Treasure

by W. A. Hoffman

  Wearing a perplexed frown, Lynch sat in a chair beside the governor’s desk. Morgan seemed torn between amusement and bemusement as he strolled to the window to look out over the garden. The other councilmen seemed as confused and stunned as Lynch. And Modyford regarded the wall beside his desk with pursed lips and the furrowed brow of consternation.

  “I…” Modyford began and glanced at me. He sighed. “I have no reason to believe your father does not wish for you to inherit.”

  “He has told you such a thing?” I asked levelly.

  Modyford snorted and mopped his brow. “Nay,” he said after some consideration. “I feel as I do because I know a little of fathers and sons.”

  “And what does that knowledge tell you of my situation?” I asked.

  He sighed. “That even though a man might become frustrated or find much to disapprove of in his son’s conduct, his son is still his son.”

  “Aye,” I said. “A thing in this instance that both parties find unfortunate. I will repeat, or perhaps rephrase: I do not wish to become the Earl of Dorshire, or remain the Viscount of Marsdale, even if said titles would not cost me all that I hold dear; because I believe, in the end, they would. Since you avow you have not communicated with my father, I would say it is very likely I know the man far better than you possibly could. I have little doubt he will do whatever he wishes to insure his title is not disgraced. I also know, without doubt, that he finds me a disgrace. Thus, even if he wishes for me to inherit, I feel he will destroy those aspects of my life he feels to be in error. I will not allow or condone that. I am removing myself from contention; and I care not whether you find me a fool for doing so. I only wish for you to witness the document.”

  “And that is a thing I will not do, my Lord,” Modyford said with the raised chin and hard eyes of a man who expects to be struck.

  I stood, and he tried his best not to flinch as I leaned over his desk to slide the paper to me. I snatched a quill from his cup and dipped it in ink. He gave an exasperated sigh as I signed the document, John Williams.

  I looked about, none but my friends would meet my gaze. I passed the pen to the Marquis, and with a grin and flourish, he signed with his title. Gaston approached and did the same. Then Theodore took the quill from him.

  “You do not wish to do that, Mister Theodore,” Modyford said as Theodore inked the pen.

  Theodore smiled grimly and signed before meeting the governor’s gaze and saying, “I believe, under the eyes of God, I must.”

  Modyford frowned, as did Lynch.

  All were silent as Theodore dusted the signatures and waved the paper dry. I felt the silence like a band tightening about my skull. I no longer stood in a place of quiet and clarity in the center of a maelstrom; the howling winds were within me, and they wanted out.

  I looked to Gaston, and he nodded at what he saw in my eyes.

  “There are larger interests at stake,” Modyford implored as Theodore rolled the document.

  “Larger interests?” I snapped.

  “We all must mature and put aside boyish pursuits at some day in our lives,” he said. “As men, we must bow before the needs of king and country. You are a lord: that is a sacred duty. The king does not need his lords squabbling amongst themselves when there are enemies abroad.”

  “Spare me!” I snarled. “So now you represent the king? Who has promised you what, Modyford? How grandiose is your political ambition? Or is this all in the name of what gold you can line your pockets with?”

  “Will!” Theodore snapped, and I felt both the Marquis’ and Gaston’s hands upon me.

  “My Lord, you go too far!” Modyford said with pompous outrage.

  “Do I?” I roared. “I am a man who merely wants to be happy in this life! Is that too much to ask? I love this man!” I pointed at a startled Gaston. “And I believe my father will kill him. Should I not – as a grown man and not a boy – do all in my power to safeguard the object of my love? Is that not what a man does?”

  “Oh Lord…” Theodore breathed: his whispered words loud in the booming silence.

  “Will,” Gaston implored and tugged gently on my arm.

  I did not wish to take my eyes from Modyford’s, primarily because he did not wish to hold my gaze. I wished to think it was because it weighed heavy on his soul.

  “My Lord,” Lynch said. “Do you not realize sodomy is illegal, even here, as this is an English colony?”

  Morgan swore vehemently.

  Gaston towed me toward the door before I could even begin to counter Lynch.

  “Thomas!” Modyford roared in our wake.

  “Nay,” Lynch yelled in return. “This is insanity. How long will you support these damn pirates?”

  “We need them!” were the last words I heard of Modyford’s before Gaston had me through the doors and outside.

  Gaston got my back to a wall on the portico and took my face in his hands. “Will?”

  I was gasping with unexpressed rage made all the worse by hearing the ghostly echo of the confrontation repeated quietly in French by Dupree.

  “I want them dead,” I hissed.

  “Of course you do,” Gaston said with a worried frown. “But you will not, oui? You will let me have the reins and guide you to safety, oui?”

  “Oui,” I sighed, and tried for his sake to find that quiet center of the storm.

  “We should go home to the sister’s,” the Marquis told Gaston. “Forget seeking the uncle for now. There is much to discuss.”

  My matelot nodded; and beyond him, Theodore appeared relieved.

  I nodded weakly, and allowed Gaston to lead me to the horses. I mounted numbly. I did not wish to think, but I could not find distraction or solace in the ride back to the Passage. I felt as I imagined a condemned man felt: there was very little hope in my heart that anything would be resolved to my satisfaction; yet I still held great faith that I was loved and always would be in this life and any that might follow, though it could provide me little comfort at the moment.

  The journey home seemed interminable, and when at last we walked through the doors all I wished for was the drug and sleep. Striker stepped from Sarah’s office with a grim visage that mirrored our own, and I quickly despaired of crawling into our hammock before more troubles were laid before us.

  “Sarah said you went to the Governor’s,” Striker said to Gaston. He glanced over us and sighed. “From the looks of it, that did not go well.”

  “Nay,” Gaston said. “He refused to sign the document.”

  Striker did not appear surprised. He nodded. “We’ve been nosing around and we have some things to tell you. Let’s all sit down.”

  “Everyone,” Pete added from the office doorway. “EvenTheWomen.”

  “And your wife is here, too,” Striker told Theodore.

  “She should be,” Theodore said sadly.

  Pete and Striker pushed the tables together in the atrium to form one long one. I sat on one side of it while Gaston and Theodore went to fetch the women. The Marquis sat opposite me, concern tight upon his features.

  “I believe this is an occasion for wine,” the Marquis told Dupree, who hurried off to fetch that.

  “And water,” I added belatedly.

  The Marquis called after his man and requested that as well, before turning back to me and asking quietly in French, “Are you well?”

  I shook my head and awarded him a sad smile. He reached across the table and patted my hand. I was tempted to squeeze his before he withdrew it, but I did not. I felt too confused to engage in unfamiliar gestures. So I squeezed Gaston’s hand instead when he returned and took the seat beside me. He kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  The women did not appear happy to be there: none of them. Sarah had been crying. Agnes was pinched with worry. Christine stood defensively with her arms crossed until Rucker made such a show of offering her a chair that she had to accept it. Rachel awarded us all an anxious and uncomfortable glance as she sat. Vivian was, of course, both livi
d and scared to have been called downstairs; but she had taken the seat Gaston had offered her on my other side, and now she clutched the sleeping baby as if it might protect her or she must protect it.

  I offered her my other hand, and she squeezed it gratefully.

  “What has happened?” she whispered.

  I could only shake my head.

  “What happened at the Governor’s?” Sarah asked.

  Theodore sighed and glanced about until he saw none of us who had been there would speak. He sighed again. “The governor refused to sign the document of renouncement I prepared. They all did. The governor was quite… adamant… that Will not sign it, either.” He went on to describe all that had occurred and was said.

  This ended with Rachel’s and Sarah’s heads buried in their hands, Vivian regarding me with dismay, Christine studying the table with a frown of incredulity, Rucker grimacing, Agnes looking perplexed, and Pete and Striker chuckling.

  “Lynch will not arrest you,” Striker said. “He would not dare; Morgan and Modyford would have him shot for disrupting the fleet sailing this winter.”

  I nodded.

  “I agree,” Theodore said, “still… Modyford will not always be governor. He wishes for greater things. And Morgan’s life and influence will likely be short-lived.”

  “Aye,” Striker sighed. “It will all change, and those who wish to follow the old ways will move on soon enough. But we have larger problems. Not that the damn man not witnessing the paper isn’t a problem.”

  “What have you learned?” Gaston asked.

  “There’s a bounty on our heads: yours and mine,” Striker told my matelot with forced cheer.

  My heart felt as if it had stopped for a moment. There was a surprised hush about the atrium, broken only by Dupree’s whispered translation.

  Gaston sat back in his seat with a thoughtful frown and a grip upon my hand that hurt more than my lurching heart.

  The Marquis abruptly stood to pace and swear – most of which seemed to involve my father’s ancestry, or lack thereof, and potential love of farm animals, and sadly even a purported love of cocks and sodomy.

  It was a sorry reminder of how much I might be reviled by those who did not share my interests: how the things I enjoyed most would be epithets used to cut another. But expressing my love for Gaston was illegal; was it not? I was sure my father thought he was doing me a great favor: saving me from ruin and even damnation. It made me hate him all the more.

  “Father!” Gaston said sharply.

  “No one puts a price on my son’s head!” the Marquis growled.

  “What is he saying?” Striker asked.

  “Well, he was cursing,” Dupree said with an embarrassed cock of his head. “And this last: no one puts a price on my son’s head.”

  “They didn’t know,” Striker said quickly.

  “Father, sit down and listen,” Gaston commanded.

  The Marquis opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, and then did as his son asked.

  “We went to the taverns and started spreading coin and rum,” Striker said. “We heard tell of it soon enough, that someone, actually two men, had been approaching men known to do an underhanded thing now and again, and telling them there was a reward if Gaston and I should come to harm in battle, brawl, or duel. They all said there was no reward if any of the women around us were harmed.”

  “Well, that is good,” I said.

  “Aye,” Striker agreed. “It’s not the only good in this tale, but it is the best piece of it. From the looks of it, many of the men approached wanted nothing to do with it, at least the ones that talked to us. And they did not say that because we beat them, either. One said he was scared of Pete, another of Will, and another said that he thought it would lead to nothing but trouble even if he could get enough men together to take a pair of us, because by the time you have that many men, someone will talk and they didn’t want to be running for the rest of their lives. All we talked to apologized for not giving us warning, but many of them we didn’t know well and some of the others were scared we would kill the messenger.” He gave his matelot an admonishing look that indicated that might have nearly happened, anyway.

  “So we learned the names of the two men spreading the word,” he continued. “One was the barkeep at the Three Tunns. He apologized, too, but said he was paid good money just to talk others up, and he didn’t think any he talked to stood a chance of harming us, anyway. But he would not say if he had any takers. And he’s well-liked, and beating it out of him would have caused trouble.” Striker sighed sadly.

  “TheOtherOne Weren’tSoLucky,” Pete said.

  Striker smiled grimly. “Aye, he’s rotting on the Palisadoes. He was a known rat bastard. He admitted he had several takers, though; but he had no names, and only one of the men he described we thought we could recognize: an arrogant, thin, one-eyed man with dark hair.”

  “Hastings,” I gasped.

  Striker nodded. “Trouble is: he said the man had a patch on his left eye, and Pete swears Hasting’s patch is on the right, and I can’t remember for the life of me.”

  I could not, either. I could clearly picture Hastings in two different situations, and in my memories, his patch was on the right in one, and on the left in the other. I frowned at my matelot.

  “He is not blind in either eye,” Gaston said.

  “Oh, shit,” Striker said with a nod of understanding. “He just wears a patch.”

  “Why would a man wear a patch if he isn’t blind?” Rachel asked.

  “For seeing in the dark,” Striker said. “When we sailed with Myngs, there was a man I knew from the King’s Navy who did it. And Hastings is from the Navy. When you walk into a dark place after you’ve been in the sun, it takes a long time before you can see anything. The same is true if you’re in the dark and walk out into the light. So men on a man o’ war that have to be on deck and then below for a gun deck or chart room sometimes take to wearing a patch they can move from one eye to the other. That way one eye is good for the dark, and the other for the light.”

  “They cannot shoot well at range, but they do well in boarding,” Gaston said.

  I thought on the type of man who would hamper himself at all times in order to be able to quickly adapt from one situation to another. It would take stubbornness and foresight I did not feel I possessed. But then we were talking of the man who had murdered Michaels, possibly for no other reason other than because he could, and had taken great relish in our hanging Burroughs.

  “I feel we should kill him, anyway, even if he is not the man that bastard meant,” I said.

  “Aye,” Striker agreed with a shrug. “I don’t like him either. Sadly, he’s the only one the man could describe well-enough for us to suspect.”

  “What else did he say?” Gaston asked.

  “They received their money and instructions from that agent, Washington,” Striker said. “So we paid him a visit.”

  Theodore groaned.

  Striker snorted. “We didn’t lay a hand on him, though Pete sure as the Devil wanted to. He was a smug bastard. We told him we knew he was in on it, and if any of us were harmed, those that lived knew where to find him.”

  “Do you feel he will pray to God that we all live?” I asked.

  “Nay,” Striker sighed. “I should have let Pete kill him.”

  “And face hanging?” Theodore asked.

  “ThereBeWays WhereinNoneBe TheWiser,” Pete said with a derisive snort.

  “But not now,” Theodore countered. “Now everyone who would make a decision as to your guilt or innocence knows that we are all embroiled in this feud. And they might not arrest a buccaneer for sodomy, but they will hang one for killing a supposedly honest man and respected citizen. So whether you are seen or not, if that man dies, they will come to us for answers.”

  Pete was obviously not pleased with that perspective of the matter. “IffnWeKill’EmAll, CanWeHideInFrance?”

  Dupree frowned and began to dutifu
lly translate.

  “Nay,” I said to Pete. I looked to the Marquis and switched to French. “He wishes to know if we could seek sanctuary in France if we kill my father.”

  The Marquis shook his head. “I could not protect you. It would be a matter of state for one nobleman to harbor another’s killer. The Emperor could well demand you be surrendered, or he could laugh about the matter. Either way, it would be above our heads and very dangerous. You could seek sanctuary with the Church, but…” He smiled. “I do not see that suiting you.”

  I chuckled sadly and shook my head: I could not see spending my days in a cathedral because I had been forced to rid the world of my father. I was sure that in that situation, some damn self-righteous bastard would work to keep Gaston and me apart – for our eternal salvation, of course.

  Dupree was translating the Marquis’ words for Pete.

  The Golden One scratched his jaw and grunted. “ThatBeWhatIThought.”

  “All the men questioned said we women were not to be harmed,” Sarah said. “You will stay home this year and we will attempt some manner of resolving this. If no damn man on this island will sign that document, then perhaps Will should travel to England and present it in person.”

  “Sarah,” I chided, though I well understood her wish. “I have seen such things before. I would not be allowed to reach the House of Lords. If they know I leave here for England…” I shook my head as the enormity of what she suggested settled across my heart and shoulders. “We do not have an army or the political clout to guarantee my safety. And though I doubt they would have me murdered on the street, they could well have me arrested on some charge, or even… restrained for my own good under the auspices of my being mad. That is done even to hush sane men. We honestly do not know enough of Father’s allegiances and enemies in the court to know who to approach to thwart him, or to beg for aid.”