Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (161 page)

There were a great many truths to be found in the play-acting of the men; too many, Félicité found, thinking of her father and the other men condemned as traitors in New Orleans, and of the judgments so summarily handed down against them.

Another truth concerned the rum. They were running low of this necessary commodity. If they were to have enough to see them through the repairs to the Prudence and the days of sailing it would take them to reach a port where the supply might be replenished, they must ration it.

This decision did not sit well with men used to swilling all they could hold, men who needed forgetfulness, who worked all day in the broiling sun and had need of liquid to put back their lost fluids and who refused to drink water unless it was laced liberally with alcohol. As everyone knew, it was bad water that gave men fluxes and fevers.

Tempers grew short. So important loomed the possibility of being without rum that when a man was discovered trying to steal more than his share one night, he was beaten senseless and would have been kicked to death if Morgan had not put a stop to it.

Captain Bonhomme, once able to rally his men with a jest and his presence, kept to himself after the sailing of
La Paloma
. Though he touched not a drop of liquor, he was a changed man, brooding and silent, fighting his need in private as he walked the beaches.

Deprived of much of their greatest solace, smarting under the authority of Morgan, a man who should have had no more than they; after long hours of hard work with little hope of reward in the shares to be had from the cargo of the Prudence, perhaps it was not surprising that the men began to mutter among themselves, gathering in small groups. As the days followed one after the other, turning into a week, then two, Valcour was often seen in a circle of men, speaking earnestly, keeping his voice low and a watchful eye out for Morgan’s or Bonhomme’s approach. The men from the Prudence and the Black Stallion kept clear of him for the most part, but he found a ready audience in the motley crew from the old Raven.

What with their hard work and the toil in the sun, Félicité and Morgan visited the bathing pool in the cave at the end of every evening. It was, for Félicité, her favorite time of the day, when she and Morgan could be alone, away from the encampment and the constant brawling, cursing, and stares of the sailors. It was a time of quiet and serenity, when the last of the sun’s slanting rays played over the green slopes of the island and coolness crept from the fern edge forest glades, when the waves sighed onto the shore and the sea birds quartered the sky one last time before making for their roosts. It was a time of repose, a time when she and Morgan, afterward, could retreat to their hut, leaving the world and its problems outside, and seek in each other the surcease that kept them sane.

One evening as they left the cave, climbing down its limestone face to start back along the beach, there was a different feeling in the air. Though the pink afterglow of the sunset lit the western sky, to the northeast a gray haze lay upon the sea and the waves breaking at their feet seemed heavy, washing back and forth with an oily surge. The air was hushed and still, so that their footsteps in the sand grated and crunched. Overhead a blue heron winged inland, though the rest of the sky was empty of life.

“It looks like we may get some rain,” Félicité said.

“It does that,” Morgan agreed, a frown between his eyes.

“Is it going to storm?”

“Who can say? It’s always possible in these latitudes, though it’s late in the season now for a big blow.”

They walked a few yards in silence. Driven by the sullen oppression around her, so similar to the atmosphere among the seamen these days, she moistened her lips. “Morgan?”

He turned his head to stare down at her, his expression attentive.

“Have you — have you noticed the men lately?”

“What about them?”

“They seem more surly than usual, as if they might resort to mutiny at any moment.”

“When was a pirate crew not a hair’s breadth from mutiny? It’s a natural state for them.”

“Possibly — I wouldn’t know. But it seems dangerous, especially for you.”

His mouth tugged in a wry smile. “I am flattered at your concern, but why for me?”

“I have seen Valcour talking to the others, and I don’t think it is Captain Bonhomme who has earned his hate.”

“You have done him more damage than I thus far. Maybe you should look to yourself.” His green eyes were watchful as he smiled down at her.

“Even if what you say is true,” she pointed out, “you are the one who stands between him and me now.”

“So I am,” he said, his tone thoughtful as he turned his gaze seaward once more.

“Perhaps if you didn’t drive the men quite so hard,” Félicité began.

“Someone has to do it, if we don’t want to be caught here, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else inclined to take on the job.”

It was true; Félicité could see that, and yet she could not help being afraid.

Morgan reached out, taking her hand. “We had better hurry if we want to get back to the hut before the rain begins.”

They could see it coming toward them, marching across the sea on long gray stilts of water. Thunder rolled like the sound of guns, and the silver fire of lightning streaked from the gray bank of clouds into the water. The atmosphere took on a yellowish tint, and the smell of ozone was strong in the air. The wind began to rise, carrying salt mist and spraying sand before it, and swaying the feather-decked heads of the palms, moving the trunks in a graceful and limber dance. They could breathe the dampness, feel it on their skins. The first drops of rain, huge and wet, splattered warmly on their upturned faces, and then the hut was before them.

They flung themselves inside and dived panting on their pallet. From that uncertain shelter, rustling dryly with the strength of the wind and the first raindrops, they watched the descent of the dragging curtain of rain as it closed over them, rattling, splashing, beating the water of the cove into a froth.

Darkness closed in, accompanied by the growl and roar of thunder and lit by the flare of lightning. Abruptly Félicité was reminded of the night after the masquerade, of the clash of Morgan with Valcour and the two others in the darkness, and the violent aftermath marked by the passage of the storm. She glanced at the man beside her, and found him staring down at her in the dimness.

“Félicité,” he whispered, reaching out to touch her cheek, sliding his warm fingers through her hair to cup her neck. “Don’t look at me so, for I can’t bear it.”

Lowering his head, he touched his mouth to hers, his lips a firm and heady antidote to memory. With soft and searing kisses, he outlined the curve of her cheek, the tender angle of her jaw, moving down the turn of her neck to where a pulse throbbed in the hollow of her throat. His strength limitless, controlled, he eased her down on the pallet then, resting on one elbow above her. His hands smoothed over her, exciting, arousing. He tugged her shirt from her breeches, pushing it upward, pausing to snatch a kiss from each rose-tipped peak of her breasts as he bared them before drawing the shirt off over her head. He pushed her breeches down, following their slow slide over the flatness of her abdomen as he had before, moving lower, and lower still.

When she lay naked, he removed his own clothing, rolling toward her once more, pulling her against the hard length of his long body. He traced the curves and hollows of her form with exquisite care, setting his own pleasure aside for the moment as he assured hers. There was sensuous enjoyment of his task in his lingering caresses.

She touched the thick vitality of his hair, and felt the dissolving of her being, the liquid flow of longing rising to a floodtide of wanton desire. On its crest, he entered her, the firm power of his body a sensual delight, the quiver of the sculpted steel of his muscles a gauge of his stringent restraint. Moving together in a rhythm measureless and wild as the elements around them, they strove with panting breaths to thunderous heights of pleasure, and found at the summit, in oblivion and peaceful exhaustion, the perfect panacea for remembrance.

“Morgan—” Félicité whispered when they were still at last, lying side by side once more.

He reached across her to ease the taut pull on her hair where it was caught beneath her shoulders, then gathered her to him. “I am here,” he said against the top of her head. “Go to sleep now.”

There was much she wanted to say, needed to say. Despite the press of it against her throat, she closed her eyes, and to her own astonishment, slept.

The rain died away in the night, leaving the world wet but unbowed. The trades blew cool once more; parrots called with raucous joy as if trying to rouse the sleepers in their rain-drenched tents. The tracks of shorebirds crocheted the wet sand, running in and out of the sea wrack; the twists of seaweed and rotted driftwood and broken shells thrown up by the storm tide. The sun rose bright-edged and golden out of the sea, its light dazzling on the water, silvery on the wings of the gulls that circled overhead, heading out over the water to where three ships crawled like giant spiders over the sea, a pair of frigates and a slender brigantine with sails set, bearing down on the island with the morning light reflecting in a blinding glare from their spread canvas.

19

A SHOUT OF WARNING went up. Men came to their feet, rubbing their eyes, their curses for the man who woke them dying away as they gazed out over the water. The Spanish lines of the ships could not be mistaken, even at that distance, nor could the menace of the rows of gun ports along their sides. This was the guarda de costas, the dreaded Spanish fleet whose job it was to hunt down pirates in their lairs or on the water, and their presence in the delicate freshness of the morning did not denote a picnic or a roll in the sand.

With panic-stricken yells, the seamen kicked friends and comrades still sleeping from their bedding, snatched up cutlasses and pistols, and began to throw their belongings together.

Captain Bonhomme, on his feet, staring seaward, turned with decision. “Belay that! There’s no time! Head for the boats as you stand up. We have to make the brigantine or we are all dead men!”

The reason for the French captain’s words was plain to see. There was a chance, if they could reach the Black Stallion and make ready to sail in time, that they could slip from the cove before the frigates could get within range. If they were so fortunate, the pirate brigantine would be able to outdistance the heavier, less wieldy vessels, showing them a clean pair of heels. If they could not, if they were caught inside the sheltering arms of the cove, they would be trapped like a fly in a bottle. There would be no escape.

Félicité, drawn from her pallet by the cries, flung a quick look at Morgan, who stood just outside the doorway of their hut. His face was grim as he took in the situation.

“Morgan!” Captain Bonhomme shouted, waving an arm at them. “For the love of God, make haste!”

Still Morgan hesitated, frowning as if weighing alternatives, though as far as Félicité could see, there were none. At last he swung to her.

“Félicité, I want you to take food and water and go to the cave.”

“No!” she protested. “I — couldn’t run and hide, not knowing what is happening, waiting to be found.”

“Even if it is the best and safest course for you?”

“Is that what you plan to do?” she asked, her gaze direct.

“The case is different with me.”

“I don’t care!”

He clenched a fist. “If we get away safely, we can return for you. If not, the men on the frigates will not expect anyone to have stayed behind.”

“I would rather face what is going to take place with my eyes open, I thank you, and with a fighting chance.” She did not add, but could have, that she preferred to face it with him.

He gave a reluctant nod. “All right then. Let’s go.”

As they reached the French captain, he ceased his lurid laments over the length of time they had tarried and the slowness of his men and turned toward the longboats. From all directions, as if at some given signal, men converged, determined to be the first aboard the brigantine, terrified suddenly of being left behind.

Then a group of some thirty men with pistols at the ready flung themselves between the beached boats and the surging mass of seamen. Valcour, a pistol in one hand and drawn sword in the other, was at their head.