So I wandered about the market and surrounding store fronts, looking for nothing in particular and feeling beckoned by all, until I spied a little place selling a variety of interesting articles: including, to my delight, books. The offerings were small, and primarily consisted of recently printed romances, poetry, and religious and political treatises from London. However, they had a box of odd books in many languages, and I perused these with anticipation. I almost toppled with laughter when I found a copy of Plato’s Republic in German. I immediately purchased it and located a nearby shady place at the mouth of an alley, to collapse with my bottle and book. I proceeded to read in peace.
Some indeterminable amount of time later, I felt eyes upon me, and looked up with a small amount of annoyance to discover I was not merely being gazed at in a casual fashion. Nay, I was being stared at with an intensity I supposed, once it seeped through my rum-addled brain, a sober man might find alarming. I studied my watcher with blurry concentration that became sharper as I sensed danger about the fellow.
He was dressed as a buccaneer, but darkly. Whereas most wore ecru or linen-colored canvas and gaily-colored cotton on their heads, his loose breeches, tunic, and kerchief had been dyed a deep maroon that appeared black unless directly in the sun. Black lacquer and gold adorned the grips of his pistols, of which there were two, and the hilts of his swords and knives: of which there was one rapier, of fine quality, two cutlasses, as I had learned the buccaneers called their heavy long knives, and three dirks. All of them looked well-used. There was a musket slung across his back. The baldric and belt this wealth of armament suspended from was likewise black leather. He wore no footgear, but if he had, I was sure they would have been boots and ebony.
He stood maybe a dozen feet away, with his arms crossed and his feet firmly braced. I doubted any could move him from the spot; and indeed, the people passing by parted around him like water round a rock. From the hang of his clothes, his stance, and the cords of muscle in his calves and forearms, I judged his build to be muscular yet lean. His bone structure was fine, as his hands seemed almost delicate. He was clean-shaven and his face was attractive: not handsome, not pretty, but somewhere in between. He appeared to be of an age with me. I could not tell his hair color, but his skin was browned the nutmeg of a fair-skinned man. He wore gold hoops in his ears.
I noted all of this, but what really held my attention were his eyes. They were wide-set and the whole of the socket around them was painted black as coal, like a mask that ran from one temple to the other, even across the bridge of his nose. From within those pits of shadow, two blazing emerald orbs regarded me. And I was at a loss as to their motivation or emotion.
“Who are you?” he asked in a husky voice that barely crossed the distance between us.
I blinked. The question had been in German, but his accent was French. Maybe I was more inebriated than I thought. Why was a strange man addressing me in German?
I chose not to bridle at his tone, as there seemed more curiosity to his query than rancor. And then I was at a loss as to how best to answer his query. I was loathe to use my title, for I did not wish to be known by it amongst the buccaneers. For a moment I toyed with using my old alias of Ulysses, but that was the moniker of someone I was no longer. And then too much time had passed to be considered polite.
I quickly used my true surname. “Williams. And you are?” I replied in German.
“I am called Gaston the Ghoul.”
I pushed myself up the wall and stood.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said politely. I made sure of my legs and approached him, transferring the bottle to my left hand to reside with the book, leaving my right free. He was just shy of my height. He had not uncrossed his arms but I sensed the change of his balance as he brought his weight to the balls of his feet. I fervently hoped he meant me no mischief, as I was too drunk to fight him. His eyes were still unreadable.
“Why are you here?” he asked in the same tone as before.
At the moment it seemed as esoteric a question as my name, and my mind flailed about in the grasping of it. An abundance of answers presented themselves, leaving me at a loss as to what he truly wanted to know. I switched to French. “Begging your pardon, but you will have to be more specific. And I would prefer speaking French or English if it pleases you, as my German is somewhat underused and not suitable for a discussion of merit in my current state of intoxication.”
He nodded and frowned in thought for a moment before speaking French.
“You read it.” His eyes darted to the book in my hand. I remembered it was in German.
“Oh, oui, I am literate in German, but this work is taxing my skill with the language. Thankfully I am familiar enough with it in Latin.”
Green eyes studied me. “Why are you in Jamaica?”
I supposed the correct response involved saying something of the plantation, but it seemed hollow, somehow, and disingenuous in its specificity. Perhaps this was the result of reading Plato while intoxicated. “I came here to try and make amends with my father and shoulder the yoke of family duty, or something of that ilk I suppose. I think I shall fail.”
He was taken aback, and his face froze for a moment with incredulity. Then he apparently judged me sincere, and his features settled into a mild grimace of confusion. “Why?”
“I have never had the man’s respect and goodwill; and in truth, I am not sure what value I place on it in comparison to my own desires.”
“Which are?”
“Adventure and romance as opposed to duty and diligence. I enjoy traveling and learning new things. However, I find myself harnessed to duty here by my own choice.”
“Are you a philosopher?”
“On occasion. I take great delight in the perils of sophism. Plato here is not one of my favorites, though I took great delight in finding this book. I would not wish to live in his republic.”
“Why?”
“I was raised without a great deal of nurturing and found it not to my liking. And I feel the education of a youth should contain far more than music and athletics. And though I agree with his conceit that any man should be able to love as he sees fit, I find his overall presentation of utopia to be somewhat loveless and far too regimented for my taste. And I cannot see loving a nation over one’s fellow man. Truly, if I have to read ancient Greeks, I far prefer Homer.”
“Do you prefer mythology over philosophy?”
“Only in the reading of it. I prefer the exercise of reason over superstition.”
He smiled, and then sobered and looked me over again. “Do you wish to become a flibustier?”
At my confusion, he smirked and rolled his eyes.
“You English, you call every man who sails under the Jolie Rouge a boucanier. I know of few men in this port who ever hunted on the Haiti and made boucan. On Île de la Tortue, we call the ones who rove flibustiers and the ones who hunt boucaniers. Most men do both, at least they used to. Not so many boucaniers anymore.”
I turned it over in my mind a couple of times, until I realized that flibustiers was the French pronunciation of freebooters. “I can see where a distinction could be made about such a thing.” Some vague thought stirred and slowly made itself known. “Are we not at war?”
His body tightened and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You have done nothing to anger me… yet.”
I smiled affably. “I should hope not. I meant our nations.”
“I have no nation,” he said with a trace of amusement.
“Forget I said anything.”
He smirked again. “You will learn wars only cross the Line when there is gold involved. The same is true of peace. I have been sailing on a French ship under a marque from your governor. Yet if he could muster the men and ships, he would retake Île de la Tortue from the French.”
“But all he has of a military force are the buccaneers, excuse me, freebooters, and I take it they are not in agreement with that.”
“It serves the i
nterests of all to play one against the other as necessary. A year ago your Governor Modyford was seizing prizes. So everyone went to Île de la Tortue and Port Royal lost all of the booty. Now he is issuing marques to any who want one, especially the French.”
I grinned. “I truly adore public servants. They are always so…predictable.”
“So you think you will become a flibustier?”
“Possibly. I met a Captain Bradley two days ago, and he said he could possibly use a man who spoke Castilian and had a fondness for steel. He is planning on sailing, soon, though; and I am not sure if the affairs I came here to handle can be left alone as of yet, though my father’s agent would have me sail.”
“Why?”
“He feels I will be a detriment to the endeavor.” I smiled.
“And why is that?”
“I do not have it in me to callously enslave men, and I care little for farming.”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Do you have it in you to kill men?”
“Oui, with great celerity and regularity as the need presents itself.” I shrugged.
He smiled. “So you would rather kill them than own them?”
“Quite possibly, oui.”
“And you have a fondness for steel?” His eyes flicked to my blade.
I smiled. “We have more than a passing acquaintance, as it has both saved my life and attempted to relieve me of it on many an occasion.”
“We should spar. When you are sober.”
I grinned. “I am sure I would enjoy that immensely.”
His eyes flicked over me critically. “If you are going roving, you will need a musket.”
“I have two at my disposal.”
“Lighter attire.”
“I plan to remedy that.”
“And earrings.”
“Why? I am truly curious,” I chuckled.
He shrugged. “I do not know where the tradition started, but they make it easy to spy another fliebustier in the smoke of battle.”
“That is useful to know. I will consider it. May I ask a question? Why do you paint your eyes so?”
“The Carribe. One of the Indian nations that lived here used to paint their faces thus. The Carribe ate people. The Spaniards were terrified of them. Several of my party did this when we attacked Saint Jago on Hispaniola. It bothers the Spaniards.” He shrugged and smiled thinly. “It bothers the English. And the French. Everyone really.”
I chuckled again. “How long have you been in the West Indies?”
“Ten years.”
If he was truly of an age with me as I surmised, that meant he came here at about the same time I left England the first time. But whereas I had spent the years wandering the known world, he had made his home in this wilderness. “Why did you come here, to seek adventure or fortune?”
He frowned briefly, and I felt him withdraw from me even though he moved not an inch. “My father bade me to,” he said quietly, and abruptly turned to leave.
I felt an immediate sense of loss and fought the urge to follow him. Instead I called out, “Where shall I see you again?”
He paused and turned to regard me. “We will meet again.”
Then he left, and I stood alone on a dusty street, with a book and bottle in my hand. There was hope in my heart, though. I had met an educated man who I thought I had much in common with. I returned to Theodore’s with a smile on my face.
“You look pleased with yourself,” Theodore commented as I entered. I decided against mentioning my meeting and told him of the book and the rum concoction and reading in the shade. Theodore shook his head as if he had already consigned me to a life of piracy and drunken debauch. He sent me upstairs to dress for the party.
As I donned clothing I did not wish to wear ever again, I thought of Gaston the Ghoul. In a few brief minutes he had become my savior. I stuffed my head into a wig and my feet into hose and shoes, and realized I was quite smitten with him; and here I thought I had long outgrown schoolboy infatuations. I vowed to approach him with all the sophistication and nonchalance I possessed. And not to play the eager puppy begging for a bone of kindness, as I was always so wont to do on the rare occasions I found a person I wished to know.
My pleasant thoughts of my meeting dissipated as I finished dressing. By the time I joined Theodore in his office I was steeped in the misery known by the common name of sweat. Theodore pronounced me pleasing to the eye, and my innards knotted and clutched at my lower spine. I assumed that, since the gentry here sought to imitate all things English, there would be some unfortunate servant stationed near the latrine to hold my coat while I shat. Needless to say, my mood was as foul as my imagination.
“Hmmm, it looks as if it may rain,” Theodore commented as we walked to the King’s House.
“Will it bring cooler temperatures?”
“Sometimes. Primarily it will turn the streets to sandy mud filled with filth,” he said. “Be thankful you will not experience the full glory of the rainy season until late summer.”
Upon witnessing the expression on my face, he laughed uproariously; and I silently vowed that when it rained, I would trip him on the walk home.
And then we arrived. But for the heat and foliage, it would have been difficult to tell this party from a similar function at my father’s manor. The ladies were quite lovely in the finest gowns, and the men were well-dressed in the latest styles. The servants were in sharp livery and circulated with silver trays proffering refreshments. The decoration was tasteful, if perhaps a little musty. All in all, it looked like many a fête I had attended over the years.
I drank wine and Theodore introduced me about, and I smiled and nodded and said witty things, or at least they laughed politely. My snide remarks about the climate were always well-received, though they said that one grew accustomed to it in time. I realized this might be true, as I seemed to be perspiring far more than the people I was speaking with.
I met Governor Thomas Modyford, who seemed a witty man himself. He looked me over with a delighted smile but a shrewd eye. I smiled in return, and decided he was a man one did not give ground to, lest one lose his respect.
After the introductions were made, Theodore said, “Lord Marsdale is delighted with that acreage near yours, and we have taken the liberty of sending his bondsmen there.”
“The one with the hill? Oh, wonderful,” Modyford said. “I will have my man draw up the papers tomorrow. My Lord, have you given any thought to where else you may want land?”
“Not as of yet.” I shrugged. “I feel I will need to take some time to make that determination, as I am not familiar with the island. I hope the delay will not prove to be troublesome.”
“Not at all, my Lord. I can make suggestions, as I am sure Theodore can. But it would be best for you to take your time and perhaps even venture about.”
“I will do that.”
Theodore surprised me. “Lord Marsdale wishes to go roving. So I imagine he will not see to it until he returns.”
To my amazement this did not seem to surprise Modyford at all. “Truly, my Lord? On what ship?”
“I have been invited to sail on the North Wind.” I wondered what ship Gaston sailed on.
“Good, good, my Lord. Bradley is a fine captain, I am told. Of course, I have never sailed with him.” He guffawed at his own joke. Then he stepped closer to whisper, “Roving with the buccaneers may not be to your liking, though.”
“How so?”
“Well, sir, they are a rough lot, and may trouble a man of your breeding,” he said with sincere concern.
I shrugged. “I have traveled before.”
“As a man of wealth or poverty, my Lord?”
I understood the point he wished to make, and I did not wish to give it to him, though he was correct to assume I had always journeyed as a moneyed man in some fashion. “Both. Sometimes it behooves a Lord’s son not to be known as one.”
“Ah, very good then, my Lord. You may do well. I wish you the best of fortune. The
rest of the land can be settled when you return.”
Another man approached and Modyford beamed a smile at him. “Ah, Morgan. This is the Viscount of Marsdale. Lord Marsdale, this is Henry Morgan, the admiral of our buccaneers.”
I fought frowning at that. The only credence I could give to this statement was the man’s earrings and his overall mien, which was predatory and wary despite the fine clothes and proper young bride at his side. He looked me over, and I knew he thought me weak, much as Bradley had initially done. I chose to ignore it for the time being.
I wondered how one became the admiral of the buccaneers, and whether or not the buccaneers were aware of this. He was not much older than I, and I wondered a good many things about him, but he did not seem inclined to talk in my presence; and so Theodore and I graciously excused ourselves to mingle with other guests.
My official duty for the plantation done, Theodore abandoned me to speak to his other clients. I thought this wise, as I wished to berate him somewhat over his announcement to Modyford. Left alone, I stood and looked about.
Upon arriving, I had been surprised at the number of women present. Though the men still outnumbered them two to one, I had not even expected that many. Apparently the proof of money and power on Jamaica was the possession of a wife. The few single daughters of marriageable age were in demand, and I did not even attempt to force my way through the knots of men surrounding them to get a glimpse. So it was with real amazement that I spied Bradley and Siegfried exiting one of these clusters of courtship.
In truth, I almost did not recognize them, as they were as formally dressed as I. The earrings gave them away, though; and I had to chuckle, as I had discovered another battlefield where gold at the ears could allow buccaneers to recognize one another. Of course I did not have a set yet, so they almost failed to recognize me.
Bradley grinned when he did realize my identity. “I expected you here.”
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