Here is yet another excerpt from
Master of the Sweet Trade, by Elizabeth Moisan:
“What's
the cargo?” Sam was aboard the Dutch ship.
Paul
brought him the news. “Cocoa, coffee, and tobacco. Not too much
coin. We're going to reckon it up now. Still haven't seen him, Sam.”
He nodded at Henri, as the French quartermaster came up on deck with
the ship's log under one arm.
Henri
came to Sam, “Monsieur. Capitaine Levasseur wishes you to
join him on le Postillion, when you are ready.”
“Where
is he now?” Sam asked, glancing around the battered ship.
“That
I do not know, capitaine.”
Sam
took his time looking over their prize. The stench of blood,
gunpowder and smoke filled the air. Masts and yards were shot with
holes, sails shredded, rigging badly damaged. Spilled powder had
ignited, burning part of her fore deck, and the charred timbers still
smoldered, though wet with seawater. He had seen Levasseur avoid
inflicting the damage that would make repairing the Dutchman at ea
nearly impossible, but here was senseless destruction. Sam knew it
for what it was: La Buze – the vulture's – deliberate show
of his absolute power.
Woven
through the splintered and shattered wood were splintered and
shattered men. Blood ran freely from their bodies, forming pools and
mixing with soot and ash to make an ugly red-black mud. Flesh and
bone crushed by falling spars and tackle, slashed by flying metal,
pierced by shot, or burned – the injuries were many and gruesome.
He looked up to see John Ferguson, the Marianne's surgeon,
with the Postillion's doctor – Sam never knew his name –
lay out their tools on a hatch cover and set to work helping whom
they could.
He
crossed the deck toward the Postillion an spotted the Dutch
captain siting on an upended bucket, cradling his broken arm. The man
stood and spoke first in his own language, then in rapid-fire French,
his face showing a mixture of hatred and pain.
Sam's
few words of rough French were useless, so they stood amid the rubble
and faced each other in silence. Finally, pointing to the injured arm
and the dead and wounded sprawled on the deck, he said, “Next time,
don't run. Strike your colors.”
The
Dutch captain glared darkly at him, then turned away and sat again.
Sam turned and boarded the Postillion in search of Levasseur.
***
In
the great cabin, Sam once again wondered about La Buze. The
fancy clothes were neatly stowed, he knew, in various storage places
around the cabin, and the collection of hats and wigs hung from pegs
near the top of the bulkhead. He took down a dark-red hat, decorated
with a wide leather band and a yellow feather, and was examining it
closely when a crewman came into the cabin and tossed a brace of
pistols and a cutlass on the deck.
“C'est
la guerre,” the man said, and turned to look at Sam, “Eh?”
Sam
pointed to the weapons. “Where – Levasseur?”
The
seaman pulled ff his headscarf, and wiping his sweaty face with it,
tossed it onto the pile. He ran his hands through his short, matted
hair, and grinned at Sam.
“But
of course, I am here! Just as you see!” He opened his arms wide.
“Mon Dieu! What did you think?”
Sam
chuckled. “Now I know why I didn't see you on deck.”
Without
the wig, hat, and the extra height created by the high heels of his
fine boots, Levasseur looked very different. He was dressed in the
clothes of an ordinary seaman and was dirtier than Sam could ever
have believed possible, Instead of the sweet fragrance that usually
accompanied him, La Buze smelled of battle – gunpowder,
sweat, and smoke.
“From
the blade,” he said, looking at the bloodstained tears in his
shirt. “I wipe her clean many times.” He threw his belt and
ammunition pouch to the deck, and dropping heavily into his chair,
tugged at his sea boots.
“Ah,
it is what I like. You do not see me, but I am there – always.”
He glanced at Sam, who was still holding the hat. “So! You are
thinking: what hat does he wear? What wig goes into battle? Never!
For the fight, I am thus! In battle, the foe – he looks for le
capitaine and then - “ he drew his finger across his throat.
“But me,” he said with a shrug, “I am just a sailor. I do not
know where he is, le capitaine. Clever, non?”
Sam
hung the hat back on its peg.
-- To be continued --
