Journey of the Wind

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  feeling so prime come morning, I reckon.”

  “‘Twill serve the little bastard right,” Louis mumbled as he met a player’s bet.

  All through the evening as bottle after bottle was consumed until the wee hours of

  the morning, Louis Corsair kept a watchful eye over the brooding man sitting by

  himself at the table across the room. Even when it was only Louis and Andre left in the

  tavern, the older man leaned back in his chair with arms crossed over his chest and still

  kept vigil. When the glass in Andre’s hand slipped out of fingers overly numb from the

  drink taken and fell to the floor, when the young man slumped forward—unsuspecting

  nose hitting the tabletop hard enough to bloody it—Louis just sat there, a look of angry

  resignation on his beefy face. Letting the front legs of his chair lower to the floor, he

  waved away the sleepy barkeep and got to his feet, hitching up his britches as he

  walked purposefully toward the man the world thought his young brother.

  Grabbing Andre’s limp arm, Louis hoisted the unconscious man up, and upon

  dipping his knees, put a hard shoulder under Andre’s belly and levered him up. With

  head and legs dangling, the drunken man was carried unceremoniously out the door

  and into the rosy streaks of dawn.

  * * * * *

  Rylee stirred as the screen door creaked open. She jerked awake and jumped up

  from the chair in which she’d slept most of the night away. Rubbing her eyes, she found

  herself staring into Louis Corsair’s enraged eyes as the man headed for the stairs.

  “Is he hurt?” she asked, her hand at her throat.

  “He’s drunk as a pissant,” Louis scoffed. “The hurting will begin when he wakes

  up.”

  She followed behind as Louis stomped heavily up the stairs and managed to get in

  front of him as he started for their bedchamber. She was straightening the mussed

  covers when Louis came in and—none too gently—dropped Andre to the mattress.

  “Be careful with him!” she snapped.

  “What the fuck do you care what happens to him?” Louis demanded. “‘Tis you

  what caused this!”

  Rylee was adjusting the pillow beneath Andre’s head, smoothing the tousled dark

  hair that fell into his eyes. “I did no such thing,” she snapped.

  “The boy don’t drink,” Louis shouted. “He never drinks! For him to have done so

  last eve had to be your doing!”

  “Keep your voice down!” Rylee admonished him, for she realized Andre was

  waking up. His eyelids were fluttering and at Louis’ shout he had flinched.

  “What did you do to him, bitch?” Louis hissed.

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  Andre’s eyes opened and the look on his face as full realization hit him made Rylee

  wince. There was misery in that dark gaze and not only from the copious amount of

  liquor he had consumed during the night. She barely had time to drop down and snatch

  up the chamber pot from beneath the bed.

  Louis’ large hands were wrapped around the horizontal bar of the foot post as he

  watched Andre bolt up from the bed and turn sideways. He did not miss the green

  color that had invaded the younger man’s face as he bent over the side of the bed. Nor

  did he miss the sight of Rylee scooting the chamber pot beneath Andre’s chin as the

  young man relieved his gut of its contents. He stood there as Rylee sat down on the bed

  and held a hand to Andre’s forehead—bracing him—as he puked, the chamber pot on

  her thigh.

  “He’s soiling your dress,” Louis pointed out loudly, eyeing the splatters that had

  settled on the bodice of Rylee’s cotton gown.

  “I don’t care. Either lower your voice or get the hell out of this room,” Rylee stated,

  looking up to give Louis a savage look.

  Andre was bent over, panting from the exertion, his head a throbbing, merciless

  agony. He was shuddering by the time the dry heaves hit and praying for his own

  death as his stomach continued to try bringing up its very lining. His right hand

  gripped Rylee’s knee while the left was bent between them at a painful angle.

  “Make yourself useful and get me a wet cloth for him,” Rylee ordered Louis, and to

  Andre’s surprise, the older man did as he was told, though he grumbled darkly beneath

  his breath.

  “If’n it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Louis

  complained as he brought the rag over to her.

  “I didn’t tell him to fill his gut with liquor,” Rylee insisted.

  “What did you tell him?” Louis asked.

  Rylee’s cheeks burned. She hated to repeat what had brought this on. “I might have

  said something I shouldn’t have,” she admitted.

  Louis snorted. “Such as what?”

  “L-leave her b-be, L-Louis,” Andre whispered, the very act of speaking causing

  untold agony in his pulsing head.

  “I am sorry, Andre,” Rylee said. “It will never happen again.”

  He didn’t have enough energy to tell her it was all right. He was furious at himself

  for giving in to a filthy habit he never would have indulged in had he not been hurt so

  badly by her calling him the other man’s name. Drinking was something he kept well

  away from him, not wanting to end up like the man he had believed to be his father.

  “What did you do?” Louis asked, his voice going up an octave.

  “I said be quiet!” Rylee hissed at him.

  Feeling as though the retching was at an end, Andre flopped back on the bed,

  putting a trembling hand to his face.

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  “What did you do?” Louis repeated in a low, insisted voice.

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “We’ll talk about it now!”

  “Louis, please…” Andre asked. He hurt so badly it was a torment just to lie there

  with the room careening around him and a coat of thick fur covering his teeth and

  tasting like the hide of a musk ox smelled.

  Realizing Louis would not let up, Rylee straightened and looked him in the eye. “I

  called him by my husband’s name when I…when…” Her face turned beet red. “You

  know.”

  Louis stood there for a moment with his brows furrowed and then when he realized

  what she was saying, thunderclouds developed on that craggy plain. “You called him

  by another man’s name when you came?” When she nodded, he reached out and took

  her arm in a punishing grip. “Andi is your husband, wench. You’d best remember

  that!”

  Rylee snatched her arm out of his grasp. “Not legally,” she told him.

  “We’ll see about that!” Louis groused, and spun around on his heel. He strode

  angrily from the room.

  Andre stopped breathing, realizing what Louis had meant. He struggled to sit up

  although the pain was an excruciating tight band around his forehead and talons of

  steel were clawing at his innards.

  “Oh no, you don’t!” Rylee said, attempting to push him back down. “You aren’t

  going anywhere, Andre.”

  “Louis is going after him and he’ll kill Farrell,” Andre said, batting her hands away.

  “I’ve got to stop him!”

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  Chapter Fifteen

  When the ship was sighted, a loud cheer went up amongst t
he castaways. A few of

  the sailors did jigs and were frolicking about like children until they got a good view of

  the ship’s shrouds.

  “Pirates!” Bonny yelled, and the cheering died down.

  They were all gathered on the shore and watched silently as the big ship tacked

  toward them. With no weapons and only their fists to protect themselves, the castaways

  realized the precarious predicament that was coming toward them. What few

  implements they’d been able to jerry-rig to make their everyday lives better were

  useless against cutlasses and pistols.

  “Can you make out its pennant, Captain?” Briarly asked. He was standing with his

  hand shading his eyes.

  Andelton shook his head. “No but my guess is it’s one of the Corsair brothers,” he

  said, glancing at Alsandair. “Most likely Louis.”

  “His ship’s the Voleur, ain’t it?” Bonny asked. “The raider?”

  “I believe so,” the captain replied.

  “Why would he be coming here?” Kyle inquired. “Surely he must know we don’t

  have anything of value.”

  “We’ve one thing,” Andelton said.

  “What?”

  “Me,” Alsandair said softly.

  “For what purpose though, Sandair?” Kyle asked.

  “Ransom,” Andelton replied for the younger man. “My guess is he’s learned

  Alsandair is an Anlusian Guard and means to make them pay to get him back.”

  “Sail ho!” another of the castaways shouted and pointed starboard of the

  approaching ship. “Black sails!”

  As the men on the beach watched, the smaller of the two ships began closing in on

  the larger. It was evident the one farther out was a faster vessel and was being allowed

  to run before the wind, all sails out. When a puff of smoke issued from the smaller ship,

  Captain Andelton cursed beneath his breath. “Maybe it isn’t ransom after all,” he said.

  “Was that cannon fire?” Kyle asked.

  “Aye,” Briarly answered. “And so was that.”

  Alsandair was also shielding his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun on the water.

  He stared as the larger ship came about and fired a warning shot across the bow of the

  closing ship. Delayed, the boom of the cannon finally reached the castaways.

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  “Are them fighting, Papa?” Ataa asked, his childlike exuberance high as he fidgeted

  as his father’s side.

  “Are they fighting,” Andre automatically corrected. “And aye, they are, son.”

  “Why, Papa?” It was the little boy’s favorite question.

  Alsandair looked down at his son. “I don’t know.”

  Once more the smaller ship fired one of its cannons and a goodly piece of the

  railing of the larger ship exploded into the air. The loud reverberation echoed over the

  water. The two ships were close in to shore—about a quarter mile out—and close

  enough the castaways could see the indistinct figures of men on their decks. It seemed

  for the moment the hostilities were over and when after a long pause the larger ship

  picked up speed and crossed in front of the smaller then tacked back the way she came,

  the men on the shore breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Although he couldn’t see the man captaining the vessel left behind, Alsandair knew

  who it was that stared at him from the deck of the sleek black ship. He could barely

  make out the man’s outline but didn’t need to see his face to know who he was.

  “Louis was coming after you to kill you,” Andelton said quietly in Anlusian so Ataa

  wouldn’t understand what he was saying.

  “Aye,” Alsandair agreed. His jaw was clenched as he stared at the figure so far

  away out on the water. He could feel the hatred rolling toward him and sent his own

  back with equal volume, knowing Andre Corsair would intercept it.

  “Why did Le Livreur de Glace stop him?” Briarly asked, using the nickname Andre

  Corsair’s men called him.

  “Because he knew she’d hate him if anything happened to Sandair,” Kyle replied

  for his friend.

  Across the distance the two men glared at one another though it was impossible for

  either of them to actually see the other. Both stood with their hands on their hips, legs

  spread in a defensive posture that labeled them the warriors they were.

  “I hope you rot in hell, Andre Corsair,” Alsandair said in a low voice.

  * * * * *

  Gaston came up to stand beside his captain. The younger man had spent nearly the

  entire voyage sitting with his head over a bucket and it had been only upon catching up

  with the Voleur that Andre had come to his feet, his fists opening and closing as he gave

  orders to fire on his brother’s ship to halt it.

  “Are you sure?” Gaston had asked.

  “Don’t question me, LeRouge!” Andre had spat.

  Standing there beside the mast, his complexion a sickly green color, the captain had

  ordered the shots that had finally taken off a part of the Voleur’s stern railing. The shot

  had rocked the larger boat and it had brought the order from Louis for his gunners to

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  stand down. The two men had stared at one another for a long time before Louis

  ordered his helmsmen back to the Cay.

  “This isn’t over, you little bastard!” Louis had shouted across the water.

  Gaston could have sworn he saw Louis Corsair smiling as he set about ordering his

  men to get under way but since Louis, the butcher, never smiled Gaston believed he’d

  only imagined it.

  “What now, Cap’n?” Gaston inquired.

  Andre kept his eyes on the man on the beach. “Bring her around, Mr. LeRouge, and

  take us home,” Andre ordered.

  Gaston frowned. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Andre said, and turned away, heading for his cabin and the soft

  pillow that would cushion his nearly unbearable headache. He was unsteady as he

  made his way down the ladder.

  “We ain’t going after them castaways?” Gaston called after him. When his captain

  waved a dismissive hand at him, Gaston let out a blue streak of curses. He turned to

  Satordi. “All that way out here and for naught? Where the hell was the brat’s head?”

  “Up his lady’s skirt,” Satordi replied with a fatalistic shrug.

  Gaston swiveled his head around and looked toward the men on the beach as

  understanding set in. “Ah…” he drawled, everything clear to him then. His gaze

  narrowed. “You be a lucky man, warrior.”

  * * * * *

  Alsandair didn’t feel lucky. He felt like he could tear the pirate leader apart with his

  bare hands if given the chance. As the ship turned and headed back from whence it

  came, he threw back his head and bellowed his rage to the heavens.

  * * * * *

  Rylee had paced from one end of the dock to the other since Andre had weighed

  anchor early that morning. It was now close to sunset and neither his nor Louis’ ship

  had yet to appear on the horizon. Sailors from other ships were giving her a wide berth

  and speaking in low tones she could not hear. Each of them sent her dirty looks that—

  had she been any other man’s woman—might have brought her harm. As it was, they

  kept well clear of her, their unspoken animosity growing as the hour grew later. Only<
br />
  once had she heard one of them voicing his opinion and it had been squashed quickly

  enough.

  “Wouldn’t want to be in her skirts if one of them Corsairs has been hurt!” the man

  had prophesied.

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  The thought of Andre being hurt because of her actions brought moisture to Rylee’s

  eyes and a pang of guilt to her belly. She slumped down on the dock and buried her

  face in her hands, crying as though her heart might break.

  “Stop that, you slut! Ain’t no way for a Corsair woman to be behaving!” a crude

  voice hissed at her a moment before Rylee felt her arm clenched in a brutal grip.

  Jerked to her feet to face a woman with hair as white as snow and a face as brittle as

  ice, Rylee knew this could be none other than Antoinette, Louis’ woman.

  “Ye’d best hope me Louis be hail and hearty when the Voleur docks!” the woman

  spat, lips drawn back over her tobacco-stained teeth. “Else I’ll be gutting ye where ye

  stand, Andre or no Andre!”

  The hard grip on her arm was punishing but Rylee managed to free herself and step

  back from the virago. Antoinette was a goodly sized woman with arms that were nearly

  as big around as Rylee’s waist. She stepped back from the imposing threat, breathing

  hard.

  “Why, ye ain’t nothing more than a skinny twig!” Antoinette sneered. “I could

  break ye with one snap of me wrist!” She mimicked cracking Rylee over her knee, her

  pale gray eyes glowering at the younger woman.

  “I want no trouble with you, Antoinette,” Rylee said, backing up another step. She

  was perilously close to the edge of the wooden planks and couldn’t step back any

  farther.

  “Ye’d best hope ye don’t get none neither!” Antoinette told her.

  “Sail ho!” someone called out, and Antoinette flicked her beady gaze from Rylee to

  the water.

  “The Voleur!” the lookout cried. “I see the captain, Toni!”

  “How’s he look to you, Rouyce?” Antoinette asked, looking up at the crow’s nest of

  one of the ships where a gruff-looking man was perched.

  “Right to fiddle, he looks,” Rouyce reported.

  Antoinette returned her hard glower to Rylee. “That’s good for you, you little

  whore,” she pronounced.

  Rylee was breathing hard as the older woman moved back up the dock, flouncing