Chapter Fourteen #2
“It is you. You’re the captain of the Rapide,” Lieutenant Sowerby growls.
His own shirt is half unlaced and hangs partly out of his breeches and he hasn’t bothered with a neckerchief.
A constellation of red spots covers his throat; his tone drips hate.
“How I hoped I was mistaken when Mrs. Henley led me here. Perhaps that is the worst of your crimes, Carlyon, corrupting a poor widow into aiding you in your banditry. Did you promise her money, is that it? And she, only wishing to lessen the blow of her heroic husband’s death and the state to which it reduced her—she accepted, did she not? Or did you force her, you brute?”
“I did,” Jack says, and she doesn’t understand, because she’s standing right there, not five feet behind him, and Jack didn’t force her to do anything; of course he didn’t.
Does Lieutenant Sowerby not realize it’s her?
There’s a loud rushing in her ears. Through it, she hears Jack say, “You cannot blame Mrs. Henley. She never wanted any part of this. I did force her. I threatened to murder her if she wouldn’t comply. ”
He speaks reasonably, calmly. He’s not only admitting guilt, he is making it worse. She wants to say, Stop, Jack, none of this is true, but with his right hand, low by his side, he’s motioning for her to stay back.
“Murder and worse, I’m sure,” Lieutenant Sowerby says.
“It’s exactly as I thought. How frightened she looked when you dragged her off to your ship!
I saw it all from atop the cliffs. It was clever of you to anchor in that cove on your estate, away from the path, I’ll give you that.
But I saw everything. You couldn’t even leave poor Mrs. Henley in peace when you sailed!
You made good use of her, didn’t you, you miserable brute?
” There’s something lecherous in his tone now, underneath the hatred and anger. It makes Isabel’s hair stand on end.
Lieutenant Sowerby is still talking. This is good, she tells herself.
As long as he’s talking, he isn’t going to pull the trigger.
“I wished nothing more than to come to the poor woman’s aid, but I could not betray my position.
Not when I was about to catch the most notorious smuggler in the county.
Mrs. Henley’s trials and tribulations aboard your ship would have to be her sacrifice to the peace of our nation.
A heroic contribution to the war effort, like that of her late husband. ”
What is he talking about? she thinks. He’s mad.
And it’s all because of her; this is her doing.
She led him here, to Jack. The hallway grows dim, the sight of Jack’s shoulders, squared against Lieutenant Sowerby’s tirade, fades as the world closes in on her, black spots blocking out everything until she finds the wall again under her hands.
She breathes in deeply the smell of wood and the sweaty, bile-filled scent of her own fear.
“Sowerby,” Jack says, but Lieutenant Sowerby doesn’t listen.
He keeps talking: “It hasn’t been easy to wait for your return these past two weeks, sir.
It wouldn’t do to arrest you without your cargo—the Revenue Service has a more stringent view of what makes a smuggler than I.
However, now that you have returned, we’ll soon have our hands on it.
Poor Mrs. Henley’s virtue will be avenged. ”
“That’s right,” Jack says, still with that measured calmness, as if they’re talking about the weather. “I used her and I used her well. She begged me to leave her be, to let her go home. Mrs. Henley isn’t to blame in the least.”
No! She’s screaming it, inside her mind. She wants to scream it at the top of her lungs, but her tongue won’t move. She coughs, but neither of the men turn to her.
Lieutenant Sowerby says, “I believe you, sir, because I’m well acquainted with Mrs. Henley.
Such purity of character! How she bears her burden is entirely admirable.
The poor woman, she was a bundle of nerves when I called on her last. I realized at once something was amiss.
Well, it appears Captain Hamer’s arrival in the Hornet was not quite so necessary after all.
According to the lieutenant governor, the Revenue Service is doing such a poor job of stamping out smuggling we’re in need of the navy’s assistance.
I say, who’s doing a poor job now!” A desperate laugh bursts from him.
“Surely we can talk about this,” Jack says.
“As an officer of the Revenue Service, you see the prices of goods, you see they aren’t fair.
People can’t afford some of the most basic things when they’re taxed to such a degree.
I’d compensate you well if you were able to find it in yourself to look the other way while I provide a necessary service. Could we not—”
Lieutenant Sowerby cuts him off again, snarling, “How dare you try to buy me! If I needed more proof, you’ve just given it. But the scar is all the proof I needed. Lieutenant Sullivan has good aim, doesn’t he, Carlyon? As do I.” He moves closer, the pistol aimed at Jack’s chest.
Jack takes a step back. “My men will be here shortly and they won’t take kindly to seeing their captain held at gunpoint. Leave while you still can.”
“It’ll come to blows then,” Lieutenant Sowerby says.
“For an arresting party is on its way also. They’ll be here any moment, but I won’t let them have the pleasure of arresting you.
The moment the Swallow pulled in and Lieutenant Sullivan informed me the Rapide had returned, I came for you, Carlyon.
” Voice rising, he says, “It’ll be a nice surprise for Captain Hamer when I give him news of the captain of the Rapide’s arrest and subsequent death as he tried to escape. ”
Bile rises in Isabel’s throat, sweat pours down her back.
“I have a right to a trial,” Jack says tensely.
“I’m sure you believe you do, as a smuggler.
It would suit your purpose just fine. You’d be acquitted in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you?
But you don’t get a trial as a traitor, sir.
I won’t bother with the noose this time.
You aid the French in a time of war, you and your friend here.
” He indicates the space behind Jack in the hallway.
He hasn’t recognized her, she realizes suddenly. His nearsightedness—to him she’s only a figure in breeches and a man’s shirt. She looks down at her feet, letting her hair drop in front of her face, and shuffles closer, one tiny step at a time.
Jack, meanwhile, moves his hand, slowly, slowly, to the pistol he carries in his belt, but Lieutenant Sowerby shouts, “Don’t move! Lift your hands up!” And then, icily: “Turn around.”
He raises the pistol to Jack’s face now, taking aim, using his left arm to steady the weapon. Jack is still facing him. Lieutenant Sowerby snaps, “Turn around, Carlyon, damn you!”
Isabel takes a deep breath, swallowing down the bile, and then she’s running, and before Lieutenant Sowerby can pull the trigger, she half pushes, half slips past Jack. She flings herself in front of him, arms wide, crying, “You shall take me before him!”
Shock, frozen, on Lieutenant Sowerby’s face.
He briefly lowers the pistol before he lifts it again to point at Jack’s forehead.
“Mrs. Henley? How…? I…No it will not do; it won’t do at all!
You were led astray, surely—you still are.
And the way he has clothed you! You devil!
” He spits the words at Jack, looking ready to pull the trigger. “You debauched, deviant rogue!”
“Lieutenant Sowerby,” she says quickly, making her voice soft and pleading. “Please, do not shoot Ja—Mr. Carlyon, sir. Please, I beg you. Please, please, lower your pistol.”
Lieutenant Sowerby studies her. “You are not yourself, madam. After everything he’s put you through, it’s no wonder. Let me assure you, you are perfectly safe now. You don’t need to defend this criminal; he cannot hurt you anymore. I have come to save you from his clutches.”
“He’s not a criminal or a devil,” she says. “He’s my fiancé.”
“Isabel—” Jack says warningly, but Lieutenant Sowerby cuts him off.
“What?” he gasps, shock morphing into hatred. “He’s…you…you smuggler’s whore! And I believed you were…”
The muzzle of the pistol moves. Jack shoves her aside hard.
She stumbles and falls, the side of her head hitting the gravel.
All motion becomes silent and slow. She watches Lieutenant Sowerby’s pistol trace her fall to the ground slowly; she watches it slide back in his hand, as if something has kicked it, also slowly.
A shot rips the air. Dirt flies up, inches from her face, all of it slowed.
She’s looking at the dirt, stunned. He tried to shoot her. How…why…Lieutenant Sowerby, an officer of the law—tried to shoot her. Her mouth forms the word Why, but all that comes out is a ragged gasp.
“Isabel!” Jack is crouching by her side, pistol in hand.
She wants to say, I’m fine, but her tongue moves uselessly in her mouth, because behind Jack, Lieutenant Sowerby is reloading his pistol. He’s fast. He has done it in fifteen, maybe twenty seconds at most, and then he’s raising the muzzle of the weapon again and she screams, “Jack, watch out!”
A second shot rends the morning air. This one seems even louder than the first. The sound of it echoes in her head, banging off the bone of her skull.
She waits for another spurt of dirt to fly up, but instead Lieutenant Sowerby’s face does a funny thing, pulling sideways, almost as if his expression is leaking away.
He jerks backward and there’s a noise, like a gurgle, which turns into a terrible choking sound as he falls onto his back, tearing at his shirt, which is turning red, far redder than Jack’s was when he got shot a month before.
Lieutenant Sowerby’s legs kick violently, once, twice, and then he is still.
“Isabel.” Jack puts his pistol on the ground and helps her up.
She’s dazed, too dazed to think, too dazed almost to stand.
“Are you hurt?” He’s dabbing at her head with a handkerchief.
There are drops of blood on the handkerchief, as red as Lieutenant Sowerby’s shirt, but there are only a few. Her mind slowly clears.
“I’m fine. Oh, Jack!” She sounds like a seagull, she thinks, voice shrill, rising and dipping on his name, Ja-a-ack.
He picks up the pistol, reloads it, and pushes it back into his belt.
Then he puts both hands on her shoulders.
They smell of something sharp and bitter—gunpowder.
“Isabel, listen to me carefully. You must go home at once. Don’t talk to anybody.
They don’t know about you—about our connection.
With some luck, Lieutenant Sowerby won’t have mentioned you.
And if he has, he believed you innocent.
You must use the cut on your head as proof of my violence toward you. Tell them that—”
“No! Jack, no. Never!”
“Tell them I threatened you, that I forced you to aid me with the smuggling and how I hurt you when you didn’t comply.
Show them that cut. They’ll believe you, but they may not even come to you—he may not have said anything about you.
Don’t go to the ship or try to meet with any of the crew, at least not for some time.
They may be watching you as Lieutenant Sowerby did. Go now. They must not find you here.”
“Jack, I can’t…I couldn’t do that.”
“You will do it, for me.”
“But—”
“I have to go.”
“Jack, no. I’m so very sorry. Please, please forgive me. This is my doing—I led him here—God knows I did not mean to, but—”
“I know you didn’t. Don’t worry on that account. Isabel, I have to go. Go home. Now.”
“Can’t we…” Her mind hurtles. “Can’t we hide him? No one needs to know. If we just—”
“There’s no time,” Jack says. “You heard him. An arresting party is on its way.”
“But there aren’t any witnesses.”
“The man came to arrest me. He lies dead on my doorstep with a bullet in his chest. Do you think they’re going to care there aren’t any witnesses?”
“The ship,” she says, brightening slightly. “We can get away on the Rapide.”
“And go where? I put all my funds in the cargo—until I sell it, I’ve no money. Besides, we haven’t time to assemble the crew and get her under way. They’ll be here any moment. I must leave now or it’ll be too late.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“You will not,” he says sharply. “If they find me, they’ll hang me. I’m a murderer now. No jury could acquit me, even if they wanted to. Probably there wouldn’t be a jury. And if they find you with me, you may suffer the same fate. I will not have you come. It’s out of the question.”
“Jack—”
“No. This was a mistake. I should never have involved you.”
“But where will you go? Tell me that, at least, so that I may write to you—so that I may come see you.”
“I can’t tell you that. If I told you and they questioned you, they may get it out of you.” Brushing away her tears, he says, “It’s best if you don’t know.”
“No! Jack…”
“Goodbye, Isabel.” He places his hand on the back of her neck and kisses her hard, and then he turns and strides to the stable.
“Wait!” she screams, running after him, but he’s already strapping the saddle onto Myra.
“Go home!” he calls, hoisting himself up.
Pushing his heels into the horse’s flanks, he clicks his tongue, urging the horse into a gallop.
She watches from inside the stable door as he blurs with her tears and then he’s out of sight, away down the road.
The smell of horse muck and hay burrows into her nose.
She wants to sink down into the straw and weep until there aren’t any tears left in her, but she can’t.
She must go home. For me, Jack said. She hopes the men of the Revenue Service don’t come to her. If they do, she must pretend, for Jack.
She begins to walk. One foot in front of the other.
Lieutenant Sowerby’s body lies by the open door to the house.
The puddle of blood around him is as red as some of the roses.
He hadn’t shaved—she only sees that now.
A blond stubble sits on his pale, round jaw.
There’s blood in this, too, and blood on his lip that has already stopped trickling.
She never liked him, but the mix of pity and disgust she feels is such she’s going to choke on it.
The air smells of him, of his blood. It’s stronger than the scent of the flowers.
He was going to kill you, she reminds herself. He was going to kill Jack.
One foot in front of the other. The dew has gone. The road is hazy with dust. Behind her, the sea rushes at the rocks, waves touching and falling back, touching and falling back, a never-ending rushing. The ocean is calling her, but she has no words to answer.