Sailing by Carina's Star, page 43
“Staying apart is likely best,” Abeni continues. “It means that if something goes wrong, or one of us doesn’t return, there’s someone left to come in to help, and to alert the others here on Nassau if needed.”
“It might even cause less suspicion, if we’re on our own.” René shrugs off his coat, rolling up his shirtsleeves. Sweat drips down the small of his back. July, he’s certain, is a curse. “It’s like I said, you need more time to heal. You’ve already been sick because they didn’t take care of your wound, and God knows what they might have done to you if Abeni wasn’t a quick thinker.”
Danso squeezes René’s hand. Some of the tension in René’s shoulders dissipates. Despite the embers of his old nerves burning, he is ready to face this.
Hiding was right, for a time. Now he’s done with it.
“They didn’t do anything to me that can’t be healed,” Danso says, and René knows he isn’t just talking about the leg wound. He looks at Abeni and René with a long, piercing gaze. “It seems I am overruled. We will have to set a window for your return. That way we’ll know when to go searching for you if we don’t hear word directly that something’s happened. Swear to me that you will not do anything other than what we’ve discussed here.”
“I swear, Danso. To Tortola and back again. That’s it.”
Not knowing the future is the most maddening part of all of this. Not knowing what Jerome and his father are planning. He sees the Jolly Roger again in his mind’s eye, set aflame and dropped beneath the water. Ruined. Singed. Tattered. Jerome wanted to draw out René’s rage, caught up as he was in his own. Michel, meanwhile, was only caught up in his grief. René’s love for his father throbs like an ache in the center of his chest, an old bruise that just won’t heal. He loves Jerome too, but Jerome is more willing to just fight him. That’s easier, for some reason. René touches his old anchor tattoo with his mother’s name. There is one good thing about all of this: now that the truth is out, sending her a letter might not be such a difficulty. It won’t matter if it’s found, because his whereabouts are no longer a question. René would not make mention of the fact that his mother helped him, and Astra is excellent at keeping secrets.
But right now, he must protect Danso and Abeni. He must protect this family who has protected him for so long.
Outside the door, Chema’s overloud voice cuts into the conversation.
“Gus, good lord,” Chema says. “Take some spying lessons from Marc and quit moving around.”
Danso smiles. “It seems we have an audience.”
Abeni wraps a hand around René’s wrist, drawing him back to the present. “Come on. Let’s go alert the eavesdroppers outside the door.”
René rises, turning back to Danso before he goes. “Thank you for listening. I know how difficult this is for you, after all these years keeping us hidden.”
“It’s hard for all of us.” Danso stands up too, clasping René’s shoulder with warmth. “But you and Abeni are right. We have to think of how we’ll face your father and Jerome, rather than behaving as we were before, or it won’t be protecting you.” He pauses, correcting himself. “It won’t be protecting any of us at all.”
The fact that Danso didn’t insist on going to Tortola himself is a miracle. From what Jahni and Flora said—having overheard Danso and Abeni arguing—it came directly down to Abeni making Danso see how much they need him, and that it is not up to him alone to bear the weight of it all.
Abeni yanks the study door open, both Auden and Eli falling into the room with a great, echoing crash.
“I told you not to lean on the door,” Elliot chides, covering his mouth to stop himself from laughing.
Gus, who has no such qualms, laughs uproariously, and Auden swats at him as he gets up.
“Give a man a warning, won’t you?” he grouses.
“Well, you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,” Abeni says, grinning. “It’s rude.”
“We’re pirates, darling,” Eli protests. “Thieves. That’s fairly rude as well.”
Flora rests a hand on her hip. “That’s a terrible argument.”
“You were eavesdropping as well, Flora,” Auden argues.
“I never said I wasn’t, dear.” Flora kisses Auden’s cheek, making him blush. “But I also know it’s not the best manners.”
“Where’s Frantz?” René asks. “And Jahni?”
“Both of them, being reasonable,” Auden answers, “opted to simply ask what the result of the conversation was when you were done. They’re at the tavern with Marc, who also chose not to come, though he is the spy among us.”
“Ironic,” Eli mumbles, rubbing his elbow where it hit the wood.
“Not really. There’s a reason I picked him to be my spy and not one of you.” Abeni sighs, but it’s terribly fond. “The lot of you are going to be the death of me. Danso’s agreed—you’re to set sail in a day or two. To the Saiph with you! We need things in tip-top shape before you can go.”
There are murmurs of excitement at this, and the group of them lumber out of the house to alert the rest of the crew and start making preparations. Frantz meets them when they reach the harbor, and Auden gives Flora one last kiss before joining him and Rene. The three of them watch their friends laugh and tease by the water’s edge as they gather up the longboats to go out to the ship.
This is a family unbroken.
They’re all quiet for a moment until René speaks. The words are warm as they emerge, bright with love, and holding all the magic of the stories he clung to as a boy.
The stories he eventually became a part of himself.
“If I were a wise man, maybe I would have left the West Indies a long time ago,” he says. “But what good would that wisdom do me, without the place I call home? I’d rather have that than my secrets.”
Frantz slides an arm around René’s waist, his eyes alight with faith in their crew. With faith in Nassau itself. Faith in the home the three of them made for themselves after the old one broke. “Well put,” he says. “It’s a bit of a relief, in some respects.”
“We’ll show them,” Auden chimes in, putting his arm around René’s shoulders. “Who does Jerome think he is, setting a pirate flag on fire?”
Frantz arches a single eyebrow. “A captain in the British Royal Navy, I expect.”
“Well that captain in the British Royal Navy won’t know what hit him whenever we cross paths again,” Auden says, and though they never met, there’s just a touch of Arthur in his smile. “The look on his face when René knocked the cutlass from his hand was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. He was in absolute shock that someone outdid him, even though it was his very own student. Bastard.”
René laughs until he can’t catch his breath, and it echoes against the cloudless late afternoon sky.
Chapter 14
Tortola. July 1716.
Jerome arrives in Tortola just over six weeks to the day since he first saw René’s face.
It’s a deep, dark, impossible night when the Chase comes into harbor, the Navigator a few minutes behind. Impenetrable black clouds smear the sky, scattered stars struggling to make themselves seen. Small pools of orange light up the docks, lending everything a haunted, eerie edge.
They received a letter from a customs officer here upon their return from Charles Town and everything that followed, a customs officer who was suspicious of pirate activity in this particular settlement near the shore. When they wrote to inquire as to whether they could make a visit to ask more detailed questions and explore the area, he answered quickly.
Yes.
Jerome steps onto the dock as soon as they’re in port. The Navigator is visible off in the distance, the wind having blown her slightly off course as they approached the island. Lieutenant Anderson steps off with him, and they’re met by a young customs officer, a lad of perhaps four and twenty.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Wilson,” Jerome says without preamble. “I’m Captain Nicholas Jerome of His Majesty’s Navy.”
The young man inclines his head. “That’s me, Captain. I sent the letter. Some of the lads saw you coming, so I ran down here straight away.”
Jerome nods. “Thank you for your letter, Mr. Wilson. If I might ask, what prompted you to write?”
Wilson takes his hat off, crushing it in his hands. “My brother was a merchant sailor, sir,” he says. “Younger than me. His ship skirmished with some pirates, and his captain wouldn’t surrender. My brother was killed in the fight. So, I don’t have any sympathy for pirates, all told.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Anderson speaks now, perhaps because he has a younger brother himself who is also in the merchant ranks. “You may trust that Captain Jerome and Commodore Delacroix will do an excellent job snuffing out whatever activity may be going on here in Tortola.”
“I’ve only been in this job six months,” Mr. Wilson continues, “and I was suspicious of some of the townsfolk and some of the ships coming in since the start. But I wanted to gather information and not waste your time. I even think there might be some corrupt customs officers here, sir.”
“We appreciate that,” Jerome says. “You did the right thing, writing us.”
“I heard about Charles Town, and what happened there with the black market from some sailors who came into port,” Wilson replies. “I saw something odd here tonight, actually, a few hours before you arrived. Something I thought might be pirates.”
“What’s that?” Jerome asks, a certainty shooting up his spine.
It’s not rational, not one bit, and he prides himself on such things. But right now, he might have stepped into the pages of a story, and this would be the moment, wouldn’t it? The moment when the villain’s luck runs out. Fate calling him toward an inevitable meeting. The past nipping at his heels.
René is here, isn’t he?
He has no reason to think it other than his tenuous hold on a long-ago connection that won’t quite snap in two. It could be any pirate.
“I was finishing up my shift when one of the other dock workers thought he saw sails,” Wilson continues. “I pulled out my spyglass and saw them too, thought maybe a ship was coming into port. They were flying the merchant flag, but then they turned away over toward a cove nearby, about a half-mile from town. I would think they would fear running aground over there, but maybe they just left? It was strange. Though it was foggy earlier, so maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me.”
“Has anyone searched around?” Jerome asks.
“No, sir.” Wilson shakes his head. “It’s dark over there near the cove, and it’s a dark night as is. It’s just small merchants and settlers here. No soldiers, really, aside from a couple of retired ones. We didn’t think we’d have enough lads or guns to do anything if it was nefarious. Pirates could do anything they like to us here, Captain Jerome, and as I said, I’ve suspected goings on for a while. I just didn’t have proof until I noticed that stamp I told you about in the letter.”
“When you saw the ship, did you see the size? Something identifiable?” Jerome prods. “Anything at all would help. Was it just the one?”
“It was about the size of your ship there.” Wilson points to the Chase. “Maybe a bit smaller, though not by much. The flag of St. George was what I thought I saw, and a few crates scattered across the bow.”
It could still be another pirate ship, but pirate frigates are less common than sloops, and the Saiph is very like the Chase, from the glimpses Jerome had a few weeks ago. It could be René, and if it is, Jerome has to do this carefully.
Jerome turns to Anderson, his heart pounding so loud that for a moment, it’s all he can hear.
“Commodore Delacroix will be docking in just a short while.” Jerome puts a hand on Anderson’s shoulder, making sure he’s being listened to. “Tell him, when he gets in, that I’ve gone to the tavern.”
“Are you all right to go alone, sir?” Anderson asks. “I could send men with you.”
“No. This needs to be done quietly, or we’ll lose whoever might be here.” He looks at Wilson, not wanting to speak to René’s identity in front of anyone he doesn’t trust entirely. “If you point me in the direction of the tavern you mentioned in your letter, Mr. Wilson, I’ll have a word with my lieutenant here and then I will go myself. Please see to Commodore Delacroix when he docks.”
“It’s called the Sea Dove Tavern, sir,” Wilson tells him. “There’s an etching of a brown and white bird on the front. It’s about a ten minute walk from here. Turn left once the harbor’s behind you.”
Wilson leaves them alone after that, going over to one of the other workers and preparing an empty space for Michel’s imminent arrival. The blood pumps hot in Jerome’s veins. He must get to that tavern now, and if nothing’s there, search around the cove Wilson mentioned.
“Do you think it’s Commodore Delacroix’s son, sir?” Anderson asks as soon as Wilson is out of earshot. “From the description of the ship I was wondering myself.”
“I am curious to see if it’s him,” Jerome answers. “And that’s why I need to go alone.”
Anderson bites his lip. “Are you sure you’ll be safe, sir? The stories about him—”
Jerome puts up a hand. “I’ll be fine, Anderson.”
“I am sorry, sir,” Anderson says, “about all of this. I wasn’t yet in Kingston when the Commodore’s son ran off, but Rollins told me about it, how close you were. I know it must be hard, seeing him like this.”
Jerome’s skin itches with his desire to set off. He likes Anderson very well as a first lieutenant, but he does not wish for a confidant right now.
“Commodore Delacroix is deeply unhappy with the situation.” Jerome evades answering to his own emotions on the matter, and this silences Anderson’s line of questioning.
“I’ll tell Commodore Delacroix exactly where you’ve gone,” Anderson says. “Should I send scouts for you if you don’t return at a certain time?”
“In a half-hour. Though I expect Commodore Delacroix will want to follow after me.” Jerome nods, checking that his cutlass and his pistol are secure. “Thank you, Anderson. Tell the other senior officers where I’ve gone, but not anyone else. The men are hungry to catch these pirates after our last tussle, and I don’t need anything getting out of hand.”
Anderson agrees, and then, Jerome goes. He walks with speed and intent toward the tavern, a particular memory coming to him, the one when René asked him how to pronounce Saiph.
It means sword of the giant. I liked that.
Breath eludes him, the air sharp and caught between his ribs. He leans over, resting his hands on his knees and willing himself to calm down. Was the brat thinking of that first moment beneath Orion’s light when he named his damned pirate ship? Was it a taunt? Another game? No matter how many years pass, no matter how stained and faded the other remembrances grow, his memory of René on that first night remains painful in its vividness.
A strange, cool breeze cuts through the heat.
A change in the wind.
A change in everything that has been, leading toward what will be.
He gets going again and picks up his pace, exiting the harbor and going left as Wilson told him. There’s not much visibility through the palm trees, but this dark night might cloak anything, especially without his spyglass and a proper lantern. Why didn’t he think to bring a lantern? He runs by the light of the few shops that are still open at this hour—just past ten—the sign for the Sea Dove tavern just up ahead. The wood is worn down from the salty air, the beak on the bird etching half-gone. The low buzz of multiple conversations greets him when he reaches the front door. It doesn’t seem overly crowded. He leans in, listening. Waiting, and listening. He shuts his eyes. Two voices are closer. More discernible. Somewhere outside the tavern. Near the back, perhaps. One sounds vaguely like a man from Bristol.
But the other ....
That second voice he knows anywhere, that posh English accent with just a hint of Paris. And in a moment, he’ll know for sure. He’ll know without a single doubt. He moves nearer, going around the side of the tavern. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t breathe too hard, stretching as far as he can so he might catch the conversation. He gets a glimpse of the second man’s back.
Long fair hair, that’s what he sees, and a red coat too.
René. It is René.
Jerome pulls back around the corner of the tavern and rests against the wall just out of sight.
“That should be all of it,” the unfamiliar man says, and there’s the sound of him taking something out of his pocket, something that makes a tell-tale clinking noise. They must be exchanging goods for money.
“Much obliged.” René’s deeper voice still surprises Jerome, even though he heard it a few weeks ago. It’s more of a tenor than a bass, but one thing is clear.
René is a child no longer.
“The rum I get from you is better, and you charge me less than a merchant might,” the man who must be the tavern owner says. “When will you be back, do you wager?”
Rum. Like Wilson suggested in his letter. The Saiph must be hiding somewhere near the cove Jerome hasn’t seen yet. Tracks from a cart are visible a few feet away. Perhaps they unloaded in secret somewhere outside the main harbor—easy to do in a sparsely populated place like this.
“Not for a while,” René answers, and the clinking sound happens again, so he must be taking the money. “We’ve run into some trouble, lately, so we need to lay low. Don’t want to pop up in the same place too often.”
“Understood. Did you get what you needed from Lawson?”
“We did. Jahni’s managing the loading of it now. Marc and some of the others have gone to his shop to get powder and ammunition for our pistols.”
Jahni. Jerome remembers seeing a pirate who looked strikingly like Danso during his brief interaction with the crew of the Saiph, wondering if that might be him. It sounds like a Carib name, very close to Ajani, and if Jerome remembers right, Danso’s mother was Carib, and his father the escaped slave.
