The Valentine Legacy (41 page)

And then he screamed.

He was on his knees in front of the chest, leaning over the opening. His arm was still thrust into the filthy pieces of jewelry and coin. Out of the depths of the chest rose a cottonmouth snake, surely the ugliest snake ever created, its body nearly as thick as a man's neck, its mouth a dead, puffy white—a white that looked like rancid maggot-covered meat. The snake's mouth gaped open. A rope of pearls hung out of its open mouth, falling on either side, like a bridle in a horse's mouth, the reins trailing. The snake stared at Compton Fielding. Then it lunged up his arm in the flash of an instant, its fangs going deep into his shirt. Another cottonmouth emerged, this one opening its mouth to show a necklace of emeralds, the snake's venom having cleaned off the gems enough to see the deep green of the stones. It wrapped itself around Compton's arm, so gently and slowly it seemed to move, and very smoothly, it opened
its mouth, spat out the emeralds, and sank its fangs deep in the back of his hand.

“Compton, get your arms out of that damned chest! Damn you, move!”

Compton Fielding shrieked and shrieked but he didn't move. He seemed incapable of doing anything but scream. Another cottonmouth, this one slithering through one of the holes in the side of the chest, shimmied up Compton's chest, gently easing beneath his arm and viciously biting his armpit once, twice, three times before it slithered off him and sank back down into the chest.

Compton Fielding shrieked again. Still he didn't move. Couldn't move? James didn't know. He yelled at him, but it did no good. James jerked Jessie away when one of the cottonmouths turned in their direction, its open mouth yawning even wider. He pulled them both farther away from that cursed chest. James realized blankly that only seconds had passed, and yet it seemed like a bloody lifetime.

“Move, dammit, Compton! Get away from the chest!”

Compton Fielding turned his head very slightly so he could see James. He said in a soft tired voice, “I can't. Just look at them, James. They ate through the chest because they wanted the treasure. Just look at the one with those pearls looped through his mouth. He didn't even spit them out when he bit me. Oh God, just look at them, so many of them.” Two more cottonmouths came up from the depths of the treasure chest. They had no jewelry or coins in their mouths. They moved slowly, as if they weren't really interested. They took their time, biting Compton Fielding's arms, his neck, then slithered back down into the chest and out the holes in the side onto the slippery grass. They slid back into the marsh.

James had been frantically looking for Fielding's pistol, then remembered he'd stuck his own into his boot. Cursing himself, he pulled the pistol from his boot and fired. One of
the cottonmouths was still wrapped around Fielding's arm. He flowed off, sinking back down into the chest. James fired again, using his second bullet, knowing it did no good, but feeling angry and helpless. Why the devil didn't Fielding move?

The snakes were eating him alive. He hadn't so much as whispered for several minutes now, not even shuddering when yet another cottonmouth bit him. Just there on his knees in front of that damned chest, his hands and arms still plunged into its depths, letting the snakes devour him.

“Gypsom, take Jessie away from here. There might be more snakes. Get her to safety.”

“I'll take her,” Badger said, and he lifted Jessie into his arms.

“Yes, James, all of us are here,” Marcus said. “Surely you must have suspected when you saw no one when you and Gypsom left the house with those two poles. Now, this fellow here is nearly dead. Who the devil is he?”

“We haven't seen a villain in many a year,” the Duchess said, but she didn't step forward. “I hate snakes. God, these are hideous. Be careful, all of you.”

“What should we do with this man?” Spears said. “I hate snakes as well, Duchess.”

“I'm glad Maggie isn't here,” Sampson said. “She wouldn't be happy were she here seeing those hideous snakes.”

“Step back, James,” Marcus said. “Let me see if I can't get rid of the rest of those snakes.” He fired both shots in his pistol, then nodded to Spears, who then fired his two shots.

James waited. He saw no more movement, no more undulating swells beneath that pile of jewels and coins. He managed to pull Compton Fielding free of the chest. His face was the color of those damned snakes' mouths, a sickening, bloated white.

“Compton?”

“Yes, James,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I can't see you, but I can hear you a bit. Where is Jessie?”

“I'm here.”

“Please tell me what happened to those Roanoke colonists.”

“They went with the Croatoan Indians when they had no more food. I imagine once they filled their bellies, they began to behave like the masters even though the Indians had saved them. The Indians, in retaliation, sold them to the Spanish. Valentine was taken to Spain. Later she traveled to England and married a merchant from Bristol. As to what became of the other colonists, I suppose most of them remained in Spain.”

“Thank you,” he said. “James, perhaps you won't tell my mama that I killed Allen Belmonde. She always liked him, even though I knew he was a scoundrel.”

“I won't tell her,” James said.

“Thank you,” Fielding said, jerked once, then lay still.

A cottonmouth slithered up the bank and moved with incredible speed through the soggy grass, the pearl necklace still held in its mouth, its ends trailing behind him, perfect black circles becoming streaked with white as they were pulled through the grass.

“He's dead,” James said. “All because of that damnable treasure.”

“What shall we do with the treasure?” Jessie asked, eyeing the chest with revulsion. Even as she spoke, another cottonmouth poked its head through the surface, coins sliding off its thick head.

Sampson raised his pistol and fired. The cottonmouth fell back into the chest.

“It's horrible, James, just horrible,” Jessie said, unable to look away from the chest. “These jewels and coins, all
of it stolen from the people Blackbeard killed to fill this chest. I can't bear it.”

“I agree,” James said, looking first at Spears, then Badger, then Sampson, and finally at Marcus and the Duchess. Slowly, each of them nodded.

“Let the filth and snakes have it again,” the Duchess said. “Let it sink to China.”

James and Gypsom both put their booted feet against the chest, kicking it hard. It fell back into the marsh, sinking slowly until it was nearly gone from view beneath the black surface. They watched a snake rise from the chest and out of the water, then sink down again as the chest disappeared.

Fat, lazy bubbles rose to the surface, popping, flattening. No one said a word, just watched until the black water again became still.

Gypsom said, “I itch. Gawd, I thought I wanted to be rich, but not that way, Mr. James. Niver that way.”

Suddenly the Duchess leaned down and picked something up from the sodden marshy grass. “Look at this,” she said, and without thinking, cleaned it off on her skirt. It was a necklace, an elaborate chain of gold. In its center was a ruby, as deep a red as a winter sunset on the Outer Banks. The Duchess rubbed the ruby against her palm, then held it up. “Look,” she said. “It's a swan.”

She handed it to James. He turned it over and over in his hand. The huge ruby was very warm against his flesh. “There is printing on the chain,” he said, bringing it up close so he could make it out.

“What does it say?” Jessie said.

“It says ‘Valentine Swann 1718 Edward Teach.”'

They just stared at each other.

Which horse to cheer for? They all look the same to me.

—ANONYMOUS

“G
O
, J
IGG
! Y
OU
can do it, boy, go!” Jessie was straining forward to see her beloved six-year-old quarter horse spurt through the pack to take the early lead.

“Not well done of you, Jessie,” her mother-in-law said in a voice loud enough to be heard through all the cheering. “You're a Wyndham, not a Warfield. That's your father's horse.”

“Oh dear, it's such a fast race, isn't it? Only a quarter mile. Go, Console. Go, boy! Yes, Console, you can do it!”

Her father frowned at her and shook her arm. “You were shouting for Jigg. Now you're shouting for a Wyndham horse. Where are your loyalties, Jessie?”

“Oh dear. Both of you, run! Run! Move, Jigg! That's it, Console, you can do it!”

James was riding Console and losing. The other jockeys weighed less then a sandbag, James would say and curse, saying he'd have to shoot them to win. But he tried, flattening himself against Console's back, hugging his neck.

Jessie couldn't help herself. She yelled at the top of her lungs, “James, you can do it! Give Console a good kick with your boot heels! He loves it!”

Console got two sharp kicks. He burst forward, like a ball out of a cannon, surprising the crowd of at least two hundred people, who, for the most part, had bet against him. James was just too big to win a fast race like this. His friends always rubbed their hands together when he was riding, knowing they could safely bet against him.

He won this time. It was those two kicks that did it. Jessie was certain of that. Console flung himself across the finish line a good length in front of Jigg, from the Warfield stable. Sweating, grinning like a sinner in a roomful of Puritans, James kicked himself free of Console, handed his reins to Oslow, and strode like the conquering hero to his wife, who was standing there, as white as a sheet, staring up at him.

“What the devil is wrong with you? I heard you, Jessie, and I did give Console that little nudge. It worked, didn't it?” He kissed her hard, hugged her until she gasped, then turned without losing a beat to her father: “Well, Oliver, I fancy after Marathon wins the next three races today, you'll be coming to our house, a big bottle of champagne under your right arm, bowing and scraping to me, the winner. You can bow and scrape to Jessie, too. She's the winner's wife.”

Jessie tugged on his sleeve.

James turned toward Console, who was blowing hard, looking pleased with himself. “Just look at him. What a heart Console has. Jessie was right—he did need the boot heels. He nearly left me behind, he spurted forward so quickly.” He was rubbing his hands together, still elated from his unexpected win, still grinning from ear to ear, words bubbling up in his mind to describe the brilliance of his horse, how Oliver should just give up and offer James a standing offer of champagne. Jessie tugged on his sleeve again. He turned, smiling. “What is it, love? You want to give the conquering hero a kiss?”

She said very clearly, enunciating each word slowly, “James, I think our baby is coming.”

James stared at her blankly. “No, Jessie, that can't be right. The babe isn't due for another week, at least. Don't you remember? You told me that coming to the race today would be good for you, you needed to be out in the fresh air, you needed to exercise your lungs shouting for our horses to win. No, surely you're wrong about this. I didn't hear you shouting for your father's horse, did I? No, you wouldn't do that.”

“She did,” James's mother informed him. “However, I speedily brought her to her senses.”

Suddenly Jessie gasped, her arms hugging her big belly.

“Oh my God!” shouted Oliver Warfield. “James, do something. She can't have my first grandchild here at the racecourse. Damn you! What did you do to my little girl?”

 

James knew exactly what to do, but he wasn't permitted to do a thing. As soon as he laid Jessie down on their bed back at Marathon, Dr. Hoolahan—who'd been waiting—shoved him out of the way. “You're not a doctor—you're a husband. Go away, James. This isn't the place for you.”

But Jessie whispered, her lips already dry and cracking from the cries she couldn't seem to hold inside her, “James, don't leave me. You promised me that you wouldn't let anything happen to me.”

James gave Dr. Hoolahan a look and sat himself down beside his wife. “It won't take long, Jessie. Just hold onto my hand when the pains come. It will be over soon, I swear it to you. Yes, I know it.”

“How the hell do you know how long it will take, James?” Dr. Hoolahan asked, looking up. “You're not a bloody doctor. All right, so you might help mares when they're foaling, but that's nothing like this. I'm the doctor here. This is Jessie's first child. It will certainly take more than the next twenty minutes. It will probably take hours,
maybe even days. Why, I knew one first child who required a full four days to be born.”

Jessie moaned at that.

“Don't say that, damn you,” James said, turning. “You're scaring the hell out of her and me. Just get on with what you have to do. Don't listen to him, Jessie. Listen to me. I'm your husband, and I know what I'm talking about. Dancy is good for stitching up cuts, but he doesn't know all that much. He's just bragging about that baby that took the four days. No, you're coming along very nicely. It will be over soon.”