Easton's Gold

by Paul Butler

  __________

  “I FEEL REMISS AS A HOST,” says the captain raising his goblet. A thin mist seems to rise from him as he turns from the Marquis to Gabrielle. His skin is the colour of iron in a forge.

  “We entirely understand the obligations of a captain, sir,” the Marquis replies, smiling, “and we devote ourselves, like you, to the success of our voyage.” The Marquis now catches Gabrielle’s eye as he raises the goblet to his lips; his gaze is kind and affectionate.

  Gabrielle feels a great movement in her chest, as though her heart, long missing, has just returned home. This is the first time she has been in the Marquis’s presence since they argued. Her universe has been in disarray ever since she left his cabin. Stars have fallen; burning comets have raced across the dark spaces of her soul; she has shed tears; she has spilled secrets to a man about whom she knows next to nothing.

  How easy it is for the Marquis to put everything right with one warm half-smile.

  “Is he not merely acting like any father?” Fleet said to her in his cabin. And this was the beginning of her reclamation. This is a man’s world, after all. Scheming and bartering are the way things are done. It never meant the Marquis did not care for her. Men do not understand the repulsive nature to women of marriage without love. Nor could the Marquis, or any man else, understand how her own secret shame could explode into anger, as it did in his cabin. All that matters now is that he has forgiven her.

  The man in the blue tunic comes before her with an individual plate.

  “Ah,” says the captain. “For the lady.”

  Puzzled, Gabrielle leans back and lets the server place the dish in front of her.

  “Am I to eat alone?” she says, looking from the captain to the Marquis then to Fleet, whose fingers move up and down his goblet stem.

  “Indeed, but this, my dear, is flesh from that most graceful of birds,” the captain says in a nervous whisper.

  Gabrielle looks down upon the white meat in front of her. The server has moved off toward the side table. He returns now to the table with a dish of sliced beef.

  “I thought it appropriate,” the captain continues with a cough.

  Gabrielle feels her cheeks burn. She watches the Marquis fork a slice of beef onto his plate.

  “Is it a riddle, Captain?” she asks finally. The server now goes over to Fleet, who has been avoiding her eyes for some while.

  “No, indeed,” says the captain, smiling. “I meant to say it is that most graceful of birds, the swan. We brought three of them on board and slaughtered the first this morning.”

  The captain forks a slice of beef onto his own plate. “ I wanted to show my…,” he replaces the fork with a clatter on the serving dish, “my…,” his eyes dart around the table, “my esteem.” He coughs and puts his handkerchief to his lips. When he picks up his knife, Gabrielle sees his hand tremble.

  Fleet begins to eat, his eyes steadfast upon his plate. The Marquis looks across at Gabrielle, smiles and nods.

  “Try it, Gabrielle,” he says. “There is no taste quite like roasted swan.”

  Gabrielle smiles, cuts a piece and raises it to her lips. She feels the concentrated gazes of both the Marquis and the captain upon her

  The meat is cool and moist, but there is a curious gritty aftertaste. It has surely been over-salted. But she nods and smiles.

  “It is delicious,” she says. “Not how I imagined swan to taste.”

  “How so?” asks the Marquis.

  “It is flavoured more of the ocean than the air.”

  “Most curious,” says the Marquis.

  Fleet coughs and furrows his brow, as though needing to concentrate while he chews.

  The captain turns to the serving man in the blue tunic. “Jute,” he says, “did you make sure the swan was well-bled?”

  “Yes, Captain,” says the serving man. “I saw to its preparation personally.”

  Jute glances at the table and seems to catch Fleet’s eye.

  Fleet quickly looks away and takes a gulp of wine.

  “Perhaps, my dear,” says the captain, “you are merely unused to the taste. I’m sure it will grow upon you.”

  “I’m sure it will,” says Gabrielle, clearing her throat. “May I have some more water?”

  The serving man—Jute—immediately turns, lifts a jug from the side table and comes over to Gabrielle, filling her goblet. The surface of the water ripples as Gabrielle raises the goblet to her lips.

  The swell is rising.

  “How is your treatment going, my lord? Does our young friend here continue to equip himself admirably in the dispensing of remedies.”

  “Indeed, sir,” replies the Marquis. “He remains the very prize of his profession.”

  Gabrielle watches as Fleet looks up from his plate. There is a sickly, grudging expression on his face.

  “We all count on it,” replies the captain, raising his goblet at Fleet. “The doctor is ever the most important man upon any ship. All our plans, sir, all of them are ultimately in your hands.”

  He drinks. The Marquis does the same, and Fleet follows suit with a tight smile.

  The ship lurches to one side. Wine splatters onto the table like the first spill of a rainstorm. Jute turns and holds onto the cabin wall to secure his footing.

  “Looks like we might be in for a little weather tonight,” says the captain, gazing across at Gabrielle and smiling awkwardly. He raises his goblet again and takes a quick second gulp.

  “Good seafaring weather, Captain,” says the Marquis. “We can ride waves like these all the way to Newfoundland.”

  Henley laughs. “You would no doubt relish cataracts and tornadoes, my good friend, but I prefer nature when she is predictable!”

  “I love the storm, Captain,” replies the Marquis, “and the storm loves me. After last night’s watch, sir, when you were good enough to let me direct the wheel and the sails, the good Mr. Fleet here told me nothing could have improved my health more than the stern sea breezes.”

  “What?” Fleet exclaims, vexed. But the captain doesn’t notice.

  “I wonder if you will indulge me again, Captain,” the Marquis continues. “You have had so little time to relax, and I long for the smell of salt water and the hiss of sea foam about my feet.”

  Henley looks troubled and watches the ripples on the surface of his wine.

  “Would you let me take over again tonight?” says the Marquis, smiling. “I’m sure Gabrielle would be delighted to have your company for a full evening.”

  Henley glances up at Gabrielle and bites his lip. “It would indeed be delightful. But my men are not used to seeing me so long from the deck. This voyage I have already been much—”

  “Ah, you are too modest, Captain Henley!” interrupts the Marquis, laughing. “Your men are already drilled to perfection and defer to you as though you were Neptune himself. You need not worry about them.”

  The captain smiles and blushes an even deeper red than usual.

  “Well, if Mr. Fleet insists it is good for your health,” says the captain with a glance at the apothecary, “I will certainly stand in nobody’s way. You may take over with my blessing whenever you are ready.”

  “Good!” says the Marquis, slapping his palms on the table and rising. “That’s settled. Will you come with me now, Mr. Fleet, and administer my medicine.”

  Fleet rises slowly and bows first to the captain and then to Gabrielle. His dark eyes hold Gabrielle’s gaze for a moment longer than natural, and she catches a look of sympathy.

  The Marquis has set a trap, Gabrielle realizes as the two men go to the door. Her heart sinks again as she tries to take in the fact that he has once more crossed the dividing line between friend and enemy. She feels as though he is slowly but surely wearing out her loyalty, just as repeated buckling can wear out the strength of iron. Sooner or later, I may have to give up on him.

  Yet as the cabin door closes, she almost calls out to him as a child might call out for her father.

/>   __________

  “WHAT DID YOU GIVE HER?” I ask.

  The apothecary says nothing at first but merely hands me the medicine cup. I know not to delay while it is frothing, so I take it down in one as usual. My stomach leaps, but I hold my fist over my mouth until I am sure the mixture will stay down. For a few moments I am breathless, and the bitter taste tingles on my tongue. I look up at the young man, who takes the cup from my hand.

  “A powder,” he says quietly.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Nothing special. You know my cures. They are commonplace.”

  “Will it work?”

  He shrugs slightly.

  “If she is disposed toward the captain, if it was meant to happen, it will.”

  “We both know perfectly well she is not disposed toward the captain,” I say getting up. “So we’ll have to try something better.” I make for the panelling and bend down to slide open the section with the strongbox. “What about oysters? I thought they were supposed to help.”

  “For men, not for women.”

  I pull out the strongbox and feel, not for the first time, an aura of distaste emanating from the young man behind me. I slide in the key until I feel the bump that tells me it is time to turn.

  “I should double your wage while you are treating two of us,” I say.

  “It doesn’t matter to me,” comes the apothecary’s answer.

  I know he is not lying. Still, I open the lid and count out twenty gold sovereigns rather than ten. I stand up and turn to him. He puts his hand out, but as the gold touches his palm I know for sure things are not as they should be.

  I have seen a thousand men react to the feel of gold. I’ve seen pupils enlarge like shining onyx. I have seen tongues emerge to touch lips already moist. I’ve seen hands unfurl like timorous young ferns, itching to feel the shining metal. Never have I seen such stone-like indifference as exists now on the face of the young man. His eyes are quite dead.

  “Mr. Fleet,” I say. “I need your help with Gabrielle.”

  “You said. I am helping.”

  “And yet I sense something has changed.”

  The young man looks to the carpet and frowns. This is as much feeling as I have ever seen in him, and I feel I have found a key. “Mr. Fleet, I need you on my side. I am crossing a quarter way around the globe to search for a family I lost many years ago.”

  I watch the apothecary’s face struggle. His lip trembles; his gaze does not dare to lift from the floor. “I can see you too have suffered from family loss. It is easy for an old man to tell. I have brought my household with me because I have no choice. I may never return, and there is no one I can trust to manage my estates.”

  I watch moisture form on the ridge of the young man’s lower eyelid. I have indeed hit the mark.

  “However,” I continue whispering, “I cannot let these people suffer because of my quest, however urgent. My servants must have a chance of returning. Gabrielle is the only one among them who has any chance of a marriage that might at once improve her situation and bring her back to England or France.”

  The young man looks up at me suddenly with watering eyes, and I can see his resolve to resist me is gone.

  “She may scorn Henley now, Mr. Fleet,” I continue, “but years on the desolate shores of Newfoundland will change her mind. Then, however, it will be too late. That is what I am trying to avoid.”

  “Yes,” gasps the young man, “yes, I understand.”

  “Is there any other way you can help?”

  Fleet shakes his head and puts his palm to his temple. “Maybe. There might be something else.”

  “Good,” I say taking hold of his shoulder. “Good man. Try it tomorrow if what you did today doesn’t work.”

  The apothecary nods. He turns and goes to the door. Then he opens it and disappears into the shadows beyond.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  So, my dear,” the captain says for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time he lets the phrase hang while he dabs the moisture from his lips with his handkerchief. He turns from the table and gestures to Jute. Jute picks up the wine jug, walks noiselessly to Gabrielle and fills her goblet before she can stop him, then he goes to the captain who holds out his goblet eagerly.

  “You must eat up!” the captain says nervously as Jute goes back to the side table.

  This is the third time the captain has urged Gabrielle to eat, and the forth time he has had her wine goblet filled against her will. Twice she has asked for water—she is still parched from the salty swan meat—only to be told that wine is better for sating thirst. Half an hour ago she tried to leave, but the captain would not hear of it. “Not after the Marquis has gone to such pains to get us together, not after he has even taken upon himself the burden of navigation to allow us this time in each other’s company.” His expression while he said this was as desperate as his choice of words. It seemed to pain him that he could not make duress sound pleasant. Since then Gabrielle has sat placidly answering questions and keeping him talking. The more the captain talks, the more he drinks. He is already slurring his words. If I can get him to yawn, the finishing post will be in sight. Drunken men are easy to outmanoeuvre and quick to fall asleep.

  All the while, except for when he fills their goblets, the serving man, Jute, has been standing by the side table, his gaze averted.

  “How did you find London during your brief stay there?” the captain asks suddenly with a sniff.

  “I prefer the country, Captain.”

  “Ah, the country, the country, yes,” he says, holding his wine as though about to make a toast and staring into some deep nowhere. The cabin sways slightly and the timbers creak. The ship’s movements have become gentler since the Marquis took over.

  The captain takes a sip. “Yes, yes, the country.” He is silent for a moment. “You mean the English country?”

  “I have never seen the English country, Captain. I believe I mentioned it before. We docked in London and stayed there the entire time.”

  “The French country, then,” he says, prodding the knife in her direction as though this were an incisive deduction.

  “Yes, the French country.” She has already told him this too but decides to let it pass.

  “You must not suppose,” he says, abruptly shifting in his seat. “You must not suppose I do not have the life and laughter of society about me wherever I go, my dear. You must not suppose that.”

  “I don’t suppose that, Captain,” Gabrielle says gently.

  “Good,” says the captain, warming to this success. “I should say I could make any young woman most happy when I retire.”

  “I’m sure you could,” says Gabrielle.

  “I am known as a great talker, my dear. Young women, women of every age in fact, have clamoured for my notice at one time or another.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Many a pretty cheek has blushed at my attentions, I assure you.”

  Gabrielle nods and tries to smile, but his eyes are no longer focussed upon her. Instead his gaze roves around the timbers of his cabin and settles on the curtains beyond which must lie his bed.

  “Are you tired, Captain Henley?” asked Gabrielle, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  The captain shrugs and takes another gulp of wine then holds out his goblet. Jute comes toward him immediately with the jug and refills it.

  “A captain has no time to be tired,” he says, taking a large gulp then wiping his mouth with his now purple handkerchief. “And you, you must not be tired either,” he says with a curious gesture of his forefinger and a lopsided smile.

  “I’m not so sure I can prevent sleep from coming upon me, Captain.”

  “No, no, I’ve seen to that, the excellent fellow…,” the captain’s voice trails away and he sighs, gazing down now at the table. “Jute!” he snaps with more authority than would have seemed possible a moment ago.

  “Sir,” Jute replies, turning to him.

  “Leave us. See if Mr. F
leet has anything for you.”

  Jute bows and leaves. The captain hauls himself straight on his chair then leans across the table toward Gabrielle.

  “Excellent fellow?” Gabrielle repeats.

  “Fleet. The Marquis…the Marquis-sis apothecary. You know him.” He frowns, puts his fist to his head and laughs. “He said he would help me.”

  “Help you what?”

  “Oh no, no, no,” he says, still laughing and now waving his finger as though in mock warning. “It’s a trade secret, my dear. We keep our secrets upon this ship. We keep our secrets.”

  There is a silence, and the captain seems to gaze intently at Gabrielle’s plate. Then his plump hand reaches across the table, and his calloused fingers make contact with hers.

  Gabrielle tries not to draw away at once but feels a twitching in her ankle tendons and her body takes over. She puts her palms on the edge of the table, as though preparing to rise.

  “Captain, I really must leave you,” she says and, very slowly, starts to stand.

  The captain’s pale blue eyes watch her, and his chest moves in and out like that of a great animal in pain. Now fully standing, Gabrielle takes a step back from the table. The captain’s trembling fingers reach toward her again, but she is just beyond his grasp.

  “You must not go now,” he whispers.

  “Yes, Captain, I must,” Gabrielle says firmly, circling the table at the far end from the captain.

  “You will regret it,” he croaks. “You will regret it in a very short time.”

  His voice is feeble, and Gabrielle cannot believe it is a threat. Yet it stops her. She lays her fingers on the back of the chair where the Marquis sat.

  “Why will I regret it?” she asks.

  “Because, young lady,” he says with some emotion, “your coldness toward me is about to turn to fire.” He gets up from his seat. Gabrielle backs away and tries to edge closer to the exit, but the captain sees this and shuffles sideways into the space between the table and the door.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” Gabrielle says, trying to fix the wildness in his eye with some kind of firmness in her own. “I will never ‘turn to fire’ for you. It is quite impossible.”