“Why are you doing this, Mr. Thorn? I sense it is not purely out of kindness for me.”
“I’ll admit it serves more than one purpose, miss.” Tiny green flecks burned in his brown eyes, and he brushed a speck of dirt from his otherwise clean coat as if somehow his kind deed was ridding him of something troublesome.
Grace didn’t want to know what. “Regardless, I thank you. I know you risk the wrath of Captain Dubois.”
They headed down the street, weaving among the crowd of sweaty humanity and repugnant farm animals. “I can handle his wrath, Miss Grace,” Mr. Thorn said. “What I fear is being left in some port with no job and no prospects.”
As if offering them a vision of such a future, a man appeared on their left, slouching beneath a huge calabash tree. Before Grace drew within three yards of him, his fetid smell nearly stole her breath away, and she covered her nose. His scraggly beard hung down to his belly, and the dirt smudging his face made it difficult to ascertain his age. She started toward him, intending to see if there was something she could do for him, but Mr. Thorn nudged her in the other direction. “What are you doing, miss?”
“Who is that man?” she whispered.
“Naught but a lazy beggar, a thief.”
Grace glanced over her shoulder in disdain as Mr. Thorn ushered her past him.
“Nay, he’s young and fit enough to work. He prefers to steal his food.” Disgust stained Mr. Thorn’s tone. “There are many like him in town.”
They had no sooner made it to the fringe of shops and taverns edging the road when Mr. Thorn halted, then slipped behind a horse tethered to a post.
“What is it, Mr. Thorn?” Grace stared at him wide-eyed.
“’Tis Captain Dubois.” He inclined his head toward the center of town where there was a crush of people.
Ducking behind the horse, she crept along its side then peered around its neck. The captain conversed with a woman and her child. He leaned over, retrieved articles of clothing from an open chest, and handed them to her. The woman kissed his hand and bowed to him as if he were royalty before grabbing her child and dashing away. Grace shook her head to jar the perplexing vision from her mind. An old man shuffled forward, and the captain dipped into the chest and pulled out two bags, which the man immediately received with a gap-toothed grin.
Grace slunk behind the horse. “What is he doing?”
“He gives gifts to his adoring masses.” Mr. Thorn’s tone hissed with disgust.
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Thorn huffed out a sigh of exasperation. “After the captain pays the crew their allotment, he distributes the rest of his plunder to the poor here at Port-de-Paix.”
Grace lifted a hand to her brow to quell the shock reeling through her head. She peeked back at Captain Dubois as he embraced an older woman, then back at Mr. Thorn. “Are you telling me that he doesn’t pocket the money he receives for his nefarious deeds?”
Mr. Thorn flattened his lips and nodded. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“Then he is some sort of Robin Hood of the seas?” Grace could not believe it. Every word the captain had spoken, every threat, every evil glint in his dark eyes, all led to the conclusion that he was as greedy as he was heartless and wicked. But this ... this changed everything.
“Sickening, isn’t it?” Mr. Thorn rubbed his bulbous nose and snorted.
Grace flinched at the man’s disdain. “Why do you find it so?”
“The act is kind. The motivation may not be, miss.” Mr. Thorn took one last peek at his captain, then glanced toward the brig. “But I fear I must leave you before he sees me.”
Grace’s heart clenched. Alone? In this riotous bedlam?
He pointed past the grappling mob. “See that building by the docks?”
Grace nodded as her gaze found the clapboard shanty surrounded by sailors.
“You should have no trouble bartering there for passage on the next ship leaving port.” He gave her a reassuring nod. “There are always ships heading to the colonies loaded with sugar and coffee. I’m sorry I cannot help you any further. The captain hates nothing worse than betrayal and surely would toss me from his ship should he discover I have done this much.”
Grace bit her lip. Her palms began to sweat. “But I do not speak French.”
“Most merchantmen know a pinch of English, miss. Never fear. You shall be well.” He tipped his hat and abandoned her to her spot behind the horse.
The horse’s tail whipped through the air and struck Grace in the face. Jumping back, she coughed and swiped at her cheeks as laughter tumbled over her from the storefront to her left. Three men and one lady, who’d just exited the store, enjoyed the moment at her expense. The man spewed a few sentences in French, which caused more laughter.
Face hot, Grace tugged her hat farther down on her head. Then skirting the horse, she made her way across the street. At least they had not seen past her disguise. All she had to do was procure passage on a ship, and if it didn’t leave right away, purchase a room in a tavern and hide away until it did. How hard could that be? But with each step, her boots sank deeper into the mud—a sticky black ooze that made it as difficult to move forward as it did to have faith that all would be well, as Mr. Thorn had said. Her chest tightened, and she plucked one boot from the sludge and forged ahead.
Grace stepped away from the trail of shops and into a web of people and horseflesh darting this way and that as they went about their business. And like a fly caught in a web, she got the distinct impression she was about to be devoured by its occupants. She threaded her way through the crowd, bumping shoulders with a bare-chested sailor and barely missing being crushed beneath the wheel of a carriage. French words shot toward her from all directions, some tickling her ears with their beauty, while others jarred her with their harsh tones. She had no idea what the words meant and from the looks of their source, she preferred it that way.
The clank of chains drew her gaze to a black man clothed only in tattered breeches, bent beneath a huge barrel that balanced on a back striped with the punishing marks of his master. Iron shackles bound his feet together.
Grace swallowed the burning in her throat. Lord, such misery.
Music bounced over her from an open tavern to her left. The smell of roast pig and bitter alcohol mixed with human sweat saturated the air.
Careful to keep her head down, she edged past the center of town and peeked at Captain Dubois, who had concluded his charitable business and was instructing his men to pick up the chest and follow him. She shook her head at the dichotomy. A rogue, a villain by all inspection, yet possessing a heart for the poor? She could make no sense of it and found herself staring at him as if the answer would come by her perusal.
He glanced up and stretched his back, their eyes locking. Heart in her throat, Grace tugged her floppy hat down and darted to her left.
And barreled into the iron chest of a massive man.
“Garçon stupide! Regardez où vous allez!” He shoved Grace aside and she tumbled into the mud. The man spat on the ground beside her then snorted and swaggered off. Passersby wove around her, staring at her, but no one stopped to help. Placing one hand into the warm mud, she pushed herself to her knees and tried to collect her emotions. Fear threatened to crush her resolve to go on.
Then she saw him. Captain Dubois headed her way. His men proceeded along the street without him. She glanced over her shoulder to see what had captured his attention, but when she faced forward again, those smoky dark eyes were locked directly upon her. Did he know who she was, or was he only trying to help a boy? She didn’t intend to stay and find out.
Leaping to her feet, she planted a hand atop her hat and dashed in the other direction, shoving her way through the crowd. Her breath strained in her lungs. Her legs burned. She bounded around the side of the tavern and into an alley littered with garbage and puddles of slop. Coughing from the stench, she splashed through the refuse, splattering it over the bottom of her breeches. She darted behind a st
ack of barrels and backed up against the wall of the tavern, listening for the sound of footsteps. Her breath heaved in her throat.
No thump of boots, no deep smooth voice. Just the clamor of the town. She peered around the barrels. The alley was empty. Leaning her head back onto the wall, she closed her eyes, caught her breath, and offered a prayer of thanks.
The click of a pistol cocking jarred her from her silent worship. She froze as every nerve within her tightened. The cold press of metal against her forehead forced her to open her eyes to the greedy sneers of two men. They spouted a string of French at her. Though she didn’t understand the words, she knew what they wanted.
And she had no choice but to give it to them.
CHAPTER 11
Rafe strode up to the front of the stone church, shouldered aside the wooden door, and entered the dim vestibule. A haze of smoke lingered in the air from the candles burning in their sconces upon the walls. Wind slammed the door shut behind him, echoing through the room and enclosing him in its shadows. He doffed his plumed hat. The odor of beeswax, mold, and aged parchment tickled his nose as the air, kept cool by the stone walls, refreshed his heated skin. As his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, stained glass windows appeared on either side of another massive door that separated him from the sanctuary. Taking a step toward the glass, he peered at the blurred shapes of several people sitting upon wooden pews or kneeling at the candlelit altar, praying to a nonexistent God.
A waste of time, to his way of thinking—sending appeals upward in the hope some powerful being would hear and answer them. En fait, it was a selfish act. Better to spend one’s days helping the poor and needy as he did. He took a step back and gripped his baldric. If everyone would follow his example, the world would be a better place, and there would be no need for useless prayers.
The side door swung open and in walked Abbé Villion. The elderly priest ’s eyes lit up, and he opened his arms, the sleeves of his long gray robe swaying in the candlelight like apparitions. Taking Rafe in a hearty embrace, he smiled, his blue eyes sparkling. “Rafe, how good to see you! I did not expect you for another month.”
Still unaccustomed to his displays of affection, Rafe stiffened beneath the man’s enveloping grasp. “My crew needed some time ashore before our next stop. And I have brought you some more supplies.” The door opened, and Father Alers peeked his gray head inside amidst a stream of sunlight.
“Come in, Father.” Abbé Villion waved his hand. “Unless of course you will burn in hell for entering a haven of heretics.” He grinned.
Father Alers chuckled and proceeded within. “I am no longer a Jesuit, Révérend, and even so”—he glanced around the vestibule, taking in the wooden cross atop the sanctuary door and the open Bible on a table to his left—“I believe we worship the same God.”
“Well said, Father.” Abbé Villion folded his hands over his gray cowl. “I wish King Louis held the same belief.” He shrugged. “But I suppose if his father had, I wouldn’t have fled here. None of us Huguenots would have. And who then would help the poor on this island?”
Father Alers shifted his stance and looked away.
Rafe ground his teeth together. Would things have been different if his father had not also fled the persecution and brought his family to the West Indies? Non, sans doute, his father would have been the same hypocrite, the same monster, in France as he was here.
Abbé Villion grabbed Rafe’s shoulders. “I am glad you have come, my boy. And you bring gifts just in time.” He exhaled a sigh of exhaustion, reflected in the deep lines on his face. “There are so many needs.”
“I will have my men take the crates around back. There are clothes, grain, corn, dried peas, as well as pearls, silver, and gold jewelry, which should bring you a good price.”
“I won’t ask how you came upon such wealth.” The reverend’s sharp blue eyes flashed a silent reprimand.
“It is best you do not.” Rafe grinned.
Father Alers coughed and lifted a look of repentance upward.
“But regarding the other matter I promised you.” Rafe scratched the stubble on his chin.
Abbé Villion’s brows lifted. “The hospital?”
Guilt assaulted Rafe at his friend’s exuberant look. Then anger burned in his gut—anger at Mademoiselle Grace and the spell she’d cast upon him. “Oui. There may be a delay.”
Abbé Villion turned and stared out the front window to the swaying palms and beyond to a group of mulatto children playing in the sand. “We lose so many each day. Sometimes up to five.”
Rafe clenched his jaw. “I promised I would build you a hospital, fill it with supplies, and bring a qualified apothecary from the Continent, and I will. Just not by the end of the year, as I had hoped.”
“It is not your fault, son.” The reverend’s brows pulled into a frown. “I meant no dishonor. You have done so much for us. And all at great risk to yourself. My disappointment lies only in the thought of those who will die in the meantime.” He forced a smile. “Only God knows how many lives you have already saved with your generosity.”
Pride swelled within Rafe. In the three years he had known him, Abbé Villion had been more a father to Rafe than his own had been in six and twenty. “I wish I could do more.” He had to do more. He could not let this kind, gentle man down. His thoughts drifted to Mademoiselle Grace—five hundred pounds’ worth of sweet cargo sitting aboard his ship, all his for the taking. Then why couldn’t he take her to the don and collect it? Every fiber within him longed to do so, to tell Abbé Villion he would have his hospital by year-end.
But he could not.
The reverend laid a hand on his arm. “God will indeed bless you.”
Rafe winced as if God Himself had spoken to him—sealing His approval on Rafe’s silent decision. A sense of peace, of acceptance, came over him so strong it felt as if someone else had entered the room. “I do not want His blessing. I wish only to help those in need, those whom the grand blancs have deemed unnecessary and unworthy.”
“He will bless you anyway.” Abbé Villion lifted one shoulder and smiled.
Father Alers snickered and reached for the door.
Suddenly Rafe was equally as anxious to leave the sacred place. “My men wait outside. Show me where you would like the goods stored, and I will be on my way.”
“Oui, you are no doubt tired from your journey.”
Rafe turned. “I promise I shall find a way to build the hospital.”
“We need it, oui.” Abbé Villion’s eyes burned with concern. “But not at the cost of your life and not at the price of innocent blood.”
Father Alers coughed, and Rafe squirmed beneath another wave of guilt but said nothing. Better to not add lying to his list of sins.
Especially not in a church.
***
Grace huddled beneath an old ripped tarpaulin she’d found discarded by the docks and crouched against the back wall of the warehouse to shield herself from the wind. Pound pound pound. Rain dropped like round shot on the cloth, begging entrance to her makeshift shelter. But when not granted it, the water slid down to seek an opening, quickly found among the tarpaulin’s abundant rents. The rain dripped onto Grace, saturating her already damp breeches. She sneezed and held her stomach against another grinding roar of hunger.
Three days had passed. Three days since all her money had been stolen by the two thieves, three days since she’d lost all hope of getting off this evil island, and three days since she’d had a bite to eat. Now she must endure another long sleepless night, hiding from both the small rats, as they rummaged through the refuse piled up in the alley, and the big drunken, two-legged ones—far more dangerous.
At least the thieves had not seen through her disguise, or she would have lost more than the livres Mr. Thorn had given her. She supposed she should be thankful for that. Although, covered with bug bites, consumed by a fear that left her numb, and a stomach that rebelled at every scent of food that remained ever out of her reach, sh
e found it difficult to offer any thanks to God at all.
Hugging her knees to her weak body, she leaned her head atop them and allowed her tears to fall. “Why, God? Why have You abandoned me? I’ve served You my entire life. I’ve done naught but try to please You.” She waited, listening for the answer amidst the pitter-plop of the rain. Yet this appeal seemed to dissipate in the air above her.
She had contemplated sneaking aboard one of the ships, but she shuddered at the stories of what happened to stowaways. Out at sea, if she were caught, she’d be trapped with nowhere to run. She had even thought of signing on as a crewmember, but she couldn’t speak French and had no idea how to work a ship. It wouldn’t take long for the sailors to notice her incompetence. Not to mention what the crew would do with her should they discover she was a woman. She trembled at the thought. She had also searched for Mr. Thorn, but he must have remained on the ship, and she could find no one willing to row her back out to it for less than a livre. One tiny spark of hope ignited when she had convinced a young French sailor, who spoke a modicum of English, to take a post to her sister Faith in Charles Towne. Yet Grace was unsure of whether he understood her or even if the ship he sailed upon was actually going toward home.
She could, of course, try to find Captain Dubois, but she wondered if life as a slave to a Spanish don would not be worse than dying in the filthy alleys of Port-de-Paix. At least if she died here, she’d end up in a much better place.
A rat poked his twitching, whiskered nose beneath her covering, and Grace booted him away. “Find your own shelter.”
A crack of thunder hammered through the night sky, and she jumped. Puddles formed around her and began to soak through the bottom of her breeches. She hugged herself against the chill. “Lord, help me. Please help me....” The petition faltered on her lips as she drifted into a nightmarish half sleep.
***
Grace dragged her boots through the mud, wincing as pain from the blisters covering her feet shot up her legs. The sun drooped in the western sky, sinking behind the mounds of green that bordered the nefarious port town. And nefarious it was. Worse than the worst parts of Charles Towne, worse than she ever imagined possible. The things she’d witnessed in broad daylight—brawls, drunkenness, lewdness, thievery—were nothing compared to the nighttime activities. If she hadn’t had a clear vision of hell some years ago, she’d swear Port-de-Paix was indeed that place.
Raven Saint Page 10