On A Lee Shore Page 14

  Saunders, O’Neill, Valliere, Lewis, and Protheroe were all good men in their own way. Denny? Better a pirate than chained to a wall in some Bedlam. And the captain of the ship—Kit suddenly couldn’t bear to think of all that ferocious intelligence cut short by the noose.

  The sound of feet on the stairs snapped him out of that uncomfortable consideration, and Denny poked him in the side. “We got to get powder now,” he said.

  “Well done!” the captain said as he entered the room. “Excellent work, Denny! Now for some charges, please. Kit—you’ll be in the way. Go sail the ship for me, lad. Valliere will tell you what to do. No arguments.”

  “No, sir,” Kit said and vacated the room to allow the gun crews to get inside.

  On deck there was chaos of an orderly kind. Men crouched in the shelter of the railings, armed to the teeth, shouting bloodcurdling threats at the pursuing ship. Theirs was a difficult, heartbreaking job. They had to wait, trusting that the ship would carry them to safety.

  As Kit arrived at the tiller, Valliere sent Protheroe running for the bows and bellowed for silence. He pointed to one of the hands. “I need you, you two, and you there on the sheets. The rest of you be quiet. We’re going to tack. Kit, bring her about. Luff. Let’s see how close to the wind that salope can sail.”

  The Africa’s empty sails flapped, then they filled again and she was off. Valliere raised the glass and looked at points on the distant land. “We’re here,” he said lowering the glass and pointing to the chart. “Near as I can make out. Can she take another point, Kit?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Valliere,” Kit said and leaned on the tiller.

  Valliere nodded. “That will do,” he said. “That ship, what does she draw?”

  “I don’t know,” Kit admitted. “But it can’t be less than eight feet. Not with the weight of guns on her.”

  “Then we might have a chance,” Valliere murmured. They both flinched as the Miranda’s guns spoke again and water fountained. It was closer still.

  “Five fathoms,” Protheroe shouted from the starboard bow.

  “Less,” Lewis yelled, and Kit looked ahead and saw the deep blue of the ocean paling.

  “Dieu m’sauf,” Valliere muttered. “Steer for that, Kit.”

  “Amen,” Kit agreed. Sandbank or rock, at this speed it could tear the keel out of the Africa.

  It did neither, but she did strike it on her left side, throwing every man from his feet. Juddering, she scraped past and wallowed on the other side. Kit, winded, scrambled back to the tiller. Precious seconds passed as they got her underway again, and that was enough for the Miranda to close. The next shots threw up water to the larboard and just astern, spattering the deck. Kit gasped at the shock of the cold of it.

  From below a shout went up. Both cannons in the great cabin roared. Smoke billowed, blanking out Kit’s view of the Miranda. Ears ringing, he worked his jaw and checked the compass. He wanted to look back. Miranda would be reloading.

  Valliere had jarred his wrist again and was holding it as he got to his feet. “South, Kit,” he said. “Take her south around that point. See if we can keep her at bay with the reef.”

  Africa answered more slowly this time, as the sailors grappled with the sheets to trim the sails. She made way gently over the pale green water—Kit could even seen the ripple of the sand on the sea bed and shadows of fish fleeing before the larger shadow of Africa’s hull.

  Miranda’s next shot kicked up water just beyond them.

  “Bracketed, par Dieu,” Valliere whispered, and he and Kit ducked down behind the transom as another gun spoke. Africa lurched, her boom swinging. There were screams. Kit looked up as Valliere leaped to his feet and ran forward. MacGregor, the big Scot, flopped like a fish, hands holding a bloody mess where his guts had been, until blood burst from his mouth and he fell back and stilled. A section of rigging where he had been standing hung in a hopeless tangle.

  “Get up, get up,” Valliere yelled, grabbing men, shoving ropes into their hands and shouting at them to pull. Hasty repairs were being made even as Kit counted off the seconds until Miranda would be able to bring more guns to bear. She was turning, showing one shoulder, and Kit heard a crackle of musket fire. One spent ball did bounce along the deck, but the range was too long and the others did no harm. But for the long guns the range was fine. Africa was almost still in the water—an unmissable target.

  The deck shook under his feet as Africa’s guns belched smoke and fury. Smoke swirled, making him cough, but he heard a cheer from the bow where they could still see.

  Another gun boomed, and another, and another, but the Africa was not their aim. Tan topsails were silhouetted against the sky beyond the point as, still out of sight of the Africa, another ship challenged the Miranda.

  Smoke cleared. Kit saw a hole appear in Miranda’s mainsail. The elegant tracery around her figurehead was already marred, but she was turning, turning, the black squares of her gun ports like squinting eyes.

  Then Africa’s sails caught the wind and she was away, skimming through the shallow water toward the point and her savior. Miranda’s bow guns boomed again, one ball passing close enough to Kit for him to hear the whistle of it. Water kicked up, washing the deck pink instead of red.

  One last shot from the Africa’s guns and the Miranda’s main sail split. Another shot hammered home from the other ship then there she was, rounding the point—the Garnet, bristling with guns with her crew shrieking welcome in the rigging. Kit stared at her in awe. She looked appalling, slovenly, rigging all over the place. He had never seen anything lovelier.

  Chapter Ten

  “You’ve the devil’s own luck. We’d have had the Garnet beached for careening if you’d been much later.” The other half of La Griffe belched and scratched his belly with his hook. Kit had now been properly introduced and, while grateful to the man, had to admit that Jag Shockley was as uncouth as they came. “But when we heard the Africa’s guns we thought we’d better take a look-see. You owe me, Griffin,” Shockley grinned. “You owe me plenty.”

  It had been a long and active day, and now the danger was over, Kit’s hangover had returned with a vengeance. From the shadowed circles under Griffin’s eyes, Kit wasn’t the only one suffering the effects of too much punch, but there were others suffering far worse. The ball had torn through just forward of midships; three men had been killed outright, and another two weren’t expected to last the night. The two ships were sailing companionably across an open sea glowing with late afternoon light. Miranda had withdrawn in good order. At least that is what Kit would have written in his logbook, had he been required to keep one. Garnet’s guns might have been old fashioned, but there were a lot of them and they were heavy. Daunted between Garnet’s armament and Africa’s accuracy and proximity to shoals, Miranda had fled to the west, both pirate ships speeding her on her way with another shot or two, though what effect they may have had, Kit hadn’t been able to tell. Safe now, Griffin had taken the boat across to the Garnet, insisting that Kit and O’Neill accompany him.

  “Give me a drink, Jag,” the captain said, sounding weary. “How did you weather the storm?”

  “By the skin of our teeth,” Shockley said. “You were right about her being foul. She wallowed like a cow. We got pushed way south of Guadeloupe and were working our way back north when we spotted that cove and thought we’d pull her out there.”

  “On Montserrat,” Griffin pointed out. “There are soldiers on Montserrat.”

  “So there are,” Shockley said with a chuckle. “So I sent a boat round to beg permission for an honest trader to put in and repair storm damage. Isaac and Probert went. They look respectable. And they took a couple of barrels of gin as a sweetener. The major was very decent about it all and was sad that he couldn’t offer help, but since the storm had blown the roof off his barracks, he had his hands full.”

  “I’m not the only one with the devil’s own luck. So, where to now?” Griffin asked. Jago was filling his mug with brandy, a
nd he was already looking a bit better. “I assume you don’t still want to go to Isla Aves? As a rendezvous it’s reasonable, but there’s not exactly much there.”

  “I want to go anywhere there’s no bloody nosy Navy ships spoiling my sport,” Stockley said. “Just what kind of rig was that anyway? Fore and afts on all masts and those little bits of topsails? But she was fast—fast as a greased whore down a flagpole. Strikes me that Navy, here, might know a bit more than he’s saying.”

  Kit found himself being pinned by two pairs of eyes as both captains turned to look at him. Stockley smiled, but Griffin’s lips had thinned. He looked impatient, pained, and unprepared to deal with anyone else’s notions of honor.

  “I never saw her rigged,” Kit said. “When she was under construction she looked like a brigantine, though a little narrower in the beam. She’ll have maybe thirty guns.”

  “And some young fire-eater for a captain no doubt. Probably the son of someone important. Maybe even someone you know, Kit?” Griffin’s suggestion was accompanied by a glare.

  “No,” Kit said. “When I left she was still being fitted. And there were captains ashore with twenty years experience, desperate for a berth. The Navy could have chosen anyone.”

  “Whoever he was, we’ll deal with him,” Stockley said. “Nobody’s going to be pleased to have him come along and—and—what’s that thing you say?”

  “Upset the status quo,” Griffin said. “Yes, that would make life very difficult. We must get both ships repaired, and while we do that we can lay some plans. If Miranda is stationed at St. Kitts then I suggest we head north.”

  “Tortuga?” Stockley grinned. “Ah, go on, what can it hurt? We can pick up some prizes on the way then make our plans in comfort. And there’s no chance your boy there will try and jump ship in a nest of pirates,” he added, nodding to Kit. “We can pass the word he’s a navy spy, and if he puts foot ashore they’ll have his bollocks in a warming pan.”

  “Oh, very well, Tortuga,” Griffin said with a sigh. “But I can’t let you have long to carouse.”

  “God, Griffin, you do take all the fun out of pirating. Since when has any man of us kept to a calendar?” Stockley shook his head and called for punch to be made.

  Back on the Africa, Kit supervised the raising and stowing of the boat, then went to the chartroom to look out the charts for Hispaniola. Tortuga was a name everyone had heard but not many of his acquaintance had been there. “A nest of pirates” was the usual description, but Kit had the feeling there was more to it than that. In so far as they were capable of organizing themselves, the pirates in Tortuga had made a town to their liking, which meant gin and rum shops and brothels, he assumed. The crew was looking forward to it. Kit had reservations.

  He’d be expected to stay on the Africa, which was fine. But what if Griffin stayed to keep him company again? What then?

  He pored over the chart, making a mental note of the route and trying to ignore the shameful little twist of excitement in his gut. It was wrong—indecent—to feel that deep shudder of pleasure at the memory of Griffin’s kiss. It would not happen again.

  “There you are.”

  Kit jumped and jabbed the compasses into his thumb. “Sir,” he said, looking over his shoulder. He didn’t dare turn fully, not until the excitement aroused by his memory had died away. “Just looking out the appropriate charts for—for our course to Tortuga.”

  Griffin didn’t say anything at first. His hand was on the door frame, and he was examining a dark scratch across one knuckle. “You did well today,” he said. “You followed my orders without question and acted on your own initiative to good purpose. I…I can live with that. I will not demand more loyalty from you than you can, in honor, give.”

  Kit set the compasses down and turned. In that small space they were half a pace apart, and last time they had been this close to each other—he forced the memory away again.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I will give what I can—in honor—both loyalty to the ship and to your authority.”

  Griffin let out a long sigh. “Damn my authority,” he said and took Kit’s hand, turning it to look at the little wound in his thumb.

  The strong grip was as Kit remembered, likewise the crease between the dark brows, the slight push of Griffin’s lower lip as he raised his other hand to wipe a bead of blood away. Warmth flooded Kit’s veins, his heartbeat in his throat. Half a step, that was all, and they would be chest-to-chest again and Griffin would feel what the dimness of the chartroom hid.

  A little smile just touched Griffin’s lips. “Get that seen to,” he ordered. “And don’t bleed on my charts. Oh, damnation, I need to sleep. Wake me when Pollack has cooked your fish.”

  “I will, sir,” Kit promised, returning the smile.

  Griffin released his hand and nodded, then stepped into his cabin and closed the door.

  * * *

  Kit hadn’t been prepared for Tortuga to be so beautiful or that the harbor was in as good order and business seemed to be going on as calmly as St. Kitt’s or Nevis. But there were differences. For instance, there was no line of tarred corpses swinging on gibbets to warn potential wrongdoers.

  “Oh, bless his dear heart,” Lewis said when he asked about this. “Did you hear that, Protheroe? Kit wants to know if there are any crimes pirates consider to be capital.”

  “Plundering,” Protheroe said, not even looking up from the boot he was dubbining. “Arson is a capital pastime too.”

  “That—um—wasn’t quite what I meant,” Kit said.

  Lewis and Protheroe were dressed in their best, Lewis sporting a satin coat in the Spanish style cut for a much smaller man, so somewhat the worse for wear around the shoulder seams. Protheroe’s shirt, open all down the front, must have come from the same source. It bore a year’s worth of naval lieutenant’s wages in Brussels lace, neatly mended at the left cuff. They were each wearing one of the same pair of earrings, which made Kit feel uncomfortable at the same time as he was touched and amused.

  “He’s looking at our earbobs, Lew,” Protheroe said with a grin. “Do you want to tell him or shall I?”

  Lewis chuckled, flicking the pendant. It sparkled. “We’re going ashore, see. If there’s…an accident the earbob covers the cost of the burial and, more importantly, the wake. Otherwise they just dump your corpus in the jungle.”

  “But at sea…” Kit began.

  “At sea your mates slip a roundshot into your breeches and send you down to rot in peace. Nice and tidy and out of the way. On shore—well you can’t leave corpuses just lying about, can you? It gets messy.”

  “I’ve thought of a capital crime,” Protheroe said as he pulled on the boot. “Keeping honest pirates talking during their hard-earned drinking times.” He surged to his feet, chest hair bristling through the open front of his lace-trimmed shirt, and reached up to pat Kit’s cheek. “But I’ll let you off because it’s a first offence.”

  Africa and Garnet anchored well off shore. In Barbuda the Africa had been almost stripped of crew. Here they drew lots and twenty men remained aboard. One was Saunders who had, he said, given Griffin a shopping list, but had no desire to be deafened.

  “If you think the crew of the Africa is noisy,” Saunders grumbled, “you should avoid being in a tavern with four or five crews all simultaneously trying to out drink each other. It’s Bedlam!”

  That reminded Kit, and he glanced across to another member of crew who had been deliberately—in fact forcefully—left aboard. Denny was moping by the tiller.

  “They took Denny when they went ashore in Barbuda, so why not here?” Kit asked. It had been painful to hear his protests when they had lifted him out of the longboat.

  “In Barbuda they know him,” Saunders said. “Here—here you can be killed for looking at someone the wrong way, let alone for speaking your mind. Also, there are people who would dearly love to put one over on Griffin. Hurting Denny would do that.”

  Saunders had a large straw hat on hi
s head and a book in his hand that he seemed anxious to get back to. Kit requested the loan of his backgammon board and carried it aft to set it out near the tiller.

  “Denny,” he called. “Do you know how to play this game?”

  Denny gave him a reproachful stare that slowly warmed into pleasure. “He left you behind too,” he said. “Yes—set it up.” He rubbed his hands and cracked his knuckles, his face coming alive once more.

  Saunders had warned Kit not to let Denny wheedle him into playing for money. Not that Kit would have. To fleece an idiot would have been a very dishonorable thing to do. But he saw no dishonor in allowing Denny to bet such small services as shoe cleaning.

  “If I win, you do mine,” Denny said inspecting his own worn but gleaming footwear. “And if you win,” he looked at Kit’s bare feet, “you borrow a pair and I’ll do yours.”

  “I have shoes, Denny,” Kit assured him, “long in need of cleaning too. My dubbin was taken.”

  “I know. I’ve took it,” Denny said. “Let’s play.”

  Of all the skills Denny lacked, backgammon wasn’t one of them. He was a deadly strategic player and won game after game.

  “I run out of shoes,” he crowed after a while. “I’ll have a think what you can do instead.”

  Kit was too amused to be cautious. He pitched into the next game with a reckless enthusiasm that won him a few extra points, but the result was never really in doubt.

  “Damn it, Denny, you won again,” he said. “What shall it be this time? Launder your shirts? Sew buttons on? That’s about the extent of my usefulness with a needle unless you need a sail mended.”

  Denny pursed his lips. “Be nice to my captain,” he ordered. “I don’t want to play anymore. Shall we sing? I’d like to sing.”