Sweet Vengeance

by St. Michel, Elizabeth

  Why wasn’t Thorne swilling rum with the rest of his companions? She fought a compulsion to let her mind go onto something new, shrugged, and then gave in to her inclination. She pushed from the rock and followed. One of his long strides equaled two of hers. To make-up the distance, she sprinted, careful to drop out of view when she drew too close. He climbed the steps of a stately yet modest home, knocked and disappeared.

  Abby squatted under an array of crimson bougainvillea. Did he have a paramour awaiting him? She snatched a papery blossom and crushed it in her hand. Drumming up a series of Abe’s insults did nothing to quench her thirst to know. Growing up as a girl in her family, she was shielded from delicate male conversation. She compensated this division with the refined art of eavesdropping, a terrible sin. If she had to pay a penance, it might as well be full-blown atonement.

  She scrambled across the street and flanked a porch half-hidden by shrubbery. Briars scratched her wrists as she climbed a flowered trellis and peered through the open window. She considered the beautifully appointed room of wainscoting, paintings and Queen Anne furniture, obviously owned by someone of wealth. Deep masculine voices in convivial greeting, thundered toward the room, Thorne among them. She swung out of view.

  “Any news?” Thorne asked the American representative and businessman, William Bingham. He sat, took a glass of wine, sampled it and waited for Bingham to close the door. Spies were everywhere. The information shared between them was secret, not to be overheard by servants.

  “Most of a sensitive nature,” said William Bingham.

  “As counsel serving the Continental Congress in Martinique, I’ve been busy gathering information and arranging smuggled shipment of weapons for our army. I enjoy a relationship with the Governor General, friendly with the American cause. The “Privateers of the Rebels,” as we are known, are furnished with everything we want and with as much willingness and alacrity as if we were subjects of France. I have a letter from Rachel.” William presented a missive.

  “How long has it been since you’ve returned to Boston?” William asked.

  “Two years.” Thorne said, tearing the envelope open and scanning the contents.

  “Much has happened in two years. From my last communication, dated six months ago, Boston Harbor, courtesy of George Washington, is in the hands of the rebels. You need not worry about the murder charges. Rachel has proved an ardent campaigner for your innocence, claiming the charges were falsely asserted by that vile British officer to cover his own wretchedness.”

  “I must return immediately,” Jacob raked his hand through his hair. “I would appreciate your precipitous administration in unloading the cargo I captured. I plan on sailing immediately.”

  “Bad news?”

  “My cousin, Ethan attempted to escape and is facing possible execution. There is hope for a prisoner exchange with a captured British Colonel in Boston. With the chaotic and inconsistent prisoner exchanges, Rachel recommended I manage the trade personally.”

  “I am sorry, but I caution you of the risks. Four out of five of our men die on the prison hulks the Brits have anchored in New York Harbor. You are our most valued captain and I’d hate to hear of you captured.” William leaned forward. “Recent events would hearten you to hear our cause has improved. France has discreetly sent us a large quantity of war supplies. With the new alliance, I expect soldiers, supplies and their Navy. There is talk of an additional alliance with Spain.”

  Abby inhaled sharply, the heavy scent of jasmine from the vine tickled her nose. If two superpowers and the Colonies aligned against England, the results spelled disastrous consequences for her country. An uncontrollable sneeze burgeoned. Abby pinched her nose. She gasped. Her breath hitched. Achoo!

  She jerked back. The trellis gave way. Her back slammed into the ground. Breath whacked from her lungs. She struggled to suck air. Dazed she pushed at the tangle of cloying flowers and thorns and scampered to her feet. Her hands kneaded her chest, willing the air to fill her lungs. She stumbled to get her hat and rammed it on her head.

  William stared, but it was the fury etched in Thorne’s face that set her feet into a flat out run. She glanced over her shoulder. Thorne catapulted from the open window.

  “Abe!”

  Where to hide? She zigzagged through a labyrinth of streets. Buildings whizzed in a blur of repetition. She pulled up in an alley and hid in the shadows. Thorne passed. One. Two. Three. She bolted in the opposite direction and knocked a woman to the ground. Amidst a barrage of curses, Abby pulled her up. With her cane, the old woman struck her. Thorne pivoted. Too late. Abby let go of her arm and the woman flailed like a windmill in an ocean of skirts.

  Thorne’s shadow covered hers, his breath hot on her ear. She dodged in front of a horse carriage and tripped. The horses reared. Hooves clawed the air. Frozen, Abby held her arm up, waiting to be crushed.

  “You little fool!” Jacob grabbed the reins and yanked downward to control the beasts. Abby rolled away. The carriage owner uttered a stream of oaths then snatched his whip high to beat her. Thorne seized the whip and flung it. The enraged Frenchman pelted Thorne with curses.

  Opportunity prevailed and she outdistanced Thorne. Darting up a street, she plunged into a tavern and peeked between the louvers of a shuttered window. Gulping in heaps of air, she waited until her breathing evened. She wiped the moisture from her brow with her sleeve and lamented her terrible curiosity and spying on Thorne. She massaged the stitch in her side, debating the lesser of two evils, imprisonment with the Governor General of Martinique or Captain Thorne?

  A large hairy arm snaked around her waist. “Look what we have here, brothers,” he hailed his comrades in French. “An urchin to entertain us. Yvette!” He barked. “Show us some sport and deflower the lad.”

  The patrons roared their approval. Rough hands plied Abby’s coat. She scratched and bit her captors. If they discovered her sex, she’d be raped. Tossed onto a table, her legs and arms secured, she thrashed and ground out French expletives, heightening their hilarity. She yanked her foot, and escaping its bond, dispatched a well-aimed kick. The sailor crumpled. His companions guffawed. The hairy ape tossed a bag of coins to Yvette, a red painted woman; the most outrageous female Abby had ever laid eyes on.

  Yvette slid from her chair and sashayed toward them, affecting an exaggerated roll of her hips. The men lolled mesmerized. She twirled a black lock of hair in her finger and pouted before the ape, thrusting her overabundant cleavage in his chest. Her black eyes flashed. “Who’s to say I desire a lad when I can have a man like you?”

  The ape colored fiercely. His companions slapped his back. Yvette turned and ran a finger down Abby’s face. “Hm-m? I ravish a beardless boy. It will cost you more.” She trilled her demand and weighted the bag in her hand. Coins threw through the air, landing on top of Abby. Someone scratched a bow across a violin and a lively tune began. Yvette danced around the table, plucking the coins from Abby and tucked them in the space between her massive breasts.

  Like a Pied Piper she drew them, prolonging her performance. Abby pleaded with her eyes. The prostitute simply smiled, widening her circle, sinuously dancing between the sailors then out of their reach. The men frothed with her antics. Yvette whirled, her black hair a cloud around her shoulders. They pounded the table and stomped their feet, increasing the crescendo of shouting, deafening Abby.

  Yvette snapped her fingers in the air. The sailors ceased. “Bring the boy to my chambers. He is a babe and will take coaxing. When he is a man−” She heaved her breasts with an inflated sigh. “We will return.”

  Several sailors lifted Abby high over their heads. The ape stopped the procession. Yvette lowered her hand to his manhood and halted his belligerence. “Later, my love.”

  A grinning fool, he stepped back and let the parade pass. Up the stairs and into a room they went, whereupon they hurled Abby onto a broad unmade bed lumped with dirty linens. The men vanished. She heard a key click, turning the lock from the outside. Yve
tte barred a plank to secure the door from the inside then peeled off her clothes, coins falling to the floor.

  Abby held up her hand to ward off the unthinkable as Yvette scooped up her bounty. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand perfectly. A relationship with a woman? No. My motivations are mercenary. I have bartered a fortune and I’m going to retire for an early night.”

  “How-how did you know?” Abby leaped from the bed.

  “I know many things. I know men are stupid.” She opened her shutters to let in the fresh air. “In a few minutes, they will be deep in their rum. I will moan and jump on my bed. They will be amused.” She threw Abby a coin. “You will need it English.”

  Abby’s mouth dropped open. “You knew?”

  “Your accent is good but not perfect.” Yvette waved her to the balcony. “You can leave. The vine is sturdy and goes to a back alley. Adieu.”

  “Wait. I’ve been kidnapped and taken aboard an American privateer’s ship, the Vengeance. I need your help. Is there any way you could get two letters to England…one to my father−” her breath caught, hoping against hope he was still alive, “−and one to a family friend,” Abby pleaded, her eyes beseeching the woman. The French prostitute did not have to do her any favors.

  Yvette sighed. “I am a sucker for hard luck cases. There are writing materials in my vanity. I will see what I can do.”

  Abby wrote the letters, sealed the envelope with wax and kissed the prostitute on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  She had found a grace in the darkest of places. The prostitute blushed. Abby sat on the balcony, flipped her legs over and planted a foot in the vine to test the strength. If only the ground was not so far.

  But she could do this. The masts on the Vengeance were higher. She swung out. She stared at her handholds, inching down. From the bottom of the balcony there was an eight foot drop. Her feet dangled. She clung and hoped she did not injure an ankle. Abby closed her eyes, swaying like a dead leaf in a winter wind, terrified to let go. Her arms ached, her hands grew clammy. She had climbed the mast of a ship. Why did she fear this small leap? Abby gasped, losing her grip. She fell in a whoosh, caught in strong arms.

  Abby opened her eyes and quailed.

  “Captain Thorne!”

  “Precisely.”

  Chapter 11

  Abby remained stubbornly mute, visually recalling every inch of their journey to the Vengeance, terrified, then humiliated, the spectacle Thorne had made hauling her through the streets and down to the beach, catching the eye of every citizen of Martinique. No one had dared to cross the wrath of the American.

  “I should blister your backside,” Thorne said, staring her down. His neck muscles were corded so tight she thought he’d explode.

  The sun had set and she chafed, listening to his constant upbraiding in tune with the scrape of oarlocks, his hands a death-grip on the oars, rowing her to the ship, his captive again. On deck, Pascale and Simeon darted worried glances to one another. One look at their Captain’s menacing expression confirmed the hazard of voicing objection. No chance of support from either of them. Thorne grabbed her arm, prodded her down the companionway then thrust her into his cabin. Was it possible his scowl grew more ominous?

  “I’m not listening to your lame excuses. The crew will be ordered to keep you locked up where I know you won’t be tempted to spy. Your chicanery has cost me.”

  “You think I care about your treason and stupid war,” she bit out, tired of Thorne’s bullying. Beyond the transom windows, the coast dimmed a dark purple smear in the waning light. She plunked her hands in her coat pocket and gauged the distance to shore.

  “Don’t even try it,” he read her mind. “The sharks will find you a tempting repast.”

  Her nostrils flared. “I wasn’t spying.” She rubbed her bruised arm and wished she could groan her misery in her own natural tones.

  “I can’t imagine why you were poking around the very house I had to do business. Tomorrow you will give full explanation.” He jerked on his coat. “I’m going to finish my affairs then I’m going to seek some overdue pleasure.”

  Pleasure? Abby folded her arms across her flattened bosom. “I don’t care a whit what beasts you visit or what pox you bring back. Don’t keep me up all night with your scratching and wailing.”

  He took a step toward her and she shrank. “I should have listened to my earlier intuitions and had you tossed overboard. My charity, a penalty for picking up lost strays.” He smoothed on bay oil for his night out.

  Why did it rile her?

  Angry as she was of his mistreatment, she regarded his face in the deep dusk and soft yellow glow of candlelight. It sometimes surprised her just how striking he was. She didn’t like standing so close, not when he smelled so fresh and spicy, and she had the awful odor of rancid grease to her hair. Self-consciously she tugged down her hat. The contrast between them was excruciatingly painful when she allowed herself to forget that he was a traitor and remembered he was a man and she, a young woman. When he glanced at her unkempt appearance, she shrugged her shame.

  “I suppose you must marinate in it to catch what you’re trolling for.” Her derisive gaze swept him from the toe of his polished boot to his handsome head.

  His lips flattened into a snarl. “Tonight you will forego victuals and tomorrow there will be triple the chores…and that’s just the beginning of your punishment. I’ll be reminded in the future to resist the temptation to trust a snooping rat.” He slammed the door. The lock rattled.

  “It’s the little ones that have the worst bite!” She pounded the door, her words wasted on his booted steps, stomping up the companionway. She kneaded the muscles in her neck, fixated on all the injustices she suffered. Her stomach rumbled and, like water down a drain, her confidence flowed away. Failure. Martinique proved to be a catastrophe. Now Jacob was convinced she was a spy. The cost of her prying drew her further away from England and attached to it, hopelessness grew. In a day or two she’d be on her way to Boston, embedded in the middle of enemy territory and plummeting deeper into a war that was none of her concern.

  She collapsed on Thorne’s bed. It would be a matter of time before her identity would be discovered. She covered her face with a pillow unable to banish the nightmare. Pascale knew. The perceptive, Yvette had picked up on her disguise. How long before the shrewd Captain Thorne realized his cabin boy was a woman? Abby flinched. Thorne shoved off from the side of the ship, to some harlot greedy for coin. Without a doubt, she conceded, Yvette was right. Men were stupid creatures.

  Abby tossed the pillow aside and rose. Thorne’s rowing to shore ebbed, leaving the evening laden with the desolate sound of waves lapping against the hull. A windward breeze cooled the cabin and she drew near the transom windows where light fell from the soft silvery radiance of the moon. Surrounded by a million stars, the somber moon was fated to be anything like it in the night sky. She was a prisoner, trapped by a rebel, and lonely, so miserably alone and forlorn, a sharp ache scored deep within her chest. Never had she known such confinement. The trilling brightness of a whore’s laughter amusing Thorne made the walls close in on her, threading through her head and turning the room into a torture chamber.

  There was a plus side to Thorne’s departure. She was unrestricted for the night. She stripped off her hat, coat, shirt and bindings. Released from the bonds, she massaged her aching breasts. From a bucket of clean water, she bathed and washed her hair. Standing in front of a mirror, she stared back with misty eyes, combing her hair until it dried. She found no comfort in what she saw. The solitary figure in the silvery glass looked more like a young woman than her usual attire allowed. Her breasts were more rounded with maturity and better diet. The light shoulder length hair she had refused to cut and tied back in a queue was released from its leather thong and curled softly.

  Abby’s eyes roamed to the chest that held so many beautiful gowns. Gowns he had procured for his cousin in Boston. A strange yearning to dress in some
thing pretty and ladylike, to be treated as a woman, beckoned her. Oh, to be able to smile and laugh with her own feminine joyfulness, instead of having to curb the softer looks and lower her voice to a deepness that made her throat ache.

  The guise of stripling cabin boy commanded the charade she must play. Each day bred its own repugnance. To don those wretched clothes and assume the male persona grew more grueling. Little by little, the masquerade had stripped her of her womanhood.

  With a cry, she moved to the chest and flung it open, revealing a rich array of gowns. She donned the splendid sapphire with the low-cut bosom, barely modest, and smoothed her fingers over the fine silk. Even without undergarments, the material sinfully molded to her.

  In her mind she observed the tall, lean form of Captain Thorne swoop past, and on his arm, a woman elegantly dressed. His face was animated and attentive as he wooed the lady, and on bended knee he vowed his love. The woman’s hand extended as if bequeathing knighthood upon the handsome head, and his lips marked the slim fingers and traced a path along the bare, white arm. The vision broadened and the full red lips he kissed became the countenance of a seedy whore.

  The dream in which “Abe” could share no part vanished. Doubts beat a wild tattoo. The walls of her beliefs, like thistledown in the wind, blew away and disappeared. Boyish. Distasteful. Unappealing. She shook her fist to the heavens, then lowered her hand and stared at an empty palm. Nothing. Nothing dissuaded fate’s lot.

  Yawning, she stepped from the gown, folded it and returned the garment to the chest. She donned a clean shirt from Thorne’s drawer, her unwitting benefactor. She sighed with the luxury of sleeping with the silk against her swollen breasts. With certainty, he would not return this evening lost in the arms of some licentious strumpet. Abby kicked her offending garments to the far corners of the room then wiped tears from her cheeks. Exhaustion from the nerves and disappointment of the day overcame her. She settled on her pallet, allowing a fitful sleep.