Matelots

by W. A. Hoffman

  “The Damn Cousin is not the only danger,” Gaston said.

  Sarah pulled her pistol from a slit in her skirts. I saw that she had ingeniously suspended it from a lanyard to hang at her side. I had not realized she had it, and I had embraced her.

  “Agnes and I practice quite a bit,” she said. “We carry daggers, too.”

  “We have a roast ham,” Agnes said, “if you are all hungry.”

  “Is there enough?” I asked.

  “We buy for four people, with the scraps going to the dogs,” Sarah said with a sigh. “It will serve a small army.”

  She led us into the front room and went to the sideboard for plates.

  “I have letters I have written for my husband,” she said. “I did not know if I would be able to send them, but… Well, at least the letter I write tonight will not need to be as long.”

  “’Ere,” Pete said, and thrust a sealed missive at her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and regarded it with trepidation.

  “Go on and read it,” I urged. “We can see to ourselves.”

  Agnes nodded enthusiastically and shooed her from the room. Sarah retreated upstairs with the letter.

  “We should wash up,” I suggested, and led Gaston and Pete to the cistern.

  I looked to Pete. I had not known Striker sent a letter, but I had guessed it. I wished I knew what it said before she read it.

  Pete washed his hands diligently and made great work of smoothing the golden stubble upon his scalp. He grimaced as he rubbed his hand over his jaw. He usually kept his beard short and his lip shaved, but he had been lax these last few weeks.

  “We should all shave,” I said casually.

  He nodded but would not look at me.

  We groomed and donned clean tunics, even Pete, and returned inside. Agnes had laid out the table quite nicely, complete with mugs of watered coconut milk. In addition to the ham, we were to have pineapple and cheesecake.

  Pete’s eyes went wide at the food, and he sat gingerly at the head of the table before looking about as if anyone would challenge his choice of seats. As was our habitual inclination, Gaston and I sat beside one another with our backs to the wall so we could watch the doors.

  Sarah had not returned downstairs yet; or if she had, she had since withdrawn again. Or perhaps, my vivid imagination suggested, she had slipped out of the house to escape down the street while we washed.

  Agnes was playing quite the part if she had, though; the girl kept looking toward the stairs with concern.

  We were nearly done eating when Sarah at last joined us. She had been crying. She paused upon sight of us at the table, and then without meeting any gaze, made her way to the opposite end from Pete and sat.

  Pete did not appear to wish to look at her, either, as she filled her plate. I wondered if he knew all the letter had said.

  He stood abruptly and went to his bag to retrieve a familiar oilcloth-wrapped object.

  “WeGotThis,” he said, and presented it to Sarah.

  He did not return to his seat, but stood there, looming over her.

  She opened the parcel carefully and pulled the golden Indian plate from the cloth.

  “Oh,” she said with sincere appreciation. “Rucker has books with crude renderings of this design. It is said to be a calendar. It is lovely, if a little vulgar. The craftsmanship is extraordinary.” She turned it over in her hands and examined the hooks on the back. “We will have to find a suitable place to hang it.”

  “That much gold in Port Royal, “Agnes said. “We had best not hang it close to the door.”

  Sarah was looking up at Pete expectantly. The Golden One seemed reluctantly pleased, and I knew she had passed a test.

  “Pete was quite taken with that plate,” I said. “He convinced Striker to use all of his shares as captain to obtain it when the booty was shared out.”

  Pete grinned. “’EThinksItBeUgly.”

  “Well,” Sarah said quietly with a small smile. “That is unfortunate, since I feel it should hang in the bedroom…” She paused, and looked up at Pete again with trepidation. “That is, if you will have it there. Since it will be… our bedroom too… and…”

  “Aye,” he said gruffly.

  She flinched and he appeared apologetic.

  He glared at us and I realized what we must do. Thankfully, Gaston had the same good sense about the matter and we stood as one. We pulled Agnes from the room a moment later.

  “It is good that we did not appear to be needed after all,” I said in French as we reached the yard.

  Gaston snorted. “Oui.” He looked as if we had just narrowly avoided a harrowing battle.

  “Lord... Sir, what is happening?” Agnes asked in English.

  “As Striker and Pete were matelots,” I said carefully, “and it is sometimes the custom for buccaneers to share a wife, my sister offered to take Pete as husband. Pete has decided to take her up on her offer.”

  Agnes turned back to the house, but stood there tautly, her body a bow unfired; and I keenly felt her need to return.

  “How have you been?” I asked. “Have any of the things you ordered from England arrived?”

  She fidgeted from one foot to the other at the change of subject, but she did turn back to me.

  “I have been well, I suppose,” she sighed. “With no servants, we have had much to do every day.”

  I sighed at this. It was a matter that would have to be remedied. My sister could not be seen as a scullery maid by the planters’ wives.

  “And, no,” Agnes continued, “the lenses and such have not arrived yet, but the apothecary was able to provide me with paint. So I have been painting.” At this last, her mien brightened considerably. “If we can sneak into my room, I could show you. Would you like to see?”

  We professed our interest, and Gaston slipped to the back door to listen. Then he stepped inside. When he returned to our view, he waved us over.

  “They have gone up,” he said, as we passed him in the doorway.

  Agnes picked up a candle from the back room and remarked, “We will need another chair or two.”

  In the dim candlelight I could see enough not to trip as I stepped down into her room. It contained a chair, a large trunk, a shallow desk, several shelves, and a cloth-draped easel. There was a hammock hung in the corner. I silently applauded her not trying to fit a bed into the cramped space, which was truly nothing more than a low shed attached to the back of the house. My head brushed the ceiling.

  Gaston brought a chair from the front room. I did not see where we could fit another in with his and hers.

  “You will need to have a proper room in the new house,” I remarked as I sat on the trunk.

  “There is a room for me,” she said with a smile. “With a large window on the outside and louvered doors on the inside facing the courtyard. Or at least there will be. The land has been acquired, but the men who will build it are working on your house now.”

  “My Damn Wife’s house,” I corrected.

  She grinned and continued lighting a lamp.

  “I do not paint in here,” she said.

  As there was only one small window, I could see why.

  The small space was soon filled with light. The desk was covered with paint pots, brushes, charcoals and the like. She had tacked her sketches up on all of the walls. The shelves were filled with paintings.

  All of her canvases were small, a foot square or less. Most of them were of birds, and crude when compared to her drawings. They varied greatly in skill. The composition was simple and similar to her sketches, which is fine for a sketch but not sophisticated in a painting. Her usual attention to detail was best relayed in her colors, which were very natural. I was sure she had spent great care in matching the hue of each feather. In an attempt to obtain the detail she was familiar with in charcoal, she had endeavored to use very fine brush strokes. On canvases this small, it still appeared blotchy. In time, I was sure, she would refine her technique and work to the
medium instead of trying to recreate her sketches in color.

  She stood aside, entwining her fingers and shuffling about while we regarded her work.

  “You need larger canvases, more paint, and time to practice,” I said. “But you know all of that. Your colors match what I remember of such birds. I am sure you will discover how to make the brush produce the texture and detail you desire. And I have seen far worse hanging in great halls. You have talent, Agnes.”

  She smiled, and the tension left her for a moment until she looked to Gaston.

  I nudged him.

  “I like the raven,” he said.

  It was probably her first attempt, and contained the oddest use of color. The black feathers were streaked with green and blue. In thinking on it, I realized that raven feathers were iridescent in the proper light, much like those of the odd chicken Pete would find and adore.

  “Did he sit to be painted?” Gaston asked of the bird.

  Agnes giggled. “Aye, he surely does. He is often my subject. I bring bits of food for him and he sits somewhat still as long as I feed him. He always seems to know that I am about something, and occasionally he sits closer or behind me, as if he wishes to see what I am doing. I wanted to capture the colors, but…” she sighed. “I do not know how, though I have made several developments since that piece.”

  “And what are those three there?” I pointed at three canvasses wrapped in cloth and leaning in the corner.

  She looked at them and made a rueful face. “Just whimsy.”

  “Come now,” I chided. “Is not all art whimsy?”

  She braided her fingers for a moment, until she decided. She unwrapped the three and then set them up very quickly in front of the others.

  These did not match her drawings at all. They were ordinary objects portrayed in riots of unreal color, with compositions as dramatic as their palette. Her brushstrokes were large and heavily applied, in a rough fashion that sketched the object rather than cleanly delineating it.

  “They are striking,” I said. “In the bird paintings you are trying to imitate your drawing, here, it looks as if you are exploring paint.”

  “I had just gotten the paints,” she said. “The colors are so pretty.”

  “Paint a bird like that,” Gaston said. “There are birds I have seen with those colors.”

  She smiled, but her fingers continued to twine about one another.

  “I want to be able to paint people, like I draw them,” she said while still studying her work, “but when I play with color, it as if I am led by a different muse. You are correct, I do not… find as much interest in these where I have tried to paint exactly what I see, which is how my father taught me to approach drawing. I would love to be able to color a piece such as those, though,” she sighed, and pointed at the sketches on the wall behind her.

  There were two larger pieces among the charcoals of birds and flowers: one of Christine and another of Sarah. They were gorgeous, drawn with an accuracy that made them appear as if she had captured her subject’s image in a fine mirror.

  “Perhaps you will learn to view color differently, or perhaps the muses will lead you to do another thing with color,” I said. “The important thing is to practice and follow your heart.”

  She nodded. “I will stay with painting ravens for now, and not people, but I think I will see where the colors lead me. It is hard to remember I need not fear the cost of the paints.”

  “You need not,” Gaston said firmly.

  My gaze was still held by her remarkable sketches, and I remembered a thing.

  “I wish for you to draw Gaston,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes.

  She nodded amiably. “Now?”

  “If you would,” I said.

  “If I must sit for her, then you shall too,” Gaston said.

  “Agreed.” I grinned. “Without our shirts.”

  Agnes shrugged.

  Gaston awarded me a withering glare, but he shed his weapons and then his tunic.

  “Oh,” Agnes remarked when she first saw his scars.

  He sighed and did not look at her, which was a pity, because her face held anything but pity. She was fascinated.

  Her eyes darted between us and then narrowed as she looked about. “I will need another lamp.”

  She hurried out and I doffed my tunic.

  “I will have her prove you are not ugly,” I teased him.

  He shook his head with that look he always got when confronting my devotion.

  Agnes returned with another lamp, and then made great work of positioning him and the light. I guessed she was seeking the maximum display of the texture of his scars. We ended up with me still upon the chest and him sitting sideways in the chair, his arm draped across the back and his head resting upon it, looking at me.

  She settled in, and propped her feet upon a small crate, with her paper on a board across her legs. Her gaze roamed all over us, but in the way of artists which I had come to understand. She did not see us as people anymore, but as studies of lines and shadow.

  “May we speak?” I asked.

  “Aye,” she said distractedly.

  “Do you speak French?” I asked. I could not remember.

  “Nay, speak it, then I won’t feel I have to listen,” she said.

  I grinned at Gaston and spoke French. “She has developed quite the spirit these last months.”

  “Oui. It suits her,” he said.

  His eyes narrowed with mischief. “In truth, if a thing were to befall the Damn Wife, I would have you marry this one. I feel she would give us very fine puppies: intelligent and talented puppies.”

  I was surprised, and then I vaguely recalled his saying something of the sort before. “You do not see her as an opponent in the least, do you?”

  He smiled. “Non.”

  I glanced at Agnes; she was oblivious to us. Other than my prior laudanum-induced imagining of her with charcoal stains all about her, I had never felt any interest for her.

  “She is young yet,” I said.

  “She is merely skinny,” he said.

  “I have little interest in her, or she in me,” I countered.

  He smiled knowingly.

  I sighed and smiled. “All right then, if something were to befall the Damn Wife, I will endeavor to marry this one and give you intelligent and talented puppies.”

  Then I grinned. “What is she? She is not a centaur.”

  He thought on this for a time. “She is a dryad.”

  I liked that: there was something very much like a tree in her long limbs and fingers.

  “Hold your faces still,” she said suddenly.

  Gaston and I gazed upon one another as we first had in the room in Puerto del Principe, but this time there was much mirth leavened into the love in our eyes.

  Finally, with a heavy sigh, she stopped working at her furious pace; and she sat back and stretched.

  “May we move?” I asked.

  She nodded, her eyes still on the piece. She made some small smudges here and there, and then eyed it again with her head cocked.

  Gaston and I stretched.

  “It is not my best,” she said. “I would need more time, and I was attempting to do too much to do parts of it true justice, but…”

  “Hush,” I chided gently. “Let us see it and judge.”

  With another sigh, she turned the paper to us.

  Even though I have sat for two painted portraits, and with my habit of associating with artists, seen many a sketch of my likeness, I am always surprised to see myself rendered on the page. Thus, I regarded her work with surprise, but that alone was not what held the breath in my lungs for a time. Agnes was truly extraordinary, and possessed of an uncanny ability to capture a subject.

  The piece showed both of us above the waist. I sat with my back to the left edge of the page, as if I leaned back upon it while gazing at Gaston, who occupied most of the right side of the paper. I was seen in a three quarter frontal view, whereas Gaston
was seen from behind at the same angle. She had shown only a crescent of his face, while spending great detail upon his left arm and back. There, she had rendered beautifully the way the scars appeared as a cat’s stripes upon his flesh. The chair he was draped over stood between us. It appeared as if it kept him from me. And even more, as if he were reaching for me over it. All the while, we gazed upon one another with love I would not have thought possible to capture, especially since not all of Gaston’s face was available in the picture.

  Gaston took a long shuddering breath, and I looked to find him nearly in tears.

  Agnes seemed dismayed by his reaction.

  “It is beautiful,” I said quickly to ally her fears. “We will wish to preserve it.”

  “Truly?” she asked, her eyes flicking to Gaston.

  “He is overcome,” I said gently. “He has not seen himself captured thus before.”

  “Nay,” Gaston whispered. “I have not.”

  He stood and kissed her lightly on the temple before leaving the room.

  “He feels he is ugly,” I said quietly in his wake.

  She frowned. “He is not.”

  “I know.”

  She smiled. “I will take very good care of it for you until you return.”

  “Thank you.” Then I too kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  I took up the candle and our weapons and tunics, and left her. I found him in the front room sitting in the dark. I set our things on another chair and the candle on the table, and went to kneel before him with my arms on his knees.

  “I am not ugly,” he whispered as if it were a wonderment.

  I grinned. “Did you truly think me blind or delusional?”

  His smile was slow in coming. “Oui.”

  I chuckled.

  He leaned down to kiss my forehead. “Thank you.”

  I kissed his lips, and then let mine trail down his body, showing him how very beautiful I found him.

  We woke to my name being called. We had crawled under the familiar table to sleep. Sarah now stood beside it in her nightgown, with bare feet and a lamp. I glanced at Gaston; he thankfully did not have a pistol aimed at her. Now that we knew it to be she, he lay back with his hands behind his head. I rose on my elbow to regard her.