"Dearer than what Jamaican chandlers ask?" Lewrie frowned.
" 'Bout half, I'd think," Cashman told him, pausing to savour a bite. "Hard to believe they're Samboes… ain't it?"
"Who? Our hostlers?" Lewrie asked.
"Them… and our servin' girls," Cashman told him, winking.
"They are?" Lewrie said, amazed. "But they look so…"
"Petits blancs need love, too, Alan," Cashman drolly snickered. "Most real Whites've fled to Havana or Charleston, even New Orleans." He seemed delighted by Lewrie's surprised look. "Those who stayed are mostly half-castes… brights, fancies, quadrons or octoroons, what are lumped into the catchall term Mulatto, hereabouts. Some of them owned plantations, sent their children to school in Paris before the war. Rich as the grands blancs… richer! But that don't signify, either. 'Tis pure White blood, the guinea-stamp round here. Remember I told you how the French divided folk by grades of White or Black? There're one hundred and twenty-eight diff rent gradations-s'truth! Get into marabous and sacatras, maybe three-quarters or more White, and you couldn't say one way or t'other, even in broad daylight. But even a sang-mйlй, with one part Black blood to a hundred-twenty-seven White, is still a Sambo to them. Vivienne an' Henriette, they're high marabous, maybe low sacatras. And still get the short end of the stick, 'cause their folks weren't rich, or landed, or much of anything, 'cept imitation petits blancs. And the worst part for them is…"
Cashman paused for dramatic effect, and a sip of his wine.
"The real darkies off the fields, the ones in L'Ouverture's regiments, think the same way about 'em, d'ye see," Cashman said, with an air of grim foreboding. "They look too White for one camp, but they're too… tainted with the tar-brush for t'other. Lovely place, Saint Domingue, ain't it," he sarcastically drawled.
"So what happens to 'em, if Port-Au-Prince falls to L'Ouverture and his laddies?" Lewrie asked.
"World turned upside down," Cashman tossed off, as if it were no worry of his. "The too White'll get knackered, and all the rest'll be allowed to kowtow and join up with L'Ouverture. Make their salaams, bang their heads on the floor, and live-on the bottom of Society, mind. And a poor'un it'll be, you mark my words. Take 'em a century t'turn this island back to a payin' proposition. Jean-Pierre, well… by God, but this is a marvelous rйmoulade, don't ya think, Alan?"
"Aye, 'tis," Lewrie agreed, a trifle impatient for Cashman to complete his statements, though. "But what about 'im?"
"Oh, he'll most-like have a schooner lined up for a quick getaway," Cashman speculated with another blasй shrug. "Does he stay, he might do alright… 'less they scrag him for profiteerin', when other folks were starvin'. God knows which side'll do that… L'Ouverture's as an example, or them that starved, for revenge. Now, does he cut an' run with all his goods and money, he could set up fresh in the United States. Savannah, Charleston, New Orleans… they all have so-called Creole citizens… under 'Polite' Society, o'course. Take the lightest girls along, and reopen a bordello? Some o' them could lie like Blazes, and swear they were grands blancs all the way back to Adam… pass for White, d'ye see. Ah, our omelettes!"
In came Jacques and the girls to remove the now-empty plates, recharge wineglasses, and deliver steaming "piss-runny" French style egg dishes-with more subtle bumping and lingering touches.
Lewrie studied Henriette more closely. The only hints of difference he could discern were a slightly olive cast to her flawless complexion, and very full lips. Her dark red hair, though curlier, did not appear to be hennaed, and her green-hazel eyes would not have been out of place in the Germanies.
"Somezing is wrong, M'sieur Capitaine Lewrie?" she asked, feeling the intensity of his scrutiny; perhaps resenting it as a prejudice on his part, he wondered?
"In no way, Mademoiselle Henriette," he answered, smiling more broadly, adding a touch of "leer" to dispel her wariness. "I was just captivated… utterly dumbstruck… by how lovely you are."
"You are too kind, m'sieur," Henriette purred back, her lashes fluttering most fetchingly as she leaned down a bit, allowing a promisingly soft breast to compress against his epaulet. "But delightful to hear."
"You do not object?" he dared to tease.
"Mais non, Capitaine Lewrie, " Henriette replied, lowering her eyelids. "A poor girl always enjoy the compliments."
"And you, Henriette," Lewrie muttered, leaning back in his seat to look up at her from even closer. "Are you kind?"
"La, I can be trиs kind, Capitaine Lewrie," she whispered, all but in his ear, letting her loosely gathered hair brush his shoulder. "If you wish, that is," she added, with that secret smile that women make when being sultrily coy. "You would like, n'est-ce pas?"
Hell's Bells, we're doin' it on the table? Lewrie wondered to himself, as he caught sight of Cashman and Vivienne from the corner of his eye; Kit already had his wench in his lap, one hand groping about up her skirt, and sharing a soul kiss with her.
He turned back to Henriette, who wore a leer of her own after seeing what was transpiring across the table. Lewrie gently reached up and took hold of her chin to steer her lips to his, enfired by her warmth and the womanly aromas beneath her exotic, flowery perfume.
"Very much… very bloody much." Lewrie chuckled deep in his throat, feeling her lips grinning against his mouth in agreement.
"Later, mon cher?" Henriette silently sounded against him.
"Later, chйrie… plus tard!"'
"Certainement, cher Alain," she breathed against his cheek, a moment before Vivienne gave out a yip as Cashman play-spanked her on the bottom and shooed them out.
How long's it been since I've had a whore? he asked himself; Phoebe Aretino? No, don't count. She was a mistress. Gawd, Calcutta and Canton… way back in '84?
Cashman, smugly stuffing himself with a huge smile of anticipation, and slurping lustily at his wines, made Lewrie wonder if their dining chamber would have to serve amour's purpose. It was dimly lit with only a few candles, the drapes heavy and drawn, the windows iron-barred, the wainscoting and overhead beams made of dark wood that ate what little light the candles threw. There were several settees, and a pair of chaise longues along the walls. It could have been a seraglio in a sultan's harem-one of his oldest and most enduring fantasies-but it was a rather seedy, close and stuffy seraglio, with not a breath of air stirring. Much as he liked Kit, this was…
"They have rooms t'let, I s'pose?" Lewrie asked, finally. "Nice'uns, too," Cashman said with an enigmatic leer. "There's some don't wait, but I never thought of it as a spectator sport. Bad as mountin' yer filly in the middle o' Lord's cricket grounds. Try a glass o' hock with your eggs. There's a touch o' cinnamon to it that goes main-tasty with 'em, even better than champagne, t'my thinkin'."
"I think I will, at that!" Lewrie exclaimed, reaching for one of the bottles on the sideboard, now enthused and inflamed by thoughts of pleasures to come, and filled with a boisterous, expectant bonhomie. He was relieved, too, that his sport would be the private sort and not a public spectacle, with Cashman or Vivienne deducting points for awkwardness. Fond as he was of that harem fantasy, it had always been him and a round dozen wenches, with not even a sleeping eunuch as witness. "God… ain't it grand?" Cashman snickered with delight as he hoisted his glass to be refilled.
"Not too much, though, good as the wines are," Lewrie cautioned. "Ah, plus tard, hey? Can't take yer jumps if foxed blind." "It did come to mind," Lewrie happily rejoined. "Yoicks… tallyho!" Cashman crowed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Henriette was incredibly kind, upstairs in an airy room lined with wide-shuttered doors and window coverings that let in a blissful breeze of much cooler air, down off the high mountains to the east.
A lone trio of finger-narrow candles lit the chamber, barely illuminating anything beyond the bedstead, yet throwing mesmerising shadows against the walls and shutters with each mild gust. Up that high above the fouled and littered streets of Port-Au-Prince, it was refreshing to escape the miasma of too much garbage, and
the reek of too many people. And those gently flickering candles threw such enchanting highlights and shadows over Henriette's fine body, too, limning a chiaroscuro portrait in ambers and black hollows, making her even more exotic than she already was.
The sheets were clean, if "wormed" with small seams of repairs, and were redolent of soap and sunlight. The candles were local-made, scented with flowers, almost as sharp on the nose as Chinee joss-sticks or very High Church incense. Henriette had dabbed on fresh scent, too, after they'd locked and barred the door, and that was all over the bedstead, the pillows, and him, by then; for, cool as was that breeze, it was still a warm and humid tropic night, and they had perspired… oh, how they had perspired, in the throes of lust! The more common term of "sweated" came to Lewrie's mind; sweated like coolie labourers loading cargo on Jackass Point in Canton, or Hindoos up the Hooghly River! But more than worth it, he smugly decided, stifling a yawn as he sprawled beside her, getting his breath back, and watching the candle patterns dance on the overhead canopy of the bedstead.
There came a stronger gust of wind, a cooler and welcome zephyr.
"It rains," Henriette whispered. Sure enough, the zephyrs were followed by the faintest plashing of raindrops on the balcony. There was a basso rumble of faraway thunder, and an eyeblink's flicker upon the shutters from a fork of distant lightning, the wide wood shutters thrown in blue relief for a second. "Mon, Dieu, merci. "
Lewrie sat up and groped to the foot of the bed for a discarded sheet, to fan it and lift it to trap the cooler air, to let it fall slowly and drape over them, then fan it to soar and hang, again.
"Merci to you, too, cher Alain." She smiled, getting up on one elbow to face him and reward him with another token of kindness on his lips. "I have the basin… you wish me to sponge you? You are trиs hot? I cool you?"
"Better I get to sponge you, Henriette," he chuckled, reclining once more with his hands under his head and the pillow. "I don't wish t'get too cool. A certain… heat… is required, ain't it? Uhm, l'ardour? La passion?"
"But you were born with the passion, mon amour, " she told him. "Mon Dieu … so formidable^"
Whores ' lies, he thought; but… so pleasin'!
She slid out of bed on the window side, all those delectably shadowed hollows and sweat-sheened bright spots awakening his interest anew. Lean waist, long slim neck and arms, with entrancing hollows at throat and collarbones… firm, round and jutting young breasts that nearly defied Newton 's laws of gravity, a bouncy round and firm bottom, strong-thewed thighs… with such a seductive dark hollow between.
She peeked flirtatiously over her shoulder as she walked to the windows, rolling her hips, chuckling over the effect she knew she had on him. At the nearest window she posed herself, drew open the shutters and stood silhouetted, feet apart and arms widespread. With a theatric sigh of contentment, she threw back her head to savour that cooler wind, began to run her hands over her body as if smoothing in a lotion made of raindrops, or the night's magic, with her back to him.
Well, he wasn't having any of that! Lewrie sprang from the bed and crossed the room to snuggle in against her from behind, to "help" her enjoyment. His hands roamed, and made Henriette softly groan deep in her throat; over her waist and belly, the tops of her thighs, then up to cup her bounteous breasts and circle her large, dark nipples and areolae with his thumbs. Up to the tops of her shoulders, then butterflying downward over her breasts again, and she stiffened with delight and parted her feet more widely as he softly traced down either side of her stomach, down to her prominent mons and the pouty lips of her vagina. She leaned her head back on his shoulder, raised her arms over her head, and juddered her luscious bottom against his groin.
A moment more, a groan more, and she stepped quickly away, over to the wash-hand-stand for the sponges and the basin of cool water, so she could return and do the same for him. Working her way down, down, 'til she knelt before him, teasing her hair over his member, now hard as a marling-spike. A look up into his eyes, a teasing smile upon her face, then she half-lidded her eyes, took hold of his manhood, and put her lips over the cap.
"Pour vous, mon amour formidable, " she whispered, pausing for a moment before lowering her head once more to her ministrations.
The distant thunder seemed to rumble 'twixt his ears, steady as the excited pulse of his heart. He threw his own head back and let out a low moan, put one hand on the back of her head and gripped a shutter with the other.
Whores, by God! he exulted to himself, looking down at last to watch her, and him, work together. Wives never know this, now and then maybe a mistress, but… go it, darlin'. Tonight you're mine t'do ev'rything I want… bought an' paid for, and by God, it feels fine!
The novelty of having a woman so casually, of using her as much as he wanted, any way he wanted, then discarding her without a backward glance-though with a japing, teasing friendliness, a "fond" parting kiss, and extra shilling or two-it was so damned beguiling, so alluring, that he wondered why he'd eschewed whores all these years!
Wasn't for the Navy, I'd've most-like become a pimp! he recalled from his early days, the chuckle in his throat higher this time, almost a cackle of mirth.
Thud-thud-thud-thud, went the far-off thunder; thud-thud…
No, it wasn't thunder, he decided after a moment of coherency in the grip of mindless pleasure. And it wasn't his heart, either, those regular thuds, for they were in counterpoint to the beat in his chest.
Henriette stopped and sat back on her heels, suddenly looking forlorn and frightened, clamping her arms over her breasts.
"Here, now…" he began to say, irked that she'd quit before the "melting moments."
"L'Ouverture!" Henriette squeaked. "The drums!"
"Drums? Oh!" Lewrie gawped, going to the window. "So that's what that sound is. Like… like Muskogee Indian drumming. Sort of."
"Is voudoun!" Henriette gasped, beginning to shiver in dread.
"Cuffy mumbo-jumbo?" Lewrie scoffed.
"Is vrais … is true! Very powerful!" Henriette insisted, at the verge of teeth-chattering terror. " Voudoun priests bless rebels, and curse town peoples. We hear the drums, it mean L'Ouverture and his armies 'ave come! In the hills now! Oh, Mon Dieu, zey kill us all!"
"They'll not get the town, chene," Lewrie told her, following her round the room as she dithered, thinking of packing, thinking about hiding the next moment, picking things up and then throwing them down. "There's a British army out there, with dozens of field guns. Redans and fortifications, lashings of ammunition. There's ships in harbour, just stiff with artillery, too. Nothing to worry about. Now, let us get back to our pleasures. Where were we, hmmm?"
He took hold of her arms and brought her to a halt by the bed, urging her to get back into it. She'd raised his desires, had brought him close to joy, and damned if he was going to quit now.
"British keep us safe?" she asked, sounding leery about it.
"Safe as houses, I assure you," he lied, embracing her and kissing her neck and shoulders, her hollows, but with a bit of a spraddle-legged dance to the edge of the mattress, a bit of pressure to topple her back to her duties. "Can't let a pretty young thing like you get in their clutches, now can we, Henriette… ma chйrie?" he coaxed.
She submitted, and sat on the edge of the bed to re-engage her mouth over him. Sulkily, at first, but quickly warming to her work.
"Ah, that's me girl," Lewrie sighed, rock-hard again.
She quit, again! But this time, it was merely to reach over to the nightstand to retrieve a fresh, unused cundum and sheath him with the tanned sheep-gut, to tie off the ribbons around his waist and under his crutch, then award him a brave smile as she lay back and opened her limbs to him.
Lewrie slid in, kissing his way up her body, lingering over her groin for a long minute or two, 'til she began to grind her hips and make whimpery little groaning sounds. Up to kiss and lick her belly, that. actually shuddered under his feathery touch, her hands now eagerly drawing him higher. Ton
guing and suckling on her marvelous poonts and even play-nipping, that made her squeak and bounce and chuckle. Then her thighs raised and he was atop her and in her, and the Mongol Horde or all the Imps of Hell could have been howling for blood below-stairs, for all that Lewrie cared. Henriette, too, it seemed to Lewrie; this time was not artful or coy, but furious and mindless, as if sex could silence those drums and drive the bad'uns away.
Rap-rap-rap on the door. "I say, Alan old son? Time t'be out and doin'," Cashman muttered.
"Go… away! Later! Plus tard!" Lewrie gasped back, amid a skirl of squeaking bed-ropes and slats, and Henriette panting into his mouth as if trying to suck a long life from him. Whining in ecstacy!
"Heard the drums? I really think-"
"Bugger… off ! Drake had time t'bowl… I've time for a romp! Whoo! Darlin'!"
Henriette was keening, grasping, clawing, nigh to a scream!
"Oui oui oui, mon Dieu, oh oui … I" Henriette shrieked. "I am going… eeeeehhhh!"
"Aarrhhh!" Lewrie chimed in a moment later. "Rule, Brittania, by Jesus, yes"
He collapsed on her, aswim in perspiration once more, gasping like a pair of landed fish, aslither to press close and grasp to keep the mind-lessness in hand as long as possible.
"Happy now?" came the sardonic, muffled voice beyond the door.
"Ain't Paradise yet, but damn close," Lewrie called back as he rolled off the bed, groaning with exhaustion and lingering joy, as he stood bare-arsed naked and stripped off the cundum for a quick washing and later use. "Quick sponge, and I'll be out in two shakes of a wee lamb's tail… and the first's already been shook. Uhm, Henriette, me darlin'… know where I dropped my shirt?"
Though it was hours before dawn, and still raining in a light, desultory way, the streets of Port-Au-Prince teemed with people. Some refugees were up and packing, or trundling two-wheeled handcarts down to the harbour, in hopes of a departing ship. There was more light at last, with almost every window or porchway illuminated by the curious and the fearful. Citizens stood on their stoops or balconies to stare out towards the countryside, or shout questions at passersby and their neighbours, who were also up and peering in their nightshirts or gowns.
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