Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone

“Tote that barge, lift that bale—get a little drunk and you land in jail,” Roger remarked to Fergus, trying to make light of the memory. Fergus squinted at the heaving, staggering procession and shrugged.

“Only if you get caught.”

“Have you ever been caught?”

Fergus glanced casually at the hook he wore in replacement of his missing left hand.

“Not for stealing bales, non.”

“What about guns?”

“Not for stealing anything,” Fergus replied loftily. “Come, we want Prioleau’s Wharf; that’s where he berths.”

“He?” Roger asked, but Fergus was already halfway down the narrow street and he was compelled to walk fast to catch up.

Prioleau’s Wharf was a long, thin quay, and very busy, mostly with small boats tying up to unload fish—the city’s fish market was near at hand, and they were compelled to dodge small wagons and handcarts piled with gleaming silver bodies—some of them still flapping in a last desperate denial of death. The air was thick and humid, the smell of fresh fish and fish blood visceral and exciting, and Roger’s memories of the Gloriana’s and the Constance’s dank holds faded.

Fergus had dropped into a casual stroll and Roger did the same, looking to and fro—though he had no idea who or what they were looking for.

“Bonjour, mon ami!” Fergus hailed friends and acquaintances all the way down the wharf—he appeared to know everyone, and many of the men he greeted waved or called back, though few stopped working. He was talking in English, French—though French of a patois that Roger scarcely understood—and something that might be some Creole tongue, which he understood even less. He did gather, though, that they were in search of a man named Faucette.

Shakes of the head greeted Fergus’s questions, for the most part, but one squat black gentleman, nearly as broad as he was tall, paused in the act of gutting a fish—still alive and flapping—and replied in the affirmative, judging from his gestures, which ended in his pointing out to sea with his bloody knife.

“There he is.” Fergus waved his thanks to the fisherman and, taking Roger’s elbow, steered him farther down the pier.

The “he” in question was a small, nimble-looking boat with a single sail that had just appeared from the far side of Marsh Island.

It was a fishing boat, bringing in its catch—a single fish, but a fish that caused everyone nearby to drop what they were doing and rush to see it as soon as the boat lowered its sail and drifted alongside the wharf.

It was an enormous shark—quite dead, thank God—and longer than the boat; the great gray body buckled in the middle, head and tail protruding over prow and stern, the dreadful head—for it was a hammerhead shark—goggling like some horrible figurehead. The boat rode so low in the water that the wavelets from the quay lapped over the sides from time to time. The crew—there were only two men, one black, one of mixed race—were swarmed, both by gapers and by fishmongers bent on acquiring the prize.

“Well, this will take some little while,” Fergus remarked, displeased at the hubbub. “On the other hand, it will perhaps render Monsieur Faucette communicative—if he’s not too drunk to talk by the time I am able to get him alone.” He exhaled audibly through his nose, thinking, then glanced at the sun and shook his head.

“It will be hours. You’ll have to go, if you are to have time to change your clothes before you meet the press-biters.”

“The—oh, aye,” Roger said, hiding a smile. After all, what else would you call the members of a presbytery? “Well, then …” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a folded handkerchief, concealing the gold slips inside it. “Gesundheit. Er … I mean, À vos souhaits.”

“À tes amours,” Fergus replied politely, delicately wiped his nose and tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “Bonne chance, mon frère.”