The Blessing Stone (58 page)

“And let the soldiers catch us with our guard down? Don’t you see it’s a trick, Mr. Phipps?”

“I don’t think the soldiers know we’re here, Chris. But I can check.” He added more quietly, “And I don’t think it’s a trick. The lady’s bargaining is what. Thinks we’ll show mercy.”

Kent gave this some thought. And while he did, Brigitte drew in a deep breath, causing the blue-crystal brooch on her bosom to flash its blue fire.

As she had intended, it caught Kent’s eye. He took one look at the white breast and gave a signal to Phipps, who in turn sent two men clambering up trees as lookouts. Then Kent gave another signal and a mob of his men rushed forward, thundered up the veranda steps, past Brigitte and into the house.

She used all her self-control to ignore the sounds of ransacking and vandalism within. Her home meant nothing in this moment; all her precious furniture and pottery, draperies and jewelry. The pirates could have it all.

Mr. Phipps came back to report: “The lookouts report that everything’s quiet, no hue and cry has been raised, it’s business as usual down at the harbor. What about that feast, Chris?”

Kent went up the steps and drew close to Brigitte. She could barely breathe as she looked up at him, for he towered over her. “How do I know you will not poison us?” he said. “I have been deceived by a beautiful woman before.”

She caught her breath. He had called her beautiful! “An understandable caution, m’sieu. Then let your own men do the slaughtering and the spitting, and let them oversee the making of the sauces and bastings, and have my slaves taste everything that is prepared.”

She saw the dark currents in his eyes as he assessed what was surely an unexpected situation. “I hope you do not take me for a fool,” he said softly.

Their eyes met and held.

The moment stretched; Brigitte caught her breath. This was the crucial moment. And then Kent relaxed, his lips curled in a smile and he said, “Very well, we eat!”

His men cheered and Kent, inclining himself toward Brigitte, said, “Now to the matter of business. Where is the gold, mistress, or shall we wring it from your husband?”

Recalling tales she had heard of Kent, how his men had strung up plantation owners by the wrists in the hot midday sun until they told where their fortune was hidden, she said, “Please do not hurt my husband. If you promise not to harm him, I shall take you to the treasure.”

Making certain first that the roasting pits were being prepared and that her kitchen slaves understood their assignments, reassuring them that as long as everyone cooperated they would be safe, Brigitte led Kent and a handful of his men from the main yard down a flagstone path, one of many walkways scattered in this tropical paradise, leading to gardens and cottages, as well as to the sugar refinery and rum distillery, and, beyond that, the slaves’ quarters. Brigitte walked ahead of her “guests” with a graceful glide learned long ago in girlhood, her voluminous pink and yellow skirts skimming along the path as if no human legs propelled them beneath. It was a walk she had perfected on the grounds of Versailles to catch the flirtatious attention of young men; she used it now to guide thieves to a treasure.

They reached a clearing in the lush growth and saw before them a vision that made even these rough men goggle with wonder. It was a gazebo, seemingly spun of starlight, white and shimmering in the night. Brigitte graciously stepped to one side, as if about to serve tea. “There,” she said, pointing to the floor of the structure. “Beneath those boards.”

Standing their blazing torches into the ground, the men rushed forward, axes going at the boards with a great splintering and tearing. They ripped up the floor and hauled out the chests hidden beneath. Brigitte stood wordlessly as the men dragged their booty back to the compound where a bonfire had been lit, fueled, she noticed, by furniture from the house. By the light of the flames, the plunderers pried open the chests and gave a great shout when they saw the gold coins, for coins were what pirates preferred most.

That was clearly the signal for the celebration to get underway, for from out of nowhere a fiddle was produced and someone began a lively jig. Others had broken into the distillery and were rolling giant oak barrels of rum up the path. Female slaves began going nervously through the mob of men with wine bottles and cups, while on the other side of the fire the roasting pits were already singeing the pigs on spits. Brigitte saw her husband and the other captives being prodded into the pig pen, where they were pushed into the muck while their tormentors howled with laughter.

Somewhere during the rough march from the sugarcane fields, Henri had lost his magnificent wig. Large and richly black it had been, with carefully tiered curls rising high on his head and cascading down his back and over his shoulders. Newcomers to the island remarked that such wigs were now out of date, but Henri didn’t care. He held to old traditions, which dictated that a gentleman must look his best at all times, and so he wore his wigs no matter what the weather or what task he was about. But it had been knocked from his head and now he was bareheaded, his graying hair standing up in tufts as the pirates poked and kicked him and made fun of him.

Brigitte dug her fingernails into her palms and kept her composure. She wanted to grab one of the burning torches and run into the crowd of pirates, bludgeoning them as she went.

But in the next instant Kent was looking at her, and she remembered her resolve, and that this night was going to be her only chance.

“Hm,” he said, studying her in the flickering torchlight. “What makes you so unafraid, I wonder?”

His comment startled her. Could he not see the pulse galloping at her throat, the fear in her eyes, the tremor in her hands? “I am not unafraid,” she said, and it was the truth. But
what
she was afraid of was another question.

“When you came out of your house you did not seem surprised to see us. You appeared almost to have been expecting us.”

She pointed to the roof of the house. “On that platform there is a spyglass. I watched your progress from the beach.”

He stared at it with great interest. “I would like to see this glass.”

She nodded and led the way. They passed through the yard where the piglets turned on spits cut from branches, and Kent’s men were happily at work draining the rum casks. Atop two very tall palm trees, lookouts with spyglasses kept watch on the fortress and the town of Saint-Pierre. At the slightest sign of military movement, they could give the signal and Kent and his men would vanish. Brigitte prayed that no such signal would be given.

The house had been thoroughly pillaged, with pottery smashed on the polished wooden floors, furniture overturned, silver-and goldware heaped in a pile by the door, ready to be carted off. Brigitte wordlessly led Kent through to the rear garden, where purple orchids and orange bougainvillea mingled with scarlet hibiscus and pale pink oleander. She preceded him up the narrow staircase, her back straight, her head held high, as if she were giving royalty a tour of her home. But she was aware of the sharp cutlass that hung from his waist, the pistol and dagger tucked into his belt. The space between her shoulder blades crept with fear. She felt as if she were being followed by a wild animal, like the black jaguar the governor kept in a cage in his home.

When they reached the rooftop and its curious platform with a low guardrail, they saw that the full moon was starting to rise. They also had a good view of the compound below, where Brigitte’s terrified slaves were cooking under the watchful eyes of Kent’s men, being made to taste everything as they went along. Even the basting used on the piglets was tasted first.

At the sound of so much music, Brigitte gave Kent a curious look. He smiled. “We’re a lucky crew, for we’ve musicians among us. It’s every pirate ship that hopes for at least a piper and a fiddler.” He nodded as he leaned on the rail and watched the festivities below. “I’ve a good crew.” Phipps, the man with the many pigtails, was the quartermaster—the strong man of the ship, the ship’s magistrate and punisher of minor offenses. He was also responsible for the selection and division of the plunder. There was Jeremy, the sailing master in charge of navigation, and Mulligan the boatswain, Jack the gunner, Obadiah the sailmaker, Luke the carpenter. They even had a ship’s surgeon, although he was fairly useless in tropical waters where the main causes of death were the incurable yellow fever, malaria and dysentery. His main job was amputations.

Brigitte showed Kent the glass and noticed that he had to bend low to peer through it, he was so tall. She also sensed a body of great physical strength beneath the long coat and breeches. The French colonists, with slaves to do all the work and such abundance of food and drink, were a soft lot; men who had forgotten the sport of dueling and riding. But she suspected that Christopher Kent was held together with strong muscle and sinew.

Kent looked through the glass and then, satisfied that no soldiers had been dispatched from the distant fort, he straightened and turned his attention to his perplexing hostess. His eyes went to the brooch on her breast and he said, “Now there’s a fair piece.”

“It is a famous stone, m’sieu, called the Star of Cathay. It was created in faraway China by a wizard who, the legend goes, created it to win a lady’s heart. It is supposed to bring love and romance to whoever possesses it.”

He smiled and reached for it.

She put her hand over it protectively. He mustn’t have it yet! She needed to be beautiful, for just a while longer. If he took it now, her beauty would go with it and her plan would fail. “I shall give it to you as a gift when you leave.”

He laughed and his gaze lingered on her hand, which protected not only the brooch but her breast as well. “And to what are you referring when you say you shall give it to me as a gift? The brooch or the treasure beneath?”

She tried not to look away, but instead met his bold gaze challenge for challenge. “Is this the way you treat the women on the island where you live?”

He shifted his eyes to the distant horizon and seemed to consider answering her. Finally he said, “I don’t live on an island. I have a plantation in the American colony of Virginia.”

Her shock was apparent. “You live among civilized people?”

“It is in fact those so-called civilized people,” he said with a wry smile, “who support my privateering. After all, plunder is only plunder until it can be sold. Without buyers there would be no reason for piracy.”

“I do not understand.”

“It’s the Americans who buy my goods. In England, pirates are treated mercilessly, but in America we are given protection in their ports, even hospitality. It is the Americans who provision my ship and find buyers for my treasures, for a commission, of course. So the Americans get rich along with me.”

She frowned. “It is unthinkable.”

“It’s politics. By supporting buccaneers like myself, Americans are striking a blow against British rule, a struggle that is growing stronger and more bitter with time. The English made this rule called the Navigation Act, which stipulates that no goods can be imported into England’s colonies except in English ships manned by English crews. The Americans don’t think this is fair, so they circumvent British law whenever they can.”

“And so my lovely candlesticks and my mother’s china…”

“Will most likely end up on a mantel in Boston.”

As he began to unscrew the telescope, Brigitte said, “But that was a gift from my husband!”

He laughed as he hefted the brass instrument in his hand. “Sentimental man, your husband.”

“You would not understand, m’sieu,” she said with indignation.

“I understand that women prefer gifts of beauty or romantic meaning, but a
telescope?
”

“It is more than a mere spyglass, m’sieu. It is an instrument of power.”

“How so?”

“I saw
you,
didn’t I? And you were unaware of me.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “That is true. You saw us coming and we were unaware. But you did not raise the alarm. Most curious.”

He walked to the stairway and indicated she should precede him. So Brigitte descended to the landing below and led the way into the main living room where, to her surprise, Kent swept his hat from his head and demanded something to drink. His hair was deepest black without a shadow of gray or silver, yet she placed his age nearer forty than thirty, for his face, when seen close up, was lined with the creases of life and weather.

Refusing a bottle of wine that was already open and insisting she fetch one that was still sealed, Kent went out onto the veranda where he conferred briefly with Mr. Phipps. Coming back inside, he said to Brigitte, “Still nothing unusual going on at the fort or in the town. We continue to go undetected.”

Through the transparent panes of the front window, she could see the moon continuing to rise and shed light on the compound where Kent’s men were getting loud and some of her slave women were being encouraged to be friendly. They hadn’t started eating yet, but smoke and cooking aromas filled the air.

Kent looked at the portrait over the fireplace—a pastoral scene depicting Henri and Brigitte Bellefontaine seated beneath a spreading oak tree, with their children gathered around them. When Kent commented on the young Bellefontaines, and their fortuitous resemblance to their mother instead of their father, Brigitte said, “They mean the world to me. My children are my life.”

“Yet you sent them away.”

“A decision I regret.” She brought a tray with two glasses filled with brandy. Kent had her taste both before he selected one.

“You insult me,” she whispered.

“Milady, there are a thousand ways to kill a man, but poisoning is a woman’s art. And there are a thousand ways to poison. Shall we have a fire? The night grows chill.” Brigitte called for one of her slaves to build a fire in the fireplace and presently the flames were casting Christopher Kent’s tall shadow on the walls.

He tasted his brandy, watching her over the rim of his glass. “So your husband drags you to a godforsaken place where you can’t raise children.”