AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella(32)
Adam relinquished his grasp on the parchments and watched them flutter like autumn leaves into the hissing flames.
§§ CHAPTER NINE §§
Cuffed in chains, hands behind his head, Adam had been dozing on and off upon the Sovereign’s orlop deck. Below the water line, it was where the overloops of cables were stowed. If captive he must be, what better place than the orlop deck, which was next to the storage of beer casks?
Well, actually, he could think of a hell of a lot of better places, and most certainly Whitehall’s chopping block was the least of the lot.
The slap of the water against the hull proclaimed that with the high tide at dawn, the brig would be setting sail for illustrious England and his not so illustrious fate.
With that, he allowed himself the luxury of dwelling on Evangeline. Ruefully, he thought of all the years wasted, thinking no one woman could be so important to him as acquiring Sutcliff Manor and later a series of estates, setting himself up as a landed magnate.
But nothing could be so important as she. Her face. Her voice. Her spirt.
In his courtship of her during their escape to the Lenape he had come to know her. And that knowledge of her was enhanced by visual memories of her that entangled his woolgathering in such an unorderly fashion.
The babe in her arms nuzzled against her breast; the moue of her lips in losing a pawn; the ivory polish of those breasts rising above her gown’s décolletage at the St. Knut’s ball; her enthrallment with their canoe flight up the South River while musket balls whizzed by on all sides; those same lips speckled with mud and those lavender blue eyes laughing
She had not been cowed by the dangers of their headlong flight. She had demonstrated her mettle in confronting both Peminacka and Craven
Once again, the line from Marlowe’s poem haunted Adam – “Where both deliberate, the love is slight; whoever loved, that loved not at first sight?”
And, aye, that he had done. Loved at first sight. She was his weakness.
So, could he blame her for hating him with the magnitude of a volcanic explosion? He had to be the village idiot. A reckless, self-absorbed village idiot. This was what came from always traveling his own solitary course.
He suspected his time left here on earth was not long – if his wound’s suppuration didn’t kill him first, then the executioner’s axe most likely would – and he wanted to spend every delicious moment left reminiscing about her. But, too, he needed to consider his future, such that it was.
He supposed he should have been troubled by what others thought of him. He stood in Cromwell’s high regard; of that, he had no doubt. Cromwell would deem him the better man in comparison to Craven, but Adam had failed to procure the Lenape land purchase. Which provided his singular satisfaction ~ that Craven would return a failure, as well.
How was he going to talk his way out of Craven’s charges of dereliction of duty and desertion? Not even a large serving of his considerable charm would accomplish that.
And, more importantly, should he be that lucky – and, after all, he was one lucky devil – what did he do with the rest of his blighted life? He had been on his own, alone, most of his life, with nary a friend. At least, a living friend. Those few he had possessed had died early deaths back in Barbados. Lucky, them.
With the gentle slap of the waves against the hull, his lids grew heavy, and he awoke to a shadow-draped apparition leaning over him, bringing him harshly awake. A jute rag muffled his protest. Next, a blanket smothered him.
Bundled like Cleopatra in a rug, he was hoisted upon two pairs of shoulders.
From what he could make out, he was carted up through a hatch to the gunners storage, next up a deck to the officers storage, then up the main staircase and past the great cabin. At this jouncing rate, his ribs would never heal. Perception of blanket-filtered light told him they had reached the stern lantern.
“Halt, there!” a faint voice challenged from the distant bow. “What have you?”
“A roll of carpet,” responded one of his captor’s, grunting with his human weight, as they both strode on across the deck.
At the same instant Adam heard the creak and felt the give of the gang plank, he recognized the other’s voice – Gantu’s sing-song voice – add, “A belated Christmas gift from Baron Craven to his lordship, Governor Risingh.”
Within the blanket, Adam struggled – only to be cuffed hardily.
“Dam’me,” Bonnie Charlie huffed, “first my hair I almost lose, next my hide I’ll be losing, all over this blasted lucky devil.”
Across a bumpy road and down an incline of some kind Adam was carried, then once more he heard the wash of water against the shore. Next, with a solid thud he was dumped in what must be a small craft, if judged by its wobbling. His own ribs wobbled fearfully.
He could feel dampness seeping through the blanket. His chained hands struggled to wriggle free of it. Dazed, he stared around him in the predawn half-light. He was in the keel of a long, dugout canoe.
Bonnie Charlie, kneeling in front of him, yanked the rag from his mouth, and with a muttered oath he spat out the jute strands.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Bonnie Charlie said, “but couldn’t risk your refusing our abduction to one and all within hearing range.”
Adam lifted his head. Just beyond Bonnie Charlie, ashore, he saw Rasannock’s shadowed form. The Indian shoved the canoe’s prow until the dugout grated off the pebbles into the water, then he nimbly hopped inside and picked up a paddle. Bonnie Charlie twisted his bony frame to the forefront, collected his own paddle and began stroking.