up at Weaver’s sad face. “Guess you’re right, brother man. Craven does it the only way he knows how.”
“Different strokes for different folks,” said Weaver, wondering if white people would ever learn that you couldn’t have it your way all the time.
CHAPTER 5
“S TUPID BASTARD! YOU DON’T tell me, I tell you, understand? I don’t care who you are. We do what I say, you hear me?” Alain Lonzu’s throat was raw from shouting, and had he been wiser, he would have known that his anger was weakening him. At the moment, he didn’t care about anything except teaching Hubert Girons an important lesson.
Girons, the quiet, bearded captain of the La Rochelle, knew what that lesson was. He, Girons, was the ship’s captain, ruler over the men serving under him, ruler over the ship under his feet. But Alain Lonzu ruled him, and as hard as it was to accept that, Girons knew he would have to accept it and do as Lonzu wanted. Lonzu, bleeding and in pain, shouting and cursing at anyone who came near him, wanted the ship to change course.
And Girons, flat, bearded face without expression, a forty-four-year-old man who had worked his way up from cabin boy to captain of this very ship, knew that in the end he would do as Alain Lonzu ordered. He hated obeying another man on his ship, hated Lonzu for forcing him to jump in front of his own crew, as much as he hated himself for giving in to all of this.
But Girons would give in, because Count Lonzu could have him tortured and killed, a fact Alain had brought up more than once in the past few hours. So far, the ship was on course for France, making good time over a smooth, calm sea. What was not calm was the bleeding, abusive Alain Lonzu.
“I want a doctor. Can’t you see I’m in pain?” he yelled, face red and perspiring, blood-soaked bandages a dull red around his waist and right arm. There was no doctor on the small freighter. Alain yanked off the bandage around his head, exposing an ugly purple-and-red bruise on his forehead over his left eye. Pain chewed at his body like a hunger-crazed dog. His back felt as though the pain had always been there, and he could hardly move his right arm.
Captain Girons sat in a small chair across from Alain, his eyes calm. Pride made him decide to do little right now, because he knew that whatever he did or said could be overruled by this muscle-bound, screaming idiot sitting across from him at a red card table. Girons’s pride would be stepped on, something he’d had a lot of since Lonzu had come on board.
You don’t keep a crew in line if they see you pushed around, though perhaps they understood that a man who could order your death could at the very least also order you to kiss his ass. Like now.
“I’ve got friends in London,” said Alain, chest heaving with fatigue brought on by nerves, fear, and a losing battle with pain all over his body. Had the bleeding stopped? Shit, he wasn’t sure. All he was sure of was that he was impatient to land somewhere, anywhere, get a doctor quick, and stop this fucking agony that was raking him from head to toe.
You have friends, thought Girons. Bullshit. You have people who are afraid of you or whom you have bought. You have people who are afraid of your brother. People like me, God forgive me.
“I’ll have to radio ahead,” said Girons calmly, speaking with his eyes on the bleeding man. Let him see I’m not afraid to look him in the eye.
“No you don’t,” shouted Alain, jabbing a stiff forefinger at Girons as though it were a knife. “You just do it, that’s all. Change course. You don’t have to tell France we’re not coming. I—”
“It wasn’t France I had in mind,” said Girons, still keeping his voice level and his eyes on Lonzu’s contorted, tensed face. “Though I must say we’ll have to tell them something, because they’re expecting us. What I had in mind is radioing London when we’re in range, and telling them we’re docking. We have
“Different strokes for different folks,” said Weaver, wondering if white people would ever learn that you couldn’t have it your way all the time.
CHAPTER 5
“S TUPID BASTARD! YOU DON’T tell me, I tell you, understand? I don’t care who you are. We do what I say, you hear me?” Alain Lonzu’s throat was raw from shouting, and had he been wiser, he would have known that his anger was weakening him. At the moment, he didn’t care about anything except teaching Hubert Girons an important lesson.
Girons, the quiet, bearded captain of the La Rochelle, knew what that lesson was. He, Girons, was the ship’s captain, ruler over the men serving under him, ruler over the ship under his feet. But Alain Lonzu ruled him, and as hard as it was to accept that, Girons knew he would have to accept it and do as Lonzu wanted. Lonzu, bleeding and in pain, shouting and cursing at anyone who came near him, wanted the ship to change course.
And Girons, flat, bearded face without expression, a forty-four-year-old man who had worked his way up from cabin boy to captain of this very ship, knew that in the end he would do as Alain Lonzu ordered. He hated obeying another man on his ship, hated Lonzu for forcing him to jump in front of his own crew, as much as he hated himself for giving in to all of this.
But Girons would give in, because Count Lonzu could have him tortured and killed, a fact Alain had brought up more than once in the past few hours. So far, the ship was on course for France, making good time over a smooth, calm sea. What was not calm was the bleeding, abusive Alain Lonzu.
“I want a doctor. Can’t you see I’m in pain?” he yelled, face red and perspiring, blood-soaked bandages a dull red around his waist and right arm. There was no doctor on the small freighter. Alain yanked off the bandage around his head, exposing an ugly purple-and-red bruise on his forehead over his left eye. Pain chewed at his body like a hunger-crazed dog. His back felt as though the pain had always been there, and he could hardly move his right arm.
Captain Girons sat in a small chair across from Alain, his eyes calm. Pride made him decide to do little right now, because he knew that whatever he did or said could be overruled by this muscle-bound, screaming idiot sitting across from him at a red card table. Girons’s pride would be stepped on, something he’d had a lot of since Lonzu had come on board.
You don’t keep a crew in line if they see you pushed around, though perhaps they understood that a man who could order your death could at the very least also order you to kiss his ass. Like now.
“I’ve got friends in London,” said Alain, chest heaving with fatigue brought on by nerves, fear, and a losing battle with pain all over his body. Had the bleeding stopped? Shit, he wasn’t sure. All he was sure of was that he was impatient to land somewhere, anywhere, get a doctor quick, and stop this fucking agony that was raking him from head to toe.
You have friends, thought Girons. Bullshit. You have people who are afraid of you or whom you have bought. You have people who are afraid of your brother. People like me, God forgive me.
“I’ll have to radio ahead,” said Girons calmly, speaking with his eyes on the bleeding man. Let him see I’m not afraid to look him in the eye.
“No you don’t,” shouted Alain, jabbing a stiff forefinger at Girons as though it were a knife. “You just do it, that’s all. Change course. You don’t have to tell France we’re not coming. I—”
“It wasn’t France I had in mind,” said Girons, still keeping his voice level and his eyes on Lonzu’s contorted, tensed face. “Though I must say we’ll have to tell them something, because they’re expecting us. What I had in mind is radioing London when we’re in range, and telling them we’re docking. We have
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