Matelots

by W. A. Hoffman

  “We will contact all we know and do likewise,” I assured him.

  He stood and bowed, and with Gaston’s help, I did likewise.

  I sagged back into the chair as he left. Theodore was studying the corner of the ceiling from behind steepled fingers. I knew he was hiding a smile. Gaston was bemused at my side.

  “God loves you,” Theodore said.

  “Someone must,” I agreed. “However, we must search for her. She will be dressed as a boy.”

  “What?” Theodore asked.

  “The lads that came calling the day before last were Miss Vines and Agnes.”

  He was appalled. “You jest.”

  I grinned. “Nay. We must speak to Agnes and see what she knows.”

  “Sir Christopher did,” Theodore sighed. “He said he took her a letter as well, and the girl was quite beside herself.”

  “Damn,” I sighed, “I had hoped… well, we must ask about the ship that left last night, if they booked passage for a lad.”

  “We must do nothing if it includes you,” Gaston said. “You will return to bed. Theodore and I will see to this.”

  I looked to Theodore as Gaston helped me stand again. I found him giving my matelot a troubled look. We did not need any of that.

  “He is well,” I said.

  Gaston looked at Theodore sharply.

  “I am sorry,” Theodore told him. “I am not... familiar with madness. I know not what to expect from you.”

  Gaston sighed. “Expect me to care for Will, when I am not deranged such that I cause him harm.”

  He got me upstairs again and we discovered the bed linen had been changed. I supposed we owed Mistress Theodore a new set, as we had bled all over the last. The table had also been removed, and fresh water put by the door. We owed Sam a “thank you” and a coin as well.

  Mistress Theodore appeared in the doorway. “Will he eat?” she asked Gaston as he maneuvered me onto the bed.

  I considered it. I realized I was a bit hungry.

  Gaston asked that I be brought broth and a little bread. I protested, as I had not been stabbed in the gut this time. He took up the silver mirror from his medicine chest and raised my tunic to show me the livid bruise the size of my hand on my lower back and side.

  “Oh damn,” I sighed.

  I wondered what else I could not see, and then decided I felt my wounds well enough that I truly did not wish to know their nature.

  “I am worried you have suffered internal damage to your organs,” Gaston said. “You will lie still. You will have a little broth, and then a little laudanum, and then you will sleep.”

  And that is what happened.

  It was dusk when I woke again. There was a quiet scratching sound, and a bright lamp on the nightstand, despite the dim golden light from the windows. I looked about curiously and found Agnes sitting beside the bed. She had her feet propped on the side of the mattress, and her sketchbook on her upraised knees. She appeared to be deep at work, sketching me.

  She started when she looked up and saw my eye was open. “You moved.”

  “I am sorry,” I chuckled. “I did not know I was modeling.”

  She smiled. “The bruises and the swelling are… interesting.”

  “I would like you to do a portrait of Gaston someday.”

  She nodded. “Why?”

  “He is scarred. You might find interest in the textures, and I wish to have a lovely portrait of him.”

  She seemed truly intrigued “He is scarred? Hmmm… I will do that.”

  “Where is Gaston?” I asked.

  “I believe he said he was going to go run along the beach,” she said distractedly, her eyes once more upon her paper. “He left me here to watch you and tend to you if you should wake before he returned.”

  “Good,” I sighed. I was damn glad he was tiring his Horse.

  “Has there been any word of Christine?” I asked.

  “Nay,” she said sadly.

  “Did you know she would leave?”

  “Nay, truly,” she sniffled. “I… it is my fault.”

  “Truly? And how is that?”

  She fidgeted with the binding of her book and chewed her lip.

  “You can tell me, Agnes. I will not judge you harshly. You see, I feel it is my fault she left. I feel she felt trapped by my need to marry so quickly. And she did not want to bear children right away.”

  “I suppose there was that, too,” she sighed. “But still, I should have kept my mouth shut. I should not have told her. It made her so angry. She said she felt betrayed. But I could not have her marry you without telling her.”

  I guessed. “That you loved her?”

  She nodded with a ragged sob.

  “She is a fine woman and very deserving of love and admiration,” I said softly.

  “I did not love her in a Godly way,” she whispered.

  I nodded sagely. Agnes’ drawings of her friend had indeed spoken volumes.

  “Did you wish to touch her?” I asked.

  Agnes nodded and the tears flowed down her bony cheeks.

  I regarded her with sympathy. “There is nothing wrong with that. I will not say there is another like her, but perhaps you will meet someone someday who will accept your love.”

  “I do not think so,” she said quickly. “I do not want anyone else. There is only Christine.”

  I could not gainsay her. I know damn well that at fourteen, once the heart becomes fixated, there is no other. Only time would ease her wound.

  “I am sorry,” I said softly. “When I was your age, I loved another as you do, a young boy.”

  This brought her eyes to mine.

  I smiled. “He did not return my affection, either. And it all went very poorly as a result. My heart was broken for a very long time, until I met Gaston.”

  She nodded and wiped at her tears with her long charcoal-smudged fingers. It left black streaks about her eyes, much like Gaston’s mask. It was actually quite fetching.

  “She said…” She glanced at me guiltily and then frowned at her book again. “She said that she could love you, but she could never have you, and that made her angry.”

  “Oh, damn,” I sighed.

  Gaston had been right. I should not have kissed her; of course, if I had not, then we might have married and everything would be a million times more complicated.

  “When did you know you liked boys and not girls?” she asked. Her teeth were worrying her lip again.

  I smiled. “When I was twelve or so, and all the other boys began to talk about girls and I realized I wanted to talk about them. Do you favor girls, or just Christine?”

  “Girls. They are beautiful. Well, all things can be beautiful, but… I want to touch girls,” she finished with a whisper. “And hold them.” She looked up at me with earnest curiosity again. “I do not know what girls can do with one another, though, since neither has a cock.”

  I remembered it would hurt to even chuckle. “Well… women can experience a great deal of pleasure. Do you touch yourself?”

  She shook her head in a little emphatic spasm.

  I suppressed both a sigh and a grin. “There is nothing wrong with it; unless you truly believe the Church on the matter, and if you do, you will most likely never be happy… Touch yourself, find what brings you pleasure, and then someday, when you meet a girl who wishes to be touched, you will know what to do.”

  She was deep in thought. “Where should I touch myself?”

  I was going to pain myself by trying not to laugh. “Everywhere, but you will find some areas are more sensitive than others, such as your bosom, or between your legs.”

  For the first time in our conversation, she flushed.

  I wondered what she would look like with little charcoal smears all about her privates and breasts. Then I wondered what Gaston would look like with the same. Perhaps we should play with the paint he used about his eyes. But, I had discovered by accident that it did not taste very good. A strange thought came to me. Wh
at if I coated him in chocolate?

  The pain of laughter took the breath from my breast, but did not succeed in sobering me.

  “Please get me some water,” I gasped when I could. “I feel a coughing spell coming on.”

  She hurried to comply, and awkwardly helped me drink it. Then I sent her to inquire if there was any more broth or bread.

  When Gaston returned a short time later, I enthusiastically told him, “I want to coat you in chocolate and lick it off. Everywhere, including your member.”

  He was appalled. “Will, I do not know whether I should give you more laudanum or not.”

  “Please.”

  He shook his head and regarded me skeptically. Then he glanced toward my crotch.

  I grinned. “Ah hah, see, you think it an interesting idea too.”

  “Have you done such a thing?” he asked with jealous curiosity.

  “Never. I have considered it only once, and then with you.”

  He shook his head. “You are a fool. It reeks and it is unclean.”

  “It reeks because it is not clean. Perhaps if we bathed them rigorously.”

  “And why chocolate?” he asked.

  “It tastes good.”

  He fought smiling. I renewed my pain with more mirth.

  “Would you like to know what we have learned?” he asked as he prepared the laudanum.

  “Oui, oui.”

  He sat beside me on the bed and helped me with the draught as he explained. “Martin Gershing, a planter’s son, booked passage on the ship that sailed yesterday. Gershing has five boys. They travel to England every year for school. One of them was ill last year and remained here this autumn. The agent did not question the boy being sent to England now that he was healthy. And as it is the cane harvest, the man was also not concerned that none were there to see the boy leave.”

  I smiled. “I would suppose that Martin Gershing is still on his father’s plantation, and they are well-acquainted with the Vines.”

  “They are neighbors,” Gaston said with a grin.

  “Well,” I sighed. “We may assume she is somewhat safe. Has her father been told?”

  “Theodore is there now,” he said with a look that conveyed his relief he was not the one bearing those tidings.

  “There is one that will nearly miss her as much as her father,” I said.

  Gaston regarded me sharply.

  I grinned. “Agnes.” I told him of my conversation with her.

  He shook his head. “The Brisket’s Horse bolted.”

  “Oui, though, judging by the sound management of her escape, she may have been planning this for a time.”

  “Oui,” he sighed. “We will never know. I doubt we will ever see her again.” He shrugged. “As for sailing, though, I encountered Striker today. He wished to know if you could sail two days hence.”

  “So soon?”

  He nodded. “I will purchase bedding for our table.”

  “Ah, good, and a large piece of canvas to cover it so we may have privacy,” I added.

  “Good.” He smiled.

  “So will I be ready to sail? I cannot see why I cannot lie around on a ship.”

  “It will depend,” he said seriously.

  “On what?” I asked.

  “On whether I have bound you to bed and coated you with chocolate or not.”

  I marveled at his lack of expression.

  “You tease me,” I gasped.

  He finally grinned.

  “You mock me,” I added.

  He kissed me gently. “I love you. Now drink this, and go to sleep.”

  The next day, Gaston went about purchasing the few things we would need to rove, and insuring that Agnes had all she needed to live in our absence. He established a house account with Theodore, and instructed him to order whatever art supplies she might request.

  I was tasked with writing my father and all others I had received letters from – with the exception of Alonso, of course. I made short work of writing Rucker and Sarah, as it would be more important for me to respond in detail to the letters they would send after receiving my longer missive from September. I thought it likely their replies to those other letters would arrive in January. In Sarah’s letter, I did express my concern over Shane’s anger, and warned her to be careful. I considered asking her if she was unhappy as a woman, but I quickly realized that posing the question was more of an undertaking than I had time or spirit for.

  As for my father, I told him I understood his desire that I marry and produce an heir, and that I would be happy to consider any prospect he might send. The words, once written, did not sit well with me, but I knew not what else I could say if we were to continue the ruse of compliance.

  So to amuse myself, I wrote another letter to him in which I spoke my mind on the matter. I immediately burned it, but I felt the better for committing the words to paper and thus releasing them from where they smoldered in my heart.

  Gaston returned that evening with Striker, Pete, and to my pleasant surprise, Pierrot. The last I had seen the French captain had been in Doucette’s torture chamber. I could vividly recall him pinning Doucette to the wall by his throat. Today, the man seemed as jovial as he had when first I met him. His expressive face contorted into a comical grimace at the sight of me.

  “My friend, you look horrible,” he said in French.

  I grinned. “You look well.”

  “I feel well,” he nodded in agreement with a thoughtful mien, as if it were a matter of great reflection.

  Gaston helped me sit, and then joined me on the bed. The others sat every which way in chairs. Pete hugged the back of his; Striker sprawled, with his leg crossed and his buttocks and shoulders only barely connected with the wood beneath him; Pierrot sat on his sideways, so that he could rest his left arm on the back. They all looked far more comfortable than I felt. And despite the casualness of their seats, I felt we were up before a tribunal. Gaston appeared very somber, and had barely spoken to me in greeting. I took his hand. He squeezed mine in return.

  “I feel this is not exactly a social visit,” I said in English.

  Pete sighed. Striker nodded reluctantly. Pierrot shrugged.

  The Frenchman smiled when he spoke, and though his English was rough, it was understandable. “I hear you have taken good care of him.”

  “I have done my best,” I said. “I hear there is a great deal of gossip about us among the French, about what occurred with Doucette.”

  “Oui, oui,” Pierrot sighed. “It is sad. I am to blame, as much as anyone.”

  “For?” I asked.

  “The damn man’s wounds.” He shrugged.

  Gaston spoke quickly in French. “Doucette never recovered. He is an imbecile now.”

  Pierrot nodded sadly. “I hit him,” he nodded and shrugged again, “many times.”

  “Damn,” I sighed. That robbed us of all hope of a meaningful revenge.

  “So Île de la Tortue lost its beloved physician, and the Brethren are angry,” I said. “And we are blamed. I mean no offense, but how is it that you are not?”

  Pierrot sighed heavily. “My… part was not a thing I told in the taverns. I am sorry for that. But even those who stood there with us ask why. And I could not answer them. I could not say why Doucette did as he did. I could not say why Gaston hates whips. All I could say is that Gaston is mad. They understand that he is mad. Many hate him anyway. They feel he is like a wild dog that should be shot before he bites. It was best to let it lie. And even those who saw events that day can no longer see truth from fancy. I tell people what happened and they do not believe me. They say I lie to protect Gaston. And then we come here. And I hear Savant’s men talking of Gaston. They wish to seek him here, to make him pay for Doucette. And then the matter of the other morning.” He gave another eloquent shrug.

  “Oh bloody Hell,” I said. “I am thankful we have not been in town long. So what should be done? Apparently we should not sail.”

  Striker shook his head
. “It is not just this time, Will. You will not be welcome the next time, either. In time, you may not be welcome on Jamaica.”

  So we could not hide from it. “So we must combat this.”

  And then I knew I had fought battles like it dozens of times before. I had been paid to do so. I simply needed to view the matter from the proper perspective. I pushed the pain away and with relief realized I might have slept long enough, as the pain did indeed recede enough for me to think clearly.

  “It will not be like it was when we careened,” Striker was saying.

  “Nay, it will not,” I said confidently. “This does not involve superstition. This is a war that can be won, but there will be casualties.”

  They were all regarding me quizzically, even Gaston.

  “Gentlemen, I once did this to earn my keep.” I spoke slowly, thinking over each sentence before I uttered it. “This is no different from any noble court. Public opinion, the mob, as it were, will rule the day. One must sway them. In many situations, such as ours, it cannot be done with truth. The truth is meaningless. There is now one story being spread that is partial truth and partial lie. We must circulate another one, in such a way that all question the first. It is much as Cudro did when Gaston was accused of witchcraft, by telling all that Michaels might have been a witch. You saw how quickly that divided them. And then, Gaston gave them a moment of pageantry that corrected the matter, in that he gave them a truth they could see. The lie was based upon a thing intangible, witchcraft, which cannot be proven or disproved. Gaston gave them his madness and a partial reason for it, which he showed them and thus stirred their hearts. People will believe a thing seen over a thing heard.”

  I had been speaking in English, and Pierrot looked greatly confused, as his English was not sufficient despite the pedestrian speed of my delivery. Gaston was frowning, but he translated my words to French, which only left Pierrot looking as confused as Pete and Striker.

  “What the Hell are you talking about?” Striker finally said.

  I sighed and continued. “I was not playing a proper game of chess when Gaston was accused of witchcraft, and I was unsure of the board, as it were, and the pieces. And, he was accused of a thing that there is no way to prove or disprove. Thus we were able to defeat it with truth. This matter we now face is different. We must defeat it with a lie.