Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  Despite it being a very fair deal, he knew in advance what conclusion he would arrive at. The tricky part was how to let her down gently. After all, she was his creditor and had his IOUs, which she could well sell to the highest bidder.

  From the quayside near Fort James, where gulls were pecking into a pile of fish guts, he had a good view of the dockers unloading barrels from a ship. He might not have the means to work as a merchant, he once thought, but loading and unloading merchandise was something he could do. However, he had dropped the idea as soon as he found out that any menial work would barely bring him enough to live on, which meant it would take many years to pay back his debt. She really did have him over a barrel, did Mrs Evens.

  As he unravelled the whole farce in his mind, it was becoming more and more absurd. She would not even believe he was not really a doctor, so set was she on her ideal. He now realised why she had not kicked him out when she saw he was penniless. She had seen him as a good client from the start. Then she saw the theft of his money as an opportunity to move up from being a Welsh tavern keeper’s widow to a respectable French doctor’s wife. And having once taken root in her mind, the notion had grown till this morning, when she popped the question.

  ‘I want you first to think it over before giving me your answer,’ she had said.

  Not wanting to provoke her immediate disappointment and have her flying into a direction she might later regret, he had promised he would.

  As he ambled down Lime Street among the fashionable gentlemen and stylish ladies, he realised that in this town, where fortunes were made and thrown away on the roll of a dice, anything could go. And he could be anyone. He could call himself a doctor and no one would object, because everyone here was also trying to be someone else. Even Mrs Evens, whom he suspected of once being an indentured servant, then a lady of lesser morals before becoming a tavern keeper’s wife, could aspire to become a doctor’s wife.

  The whole town, with its assortment of pretty brick buildings, its shop fronts, taverns, and cobblestones, was in fact a sham of a civilised settlement. And its morals were no less shallow than its foundations, built as they were on a spit of sand. Its pretty façades hid the lies and vice and sin at its heart, which entertained wicked men like Harry and corrupted good men like Rouchon, the planter, who, having once felt the lure of easy money, might well die without planting a seed as a free man.

  He continued up the cobbled lane, passed the fish market, and turned into York Street, which led to the church and was lined with fine houses. He stopped at a large dwelling as per his habit and knocked. It was the maid who appeared at the door. She told him that Mrs Evens would like the pleasure of his company for a cordial before he went up to his room.

  *

  ‘I have a surprise for you,’ said Mrs Evens excitedly, after the initial exchange of pleasantries.

  They were sitting in the lavishly furnished parlour, where the patterned wallpaper and gaudy window hangings were in the image of its exuberant owner. She was sitting on her two-seater sofa covered in red brocade, which catered amply for her skirts. He was seated on the edge of the French wing chair opposite her. A low marble-topped table formed a respectable barrier between them. Upon it stood a carafe of lemon drink, two glasses three-quarters full, and a tray of sweetmeats leftover from the great rejoicings of the birth of the new Prince of Wales, celebrations which had been postponed to September because of the burial of Captain Morgan in August.

  From the side of the settee, she brought out a large leather bag. She said, ‘Your new tools of your trade, Doctor.’

  Decidedly, she had resolved to make it as difficult as she could for him to refuse her offer.

  ‘Dear Mrs Evens,’ he began, ‘you have been my . . . my guardian angel, and I deserve not your continued err kindness. I have thought over your err fine proposition, however.’ Her nostrils widened and her brow pleated with concern, which almost caused Jacob to lose his thread. He continued. ‘However, I am sure you will not err be able to live with a man who betrays his own wife and children, would you?’

  ‘For you, Monsieur Delpech, I would bear up,’ she said bravely, and with fervour.

  It was no good. He would just have to hammer it home harder to make her see clearly.

  ‘But really, I must return to Europe, Mrs Evens . . .’

  ‘Monsieur Delpech, you cannot. You cannot refuse me after all I have done. I have nursed you back to life. Fed you when you were delirious . . .’

  ‘And I am, and err will be forever, in your debt,’ he said, which he regretted the moment it was out.

  ‘You are indeed, Monsieur Delpech. And here, there are laws. It is bondage for a man who cannot pay. You are aware of that?’

  ‘I cannot lie to you. Neither can I betray my family, Mrs Evens. I do, however, sincerely hope we can be good friends.’

  Friends. It was the word she dreaded most. She did not want a good friend. She wanted a husband, but not any drunken riff-raff that came ten to a penny in these parts. She wanted a man of culture who would accompany her in the increasingly refined circles of the town whose gentrification was well in train. Especially since the new governor, the second Duke of Albemarle no less, had brought his entire entourage from England. No longer did the swelling bourgeoisie want to put up with uncouth sailors and coarse pirates. And Mrs Evens had the means to enter the bourgeoning society; she just needed a gentleman for a husband.

  Jacob’s refusal was all the harder to swallow in that she had not even contemplated it. Moreover, she had opened up her heart, for she really did have feelings for this man whose voice and imperfect English made her heart tremble like she never thought it would again.

  In her disappointment, she turned sour. Coldly and haughtily, she said, ‘Then I have no alternative but to take the matter of your debt to Chief Justice Ellerson.’

  *

  Later in the afternoon, two royal guards came knocking at Jacob’s door. He put his meagre possessions into his hessian sack and was marched, not to the courtroom, but to the deputy governor’s sumptuous house. Delpech thought this odd, as he knew the house was being rented at present by the new lieutenant governor, none other than Sir Christopher Monck, His Grace the second Duke of Albemarle. Why would he be taken to see the chief official?

  ‘I asked you here for two reasons,’ said Sir Christopher. ‘One, to allow you to pay off your debt in the quickest fashion possible so that you may regain your liberty. And two, for you to tell me your cure against the fever.’

  Of late, the Duke had been suffering from a tropical illness that his wife and entourage feared would carry him to an early grave. He was only thirty-four. However, yesterday his temperature had dropped, and this morning he was in fine spirits and well enough to get up and dress. And there was nothing the Duke liked more than to dress—apart perhaps from good company and Madeira wine—which gave some cause for distress as one could not pile on layers of clothing in Jamaica as one did in England.

  Nevertheless, standing with one hand on the diamond-studded knob of his beautifully gilded walking stick, the duke was still a feast for the eyes. Indeed, Jacob at present was filled with awe at the dazzling array of blue satin and gold tassels that seemed to outshine everything and everyone in the opulently furnished room. Lord Monck was certainly larger than life, taller too. The piled hair of his enormous wig and his high-heeled shoes with jewelled buckles meant that he towered over the Frenchman standing humbly before him.

  It took a minute or two for Jacob to realise that a man was standing on either side of Albemarle. To the duke’s right stood Mr Ellerson, the chief justice, and to his left a young man twenty years Jacob’s junior, with a serious demeanour and an intellectual brow. This was Doctor Sloane, the Duke’s travelling physician.

  Albemarle gave a brief glance to his right. Then, turning back to Jacob, he said, ‘The chief justice tells me you cured yourself of the tropical illness.’

  Jacob answered in the affirmative and gave a brief account of his concoc
tion and how much laudanum he had taken.

  ‘The body needs to be err unfatigued in order to be able to combat the illness with the tincture,’ he said in a precise and pondered manner, so that his strong French accent would not hinder the comprehension.

  ‘I agree, Doctor,’ said Sloane with indifference, ‘although that is nothing we do not already know.’

  Though ruthlessly down-to-earth, Sloane’s answer nevertheless gave Jacob instant relief. It meant he did not take Jacob for an impostor.

  ‘If it is nothing we do not already know,’ said Albemarle, ‘then why have I not been advised to take some?’

  ‘Because you have been advised to first refrain from entertaining, my Lord,’ said Sloane uncompromisingly.

  Turning back to Jacob with a grunt, the duke continued, ‘And would you believe the local practitioner insists I take bird peppers in a poached egg, because, he says, parrots eat them when they are poorly? I ask you, do I look like a parrot?’

  Jacob forced himself to say that he did not, despite the Duke’s dazzling appearance.

  ‘And what about my jaundice? It is of great discomfort to my wife. She tells me I have gone Chinaman yellow! And yet, Doctor Sloane here refuses to bleed me. What do you make of that, Doctor?’

  ‘With all due respect, my Lord, I would not bleed you either,’ said Jacob, who sensed it would be unwise to go against the advice of the trained practitioner.

  Doctor Sloane removed his finger from where it pressed against his upper lip, and gave a short nod of approval.

  ‘I would take rest,’ continued Jacob. ‘For the body must be invigorated physically to be able to fight the fever. And I would take a tincture as my principal source of nourishment. No wine.’

  During Jacob’s conversations with Mrs Evens, she had often spoken about the duke’s reputation as a party head. A reputation that had been confirmed to her by one of the many servants the duke had brought with him in his yacht from England. And a reputation embraced by the rich, fun-loving Jamaican colonists.

  ‘No wine?’ said the duke grouchily. ‘Would your tincture help deafen my ears to these midges? I do not think so. Would it refresh my rasping gullet? Certainly not. I do declare that wine is the only beverage drinkable in this godforsaken place! However.’ The duke turned to his doctor. ‘We shall take you up on the laudanum.’

  ‘You would also do well to take a Spanish hacienda rather than a brick-built palace, my Lord,’ said Sloane. ‘I am sure the French would never have built their governor’s house in infernal red bricks in this climate.’

  ‘Brick reminds me of home,’ replied the duke. ‘A white Spanish dwelling does not!’

  Albemarle faltered an instant, then took three steps back and slumped into his strategically placed armchair. After a little fussing from the Lord Justice and Doctor Sloane, the duke called for his secretary to bring him his tincture of wine.

  Once he had taken his restorative, the duke was able to recover his dignified posture with his hand on his walking stick, albeit now sitting down. He said, ‘In order to avoid putting you under bond, I have purchased your debt.’

  Jacob thanked him.

  ‘I did consider keeping you with me. However, you are French. Furthermore, I happen to know a captain who requires a surgeon for his next voyage, so I have sold your debt to him. I believe it is for the best. There might be an element of danger, naturally—there always is aboard a ship. However, if the captain’s campaign proves successful, you shall be able to pay for your liberty and have enough coin to set yourself up wherever you mean to go.’

  Jacob was suspicious of the “element of danger”. But when Albemarle asked him if he was satisfied with the arrangement, he said, ‘If it is God’s will, then it is also mine, my Lord.’

  Delpech was nonetheless glad to be leaving the Jamaican port, steeped as it was in sin, vice, and disease.

  The chief justice handed Doctor Delpech the leather medical bag that Mrs Evens must have cunningly sold with Jacob’s debts. He then ordered the guards to accompany the freshly indentured surgeon-barber to the north dock for immediate embarkation on the Joseph, a seventy-ton sloop with eight guns and forty-six men under the command of Captain Brook.

  As Jacob walked down High Street between his guards, he found himself thinking with horror that he had never cut off a lock of hair in his life.

  The doctor was ferried to the ship along with a pirate, detained between two other soldiers, who introduced himself as Captain Cox.

  ‘What’s your name and station?’ snarled the pirate.

  ‘I am Jacob Delpech, Sir. I have been appointed as surgeon-barber.’

  ‘That’s all right then, but you’ll not be needing shears on this ship. A good sharp knife and a solid saw might come in handy, though!’

  The pirate chuckled to himself and said no more.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Ten minutes later, Jacob and Captain Cox were climbing aboard the Joseph.

  Men were heaving lines, scuttling up and down the rigging, and getting ready to unfurl sails. From his vantage point on the quarterdeck, Captain Brook gave Cox a short nod of approval. The pirate was led below deck with his wrought iron chest, which was lugged behind him by two mates. Captain Brook then looped his gaze down at Delpech, who was holding his sack over a shoulder and his leather bag in his hand.

  ‘So you be the French doctor,’ boomed the captain, who had a permanent snarl that made him look disgruntled at everything he set his eyes on.

  Looking up, Jacob noticed he was hideously ugly with a pockmarked face, was of average height with powerful shoulders, and was clad, not in English uniform, but in a frock coat that must have once belonged to a Spaniard.

  Although it went against his moral grain, Jacob had no choice but to play out his fraud to the full. ‘Yes, Sir. Doctor Jacob Delpech at your service,’ he said. The captain waved him up to the navigation deck.

  As Delpech went to climb the steps, a crewmate scurrying down the port side stopped in his tracks. He held Jacob’s gaze for an instant. Jacob had the shock of his life at the sight of the man, who then hastened towards the capstan. Although he was bearded and his hair was tied back in the fashion of seafaring rovers, this man could be none other than Ducamp, the dragoon lieutenant who had ransacked his home three years earlier.

  Jacob continued to the quarterdeck.

  ‘Indentured to me, you are now,’ said the captain in a gravelly voice. ‘And so as you know, all aboard this ship is equal and shall be treated as such, till death do us part.’

  ‘Of course, Sir,’ said Jacob, whose mind was still half on the bearded mate.

  ‘And we share the rewards of the catch.’ The captain rubbed his greying goatee as if he were evaluating an estimable beast. Then he said, ‘And two hundred pieces of eight will buy you back your liberty!’

  This was Jacob’s second shock, and he had barely been aboard five minutes.

  ‘There must be a mistake, Sir,’ he said, shaken with indignation. ‘I owed not a tenth of that sum.’

  With impulsive scorn and sudden fury, the captain bayed, ‘Are yer saying a doctor is worth no more than a slave or a swabber?’

  ‘No, Sir . . .’ said Jacob, searching for his words.

  But before he could get another one in, the captain—whose rage died down as quickly as it had flared up—said in his resonantly deep voice, ‘As I said, Doctor, we share the rewards of our toil with all aboard. And there will be plenty of coin to be made where we are headed. As surgeon-barber on this here ship, you are entitled to one and a quarter shares of any spoils of war taken along the way. Fear not, Doctor, I’m not asking you to go on the account.’

  What could the man possibly mean? Jacob wondered.

  Captain Brook now clasped Delpech in a comradely manner on the shoulder, but his attempted smile and fixed gaze, which were perhaps supposed to express fellowship, did not reassure Jacob one bit.

  ‘Show Doctor Delpech to his quarters,’ said the captain to Jacob’s escort. Brook t
hen turned and gave a word to his quartermaster—a thickset, bald, and bearded man named Blunt—who in turn shouted the order to haul up the large anchor.

  As Doctor Delpech continued towards his quarters, he heard the bosun, whom Jacob had known as Lieutenant Ducamp, call out in French for his mates to start winding the capstan.

  Jacob continued to a space at the front of the ship down on the orlop deck, partitioned on one side by canvas drapes. The dimly lit enclosure, ten feet square, was furnished with cabinets and shelves containing the various gruesome implements of his profession. They included saws, knives, pliers, extractors, and lines of bottles and jars of ingredients, no doubt left by the previous surgeon-barber.

  He opened his medical bag, which contained drawings that showed the various operative stages of amputation and other modi operandi. This unexpected wealth of know-how bolstered Jacob’s morale and allowed his mind to put aside the bearded face of Ducamp for the time being. He plunged into the fascinating diagrams and instructions, neatly drawn and written in English.

  As the Joseph slipped out of the port under light sail, Jacob gave a thought for Mrs Evens. She had cared for him, given him food and shelter in the hope of catching a suitable husband. Then she had set out to punish him for not succumbing to her attentions. But he felt no animosity towards her, for had she not ultimately set him on the road to freedom, to England? At least, that is what he wanted to believe.

  *

  An hour into the voyage and two hours before sundown, there were footsteps outside Jacob’s quarters. In walked the bosun.

  There was no one else on the orlop deck, but Ducamp closed the sheet behind him anyway. The two men stood eye to eye, both as fake personas, and aware of the power they potentially held over each other. Jacob was not a doctor. Ducamp was not a French Huguenot seeking asylum on an English merchantman.