by V. E. Ulett
Emma had been trembling, sitting beside him.
“No, thank you, sir. Much as I should love to fly to Mama, Aloka will expect to find me aboard the Blonde. You will send a boat back to await him?”
“That must be for Captain Verson to command, ma’am. I cannot help but think Mr. Blackwell should have been with us. You were very brave, you have your mother’s quickness and spirit.”
“You are kind, sir, and I daresay more heft behind my blows than dear Mama. It was your skill and courage truly carried the day.” There was a hitch in Emma’s voice, and very low in Spanish she said, “I am so afraid for him, Juan Luis, I can hardly bear it.”
Blackwell lay stretched out in his cot aboard Albion, one arm propped behind his head, thinking over the evening’s entertainment. The lady of the governor of Rio de Janeiro, reckoned to be one of the handsomest women in Brazil, had been present. But Blackwell did not think she compared to Mercedes. She hadn’t Mercedes’ charm, gentleness of manner, nor her quick intelligence. Blackwell did not consider how much Emma threw all comers into the shade; he simply could not think of her as a sexual being. There were more subjects on which Blackwell’s mind refused to turn. Edward’s oddness and his affinity for the company of women, along with his inability to form a fonder connection with one—in spite of his Adonis looks. Then there was Captain Verson and Mr. Montelongo’s on-shore relationship, living together in the house in Chelsea these many years. One train of thought, however, never failed to captivate him. He tried to ignore his painful hard erection.
His door opened and Mercedes slipped inside the cabin. Blackwell was immediately up and at her side, in spite of his nakedness.
“Are you unwell, sweetheart?”
“Not in the least. May I join you?”
“I wish you would.”
She pointedly looked at the bed instead of at him. Blackwell was sure he was a ludicrous sight, with his scars and his burns and his native tattoos, his cock like a pikestaff. Mercedes shed her dressing gown, naked underneath except for the little camisole top that covered her wound. Blackwell’s heart began to thud as she climbed into the berth before him, exposing her lovely round bottom to his view.
He immediately settled beside her and took her in his arms. “Should you like me just to hold you?” She’d come to him for comfort before, not yet strong enough for anything more vigorous.
“Then what would you do with this?” She touched him intimately, causing Blackwell to suck in a breath.
“You know I cannot help it. I’ve been thinking of you and...just you let me worry about it anyway, Miss, and don’t provoke me.”
“Darling,” she propped herself on his chest, considering him with a gaze of love, “I wouldn’t tease you. I love you too much, and I feel quite well. I would have come to you sooner but for the weather being so rough in the crossing, and how busy you’ve been in port.”
She followed this by kissing him. A good long kiss that began gentle and ended with Blackwell trying to tuck her beneath his body.
“Like this, Jim,” she whispered, turning her back to him and pulling him against her.
Blackwell thought he knew why she wanted that position. He leaned over her, and moving her hair aside he kissed the back of her neck and her shoulders.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, sweetheart, and I won’t touch you there or even look at you if you don’t like it. But, would you take this off for me?” Blackwell touched her upper garment. “I want to feel only your skin against mine.”
Mercedes hesitated a moment, and then she sat up and unclasped her top and put it to one side in the berth. She lay down again with one arm clamped over the wounded spot where her left breast had been.
Blackwell kissed her from shoulder blade to the small of her back. He put his hand over her buttock, a gentle squeeze, then plunged it between her thighs to caress her intimately. A groan escaped him when his fingers met warm, wet flesh.
“I’ve been thinking of you, too.”
“I thought only men were that way.”
She smiled and gave a little chuckle, looking back at him. “Put your legs outside of mine.”
Blackwell made a queer face at this instruction. He was perfectly willing to do whatever she wanted, but he did not know how she came by such notions. In the next moment, all thought of the why and wherefore disappeared from Blackwell’s mind. Mercedes put her hand underneath her body and guided him, and when he slipped inside her, it felt like being wrapped in the finest, tightest, wet, warm silk. He nearly lost his head, it had been so long since he’d lain with her. He waited with great concentration and self control until Mercedes cried out and gripped the bolster beneath her cheek.
His first concern after his own release was to remove his weight from her.
“This side, if you please, darling.”
Mercedes shifted and he squeezed between the bulkhead and her body. She immediately lay half over him, her damaged side pressed against his body and the mattress.
“How did you know it would be like that, my darling?”
“Eh?” Blackwell couldn’t think what she meant.
“You said I must wait and see how I felt about fobbing you off on other women. I think I should call them out if they tried to take your attentions from me.”
She kissed his chest affectionately and Blackwell felt his heart glow.
“I only hoped. Hoped and trusted what had been so good between us would not be at an end.” He gave her a squeeze, and then with trepidation and in a low tone he said, “Mercedes, had you better not...you know. I’m sorry I did not pull out, I was too excited.”
“No. No need to now. All of that is over for me. The cancer and the surgery seemed to have hastened what might not have happened to me for years You are living with an old, damaged woman. I can have no more children.”
Blackwell’s feelings at this news were quite, quite mixed. “Are you sure, sweetheart? It would be a disaster was you to become with child.”
She began to cry and Blackwell cursed himself for a fool. Of course what was a relief to him, was a sad loss to Mercedes’ tender heart.
“Forgive me,” she said. “Blubbering is part and parcel of growing old, I fear. I should be less sad if I had more hopes of a grandchild, but between Edward, and Emma and Aloka...”
She broke off, sobbing. Blackwell cast about for a means of consoling her, and making amends for his stupid blunders.
“You shall always be younger than me, Mercy, sweetheart. And never, never damaged in my eyes, I do not like to hear you talk so. I love you just as you are, and I’m grateful. Grateful for every day you’re with me, and willing to come into my arms.”
This made her cry harder for a time, but he was happy to hear her say at last, playfully, “Did you like what we did? Did it feel good?”
“Yes.” He actually blushed in the gloomy cabin. “But...”
“But?”
“It made me feel like a fat arse, if you want the truth. You are so little and tender, I felt like I was too much all over you. Besides,” he ended in a low abashed tone, “I like the feel of your legs around me.”
She stroked his face and kissed him, and murmured that he was no kind of fat arse, and she would not hear such talk. It gave Blackwell a feeling of having come home again. He was a little surprised when she went to sleep in his arms. Usually, Mercedes left him to sleep in her own cot undisturbed. His attentions might have caused such fatigue, but Blackwell thought more could be put down to the emotion she must have experienced in working herself up to come to him. She rolled upon her back, completely relaxed, her vulnerable position confirming him in his suspicion.
Blackwell raised himself to look at her now exposed chest, which he had not seen properly before. His eyes were perfectly adjusted to the gloom of the cabin. The healed, scarred area where her left breast had been was not so ugly, to his mind, as the corrugated flesh of his torso and right arm where the burns had healed. He’d noticed for some time past, that when
he was on top of her his paunch hung down upon her. None of these things, not his scars or his native tattoos, not his bulk or his bastard son, seemed to weigh with her. Her love had remained unchanged since their earliest days together.
Blackwell knew that the illness, the surgery, and its aftermath she’d just told him of, struck at the essence of her womanhood. He pulled up the bedclothes and gently covered her, kissing the top of her head after lying back down, grateful she’d had the courage to return to his bed. He began to devise ways to make her comfortable with him again, to regain that perfect unconstraint he valued so highly.
Aloka awoke in a dank, gloomy, fetid atmosphere. There was a tremendous throbbing in his head, and a stench worse than bilge. He let his eyes adjust to the gloom, keeping his head quite still because moving it caused sharp pain, and he felt around him. His fingers met slimy straw, he rested on a heap of it. Aloka ceased to stir up the straw, for it caused the smells to waft up and assault him. He raised his arm and carefully probed an egg-sized knot on the back of his skull. A low moan escaped him, and then he gave a violent and painful start at the slamming of an iron gate.
He pushed himself to a sitting position against the nearest stone wall, to face the guard if one was coming. Aloka collected he was imprisoned, remembering the sequence of events that put him there in bits and pieces. His naval coat, sword and belt with its clasp knife, and his silver buckled shoes were gone. After sitting propped against the damp stone wall for a time, Aloka’s thirst became overpowering. His tongue felt fat and sticky in his mouth.
The only light in the cell came from somewhere down the corridor, and by its feeble gleam Aloka made out a bucket on the opposite wall. He rose to a standing position by small degrees, and with one shoulder propped against the cell wall he began to make his way to the bucket. He lurched along, his head pounding, and his vision so blurred at times it frightened him. Half way there he had to rest, panting slightly, his parched tongue almost hanging from his mouth. When he was nearing the bucket, heeled boots were heard ringing on the stone floor, and Aloka thought they approached his cell.
At last he stood over the bucket, but looking down Aloka gave an agonized grunt, for it was a slops bucket. He leaned farther over and added his own contribution, vomiting into it. A guard halted outside his cell. Aloka turned his whole body to face the man.
“Agua.” He’d learned some Spanish words from Mercedes.
The man laughed just as screaming started up in another quarter of the prison. Aloka remembered Mercedes’ screams. A man under torture this time.
“Punição,” the guard said matter-of-factly, and moved on.
Captain Blackwell was on his quarterdeck in the cool of the early morning, breathing in the fresh sea-scented air, feeling remarkably relaxed and well. A low mist hung over the water that would dissipate by noon. He began to plan the day ahead, they were to move both ships to St. Catherine’s to complete their water and wood. The sound of oars reached Albion’s quarterdeck before the Blonde’s gig emerged from the mist.
“Boat ahoy! What boat is that?” called Mr. Stapleton, master’s mate.
Captain Blackwell could make out a three-cornered, gold laced hat, and a lady’s bonnet in the stern of the boat. He hardly required the answering “Blonde!” from the boat’s coxswain to recognize Captain Verson. He smiled, thinking how pleased Mercedes would be to see Emma again so soon. He felt certain Emma was the lady in the boat.
Albion had no young gentleman for Captain Blackwell to send scurrying below to warn Mercedes of their visitors. She also lacked sideboys, but Albion’s bosun stepped up and piped Captain Verson aboard. The minute Captain Verson took off his hat to acknowledge their salutes, and Captain Blackwell had a good look at both their faces, he knew this would not be a visit to bring Mercedes pleasure.
Immediately after greeting Captain Verson, he stepped up to Emma. “How did you come by that bruise?” His heart felt cold and heavy as he took in the angry blotch on Emma’s lovely face.
Captain Blackwell forestalled Emma’s response. “We had best go below, if you please.”
Given the grim looks on their faces, Captain Blackwell dreaded to hear her answer, most especially before his men. He feared it must have something to do with Aloka. He hoped they would not find Mercedes still abed. Though she looked somewhat flustered, she was there in the cabin in a morning dress with her hair pinned up.
“Mama, you look remarkably rosy this morning.” Emma walked in and kissed her mother as usual.
“Perhaps because your father and Doctor Sparrman keep me wrapped in cotton most of the time.” Mercedes cast a concerned look over Emma’s shoulder at Captain Blackwell. “I wish I could say the same for you. You look as though you haven’t slept. And what is this great mark on your face, the whole side of your face is bruised.”
“She was just about to explain that,” Captain Blackwell said.
They all took seats, and Captain Verson reported the previous night’s attack on Mr. Montelongo and Emma.
Mercedes gasped. “Juan Luis?”
“Knocked about, ma’am, but otherwise well enough,” Captain Verson said. “I shall tell him of your concern, and I thank you. The reason for our visit, other than that Miss Emma might have the comfort of seeing you, is Mr. Blackwell never returned to the ship.”
“Oh, Papa!” Emma cried. “Do you not think the two events related? What might have happened to him?”
He exchanged a glance with Captain Verson. Normally, a missing lieutenant in port would not be cause for any great alarm. They would simply flush out the brothels and drinking dens until the man turned up.
Captain Blackwell cleared his throat. “I shall call upon the British consul and make inquiries, if Captain Verson thinks it proper.”
“Exactly my thought, sir.”
He took his ladies aside for a private word before departing with Captain Verson.
“I never thought it appropriate your mother should have taught you the sword, until now. I’m very glad, very grateful, you were able to defend yourself, and stand your ground with Mr. Montelon—”
“Until the blessed lobsters came!”
“Just so. You will be so good as to stay with your mama until I return. And you are not to worry. Do you hear me now? There are a dozen reasons a young man might be detained in port.”
Captain Blackwell pursed his lips and glanced down after uttering that last. Perhaps he’d said too much. Most of those reasons, especially in the case of his son, would have to do with women.
Captain Blackwell became much less sanguine when no one else thought a woman was involved in the case. In company with the British consul, Sir Walter Hornsby, Captain Blackwell had spent hours at the governor’s mansion, while the governor sent his aides round to look into Mr. Blackwell’s disappearance. The whole occupied such a long space of time that Captain Verson was obliged to excuse himself, to return to his ship and his duties.
In the afternoon Captain Blackwell and Sir Walter were at last summoned to the governor’s office. The governor gestured to a perspiring young man.
“Ensign Balbao is returned from Don Eduardo de Paiva, King João’s treasurer. Don Eduardo says yesterday evening Mr. Aloka Blackwell insulted and abused him, and as he was in fear of further violence from the young man, he was obliged to have him taken up.”
There was a brief silence as he and Sir Walter absorbed this news. Captain Blackwell had already observed Sir Walter was a retiring, quiet sort of man, so he spoke up. “I should like to see him in the fortress of Santa Cruz, sir, and I would be obliged to you for leave to do so. If there were any insult offered, I am sure an apology to Don Eduardo can be arranged.”
The governor’s face reddened as the ensign, still standing, spoke up.
“Mr. Blackwell was not taken to fortaleza de Santa Cruz, Captain. He is in the gaol at Botofogo.”
Heat rose up Captain Blackwell’s body, he felt as if it would explode out the top of his head. “Goddamn, hell, and death, sir! Yo
u do not mean to tell me my son, a King’s officer, sir, is in gaol with common criminals and runaway slaves?”
“Captain Blackwell, sir,...” Sir Walter squeaked.
“I demand he be moved at once, sir. At once to the military prison! That is the honor due his rank and service as a British Naval officer. I shall certainly write to my government. I am sure there are one or two Brazilian gentlemen in London who could be welcomed at the Tower.”
Shocked exclamations followed his declaration, the moral force of which was strengthened when Captain Verson was announced and walked in. He brought with him Lieutenant Blackwell’s naval coat, sword and belt, and shoes, which had been sent to the Blonde anonymously by one of the boats bringing stores to the ship.
“It was all I could do to persuade them to move Aloka to the military fortress,” Captain Blackwell explained to Mercedes and Emma. “Captain Verson very handsomely said if he is not liberated in three days time, when the Blonde returns from St. Catherine’s, the consequences would be most unpleasant.”
Captain Blackwell met the distressed, and rather blank stares, of Mercedes and Emma.
“He cannot say fairer than that,” Captain Blackwell said. “Nor in conscience can he fire upon the shore, yet threats are often effective.”
“I knew there was no woman keeping him ashore.” Emma glanced pointedly at Captain Blackwell. “But I cannot credit he insulted and abused Don Eduardo de Paiva. Kuanoa was upset when Mr. Montelongo and I left, but Aloka was perfectly calm and composed.”
“Kuanoa, do you say?” Captain Blackwell replied sharply.
He drew out all the details, listening carefully to Emma’s narration of their parting with Aloka the evening before. His heart ached for what might have happened to the girl, and what could be happening to his son. He certainly thought the two events related, as Emma had suggested earlier, but he did not like to say so.
“When did you come by that great bruise on your face?” he asked at last.
“To tell truth, I think Mr. Montelongo elbowed me in the head. We were fighting so close together.” Emma looked from his face to Mercedes, tears springing into her eyes. “May I worry for him now, Papa?”