Easton (4 page)

George moves onto his side, suddenly guilty for the physical comfort he is feeling, wishing his mind and body would retain the fire of indignation and not slip so easily into tiredness. He thinks of his hard and lumpy bed in the St. John’s barracks. He thinks of the way the room smells of dried mud and how a bone-splintering cold always creeps under his rough blanket before dawn. Here the gentleness is like some childhood dream returned. The warm air carries a vague tang of fresh citrus and perfume. It is the scent of treachery, he reminds himself. And yet the bed enfolds him like a hundred silken hands stroking away the ache of his nervous, weary limbs.

The thought strikes him that Easton may be attacked and caught by the Admiralty yet. It was after all in the act of fleeing that he came to New-found-land. They are surely still after him. But the idea gives only fleeting hope. The man has been a renegade for eight long years since the King’s coronation and has eluded His justice in all that time. He has even blockaded the great mouth of the Bristol Channel, charging all traffic “protection” for safe conduct. And with such treasons openly flaunted under the very nose of the Admiralty and the King, he still went unpunished. No, George concludes, the Admiralty sent their flotilla to chase Easton away, not to capture him.

For a few hours after retiring George went through a thousand schemes through which he and the admiral could escape or take over the ship. Many images spun through his mind. He saw himself with a sharp knife at Easton’s throat, ordering his crew to turn the ship around. But he could not sustain the picture. Easton kept struggling free or one of the crew would plunge a knife into George’s own back. The crew is too large and well drilled for such action, he knew. He had seen that clearly enough from dry land.

But what if Easton were dead? What if he rushed the villain and killed him when such an action was least expected? But a gentleman would not do such a thing. He must allow the villain to draw his sword. And then what? He tried to envision a battle that he could win. But every time he conjured the fight in his imagination the same thing happened. He would find his arm suddenly turning to lead under the inexplicable weight of his sword. He would find himself moving with elephantine slowness like a man underwater. He would see Easton’s face before him with that insufferable smile. The pirate would move to the side easily dodging George’s slow, clumsy thrusts. And then, with George breathless and spent, Easton would raise his own shining blade, the grin never leaving his face.

George feels the ship’s movements beneath him. It is still racing, bobbing at the bow like a sea bird scooping up fish with its beak. They must be south of the Grand Banks already and at this rate it will take a mere matter of days to reach the tropics. And what then? What does the pirate plan for them? The cabin’s only window, a small disk high on the wall, begins to show a paler light. George knows the sun must be rising. The silken hands pull him down toward sleep once more, and this time he does not resist.

Just before he crosses the threshold into the dreamworld, he becomes aware of a faint, rhythmic noise, almost in tune with the waves, it seems. He recognizes the sound as a woman weeping somewhere down below. He holds onto that pulsing thread for just a moment, then feels it loosen and fall.

He is sinking into blackness. In his tunic belt he now has his pistol as well as his sword. He is relieved and wonders how he can make use of either, hurtling as he is through space. Then suddenly he is in a little group of three—he, Easton and Admiral Whitbourne—and they are sitting on the deck of the
Happy Adventure
. The same darkness is all around them, now dotted with stars. The great sails above them creak and groan. The warm wind rushes through his hair. A sweet oozing feeling overcomes him. He sees Easton’s slave. But her features are altered. Now her nose, mouth and eyes are like those of Rosalind. Rosalind, whose skin is usually as pale as bleached bone and whose hair is lighter than a daffodil’s petal, is turned suddenly the colour of ebony. The knowledge descends on him from nowhere that this is not Rosalind taking on the appearance of the slave, but the slave herself taking on Rosalind’s features.

The curious oozing sensation intensifies and the slave looks at him. She bows to fill a goblet that is cupped in George’s hands. The wine gurgles like a rushing brook as it bubbles and fills the cup. Vibrations from the pouring tickle George’s fingertips. The slave looks up at him and laughs in the same rhythm as the trickling wine and George finds himself laughing too, his ribs aching pleasantly. Suddenly, Easton is leaning into him, holding his forearm.
His
features have altered too, merging with those of Admiral Whitbourne, who is no longer there.

“You know what you have to do, boy.” He says sternly. “You must shoot her now. You have no choice.”

Suddenly the deck is deserted except for George and the slave. The sails are gone. There are no cabins, no rails, no features, no alcoves of any kind on the long, wide surface of boarded deck which tips and sways on a dark, wave-ridged ocean. George can smell the salt and feel the coolness of the spray against his cheeks. He grabs the handle of his pistol and pulls it from his belt. The slave stands expressionless two or three yards away as he levels the barrel at her. She smiles slightly. He knows this means he must act and so he squeezes the trigger hard. The sound of the bullet release comes, more a snap than an explosion. George hears the bullet roll slowly along the barrel. It emerges and drops to the deck then rolls along to the slave who stoops to pick it up. She looks up to him, still crouching with the bullet in her hand. She cocks her head quizzically at him as though to ask what it is.

Then George is in England, under the old beech tree in Rosalind’s garden. Sun flickers through the moving boughs and young yellow-green leaves. The breeze shimmers and the constant, shrill clatter of birdsong is joined by the lower sweet cooing of a dove. Rosalind is there, pale-skinned and luminous. She holds a handkerchief to her nose. She weeps bitterly, a sound which merges with the dove’s insistent cooing. Every few moments she lets out a deep, anguished moan and then sobs into her handkerchief. Whitbourne stands above her and George realizes without needing to be told that it is he himself who is the cause of her grief. He knows that Whitbourne is there to plead on his behalf. No words are spoken, but the depth of his disgrace is communicated to him all the same. It is a mark so black that it can scarce be spoken aloud, a sin of ancient and biblical profundity which ensures Rosalind must be forever out of reach.

George gazes at her pale face and those delicate features which have haunted him since leaving England’s shores. He looks at the scattering of freckles on the side of her cheek, the hopeful sky blue of her eyes. He takes in her scent and sees the earth from which Rosalind sprung, the rolling green hills and pastures of his native Devonshire, the dark puffs of trees and forests—a place of incomparable lushness and beauty.

Then he opens his eyes and suddenly everything is all right again. His disgrace was a nightmare. Rosalind is not lost. These happy thoughts edge out the fearful shadows of his dream. He sees the sunlight playing upon the ripples of the fine linen and tries to remember where he is. No disgrace, he tells himself again.

Yet all is not quite well. His waking has not brought the relief that for an instant it seemed to promise.

George looks at the disk of sunlight shining down from the porthole and gradually takes in the finery surrounding him—the wooden moldings of the bedposts, the panels, the embroidered hangings. The cabin sways and he remembers everything at last. His gaze is drawn to the door under which a piece of parchment with a scrawled message has been passed.

“I am so glad you could join us, Captain,” Easton says as George enters. Easton and Whitbourne are already seated at either end of a small oval dining table near the fireplace. George approaches and sits in the seat to which Easton, with a gesture of the hand, seems to usher him. George nods to both men. It is strange to encounter Easton again in the cold light of day. George’s senses were so heightened the previous evening, so poised for battle that he took little in with any real precision, either about Easton himself or about his incongruously lavish surroundings. He thought the silk and embroidered hangings gaudy and vulgar in candlelight. And in his imagination they were smeared with the blood of the innocent. He thought the vine leaves and grapes around the wooden posts distasteful, as though revelling in the memory of barbarous Rome. But now, in the morning, they seem merely the trappings of any gentleman who could afford such things. The colours, he notes, actually veer away from bloody reds, and the classical touch now seems appropriate for any sea captain with a thirst for learning.

In Easton’s person, too, he sees a change from the dream-distorted image he was expecting to encounter. The grin has softened to a courteous smile, and the glint of candlelight which had lent every expression a mocking strain was now quite absent.

“How did you sleep, Captain?” he asks.

“Fitfully at first, sir,” George replies, feeling his mouth tighten. “I eventually slumbered,” he adds for the sake of courtesy.

He hears the hatch open and looks around. The slave enters, not looking at all like Rosalind, yet possessing a slow-moving grace of her own. George blushes slightly. The slave approaches, walks around the table and tips a jug toward the goblet in front of him. The liquid steams and gurgles, rather like an echo of his dream. He sees it is warm milk. He looks up and catches Easton’s expectant smile.

“We have three cows below who produce milk daily. Each of my other ships has two. Please.”

George obeys the gesture and drinks. It has been six months since he has tasted milk—his own harbour has yet to acquire its first cow—and the quality is striking, the creamy texture enveloping his tongue. “It’s excellent,” he says, feeling honesty is the only option. Since he boarded the ship every pleasure long buried is being awakened. It is as though sensation itself were a dark mansion with many rooms and his host was lighting a candle in each, one by one.

“Please try our bread.” George does so, tearing off part of the loaf, and the smell of fresh yeast fills the air as soon as the crust is broken. The tender, spongy heart of the bread tastes quite different from the hard and lifeless bread baked at the fort.

“I don’t understand. How do you do it?”

“We are, in every sense, a floating colony, Captain Dawson, an island state in the middle of the ocean. That is why I am no more afraid of the King’s justice than he is of mine.”

George stiffens and catches Whitbourne’s eye. The admiral has been silent and rather plaintive so far.

“And that is why,” Easton continues, “I have been trying to persuade Admiral Whitbourne to stay with me. I hope I may count upon you to consider such a course.”

“Never!” he breathes aloud though he had promised himself he would follow the admiral’s orders.

But Easton just smiles. “Your indignation, sir, does you much credit. I too despise law-breakers. But I rather hope a little time in my company will enlighten you to the fact that I am not one of them.”

Easton looks up at the slave who has come back to circle the table and fill the admiral’s milk. The pirate wears an almost sad expression, like one who has been habitually misunderstood. George finds his own gaze now following the slave. There is something in her languid, graceful movements that attracts attention. For the first time she looks into his eyes. She has an open, half-curious expression, without the slightest shyness. It is a novelty to meet her gaze, and George finds himself wondering about the nature of such a being. He has no idea how to categorize her. He watches her replace the milk jug on a little side table, then move toward her hatch.

“Do you have an intended back in England, Captain?” Easton’s voice breaks in just as the slave leaves the cabin.

George winces from the implied comparison. Easton is surely not comparing his own feelings for the slave, whatever they might be, with a legitimate betrothal. The idea is too monstrous.

“I have an understanding, sir,” he answers stiffly. “One which I fully intend to honour once I am free to do so.”

“An understanding! Ah, how delicate language can be.” Easton says, smiling again, his own gaze fixed upon the slave’s hatch. “A woman is a splendid thing, my good sirs. She is the gold of a man’s heart. In her eyes, her graces and the fullness of her figure there is that lure to the soul that man finds in diamonds. A true man,” he continues significantly, fixing his gaze on the admiral and George in turn, “hesitates with neither gem. The bolder the touch, the more certain the yield.”

Easton goes into a silent reverie while George stares at him in disbelief, his hands trembling with rage. This time he finds he is not alone. The admiral’s expression is also one of horror. Easton rouses himself, noticing at last. “I fear I have shocked you, gentle sirs,” he says with the hint of an amused smile. “I had only meant to venture that if either of you gentlemen require for your further comfort—”

“Sir! Desist!” snaps the admiral.

The show of force is so rare it takes George by surprise.

Easton bows. “Admiral, your servant. I am truly sorry.” The smile has left his face and his voice is soft and submissive. Yet something is missing—perhaps the vague miasma of humility that pervades a room when a true penitent is present. A curious moistness in Easton’s eyes tells George he is simply veiling his character for the convenience of the moment. Or worse, that he is shamming for his own amusement as a cat plays at releasing the tail of a mouse. He merely wishes to draw the moment out so he may have the supreme thrill of pouncing afresh.

Easton sighs slightly, then smiles. “May I suggest for your recreation, my good sirs, a turn around our deck. The weather is brisk but dry, and the sea air is bound to do you good.”

The sails bulge
like living wings above George’s head. The
Happy Adventure
flies along, the bow dipping and rising like the bobbing neck of a horse. Sunlight glistens on the cresting waves. The air sweeps around George’s ears, pulling his hair in all directions. The crew works steadily, some scrubbing, some painting, some working with diligent fingers and sure footing as they adjust the ship’s ladders and ropes.
What a shame it should be a pirate ship,
George thinks,
when such work and such order are in so much demand by legitimate seamen.