Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  “I want to be a horse like him someday,” my man said with a wistful smile as he scratched behind Pomme’s ears.

  I had half expected him to chide me for my less-than-diplomatic words. “Old, fat, and gray?” I asked with amusement.

  “Oui,” he said and grinned. “With you to take care of me.”

  My heart swelled and ached in an old, familiar way. “But my love, I will be old, fat, and gray too.”

  Gaston embraced me. “It will be wonderful.”

  I supposed it would be.

  “Perhaps we should avoid getting fat, though,” I said as I pulled my man down into the straw. “I should hate to spend my dotage with gout—even at your side.”

  “Oui, no fat,” he laughed and kissed me.

  As I lay there with him astride me and my tongue twining with his, it occurred to me that I too wished to be like Pomme someday, or rather my Horse did. Would it not be heavenly to be that calm, complacent, and carefree? Much as I was now, I supposed. Though we would have to make damn sure no one thought to feed us to the dogs because we had ceased to have worth in their eyes.

  Now that I had a mount, albeit a ponderous one, I began to go further afield seeking my original quarry, land. I soon discovered plantations here looked much as they had on Jamaica. They were highly prized business enterprises, peopled with serious Frenchmen determined to make money off the soil, and sad-looking Negroes and bondsmen determined to live. I wanted none of that. We did not need so very much land for our purposes, anyway. And if it came with men and expectations it would be useless to us as a retreat. Thus I stopped seeking a known acreage suitable for any other man’s purpose, and turned my gaze to small groves and precipices of land unsuitable for cultivation and therefore devoid of value to other men.

  A few days later I hacked my way down an overgrown path onto the open shoulder of the small mountain above Cayonne. The forest fell away, leaving a grassy knoll bounded by steep inclines down toward the town. The view was gorgeous. We were a little east of Cayonne, and I could see the harbor and channel, and even across it to the Haiti. There was enough flat land to build a small dwelling; and enough rock and wood to build it with.

  I dropped Pomme’s lead rope and he began to graze, I sat on the edge of the cliff and considered how very peaceful I felt and how very much I wanted this little plot of land. I could see cultivated fields and several houses tucked here and there in the folds of the mountain’s flank. I wondered which lay claim to this piece of heaven, or perhaps none did.

  I fetched some parchment from the saddle bags I had taken to throwing across Pomme’s bare back on these excursions, and carefully mapped—to the best of my ability—the plot’s relation to the three houses and the fields I could see. Then I set off toward those signs of civilization in the hopes of finding liberation from them. I was carrying a full purse.

  The first overseer I managed to encounter, on what appeared to be the closest plantation, gave me some startling information. He looked up the hill to the open shoulder I wished to claim and shook his head. “That’s not Bousart land. That up there, that whole ridge, is part of the Doucette land. It belongs to that Englishman, Striker, now.”

  I was not sure if I was blessed or cursed. I thanked him and followed his directions to the nearest road and my sister’s plantation.

  I was greeted by a man I recognized as I approached the house. He directed me to go around to the back. I did not see Pete or Striker about; nor did I expect to, as they had staggered away from our home late in the night. Julio greeted me from the porch, though.

  Sarah emerged from the house as I dismounted. She gazed upon Pomme with consternation. “However did you find an elephant on Tortuga?” she asked in English as she descended from the back steps to rub my mount’s nose.

  I could not understand why a woman who appeared as fat as Pomme seemed intent upon insulting him—then maybe I could… I grimaced and defended him. “He is not an elephant: he does not have a trunk—or tusks.”

  My sister snorted. “Have you ever seen an elephant?”

  “Aye, I have seen a great number of fantastic beasts.” I sighed at the memory of many of them. “They would have been magnificent if they had not been confined to little cages and appeared miserable.”

  “Striker is not a beast,” she snarled quietly for my ears alone.

  I started and eyed her with surprise. I pitched my voice as she had hers. “Lady, your words speak far more of your thoughts than they do of mine. I meant no such thing.”

  She flushed and looked away. “Why are you here? They are asleep; but surely you would have guessed as much.”

  “I came to see you; and nay, I am not being disingenuous. I have learned you possess a thing I would have.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I wish to acquire a small plot of land that Gaston and I might use as a retreat from the bedlam of Doucette’s house. I have found a lovely little plot up on the shoulder of the mountain, and I have been told it is on your property.”

  “So ask my husband. He will grant you anything.” Her mien had shifted from rancor to sadness. “It is not my land, anyhow. I cannot own it.”

  I sighed. “That is rubbish. This is your land. Anyone with half a mind knows as much. And so I am asking you. And for the love of… Might we please stop this?”

  She sighed and rubbed Pomme’s ears. “I am wary of granting you anything that will lead to your sinking further roots into this place.”

  I scratched my head with sincere consternation. “I do not understand: Sarah, what is it that you wish? How do you perceive the future unfolding?”

  Her brow furrowed with thought and not anger. As I watched her, I saw a thing I knew would displease my matelot: it surely alarmed me. Save her huge belly, Sarah was thin. She appeared frail, and her hair—the same straw shades as my own—was listless and looked to be as dry as the material with which it shared color.

  She finally sighed and spoke. “I could be happy here—if our father was no longer a concern. I understand your reasons for not charging into his den, but… I want it done, Will. I am tired of worrying. I am tired of… my husband… worrying.” She met my gaze. “I am tired of… fighting you. Truth be told, at this moment I am damnably tired of being pregnant.”

  “I can do nothing for that,” I said with a smile of relief that she was at least willing to be candid. “When are you due?”

  “May, perhaps.” She frowned anew. “How is Mistress Theodore? Is she not due soon?”

  “She is as fat as my horse. I understand she is due any time now. I have not seen much of her of late: I believe she has begun her lying in—such as it is in her room. Sometimes she still dines with us, but not often.”

  “I miss them. I was well-accustomed to living alone in England; and I have returned to that state, I suppose, but…”

  “The girls could visit, you know?”

  “Girls?” she asked with an arched brow.

  I sighed. “Agnes and Yvette.”

  “I do not know Yvette Doucette. We met, obviously; and I saw her every day before we arranged for her addled husband to sell Striker this land. I did not get to know her, though.”

  I considered telling her of Agnes’ love, but decided against it. Though we seemed to be talking, I did not trust my sister. And truly, it was not a thing she needed to know.

  Thankfully she had moved on to another topic. “Would Gaston be willing to deliver this child?”

  “Of course,” I said with surety.

  “I would be grateful. I have met the midwife, but… I trust him.”

  “He will be honored.”

  She nodded and seemed to take great interest in Pomme’s whiskers.

  “What else troubles you?” I asked. “You do not appear hale and healthy. Is that due to all the worrying, or is there another concern?”

  She shook her head with a thoughtful frown. “I do not feel ill, only tired.”

  “Did you feel thus while you carried Pike?”

&nbs
p; “I did not have so many worries when I carried Pike.”

  “I think Gaston should tend to you before you labor,” I said gently.

  She nodded sadly, but then her gaze was fierce. “But I think only you can truly solve the problem.”

  I resented her attempt to manipulate me with guilt, but in the name of diplomacy I resolved to keep it from my face. Apparently I am not as capable of tact as I once was: she saw something in my mien that made her stiffen and turn away.

  “I will do what I can, when I can,” I said flatly.

  She nodded and released her renewed tension with a sigh. “I am sorry. I have chased it round and round my head. You are correct: he is not worth a life. I even thought of James and Pete going, but then I had nightmares about their being captured and drawn and quartered and a thousand other horrors of which I can thankfully not recall the details.”

  I wished to explain to her the value of frolicking in the face of certain doom and horrid memories, but I knew I could not. She would not understand, especially not from one who had allowed himself—in her estimation—to be tortured for a principle.

  “I will send Gaston,” I said.

  “You may come with him,” she chided lightly.

  “Thank you.”

  “And where is this plot of land?”

  I produced my crude map and pointed up the hill. She traced the awkward lines of her property on my parchment and I smudged it in with charcoal as best I could. Her land ran far up the mountain, coming down to form a wedge with a field where the house was, and then running south in a strip to the channel where it widened a bit to encompass a cove—the one in which our ship anchored when not off trading with English colonists. It looked to be the unwanted land remaining between two plantations. Doucette had not been interested in being a planter, so it made sense he had owned it.

  “Not much of this plantation is arable, is it?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “That is not why we bought it; but nay, it is not. There is enough field for us to grow food to eat, but not enough reasonable land for cane.”

  “So selling some of it will not trouble you,” I teased.

  She snorted and then met my gaze earnestly. “Take what use you will from it. I have what I need here. I do not need a side of that mountain; and we do not need your money. Consider it a gift.”

  “Thank you. I in turn will be giving it to Gaston for his birthday next week. Please do not…”

  “I will say nothing,” she said with a sure smile.

  But I wondered what she thought behind her apparent kindness and calm. I was gripped by the notion she might be going mad in her own way: mad with worry; mad with frustration.

  I left her and returned to town with a heavy heart despite my having accomplished my goal.

  At my description of her, my matelot became quite keen on going to see her immediately; and so we were soon riding double on Pomme’s wide back, returning the way I had come.

  “Do you feel guilt?” Gaston asked me as we rode.

  “Sometimes, oui, but then I push it away and give my Horse his head and find myself frolicking once again.”

  “Good,” he said and kissed my shoulder.

  His lack of censure for my lack of concern actually troubled me, though. It somehow managed to cast our happy existence these last two months into bas relief against the rough and troubled expanse of our lives. Perhaps I was supposed to be doing more. Or, perhaps, I was supposed to learn to worry less and let the Gods deal with matters I could not. I supposed one’s assessment of whether one was doing too little or enough was measured by what one thought it was possible for mere mortals to accomplish. I continued to comfort myself in that my father seemed far beyond my purview.

  Sarah was understandably surprised at my quick return, as were Pete and Striker, who were finally up and about. I went to sit and chat with them while Gaston examined my sister.

  “Is something wrong?” Striker demanded once the door to the house was closed.

  I sighed heavily. “She does not appear well. She looks… tired.” I decided her word was better than the ones I might choose.

  “SheBeWithChild,” Pete grumbled and, leaving the remains of their repast, went to sprawl in a hammock strung between the porch end posts. From there, he glared at me behind his matelot’s back.

  I sighed heavily yet again: I was already chastising myself for Striker’s tense posture and deeply-graved frown. “Tell me, do you worry every waking moment that my father’s men will arrive?”

  Striker snorted and spoke smugly. “Nay, not when I’m drunk.”

  I attempted to contain my exasperation. I watched Pomme sniff a goat kid that had dashed itself against his great leg whilst bounding about in play.

  Striker was studying me. “I should think you would have reason to do the same.”

  I shook my head. “My aim is to prevent my father from ruining my life. If I spent every moment worrying about him doing so, he would have accomplished said ruination without ever sending another man to these West Indies.”

  He shook his head with obvious exasperation. “How can you say that?”

  “I am endeavoring to learn the wisdom of choosing my battles wisely. For example, I cannot win this one with you, and it will only serve to make us both angry. We know one another’s position: there is no need to argue.”

  Striker left the porch to pace about the yard and kick at chickens—who deftly avoided him while complaining loudly. I thought it likely they would not lay well on the morrow: just as my sister would not lay well in her own fashion after living with her husband’s perpetual teeth-gnashing.

  She was apparently as capable of becoming overwrought as a hen. Though my memory was clouded, and my visit with her during those dark days brief, I did not recall her appearing to ail from worry while we were held captive by Thorp. Nor had she seemed so very worn when we returned from Maracaibo; even after months of waiting and troubles on their part. I would need to question Theodore on that last, but it was entirely possible my sister would be far better off without Striker underfoot until this matter was resolved. All concerned save Striker already knew it would be better for him.

  Perhaps armed with this new weapon I could enlist Pete in abducting him and throwing him aboard our own vessel the next time it sailed off to trade.

  The Golden One was languidly watching his matelot’s antics with a mixture of concern and disdain. He felt my gaze and turned to regard me with a resigned mien.

  “He needs to sail,” I mouthed.

  Pete sighed.

  “It would be best for Sarah,” I whispered.

  He nodded resolutely and whispered back, “NextShipThatSails.”

  I was not sure if he jested or not; thus I was only partially relieved.

  Gaston was pensive when at last he emerged from the house.

  “How is she?” Striker demanded.

  “She is… tired,” my matelot said with a bemused expression. “The baby is healthy. Your wife should rest more without… distractions.” His expression firmed into one of surety and his next words were from behind his physician’s mask. “She should not have to worry that you are in town drinking every night. She should not have to worry that you drink too much. She should not have to worry that you will not be prepared to defend her if trouble arrives because you are drunk or in town.”

  Striker’s mouth fell agape.

  I stifled laughter. There was a choked sound from Pete behind me.

  “We always leave someone here to watch her,” Striker protested.

  “She wants you,” Gaston said firmly. “If you are not willing to remain with her, you might as well be at sea.”

  “You bastard!” Striker said with more amazement than anger.

  I thought of how sad it would have been if Pomme had been butchered, and thus managed to keep my face properly somber. Gaston was taking a completely different tack than the one I had favored, but it could better serve to solve the problem quickly.

  “She
said that?” Striker asked as Gaston began to walk by him.

  My matelot sighed. “Nay, she is your wife and she loves you and she would never say that. I am her physician, and it is my duty to say the obvious.”

  Striker glanced at me, decided not to tarry, and went on to gaze upon his matelot. I fought the urge to turn and see the Golden One as he did. Instead, I watched Striker and saw his face age from boyish defiance to manly resolve in but a moment. He nodded and strode past me and into the house. I finally looked to Pete and found him calm, with the eyes of an ancient being.

  He looked to Gaston. “ThankYou.”

  My matelot nodded sadly. “She needs to rest and worry less.”

  Pete nodded. “We’llSeeToIt.”

  With that, Gaston and I mounted Pomme and headed home.

  “What did she say?” I asked when we were safely away.

  He sighed into my shoulder. “She is torn between her Horse and… Woman. Obviously, she did not say so, but I could hear it.”

  “As did I earlier this day,” I noted, as I realized that was indeed what I had witnessed.

  I felt him shake his head. “One of them blames you; the other merely wishes a resolution. I do not know her such that I can tell which is which.”

  “Neither do I,” I admitted sadly. “Did she say precisely what she blames me for? I mean, I know why she might be angry with me, but it is the blaming that confuses me. Will she truly be satisfied with nothing less than our father’s head on a pike?”

  “She does not feel safe,” he said.

  “She blames me for her lack of security?”

  “Will, I feel she might blame all men for her lack of security,” he sighed.

  “Oh,” I said stupidly. “Well then, I cannot solve that.”

  I felt him shrug, and then he embraced me to nuzzle my neck. “She is not in our cart,” he whispered.

  I supposed she was not. She was married to another man; and even beyond the matter of men, she had chosen her course. I had not asked her here—to the West Indies. I had not asked her to fall in love with Striker.