Levasseur in pirate fiction

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 --