Cupids, page 1
BOOKS BY PAUL BUTLER
St. John’s: City of Fire
Rogues and Heroes
(co-author)
Stoker’s Shadow
Easton’s Gold
NaGeira
Easton
1892
PAUL BUTLER
BRAZEN BOOKS
ST. JOHN’S
2010
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Butler, Paul, 1964-
Cupids / Paul Butler.
ISBN 978-1-897317-62-4
1. Guy, John, d. 1629--Fiction. 2. Merchants--Newfoundland and Labrador--History--17th century--Fiction. 3. Cupids (N.L.)-- History--17th century--Fiction. 4. Newfoundland and Labrador-Colonization--Fiction. 5. Newfoundland and Labrador--History-To 1763--Fiction. I. Title.
PS8635.I355B33 2008 C813'.6 C2008-904360-X
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© 2010 by Paul Butler
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.
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For Maura & Jemma
“My mine of precious stones, my empery;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee!”
Elegy XX by John Donne
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue Bartholomew
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
John Guy
SEPTEMBER 25, 1611, CUPERS COVE
TO SIR WILLOUGHBY, MR. EGRET, AND THE MOST HONOURABLE MEMBERS OF THE NEWFOUNDLAND COMPANY OF BRISTOL AND LONDON . . .
It is my great pleasure to inform you, sirs, that after one more brief expedition to the northern coast I will begin preparations to return to England for the winter, and that I could not be happier and more secure about the morale of the men and their fitness, under my surrogate, Colston, to continue the good work of fishing, nurturing our beasts, and growing our crops. Through much hard work and diligence we have tilled the soil, raised many root-crops and some grain, and this not without some setbacks. One of the wine barrels was breached somewhat mysteriously last month and there has been some talk of items going astray. Worse than this, a fire last evening did ravage the grain with which we hoped to feed our livestock over the winter, a blow most bitter, but one our men took in great and fine spirits. In all such matters, indeed, I am proud of the good fellowship. We are inured to suffering and to the meagre and uncertain provisions of the pioneer. We will, as always, make do.
I myself, God willing, shall be most delighted to apprise those of you who will be in residence in the fair and beloved city of Bristol of the needs and necessities as well as the good work of my men. I understand that you, Sir Willoughby, will be travelling in foreign parts, and wish you Godspeed and a safe return. I pray that I may beg the indulgence of Mr. Egret and other of your most worthy gentlemen in your absence.
Rest assured, good sirs, despite hardships and uncertainties, the good Christian fellowship and, I humbly trust, my own example and leadership have kept any unrest at bay and it is a perpetual pleasure to see the harmony . . .
A scuffling noise halts my scratching pen. Two loud thumps follow, then a rough yell, and my door bursts open to the night, almost wrenching the hinge clean away. Writhing inside the burly grasps of Colston and Littlejohn, is Bartholomew, our apprentice cook and gardener. The three enter like a clump of mating insects. When the young man sees me, he ceases to struggle. In the wavering light of the candle, his pale eyes gaze at me with the kind of pleading I have seen only in dogs — not tinged by the slightest suggestion of pride, or even embarrassment, simply intent upon whatever morsel of comfort or sustenance it hopes to receive.
“He was hiding under the wharf,” Colston growls, his exposed forearm flexing as Bartholomew makes one futile lurch to the side, a gesture made more for effect and sympathy, I suspect, than for any serious attempt at escape. “What are you going to do with him?” Colston grits his teeth and his strong thumb burrows into the soft flesh of Bartholomew’s shoulder.
As though reluctant to believe in the intrusion, my fingers finally allow the quill to drop to the table. It rolls once, feathers nestling against the paper.
“I’ll have to bring him back with me once I have completed northern explorations next month. That’s laid down.”
I notice the hint of relief in the boy’s expression.
“We should deal with it here and now, sir,” Littlejohn says, his flint-like eyes catching mine. “We have proof he burned the grain. No one would blame us, or even care.”
The pleading look returns to those pale eyes which glisten now behind a film of moisture. I have been here before with Bartholomew, heard his frantic tales of threats and insinuations by day, molestations by night. Now as then it affects me little. The Company’s articles are my only guide. They make no mention of the sins of Sodom.
“No,” I say quietly. “He returns with me as the law dictates. I will keep him under my watch until that time. I can assure you he will pay.”
CHAPTER TWO
Guy
December 1611
I HEAR THE TELLTALE creak of Bartholomew even before he appears in my cabin entranceway. With his regular features, smooth skin, and the hint of down upon his cheek, he is a neat bird designed for the pleasure of viewing. I narrow my eyes to prevent betraying this thought as he draws closer. I am his jailor and he must not forget it.
The door, fixed open by a taut rope behind Bartholomew, is the only anchored thing in this place. The ocean mocks us all with its constant movement; now that we are in the middle of the Atlantic, stillness is a quality beyond reach, a barely remembered myth from times long past. I, myself, am a jelly of perpetual change. My thoughts reshape themselves so rapidly I scarcely know myself from one moment to the next.
“I wish to thank you, your worship,” he says softly.
“You are premature,” I reply, returning my gaze to the chart. The stool beneath me groans my discomfort. “I have yet to have the pleasure of any such title. I am mayor of no city, judge of no court. You do wrong to flatter.”
“I assure you, Mr. Guy, your worthiness makes you a lord in beneficence.”
I slide the ruler from the chart.
“What, specifically, do you wish to thank me for, boy?”
“Why, for unchaining me.”
“I had you unchained because sickness undermanned my ship. I needed your hands then, not your tongue now.”
“Still, you might have returned me to the hold.”
“I only haven’t because I may need you once more. In the meantime you can thank me by remaining in the space on this ship which has been designated for you.”
“I will do so,” he says with a bow and takes a short backward step. “But I wish you to know that I appreciate the difficulty of your position. I do understand the weight of an authority such as yours.”
The cabin tips, as does my stomach, and my thoughts scramble against his unwanted empathy, pushing against the trust that would like nothing better than to follow his words like shingle tumbling after a retreating wave.
“No one can appreciate it fully,” I reply, glaring at him. Then, as his face remains on mine, retaining respect and sympathy in equal measure, I find anger sliding from my visage like an ill-fitting mask. “Leading a group of forty men, my lad, without justice or judge, scaffold or lash, for fifteen months or more, is a trying test for the greatest of men. I believe myself humble enough to admit that I am not the greatest of men.”
Where did this come from? I am surely not asking this lad for sympathy. Like the prick of a spear applied to a bulging sack of wine, Bartholomew’s words have teased forth emotion that I am at pains to disguise. Fifteen months of grin
ding work, of encouraging men when I myself feel discouraged, of rewarding the faithful, of punishing miscreants, and settling petty scores with an even hand. And all the while the Company’s expectations on my shoulders like some great harness, demanding the incompatible twins of self-sufficiency and yield. Harvest fish, crops and grain, breed your animals, explore the interior and test for ores. Limit victuals to bare necessities. Feed yourselves where possible without delving into Company funds. And beyond these many hoops of burning flame shines Eliza, a star which I fear may remain perpetually beyond reach.
“And yet they expect you to be, your many partners in Bristol and London.”
I sigh and stretch on my stool as much as space will allow. He has crossed a barrier now and deserves immediate correction, but instead a very different sentiment escapes my lips. “Yes, they do,” I say.
A wisp of salt breath curls around us. We are nowhere, it sighs. Time insulates your thoughts and deeds — one week, two, three before you see land again. The feminine dream, Eliza Egret, sprouts soft down upon her cheek, takes a squarer jaw, a broader shoulder. Something moves below my belt.
“And here I am,” Bartholomew says, opening his arms as though making an offering, “against my own will, a thorn despoiling all your plans. I am the criminal you could not tame, whose return will undoubtedly cause them to question your authority!”
The young man seems sincere. His eyes, though still doglike in servility, now convey the kind of warmth I would so like to kindle and nurture. Yet how many witnesses attested to his crimes, pilfering stores and finally setting a torch to our only promising grain crop?
“I hardly think so, young man. For your information, the Company’s rules are explicit. Capital crimes must be dealt with in England. I will not be judged ill for merely following instructions.”
A frown furrows his young brow, and he gives me a nod and a faint smile.
“For your sake, dear sir, I pray it may be so.”
The cabin lurches in some entirely new direction — the crosswinds are particularly contrary this evening — and a succession of distant planks bark in protest. A fresh gust manages to weave its way through to us, lifting his hair and cooling my own face.
I must be mad indeed to be discussing the prisoner’s fate with the miscreant himself. But this is an odd situation and we both know it. For a start, he is quite right. The Company will think I have been derelict when it comes to keeping discipline when I return to port with a bad apple, especially as it was I who hand-picked most of my men, including Bartholomew whose early schooling under a now bankrupt guardian makes him both literate and learned. Bartholomew’s silken tongue gives me extra special pause, though I scarcely like to admit it. He and I will be the only two witnesses to his influence in the colony, and he presents himself so well.
But these are merely the details.
Here, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, we are engulfed in a special twilight where law and criminality are matters of strategy, rather than morals. As he continues to hold my gaze, his gentle, rather feminine smile playing on his lips, I realize this is not a courtesy call from prisoner to jailor. This is a negotiation. And while we are both taking pains to stay within our roles, I am also aware that, in terms of the ability of each to impact negatively upon the other, we are entering these talks, more or less, as equals. And, though I cringe to admit so much, something unexpected lures me into the agreement, the prickle of my hairs, a racing in my blood.
“How do you intend to defend yourself, young man?” I ask. I think of the excuses he gave me, the terror by night — an unmanly admission if ever there was one. A man should defend his own honour even unto death, not sneak off and commit crimes that necessitate his return.
But my question is mere bluster. Already my decision has been made, and I am ready for the extra comfort it will bestow.
CHAPTER THREE
Guy
March 1612
“HOW THRILLING IT ALL seems,” Eliza says, her snow-white hands clasped before her breast, aqua-blue eyes alive in candlelight.
I wonder if she means it this time. I have been here before and I know that, however broad her smile, however breathless her voice, I’m far from landing this particular ship. Love rests easy only when the loved one delineates one’s presence with light, one’s absence with darkness. Like an erratic diamond, Eliza sparkles in all directions at once. Once I pass from view, I know only too well she will turn the same light upon another.
“Thrilling indeed,” I mumble — distrustful mounds of air passing between my lips. “It is a splendid country, full of rich and fertile soil and rolling green. As our settlement is fortyseven degrees from the pole, three to the south of our own dear Bristol, the climate makes it a veritable Eden of warm breezes and verdant life.”
She tilts her head as though deep in happy reverie, but then her eyes widen.
“But there must be great dangers?”
“Dangers?”
Her eyelids flutter and a queasy suspicion of artifice enters my brain.
“I’ve heard of naked savages in such distant lands,” she says. Her exhalation causes the candle before us to wobble. “And of strange, fantastic beasts who devour all those who dare to approach.”
“No naked savages, dear lady. Just simple primitives willing to trade. No strange beasts. Just clean water and nature’s calm reassuring breath.”
I notice a dampening in her demeanour, but I’m eager to establish the virtues of the colony.
“The animals we brought — chickens, geese, pigs, goats, and lambs — all familiar to commonplace husbandry — took to the meadows and waters just as though they were back in England . . .”
I’m about to continue but see how all the anticipation has now drained from her eyes; her hands have slackened their clasp.
“Of course there are giant bears roaming the forests,” I venture.
Her brightness returns and she glances between me and my companion as though to confirm this is true.
“Fearsome boars with sword-like fangs,” offers Bartholomew at my elbow.
“Many strange creatures,” I add, leaning toward her, edging out Bartholomew.
“With lions’ fur but the faces of men!” chips in Bartholomew again.
“How wondrous!” Eliza gasps, looking not at me, but at my young companion. “And how lucky you men are for the chance to brave so much adventure!”
“Indeed,” I say more dryly than I had intended. For a moment I am aware of the clicking of sewing needles from Eliza’s aunt in the dim corner of the room. Mrs. Egret hasn’t looked up in twenty minutes; she is either listening not at all or listening very intently indeed.
Eliza moves almost imperceptibly closer, her air conspiratorial. “I have heard there are mermaids in the waters around Newfoundland,” she says. Her eyes have become jewels again and I know I cannot deny her. But just as I am struggling to find words to keep open the possibility of magic, Bartholomew beats me to it again.
“Silver fins and tails as far as the eye can see, my lady. The ocean is alive with them.” I catch a gasp from Helen, the pretty, tall, dark-haired maid, who is filling my cup. She skips around me to see to Bartholomew. In the corner of my eye I notice her hand trembling as she tips the jug, and I catch a motion from Bartholomew’s arm as though he thought to steady her wrist but changed his mind just before contact. Did he pass her something? I wonder. And, if so, what? Since our first visit a week ago he has been carrying on some form of dalliance with her. For me, he hastens to add when questioned. But I have yet to hear any useful information gleaned from their meetings and exchanges of notes.
Eliza smiles at Bartholomew. But this time her expression holds a touch of mischief as well as delight.
“At times,” Bartholomew continues, “we could let down a basket from the side of the ship, dip it into the ocean, then pull it back onto the deck containing several sleek mermaids, their hair braided with sea pearls, necks adorned with laces made from starfish.”
