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“I’m thinking she won’t like that one bit,” Dewey said.
“Neither will her family. But do what must be done to see to her welfare. Hire extra men if necessary. Employ them as groomsmen, gardeners. Ultimately, my word is law, even in Spain.”
“You’re thinking Belgrano will return?” Rousseau asked.
“He is the only true threat.”
“Aye, that he is.”
They disappeared into a nearby tavern, only to return with a jug of ale and cups, distracting Roman with a few tales of service and a few whispers of Napoleon’s exile at Longwood House. When the jug was empty, they too boarded, clomping up the worn wooden plank.
Joaquin made a final sprint up the gangplank and kissed his mother’s cheek, lifting her from the deckboards with a final hug and receiving some last-minute admonition.
Shelene did not reappear, either to say goodbye or press one final warm kiss to his lips.
Ah, she was an iron lady, his wife. If she wanted to see him, she would be on the docks, wishing him safe travels and bestowing upon him the luck of the sea. She was not.
He would not begrudge her anger, for he had broken his word in the heat of passion and the consuming fire of loss. Losing Oliver and the commodore had cast a large shadow, making Shelene even more important. In this, he had Dewey’s enthusiasm. Shelene was his and always would be. He would no longer take her for granted, though. He would not take the risks that had imperiled him before. The throbbing wound on his side was a reminder of the dangers. Sickness stirred in his stomach at the thought of endangering Shelene.
He would return. To the green grass and golden hills of Spain. To the horses and waters. The gardens. And her smiles.
Roman waited on the wharf, several long minutes, before the creak of wood and the shouts of men signaled the ship was moving away from the docks.
Then he caught a glimpse of her, just there at the below-deck door, a kerchief dabbing at her eyes. He lifted his hand to acknowledge her, content that she was sailing to safety and peace.
Wind caught the hoisted sail, causing it to wave then billow. The seamen had their own language as orders were shouted across the deck. The ship moaned, seagulls flapped away from the moving ship and the water crashed against the barnacle-covered hull.
Shelene disappeared inside.
Roman pulled in a deep lungful of air and faced his new comrade in arms.
Joaquin had turned way and blew his nose against a dirty rag. “I might never see her again,” he said.
“Ah, boy, every man says that once in his life about his mother.” Roman clapped Joaquin’s back in encouragement.
“It’ll happen, mi’lord. Well before I want it to. That’s sure.”
“We leave in four days. Can you keep your wits about you until then?”
“I was a thinkin’, maybe I could visit me a whore before we set sail.”
“Been thinking about that for a while, have you?” Roman asked.
“Long enough.”
“What would your mother say? You sinning as soon as she disappears over the horizon?”
“She won’t know.”
“Aye, she’ll know, and who do you think she’s going to blame?”
“She won’t know, because I won’t tell her.”
“Ever been with a whore before?” Roman asked, already knowing the answer.
At that, Joaquin’s face flamed red. “No.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and toed at a cobblestone.
“I will give you this advice, Joaquin. Brest is not the place to take a whore, unless you want to die young and very horribly from some unspeakable disease that will rot your prick. Better to find you a girl you want to be with and marry her.”
“But no good woman will bed down with me.”
“She will if you are going to marry her. Let’s be on our way.” What did Roman know? He’d never been able to convince Shelene that she should let him have his way.
“You don’t want to see the ship out of the bay?”
“It is sealed in my memory, lad.”
