Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “Mr. Kimble,” said Dominique as she knelt beside him. She dipped the rags in the bucket of water and mopped his clammy forehead. Then she wrung a few drops between his chapped lips. She could feel her husband’s disapproving eyes on her from the adjacent cage. “Mr. Kimble, can you hear me?”

  “Mrs. Aubert,” Kimble mumbled. He licked the cracks in his lips, drinking the drops of water. His eyes fluttered open, and to her amazement, he smiled. “Fancy seeing you down here.”

  “I thought I’d come to call.” Dominique unwound the bandage on his leg. Blood had turned every inch of the linen a foul brown. Flies swarmed away as she unpeeled each layer. Despite her rebelling stomach, she forced a smile. “Glad to find you in high spirits this evening.”

  “Oh, I’ve always been a chipper sort.” Kimble gave a wan smile. His eyes were sunken into black circles. “Mama always said I was the easiest of her babies. Ate like a hungry chick. Slept like a lazy cat.”

  “And got his way like a begging puppy, no doubt.”

  Kimble laughed and then coughed. “Mama would have liked you.”

  The bandage came away, and Dominique gasped at Kimble’s chewed-up leg. Puss oozed from splinter holes in his flesh. Maggots crawled in the stale blood.

  “How bad is it?” asked Kimble.

  “You’re going to be all right, Mr. Kimble.” Dominique lowered her voice to a whisper. “But we need to get you to the surgeon. And we will very soon.”

  Kimble’s eyes perked up. “Has the captain got a plan?”

  “Yes,” she lied. She looked about the courtyard, doing another tally of their captors. Half a dozen guards patrolling among the slave pens in the courtyard. Two or three on each section of ramparts. Perhaps fifteen in all, and probably the same number inside the castle. “Pass the word to be ready. There aren’t many guards, but the men will have to move fast.”

  “But…how do we get out of these cages?”

  Dominique finished wrapping the fresh bandages, then held a ladle of water to Kimble’s lips. As he drank, she said, “I’m not sure yet, but I’ll find a way. Can you get the men ready?”

  The first officer of the Allegheny nodded. His eyes brightened. “You can count on me, Ma’am.”

  “Good man,” said Dominique with a smile.

  After Dominique finished tending to the other wounded, her ever-present captor prodded her back toward her cage. She waited until they were a few paces from any other guards, then said, “Couldn’t I at least have your name?”

  Handsome marched along behind her. He didn’t reply.

  “I only wish to say a proper thank you,” said Dominique as sweetly as she could manage. “The wounded men were grateful to have a little care, Mr.…” She tilted her cheek in his direction.

  In the side of her eye, Dominique saw Handsome looking at her, but still, he didn’t speak.

  Time for a bolder play.

  “Oh!” Dominique pretended to slip on her frayed skirts and dropped to her knees. “Oh dear!”

  Out of reflex, Handsome caught Dominique’s hand. He knelt down to her level, and their eyes met. His eyes held the confidence of youth and military prowess, but they darted nervously from her gaze. Bashful before the ladies, Dominique mused.

  “Thank you,” said Dominique. “You’re very kind.”

  The young soldier blinked for a moment. His eyes slipped down to her neck, and then to the line of her corset. Her skin glistened with sweat in the hot Tunisian night, and she saw his flash of lust. As if waking himself from a daydream, the soldier pulled her to her feet.

  When Handsome tried to withdraw his hand, Dominique held firm. She came close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Couldn’t I at least…” She looked at him through her eyebrows. “…have your name? That is if you understand me.”

  The soldier swallowed, throat flexing below his Adam’s apple. “Aakif,” he said.

  “Aakif,” she repeated. “I’m Dominique. A pleasure, indeed.”

  Aakif hardened his gaze and barked his standard order.

  Dominique started down the aisle of cages, the dozens of sailors watching her pass with obvious concern. Aakif prodded her to walk faster. She had to admire Djedid discipline—they never got rowdy, never balked at an order, never slouched. And when she needed a soldier to give in to temptation, miles from home and women, his face was an iron mask. It was discipline—or fear of Varlick Naim. Dominique’s stomach swam with bile. She knew what she had to do to help Melisande and the Alleghenies, but she dreaded the thought.

  “What did you tell me about swiping jewels from the merchants?” Sully reminds her. His touch is warm as he massages the clay into her palm. His fingertips are rough with callouses but gentle as they caress her.

  “‘Steal with your eyes, not your hands,’” Dominique says. A soothing calm washes over her, and she wants to be in his arms. But whatever they shared in the past, she made a different choice.

  “Convince him with your eyes, and he’ll never notice what’s in your hand.”

  Dominique closed her eyes and took in a breath. She rounded on her escort. Pointing toward the tunnels leading under the ramparts and up to the keep, she said, “I must bring water to the men working.” She held up the bucket. “Please. It will only take a moment.”

  Aarif’s eyes searched nervously. His hands tightened on his musket. After a moment, he sighed and nodded toward the tunnels.

  “Thank you,” Dominique said with a warm smile. “You’re very kind. Very kind, indeed.”

  The young soldier escorted Dominique under the ramparts, through the old Roman battlements, and up the stairs to the castle ramparts. He led her through a side door into what had once been some kind of servants’ quarters. A few broken boards were piled in the corners of the abandoned room. Moth-eaten scraps of blankets or sheets were piled under a window, the warm stench of the lake blowing through. He prodded her down the east castle corridor, toward the southern end of the castle. They were near the entrance to the ruined tower when she again faced her escort.

  “It’s just that…” Dominique laid her hand on Aarif’s, easing his rifle down a little. They were alone in the hall. “I’m afraid of my husband. He’s in one of his mercurial moods, and I fear he’ll be very cross with me.”

  The handsome youth allowed his right hand to slip off the gun and into hers.

  “Couldn’t I stay awhile?” Dominique brought her chest up against his. “I feel so much safer here. With you.”

  Dominique could feel Aarif’s rising heartbeat against hers. He didn’t pull away as she slipped her arms around his waist. She touched her lips to his. For a moment, he stood rigid as stone, his mouth closed tight.

  The musket clattered to the floor. Aarif hooked an arm around her hips and threw himself into the kiss. She tasted pungent spices and stale coffee on his tongue. She resisted the urge to pull away and retch.

  “And while you’re winning him over, it will be no trouble to sign him onto the Chesapeake Run,” says the pirate Pierre Laffite.

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous, Laffite. I’m not some harlot you can peddle to new recruits.”

  Laffite seizes her arm forcefully. “…I don’t care if you do it on your feet, or on your back, but sign him.”

  Aarif parted from the kiss. He looked over his shoulder, checking the hall for onlookers, then turned back to her. Dominique could see his blood was up. Once a man crossed that threshold, only fear of death could pry him from his purpose.

  Dominique batted her eyes. “Is there somewhere we could be alone?”

  Chapter 35

  The Lake Fort

  Grand Tower Suite

  Monday, September 12th, 1803

  Day 3, Pre-Dawn Hours

  Melisande opened the secret door in the wall and crawled into the empty tower room. The place was pitch dark, but for the winking of stars beyond the horseshoe windows and a few coals glowing in the hearth. If one stared into the fireplace long enough, she might begin to see the rumor of a faintly lit
portal—a staircase to Hell. Red light crawled over a table, a tea service, and two armchairs by the fireplace. The door to the balcony hung open, looking across the black lake to the silent shores of Carthage. A part of her felt guilty for leaving Sully, but her princess-of-a-sister was getting rescued whether she liked it or not.

  Good luck, Ole Mick, she said to herself.

  Melisande took the spiral stairs down the tower, careful to check for guards. She crept into the junction of the west and south hallways on the first floor. Only half the torch scones were lit, giving the place the feeling of a crypt. Unlike the night before, she couldn’t hear the footsteps of soldiers or the banging of pots in the kitchen above. There was no chatter, no activity. Only silence. Naim was looking for Sully in Tunis, and most of his soldiers were with him.

  A few shouts echoed through the empty corridors, from the direction of the Great Hall. Melisande dashed to the first door in the hall, which led to the powder magazine.

  Locked.

  She felt along the bandolier across her chest, beaded with wampum and lined with half a dozen knives. She’d sharpened them meticulously on the ill-fated boat voyage from Gibraltar. She had a pair of pistols, but to fire them would be to sound the alarm. Her war club, dagger, and small blades would have to do. She peeked around the corner and saw no one outside the doors to the Great Hall. She stalked toward the sounds of commotion.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Great Hall

  Able Seaman Matthew Meadows dropped the ponderous cask with a heavy boom. The barrel was full of flour and heavy as an ox—a fact his throbbing lower back easily proved. He was first in the line of ten Marines and sailors daisy-chained together by the ankles. More barrels landed on the flagstone floor as the other captives set down their loads. They were stacking the casks of supplies from the docks between the pillars, which rose to a vaulted ceiling. The Great Hall took up most of the interior of the castle, with a mezzanine at the back of the hall, situated beneath a circular stained-glass window.

  The hall was littered with stacks of crates, dunnage chests, barrels, and sacks of dry goods. A Turk soldier walked a few paces away from Meadows, and another toward the back of the line of sailors, each holding a rifle. A third walked among the supplies with a ledger and quill, documenting and itemizing.

  “Move, dog!” shouted a voice behind Meadows.

  Meadows felt the snap of a whip on his back. He winced, still tender from his flogging on the Philadelphia a month ago. The soldier behind him was whipping anyone who lagged.

  “Don’t hurt him!” cried the young man chained to Meadows. It was Seaman Kelham, a tall and stout sailor of seventeen. He usually said few if any words, but apparently he took umbrage at Meadows’ ill-treatment.

  The soldier with the riding crop lashed Kelham across the face. His gold epaulets and a handful of English vocabulary suggested the Turk was an officer, and he had an ego to match. Kelham was a foot taller than the officer, but he shrunk away in fear, covering his face as he took the blows.

  The other captives kept their eyes down and their hands busy. Meadows wanted to stand for the boy, but he knew better. To speak up would only make it worse. When it was over, and the soldier had moved on, Meadows touched a hand to the cowering sailor’s arm. “There, there, Kelham. Thank you for speaking for me, but I think it best you don’t do that again.”

  Kelham’s hands dropped from his face, and he looked at Meadows.

  “Let’s get to our work, now,” Meadows said. “You’ll be all right.”

  The towering young man nodded, wiped his nose on his forearm, and went back to work. The double doors leading out of the Great Hall swung open, and four soldiers tramped in. They exchanged knowing looks with the officer, then split up—two went up the staircase on the right, and two went up the staircase on the left. More soldiers were on the mezzanine, taking cover behind the railing. They were expecting something—or someone.

  Meadows was turning back to his work when he caught the movement in the corner of his eye. A door on the west side of the Great Hall opened a crack. A single eye was looking straight at him within a face painted red and black.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Old Armory

  Dominique wanted to throw up. As the lustful soldier sucked at her neck, her eyes drifted to an iron chandelier. Cobwebs hung from the sconces. Most of the stone building’s upper floors were long since rotted away. A few old weapons racks, piles of rock detritus, and a beaten armor mannequin were scattered about the ruined tower.

  Aarif’s lips worked their way down to her chest. His right hand reached under the folds of her dress. Her stomach swirled with bile. She fought back tears as she feigned a moan. Her whole life, she’d dreamt of being a woman of power, and refinement, and culture. Of wearing fine things, of living in a beautiful manor, of walking the halls of power. She would think of great women like Cleopatra, or Elizabeth I, or Martha Washington. Women who were more than the sum of their beauty or wealth—women of wisdom and culture who inspired great deeds. After all her scraping, and fighting, and sacrifice, where had she ended up? On her back, feeling a strange man’s rough hand on her thigh.

  “Out,” Dominique tells her sister, even though she wants her to stay. “Now.”

  Melisande wipes a tear from her cheek, her expression turning to steel. “Fine. Let him beat you to a pulp. See if I come running.”

  Dominique’s lower lip quivers. Her resolve buckles. “Melly…”

  But her sister is already gone.

  Dominique shuddered at the memory of the fight. She had treated Melisande so terribly. The truth was, Dominique had often taken out her shame on Melisande. And still, Melisande fought for her. For all Melisande’s vices, she would do anything for those she loved. Dominique couldn’t do any less.

  “Is this your first time?” whispered Dominique.

  Aarif looked down in wonder as he lay atop her. He swallowed hard but didn’t answer.

  Dominique flashed a playful smile as she unbuttoned his double-breasted coat.

  Steal with your eyes, not your hands.

  “It’s okay,” murmured Dominique as she parted Aarif’s jacket. She raised his shirt and planted her hands on his chest. “Let me show you.” She pressed her tongue into his mouth.

  Dominique hated herself as her hand slipped below his navel. With one hand, she pulled at the threads of his trousers. With the other, she slowly reached for his hip. Most of all, Dominique hated herself for planning to murder this man. Enemy or not, he hadn’t forced himself on her. He hadn’t even been easy to tempt. Men were often like dogs in heat when it came to pleasure-seeking—but after all, what was it they sought? A woman’s touch. The warmth of another person. What all people needed. As Dominique’s fingers found the small hidden dagger on Aarif’s belt, she knew it wasn’t the blade about to kill him. It was his desire for an affectionate touch.

  Their lips parted. Aarif looked into her eyes, a lick of brown hair plastered to his sweaty brow. A smile played over his lips. Dominique sank the dagger into the side of his neck.

  Aarif’s eyes bulged. His face flushed. He reached a hand to pull out the knife. Dominique cried out as she forced the blade in deeper, the flesh resisting her like a tough hide. Tears streamed down her face as she forced the blade deeper. Her groan of effort turned into a wail of sorrow. She pulled on the blade, but it stuck fast. Hot blood coated her fist. Aarif tried to squeeze her throat, his eyes filled with anger. Confusion. Fear. She sobbed as she pulled the knife free, and blood poured out. Aarif’s grip weakened. His eyes turned lazy, then tired.

  “I’m sorry,” sobbed Dominique. “I’m sorry…”

  Aarif made a soft gurgling sound. His body pulsed once, then twice, as his artery pumped his life onto the floor. Then he went limp.

  Dominique rolled his body off of her. She looked down at her fist, still wrapped around the bloody four-inch knife. She dropped it suddenly and wiped the blood on her dress. Tears flowed d
own her face, and she uttered another cry. She had known killing would be terrible, but the reality was so much worse. At that moment, staring down at the dead eyes of Aarif, all she wanted was to curl into a ball and cry. But Dominique had a job to do. She allowed herself a few more breaths. A few more sobs. And then she was on her feet.

  It only took a moment for Dominique to find the keys, her shaking hands feeling through every pocket of the dead man’s uniform. She held up the iron keyring, recognizing the one that opened the slave cage, among others. Her hands found a grenade at his belt, and she took that too. After picking up his musket, Dominique peeked out into the corridor. No one in the south hall, no one in the east. She headed to the nearest door and, finding it unlocked, let herself inside a dark room. A long table with a collapsed leg dominated the space. Torn and faded tapestries dangled from rusted rods. Light poured under a door on the adjacent wall—the torchlight of the Great Hall. She pulled up her skirts and stepped over the debris.

  Dominique opened the door a crack, giving her a view from the east wall of the massive central room. On the other side of the Great Hall, near the double doors, the Allegheny sailors and Marines worked to stack barrels. Two Djedid soldiers watched them—one of them the lieutenant she recognized from earlier. A third took inventory with a ledger and quill. Her eyes landed on the door directly opposite her. It was open just a crack.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Great Hall

  Melisande peered through the crack in the door and took in the sight of the Great Hall. She saw the chained Allegheny sailors and their three Djedid captors. Only three guards for ten captives. She recognized her messmate from the Philadelphia, the towering “Big Paw” Kelham, among them. She also noticed Meadows, a grey-haired salt shoving a barrel against one of the stone columns. He’d learned that she was a woman disguised as a man, but kept her secret all the same. Meadows looked in her direction, and their eyes met.