Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  Jacob suspected that de Graaf was trying to give himself a good conscience and a clever pretext to attack and loot an innocent town. But he knew better than to argue with a man capable of leading a band of butchers without shedding a drop of blood himself. Instead he said, ‘I have seen what men of war are capable of, Sir, whatever their nationality. If you continue to meet violence with violence, when will it stop? It is a virtue to learn to turn the other cheek and pray for those who persecute you, is it not?’

  ‘That may work, Monsieur Delpech, if the offender has read the Bible and shares its virtues.’

  It was a fair point, thought Jacob, puffing at his pipe as images of Elias Verbizier reeled through his mind.

  ‘Besides,’ said the Dutchman, ‘if we abided by those virtues, you would not be able to recover your freedom and pay your passage back to Europe, would you?’

  ‘I will take none of it!’ said Jacob.

  Fatigued, de Graaf preferred to let it drop, and made himself as comfortable as he could on his Havana hide until it was his turn to take the oar.

  As the canoe slipped through the black, brackish water beneath the star-speckled sky, Jacob settled with his pipe. However, though it gave protection from insects and the foul tang of sailors, it could not wipe away the killing from his memory.

  *

  Travelling downriver would normally take a good deal less time than rowing up it. However, each craft also carried part of the spoils of victory. So instead of crossing the strips of land where the river snaked round parallel to itself, the buccaneers preferred to ride out the bends even though it added precious time to their return journey. And the closer the river got to the coast, the more it coiled like a Cuban boa. Sometimes it took half an hour to get to a point that was no more than a stone’s throw across a strip of land. But it was certainly less strenuous than heaving barrels of provisions, crop, and plunder through marshland.

  At one point, however, the water became so shallow and full of fallen branches that they were obliged to pull into the south bank. Then they had to carry their boats and cargo the short distance through the swamped woodland to reach the next navigable stretch.

  The men in the pirogue that brought up the rear had been sneakily swigging as they drifted downstream. Instead of carrying the precious cargo separately like the crews before them, they got the notion to heave high their pirogue with the barrels still in it to save the hassle of lugging them. After all, it was only fifty yards to the next strip of water, and there were ten of them to carry it.

  It turned out, however, that as they advanced carefully in the paling darkness of predawn, the main hindrance was not the cumbersome weight, but the nature of the terrain. The marshy ground was strewn with roots. One of the men tripped, sending another over with him. The false steps caused the boat to dip and tilt. The barrels toppled over to the ground. The one containing plunder had not been capped and hooped—given that it was soon to be emptied—and its contents spilt over the marshy bed.

  Brook, who loved loot even more than his mulatto, was walking with the boat in front. He turned and saw the barrel of treasure a foot deep in thick, muddy water. He roared out: ‘By Jupiter, I’ll cut your bloody arms off if you don’t put that barrel as you found it!’

  The guilty party urgently lowered their pirogue to the ground. As if to prove the utility of their arms, they proceeded to frantically recover the spilt treasure, feeling around in the cold, murky water for any coin that might have toppled out.

  Three boats up, de Graaf looked back and immediately guessed what all the fuss was about.

  ‘For crying out loud! The lot of you drunk or just plain stupid?’

  ‘Should ’ave waited till daybreak before heading down,’ said Cox in the next boat up, thinking of the extra time he could have spent in the library in Bayamo.

  ‘And we’d be in worse lumber than a beached whale!’ returned the Dutchman. ‘Because the Spanish aren’t stupid. They’d have also sent soldiers across the hills on horseback!’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Cox.

  ‘Just pick up the big stuff,’ shouted de Graaf. ‘We gotta make it down before the day breaks over the bay!’

  They salvaged what they could, leaving behind a small fortune to whomever would one day dig into the mud on the south bank where the river was shallow.

  They soon caught up with the pack waiting further downstream on the river’s edge. The whole band of buccaneers then rowed the rest of the way without another hitch to the river’s mouth.

  In the grey light of a misty morning, the seventeen-boat flotilla hacked along the coastal shoals until they came to the cay. Quickly and under de Graaf’s careful eye, they heaved and hauled the takings into the holds of the three waiting ships so they could weigh anchor before the sun dissipated their cover.

  ‘Rendezvous on Pinos Island for the count,’ called out de Graaf from the epicentre of the circle of men, after a brief consultation with the captains.

  As the men broke away to board their ships, the Dutch captain turned to Jacob and said, ‘Monsieur Delpech, I am sure Captain Brook would not mind if you rode with me.’

  ‘Like hell I would. You ain’t stealing my doctor, de Graaf. He’s indentured to me, and he’s an invaluable member of my crew!’

  ‘Then I will pay the indenture in advance of the doctor’s share with interest, and I’ll throw Joe into the bargain,’ said de Graaf, shrewdly addressing the captain’s two most delectable sins, which had a stronger hold over him than the virtues of a medical man.

  ‘All right then,’ said Brook at length, ‘but leave the medicine with me.’ The doctor and de Graaf agreed.

  Deep down, the mulatto, who was wearing hoops and a silk scarf, didn’t know whether to laugh or cry to be so esteemed by his new protector and multi-ethnic family. But all in all, he considered the services due were certainly worth the wealth and freedom that he could look forward to, and one day soon, he might even be able to jump ship.

  Poor Joe’s manifest enthusiasm would surely have been dulled had he not been ignorant, thought Jacob, of the sailor’s ailment.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Delpech was sitting at the captain’s desk, in the handsome frigate built for a sea prince.

  De Graaf had invited him to share his cabin and use whatever space he could find, except the great mahogany table, strewn with navigational instruments and rolls of charts, that stood in the centre. Elsewhere was richly furnished with silverware, a fine French glace, and a Persian carpet. Delpech had strung up his hammock near a writing desk which enabled him to corner off a personal area. As the morning light flooded in through the stern windows, he wondered how a man could be so elegant and considerate and yet so ruthless. It was true, however, he had not actually drawn a drop of blood throughout the campaign. In fact, Jacob believed de Graaf’s presence had reduced life loss. Yet given the man’s authority over these battle-hardened cut-throats, including the obnoxious Captain Brook, there could be no doubt as to the Dutchman’s murderous capabilities.

  The deck outside the half-open door was losing its eerie stillness as it became animated again with predominantly French accents. Going by their cheerful banter, the crew were returning from Pinos Island in even livelier spirits than they had left the ship, three hours earlier that morning. The reason for this, Jacob knew, was they had just received their share of the booty, worth over one hundred thousand pieces of eight, the price of a thousand slaves.

  Jacob hadn’t written a thing. His wooden lacquered pen case with its pastoral scene still sat unopened on the desk beside his Bible. He had been thinking a lot about his life, about his goal to recover his family, and about his spiritual objective.

  He needed means to pay for his freedom and to return to Europe. Yet the Christian values to which he wholeheartedly adhered left him unarmed, and without resources to fight to recover his family. Thou shall not steal! And he had refused to take a share of the profit from the deaths, desolation, and robbery of innocent people. If he had, how c
ould he qualify for a place in heaven?

  A knock on the door brought him out of his introspection. ‘Entrez!’ he said, turning round on his leather chair. His sunken eyes showed surprise when they met with the large frame of the bosun that filled the doorway. ‘Ah, Monsieur Ducamp, have you jumped ship?’

  The bosun advanced into the spacious cabin, whose wide array of stern windows offered an excellent view of the shore.

  ‘Not yet, Monsieur Delpech, no intention of going north yet.’ He was referring to de Graaf’s imminent departure to Saint-Domingue, which meant circumnavigating the island of Cuba windward and included a detour northward to Nassau. ‘I have come to give you this.’ He held out a leather drawstring pouch.

  Jacob got to his feet. Ignoring the bosun’s outstretched hand, he said, ‘I am sorry, I distinctly told Captain de Graaf that I would have nothing to do with such ill-gotten gain.’

  ‘It’s not loot,’ said Ducamp. The pouch of coin made a jingling thud as he dumped it on the desk beside Jacob’s Bible. ‘It is payment for the belongings I sold from your house in Montauban!’

  ‘I cannot become a profiteer!’

  ‘It’s coin I had before, and it is not negotiable. Would you deprive a man of his first step toward redemption, Monsieur Delpech?’

  Jacob glanced at the money bag. Was this not an answer to his secret doubts?

  ‘By the grace of God, take it, man. You deserve it. You have been a light of good and a ray of hope to many of us here. And I can assure you, I have never seen a bunch of cut-throats stand so still as when you spoke at the funeral. Some of the lads want to know if it was from the Bible.’

  Jacob gave a curt nod. ‘It was, Lieutenant Ducamp,’ he said. He twisted his torso to reach for his desk. Turning back with his Bible in his hand, he said, ‘Matthew chapter five. Take it, please.’

  ‘You are a good man, Monsieur Delpech,’ said the bosun, ‘and good men deserve to be free!’ Taking the book, he held Jacob’s gaze for a full second, an instant of mutual understanding which said more than all their pleasantries.

  ‘It is written in French, not Latin. It is God’s will that all men may one day be able to read the word of the Lord, and examine their conscience for themselves.’

  Jacob felt a fleeting movement of the heart as the big man’s expression lost its grim, battle-worn mask of ruggedness, and he saw the lad standing before him, humbled like a son, and with a sheen of hope as if, at last, he had received a long-awaited gift. ‘May it help lighten your burden, Monsieur Ducamp. And may God stay with you!’

  ‘I’ll say it again, you are a good man,’ said the bosun. ‘If God exists, may He protect you and yours, Sir.’ He bowed, then turned without another word said.

  Jacob followed him with his eyes and watched him lower his head back through the cabin door onto the now bustling deck, and climb down the rigging to the longboat to join the Joseph. He was taking the Book of God into hell, thought Jacob. There was hope.

  Sitting back at the writing desk, Jacob pulled out a sheet of paper from the desk drawer, then he opened his pen case. Five acorn faces stared back at him. He arranged them on the desk on the strip of wool. He then prepared his pen, drew ink from the well, and began to write.

  My Dearest Wife . . .

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Etienne and Claire Lambrois had stopped at Schaffhausen. Situated on the Rhine at midpoint between Geneva and Brandenburg, it bordered the minor German states of the Holy Roman Empire. During their spring travels, Claire had become overly fatigued, and Etienne had decided to make a halt for a couple of days.

  The young couple had been given hospitality by the First Consul of the Magistrature, Monsieur Rhing de Wildenberg, who was only too glad to entertain them and give vent to his love of French culture. He had completed his tour of France as a young man and spoke the language fluently. Claire and Etienne had initially planned to rest just a few days, a week at most, but during a conversation at table, Etienne discussed his future plans.

  It so happened that Monsieur de Wildenberg had a son-in-law who was hoping to expand his woodworking business, given the new sawmills and the expansion of the wealthy township. ‘So one thing led to another, and here we still are,’ Claire had told Jeanne, while sitting with Ginette in front of the dwelling that Etienne had been able to rent. Situated close to a sawmill not far out of Schaffhausen, the squared timber-framed dwelling came with the added advantage of a large adjoining barn, useful for Etienne’s carpentry activities. To everyone’s contentment, it also now employed Jean Fleuret. It was the reason why Jeannot had headed directly for Schaffhausen instead of Brandenburg, Etienne having previously sent word inviting him to stop by on his travels.

  During a discussion a little later, Jeanne learnt how the officials looking for Jeanne Delpech had not been prompted by the audacious pauper after all. As soon as the Fleurets arrived at Schaffhausen and informed Etienne and Claire of the boat tragedy, and that Jeanne was recovering in the village where Pierre was buried, Lambrois and Jeannot headed out in a cart to fetch her and Paul.

  By the time they arrived in Nion, Jeanne had already left. Monsieur Gaugin explained to them her intentions, so Etienne sent out a message to officials along all the possible routes to stop her so that they could take her back to Schaffhausen by cart. But in Yverdon, they bumped into none other than Cephas Crespin, who told them that, not wishing to travel by boat, she had taken the land route through Payerme. This was confirmed by an agent of the Confederacy who had seen a woman in a green coat with a little boy.

  ‘I assumed that green was a favourite colour of yours, and that you had naturally purchased another one of the same colour,’ explained Etienne, over the dining table which stood in a separate room from the smoky cooking kitchen.

  ‘We found the green coat, all right,’ said Jeannot Fleuret, ‘but on another woman!’

  Lambrois said, ‘When she described the person she bought it from as having mutilated thumbs, we immediately knew it to be the pauper.’

  ‘And we knew something didn’t tally righ’ ’n’ all,’ said Fleuret, ‘seein’ as he’d sent us on a wild goose chase.’

  Etienne explained how they hurried back to the track that Monsieur Gaugin had told Jeanne to take. They soon picked up the trail of a Madame Delgarde de Castanet. Lambrois, who knew Jeanne had a nobiliary particle after her name, had a gut feeling that they were on her path, which was confirmed when they asked at a pair of riverboats on the Aar if they had seen a lady travelling with a boy. By good fortune, a woman was able to tell them that she had travelled from Yverdon with a lady and a lad who had since headed to somewhere that began with Schaff, and that they had taken the road to Zurzach.

  Lambrois and Fleuret ventured across country in the light of the moon, neither of them wanting to rest until they had found Jeanne and Paul. They arrived at Neunkirch a couple of hours after sunup and were directed to the place where Jeanne had left a note of thanks.

  ‘There are too many coincidences,’ said Jeannot with a glimmer in his eye. ‘It can only have been an act of Providence that brought us to your aid in time, can it not?’

  ‘Pity the wicked imp got away with your bag, though,’ said Ginette.

  Jeanne gave a contented smile and said, ‘It is of no consequence. We are safe and alive, and we are here now among friends, aren’t we, Paul?’

  ‘Brave lad, too, taking on a full-grown man,’ said Etienne, clasping the boy’s shoulder blade.

  ‘Aye,’ said Jeannot, ‘there be a courageous young man inside that heart of yours, me boy, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I did as Pierre would have done,’ said Paul, with both hope and sadness in his smile. ‘I am sure he was with me.’

  *

  Jeanne accepted to stay for the imminent childbirth. Lacking her mother, Claire was glad to have Jeanne at her side. She was reassured too that the Fleurets had decided that they could do far worse than to settle in Schaffhausen, where Jeannot would not lack work pertaining to his true trade.


  One warm Sunday afternoon, Jeannot was sitting in the shade on the bench outside the kitchen, watching the children—Paul and his daughters, Rose and Aurore—playing in the meadow in front of the house. Jeanne sat down beside him.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t it? He would have loved it here,’ said Jeannot, rubbing the side of his big, tanned face. ‘I do miss him. Can’t help it,’ he said, turning to her, his eyes glistening, his brow furrowed. ‘I keep wanting to tell him I love him, but he’s not there.’ Jeanne placed a hand on his forearm, and pressed her fingers on his Sunday shirt. He continued, ‘Why this sufferance, Jeanne? For what? For whom?’

  Why indeed, she knew not. She too was sometimes given to ask: Why had her faith driven her from her beloved homeland? Why had her children been taken from her? Why did Lulu and now Pierre have to die? Had they not given enough proof of their faith? But she tried not to dwell on it, tried to live in the present and have faith in the future. It was the only way to move forward without the ground subsiding beneath her feet.

  At length, she said, ‘I do not know, Jeannot. But what I do know is that your Pierre and my Louise are with Jesus, that one day we shall be reunited in heaven.’

  Jeannot placed his hand upon hers. ‘Thank you,’ he said. A solitary tear ran down the creases in his face. ‘I needed to hear it. It is my one hope.’

  *

  Upon the general insistence, Jeanne agreed to winter in Schaffhausen at least until she received confirmation of Jacob’s arrival in London, for she still had no certitude that he had gone there, that he had escaped even. She and Paul would thereafter take to the road again in better health.

  The glorious days of summer soon gave way to the autumn chill. But the early snows in October were as fresh and beautiful as the summer meadows were warm and picturesque. Through the church, the group of immigrants integrated into Schaffhausen society—facilitated by the First Consul and Etienne’s professional connections, as well as a general willingness to embrace their new home. ‘I never thought Etienne would pick up the language so quickly,’ said Claire one day while feeding her baby by the fireside.