The Jezebel's Daughter

by Juliet MacLeod

  “Much. Thank you for humoring an old man.”

  “Old man?” I snorted softly. “You can't be more than twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-seven, but I thank you for the compliment.”

  “Young for a captain. Young for a quartermaster. How did that happen?”

  He was quiet for a moment, his eyes once more on the skies. “Graves couldn't read nor write,” he said at length. “He needed someone who could do both. His old quartermaster was killed when we took a ship, and since I was the only one on board who had letters and learning at the time, I was elected.”

  “So how did Hamilton get the job? Surely he can't read or write.”

  MacIsaac grinned, a flash of white in the darkness. “Oh, he's a fine head for figures despite his colorful word choices. He's good with the men, too. They trust him. He always has time to hear grievances, no matter how petty they might be.”

  He fell silent and we stood side by side, watching the skies, until eight bells rang out, signaling the beginning of middle watch. I turned to go to my station high up in the crow's nest, but MacIsaac reached out, taking gentle hold of my wrist. “Let someone else take your station for a bit,” he said. “There is something we need to discuss.”

  I nodded woodenly, a small panicked feeling starting in my gut. “Yes, Captain,” I said in my most formal tone.

  He shook his head and turned to me. “Sebastian. Or if that's too familiar for your comfort, MacIsaac. All right?” I nodded and he patted me on the shoulder before letting his hand fall away to grip the railing once more. He turned away, looking out over the calm seas. “I have a confession,” he said in a soft voice.

  “Oh?” What could he possibly need to confess to me? I could think of nothing. “Aren't you supposed to see a priest for that sort of thing?”

  He laughed, the volume out of step with the humor in the question. It was a sound that shouted of broken tension and relief. “Not that sort of a confession.”

  “Oh. Well, then. Speak your mind.”

  “Before Graves made him your guard, Ben was just a sailor without any real skills except for his loyalty. In fact, Graves was punishing Ben by leaving him with you.”

  “Punishing him? For what?”

  “Fighting while we were at sea. I don't know the exact circumstances, but he was involved in a row with another sailor and broke the man's nose, a few ribs, and tore his ear off. Fighting is strictly forbidden on the ship. Ben got off lightly. Others have been marooned or flogged.”

  I shuddered at the thought of being flogged. “Why the special treatment?”

  “I like Ben. He's clever. Loyal. Hard-working. I convinced Graves that Ben was too valuable to him to permanently injure or kill, so he agreed to put him ashore to guard you.” Two sailors appeared on the fo'c's'le and nodded to the captain. MacIsaac returned their nods with an easy smile and they continued past us. He waited until they were out of earshot and then spoke again, his voice lowered to conspiratorial tones. “It will probably come as no surprise to you, but Graves was not well liked during his tenure as captain of this ship. He was tolerated as captain because he was successful and because most of the crew were terrified of him.” I nodded in understanding. I'd seen only a small sliver of that cruelty. The Jezebel's crew had had far more opportunities to experience life under Captain Graves.

  I began to wonder why, exactly, the captain was speaking so openly and honestly to me. Perhaps it was because of the men involved. MacIsaac and I shared a common hatred for Graves as well as a common love for Ben. Perhaps it was simply because I'd been present when he decided to unburden his soul.

  “A few months before you washed up in Nassau,” he continued, “I had begun quietly collecting votes against him. I wanted to put him ashore with a month's ration of water and never look back. Only a handful of men agreed to vote with me. The rest were just too frightened. They feared reprisals, retribution. They wouldn't act to save themselves.

  “But then you came along and all that changed. You cursed him with the knowledge of his death.” He fell silent for a moment and turned to me, his face impassioned. “It was a sign. You gave me a way to take care of the Graves problem once and for all.”

  My breathing hitched in my chest and I stared at him with wide, shocked eyes. “What are you saying?” I asked, my voice strangled in my throat.

  “I killed Graves. I staged his death the way you said it would happen.”

  My blood froze in my veins and the hairs at the back of my neck rose in fright. “You killed him?” I whispered. “Because of what I... Because of those words?”

  “I did. Are you better off now?”

  I shook my head, trying to clear it of the stupor caused by MacIsaac's confession. “That's not the point. You killed a man.”

  “He wasn't a man,” he spat bitterly. “He was a monster. He raped you. He kept you prisoner in a brothel. Are you going to honestly tell me that I should have spared him? Aren't you better off now that he's dead and rotting away at the bottom of the sea?”

  I stared at him, unable to speak, unable to form coherent thoughts. I turned away from him, unsettled by both his confession to murder and his cavalier attitude towards it. Or was that true? Was I upset by his act, or was I upset because my premonition had caused it? If I hadn't spoken that day on the beach, would MacIsaac have murdered Graves? Would I still be Graves's prisoner, a toy tucked away in a filthy box, only taken out when he wanted to play with me?

  I'd seen MacIsaac kill just a week ago. Baron Glenconner was dead because of MacIsaac's actions. But the knowledge of Graves's death haunted me far more than the baron's. The premeditation, the fact that MacIsaac had used me, those words, as an impetus to kill rocked me to my core. I suddenly could not stand to be near the captain for one moment longer. I felt dirtied and foul, unclean just as the Bible taught. This was what came of fraternizing with criminals and murderers. I worried for my soul.

  “I have to get to my station,” I mumbled and ran for the main mast before MacIsaac could stay me again. I scaled the ladder quickly and slid into the crow's nest, chilled to the bone despite the warm wind.

  XVII

  On board the Jezebel, Caribbean Sea

  July, 1716

  A week later, we were anchored in Cap-Français. While Hamilton and MacIsaac went to arrange the sale of the Nonsuch's cargo with MacIsaac's fence, the rest of the crew headed to the brothels and taverns. Ben remained on the shore long after most of the rest of the men had dispersed. He stared towards the center of town with a longing look but his feet were firmly planted in the sand. I looked at him, my brow furrowed with confusion, and asked, “Why are you still here?”

  “I don't want to leave you alone,” he said.

  “Don't you want to seek the companionship of a woman who isn't pretending to be a man in order to survive aboard a pirate ship?” He laughed and shook his head slowly, clearly amused by my question. “You should go,” I said and gave him a gentle shove. “I'll be fine. You did teach me how to defend myself. If you don't go, you are bringing into question your abilities as an instructor.”

  “All right. But you keep your pistol loaded. You understand?” I nodded solemnly and after a last stern look, he took off at a run. I watched him for a moment with a smile, before heading in the opposite direction. The smell of freshly baked bread spurred me on. I dove into the crowded markets, one hand curled around the butt of my pistol, the other firmly holding onto my purse. It was still full from the sale of my belongings in Nassau and I stopped at every stall I came to, looking over their offerings carefully. Ultimately, though, I limited my selections to only the things I could never get on the ship, namely fresh food.

  I found a fruit stand and snatched a pineapple out of the hands of a housewife. The fruit was the only one I'd seen in the market so far. I flashed her a smile and dropped a ha'penny into her hand. She stared at it and sniffed haughtily before moving off. Six months ago, I wouldn't have been so bold, but now, after so long at sea, I could think of
nothing I wanted more than a slice of fresh pineapple.

  I was a little alarmed by its appearance, however. Green, spiky leaves burst forth from the top, and the fruit itself was covered with scales that did indeed resemble the outside of a pine cone. How on Earth did one get at the sweet, luscious meat inside?

  A hand reached gently over my shoulder and plucked it out of my grasp. I whirled, hand going immediately to my pistol. MacIsaac was standing in front of me, in the shade of a mercer's stall, the pineapple in one hand and a long, thin-bladed knife in the other. I clenched my jaw and narrowed my eyes in anger. “That's mine,” I said and made a grab for it.

  He yanked it away from me, a devilish sparkle in his blue eyes. “I know. But you need my help.”

  “I most certainly do not. Give it back.”

  He extended the fruit to me and I cocked my head to the side, watching him steadily as I tried to decide if reaching for it would cause him to pull it back just at the last second. When he didn't move, I reached... and he took it away again. “Do you know how to open it?” he asked, holding up the knife and waggling it.

  I sighed heavily and shook my head. “Well, come with me, Mr. Jones. I will show you the secret.” He turned on his heel and headed to a stand of trees covered in tiny yellow flowers, which seemed a favorite of the local bees. He sat down with his back against one of the trees, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “Sit,” he said, pointing with the knife to a bit of sand next to him.

  I sat, tailor-style, folding my legs so as not to touch him if at all possible. I had managed to avoid speaking to him during the rest of the journey. I still hadn't sorted through my feelings about his confession or how much of the burden of guilt I personally shouldered. If I was being perfectly honest with myself, I could admit that he was right—I was better off with Graves's death. But I couldn't accept my complicity, no matter how real or imagined it ultimately was. Nor could I accept that the refined and well-mannered man in front of me had, in cold blood and with malice aforethought, taken it upon himself to act as the instrument of Fate. Killing the captain of the Nonsuch was one thing, an act of momentary passion. Killing Graves after thinking it over and perfecting a plan with weeks of thought was entirely a different matter.

  “You have to cut off the top,” MacIsaac said, drawing me out of my ruminations and neatly slicing the pineapple's leaves off and tossing them aside. He put the fruit in the sand and then carefully drew the knife down the sides, separating the rough outside from the golden interior. “It's sort of like peeling an apple,” he said, discarding the exterior. “Then you slice it,” he demonstrated quickly, cutting thick horizontal pieces and handing me one. “And you're done. You're welcome.”

  I accepted it with a grunt of thanks and immediately bit into it. The fruit was perfect—sweet, juicy, slightly flowery, a little tart. I closed my eyes and savored the flavor and the texture, chewing slowly, completely in the moment as I experienced everything I could—the feel of the breeze against my skin, the smell of the flowers above us, the droning buzz of the bees, the cries of the seagulls and babbling voices from the marketplace, even the sound of MacIsaac's breathing.

  “You've been avoiding me,” he said softly.

  My eyes snapped open and I glowered at him for interrupting my reverie. I swallowed the bite of pineapple and looked away from him, out towards the water. The harbor was filled with merchantmen, a French corvette, and a sloop that flew a black flag with a skull over a thigh bone, a dagger and a heart to either side. I nodded towards it. “Who's that?” I asked, not willing to address his statement.

  “Stede Bonnet,” he answered promptly. “Bit of a shite pirate. Spends much of his time in the Carolinas with Teach and Vane. Strange to see him down here. You didn't answer my question.”

  I looked at him and arched a brow. “I wasn't aware you had asked a question, Captain.”

  His mouth thinned to a straight, annoyed line. “All right. Why have you been avoiding me?”

  “Because of what you told me. About Graves.”

  “I see. So you feel that you would have been better off if I had left him alive, then.” He made it a statement and not a question and I bristled.

  “No. I do not. But I do feel that...” I broke off and shook my head. I plucked the rest of my pineapple out of his hands. “Thank you for this.” I turned away from him, determined to enjoy my treat and not allow his presence to disturb me. I drew my own small knife and cut off a bite of pineapple. I heard him slide closer, could almost feel his knee touching mine, the heat of his body against mine. I flashed back to the kiss in the tavern in Spanish Town and shivered.

  He drew a breath and spoke, his voice low and even, no emotions leeching into his words. “Part of the oath I took when I was elected quartermaster was to protect my men at all costs, even against the captain if necessary. Even when they're too afraid to protect themselves. Even when they're too short-sighted, or greedy, or stupid. I take my oaths, my duty, very seriously.”

  I took a deep breath and turned to face him, tilting my head back a little so I could look into his eyes. “But you only acted because of what I said. My... premonition on the beach.”

  He shook his head slowly, his eyes soft and sympathetic. “Not true. I would have made the same choice, acted in the same manner. It just would have been under different circumstances. Your premonition gave me a way to make sure no one would suspect me.”

  I blinked, shocked by his admission, and turned my face to the harbor again. After a long, silent moment, I looked up at him briefly and shook my head. “I wish you hadn't told me. I shoulder some of that guilt now. A man is dead because of me. My immortal soul is in peril.”

  The sympathy in his eyes was reflected in his smile. “That is patently untrue. 'Thou shalt not kill', Loreley. Not, 'thou shalt not think about killing'.”

  “'The wish was father to the thought',” I quoted.

  He chuckled softly and shook his head. “Fine, you win. This will teach me never to debate with you again.” His face became solemn and he reached out to lay his hand on my forearm. “Please believe me when I say this to you: you have nothing to feel guilt over. It is my immortal soul that is in danger. Not yours. I'm no priest, but I think you are still bound for Heaven.” He squeezed my arm and then stood up, brushing sand off the back of his breeches. “There is a reputable, safe inn not far from the Place d’Armes. It's called Hôtel Cheval Blanc. There's also a dressmaker in the marketplace. Buy a dress—doesn't have to be fancy—and get yourself cleaned up. Meet me for supper tonight. At the L'Oiseaux et la Bouteille, at the corner of Rue Dauphine and Rue St. Honoré. No one from the Jezebel will be there. It's frequented by governmental figures and other posh socialites.” He paused and smiled. “Will you come?”

  I frowned and looked away. MacIsaac was something of an enigma to me. Equal parts criminal and gentleman, he was in one moment calculating and aloof, and in the next, warm and spontaneous. I couldn't understand his mercurial moods, but he intrigued me. I liked puzzles. And there was something to be said for the way my blood burned inside me whenever he touched me.

  “I'll come,” I said at last. “And we will talk about you and your past. Good day, Captain MacIsaac.” I gave him a little smile as he turned and melted into the crowd, not looking back at me. I watched him go, thoughtfully chewing my pineapple. I had so many questions for him tonight and I would not allow him to distract me while I pursued answers.

  XVIII

  L'Oiseaux et la Bouteille Tavern, Cap-Français, Saint-Domingue

  July, 1716

  The dressmaker didn't have any gowns that would fit me ready-made, and there wasn't time for her to create one either, so I rented one from her for the night. She didn't want to make the arrangement with me at first. I couldn't blame her. I was unwashed, wearing filthy clothes that were stiff with dried seawater. My breasts were still bound and my hair was still pulled back in a queue. I looked every inch the pirate I was supposed to be. But I sh
owed her the coins I had in my purse, and suddenly she was more amiable to the arrangement. I gave her seven pounds sterling, which she would hold onto until the next day. If I brought the gown, the petticoats, the stays and all the rest back in the same condition I took it, I could have my money back. It was a fine arrangement, one that actually made more financial sense than if I had bought everything outright. I thought briefly that my father would be proud of me.

  The gown was the gray-green color of good China tea, with leaves and flowers embroidered around the hem and skirt with silver thread. The shift, stays, stockings, and stomacher were a snowy white—the same color as the petticoats, which had embroidery around the hem that matched the gown's. The dressmaker even threw in some shoes in the same material as the gown. It wasn't fancy, but it was a far cry nicer than anything I'd worn in the past six months.

  I rented a room for the night at the White Horse Inn, and paid extra for a hot bath and a lady's maid. It was rather amazing to me the power that money had. Despite my rough appearance, with the right amount of incentive I could get anyone to do anything. It was both liberating and frightening.

  As I sat in a copper tub and washed with some good quality French soap, I began the long process of transitioning from a pirate to a noble-born lady. What the light-skinned Negro slave thought of these goings-on I didn't know, but she was surprised and delighted to find that I could speak a small amount of Kreyol. Hearing the musical language again made me miss Tansy intensely and I found myself blinking back tears several times during the afternoon.

  I watched the girl bustling around the room, turning down the linen, dusting the corners of the room, laying new wood in the hearth, and I wondered how much money it would take for the inn's owner to give her up, to set her free. How much would a pretty, hard-working room slave cost? Could I free her with the money in my purse? And if I did free her, where would she go? How would she live?

  Finally, I was pressed and powdered, squeezed into my stays and shoes, and ready to meet MacIsaac at the tavern. The slave took my other clothes to be laundered and I thanked her with a shilling from my purse. The Inn's owner insisted that he should hire a carriage for my use for the evening and I only gave in when he said he would pay for it. A sleek black gig pulled by a dappled gray mare arrived in the street in front of the Inn and its driver helped me aboard and saw me settled in before setting off.