“I do not feel we are in that much of a hurry, and I would rather remain with you.”
“Pierre’s news upset you very much.” I noted.
“That has always been a fear of mine, to be questioned and exorcised for my madness. Do not let them take me, Will. Shoot me in the head if you have to.”
My heart thudded painfully for a few beats. I was surprised, but I understood. I vividly recalled a dream I had once had in which he had been begging me to kill him from an asylum cell.
“They will never have you,” I said somberly. “And likewise, if it comes to that, I would rather not suffer some damn fool trial and burn, either.”
He embraced me with fervent passion and I tried to hold my fear at bay.
“I will kill Father Mark before we go,” I said in order to make conversation. We had been silent for a time.
“Good,” he sighed into my shoulder. “He will only cause others trouble with his misguided piety.”
“So, thinking on your father’s words, and now this, do you feel it is safe to send our people to him in France?”
Gaston sighed. “I believe he would try to take care of them, but perhaps we should not burden him with them just now. I vote that they should go elsewhere, to the Dutch, and send him word of their location so that he can instruct them on what to do while we go about our business.”
I agreed. “That will be best, I am sure. And it will give us a port from which to sail to England.”
“Oui,” he sighed. “I wish the women and babies did not have to cross the ocean again.”
“They will be strong and well fed,” I said.
“Oui, but it is still dangerous. I suppose Agnes and Yvette should go now, though; before they get fat with child.
“When will they deliver?”
“Agnes might deliver as early as January,” he said thoughtfully. “Yvette will be a month or so later.”
“So by this time next year I will be a father twice over.”
He chuckled.
I snorted. I thought on our growing family and sighed.
“What of Chris?” I asked. “What in the name of the Gods will we do with her?”
“Last night, you decided it was her life to live, or not. Is not the same true today?”
“Oui,” I sighed. “If she has decided to live, I am more concerned about how she will leave with us, or if she should. If we are to help her, she must. But I do not wish to face Agnes’ wrath across the entire ocean. She was very angry.”
“There is nothing else for it. We will have to keep them on opposite ends of the ship.”
I thought of such a voyage and sighed. It might be best if she had reached some epiphany in the night and we could send her… somewhere on another vessel. I found myself thinking on carts and ships and the contents thereof.
“They are not all in the cart, are they?” I asked.
“Non,” he said with surety.
“Who is in the cart?”
“Our children, and their mothers.”
“But we have been living as one big family at the house.”
“I see,” he said.
“Do we view the cart as containing those we love, or those we are responsible for? We surely do not love Chris.”
He sighed. “I feel that the women have tied themselves to us through the babies. They are in the cart—for better or worse. Everyone else is… Well, it will be sad to lose them in our lives, but I will leave them between one beat of my heart and the next to save you, the children, or myself. They are in the cart—for now, but they may be jettisoned at any time if the situation warrants it.
“It is alchemy. It is the distillation of our souls,” he said. “Each time the Gods place us over heat we boil away impurities that are of little importance—like Henrietta and Muri.”
I chuckled. “Oui, but I find the implication of your analogy concerning the meaning of others in our lives disturbing.”
“Non, they are important,” he said.
“But if the Gods keep insisting on boiling them away, why should we continue to add them?”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, if there is not enough extraneous liquid in addition to the solution sought, the very thing you wish to distill can boil away. And, the things that are truly important we combine with, and they become part of us and they do not boil away. We added one another, and then we added the children, and the Gods, and so on. So, no matter what boils away here, we will always add more things and see what stays the next time.”
“I find that profoundly beautiful, my love; yet, I am disturbed by your implication that there will be a next time: that we will always be put over the fire.”
He laughed. “We are stubborn centaurs, Will: we do not know how to go downhill.”
“So we climb higher and higher into the mountains where the air is clear and the sun bright and the Gods are free to burn away our impurities?”
He laughed. “Just so.”
“Hmmm, well, my love, there are days when I wish for a parasol.”
He laughed and I joined him in it until we heard the crack of musket fire. The retort was unmistakable. It was probably someone hunting, but it had sounded as if it came from our destination. Then there was another. I urged Pomme on a little faster and we reached the edge of our land when we heard another retort. No ball whizzed past our heads, even though we would now be in range if the firer was indeed on our property. We rode out onto the knoll with our pistols drawn anyway.
Only when I saw Chris struggling to reload the musket did I recall she had one.
More surprising, Pete was there instructing her—or rather providing a constant harangue.
I called out and they turned to face us: Pete bringing a pistol to bear on Chris as he did so.
At our surprise, he shrugged. “SheTriedTa ShootMe.”
As Chris was glaring at him as if she would gladly take the opportunity to shoot at him again, I did not ask more.
“Good to see you this day,” I told her sincerely.
She snorted with anger. “You were supposed to be here this morning; but instead, this arse arrived!”
“IWasGoin’Inta TownAnI’Eard Shootin’,” he roared back.
“I was trying to practice,” she spat.
He rolled his eyes extravagantly. “Iffn’SheBeDressin’ LikeABoy, SheAtLeastShould LearnTaShootAs WellAsABoy. SheShoots LikeAGirl!”
“Have you ever seen a girl handle a musket?’ I asked as we dismounted.
“Nay! AnThereBe GoodReason. TheyBeToo SlowAnWeak.”
“Fuck you!” Chris howled. She was trembling and leaning on her piece. “I will get better.” She lunged clumsily at him, swinging the musket like a club.
Pete nimbly dodged and pointed the pistol at her again.
“Stop!” Gaston growled. “You!” He pointed at Pete. “Drop the pistol. You!” he told Christine, “sit in the shade.”
They complied like scolded children: Pete pouting and Chris obviously relieved. Gaston handed Chris a water skin from the hut and pulled the right shoulder of her shirt aside to reveal the livid bruise above the bandages she used to bind her breasts. It was the mark any person would have after repeatedly firing a musket for several hours. No matter how well one pulled the butt into one’s shoulder, the recoil bruised after several repetitions. It was like someone wedging the heel of their hand next to the armpit and giving short little punches—very hard—over and over again. And Chris’ bony chest did not possess the muscular padding of a man—in that area.
“This needs a compress, and you will use a rag as padding here when you practice,” Gaston ordered.
She nodded meekly and had not flinched from his touch, though she was regarding the tree line with stoic intensity.
I decided a change of subject was in order. “Doucette is dead.”
“’Ow?” Pete asked with a grin.
“I pushed him down the stairs.”
The Golden One guffawed. Chris frowned. Gaston moved away from her to sit in
the shade nearby and smile ruefully.
“Doucette was the physician?” Chris asked.
“Aye,” I told her, and then I told them of last night’s misunderstanding —leading to its conclusion.
“SheBePregnant?” Pete asked.
“Aye, and it is mine.”
The comical image of his mouth dropping open was well worth my scrambling around the clearing to avoid him after he recovered enough to think I jested at his expense.
“Nay, nay,” I protested and hid behind Gaston. “It is true.”
Pete awarded my matelot a woeful look of concern.
“He never touched her,” Gaston assured him.
I took the water skin from Chris and let my matelot explain about syringes and jism.
“You got them both pregnant without laying a hand on them?” Chris asked with incredulity. Then she frowned. “So this Yvette—Madame Doucette—is Agnes’ friend? Is she in love with her, too?”
“Aye, and it is reciprocated.”
Her frown deepened.
“Yvette favors women,” I said.
“Well… lucky Agnes,” Chris said with a distant tone.
Pete was now staring at me. “TheyBothBe Carryin’YurBabe?”
“That was not our intention, but it was apparently their decision,” I said.
“StrikerAnSarah BePissed. TheyCanna KeepUp WithThreeWomen—Naw, Four,” he looked at Chris with disdain, “Spittin’OutBabes FurTwoMen.”
“Go to Hell,” Chris growled.
“I did not know it was a competition,” I said lightly. “And one of those mothers is dead, and another,” I looked pointedly at Chris, “will never produce another child for us; and Gaston and I never expected to get two women pregnant at the same time—either time it has happened. That is surely a jest of the Gods if there ever was one.”
“I will never produce another babe,” Chris said sullenly.
Gaston was smiling at me. “Now you should tell them our big news.”
Pete raised an eyebrow. “ThereBeMore?”
“Aye, we must go and tell Striker and Sarah to pack and get to the ship.” I told them of our news from Father Pierre and of the Marquis’ letter.
Pete seemed pleased. “WellItBeA Shame’Bout GastonAn TheChurch, But IWouldBe Lyin’IfISaid IWereSad’Bout NotGoin’ TaFrance. An’INotBe Sorry WeFinally BeLeavin’.”
So we are going to get on another ship now?” Chris asked with alarm. “And go where?”
“You do not need to go with us,” I assured her. “We will probably be sailing for the Netherlands—if everyone agrees. Once there, you will all sit and wait until Gaston and I, and Pete, resolve matters with my father. If you do not wish to go to the Netherlands, we can leave you here and you can secure passage back to France or to someplace else. If you wish for our aid, you will need to come with us, though.”
“I want to come with you, and not stay in the Netherlands,” she said firmly.
I wished to argue, but there was no point in doing it now. Gaston was already collecting our things from the hut. We would all argue about who left the Netherlands for England later—after a good two months of arguing on the ship. I was not looking forward to this voyage.
Pete was deep in thought. He finally spoke. “YouShouldSend ALetter ToTheMarquis AforeWeLeave. Tell’ImWhereWe BeHeaded SoThat’EKnows InCase’E’AsTaMake ARunFerIt.”
Gaston paused and regarded him sadly. “Oui.”
“It is sad,” Chris said. “Your father is a good man. His lands are wealthy, and his people live well. His servants even adore him. But he is hated at court. They call him arrogant because he will not come and curry favor.”
“I have ruined him. I was the hole in his armor,” Gaston said.
“Nay,” Chris said. “According to my uncle, there were men trying to tear him down even before he claimed you as heir. There are those who viewed his lands as ripe for the plucking after his other sons died. They have been trying to discredit him for years.”
I sighed. I did not wish to have Gaston wrongly blaming himself. The Marquis had told us all Chris said in his earlier letters. “It is not your fault. He had three sons.” I tried to change the subject. “I wonder if that is why he allowed your half-brothers to run wild; so that they might make friends that would serve them well in later years.”
Gaston sighed and nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps. It is ironic. For many years, I wanted him to lose his lands, because I felt they were more important to him than I had been, or my sister, or my mother. He had seemed so ashamed of us—because I had not understood. And now, his love of me is the thing that has brought him down. Now I wish he had thrown me to the wolves to save himself.”
He went to Pomme and added the few things he had retrieved from the hut to our bags.
I looked to Pete. “Go ahead, we will be there soon.”
Pete nodded and glared at Chris.
She sighed and stood, but she paused beside me before following Pete up the path. I regarded her expectantly, but she shook her head helplessly and said nothing. She began to walk again, only to stop a few steps later and turn back. “I am new to this hatred. How do you live with it?”
“You learn to ignore it and enjoy life. I have come to believe the best revenge is living happily despite them—to spite them.”
She nodded and slung her musket and bag over her shoulder and followed Pete.
“Who do you hate?” I called after her.
“Wolves,” she said over her shoulder, and then she was gone in the dense brush.
I joined Gaston where he had gone to stand at the precipice and stare off across the passage toward the Haiti. He met my gaze and spoke sadly. “The wolves have taken my homes away: my birthright and what I have claimed for myself.”
I swept my eyes from horizon to horizon. It was a sad afternoon for it. There was little breeze to disrupt the haze, and the midday sun made everything flat and drab. We were being mocked. Our last chance to stand here, and the view was a pale shadow of its glory.
Though we had known this day would come for months, I felt we were running away in the night as I had so many times in my life. My Horse held His head low in resignation. Only my Wolf stood sniffing the air, anxious for a new journey.
How had Shakespeare phrased it: to unleash the dogs of war? Aye, that is what we stood poised to do. I would release my Wolf and lay waste as they did. It felt wrong.
I turned away and went to the unfinished Temple. “Is this what you truly want?” I implored the Gods.
“Non, but what choice do we have?” Gaston said.
I jumped with surprise and felt the fool.
“I could not…” he began to continue as he turned to me until he saw where I stood. “Oh, were you asking the Gods? I am sorry.”
I gazed at him in the cruel midday light. There were dark circles about his eyes after a night of sleeping with the drug. His hair needed trimming. He had not shaved. He already appeared as road-weary as I felt. Yet, he was beautiful. My breath caught and an old familiar ache filled my chest.
I smiled. “You are my answer,” I said quietly. “You follow me, I follow you. We are one, and my home is with you. The Gods spoke clearly enough the first time I saw you.”
One Hundred
Wherein We Scatter Before the Wind
Gaston and I found Cudro, Ash, Julio, and Striker at Sarah’s, sitting on the back porch listening to Pete while Chris stood in the shade and out of sight. The Strikers had also already loaded most of what they would take aboard the Magdalene. Now Sarah sat in a rocking chair nursing her son—who was less than a fortnight old—while ordering her two servants to pack the remaining items and load them on a donkey cart in the yard.
Striker looked pleased to see us. “So we go,” he said. “The Bard and Dickey have already gone to the ship.”
“Liam was sending our first wave there as we left,” I said as we dismounted.
“We’ll go as soon as Sarah is ready,” he said.
“Who’s
that?” Davey asked as he emerged from the house and saw Chris standing out of sight of the others.
She reluctantly stepped forward.
“My cousin,” Gaston said with amusement. “He arrived with the letter from my father.”
To my amusement and never-ending amazement—and Pete’s, apparently—none of the men recognized her.
Women are not so blind, however. Sarah looked over and immediately knew her. “What in the name of God is she doing here?” she demanded.
And then there was tension in the air.
“SheBeLearnin’ TaShoot,” Pete chided.
“Truly? Well it seems she already knows enough of that: she shot Will!” Sarah snapped.
“Nay!” Chris protested with her arms tightly crossed. “Not hardly: I did not kill him!”
I held up my hands in an unsuccessful attempt to calm the squawks of surprise and indignation from the men at the card table.
“Aye, it is she; she is here, and she is the least of our troubles!” I finally yelled.
“Do tell,” Sarah said coldly into the quiet that followed.
“Is that really Miss Vines?” Ash asked with awe.
“Nay,” I said firmly. “This is Christien Sable, Gaston’s cousin. And even if she were not, she is Madame Sable and not Miss Vines.”
“She’s going with us?” Cudro asked with even more amazement.
I shrugged. “Aye.”
“Nay,” Sarah said.
“Oh Bloody Hell,” I snapped. “What else are we supposed to do with her?”
“Send her back on the ship on which she came,” Sarah said.
Chris stood her ground with stubborn desperation etched across her features.
“She causes nothing but trouble,” Sarah added.
“She is my wife,” Gaston said with some annoyance.
Everyone quieted, even Sarah.
“She can sleep on deck,” I said. “We do not have time to argue about this.”
“So you think they’ll come for him today?” Striker asked.
“We cannot know,” I said.
“We’re going,” Cudro said amiably as he stood. “We’re ready. There’s no reason to stay longer. We’ll just have to start trading out old victuals the longer we stay. Our things are aboard. Do you need help at the house in town?”
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