Flames of Desire

by Vanessa Royall

  It began on the morning the Meridian sailed. Selena was conscious of movement, slow and heavy, as the laden ship moved out of Liverpool harbor and onto the roads of the North Atlantic, and then, later, the heavy roll and swell of the high seas. Thus, by sense of motion alone, she realized the loss of her homeland, her life. No longer a refugee in the Highlands, with Father and Brian, she was now at the mercy of the ocean. And Slyde. When he’d returned to enjoy his prize, Selena said she had “the curse.” Slyde played the gentleman, but he wouldn’t do so much longer.

  Timeless hours she spent in the hammock, drifting from memory to memory, from desire to desire, until her recollections seemed as warped and distorted as her dreams did. Faces and events blurred, just as time did, in the watery cavern of the ship, and words from the past came down upon her, took on strange meaning. Half crying, half dozing, she would remember the ride down from the Highlands, Grandma’s body strapped upon the baggage rack above her head, but Father would be with her, saying, Selena, the sky begins here, and it would not be Grandma but Father in the coffin, now carried by faceless, black-coated men into the grove of trees on the banks of the Teviot River—or was it onto the sweet meadow at Foinaven Lodge?—where Sean Bloodwell bent to kiss her breasts, with Royce Campbell striding across the ballroom in Edinburgh, his eyes upon her for the first time, and then swinging out onto the rope with him, out over the balcony…no, that was swinging in the ship’s bag on Slyde’s broad back. No, either. No, too. The only memory on which her pulse beat, on which it could rely, was the memory of the beat of Royce Campbell’s pulse, where she touched his neck with her hand, he above her, around her, within her, the place toward which the blade of her sword was homing. McGrover again, twitching a mean, thin tail from the ship beams, and mocking her with red eyes. Blood leaping. Bodies burning. And then a dark shape would rise up against the hurricane lantern, and it would be Slyde sometimes, bringing her the rind of a lime, already gnawed by something or someone, or a piece of dried beef, black bread, a precious half-cup of water.

  Slyde kept demanding his due.

  The first days, it was easy. The sailor understood—or thought he understood—that it was her time, and he was even excited, on edge, with his secret adventure. But then the ship was out on the vast loneliness of the sea, and the men on board changed, faced now not with the whoring and drinking of a transitory week in port, but rather with the elemental mystery of the sea, which unnerves more learned and steadier men than Slyde. It is the nature of the sea, just as it is the nature of the black, star-studded abyss, to reach into the mind and heart of human beings, and to wrench out of them, in a moment of crisis, all that is there.

  Selena, drifting in time, her future unreadable, pored over faces and memories, and, when she had gone too far, when everything she knew intermingled and became trackless miasma, pulled herself together with a vision of returning to Coldstream. Some day. Some year. Some century. And everything would be as it had been.

  On the bridge, according to Slyde, Captain Randolph was reverting to form. One sailor, clumsy at his ropes, had been hanging now two days, by his thumbs, from the yardarm. His wrists, elbows, and shoulders were already dislocated, and soon the weight of his body would stretch him out longer than the rack.

  And Slyde kept asking for delight.

  “I still can’t,” she told him, the seventh day at sea.

  “Hey, Selena, I mayn’t be noble born, but I’m no fool. ’Tis not the way it happens, fer seven days! Look at the risk I’m takin’ by bringin’ down yer grub. Come on, now. Blood or no blood, I don’t care no more.”

  “Please. I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “What? Ye wish I what? Now, who’re ye, anyways, my sweet? Ye ken what would ’appen if I was t’ go up on deck an’ tell the captain I found a stowaway? An’ a woman, too? Ye want t’ guess on it?”

  “I’m very grateful, and when we reach America, you’ll be suitably rewarded…”

  “Ah! Don’t ye ’old the carrot t’ me eyes lak that, ye bitch. Ye told me already ’ow ye’ve got nithin’, an’ it must be true, ’cause if ye did, ye wouldna be ’ere. Now, afore I must be rough wi’ ye, move aside yer dress so’s I can ’ave ye.”

  Selena had known it would come to this, and she already regretted the necessity of what she had had to do in the tavern loft. But, she realized, if he could threaten her with Captain Randolph’s wrath, she held over him the very fact that he had brought her aboard. And, she thought, I can still count on my accent and my name. Ship’s officers are gentlemen, even when they are barbarians.

  She was lying on the hammock as Slyde lifted a leg and prepared to swing on top of her. The knife was in her hand, beneath her skirts. She turned her wrist, and the blade of the knife slanted at his groin. He stepped back, hatred and wonder in his eyes, and the ship rolled beneath them.

  “Ye’ve gone mad,” he told her, studying the knife.

  Selena almost agreed with him.

  “What of yer food?” Slyde asked. “Yer water?”

  Selena had no answer.

  “I’m not an evil man,” he said, easing closer.

  Selena cast about for a ploy, some trick to hold him off.

  “There’s lots worse,” Slyde said, wet-lipped in the anticipation of pleasure.

  Yet there must be a way. The knife still poised, but with Slyde edging closer, ready to pounce, Selena decided on her course.

  “Father!” she screamed at him, there in the dark hold.

  He leaped back, more surprised than anything else.

  “Father, you’ve come!” she cried, sitting up, tossing the knife away—but not too far away—and spreading her arms to him, as if for an embrace.

  “Quiet, my God,” he said, looking around and putting a finger to his mouth. He was a little alarmed now.

  “Here! Come to me,” she cried, swinging out of the hammock, following Slyde as he backed away, beginning to believe she had already gone mad.

  “Ye’ll be wantin’ food an’ water,” he suggested, glancing over his shoulder. “An’ who’ll bring it to ye, lest it’s Slyde? So come on now an’ be a good girl fer me…”

  True. She might scare him off this time. But what about next time? What if Slyde did not bring down her crumbs of black bread, her pathetic half a cup of water? And she had been meaning to ask for a towel, some soap, and a brush.

  She stopped.

  Slyde stopped, too, no longer backing away. He looked skeptical, and kept an eye on her face. Selena didn’t have the courage to continue the charade any longer, the repercussions were too formidable to consider. At the moment an image of herself stalking the rat came to mind, she crazy with hunger, abandoned by Slyde to the incessant loneliness of the hold. She knew it was no use. She might go crazy later, but she wasn’t crazy yet. She sagged to her knees on the wet boards, as if to say, “Go ahead. Have at me. Do what you will.”

  “Now, that’s a nice lassie,” Slyde said, coming forward. In one motion, he lifted her, swung her over the side of the hammock, and laid her down.

  “That’s a good girl,” he was crooning, his voice already hoarse and breathy. Impassioned by her acquiescence—utterly passive though it was—he lifted her skirts and fumbled at his own clothing, opening his breeches. She saw it all as if in the slowness of dream motion, as the doomed convict must witness his last minutes on the chopping block. Slyde’s slow, concupiscent leer, and the way his hands moved, fumbling with his clothes. Far down the passageway, the steady arc of the hurricane lantern as the ship rolled on the mighty deep. Her own distress, too, tossing on the rigged hammock, above three miles of black ocean. And now Slyde’s body moving over the side of the hammock, and his hand reaching for her. Try to do as you did in the tavern. Don’t think.

  But her mind was feverish, even if her body was passive to a point far beyond submission. No point in resistance anymore. Not to Slyde or anyone else.

  “I don’t mean ye no ’arm, Selena,” Slyde was crooning. His breath stank of garlic and fish. �
�It’s just that…”

  And she felt him fumbling and exploring, about to enter.

  “Well, now, Mr. Slyde,” came the voice, cold and amused.

  In spite of her own surprise and alarm, Selena was aware that she had never seen a human being move as fast as Slyde did. He was off her in less than a second, and in scarcely more time than that he had himself buttoned up, standing to stiff attention against the hull of the ship.

  The figure stood directly in the path of the lantern, and Selena could not make out his face, but she had little doubt of his identity. Based upon Slyde’s frequent allusions to the man’s ruthlessness and brutality, she had expected a larger figure. But the silhouette was almost slim, slightly stooped, indolently self-assured.

  “So you brought a passenger aboard, did you, Slyde?” That same chilling tone, utterly confident, even bored.

  “Aye, Cap’n Randolph, sar, I…”

  “Save it, Slyde. We’ll discuss it shortly. In truth, I’ve known since the evening you came aboard. And your frequent visits to galley and hold were noted regularly by my spies among the crew. But I decided to let you get away with it for a while. In the first place, it will be much more humiliating for you to know, not only that you have failed, but that I knew all along of your failure and your…stupidity. That’s being charitable, and you will soon agree. And, in the second place, wondering what and whom you had down here was amusing to me. It gave me something to think about.”

  Selena did not move. Captain Randolph was angry, very angry, but it was not the kind of anger which most people manifest, the hot rage against which a calm person can contend. No, he was angry in a far more disconcerting way. He was angry because he enjoyed it, because it left him free to devise and carry out monstrous reprisals against those who had offended him. Slyde, for example, and…

  “What is your name, woman?” he asked her now, his silhouette straightening imperceptibly against the lantern light.

  Selena collected herself. “I am Selena MacPherson, of Coldstream, in Scotland. This is most unfortunate, but it was necessary, and I assure you that when we reach America, you will be more than rewarded for your…”

  Randolph laughed. “Did you hear that, Slyde? She says she is…”

  “Aye, aye, sar.”

  “Shut up, Slyde. I’m speaking. That will be another hunk of flesh out of your carcass. As I was saying, she speaks of rewards. No, Miss MacPherson. Do not attempt to mislead me. You are a fugitive, and you have nothing. Not a pence. The Secret Offices were on every ship in Liverpool, with news to be on watch for you. Pity they missed you, isn’t it? No, there will be a reward, all right. But it will be mine, when I turn you over to the governor-general in Massachusetts. I daresay you’ll make the voyage back in a hole as bad as this…” He looked around at this pitiful place in the bow. “…so the least we can do is bring you up on deck now. I am certain better accommodations can be found for you.”

  He spoke so softly, with such excessive politeness, that Selena’s apprehension flared beyond fear.

  “Come now. Slyde, would you proceed us up on deck, please?

  “Aye, aye, sar.”

  “Shut up, Slyde. You had best keep your mouth shut. They tell me that water is apt to get into it, when a man is keelhauled…”

  The hapless sailor began immediately to plead, but his distress only amused the captain, who laughed.

  “Oh, sar, please, please, sar, not that, anything but that…”

  “Anything? Really, Slyde.”

  Screeching pathetically, Slyde made a break for it, and ran up a short ladder, disappearing somewhere in the cargo hold.

  Randolph laughed again, and motioned Selena to follow him. They went up on deck, and the danger of the circumstances notwithstanding, Selena exulted in the fresh, cool air, and the strong wind bending, cracking, in the sails. Blinded for a moment by the sun, she gradually saw the circle of rough men standing around her, their expressions puzzled, or fearful. From the crow’s nest, atop the mainmast, came a doleful wail.

  “Woman aboard! Woman aboard ship! God help us now!”

  At her side, Captain Randolph chuckled mirthlessly.

  “Sailors are quite superstitious about women aboard a ship, my dear. They have been known to…how shall we put it?…jettison the offending element…”

  She looked at him closely for the first time. He was a highly attractive man, with a regularity of features that was almost too perfect, with all the outward characteristics of human appearance, but lacking heart and soul, blood and torment, which are the heritage of living men.

  “But do not be alarmed, just yet. See them? These sailors of mine have been reduced to the primal motives, fear and need. They will do exactly as I say, when I say, no more and no less. They fear me because I have bred it into them, and because, upon this ship, I alone can satisfy their needs.”

  He stopped, quite pleased with his situation. And his control over these men was no inconsiderable accomplishment either, Selena realized. The men swinging down from the rigging, to gather about her on the deck of the Meridian, and the men climbing up out of the hold to see her, were a sullen, murderous lot. Their eyes threatened her, and she remembered how she must look, the clothes Brian had bought her in Liverpool soiled and wrinkled, her once beautiful hair damp and matted.

  “Do not worry,” Randolph said, as if having read her thoughts. “You will be allowed to bathe and change in due course. Your only punishment for now will be to remain as you are and observe our dealings with Mr. Slyde.”

  Curtly, he gave the orders. Slyde was to be found in the cargo hold, and brought on deck. It was done, in minutes. Several evil-looking men—the officer of the day, the bosun’s mate, and his second in command, Randolph explained, as if courteously—then stretched the screaming, pleading Slyde out on the deck and tied him hand and foot.

  “What are you going to do to him?” Selena asked, trembling.

  “Nothing he has not already done to himself, by his actions,” the captain smiled.

  “But he just did it to help me. I…”

  “Would you prefer to be in his place?”

  Selena started. No, she would not be pleased with that. Never.

  “You see,” Randolph said, a teacher outlining a lesson for a callow student, “you see what I mean about fear. It is the level at which men are most easily managed. Make them fear you enough, and you are a great leader. As I am. See?” he went on. “Watch the faces of the men tying Slyde. Watch the faces of the others. There. Can you not read their minds? First, there is relief. Because they have escaped punishment. Second, however, you will see something far more subtle. It is like delight mingled with pride. They will enjoy watching Slyde get cast overboard, because in their minds they will believe themselves to be my soulmates. They worship power and they will congratulate themselves on being shrewd enough to side with me. Cowing men is easy to do, and there is only one precaution that a leader must take. Make sure the group has a continuous supply of lone victims. Are you ready?” he called to his second in command, a rangy, rawboned officer with a pendulous nose which looked as if its cartilage had been removed, and the flesh of the nose sewn back together.

  “Aye, aye, sar. Ye ready, Mr. Slyde?”

  Slyde whimpered and cried, struggling hopelessly at his bonds.

  “All right, let’s do it, then,” the captain said.

  A thick rope was strung beneath the keel of the ship. Slyde, moaning piteously, was bound hand and foot to one end of the rope. Several strong sailors grasped the other end. The hapless seaman would be thrown overboard and “hauled” beneath the keel.

  “He might drown!” Selena cried, seeing what it was they were about to do. “He can’t move either his legs or his arms.”

  “That’s the exact idea,” Captain Randolph exclaimed, pleased with her percipience.

  She averted her eyes as they dragged the babbling Slyde to the rail. Then she felt Randolph’s hand on the back of her neck—it was like a steel vise, for h
e was deceptively strong—and he twisted her face back to the pleading sailor.

  “You are not merely an observer, my dear. A part of your punishment for stowing away on my ship is to witness what happens to those who break the rules.”

  Smiling, he let linger unspoken whatever might befall her later.

  Slyde went over the side, and struck the water, flopping in desperation.

  “Don’t pull him in too fast, men,” called the captain to the sailors at the other end of the rope. “Mister Slyde thinks he’s a big fish, and we wouldn’t want to break the line.”

  He laughed.

  To Selena, it seemed as if they would never pull the rope. Out of sight beneath the ship, the helpless Slyde would be in torment, fighting to hold his breath. After a couple of minutes, Randolph gave a lazy gesture, and the men started hauling rope. Now Slyde would be drawn directly beneath the Meridian, his body cut and scraped by the barnacles attached to the ship. It was an evil penalty.

  “I seldom use it on a man I’d rather see alive,” the captain told her, as they watched the sailors yank the rope. “But sometimes they survive. It provides suspense, don’t you think? Goodness,” he added, studying her hair, “I believe we can get you back to humanity. I have clothes in my cabin that might suit you. And I could use…” he said it with an unreadable, faintly ironic touch “…a little extra beauty on my ship.”

  Then Slyde had been hauled under the keel. He came up dripping, motionless.

  “Cap’n, I think ’e’s dead.”

  “Oh, too bad. Let’s have a look.”

  Slyde lay spread out on deck like a dead fish. Captain Randolph strode over and kicked him hard in the stomach. A second passed, then a thin trickle of water flowed from his mouth and nostrils, followed by a moan.

  “Good man, indeed,” Randolph observed. “I didn’t think he’d make it. Now,” he ordered, turning to the bosun, “when he comes ’round, strip him and flog him until he drops, douse him with salt water, and then flog him again. I’ll take another look at him then.”