Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  But the impetuous merchant at Jeannot’s side was quick to pull out a knife. The next minute, he was cutting into the tethers of a batch of barrels.

  ‘No, stop him!’ yelled the captain. Jeannot understood the immediate danger. It was the wrong side to lighten the load, but it was already too late. With the next dip into the trough of a wave, four barrels went rolling overboard, causing the boat to suddenly bank to starboard.

  Jeannot staggered over to port side with the intention to lighten the load there to counterbalance the merchant’s error. But the slippery deck, the tilt of the boat, and the gusts of wind sent him bowling against the side of the vessel, along with the merchant and several other passengers. Then the boat was lifted by a rising mound of water. Those on port side slid to starboard, and with the further shift in weight, the unthinkable became imminent.

  Jeanne, who had managed to lodge herself with Ginette and the children under the port-side steps, shrieked out: ‘If we go over, hold on to something that floats, children, and don’t let go!’

  No sooner said than the mountain wind slipped under the flat-bottomed hull and seemed to catch hold. It began heaving the boat over, sending merchandise, passengers, and crew overboard into the cold, cold water. Screams of women and terrified cries of children echoed from the hatch leading to the lower deck.

  In those desperate seconds, Jeanne could not decide if they should hold on and hope the boat would become right again, or let themselves slide to the side that was taking in water and attempt to grab hold of a cask. Then she saw the dinghy being released and Cephas Crespin leaping into it. But as the glimmer of hope presented itself, to her horror she lost hold of her son, who went sliding inexorably towards the starboard now under water. Barrels and parcels rolled and tumbled freely, some clobbering people, making them fall unconscious into the lake that was whipped into a frenzy by the erratic wind sweeping down from the Jura. Young Pierrot, seeing his friend go, purposely let himself slide across the deck in his pursuit.

  Jeanne would have jumped after him too, but she knew Pierre, like his sisters, was used to jumping off the jetty in Aigues-Mortes and knew how to swim. Pierrot managed to grab Paul by the scruff of the neck after they hit the water. A cask landed beside them, as under the force of the wind and the waves, the boat continued to capsize. The girls and the ladies went sliding to their fate amid screams of terror as people hauled themselves out of the hatch turned into a death-trap.

  Jeanne could not swim. But as she instinctively reached for the water’s surface, her hand caught a floating punt used to push the barque away from the quay. It barely allowed her to float, but it sufficed to let her break the water’s surface.

  ‘Paul! Paul! Paul!’ she screamed out, as the ghastly sight of lifeless bodies bobbed amid the tumultuous waves around her. She could not die now, after all she had been through; did it all mean nothing? Her strength was failing her, and she began thinking that if her son had drowned, it would be easier to let herself go too rather than endure the agony of his loss. At least she would be with him. But how? How would she find him in heaven? In her confusion and fear, she cried out: ‘God help me, please!’

  Rising up with another great wave, she quickly scanned her watery surroundings again, and this time caught a glimpse, she was sure, of her son holding onto a cask.

  She was about to call out despite the penetrating cold that froze her jaw muscles, but her throat suddenly tightened. She began to choke from an invisible force, until it pulled her out of the water and she saw the edge of a rowboat. She realised she was being yanked out, and like a drowning cat, she scratched for a hold on the boat until, with an unceremonious tug at her bottom, she was hoisted aboard. Moments later, looking up, it was the pauper she saw, who was now letting the sopping body of an inert woman slip back into the lake. Inside the boat, she saw a pile of coins and rings.

  She pretended not to take in the scene and, catching her breath as another cold cloak of water splashed over her back, she cried, ‘Over there, please, my son.’ Cephas Crespin held her gaze a moment. ‘Please!’ she beseeched. Then he put his back into the oars, while Jeanne focussed her remaining force on shouting to her son to keep holding on.

  Paul was holding Pierre with his arm under his friend’s chin, while desperately clasping the cask with his other arm.

  ‘Pierrot . . . got hit . . . help!’ he cried out, desperately trying to keep his friend’s head above the water.

  The pauper approached, pulled Pierre, inert, half into the boat, and felt in his pockets. Jeanne anticipated what he was about to do.

  ‘My God, don’t you dare!’ she growled.

  ‘He’s dead. No point.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Get him aboard! Get them both, I tell you!’ said Jeanne, who quickly slipped off her ring.

  ‘Take it!’

  ‘I’ll take ’em both if you give me your coat and everything inside it,’ bawled the pauper above the din. Was it Providence that put it into his hands now? He just had to take it with all its weighted lining.

  ‘Get them in first!’ said Jeanne, with fire in her eyes.

  The pauper hauled in Pierre, then reached for Paul who, the moment he hit the bottom of the boat, was out cold.

  Amid the turmoil, Jeanne placed the lads front down on the bench in an effort to bring them round.

  By this time, help was arriving in the shape of rowboats manned by villagers. They were fast approaching the capsized vessel. The pauper, without looking for more survivors, put his back into the oars under cover of the grey light of morning, and within fifteen minutes they were within wading distance to the stony shore.

  ‘Now give it to me!’ said Cephas.

  Distraught at the boys, who would not respond to her frantic attempts to bring them round, Jeanne reached in her pocket and brought out a handful of coins. ‘I have nothing more,’ she said. ‘Now help me get them to shore!’

  ‘I don’t mean your bloody silver, woman!’ he said. ‘Give me yer coat!’

  ‘I have nothing more in it!’

  ‘You ain’t foolin’ me, you toff!’ The man then lunged for her. Screaming, she kicked and fought back, clawed at his face with what strength was left to her. His mutilated thumbs prevented him from getting a firm grip on her throat, so he thumped her hard. She fell back into the bottom of the boat.

  ‘Get away from me!’ she growled between gritted teeth.

  There was only one thing to do to shut her up. He snatched up an oar, then clobbered her across the face with it, and again until she fell unconscious on top of her son and Pierre, her face covered in blood.

  At last, he wrenched off her coat, scavenged around for his little pile of booty, then waded speedily to shore.

  THIRTEEN

  As the sun shone over the lake, having cleared the distant mountaintops, the pauper stopped in a pool of light.

  He had climbed the wooded hill in order to cross the range westward, the shortest route into France. He had made good ground, and now he was rewarded by being able to settle in the first light of the sun, whereas the valley and port below were still in the dimness of a paling morning. It was a fitting start to the new day, a new life, bathed in golden sunlight. He brought out his knife. Might be better off keeping them sewn into the coat, he thought to himself, feeling the stones through the lining.

  During the climb he had envisaged diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. He took a deep breath of fresh morning air. Standing with Switzerland on one side with the lake below lit up like liquid gold, and France on the other side where the foothills rose into the Jura, he could already see himself mounting a magnificent steed. But first he would get himself a nice place to live. No, no, first, he would buy some fine clothes; he would dress as an alderman, he would need to look the part. Next he would go wenching with the finest. Then he would choose a place to live and get a wife, or perhaps the wife first, then the house, then the sprogs. That was the substance of his dream which had occupied his thoughts as he had climbed, for two
hours solid, where neither horse nor cart could venture. There again, he would certainly need more coin than the measly amount he had collected, and how would he exchange the jewels without rousing suspicions? He put the thought to the back of his mind; it was but a minor obstacle. Was he not a resourceful man? Had he not obtained an attestation of good character from the stupid pastor?

  He sat a while longer in the knowledge that he was untraceable, savouring the very moment that marked his change of fortune, from rags to riches. The jacket was of fine fabric, a little worn but still worth a fair price in itself, and cutting the silk lining was like throwing away good coin. So he started unpicking the thread at the seam, the very thread he had seen the Huguenot lady strengthen at the Fleurets’ cottage down by the river. But then, with an irresistible urge to hold his fortune in his palms, he dug his knife into the lining and slit it carefully across the hem. His eyes widened as the stones tumbled to the ground. But they widened not in glee, they widened in shock and horror, and then narrowed in wrath. He let out a mighty roar from his tightened gut. ‘Why? God! Is there no justice for a pauper? Jesus Christ!’

  The stones his knife had let loose were just that, dull, lacklustre stones, devoid of any value.

  *

  Two days later, the death bells tolled over the little port of Nion. Thirty-eight people had perished; extra coffins had to be brought in from nearby towns in haste. The whole village had walked behind the coffins to the Protestant graveyard, where the deceased were laid to rest. It was a simple burial, in accordance with Protestant beliefs that they could not intercede on behalf of the dead for their entry into eternal life. No mass, no prayers, no superstitious ritual. They simply remembered.

  ‘Your mother is in good hands,’ said Jeannot to the boy after the funeral service. ‘She will recover, but she must rest here. Tell her I have had to take our Ginette away from this place before the grief overtakes her, before I lose her too. You understand, my boy?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ said Paul, his face clouding over with sorrow. ‘But I don’t understand why Pierrot had to die and not me.’

  The man and the boy were standing outside the tall house where Jeanne was bedridden. But for the rustling of birds in the trees and the trickle of a nearby fountain, all was calm—a calmness only broken from time to time by the distant snorts of horses in front of their carriages, on the adjoining road at the bottom of the lane. They were waiting to carry the surviving passengers on to Morge, the port town where the boat had scheduled to dock, and whence the refugees would take up their route northward.

  ‘I know, Paul. I know,’ said Jeannot, tears running into the cracks around his eyes. ‘Now you listen here, my lad. Pierrot loved you like a brother, you know that.’

  ‘And I loved him like my brother, Sir.’

  ‘Well said, my boy. Remember, if you are the one who survived, it must be for a reason.’

  ‘He will always be with me. Always, Sir,’ said Paul, whose voice broke into a sob. Jeannot lifted the boy off his feet, and placed the lad’s head on his powerful shoulder.

  ‘Listen, my boy. You survived. Now you owe it to Pierrot to become a righteous man. Never forget to do him proud. You hear me?’

  ‘I promise,’ said the boy, controlling his sobs.

  Jeannot put the boy back down but remained crouched at his level. ‘Be brave, my little man. Look after your mother till I get back.’

  ‘I will, Sir.’

  ‘The doctor says she is over the worst. When she comes round, tell her we have gone to Schaffhausen. Tell her I will be back to collect you both when she is better.’

  Getting up, Jeannot laid a gentle hand on the boy’s mop of hair. Then he walked briskly to the waiting cart at the main lake road.

  The boy wanted to see Ginette and Pierrot’s sisters, but something prevented him from approaching the end of the narrow street: shyness, modesty, guilt perhaps. So he remained where he was, and watched the carriages from a distance roll away along the coast till they were screened by houses. He felt an urge to run down to the track as a horrible feeling of loneliness swept through him. But he did not want to be left alone in the road near the church where his best friend in the world lay six feet under. So he stayed in front of the house where his mother lay in convalescence, recovering from injuries that were caused, it was assumed, by a falling object. Though how she had managed to board the boat was very much a mystery.

  *

  On the wooded hill above the church, Cephas Crespin had a better view of the carriages. He watched the cortège rumble along the coast road, and saw the boy enter the house where his mother must be making a recovery.

  Cephas was cold, hungry, and seething with ire. Enough niceties now, he thought to himself. He had come to claim his rightful reward, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from running down to the house and taking what was rightfully his, for saving the life of the bourgeois boy.

  FOURTEEN

  The little boat arrived at Petit Goave the following day in the blue-grey light of morning.

  ‘Would you like me to wait here with our effects while you find out about our passage?’ said Marianne once they were standing on the landing stage. It was a pleasant place to be with the gentle sun on their backs, a clear view across the calm bay on one side, and the laboured fields and luxuriant island-scape on the other.

  ‘Would certainly make sense,’ said Jacob, looking about him further up the jetty which met with stone fortifications. ‘But if looks are anything to go by, I think you had better stay close by me.’

  He was referring to the little groups of matelots here and there who were already dozing, sitting, talking, smoking, and playing games of chance in the open air. These men, Jacob was to learn, were buccaneers recently in from a campaign.

  However, it was not the robbery of their effects that concerned Jacob most, but that of Marianne’s virtue. So they took up their things, which consisted of a canvas sack each and a small chest that Monsieur Bourget had given Jacob during his stay at Leogane. Inside it were instruments of surgery and vials of medicine that Bourget had in double.

  They reported to the commander of the settlement, a certain Captain Capieu, who pointed out La Charmante, a small two-masted brigantine, which was sitting at the anchorage among other cargo ships, some being loaded, others offloaded. ‘She’s a shallow-draft vessel,’ said Capieu, ‘ideal for hugging the coast out of the reach of Spanish frigates.’

  They found the captain of the brigantine, a certain Francis Poirier. He was overseeing a couple of crew members loading barrels into a dinghy for transit to the ship. The captain, an affable, burly man in middle age, wiped his hands on his baggy slops, then he read their order for their passage to Cow Island.

  ‘We’ll not be leaving for a day or two, M’sieur,’ he said. ‘Still waiting for provisions from Le Cap, see. But there’s nothing keeping you and your niece from making yourself comfortable on board if that be your pleasure.’

  The longer Jacob could remain on firm ground, the better. So he gave thanks to the skipper and told him that Captain Capieu had already mentioned board and a place to sleep. As prisoners of the king, they were, after all, under his jurisdiction.

  The following day, Jacob and Marianne walked by the fort that looked over the bay. The mist had cleared, and the view was picturesque and peaceful. With nothing better to do, they soon found themselves in conversation with three of the buccaneers they had seen on arrival.

  It so happened they too were expecting provisions from Le Cap. Neither Marianne nor Jacob had ever met a buccaneer before, and as a matter of fact, these turned out to be most civil and affable.

  They explained they had got good pay from a recent expedition, so good, in fact, that they were deliberating whether to go on privateering, or to follow the governor’s petition for them to withdraw from service and set themselves up in a more tranquil occupation.

  ‘You being a man of culture, Monsieur Delpech, what would you do with the loot?’ said the man who had
introduced himself as Thomas Leberger.

  It seemed quite abstract to be here in this idyllic scenery, tranquilly being asked advice by men who were mercenaries and killers, although you would not necessarily think it to hear them speak as they did in earnest. Even so, Marianne thought that a tactful tone would be the best to adopt, but Jacob, faithful to himself, said, ‘Well, I should put down my sword, take a wife, and follow a more Christian way of life, and repent for the sins I have committed.’

  After a brief, uncomfortable silence which made Marianne’s pulse throb, the man glanced at her, looked levelly at Jacob, and said, ‘I’m a religious man meself. We always pray before battle, don’t we, lads?’

  ‘Yeah, and after our last victory,’ said the man to his right, ‘Raveneau got us singing out a Te Deum, didn’t he?’

  ‘Aye,’ said the man to his left. ‘Best look after your soul. You can kill a man, but you can’t take his soul, can ya?’

  ‘No, you cannot take a man’s soul,’ said Jacob, ‘because it is your soul that determines whether you go to heaven or hell.’

  ‘I can see you’ve got a smart head on you, Monsieur,’ said Leberger. ‘And that be exactly what I was thinking ’n’ all. Just needed to hear it out loud, like.’

  The buccaneer reached into a pouch inside his jacket and said, ‘Here, take this as a token of my gratitude, Sir.’ He ostentatiously handed Jacob a Spanish gold escudo, though what the man stalked in the tail of his eye was the niece’s reaction.

  Jacob was about to protest when Mademoiselle Duvivier, who had turned her head and was glancing into the bay, said, ‘Is that the ship?’

  Monsieur Leberger took a step towards her, so close that she could feel the heat of his suntanned body, and capped his eyes with a hand to reduce the glare from the sea. ‘By the thunder of Neptune, I believe it is!’ he said. Then, after a clap on the back from his mates, he cordially bid farewell, leaving Jacob one gold coin the richer, and Marianne all aquiver.