On A Lee Shore Read online

  Griffin was slow answering. He drained his glass in a long, slow swallow and reached for the bottle. “Yes,” he said as he watched the deep amber liquid pool in his glass. “I had ambition. I was able to buy a commission after I left Cambridge.”

  “I was told you were an Oxford man,” Kit said. “But I suppose…”

  Griffin waved a hand. “Same difference to the uninitiated. It was Cambridge. I learned what interested me but had no calling for the priesthood, so the army seemed a good second choice. And mathematics and artillery go together. I found I had a talent for organization. Men will love a commander who sees they are well housed and provisioned. Well-fed men are able to march farther and fight harder. There was a lot of fighting—Ramillies, Malplaquet—and I lost commanding officers regularly until I achieved the rank of major.”

  “Good grief, you saw some action!” Kit stared. He picked up his glass again. “I’ve never fought on land. I assume it’s very—different.”

  “Oh yes,” Griffin said. “More than you can probably imagine. It seems faster. Ships move more slowly in relation to each other. You maneuver and position and finally strike. It’s only at close quarters that you have that mad rush where one loses track of who is doing what and where. On land that can happen at any time. A little mist, an unexpected valley. At sea it’s very hard to take anyone by surprise.”

  “You managed that very effectively with the Hypatia,” Kit pointed out. “You took us all by surprise.”

  “Not all of you,” Griffin replied. “We had an ally in a trusted, able seaman who was able to persuade the officer of the watch that he could manage alone, and who signaled us that it was safe to move in. We were running without lights, so all I had to worry about was the Garnet veering off course and colliding with us.”

  This was dangerous ground. Kit found himself tensing as he remembered the puff of white smoke from the Africa and Vargas’s shattered body. He bit down a comment that would have ended the conversation abruptly. “How on earth did a Major of Artillery end up captaining a pirate vessel?”

  Griffin’s expression took on that calm coldness that Kit had seen leveled at him so many times before. “Sheer bloody bad luck,” he said. “With a generous helping hand from His Catholic Majesty’s Navy and an even bigger one from our own Royal Navy, the bastards. Kit—it’s a subject I would sooner avoid, and if you press me we will fall out. Tell me instead about your family. Do you have anyone waiting at home for you? A wife? A sweetheart? You mentioned your mother?”

  Kit hesitated then shook his head to rid himself of an odd sense of déjà vu. “Oh no. No encumbrances. And Mother died five years ago,” he added sadly because he had loved her dearly even though his trips home had been rare. “I have a younger brother, but he’s in the service of the East India Company and is doing well. So, no—there’s nobody waiting for me—other than perhaps my godfather.” He stared into the darkness beyond the window and his lips quirked into a little smile. “He would be so furious if I turned pirate.”

  “Your godfather? Then by all means he must never find out.” Griffin raised his glass. “Here’s to him. Does this godfather have a name?”

  Kit raised his glass as well—he had drunk more than he had thought. “Why yes,” he said. “Here’s to Sir William Charles Tregarne, ex-Rear Admiral of the Blue and advisor to the Navy Office.”

  “Admiral Tregarne?” Griffin began to chuckle. “Oh Kit, you’re more of an asset than you know.”

  “Hardly an asset, I would have thought,” Kit said with a wry smile. “Sir William has boatloads of godsons, mostly sons of crew members. My father was just one such, but my mother was a very good friend of Sir William’s wife, and we always lived close to them. My father was killed in the same action that cost Sir William his leg and caused his retirement, so Sir William did what he could for us. He arranged for me to get my Letter and, when Charles was old enough, found a good safe billet for him as well. Of the two of us, Charles is far more likely to make his fortune.”

  “One in the service and one in trade,” Griffin said. He had been drinking steadily and his color had risen, but his speech was still clear. “One to bring in the gold and the other to bring in the glory.”

  “Plenty of opportunity for glory with John Company,” Kit said. “The pirates are almost as bad in the Indian Ocean as they are here.”

  “Hah!” Griffin topped up Kit’s glass again. “And you keep sorry company now,” he pointed out. “But then you have had bad luck with your captains.”

  “Not until recently,” Kit said and flushed as he realized how that sounded. “Captain Dorling of the Hypatia,” he added, “was not a seaman and cut his expenses to the bone. Given another five men and a free hand at the helm, I could have shown you and the Garnet a clean pair of heels.”

  Kit thought the challenge a neat way of changing the subject, but Griffin refused to rise to it.

  “And before that, there was the Malvern?”

  Kit had picked up his glass but set it down again. “I’m sorry, sir, as you said earlier, we all have subjects we would sooner avoid. If you will excuse me—”

  “No, Kit,” Griffin growled. “Subjects are like—like sandbanks. You need to sound them regularly because they can shift in alarming and unexpected ways. You can’t spend the rest of your life jumping like a goosed bar wench every time you hear the name.”

  Kit drew breath to point out that the captain had been very reticent about his transition from soldier to sailor, but Griffin continued before he could speak.

  “As even a reluctant crew member you are now in my care. Moreover, you are of a rank, unofficially, that will give you a measure of control over the ship should I be incapacitated. Therefore, your welfare is the ship’s welfare and thus of great concern to me.”

  “Amazing,” Kit said. “That was almost an algebraic formula for managing junior officers. You should patent it with the admiralty and make your fortune.”

  They glared at each other for a moment.

  “If you try to walk out that door,” Griffin growled, “I’ll knock you down and sit on you. Just answer the bloody question, boy. It surely can’t have been that bad?”

  “As I said, sir,” Kit’s voice was shaking with the effort of remaining polite. “It’s old news, over and done with, and I would sooner not discuss it.”

  “Which aspect of it?” Griffin demanded. “The loss of your ship, which I would understand and for which I have great sympathy? Or the sodomy? Oh Kit! I see it’s the latter. What a fuss about nothing.”

  “Nothing!” Kit was on his feet, fists clenched. “How…how dare…nothing? Those children on the ship! Good God, man—”

  “Stop babbling, Kit,” Griffin said. “I’m giving you a big chance here to tell your story truthfully. I’ve already heard two other versions, neither of which put you in a good light.”

  “What?” Kit sank back down onto the chest. He had spent so long trying to forget about the Malvern, he had assumed that the subject would be as distasteful to everyone else. “What have you heard?”

  “I’m not telling you,” Griffin said coldly. “One chance, Kit. Come clean, here and now, and that will be an end to it. Otherwise, I’ll go on assuming the worse.” His voice trailed off and his lips thinned. “Tell me what happened. Plain, unvarnished truth.”

  “Truth?” Kit glared at him. “The captain of the Malvern requested my transfer to his ship. It wasn’t a happy ship, but I did not understand the way of it until I was alone with him one day and he—he touched me. Intimately. And made some accusations about my relationship with the younger officers, and I realized that he…”

  “Had been buggering the lower orders. Let’s have it out in the open. Had you?”

  “No! Of course not.” Kit’s anger had given way to horror. “Who has been spreading such foul lies? Tell me. I’ll cut his heart out.”

  “Some might consider that you’re protesting too much, but I think I detect honest confusion.” Griffin hadn’t taken his eye
s off Kit’s. “So you challenged Gasson to his face and threatened to have him up before the court martial. They’d have hanged him, of course.”

  “Livesy was thirteen,” Kit said. “Hollick was older but had been on the ship for a couple of years. There were some among the hands too. None had been given any choice in the matter. Of course the man should have hanged. He must have been mad. That’s the only explanation of why he tried his games with me.”

  “Oh that’s easy, Kit,” Griffin smiled. “As I’ve told you before, you’re handsome and clean and unspoiled and a challenge. For some that’s an irresistible combination on its own, but you—what was the description I heard? He’s a shy, sly, creeping little fellow who won’t admit what he wants but sneaks looks when nobody’s looking…or when he thinks nobody’s looking.”

  “That’s not true.” Kit’s heart had sped up until he was certain Griffin would be able to see the beat of it in his chest. “No, that is not true.”

  Griffin shushed him and shook his head, his expression sympathetic. “I wasn’t sure until tonight when I changed my clothes. You might lie to yourself Kit, but you can’t lie to me. I saw the color move under your skin, saw how you lingered over lighting the candles, saw the little glimpses you took and how you closed your eyes and knotted your brows. You took too much care, Kit. Another man to whom it meant nothing would have faced me and talked to me while I changed. Not turned his shoulder and looked at my reflection in the window.”

  Kit found his breath coming short. “No. You are mistaken.” He got up again. “I am an officer of His Majesty’s Navy. When the opportunity comes, I will take my place on another warship where I will be a credit to my godfather and sponsor, Sir William Tregarne. I can do none of that,” he spat, “if I’m a criminal. So, no. I am not that.” Fists clenched and jaw set, Kit had taken a step toward Griffin. “I don’t care what you think. I am not.”

  Griffin wasted no time in arguing. He stood, one hand gripping and twisting the neck of Kit’s shirt and the other taking a fistful of his hair. Kit went rigid with shock as their mouths met. He had never imagined what it would really be like to be kissed like this—the softness of lips contrasting with the scrape of mustaches and the harsh hardness of teeth. Kit gave a broken gasp at the flicker of a tongue against his lips. With a groan he opened his mouth. Griffin tasted of brandy and heat. The feel of him, hard against Kit’s betraying body, was so good, the kiss demanding yet sweet. It was the most marvelous thing that had ever happened. His hands opened and were on Griffin’s back holding him close, closer, as Kit began to kiss him back and—suddenly, it was the worst thing. Far worse than Gasson’s shameful attempt at intimacy, because that had been vile and hateful but this…this wasn’t. Kit couldn’t bear that.

  He burst out of the captain’s cabin, scalp stinging and shirt gaping where he had torn himself free, and stormed up onto the deck. Two of the crew were sitting by the tiller, sharing a bottle and murmuring quietly to each other. Lewis and Protheroe, their heads close together, looked up, and Protheroe smiled as though he was about to speak. Kit flung himself at the ratlines and swarmed up them as far as he could go, hating the thought that they must have heard his final exchange with their captain.

  “But you can’t run away,” Griffin had said, his grasp on shirt and hair still tight. “Not from this. Ignoring it will only make you unhappy. Admit it, Kit. I do. They are harsh names, certainly, but better than the alternative.”

  “What?” Kit had gasped. “Sodomite?”

  “Better that than hypocrite.” Griffin had smiled.

  “I’m not like you.” Kit groaned as he remembered and ached for that kiss. The strength of Griffin, the powerful grip of his hands. “I swear it. I’m not. I don’t want you. I don’t.”

  Chapter Nine

  Few secrets could be kept on a small sailing ship packed with a crew who, for the most part, had little to do but gossip. Especially if the secret had been shouted aloud within earshot of two garrulous Welshmen.

  “Funniest thing I ever saw,” Protheroe said to his messmates. “Damn me if it wasn’t. Our Kit was up that mast like a treed cat. Only came down because he needed to piss and didn’t think he’d make the side from the masthead.”

  “I would,” Lewis stated proudly.

  “That’s because you have a long nine, me dear, but the lad only has a little swivel gun, bless his heart.” Protheroe spoke with a total lack of concern that Kit was “sleeping” in his hammock just a few paces away.

  Kit couldn’t think of anything he could do other than keep his eyes closed and his breathing even. He could hardly challenge Protheroe as a liar when nothing he had said was untrue—apart from maybe the bit about the swivel gun, because there was no way Protheroe could know.

  “Oh aye?” Maxwell, a short and cheerful Scot, had been sold as an indentured servant after getting mixed up in the 1715 rebellion. He certainly wasn’t a fire breathing Jacobite, so Kit suspected he had just followed the wrong leader. “How’d you find that out then? Do you know about this, Lewis?”

  “Of course.” Lewis sounded as though he was grinning. “After the storm, me and my carwr helped the captain pick Kit up and put him to bed. Denny wanted to mop the floor in the cabin, and he was sleeping in a puddle. Couldn’t not look, could we?” He must have made some kind of gesture because there was a snuffle of laughter.

  “The poor lad had been cold for a very long time,” Protheroe pointed out kindly, then his voice changed. “Look sharp, everyone. Here comes Wigram.”

  A very useful warning. Kit was prepared when a hand grabbed the edge of his hammock and tipped it, and he was able to land on his feet. He had the presence of mind to yawn and look shocked as Wigram snapped, “You’re wanted on deck,” and rounded off the order with a couple disgusting suggestions about why Kit might be needed.

  Kit ignored him and pulled on his shirt.

  Barbuda was just a smudge on the horizon, and the Africa was making sail with her bowsprit pointing a little west of south.

  “Kit,” O’Neill hailed him. “Do you know Isla Aves? We need a course for it. Quick as you like.”

  “West-sou’west from Antigua,” Kit said. “I’ll go get the exact readings now. We look to be—what? Five miles south of Barbuda? What speed?”

  “Five miles. Six knots,” O’Neill said. “And Kit, the captain said I should give you this, and it’s to be used only for the purpose for which it was made.”

  Kit took the waxed paper packet, feeling the razor weigh heavy in his hand. “Thank you,” he said to O’Neill, hoping his anger didn’t show in his face or sound in his voice.

  Kit headed down to the chartroom. How dare the man think I might take the coward’s way out. But of course the captain did dare, and had dared far more than that, and none of it would Kit forgive. He opened the chartroom door as far as it would go and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Once he could see he sorted out the correct chart. The one he judged to be most up to date was French and had been burned all down one edge. A useful reminder of where he was and why on no account he could stay there.

  It took a little time to plot their position and to extend a line from there due south toward Antigua then southwest from a point where Antigua would just be visible. That should take them south of Nevis and from there they could take another bearing for the island.

  He assumed it was a rendezvous. The island was scarcely more than an outcropping of coral, a rough oval of blinding white sand with some scrubby trees and vegetation at its heart. Miss it and there was nothing but sea for miles until you reached the Spanish Main.

  Lands rich in silver and gold.

  Kit considered that for a moment, tapping the points of the compasses against his lips then altered the course half a point to the west. That would take them closer still to Nevis and the English naval base. How much help that would be he had no idea but…

  “Sail!” The shout from above, followed by a rush of feet, brought Kit to the door of the chartroom, but h
e halted as the cabin door opened and the captain stepped out, checking the priming on one of his pistols. He too halted when he saw Kit, then nodded and thrust the pistol into a fold of his sash.

  “Stay below,” he ordered, sneering as he added, “I wouldn’t want your delicate sensibilities to be offended.” He ran up the stairs, and Kit heard him shouting orders as he reached the deck.

  The sudden shocking boom of a gun brought back a vivid mental image of the master of the Hypatia shredded and splashed along her deck, and Kit ran for the stairs too.

  Ahead of them a small vessel, similar to the Bonito in size and shape, had spread its wings and was flying to the south. Africa was giving chase and gaining steadily. The gun boomed again. A spout of water went up off the boat’s starboard bow, and she rocked and lost way. The crew of the Africa cheered. They were arming themselves and readying the boats. For once nobody was loafing and most of the faces bore excited grins.

  “Kit. Mr. Penrose!” Davy Forrest approached, pale faced. “What shall we do? They’re going to take that little ketch.”

  “I don’t know,” Kit murmured. “I don’t think we can stop them. We might be able to stop any killing. Just…don’t board the ship. Refuse if you have to. Our business is to sail the Africa—no more than that. Witnesses on the Hypatia will say we were taken unwillingly, but that will count for nothing if you’re seen to take part in pillaging a ship. You get yourself below, out of sight.”

  “What about you?” Davy asked, edging toward the stairs.

  “I have something to do,” Kit said and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning to look for the captain.

  Valliere was on the tiller with the captain near at hand, supervising the lowering of a boat.

  “Captain,” Kit said, his heart beating in his throat. “This ketch. What do you intend?”

  Griffin scowled at him, obviously a busy and preoccupied man who had just been asked a stupid question. “We are pirates, Kit,” he said. “We are going to stop her and see what cargo she has. If it’s of use to us, we will take it. That’s what pirates do. And if I remember correctly I ordered you to stay below. Go down to the chartroom immediately or I’ll chase you up the mast again.”