Easton's Gold

by Paul Butler

  Fleet’s purpose teetered and fell, crashing to the earth at high speed. For that moment and for half an hour afterwards, he was Easton’s man. All the time he had spent watching and planning were like details remembered from a dream.

  A short while ago, but for as long as Fleet could remember, the pirate was a dark rumour overhanging his life, a storm cloud upon which he could throw the thunder of his rage, the drizzle of his despair. Now Easton is flesh and blood. He has the power to reawaken forgotten chambers of Fleet’s heart. He can breathe life into hopes and affections long withered.

  Fleet lies still, the skull resting on his chest. He listens to the creaking of the ship’s timbers. If this is Easton’s effect on him in a day and a half, how will he remain true to himself for the whole voyage? Fleet closes his eyes, folds his arms over the skull and hugs it until the cranium pains his ribs. When his arms slacken, he begins to skim along the surface of a dream—he is looking into the dark eye of a raven. The raven seems to be talking to him, giving him advice.

  With an effort, he pulls his eyes open and whispers a word. It is his word, one that has followed him like his own shadow through winter and spring, through sleeping and daylight, through misfortune and plenty. He waits for the timbers to reply.

  Many times he has sought confirmation from the wind, the grass, the trees. He has heard his own thoughts echoed in the clanking of chains and has come to realize that, if he tries hard enough, the world will take on his burden. He listens carefully, and in a second, the dry, creaking sound seems to repeat the word over and over: revenge, revenge, revenge.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The foresail has been catching the crosswind all night, yet the fool still hasn’t lashed it to the mast. The ship rocks and sways, and I can hear crew members run up and down stairs as though this were the year’s fiercest storm off Cape of Good Hope. Dawn has risen and the sky is clear despite the breeze; and a breeze is all it is.

  I stare through the porthole and watch the greenish-grey waves. Foam shows white on the ridges for a moment then fizzles into nothing. The serving boy said the captain advises us to stay in our cabins until calmer weather. I cannot believe the incompetence of the man. He could turn a bathtub into the deadliest of perils.

  Three short knocks sound on my cabin door.

  “Come!” I call without turning. The order makes me feel like a commander again, and I notice my voice has grown in strength. I could bellow orders from a deck if I needed to.

  The door opens and closes quietly. Recognizing the style of entrance, I turn to see Gabrielle standing just inside the doorway, a sad, uncertain smile on her face. I realize how much I have missed the time we used to spend alone.

  “My lord,” she says, taking a pace or two forward, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Of course, any time you like,” I say softly, suddenly feeling much younger than I have in years.

  “I do not understand what is happening on board this ship, my lord.”

  Her fingertips fidget with her skirts as she speaks.

  “Are things not to your liking, my Gabrielle?” I say. She smiles at my familiarity and seems already more comfortable.

  “Why am I not being treated like the other servants?”

  “You are not like other servants now,” I say.

  I go to my desk, pull out the chair, turn it around and sit down. With a gesture I motion her to sit down on my bed. She does so silently and with such trust in her movements that I feel like a holy man about to give absolution.

  I pause for another moment before speaking.

  “Gabrielle,” I say quietly, “you have done too much to be looked upon as a servant. If the right gentleman can be found, I mean to bestow a dowery and promote the match.”

  Gabrielle gives a short gasp, and her eyes meet mine for a moment. Then she looks down upon her lap. “I thought…I thought there was something,” she says softly, a furrow appearing upon her brow, “but I didn’t think…that.”

  “It will be hard enough to let you go,” I say smiling; the sentiment in my voice takes me by surprise. Who is this girl before me, after all? Neither daughter nor wife; a skinny young thing in my household in Françoise’s time; since then, a more frequent presence in my bedchamber, fetching me water, emptying my bucket.

  She looks up with a sweet, almost childlike smile.

  “I am grateful, my lord, but I know nothing of marriage, nothing of gentlemen.” She looks about the cabin as though in search of something to prove a point. “I was raised by my mother and when she died, Françoise.”

  “I understand,” I say softly, and a faint, piping note vibrates somewhere deep inside me, its quality painfully sweet, echoing a world of long-forgotten daydreams.

  “I know about pureness and innocence,” I whisper.

  Immediately, her expression changes. “No,” she says, frowning. “No, I am not pureness and innocence, my lord.” She shakes her head and I feel the strength of her defiance. “I do not even understand what this “pureness” is about. I am a woman. Why should I not know men?”

  This is a Gabrielle I have not seen before. I want to go back to a few moments ago and rearrange her words so that they might deliver a different meaning. The picture opening up to me minutes ago was one of such exquisite delight; Gabrielle shy, fawn-like, needing my kindness and understanding.

  “But, my dear…” I say slowly, shaking my head.

  “My lord, who did you see that you thought I could marry?”

  “I told you,” I say, “I was only hoping to find such a man.”

  “Where, my lord?” She suddenly stands. Sinews stand out in her beautiful neck. “Where were you looking for a gentleman? In the middle of an ocean?”

  “We are going to a new land,” I say quickly. “It is perhaps possible that among the planters there…”

  But Gabrielle has stopped listening. She circles away from the bed and strides to the door, her hands folded over her chest.

  “Temper does not become you, my dear,” I say, and immediately I hate the voice I hear. I sound like a petulant old man, and I resent Gabrielle for reducing me to this.

  Gabrielle has turned toward me, her eyes alive with anger.

  “You meant to marry me to the captain.”

  “Gabrielle! What nonsense! How could you even think of such a thing?”

  “You meant to give me to him in return for the passage.”

  She turns back toward the door, opens it and glances back once more. Her dark eyes fix on me for a second, her expression a combination of pride and reproach. This scalds me far worse than any words she might have chosen.

  She disappears into the corridor beyond the cabin, and I hear her quiet footfalls beyond. I sit still for some while, a throbbing pain in my chest.

  __________

  GABRIELLE STARES THROUGH THE porthole at the sloshing grey waves. The ship rocks and pitches. Although they still follow the coast, Gabrielle feels lost and unanchored. The Marquis was my only friend, the thought comes to her again and again in waves, and I am going to the other side of the world.

  There is a soft creaking outside her cabin door again. It seems Philippa is back. At first Gabrielle can’t even be bothered to turn to the door. Let her stand there listening for a hundred days if she wants to.

  Then she tries to imagine what this journey will be like day after day, isolated as she is. Will I not be begging even for Philippa and Maria to speak to me before long? She turns slowly and watches the cabin door. There is another creak.

  Gabrielle’s muscles tighten and her breaths grow rapid. She knows she has made up her mind.

  Gabrielle rushes the entrance. It takes only four bounds. She flings open the door, grabs hold of Philippa’s forearm and pulls her inside, shutting the door after her.

  Philippa cowers in front of her, her hands held over her face. Her skin has gone very red and her eyes are huge, like those of a child listening to a story.

  Gabrielle takes half a step toward Philippa, and Ph
ilippa dodges to the side. Gabrielle makes another move, and Philippa repeats the evasive action. The same thing happens twice more until Gabrielle feels as though they are a pair of fighting crabs.

  “Why were you outside my door?” she demands, grabbing Philippa by the forearm again.

  “I wasn’t,” Philippa gasps, trying to back away from her.

  “You were. You were today and you were yesterday. What are you expecting to find?”

  “Nothing,” says Philippa, moving toward the door and pulling Gabrielle with her.

  “There must be something. There must be a reason.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Philippa says, twisting her forearm this way and that, trying to loosen Gabrielle’s grip.

  “Don’t go,” says Gabrielle, trying not to sound threatening. “Tell me what you were doing there.”

  But Philippa has backed into the door and is reaching behind with her free hand for the handle.

  Gabrielle tries to hold Philippa, but Philippa has the door open and wriggles her forearm like an eel. Gabrielle gives up and lets her go. She catches a final wild stare from Philippa, then she closes her cabin door.

  She hears Philippa clatter up the three-step ladder, turn and run along a corridor then clomp down into the ship’s honeycomb of cabins.

  __________

  THE COOL BRINE STINGS FLEET’S eyes, but he holds his head in the barrel as long as he can, until his mouth and nose fight so hard to inhale he knows he won’t be able to stop them. Then he throws back his head and gasps. He lays his hand on an upright beam until he regains balance. Then he takes the leather rag and begins to scrub first his arms, then his shoulders and chest.

  When he hears the knocking, he stops dead.

  He grabs his tunic and makes for the alcove, which is not visible from the cabin door. The knocking comes again.

  “One moment!” Fleet shouts, throwing the tunic over his wet trunk and buttoning it all the way up. He checks his cuffs come down to his wrists then marches toward the brine barrel and slides the hatch closed. “Yes, come in,” he says at last, turning. The door opens and Captain Henley bundles through.

  The captain’s pale eyes dance around the dimly lit cabin. He seems to take in the brine barrel behind Fleet, then the three barrels by the wall near the door. Then he fixes on the sack hanging from the bedpost, its spherical contents not quite touching the floor. Fleet goes over to the sack, lifts it onto the bed and buries it in his bedclothes. His face burns at the obviousness of the concealment, but when he turns back, it seems as though the captain hasn’t noticed.

  “Mr. Fleet,” he stammers. “I’m afraid I have caught you in the midst of washing.”

  The captain stares dumbly at Fleet’s dripping hair.

  “I have finished, Captain,” Fleet says, feeling the cold water trickle down his neck. “I prefer to dry slowly. Dampness is good for the chest.”

  “So I have heard,” says the captain.

  “Please,” Fleet entreats with a gesture. “Will you sit down?” Fleet pulls a stool from the wall and hands it to the captain. He takes an unlit candle and holds the wick over the flame by the barrel. A second halo spreads more light. He lifts the first candle and places it upon the brine barrel, then he takes the second and, crossing the cabin, places it in a holder in the door.

  The captain, now seated, coughs gently. Fleet goes to his bunk and sits.

  “How do you find your accommodation, Mr. Fleet?”

  “Admirable, sir.”

  “I am glad of it,” says the captain rather absently, “glad of it.”

  Fleet shifts a little on his bunk and clears his throat. “I am indebted to your crew, Captain Henley,” he says. “They have provided me with a barrel of brine. I wash frequently and use sea water often in my medicine.”

  The captain looks toward the barrel in question.

  “I am glad of it…glad of it,” he repeats, but in such a manner Fleet suspects he is only half listening. “And are you comfortable in your cabin, sir? You must get very little natural light.”

  “I’m quite comfortable, Captain,” Fleet reiterates. “I must congratulate you on the ship’s progress,” he says stiffly. “We are swifter and more steady since morning.”

  “You must congratulate the Marquis, Mr. Fleet,” the captain mumbles. “He begged that I indulge him and lend him the reins of my command until midnight. He was most eager to see what he remembers. So,” he continues, “I gave him my astrolabe and bade him good luck.” He attempts an indulgent laugh, but it dies on his lips. “I hope this cabin pleases you,” he says looking around again. “Is there anything I can do to make it more comfortable?”

  Then, without waiting for an answer, he stands and walks over to the row of barrels near the door. “You know, the work of an apothecary has always fascinated me,” he says. “I imagine you must have a cure for every ailment under the sun.”

  Fleet watches the captain slowly pace the far wall and stare at each of the barrels in turn.

  “If I were to suffer from a fever, for instance, I imagine you have the cure somewhere in your supplies. Am I correct?”

  “Well, yes, it depends upon the fever, of course, but I would likely possess a remedy to match the ague.”

  “And if I were to be wounded and if the mouth of the wound were to be infected, I imagine there are means to redress such a problem?”

  “Indeed, I would do all in my power.”

  The captain comes to a halt, his hand in front of his mouth.

  “Is there a particular distemper which worries you, Captain?”

  The captain seems to think for a moment. Then he sighs, turns and paces back the way he came. “Not I, sir. Not I.” He stops again, his hand touching the door. For a moment, Fleet thinks he means to leave the cabin without another word. But then he turns toward Fleet and leans back upon the cabin door.

  “It is a malady of the heart, Mr. Fleet.”

  “The heart?” Fleet repeats.

  “I have lived my life upon the roaring waves. Sea ice and tempests are my only foes; fair winds and seabirds my only friends.” He sighs deeply then circles the cabin like an animal trying to escape a trap. “How then, sir, I ask you, how then am I to react to such eyes, such softness?” He bites his lip, looks to the ceiling and passes his weight from one foot to the other. “My heart is on fire, sir, and will scarcely survive another night.”

  “Gabrielle,” Fleet says quietly.

  “Ah,” says the captain, turning a half-circle and back again as though in practising a dance. “How easily you know me! How transparent I am. You saw how cold she was with me the night before last.” He glances at Fleet briefly, perhaps hoping for contradiction. Fleet looks to the cabin floor and frowns. “I have sent her an invitation to dine at my table again tonight. She has refused. I have no access, no means of making her love me.”

  “You wish me to cure you of lovesickness?” Fleet asks.

  “No, sir,” the captain says, his pale eyes suddenly fierce and flickering in the candlelight. “I wish you to make her as smitten as I.”

  “Oh,” Fleet says, sighing.

  “Tell me you can help!” The captain comes closer, and his body blocks the light from the candle in the door. “It cannot be hopeless. Would I have been sent these torments if not for a purpose? I have read that love can move mountains. Cannot my love move one woman’s heart?”

  Fleet shifts to the side and pushes himself off his bunk. The captain’s bull-like frame, his uneven breathing—the warmth of which he can feel at such close quarters—makes him feel uneasy. He crosses to the far wall and leans back against the barrel containing the snails.

  “Captain,” he says quietly, “it is not so easy.”

  “But for you,” says Henley, reaching out his hands, “for you—”

  “—It’s true,” interrupts Fleet, “there are medicines that can awaken the desires of any person. But they are not specific in regards to where and upon whom the newly engendered feelings will be expressed
.”

  “But I have heard of charms and spells—”

  “—That is witchcraft, Captain, not medicine. Charms and amulets are not part of my work.”

  “But you said there are medicines,” says the captain, approaching Fleet once more. “You said as much.”

  “Let me look into it, Captain,” Fleet says quickly.

  The captain holds out both hands in entreaty.

  “Let me check what I have,” Fleet continues calmly. “I came prepared to treat only the Marquis, but it is possible I might find something you need.”

  The captain bows and backs off to the door. “I will be forever in your debt, sir,” he says with some difficulty. He turns to the door and opens it. “No price will be too high,” he adds in a choked voice. He glances once more at Fleet, then his gaze skims away to the floor. In another second he is gone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Easton’s cabin is ablaze with candles. He stares up at Fleet with shining eyes. The sea wind, Fleet notices, has blown a web of thin veins into Easton’s cheeks.

  “You should not have stayed out so long,” says Fleet, handing him the cup. “You have overexerted yourself.”

  “No, sir, I should not have returned,” Easton replies between breaths. “I have declared war upon this ague, Mr. Fleet. I defy infirmity and age!” He holds the cup for a moment more, his chest still heaving. Then with a sudden gasp, he throws his head back and gulps down the medicine. Fleet watches his Adam’s apple bounce up and down as he empties the cup. Finished, Easton snarls at the taste and throws the cup across the room.

  “Ye gods, man! Your cures are too foul to be endured!”

  He pushes himself up from his chair and strides over to a basin in the corner. He lowers his head over the water and splashes his face and the back of his neck.

  “However foul the medicine, my lord, you must remember your condition. You must have been on deck for twelve hours.”

  Easton turns and smiles. “Twelve hours of progress for the ship, I’m sure you’ll agree.”