On A Lee Shore Page 10

  Now the room was empty. The cot was neatly made, the floor clean and dry. The Africa was heeling over a little, rising and falling evenly over the swells. Other than that he was in a hammock rather than on the floor, there was no sound or sign that should cause any alarm, but Kit was uneasy. There was something wrong. He yawned. He’d work out what it was in just a few moments. He stretched, groaned as strained muscles protested, and dropped his hand to rub ribs bruised by the tiller.

  Ah—so that was the problem. He had gone to sleep at least partially dressed. Now his breeches were gone. He scowled, feeling that it was a little intrusive to have removed them while he slept, lifted the blanket and stared. He was wearing drawers that he didn’t recognize, the waist tie done in a firm and seamanlike bowline.

  Kit gulped, hating the idea of having been exposed and vulnerable and having known nothing about it. There was only one thing to do—get up and dressed as quickly as possible.

  The hammock creaked as he swung down from it, and he stood on the oilcloth and looked for his clothes. They were nowhere to be seen but neatly folded on the table was a shirt and the kind of breeches that the captain favored. Kit went to look out of the window. Another shock. Unless they had gotten horribly turned around it was morning, not long after dawn—a clear bright one too, with a sky filled with racing clouds.

  Behind him the latch clicked, and he looked around.

  “Oh!” Denny was staring at him. “Get your breeches on you ’orrible soldier!”

  Kit grinned at him. “My breeches are gone,” he said. “Where did they go, Denny? They can’t have walked off by themselves.”

  “Put them on,” Denny gestured to the clothes on the table. “An’ you’re late. ’E’s not ’appy.”

  No need to ask who “he” was. Kit hurried himself to dress, wincing at the feel of clean linen on his salt-stiffened skin. But washing would have to wait if a captain wasn’t ’appy.

  “Where are we, Denny?” he asked. “Do you know what the readings were?”

  “On the Africa, still,” Denny said and rolled his eyes as though Kit had asked the most stupid question in the world.

  The breeches fit well enough once Kit adjusted the falls, but the shirt was long on him. He rolled up the sleeves to the elbow and tucked the shirt into his waistband then followed Denny on deck barefoot.

  The flesh around O’Neill’s eye was stormy in hue and badly swollen, but the man gave him a smile as sunny as the day. “Thank Christ,” he said. “I’m dying for a piss. We thought you’d died, ’cept you were breathing. You didn’t even stir when they put you in your hammock.”

  “Why did you let me sleep so long?” Kit demanded, stepping into O’Neill’s place.

  “Because you needed to,” O’Neill replied. “Keep on this heading.”

  Kit watched him go a bit wistfully. He could have done with the heads himself.

  The Africa was speeding along across the wind, heading southwest, which suggested that they had been driven north during the storm. Kit leaned on the tiller, wincing as it fretted already bruised ribs, and looked up at the great spread of white sails. Africa was one of the most beautiful craft he had even seen, gracefully proportioned, with the great spear of her bowsprit balancing her raked mast and her sails cupped like wings to catch the light of the sun and throw it back at the men on deck. Men were aloft making even more sail. As he watched, one broad shouldered figure raised a hand and began to descend.

  “Thank you, Kit.” O’Neill was back. “Damn that was a blow yesterday. You look better than you did. You were gray.”

  “You look better than you did as well,” Kit responded with a grin. “Did Saunders put that stitch over your eye?”

  “He did and I swore at him,” O’Neill admitted. “So—you haven’t missed much. Let me see—the storm was blowing itself out when you went down. Somewhere farther north had a horrible night of it I shouldn’t wonder, but we were all right. We got some sail on and began to beat our way back south. When the old man got up, not far short of midnight, that was, there was enough sky showing for us to get some idea of where we were.”

  “And that is?” Kit asked.

  “Northeast of Barbuda somewhere,” O’Neill replied. “And I hope we find out where soon because that’s one lee shore you don’t want to get driven onto. There’s this reef—so many ships have gone down there.”

  “Any sign of the Garnet?” Kit asked. “And any casualties?”

  “Not a sign,” O’Neill said. “Val’s back on his feet with his wrist strapped, Wigram’s claiming his back got hurt and he twisted his ankle but seems to be able to stoop to pick up his rum all right. Other than that, bumps and scrapes. I don’t think anyone, apart from Denny, came through it unscathed. Saunders is complaining we’ve used almost all of his medicinal brandy. He reckons medicinal gin isn’t the same.”

  “I think I had too much medicinal brandy,” Kit said. “I don’t normally sleep like that.”

  “As one dead, you mean?” Captain Griffin arrived beside them and took the tiller. He looked rested and his expression was relaxed. He looked Kit over and nodded. “I decided that you were better in your hammock than underfoot. You may return the clothes when they have been laundered.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kit said watching as the bowsprit eased off its tack, nosing more to the east. “Um, why are we—”

  “Wreckage,” Captain Griffin replied. “O’Neill, I think I saw a boat. There may be survivors.”

  What nobody would say was that it might be the Garnet. They had lost sight of her lights early on in the storm. Kit had fears of his own regarding the Hypatia, which seemed far more likely to him to founder. Left with an inexperienced sailing master, a merchant for a captain, and shorthanded, how could the snow have survived such a terrible storm?

  It wasn’t long before they spotted the first pieces of flotsam—a smashed yard and a tangle of rigging and canvas. There was what was left of a body too, bobbing as a couple of small sharks fought over it.

  Kit watched the fins grimly as the Africa passed by. It went against the grain to just leave but, as O’Neill pointed out when he protested, they could already see the lopsided hulk of a vessel with a small boat nearby.

  “There’s no helping him, Kit,” O’Neill said. “But I think I see someone waving there. Poor bastards.”

  O’Neill sent Kit to the bow to help organize the retrieval of the boat and its occupants. Captain Griffin was there as well, shouting a greeting across the choppy water. “Goddamn,” Griffin spat, shading his eyes to look at the wreck. “That’s the Bonito. Leveque’s ship.”

  There were six survivors, all black, and one was in a bad way with a large splinter lodged in his side. Griffin had the injured man taken below to Saunders then began to question the others.

  Kit listened to the survivors’ account of the storm with half an ear while he inspected the wreckage. Storm damage, yes, but from cannon fire, too.

  “Who attacked you?” Griffin asked. “Was it a brigantine? And what happened to Leveque?”

  The spokesman, an elderly black man whose face was swollen around a cut on his jaw, shook his head. “My name is Andrew, sir, a carpenter. It was not a brigantine that attacked us. This was a strange rig. I never saw such before. It flew English colors.”

  “But why did it fire on you?” Kit demanded, then flushed and shot Captain Griffin an apologetic look. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Hold your tongue, Kit,” Captain Griffin said. “But that is a valid question. Please—do you know why?”

  “It was after the storm. They hailed us, told us to heave to. But we were pumping and didn’t dare lose way. Leveque hailed them back, tried to explain, and they opened fire. Leveque was wounded and the second shot brought down our mast and took the master overboard with it. They sent a boat over and looked at our papers. They took Leveque and the deck hands and—they left.”

  “Left?” Griffin’s jaw, usually formidable, set like a rock. “Left you in these seas in that leaky bu
cket.”

  “The Bonito was a good boat,” Andrew protested. “If they had helped, then we might have saved her. Now—it is too late. If you hadn’t come we would all be dead.”

  “Goddamn them,” O’Neill growled. “What do you think, Captain? Costa garda?”

  “No, they’d have killed them outright if they had bothered them at all,” Griffin replied. “Damnation, I’m not having some—pirate—interfering in these waters.”

  “Not a pirate, sir. Oh no,” Andrew said. “She was an English ship. A Navy ship.”

  One of the other men from the stricken Bonito murmured to him and he nodded. “Yes, that is right,” he added. “Her name is Miranda.”

  The crew were reluctant to leave the Bonito while she was still afloat, but Griffin was adamant. He called a meeting, O’Neill rounding up the attendees with a nod and a jerk of the thumb. Kit initially responded with a smile and a nod of his own, so O’Neill spelled it out for him.

  “Captain’s calling a meeting, now, midships. If you want a title—oh, I guess we can call you sailing master, God help us all. Get yourself up there.”

  So Kit did, taking a subordinate position behind Valliere. O’Neill, Saunders, and Wigram made up the rest of the committee, and Kit was enthralled to see pirate politics in action.

  Every man was allowed to listen and have his say, just as Davy had claimed. Wigram was all for abandoning their plans to put in at Barbuda and going south straight away to prey on the Portuguese shipping. His mates were very vocal in support of that notion as well.

  “Water.” Saunders raised an objection. “We don’t have enough of it to shilly-shally around. We’ll be short by the time we reach Barbuda as it is. We certainly don’t have enough to take us so far south.”

  “Food’s short too,” O’Neill pointed out.

  “But we’re pirates,” Wigram said. “We should be able to take what we need from other ships.”

  “And if we can’t, we starve?” Valliere said. “Plunder is better on a full belly. I vote for a quick refit in Barbuda. We can take those poor souls with us.”

  “The wounded one will die,” Wigram growled. “But we can sell the rest. Get something for our trouble.”

  Valliere turned his head and gave Wigram a hard stare. “There are different sorts of trouble.”

  “And some come in the guise of the Royal Navy,” Griffin snapped. “Wigram, we’re not going to take any prizes at all if the crew are weakened by lack. And,” he turned to Valliere, “we can’t afford to take landsmen. There’s no time to train them up. Andrew can stay if he wishes. A carpenter might be useful. We’ll go to Barbuda, and they can go ashore. We’ll take on stores and see what we can find out about the Miranda. I want to be prepared.”

  Giving his officers a hearing didn’t lessen the captain’s authority, Kit mused. They all nodded, and he tapped the chart on his table. “Wigram take the helm—no, I haven’t forgotten your ankle. There you won’t have to walk on it. O’Neill, get the men moving. A bit of gun drill wouldn’t go amiss. I want to be over the horizon before that hulk goes down. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

  Kit would have followed O’Neill, but Griffin said, “Not you, Kit. With me.”

  Griffin led him down to the cabin and took his usual seat at the table. He picked up a pen, studying the chart. Kit moved a little closer and watched the sweep of the feathered tip of the quill across the drawn and printed lines. There were many notations in a small neat hand and one brown smear of dry blood.

  “Miranda,” Griffin said. Kit looked up and found those clear gray eyes fixed on his own again. “What haven’t you told me? And don’t pretend there’s nothing to tell. Your face is clear as glass.”

  Kit’s heart sank. “She’s a naval ship, sir, sent to support the fleet here at St. Kitt’s. She was still fitting out when I left so she’s made good time.”

  “And,” Griffin said. “Come, Kit, there’s more to tell. You’re a very bad liar.”

  “I am not lying,” Kit said, filled with indignation.

  “Then tell me,” Griffin coaxed. “You’re part of the Africa crew now. You have a duty to the ship at least, even if you have no personal loyalty to me.”

  “It’s not that,” Kit said. What he had to tell could be found out easily enough as soon as Griffin talked to the harbormaster anywhere the Miranda had put in. Would it hurt to tell? Who would know?

  Kit would know, and he couldn’t bear the thought of betraying his service.

  “How hard do you have to make this?” Griffin asked, his voice calm but his gaze intense. “Even a sixth rate ship could be the death of us all if we couldn’t out sail her. What do you know, Kit?”

  “Lieutenant Penrose,” Kit reminded him. “I’ve told you all I can.”

  “Then get out of my sight,” Griffin roared.

  Which was, Kit reflected as he fled, no more than he deserved. Catching up with Davy, he was saddened, but not surprised to find that he agreed with the Captain.

  “Look,” Davy said as they sat in the shade of the sails, “you were Navy, but they put you ashore. You’ve got a new job now, here on the Africa. It’s a good ship, and the crew, most of ’em, are good men too.”

  “But they are pirates,” Kit said. He was hugging his knees and feeling wretched.

  “If you think they are that bad why didn’t you let the Africa go down during the storm?” Davy demanded. “It was touch and go a few times there. A point or two off your heading and we’d have turned turtle and no mistake. If you saw the sense in saving us then, why not over this?”

  “You’re saying ‘us,’ Davy,” Kit pointed out. “Does this mean that you’re one of them now?”

  Davy looked uncomfortable. “No,” he said, “but…I’m here. The food’s better. I don’t have to work so hard. We haven’t done anything to anyone.”

  “And when we do?” Kit asked. “If we come on another ship like the Hypatia, are you going to help lay the gun that kills the helmsman? Are you going to be the one who rifles through the medical stores and smashes everything they don’t take?”

  “No,” Davy said. “Of course not!” He took a deep breath, brow creasing in thought. “If your fucking Navy is so good, just why the fuck is it that they left those men to die? And if we’re so bad, just why did the captain stop and save them? Ask yourself that then have a hard think about the answer.” He got up, his movements angry and jerky. “I’ll leave you to mull it over, Mr. Lieutenant Penrose, sir,” he said and stalked away to the bow.

  “Davy…” Kit’s voice trailed off as Davy hunched his shoulders and walked a bit faster.

  Kit felt no better by the time he was called to take his turn on the tiller. Wigram handed over to him with a sneer.

  “They won’t take you back, you know,” he said. “Even if you turn us and Ben Hornigold in and hie you back to London with all the treasures of Panama in your sea chest, you’re still spoiled goods.”

  Kit glared at Wigram, who grinned. “You want to hit me again,” he said, pushing his red face close to Kit’s. “Only this time you know, if you do, the old man will put us ashore with a pistol apiece. You’re not sure you could kill in cold blood, but you’re pretty damn certain that I could.”

  His voice had risen, sharp and excited. Next would come a push—all in fun, of course—and if Kit retaliated that would be cause enough for the duel Wigram wanted.

  Kit looked at the flecks of spittle that had landed on his sleeve. “This is the captain’s shirt. He won’t thank you for gobbing over it.”

  “Oh, the captain’s shirt, is it?” Wigram sniggered. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I’m sure. I didn’t know you’d been promoted—to his bum boy.”

  Kit was aware that his knuckles were white as his hands gripped the tiller. He held on tight and didn’t respond as Wigram walked away but the self-control cost him dear. A little later when O’Neill approached, he took one look at Kit’s face and said, “Carry on, Mr. Penrose,” and went to talk to someone else.

&n
bsp; Kit regretted that, because he liked O’Neill as much as he liked Davy, but he had realized that he couldn’t be a willing part of the crew and keep faith with himself.

  That night was cloudy but with enough gaps in what remained of the storm wrack to get a sight of Polaris. Kit joined Captain Griffin at the tiller to take their readings and compare notes. He was relieved that they came to the same conclusions. After that morning he didn’t feel like confronting the captain again, though he would have had to if he felt their readings conflicted. Kit the sailing master had no problem with loyalty to the ship; it was betraying his other commitments that was impossible.

  “So that puts us on a line to take us just north of Barbuda,” Griffin said, “assuming we’re not both incompetent. Keep a good watch.”

  There must have been someone with sharp eyes on O’Neill’s watch, because Kit was aroused from sleep not long after he had turned in by the calls for a sighting of land. Kit listened to the sounds of movement on deck, but nobody seemed alarmed, and he pulled his blanket over his ears and made himself go back to sleep, figuring he could slake his curiosity in due time.

  On deck again before dawn, with the Africa idling along, Kit took another reading, just to reassure himself.

  “Well,” he said, in response to a question from Valliere, “unless something very peculiar has happened, that should be Barbuda, and we should be far enough north to clear the shoals.”

  “The old man will want to take her in himself,” Valliere warned him. “Wake him when it’s light, and if I were you I’d reduce sail.”

  Kit thanked Valliere, who ambled off to bed, and only added a couple of embellishments, for instance, to rouse Pollack and ask him to make the captain a hot drink and some breakfast and send a hand with it as soon as there was enough light to tell chalk from cheese.

  “Breakfast,” Pollack grunted. “That’ll be a surprise. Can’t recall the last time the old man had aught but rum for breakfast.”