Chapter 32: PIRATES AND ENGLISHMEN

September began with a fortnight of drenching rain during which all of Antigua was shut up tighter than a ship’s hatch in a gale. To celebrate the return of dry weather, Mrs. Cora Harvey held a private dinner for a dozen or two of her most intimate friends at her fine townhouse in St. John’s. There were three full captains in attendance, a brace of commanders, and a handsome young flag officer, a local surgeon and his wife and daughter, and some other professional gentlemen and their families. For an after-supper diversion, she sent round her dignified Negro houseman to engage Captain and Mrs. Billy Bruce for musical entertainment, and Mr. Dance and Miss Lightfoot, whose fame had spread all the way to Falmouth, for dramatic recitations.

Directly after the performance, the houseman escorted the entertainers out to the detached cook-house, where they were invited to refresh themselves with two bottles of French champagne, covered in cotton muslin and kept cool in a bucket of saltpetre and water. The Bruces carried one bottle outside, where Captain Billy made a great show of popping the cork, to the terrified delight of the kitchen women. Inside, Jack sat Tory at the large work table, found a dry towel to throw over the neck of the second bottle, and began to gently twist the bottle loose from the cork.

"It was a Papist monk who invented champagne," he told her as he worked, "which is certainly the only good the mother church has ever been to anybody. And this," he grinned, "is the only useful thing I ever learned in my brief adventure in London society." The cork disengaged with an abrupt little sigh, and the bubbles inside foamed up to the top of the bottle neck, but not out of the lip. Jack poured a little of the wine, as pale and delicate as moonlight, into two of the crystal goblets set out beside the bucket, and handed one to Tory.

"The monk said his creation tasted like stars," Jack went on, lifting his glass to hers. "See what you think."

Tory took a cautious taste, but she wasn’t prepared for the explosion inside her mouth. She swallowed too fast, then coughed, then laughed.

"Well, you are supposed to sip it," said Jack, and he demonstrated with his own glass. Before Tory could think of a suitable retort, he rose out of his chair, lifted her face with his free hand, and kissed her; she tasted the memory of the wine, yeasty and sweet on his tongue.

"Now I see how it’s done," she beamed at him. She washed down his kiss with another sip, enjoying the fine, clean taste, and the sparkle inside her mouth. "But ought we not to toast something?"

"Aye, who knows when we’ll ever come across another bottle of champagne," Jack agreed. "We’ll drink to our new venture, then. And pray Fortune stays merry with us."

He stood to pour another splash into each goblet, angling each glass carefully so the fizz never overflowed its rim.

"Bravo, my Harlequin!" cried the vibrant voice of Cora Harvey from the entryway. "I might have known you wouldn't spill a drop. I’m afraid our dear Captain Billy has spent most of his bottle watering my hydrangeas." She sailed into the room, launching a brilliant smile toward Jack’s startled face. "Oh, come, my dear! I’d be a sorry excuse for a woman and an exceedingly poor gossip if I failed to recognize the most attractive man in St. John’s, even without his mask. I always told you I meant to have you to my home. I never imagined I would have to pay for the privilege."

Jack tried out a guarded smile. "You’ve been very generous, Mrs. Harvey." He nodded toward the champagne. "Thank you."

"Ah, you have no idea how generous I might have been. Still, it is I who must thank you for a wonderful performance. Now I see what has had them all abuzz at English Harbour; we have rarely had anything like professional players in residence on this island. My guests are clamoring to make your acquaintance." By now she was close enough to place a discreet hand, very lightly, on Jack’s elbow as she passed. "It’s good to see you again, Jack."

"And you, Cora." Jack’s expression relaxed. "You’re looking impossibly well."

"I ought to, the fortune I spend on upkeep!" she laughed. The Widow Harvey had given up her mourning clothes and was now attired in the merest cloud of soft, gold-colored silk, low on the bosom and dramatically boned at the waist. Her dark hair was arranged on top of her head with several ruthlessly curled tendrils dancing in loose clusters over each ear to set off the wide tilt of her cat-like amber eyes. She did not look youthful, exactly, but her charms had been most carefully preserved.

"But I certainly haven’t come out here to discuss beauty secrets," she went on as she swept past Jack, and seated herself with a crisp whispering of silk in the chair he had just vacated. "I’m here to have a look at my rival."

And then those golden eyes fastened on Tory, who had been watching the scene in a kind of anonymous fascination as she sipped her wine. She had never seen the notorious widow up close, and she was wonderfully curious, despite her usual dismay in the presence of beautiful, confident, fashionable women. It did not occur to her to feel apprehensive, possibly because the cold, tingling champagne was beginning to warm her insides.

"I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, my dear. I’m Cora Harvey." She extended a white gloved hand, whose wrist was armored with a battery of thick bracelets of chased gold, and Tory could not help but think of the manacles she had worn in the Basseterre gaol.

"Victoria Lightfoot," she smiled, touching the extended fingers. "I'm so pleased to meet you, at last." Holding up her goblet, she added, "This was very kind of you."

"Well, perhaps I thought to get my Harlequin drunk," Mrs. Harvey sighed wistfully. "Although now I see I’d be wasting my time," she added, as her keen eyes appraised Tory. "You've more than youth on your side, that's plain enough, and I daresay you’re quite an improvement over the bloodless English belles we’re accustomed to out here. Poor little Miss Fletcher hasn’t a word to say for herself, not that her papa the doctor would allow it. But then, you’re not English, judging from your speech. And I doubt very much you are a native of these islands."

"I was born in America," Tory told her.

"Ah, America," Mrs. Harvey cried, with a wave of her hand. "My second husband had dealings in America. He traveled often to Boston."

"I know Boston." Tory took another sip of her wine and Cora Harvey let out a raucous laugh at the tone of her voice.

"Hah! A little England, was it? So I heard, that’s why I never cared to go there myself. And may I say, my dear, what a pleasure it is to find a woman who appreciates fine spirits. May the saints preserve me from genteel ladies who drink nothing but that hideous beveridge of sugared lime." She took an empty glass from the table as she said this, reached for the open champagne bottle, and poured herself a liberal tot with a skill equal to Jack’s.

"So you had the excellent good sense to leave that place," Mrs. Harvey went on, saluting Tory with her glass. "Fancy you turning up here. I wonder how you account for it?"

Tory felt herself disposed to like the widow's good-natured frankness, but she was not yet drunk enough to be imprudent.

"Fortune, Mrs. Harvey," she smiled.

"Ah, Fortune, that arrant whore!" Mrs. Harvey crowed. She cocked her head slightly, eyes alert, trying to gauge if she could pry out any more information. Abruptly, her eyes swung round to Jack, who was perched on the table’s edge, following their conversation with no little interest. "Oh, do stop lounging there in that rakish pose, Jack, my pulse is racing fast enough with the wine and the heat. You’re enough to make a poor old lady swoon quite away."

"I doubt that," Jack said dryly.

"Be an angel, won’t you? Run out and tell the Bruces my guests are waiting to meet you all."

"Of course, Madam. At your service." Jack rose obediently, casting Tory a wry grin over the head of their hostess as he turned to go. When they were alone, Cora Harvey inched a little closer to Tory.

"He cares a great deal for you," Mrs. Harvey observed. "I am accustomed to inspiring my men to romantic frenzy, or reducing them to stammering idiocy. I am not often treated with such bald indifference."

Tory remembered that long-ago morning on their last visit to St. John’s, when Jack had ravished her in the wagon, and she thought that "indifference" was not quite the correct word. "Your charms did not go unnoticed," Tory smiled again. "But we have been friends for a long time."

"I daresay." Mrs. Harvey reached out and caught hold of Tory’s hand. There was something more earnest in her expression. "Only take care, my dear. I've a thousand years of experience in these things, and you may find the rules that govern such matters far more strict in England. Which is why I choose to live abroad."

Taken aback, Tory felt a little flustered. "Why...then I suppose it’s fortunate we have no plans to go there."

"No immediate plans perhaps. But listen to me," Mrs. Harvey urged. "I have lived a long time and I’ve seen a great many players. Most of ‘em are vagabonds and tramps, but," she nodded in the direction Jack had just gone, "that one has a gift. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to realize it, or there’d be no living with him. But it is clear to me that these poor islands shall not contain him for much longer."

Tory did not know how to respond to this; she couldn’t tell if it was idle flattery, or a curse for the woman Cora Harvey considered her rival. Or a merely a friendly warning. In any case, Tory felt the gentle squeeze of the older woman’s hand, and nodded mutely into those amber eyes. Then Jack reappeared at the door with Ada and Billy Bruce, and Mrs. Harvey swept up to her feet.

"Ah! Here we all are. My guests are in a stupor of awe, and pining to meet you all." She paused to offer an arm to Tory, who rose and took it. "You must especially meet my new friend, Mr. Nash, the importer. Newly arrived and such a teller of tales! Do come along!"



They had performed in the parlor, a large, formal room adjacent to the dining room, in Mrs. Harvey’s very English house. But now their hostess led them to a more comfortable sitting room, fitted out with an impressive array of mahogany furniture covered in flowered chintz. One entire wall was given over to the late Captain Harvey’s library, and after an interlude of civil mingling and polite chat with the widow’s guests, Tory noticed Jack drift over to inspect the books. Miss Fletcher and another young lady were left giggling in his wake, until Dr. Fletcher silenced them with an affronted glare. Ada Bruce was entertaining the entire complement of naval officers, and Captain Billy was getting on like a house afire with Mr. Nash, who was small, muscular, fit and tanned, with fluffy brown hair and an open, ruddy face. His looks confirmed that he had been a seafarer; he and Captain Billy were trading salty stories and saluting each other with Madeira. Tory politely disengaged herself from a pair of cheerfully gossiping matrons to go join Jack.

"Gibbon and Scott," Jack grinned at her, nodding toward the bookshelves. "It’s plain they have a great deal of time on their hands in St. John’s."

Tory’s eyes began to rake across the leather spines with their delicate gilded titles. There was something irresistibly intimate about looking at someone else’s books. What a luxury it must be to own books in quantity to read whenever one wished.

"Seeing you among the books there, Mr. Dance, puts me in mind of a mercantile voyage I once undertook." It was Mr. Nash strolling toward them, beaming, his wine glass upraised, Billy Bruce at his elbow. "One of my last commercial voyages, only a year or two ago. Off the leeward coast of Cuba, it was, when we were taken by pirates. Brutish lot of Spaniards they were, herding all of us into the fo'c'sle whilst they stripped the vessel for bullion or whatever frivolous trinkets these low fellows crave. All but one, whom I spied in the cabin, stealing the captain’s books." Mr. Nash smiled a little, shaking his head with amusement. "And with such very great care, inspecting each one, as if he could actually read. The most extraordinary thing!" Mr. Nash took another meditative sip of wine, smiling at Jack over the rim. "Tall fellow he was, something rather nimble. Looked a bit like you."

Tory’s heart dropped out of her body, but Jack straightened and flashed Mr. Nash his most killing smile.

"A lot of fellows look like me, Mr. Nash. Especially in the Spanish islands, or so I’m told."

"Aye, that’s so," Nash agreed, pleasantly. "It’s seeing you poring through the books there, that called the scene to mind. To this day I can’t think what the brute was about."

Other curious eyes had turned toward them by now, including those of the inquisitive Mrs. Harvey.

"I am astonished they let you live to tell the tale, Mr. Nash, from what I’ve heard of those cut-throat bands," exclaimed their hostess.

"Why, they never harmed a one of us," Nash replied smugly. "They had nerve enough only for thievery, not murder."

"You sound disappointed, sir." It was out before Tory could check herself, although she managed to keep her tone mild.

"Why, what an extraordinary thing to say! What I mean, my dear Miss Lightfoot, was that our lives were spared due to their cowardice, nothing more. There was certainly no issue of conscience involved. After all," and he beamed again at Jack, "it’s not as if pirates were comparable to men."

"Certainly not Englishmen," Jack replied, his smile bland and fixed. The asperity Tory detected in his voice might have curdled cream. But the English never expected to hear anything less than the confirmation of their own opinions, and so were charmed by his patriotism.

"Indeed not!" laughed Mr. Nash, clapping him on the back.

"Hang the lot of ‘em, I say!" chimed in Billy Bruce, raising his wine glass. "Thieving scoundrels! And good riddance!"

All the gentlemen drank to this. Jack paused for an instant, staring into his glass as if something vile were floating in it, then touched it to his lips; only Tory knew what the gesture cost him. And not long afterwards, they found an excuse to beg the pardon of their hostess and take their leave.




Tory awoke when Jack’s elbow thumped into the wall under the window of the wagon. She half-turned to find him gasping for breath in his sleep, batting away the sheet.

"Jack?" She sat up on one elbow. The wagon shook with his restlessness. His legs were moving under the sheet, kicking or climbing. She thought he was dreaming of the slaver.

"Jack..." She put her hand on his arm, and he cried out, rolling onto his side so fast, the back of his shoulder slammed into the wall and his eyes flew open. He stayed pinned there for a moment, panting, staring eyes seeing nothing. Then he blinked and seemed to recognize her, and his terror melted into utter confusion. His mouth could not seem to form words.

"It’s all right, Jack. You were dreaming." Tory tried to keep her own voice calm, but it was difficult when he looked this wild.

"Rusty?" His voice was dry. "...oh, my God, Rusty..."

"Ssshh, hombre, I’m right here..." And she put her arms around him, gathered him close. He was shaking against her, his skin cold and pebbled with gooseflesh.

"I know, I know, hombre," she murmured. "It was the slaver again."

"Aye, but...it wasn’t slaves. It was you...and Alphonse and Calypso... and Cybele, all of you chained together and drowning...oh, Christ..." He closed his eyes but they snapped open again. "All of you drowning, Rusty, sinking below the waves, struggling...and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t save you..."

"My sweet, sweet heart," Tory whispered, holding him tight. "It was only a dream. Listen to me, Jack. It wasn’t real. We’re safe now, all of us. Everything is all right."

She pressed her cheek into his damp hair, felt him struggling to command himself. "Everything is all right," she chanted softly. "We'll be on Nevis soon, away from here. Alphonse will be there. Nothing is going to happen to us."

If only she could make herself believe it.



(Top: Taking A Bow, by James Aschbacher © 2010.)

Chapter 8: THE INFERNAL HOLE

Jack was alone in the wagon the next Sunday morning, between performances at the market in St. John’s. Their little troupe did not care to spend too many days in a row amongst the naval officers at English Harbour. Alphonse and Tory were taking a turn around the market with their drummer and Marcus was seeing to True’s feedbag outside. The bell had rung at St. John’s Church to signal the end of the service and Jack was drinking water when Marcus tapped at the door.

"Message come fo’ you, Jack," said the boy, poking his head around the door.

Jack frowned. "From who?"

Marcus shrugged, holding up a little folded scrap of paper. Jack set his cup down next to his mask on the shelf before the glass and leaned slightly off the stool to take it. He raised a curious eyebrow, but the boy only shrugged again and scooted out the door, pushing it closed behind him. Unfolding the paper, Jack found a brief note in a bold, neat hand.

My Dear Harlequin, When shall we meet? I can wait no longer. Send a reply by the bearer. I know you will not think of being cruel to one who has ever been your devoted C. H.

Jack frowned again. He'd encountered Cora Harvey once or twice more in English Harbour, wriggling out of her invitations by pretending not to understand them. But the thought that someone was watching his movements here in St. John’s, for whatever reason, disturbed him. Reply by the bearer—what the devil did that mean? He stood and took one long step to the door, pushing it open a few inches.

"Marcus...!"

The door suddenly swung wide, out of his grasp, caught in the unrelenting grip of Mrs. Cora Harvey, her form unmistakable although her face was hidden under gauze as she stood planted below the step. Jack spun around on the instant and dove into the corner for his mask, securing it just in time to see the widow sail in across the jamb, pulling the door shut behind her.

"I know you’re alone," she announced, unwinding her veil.

"I was." Jack was so furious, he could scarcely speak. "What are you doing here?"

"I’ve been to church. I do have a house in town, you know."

"I mean what are you doing here. It’s very improper for you to be here alone with me."

"I’m afraid I’m a most improper woman," she smiled. "As you would have known by now, had you accepted my civil invitations to tea. Think of all the time we’ve wasted." She tossed aside her gauze to reveal a most un-church-like and deeply flushed cleavage above her stays; her own audacity excited her.

"You must leave at once!" Jack declared. Even to his own ears, he sounded like somebody’s phlegmatic uncle.

"Oh, I think not, Harlequin. First we must talk. And if you mean to pitch me out, I warn you, I shall scream. The market is very busy today. It will be much worse for you than for me."

The thought had certainly crossed Jack’s mind, but he made himself stand still. If her late husband, the captain, had been held in such esteem, it was likely she was acquainted not only with the Commissioner of the Dockyard, but the Admiral in command of the station, and probably the Governor of the colony, let alone every other officer on the island. No matter how they spoke of her in private, none would fail to defend this flower of English womanhood if she claimed she’d been assaulted by a common mountebank.

"But why should we argue?" the widow continued, sitting decorously upon the edge of the bunk bed. She patted the open space beside her, between herself and the pile of rolled up sleeping pallets on the foot of the bed. "Come sit here and talk to me, my dear. I shan’t bite. At least not right away."

Jack stayed where he was. It was difficult to think clearly when he was this enraged, difficult to separate the heat of his anger from another, more insidious warming.

"Please yourself, then," Mrs. Harvey shrugged, enjoying herself.

"What...do you want with me?" Jack croaked.

"Why, I though that was rather obvious. Why have you not come to see me?"

"Mrs. Harvey..."

"Call me Cora."

"...no matter with what regard I may hold you as a person..."

"Oh, spare me your morality, my dear boy, I’m not remotely interested," she interrupted, with an impatient sigh. "Do you know what our late Lord Nelson called English Harbour? The ‘infernal hole.’ And I promise you, he didn’t know the half of it. Have you ever been bored, Harlequin? So well and truly bored, you could spit?"

Jack almost smiled, in spite of himself. "Then why do you stay on? It ought to be a simple enough matter for a lady of your…accomplishments to find some gallant officer to escort her home to England."

"Because I do as I please here. That would not be the case back in England. Good works and ladies’ societies do not interest me. At least at the Dockyard I am liable to meet some amusing men. Like my fine, lithe, raven-haired Harlequin." She smiled again, rising from the bunk and gliding toward him. "But I have not come here to tell you the story of my life."

Dark ringlets were escaping from her upswept coiffure, her golden eyes glowed, and the rise and fall of her bosom was hypnotic. Her scent filled the wagon, a deep, musky rose, as heavy as incense, as muddling as opium. And somewhere, beneath his anger and surprise and confusion, it ocurred to Jack how easy it would be to give her what she asked for. He could not deny how compelling it was to be wanted so recklessly. Time was, he'd have taken what he wanted with no questions asked, and the widow must know how to keep her affairs discreet; she was a figure of much idle speculation and very little known fact. Who would be harmed, after all, if he gave himself up to this tidal wave of silk and scent and desire?

But it was no use pretending not to know the answer. Was he so ruled by his prick he would squander all the love Tory had trusted to him—for this? A lark? An interlude? Was he no better than that cruel, callow Matty Forester, after all? And he backed away from the widow in mute fury, as if his momentary willingness to betray the woman he loved were her fault.

"A favor then, Harlequin."

Something had changed in Cora Harvey’s voice, as the widow began gathering up her hat and gauze. Her face had lost its color; she looked older in the harsh light from the little window above the bed. "I have little use for shame, but I do retain some pride," she told him. There was more resignation than anger in her tone.

"I’m sorry. You’re...a damned attractive woman," Jack said, honestly.

"And you’re a damned attractive man. It’s a pity we could not find some common ground, but..." She lifted one shoulder in a provocative gesture. "All I ask is one more glimpse beneath your mask. To remember you by."

She reached for his mask. But his eyes met hers in a clear warning, and after an instant’s hesitation, she drew her hand away.
"You don’t surrender much, my Harlequin."

She turned away with a defeated rustle of her skirts, and Jack sank back down onto the stool, shaken and furious with himself. They were playing a dangerous enough game in these islands as it was. How could he have let a stranger get so close, for whatever reason? The civilized world was a dangerous place, and he was too long out of practice at its games...

He started when a hand touched his shoulder, and jerked his head up to find not Cora Harvey, but Tory smiling down at him.

"Sorry, I thought you heard me come in. And why on earth have you still got that mask on? You haven’t been wearing it all this time, have you? You must be roasting." She undid the ties at the back of his head as she spoke, taking care not to pull his hair. "Who was that I saw skulking out of here a few minutes ago?"

"Mrs. Harvey."

"What? The notorious widow? And I missed her...?" But Tory’s grin faded when she saw Jack’s face. "Hellfire, Jack, you’re as flushed as a bride. What have you been up to in here?"

In answer, Jack reached up with both hands and drew Tory’s face down to his. The voraciousness of his kiss surprised them both, but Tory had no breath to protest. The mask thudded to the floor as her arms found their way around his neck and she sank down across his lap, surprised again by what she felt under Harlequin’s patches.

"What...has she done to you?"

"Nothing you can't do a thousand times better."

He steered her mouth back to his, pulled open the laces of her bodice, and dipped one hungry hand inside. She twisted in his lap, and when he felt the stool give way beneath him, he got his feet under him, stood up, and lifted her to the edge of the bunk, where the pallets were piled.

"We’re due...outside...in a few minutes," she panted.

"This won’t take long."

Her arms were closing fast around him, pulling him between her legs where he stood while she braced her back against the pallets. He shoved aside handfuls of patchwork skirt as her legs wrapped around him and he held on to her with all his strength, fighting for forgiveness, until he heard her soft cry and felt her shudder in his arms. Slowly, he became aware of her mouth moving very gently now, against his neck and his cheek and his ear.

"It’s all right, hombre," she murmured, holding him tight. He realized he was shaking; there could be a lot of reasons for that. He closed his eyes, buried his face in her neck, let her comfort him.

"Shh," she whispered, cradling him like a child. "Why do I feel I’ve just saved you from a fate worse than death?"

She was teasing, but Jack was too ashamed to smile back.

"I love you, Rusty," he told her plainly. "I just wish we were away from here."

Tory held his face before her and studied his expression, reading in his eyes what he didn’t say.

"Then let’s tell Alphonse,” she said, stroking his dark hair. "It’s time we got Marcus back to Cybele, in any case. We’ve tempted fate too long in this place."



Jack was so relieved to be leaving Antigua, he didn't notice the change in Marcus until the day they brought the wagon to the loading dock, from which they would board the barge for St. Kitts. Alphonse had told them custom in Basseterre would be brisk with the end of the gale season and the trade ships returning. They had sent word to Cybele to meet them there, but not even the prospect of seeing her again could dispel Marcus' gloomy mood.

"You don’t want to go to Basseterre?" Jack quizzed the boy.

"Me ol’ massa live in that place," the boy murmured.

"In Basseterre?" Jack prompted. "In the town?"

"On the hill. But obisha man, him be in town all the time fo’ the grog shops."

By this name, Jack knew Marcus meant the overseer of a plantation. Tory had confirmed the obvious, that Cybele's children were not really hers, but he'd never pressed the question of where they'd come from.

"We come down one day wit’ the driver wit’ provision fo’ the market," Marcus went on. "But all we coops upset and when t’oter boys run off to fetch the fowl, me run off, too, but...me keep running. Me stay off the road and one day, that Cully, him find me napping in a ditch and take me to Cybele."

"Was there no one to miss you on the plantation?" Tory asked.

"Obisha, him miss me most. Me used to fetch him rum." The boy shook his head, his face glum. "Obisha, him hide me for true, him evah catch me after me run off."

"Nobody’s going to hide you," Jack declared. "We'll put you in a mask, like Punch and Harlequin. Would you like that?" Marcus' expression grew more eager, in spite of himself. Jack smiled and caught the boy's shoulder in an affectionate shake. "I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. We'll be fine in Basseterre," he vowed, hoping it was true.

(Top: English Harbour, Antigua. J Johnson, published 1827. As seen on www.brunias.com/)