Master of Paradise (35 page)

As she watched, the pirate ship fired a
single volley. Then, after a moment, a white flag was raised. A
flag of surrender.

There was a flurry of activity in the harbor.
An English longboat sailed out toward the pirate ship. Meanwhile,
she could see carriages leaving State House for the harbor. A skiff
rowed from
El Paraiso
to the British longboat. They stayed
together for a while, then the longboat returned to the harbor.

After some time, a carriage pulled into the
driveway. There was a knock on the door and some voices below. Then
she heard boots on the stairway. They came down the hall toward her
door.
Rodrigo!

The lock was sprung and she rushed to the
door. But on the threshold, she stopped. For it wasn’t Rodrigo who
stood in the hall. It was the contingent of Hastings’s guards.

“What’s amiss?” she asked, alarmed.

“We’ve orders to take you to the harbor,” one
of them explained.

“The harbor? Why?”

“We don’t know, miss. The governor sent word,
that’s all we know.”

Hastings. Why would Hastings order her to the
harbor? And where in bloody hell was Rodrigo?

They took her down the stairs and ushered her
into the carriage. The ride through the lush greenery was lost on
her as she tried to figure out what was going on.

When they arrived at the harbor she saw at
once what had happened. Admiral Fulton stood on the dock conferring
with some of his officers. And beside him was the man they called
the Liberator in irons.

“Rodrigo!” she gasped.

His head came up at the sound of her voice.
But they weren’t the eyes of a captive she beheld. They were the
eyes of a master, fully in charge, knowing what he was doing every
step of the way.

Suddenly she understood. He’d raised the
white flag himself. He’d given himself up!

His steady gaze seemed to assure her that all
would be well. But there was something more. A look that told her
all she needed to know. That his giving himself up was an
incredible act of trust. Of saying he’d trust that she was right.
He’d risk his life and all he’d worked for as an act of faith. To
show her he believed in her, as he’d asked her to believe in
him.

She was so moved, she took a step toward him,
but Hastings blocked her way. When she glanced at her half brother,
she could see by his face that he was furious. It made no sense to
her. He should be pleased. Wasn’t this what he wanted—to see
Rodrigo in chains?

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“Your lover has just given himself over to
the admiral,” Hastings ground out between clenched teeth. “He’s
made a bargain for himself. He’s turned himself in to be tried in
England for piracy.”

“And the admiral agreed?”

“Yes, damn it.”

“And me?”

“He told the admiral you were my guest. After
all the pains 1 went through to keep your presence here
unknown.”

“So we’re both to be tried in England?”

He turned vengeful eyes on her. “Don’t think
I don’t know what he’s up to. He thinks to use the trial as a
sounding board to influence Parliament in the passing of the
Emancipation Bill. But it won’t do him any good.”

She looked past him at Rodrigo, standing tall
and proud, looking straight into her eyes with a calm and
confidence that amazed her. It was what she’d wanted—for him to go
through legal channels to avoid a war. She understood his
reasoning, and how clever was his plan. Admiral Fulton would be
fair. He’d see Rodrigo was granted as fair a trial as was possible
for a pirate of his stature. The publicity of his capture would
ensure that the antislavery factions heard his case. She prayed it
would go this way. If not, she would bear the responsibility for
what happened.

As if reading her mind, Hastings added, “What
you’ll get for your pains is a fast trial and a hangman’s
noose—both of you. I’ll see to that. You see,
sister dear
,
I’ve convinced the admiral to allow
me
the honor of
escorting you back to England.”

They were nearly five months at sea. Five
months in the bowels of the ship, with no daylight, no air.
Separated from each other with no life but that of their own
thoughts. With no visitors allowed, except the guards, who brought
them food twice a day and were warned to keep their distance.

For Gabrielle, it was, in the beginning, the
worst kind of torture. Not that they mistreated her. She was given
the best food the ship could offer. Fresh fruits and vegetables
were provided in the earlier months as they provisioned along the
coast of Africa. She wasn’t manacled—she was allowed to move about
her cabin at will. As time passed, the guards even chatted with her
a bit, telling her what the weather was like, describing the blue
of the sky.

But she had no idea where Rodrigo was, or if
he was all right. When she questioned the guards they were vague.
She received sketchy rumors but had no way of ascertaining if they
were true. She did learn he wasn’t afforded the same mobility as
she. They’d chained him like a mad dog. A guard was posted near him
at all times. The story of how he’d seized his first ship was
foremost in everyone’s mind. They were taking no chances on history
repeating itself.

Once, she heard he was ill. But on closer
examination, the guard admitted he hadn’t seen the pirate, and
couldn’t be sure. Not that he didn’t want to see him, mind.
Everyone on board was dying to catch a glimpse of the infamous
Rodrigo Soro, terror of the Indian Ocean.

She missed him desperately. Her longing for
him was so intense, it kept her awake through the long nights. To
have him offer her this supreme act of trust, then to be separated
from him, seemed the cruelest twist of fate. She recalled the last
words she’d spoken to him, and cringed. If only she could hold him,
and tell him she was wrong. That she knew he didn’t care more for
the acclaim than he did for peoples’ lives. How could she have said
such a dreadful thing?

But sometimes, in the dead of the lonely
night, she felt his forgiveness. Sometimes, if she imagined hard
enough, she felt that he came to her. That he was there with his
arms tightly about her, holding her close to his chest. She could
feel his love and solace embrace and warm her, and make her whole.
Finally, feeling his presence strongly, she would fall asleep
feeling herself in his arms.

Still, it was agony, living in the cell of
her own active imagination. There was no way to find out where he
was. A guard was posted outside her room during the day and much of
the night. He was free to come and go as he pleased, opening the
door to check on her periodically at any hour. If she dropped
something, the key would turn in the lock and the door would swing
open. The lack of privacy was horrifying at first. She felt like a
laboratory specimen, being kept for observation. She wondered at
the sense of it. Surely they didn’t think she could break down the
door and escape? It was a month or more before she discovered the
reason.

Late one night, when the guard was no doubt
asleep outside her door, she was awakened by some sound. Confused,
she lifted her head from the pillow and listened. She’d just
decided she was dreaming when it came again. A soft tapping from
the side wall.

At first she thought it must be rats. She
clutched the covers to her and nearly called for the guard. But
then it came again, in the same rhythm as before. This wasn’t
accidental. Someone was rapping purposely on her wall.

Throwing back her covers, she padded across
the wooden floor in her bare feet. The sound came again, low on the
wall, as if from someone in the next cabin. She crouched on the
floor and it came once more. Softly, almost imperceptibly, in the
exact cadence as before. Reminding her of an African drum.

Then she knew why she was so closely watched.
Rodrigo was being held in the next cabin. Chained to the floor, no
doubt, without any thought to his comfort. To think of him so
close, just on the other side of the wall...

The tapping came again and she put her hand
to the bulkhead, as if she could feel his fingers against the
wood.

“Rodrigo!” she called softly. The tapping
stopped. She called again, “
Rodrigo!
”

Suddenly the key turned in the lock. She
wheeled around as a shaft of light pierced her eyes and the guard
stood like a demon in the threshold of her door.

“What goes on here?” he demanded.

She wasn’t an actress for nothing. Instantly,
she clutched her nightgown to her and began to pant, willing
herself into a hysterical state.

“I heard thunder!” she cried.

He cocked his head. “I didn’t hear it. No,
there’s no storm expected. Not tonight.”

“But I heard it, I tell you! I can’t abide
thunder. Ever since I was a little girl and my father beat me
during a thunderstorm. I shake in my bed every time there’s a
storm.”

He came into the room. “You must have dreamed
it,” he said, soothing now. “There’s no thunder tonight, miss.”

She backed away from him and banged against
the wall, in case he’d heard the tapping. He’d assume she’d done
the same thing earlier. With tears streaking her cheeks, she kicked
her legs at him, then clutched herself into a trembling ball.

“There, there, Miss Ashton. You’re imagining
things. It’s the being without daylight for so long, I’ll warrant.
Maybe I can get permission for you to go topside now and again.
Would you like that?”

Like a child, she looked up at him and
nodded.

“Good. Then let’s get you back to bed, now,
and be done with childish imaginings.”

As he settled her into the covers, she knew
she’d made an ally.

But the minute he was gone, she bolted out of
bed, dried her eyes, and ran back to her place on the floor. Very
softly, she tapped out the rhythm she’d heard. But all was quiet on
the other end. Rodrigo must have heard the commotion and decided to
spare her any more danger.

She put her hand to the spot where his must
earlier have been, and rested her cheek against the wall, willing
him to feel the love she was sending his way.

There was no more tapping for a fortnight.
When it came again, she refrained from calling out to him,
realizing she’d be overheard. Instead, she repeated the rhythm and
waited for his reply. When it came, she sank back against the wall
in relief. He was all right. He was communicating with her. She
could actually feel him on the other side of the wall.

It was agony not to be able to call out to
him. Knowing he was so close, yet so far out of reach. She began to
live for those taps, when she knew he was thinking of her, wanting
her to feel his love. She didn’t dare instigate the transmission.
She had no idea when he was guarded. If her knocking was overheard,
he’d likely be severely punished and moved so he couldn’t call on
her again.

Halfway through the voyage, she was awakened
one night by a different sound. Instead of tapping, this was a
scraping sound. Like a chisel scraping against wood. It took her
only moments to realize that Rodrigo must have fashioned a tool of
some kind, and was attempting to scrape a hole in the wood. It was
so bold, she felt a chill sweep through her. If he was caught,
there would be serious consequences to bear.

The scraping came infrequently over the next
weeks. Obviously, he wasn’t alone much. Sometimes she’d only hear
it for minutes at a time. They developed a code. If the key turned
in her lock, she’d quickly rap twice on the wall and Rodrigo would
cease his work. When the guard left, she’d tap only once in case
his guard had returned. Often, by the time her watchdog had left,
it wasn’t possible to resume.

It was an excruciatingly slow process. But it
consumed her thoughts, waiting for the sound of him on the other
side of the wall. Wondering if she’d hear from him that night,
or—as she often did—have to wait a week or two at a time.

She decided to help him. At every meal, she’d
looked for an opportunity to purloin a knife, even a spoon. It
wasn’t easy. She was watched like a hawk as she ate while the guard
chatted away. He never told her anything important. He never gave
her information about Rodrigo. But she knew everything she had to.
He was alive. He was thinking of her. He was coming to her, bit by
bit.

Finally, she was able to slip a butter knife
into her sleeve when the guard removed his boot to scratch his
itching foot. She held it to her, feeling the cold, accusing silver
against her feverish skin. As he took the tray, she was certain,
from the way it seemed to burn a hole in her sleeve, that he would
feel its heat. But he left without ever noticing it was
missing.

So she began aiding Rodrigo in their common
cause. She was always at the ready, waiting to hear him first
before joining in. The first time it happened, she heard him pause.
Then, as if understanding, he continued to scrape with renewed
vigor. They scraped together in earnest until he tapped to let her
know someone was coming. Then she’d settle in to wait again.

Those were her happiest times, when they
worked together. The many hours when she waited were lonely and
intolerable by comparison. But it occupied her mind, kept her
thinking of the future. In those months, she could think of nothing
else.

Occasionally Hastings came by to taunt her.
“I hear your lover suffers,” he’d say. “That he pines away. For you
or his freedom, it’s difficult to say. What say you, Gabby? Is it
possible, do you think, for a man to die from wanting you?”

She didn’t hear from Rodrigo for several
weeks after her half brother’s first visit. She worried
incessantly, thinking Hastings had spoken the truth. That Rodrigo
was ill and dying. Then, one night, she heard the soft scraping and
knew it was a lie. It no longer mattered what Hastings said. She
knew as long as she heard that faint grating on the other side of
the wall that her lover was alive and well.