Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  She seemed to stare out at the roadstead, still capping her brow with a hand, though the sun was behind her. But secretly, she was straining her eyes to watch the matelots as they hurried back along the quayside towards the township, to alert their other mates. Their smell, that of strong men, lingered with her a moment, as did their litheness. But then she shut them from her mind and followed Jacob’s gaze over the roadstead where the cargo ship was dropping anchor.

  They stood watching a good while as the crew offloaded the delivery of people and goods. The longboat was soon advancing at a good pace through the calm, dazzling water, carrying a small number of passengers, no doubt returning planters having bought provisions in Le Cap Français—or so thought Marianne and Jacob.

  Delpech gave Mademoiselle Duvivier a gentle nudge as the longboat came closer. ‘Marianne!’ called a familiar voice, and the next instant, the young woman had shed her womanhood and, caught between tears and laughter, began running like a child to the wharf-side. The old lady, sitting beside a woman in her forties, was her grandmother.

  A short while later, the girl wiped her eyes as she embraced her only relative, the witness of her identity, and her only link to her ancestry. She became filled with the irreplaceable love of generations, as her grandmother held her head to her bosom.

  Was it an incredible coincidence? Or was it a noble act of kindness that brought them together again? Jacob suspected the latter, and he was now beginning to understand why, of all places, Lieutenant Dumas had sent them to Cow Island, the place where everyone knew ships stopped to water before continuing their voyage to Jamaica. Was it not to give them a chance to abscond?

  By late afternoon, the brigantine was loaded, and the captain chose to sail out with the land breeze along the coast.

  The evening below deck was spent in conversation, with the two parties sharing their stories under lamplight. Madame de Fontenay and her friend, whose name was Madame Charlotte Odet, were unaware of the shipwreck which many aboard La Marie had mistaken for La Concorde. However, Madame Odet recounted how the ship that brought her from France, L’Espérance, was indeed shipwrecked off Martinique. There were only forty survivors who were taken to Cap-Français, where not long after, La Concorde came to moor and delivered her load of Huguenots. The two ladies joined forces and formed a religious resistance. They urged everyone to refuse to join the Catholic Church and encouraged recently converted colonists to convert back.

  ‘We supposed they could not put up with us any longer,’ said Madame de Fontenay. ‘And I knew you were further down the coast and hoped that was where we were headed. And here we are!’

  It became apparent to the young woman now that her continual remonstrance had not fallen upon deaf ears after all.

  ‘But why did the lieutenant governor not tell you about your grandmother?’ said Madame Odet.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Marianne.

  ‘I can only surmise,’ said Jacob, ‘that it is the policy of the government to separate families in an attempt to break their will. And in the case of Monsieur Dumas, being formerly of Protestant stock himself, he did not want to risk looking as if he would favour a Calvinist. I suspect he knew he would be doubly watched by the clergy.’

  ‘Anyway, I am pleased to see my granddaughter looking so well,’ said Madame de Fontenay, smiling at Monsieur Delpech and Marianne sitting opposite her. She sensed they had become close and was not surprised to hear of their uncle-and-niece act.

  ‘Jolly good for you,’ she said. ‘I knew I could count on you, Sir, the moment I set eyes on you!’

  It was a joyful reunion, only darkened by the horrible stories of brutality and bondage, and the fact they were still prisoners themselves. Jacob asked Madame de Fontenay what her intentions were now.

  She said, ‘I have decided not to think of tomorrow. Not to regret the past. Just to live life in the present, in the company of my dear granddaughter until I see her wed.’

  ‘Grandmother!’ said Mademoiselle Duvivier.

  ‘You are nearly eighteen, my dear. It is that time in a woman’s life.’

  The old lady was certainly an inspiration, thought Jacob. She managed to battle on despite her age, having lost her family, home, and heritage. But his own situation was not that of Madame de Fontenay, and he could not share her outlook. As they tucked in for the night trip, he could think of nothing but a future day when he would be reunited with Jeanne and his children. He was as eager as ever to make his escape.

  *

  A few days later, they dropped anchor in front of Grand-Anse, a small village without defences that had been constantly harassed and plundered by the Spanish. Perhaps they did it, thought Jacob, in retaliation of French buccaneers such as Monsieur Leberger, who plundered and sacked Spanish townships on the great island of Cuba. Did these filibusters realise that while they were filling their coffers with stolen riches, the civilian population was losing their livelihood through no aggression of their own? But would they care? Probably not. It was becoming more and more apparent to Jacob that the New World was in fact a self-destructive society, centred on individual wealth and success. A world where barbarians could become masters.

  A good number of these villagers mounted aboard La Charmante, in the hope they would be better protected on the fortified Cow Island.

  There followed a hullabaloo of hoisting, packing, and securing what possessions they had before the brigantine was ready to take to the sea again.

  ‘I bet you weren’t expecting us lot,’ said a man in banter from the group of colonists that settled near the Huguenots. They sat, squatted, or lay down as best they could among the ropes and barrels, baskets and chests, pieces of furniture, chickens and goats. ‘I bet you ain’t never been packed so close,’ he said, which Jacob understood as being a reference to their normal respective stations in life. Or was he fishing to see if they were Huguenots?

  ‘Oh, I find it rather cosy,’ said Madame de Fontenay. ‘One can even kick out one’s limbs to their full extent!’

  The man laughed out loud at what he took as fair banter from the old lady. Then he said, ‘You might not see it the same way come this time next week, though, Ma’am.’

  The Huguenots gave a polite and merry utterance, but said nothing of their five-month voyage packed like cattle. It was nonetheless a quiet victory to be treated as ordinary passengers.

  It was clear by their conversation and the way they spoke that these folk must have been indentured workers, now freed of their bondage, looking to establish a new life for themselves. Now that the bridge had been established between the classes, conversation turned to planting and crop cultivation, and Jacob was glad to impart some of his knowledge to the man who had first addressed them. He was a smallholder whose name was Jacques Rouchon, thirty-seven years old and originally from Nantes. He said he might even cross over to Jamaica from Cow Island, which gave Jacob further reason to believe his deliverance was nigh.

  It was the tenth of June, and they set sail on a fair wind along the coast around the southwest leg of Hispaniola. They arrived at their destination eight days later as a new dawn was breaking.

  Upon landfall, as instructed, Jacob handed his third order to the commander of the isle, Major Laurent de Graaf, the notorious buccaneer.

  FIFTEEN

  A summer haze filled the air with scent, and the pleasing buzz of a bee collecting nectar accompanied the visions of Jeanne.

  She saw her daughters and Paul playing in a meadow knee-deep in grass and wild flowers, then the girls in their summer dresses, opening a stable door where Paul was making a hay camp with Pierrot. But the sky suddenly darkened. Then there was rain, torrential rain, a river, and a soldier with a stern stance. Fear stabbed her heart as the eyes turned to murderous rage, and she saw the pauper raising a cudgel above her as she placed herself in front of her son in the bottom of a boat.

  ‘No, no!’ she called out, and immediately a new light, soft and dazzling, came over her as beads of perspiration shimmered upon
her brow. She opened her eyes, dazzled by colours, and she found herself in a snug wooden bed, in a room with flowers on the balconette. A large-boned woman was attaching a shutter so that it would not slam shut, and bees were dancing in the geraniums.

  ‘Mother.’

  Jeanne tried to open wide her eyes, which made her wince, and cupping the side of her swollen face, she turned her head to see her son. He had leapt out of a chair and approached her. Under his smile, she saw a trauma, and she knew, even before tears welled in the boy’s eyes, the tragedy of Pierre.

  ‘You are to stay as long as it takes to mend your head, Madame Delpech. I have been given instructions.’ It was the large lady who spoke the words in her slow Swiss accent, thickened by guttural intonations. She was evidently from the northern parts and introduced herself as the housekeeper.

  For the next few days, the nightmares and the dizziness kept Jeanne mostly to her bed. It was not until she was able to dress and go down for dinner that she met her host.

  As Paul led his mother from her room, she discovered a spacious house of solid build, timber-framed and clad in stone. The wooden staircase creaked as they descended. At its foot stood a tall, finely carved case clock that counted time peacefully. It sounded its pleasant chime as Jeanne and Paul entered the solidly furnished dining room, where a white-haired gentleman stood up and smiled on their arrival.

  ‘Madame, you were brought here and now you are under my protection,’ he said, after the pleasantries of introduction. ‘And I might add, I am a good friend of Pastor Duvaux, who sends his kind regards but has had to remain in Geneva to carry out his duties. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish in my household, Madame.’

  ‘You are most kind, Sir. I will repay you for your hospitality . . . and for these clothes,’ said Jeanne. The housemaid had laid them out for her and explained that they had belonged to the gentleman’s daughter, who had moved to another town with her new husband. He wanted her to have them.

  ‘Shan’t hear of it. I am but an old man, and I crave company. It is I who thank you, Madame Delpech. And your son is charming. We have been entertaining ourselves during your convalescence by playing chess. I might add, he has talent!’

  Monsieur Gaugin was a jovial gentleman, an alderman with a scholar’s stoop. At table over leek soup, he said, ‘I am myself of French heritage; my father came here when he was still a child. So, my dear Madame, my forbears were in the same situation as you find yourself today. And I consider it a duty and a pleasure to welcome you here where my grandfather was welcomed, by none other than his future father-in-law!’

  ‘You are most generous, Sir. However, I really must make my way north. First to Schaffhausen,’ said Jeanne, taking care not to show the side of her face that was black and blue.

  ‘My dear lady, are you sure you are fit to travel?’

  ‘My wounds will heal. Those of my friend’s are much deeper. She lost her son.’

  ‘Yes, I know, a terrible tragedy for many. Well, the difficulty will reside in finding transport, it being the busy season in the fields, you know. Moreover, did Monsieur Fleuret not say he would be back for you?’

  ‘I am not so sure he would leave his wife and children alone now. And I would not expect him to. We shall go on foot.’

  ‘All the way to Schaffhausen?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jeanne, touching Paul’s head. ‘Then on to London, if that is what it will take to recover my children with my husband.’

  ‘In that case, I will advise you which route to take to Schaffhausen. For it would be unwise to walk for long stretches after the fall and the knock to your head. We all wondered how you got it. Were you hit by a barrel?’

  Jeanne realised that no one was any the wiser as to the pauper’s appalling behaviour; her son had not then revealed anything, but had he seen? Not wanting to delay further, she decided to keep it to herself. What concerned her more was reaching Ginette. She could well imagine her pain at losing her only son.

  The following day, Monsieur Gaugin brought good news. There would be a charabanc to Morge, from where he knew daily journeys were made northward. It would not be difficult to reach Yverdon. From there she should take the boat across the lake to Neuchatel.

  *

  Holding Paul firmly by the hand, Jeanne paced through the milling crowd at the lakeside port of Yverdon, to find out about the passage to the other side. Her eye was suddenly caught by a flash of green. She stopped to focus her gaze on a small group of ladies by the wharf chattering, their young children playing at their skirts. A shudder of horror seized her, and she grasped Paul more firmly by the hand.

  ‘What is it, Mother?’

  ‘Nothing. It is nothing.’

  But Paul had followed her gaze to the clutch of chatting ladies and saw the reason for his mother’s sudden anguish. One of the women was wearing her green coat. It had been cleaned and was adorned with a brooch, but it could not possibly be anything other than the one she had cherished. It was evident from the lady’s hat and shoes that the coat did not suit her budget. She must have bought it at an old-clothes stand or from a stranger.

  ‘I see,’ said Paul, as his mother turned and instinctively glanced around her, as if searching for an invisible menace.

  But the boy slipped his hand from her grasp and ran towards the lady. On approach, just six feet from where the brood of ladies was chatting, he deliberately tripped himself up—a trick he had learnt from Pierrot. As he went down, he let out a yelp.

  ‘Ah, my knee! My knee!’ he wailed out.

  Seeing the lady she took as the boy’s mother in simple but quality clothing, the ladies reacted to the child’s cries, and one of them broke away to tend to the lad. It was the woman in green.

  ‘You alright, my love?’ she said while Jeanne was rushing over to him. ‘He yours, Madame?’

  ‘Yes, no, I’m his aunt. Always slipping away and finding trouble, he is,’ said Jeanne, taking the boy by the arm to pull him onto his feet. But the boy still clutched his knee.

  ‘Kids these days, eh? Well, he shan’t be hopping away anymore today.’

  ‘Come on, Jacob, now, please. I’ve told you before, stop running off. What will your mother say if I lose you?’

  ‘Oh, mine’s just as bad,’ said the lady. Jeanne looked at the boy next to the woman, two inches shorter than Paul, who was standing beside her with a big-eyed grin and a naughty smile.

  ‘Ouch, it hurts!’

  ‘Serves you right, young man!’ said the lady, siding with the boy’s aunt. ‘You ought to learn to do as your aunt says.’

  ‘I’m taking him to see his grandparents. Travelling yourself?’

  ‘Payerme. We are travelling to Payerme.’

  ‘Well, Madame, I shan’t keep you. Come along, Jacob, up you get. Thank you, Madame.’

  ‘Ouch, stop pulling, my aunt,’ said Paul, walking with a limp. ‘It still hurts!’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ said Jeanne, continuing in a low voice, ‘I thought you were playacting.’

  ‘That was the plan, but my knee landed on a cobblestone.’

  ‘And to think I thought you were overdoing the acting!’

  ‘So? Is it or isn’t it?’ said the boy.

  Jeanne looked down at her son, and realised at that moment how very astute and adult he had grown. She realised she now had more than a son; she had a clever accomplice. In a low voice, walking as fast through the crowd as Paul’s limp would allow, she said, ‘It is. I recognised my threading where I patched it up under the arm.’

  ‘Thought so.’ Paul had justly sensed her anxiety. ‘Was it stolen, then?’

  At first Jeanne did not want to let him in on her secret. But given the turn of events, she led him away from the crowd to the side of the wharf, and told him briefly about the aggression that took place while he lay unconscious in the boat.

  ‘I thought there was something awry. Monsieur Cephas was nowhere to be seen among the survivors. So you think he might be wanting to get what he thought he stol
e?’

  ‘You can never be too prudent when it comes to individuals of that sort. And by the way, your name is Jacob from now on,’ she said, keeping her voice down.

  ‘Jacob and the coat of many colours!’ said Paul, with a clever grin.

  ‘Jacob Delgarde de Castanet,’ said Jeanne a moment later, as she smudged and scraped the attestation—already subjected to soaking from the boat accident—on a stone mooring bollard.

  *

  The Swiss Confederacy had by this time become relatively organised. Not wanting people to linger too long, it had set up road and boat links which conveyed refugees onward in their trek north. In most places, the local inhabitants had become used to the continuous flow of travellers, and were in the main prepared to harbour passers-by for the night until transport was arranged.

  A short while later, Jeanne and Paul stood in the queue for the boat from Yverdon to Neuchatel. Since the tragedy—especially as the captain had been publicly shamed and sent to prison—checks had become more rigorous and boarding more controlled, with priority given to Huguenot women, children, and old folk.

  The agent studied Jeanne’s attestation.

  ‘It got soaked, Monsieur. I was on board the ship that capsized.’

  ‘I am sorry, Madame, a tragedy from what have heard. I was just trying to decipher your name. I have been asked to look out for a lady and a boy, and you seem to fit the description.’

  Jeanne gave her son’s hand a light squeeze. ‘I don’t think so, Monsieur, what was the name?’

  ‘Delpech.’

  Jeanne tried to keep her face from revealing her shock as she said, ‘Well, as you can see, I am Delgarde de Castanet.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was wondering. See, there’s a water mark on Del—.’

  ‘—garde, Delgarde.’

  ‘Pity, would have saved you from travelling alone.’

  How could the pauper have the audacity? thought Jeanne. But then again, he had fooled everyone once. There was no reason why such a conniving mind would not try to do so again.

  ‘I assure you, it is Delgarde. Delgarde de Castanet.’