Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  Ryland glanced around as if the walls had ears. He kept his voice low. “Have you spoken to the captain?”

  “I was just on my way to see him. Why?”

  “I presume you know he’s gone up to the tower then?”

  The thought made Dominique shiver. She imagined her husband in Varlick Naim’s suite at the highest point of the fort. Aubert might even be standing in front of the hearth, as Naim had done. Or he might be sitting at the very table where Angele had screamed under threat of rape. In all the castle, how could Aubert choose such macabre headquarters?

  “Yes,” Dominique replied. “The room once occupied by that…frightful man. I can’t say I like the idea.”

  “I was hoping you might speak to your husband on our behalf,” said Ryland.

  “Me? Why? You’re one of his officers. You don’t need my help.”

  “In fact, I do. The captain…has asked not to be disturbed.”

  “I see. What do you need?”

  “I am doing what I can to prepare the fort’s defenses,” Ryland explained. “I’m having the men strategically position what few guns we have. We’re distributing weapons and powder. I’ve also assigned regular patrols of the ramparts. The captain put me in charge of our defense, but I had hoped you might convince him to come down.”

  “It sounds like you have everything in hand, Mr. Ryland. Why do you need Richard?”

  “I’ll be frank with you, Mrs. Aubert.” Ryland quieted as four Marines exited the nearby door of the powder magazine, arms full of gunpowder bags. He waited until they passed. “The Allegheny crew watched the Wolf of Tunis kill their brothers-in-arms. They watched from boats as their ship sank. And until an hour ago, they were all slaves in cages. I trust our mutual friend Mr. Sullivan to get us off this island. But if we’re to hold out for evacuation, we must be ready to defend against a siege. Morale is low. A few words of encouragement from the captain would go a long way.”

  Dominique folded her arms, eyes tracing the cracks in the castle walls.

  “And in fact,” Ryland went on, “it’s of some detriment to morale for a captain to be mysteriously absent.”

  “I’ll speak to Richard.”

  “Thank you, miss.” Ryland put on his bicorne hat. He started back the way he’d come.

  “Mr. Ryland,” said Dominique, causing the lieutenant to turn around. “I have a question.”

  “Aye?”

  “How did it happen, anyway? Our loss of the ship?”

  “Ah—effective strategy, really.” His eyes searched the ceiling. “The Allegheny was a larger ship with more guns than the Wolf of Tunis, but the Genny’s guns were all smashers—powerful, but short range. The Wolf stayed at a distance, firing her long guns. She was too fast for us to catch, and she danced around us poking holes below our waterline. Uncommonly good seamanship and gunnery, for Barbary Pirates, anyway.”

  “Actually, Mr. Ryland, I was more interested in how the Minerva sank—the one with all the bey’s treasure.”

  Ryland was silent for a long moment. His eyes darted away from hers, and he replaced his hat. “Apologies, Mrs. Aubert. But that is a question for your husband.” With that, Ryland set off down the hall.

  Dominique rounded the corner, ready to ascend the tower, but she found Melisande in her path. Her sister still wore the dirt, paint, and blood of her midnight mission. She was leaning against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, smacking on a date.

  “So, Riley wants you to talk to Fancy French, eh?” Melisande popped the rest of the date in her mouth and licked her fingers, which were still covered in black grime. “Better you than me.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call him that.” Dominique closed a hand over her nose. Her sister was rank with sweat and fetid water. “The men need someone to bring their captain down from the tower. You helped us take the fort. Now we’ve got to keep it.”

  Melisande sucked at a peel between her teeth. “Leave that poofy twit where he is. We don’t need him. Sully’s our man. He’ll get us home.”

  “If we lose the fort before Sully gets back, we’re not going anywhere.”

  “Sully always comes through—Fancy French will just get in his way.”

  “The men are facing long odds.” Dominique planted a fist on her hip. “They need strong leadership to pull together. Richard is here—Sully isn’t. Honestly, Melly, you fail to grasp the most obvious points of military command.”

  “Ha!” A glob of half-chewed date flew out of Melisande’s teeth. “And who are you now—General Cornplanter himself?”

  “Don’t ever say that vile name!” Dominique’s skin crawled at the mention of the Seneca war chief who led the attack on Cherry Valley. The attack in which their birth parents were slaughtered. Dominique started up the tower stairwell. “You’re as incorrigible as ever.”

  Melisande shoved off the wall and called after her, “You’re a damn fool if you go up there, Dom. It’s only a matter of time before that bastard hurts you again.”

  Dominique paused, still holding up her skirts for the climb. She didn’t look back at her sister. “I can take care of myself, Melly! My marital disagreements are between me and my husband.”

  Melisande scoffed. “I fight a dozen Turks and slog through a river of shit to save you, and this is the thanks I get? I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Please…” Dominique closed her eyes. Every bone in her body ached, every muscle was tense. Her emotions felt like a single raw nerve. She’d felt the same tremor in her body since the battle. Since she’d killed a man. “I don’t want to fight, Melly. I’m grateful you came for me, I am. The truth is, I feel safer knowing you’re here. And…and…I’m glad you’re safe. So just this once, what do you say we…”

  Dominique turned around, but her sister was already gone.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Second Floor Chamber

  Bubbles fluttered before Melisande’s eyes. She held her breath as long as she could, watching them rise, listening to the silence of the underwater world. When she could stand it no longer, she burst into the cool air of the Lake Fort. Steam rose off the washtub and fogged the surfaces of the bedchamber—a few broken bed frames and an empty chifferobe. She picked up an worn Ottoman looking glass from a nearby stool. By the light of a candlestick, Melisande looked at her own face for the first time in months.

  Short black hair feathered across her slender eyebrows. Her pale blue eyes gleamed in the flickering light. With the dirt and paint washed away, her soft cheeks and rounded jaw were restored to beauty. There was neither coal soot to disguise her as a boy, nor rouge to beautify her cheeks. For the first time since departing Philadelphia disguised as “Michael Dufort,” Melisande looked like neither warrior nor enchantress. She looked like Melisande. A smile parted her lips.

  A knocking came at the door. “You all right in there, lass?” said Old Man Meadows, his voice conspiratorial. He was one of the able seamen transferred from USS Philadelphia to the Allegheny. He’d been standing watch at the door. “We mustn’t tarry, now.”

  “Can’t I have a little longer?” sighed Melisande, watching herself pout.

  “It’s been half an hour. The lads will get suspicious if I’m gone too long.”

  Meadows had procured hot water from the kitchen and a private place for Melisande to bathe. She had taken persuading at first—now she didn’t want to leave the water. He was the only sailor aboard the Philadelphia who realized she was a woman, and as her friend, he’d kept her secret. To abuse his generosity now didn’t seem fair.

  “Keep your skivvies on.” Melisande set aside the mirror. She stood up, suds running down her taut body. The water in the tub was a gray soup. “I’m on my way.”

  A few minutes later, Melisande emerged into the stale air of a corridor leading to the kitchen. The old man leaned on the wall, his back turned. He wore the same striped shirt and dark kerchief as her. He turned around, smiling when he saw her.

  “Well, I’ll be dressed
to the nines!” said Meadows. “You’re shiny as a minted eagle.”

  “Aye, aye.” Melisande scratched under her shirt at the linen binding her womanly figure. “Don’t try to flatter me, old man. It wasn’t my idea to dress up like a boy again. Why the hell does it matter, anyway? Every sailor here saw the real me.”

  Meadows scoffed. “Are you jesting, lass? They saw an Indian brave making bloody work of those Turks. They didn’t know what to think until I told ’em.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “That our own tobacco-spitting, war-club-carrying Seaman Michael Dufort did just like on that gunboat—gave the Barbary Pirates Hell. You’re more popular than ever.”

  Melisande groaned. “I was just starting to like being a woman again. I’m not even going back to the Navy. Why should I keep the disguise?”

  Meadows threw an arm around her shoulder and walked her to the kitchen. “It’s how the lads know you, and they’re still none the wiser. As Michael Dufort, you can join your old berth. Be one of the boys again. Help us in this fight. At least until this ordeal is over.”

  “I can help as Melisande Dufort. If them knowing I’m a girl means they don’t want my help, well I don’t give a cuss. I’ll kill ten pirates to their one.”

  “I believe you, Dufort.” Meadows scratched his curly hair. “It’s not that they won’t like you—it would be a shock, to be sure—but they’d warm to the idea. It’s that once you become a woman, you can never go back—after this fight, you’ll be out of the Navy. Why throw that away?”

  “I hate boats. I hate the sea. I don’t like taking orders and I’m always seasick. I like the beans and climbing rigging. But no women anywhere and stinky men everywhere.”

  “But you like your shipmates, right?”

  Melisande pouted. She didn’t like where this was headed. “Yes.”

  Meadows stopped short of the kitchen door, a beguiling smile on his face. “Look at it this way: If you try it for a day and change your mind, I’ll fetch you a dress and slippers myself!”

  Melisande scoffed. She brushed past Meadows. “That’ll be the day.”

  The smell of burning rice assaulted Melisande’s nose. The heat of the iron stove filled the castle kitchen with heat. Five men crowded around a bench covered in flour and grains of bulgur. They dropped their conversation and looked in her direction. There was Midshipman Merrick, the shy, twenty-something whipping boy of the other officers. A tall Marine she didn’t recognize. A gapped-tooth powder monkey, only ten years old, named Eric Long. Gabriel Sawyer, the fiery red-head with an English accent—and incidentally, Lieutenant Ryland’s secret lover. And finally…

  “Dufort!” said Big Paw Kelham in his soft, deep voice. He was tall as a horse and thick as an ox, and yet often the butt of teasing. He immediately took a liking to her back on the Philadelphia, and she gave him the nickname “Big Paw,” after the Tuscarora legend of Nyah-Gwaheh. As Melisande had once explained to him in the middle of a storm, Nyah-Gwaheh—the Naked Bear—was a terrifying monster to everyone else around the longhouse fire. But to Melisande, he was a friend she longed to meet. The giant seventeen-year-old lumbered toward her, his smile ear to ear. “Dufort! You’re back.”

  “That’s right, boys,” said Melisande with her usual bravado. “Your ale-guzzling, ballad-singing, war-club-wielding messmate Michael Dufort has returned from adventures on the high—”

  Melisande’s words vanished as Kelham lifted her into a bear hug. Her feet dangled helplessly as he lifted her up. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Dufort. I missed you.”

  “I missed…you too…” wheezed Melisande. She patted his arm. “Maybe you could do your old chum a favor and…loosen your grip a mite? You know…so I can breathe and all…”

  “Oh,” said Kelham sheepishly. He dropped her and she stumbled for balance. “Sorry.”

  The others were already crowding around Melisande, their excited chatter competing for her attention.

  “Where did you learn to fight like an Indian?” asked Midshipman Merrick.

  “Tell us about your voyages with Bloody Sully!” asked little Eric Long.

  “Did you make that war club?” Gabriel Sawyer wanted to know.

  “You must’ve killed twenty men, single-handed!” said the Marine.

  “It wasn’t twenty.” Melisande swept hair from her eyes, pretending modesty. “It couldn’t be more than…eight…”

  “That’s enough, lads,” said Meadows. “Give Mr. Dufort some space. There’ll be plenty of time for questions over a cup of grog. Aren’t you men assigned to galley duties?”

  “Aye, sir!” said Long.

  “Mr. Meadows is right,” said Midshipman Merrick. “Back to work, men.”

  The men went back to cooking, still abuzz with rumors. Meadows nudged her with his shoulder. “What did I tell you?”

  “Aye, aye.” Melisande rolled her eyes. But as she listened to her messmates speculate about her wild adventures, she couldn’t resist a smile.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Grand Tower Suite

  For the second time since arriving in this terrible place, Dominique Aubert entered the highest suite of the Grand Tower. Low flames licked over broken sticks of furniture in the hearth. Sconces running the circumference of the room flickered with fresh candles. The grey light of dawn glowed in the horseshoe windows, setting the tiles of lapis lazuli agleam. Tapestries of Englishmen falling beneath the hooves of charging Saracens were bright and stark. Dominique cast a glance to her left, her eyes searching for the tiny peephole that marked the secret passage entrance. With the false panel closed, it was well hidden.

  “Very good, Mr. Toule,” said Captain Richard Aubert, sitting at the circular table. Log books and papers were crammed beside the silver tea service. He handed Toule an envelope sealed with the fleur dis lis in blue wax. “Do convey my instructions and my compliments.”

  “At once, Captain,” said Bosun Toule. Aubert’s unofficial manservant turned his scowl on Dominique, sweat beading near his thick black sideburns. There was something new in the bosun’s cow-like stare. As if he were unusually happy with himself. Dominique was relieved when he was gone.

  Marquis Larocque was lounging on a pair of beds pushed together. There were two more on the opposite end of the room. Apparently, Aubert had ordered four bunks hauled up from the barracks to accommodate them all. Dominique shuddered at the thought of the weary men being forced to lug the massive furniture up all those winding steps. Angele Larocque sat at the vanity with a basin, looking in a mirror as she cleaned her face. Somehow, she’d managed to salvage still more luxury from the fort.

  Dominique approached her husband, slippers scuffing on the flagstones. “Richard, darling. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “You have found me, Mon chaton.” Aubert’s eyes were on his journal, his quill racing over the pages of his little red book.

  Dominique’s heart picked up a beat. She remembered her late night alone in Aubert’s cabin on the Allegheny, when she finally got a look at Aubert’s secret correspondence. In the pages of the red journal, she’d found that curious letter. Its words were seared into her mind.

  A,

  Congratulations on securing the prize. Our agent in Paris has made contact. The number is five. The cost is ten percent. Paper ships. Hollow crews.

  The Restoration is at hand.

  L

  She’d puzzled over those words for weeks, unable to find a clue to their meaning. And then, three days ago, five Barbary Pirate ships attacked the Allegheny off the Sicilian coast. The frigate was protecting the USS Minerva, a ship carrying a quarter million dollars in tribute money from the United States to Bey Hammuda—a bribe to prevent pirate attacks. Aubert had forced all five enemy vessels into retreat, but not before the Minerva mysteriously sank. And then, the Wolf of Tunis came…

  “Mon tresor.” Dominique put extra effort into her French pronunciation—something he found pleasing. “I wanted to come to
you, but after this horrible night, I’ve not been myself. I aided your wounded men and then went looking for you. I didn’t expect you to take up residence in this terrible room…” Dominique came up to the table, craning for a look at the journal.

  “It’s customary.” Aubert snapped the book closed and tucked it into his gold-trimmed coat. “When a man takes an enemy ship, the cabin and quarterdeck of the defeated captain belong to the victor. For Naim, this room was both.”

  Dominique frowned. “Naim isn’t defeated yet.”

  Aubert gave a strained smile. “He will be dealt with, mon chaton. You needn’t worry yourself.”

  Dominique felt a wave of nausea. She thought of all the terrible things Sully had told her about “the Chronicler of Constantinople.” An expert in deception, violence, and torture. A man motivated by only one goal—revenge. An intelligent, lethal enemy who would never stop. Richard still underestimated his foe, even after losing a ship and enduring Naim’s interrogation. How could he be so blind?

  How could she be so blind? When Dominique met Richard, she thought him a touch arrogant, but deservedly so. He was, after all, a man of breeding and status. Now, as Dominique studied his blasé smirk, she realized it was all a façade.

  “Richard,” said Dominique, “Your men are unsettled. They haven’t seen you. Haven’t heard you give a single order. Perhaps it’s time they got a show of faith from their captain.”

  Aubert gave a smug smile. “Do I detect the niggling Lieutenant Ryland at work?”

  “He’s your officer, Richard, and he’s concerned. He’s only trying to help.”

  “A good officer does as he’s told,” Aubert snapped. “He doesn’t go running to women with his troubles like some crying snotty.”

  “Dominique, my dove,” said Angele, blotting her face at the vanity. “You trifle over peasants. Their duty is to protect their betters.”