Delphine

by Sylvia Halliday

  “It’s a pretty thing,” he said. “Keep it—just to look at. What harm?”

  She shrugged and bid him good-night, crossing the passageway to her own cabin. She did not bother to take flint to her lantern; though neither moon nor stars shone through the small porthole, there was enough light streaming under her door from the large lantern in the passage to see her to her bunk without tripping. She kicked off her shoes, unfastened her wide leather belt with its sheathed knife, and cast it down. On an impulse, she pulled her shirt free from her breeches, so it hung loose and full to her thighs. Carefully she tied the pink ribbon about her waist—fluffing out the skirtlike peplum that it formed—and, very softly, very tentatively, she began to dance, around and around, humming a sweet melody under her breath.

  Chapter Three

  The first squall hit three days later, just as they had seen the last of land, the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon off the Grand Banks. Delphine, her red cap pulled well down on her ears, gloried in the storm, moving through the ship with a happy swagger, her rolling gait more pronounced as the Olympie heaved ever more violently in the swells. She had been the first topman up in the rigging, furling the sails against the wind so they should not split. Now she sat below decks, braiding the lines that threatened to shred, helping to stir the black pitch that would keep the salt water from corroding the ropes, patching the spare sails.

  After a day spent clinging to the railings, clutching the hand ropes that lined the passageways, staggering from the quarterdeck to the messroom and back again, André took to his bunk, deathly ill. He retched into the basin that Michel had brought, until there was nothing left in his stomach; then he retched again, great dry heaves that pulled at his chest and belly until the muscles were sore. On the second day he woke in his bunk, soaked with sweat, his stomach still queasy though the pitching of the ship had abated. He lifted his pounding head from the pillow and saw Gosse perched on the foot of his bed, cross-legged, drenched with salt water that left a wet patch on his coverlet. She was munching a sea biscuit and grinning.

  He groaned. “Surely I have died and gone to hell, and you are the imp that Satan has sent to torment me!”

  She popped the last crumbs into her mouth and scraped off her hat, leaning over the edge of the bunk and wringing the cap out onto the carpeted floor. “I have been watching your face as you slept,” she laughed. “Gunner says he thinks you have had many lovers swooning over you, you are so handsome! Sink my bones, but they would not find you so handsome now, with your skin as green as a bullfrog’s!”

  He closed his eyes wearily. “Go away.”

  She bounced off the bunk and came close to him. “Curse me, but you are helpless! Sit up.” While he slid his aching body into a more upright position, she arranged the pillow behind his back. “I stole an extra ration of water for you,” she said, producing a small flask from under her wet jacket. “Drink it slowly. And here’s a ship’s biscuit, if you can manage it.” She laid the biscuit on the coverlet, took off her jacket, and returned to her spot at his feet. “Have you?”

  André took a sip of water, rolling it around for a minute in his mouth, letting his tongue spread it across his parched lips. “Have I what?” he asked.

  “Have you had many lovers?”

  “By my faith, but you are bold!”

  She giggled. “When I have you at the advantage, why not? How old are you?”

  “I shall be forty-one next week.”

  “My father is older. And Copain. Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Any children?”

  “I have two young sons—by my late wife.” He took another drink; then, encouraged by the stability of his stomach, he nibbled a corner of the sea biscuit.

  “And bastards?”

  “Mon Dieu! None that I know of.”

  “Are you wealthy?”

  “If my estate has not fallen to ruin whilst I have been away—yes.” His eyes grew distant. “My château is in the Loire valley, near Vouvray, nestled amid sweet vineyards and rich earth.”

  “A farmer as well as a soldier,” she said.

  He put his hand on his aching forehead. “Surely not a sailor!” He smiled warmly at her, the first time she had seen him with anything but a scowling face. It set her to thinking.

  “Copain says you are a man in torment. Is it so?”

  The smile faded. “You go too far.”

  She bristled. “How so? If your soul is troubled, may I not ask?”

  “My soul is my own affair,” he growled. “Concern yourself with things you understand—or should! Practice the arts of womanhood and leave me in peace!”

  She jumped from the bunk, her eyes burning with anger at his rebuff. “Damn your liver!” she cursed, then smiled maliciously. The voice dropped to a catlike purr. “I shall go to the galley. Cook has promised to make me a porridge. The beans are a trifle old; as the maggots rise to the surface he must skim them off. There are those who find them a delicacy, but not I! They crunch most horribly in your teeth. If he has caught a rat, he will add it to the pot. I think it a tasty bite—though the tail is smooth and slimy, rather like eating worms. I like the thin red ones that live in the old cheese. Weevils, on the other hand—” She stopped. André had begun to gulp and clutch at his stomach, pushing the hardtack and water flask quickly away. Gosse stooped and picked up the basin from the floor, shoving it in front of his face. “Here!” she cried. “Puke your guts out!” She whirled about, snatching up her hat and jacket, and stamped from the room, hearing behind her the sound of André being sick once again.

  In a day or two he felt better. The sea had calmed, and shimmered like glass under a glorious sun. There was a steady breeze that puffed Olympie’s sails and blew fresh and sweet in his face when he strolled the quarterdeck. He found he was able to eat his meals with gusto, as though his stomach, having made its initial protest to a sailor’s life, had decided to accommodate him. At first he was cool to Gosse when they passed on deck or supped across the table from one another; his sense of outrage (or perhaps his wounded pride) over the scene in his cabin was not yet assuaged. But Gosse was as sunny as the weather, bright as though nothing had ever happened. André was astonished. Her storms were fierce, raging tempests, yet they blew away and were forgotten. What a strange imp! It was impossible to stay angry with her—her joy was infectious. Perhaps that was why her father had never managed to curb that fiery temper.

  Coming down from the quarterdeck one sunny afternoon, his thoughts filled with Marielle, he heard Gosse’s laughter with its vital ring even before he saw her. She was perched on her knees on a coil of rope, playing backgammon with Copain, the board set between them atop a rain barrel lashed against the mainmast. It was the kind of day a sailor welcomed: The sails well-trimmed to the brisk breeze, the canvas billowing full, the bow cutting a clean swath through the gentle swells. Their chores done, many of the crew lolled on deck enjoying the sunshine, and whittled away at pieces of wood or whalebone, graceful objects taking form under their skillful fingers. Brise, the carpenter, had sent a small crew aloft to look at the main yardarm; the last topman up had complained that it seemed to be bowing slightly.

  Casting down her dice on the backgammon board, Gosse looked up as André approached. “Ah, Monsieur—André,” she said, “have you come to watch me defeat poor Copain at trictrac?” She counted out one of her colored stones on the board, grinning as Copain made a face in mock dismay. André leaned up against the mast, arms folded across his chest, and watched the game progress. Gosse laughed again. “Split me, Copain! What are we to do with such a sour-faced monsieur? Do you never smile, André?” She threw her dice and crowed in triumph. “The game is mine, Copain! Another?”

  Copain shook his head and stood up. “You have bested me twice today, and that is enough. I have my charts to attend. Play trictrac with André. Mayhap that will bring a smile to his face.”

  The golden eyes flashed wickedly. “Only if I let him win—which I shall n
ever do!”

  André grinned in spite of himself, and sat opposite her. “You speak bold for such a sprig! I am not so helpless as I was but a few days agone!” He arranged his stones on the board.

  “What matter? One does not play the game with one’s gut, queasy or no!” She dimpled mischievously and tapped at her forehead.

  He laughed. “You dare challenge me thus? I shall have you now!” And cast down his dice.

  They played enthusiastically for the next quarter of an hour, trading merry jibes and taunts. André was surprised at her keenness; it was so easy to dismiss her merely as a difficult child. But she played with intelligence and skill, fiercely intent on winning despite her light words. He was almost sorry when the final throw of the dice gave the game to him. He smiled at her, meaning to make light of it so as to console her, but she leaped up in anger, muttering a foul curse and upsetting the board with an impatient swipe of her hand.

  He stood up in his turn. “Can you not lose with grace? Small wonder they named you Gosse—Brat!”

  “Be hanged for a scurvy dog!” she spat, and swirled away, then gasped as she felt him thud against her back, knocking her to the deck. Even as she struggled to extricate herself from beneath him, she was aware of noise and hubbub among the men. Pulling clear of André, she sat up, and saw that a large piece of the yardarm had cracked and come crashing down on that portion of the deck where she had been standing but a moment before. André himself was half covered by the rope and tackle and torn bits of sail; when the men pulled away the debris Delphine winced to see his upper arm bloodied, the soft flesh pierced with more than a dozen splinters and sharp pieces of the yard. She helped him to his feet and led him, still shaken, up the ladder to the quarterdeck, where the light would be better for the job at hand. She seated him on a barrel, his arm propped on the railing. While the crew set to work with hatchets, freeing the broken yardarm and torn shrouds so a sudden tug of wind should not snap the mainmast, Delphine sent Michel to the galley for some beer for André, and rolled back his sleeve to assess the damaged arm.

  “Merde!” she swore, “What a mess. They are deep, some of them.” She looked at him, her eyes soft with compassion, and drew her knife.

  “If you must cut, then do so,” he said firmly, his strength returning. “You need not be timid. I have suffered worse in many a campaign!”

  While Copain watched, offering advice and encouragement, she began to draw out the splinters of wood, using the point of her knife to probe when a piece, deeply imbedded, had snapped off beneath the surface of André’s flesh. Once or twice he gritted his teeth as the blade dug deep, but otherwise he was silent. She was conscious suddenly of his eyes on her as she worked—those intense blue orbs that turned her knees to water—and the tanned and strong-thewed arm beneath her fingers. Her hands began to shake.

  André chuckled. “Nom de Dieu,” he teased, “are you losing your nerve? Can it be that Gosse the brat is filled with tenderness toward the man who has just bested her at trictrac?”

  “Son of a dog,” she growled, to hide her agitation. “But I cannot do it! Here, Copain. Your fingers are thinner than mine—you do it! I’ll fetch water to rinse the wounds.” By the time she returned with a large bucket, Copain’s job was done. Delphine hesitated for a moment, then poured the water onto André’s arm. He flinched and gasped, surprised eyes flying to her face. Copain dipped a finger into the last of the water in the bucket, put it to his mouth, then made a face at the sharp taste of the salt. Delphine shrugged, her eyes hidden once again behind a curtain of indifference. “Why waste fresh water on such trifling wounds? Has not André told us what a brave soldier he is?”

  “By my faith,” muttered André, rising to his feet and making for his cabin, “there will be a reckoning!” He disappeared down the passageway.

  Copain glared at her. “Why did you do that?” he asked, his voice unusually harsh. “He saved your life! I have never seen you behave more vilely than you do with that man! You have lost at trictrac half a hundred times, yet never raged so before!”

  “Leave me alone,” she said, her eyes cloudy with dark uncertainty. “Damn you, leave me in peace!”

  But Copain wondered if the words were meant for him.

  The weather remained fine, the days sunny, the nights cool and comfortable. Master Fresnel was more than satisfied at the progress of the Olympie; if the westerly breezes held, they might make landfall sooner than they had expected.

  André was surprised that this piece of news did not afford him much pleasure; in a strange way he had begun to enjoy the voyage. Perhaps it was that quicksilver Gosse. As often as she angered him with her coarse ways and fiery temper, made him want to shake the willfulness out of her, so often did she make him laugh, delighting in her exuberance, the happy innocence that scarcely hid the sharp mind. He had not thought he could ever laugh again.

  It was a clear night, crisp and fresh. Fastening his doublet, André stepped out on deck, meaning to climb to the poop and stand with the watch beneath the great lantern; Gosse’s laughter from amidships made him stop. In the waist of the ship—on the main deck—a dozen or so of the men were gathered about a brazier of burning coals, laughing and joking while they warmed themselves at the fire. Gosse’s voice, rich and deep and musical, rose above the rest. If he did not listen to the foul language, the crude jokes, it was a beautiful voice, smoky and resonant, its depth attributable perhaps to the child growing up to the sound of masculine voices only.

  “You!” she said suddenly, her voice deeper still. “Do my bidding, if you please!” There was a chorus of laughter from the men, then a moment’s silence followed by another burst of merriment. André made his way quietly down to the main deck. “By my faith,” growled Gosse, “dare to make faces at me—a great and wondrous soldier?” André could hear Michel’s snickering laugh. Creeping closer, he saw that Gosse was swaggering among the men, parading about with exaggerated bravado. And on her head was André’s plumed hat.

  Damn! he thought, remembering with what care he had stowed it in his cabin. The brazen little devil must have stolen it! Then he began to chuckle. Her imitation of his own long-legged stride was so sure, so accurate, that he found it hard to sustain his anger, resigning himself to the fact that his hat would be the source of torment for him until this voyage was done. He stepped forward into the light of the brazier. “Monsieur le Comte?” he said smoothly.

  She turned, not a flicker of embarrassment, a shred of uneasiness crossing her face. She swept the hat from her head, waving it in the air with all the fussy obsequiousness of the worst lickspittle in Louis’s court, then bowed deeply. “Monsieur de Crillon. Enchanté! Will you take a turn about the deck with me? I cannot be sure, of course, but I think there will be no ropes this time to make you dance!”

  He bowed in his turn. “You make a fine gentleman. But—can I trust you? No, if I must dance”—and here he indicated a young sailor tootling quietly on a reed pipe—“let it be to music! Come, lad, can you play us a tune for dancing?”

  The sailor struck up a cheery air and the rest of the men paired off, dancing a variation of a folk dance that André had seen many times in his own village—but with the lighter, younger seamen taking the women’s parts. André danced with Delphine, surprised at first that a girl who could climb the rigging with such grace was so clumsy and heavy-footed; then he looked around him and saw the only examples she had ever known. “Come,” he said gently, “if you are to dance the woman’s part, you must dance it like a woman!” Patiently he led her through the steps and they began again, though she seemed suddenly tense and unhappy. “Dance it as you wish,” he said at last, “if it pleases you.” He smiled to see her brighten immediately, throwing herself with renewed vigor into the lively dance. At the last piped-out notes, André laughed and swung her into the air, his hands about her waist. As he let her down again, he frowned, surprised to feel the soft and yielding body beneath her bulky clothes, shocked at the sudden stirring that trembled w
ithin him. With her chopped hair and boyish manner, it was so easy to forget she was female.

  “Do you never dress your hair?” he growled, and pushed her away, feeling a sudden hatred for her he could not even explain.

  “Damned pismire!” she cursed, and struck him on the face so he staggered back. She whirled and ran toward her cabin, but he followed her and grabbed at her arm, swinging her around to face him.

  “Gosse,” he said, his voice deep with remorse. “Forgive me. That was cruel.”

  She looked at him with narrowed eyes, her face hard. “If I had words—” she said softly. “If I had words—I would leave you bleeding on this deck!” She almost seemed about to cry; then she was gone, leaving him to curse himself for a thoughtless fool.

  In the morning she revenged herself by wedging a block of wood under his cabin door to keep him trapped inside, having first tossed in a dead and stinking rat. It was not until the stench had nearly overpowered him that he thought to see if one of the panes of his large window were hinged; picking up the rat gingerly he brought it to the casement and tossed it out into the ship’s wake. It took another twenty minutes of shouting and pounding at the door until someone heard him and set him free; by that time his hoarse voice and sore knuckles had nullified whatever remorse he had felt the night before.

  He was determined to ignore her at supper; a chance remark by Copain about the battles for the Valtelline, the Alpine valley so vital to both France and Spain, gave him the opportunity. The man had obviously been a soldier, and they spoke at some length about tactics and generals and the merits of various campaigns. Piqued at being ignored, Gosse interrupted them, her chin jutting out belligerently.

  “You never told me you were a glorious soldier, Copain!”

  He smiled indulgently at her and turned to André. “You see, the child knows nothing save life at sea. There is much to teach her.” He sighed. “War is not glorious, Gosse. I have killed more men than my soul can contain—even shriven. I took part in the siege of La Rochelle—out of every hundred men and women and children not eighteen survived to surrender. There were no animals left in the city—they had eaten them all: dogs, cats, donkeys. They scarce had shoes left; they had boiled the leather with tallow for a delicacy! I could go to battle no more after that.”