Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Unhurried, Mr. Aykroyd studied the embers in his pipe. Sunlight streamed past the windows to paint his ruined face in tones of burnished gold. “No. Ye be wrong, gel,” he answered softly. “Had the captain turned tail and run, the men would have mutinied sure as I be sitting here. Didn’t ye hear the cheers when the men knew the Challenger would engage? There didn’t be one among ‘em what didn’t hunger for battle as eagerly as Jean Pierre, and that be a truth!”

  Bristol listened with doubting ears, but deep inside, she suspected the answer was an honest one.

  Mr. Aykroyd waved his pipe. “They be hardly a man on these lanes what don’t be nursing a hatred toward Sanchez. Many a mate has sunk to wet sands or escaped with bloody wounds and missing limbs, and all to the cause of Sanchez and that thieving pack of pirates.” Mr. Aykroyd leveled a steady gaze at Bristol’s intent face. “Captain La Crosse do be a hero for sending that Spanish devil to his grave, make no mistake. And he’ll hear a hero’s welcome wherever the story’s told.”

  Bristol dropped her eyes. “But Jane... and that boy, Master Boyd...”

  “Aye, tragedies.” Mr. Aykroyd examined his pipe, then drew on it, expelling a cloud of acrid smoke. “So long as Sanchez hoisted canvas, more good vessels than ye could count would have gone to the bottom by his hand. Some would say the saving of further lives is worth most any cost.”

  Bristol thought about this; then she shook her head and sighed.

  “As to other attitudes... well, gel,” Mr. Aykroyd said gently, “could yer own inexperience be coloring the way ye judge things? Is yer woman softness maybe asking too much from a man’s world?”

  “Perhaps... I just don’t know.” She sighed again and stood, suddenly anxious for her bath. She felt stiff and cramped and tired.

  Mr. Aykroyd touched her shoulder lightly. “One more thing, gel, since we’re speaking frank here.” He coughed and straightened awkwardly, running a finger around the inside of his collar. He peered into the pipe, not looking at Bristol. “The captain be a fine man.” He paused, groping for words. “Captain La Crosse, he don’t be making a habit of taking lady passengers to his bed.” Mr. Aykroyd cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And if such an occurrence do happen, there shouldn’t be no cause for shame to either party.”

  Astonished, Bristol watched a beet red spread up Mr. Aykroyd’s scarred face. And felt an answering heat spring into her own cheeks. Mr. Aykroyd rushed on, stammering.

  “Men and women need each other... and needing warmth and comfort ain’t no cause for shame! It’s a hard world, gel. And there ain’t no guarantees for tomorrow. Take yer warmth and yer comfort, gel, but do it without guilt. Guilt is good for nothing!” He leaned over his pipe as if the ashes there were the most fascinating item in creation. “I don’t be recalling the captain ever taking a lady in here for the night, so if ye be thinking he do seduce everything in skirts, it don’t be a truth.” Now he lifted embarrassed eyes, glancing at Bristol, then away. “There be something special about ye, gel.”

  Bristol shifted inside the folds of blanket and studied the floor, her cheeks crimson. But she felt a wave of gratitude that Mr. Aykroyd didn’t think less of her. She thought furiously, anxious to divert the subject. “Master Boyd!” she blurted. “Will he be all right?”

  Equally relieved to change the topic, Mr. Aykroyd moved toward the door. “He be a mite under the weather, but coming. The tadpole swears an angel helped him through the worst of it. An angel with hair the color of heavenly fire.” Comfortable again, Mr. Aykroyd winked broadly. “I swore to the lad I’d seen his angel with me own eyes. I haven’t the heart to report his angel is sprouting an eye the color of tar.” He grinned, lifted a hand, then closed the door.

  Bristol smiled at the trail of smoke he left behind, feeling a rush of fondness for Mr. Aykroyd. Her smile broadened to a grin as she wondered if any of the men guessed at Mr. Aykroyd’s soft center. Most likely not. She laughed.

  Dropping the blanket, Bristol opened the torn shirt and stepped into the tub. The water had cooled to an inviting temperature, and she leaned back with a grateful sigh, letting the liquid heat soak dirt and tension from her body. “Wonderful,” she breathed.

  Her eyes were on a level with the desk, and she looked across the room at her pewter mug. Home is where the heart is, Mr. Aykroyd had said. Make a home of wherever you are.

  She gazed about La Crosse’s cabin, seeing his desk, his books, the table... and his bed. Could she ever think of this cabin as home? Not while a breath remained in her body, she thought grimly. Not even temporarily? a wicked little voice whispered in her ear.

  Annoyed, she dropped suddenly beneath the water, drowning the voice, and rubbed vigorously at her matted hair as if there were more to wash away than blood and soil.

  When La Crosse arrived to escort her above deck, Bristol was clean and polished as commanded. His gray eyes registered approval as he walked around her, inspecting from every vantage. He nodded. “That color suits you, only I’d prefer just a bit lighter shade to match your eyes.”

  “May I have a glass of wine?” Bristol asked, embarrassed by his frank appraisal and feeling the need of fortification before facing the men above.

  “Of course.” La Crosse poured two glasses. He gestured toward her eye. “It looks better. Is it, or did you work some sort of feminine magic?” He smiled.

  “Both,” Bristol confessed. Mr. Aykroyd had sent a bowl of powdered rice, and she’d applied it carefully, thinking all the while how horrified Hannah would be to know her daughter used a cosmetic aid.

  La Crosse sipped his wine, watching her over the glass. “Will you take pleasure in seeing Addison whipped?” he asked curiously.

  Addison. It made everything worse somehow, to know the man’s name. “No,” she answered slowly. “Last night I thought I would, but now... no, I don’t believe so.” Perhaps it was a form of growth, but she didn’t feel certain a brutal act should be punished by yet another brutality.

  La Crosse nodded. “Perhaps the whipping calls up unpleasant memories,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

  Bristol looked into her glass, realizing he’d seen the marks on her own back. “Aye,” she said, her voice as expressionless as his. She volunteered no explanation; she suspected Sable Horton had told him the story that first day. Regardless, her crime seemed of staggering inconsequence in relation to La Crosse’s world. In light of her recent experience, Bristol too now saw her offense as tiny, unworthy of comment.

  When he saw she intended no further explanation, La Crosse placed his empty glass on the desk. “You do understand why I want you present?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then we’ll make the most of the moment. Your protection depends upon every man seeing and deciding the prize is not worth the punishment. And the prize must be very tempting.” La Crosse stepped to Bristol and removed her cloak. Turning her, he untied her apron and tossed it away. He moved back, studying her, and his smoky eyes steadied on the lush outline of her young breasts. He nodded, then reached to remove Bristol’s dust cap, his hands tumbling her brilliant glossy hair to her shoulders.

  “Please,” Bristol whispered. “Must you do this?”

  He stood so close that she felt the warmth of his strong body. His hands remained buried in her thick hair, and he stared down into her face with smoldering eyes. “Mon Dieu, but you are a beautiful little thing! Innocence clothed in a harlot’s body!”

  Bristol lifted a pleading gaze. In this moment she despised the curves of her flesh, despised the formation of skin and bone structure that darkened men’s eyes. Nervously she smoothed her gown. Because of the harlot’s body La Crosse had taken her in the night; because of the harlot’s body, a man now faced twenty lashes. As to her innocence, that now lay in question. Hot discomfort flushed her face. Flesh and mind had awakened from childish innocence to stretch toward an awareness of sensual pleasure.

  La Crosse laughed and lifted her chin with a finger. He smiled into her eyes, his face in
ches from her own. “No, little one, I’ll not claim the prize,” he said softly, misreading her expression. He tucked her arm in his and guided her through the door.

  A sullen silence pervaded the upper deck. La Crosse led Bristol through a lane of tight-jawed men, taking her to the rear quarterdeck. He led her up the stairs and stopped at the inner rail, releasing her arm when she stood in full view of the lifted faces below.

  Bristol steadied her gaze on the far length of the ship. She sensed a difference in the men’s stares, feeling menace and resentment mixed with the raw lust she’d felt before. Gripping the rail tightly, she forced herself to look down into those faces, meeting their accusing eyes defiantly. She was blameless. She refused to tremble before their silent animosity.

  Her courage rising, Bristol dared a glance at the man who had attacked her. Addison was at the starboard shrouds, barebacked and his wrists lashed to the ropes above his head. Forming a line across the stern, Mr. Aykroyd and the junior officers held swords and daggers at the ready, keeping the men pushed back from their offending mate.

  La Crosse waited until the tension and silence seemed explosive; then he moved to the rail and shouted in a heavy, thunderous voice, “This woman was entrusted to my care for safe passage to England. And by God, she shall have it! Look hard and long, mates, and decide for yourselves if betraying a trust is worth the price.” He scanned their faces as a hundred pair of eyes swung to Bristol.

  Under the weight of their measuring stares, Bristol squared her shoulders and tossed her hair. She lifted her eyes to a sky that had turned leaden and threatening, and she felt a freshening wind tug long strands of red hair into a shining river behind her. If this exhibition would protect her from further attack, she would endure it gladly. The wind molded her dark green gown against her thighs, and she made no movement to minimize the revealing breeze.

  La Crosse read aloud the naval precedent sanctioning what was to occur. Then he snapped shut the heavy book and nodded shortly to a man pacing behind the shrouds, a long cat-o’-nine-tails dragging from his hand, whispering along the planks.

  The man returned La Crosse’s nod, his face grim and set. He pulled off his shirt, oblivious of the sharp chill wind, and Bristol stared as his hairy belly and chest and shoulders were exposed to view. The man was massive. He flicked the whip out along the deck with an expert twist of a thick wrist, and his shoulders bulged in a controlled flex of heavy muscle.

  “One!” La Crosse snapped, beginning the count. Not a voice murmured. All eyes swung to Addison, lashed to the shrouds. He stood with his legs wide apart and braced, his head dropped between naked shoulders.

  The whip played out along the deck, then whistled overhead and bit deeply into the man’s back, the tips of the leather thongs curling around his shoulders. Addison’s body arched, and a rush of air escaped his lips, but no other sound.

  The lack of human voices lent an unnatural aspect to the scene, Bristol thought with a shiver. Overhead, the canvas fluttered with the rising wind, cupping in sharp cracks. Ropes creaked and planking groaned, but not a sound issued from the watching men. Raising her eyes to the darkening gray sky, Bristol imagined she stood on the deck of a ghost ship, empty of humanity but for the phantom voice shouting the count. The whip snapped like a pistol shot, and Bristol heard the grunts of the man who swung it, and she shook off the spell.

  Irresistibly drawn, her wide eyes dropped to the man sagging against the shrouds. Addison’s back lay open and gushing blood. Now a soft whimper moaned through his lips. Bristol flinched with each heavy swing of the whip. She thanked God she was spared seeing the man’s face. As his back turned red and pulpy, Bristol’s face whitened to the color of fine ash. Every decent human instinct cried out that this brutality be stopped. Bristol spun and clutched Jean Pierre’s arm. “Jean Pierre! Please! This... this is...”

  La Crosse’s face was stony, the words of his answer encased in granite. “Stand quiet!” His hard face did not turn from the scene below. “Fourteen!”

  Swallowing hard, Bristol turned to the rail. Her snowy face stiffened, and she shivered, whether from the crisp wind or the scene below, she couldn’t tell. Several of the younger men turned away. A few slipped to the ship’s side and leaned sickly over the water. Those who watched, did so with frozen faces, their jaws knotted and their fists clenching.

  Addison fainted before the last three lashes flayed along the scarlet mush of his back. Bristol squeezed her eyes in a prayer of thanks; he’d been spared a small portion of agony. The whipping gave her no feeling of satisfaction. Had her stomach not been empty, Bristol too would have dashed to the rail in sick nausea.

  Someone cut Addison’s limp body from the shrouds and carried him away. La Crosse tossed a purse to the man wielding the whip, and the man wiped sweat from his forehead and tugged his shirt over a wet, glistening body.

  A stool appeared at Bristol’s side, and she sank to it weakly. With gratitude she accepted a tot of rum Mr. Aykroyd pushed into her fingers. The rum burned down her throat steadying nerves and hands. When Bristol lifted her head, she saw a platform over the railing of the quarterdeck, and silent men were laying a row of canvas-shrouded bodies on the deck—fourteen in all.

  While La Crosse read a brief Bible service, Bristol stared at the roped bodies, pondering which might be Jane. Which of those anonymous lumps was Goodwife Jane Able? She drank the remaining rum, wishing she had more. Who would notify Goodman Herman Able? Bristol wondered.

  Dully she watched the men lift the bodies to the platform and tilt the boards downward, One by one the pale canvas packages dropped to the water with a distant splash. To her horror, Bristol saw the bodies bobbing on the waves in the ship’s trail, silent oblongs of death. It hadn’t occurred to her they would float.

  Her hand jumped to touch the slash along her cheek. It might have been me, she thought wildly. One of the bodies might have been mine. Her stomach turned.

  La Crosse took her arm and helped her from the stool. He peered intently into her face, and she read the concern on his chiseled features, a concern for her alone. “Go below and rest,” he commanded softly. “I’ll send a tray.”

  Bristol’s insides rolled. She couldn’t bear to think of food. Not now. “No... maybe later... I just...”

  La Crosse nodded to Mr. Speck, and Mr. Speck and his men closed around Bristol. They marched her through the men toward the stairs leading to the captain’s cabin. This time, Bristol felt nothing from the flat faces glancing her direction. Lust and resentment and anger and interest had been whipped away. Those that looked at her reflected indifference, nothing more.

  Once inside La Crosse’s cabin, Bristol drew an unsteady breath of relief. She felt battered emotionally, glad to be out of the wind and away from the men.

  Then she made the mistake of glancing toward the window bank. Outside, an indifferent sea mocked human mortality. A gleeful wave played with the canvas-wrapped toys, tossing the bundles carelessly from crest to crest; throwing them up, then hurling them into valleys of water.

  “Sink!” Bristol screamed, covering her eyes. “Sink, damn you!” Not understanding the violence of her fear, she fled to La Crosse’s bed. She fell across the sheets, curling into a tight ball. There was no promise for a tomorrow. None. She covered her fiery head with the blankets, afraid to look out the windows.

  10

  While Bristol hid in fitful sleep, the men above deck shared out the pirate treasure. Later, La Crosse explained the process over a late dinner.

  “First the treasure is divided into two equal parts. The first half belongs to the crown.” He refilled their wineglasses and cut into a thick slice of roast beef.

  Bristol nodded, her face still rosy from sleep. But she felt better; her appetite had returned. The variety of steaming dishes brought water to her mouth and a rumble from her empty stomach. She noticed La Crosse had ordered a dish of orange wedges for her, and she glanced at them with a small smile.

  “The second half is portioned out
among the men. The captain receives a triple share.” He grinned, exposing a row of even white teeth. “The officers each receive a double share, and the men one share apiece.”

  Bristol felt she’d never been so hungry in her life. She applied herself to eating with single-minded vigor, having difficulty attending to La Crosse’s conversation. “What sort of treasure was it?” she asked after popping a pink square of meat into her mouth. Another followed.

  La Crosse watched as Bristol’s plate cleared, feigning amazement. Smiling, he nudged a dish of corn and red peppers nearer her hand. “Go ahead, finish them. The fresh vegetables won’t last out the voyage. Enjoy them while you can.”

  Embarrassed, Bristol forced herself to eat more slowly. She’d been foolish to refuse her meal tray last night. And fortunate to share the captain’s table tonight instead of sitting alone in her own cabin picking at crew’s fare. Although she suspected even scouse would be appealing right now. She wondered how long the supply of potatoes would last; maybe the crew wouldn’t be having scouse much longer.

  She smiled at La Crosse’s laden table with sincere gratitude and reached for another helping of rice. “The treasure,” she prompted.

  La Crosse laughed and sipped a ruby wine. “Sanchez’ treasure would gladden the heart of any lady!” The wine sparkle repeated in his smoky eyes. “If you can put down your fork long enough to open a package, I’ll show you.”

  Bristol’s eyes lifted in surprise, her fork midway to her lips.

  Smiling, La Crosse reached in his pocket and withdrew a thin package wrapped in a square of blue velvet. He laid it at the top of Bristol’s plate, then leaned back in his chair, watching her over the top of his glass. His, gray eyes danced. “Open it.”

  Bristol lowered her fork, glancing at him uncertainly. “Is this a gift? For me?” She couldn’t think why he’d give her anything.

  “Aye. A token of recognition for outstanding courage.” La Crosse lifted his wineglass in a toast.