Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “Yes, quite,” said Larocque. He walked over to the hearth, grabbed a pair of iron tongs, and picked up an ember. He touched the coal to his pipe and puffed it to life. “I don’t know how you do it in the Navy, Richard, but in France, we keep whiny servants like Mr. Ryland in the stables.”

  Angele and her husband shared a chuckle.

  Despite her best efforts at composure, a tear stung Dominique’s eye. She hugged her chest to stay her trembling arms. “Lieutenant Ryland fought bravely, Richard. All of your men did. For you, Richard. For me.”

  “My dear.” Aubert smacked his lips. “The marquis and the marquess are only teasing you. Of course, the men fought bravely. That is their duty. They have theirs, and I have mine. I’ll thank you to trust me in these matters. Now, I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense from Ryland. I think it’s best you stay in this tower until the action is over, where you’ll be safe.”

  “Here? In this dreadful room? Richard, I’d hoped to visit Lieutenant Kimble when the doctor finishes surgery—”

  “Mon chaton.” Aubert rose and swept her into his arms. He rubbed her back as if she’d been crying out to be consoled. “This has been a trying few days. A man-of-war is no place for a woman, and I never should have brought you aboard. Though you begged me to come, I alone bear the responsibility for that mistake. But from now on, I’m going to do things right. I’m going to watch over you and take care of you and comfort you. You need only trust in me.”

  “Richard, Lieutenant Kimble shouldn’t be alone right now. If only you could see his courage. He’s losing his leg, and he speaks only of the honorable Captain Aubert. He believes he was fighting for his country—not fighting for…” Dominique nearly said “the Restoration” but managed to stop herself.

  Aubert’s arms fell to his sides, and he stood back. His eyes narrowed. “Not fighting for what?”

  A deathly silence descended on the room. Larocque busied his eyes on the fire. Angele glanced at Dominique through the mirror, then went back to powdering her face.

  “For…for…” Dominique could feel the pressure building to release, but she was powerless to stop it. Her shouts echoed to the rafters. “An imperious captain who treats his men like beasts! And a pair of ungrateful noble snobs! And I’ll be damned if I’m going to stay in this nightmarish fucking room!”

  Aubert’s eyes widened. His nostrils flared.

  Dominique’s blood ran cold. It had just—come out of her. An urge as irresistible as a sneeze. She thought her nerves were frayed. Now she realized they were coming apart at the seams. “Richard…I didn’t mean…”

  Aubert’s words were a soft murmur. “Marquis and Marquess Larocque, I wish to be alone with my wife.”

  The chair scraped away from the vanity. The coal tongs rang as they clattered to the floor. The two French nobles shuffled out of the room.

  Aubert’s eyes remained fixed on Dominique. His posture was rigid with tension. When the door clicked, the captain spoke. “You will never disrespect me or our allies in the peerage again. Is that clear?”

  Dominique swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “I am your husband. I am a captain in the United States Navy. And if I give an order, it is because it is right. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m glad.” He planted a kiss on her lips. “Please, dear, make yourself comfortable. I’ll go and fetch the Larocques. Perhaps we can play a game.”

  Dominique stood stock still as her husband strode out of the room. A moment after he was gone, she heard herself sniffle. Then sob. And then, she was crying. She didn’t even realize she was terrified until the moment passed. She walked to the fireplace, fighting to regain her composure. In the midst of her sobs, she caught sight of herself in Angele’s mirror. She turned to her reflection, and her mouth fell open. It was painted across her face, plastered through her hair, splashed on the frills of her corset…

  The blood of the man she killed.

  Chapter 37

  Iroquois Trading Post

  Somewhere along the Susquehanna River

  Two Years Ago

  Dominique Dufort recoiled as a tongue left her ear dripping. “Ugh!” She dropped her oar. “Get off of me, you beast!”

  The twenty-three smugglers in the Penelope’s launch snickered. Dominique had been at the bow, watching the boat’s approach to the rickety dock. She turned around and found herself looking at the offender, who panted hot breath in her face.

  “Why did you have to bring him, anyway?” Dominique sneered at the shaggy Irish wolfhound. The dog pressed himself between John Sullivan and another oarsman, tail wagging, eyes bright. A string of drool from his jowls landed on her arm, and she wiped it on her buckskin leggings. “Your dog is disgusting!”

  “I didn’t ask him to come.” John Sullivan pulled on his oar, his cheek dimpling as he feigned innocence. “He’s taken a liking to you. He doesn’t follow just anyone, you know.”

  Woof! said the dog with an excited whine. More snickering.

  Dominique glared at Sullivan. “Well? Aren’t you going to do something?”

  “Right away, Miss!” said Sullivan, jumping up. Instead of corralling his hound, he slipped past her. His chest brushed across her in the cramped space. “Apologies, but someone has to catch the dock.”

  “What?” Dominique cried, remembering her earlier task. The nose of the boat nearly crashed into the decaying jetty, but Sullivan leaped onto the bow and caught it with his foot. The impact nearly knocked her off her feet, but Sullivan caught her hand.

  “After you, Miss Dufort.” Sullivan swept a hand toward the shore. His eyes were soft with youth but sharpened by early manhood. It annoyed her to find him so handsome.

  Dominique grumbled as she stepped out of the boat. She followed a trail leading through tall rye toward a log tavern, several dozen yards from the creek. Jaunty music and laughter filtered from within. In the gloom of the cloudy day, the windows glowed with lamplight. She heard Sullivan and his dog trotting to catch up.

  “Are you sure about this?” said Sullivan. “Oakleaf Tavern can be a rough place. It’s mostly frontier trappers, traders, and Indians that stop here. Not all of them reputable.”

  “I was raised Haudenosaunee,” said Dominique, rolling the word easily from her tongue. The whine of a fiddle grew louder as they approached. There was a sound of shattering glass inside, then a round of laughter. Beads of sweat dripped beneath the wide brim of her hat in the humid heat. “Why do you think I’m Laffite’s quartermaster on the Chesapeake Run? I’m the only reason any smuggler can set foot in Iroquois trading posts without taking a hatchet in the chest. Anyway, nobody asked you to come—or your mangy beast.”

  “I can’t let you go in there alone.” Sullivan gripped the hilt of a rusty cutlass stuck through his belt.

  “Please.” Dominique rolled her eyes. “You’re not here for my protection, I’m here for yours.”

  Dominique stopped short of the door and met the dour gaze of two Oneida men. They wore midnight blue tunics with beaded tassels and strips of wampum. Their heads were shaved around long black braids. Muskets as tall as them were strapped across their backs. Tomahawks hung at their hips. One of them said her Tuscarora name, using the common Iroquois tongue. “Storm in Summer.”

  “Walks on Stones,” Dominique replied.

  “Who is the colonial runt?”

  “Laffite’s pet. He thinks he’s protecting me. Is she here?”

  The Oneida traveler grunted and pointed indoors. He glanced at Sullivan and said, “Make sure that one behaves.” Walks on Stones tapped a finger against the blade of his tomahawk.

  Sullivan followed Dominique up the porch steps.”What did they say?”

  “They said you’re a very honorable man to protect a cherished woman of their tribe.”

  “They did?” Sullivan turned a friendly smile on the war-painted Oneida man. It wasn’t reciprocated. “Tell them it’s my pleasure!”

  “Oh, don’t worr
y, Sully.” The door swung open to a cacophony of music and chatter. “They know.” Dozens of unwashed frontiersmen—and a few of their ladies—were packed into the lodge. The mixture of spilled beer, perspiration, and dirty trail clothes gave the place a stench similar to Sullivan’s hound.

  The Irish drifter raised his voice over the fiddle. “I think I mentioned before—the name’s Sullivan. But you can call me John if you like.”

  “I like calling you Sully,” said Dominique, scanning the rowdy group of fur trappers near the bar. “It sounds like the name of a giddy cabin boy.”

  “Like what?” said Sullivan over the din.

  “A good captain to employ,” answered Dominique.

  Sullivan returned a proud smile.

  The crowd roared with cheers. A youth with short black hair jumped onto the bar, guzzling ale from a tin flagon. The mug came down, revealing the smile of Dominique’s sister, Melisande Dufort. She wore a wampum-studded vest, buckskin trousers and skirt, and oversized boots. A young barmaid with twin braids and a pink dress watched Melisande dance a jig, kicking cups off the bar as she went. A parson in black vestments took a face full of suds but only laughed. Melisande tapped her feet ever faster with the pace of the fiddle.

  When the violin hit the highest pitch, Melisande pointed at a fur-clad man twirling a knife. She took a glass of whiskey from the barmaid and downed the liquor. Then she dropped to her knees and balanced the mug on her head. The fiddle hovered on a dramatic note.

  “Melisande, no…” gasped Dominique.

  The room took in a breath. The man threw his knife. It knocked the cup from Melisande’s head and stuck in the wall behind her. There was a flourish from the fiddle and an eruption of applause. Melisande batted her eyes, posed seductively, and took a bow. Then she crawled down the bar on hands and knees. The parson’s eyes filled with lust as she approached. But then Melisande veered left and planted a kiss on the barmaid’s lips. There were shocked gasps, catcalls, and more than a few approving whistles. Melisande left the barmaid with a giddy smile, raising her eyebrows at the crowd. That’s when she saw her sister.

  “Dominique! Big Sis!” She leaped off the bar and fell over as she landed. A few men helped her to her feet, joining her in a fit of drunken laughter. “Stay right there. I’m coming.”

  “That’s your sister?” Sullivan watched in amazement as the young woman schmoozed her way through an adoring crowd.

  “God help me,” sighed Dominique. “But yes. My one and only.”

  Melisande came stumbling up to them, still laughing so hard, she had to lean on her knees. She swung into something approaching an upright posture. “Dom! What are you doing here? I was just on my way to you. Did you like my trick with Buster? Want a drink? Who’s this?” Her finger shot toward Sullivan.

  “Damnit, Melisande!” Dominique tugged her sister by the arm to a quieter corner. “You’re drunk.”

  “Well, of course, my lovely. I ain’t letting men throw knives at me sober!” Melisande burst into a fit of giggling.

  “This isn’t funny! It took me all day to row up here and find you. You were supposed to deliver the whiskey at the mouth of Church Creek this morning.”

  “Yeah, about that,” said Melisande. A passing Tuscarora man handed her a fresh flagon of ale, and she took a swig. She let the flagon hang at her waist. “We may have opened a few bottles. You know, to sample the quality. Who’s the beau?” She pointed at Sullivan again.

  “That’s Sully,” said Dominique.

  “Well, in fact,” said Sullivan, “My name is—”

  “Sully!” cried Melisande. Her smile vanished. “That a British name? You some English dandy? A redcoat? Speak up now!”

  “What? No!” protested Sullivan. “I’m Irish!”

  Her smile returned. “You’re a mick!”

  Sullivan frowned. “We prefer ‘Irishman.’”

  “Melly,” said Dominique. “We don’t have time for this. We’re bound for the Chesapeake, and we need your cache. Laffite expects forty crates of duty-free whiskey in our cargo. Whatever you drank is coming out of your share!”

  “Relax, princess,” said Melisande. “I’ve got it stashed in the cellar. And for good reason. There’s a—” Melisande looked down to find Sullivan’s hound lapping from her cup of beer. She slipped into a coddling voice. “Why, who is this handsome fellow? You like ale, eh boy?”

  “That’s Godfried,” said Sullivan proudly. “My landlady’s sheepdog. He’s coming with us to the Chesapeake.”

  “Melisande!” Dominique pressed. “What were you going to say?”

  “He’s so cute!” Melisande tousled the hound’s head. “Aren’t you a cute boy? Who’s an adorable shaggy dog? Why you are! Oh yes you are…”

  Dominique watched in disgust as Melisande pulled the flagon away from the dog’s jowls and downed the rest. “Ugh, for God’s sake, Melly!”

  Sullivan laughed. He and Melisande shared a grin.

  “Melly,” demanded Dominique. “We don’t have time for this. We need to get the whiskey on the boat and downriver to the Penelope. We’ll be overdue for Yorktown as it is.”

  “Oh, we’re not going to Yorktown.” Melisande kneeled and let Godfried lick her face. “There’s a ship hiding behind Dead Whale Island. The Allegheny. Any boat full of whiskey goes aboard Penelope, they’ll arrest us all. That’s why we holed up here.”

  A stunning thought occurred to Dominique, and she glared at Sullivan. “Sully! You never warned us about Dead Whale Island! We dropped anchor right offshore, and you said nothing!”

  For the first time in a week, Sullivan dropped his cocky grin. He swallowed. “I…thought the Susquehanna would be too shallow this time of year…that is…for a frigate’s draft behind Dead Whale.”

  Dominique felt her pulse beating in her neck. “You…thought?! You told Jameson you were an expert on the Delaware River and Chesapeake Bay. You said you made deliveries with the Free African Society.”

  “I did!…make deliveries on the Delaware…with the Free African Society.”

  “But not in the Chesapeake.” Dominique rubbed her temples.

  “No—but! I read the almanac and studied the charts.”

  Melisande slipped between Dominique and Sullivan, an arm around each of their shoulders. “Come on, Dom, it’s not so bad. Sit down. Have a drink. I’m sure Captain Aubert will give up after a while and then we can slip by merry as grigs!”

  “And drunk as lords,” groaned Dominique. “And Laffite’s sensitive cargo spoiled.”

  “Maybe there’s another way.” Sullivan looked at the parson and the barmaid. The old clergyman was trying to slip a hand around her waist. The girl slapped the old man, and he rubbed his face with a serene smile. Sullivan said, “Maybe the trick to getting past the Allegheny isn’t to hide at all.”

  “I don’t know where my big sis found you, Sully,” said Melisande. “But Aubert’s made a meal out of the frogs at sea—took down two French warships single-handed. He wants smugglers for dessert. You’re off your nut if you think we’re getting past him.” She pulled Sullivan closer, patting his stomach. “And since we’ve only just met, I’d like to pour you a drink and tell you about a really easy and profitable game. It’s called ‘brag.’”

  “Sorry, Melly. Another time perhaps. I was hired to do a job.” Sullivan winked. “And there’s always a way.”

  ###

  The Penelope, off Dead Whale Island

  Chesapeake Bay

  “One more! One more!” said Captain Richard Aubert. “I’m laughing so hard, I’m sore.”

  Dominique burst into a wine-drunk laugh. She pointed at the blonde Navy captain. “That rhymes!”

  She, Sullivan, and Aubert burst into fresh laughter. They sat around the table in the Penelope’s cabin. A rusty lantern hung at eye level between the diners, setting the gold thread of Captain Aubert’s uniform agleam. When the handsome Navy captain first strode onto the Penelope with his officers and marines, he had been grim and serious.
Now that he was drunk on wine and pork belly, he glowed with mirth.

  John Sullivan looked ridiculous in the parson’s frock—much as Dominique felt in the barmaid’s dress. He had changed his accent to a charming Irish lilt, and his big, animated eyes were irresistible. “All right, if you must twist my arm. But only one, mind!”

  Sullivan recited another dirty Irish rhyme:

  “A snotty sailor came back from sea,

  His mates said ‘stick to drinks should ye,’

  But off to the brothels,

  He later drunk waddled,

  And now pisses fire to the lee!”

  There were more peals of laughter. Aubert wiped tears from his cheeks. “I must say, Father, with such a poetic repertoire, I worry for your future in the collar.”

  “It’s why I donned the cloth.” Sullivan turned solemn and grabbed Aubert’s forearm. “It’s the last hope for my soul. Pray for me, Captain.”

  And their laughter started all over again. They were leaning in close, their hysterics feeding on one another.

  Sullivan paused for a swig of wine, laughing into his cup. “Captain, I know the hour is late, and I shan’t keep you too long. I made a promise when our dinner began, and I aim to keep it.”

  Dominique took her cue and feigned innocence. “But Father, is that really necessary? We already confessed to carrying smuggled wine. Must we really have our cargo torn asunder?”

  Aubert knit his brows, drumming his fingers on his plate.

  “The Lord smiles on the penitent, my dear,” said Sullivan. “The loss of our first cargo to the French is no excuse. We tried to mend our misfortune by smuggling, and we’ve been caught. ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and unto God that which is God’s. Luke 18:20.’”

  “Are you sure it was Luke, Father?” Aubert squinted into his pewter cup. “Wasn’t that Matthew?”

  “Quite sure! Come, Captain—I’ll open the hold to your Marines.”