I went to peruse the Negroes before they were locked away for the night. They were a sorry lot. Though not yet as thin as the bondsmen, none appeared healthy. I was damn glad I was fortified with rum before I had to meet any of their eyes. Not that many would look me in the eye. The few that did were whip-scarred, and I found shameful irony in that.
As they were led away, I turned on Donoughy. I did not dance about the matter, choosing a clean thrust instead. “I wish for the Negroes to be instructed in English and the ways of Godliness, and I want that garden plot planted and men eating what it produces.”
I could see the “nay” hovering about his lips and eyes, but he was too clever to let it settle.
“My Lord,” he started carefully. “You can’t teach them…”
“Why,” I asked, “because they cannot learn, or because they will then be able to understand all that is said and speak amongst themselves?”
“Both,” he said.
“Did we not once have a discussion as to well-used men…?” I asked.
“These are not Christian men,” he said firmly. “You cannot expect them to ever behave like good men. They are savages.”
I smirked. “And I believe the Greeks thought the same of the Romans… But that is what truly scares you.”
He did not know enough of history to understand my reference. He regarded me with mute anger.
I sobered. “They are men, much like any other. They differ from us in the color of their skin and the way of their customs, just as the yellow men from across the sea, and they have huge cities. We know nothing of where these men come from, of what they know, or what they can learn, because we cannot talk to them to discover it. And there are Negroes all over Port Royal who can speak English.”
He chose a different tack and his brow smoothed a little as he tried it. “My Lord, we cannot spare them. Teaching takes time.”
“They are not doing anything right now, are they? They can learn English by torchlight.”
He sighed. “And who will teach them?”
“Fletcher,” I said.
He did not speak it, but his shoulders told me of his capitulation.
“Now about the other,” I said cheerily. “What are your arguments there? Surely you have eaten food grown on this island.”
“Aye,” he said tightly. “But we cannot…”
I fanned my ire a little. “Afford it or spend the time growing it, aye, aye, aye! Well, let me lend another perspective to that. Those bondsmen cost my father, what, thirty pounds apiece, at least? And how much for the Negroes, and how many are dead and gone and that money lost?”
“It wasn’t bad food that killed them!” he said vehemently. “Men die just coming here… my Lord.”
I kept pressing. “I know of the diseases here, Donoughy. However, I was told in England that many of my bondsmen would die in the crossing, but I insisted they be well rationed, and behold, only three died on the voyage, and they were already sickly. And I have seen men die of the flux here because they were treated poorly when there was a better remedy. I question English wisdom concerning how one must live in the tropics, or anywhere beyond England for that matter. I swear, if the lot of you were foxes innocent of the ways of men, you would starve if placed in a barnyard because the chickens would not look like quail, and you would freeze in the rain because the underside of a coop did not appear exactly like a fallen log.”
He had crossed his burly arms, but his face was thoughtful. “You will take responsibility for all of this?”
“Donoughy, my father will blame me no matter what happens. And so you know, he has little love for this endeavor. It was an interesting diversion, perhaps, but I truly feel he expects no return on his investment now. He merely wishes this place to be a… point of leverage as regards my behavior.”
“What, my Lord?” he asked.
“He has offered it to me if I do his bidding on another matter.”
He regarded me speculatively. “Will you do his bidding?”
I scratched my neck and sighed. “It appears I may yet. The ways of it are a mystery at the moment, but my feet seem to be set upon that path.”
This seemed to change his demeanor considerably. “All right then, my Lord, we will grow food and teach the Negroes English.”
I cursed my stupidity for not starting with that aspect of the argument.
Gaston had been standing nearby, listening. As we returned to the others, he slipped to my side. “It only provides leverage if you allow it,” he whispered in French.
“It only provides leverage here if I allow them to think it will,” I replied in kind, and then I stopped and met his gaze. “You are the only person who has a lever long enough to move me on anything.”
He nodded solemnly.
The evening meal was served, and we all sat about and talked. Since they had honored guests, several bottles of rum were opened. I found them often in my hands.
Gaston did well. He kept me between him and all others and spoke little. I spoke a great deal, all of it meaningless, as I have learned to do in such situations. In time, it was much as it had been when we sailed here together. They all asked what we had been about and were disappointed to learn we had done little these past months but hunt and read, and that we had not suffered another shipwreck or the like. I did tell them of coming upon the galleon in the fog, and they enjoyed the tale immensely.
At last we were able to retire. We walked into the night and away from the light and smoke of the fire. I was pleased Gaston had possessed the presence of mind to slather us with hogs’ fat to prevent our being eaten alive by the ever-present cloud of insects. I would not have thought of it. I was now quite pleasantly drunk.
Many of the men graciously offered the use of their huts, and we declined as gently as we could manage and retreated to the mule shed where our mounts were. At first, the smell of horses was reassuring, and then old memories intruded and I regarded the pile of hay on which Gaston dropped our bags with dismay.
“We should sling a hammock,” I slurred.
He shook his head slowly. “Non, this will be fine,” he assured me as one would a child, or properly in my case, a drunk.
“I cannot share hay with you,” I said sadly. “Not even you, who I surely love more than life itself.”
He sprawled on his back on the mound and regarded me curiously.
“The first time with Shane was in a barn in hay and… we trysted often in the stable, and I…before it was bad. Still it evokes the evil. The smell and sound of it. I…”
He stood and embraced me. “I wish I could obliterate all trace of him,” he whispered in my ear. “I wish I could reach into your heart and cut away every memory.”
The room swam, and I clung to him. “I wish you could, too.”
“Where do you wish to sleep?” he asked in a gentler tone.
“In your arms, but not in straw.”
He led me outside and leaned me on the wall. When he returned with our things, including the water he had boiled, he burdened me with the bags and my weapons, and took my hand and we walked away into the moonlit forest. Despite the celestial light, I could see nothing beneath my feet. I let him take me where he would. At last we stopped at the site of the proposed house, on the hill overlooking the river. I was intoxicated enough to feel unease that we must have passed so close to the graveyard, and just sober enough to know my fears were absurd, all of them. He pulled me down into his lap, and gave me a bottle of water. I drank as much of it as I could manage. Then I curled against him and slept.
I woke to yellow light from the horizon. I was pleased to discover my head did not ache overly much. I rolled over, and found Gaston playing with the onion bottle the water had been in. He grinned when he saw I was awake, and motioned for me to join him. I received a sweet kiss for the effort of sitting up.
“What are you about?” I asked: slowly, as the words took time to think, and my mouth was slower still in producing them.
He held up
the bottle, mouth down. “This is your anal passage.”
I blinked. Perhaps I was still dreaming.
“What are we discussing?” I asked.
He took a wad of hog’s fat, and stuck it to one side of the neck of the bottle, so that it formed a lump. “That is the organ inside. Thus, this side will be the front of your passageway.”
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Go on.”
He picked up a stick as long as his hand. “This is a penis.”
I was beginning to grasp what he might attempt to illustrate. I nodded.
“How did you receive the Spaniard?” he asked.
“On my back, with my legs up: so that I could always see him.”
He positioned the bottle on its side, with the lump atop the neck. Then he poked the stick inside the mouth and wiggled it about. He nodded to himself.
“Did he stay upright? Or did he lean toward you?” Gaston asked.
“Both. When he leaned toward me, I would draw my legs up to my chest on either side.”
Gaston nodded and imitated these movements with the bottle, thrusting the stick in and out. “Here, see, it does not touch the lump from that angle.”
I did see. The stick scraped along the back side of the neck, across from the lump.
“And the Damn Cousin?” he asked gently.
“Always from behind, usually standing, or close to it. He would push me over things, but I would be bent at the waist, not below.”
Gaston held the bottle upside down, with the lump away from the hand holding the stick. He thrust the wood in the mouth again. If he did not push it straight up, it brushed the lump. I understood.
“He would thrust forward, not up,” I said.
Gaston adjusted the angle. The stick poked the lump every time. It rammed it, and then slid up the wall of glass above.
“We will never use that position,” he said, as if it were but a curiosity.
I regarded him, and mischief tugged at me.
“What position do you wish to use?” I asked huskily.
His eyes widened, and he actually flushed. I was greatly heartened by the sight.
He awarded me a look of remonstration.
“Non,” I shook my head. “Do not look at me so. You are the one rattling sticks about in bottles when I am piss hard.”
His lips quirked a little. “Will,” he chided, “that part of you is never at rest.”
“I beg to differ. You only feel that because it always stirs in your presence. When you are not about, it is not either.”
He smirked. “And what do you hope to gain with your flattery?”
“An answer to my question. How do you wish to take me?”
With another remonstrative glare, he tilted the bottle forward, so that the lump was down, and the neck was at an angle, such that the mouth was a little higher than much of the bulb. “On your hands and knees, or perhaps elbows and knees,” he said quietly. He put the stick in and it slid along the back of the neck, away from the lump.
He was going to be the death of me, always making my heart pound so. As I envisioned his words, my member stirred beyond its morning needs. I could see myself kneeling before him, presenting him with my arse. He would grasp my hips and thrust. I would cling to the headboard and whatever else I could reach. It was a thing I had seen and done unto others, but I had never experienced it.
“I would be delighted,” I assured him. “Whenever you wish, please.”
He chuckled, and leaned over to nip my lips. We kissed.
“What do you fantasize about?” he teased.
I gave it serious thought. “On my side. With my leg up. You either lie behind me, or atop me from the side. The position does not allow for great depth, but it does allow for… kissing, and other caresses.”
He kissed me again, and then he was pushing me onto my side to demonstrate. He slid his knee under my leg, and pushed it up, until his groin was where it should be. I let the pleasure flow through me as his free hand roved about my chest and dipped to my member. Supporting himself with one arm, he humped away at my hip and handled me with practiced ease.
I attempted to imagine how it would feel if he were inside me. I discarded all of the memories of pain from my times with Alonso, and concentrated on the brief moments when it had promised great pleasure.
When I came, Gaston lowered himself upon me, and milked me with rhythmic squeezes, until there was no pleasure left and I was only possessed of the lingering need to relieve myself in other ways. His hand was still on me. I looked up questioningly, and he awarded me a daring grin.
I had never pissed while held by another. I took his dare, and willed myself to do it. After a second’s confused hesitation, my member decided that, though the hand upon it may have been unfamiliar and possibly unacceptable, the action was necessary. I watched the stream arc away and puddle on the dirt with amusement. Thankfully, I was a little uphill of it, as I was surely too tired to move.
“I am now empty,” I said, as he shook the last drops away.
“Truly?” he asked with a grin.
“From that organ.”
He chuckled and stood, pulling me up with him. He regarded the separate puddles of jism and urine.
“The building site can now be considered either blessed or defiled,” he said.
I laughed. “Last night I decided that any home we place a wife in will not be near this foul place of pestilence.”
“I think that wise,” he said soberly.
“We should go back,” I sighed. “They are surely awake now and wondering where we are.”
He shrugged. His mien was devoid of humor. “Let them think what they will.”
I wondered at his change of mood and spoke lightly. “Oui, as I am sure they will think nothing even remotely close to the truth. I sincerely doubt they are harboring fantasies of us running amuck in the woods playing with bottles and sticks.”
This brought a reluctant smile to his lips, but then he shook it away with annoyance. “Non, because they think little, if at all.”
“How shall we proceed with our regimen this morn?” I asked, while eyeing the sun rising over the Blue Mountains to the East. “I feel I have accomplished my part.”
“Oui, I will excuse you of further diligence on the matter. I performed calisthenics before you woke. And…” He stooped and picked up the sack with the whip. “I contemplated this a great deal.”
“Did you sleep at all?” I teased.
He smiled wanly. “Some.”
He was regarding the sack he held at the length of his arm. He swung it a little.
“Do you feel you accomplished anything of merit with your contemplation of that?” I asked. “I feel your being able to heft it an advancement.”
He nodded. “Oui. I feel… I should perhaps learn to wield it. That it will not suffice to merely become inured to its presence, but that I should master it.”
“Yesterday, during your ministrations, I came upon a metaphor for my increased accommodation.” I explained my image of dueling with Shane, and how I was not submitting, but battling.
He was smiling and nodding when I finished. “I may envision flogging my father.”
I frowned. “But… I thought you forgave him.”
“I do.” He shrugged. “But I can think of few others I would want to strike with one; and he deserves to know how it feels.”
His smile was as bright as the newly risen sun, and I laughed with him.
We gathered our things, but paused before walking back toward the buildings below. I glanced at him curiously, though my feet were no more willing to move than his. The laughter was gone, and he had once again descended into somber annoyance in contemplation of Ithaca.
“I feel we are done here,” I said to reassure him. “We need not stay long.”
He nodded, his eyes still on distant thoughts. “Much will change once we own this place.”
His we filled me with unexpected happiness. We had settled on a new course, had we no
t? And perhaps it was much like battling the ghost of Shane. We would duel with my father. Our objective would not be to defeat him, but to feint and distract him from standing in the way of a goal we wished to achieve. It was a thing a wolf such as he could never understand. I was not even sure how to name our destination, but I could see the doorway to it lying somewhere beyond my father and the confines of English societal expectation.
I grinned. “Oui, we will not have slaves.”
“And we will not grow sugar,” he said. “It is vile. We will grow some useful crop.”
“I agree most heartily. So we had best be getting on with the wife and heir business, before these men waste a great deal of time building mills and the like that will never be used.”
He smiled at me with a regard that warmed my soul, and I took his hand and led him down the hill. I supposed we would learn soon enough if the Gods favored this new course.
Thirty-One
Wherein We Meet a Formidable Opponent
We said our goodbyes at Ithaca, and made regrettably fast work of riding to the Byerly farm to fetch Cedric. The boy accompanied us to the Passage wharf, and there we left him to return the horses to their lazy existence.
We reached our house by early afternoon. No one was there except for the dogs. Much of the debris had been cleared, from the interior of the building at least. There was now a large pile of garbage in the yard. I hoped it would soon find its way onto a cart and out to the Palisadoes. Bella seemed pleased to see us, and she happily chewed the new bone we had brought her while we rolled about in puppies for a time.
Then we were off to Theodore’s. He was with a client when we arrived. We stowed our things in our room and ate some pie not destined for Pete.
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