Sweet Vengeance

by St. Michel, Elizabeth

  Davenport narrowed his eyes. “Fascinating, your interest in everything Bahamian.” He swatted at a horsefly and missed. The insect bit his cheek and he swore under his breath.

  Mrs. Cornish clucked.

  Abby smiled. Davenport was no fool and again his eyes roved over her body. “This is new to me. Why wouldn’t I find it fascinating?” How long to break his tolerance?

  He tapped his foot in staccato. Distrust and lust.

  Through the narrow streets of New Providence they traveled, the town quaint amidst a collection of coral pink, mint green, and cornflower blue painted clapboard houses with white picket fences, gingerbread-latticework and balconies. Stores flouted supplies of tobacco, sugar, barrels of molasses, rice, salt, rum, fabrics and lumber. Slaves sold rainbow-colored parrotfish, strawberry snapper, sea turtles as big as footstools and scorching pink conch shells.

  Despite the dreaded company, Abigail reveled in the vivid magentas, purples, and salmon bougainvillea draped over fences and porticos. The horses clopped beneath a canopy of Royal Poinciana, igniting the skies with flames of red, then turned the corner of Bay Street. Abigail gasped. A lone figure stood chained so tight to a palmetto that there remained no room for movement. Pascale? He had a large swollen eye, bloodied lip and his arms were stretched so high over his head that his toes barely brushed the ground. Disconnect from life shown in his face. Simeon turned to her.

  “Stop the carriage at once,” she commanded.

  Mrs. Cornish pursed her lips.

  Captain Davenport raised a brow. “What is it?”

  “That man. Why is he imprisoned like that?”

  As if humoring a young child, Davenport exhaled. “A French planter from Haiti recognized the huge black as an escaped slave from his plantation. He set a tidy sum that I approved. Some old feud he has with the slave, has ordered no food or drink. Taunts the giant black every day and keeps the key to his chains in his pocket. Who am I to question when there is profit for the Crown?”

  No doubt, Davenport pocketed the proceeds. Pascale moaned. How she wished to alleviate his misery. Aboard the Vengeance, he had been a free man and remembered his story of the French planter who had lived to taunt and beat him. Abby shuddered with the cruelty Pascale faced. “Simeon, give the man water.”

  Mrs. Cornish gasped. “You cannot possibly give sustenance to another man’s property. Monsieur Joubert is an important man. If he wishes to discipline his slave then he has the right to do so. Last week, I had to put Florence, one of our maids in the hotbox to teach her a lesson.” In which case, Abby would happily hang Denise to relieve the human race. “Why should we care what a Frenchman orders? Has not France declared war on England?”

  Abby thrust a jug of water into Simeon’s hand. “Do as I say.” How could she free Pascale? Even if she could release Pascale where would she hide him? Pascale drank, the awkward position causing water to dribble down his chin.

  “Indulge Lady Rutland’s amusement.” Davenport smiled his benevolence. “His master is leaving in a few days. Claims he can’t wait to get his slave back to Haiti.”

  In a few days? Oh, to be like Nicholas, her brother, and have his pugilist ability to relieve the sudden itch to plant her fist in the British captain’s face. Monsieur Joubert keeps the key in his pocket. Ideas spun. Abby tucked away that bit information.

  They skirted newly dug broad embankments and entered through the opened gates of Fort Nassau. Soldiers drilled in the yards and above, guards walked the parapets. Simeon offered his hand and Abby alighted from the carriage. Shoulders back, radiating superiority, Captain Davenport escorted them about the fortress, showing the barracks, munitions storage, bake house, officers’ quarters. Where was Thorne kept?

  “The dungeons are down there,” Davenport said, his gaze glued to Abby…apparently gauging her reaction.

  She kept her expression blank. Stay alert. Locked door, steps leading below into a darkened cavity. Was Jacob imprisoned in a dank, stinking hellhole?

  “Is that where the rebels are being kept?” Denise squealed.

  Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

  Davenport didn’t say anything, pointed with his chin to the office door. They entered and Abby waited until her eyes adjusted to the dark. On the walls were guns, swords, England’s flag and a tortoiseshell. Davenport motioned for a soldier to seat the ladies. A well-dressed gentleman, a bewigged male version of Mrs. Cornish sat behind a desk. The Governor.

  This was what the excursion was about. Denise nodded. She knew.

  “Lady Rutland,” began Governor Gambier, “I arrived this morning and have been told of your lovely presence in Nassau as heralded by the towns’ people and my sister. I’ve never met the Duke of Rutland, your father but his reputation, I hold in much-admired esteem.”

  Abigail curtseyed. “Thank you, Governor.” Good. He understood her status, a thin, tenuous thread to play upon to influence him.

  He studied Abby over steepled fingers. “I have heard of the successful capture of the Vengeance and am prepared to hear your account. Captain Davenport will lead the discussion.”

  Of course, Davenport would control the cross-examination. Simeon warned her with his eyes. This was her chance−her one hope to save her reputation, her future, and to wipe away Jacob’s double entendre. Her heart beat faster. No thinking time. Slow down the interrogation. Pause sufficiently. Davenport stared. Denise rubbernecked. A soldier standing guard next to the door tried to be invisible. Rain started to fall. It hammered on the roofs and drummed down the rainspouts.

  Abby took a deep breath and plunged in with her story, glossing over many details. What struck her odd was that the British captain never once inquired of her ordeal aboard the Civis. Instead he focused on the American privateer. Davenport’s face was of such virulence, such naked spite and tangible hate that she stood rooted while recounting inane offenses of Captain Thorne, from the poor food and absence of entertainments. She left out the part of the bard-singing privateer−that Davenport nor would the governor swallow. “Simeon acted as my chaperone, and had taken the greatest care to see that I had all the comforts there were available,” she lied blithely.

  Davenport interrupted, to stop her rhythm. “There are two rules.”

  Try me. I can count that high.

  “Answer the questions. Tell the entire story.”

  To retrieve a bayonet off the wall and skewer Davenport had merit. “The only good remark I have for Captain Thorne was that he proved a gentleman and insisted I take his cabin. Thank goodness, for I don’t think I could have tolerated the stuffier lieutenant’s cabin.” Abby invented further tales of an uneventful voyage lackluster with the deprivations of her station.

  “And that is all…Lady Rutland?” He crossed his arms in front of him with exaggerated casualness.

  Abby lowered her eyes. She had a sudden startling vision of Jacob Thorne standing at the bow of his ship, hands on hips, his hot cobalt eyes raking her slowly with inviting promises. Stay focused, Abby. She saw the gleam of Davenport eyes. With certainty, he expected a ribald tale of ravishment. She stood then paced, her skirts shifting with her movement, a calculated performance to draw attention. In the width of Governor Gambier’s smile, his generous chin tripled altogether. Denise snored in her chair, an attack of narcolepsy. The guard stood at attention and behind him hung numerous labelled keys−office, armory, munition and dungeons. Noteworthy.

  She stopped in front of the desk, and saw the governor exchange glances with Davenport. “Forgive me, if I’m boring you, for there isn’t much to tell other than I found the company aboard the Vengeance humdrum and uninspiring.” The last time Abby had seen Jacob, he had been in chains. With a horrid wrenching of the heart she had watched him, his face hard and grim as granite one moment, then unconscious, thrown roughly into the hold. Pascale, Ben, Joseph, Enos and the rest of the crewmen locked in behind him. That last heart-shaking vision had not faded from her tormented mind. She was free to go home. Her ordeal was over. J
acob’s fate gnawed at her insides.

  Davenport narrowed his eyes. “If you say so, Lady Rutland.”

  Abby snapped back to attention. “I can’t wait to get home. I miss my maids, the balls, soirees and shopping. You cannot imagine how horrible it is to be without my personal seamstresses and milliners. I haven’t had a new gown or hat in I do not know how long.” She passed Davenport, ignoring him and stopped in front of the governor. “My father will be quite pleased when I return from this adventure whole, safe and sound.”

  “Captain Davenport has volunteered to take you to England. After your ordeal with the Colonials, it is my hope you find respite in Nassau. My sister has seen to your comforts?”

  “She has been wonderful.” Abby cleared her throat. “About the crew of the Vengeance?”

  The governor’s expression showed a flash of annoyance. “Captain Davenport has informed me of your regard for the Colonials. In Nassau, we operate according to the laws of England. In high treason, and offenses such as this, the laws of England preside. The writ of habeas corpus denied.”

  “But they had letters of marque.”

  “You are excited, Lady Rutland and have gone through a torment,” Gambier placated.

  “My father has influence...” She let that knowledge drift over to strangle him.

  “There are no letters of marque. On top of that, Captain Jacob Thorne has caused significant damage to England’s economic and commercial prospects as testified by Captain Davenport. In his Majesty’s islands, we are vested in full power and authority to perform all things necessary for the effectual suppression and final determination of piracy.”

  The governor snapped open a drawer and laid a document in her hands. “This came from King George, verifying the Piracy Act of 1698 to be applied in determination of cases to rid ourselves of the pestilence that surrounds us.”

  “Are you saying there will be no trial?”

  “Lady Rutland, the pirate, Captain Thorne, is as slippery as a cobra, just as venomous and with enough gall to reach the gates of hell. He will get his due.”

  “And the crew?”

  “Accessory to piracy, criminalized under the same statute.”

  “They will be sent to England as prisoners?” The air rose dank, heavy, suffocating.

  “No, they will not. They will be hanged as soon as they finish repairs to the Vengeance.”

  The blood drained from her face, any trial a farce. Davenport smirked. He won. Nothing she could say or do would stop the wheels in motion, nothing to spare Jacob or the crew.

  Once inside the carriage, Abby reeled with the governor’s decision. The door of the dungeon loomed to her left. Locked. No guard. Thirty steps from the office door. If only she could get the key. To break them out under cover of darkness. How to get into the fort?

  Davenport sat next to her. “Lady Rutland, I believe there are more−events that you have forgotten. I have planned a special tour of the harbor that will be of interest to you−perhaps jog your memory.”

  Was she playing a game of chess? Abby held the piece, weighing her next move. What was he up to? Surf thrashed against the shore and the carriage wheels flogged through hard sand. Captain Davenport snaked his arm around her shoulders. How dare he take such liberties? She stiffened, and he laughed. The old harridan said nothing of the captain’s familiarity. Speak-up, Mrs. Cornish and act like a chaperone−like teaching German to a poodle.

  Barrels and wooden crates were stacked high on the beach. When Davenport saw the direction of her gaze, he said, “Munition stores and gunpowder, generously supplied by your Captain Thorne and quite a plunder to supply Fort Nassau. I can imagine General Washington’s frustration…as if the rebels would even have a chance against their English masters.”

  Gunpowder. No guards. Your negligence, Captain Davenport will be your undoing.

  Abby collapsed her parasol with a snap and stuck it between them. “Indeed.” Below a dock stretched into the bay, dinghies tied securely to the side. The Solebay lay anchored with six smaller ships. Further down the beach, another ship was pulled up on rollers, rested on its flank and staked with heavy ropes. Half-naked men toiled in the hot sun, scraping barnacles and seaweed off her bottom. Others carried buckets of hot tar to smooth over the cleaned portion. Carpenters hammered and sawed, patching and repairing the damage. In heavy chains, men labored, shuffling in the sand. Their carriage came to a halt. The prisoners stopped and stared.

  “I am preparing my prize for the trip home to England. Can you imagine the fanfare?” Davenport plucked a piece of lint from his spotless blue coat.

  “Ooh to see the Vengeance!” crowed Mrs. Cornish. “What savages.” Her neck craned to get a closer look, as if she were viewing a sideshow of unnatural oddities.

  Now Abby understood. The figures became clearer. Davenport jumped from the carriage and offered his hand. Abby sat paralyzed. Enos struggled under a heavy load. Benjamin staggered in the sand with tar buckets. Lawton scraped the hull balanced on shaky scaffolding. A score or more of men she didn’t know also labored. All Colonial prisoners?

  Her heart pounded, eyes scanning. Where was Thorne? Turning, she saw him just as he raised a beam to men perched on deck above him. His hard, muscled body was bare to the waist, and sunburned, and his raven-black hair matted to his forehead. When his gaze fell on the visitors, he froze mid-motion. Cobalt eyes seared her. Davenport nodded to his officer. A whip cracked. Jacob tossed the beam aside and started toward the guard who had struck him. A red stain oozed across his bare back.

  “You appear troubled, Lady Rutland?” Davenport baited her.

  There were no words. In sickened silence, she watched as Jacob was struck down by two guards and commanded back to work. Davenport grabbed her about the waist and brought her to the ground...like quicksand under her feet…swallowing her. Her heart wrenched. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t bear it. Had to get away.

  Davenport paraded her forward, lowered his head to nuzzle her ear. “My dear, you cannot possibly hold any affection for these brigands.”

  She stumbled. Davenport righted her, his palm on her ribcage and his thumb scraped over her breast. Her nostrils flared. She pushed him away, her mind scrambling on how to protect Jacob and the crew of the Vengeance, and in what manner to protect herself, and keep up a pretense without giving herself away. “You forget yourself, Captain Davenport.”

  “Do I? Your reaction to Captain Thorne? Unusual. Your memory appears to be jogged. I’d like to hear more of your travels with the Yankee traitor.”

  Abby swallowed.

  “Captain Thorne,” he shouted, his dry voice, deliberate and thoughtful. “Do you know any reason why Lady Rutland should respond so dramatically to your presence? After all, she claims she was treated kindly under your command even given your cabin. Her reaction suggests otherwise, does it not?

  “Why don’t you ask Lady Rutland that question, Davenport? I am not the least qualified to explain her behavior. Nor is it of any concern to me.”

  “Jacob…Captain Thorne…” She pleaded with her eyes, her whisper barely audible.

  Thorne cut her off sharply. “You are an overindulged aristocratic witch. If I were ever to get my hands on you, I’d make you pay, by God.”

  “Make her pay for what, Captain Thorne?”

  Thorne remained mute, his glinting eyes burrowed into hers unmercifully.

  “Now put your hand on my arm.” Davenport ordered her. When she refused, he put his arm tightly about her waist and led her forward, away from the carriage.

  “What game do you play?” she hissed through her teeth. He was obsessed with Thorne.

  He dared to touch his head to hers again, to imply an intimacy then threw back his head and laughed loudly, “Games? I love the games you play, Lady Rutland.” She raised her hand, stopped halfway when she saw that all activity about them had stopped. Of course, Davenport had orchestrated this drama, for all the men, including the guards. Ben, Joseph, Samuel, Enos, what they must thi
nk of her.

  And Jacob. He stood like fire transformed to ice, glaring his unconcealed hatred.

  Blood pounded in her ears. She longed to kick sand in Davenport’s face, to bloody his shins with her toes. Too late, this game of chess, just as she had taken her finger off the piece, she panicked with the mistake she had made underestimating Davenport. Her hands grew clammy. What disaster had she left herself open to?

  Simeon thrust her parasol between them. Bless Simeon. “Lady Rutland need not get any more sun.” He scowled at Captain Davenport.

  “Come, my dear,” Davenport purred. “These men do not need any distraction. They have work to do.” Abby refused his arm and he laughed as if they were playing some lover’s game.

  “Guards, take this scum away. Make sure he works double the others.”

  The flushed, sweating guards grabbed Jacob again and thrust him roughly to the ship. Except for the muffled scuffling sounds through sand and harsh cries of gulls that screamed overhead, there was silence.

  Abby bit her lip and looked away. “You must give them proper sustenance.”

  “I’m not in the mood for favors.” A smile played about his lips. “However, I might reconsider if one…was more obliging.”

  Abby ignored him. She would inform the governor of Davenport’s behavior.

  When they reached the carriage, the British Captain addressed Mrs. Cornish. “Brilliant, don’t you think, the crew of the Vengeance, repairing their own ship? Why use slave labor when I have rebel resources at my disposal? Normally it takes a month to careen a ship for repairs, but these Colonials with a whip to their backs have been persuaded to speed their efforts. I assure you Lady Rutland; we’ll be able to set sail in two weeks.”

  Two weeks to go home. Two weeks until their execution.

  “They are receiving what they deserve,” Mrs. Cornish carped like a fishwife. Abby fumed with the condescension of her countrymen. She took Simeon’s hand to assist her into the carriage, a slight to Davenport.

  “Are you sure your man, Simeon isn’t loyal to the Colonials?” Davenport climbed in the carriage next to her.