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On A Lee Shore Page 13


  Valliere grinned at Kit and nodded to the stairs. “Go on,” he advised. “We don’t want to risk being left with no sailing master.”

  “Now,” Griffin snapped. “Lewis, toss Mr. Penrose down the aft stairs and shut the hatch on him until I say otherwise.”

  “Duw, bachgen,” Lewis growled as he grabbed Kit’s arm. “Get you down. We’ve more to do than ensure you’re safe.”

  He didn’t toss Kit down the stairs but marched him firmly to their head then gave him a shove. His grip was such that Kit’s arm was numb; fighting and failing to break free would be even worse a loss of dignity than compliance.

  On the stairs he stopped and looked back, moving aside a little so Davy could join him. Above, at the masthead, the black flag streamed, snapping out its warning. The Africa was spilling the wind from her sails, and they could just make out another mast nearby. The other ship would be right under their guns.

  Sure enough there were shots, the sounds flat in the hot air, but they were musket fire from the men in the rigging, and they brought faint yells of alarm from the other ship.

  Kit and Davy could follow most of what was happening just from the sounds they heard. The long boats pulled away, and the men still on board the Africa shouted and howled, brandishing their weapons. They kept up the ferocious racket for maybe half a glass then the boats came back and within ten minutes, the Africa was underway again.

  There was a good deal of laughter, and Denny appeared at the top of the stairs wearing a large straw hat.

  “You can come up now,” he said. “Come an’ see what we got!”

  “That’s a fine hat, Denny,” Kit said as he climbed the stairs and was rewarded by a grin as Denny grabbed his sleeve to haul him up the last couple of steps.

  Kit looked back along their wake and saw the little ship calmly making sail to resume its journey. One of the crewmembers even waved.

  “Look,” Denny said. “Look what we got!”

  As booty went it wasn’t that impressive, but everyone seemed pleased with it. A stickily oozing sack, Kit could smell the sweet, musky scent of the sugar from where he was standing, and two large nets full of lemons. Saunders was on one knee beside them, knife in hand to slit the fastening and was inspecting them for freshness.

  “These will do very nicely,” he said passing a half dozen to Pollack. “Ah—Davy, Kit, will you help me take the rest below?”

  Davy didn’t hesitate, grinning as he picked up the sack by the ears, so Kit stepped forward as well and took up a net in each hand.

  “Ingredients for rum punch,” he said to Saunders. “Couldn’t we have as easily bought that on Barbuda?”

  “Ah, Kit, but this way is so much more diverting!” Saunders said.

  In these small seas there was plenty of traffic, and Africa moved among the other vessels like a sparrow hawk through a flock of titmice, her erratic course playing havoc with Kit’s calculations. The third boat they approached seemed no more inclined to resist than the first, but the second turned and ran and was sent reeling by a shot below the waterline. The crew dashed to shift their cargo and so were too busy to fight when the pirates swarmed aboard. The rummaging was brutal and fast and netted a haul of spare clothing and a barrel of axe heads.

  Kit was astonished to see a couple of pirates helping the victims to plug the hole in the hull with pitch and rags and commented on it to O’Neill.

  “Of course we’d care if they sunk,” he said. “If they sink we can’t rob them next month as well.”

  Kit shook his head over this and was still nonplussed when darkness fell and the captain declared a brief celebration. Kit had asked around and got the impression that each attack had been fast and terrifying and sometimes brutal, but no hands had been taken and only those who had resisted had been hurt. That was no excuse for the thefts, of course, but even those had been just parts of the cargo rather than all of it.

  Could they really be doing it for sport?

  Saunders obviously thought so and was in great good humor as he brought Kit a large cup of the eye-watering punch he had gotten Pollack to brew.

  “Drink it,” he ordered. “It will keep you healthy!”

  O’Neill was at the tiller. He greeted Kit with his usual relief and a dash for the side. Kit took over, leaning on the hands-warmed bar of timber to keep the heading and holding his cup in his free hand. Amidships it looked like chaos, but he was fairly certain that a good time was being had by all, including the captain. Tall in his pale linens with the bright silk of his sash picking up the light of the lanterns, he was laughing at something the doctor was saying then looked up and saw Kit watching him, and his smile changed.

  Kit wasn’t surprised, nor was he happy, to see the captain approach a few minutes later. He didn’t speak but poured a little of the punch in his cup into Kit’s then went to stand a few paces away looking back along their wake.

  I won’t look at him, Kit promised himself. That’s what he’s waiting for. He wants me to look at him, wants me to want him, but I won’t.

  So he stared at the compass, then down at the crew in the waist, singing and chivvying Davy and the other musicians to play faster than the dancers could follow. He looked up at the stars, across to the moon and back to check that the sails were evenly filled.

  But every moment he felt the captain’s eyes on him.

  Like a warm hand, like a caress, said that unruly little voice in the back of his mind, and finally Kit couldn’t not look back.

  He’s looking at my mouth, he’s remembering.

  Kit remembered too. It was shameful how his skin prickled with the need to be touched. His loins ached! Kit set his jaw and closed his eyes. When he opened them Griffin had gone.

  Kit awoke with a thumping head. He had a vague memory of sitting with Saunders and accepting another cup of the vicious punch, by then far less lemony and far more rummy, and talking about—natural physics? At least Saunders had talked and Kit had listened and inserted the occasional comment. And he had drunk a lot more punch.

  “Well at least,” he murmured and was shocked to hear that his voice was still slurring. “At least I won’t get scurvy.”

  That piece of wisdom was according to a man who, last night, had been expounding the belief that albatrosses—or maybe albatri, they hadn’t been able to decide—never came to land but mated on the wing, and the female deposited her egg in the downy feathers of the male’s back.

  Groaning, Kit rubbed his eyes, then got out of his hammock because he desperately needed to ‘keep a good watch on the lee-side.’ Shirt thrown over one shoulder, he ambled up on deck, squinting at the combination of brightness and noise. He was half unbuttoned before he noticed the other mast and realized that the yelling he could hear wasn’t on board.

  “Well done,” he said. “A commendation to Lieutenant Christopher Penrose for sleeping through a pirate attack.”

  Matters being pressing, Kit went aft and pissed off the stern. Valliere was at the tiller and gave him a grave good morning.

  “I didn’t expect to see you for a while,” he said. “We have been left leaderless. O’Neill and the captain are still blind drunk. You were, you said, not yourself, and Wigram is too much like himself to be useful.”

  “Ah, unfortunate,” Kit said, blinking at the compass. “So who suggested the Africa stop that—what is that? My vision is a little hazy this morning.”

  “Pirogue,” Valliere said, grinning. “This is a fishing boat, but Wigram decided that there must be better cargo aboard. I believe he was hoping for a woman.” Valliere grimaced. “Wigram is not to be trusted with women.”

  “Is anyone?” Kit’s aim for a lustful leer fell short, and he settled for a grimace. “I wonder if the fisherman would care to sell some fish. Pollack was saying he has a fine way with tunny, and I for one am sick of salt beef.”

  “You could ask,” Valliere suggested, “if you speak French. The man’s English is not good.”

  “Then it will be interesting because
my French is atrocious!”

  Kit obtained some pennies from Pollack, who was flattered and amused by the suggestion that he cook a fish dinner for the crew. The captain of the pirogue was short and stocky with a three-day beard flecked with spittle as he roared his disapproval of the way his belongings were being handled. His crewman was so similar in appearance, merely lacking a couple of decades, that he had to be a son. The crewman just watched glumly as a couple of the pirates turned out the contents of a chest. There was very little there—certainly nothing worth taking. However there was a fine catch of fish in barrels amidships.

  “Monsieur,” Kit called to fishermen and held up a penny. “Combien pour les poissons? Pour quatres—les plus grand?”

  Both fishermen stared at him then the older man replied. Kit’s French may have been poor, but the man made himself understood. Kit could take his penny and—a word Kit didn’t recognize—because surely he knew that the moment Kit gave him a penny one of the other—another strange word—would steal it. Just take the fish—ruin him?—what did they care?

  Laughing, the younger man selected four large tunny and held up four fingers. Kit held up one, and they settled for two. It was a generous payment, but the pirates were enjoying the show and some, perhaps, the memory of a world where fair prices were paid for good merchandise.

  Wigram made his contempt clear when he saw Pollack and Kit with the fish. “Don’t you think I’m eating that muck,” he said. “Penrose, stop loafing and get the ship underway. There’s nothing worth taking there. Pollack, either throw those stinking things over the side or get them out of my sight.”

  Both of them hurried to comply, because Wigram looked as though he too had a headache and was eager to share the misery.

  “Fish for supper,” Kit said to Valliere. “I don’t suppose anyone has any inkling where we are, do they?”

  “Of course,” Valliere said. “We are south of the course you plotted—a little—and a few miles west of Montserrat. I saw the island just after dawn.”

  Kit squinted at the sun, still well astern and nodded. “I need to wash,” he said. “I’m all over fish scales. Do you mind keeping the helm until then?”

  “Go ahead,” Valliere said. “But when you come back I will sleep. It has been a long night.”

  Guilt-stricken, Kit hurried to get a bucket of water to wash in. Shaving was difficult, soap wouldn’t lather in seawater, but he did his best and put on his cleanest shirt, his waistcoat, neatly buttoned, and his shoes before returning to the tiller.

  Valliere nodded. “Far more like a naval officer,” he said. “I had begun to worry that you were lowering your standards.”

  With that he headed for his hammock, leaving Kit with food for thought. True, keeping up appearances was difficult on the Africa, and the captain didn’t seem to bother much. But then the captain had a natural authority that Kit lacked. O’Neill got by on competence and charm. Wigram was just vicious. And Valliere was so plainly a consummate seaman as well as having that grave and pleasant dignity that it seemed natural to defer to him.

  Kit had—what? Ten years training in a Navy most of the crew despised, a random if extensive education in anything any of his previous officers had felt he should know about, and a dubious reputation for manliness, if the captain was to be believed.

  Kit rubbed his smooth-ish chin and made a few resolutions to do with smartening up his appearance.

  Davy Forrest brought him food and drink when he noticed him at the tiller, and they were together when Wigram hallooed from the bows and pointed. “A sail,” he shouted. “A prize. Come on lads.”

  Kit scowled at Davy and kept to their heading. A few moments later Wigram came storming along the deck and put his hand on his pistol when he saw who was at the tiller. “You two,” he said. “I might’a known. Protheroe, come and take the helm. Forrest, get below. You,” he glared at Kit. “You can help me fire the warning shot. You know how to do that, don’t you?”

  “I’m not firing on an innocent trader,” Kit said. “I’ll do all in my power to prevent the ship from running aground, and if we are attacked—by pirates or ships of a hostile power—then, yes, I will fight, but other than that…”

  He had been keeping an eye on Wigram’s pistol, so he almost missed the punch aimed at his face. It stung his ear as it passed, and he hit Wigram as hard as he could in the short ribs.

  “One blow each, honor even,” he said as Wigram staggered back. “I’ll guide the ship—if that’s good enough for the captain it should be good enough for you!”

  Wigram’s hand closed on his pistol again. “I’ll do for you, Penrose, so help me I will,” he swore.

  “Are you twp or something?” Protheroe demanded. “While the captain’s ill, Kit’s all we’ve got between us and the rocks. Send him below. We don’t need him to stop another fishing boat.”

  “It was a lot bigger’n a fishing boat,” Wigram said. “I think—”

  There was a frantic halloo from the bow. “Lily-livered the lot of you,” Wigram spat as he went forward again.

  Kit went forward too and stopped dead as he saw a great ship, hull up, heading straight for them with all her pennants flying, sailing impossibly close to the wind.

  “Navy,” Wigram said. “That’s not the Rose or the Shark. What the fuck is that?”

  The Miranda. Kit gaped at her as a puff of white smoke belched from her prow and a gout of water shot up ahead, a little to starboard. A ranging shot, not a warning. Kit remembered how she had attacked the Bonito. He assumed the crew of the Africa could expect even less mercy.

  “Rouse the captain,” he told Wigram, “and tell the crew to clear for action.”

  “You’ve changed your tune,” Wigram said.

  “I’m not fighting, I’m running,” Kit snapped. He hurried back to Protheroe.

  “Southeast,” he said. “Fast as we can.” He bellowed the necessary orders, sending the more seamanlike hands scurrying. Davy Forrest gave him an appalled look as he dashed past. Kit tried to smile reassuringly but found it difficult.

  From her hull the Miranda should have had a brigantine rig, but almost all her sails were fore and aft. Kit had seen something similar on lateen rigged ships in the Mediterranean. He knew how handy they could be, and how fast.

  “The way I see it,” he said to Protheroe, “is that we do our best to outrun her then try and lose her among the islands. Have we got anyone who knows these waters well?”

  “The best—that would be Valliere,” Protheroe said and shouted to one of the hands to wake him.

  The sails swung and Africa leaned, butting through the waves. On this tack she was fast, but it would take time to turn her. Miranda’s next shot ploughed into the water much closer than the previous one.

  “We’ll do it,” Kit said and slapped Protheroe’s shoulder. “More sail.”

  Ahead was the cloudy smudge that, please God, was Montserrat and, he hoped, escape. He looked up as Africa’s great white wings opened and spread, then back at the Miranda, but she too was putting on more canvas.

  “Damnation.” Griffin, sallow cheeked and red eyed, had arrived on deck. He too looked back and stared. “What is that?” he demanded.

  “I think it’s the Miranda, sir.”

  “Kit!” Griffin glared at him. “We’ll discuss this later. For the moment, more sail. Where’s Valliere? Val, I want you at the helm. Protheroe get Lewis, we’ll be needing you two to take soundings. Kit, get the chart from my table and my glass, then clear my cabin. I’ll be needing those guns. Denny will help. Don’t just stand there, boy.”

  Kit flung himself down the stairs to do his captain’s bidding. No quibbling now about duty.

  Denny’s face was white and his nose running, but he was working manfully when Kit returned to the cabin after delivering the items requested by Griffin.

  “Gotta get these out, see,” he explained to Kit. “Don’t want any of his nice things broke.”

  While Kit unhooked the cot and manhandled it
below, Denny was padding the items in the hanging cupboard with twists of rag. When he stated that he was satisfied, he and Kit lifted it from its brackets and carried it into the chartroom and slid it under the little table.

  “There,” Denny said. “Safe as ’ouses. Now for them guns.”

  Given a routine job to do, Denny impressed Kit with his speed and efficiency. They removed the glass casements from the windows and the legs from the table. With the windows packed in the hollow of the table they set it against the far wall and then rolled up the oilcloth. In the chests under the guns was all the necessary rigging, and Kit connected the tackle to the carriages and the rings set flush into the floor.

  “Come on then,” Denny said and flung himself against the ropes. Working together, the two of them could move the gun an inch at a time. In Kit’s opinion it would have made more sense to get a couple of hands to help, but Denny shouted at him when he went to call. “Got to be just right,” he said. “Just right for the captain, you’ll see.”

  They only had to move each gun about eighteen inches, but Kit was soaked with sweat by the time Danny allowed it was ‘just right.’ There was a rack of shot under the window—now a large rectangular gun port offering a good view of the Miranda, who was coming along like the thoroughbred she was.

  She was close enough now for Kit to be able to see the figures on her deck, specks as yet, but clear where he hadn’t been able to make them out before. She hadn’t shot again, and Kit wondered if it was because she was hoping to get close enough to grapple or maybe because the captain wanted to get broadside on and pound Africa to bits at his leisure. Either way the sloop was outmatched, either way she and the men in her were doomed.

  Whenever Kit had thought about escape, he had assumed that he would leave Africa and her crew to go about their nefarious business. He had never considered that he might be rescued—that the ship might be taken, the crew imprisoned, tried, and hanged as the pirates they were. Just the thought of it put his heart in his throat.