Never Call It Love (30 page)

Unable
to remain alone any longer, she rose from her chair, extinguished the lamps,
and stepped out on deck. No light anywhere, only a thick gray smother through
which she could barely make out the dark figures in the mainmast rigging. Not
speaking, and with only a subdued
rattle of canvas now and then, they
were still taking in sail.

She
looked to her left. More dark figures standing
against the waist-high bulwark,
one of them a head taller than any of the others. She moved across the fog-wet
deck. "Patrick!" she whispered. "What is it?"

She
sensed rather than saw his startled frown. Arm around her waist, he drew her a
few feet down the deck. "Ships," he said in a swift, low voice.
"At least three of them, almost dead ahead. The lookout saw their mainmast
lanterns through a rift in the fog."

She
asked tautly, "What sort of ships?"

"Battle
frigates, to judge by the height of their masts. If they stay on course, they
should pass less than a hundred yards off our port."

"You're
sure they are English?"

"In
these waters? Of course."

She
understood the captain's decision. If his little ship was seen, he could have
no hope of outrunning men-of-war. And so he had chosen to reef sail, bringing
the ship to a halt. Lights out, it lay rocking in its cocoon of fog, like a
rabbit trying to hide from coursing hounds.

Through
the hammer of her heartbeat she could now hear other sounds, growing more
distinct by the moment. Creak of canvas; even faint, fog-distorted voices. A
diffused light shone through the smother, although the ship itself was
invisible. With agonizing slowness, the blurred glow passed and was lost in the
fog, only to be replaced by a second ghostly spot of radiance. It too passed,
but as the third ship drew close, she realized with a leap of terror that the
fog was thinning. Already, below the bulwark a streak of black water widened
where only moments before there had been swirling grayness. And she could see
other lights on the English ship, perhaps deck lights, or the glow of
confidently unshrouded portholes. She could even make out the blurred bulk of
the ship itself. How
soon would one of her countrymen, moving about on the deck over there, or
perched as a lookout in a mast, see the shadowy shape of the French
merchantman?

The
warship kept its steady course. Its light and the voices of the men aboard it
faded into the fog. Now she could hear no sound except her own thudding
heartbeats and the gentle slap of water against the hull. With a shuddering
breath she turned to the man beside her and collapsed against him.

For
a moment he stood motionless. Then he made an inarticulate sound. His arms went
around her, and his mouth, warm and desirous, came down on hers. The sweet
shock of that kiss seemed to go through her whole body. Then it began, that
warm yearning, as if something deep within her had begun to melt.

Around
them the ship was coming alive. On the raised afterdeck Captain Marquette's
voice issued crisp commands. Running footsteps sounded, and unfurling canvas
snapped. Not speaking, arm around her waist, Patrick drew her along the deck
and into the cabin. "Where is the flint box?"

"On
the right side of the door." She was aware that already her voice sounded
strange, heavy with desire.

Lamplight
bloomed. He looked at her for a long moment and then said, in a thickened
voice, "Turn around."

She
felt his hands undoing the hooks at her back, felt them rush over her erect
nipples and then her belly and thighs as he pushed her garments downward.
Naked, shameless in her need, she stepped out of the circle of crumpled
clothing and turned to face him. He held her tight against him for a moment,
warm mouth covering hers, and then said in that same constricted voice,
"Lie down."

Stretched
upon the bed. she watched him as he undressed and lay down beside her. For a
while her body stirred only languorously as his hands stroked her, as his
lips kissed her
mouth and her throat and his tongue teased her nipples. But as the hunger deep
within her intensified, she heard herself whimpering with desire, found her
body arching against the leg that, bent at the knee, had placed across her.
Then his weight was upon her, and his thrusting body was carrying her higher
and higher toward the long, exquisite, almost painful fall.

For
a while afterward they lay side by side, spent and silent. Then he propped his
dark head on one hand and looked down at her. His lips smiled, but his eyes
were somber. "Was it still only your body?"

Weighted
with languor, she did not want to even think about that question. "I don't
know."

"Let
me rephrase it. Do you still hate me very much?"

Reluctantly
she forced herself to consider. "You have given me every reason to."

"I
know. I realize I evened the score between us well before last night And now
you are even cut off from your country."

She
answered slowly, "Somehow that does not seem to matter." Then, unable
to bear the conflict between her physical need of this man and the thought of
all the havoc he had wrought in her life, she cried, "Leave it bel Don't
talk."

After
a moment he said, "Yes, we have better things to do than talk," and
leaned down to cover her mouth with his own.

This
time their coming together was less frenzied. To the gentle rolling of the
ship, they made long, slow love. Afterward they lay silent for a while. Then he
said, "Shall we sleep now?"

He
got out of bed and crossed the cabin toward the lamp swaying in its gimbal. She
looked at the wide shoulders, the lean waist and flat buttocks, the
long-muscled legs. Not knowing quite what the words meant, she thought: Perhaps
you are my country now.

To
Elizabeth, standing on deck beside Patrick and Colin as the little ship neared
the wharf, St.-Denis looked like an island out of a young child's dream,
magical in its perfection. In its interior, jungle-clad mountains rose,
appearing not green in the late-afternoon light, but a deep, velvety blue. She
could made out the white thread of a waterfall descending from near the top of
the loftiest peak. Not far from the falls, the gray-stone turrets of what she
knew must be a fort poked above the trees. Her eye, sweeping downward toward
the island's shore, found the dazzling white square of the town of St.-Denis,
surrounded by pastel-colored buildings, yellow and blue and pink. From the
square a road, also bordered by houses, sloped down to a palm-fringed crescent
of pinkish beach. Jutting out from it was a long wharf with three ships moored
beside it.

She
did not know then that the buildings that bordered that sloping street were
grog shops and brothels. As yet, she'd had no experience with the insects that
infested tropical kitchens and the mildew that attacked carpets, furniture, and
clothing. Nor had she met her future neighbors—planters and their bored wives,
enjoying luxuries and status they could never have attained back in France, but
always afraid of the sullen black slaves sweating in the cane fields and rum
distilleries. No, to Elizabeth the island appeared like a bit of Paradise
afloat on an
opalescent sea that shifted in color from blue to turquoise to emerald.

She
had enjoyed these past weeks. Once the ship was well out of English waters, she
had moved freely along its decks. Each evening she and Patrick and Colin had
dined with Captain Marquette in the master's cabin. Eagerly she had listened to
her husband and brother-in-law make plans for the future. Always, Captain
Marquette said, there were planters in the islands who wanted to sell their
properties and go back to France. Right now there was such a man on St.-Denis,
a distiller named Armand Duval.

"Duval's
trouble," Captain Marquette said, "is that he likes his own product
too much. Already he has stopped operating his distillery. I assume he and his
family are living off what money he obtained from the sale of his slaves."

Patrick
asked, "How much do you think he would want for his distillery?"

"In
pounds? I should think a thousand would buy it."

Patrick
looked at his brother. Colin nodded. "At that price, we should have enough
left to start operations and to keep ourselves fed and housed until we began to
make a profit."

"Of
course," Captain Marquette said, "you'll have to buy slaves."

Elizabeth
felt an inward shrinking. True, she already had had some experience with
slavery. In London several women of her acquaintance had owned black
"pages," small boys who were petted and pampered and dressed in satin
pantaloons and ostrich-plumed turbans. As soon as they were no longer small and
cuddlesome, they were banished to the scullery or, in some cases, turned out
into the London streets to make their way as best they could. Repellent as such
careless cruelty was to Elizabeth, it seemed less so than the thought of men
and women working
all their lives for nothing more than some sort of roof over their heads and
enough food to keep them alive and productive.

Patrick
said, "I am not going to tie up my capital in slaves. It will be cheaper
to contract with some planter for workers."

Elizabeth
looked at him. Was that his only reason, that it would be cheaper? Whatever his
motive, she was glad of his decision. True, the planter, not the slaves
themselves, would receive whatever money Patrick paid for their labor. Still,
it seemed to her a less repellent arrangement than outright ownership of other
human beings.

Slowly
the ship had moved south, exchanging hails now and then with other
merchantmen—French or American or Spanish—but sighting no more English
warships. Spending most of each day on deck, Elizabeth had seen the first
dolphins arching playfully beside the ship, the first flying fish, and swimming
several feet down in the green water that slipped past the hull, the first
tropical turtles, large and brown and grotesquely awkward.

For
Elizabeth the voyage had not been without its worrisome moments. One night as
she and Patrick lay in the bunk bed, her head on his shoulder, she asked
hesitantly, "Will you mind it so very much, never seeing Ireland
again?"

"But
I will see it again! Not only see it, but fight for it It may take me years,
but I'll get back there."

She
tried to keep her voice mild, unchanging. "But, Patrick, already you've
given ten years of your life to the cause of—"

"And
I failed. Is that what you were going to say? Elizabeth, do you know how long
the Irish have been struggling against English invaders? More than six hundred
years! What are ten years compared to that? I'll keep fighting, and other
Irishmen will too, and someday we will
win. It may not be in my lifetime, or
even in my grandson's, if I have one, but someday we will win."

She
wanted to cry out against his stubborn folly. How could he dream of returning
to a country where he was landless now, and where his neck would be in danger
the moment he stepped ashore? But no. Best not to argue with him, lest she only
strengthen his resolve. If he found success and contentment in the West Indies,
eventually he might abandon the thought of returning to Ireland.

Now
she said, gaze fixed on that distant waterfall, "How beautiful, more
beautiful than any of the other islands we have seen." Entering the West
Indian archipelago at a point north of Haiti, they had passed many islands,
some little more than uninhabited dots of sand and palmettos, others with
settlements visible near their shores. All of them were either unclaimed or in
French hands.

Patrick,
eyes fixed on the shore, merely nodded in answer to Elizabeth's remark. But
Colin said, "Yes, ifs beautiful. Be prepared, though, for the unpleasant
things—the spring and fall rainy seasons, for instance, and the roaches all
year around."

"Roaches?"

"A
variety of what we call black beetles. But down here they are brown, and they
fly, and they are almost the size of hummingbirds. And you should be prepared,
too, for the voodoo drums." Seeing Elizabeth's puzzled expression, he
added, "or perhaps it is called obeah on this island. Anyway, it is a
religion the blacks brought with them from Africa. Their nighttime ceremonies
involve drumming, and that gets on white people's nerves."

Patrick
said, "It won't get on mine. And as far as I'm concerned, their religion
probably makes as much sense as anybody's."

Behind
them, crewmen swarmed through the rigging, securing the sails already wrapped
around the yardarms. In
the bow, a sailor stood poised to toss a line to a dock worker standing on the
wharf. Patrick said, "Have you finished your packing, Elizabeth?"

"Not
quite. And I want to change my gown."

"Take
your time about it. I want to talk to Captain Marquette. Perhaps he'll arrange
for me to meet this Armand Duval yet today."

She
did take her time about it, dressing in a green lawn gown and in the one hat
she had brought with her, a wide-brimmed leghorn straw which she had placed in
the hand trunk atop folded garments. Carefully she scrutinized her image in the
mirror above the washstand. Since she hoped fervently that Patrick would be
content to settle down here, she wanted to make a good first impression upon
the townspeople.