“I thought we were to discuss your… madness,” Doucette said.
I cursed silently, and Gaston met my eyes with a resigned sigh. “That discussion may be better reserved for another day,” Gaston told him.
Doucette appeared disappointed. “Truly? May I ask why?”
Gaston was slow to answer. “My control ebbs and flows, and at this time I am not possessed of any confidence in my command of my emotions and faculties.”
“Perhaps this is the best time to discuss these things, then,” Doucette said.
I winced at the irony. I could not refute him. I had reasoned thus the night before, which was of course what had brought us so far.
“I gave a great deal of thought to your words,” Doucette continued. “Both from last night and from before, and to the words of others on the matter.” He studied Gaston intently, and my matelot ignored him and perused his cup with equal resolve.
“And what conclusions have you reached?” Gaston asked, with resignation tinged with annoyance.
“That I am lacking in empiric evidence. I wish to discuss the matter with you and hear your observations and to conduct some tests.”
“Tests?” I asked.
“Oui,” Doucette smiled. “For example,” he stood and left the room.
“Tell him no and let us leave,” I implored.
Gaston sighed and nodded. “He is as stubborn as you.”
“I am not sure if that is good or bad for either of us, as I do not know your true feelings on the matter,” I said lightly.
“I am inured to it,” Gaston smiled.
“Then I am thankful for that,” I chuckled.
Doucette returned. He was holding a horse whip. At first I merely recognized the object; and then my mind recalled the significance, and my heart skipped a beat. I considered yelling, “Do not look,” or something equally ridiculous, but I have found that always causes the undesired action.
The coiled whip hit the table with a thump, and Gaston’s eyes widened for a moment. I was not sure what his reaction would be, and I sat very still and waited. He pulled his eyes from it and closed them, while clutching at the table and swallowing hard. His breathing sped up, and he paled. I judged that he might become ill and lose his meal.
“Interesting,” Doucette said. “So you do react to the mere sight of one. I would not have thought your reaction would be so pronounced.”
I stood and snatched the whip off the table and flung it to the corner.
“You bastard!” I snarled. “You heartless monster!”
Doucette stepped back with surprise. “I was curious. It has not harmed him.”
“Do you wave knives in front of your wife?”
He shrugged and shook his head. “She has no reaction to knives.”
“So you did?”
“People often react strongly when they have experienced trauma. When this occurs, they need to be desensitized to the object or situation. The mind is quite capable of conquering and soothing the body’s remembered fears. If Gaston sees enough whips, he will separate the act from the object, and they will have no hold over him.”
“Presumably, but it is not a thing he need do now.” I needed to get Gaston away from him and someplace where he could calm down. I was not sure if going to our room was wise, as it would involve staying in this house.
I turned to regard my matelot, and found him standing with his eyes full of murder and a knife in his hand.
“Damn,” I said. I was on the wrong side of the table.
Doucette was regarding him curiously. “Now do you recall the event when you…?”
He stopped talking when I hit him square in the chest and sent him sprawling into the wall. Then I was around the table and between them.
There was recognition in Gaston’s eyes when they met mine, and I was greatly relieved. I discovered I felt no fear of him in a direct sense. I was deeply afraid of what he would do to Doucette or himself, however.
“What do you wish to do?” I asked, pleased at the calmness of my tone.
“I want to kill him.”
“That will solve nothing.”
“He will never trouble me again.”
I was confused. All of the physical symptoms of his madness were there, but he seemed very lucid.
“Put the knife down, please, and we will discuss this.”
“Move,” he snarled. “I will not suffer him anymore. He hurt me. I cannot bear it again.” The last was as much of a wail as his broken voice could manage. I could see him slipping farther from my grasp. I seized upon whatever I could.
“How did he hurt you?”
“You know what he did.”
“That is not your father.”
He peered around me, and the sight of Doucette seemed to give him pause.
“Non. Non. He is the other one,” he growled. “He is worse. That one is a cold-hearted bastard who thinks only of himself and no other. All things with him are matters of intellect. He is incapable of love. He is an automaton of medicine. He thinks he is smart. He thinks he is the master of reasoning. He is a fool. I do not owe him anything. I do not owe him my life.”
“I am a fool?” Doucette roared from beside me. For the second time that morning, my heart was clutched painfully by fear. I whipped my head round to regard him. He was angry and ready to fight. My condemnation of his mental acumen died in my throat, as I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I whirled back and thrust myself between them again, in time to catch Gaston. We rolled to the floor, knocking Doucette ahead of us.
I was not sure if my matelot had turned his frustrations to me, or if he merely wanted me out of his path. He seemed intent on pinning me to the floor and not on reaching Doucette at the moment, though. Much to my panic he succeeded, getting astride me and applying his formidable strength against my own. Then he abruptly stopped with horror in his eyes.
“Non, non, non,” he sobbed and his hands went to my side. I looked down, and was thankful I was already lying upon the floor. The knife was protruding from my flesh, or rather the hilt was. The length of the blade was obviously inside me. I could feel it now as a dull aching wrongness. He pulled the blade free, and I gasped.
I was thankful I possessed a true grasp of why this particular thing horrified him, beyond the obvious I would have assumed a mere day before.
“I will not die,” I whispered.
He would not look at me.
“Gaston!”
His eyes flicked to mine. The rage was gone, and there was only a scared little boy trying to staunch the flow of blood with his hands.
“It will be all right. You must.... Doucette must do surgery.”
His eyes hardened, and I felt despair welling in my breast.
“Gaston.”
“He will not touch you,” he snarled.
“Then you will have to do it.”
His emotions swung back to fear. “I do not…”
“If you do not, I will die.”
His eyes hardened again: but with resolve this time, and not fear. He picked me up off the floor and carried me to the hospital rooms to lay me upon a surgical table. The pain radiated through me in ever-increasing waves as he tore my shirt away. Each threatened to swamp my consciousness.
“Gaston,” I clutched at his hand. He squeezed back.
“Leave him. I will…” Doucette said from the doorway.
Gaston snarled in response.
“You are behaving like an animal,” Doucette said. “Get control of yourself.”
I pulled the pistol still at my belt and aimed at Doucette with a shaky hand. “Get out!”
Doucette stepped aside, and several men I did not recognize took his place. They were moving very quickly. I fired, and missed. Then they were upon us. Two held me down, and three more jumped atop Gaston. I could see little of that, as I had my own battle to contend with, though it was not much of one as I was nearly helpless. They quickly restrained me and Father Mark loomed over me, to gleefully shove
a stick in my mouth.
“Take him where we discussed,” I heard Doucette order. “I have to try and save this one.”
I roared around the stick and then the pain hit anew as Doucette probed the wound. Blackness took me. I dearly wished to smite the Gods.
Twenty-Six
Wherein I Rescue My Matelot
There was pain and I knew I was not dead. As always when waking thusly wounded, I am not sure whether I should rejoice or not, as the pain often seems not worth surviving. This was one of those times. I moaned and hoped someone would relieve my suffering in some fashion.
“Will?”
At first I could not recognize the voice, as it was not the one I wished to hear. Then it came to me: Tom. I opened my eyes and saw ceiling. I turned my head toward the sound, and found Tom sitting nearby at the foot of Dickey’s cot. He appeared concerned. I supposed that was as it should be. I had been stabbed, had I not? There was much I needed to remember. I attempted to move and found I could not. I was bound to the bed. Then all returned to me and the anger burned the pain away.
“Damn it, what the Devil?” I gasped as I tugged at the ropes binding my wrists.
“They said you should not move about,” Tom said. “How…?”
“Where is Gaston?” I asked.
“I am told he is well… considering,” Tom shrugged.
“Considering what?” I snarled. “Where is he? And release me, damn you.”
“Nay. Will, you should not become riled. It cannot be good for you. Lie still.” He grimaced with disapproval and concern.
I looked to Dickey, where he reclined against bunched pillows at the head of his cot. He looked no less troubled than his friend.
“Dickey, how long have…?”
“You’ve been lying there for two days. I believe you have been drugged for the pain and such, and… Mister Doucette was concerned that you would become agitated upon waking, which you have,” he sighed.
“They rushed us and took Gaston away and…”
“They say he stabbed you,” Tom interjected. “That he went mad and stabbed you.”
“Doucette set it upon him and Gaston wished to kill him. I interceded. It was an accident that I was wounded.”
This seemed to have some effect on Dickey’s thoughts, but little on Tom, as the blond boy frowned. “I will tell them you need more laudanum,” he said and stood.
“I do not! I need to know where my matelot is!”
Tom left the room and I turned to Dickey and hissed, “Has anyone from the ship been here?”
“Nay,” he shook his head. “Well, not that I have seen them. Tom may have spoken to them, but I must tell you Mister Doucette spoke to him at length, and now Tom is quite convinced that what has occurred is in Gaston’s and your best interest.”
“Oh, damn. They must be told. I need to speak to Striker and Pete. Will you help me?”
“Hush,” he said.
“To the Devil…”
“They are coming,” he hissed quickly.
Through the haze of pain and anger, I realized he was watching someone approach from the direction Tom had departed.
I whirled my head about and saw Doucette. He sat on the cot next to mine and leaned over to examine my bandages.
“You must be calm, Will. Healing does not come to those who are agitated,” he said in French. “You narrowly missed having a perforated bowl. Your pancreas was badly sliced. I believe it will heal in time. But only if you let it.”
“Where is Gaston?” I asked in English.
“I understand your question, but I do not have a command of English.”
“Then answer the damn question,” I snarled in French. “And release me.”
“He is well,” he smiled kindly. “I am treating him, just as I am treating you. Until I am sure neither of you will behave in a deranged manner, you are not going anywhere.”
“Was he wounded? Did your damn men hurt him?”
“Non, non,” he shook his head regretfully at my supposed misapprehension of the matter. “I am treating him for his madness, now that I begin to understand its severity. I should have done this years ago, and I feel guilt that I have served him so poorly. But I did not know…” He shrugged helplessly and appeared sincerely contrite.
“How are you treating him?” Memories of the asylum in Florence returned and my gut churned.
“He must come to terms with what occurred. If images or thoughts of the flogging induce his madness, then he must be helped to become less sensitive to them.”
I did not like the sound of that. Panic clawed at me. Dickey could not understand what the bastard said, and Tom had not returned, not that he would have understood either – or aided me, apparently. And Doucette appeared so reasonable. I was the one raving.
“You have no right to treat him,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “If he is not himself, it is my concern. It is the way of the coast.”
He snorted derisively. “Damn fool boucaniers. As if I care about their laws. This is a French colony governed by French law. In your case, my holding you here could be questioned,” he acceded. “But you are a foreign privateer and wounded. Until you stop raving and agree to return to your ship I am honor-bound to keep you from causing trouble in Cayonne. As for Gabriel, I am the only one who can make those decisions.”
“What do you mean?”
“He has been judged to be incompetent and remanded to my custody.”
“In two days? You have a court here…?”
“Non, years ago, by his father.”
“Non. You were paid to care for him but…”
“Non. After that. I began to correspond with his father upon arriving here. I wished to understand what was to be done with him. His father, though he has never imparted the details of what occurred, wishes for Gabriel to be cared for. He also does not wish for him to inherit. So he had Gabriel declared unfit and then remanded to my custody by a French court.
“Gaston never mentioned…”
“He does not know. I thought it would trouble him, and truly, there was no reason for him to know.”
My horror was boundless, and I knew Doucette read it for what it was. To my further surprise, he did not gloat. He appeared sad.
“I am sorry, Will. You must understand; this is for the best.”
I struggled to think. “Hold, you say you did not realize he is mad, but you accepted his care when he was pronounced unfit? Did that not seem..?”
“I thought his father distraught, and… politically motivated. I was well aware that something had passed between them. And,” he shrugged ruefully. “I have always thought it a matter of the inheritance. Apparently there was some trouble with Gabriel’s mother, and the father is convinced she was mad, too. Though I think it likely he wished for an excuse to have the marriage annulled so he could marry another. I know of physicians that have been called in to advise on such matters. It is a… problem, if you will, of the wealthy. I believe your King Henry caused no end of trouble over the matter.”
“You are wrong.”
“How do you know? What has he told you?”
“Go to the Devil.”
“Come now, Will. It will aid him if I know all there is to know.”
“I will see you in Hell.”
He nodded sadly. “Your devotion is misplaced in this instance. Rest and we will speak again. I will send someone with laudanum. You need to sleep, and even if the pain does not keep you from it, I can well see your thoughts will.”
He left, and I pulled at my bonds until my wound ached nearly enough to send me under the waves of consciousness.
“Will?”
I looked around. I had forgotten Dickey.
“You must help. He intends… Oh, Lord…” I was struck speechless by the entirety of what he intended. He would endeavor to use me against Gaston.
“The priest comes,” he hissed.
I implored Dickey with my eyes and he nodded ever so subtly. The spark of hope ignited
in my chest.
Dickey slowly rolled over and dug under his cot.
A throat cleared and I looked up to find Father Paul looking down at me kindly. He had a bowl, spoon, and stick, presumably to pry my mouth open with if necessary.
“Please do not make this difficult, Will. Doucette says you are quite distraught.”
“Sit down and be quiet,” Dickey said firmly.
Father Paul’s eyes went wide, and he sat on the cot and set the bowl and other items aside before raising his hands. I looked to Dickey, and found him holding a pistol.
“Now, release Will,” Dickey said.
Father Paul had understood the pistol well enough, but he did not speak English.
“Release me,” I snarled in French. “Thank you,” I breathed to Dickey as the priest untied my left wrist.
Dickey swallowed. “It is the least I can do. You are my friends, and something is amiss here. Even if I didn’t understand what he said, I understood. He is holding you against your will, and Gaston as well. I don’t know how much more I can do, though, it still hurts to breathe.”
The priest was eyeing both of us as he finished untying me.
“Can you walk?” I asked Dickey.
He nodded. “Can you?” He was not being facetious.
“I will not know until I try.” I smiled weakly.
“Tell him to sit down,” Dickey instructed.
I relayed the command, and the priest sat.
“What do you feel we should do with him?” I asked.
“Do you wish to kill him?” Dickey asked carefully. He did not appear to like that idea.
“Nay.” And I truly did not, and not just because of the trouble it might cause. “Let us render him unconscious or restrain him, or both. If we start killing priests in a Papist colony, we are done for. And I feel he is not to blame.”
Dickey nodded.
I slowly pulled myself up to sitting and got my legs off the bed. The room spun for a moment. The pain pounded in my temples.
“My son, this is a foolish thing,” Father Paul admonished quietly.
“Non, non, you are the fool involved in foolish things,” I breathed. “Lie down.”
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