B. Alexander Howerton (13 page)

“Julia?”  Julia almost jumped out of her skin when the nurse
called her name.  She got up, nervously gathered her things, and dropped her
purse.  Alan bent over, picked it up, and carried it with him as he slipped a
supporting arm around Julia and guided her to where the nurse was waiting.

“The doctor is ready to see you.  Follow me, please.”

They were led down the hall, past the examining rooms where
they were normally seen, to a closed door.  The nurse opened it, and they saw
they were being escorted to Doctor Szymanski’s private office.  Julia became
more nervous that ever.

Dr. Barbara Szymanski looked up from the reports she was
reviewing.  “Please, come in,” she said as she stood up quickly, came around
the desk, and helped Alan guide Julia to a comfortable leather chair facing the
desk.  Alan sat in the identical chair next to Julia, and turned to face the
doctor.  “It’s not good, us being called into your private office, is it?” he
asked shakily, reaching for Julia’s hand.

Dr. Szymanski sighed with grave concern as she resumed her
seat and folded her hands on the desk.  “No, I am afraid it isn’t.”  She smiled
sympathetically toward Julia, who was barely holding together.  “Look, there is
no way I can make this any easier, so I’m just going to tell you the facts, and
inform you of your options.”  She reached for reading glasses and picked up the
top sheet on her desk, perusing it.

“The lab tests have come back.  The fetus exhibits many of
the developmental characteristics of anencephaly, which is somewhat rare.  I
know that doesn’t help you much, but we checked, rechecked, and checked again. 
We even sent samples to three different labs for confirmation.  They all came
back positive.”

She took off her glasses and looked straight at the couple. 
“Anencephaly is a severe neural tube defect that results in the absence of most
of the brain and, in extreme cases, the spinal cord as well.  Additionally,
there are often multiple malformations of the skeleton and internal organs. 
The cranial vault, or top of the skull, is absent, and the brain tissue, if
present, is exposed.  Though the cerebral hemispheres are usually missing, the
lower brain stem, which controls internal organs, is present.  Almost all of
the bones in the skull are abnormal.  Defects in skull formation can cause
characteristic facial anomalies.  Usually the eyes protrude, the nose is
prominent and a cleft lip or palate is often manifest.  Malformations of the
limbs, the thoracic cage, the abdominal wall, the gastrointestinal tract, and
the genitourinary system are relatively common.  The heart, lungs, kidneys, and
adrenal glands are also often malformed.

“This disorder is generally believed to develop between the
twenty-third and twenty-sixth days following conception, due to a failure of
part of the neural tube to close.  This condition is not common.  Only about
one in a thousand live births exhibit this anomaly.  Additionally, there is
approximately a five percent risk of recurrence of a neural tube defect, either
spina bifida or anencephaly, in subsequent pregnancies, after the birth of a
child with a neural tube defect.  Unfortunately, most anencephalic infants are
either stillborn or die within a few days of birth.  Those that live any length
of time tend to suffer excruciating pain.  Some anencephalic infants have been
kept alive by artificial means in order to a wait donor organs for transplant. 
Their own organs have a tendency to spontaneously deteriorate.  It is estimated
that forty to seventy percent of children under two years old that are on
waiting lists for organ transplants die before suitable organ donors are
found.”  She looked down for a moment, quickly wiped one of her eyes with the
back of her hand, then looked up again.  “I am so sorry.”

Julia stared at the doctor in wide-eyed shock, large pools
of tears forming under her eyes.  She was squeezing the blood out of Alan’s
hand.

“Can we get a second opinion?” Alan asked in a resigned
monotone.

“Please do.  Get a third, or fourth, or fifth, if you’d
like.  I hope and pray that you discover I am wrong.”

Alan glanced at Julia, and perceived that she was in no
state to process any more information.  He turned back to the doctor.  “What
are our options?”

The doctor leaned back into her chair, sighing heavily, her
shoulders slumping.  “I am a doctor.  It is my duty and responsibility to do
everything in my power to preserve life.  But I have delivered a couple of
these unfortunate infants.”  She paused, and swallowed hard.  “It is my
recommendation to terminate the pregnancy.”

A long, loud wail of grief tore free from Julia’s throat. 
She hugged her belly and swayed from side to side, throwing her head violently
about.  Alan reached over to hug her, but she furiously beat him away.  She was
inconsolable.

The heavy oaken door of the One-Eyed Parrot tavern in Port
Royal, Jamaica, slammed open.  The fresh breeze from the sea blasted into the
room, extinguishing several candles and shocking many of the patrons from their
rum-induced lethargy.  Most turned to the doorway to discern the cause of
disturbance.  There in the doorway stood the silhouette of a large man, hands
on hips, wearing a tricorn hat and a long coat.

“A pint o’ rum fer me, laddies.  Jacques Le Diable Rouge is
back in port!”  He swaggered into the tavern and pushed his way onto a bench at
one of the tables.  The rough-looking men seated at the table directed a
half-grimace of recognition and friendship to him as they flagged over the
barkeep, carrying a brimming tankard of powerful drink.

“Good t’ see ye agin, Jacques,” slurred one of his new
companions.  “We thought you were lost for sure, when we heard that the Spaniel
had sunk off of Hispaniola.”

Jacques took a long draft from the mug, then roughly wiped
the dripping liquid from his bright red beard and mustache with the back of his
hand as he replied, “It takes more than a sinking tub to take me down, lads!  I
made it to a small island by floating on an empty rum keg, then was picked up
by the Black Scoundrel, which just made port here.  Let me relate to you fine
gentleman how I survived on that blighted isle for three weeks….”

“Jacques, you red devil!  You’re not even going to give me
so much as a ‘how-do-you-do’, are you?  You might as well go to Davy Jones’
locker, for all I care!”

Jacques twisted around on the bench to behold an aging yet
still quite comely woman standing halfway down the staircase, her hands on her
hips.  She was wearing a rather worn but still attractive full yellow dress,
the skirt sweeping the stairs.  The tight bodice pushed up her ample cleavage,
concealing very little.  Her long straight black hair cascaded over her
shoulders, partially blocking the view that most men in the tavern were craning
to acquire.

“Well, bless me black soul, if it ain’t Cassandra, the light
o’ me life,” Jacques declared as he rose.  With one smooth movement he removed
his hat and bowed low.  “A shining angel wouldn’t be a fairer sight to me tired
old eyes.”  He stood back erect as she approached.  She looked deeply into his
eyes for a moment, then furiously slapped him.  “You lying, treacherous dog! 
Where’s my money!”

Consternation crossed Jacques’ face as he rubbed the point
of impact.  Then he broke into a broad grin, reached down, and picked up
Cassandra in the cradle of his arms.  “Ah, is that all you want from me, ye
comely wench?  Well, I told ye if I ever came back to port, I’d have it.”  He
shook his hip, and the small leather purse hanging off his belt jingled with
the sound of heavy gold coins.  Her eyes flashed with delight as he said, “Come
share a mug o’ grog with me, lass.”  He carried her over to an empty table for
two, next to the huge, roaring fire, and set her down.  “Barkeep,” he called,
reaching into his purse and flipping him a gold crown, “Two pints o’ yer finest
rum, and set up all the lads in here as well.”  He sat down to general cheering
in the tavern, and focused his attention on Cassandra.  “Ye gotta have faith in
me, lass.  I told ye I’d return and make it all right by you.”  She beamed at
him with a sparkle in her eye as the barkeep brought the two pints.  “Yer
always welcome here, sir,” he said, bowing, then left them alone.

Cassandra was as excited as a little girl on Christmas
morning.  “Jacques, have you found yer treasure, as ye promised ye would?”

“That I have, lass.  And I saved the finest piece for you.” 
He reached into his coat, into a deep pocket, and pulled forth an object
wrapped in a purple velvet cloth.  He handed it to her, saying earnestly, “This
is a token of me eternal love fer you, dear.”

She eagerly unwrapped it and held it up, taking in her
breath sharply in appreciation.  “It’s beautiful!”  It was a stone, about half
the size of a human head.  It was semi-transparent, having no real color, yet
it seemed to catch the firelight and send dazzling rays of color in every
direction, bathing the small tavern room in a soft glow.  “What is it?”

“I don’t know, but it must be worth a king’s ransom.  D’ye
like it?”

She jumped up, scooted around the table, and threw her arms
around him.  “I love it.  And I love you.”  She kissed him long and
passionately.  She finally disengaged, gazed deeply into his eyes, and
whispered, “Come on upstairs and let me reward you proper.”

His broad grin was all the assent she needed.  She got up,
took his hand, and led him up the stairs amongst general grumblings of jealousy
from the other patrons.  Jacques was so intent on his imminent pleasure that he
did not notice two members of the King’s guard enter the tavern.

Cassandra led him to her small room, which also served as
her place of business.  Jacques didn’t mind in the least; that was the sort of
woman he preferred.  He stripped off his long coat and began working on the
buttons of his breeches.  Cassandra flopped down on her back on the bed, hiked
up her skirt to reveal her feminine wiles, and spread her legs wide.  “Come
give Miss Muffin a kiss,” she implored seductively.

With his breeches halfway down his legs, Jacques made a
flying leap for the bed.  His hard landing brought a squeal of laughter out of
Cassandra, which slowly transformed to a low moan of pleasure as Jacques tongue
began its explorations.  She tipped her head back and surrendered herself for
few minutes to the insatiable appetite of a man who had just spent three weeks
marooned on a desert island.

Suddenly the door burst open.  The two king’s guards flew
into the room, muskets raised.  Jacques jerked up and whipped around.

“Jacques, known as Le Diable Rouge?”

“Who wants to know?”

“You are under arrest for piracy on the high seas.”

“You’ll not take me,” he bellowed as he leapt for the open
door.  He had forgotten, however, about the breeches around his ankles, and
fell flat on his face.  One of the guardsmen dropped a knee into the small of
his back, driving the breath out of him.  The other produced iron manacles and
fastened Jacques’ hands behind his back.  This was a difficult task, with all
of Jacques struggles and curses.

The guards finally managed to drag him to his feet and hold
him between them.  One of them said to Cassandra, who had straightened her
skirt and arranged herself into a more appropriate sitting position on the
bed,  “Thank you, madame, and here is the agreed-upon bounty.”  He tossed her
two gold sovereigns.

Jacques face twisted into a fitful mask of rage.  He frothed
at the mouth as he screamed, “You bitch!  You whore!  You swine!  I may burn in
hell, but you’ll be there, too, lass!  And when you arrive, I’ll gouge out your
eyes and eat them like grapes, and I’ll tear your tongue out with my teeth and
swallow it whole!  I’ll break every bone in your body, and dance around on your
lifeless carcass!”

She recoiled in terror, but the guards were already dragging
him from the room.  She hugged tight the stone he had given her as she listened
to his diminishing rantings as the guards dragged him down the stairs and out
of the tavern.

The trial was brief.  Jacques Le Diable Rouge was brought up
on charges of torturing to death Captain Giles of the frigate Maid of Fortune,
duly chartered by the King of England.  Several witnesses from the frigate
corroborated the story of how Jacques, after his pirate crew had captured and
boarded the ship, had cut open the stomach of Captain Giles, extracted one end
of his intestines, nailed it to the main mast, then whipped the back of the
poor man, forcing him to dance around the mast, unwinding his guts from his
body until he expired.  The townsfolk attending the trial were mortified.

Jacques’ only defense was that the court had no jurisdiction
over him, and that he must be tried by the High Admiralty back in London.  The
magistrate responded, “We do not tolerate open acts of piracy against the
crown, and we will now take whatever measures necessary to ensure the security
of the high seas.  Jacques Le Diable Rouge, you shall be taken henceforth, and
on the morrow brought to the gallows, where you shall hang by the neck until
dead.”  He brought the gavel down with a crack.  “This court is adjourned.”

The next day, toward noon on the Seventh of June, 1692, a
large crowd had gathered to witness the passing of Jacques Le Diable Rouge. 
Many were hungry for revenge,  but most were merely looking forward to an
entertaining spectacle.  Cassandra stood next to the gallows, cradling her newfound
treasure of the glittering stone and staring up with hatred and venom in her
eyes as they brought Jacques, hands bound behind him with thick rope, onto the
gallows.  An Anglican priests stood before him, performing last rites, as the
executioner fit the noose around his neck.  His head was then covered with a
black hood, then the executioner walked over to the lever that would release
the trapdoor as the roar of the crowd reached a fever pitch.

The executioner threw the lever.  The trapdoor opened.  Jacques
fell.  He grimaced under the hood against the snap he was sure to feel at any
moment.  There was a painful jerk, but not as abrupt as he had expected.  The
noose was taut, and he was choking, but he could tell that the rope was
slipping or something, and that he was slowly descending toward the ground. 
After a few seconds, the tension released, and he began falling.  Not knowing
how high he was off the ground, he was unprepared when his feet struck the
ground.  He doubled over, getting the wind knocked out of him, and he fell and
hit the ground hard.  Then he felt something for which he was completely
unprepared.  The ground was shaking and rolling like the deck of a ship.  For a
moment the thought he was on a ship, and had just woken up, and the nightmare
of the trial and the hanging were just a dream.  He shook his head violently
and finally succeeded in shaking the hood off.  It was then, when he could see
again, that his ears also began to register the sounds around him.

He heard loud screams and crashing timber as he witnessed
the crowd, who had scant moments before been hungry for his blood, rushing in
all directions, trying to escape the immediate vicinity.  He heard shouts of
“Earthquake!” and “Run for your lives!”  He lay on the ground a moment, dazed,
unable to comprehend the input he was receiving.  Then his curiosity possessed
him, and he wished to discover the reason he was still alive.  He glanced up. 
There was no gallows structure above him.  He looked around, to discover that
it had fallen over in the first shocks of the earthquake.  As his eyes picked
out the detail in the wreckage, he noticed that the beam the rope had been
hanging from had broken in two.  The earthquake must have struck at the exact
moment that the hangman threw the lever, he concluded, and the main beam broke,
freeing the rope just as he fell.  O Fortune, you are a fickle lady, he mused
as he searched for something with which to cut the bonds from his wrists.  It
was then that he noticed a body pinioned under the wreck of the gallows.  He
stumbled to his feet and staggered as best he could on the shaking ground over
to the corpse.  It was Cassandra.  The fear of the realization that the falling
gallows were going to crush her had not fully erased the hatred and glee she
had expressed in watching the hangman throw the gallows lever, lending her
visage a terrifying and gruesome appearance.  She still clutched the strange
stone. 

Jacques stood erect as the ground ceased to shake, a wave of
overwhelming relief and joy swelling his breast and broadening his mouth,
buried under his thick red beard, into a hearty smile.  He gazed around to
survey the destruction.  Half of Port Royal was gone, buried under the waves. 
What remained was in a chaotic state of ruin, fires burning in half the
buildings.  There’s going to be plenty of plunder and carousing tonight, he
mused, glancing around for a dagger or some similar sharp object on one of the
nearby corpses with which he could cut the bonds holding his hands behind his
back.