Easton's Gold Page 13

  Venus pricks the sky for the first time tonight, and the wind plays with my hair. I have journeyed from sickness and I have answered many questions. Ambition drives the world forward, I have found, not despair. When I despaired, I wept and talked of forgiveness. If this was the language of the stars, they would have long ago flickered and died, leaving us all in oblivion. I know such is not the grand plan, but common morality has made milksops of us all.

  My work is urgent. My son may spend each night rocking by the fire, telling stories to gaping-mouthed children. The whole island I once knew may be glutted in death-like harmony. When I wept and mourned for flies, I was close to this damnation myself. The burning stars tell me I was saved for a purpose. The universe is fuelled by such as you, they whisper. Without ambition, your world will wither and crack apart.

  I will fulfill the promise I made myself. I will breathe my philosophy into my son and sow the seeds of truthfulness as far and wide as I can.

  __________

  WHEN GABRIELLE LEAVES, Philippa is waiting outside Fleet’s cabin. She gives Gabrielle a look full of soft adoration and pity. She seems to have got it into her head that the time Gabrielle spends with Fleet is a kind of penance. Another day of looks like that and I’ll start to believe I really am the Virgin Mary. An impulse takes over Gabrielle as she walks by Philippa. She stops, smiles and reaches out, touching Philippa on the cheek with her fingers. Philippa looks as though she could melt on the spot; her eyes well with tears and her face fills with celestial longing.

  Gabrielle smiles again then hurries along. The corridor sways steadily as Gabrielle makes her way to the stairs which lead up to her cabin. Maria is sitting like a great sack outside Jacques’s room, blocking the way as usual. She sniffs and wipes her eyes and nose on her sleeve as Gabrielle approaches and slows down.

  “You know who he has in there?” Maria yells angrily at Gabrielle.

  “No,” replies Gabrielle.

  Maria thumps on the door several times with her fist.

  “Tell the gypsy! Come on out, Jacques, and tell the gypsy who you have in your cabin!”

  “Go away,” comes a faint voice from within.

  “Maria, please,” Gabrielle says, shuffling her feet and trying to find a way around, but Maria is sprawled more than usual.

  “Come on, open up! Tell the gypsy who you’re hiding! Tell her about you and the captain’s boy, Jute. Tell her you don’t like women and prefer to lie with other men!”

  There is a movement from within. Maria turns abruptly. In doing so she shifts her leg far enough for Gabrielle to step over. Gabrielle hurries on to the stairs and starts climbing.

  The sound of a cabin door opening comes behind her and, as she makes her way to the upper deck, she hears footsteps coming fast up the stairs behind her. Is Jacques following me? Why? She jumps down the three steps quickly and runs into her own cabin. But the footsteps still follow.

  Gabrielle stands with her back against her closed cabin door. The footsteps march up to the door and two sharp knocks vibrate the wood. Gabrielle turns, not knowing why she should feel so nervous. She opens the door.

  It is not Jacques, but Jute, the captain’s man. His blue tunic is half buttoned, his blond hair disarrayed. His blue eyes fix on Gabrielle in anger or fear. He breathes heavily.

  “You better keep your mouth shut,” he says, entering.

  Gabrielle closes the door behind him.

  “You mustn’t tell anyone,” he says, this time more timidly, his shoulders hunching.

  “Tell anyone what?”

  “You know what. You think you’re so holy, so above it all.”

  Gabrielle frowns at Jute, who now glances around the cabin like a trapped fox.

  “Promise me you won’t tell anyone. I have a reputation. I was respected for my work before my master died.”

  Gabrielle sighs, turning to the porthole. The last of the sunset is disappearing, but she sees a black strip of land on the horizon. She goes over to the chair and sits.

  “I won’t interfere with your reputation,” says Gabrielle. Then after a pause, she adds, “And I’m sorry about your master.”

  She’s surprised at the sadness in her voice as she says this. Few seem to have mourned the captain, and her own life is simpler since he died. She knows it is Fleet that has made her feel this way—Fleet with his misdirected vengeance, poor Fleet who must every day hear the bumping of his victim’s carcass against the inside of the barrel.

  Jute is looking down at her curiously. “You’re sorry?” he asks.

  “Yes,” she says, feeling her skin burn.

  “There are times when I thought,” Jute stutters, watching her closely, “when I thought your apothecary had something to do with my captain’s disappearance.”

  Gabrielle feels herself gulp. The motion is very slow and deliberate and made worse by the young man’s close attention. For a moment she daren’t even look up, though she knows avoiding his eyes may look more guilty than a blush.

  “What could he have done?” she says, at last meeting his gaze, but it is too late.

  “You do know something,” he says quietly. His eyes are intent, like those of a young eagle closing in on its prey.

  “I believe what I heard,” she says, suppressing a tremble in her voice, “that your captain was swept overboard during a storm.”

  “Young woman,” Jute says, a menacing formality coming into his posture, “I know all about secrets. I know what secrets look like on a face and what they sound like in a voice, and you are keeping a secret now.”

  “I don’t believe what I heard,” Gabrielle says, her voice suddenly hoarse, her eyes intense. I must act the part now, heart and soul. I have put my lover in jeopardy, and I must rescue him. “I have learned not to trust anything the Marquis tells me,” she says, holding the young man’s stare until she is sure he has taken it in.

  Jute sighs and goes to the door. He opens it and looks back at her.

  “Thank you,” he says quietly and leaves.

  Gabrielle sits motionless for a long time. The ship plunges steadily at the bow and rears up again before plunging afresh; all the while timbers creak to some mysterious rhythm of their own. So at last I have betrayed the Marquis. A dead feeling spreads through her chest.

  She looks through the porthole again. Yellow stars shine steadily now, and whitecaps show like mermaids’ tails breaking the surface. “It’s Easton I should have killed,” Fleet said to her, and at the time Gabrielle tried to argue. But now she is using Easton to shield Fleet, and she knows this is how it should be.

  Yet she feels like a bird struck with a stone; she is falling from a great height.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Silence greets the sunrise over Havre de Grace. The waves are like leaves of fire, licking the harbour rocks. Waterside shacks stand mute, their windows dark one moment then flaring the next, as the glass catches the reawakening sun. Several vessels lie, like ours, anchored. No one is yet up. Even the watch on the fishing boat nearest us is asleep.

  Everything is different from before, everything save for the rugged contours of the hills and the placement of the islands. My own house is gone, though I search for it still among the settlements rising from the harbour’s edge. I see no cannons at all overlooking the water and no ships with more than two swivel guns on the side.

  My heart aches for the apathy and decay which allowed this to happen. I wonder about our ship’s crew. They were obedient enough when our course was peaceful. How would they react if I called them to a more war-like action? I have become well-acquainted with the armoury below, and I know that, with just a dozen willing men, I could take this sleeping harbour if I so choose.

  The thought almost tips me into action, but I hold firm for the moment. Times have changed. The harbour may be quiet now, but there are navy ships aplenty and the fishery has grown. I am still an old man, and my tactics must change even if my philosophy remains constant. I must pass on what I know, I tell myself, and not risk
everything in battle.

  I breathe in the air. London’s woodsmoke made me almost forget the freshness of the Atlantic, how its breezes taste of ice, even in summer. Here is my New World! This time my influence is here to stay. No more sleeping watches. No more cannonless harbours. Newfoundland will be the brightest star in the firmament, our city on a hill from which the world shall draw its example.

  The sunlight ripples on the water as a fresh wind rolls in from the east. The breeze tangles my hair and muffles the silence. There is a sharp prick between my shoulders, and I wonder if it’s connected to the wind—a loose stone perhaps skimming along the deck and jabbing hard near my spine. But the sensation runs deep, I realize, and I can feel the lick of the wind clean through my tunic quite near the spot.

  I stumble and hold out my hand to break my fall. Someone scuttles out of view; I catch nothing more than a shadow disappearing into the maze of cabins behind me. For the first time in weeks, I am struggling for breath. The air will not stay in my lungs, and the pain in my back gets sharper with each moment.

  The rising sun catches the water and blinds me for a moment. I am on my hands and knees coughing for breath. This can’t be the end. It’s too mundane, too unexpected, like a tragedy play that ends before the climax—players shuffling offstage as the mad king blinks at the audience and plays with his flowery crown.

  I must get to my apothecary, but I can’t seem to find my feet. As I have been both captain and watch since sunset, there is no one here to call for.

  I try to turn on all fours and move toward the main cabin door, but the indignity is unbearable; I cannot be seen scraping along the deck like an injured dog. I stop and let my body sink into a lying position. The shadow of the deck rail comes over me as the deck tips; then as it rises once more, the sun kisses my forehead like a benediction.

  Sleep for a while, then arise. Dreams come like liquid gold; sweet flavours and startling colours overtake me. All of my senses overspill one another, harmonizing in an exquisite, joyful dance.

  I am burning in ecstasy.

  __________

  GABRIELLE OPENS HER EYES to the sound of voices and the thumping of feet. It is the noisiest the corridor has been during the whole voyage. But she notices that, beyond the din of people stomping and yelling, there is also a stillness she has not experienced since they left the London dock. The continual creaking of the boards has ceased, and the cabin is hardly swaying. They have anchored. This must be their first port of call in Newfoundland.

  She gets out of bed quickly, throws off her nightdress and pulls on her day clothes. The idea of stepping upon dry land is suddenly exciting. They will remain here, the Marquis told her, for a few days at least. She runs to the window and sees the land—rugged hills with boulders and rocks with some trees and brush between them.

  She splashes water on her face quickly then steps into the corridor. Immediately, her heart pounds. There are two stocky men marching up the corridor; they are not from the ship. They slow down when they see her. Gabrielle smells the earth from their thick tunics and tobacco on their breaths.

  “Everyone is required to go out on deck,” the shorter of them says without nodding. “A boat will take you to shore.”

  “Why?” Gabrielle gasps, sensing something hostile and urgent.

  “Your captain has been murdered. We’re going to interview you all onshore then search the ship to make sure no fugitives are hiding.”

  Gabrielle takes a step backwards into her cabin. She feels cold and hot all at once.

  “You understand?” asks the taller man, sharply.

  Gabrielle nods quickly then shakes her head.

  “You must go up now,” says the first man. “Leave all your belongings.”

  Obeying the order, Gabrielle slinks back into the corridor. She runs along to the exit, feeling as fragile as a leaf.

  Visions flash through her mind of the two stocky men storming into Fleet’s cabin, perhaps breaking the door down and pushing him aside as they open the barrel and gasp the captain’s mouldering remains.

  But how could they have known so quickly?

  She comes into the daylight of the deck. The crew and a few servants are standing by the deck rail, some shuffling their feet, some looking upset or angry. In the crowd, she makes out Maria, white-faced and crying. Then she sees Jacques and Jute standing close together, even touching at the shoulders.

  As Gabrielle joins the throng, she scans the crowd for the Marquis and for Fleet but finds neither. Panic rises and twists like a knot in her stomach. The Marquis and Fleet are not with the rest, she thinks, because they are the two suspects. It will be the Marquis’s silver-tongue, his rank, and his respectability against Fleet with his multiple, furtive secrets and the captain’s body secreted in his cabin. Who will they believe?

  Feverishly, she tries to think of a story that might back up Fleet’s innocence or at least one that might explain how a good man could be driven to murder. She finds herself searching the deck to choose among the five or six settlers and officials who are sullenly keeping guard. She wonders who among them has the most sympathetic face.

  Only now does she see the blanket on the deck. It is close by the wheel. Everyone in the crowd seems focussed upon this, and Gabrielle suddenly realizes the blanket must hide the body. Her stomach jumps at the thought that they have upturned the barrel onto the deck. But something catches her eye and causes her mind to still. Showing out from under the blanket and catching the sun is a pink scalp with wispy grey hair. With a huge wave of relief, Gabrielle realizes it is the Marquis. It is he who is dead; they have not yet found Captain Henley’s body. All is not lost for Fleet.

  Then, like the suction that follows that same wave, she finds the panic returning with twofold strength. They are going to search the ship for stowaways, they said—they will find Henley in the barrel. And more than that; if the Marquis is dead also, then who was his assassin?

  She looks over at Jute again. Last night’s conversation gave him every reason to avenge his captain’s death. But he seems too calm for a murderer, too at one with the man at his side. He stands preoccupied, even bored, whispering to Jacques and looking around.

  And where is Fleet?

  __________

  FLEET COMES AWAKE AT LAST; it seems he has been locked in a dream for hours. It was a weird, revolving phantasm, full of wild storms and inconceivable situations. He saw his mother barefoot in a nightdress, a tempest around her. Hissing foam flew all around the black beach rocks upon which she stood.

  “The rocks are slippery!” he called out to her, but his voice was swallowed up by the roar of the waves. His mother put her finger to her lips as though to shush him. She lowered her hand into a white sack, which hung from a loop around her neck, and pulled out a skull. She looked at Fleet and smiled. Though no words were spoken, Fleet knew the skull was Easton’s.

  Then Fleet was on a deserted deck, a knife in his hand. Easton stood at the wheel, his back to Fleet. Again the ocean roared like a pride of wild lions, the ship rocking one way then another as the torrent hissed and spat foam across the deck. Fleet approached Easton and held the knife high in both hands, but when it came time to plunge, he could not. It was as though his arms were held tight by unseen shackles.

  Next, his mother entered his cabin, walking softly like Gabrielle. It seemed natural and expected, and Fleet did not question her presence. In his mother’s hand was Easton’s payment of gold. She opened the snail barrel and let the coins drop.

  “I know you could not kill him,” she said softly, turning to face him last.

  “But I promised,” Fleet replied.

  “It doesn’t matter. What you cannot do while you are awake, I will help you perform when you are asleep.”

  Then his mother reached up high into an unlit corner of the cabin, plucked the skull from the darkness and held it in her hands.

  Remembering the dream, Fleet shakes his head and thinks of drowsing on. But a commotion in the corridor beyond ma
kes him turn and then sit up straight. He notices now that the ship is hardly swaying; they are surely anchored. Are there strangers on the ship? The voices are loud, and there is the sound of cabin doors being thrown open. Fleet jumps out of bed and quickly throws on his clothes. Footsteps approach.

  Fleet pulls his mother’s skull from under the bedclothes and slips it into his sack. He secrets the sack under the blanket then stands. The door flies open, and Fleet backs off again to the bed and sits. Two men stand in the doorway, their faces keen and unfriendly.

  “Who are you?” says the taller of the two, a bearded man.

  “Fleet,” he replies, his lips numb and uneasy. It’s a long time since he has talked to anyone but Gabrielle, and the attention of the two men is invasive. “Fleet the apothecary.”

  “Are you deaf?” says the barrel-chested man by his side. “Have you not heard us about the ship?”

  “I’ve been asleep.”

  “Oh,” says the bearded man, touching his companion’s arm. “You’re the one with fever.” He seems to back off a little way.

  “I had fever,” replies Fleet. “I’m better now.”

  “You look a little white to me,” says the barrel-chested man.

  “Really,” Fleet says, “I’m better.”

  “Well, you must come on deck,” the second man continues. “We’re rowing you all to the harbourfront for questioning.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” the bearded man says, blinking with impatience. “Because your captain was found this morning face down with a knife wound in his back.”