Easton's Gold (14 page)

The apothecary nods. He turns and goes to the door. Then he opens it and disappears into the shadows beyond.

S
o, my dear,” the captain says for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time he lets the phrase hang while he dabs the moisture from his lips with his handkerchief. He turns from the table and gestures to Jute. Jute picks up the wine jug, walks noiselessly to Gabrielle and fills her goblet before she can stop him, then he goes to the captain who holds out his goblet eagerly.

“You must eat up!” the captain says nervously as Jute goes back to the side table.

This is the third time the captain has urged Gabrielle to eat, and the forth time he has had her wine goblet filled against her will. Twice she has asked for water—she is still parched from the salty swan meat—only to be told that wine is better for sating thirst. Half an hour ago she tried to leave, but the captain would not hear of it. “Not after the Marquis has gone to such pains to get us together, not after he has even taken upon himself the burden of navigation to allow us this time in each other's company.” His expression while he said this was as desperate as his choice of words. It seemed to pain him that he could not make duress sound pleasant. Since then Gabrielle has sat placidly answering questions and keeping him talking. The more the captain talks, the more he drinks. He is already slurring his words.
If I can get him to yawn, the finishing post will be in sight. Drunken men are easy to outmanoeuvre and quick to fall asleep
.

All the while, except for when he fills their goblets, the serving man, Jute, has been standing by the side table, his gaze averted.

“How did you find London during your brief stay there?” the captain asks suddenly with a sniff.

“I prefer the country, Captain.”

“Ah, the country, the country, yes,” he says, holding his wine as though about to make a toast and staring into some deep nowhere. The cabin sways slightly and the timbers creak. The ship's movements have become gentler since the Marquis took over.

The captain takes a sip. “Yes, yes, the country.” He is silent for a moment. “You mean the English country?”

“I have never seen the English country, Captain. I believe I mentioned it before. We docked in London and stayed there the entire time.”

“The French country, then,” he says, prodding the knife in her direction as though this were an incisive deduction.

“Yes, the French country.” She has already told him this too but decides to let it pass.

“You must not suppose,” he says, abruptly shifting in his seat. “You must not suppose I do not have the life and laughter of society about me wherever I go, my dear. You must not suppose that.”

“I don't suppose that, Captain,” Gabrielle says gently.

“Good,” says the captain, warming to this success. “I should say I could make any young woman most happy when I retire.”

“I'm sure you could,” says Gabrielle.

“I am known as a great talker, my dear. Young women, women of every age in fact, have clamoured for my notice at one time or another.”

“Indeed.”

“Many a pretty cheek has blushed at my attentions, I assure you.”

Gabrielle nods and tries to smile, but his eyes are no longer focussed upon her. Instead his gaze roves around the timbers of his cabin and settles on the curtains beyond which must lie his bed.

“Are you tired, Captain Henley?” asked Gabrielle, trying not to sound too hopeful.

The captain shrugs and takes another gulp of wine then holds out his goblet. Jute comes toward him immediately with the jug and refills it.

“A captain has no time to be tired,” he says, taking a large gulp then wiping his mouth with his now purple handkerchief. “And you, you must not be tired either,” he says with a curious gesture of his forefinger and a lopsided smile.

“I'm not so sure I can prevent sleep from coming upon me, Captain.”

“No, no, I've seen to that, the excellent fellow…,” the captain's voice trails away and he sighs, gazing down now at the table. “Jute!” he snaps with more authority than would have seemed possible a moment ago.

“Sir,” Jute replies, turning to him.

“Leave us. See if Mr. Fleet has anything for you.”

Jute bows and leaves. The captain hauls himself straight on his chair then leans across the table toward Gabrielle.

“Excellent fellow?” Gabrielle repeats.

“Fleet. The Marquis…the Marquis-sis apothecary. You know him.” He frowns, puts his fist to his head and laughs. “He said he would help me.”

“Help you what?”

“Oh no, no, no,” he says, still laughing and now waving his finger as though in mock warning. “It's a trade secret, my dear. We keep our secrets upon this ship. We keep our secrets.”

There is a silence, and the captain seems to gaze intently at Gabrielle's plate. Then his plump hand reaches across the table, and his calloused fingers make contact with hers.

Gabrielle tries not to draw away at once but feels a twitching in her ankle tendons and her body takes over. She puts her palms on the edge of the table, as though preparing to rise.

“Captain, I really must leave you,” she says and, very slowly, starts to stand.

The captain's pale blue eyes watch her, and his chest moves in and out like that of a great animal in pain. Now fully standing, Gabrielle takes a step back from the table. The captain's trembling fingers reach toward her again, but she is just beyond his grasp.

“You must not go now,” he whispers.

“Yes, Captain, I must,” Gabrielle says firmly, circling the table at the far end from the captain.

“You will regret it,” he croaks. “You will regret it in a very short time.”

His voice is feeble, and Gabrielle cannot believe it is a threat. Yet it stops her. She lays her fingers on the back of the chair where the Marquis sat.

“Why will I regret it?” she asks.

“Because, young lady,” he says with some emotion, “your coldness toward me is about to turn to fire.” He gets up from his seat. Gabrielle backs away and tries to edge closer to the exit, but the captain sees this and shuffles sideways into the space between the table and the door.

“I'm sorry, Captain,” Gabrielle says, trying to fix the wildness in his eye with some kind of firmness in her own. “I will never ‘turn to fire' for you. It is quite impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible for the Marquis's apothecary, you know that yourself.”

What is going on
? Gabrielle's tongue moves in her parched mouth prodding her toward a clue.
The saltiness; Fleet's look of sympathy, or perhaps guilt, as he left the table; the captain's weird rambling about how Fleet said he would help
.

A galloping starts in her ears. Like a great herd entering a landscape, this new emotion supersedes her fear, rolling every cloud and tree of her imagination into the same whirling mass of tumultuous energy. At first she does nothing but shrink toward the wall and brace herself, her heart pounding like a hammer.

The captain lumbers a pace or two forward then halts, arms outstretched, hands splayed in some mute offering. Gabrielle shrinks still further, awaiting the moment. The captain leans forward without taking another step, again lifting his palms to her as though to show her his spiritual wounds. Suddenly Gabrielle flies like a rock from a catapult—one bound and a sharp upward kick. The captain makes no noise at all as he folds and then crumples, knees up to his chest, on the floor. Gabrielle is at the door before she hears his first soft gasp of pain.

__________

“S
O WHAT WAS THE WHITE
powder you gave me before?” Jute asks.

Fleet busies himself spooning the dried oyster powder into the rag. “A less common preparation. I'd forgotten I had this one.”

The flame on the barrel flickers with the swaying of the ship, although things have been generally calm since Easton took over.

“How is the captain getting on with Gabrielle?” Fleet asks, pulling up the corners of the rag and winding a string around the newly formed neck of the medicine sack.

Jute does not reply. When Fleet looks up at him, he finds the serving man staring rather pointedly, his blue eyes penetrating and oddly forbidding.

“How do you think he is doing, Mr. Fleet?”

Fleet picks up the medicine sack and hands it to Jute. Jute doesn't blink as he slowly takes the string and lets the bag hang from his fingers.

“Perhaps this one will work better,” he says, tossing the sack in the air and catching it again. “I have personally never heard that sea salt can be used as an aphrodisiac.”

Fleet tries to give a puzzled frown, but the serving man just smirks and turns to the door. He stops at the cabin entrance and turns.

“I have served Captain Henley since I was nine, Mr. Fleet, and I will not see him cheated.”

He leaves, and Fleet hears his footsteps die away. Then, as though in reply, he hears a different set of footsteps clattering somewhere above. There in an urgency in the sound. A moment later they are thumping down a staircase, then running along a passage, all the while getting louder and nearer.

__________

G
ABRIELLE THROWS OPEN THE
door and strides into the cabin. She spins to the left. Fleet is leaning over one of the barrels against the near wall. When he sees her, he lets the barrel lid drop and quickly pulls down both cuffs with damp looking fingers. Gabrielle stands breathless, ready to spit the fire on her lips. Only one thing slows her down, a freak effect perhaps, from the bobbing candle flame. For the second, Fleet's exposed forearms seemed as dark as furrowed earth.

Fleet now straightens himself, his dark eyes intent and waiting.

“You traitor!” she gasps at last, her breath still burning.

“What?” he replies, frowning slightly.

“You sprinkled a love powder on my meat and then left me with the captain.”

Gabrielle feels her heels twitch. She had imagined herself springing upon him with words or fists or both, but something holds her back.

Fleet merely sighs and gives her an odd, knowing smile.

“I sprinkled salt on your meat and left you with the captain,” he says. “Excuse me one moment.” He crosses the cabin to another barrel, passing right by Gabrielle as he does so. He opens the hatch and begins washing his hands.

“What?” says Gabrielle, taking a step forward. All the anger has drained from her more suddenly than she would have thought possible. She feels deflated and foolish.

“Salt,” he repeats, now picking up a rag and drying his hands. “But you're right,” he continues quietly, his back still turned, “I am a traitor. I was going to betray you, my family, myself, everyone I once held dear.”

“What are you talking about?” Gabrielle says, surprised by the desperation in her voice.

Fleet turns around slowly, leans back against the barrel and folds his arms. An inch or two of exposed flesh above his wrist repeats the curious illusion; the skin there is dark as oak. Fleet smiles and gazes down at his folded arms.

__________

I'
VE BEEN PLAYING WITH THE IDEA
long enough. This girl came in here wanting to wound me; once again, her desires are at one with my own. If Gabrielle's anger can burn a clear path through the maze of lies and confusion, let it be
.

“No,” Fleet finds himself saying quietly. “It wasn't your imagination. I tried to tell you before. I am not what I seem.” He looks down at the exposed skin above his wrists.

Gabrielle wavers and comes slightly closer. One hand reaches as if to point or stretch toward him. “You were burned?”

“Not by fire,” Fleet replies with a bitter smile. Now he locks her gaze in his own. “Gabrielle,” he says, “I am Easton's son. I am the African child he seeks.”

Gabrielle continues to stare. She mouths something, but no words come. He imagines the thoughts that must be running through her mind, as her lips twitch and her eyes flit around his face.

“I have been following him, Gabrielle. Following and watching for years.”

“But, Mr. Fleet, it makes no sense,” she says, taking another step toward him. “Your arms are an accident of nature. You must be deluded.” She reaches out, her fingertips almost touching the brown skin above his wrist.

Fleet sighs and circles away from Gabrielle. Her sympathy is too painful. She should be angry like before. He crosses the cabin to the barrel with the snails. “Gabrielle,” he says with a passion—almost an anger—that takes even him by surprise. “I have been suffocating both of us with my lies. Please let me tell the truth and believe me.” He turns to face her again. “Nature made me brown all over, like any other African. I have tampered with nature to change my face and hands.”

“How?” says Gabrielle. She comes forward again, a tremulous smile on her lips; she clearly doesn't believe him.

Fleet pulls open the hatch. A cool steam rises. “The juices of a snail,” he says quietly. “Applied day after day for many months, these liquids will bleach the skin of colour.”

Gabrielle looks at him and shakes her head. Fleet begins to unbutton his tunic from the top. Gabrielle takes half a step backwards as Fleet hauls the tunic from his shoulders. She stares wide-eyed at his torso. Fleet slips one arm and then the other back through his sleeves and begins to fasten the buttons once again.

“Why?”

“Why?” he replies, amazed. “Have you tried living as an African in England or France?”

“No,” says Gabrielle impatiently, taking a step back toward the bed. “Why are you following the Marquis? What are you intending to do?”

Fleet sighs, turns and lowers the lid on the snail barrel. “My real name is George. He wanted to kill me when I was a baby. He would have killed the woman I called mother and the man who became my father.” He turns around to face Gabrielle again. She is sitting on the bed, the mound of his mother's skull hidden under the bedclothes beside her. “My father was killed by pirates who came to our Newfoundland shore, my mother and I taken prisoner. We were sold by the pirates not as slaves, but as freaks—an African cannibal woman and her half-caste son. She died. I survived.”