the right buttock. The one doing the pushing had blood spreading from his shoulder. Creek was dead. I had put my ball in his eye. I blamed too many damn years of dueling.
“Well, that did not go well,” I muttered.
Gaston smirked. “He is a fine example now. I doubt any will consider running.”
I rolled my eyes and discovered ten curious yet cautious members of the militia advancing on us from the wall.
“Oh bloody Hell,” I sighed.
It was near night by the time Theodore finished laying it all to rest. Thankfully, we were able to claim our own defense, and only one man was dead. Gaston even went so far in aiding the situation as to dig the shot out of the wounded men: one of whom proved to be a runaway and was promptly returned to his plantation. Still, despite our exoneration, or perhaps because of it, I felt great guilt.
Finally we sat with Theodore in his yard, on the bench he recently purchased, and shared a bottle. Creek’s body was shrouded in burlap by the fence. I found I could not stop staring at it, just as I could not ignore the knowledge that he would have gone with us if his companion had not chosen to act.
“In the future,” Theodore sighed, “if this event does not deter all others who might consider running, what would you like done with those who do?”
“I would know why,” I said, as I now had given the matter a great deal more thought. “If a man has some reason beyond not wishing to work, I would know of it before passing judgment. If he is merely trying to avoid completing his contract, then I would have him apprehended and returned.”
Theodore sighed again. “You do realize that the stipulation of knowing why hinders my ability to hire men to bring one back.”
“I will see to it.”
“Will, I feel it would be far less expensive to send someone else.” He laughed.
On my other side, Gaston was chuckling quietly. I elbowed him and took the bottle from Theodore.
“I will plan better next time. Truly, I am well steeped in guilt over this event.”
They quieted, and Gaston’s arm stole around my back.
“You are a good man, Will,” Theodore said. He stood and regarded us. “Stay here tonight. The boys moved to your new house.” He left us.
“I do not wish to face the men at the plantation tomorrow,” I said. “I have killed one of my sheep.”
Gaston pulled himself closer so that his lips were at my ear. “I love you.”
Initially I thought it alleviated nothing, and then I realized it meant everything. For once in my life, I was loved no matter what I did.
I stopped staring at the shrouded body and turned to face him. “May I touch you?”
He sighed and considered it before murmuring, “You need not ask... ever again. Though…”
“I will endeavor not to ask more than you wish to give,” I murmured. “I will not take offense if you stop me.”
“Offense, non, yet…”
“I did not say I would not become frustrated, just that I will understand.” I grinned.
He chuckled and I led him inside and upstairs. It was the first time we had been alone in a room since before we sailed. We crawled into a hammock together. I did not attempt to bring him to life; I merely satisfied my need to explore him in the dark. He seemed to enjoy it, and even allowed me to remove his tunic. As my fingers ventured where they would, his did the same; and I soon forgot the events of the day for a time.
In the morning, Gaston went to the apothecary to purchase a few things to treat the men. I went with Theodore to review the plantation’s books, at the home of a clerk he engaged for that purpose. Griswold, the clerk, was a tall and lean man with stooped shoulders. He seemed very fastidious, and his script in the ledgers
was quite neat. He left us alone at a table in the corner, and returned to hunching over another book across the room.
After seeing the appalling amount of money spent on provisions, I asked, “Do none of the planters grow food here?”
Theodore shrugged. “If they have the men. Most absentee planters, such as your father, view the entire endeavor as a business venture. They are willing to invest money into their plantations until the first crop is produced. They always expect it to be an enormous success. The truth is that it sometimes is not. Growing anything is a fickle business subject to the whims of weather and blights – and even rats, here. Since the land is free, the greatest expenditure is labor. All other expenses are secondary. They wish to get a crop planted as soon as possible, and thus reap profit as soon as possible. With more and more of your bondsmen dying,” he grimaced and sighed. “And I did not mean in that fashion. You have fewer men to clear and plant. Since cane takes a year and a half to grow before there’s even a chance of profit, pulling the men off planting the first crop to plant provisions would slow the process. And quite frankly, your father does not care. He planned on importing all of the provisions. He has set aside lines of credit with merchants in England, to keep the plantation supplied until it begins to make a profit.”
I knew some of that, but as usual I had not considered the implications. Though I have been privy to discussion of many business dealings, I have no head for it. Still, this sort of planning seemed shortsighted.
“Do you think that wise? It seems to me that, well, should not a farm – which is essentially what a plantation is – should it not be sufficient unto itself? It is growing food, after all.”
Theodore smiled and shook his head. “Nay, it is growing money. Sugar cane is not food; it is muscovado, molasses, and rum. You can consume them, but truly it is alcohol and another form of spice, albeit a very sweet one. Think of it more as a mining endeavor, and you will begin to understand the thoughts of those that invest in it.”
Brethren Page 51
