Félicité frowned. Was he suggesting that they might sell Ashanti at some later date? She could never do that, not even if in dire need, not ever. “But Valcour,” she began.
“A most wise thought,” the maid murmured.
“Let us go, then,” Valcour said. “We have wasted enough time already.”
Despite the minutes they had spent teasing themselves over it, they were passed through the Tchoupitoulas gate without problems. The guard barely glanced at Ashanti. His problem this night was apparently not with those few leaving the city, but with those who wished to come in. He was there to prevent the gathering of large, angry groups, not to interfere with the homeward journey of planters who lived outside the wall of the town.
The small boat, little more than a canoe, that was to take them seaward was in its appointed place. The man guarding it stepped out of the dank and insect-infested darkness to guide them to it. Félicité and Ashanti stepped in. The guard, a gruff, bearded bear of a man with the accent of Marseilles, picked up a paddle in the prow, and Valcour, after pushing them off, settled into the stern. In silence, they began the long trip to the gulf.
The bayou on which they traveled wound past the scattered homes of planters, a few glowing like beacons with candlelight, though most were shuttered and still. A barking dog chased them, keeping pace along the bank for what seemed miles, but was probably no more than a few yards. Cattle lowed. Frogs disturbed by their gliding passage plopped into the water with noisy alarm. A family of ducks startled at the water’s edge rose with the muffled flapping of wings. After a time, they ducked to glide beneath a bridge. Beyond that landmark, a wilderness of swampland closed in around them, smothering, concealing.
Félicité lay back against her bundle of clothing and what seemed to be a coil of rope covered by canvas. Above her she could see the drifting canopy of the trees, moss-hung, silhouetted by the night sky with the cool glitter of stars caught in their branches. She was glad of the coat she wore against the October night, and yet she felt, in all truth, neither comfort nor discomfort, gladness nor grief. She did not feel much of anything. This state of numbness could not persist, and yet for the moment it was welcome. Soon would come the time when she must think of all that had happened, of what she was doing, and had done. Soon she would think of Morgan, of the arrogant Irish mercenary in the pay of Spain, the man who had taken her innocence in anger, who had kept her with him by threat, and let her go with compassion.
He had not known she would leave. Would he have stopped her if he had? Would he have tried? She did not know.
That part of her life was over, done. The best thing she could do would be to forget it, to wipe Morgan McCormack from her mind. It should be easy; there was nothing of the long days she had spent with him to remember except anguish and humiliation, sorrow and self-contempt. Yes, to forget was by far the wisest course.
It was not her fault that memory, raw and unappeased, could not be forced to submit to reason.
11
THE RIVER CHUCKLED TO itself, slurping mightily at the lugger that swung on its current, attached by hawsers to trees along the bank. In the baleful glow of the ship’s stern lantern, Félicité climbed the rope ladder let down over the side, following Valcour and trailed by Ashanti and their guide, the last grunting with profane impatience. The masts draped with furled sails spiked upward from the deck. As they stepped aboard they could feel the planking moving underfoot with the calm regularity of a heartbeat. Beyond the range of the flickering light were dark humps of sleeping men, their snores a raucous chorus.
They did not remain long in the open waist of the ship. Valcour refused to wait for the captain to be awakened, sending word he would see him as soon as he had settled his passengers. Morning would be time enough for the amenities for them. Ignoring the stares and lewd growls of the dogwatch over Ashanti’s presence, he bustled Félicité and her maid below.
The cabin to which Valcour led the way along dim corridors was small, being no more than a cubicle with a pair of bunks against one wall, a chest, and a washstand. Félicité was in no mood or position for complaint. After spending the better part of twenty-four hours in a cramped open boat, she wanted nothing more than to stretch out on a yielding surface and let the exhaustion nipping at her heels overtake her. She could muster no reply to Valcour’s sardonic good wishes for her repose, nor could she bring herself to be overly concerned as to where her brother would find a berth. She was only glad when he left them alone.
Day had not broken through the enclosing fog when she was roused by movement in the dim cabin. Her eyes were sealed with fatigue as surely as with copper coins, and the effort to prise them open was too strenuous and chancy to venture. The shout of orders in nautical parlance and the sense of shuddering life through the hull beside her was an adequate explanation. They were sailing, heading out to sea; that much sifted through the gauze of her awareness. It was enough to send her burrowing once more into the deeper layers of sleep.
She could not remain with eyelids shut and mind shuttered forever. The noises of morning gathered beyond her, and she came awake with a sudden upsweep of lashes. Ashanti stirred in the bunk above her, but Valcour, swaying slack-jawed and unwigged in a hammock, slept on.
The puzzle of it knotted her brow as she stared at the squares of refracted sunlight glittering on the wall. Crowded ships were not unusual, especially on the sort of cargo vessel that plied between Louisiana and Europe. To make a voyage as profitable as possible, the maximum amount of space was given to merchandise; it was important, and the comfort of the people who transported it was not. In most cases, only the captain had a private cabin. The two highest-ranking ship’s officers beneath him usually shared the only other available. When passengers were carried, they were strictly segregated regardless of marital status, the men and boys in one set of cramped quarters, the women and girls in another. In larger ships, there might be private cabins available for a price for high-ranking personages, but on smaller ships such as this, no such were to be expected.
What then were they doing with this small cubicle to themselves, she and Ashanti? And why had Valcour invaded their female domain?
The answer to at least a part of that question was obvious after a moment’s consideration. She had come aboard dressed in men’s clothing. Since he was now here, it followed that he had not seen fit to reveal the fact that she was a woman. The question, then, was why? And where did that leave Ashanti, who had, to all appearances, spent the night in this cabin with two men?
She sat up, swinging her feet off the bunk. Above her, Ashanti raised herself also, and with an expressive glance at Valcour, lifted a brow to Félicité. A long glance passed between them. When Félicité swung toward Valcour again, his eyes were open and there was sardonic amusement in their light-brown depths. His gaze drifted to where the open neckline of her shirt, heavy with ruffles, had fallen open when she removed her waistcoat. The soft, blue-veined curves of her breasts were revealed, though she had fallen into the bunk fully dressed otherwise. Never, in all the years she had known Valcour, had she been so aware of the lack of blood relationship between them.
She took a deep breath. Her brown eyes level, she asked, “What is this? Why are you here?”
“How fearless of you,” he drawled. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“I did ask.”
“Very well. This is my cabin, by right of ownership.”
“Ownership?” she parroted.
“I have a — an interest in this — the ship. That being so, it is beneath my dignity to consort with the scum that serve as sailors for her.”
“That may be,” she snapped, “but what kind of privacy can we have cramped together here?”
“Privacy? Who needs it? Aren’t we two cavaliers traveling together, and with a wench to wait upon us?”
“Be serious, Valcour! There is no reason to carry this masquerade further.”
“There’s every reason, ma chère, as you would realize if you
had paid any heed to the gallows bait that is manning this ship. You, and Ashanti of course, are the only women on board, and it is a long way to France.”
“You will be here to protect me.”
Mirth surfaced in his eyes, before the yellow-brown irises turned bland. Ashanti made a small, abortive gesture, though she did not speak. After a moment Valcour said, “I cannot watch fifty men at one time.”
“Fifty? On this small ship? Why so many?”
He shrugged, shifting his gaze to the small high grate through which fell the only light in the room. “I suppose the captain likes company.”
Félicité chewed on her bottom lip. “Is it — really necessary?”
“Unless you are enthralled by the thought of being hounded over this ship like a bitch in heat.”
“That’s all very well, but what of Ashanti?”
His gaze barely flicked over the maid. He folded his slim fingers over his chest. “Since she is attached to us, she should be safe enough — as long as she doesn’t go wandering off into any dark corners. And if she isn’t, what of it?”
It was Ashanti who answered. “You need not fear for me, mam’selle. I have with me a knife. Any man who touches me can expect to lose first his fingers and then — whatever else he may press upon me.”
“You see?” Valcour said. “That is settled, though I must not forget to warn the crew of their danger.”
To Valcour it might be the end of it, but Félicité was undecided. She had played the part of a man for only a few hours at a time, the length of an evening at most. Could she actually hold to the pretense for the weeks it would take to reach the coast of France? She did not know.
The freedom of her nankeen breeches was welcome as she climbed the gangway to the upper decks, and yet in them she felt naked. The material molded itself to the curve of her hips and the length of her thighs. Only the long skirt of her coat, swinging as she walked, concealing the too refined femininity of her form, gave her the confidence to appear in public. Appear she must. Nothing could make her seem more suspicious, more an object of speculation, than remaining below while Ashanti, in common with the other deck-hands, prepared their morning meal in the brick-lined firepit. It was strictly each man, or each pair of messmates, for themselves. There was no cook, and only the captain was singled out for special service, his food being brought by his cabinboy.
Even if that had not been the case, Félicité could not have stayed below. On the deck was the lure of the fresh salt air and the wide expanse of rolling water. Sometime during the morning they had left the muddy waters of the Mississippi behind, and followed by persistent gulls irately screaming, were now heading through turquoise shallows toward the deeper-blue ocean depths.
It was not her first voyage; she had gone once to Mobile with her father. But on that occasion they had kept to the Mississippi Sound, sailing along the coast, never venturing far beyond the sight of land. This time it would be different. Would she be a good sailor? She did not know. On that other trip she had experienced no problems, spending hour after hour at the rail, staring at the horizon, scanning the water around her. The seas could not be depended on to be calm this time. Already they were on a tack that set them heeled over, the bow rising and falling, scattering sea spume on the wind.
The slanted sails thrummed, booming now and again above her while the masts creaked and taut-stretched rigging gave out a peculiar musical hum. From the masthead fluttered and snapped the captain’s private flag, a black raven clutching a skull in his claws on a red ground. Beneath the bird of prey ran the legend Garde le Corbeau, which translated to “Beware the Raven.”
Félicité exchanged greetings with one or two of the seamen who chanced to pass by. Several others eyed her. They were indeed a villainous-looking crew. French, Spanish, Irish, Swedes, Lascars, English, Africans; every nationality under the sun seemed to be represented. Their faces and arms were seamed with scars; many lacked teeth; one was missing an eye and another had only one horny hand. To a man they bristled with weapons, pistols and knives as well as swords. They watched Ashanti busy about the firepit with resentment and a certain cunning lust that stretched Félicité nerves as taut as stay strings. It was a pity Valcour had not thought to outfit her with that indispensable item of a gentleman’s attire, a sword.
“Bon jour, mon ami!”
At the cheerful greeting, Félicité turned to behold the most congenial-looking man she had yet seen among the ill-visaged crew, though that was in some sense a comment on the quality of those thus far brought to her notice. Dark-haired, rakish, he was a well-setup man of perhaps forty-odd years with Latin brown eyes staring from a once-handsome face marked by dissipation and the effects of the rum bottle. The warmth of his greeting and his grin were unfeigned, though there was a flicker of shrewdness in his quick scrutiny. Regardless, the return Félicité made was noncommittal.
“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Capitaine Jacques Bon homme, à votre service.”
The name was a common one, the most common, in fact, in all France, so common as to be definitely suspicious. For all that, it was more than she had thought to provide for herself in her masculine personification. She executed what she hoped was a passable bow to cover her confusion.
“How do you do? I am traveling with M’sieu Murat, as you must know. My name is Lafargue. Fé — François Lafargue.”
“You are a trifle young, are you not, to be seeking adventure?”
She must remember to lower the timbre of her voice. “Sometimes, M’sieu le Capitaine, the position is reversed, and adventure seeks one out.”
“Ah, a beardless philosopher. That should relieve the tedium.” The merry light in his eyes robbed the words of offense.
“Do you make this voyage often?”
His joie de vie was abruptly quenched. “I do nothing else.”
“You seem to have a great many men.”
“Certainement. A fine cutthroat crew, are they not? And I their elected captain, heigh-ho.”
“Elected.”
“For my sins and my beaux yeux, to say nothing of my skill at navigation. I am, in addition, thought to run a lucky ship, or at least a profitable one.”
“I am sure your backers appreciate that.”
“My backers? The Raven has none. What need of we for such when we have a fair wind and the favor of Dame Fortune?”
The Raven. The name tugged at her memory, but she resisted that slight pull, following instead another tangent. “None, M’sieu le Capitaine? I understood that Valcour Murat was one of their number.”
“You must have got it wrong. Murat has no greater or lesser share than any other officer on the ship. He has advanced far in the short time he has been with us, the reasons being his skill in hunting down quarry and his single-minded hatred of the Spanish which lets him smell one below any horizon. Authority he has as ship’s quarter-master, except when the fever of malaria has me in its grip. Only rum will rout the chills and release the talons that this pestilence sinks into my bones. Someone else must lead my crew of corsairs then. Of late, it has been Murat.”
For a stark instant of remembrance Félicité stared, her gaze fastened on his mobile features as they twisted in a wry grimace. Gathering her wits, she leaned forward in a smooth bow. “I would like to hear more, M’sieu le Capitaine, but I see the serving wench has breakfast ready. Perhaps I may speak with you another time?”
“Of a certainty,” the Frenchman replied, amusement tracing through his dismissal as he leaned on the rail to watch Félicité walk away.
Her excuse was valid. She collected Ashanti along with the ship’s biscuits the maid had toasted, the fried salt meat and dried fruit. They descended to the cabin. Allowing Ashanti to go before her, she stepped through the threshold and slammed the bulkhead door behind her. Valcour turned from the washstand, where he was shaving.
“What have you been up to?” he inquired.
“I have been speaking to Captain Bonhomme. Tell me, Valcour, how does
it come about that we have taken passage on a pirate lugger?”
He deliberately finished scraping the side of his face, put down the well-honed blade he was using, and with a length of toweling, wiped away the soap. “It took less time than I expected for you to discover it.”
“Valcour, why—”
He lifted a brow. “It’s a ship like any other. Why pay for passage when it can be had without?”
“And I suppose if we run across a likely prize your friends, or should I say your followers, will run up a black flag and seize her?” So intent was she on the extent of Valcour’s duplicity that she scarcely noticed as Ashanti set down the breakfast tray, twitched a small packet from under the pillow in the bunk where she slept, and slipped from the cabin.
“Our good captain was garrulous, wasn’t he? I never knew pretty boys had any appeal for him.”
She ignored the jibes. “So it’s true. This is where you have been, where you have spent your time, while my father was in prison. Here on one of the most notorious pirate ships to ever ply the gulf!”
“What can you know of it, ma chère?”
“So black is the record of this ship that tales of the deeds committed aboard her penetrated even to New Orleans!”
“Greatly exaggerated, I’m sure. The captain did tell you that I command only on the odd occasion when he is under the weather?”
“Are you trying to deny responsibility for the atrocities attached to this ship’s name? I don’t think you can, not so long as you stayed—”
“Very well,” he grated, “I am of a most callous depravity, hungeringly cruel. Charge me also with incestuous lust, for I want you, my dear sister. I have longed for these many years to feel your soft body writhing under me, and I see no reason now to wait.”
“What—what are you saying?” she breathed, a strangled sound. The blood drained from her face, leaving it white and still. She had meant to accuse him only of guilt by association, for staying with the Raven after he had discovered what she was, for returning to her. His words struck a savage double blow.
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