Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  Aubert put up a hand. “Now, now, Father. Just a moment. That may not be necessary. After all, you’ve been most honorable in your candor. And I do appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sullivan. “I erred in seeking to evade the law, and it’s only just that your men take account of my stores and asses the proper fines.”

  “To err is human.” Aubert daubed his mouth with a napkin. “I know all too well the depredations of the Revolutionary French. I think a warning will suffice.”

  “Really?” said Dominique in a fawning tone. “Oh, do you mean it, Captain? How kind you are! How can we ever repay your generosity?”

  “It is my pleasure, mamselle.” Aubert planted a kiss on her hand, his lips lingering a beat. “You are a beautiful woman. How you’ve gone unclaimed is a true mystery. When we are both back in Philadelphia, I hope I might come to call.”

  You wouldn’t after you learned the truth, thought Dominique. She batted her eyes. “Why, Captain, you’ll make me blush. I should be so glad of the encounter.”

  A half hour later, Dominique and Sullivan stood at the Penelope’s gangway, waving at Aubert and a boat of sailors rowing away. The sunset danced on the water. The black and white profile of the USS Allegheny floated near half-submerged reeds. Crickets sang, and dogwood blew on the summer air. Dominique and Sullivan waved. Captain Aubert waved back with a drunken smile.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” Dominique said through a phony grin. “He really believed I was a priest’s cousin traveling to Philadelphia.”

  “It’s like you said in the market,” said Sullivan, his Irish accent gone. “‘Steal with your eyes, not your hands.’ The moment Captain Aubert saw you, he never had a chance.”

  Dominique laughed in spite of herself. Not her fake giggle. Not her feigned bashfulness. A joyful laugh, like she hadn’t done in a long time. She noticed Sully grinning at her. The wine had left his eyes an open book. He looked at her with wonder. With mirth. With desire. And she liked the way he looked at her.

  “Dom!” said Melisande. She was out of breath, having abandoned her hiding place below decks. She sidled up to Dominique and Sullivan, Godfried in tow. “I need a word with you.”

  Sullivan cleared his throat, the lovestruck look in his eyes snuffed out.

  “What is it?” snipped Dominique, crossing her arms.

  “There’s something you need to see. You and Sully.”

  ###

  In the bowels of the Penelope forward cargo deck, Melisande held a finger over her lips, her face ghostly in the light of her lantern. The crew was above decks, following the captain’s orders. The Penelope was underway again, heading for Yorktown. Dominique and Sullivan crouched over a hatch leading down into the hold.

  “Melisande, you know we’re not to go down here,” said Dominique. “By order of Laffite, this deck is off limits to all but the captain and his first mate.”

  “You need to see what’s in the hold,” Melisande said.

  “Show us, Melly,” said Sullivan.

  Melisande lifted the hatch, and the three of them looked inside. The first thing that hit Dominique was the stench. She held a hand to her mouth to keep from vomiting. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she held back tears. Dozens of eyes looked up at her. Dark-skinned faces—men, women, and children chained side-by-side. A few of the prisoners coughed. Somewhere, a child moaned.

  “Oh my God,” said Dominique. “They’re…”

  “Slaves.” Sullivan sneered as if the word tasted foul. He glared at Dominique. “You knew about this?”

  “No! I didn’t. I swear.”

  Sullivan grunted. “But you suspected.”

  Dominique hesitated a moment, then admitted the truth. “Yes. I heard that the Laffites sometimes smuggle slaves—but I didn’t think—”

  “And you talked me into working for them!” Sullivan snapped. “Now it all makes sense. Why Laffite ordered you—his own quartermaster—to stay away from the hold. Why he was in such a hurry to hire a river pilot before his cargo ‘spoiled.’ These people were abducted from freedom in other states and sold into bondage, weren’t they?”

  “I didn’t know, Sully, I swear. I would have told you if I did. But what’s done is done. Jean and Pierre Laffite have a reputation for charm, but they’re completely ruthless. There’s nothing to do but collect our pay and put this behind us.”

  “Wrong,” snapped John. He rubbed at a livid ring around his wrist, identical to a mark he bore on his other hand. Dominique had been wondering about them, and now she realized they looked like the scars left by shackles. Sullivan’s eyes became distant. Gone was the callow youth. Gone was the Irish poet. Replaced by something scary.

  Melisande closed the hatch. “What are we going to do?”

  Sullivan clenched his fists. “We’re going to set these people free.”

  Chapter 38

  In her dream, the sound was the crackle of thunder. Dominique was standing in the tall grass beside the cornfields. The storm clouds roiled overhead, brooding, and grey. Like the storm of emotions in her heart as she looked into John Sullivan’s eyes. The rain began to pour, soaking them both to the skin. They drew close to one another, feeling the heat of each other’s bodies. Lightning flashed and thundered across the sky. He leaned in for a kiss, and her heart beat faster. She wanted to feel his touch.

  The thunder roared louder, joined by distant shouts. Faint screams. Dominique looked over her shoulder at the palisade of the Tuscarora village. Smoke billowed up from burning longhouses. She heard the whinny of horses and the whine of a wounded dog.

  “Sully, I think something’s wrong. I think we should…” Dominique trailed off when she turned back to Sullivan.

  Sully was gone. Replaced by the young Turk soldier—Aarif. Blood poured from a hole in the side of his neck. He stared at her in confusion as the waterfall of red spilled down his shirt. The man opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was more blood. He reached for her with a pale hand.

  “No!” cried Dominique. The knife was in her hand. She stabbed him in the neck, in the same spot, screaming. It was a feeling of pure horror as she drove the blade into his flesh. She didn’t want to do this. She wailed and cried, but didn’t stop—only forced the dagger deeper.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Grand Tower Suite

  Tuesday, September 13th, 1803

  Day 4, Morning

  Dominique shot up in bed, tears streaming down her face as she awoke from the dream. Sunny light poured through the horseshoe windows of the Grand Tower Suite. In the two beds across the room, Marquis Larocque snored with his wife Angele in his arms. Dominique found Aubert sleeping peacefully next to her.

  She and her husband were naked under the covers, and her memory returned. Aubert awakened in the night with his manhood aroused and wanted to take her. Maybe it was the shock of the previous day’s events or the boredom of being locked in a tower playing parlor games, but she threw herself into the lovemaking. The Larocques must have heard their grunting under the covers, but she didn’t care. She wanted to feel something—anything—other than the numbness in her soul. The fucking had been rough and quick, and despite a certain animal pleasure, it hadn’t helped.

  The crackle of thunder from Dominique’s nightmare echoed across the lake. She realized it wasn’t thunder, but the sound of distant gunfire. Most of the sounds were an indistinguishable din, but she caught the occasional scream of a woman or shout of a soldier traveling across the water. Dominique slipped from the bed and put on her burgundy dress—the only one she had after the sinking of the Allegheny. Though the crew laundered her dress, it was still torn and frayed. She could still see the brown stains of blood. Once dressed, Dominique walked to the window. She looked west across the water, to the City of Tunis.

  Smoke rose from the alabaster blocks, curling into the sky amid the minarets and palm trees. The fresh wind carried the scent of the Mediterranean, but there was also a hint of
things burning that ought not burn. The pop and crackle of gunfire echoed from all over the city. Some kind of battle was going on. More immediately, small boats and schooners were on the lake, their lateen sails billowing. They were headed for the island.

  Oh, Sully, thought Dominique. What have you stirred up? It was easy to forget that while she had been hostage to card games and conversation with the Larocques, John had spent all night in Tunis, putting a plan in motion to steal a ship. With the coming of a new day, she could only wonder, What on Earth is happening over there?

  Looking around the room, Dominique thought of waking her husband. Then her eyes found the spot where the secret passage was concealed behind a false stone wall. The door of the grand suite was locked, but Kaitlin’s passage offered no such impediment. She looked over at Aubert. He lay on his elbow, hair an unruly mess, sleeping like a babe. There would never be a better chance to escape the purgatory of the tower.

  A moment later, Dominique sealed herself in the passage, leaving the nobles to their repose.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Great Hall

  Dried blood overpowered the aroma of Dominique’s coffee. As she stepped into the Great Hall, she had to swallow back her bile. Dozens of men lay in various states of mutilation, their beds arrayed between the columns. Soft voices echoed through the sunlit space as Dr. Murphy and a few other sailors ministered to the convalescent men. Dominique walked by the beds, searching for Kimble. Most of the wounded were too ill to take notice, but a few greeted her warmly. When she found no sign of Kimble, her heart lightened. Knowing him, he was on his feet already.

  “Dr. Murphy.” Dominique took a sip of her coffee.

  A few beds away, the bald surgeon looked up from a wounded man, looking at her over his spectacles. “Mrs. Aubert. What is it?”

  “I was looking for First Lieutenant Kimble. Where is he recovering?”

  “He’s not,” the doctor said perfunctorily. “I regret he succumbed to his wounds. Mr. Ryland is now the first lieutenant.”

  Dominique’s mouth fell open. “You mean Mr. Kimble is—”

  “Dead, madam. My deepest sympathies.” Dr. Murphy turned his attention back to sniffing a man’s bandages. “Seaman Michaels, water over here.”

  Dominique stepped out of the way as a sailor darted by with a bucket and ladle. Her pewter cup clattered on the floor. Coffee splashed the flagstones. Murphy and his assistants looked at her in momentary surprise, then went back to work.

  A tear ran down Dominique’s cheek. It seemed impossible. The young lieutenant, kind and brave, had been in such high spirits. So full of humor and the will to live. How could he be gone? Dominique ran out of the hall, fighting back sobs.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  The Western Ramparts, Outside the Barracks

  Lieutenant Chester Ryland stood on the battlements, sweeping his spyglass over the wharves of Tunis. Smoke rose among domes and rooftop gardens. The sounds of battle had gotten more intense. Along the waterfront, dozens of one and two-masted ketches and gunboats sat at anchor. A few triangle sails drifted on the lake.

  Moving the lens down, Ryland brought the barren landscape of the tiny island into focus. Several gunboats and a ketch-rigged warship haunted the shallows off the western shore, safely out of range of the six-pounder guns on the ramparts. Bodies moved about their decks, most of them in the bright robes and turbans of the pirates. More than a few had the distinctive red jacket and blue trousers of the Nizam-I Djedid. There were more ships and boats hovering off the north and south shores, abuzz with activity.

  In the hours since claiming the fort, Ryland had the Allegheny crew load the guns with supplies from the powder magazine. But there were only four or five cannons to a wall, all with short range and weak calibers. When the pirates attacked under the disciplined leadership of the Nizam-I Djedid, they would have a decisive advantage. He snapped his glass shut.

  “You look quite dashing with a spyglass,” said a young man in an English accent.

  Ryland smiled at the young sailor walking toward him on the ramparts. He recognized the bright red hair and slender face of Seaman Gabriel Sawyer. Ironically, the man Ryland had rescued from slavery under Bey Hammuda only a few years ago. That walk with Sawyer in the palace gardens had been a singular moment. A moment that changed their lives.

  “Dashing, you say?” Ryland cast a furtive look around the ramparts. With the small number of crew to patrol the keep and courtyard, it was at least twenty paces to the next sailor. “And impossibly trim in my lieutenant’s coat, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Sawyer laughed. “And humble as ever.”

  The two men shared a laugh, then fell quiet.

  Sawyer looked toward Hammuda’s palace. He edged closer to the older officer, his athletic arms touching Ryland’s. “Do you think Mr. Sullivan can do what you said? Do you think he can really bring us a ship?”

  Ryland hadn’t felt his lover’s touch in longer than he could remember. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to bask in the feeling. “I know he will. We just have to hold out until he arrives.”

  “Chester…” Sawyer looked at Ryland, his pouty eyes intoxicating in the morning light. The sun set his red hair on fire. “Even if he does, we’ll still have to win this.”

  “And we will win. I know that with all my heart.”

  There was a tremor in Sawyer’s voice. “But, how do you know?”

  “I know John Sullivan will do whatever it takes. I will do whatever it takes. Because we are each guided by the same force. A force so powerful as to be unconquerable.”

  Sawyer blinked as if intrigued. “What force?”

  Ryland took Sawyer’s hand. The young Englishman looked down at their entwined fingers and tightened his grip, his lower lip quivering. It had been Ryland, after all, who insisted they never risk the simplest touch lest their forbidden romance be exposed. But now—in the face of slavery or freedom, life and death—fear of discovery felt far away.

  Ryland looked into the eyes of his sweetheart and said, “Love.”

  Chapter 39

  The Lake Fort

  Great Hall

  Tuesday, September 13th, 1803

  Day 4, Afternoon

  The Great Hall echoed with the screams of wounded sailors. Dominique backed away from the two wooden benches serving as a surgical table. Dr. Murphy drove the surgical saw through a man’s thigh bone. A spurt of blood splashed the doctor’s bald crown. The unfortunate soul on the table screamed, pale lips peeled back from his teeth. Blood was everywhere—soaking the doctor’s apron, swimming around his hands, running off the table in a steady drip-drip-drip.

  “Goddamn it!” shouted Dr. Murphy. “I said hold him!”

  Dominique started and planted her hands on the screaming sailor’s chest. “It’s all right…please…it’s all right.”

  The dozen other wounded in the hall added their moans to the din. The thunder of cannon fire echoed from beyond the open double doors. Shots struck the stone walls of the keep, shaking dust from the ceiling. Dominique felt every hair on her skin raising. At any moment, her fear might take over, and she would be useless.

  The saw jerked askew as the man struggled. Murphy roared, his face red as a steak. “Goddamnit! I said, hold him down!”

  “I’m sorry.” Dominique fought harder to press the patient down, but his strength felt superhuman. Mercifully, one more swipe of the blade, and he passed out. Dominique let go of the sailor, leaving red handprints on his naked chest.

  “If you can’t follow my orders, woman, get the fuck out of my surgery!” Murphy snarled.

  “I—I’m sorry…” stammered Dominique. But the surgeon didn’t look at her.

  Dizziness flooded over Dominique. She felt her breath coming too fast. She couldn’t breathe. She needed air. A cannonball shattered the mosaic window above the mezzanine. Shards of colorful glass flew across the hall. Debris crashed down from the ceiling. The doctor flinched, then resu
med his sawing.

  Dominique stumbled through the hall as if in a daze. She found herself standing outside the double doors, at the steps down to the battlements and the courtyard beyond. The late morning sun turned the limestone bricks to blazing white. She squinted against the hot Tunisian sun. A series of impacts hit the east wall of the courtyard. The thin line of gun crews spread along the ramparts took cover as crenelations blew apart. A shot threw two men screaming into the courtyard. Dominique doubled over, vomiting a curdled mess onto the steps.

  The bombardment had been raging for hours. Pirate ships and gunboats circled the island on all sides, taking pot shots. Their shots were scattered and infrequent, sometimes striking home, sometimes missing wildly. But the attack was unending. Their vessels occasionally ran afoul of the fort guns, and they had yet to land any soldiers on the island. How long could this terror go on?

  “Help me!” came a man’s plea.

  On the eastern ramparts, a man lay near one of the 6-pounder guns, clutching at his leg. His mates were too busy sponging and reloading their gun, so they joined in the call for help. Dominique broke into a run. She dashed across the roof of the fort tunnels and onto the outer ramparts. An impact struck near her, raining gravel debris. She took cover for a moment, then got back on her feet. She was soon kneeling at the sailor’s side.

  He was young, probably early teens. A shard of bone jutted from his broken shin.

  “Please,” begged the sailor, moaning in agony. “Oh God, help.”

  “Steady, seaman,” Dominique said, trying to keep him calm. “Let me, erm, get a crew with a stretcher.”

  Dominique had barely risen to her feet when a voice cried, “Dom, get down!”

  As if from nowhere, Melisande tackled Dominique and drove her to hands and knees. A cannonball decapitated the stone crenelation where Dominique had been standing a split-second before. The cannonball bounced off the opposite battlements and sailed into the lake.