The Legacy of Marshall Cousins

3. DAWN of INFAMY-1

3

DAWN OF INFAMY

MARSEILLE, FRANCE - OCTOBER 1712

Dear God, forgive me for my lies, but I have no other choice.

Henrietta d'Arringnon - 1693

Honore de Courbet, a Senior Knight of the Order of St. John, was furious. There should be neither clemency nor forgiveness for the perpetrators who dared to raid the ship contracted by the Knights of St. John! The audacity of the scum who dared to board the ship must be punished by the sword, and nothing less, but Honore's hands were tied. He was under orders to transfer the precious cargo in utmost secrecy. He had planned to carry St. Elias' relics onto the Knights' own ship, but his superiors had overruled this arrangement – Portugal's Knights of Christ's Order had objected to the acquisition, and the upper-level officials of the Knights of the Order of St. John now waited for the papal response. Honore prayed for forgiveness of his uncharitable thoughts about his superiors' decision and for the delay of response from the Pope. He praised Heaven for guiding him and the untrained crew of the ship to drive away all intruders and to retrieve the trunk. In the misty pre-dawn hour, he strode to the deck. All fires had long been extinguished. Though the bitter scent of smoke still hung in the air, the harbor was, once again, at peace. Honore leaned on the rail and watched the murky water flowing below. The lantern light flickered overhead, and a sudden fear seized him. The men who fought to obtain St Elias' relics– did they know what they were after? Had they been hired by the Portuguese? He wiped the sweat off his forehead, went back to his cabin to pick up a small lantern, and navigated his way down to the cargo bay.

The trunk was positioned at the far wall. After the attack, Honore had wrapped it with iron chains and secured the chains around the support beam. He touched his hand to the smooth top and froze. He did not remember the narrow wooden strip in the center of the lid. He involuntarily hissed a curse, lifted the lantern with shaking hands, and gaped at the crude identification carvings along the decorative strip. There were no identification seals! Cold sweat burned his eyes. He struggled with the key to unlock the chains, raised the lid, and felt as if his soul left his body. The trunk was full of vile tobacco leaves. Honore screamed in rage, but quickly covered his mouth and fell on his knees. His body remained motionless, his mind blank, until the sun rose and the streaks of light shone through the gaps between the planks in the door. Honore staggered back to his cabin, and prayed for hours in hopes of guidance in his search for St. Elias' relics. He knew he had told untruths, and he prayed for forgiveness, knowing he was justified in his cause to restore St Elias' relics to St. Etienne's Cathedral in his native town. He vowed that whoever took St. Elias' relics would pay the full price for the sacrilege.

Captain Mathew Johnson of the Golden Sails was furious. He did not cherish the prospect of reporting the complete failure in his search for the Great Mogul Diamond. He was to be paid upon finding the diamond, and no money was forthcoming otherwise. He had brought back only Kumaryan, a wretch who could not remember his name, let alone the location of the diamond. When the chaos erupted last night, Kumaryan escaped and with him faded all hope to find the diamond. Or maybe the infidel had been kidnapped when the raiders descended on the decks? The facts remained: When the Anne Maria Jane was boarded, Mathew's crew repelled the attackers, chased them onto the dock, and brought back a large lightweight trunk – they claimed it belonged to the perpetrators. Then a cannonball hit the deck and the fire broke out. By the time Mathew restored order on his ship, Kumaryan was nowhere to be found.

Mathew did not care for the trunk. It was too light to contain coins or anything of value. Two different imposing seals could mean trouble, and he was certain the owners would search for their cargo. Maybe if he played his cards right, he might be able to have the trunk ransomed? He neatly cut the seals off and lifted the lid to behold a sealed and oiled leather bag. He groped at the shapes concealed by the leather. From the feel of it, the bag contained rolled fabric, maybe even silks? To his deep disappointment, it was merely canvas. Mathew cursed aloud before it occurred to him that the fabric felt too stiff, and why would anyone waste money for the oiled leather bag to protect canvas rolls from the moisture?

He untied the wide ribbons which held the roll together, and saw that the inside was painted. He unrolled the canvas, spread it on the floor, and whistled in surprise. The painting depicted a violent battle in a desert, the horsemen wearing white tunics with red crosses and battling enemies on camels. Two angels with golden crowns were lifting knights to Heaven, and fire-breathing monsters were dragging three Saracens to purgatory. The poses, the bodies, and the facial features were life-like, the colors were bright, and the angels' halos were gilded.

He carefully rolled up the painting of the battle, re-tied the ribbons, and checked another roll. The painting depicted a man with long hair and a halo, and a winged lion standing next to him. Mathew recognized the Clock Tower of Piazza San Marco in the background.

He rolled up the picture of St. Mark, unrolled another painting, and the air in his cabin felt much warmer. This next picture was a life-size, full-body portrait of a beautiful and completely naked young woman, in a pose which left nothing to the imagination. She was looking directly at him, her black hair spread against the pale blue sheets on the elaborate bed. Mathew was startled to realize that he reached out to touch the n****e, but the feel of a cold flat surface brought him back to his senses. He wiped away the sweat dripping in his eyes, carefully rolled the picture up, and set it aside on his bunk. This picture would bring some money. He took a long sip of rum to calm his nerves before unrolling another painting.

Mathew recoiled from the grotesque image of half-man, half-goat leering at him from the entrance to a majestic temple. He hastily rolled it up and searched for the canvas of the same size as the beautiful portrait.

The canvas of the woman's portrait was newer and of a finer texture, and Mathew easily found another roll. The woman in the portrait had golden hair and reclined in the same pose on the same bed, only the sheets were maroon.

With shaking hands, Mathew unrolled the next painting, purposely avoiding another portrait. The scene was serene. A veiled woman rode a donkey, an old man walked next to her, and three men wearing crowns and bejeweled robes worshipped a bright star in the sky. It was a pleasant Nativity picture, but not as enjoyable as the portraits.

The next portrait depicted a dark-haired beauty reclining, in the same pose, against golden sheets, and another beauty's rich brown hair shone against green sheets.

Mathew's throat was dry and his breeches were tight. He hurried through the rest of the pile. The temperature in his cabin seemed to drop when he unrolled a painting of a galley ship battling a giant sea serpent in a storm. The scene was complete with huge waves and bolts of lightning. His breathing returned to normal when he unrolled another painting and beheld a knight on horseback charging the fire-breathing dragon, the lance poised to pierce the beast's neck.

Mathew slowly unrolled the last portrait: a copper-haired woman against lavender-colored sheets. All these portraits depicted different women. Whose collections was it?

Mathew recognized that such extravagant paintings were worth a lot of money to rich noblemen. So this trunk must have belonged to an art dealer, but the artists and their associates comprised a capricious human lot, and generosity was not in their blood. Even if he could find the rightful owner, the chance of reward was slim. No, Mathew decided, he might as well sell these paintings himself.

He finished his measure of rum, separated the portraits from the other paintings, wrapped the bundles into separate leather bags, and placed everything into the trunk. He secured the trunk with locking chains, climbed to the deck on unsteady feet, issued orders for high alert, and scuttled offshore, straight to the nearest house of ill repute.

After two days of imprisonment in a putrid cell, Rene was unceremoniously kicked out in the street, grateful to the magistrates who listened to his description of the Marshall cousins and, in return, contacted the Marquis. Rene stumbled into fading daylight and squinted at the brightness surrounding him. His mind still reeled from disbelief that someone had aimed to steal the trunk. No one knew what was in it! These pirates had descended from nowhere, they had taken full advantage of the chaos, but who had hired them? Rene recognized one of the Marquis' footmen, who pointed out that he brought the bail letter and money, and reminded Rene that the Marquis expected immediate delivery of the cargo.

Rene hurried to the Anne Maria Jane. Her Captain was beyond furious, since the hole in the hull had doomed the ship to stay in the harbor waiting for repairs while other ships were prioritized. Rene hastily departed when he found out that Durrant had transferred the trunk to the inn onshore.

“One of the seals broke off,” Durrant greeted him.

Rene froze at the sight of the insignia of the Order of the Knights of St. John. He drew his dagger. “This is not our trunk!”

His brother-in-law scrambled back away from the blade. “It is, I swear! What are you doing? Put the dagger away! I watched it all this time!”

“The seals! Look at the seals!”

Durrant's face remained blank.

Rene's mind was in a fog, and not only due to hunger. He carefully pried the other seals open, lifted the lid, shifted the top package, and poked through the folded clothes and leather pouches with a distinct smell of hashish. He pushed aside a bundle of clothes, and froze when he noticed sparkles and glitter. He moved away the roll of fabric to uncover a casket with glass panels on top, and his heart tightened at the sight of a skull and a bone inside. He slammed the lid closed and sunk to his knees.

“What is the matter?” Durrant opened the trunk and rooted through the contents. His eyes bugged out. With a gulp of air and a high-pitched yelp, he bounced back and crossed himself. “What is it?!”

Rene clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering and slowly raised himself up. He wordlessly handed the roll of silk to Durrant, lifted a set of clothes, and realized there was a heavy object wrapped inside. With shaking hands, he traced the shape; no, it was not a bone. He set the bundle on the table and unwrapped the oil painting of St. Stephan. The gold frame was generously decorated with pearl seeds.

Durrant craned his neck to peek inside the trunk, crossed himself again, and lifted up a brown wool cloak. It was folded to protect a shimmering gold bowl covered in intricate patterns and lavishly adorned with red and blue precious stones.

“We can sell it.” Durrant rubbed his hands together, sniffed the air, and held up a leather bag. “This is hashish. It alone is worth a small fortune!”

“There is not enough to hide for the rest of our lives!” Rene shouted, his heart pounding in fear. He picked up another roll of fabric and forced himself to reach down and shift the clothes and bags to reveal the casket. The inside was cushioned with purple and red velvet fabric, the lid was locked and sealed with gold seals, and the matching red and gold seals were visible on papers inside. The cargo belonged to the Vatican and the Knights of St. John. There would be a large price to pay! Rene's knees wobbled and his vision blurred, but the clunk of solid metal in the trunk woke him from his stupor.