Fires of Delight (12 page)

She thought it odd, because otherwise there didn’t seem to be an ounce of inhibition in his more than two hundred pounds.

“Where did you get this?”

“Royce gave it to me.”

Beaumain drew the wrong conclusion. “You mean to tell me you’d try to buy me with the gift of your betrothed. Do you think I would take such a thing?

“Shame!” he added, for good measure. “I am not a man like that. I shall take you to Newport, Selena, for nothing, simply because I like you. Now what do you say to that?”

Before she could reply—actually she had a strong impulse to kiss him—there was a peremptory pounding on the door.

“Cap’n! Cap’n!”

“Yes, what is it?”

“There’s a boat rowing over toward us from the fortress. It’s filled with redcoats. I think they’re plannin’ on boarding us, maybe for a search.”

“God
damn!
” cried Jean Beaumain, leaping from the hammock. Selena noticed that he kept his torso and shoulders covered as he slipped into his breeches, and put his jacket on in such a manner that she had no further glimpse of what she thought she’d seen on his skin.

“Wake all the men and have them come on deck,” Beaumain ordered the messenger. “Selena,” he said, looking directly into her eyes, “this might be a routine episode of harassment. It happens with the British. But they might also be looking for you.”

“Isn’t there someplace I can hide?”

“I’m trying to think…This is not a large ship; we haven’t that much hold space…Wait, there is one chance. Are you afraid of heights?”

“No…I don’t think—”

Without a word, he hustled her up on deck, took her to the mainmast, and told her to climb. Before the British drew close, Selena was curled like a cat in the tiny basket at the top of the mast that was called a crow’s nest. Atop this perch, sentries scanned the horizon for storms or sails, friendly flags or quarry.
The climb hadn’t bothered her; she was too intent on hiding from the British. But now, looking down, the deck of the
Liberté
appeared as small as a toy dropped from a cloud, and each gentle ripple of water that washed the ship’s hull seemed to sway the crow’s nest wildly from side to side.

From her precarious aerie, Selena saw the British longboat draw closer and closer, soldiers sweating at the oars, Lieutenant Clay Oakley standing magisterially at the bow. Beaumain’s men were lined up at the
Liberté
’s rail. She saw that they carried arms, as did Oakley and the soldiers.

“Stand aside. We are coming aboard!” declared Oakley, his deep, chilling voice booming out over the stillness of the dawn harbor. His tension showed, however; he was holding his scented handkerchief, occasionally breathing into it.

“State your business,” Beaumain demanded coolly.

“I have reason to believe that the escaped spy, Selena MacPherson, is aboard your ship.”

The boat had drawn up next to the hull of the
Liberté
; the redcoats had brought along ropes and grappling hooks. They were in no mood to be dissuaded.

“I’m sorry, but Selena is not here,” said Jean, mocking Oakley with his laugh. “Whyever did you think it?”

“Don’t lie to me, Beaumain. I returned last night to the Nest of Feathers after you had departed, and had a long chat with the barmaid, one Liz Randall. She knows you well, I was informed. A strategic, and I regret to admit, painful application of thumbscrews elicited the information that you and the MacPherson woman left the tavern together.”

“You loathsome bastard!” cried Jean. “Is Liz all right?”

“She won’t be using her hands much for a time, but it could have been worse. Now, about Selena?”

“She’s not here,” answered Jean. “She gave me the slip, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Jean’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “If she could escape from your prison, it might just be possible for her to get out of other binds as well.”

The lieutenant, who was again sporting his fake mustache, laughed heavily, mirthlessly. “Even so, we are coming aboard.”

“Suit yourself.”

Selena cowered in the crow’s nest while Oakley and the British searched Jean’s sleek ship from bow to stern, once and twice and then again. Not once did any of Beaumain’s men so much as glance up toward her perch, and she thought with gratitude how fine was their mettle and how praiseworthy their loyalty to him. There was a sense of fraternity aboard this vessel that impressed her, and she wondered if the ship’s name had anything to do with the cross she wore around her neck.

She would ask him about it.

Finally, reluctantly, the lieutenant gave up in humiliation, a chagrin that deepened in the laughter with which the French sailors bid him farewell.

“In due time,” called Oakley, as the boat drew away from the
Liberté
. ”In due time we shall meet again, Beaumain, my friend.”

“I’m looking forward to the pleasure,” a cocky Jean shouted back.

Then he gave the order to set out. The anchor was weighed, sails were unfurled, and the rudder swung into position. Everywhere beneath Selena, great white flapping wings of sail reached out and caught the morning breeze. The
Liberté
began to move slowly out upon the harbor, then down through the Narrows into the thunderous Atlantic and the wild sea lanes of the western world. She stood up in the crow’s nest, and waved to Jean Beaumain who was watching her from the deck. But she did not want to come down just yet, beset as she was by a mingling of sadness and exhilaration. She would soon be leaving America, perhaps forever, and a part of her soul would always be here. But there were journeys ahead, and as the wind stung her face, as ropes creaked and sails rippled, she felt almost drunk with the promise of the future.

Then the
Liberté
slashed out upon the high sea, all sight of land gone now, flying effortlessly before the wind with the preternatural speed for which she was fashioned, taking Selena to Royce.

“Here, let me give you back your love-stone,” said Jean Beaumain, handing Selena the sapphire. It was late afternoon. They stood together on the
Liberté’s
plunging bow. The wind had been steady and strong all day; soon they would cut past the eastern tip of Long Island and turn northward toward Newport. It had occurred to Selena that she might well arrive there before Royce. Wouldn’t he be surprised to see her though!

“The gem is yours if you want it,” she told him.

But he shook his head and pressed it into her hand.

“It is a gift from someone else to you,” he said soberly. “I cannot accept it.”

So serious was he that she regretted misleading him.

“Royce Campbell must have done exceedingly well as a revolutionary,” Jean observed, with a slight edge to his voice. “Much better than most, I’d estimate.”

The comment troubled Selena a little. Jean was referring to one small stone. Royce had somehow acquired an entire cache.

“How much money does Campbell have?”

“I really do not know.”

“I bet I have more.”

“That may well be. Does it matter?”

“It might. But that is really not my point. I’m very attracted to you, Selena, as you must know. And, let me be bold, I care about you. I may not have learned as much as I ought to have in my time, but I haven’t missed everything. And one of the things I’ve observed is that people really do not change greatly. Oh, they can acquire skill in presenting various facades, and seem to be what they are not—”

“Do you mean anything specific?”

Jean paused, looked out at the ocean for a moment, then turned back to her. “Selena, Royce Campbell once had a savage reputation
throughout the world. On every ocean, he was known as a ruthless plunderer. I confess that I have never met the man, but the oft-repeated weight of testimony holds that he was once a reckless adventurer, even a charlatan—”

“That he was,” she admitted, “once.”

“So. And what I am saying is that he may still
be!
What I am saying is that perhaps you ought to examine things more carefully before you pledge yourself irredeemably—”

“You are making me angry!” she snapped, a little surprised at the sudden fire that brought those words forth. She
knew
Royce was not as Jean claimed him, possibly, to be. So why ought she ruffle her feathers?

Beaumain retreated. “Well, perhaps you will introduce me to the man when we reach Newport?”

Selena was about to reply, crisply, that, yes, she would, she would indeed, and then he could judge for himself and see how ridiculous his insinuations were, but high above them the sentry in the crow’s nest let out a great shout. At first Selena did not understand, but he called it again.

“Chaaaamooorrro!”

In a flash, Beaumain was gone from her side, scrambling up the mainmast to have a look himself. She watched him climbing, saw in his taut body and tense, excited features the hint of a person she did not know. It was as if one man lived inside another, waiting to be awakened and called forth by one word:
Chamorro
. That the
vicomte
had treated Jean’s father with unspeakable cruelty could not be denied, but there was in the sailor’s desire for revenge an element of surpassing and unnatural dedication, quite like the quest for an unholy grail.

Watching from the deck, it looked to Selena as if Jean were pushing the sentry out of the tiny perch. He grabbed the spyglass from the man, who slipped from the crow’s nest and clung to the mast, and scanned the eastern horizon.

“It is he!” Beaumain cried in savage delight. “All hands to the sails!”

Almost all of the men were already on deck, having been alerted by the sentry’s call, and Selena caught sight of Rafael, gazing upward at his leader with an expression that could not conceal a measure of anguish. She went over to the man. There seemed to be no actual rank aboard the
Liberté
, one man was as
worthy as the next, but the lean, dark, taciturn Rafael appeared to serve as Beaumain’s alter ego and aide-de-camp.

“What is happening?” she asked him. “I thought we were sailing to Newport?”

“Forget Newport,” he said quietly, shaking his head and looking at her with sympathy. “It is out of the question now, because we pursue Chamorro.”

“Raise the flag!” Jean ordered then. Selena had thought it odd that, up until now, Beaumain had not flown a banner. But she was far more bewildered by the sight of the ensign itself, a huge, blood-red piece of silk upon which, diagonally from top left to bottom right, were the shapes of three creatures in white: a camel, an elephant, and a serpent coiled, ready to spring.

“What does the banner signify?” she asked Rafael.

He lifted his shoulders, a small shrug. “Of all God’s lower creations,” he said, “those three remember forever people who have done them ill, and they will wait for the right time to take retribution. The camel is mean by nature. We all know about the elephant. And in certain parts of the world, the snake is even used to accomplish the revenge of one human being upon another. An article of clothing is stolen from the victim, and placed inside a cage or wire basket with the snake. Then the basket is placed over a low fire. The snake remembers the pain of the fire and the smell of the clothing—it might be a scarf, or a glove, or just a cravat—and then he is set free in the quarters of the victim. It is deadly, and quick. There is no escape.”

Selena shuddered. Jean Beaumain, for all his good humor and frank directness, was being consumed from within by Satanic passion.

Yet she had to admit, retribution was something that she had also sought, and on occasion she had obtained it. Few things in her life had given as much satisfaction as slitting Darius McGrover’s throat.

“Some of us also need revenge,” Rafael continued, as if reading her thoughts. “It may be that we are among God’s lower creatures too.”

Quickly, Selena analyzed her predicament. There appeared to be no way that she could rejoin Royce now—already the
Liberté
was slashing full sail eastward into the Atlantic—and there were mundane matters that demanded attention.

“Rafael,” she said, “these are the only clothes I have.” She gestured toward the togs Penrod had given her. “Is there something else, perhaps more suitable, on board?”

He inspected her inadequate costume. “There are some bolts of fabric in the hold, I think. Do you sew?”

“I am neither designer nor couturier, but I have done most everything in my time. I could at least try.”

“All right,” he agreed, “I will bring you what you need. But for the time being, come with me.”

To Selena’s surprise, he took her back into Jean Beaumain’s cabin, opened a door which she had not previously noticed, and led her into a surprisingly spacious wardrobe. Jean’s clothing hung there on wooden hangers, and next to his belongings were dozens of dresses and expensive gowns.

“Whose are these?” Selena asked.

“I do not wish to say, but take several. They will be of use while you prepare your own.”

“But Jean will notice that I am wearing them. Maybe it would be better not to.”

Rafael shook his head sadly. “As long as we are in pursuit of Chamorro, my friend will notice nothing.”

With a vague feeling of guilt, and something else that she soon recognized as jealousy—for she had, against her wishes, developed a certain proprietary regard toward Jean—she inspected the garments. They belonged to a rather tall woman apparently, but what seemed unusual was that they were of two vastly different types. Half were expensive, elegant, slinky and deliberately provocative, with long slits running up the skirts, bodices plunging toward the navel. The others were well-made, but modest of design, garments of subdued color and pattern. She chose two of the latter, one of pale-blue linen with a floral print, another of solid burgundy cotton, well-made and eminently serviceable. She also selected the least provocative of the other type, a white silk, flowing garment, high in the throat and tight at the waist, that exuded the scent of some rare and disquieting fragrance.

“Best return these when you have no further use for them,” Rafael suggested. “Now, there is an empty cabin amidship on the port side, where you can live and work.”