Fortune's Flame

by French, Judith E.

  Annemie made a soothing sound. Governor Kay’s wife had been like many Englishwomen, according to Sisi. The lady had never adjusted to the hot island sun after her cold, rainy homeland. She’d sickened and become a semi-invalid, not dying until the governor himself was old and ill, but never strong enough to bear more than one living child. Governor Kay had nearly given up hope of an heir when Peregrine was born. And when that son suffered an accident and showed a weakness, the governor had never forgiven him for it.

  “I could have destroyed them with one fell swoop,” Peregrine continued, rambling. “It was in my power.” He pursed his lips. “But that would have been too easy. No, I wanted to destroy them as they destroyed my father . . . slowly . . . painfully.”

  Annemie removed the soup dish and substituted a plate of fried plantains and suitable silverware. Peregrine had a fondness for plantains.

  He toyed with his fork. “My people captured the ship carrying their tobacco crop. First-quality leaf. It brought top price in Bermuda.”

  She had heard all this before. Talk of pirates and revenge always made her uneasy. She poured a tankard of ale for her master. “Eat your plantains, sir, do.”

  “I sent men to burn the house and barns as well,” he said, becoming more agitated. The sterling fork fell from his fingers, unheeded. “But that’s not enough. I’ll have her here to face me. I’ll have her in that chair. Do you see, Annemie? In that chair. And then we’ll see what alibi she gives . . . what excuse for her treachery.”

  His left hand began to tremble, and Annemie knew what was coming next. Deftly, she cleared away the dishes and hovered behind his chair. And when the seizure came over him, she took his shoulders and lowered him to the floor as gently as possible.

  Peregrine’s shoes thudded against the wide-planked floor, his body convulsed, and spittle spewed from his pale lips. Annemie pushed a fold of her skirt between his teeth and cradled his head in her lap. The violence of Peregrine’s attacks never repulsed or frightened her as it did the rest of the staff.

  She removed his wig and stroked his thinning hair, murmuring softly to him. “I’m here, Peregrine. I’m here, and you’re safe.”

  He wouldn’t remember the spell when it was over. He never did—a blessing, really. Such weakness was hard for a man of dignity to live with. But she would remember and savor the feel of his body next to hers when he was only her master again.

  She held him tightly against her as the force of the seizure began to abate. “Sleep, my Peregrine,” she said, “Sleep. Annemie’s here. Annemie’s here and she’ll take care of you.” And as he lost consciousness, she leaned down and kissed the crown of his head. “My poor dear,” she whispered, “my poor, poor love.”

  Hundreds of miles to the north, Bess and Kincaid walked through a market-day fair a half day’s journey from the thriving port of Charles Town. At a crossroads near a tavern, local inhabitants had gathered to trade and sell livestock, poultry, indentures, vegetables, household goods, and farm products. Bess could see three women offering baked goods, cheese, butter, and eggs from the backs of farm wagons. Families were coming on horseback, by cart and wagons, and on foot, all eager for a day of fun and gossip after long weeks of labor on their isolated farms.

  Children of all sizes and colors ran and screamed and dodged amidst the tents, and wagons, and tables. They ran in and out of the knots of adults, raced ponies around the encampment, and splashed in the muddy stream at the edge of the fairgrounds. Dogs barked and fought with one another. Cows bellowed, pigs squealed, and babies cried. Stray chickens strutted around scratching for bugs and snatching fallen crumbs.

  Bess could smell the delicious scent of fresh gingerbread among the mingled odors of manure, animals, tobacco, rum, and unwashed human bodies. From every corner of the assembly came good-natured bickering, shouts of welcome, and hearty laughter.

  “Keep close beside me,” Kincaid instructed her, “and try not to talk. Your gentlewoman’s speech would stand out here like a pig in a kirk.”

  The first wagon that had come along the track where they’d been camped two days ago belonged to a farmer named Will Gist. He was carrying raw whiskey for sale at the gathering, and he’d cheerfully offered them a ride this far. Gist had told them that his wife was ailing, his hogs had run off, and his cow had gone dry, but the profit from his still would see him through another winter.

  “I’ve got three boys,” Gist had explained. “Two are still two young to plow, and the little’n is still on his mammy’s tit. But when they get big enough to work alongside me, we’ll clear enough land to make a decent farm. Until then, what Injun corn we don’t need for meal has to go into whiskey.”

  Once again, Kincaid had insisted that he and Bess play the role of a wandering mercenary soldier and his companion. He’d also told her that he was concerned about buying passage to the islands with the coin they had left.

  “But what about the jaguar?” she asked quietly. They were standing apart from the crowd, watching Will Gist inspect a shaggy black gelding that a horse dealer was putting through his paces. It was clear to Bess by his obvious fright that the black was only half broken. He squealed and kicked at the dealer when the man stepped too close to the animal’s hindquarters, bared his teeth at another horse, and reared back against the lead rope.

  “What would a common soldier be doin’ with a gold statue like that?” Kincaid chided her. “If I go into Charles Town proper and go down to the dock, it’s possible I can find someone who will give me the name of a man who will buy such fancy goods, no questions asked. But if the authorities catch wind of it, ye can be certain that the gold will go to a bigwig and we’ll go into the stocks.”

  Bess’s eyes narrowed. “But that’s not fair. The gold is mine. I’ve only to explain who I am and—”

  “Aye. And you’ve as much chance of being believed as of flyin’. Ye could stand in the stocks a long time before word gets back here from Maryland. And what if it’s the sheriff who comes to fetch ye?”

  “So what do we do?” she whispered. Will Gist had taken the lead line from the horse dealer and was putting the black gelding through his paces by himself. The animal was still skittish, tossing his head and shying at every movement in the crowd.

  “I take some of our coin and look for a card game,” Kincaid said.

  “Bet our last money? Like hell!” she hissed at him.

  He scowled at her. “Will ye be quiet, woman? Why not get up on Gist’s wagon and tell the whole fair you’re carryin’ gold in your stays?”

  “Well, I’m not about to let you lose what money we have left by gambling,” she insisted.

  “This is serious, Bess,” he said. “When I play for serious, I don’t lose.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean you cheat at cards?” she asked scornfully.

  “Will ye hold that infernal tongue of yours?” He yanked her around, so that they appeared to be embracing, and whispered in her ear. “Do ye want me to be tarred and feathered before they string me up to the nearest tree?”

  Bess grinned and put her arms around his neck, giving the illusion of enjoying his rough play. Then she pinched him hard.

  “Ouch.” His exclamation of pain came from between clenched teeth. Bess’s chuckle was cut off short as he delivered a sharp smack to her bottom with the flat of his hand. “Two can play that game, lass,” he said.

  She glared up at him. “A card cheat is lower than a snake,” she said. “No gentleman would ever cheat at—”

  “I told ye, I’m no gentleman,” he reminded her, then lowered his head and kissed her soundly.

  She pulled away, cheeks burning, to see a stout woman laughing at her.

  “Trouble with yer husband, dearie?” the matron called.

  “Not my wife and not likely to be,” Kincaid answered, “and I thank God for that every sunrise.” A round of laughter came from those within earshot.

  Despite her embarrassment, Bess couldn’t help staring at him. His Scots burr had nearly disap
peared beneath a Carolina lowland drawl. He caught her glance and winked mischievously.

  I’ll get you for this, she mouthed silently.

  A cockfight was beginning in a ring a few wagons over. A tall, rawboned farmer was holding a red-and-white rooster above his head to display the bird’s wicked spurs. “All comers!” he yelled. “Two-to-one odds!”

  Kincaid turned toward the action, and Bess shook her head. She wanted no part of the barbaric sport. “Stay close, then,” he advised.

  Will Gist was leading the black gelding away from the dealer, who was already proclaiming the merits of a stocky gray mule. “I traded fer him,” Gist said to Bess. “He’s green, but he’s got grit. What do ye think?”

  Bess turned her attention to the small horse. He had a powerful chest and an undersized head. His mane and tail were tangled with burrs, and his rump bore a freshly healed gash. The animal was pure black except for the dried mud on his fetlocks and a white ring around his left eye. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Dandy.” The gelding flared his nostrils at Bess and rolled his eyes until the whites showed. “Stay clear,” Gist warned. “He’s a handful. Just three years old, and needs a lot of gentling.” Will Gist’s accent was so thick that Bess could hardly understand him.

  “Whoa, Dandy,” she said, approaching the animal from the left. “Easy, boy.” She offered the back of her hand for the young horse to sniff. The animal pricked up his ears and stared suspiciously at her. “Good Dandy,” she crooned. “Good boy.”

  She touched the velvety black nose, then ran her hand up his head and scratched behind his ears. Dandy huffed and grumbled, but he stood still and let her fondle him. “Yes, you’re a good boy,” she murmured. The warmth of the horse felt comforting to Bess and she concentrated on the swirling sensations that formed in her mind. Red for power and vitality, orange for strength. She ran her hand down the animal’s front legs and up across his back.

  “What do you think?” Gist asked. “Prime, ain’t he?”

  Bess nodded and gave the gelding a final pat on the withers. “He’s got heart,” she said, “but he’s been handled roughly. Treat him right and he’ll serve you well.”

  “I’ll take him back to my wagon and tie him up,” Gist said. “No sense in taking the chance he’ll kick somebody’s head off.”

  Kincaid waved to Bess and she went over to him. “I thought I told ye not to talk,” he said.

  “It was just Will.”

  Kincaid gave her a disapproving look. “Ye canna take orders to save your life, can ye?” He shrugged. “I smell fried chicken. Let’s see if we can buy something to—”

  “Do you think of nothing besides your stomach?” she asked. “That’s a fine horse Will bought. He can run like the wind.”

  “That black? He’s no more than fifteen hands.”

  “He can run, I tell you.”

  “How do ye know? Have you seen him before?”

  “No, but he can run. I’m telling you, Kincaid. I know horses, and that little gelding will run the ears off anything else here.”

  “You’re certain?”

  She nodded. “Certain.”

  They walked toward the table where a woman and her two daughters were selling whole chickens roasted over an open fire. Buying bread and cheese from another stand, and ale from a blind man, they found a spot to sit in the shade of Will Gist’s wagon and watch the passersby.

  After they had eaten, Kincaid instructed Bess to wait by the wagon while he and Gist talked privately. The warm sun on her face and the food in her belly made Bess sleepy. A single bee droned on and on, and before she knew it, she had drifted off.

  When she woke, it was to the sound of Kincaid’s voice loudly boasting of his knowledge of horseflesh and racing. Several men had gathered by the back of the wagon, and Will Gist was passing around an open jug, obviously handing out samples of his homemade whiskey. Kincaid sounded as though he’d drunk his share and then some.

  “. . . damned so-called gentlemen think they got the only decent mounts in the colony,” he said loudly. Bess noted that his Carolina accent was as thick as white gravy dripping off a cold biscuit. “. . . so high in the stomach,” Kincaid continued, “that some of ’em wouldn’t know a real racehorse from a milk cow.”

  Word of the free drinks spread and more men joined the group. Shortly, Kincaid and a total stranger were arguing the merits of a Charles Town champion racehorse that Bess was certain the Scot had never heard of until this instant. Puzzled as to what Kincaid was up to, but not wanting to miss any of it, she climbed up onto the rough board that served as a wagon seat.

  A few women and still more farmers wandered over as the conversation grew heated. Then a young man in a cream-colored satin coat and waistcoat rode his sleek blooded sorrel up to the edge of the circle. “And what would you say about this mare, you backwoods buckeen?”

  “That’s Thomas Ridgeway,” a gray-haired woman said to Bess. “His father, Sir James Ridgeway, owns Hopewell Manor and half of Charles Town. And that mare of his won him twenty pounds sterling in a race last Christmas Day. You’d best tell your man to mind his tongue. Sir James ain’t a man to be trifled with.”

  Bess shrugged. “Ain’t no holdin’ him back when he’s in his cups,” she said, trying hard to imitate the woman’s speech.

  “You folks ain’t from around here, are ya?”

  “North a ways,” Bess said.

  “Figures.”

  “. . . crow bait,” Kincaid was saying in a grating manner. “This mare couldn’t outrun my mother. She’s got legs like a damned mule.”

  “The mare or your mother?” cried a heckler.

  “Both of ’em!” Kincaid guffawed. He slapped his thigh in amusement and reached for the jug. “Why, anything could outrun that long-legged heron, and I’ll wager my woman could outride you.”

  “Put your money where your mouth is!” Ridgeway retorted. “What have you got to run against me?”

  Bess’s heart sank as Kincaid’s mouth dropped open. For a long minute he looked stunned, exactly like a man caught in his own trap. “Well . . . well. . .” he stuttered. “I reckon. . .”

  “You reckon what, bumpkin?”

  The tide of humor turned against Kincaid as he appeared to wither before the young gentleman’s challenge. Men laughed and muttered among themselves.

  “He’s drunk,” one elderly farmer said.

  “A pig’s bladderful of hot air,” muttered another.

  “By God, I’ll show you who’s full of hot air,” Kincaid sputtered. “Sal! Sal, get down here.” He stabbed a finger at Bess.

  “Me?” she asked.

  “God save me from a stupid woman,” Kincaid exclaimed to the crowd. A general titter spread through the group. “Get down here,” he repeated, “afore I come up there and git ya.”

  Bewildered, but not knowing what else to do, Bess complied. Kincaid wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grabbed hold of her arm. “Why, my little Sally here,” he said to Thomas Ridgeway, “she could whip you flat out in a mile race.”

  Ridgeway laughed. “Riding what?”

  Kincaid looked around, blinked, and pointed to the black gelding Will Gist had purchased that morning from the horse dealer. “On that there little black.”

  “You’re crazy,” Ridgeway said.

  “She could too.” Kincaid nodded to the onlookers. “You scared to ride against a woman?”

  Ridgeway’s face darkened with anger. “Show me your money.”

  Kincaid’s eyes widened and he looked doubtful. “Ought to have odds,” he grumbled out loud. “A big fancy horse like that and this little workhorse. You got so much money, you oughta give me odds.”

  “Three to one Ridgeway beats the woman!” the horse dealer yelled from the edge of the crowd.

  A swarthy farmer snickered. “You must think we’re as dumb as the towhead, Giles.”

  “All right,” the dealer answered. “Four to one. Who’ll give me four to one?”
r />   “Ten to one, maybe,” a man in a coonskin cap called. “I’ve got threepence at ten to one.”

  “Six to one?” Giles offered. “Six to one.” When he got no takers, he raised the bid. “Ten to one it is, then. Ten to one against the little black.”

  Hands were up as men crowded toward the horse dealer. Kincaid put his arm around Bess’s waist and pulled her through the shoving mass to where the black gelding was tied. “You said he could run, now ye’d best prove it,” he said in a low, coldly sober voice.

  “This is some kind of deceitful scheme, isn’t it?” she demanded. “Like the cards? You want me to—”

  Kincaid held up his hands. “Do ye want to get to Panama or not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Can ye ride the black or nay, Bess?”

  “I suppose so, but—”

  “Can he run like the hounds of hell are after him?”

  She nodded. “I think so.”

  “Then . . .” He grinned as he threw a saddle on the shaggy gelding’s back and cinched it tight. “Then, lass, it’s what they call horse racing. And the devil take the hindmost.”

  Chapter 14

  Ridgeway’s sorrel mare leaped away at the starting gunshot, showering Bess and the little black in dust. A woman screamed and the crowd backed away as Bess’s gelding shied sideways and reared before breaking into a run. Once the horse stopped fighting the bit, Bess loosened the reins, letting him find his own pace.

  She leaned low over his neck and spoke soothingly to the animal as she felt him gather his energy and really begin to gallop full out. Kincaid’s shouts and the cheering of farmers and their families faded on the wind. Now all Bess could hear was the rhythmic thud of the black horse’s hooves striking the hard-packed dirt road.

  Bess had always loved riding fast. Since she was a tiny child, her greatest joy was clinging to a horse’s mane and seeing the ground float beneath her. The Carolina sun beating down on her was tempered by the feel of wind in her hair and the sense of power she experienced.