He lay on the cot I had occupied, and I carefully tied his hands as mine had been. Then I stuffed a wad of sheet from the next cot into his mouth, and wound the excess around his head so that he could not dislodge it, with one last fold over his eyes so he would not be staring at us.
After all that exertion, I felt the need to nap; and it did not bode well for the endeavor. I forced myself to keep my mind on the tasks at hand.
“Do you have all your weapons?”
Dickey nodded. He had pulled himself to standing and appeared as unsteady as I felt.
“Do you know where mine are?”
He shook his head and handed me the pistol he had brandished at the priest. Then he knelt gingerly next to his cot and began to pull out the rest of his gear from beneath it.
“We cannot fight, Will,” he gasped.
“I well know it. I wish for you to go to the ship and fetch our friends. They can fight.”
He regarded me with grateful eyes and then regarded the door with trepidation. “I do not know where the ship is.”
“On the water,” I smiled wanly. “Downhill. I believe that will be to the right.”
He grinned back. “I think I shall find it, then. What shall you do?”
“Sneak about and locate my matelot.”
“Can you stand?”
I thought he had already asked me that; and then I realized I had not truly done it yet. I stood slowly and found it no worse than sitting. I nodded.
“Do not do anything foolish until we… or rather, our friends return,” he panted as he stood again. He handed me his rapier.
“Dirks, please. I do not feel I can wield that.”
He passed me his dirks. “Me, neither.” He smiled and donned his repaired tunic slowly. “If I am forced to duel betwixt here and the ship, I am a dead man,” he gasped through the fabric.
“I do not think that will be necessary, though Doucette had men who attacked us. If we are lucky, they will not be about or not recognize you.” And there was one other. “I am concerned you will encounter Tom.”
He finished pulling his tunic down. “Do not be. He will not stop me.” There was great assurance in his words.
“Then God speed and thank you.”
“Be careful,” he whispered and walked slowly to the door.
I was startled to look about and find two other men in the room. Both ailed, though, such that they did not seem cognizant of me. I walked slowly to the door leading to the surgery and the house and considered my options. The pistol seemed ready. I unsheathed one of the dirks. I did not wish to shoot anyone. The noise would draw too much attention. I was in no shape to battle even a fat priest with a knife, though. It would be best if I were not seen at all. Even if the viewer did not know I should not be about, they would still question my walking around clad only in breeches with a bandage wrapped around my middle.
Thus I listened carefully at the doorway, before slipping through and into the interior courtyard. It appeared to be late afternoon, and the shadows were long. I was relieved when I heard talking and saw a gaggle of women and boys about the cookhouse at the back of the space. Thankfully, Madam Doucette, the Negress, the boys, both white and black, and several other servants were clustered about the cookhouse partaking of something hot and delectable. Madam Doucette declared loudly that the cook had outdone herself. I silently commended the woman myself for distracting the lot of them.
I made my way along a wall, cursing the design of the house. If it had been a large English manor, I would have been able to traverse its length via interior corridors well blocked from sight. Here, all was open to the sky, breeze, and prying eyes.
Once I reached an auspicious corner for hiding, I leaned on the wall and considered the architecture from a different perspective. Where could they have put Gaston, if he were in this building at all? There was no cellar. The lower rooms were all used up by the medical facilities and dining room and Doucette’s study. I doubted he would be in the bedrooms upstairs, but I supposed they could have him trussed or drugged. These rooms would be damnably difficult to search, as the lot of them opened onto a balcony that was easily visible from the cookhouse.
I peered out cautiously and found the room we had used. Its shutters were open. Most of the upper rooms were open, except for one. To reach it, I would have to crawl up the stairs and along the inner edge of the balcony.
I crept to the closer stairs. I would be mounting them in the open. Once at the top, I could drop from sight again. I listened; there was still a great deal of conversation at the cookhouse. I peeked out; no one was looking this way. I stepped out and started up the stairs. It was not easy, and I made slow work of it; but I heard nothing untoward as I went. When I reached the top, I collapsed, not entirely due to a need to conceal myself. I knelt there against the wall and caught my breath until the world stopped spinning.
There was a creak and I glanced over and saw a skirt.
“Will?” It was Madam Doucette.
I stayed down and lured her in. She did as expected, and knelt beside me with a gentle hand on my back. I set the pistol down and grabbed her arm with my right hand. I put the point of the dirk under her chin with my left. Fear suffused her features and she screwed her eyes closed and panted. Then I saw the scar again and I gasped.
“Oh, God, I am sorry. I am sorry. Truly, I mean you no harm, and I do not wish to be cruel, but I must find Gaston and I cannot allow you to stop me. Do you understand?”
“Oui. Do not hurt me, please. I beg you.”
“Will you call out?”
“Non.”
I took the dirk away but maintained my grip upon her, such as I was able in my condition. She covered her mouth to hold in the sobs.
“Mistress?” someone asked from the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes shot wide with renewed fear.
“Please, I beg you,” I whispered. “Help me. I just wish to take him and go. Please. You will never see us again.”
“Mistress?” This time I recognized the voice as being the boy’s.
“What is it, Jean?” she asked. Her back was to the stairs, thankfully.
“Is something amiss?”
“Non, non, I just… I am helping… Will… fetch something from his room.”
She made a fine go of sounding normal, but my eyes narrowed at her choice of words. She shook her head subtly.
“Isn’t he wounded?” Jean asked.
“Oui, and a bit drugged, but we shall manage. I need to speak with him, anyway. Go eat some more pie.”
I heard him on the stairs. “But…”
Madam Doucette frowned and her voice hardened. “Must you question everything? I am capable of caring for myself on occasion,” she snapped.
“Oui, madam,” Jean sighed and scuffed his feet off across the courtyard.
She pressed her fingers to her lips again in regret.
“I am sorry,” I whispered. “You can apologize to him later. For me as well.”
“He was here when I arrived; he is… fond of me. I am his first infatuation.”
“Then he will forgive you,” I smiled. “You will help me?”
“Oui, though I am sure you will see that you need not be so concerned.”
“Have you seen Gaston... since…?”
“Non, Doucette said it was best if only he saw him. Gabr… Gaston is… mad, non?
“Oui.”
She seemed relieved I understood this. “The doctor is afraid he will try to hurt someone else. He is in the end room, here.”
I had been correct; it was the one with the shutters closed. I nodded, and she helped me slowly regain my feet. I wished to tell her the truth of it all, but I did not want to risk her cooperation until I saw the state Gaston was in. It occurred to me that he might be in such a state that I could not handle him alone. I hoped Pete and Striker would arrive soon.
There was a lock on the door, and she fumbled with a key ring. None of the keys worked. It was a poor little hasp upon the door, desi
gned to keep the curious out and little else. If I had my health I could easily kick the door open. I shoved a sheathed dirk behind it and pried. She helped me and two of the nails popped loose. We opened the door.
I did not know what to expect. My heart was in my throat. And then I saw him, and a roar started deep in my chest. I clamped my hand over my mouth before I could release it. I was distantly aware of Madam Doucette collapsing to the floor next to me with a sob.
Gaston was gagged and strapped in a heavy chair so that he could not move, not even his head from side to side. He was naked. That was not what I wished to scream about; nay, I wanted to tell the Gods about all the whips hanging about the room so that if he opened his eyes he could not avoid them. Thankfully his eyes were tightly closed. His breathing was ragged and he had clawed the wood of the chair so that his nails were cracked and bleeding.
I staggered to him. He flinched as I neared him.
“Gaston, my love,” I murmured. He made a pitiful sound. “I love you,” I murmured over and over again. I unfastened the gag and he sucked in a great lungful of air, as a drowning man does when at last he finds the surface again. His eyes snapped open. They were wild, but lit with recognition upon seeing me. In turn I recognized the demon of his madness in their depths.
I crawled atop him as best I could, so that I eclipsed all else he could see. Then I worked on the strap restraining his head. I kept murmuring to him.
“There will be no more. You are safe now. I love you.” His eyes did not leave mine. They were filled with fear and horror and not rage, yet.
“Close your eyes,” I whispered. He did as I bade, and I was able to turn my head to release his arms. He immediately clawed at my shoulders.
When I looked back at him, I started with renewed horror. The skin about his eyes was dark, and I had thought it his usual mask; but nay, it was bruised. Yet it did not look as if he had been struck in the face. Only his eyelids were purple and puffy.
“What did they do?” I asked and gingerly touched the area.
“I used the little hooks on that table there to hold his eyelids open,” Doucette said.
Gaston snarled at the sound of his voice and buried his head in my shoulder.
Several things flashed through my mind. I needed to kill Doucette. My back was to the door. Worse yet, it was behind me on my left. The pistol was in Gaston’s lap, so that it could be gripped with my right, not my left. Gaston was still strapped to the chair. Everyone in the house would hear the shot. I did not know what Madam Doucette was doing. I did not know if Doucette had a weapon on me. I did not know if he once again had half dozen men behind him.
Then the yelling began. It was Madam Doucette.
“You monster!” I heard flesh hitting flesh before I could turn. “You are inhuman!” she punched him again. “A pig! A dog! A rabid thing! You disgust me! I hate you!” She punctuated every statement with another blow, and he regarded her with amazement and defended himself. She was doing little damage.
I noted Doucette had a pistol.
“Keep your eyes closed,” I told Gaston and pried his fingers off my shoulder.
He kept them closed, but he did not stop clutching at me; and I could not get my arms free to bring the pistol up.
“Gaston! I must shoot someone,” I hissed.
Oblivious to us, Madam Doucette changed tactics, backing away to yell. “You monster! You said you were helping him as you helped me! You are so damn stupid! How did you think you would get away with this? Did you think they would forgive you? Did you think I would forgive you if I knew? They will kill you! And you deserve it! You bastard!”
Gaston stopped grabbing at me and clapped his hands over his face. I threw myself back, and fell off him and out of the chair. I landed hard and spots danced before my eyes. I tried to focus. Doucette was regarding his wife with wonder and confusion. I got the pistol up and fired. The ball caught him high in the right shoulder. I had nearly missed.
Yvette screamed and dropped to her knees.
Doucette’s face contorted in surprise and shock, and he dropped his pistol.
Jean arrived and threw himself upon Yvette to protect her.
I realized I did not have powder and shot to reload. I scrabbled at the straps on Gaston’s legs while Doucette slumped to the floor.
Then Pete was in the doorway, and it was like looking upon the face of God. I was overcome with relief and salvation for a moment. He grinned at me.
I turned my back on the rest of the room and dealt solely with my matelot again. Gaston had doubled over, and I returned to murmuring things for him as I worked on the final straps. Then another set of hands worked with me, steadier hands.
“Will?” Striker hissed from beside us as he helped ease Gaston out of the chair.
I met his worried eyes and shook my head. “I must get him out of here.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere quiet.”
Someone was roaring in French and I looked up, startled. It was Gaston’s former captain, Pierrot. The man had Doucette off his feet and pressed against the wall.
Right behind them, it seemed as if the entirety of Cayonne was trying to fit inside the tiny room, and they were all angry. There were so many people that someone stumbled on us and had to catch themselves on the chair above my head.
I scuttled backwards for the safety of the corner. Every movement was agony. Gaston was a ball in my lap, and he twitched with every sound. He had some limb of his against my wound.
Then there were hands upon us. Pete picked Gaston up in his arms and lifted him from me. And then Striker and Liam had me on my feet between them. Cudro bellowed and smacked people and drove a path to the door. As we turned to go through, I saw Otter bringing a terrified Madam Doucette with us with Jean as rearguard.
Unfortunately, the balcony along the way was worse than the room. We pressed on. I was in agony; the only thing keeping me conscious was fear. I was afraid that at any moment Gaston would realize I did not hold him, and turn into a feral creature of rage and terrible power.
Cudro led Pete the length of the balcony, to the stairs, down them to the courtyard and across it to the street. We still did not stop. Consciousness began to desert me. Again and again I would slip into velvety darkness, only to have it torn asunder by another lightning bolt of pain, movement, and sound.
Pete stopped and dropped Gaston. We stopped, and thankfully the darkness stayed at bay. Gaston was crouched and snarling. It was as I had feared. I tugged free and threw myself before him. Once again his eyes lit with recognition at the sight of me. The anger did not fade, though. He came and embraced me protectively while casting about.
“Gaston,” I whispered. “My love, you are safe. I am wounded. The ship, we must reach the ship. Let them get us there.”
He pulled back and examined my bandage with deft fingers. It was red in the middle, where it had been clean before. I had torn the stitches in all the movement. His eyes were wide with horror, and I guessed that much of it was remembered.
“Gaston, help me to the ship. Follow Pete.”
He searched my eyes, and I smiled as best I could. His fingers had returned to clutching, but I could see the rage hovering about him.
“All will be well. We are escaping. You will care for me. Be my legs. Let me guide us.”
Clarity bloomed in his gaze, and he nodded.
“We are one.” He helped me to my feet and got his arm around my back.
Liam approached us diffidently with a blanket. I realized Gaston was still naked. He let me wrap it about his shoulders; and then, with me leaning on him, we made our slow way down the street with the others arrayed about us. We now appeared to be over twenty men strong.
Gaston’s eyes darted about and he started at every sound. His breathing was fast and ragged. But he handled me carefully as we made our way to the wharf, and into and out of a longboat to reach the Mayflower. Once safely inside our cabin, he sat me on a chair and tried to push the others out.
“Ask Madam Doucette,” I said, “and let us be for a time, please.”
He nodded.
“Thank you,” I remembered to call as the door started to close again.
Striker shook his head with a small smile; and then he was gone, and there was a door between us and the world, and we were safe. I hoped they would sort it out without us. I leaned on the table.
Gaston had his medicine chest open and was quickly going through various things. When he came to me to cut the soiled bandage away, I touched his cheek. His eyes met mine.
“How are we?” I asked.
He considered this, and finally shook his head jerkily and concentrated on cutting the bandage. Once he had it clear, he examined the wound and apparently decided it did not need more suturing. He applied a clean bandage. He seemed concerned at the puffiness of my belly.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
I thought on it. “Non, thirsty.”
He found a corked bottle and bade me sip only a little. I found I could not hold the weight of it and bring it to my lips steadily. He helped me. I saw his bloody nails again.
“You will lie on the hammock now and stay still,” he admonished as I finished.
“In a moment. First let us see to your hands.”
He examined his broken nails with concern, and allowed me to help him clean and bandage them. He became agitated while we did this, and I saw anger flash with the pain in his eyes as I trimmed the broken sections.
Once that was complete, he searched about and found a coil of rope we used to string the hammocks.
“Bind me.” His eyes had gone hard, and his voice was a growl.
I faced him without fear and shook my head. “You will not hurt me.”
He gave a derisive snort, and his eyes went to the wound.
“You did not intend that. It was an accident. I merely got in your path, when I should not have, I might add.”
“Non.” He looked away, and his breathing quickened. Dozens of things flitted across his face.
“Oui, all will be well, my love. I forgive you.”
He shook his head with more agitation. “Non, you do not understand.” He sounded as he had while bandaging me. “The horse… the horse is running wild. You are all that holds me to this world. You must… hobble me while you sleep. I cannot trust myself.” His eyes found mine again and hardened. “You cannot trust me.”
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