Paxton Pride (66 page)

By the time she'd scrambled up three quarters of the rock-littered and forested slope, Marie began to think better of the whole escapade. She might have been home, sitting down to a hearty noonday meal and not listening to a hungry stomach growl at every step. A tree ahead promised relief, though, and the dogs had stopped their unearthly din. She wiped the sweat from her eyes and persevered another thirty yards. Now, if only there were no boars …

Stopping under a caremite tree whose branches were extravagantly laden with clumps of plumlike fruits, she stripped off the baggy shirt and gathered a dozen of the ripest. A rock painted with bright orange moss served as a table. In rapid succession, Marie gorged on the pleasant fruits, relishing each bite all the more for the strenuous exertion of the long hike. Soon the sweet milky juices flowing from the fruit's oddly colored black meat covered her chin and dripped down her naked chest and breasts. Finishing the last of the delicious feast, she dried off, using the shirt for a towel, and sank back onto the ground to close her eyes and luxuriate in the warmth of the sun. Somewhere nearby a
grillon,
as her Spanish friends called the huge crickets, sang a sleepy song. A small green parrot landed on a limb above and preened, chuckling to himself before attacking one of the barely ripened plums. Half-dreaming, Marie's hands moved unconsciously to her breasts and she shuddered as her thoughts turned to more forbidden fruits. Someday, soon perhaps, Marie Ravenne would take a man. What would it be like to be loved like that?

One of the women in La Cachette, Nina by name, had gotten drunk one night. Taking Marie in tow, she explained the duties of lovers, graphically describing every function and pleasure of each partner in a most explicit fashion. The imagery evoked was exciting, but somehow sullied. From her words, Marie could not picture Nina being loved. “But I
shall
be,” Marie vowed. “None shall have me but to whom I first give myself. He will be my own true love, my only heart.” Romantic notions tumbled through her mind, evoking image upon image. “We will have a magnificent plantation. Or even a castle. The sun will fill our room with gay and golden light and sweet birds will sing and flowers fill the air with perfume. Together, we will do what Nina said …”

But what would it be like? The human body, male or female, held no mysteries for an island girl of the early eighteenth century. Talk was cheap, coarse, and ribald jokes were common.

Only two weeks ago, at a party to celebrate the return of one of Mysteré's ships, she had found herself alone with Guy St. Martin. Together, she and Guy walked down the beach until Guy pointed to the water. “Turtle!” he whispered. “Let's get him.”

Two bodies, lithe and firm and young, hit the water as one. When they reached the spot where the turtle had been spotted, it was gone. “Race you back,” Guy shouted, starting for shore.

Marie followed, swimming smoothly, catching up but not being able to forge ahead. Laughing, hand in hand, they stumbled through the surf and flopped onto the beach. For a moment they lay still, breathing heavily. When Marie sat up, it was to see Guy lying on his back, staring at her with a strange look in his eyes.

Both wore light cotton breeches, Marie a cotton shirt as well, which had become nearly transparent when wet. Under his gaze, Marie felt her breasts tighten, could not help but look down to the rising ridge between Guy's legs. Bewitched, thrilled and not a little frightened, she did not stop him as his hand reached out to touch her breasts, then open the clinging shirt. She, too, could not resist placing her hand on him and running her fingers over his outlined manhood.

Was this to be it, then? Gently, Guy pulled her atop him and their lips met. Her breasts, exposed, pressed against his chest, and their fever, youthful, wanting, hungering, grew.

Then fear! Marie struggled, shoved herself away from him and, angry at her own cowardice, lapsed into silence. Eventually, her distemper subsided, replaced by awkward embarrassment. Not knowing what to say or how to say it. Not daring to look in his eyes. An empty feeling, as if she'd done something wrong, perhaps, even though her body felt so alive and right. Trying to act naturally, Marie rose and walked into the water, rinsed off the sand and then stood on the beach, waiting. A moment later, Guy joined her. Hand in hand, silently, they walked back to the party.

What would happen the next time? There was to be another party that night. Would Guy be her own true love? Would they walk down the beach again? Her eyes squinted and she tried to imagine what would follow.

A rolling crescendo sounded deep in the distance. She sat up, alert and breathing raggedly, the fantasy broken. Thunder? The sky above was devoid of clouds, a shining azure shield as far as the eye could see. But thunder? Yes, there it was again. A storm to the far south? The only way to tell was to reach the summit.

Marie jumped up and began to run, donning the shirt without breaking stride. Many a night she had lain awake during a storm and seen the lightning jab incandescent lances into the peak and upper slopes. Frightening from a distance, she knew it would be far worse this close: she had to cross the summit and be well down the other side before the storm broke.

Cedar gave way to a host of stunted coffee bushes planted by old Juan, the crazy Spanish outcast, a few years earlier. There the underbrush had been cleared away and the going was easier. A hundred yards further along and she emerged from the coffee onto the cleared top of the mountain. Resembling a monk's shaved head, the lofty height was covered with rock and, in places, a windswept carpet of undulating grasses mirroring the ocean far below. She would have enjoyed the vista had there not been a sooty, gray-black column of smoke funneling upward from the south.

The thunder sounded again, faint at first, then louder, with a brief lull in the wavering easterly breeze. Marie cried out and raced across the open ground. A line of cedars blocked the view, but her mother's grave-site, lower down the mountain, would be clear. There was a lofty, stalwart old palm she could climb. Already the frond-laden top was visible above the lesser growth. The mountain sloped down and Marie rushed along, scrambling to avoid rock and shrub, tree and crevass. A moment later she reached the clearing. Quickly, she skinned up the first ten feet of the ringed trunk.…

La Cachette was burning! The low-country plantations, crops and houses, burning! The tobacco lands, the middle ground, burning! Three galleons squatted in the ruined harbor. Puffs of black smoke ripped from the side of one craft, followed by a slow, rolling explosion. A sloop running for the open sea appeared to crumple: masts toppled and fell, followed by a flash of fire. Of the four vessels at anchor in Voûte Paix when Marie had left that morning, the sloop was the last. The other three were already reduced to tortured wreckage.

Figures scurried about the shore, a tide of men sweeping inland, moving up with the ground, running and marching through the yet unburned fields and plantations. Now she could make out the faint crackling of guns. New fires sprang up. Mysteré was under attack. But why? Had pirates unknown to Jean taken to the sea? Probably not, especially in such fine ships. No. English or French privateers? No, of course not, for as a breeze kicked up in the harbor, Spanish flags became visible. But Mysteré had an agreement with the Spanish commander in La Havana. Each year they paid and swore allegiance to Spain, in return for which they were supposed to be left alone. The attack did not make sense, yet La Cachette was burning, the ships, were sunk, the plantations were afire. And all by Spanish hands. Why? Why?

Frightened, utterly so. Down the palm tree, past the low fence surrounding the grave and the engraved white marker. Running now, calfhide slippers sure on the worn, oft-used path. Below, glistening with the sweat of fearful haste, running slaves take shape as they approach in a mad dash for the hills and safety. White mortar walls, pristine from a distance, tucked under the dark blotchy browns of thatched roofs. There is no joy now. Only panic. The fields are smoldering. A thatched roof explodes in a gout of new flame. Smoke curls in great clouds. Distant cries sound through the roar of flame, punctuated by gunfire. Father!

Running! All the boys are jealous because none is as fleet as Marie. Her hair, jet black, trails in the wind like the past streaking out of time, from which the fugitive heart can never flee fast enough. Do not look back, whispers the wind. Turn aside, girl. Run to the hills! Do not look back. What can a young woman do? Run! Run to sorrow!

A figure ahead burst from the undergrowth. Eyes wide with horror bulged from the copper-colored flesh of a mestizo. “Tomás!” Marie called.

The servant caught her arm. “Come with me. We hide.”

“What is it? What has happened?”

Tomás jerked her off balance, hauled her up the slope. Marie tore free. “No! Tomás, what happened?”

“Murcia,” the mestizo hissed. “Murcia come. He burn. Kill. Captain Solia, the cayman-faced. He come, too.”

“But Father said there was nothing to fear.”

“Murcia! Mur … ciiia!!” The terror-stricken servant howled and ran off alone, unwilling to remain close by any longer.

“Where is Father?” Marie screamed, but the mestizo disappeared into the trees. Marie turned, saw flames dance atop the roof of their house. The dried palmetto thatch went up in a great coughing roar, devoured at once. Marie was crying now, crying as she ran. Down to the high fields. Men were setting them afire, swinging torches through the grain in wide arcs. Gleeful Spaniards in soot-covered doublets and breeches. Peaked helmets gleamed atop some of the heads, cloth caps atop others. They hooted and called to one another, pointing at the girl. Three gave chase.

“Father!!” she screamed to the house's burning interior. No answer. Someone was behind her. Clawed hands reached. Marie leaped away and two Spaniards collided, the one without the helmet catching the worst of it. He groaned and sank unconscious to the ground.

Marie ran, looking over her shoulder. The helmeted Spaniard shook his senses clear and gave chase. A third rounded the house and cut across her path, but she proved quick enough, ducked under his arms and ran like the wind toward La Cachette, eyes searching frantically for her father.

Corpses. Horror contorted her face into a mask of disbelief. Neighbors, men and women she had known. Slaves. Always the old, those of no use to anyone.

Breathless, weary, exhausted. Gasping for air, mouth thick with fear and mucus. Did her pursuers still follow? No matter. Other Spaniard dogs stopped to gawk. She passed before they could react, for most were caught in a frenzy of looting.

The middle lands and fertile low-country plantations were in ruins. Death had reaped a bitter harvest there. She could no longer bear the stench of burning flesh, could barely stomach the smoldering oven that had been La Cachette. There were men ahead on the beach, prisoners huddled about a longboat, bunched together and resembling so many leaves waiting for a scattering wind.

“Father!!”

Jean Ravenne turned, his face still handsome despite harsh years and worse treatment during the last hour. Tall, angular, stooped by an excess of grief. Sullen eyes lit with newfound fear. Marie rushed to him through the throng, though he cried out for her to escape.

An arm engulfed her, spun her around. Knocked to the sand, Marie struggled as a pair of gasping pursuers sought to examine their newly won treasure. Obscene laughter filled her ears, defeated the roar of flames and cannon. A huge boulderlike figure leaned down and Marie screamed at the sight of the hideous, mottled face with which mothers frightened their children into good behavior. Captain Solia, the feared! The blotches gave a reptilian cast to his flesh.

“Quiet, woman,” he growled in a voice that sounded as if it came from a throat filled with rocks. His massive paw ripped apart her blouse. Marie squirmed against the rough hands pinning her to the moist earth. “Magnificent!” he said, his eyes sparkling coldly. He touched one breast, then the other. Callus-hardened fingers traced a line to the top of her breeches, deftly probed the softness below. A horrible grin split his face. “You and me. We will talk later, eh,
corazón
?”

“Animal!” Marie's father bolted from his fellow prisoners, lunged across the sand. With the strength of madness, Marie twisted from her captors' grasp, saw Jean, heard the sharp crack of a pistol and screamed as Jean Ravenne stopped in his tracks, stumbled forward and crumpled to the sand. An immaculately dressed Spanish don stepped to the fore, wiped away the traces of gunpowder from his fingers.

Marie scrambled to her father's side. “Papa? No, oh, please, no!”

Jean Ravenne opened his eyes, blinked away the pain. “Dear Marie. I … am … sorry …” His brow knotted, then relaxed. He looked past Marie's shoulder. His killer stood nearby, a lazy smile drifting across his face. “Murcia,” the dying man muttered.

The nobleman laughed, bowed slightly. “Don Juan Francisco García y Murcia. He who teaches lessons to insolent Frenchmen. And their women. She will be mine. First.”

“Murcia,” Jean sneered. “He who steals women and butchers children.” He spat blood at the Spaniard's feet. “Forever more they will call you butcher.… The butcher of Mysteré. Men will spit when they hear your name.”

The nobleman scowled. Jean coughed, gripped Marie's hand and pulled her close. Life fleeing, he whispered one word and died. Marie buried her face against his neck.

Brutal hands tore her from his side, denied her even the briefest of farewells and dragged her to where the other choice women of the island waited to be taken aboard a galleon bound for Barranquilla, the center of Murcia's power along the northern coast of South America.

The afternoon waned and the women were given water and loaves of stale bread. No man touched them, but only because the order had come from Murcia himself. As the night passed, they lay huddled on the beach, listening to the screams of the new victims as they were found. Spaniards came from the remains of La Cachette, carrying bloody booty paid for with their victims' lives.