Tender Fury

by Connie Mason

  “My wish is to leave my husband,” avowed Gabby fervently. “I am well educated and I can earn my own way. I shall leave Martinique and take a post as governess someplace where Philippe won’t find me. If you could help me find such a position I would be eternally grateful.”

  Marcel’s expressive face grew thoughtful. “My sister, Celeste, lives in New Orleans with her husband and children. They have a large home on Rue Dumaine and her three little ones are just about the age to require a governess. I will write to her and when you are ready to leave I will find a way to get you on a ship without Philippe’s knowledge. I could even arrange to go to New Orleans with you, cherie, so you would not be alone.”

  Gabby wasn’t at all sure about Marcel going with her, but she was too appreciative of his efforts on her behalf to protest. “I must go, Marcel, before Philippe awakens and finds me gone,” she insisted, suddenly realizing how long she had been out of their cabin. She shuddered violently at the thought of having to climb back in bed with a murderer.

  “Oui, perhaps it is best, cherie. We do not want to arouse your husband’s suspicions if we are to safeguard our little secret.” Then, before she could protest, Marcel lowered his head and softly brushed her lips with his, his touch so gentle that after he released her she was uncertain whether his hands had lingered on her breasts or if she had just imagined it. Then he was lost in the swirling mist that arose from the sea.

  Gabby held her breath as she reentered the cabin, slowly letting it out when she saw Philippe still sleeping peacefully. She crept into bed and moved as far away from him as possible. But he somehow sensed her movement and reached out to draw her tight against him. “You are so cold, ma petite,” he murmured, still half asleep. “Don’t pull away. How can I keep you warm if you draw away from me?” Finally Gabby gave up and snuggled into the curve of his body until his warmth lulled her to sleep.

  Loud knocking and urgent voices outside the door startled them from sleep. Gabby sat up and clutched the blanket to her breasts while Philippe moved swiftly to pull on his pants before lurching to the door. An agitated and distraught cabin boy stood before Philippe wringing his hands and jabbering incoherently.

  “The captain, Monsieur St. Cry,” he babbled, “it’s terrible. Please come quickly. The captain…”

  Then Gabby heard no more because Philippe had closed the door. Moments later he stepped back into the room, his face taut and unreadable, his emotions held tightly at check. Only after he had dressed did he speak to her.

  “Lock the door after I leave and let no one in,” he ordered brusquely.

  “What is wrong, Philippe?” Gabby asked with growing alarm. “Has something happened to Captain Giscard?”

  “Later,” he answered curtly. “Just do as I say.” Then he was gone. Gabby locked the door just as Philippe ordered and padded back to bed, speculating on the meaning of the cabin boy’s frightened words. There was nothing for her to do but wait for Philippe to return.

  Philippe reached the deck just steps behind the cabin boy and surged ahead of him to the bridge where the large circle of men milled around a still figure lying on the deck in a pool of blood. Roughly Philippe pushed his way through until he stood beside the motionless form. But even before he examined him Philippe knew Captain Giscard was dead. The first mate, an experienced seaman named Mercier, was kneeling beside the body shaking his head sadly.

  “What happened, Mercier?” Philippe asked brokenly. He had loved Henri Giscard like a brother but there was time later to give in to his grief.

  “An accident, Monsieur St. Cyr,” the shaken first mate replied. “A terrible accident. Evidently the captain arose early this morning and reached the bridge before I did. Perhaps if I had been there a few moments earlier the captain would still be alive.”

  “Go on, Mercier,” Philippe urged gently. He knelt beside the captain’s body, first examining the fearful wound in his neck and then the jagged weapon that had caused it.

  “No one saw it happen,” lamented Mercier. “There was no outcry, no warning. The broken spar you see there came hurtling down from the rigging just as the captain stepped on the bridge. The poor man probably never knew what hit him. He died instantly. As you can see, the jagged end of the spar struck him in the neck, severing the jugular vein. He bled to death before anyone was aware of what had happened.”

  Philippe tore his eyes from the captain’s body to gaze upward at the place where the spar had been broken. Then he examined the piece still embedded in the captain’s neck. Gritting his teeth, he deftly removed the instrument of death and studied it from every possible angle.

  Frowning darkly, he asked, “How could something like this happen on my ship?” His steely gaze moved from man to man until finally alighting on Marcel Duvall who had just joined the circle of onlookers.

  “I can only guess,” Mercier said with a puzzled shrug, “that the spar splintered when we were pounded by the storm we encountered a few weeks out of Brest and has been dangling, ready to drop off at any time. It must have become dislodged when the wind freshened this morning and Captain Giscard had the misfortune to step on the bridge at that exact moment. Mon dieu,” he cursed, eyeing the men gathered around him, “I will have someone’s head for such negligence!”

  Philippe said nothing as he continued to study the deadly missile. After much thought he said, “Looks like it came from the gaff. Send one of the men up to see if they can find where.”

  Immediately a seaman detached himself from the group and started up the rigging. Then Philippe and Mercier carried the captain’s body to his cabin to be prepared for burial. All the while Philippe’s mind worked furiously. He had not only lost an excellent captain but an old and trusted friend as well. He couldn’t help but think the accident too contrived, the timing too incredible. Besides, the jagged end of the spar that had killed Henri appeared much too sharp, as if a point had been whittled by hand. He was almost positive that Henri’s death was not an accident that it had something to do with the secret document they both had memorized and promised to deliver in New Orleans. With Henri gone, Philippe knew that the life and death of an entire city, maybe entire nation, depended upon him. The responsibility was awesome.

  When Philippe had first entered Henri Giscard’s cabin he had immediately sensed that something was wrong but could not put his finger on it. Suddenly it came to him; the cabin was too neat, as if everything had been put in order. It was not in Henri’s nature to be so orderly. Even maps and papers that usually lay scattered carelessly about were piled neatly in stacks. That was not at all like Henri who could reach for whatever document he wanted amid the disarray. He had often chided Henri about his sloppy habits but the good-natured captain had only laughed and said housekeeping was a woman’s job. There was no doubt in Philippe’s mind that Henri’s cabin had been thoroughly searched and each article put back into place more neatly than it had been before. Of one thing Philippe was certain; whoever had searched the cabin had not found what he was seeking. Once Henri had read the secret document and put it in the safe, Philippe had returned to the cabin, and, unbeknownst to Henri, had retrieved the papers. Being owner of the ship he naturally had the combination of the safe. The document now lay hidden at the bottom of Gabby’s trunk. Upon further thought Philippe had every reason to believe that his own life was in danger.

  Later, when Philippe returned to his own cabin, Gabby’s heart immediately went out to him when she noticed the fine lines etched around his mouth and across his forehead. It was as if he had aged ten years in just a couple of hours. “Philippe, tell me what has happened!” she cried when he walked tiredly into the room. “I can hear voices and everyone seems to be in a state of shock.”

  “Captain Giscard is dead,” Philippe intoned dully, his own face mirroring her shock.

  “Dead! How! Why!”

  “An accident, on the bridge early this morning.” Suddenly all his defenses were down and the agony in his eyes was a terrible thing to see. Philippe silently
mourned. If he hadn’t elicited Henri’s help on this mission the poor man might still be alive. Was there no end to the path of death that followed him and took everyone he held dear? he wondered. How could he endure the guilt of yet another life being snuffed out because of him?

  “Who will guide the Windward to Martinique?” Gabby asked, shattering the painful silence.

  “First Mate Mercier is quite capable but I intend to take over the helm myself. I often captain my own ships.”

  Another long silence ensued while Philippe fought hard to come to a decision. A decision that included Gabby; yet one that could lead her into danger. Did he want to involve his innocent bride in the intrigue he had willingly flung himself into? He had no choice. For a long time he studied her intently, until Gabby began to squirm uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

  “What is it, Philippe? Why are you looking at me so strangely? How can I help you?” Unwittingly, she had made the decision for him.

  “What do you know about the war began in 1812 between England and America?” he asked, puzzling her by his abrupt change of subject.

  “Not much,” Gabby admitted. “What are they fighting over?”

  “It’s mainly due to Napoleon that they are at war; to him and to the acts of piracy on the high seas perpetrated on the American ships by the British. Not to mention the illegal impressing of American men into the British Navy.”

  “What has Napoleon to do with it?”

  “The Americans were more or less forced to take sides with the French when the British imposed blockades on their ports so they could not carry crucial cargo to French or Spanish ports. And because the British could not patrol all the major American ports they took to stopping all ships carrying the American flag on the high seas and seizing their cargoes as contraband. Even food and non war supplies were considered contraband to the British.”

  “But, Philippe, what has all this to do with Captain Giscard’s death?”

  “I was just coming to that, ma petite,” he said grimly. “Captain Giscard and I were entrusted with an important document that had been smuggled out of England. It is to be delivered to General Andrew Jackson who is in New Orleans at this time to prepare that city for an attack by the British. The document in my hands confirms that the British intend to attack New Orleans by sea. It not only pinpoints the exact date of the siege but the number of ships and men they can expect. So you can see how imperative it is that the document reaches General Jackson without delay.”

  “And you believe that Captain Giscard’s death is related to these secret papers?”

  “I must assume so. I don’t like the looks of that ‘accident.’”

  “Then you never intended on sailing directly to Martinique?” Gabby asked, trying to sort out in her mind all that Philippe had just divulged. As she thought about New Orleans a little seed began to take root and grow in her brain. New Orleans was a big city. Perhaps she would find a way to slip away from Philippe once they docked. It shouldn’t be hard to find Marcel’s sister and begin a new life for herself.

  Unaware of the direction of her thoughts, Philippe said, “Captain Giscard and myself were the only ones who knew our destination was to be New Orleans. We feared spies might be planted aboard or that the document would be stolen should our destination be made known. That’s why I was so upset when I learned Duvall was aboard. I instructed Captain Giscard to book no other passengers for this voyage but because Duvall was my neighbor and a loyal French man, he was allowed to purchase passage. Giscard wrongly assumed our friendship was still valid.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect Monsieur Duvall of being a spy!” Gabby protested.

  Philippe scowled darkly. “I would put nothing past him. But Henri is dead and I must assume full responsibility for the safe delivery of the document.”

  “Why are you telling me all this, Philippe?” Gabby asked quietly.

  “If something unforeseen should happen to me before we reach New Orleans I want you to deliver the papers to General Jackson.”

  For a moment Gabby’s heart stopped. Something happen to Philippe? Mon dieu! Aloud, she said, “Are you saying that if someone aboard the ship killed Captain Giscard because of those secret papers, they would not hesitate to kill you also?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you trust me enough to tell me all this?” Gabby asked with amazement.

  “There is no one else,” he replied carefully. “The papers are hidden in your trunk beneath your clothing. In case of my death, take them directly to Jackson’s headquarters in New Orleans. For your own safety let no one know that you have any knowledge of this. Mercier has orders to pilot the ship to New Orleans if I cannot.” Suddenly he grasped her shoulders in a bruising hold. “Promise me you will trust no one, Gabby! No one! Do you understand? No one!”

  “I promise, Philippe, I promise,” gasped Gabby. Only when he had extracted her promise did he release his grip on her tender flesh.

  “Tomorrow we enter the Florida Straits and then the Gulf of Mexico,” he went on after he had regained his composure. If Duvall is a spy, Philippe thought to himself, he has little time remaining to do his worst.

  “New Orleans is French, is it not?” Gabby asked.

  “There are some old Spanish families in New Orleans but most are French or Creole. Of course, since 1803 when Napoleon sold the territory it has become part of the United States.”

  Gabby tried hard to assimilate all Philippe had told her but found she was mostly confused by all the talk of wars, spies, and secret documents. But she had given her promise and she intended to keep it, even if the thought of Philippe’s death left her feeling strangely bereft.

  The next day Gabby spied the first land she had seen since they had left Brest. Philippe explained that they were only small islands or keys but land nevertheless. From a distance they appeared like jewels in the azure sea. The sight of pure white beaches and vegetation held her in thrall. She was so engrossed with the tiny isles floating by that she had hardly noticed Philippe’s grim look as he nervously eyed a bank of seemingly innocuous, fluffy white clouds. He didn’t appear one bit surprised when Mercier approached with the information that the barometer was falling at an alarming rate. Only then did Gabby turn her attention to the lowering sky. What had earlier seemed like brisk breezes had suddenly turned into threatening winds as the ship skipped across the water with frightening speed. Already she could see men working furiously at the sails while others scurried about lashing cargo to the deck. From the amount of activity around her Gabby realized that this would not be the same kind of storm that had blown them harmlessly about the Atlantic for three days while Philippe tutored her in the art of love. They were in tropical waters now and this could be one of those hurricanes Philippe had spoken of.

  “How long do you think we have before we feel the full brunt of the storm?” Gabby asked as Philipe guided her back to their cabin.

  “It’s hard to tell,” he replied, “but it’s the right time of year for hurricanes and judging from the barometer we are in for quite a blow, probably before the day is out.” He left her rather abruptly at their cabin door, his mind already occupied with the safety of his ship and men.

  Gale-force winds lashed the ship the rest of that day and far into the night, reminding Gabby that the sea was a naughty mistress ever ready to tease, caress, or to devour if she became angry and it became increasingly clear that she had never been more angry than she was now. No sooner had one gigantic wave hit broadside than another would rise up and take its place. Gabby’s stomach was in a constant turmoil and she swallowed to keep the nausea from rising in her throat as she clung tightly to the sides of the bunk to keep from rolling off.

  Philippe had returned to the cabin several times, his face a white mask of exhaustion, his clothing dripping despite the oilskin he wore. On his last trip, he saw immediately that Gabby was ill and quickly hurried to her side. With a great show of tenderness he brushed the tendrils of pale hair from her damp fac
e then kissed her forehead.

  “Soon, ma chere,” he murmured. “Soon it will be over. Do not fret, I shall take care of you.” He did not turn away in revulsion when she began vomiting into the slop jar, but held her close when she trembled from weakness. Never had she known such kindness from Philippe; but it had come too late. After consoling Gabby until the sick spell left her, Philippe, reminded of his duty by the howling wind, reluctantly released her and turned to leave.

  Afterward, what transpired next was never quite clear in Gabby’s mind. Where she found the strength to do what she did or why she even did it remains locked away in some remote compartment of her heart. At the same time Philippe opened the door to leave the cabin an enormous wave slammed into the ship causing it to tilt to such a degree that it nearly capsized. Before Gabby’s horrified eyes the door was wrest from Philippe’s grasp and he was thrown to the wind whipped deck. She watched in frozen terror as a barrel of nails that had been lashed to the deck broke loose and careened menacingly toward him. He saw it coming and attempted to rise to his feet but the sea-washed deck and roll of the ship made him awkward and slow. He had risen no farther than to his knees when the barrel struck, smashing him into the railing. The next roll of the ship sent the barrel in the opposite direction leaving Philippe unconscious and in a precarious position against the rail where the next swell could easily sweep him overboard.

  Gabby staggered unsteadily to her feet and slowly made her way to the door calling Philippe’s name over and over as if unaware that she could not be heard over the din of the storm. Looking anxiously up and down the deck, she saw that no one was aware of Philippe’s predicament, darkness and rain making visibility impossible. No matter how much Gabby hated Philippe she could not allow him to be swept overboard! With strength born of terror she moved cautiously from the shelter of the cabin onto the deck, pushing herself beyond her limited endurance to where Philippe lay. Twice she was knocked off her feet by a blast of wind and had to crawl, and once she clung to a broken mast for support as a tremendous swell washed over the deck. But somehow she reached Philippe exhausted and panting for breath, but intact. She blanched at the sight of the deep gash on his forehead and still white face as she tired to staunch the flow of blood with a corner of her shift. Realizing that they could not remain where they were lest they both end up in the sea, she called for help, but none could hear or see them in the murky darkness over the roar of the storm. It was up to Gabby to save them both.