Journey of the Wind
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the annoyance he felt toward his friend Louis Corsair.
“Louis, Louis, Louis,” he said, shaking his head. “What are you up to now?”
Renaud was one of only a few men who knew the true relationship between Louis
and Andre Corsair. Not even under torture would he ever reveal what he knew for the
secret had been entrusted to him long ago and Noel Renaud held it as sacrosanct as he
did his own true identity.
Several years earlier, Renaud had sailed to Lorient, curious about the man who had
fathered Louis and sold Andre into sexual slavery. Although he didn’t know the
bastard’s last name, he’d had no trouble finding him in the little fishing village. With
the greasing of a few eager palms and mention of the two boys the world believed were
brothers, he’d visited François Bevier in the same hut where the boys had grown up and
he had forever rid the world of one piece of useless human excrement. He’d never told
either man what he’d done and had no intention of ever doing so. He had his own deep,
dark secret that paralleled Andre’s and removing such filth gave Noel Renaud great
satisfaction.
With the wind blowing his shoulder-length black hair about his face, Renaud closed
his eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of frangipani. The breeze tugged at his immaculate
white lawn shirt, billowing the full sleeves and dipping into the deep V of the neckline.
Always dressed flawlessly, his black boots shined with a deep polishing—as did the
large buckle of his leather belt—and his buff-colored britches fit without a wrinkle upon
his muscled thighs. He reached up to tug at the golden hoop hanging in his left
earlobe—a pirate’s good luck charm meant to aid their eyesight.
“Where will we be going, Captain?”
Renaud turned to find his quartermaster Luc Clary walking toward him. “You
never fail to scare me with that sixth sense of yours, Luc,” he said with a shake of his
head.
“I saw the sloop come in and figured one of the Corsairs required your help,” Luc
explained with a shrug. “No sixth sense to that, Sir. What needs to be done this time?”
“Just a short trip,” Renaud replied.
“Full complement of men, Cap’n?”
Renaud considered the question. “Aye, that would be best.”
“How long will we be gone?”
“The rest of the day and early into tomorrow.”
Luc touched a finger to his forelock. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
An hour later, Renaud’s flagship the Perdu—the Lost One—sailed away from
Wicklaw Cay and toward a small island off the coast of Midworld.
* * * * *
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As the Perdu tacked eastward, Rylee was anxiously pacing once again. This time her
circuit was on the veranda of L’endroit Sûr. She had been forbidden to accompany
Andre into town that morning and was worried what might be transpiring when he
met with Louis. Both Gaston and Remy had been sent to watch her and to make sure
she stayed put.
“What is taking him so long?” she asked Gaston.
The wizened old sailor was sitting on the steps whittling, his pipe clenched between
his teeth. He spoke around the obstruction. “He’ll be along when all’s said and done,
milady. ‘Tis like a watched pot. Seems to take longer for the water to boil if you’ve your
eyes peeled to it, you know?”
“Best you sit a spell, milady,” Remy advised. “You’ve fair worn a hole in the
planking.”
Rylee shot him an annoyed look but the young man just stared back, his swarthy
face showing traces of amusement.
“If’n I didn’t know any better,” Gaston observed as he continued to add strips of
wood to a pile between his feet, “I’d say you was worried about the captain.”
“If Louis were to hit him, would Andre fight back?” she asked, nibbling on a
cuticle.
“Most likely not,” Gaston replied. “I reckon he figures he owes Louis for blowing a
hole in the Voleur.”
“He didn’t blow a hole in Louis’ ship,” Rylee said, her jaw tight. “He just took off a
portion of the railing.”
“Damage a man’s ship and you damage his livelihood,” Gaston reminded her.
“Men of our trade don’t take kindly to that, brother or no brother.”
“Then he shouldn’t have gone after Alsandair in the first place!” Rylee threw at
him.
Gaston shrugged, unwilling to get into an argument about that.
Rylee paused with her hands gripping the porch railing and stared down the
pathway. She ached to see Andre come riding his big bay up the oyster-shell drive.
She’d been put out with him earlier that day for insisting she could not accompany him
into town.
“You’ve no need to see Louis take me down a peg or two before the men,” he’d told
her.
“Andre, please!” she’d begged, but he’d been adamant, shaking his head firmly at
her pleading.
Now she was on pins and needles, worried that Louis had hurt him. She didn’t like
the man and trusted him no farther than she could see his beefy face. She’d put nothing
past Louis Corsair. That he had every right to punish his son for his actions didn’t make
the situation any better in Rylee’s eyes.
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She stilled, cocking her head to one side for she thought she heard the clop of
hooves. She let go of the railing and walked to the steps, brushing past Gaston and his
small pile of wood shavings. Her eyes were locked on the pathway and as soon as she
spotted the big bay, she put a hand to her chest for the steed was walking slowly and—
it seemed to her—carefully.
“He’s hurt,” she moaned.
“I reckon he most likely is,” Gaston said. He tossed away the stick he’d been
working on, folded his knife and stood up, tucking the sharp weapon into the pocket of
his britches.
Rylee would have run to Andre but Gaston went to her and caught her arm,
holding her back. He gave her stern look and commanded her not to shame the captain
by acting like a ninny.
“You’re a pirate captain’s woman,” Gaston said. “Behave like one.”
As soon as she could see Andre’s face clearly, Rylee thought her knees would
buckle beneath her. She whimpered and felt Gaston’s strong hand clamped around her
upper arm.
“Steady as she goes, milady,” Gaston said in a soft voice.
Steeling herself to stand still, Rylee wanted to scream with outrage. Andre’s face
was battered so badly, had she not recognized his horse and the clothes—now blood
splattered and torn—he’d worn to town that morning, she could not have sworn it was
him. His flesh discolored in a variety of painful-looking shades of yellow, purple and
blue, his right eye swollen so badly it was completely closed, his bottom lip split and
oozing blood, and both cheekbones punctuated with darkening bruises and one with a
vicious cut, he looked awful. It appeared to her that with every step his mount made, he
winced. She was unaware she was making a little keening sound of sympathy until
Gaston shook her.
“Stop that moaning, milady. You’ll only make it worse on him!” Gaston insisted.
Remy went to take the bay’s reins and to help his captain down from the steed. It
seemed to take Andre forever just to throw his leg over the horse’s rump and dismount.
When he did, he sucked in a breath and would have collapsed had Remy not reacted
quickly and caught him before he hit the ground.
Gaston let go of Rylee’s arm and rushed forward, taking hold of Andre’s feet to
help the younger man carry him into the house.
“Go tell Suzette to fetch the healer,” Gaston ordered Rylee. When she didn’t move,
he gave the order again in a louder, more forceful voice.
Rylee jumped to do the old man’s bidding then, running past him and Remy to
snatch open the door, yelling for Suzette. She held the door open as the men carried
Andre into the house.
Suzette had been coming down the stairs and realized what was needed before
Rylee could tell her. She took off running, slamming the screen door behind her.
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“Don’t worry about getting him up the stairs,” Gaston told Remy. “I think he’s got
a broken rib or two. Let’s lay him down in the parlor.”
Rylee was ahead of them, throwing all but one of the pillows on the long loveseat to
the floor so they could lay Andre down flat. She tucked the remaining pillow gently
under his head.
“Get his boots, Remy,” Gaston told the younger man, and Remy was quick to skirt
the loveseat and do as he was commanded.
“Best you get some hot water and rags, milady,” Gaston informed Rylee. “We’ll
need bandages for his ribs and a poultice for that shiner.”
“What kind of poultice?” she asked.
“Raw beef steak will do,” Gaston replied. His arthritic fingers were already
working the buttons on Andre’s dirty, torn shirt, gently tugging the material from his
waistband as he went.
Glad to have something to do, Rylee started to the kitchen but Marie Teresa,
Gaston’s woman, was already coming out with a large, bloody steak in hand. Silently
she handed it to Rylee, her irritation with the younger woman plain on her dark face
and then she turned and went back to her domain.
Rylee mumbled her thanks to the cook’s retreating back then carried the steak to
Gaston.
“Put it on that eye,” Gaston said. He was slowly pulling Andre’s belt out of its
loops.
Carefully, Rylee laid the steak over Andre’s battered eye. She was perched on the
arm of the loveseat, unable to look away from the myriad bruises that were revealed by
Gaston opening Andre’s shirt.
“My god,” she said. “Louis should be horsewhipped.”
Gaston made an annoyed sound as he removed the belt then unbuttoned Andre’s
fly.
Andre groaned and opened his good eye, pain flickering across his face. He was
breathing shallowly as though taking a deeper breath would be too much. He looked
up at Rylee and tried to smile, wincing as his bottom lip reminded him it was split.
“You lie still,” Rylee said, smoothing the rumbled hair back from his forehead.
“Suzette went after the healer.”
He tried to shift positions on the loveseat but gasped, his good eye going wide
before that eye rolled up in his head and he pitched once more into unconsciousness.
“Andre!” Rylee cried out.
“Stop that, woman! He’s got a gods-be-damned busted rib or two, that’s all,”
Gaston snapped. “If’n he don’t be still, it could puncture a lung. It’s best he be out.”
Long after the healer had come and gone—tightly bandaging Andre’s ribs and
dosing him with a liberal amount of tenerse mixed with vinegar which made for a more
than adequate painkiller and providing a better poultice for the unconscious man’s
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eye—Rylee sat on the floor beside her lover with her head on the edge of the loveseat.
She was dozing lightly when she felt his hand in her hair and looked up.
“What are you doing on the floor?” he asked. “Come to bed, bébé.”
Rylee smiled, taking his hand in hers. “You’re not in bed, têtu,” she replied.
The eyebrow over Andre’s unmarked eye crooked up. “You’re calling me
stubborn?” he asked. “Who taught you that? Never mind. I can imagine a certain old
man’s been teaching you Françasian.”
“Are you thirsty?” she asked, having been ordered by the doctor to make sure he
received plenty of fluids.
“Aye,” he agreed, allowing her to relinquish his hand as she got to her feet and
went over to pour him a tall tumbler of water. “How long have I been out?”
It was late afternoon and the sun was less than an hour from setting, and she told
him as much.
“That son of a bitch packs a mean punch,” he said, reaching up a shaky hand to
finger his jaw. He grimaced.
“You’ve two broken ribs,” she informed him. “It could have been worse. He could
have done serious damage to that hard head of yours.”
“More than he’s already done?” he countered. His head was pounding as though he
had a drum inside it.
Rylee handed him the water. He took one sip then gave her a disapproving look.
“What did you put in it?” he asked.
“Just drink it. Healer’s orders.”
Frowning, he drained the tumbler then sighed heavily. “There was tenerse in that.
My damned tongue’s numb.”
“You need to sleep,” she said.
“Aye, well, I want to be in my own bed doing it,” he complained, and tried to get
up.
“Oh no you don’t!” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders to push him down
gently. “You’re staying put.”
“The hell I am,” he said. “I want my own bed, Rylee.”
“Best humor him,” Gaston said as he came into the room. “I’ll help him up the
stairs. You’ve got company out on the veranda.”
“Me?” Rylee asked, looking past Gaston. “Who?”
“It had better not be Louis,” Andre grumbled as he managed to swing his legs off
the loveseat.
“It’s not,” Gaston said. “It’s that woman of his.”
“That’s worse yet,” Andre complained. He leaned heavily on Gaston as the old man
helped him to his feet. “What the hell does Toni want with my woman?”
“Didn’t want to know so I didn’t ask,” Gaston said.
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Andre bitched all the way up the stairs, unhappy about Louis’ whore coming to
call. Rylee waited until her lover was in their room before going out on the porch to see
what Toni wanted.
“He okay?” Antoinette asked.
“Do you care?” Rylee returned.
“Louis does.”
“Then Louis should have come to see about him,” Rylee told her.
“Didn’t figure he’d be welcome here right now.”
“He wouldn’t be, but that’s beside the point.” She lifted her chin. “Your man did a
lot of damage to mine and I’ll never forgive him for that.”
Antoinette gave her a smirk. “A lot of damage to yer man, is it?”
“Are you here for a purpose, Toni?” Rylee demanded.
“Just checking up on the brat. Louis didn’t mean to get so carried away, but ye
know how men be.”
It was all Rylee could do not to hit the other woman. “You tell Louis he can go to
hell for all I care. There wasn’t any call for what he did. Ship or no ship, such behavior
isn’t any different than what Louis’ father did to him and Andre when they were boys
and you can tell him that for me.”
“Reckon he knows it,” Antoinette said, “else he wouldn’t have sent me here.”
Rylee watched the older woman stroll off into the jungle, swishing her skirts as she
walked, her bare feet making no noise on the fallen leaves. For such a large woman, she
moved with quiet grace.
A movement in the greenery off to her right caught Rylee’s attention and she
narrowed her eyes, straining to see who was lurking about. She could have sworn she
saw a face peering out from between a break in the bushes. When nothing else moved,
she went back in the house, dismissing whoever or whatever might have been spying
on her.
* * * * *
The sun was hanging low on the horizon when Baxter, one of the sailors from the
Mary Constance, raised the alarm, pointing out to sea where he had spotted a ship.
Running down to the beach, the castaways cheered when they saw a jolly boat being
lowered into the water from a brigantine.
“We’re saved!” Bonny called out.
Captain Andelton and Kyle were standing side by side, both trying to make out the
figurehead on the ship but neither recognizing the carving of a half-naked maiden.
“Could be anyone,” Andelton remarked. “She’s not flying colors.”
Alsandair and Ataa joined the others as Widget, Ataa’s pet cat, scampered among
the men.
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Running out to help bring in the jolly boat, several of the sailors from the Mary
Constance clapped the sailors from the unknown ship on the back. They were all talking
at once, asking if the new arrivals had food.
“Stow it!” Andelton commanded, striding forward to meet the man who had
stepped from the jolly boat. From his appearance and stance, Andelton knew him to be
the brigantine’s captain. “Captain Drake Andelton, formerly of the Mary Constance, at
your service, Sir,” he said, saluting then extending his hand.
“Captain Noel Renaud of the Perdu, ” Renaud replied, clasping the other man’s
hand. “I’ve been sent here to pick up one of your men.” He gave Kyle a steady look.