A Tumultuous Convergence (The Elephant and Macaw Banner - Novelette Series Book 6) Read online

  When they passed beyond the farms and into the forest, Gerard grabbed Oludara’s arm and broke his attention. Gerard pointed up to a tree from which hung bunches of an enormous, orange fruit.

  “Look at the size of those!” he said. “They’re as big as the famed gourds of Cyprus.”

  “Don’t ever sleep under one of those trees,” said Luis.

  “We once found a soldier with his neck broken,” said Duarte. “One of those things fell on his head.”

  “Like we said, this is the worst place in Brazil to be a soldier.”

  “Even the fruit here is dangerous,” agreed Duarte.

  “We must be careful,” said Oludara. “What if that enraged bull returns?”

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Luis. “He’ll lick his wounds for at least a month before he comes back.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Duarte. “By then, we’ll have the wall patched.”

  “You should be worried about all the other creatures around here.”

  Oludara recalled the old man they had met in the barracks. “I have a question,” he said. “We met an old native in the barracks today, one with white hair.”

  “And his diet is somewhat unusual,” added Gerard.

  “Is he part of the garrison?”

  “A white-haired native?” asked Luis. “That’s a rare sight. And we certainly don’t have anyone like that back at the fort.”

  “He carries a crow on his shoulder,” said Oludara.

  Luis and Duarte looked at each other with wide eyes.

  “Stay away from that one,” said Luis.

  “Why?” asked Oludara. “Who is it?”

  “Better to ask ‘what’ than ‘who’. If you think the bull is dangerous, you should...”

  Duarte, his gaze focused on the ocean, interrupted Luis with a “Hush!” He pointed out to sea.

  “Oh no,” said Luis.

  Squinting, Oludara could just make out three ships on the horizon.

  “Pirates?” asked Gerard.

  “Worse,” said Luis.

  “Frenchmen?” asked Oludara, chancing a joke.

  “Worse,” said Duarte.

  “What is worse than that?” asked Oludara.

  Luis and Duarte responded in unison, “French pirates.”

  “I am most certainly not a pirate,” came a strongly-accented voice behind them.

  Dozens of soldiers filed out from the woods. A robust, confident man stepped to the front.

  “Rather, I am the new governor of Antarctic France.”

  #

  The Frenchmen bound Gerard and the others and forced them to march back toward the city. The soldiers, most of them harquebusiers, wore simple cotton clothes suitable to the climate. Their leader, however, who called himself Guy de Coullons, was the very picture of extravagance.

  A thin mustache and goatee accented the man’s long face. He wore a hat with a huge brim curling up on one side. He used a golden yellow jacket and doublet, and carried a rapier with a hilt so decorated Gerard had no idea how the man handled it. His vest sported an enormous cross. The man sweat in the tropical heat and appeared disgusted by everything around him.

  Luis and Duarte walked in solemn silence until Luis finally asked Guy, “What are you doing here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious,” he replied. “We’re here to destroy your pathetic settlement and build a glorious city in its place; the kind of city a port like this deserves.”

  “You’re nothing but pirates,” said Duarte.

  Guy stopped and turned on Duarte, furious. “I, fool,” he said, tapping at the cross on his chest, “am a Knight of Malta! And if you don’t show respect, it will cost you your head.”

  Gerard decided to intervene and perhaps develop some rapport with the man by speaking to him in French. “My name is Gerard van Oost,” he said. “I’m originally from Brabant, but had the pleasure of living in France for many years.”

  Upon hearing Gerard speak French, Luis and Duarte both cast him hate-filled stares. Guy’s face, on the other hand, turned to delight.

  “Oh,” he replied in French. “I can’t believe I found someone cultured in this province. I really didn’t think it possible. This coast is crawling with Portuguese scum, not a gentleman among them. It’s like the king of Portugal decided to clean out the prisons and send all the riffraff here. Even worse, of course, are the savages.” The man shuddered while saying it.

  Gerard also shuddered, at Guy’s use of the word “savages”. Bad enough the Portuguese call them ‘Indians’, he thought.

  “How this terrible place exhausts me,” continued Guy. “Nicolas!”

  A clean-shaven soldier with a wide jaw stepped forward.

  “Bring me some cheese,” ordered Guy.

  Gerard noticed the soldier’s lips tighten at the request, but he nodded curtly and strode off toward the supplies.

  Guy looked back to Gerard. “Would you care to join me for a bit of cheese?”

  Gerard looked down at his bonds. “Well, yes...but...”

  “Please pardon my manners.” Guy motioned to some soldiers, “Untie this man immediately.”

  While a man removed Gerard’s bonds, Nicolas returned with two other soldiers. One set out a sheet and Nicolas filled it with fruits and cheeses. Another soldier brought a jug and two goblets. The French soldiers scowled at being treated like menservants, but Guy seemed oblivious. Guy sat down and motioned for Gerard to join him. Out of the corner of his eye, Gerard noticed Luis and Duarte, furious. Oludara, on the other hand, gave Gerard the slightest of nods, pleased with the turn of events.

  Gerard rubbed his wrists to get the blood flowing and sat down. Guy handed him a goblet and toasted. Gerard took a whiff and inhaled a scent so rich—when compared to the local wines—as to be almost dizzying. The smell brought back memories of blackcurrants and the fields of France. He took a sip and enjoyed the caress of the tart, hearty wine along his tongue.

  “A Burgundy, I presume?” he asked.

  Guy’s wide smile confirmed his suspicion. “Only the best, of course. None of that upstart vinegar from Bordeaux.”

  Gerard’s family had at one time traded wines from Bordeaux, but he knew better than to mention that fact.

  “I see I was right about you, Gerard,” said Guy. “You’re a man of culture.” He sliced off a piece of cheese and offered it to Gerard. “Isn’t it nice to have a taste of Europe in the middle of this waste?”

  “Most excellent indeed,” said Gerard, happily accepting the firm, yellow cheese. He took an over-eager bite, and saw Guy’s nose crinkle in disapproval. After gulping down the mouthful, he tried to turn attention away from his faux pas. “This land is far from a waste, Guy. It has much to offer.”

  “I hope so,” sighed Guy, “or it will be simply unbearable to rule it.”

  “Might I ask your plan?” asked Gerard.

  Guy looked at Duarte and Luis and shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t make any difference now. By land and sea, tonight we make a two-pronged attack. The town’s defenses are laughable: less than forty soldiers and no more than a hundred colonists capable of bearing arms. They are low on guns, powder, sulfur, and shot. I have three armed galleons and over three-hundred men. I’ll take the city in a matter of hours.”

  “How do you know so much of their defenses?” asked Gerard.

  “We captured two patrols. I’m sure they assumed some deadly creature devoured them; this land is crawling with them.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Two of Guy’s men approached with baskets. Nicolas exchanged some words with them, then brought one of the baskets to show Guy. It was filled to the top with oysters.

  “The soldiers found these oysters in the trees. They must have washed up there.”

  “Well, boil them!” said Guy, dismissing Nicolas with a curt wave. He returned his attention to Gerard. “Oysters on trees! Perhaps this land won’t be so bad after all. Once we deal with the savages, of course. They’re sure to put up more of a fight th
an that Portuguese rabble.”

  “I have lived among the Tupinambá,” said Gerard. “They are not so savage as you might think.”

  “Not savage?” Guy scoffed. “They walk as naked as newborn babes, kill each other for no reason, and like the anthropophagi of Scythia, devour their enemies. Their only resemblance to humans is the way they walk on two legs. In all other respects, they are nothing but animals.

  “But like dogs,” continued Guy, “they have their uses. There are still a few thousand of our old allies, the Tamoio, hiding away inland. Those boors will build us an entire city for no more than a crateful of fishhooks.”

  Gerard gritted his teeth. “I think you should get to know them better before you make judgment.”

  “What, like the Portuguese do? They go so far as to breed with the savages. Disgusting.”

  Gerard gave silent thanks that Oludara, himself married to a Tupinambá native, couldn’t understand Guy’s insult.

  “But enough of the savages,” said Guy, “let’s talk about matters at hand.”

  With a snap of his fingers, Guy called forth a soldier bearing Gerard’s rapier and harquebus. He held the harquebus in his hands and admired it.

  “I see you know your weapons, Gerard. A wheel lock harquebus,” he said, referring to the gun’s mechanism, “a gentleman’s weapon; none of that shaphaunce rubbish used by bandits. And the ironwork is exquisite.”

  “It was forged in Genoa by Galeazzo Calvo. The barrel contains grooves which make the shot spin, giving it an accuracy far beyond the norm. I’ve never found its equal.”

  “A fine gun, Gerard, but take a look at this.”

  Guy pulled a pistol from his belt and handed it to Gerard, who held it gingerly. Exquisite goldwork decorated the gun, but even more amazing was its mechanism: the gun contained two barrels and two triggers. Gerard had never before seen a gun capable of taking two shots.

  “That gold work was done by Benvenuto Cellini himself,” said Guy, “and the pistol presented to me by Jean de la Cassièr, head of my order.”

  Gerard whistled. Cellini, who had died just a few years before, had established himself as one of Europe’s greatest goldsmiths. Many of his commissions had come from kings and queens. The gun was worth a fortune, for both its composition and its origin.

  “I’ve never seen its like,” said Gerard. “But with such a short barrel, how can you guarantee your shot? It can’t be accurate to any great distance.”

  Guy grinned and placed the pistol back into his belt. “I keep my enemies close, Gerard; I need not shoot far.” Then he leaned in to speak more privately.

  “I like you, Gerard. You’re more useful than anyone from this rabble that came with me from France. Fight with me today, and I’ll make you an officer in the city. Believe me, you can rise quickly in my service. Who knows? You could replace Nicolas as my second-in-command someday and help me rule Brazil.”

  “Truth be told,” said Gerard, “I’m no soldier. Conquest and war are not in my blood. I’ve never killed a man, nor do I ever plan to.”

  Guy raised an eyebrow at the revelation. “Why own such fine weapons if you don’t put them to use?”

  “I put my harquebus and rapier to use battling the ferocious monsters of this land, not slaying its people. I’m sorry, but I must refuse your offer.”

  Guy shook his head in disgust. Gerard thought it best to placate him quickly.

  “I may not help you,” said Gerard, “but neither will I hinder you. I bear no allegiance to the Portuguese. There are those among them, in fact, who consider themselves my enemies.”

  “Very well,” said Guy. “I will let you go on your way, as long as you swear not to interfere.”

  “I must ask that you release my companion as well.”

  “The nago?” he asked, using the French word for the Yoruban peoples.

  “Yes,” said Gerard.

  “Very well,” said Guy. He motioned some of his men toward Oludara. “Release that one.” He tossed Gerard his weapons.

  When Duarte saw this, he said, “What’s going on? You’ve betrayed us, Gerard.”

  Before Gerard could respond, Guy shouted to one of his soldiers, “Shut that fool up!”

  The man walked to Duarte and punched his nose, breaking it.

  “You will one day regret your decision not to serve me, van Oost,” said Guy. “People will remember this day as the beginning of French dominance in the New World. Brazil is just the start; who says we can’t conquer America all the way from Canada to the Land of Fire, and create an empire?”

  After hearing the strange native speak of empire, Gerard startled at Guy’s use of the word.

  “When our conquest of Brazil is complete,” said Guy, “this glorious day will become just as famous as St. Bartholomew’s Day, when we rousted the heathens from France!”

  “What?” said Gerard. “You speak of the massacre?”

  Gerard’s voice carried a coldness that caused everyone to stop what they were doing.

  “Killing worms isn’t massacre,” said Guy.

  Oludara, even though he didn’t understand the language, had also caught the coldness in Gerard’s voice. Not yet free from his bonds, he tried to interrupt and make Gerard realize his folly.

  “Gerard,” he said, “whatever it is, please calm down...”

  Gerard, however, ignored him. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I am a follower of Calvin. Many of my friends were slain during that senseless massacre.”

  Guy looked at him with disgust. “Then no doubt I had the pleasure of killing many of them myself, you pathetic heretic.”

  “You villain,” screamed Gerard. “Brazil will never be yours!”

  “Seize him,” said Guy.

  Gerard snatched up his weapons and ran.

  “Kill him!” yelled Guy.

  At least twenty men took up Guy’s order to chase Gerard. He zigzagged through the woods as shots rang out behind him.

  #

  Gerard rested against a brazilwood tree. He pressed his right hand to a chest wound—the worst of three—and watched as the blood seeped through his fingers.

  To die like this, he thought, murdered by a scoundrel. After facing so many worthy foes, to fall to the worst and weakest of them all.

  A tear rolled down his cheek and his vision blurred. Unable to hold up his head any longer, it drooped to his chest. He closed his eyes and listened as at least a half-dozen of his pursuers closed in on him.

  “Here he is,” one of Guy’s soldiers said in French.

  “Do we carry him back?” asked another.

  “He’s almost dead. Better to finish him off and take the head back. Less work. You do it.”

  Gerard heard the second man snort in displeasure at the command, then the reluctant footsteps as he approached to carry out the task. In his head, Gerard recited a silent, final prayer.

  Three distinct notes, played by some kind of wind instrument, broke his thoughts.

  “What was that?” asked the second man, his voice so close that he must have been almost on top of Gerard.

  A tramping sound approached, accompanied by rustling bushes.

  “Look,” said a different soldier.

  Shots rang out around Gerard, but, to his surprise, none were aimed at him.

  “Sacrebleu!” shouted another soldier. “Our shots do nothing.”

  “Flee!” yelled the first soldier.

  Gerard could hear the men crashing through the woods, replaced by the sound of heavy steps clomping toward him. The steps paused just before him, and the stench of mud and filth filled the air as the beast snorted into his face. Using the last of his strength, Gerard opened one eye.

  A massive, black snout wedged between two yellowed tusks sniffed a mere inch from his face. The mouth opened and bellowed a porcine squeal.

  The three notes played again, this time in reverse order, and the massive pig turned and shuffled off. Gerard blacked out.

  #

  The touch of a hand
on his cheek startled Gerard awake. His eyes fluttered on his first attempts to open them, but he finally managed to keep them open. Through the haze, he could barely make out a man with reddish-brown hair and white skin. Gerard didn’t recall seeing him among Guy’s men, but he certainly had the look of a Frenchman.

  “Please,” Gerard said in French, “kill me quickly.”

  “Why would I do that?” the man asked.

  Gerard felt the man’s hands pressing upon his chest. He felt warm and, curiously, better. Gerard squinted at the kneeling man and noticed a crow perched on his right shoulder, staring back at him.

  “Is it fashionable to keep crows as pets these days?” he asked.

  “I’m the only one in these parts,” replied the man, now pressing his hands against Gerard’s leg.

  “So you think. I saw an old Tupi with one this very day.”

  The man only smiled in response.

  “Who are you?”

  “You may pretend not to remember me, Gerard van Oost, but I remember you.”

  The words hinted at Gerard’s nagging doubt, that this man could somehow be the native he had met that day, but he found it difficult to believe. The age difference alone was tremendous.

  “Have you made your choice yet?” asked the man.

  “What choice?”

  “Must I repeat myself? The choice of empire, of course. The choice between Portugal and France.”

  “Strange choice, coming from a Frenchman.”

  “I am neither the Frenchman you see now nor the old Tupi you saw before. I am whatever the Land tells me to be. But you ignore my question. Have you made your choice?”

  “Curse your choice. I failed my companion, Oludara, and that’s all that matters. If I would have kept my mouth shut, we would both be safe and on our way.”

  “Interesting,” said the man. “But you did not keep your mouth shut, did you? And when you did not keep your mouth shut, did you not tell Guy he would never take Brazil?”

  Gerard searched the man’s blue eyes, but they revealed no emotion at all. “How do you know that?”

  “I know what the Land knows.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Gerard felt stronger, and he let his frustration fuel his words.

  “Answer me, Gerard. Did you not tell Guy he would never have Brazil?”