A ceiling of gray clouds flattens across the sky, a wall of fog hugging the coastline. Reefs lurk below the dark surface of the ocean, ready to thrust their rocky spires deep into the heart of a ship. In the cold air, the Galician pilot on the Belladona, Manoel, shivers as sweat trickles down his back. He is an old coaster, on intimate terms with reefs and shoals that rim along the Atlantic coastline. The dangers of the Wrecks are many. Tall, jagged cliffs over rock lined narrow channels, shoals growing and shifting with currents, tides, and storm waves. Wind whipped ocean waters crash into the rock, sending towering pillars of spray surging up the cliff face, a shimmering veil of mist shrouding visibility within the channels, awash with turbulent water. The thunderous roar of the sea is constant. The Galician pilot loves challenges and prides himself on his skill. His captain took him on because he knew the Wrecks, but in truth he wishes his captain would not bother with it. There are other coves for their purposes. Manoel follows orders but keeps the Belladona at a respectable distance. His captain is young and raw, not fully tested but wise enough to know that taking one ship from the Spanish does not qualify him to give advice on the Wrecks.
The captain of the Belladona, M Renacer, walks to the windward side of his quarterdeck, raising his spyglass, searching the gray wall for a glimmer of yellow light marking the position of the two ships standing off, but he cannot detect any movement or lantern light. He knows they are there, creeping through the fog, straining to see what they cannot see. Captain Renacer sighs and paces his quarterdeck. He listens to his ship, water rushing along the side, a breeze through the rigging, the creak and groan of wood and rope. A sail shivers under the wind and his eyes snap to the man on watch who is already bawling orders, “pay attention lubbers! Luff up and touch her.”
The captain paces back to the lee rail. He walks this path throughout the day and into the night until he returns to his cabin to sleep a few hours. He has the sailor’s habit of once in his hammock he drops into a dead sleep until roused by the boy. But in these waters, memories intrude and sleep eludes him. He lies awake, thinking of a dark ship, sailing silently and unseen until it was too late for her prey and then a fiery shrieking hell opened and swallowed them all. He stares at the low ceiling where he habitually knocks his head, being taller than most men. In his darkened cabin he forces his churning mind to focus on facts and speculations, choosing a plan, discarding it and devising another and rejecting it too, over and over until the bell signals the watch change. Then he swings his feet to the floor, pulls on his boots and goes up the ladder.
The fog is lifting, the sky pale blue, an insipid southwest wind beginning to blow. Renacer checks their position and looks through the glass for the two ships out to sea.
“Cap’n,” the lookout shouts from the crosstrees, “the jolly boat is approaching.”
“About time,” the captain mutters and watches the boat draw closer.
“We tried Portsall, but there were armed men in the village looking at us with too much curiosity,” M Jabari delivers his report in a flat monotone. “We went as far as Roscoff. Mostly we heard tavern talk of Grimaud hiring men. On the way back we put in at St Pabu and walked toward the Wrecks.” M Jabari hesitated, as he knows the rest of what he has to report will displease his captain.
“Armed men rim the headlands, working in shifts. It is never unguarded. Grimaud sent warnings and the locals have disappeared so there is no help bringing boats to the beach or unloading. If we get through the headlands and the shoals, we will be cut to pieces on the beach.” M Jabari is careful to not use any flamboyant language or to offer solutions to the problems he saw. He does not brag about the bravery of his men or their ability to sail through any challenge. In truth, he wants nothing to do with the Wrecks, remembering the last time he took a longboat into the channels, the pilot leaning far out over the bow shouting to be heard above the ocean roar as they passed through the treacherous channels … trail oars! back her! hold water…. His heart in his throat for the entire passage. Better seamen than Renacer can misjudge reefs and shoals or get caught in winds for which there is no remedy. There are good coves for smuggling along the coast, ones where the Belladona and her crew can survive.
“Hmm,” Renacer strokes his beard thoughtfully. “Guns over the beach are a problem,” he muses to himself. M Jabari remains silent, as to him, the first problem is getting to the beach. He waits, hoping his captain has another plan.
“M Jabari, pass the word for M Murdoch to join me.”
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The surgeon’s cramped cockpit is lit with a golden glow. Lanterns hang from overhead beams, the meaty aroma of tallow candles mixing with the bilge just below and the moldy smell from a perennially wet deck infused with blood and offal despite repeated buckets of seawater to wash it clean. M Jabari stiffens his spine as he comes down the ladder. The surgeon looks up as Jabari pokes his head through the canvas opening.
“Good timing M Jabari,” the surgeon says, “you can help me move him?”
“To where?”
“Wherever there are fresh air and a little sun. Do we have that today?”
“Not much sun yet,” Jabari answers, “plenty of fresh air.”
“Then to the gun deck where I can open a port and later, hopefully, to the deck.”
“The gundeck…” Jabari starts to disagree with a sick man on the gundeck, when the surgeon interrupts, “are we expecting a fight?”
“No, but…”
“If we clear for action, I have time to get him down the ladder. He must not be kept in the darkness with no fresh air. That does not help his recovery.”
Together, the surgeon and the quartermaster carefully maneuver the unconscious man up the ladder and deposit him on pallet, set between clusters of water barrels. Air streams in from an open gunport and washes through the deck. “Better already,” the surgeon mutters, tucking blankets around his patient until only his face and blonde curls remain visible. Jabari looks down at the man, “he has survived the infection.”
“He is not completely out of danger, but I think he may be turning a corner.”
“The captain wants to see you,” Jabari informs the surgeon who looks hesitant. “I will stay with him until you return.”
“No need for that.” Captain Renacer unexpectedly appears behind the two men. “M Jabari, you are wanted on deck.”
The captain sits on a water barrel and indicates Mudoch to do the same. “Well M Murdoch, how is your patient?”
“Improving,” the surgeon answers, “he is young.” He watches the captain study the patient with an impassive expression. There were other men injured in the fight with the Spanish galleons, and while the captain wants regular reports on their condition, he visits this man every day. The surgeon wonders if the captain feels an obligation as the young man was trapped on the Belladona, first by the dense fog and then by the fighting with the Spanish ship and he had fought bravely. The doctor dismisses this thought. Renacer does not strike him as a man who is overly concerned with conscience of obligation.
“Is he ready to be returned to his people?”
“I would prefer he be without fever and awake for more than ten minutes at a time.”
“Hmm.” The captain looks thoughtful and studies the sleeping man. “M Murdoch, it was my intent to wait for this man to recover. But I fear time is not on our side indefinitely. Renacer pauses and then adds, “I may need you to do something for me.” The surgeon raises his brow.
“I intend to ask for parlay with a man on shore. I want you to take the request and represent my interest in getting parlay with him.”
“But why would you not go yourself?” Murdoch is astonished.
“You know there are two other ships from Hispaniola standing out. For reasons I cannot divulge, it is not wise, at this time, for me to leave the Belladona and I cannot expect he will come to me on the ship. I will instead offer an alternative location for parlay and send a trusted person to carry my message.”
Murdoch rakes a hand through his hair. He has his own reasons for not wanting to leave the ship and return to land. “How do you propose I meet with him and where?” He asks cautiously.
“A village is not far from the cove. M Manoel will take you in. There are men in the village who will handle it from there.”
The surgeon sits quietly and considers the captain’s proposition. He is not sure he can turn it down and what reason he would give that would be compelling enough to deny his captain. When the battle broke out with the Spanish galleons, he had no time to think of anything. Cannon fire erupted, the ball ripping through the sails, careening across the deck, mowing down men and crashing through the bulkhead into the sea, in seconds men roaring, furious, and rushing in all directions … the captain shouting orders, more deafening cannon fire, the deck slippery with entrails, blood and screaming men. He and his mother were shoved down the ladder, the captain bellowing, “go below doctor!” Bloody seamen led them to the cramped space in the bottom of the ship fitted with a table, buckets and a few instruments. His mother organized triage of the injured men, helping him as best she could. He reacted without thinking, he simply did what he knew how to do. The injured arrived in a steady stream, men with splinters sticking out of their skulls, hands held over bloody stomachs to keep their entrails inside, He pulled off a shoe, and part of the leg came with it. Men writhing from unfathomable pain were restrained by less injured men as he stitched a wound, poured vinegar or wine over a limb he could not save and applied the saw, and all under the muffled chaos of battle raging overhead, the ship rocking with the impact of cannon ball. The buckets were soon overflowing. The men were stoical, pouring wine into gullets, turning into philosophers and jokesters as they met their fate ‘that’s why you have two Bluey, so the doc can take one.” And, somewhere in this insensible madness, Murdoch found a rhythm and a purpose. He knew what he needed to do and how to do it.
When the smoke cleared, the deck washed free of blood, and the last of the dead committed to their watery grave, the ship turned west. Every day they sailed under fresh breezes and blue skies until the sun began its descent into a red and purple horizon. On the forecastle he lay on his back watching the star filled skies creeping in from the east, listening to the crew talking softly while a man played a quiet tune on a fiddle. He marveled at these men, of different nationalities, all sea bred, who were prepared to be blown up, drowned, maimed, and overworked, but could fathom no life but at sea. He had lost his heritage, all rights to his own land and was forced to give up the woman he loved. Captain Renacer intended to send the Rosario on into the West Indies and to the colonies. As the time drew closer to the Rosario’s departure, he went to speak with his mother. He gave her the folio that had been pressed into his hands that day on the beach. It held letters of introduction, bank documents, deeds to a small house, names of prominent families that would greet her upon arrival in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. He reviewed the arrangements that awaited her. “Those arrangements were for both of us,” she cried softly. He was patient, gentle and adamant. He held her tenderly and assured her that they would see each other again and that he would write to her. When it was time for the captured Spanish galleon Rosario to be sent on, he kissed his mother farewell and stayed on the Belladona. The captain had never asked why.
“I’ll do it.”
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Constance waits in a corridor where tall windows afford a view of the courtyard. She is still breathing heavily, her heart racing, not only with exertion but with excitement.
She had been near the end of the corridor outside Alessandra’s room, thinking she might approach the Duchess and inquire as to the time for chapel. It would be a ruse, as she dared not ask directly for information about Alessandra, but hoped the Duchess would tell her something. While she deliberated with herself, Sophia had emerged from the room and with an urgent manner. Marie started to speak to a servant and then saw her and beckoned for her to come closer. Constance had gasped, even turned to see if someone was behind her and then hurried to the Duchess. She realized the situation must be dire as Marie fixed cold serious eyes on her.
“Mme d’ Artagnan, you must run to Lucien and tell him to bring Athos back. Sophia says the birth is near.”
She had raced to bring Marie’s message to Lucien, who had not even said a thank you before shouting for Afonso and sprinting toward the stable. She stayed in the courtyard and watched Lucien and Afonso urge their horses to gallop through the arched gate, and out to the open road to catch up to Afonso and Raoul. She hurried to the Duchess, reporting in detail that she had delivered her message, exactly as the Duchess instructed, directly to Lucien. He and Afonso were on their way to bring Athos back. The Duchess had thanked her.
Now, she waits to see Athos riding fast as she has seen him many times. He will rein in hard, his horse skidding to a stop as he leaps from the saddle. She glances down the corridor. Outside Alessandra’s door, other family members are assembling, including Bianca, Rayya and Rosie who sit close to their grandmother. Suzanne and Samyar walk past her with quick smiles in her direction and join their sisters and grandmother.
Constance turns her attention back to the courtyard to watch for Athos. She will, of course, alert the Duchess of his arrival. Then, she will withdraw discreetly, but not too quickly in case the Duchess needs her for another important task. After all, she had been entrusted with a crucial message to Lucien, and as a result, Athos will be with his wife at a critical time.
There – a small cloud of dust precedes the riders as they pass under the arch. Constance stands and smooths her skirt. She turns, takes a few steps, catching the attention of those waiting outside Alessandra’s door. She smiles.
Twelve Years After 