Cupids
BOOKS BY PAUL BUTLER
St. John's: City of Fire
Rogues and Heroes
(co-author)
Stoker's Shadow
Easton's Gold
NaGeira
Easton
1892
PAUL BUTLER
BRAZEN BOOKS
ST. JOHN'S
2010
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Butler, Paul, 1964-
Cupids / Paul Butler.
ISBN 978-1-897317-62-4
1. Guy, John, d. 1629--Fiction. 2. Merchants--Newfoundland and Labrador--History--17th century--Fiction. 3. Cupids (N.L.)-- History--17th century--Fiction. 4. Newfoundland and Labrador-Colonization--Fiction. 5. Newfoundland and Labrador--History-To 1763--Fiction. I. Title.
PS8635.I355B33 2008 Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C813'.6 Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C2008-904360-X
© 2010 by Paul Butler
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For Maura & Jemma
“My mine of precious stones, my empery;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee!”
Elegy XX by John Donne
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
John Guy
S
EPTEMBER
25, 1611, C
UPERS
C
OVE
T
O
S
IR
W
ILLOUGHBY,
M
R.
E
GRET, AND THE MOST HONOURABLE MEMBERS OF THE
N
EWFOUNDLAND
C
OMPANY OF
B
RISTOL AND
L
ONDON . . .
It is my great pleasure to inform you, sirs, that
after one more brief expedition to the northern
coast I will begin preparations to return to
England for the winter, and that I could not be
happier and more secure about the morale of
the men and their fitness, under my surrogate,
Colston, to continue the good work of fishing,
nurturing our beasts, and growing our crops.
Through much hard work and diligence we
have tilled the soil, raised many root-crops and
some grain, and this not without some setbacks.
One of the wine barrels was breached
somewhat mysteriously last month and there
has been some talk of items going astray.
Worse than this, a fire last evening did ravage
the grain with which we hoped to feed our livestock
over the winter, a blow most bitter, but
one our men took in great and fine spirits. In
all such matters, indeed, I am proud of the
good fellowship. We are inured to suffering and
to the meagre and uncertain provisions of the
pioneer. We will, as always, make do.
I myself, God willing, shall be most
delighted to apprise those of you who will be in
residence in the fair and beloved city of Bristol
of the needs and necessities as well as the good
work of my men. I understand that you, Sir
Willoughby, will be travelling in foreign parts,
and wish you Godspeed and a safe return. I
pray that I may beg the indulgence of Mr. Egret
and other of your most worthy gentlemen in
your absence.
Rest assured, good sirs, despite hardships
and uncertainties, the good Christian fellowship
and, I humbly trust, my own example and
leadership have kept any unrest at bay and it
is a perpetual pleasure to see the harmony . . .
A scuffling noise halts my scratching pen. Two loud thumps follow, then a rough yell, and my door bursts open to the night, almost wrenching the hinge clean away. Writhing inside the burly grasps of Colston and Littlejohn, is Bartholomew, our apprentice cook and gardener. The three enter like a clump of mating insects. When the young man sees me, he ceases to struggle. In the wavering light of the candle, his pale eyes gaze at me with the kind of pleading I have seen only in dogs â not tinged by the slightest suggestion of pride, or even embarrassment, simply intent upon whatever morsel of comfort or sustenance it hopes to receive.
“He was hiding under the wharf,” Colston growls, his exposed forearm flexing as Bartholomew makes one futile lurch to the side, a gesture made more for effect and sympathy, I suspect, than for any serious attempt at escape. “What are you going to do with him?” Colston grits his teeth and his strong thumb burrows into the soft flesh of Bartholomew's shoulder.
As though reluctant to believe in the intrusion, my fingers finally allow the quill to drop to the table. It rolls once, feathers nestling against the paper.
“I'll have to bring him back with me once I have completed northern explorations next month. That's laid down.”
I notice the hint of relief in the boy's expression.
“We should deal with it here and now, sir,” Littlejohn says, his flint-like eyes catching mine. “We have proof he burned the grain. No one would blame us, or even care.”
The pleading look returns to those pale eyes which glisten now behind a film of moisture. I have been here before with Bartholomew, heard his frantic tales of threats and insinuations by day, molestations by night. Now as then it affects me little. The Company's articles are my only guide. They make no mention of the sins of Sodom.
“No,” I say quietly. “He returns with me as the law dictates. I will keep him under my watch until that time. I can assure you he will pay.”
CHAPTER TWO
Guy
December 1611
I
HEAR THE TELLTALE
creak of Bartholomew even before he appears in my cabin entranceway. With his regular features, smooth skin, and the hint of down upon his cheek, he is a neat bird designed for the pleasure of viewing. I narrow my eyes to prevent betraying this thought as he draws closer. I am his jailor and he must not forget it.
The door, fixed open by a taut rope behind Bartholomew, is the only anchored thing in this place. The ocean mocks us all with its constant movement; now that we are in the middle of the Atlantic, stillness is a quality beyond reach, a barely remembered myth from times long past. I, myself, am a jelly of perpetual change. My thoughts reshape themselves so rapidly I scarcely know myself from one moment to the next.
“I wish to thank you, your worship,” he says softly.
“You are premature,” I reply, returning my gaze to the chart. The stool beneath me groans my discomfort. “I have yet to have the pleasure of any such title. I am mayor of no city, judge of no court. You do wrong to flatter.”
“I assure you, Mr. Guy, your worthiness makes you a lord in beneficence.”
I slide the ruler from the chart.
“What, specifically, do you wish to thank me for, boy?”
“Why, for unchaining me.”
“I had you unchained because sickness undermanned my ship. I needed your hands then, not your tongue now.”
“Still, you might have returned me to the hold.”
“I only haven't because I may need you once more. In the meantime you can thank me by remaining in the space on this ship which has been designated for you.”
“I will do so,” he says with a bow and takes a short backward step. “But I wish you to know that I appreciate the difficulty of your position. I do understand the weight of an authority such as yours.”
The cabin tips, as does my stomach, and my thoughts scramble against his unwanted empathy, pushing against the trust that would like nothing better than to follow his words like shingle tumbling after a retreating wave.
“No one can appreciate it fully,” I reply, glaring at him. Then, as his face remains on mine, retaining respect and sympathy in equal measure, I find anger sliding from my visage like an ill-fitting mask. “Leading a group of forty men, my lad, without justice or judge, scaffold or lash, for fifteen months or more, is a trying test for the greatest of men. I believe myself humble enough to admit that I am not the greatest of men.”