On A Lee Shore Read online

  “Be nice… Yes, Denny, we can sing, but first tell me what you mean.” Kit put his hand on Denny’s arm to still him. “Why does the captain need me to be nice to him?”

  “Because,” Denny said. “Now let’s sing, ’cause I’m happy and you’re going to be cleaning my shoes for a whole fucking month!” He grinned hugely as he began his favorite song about the Lowlands, Lowlands, Low.

  Kit sang along until Denny got thirsty and went to look for a drink. Kit packed the backgammon board away to return it to Saunders and also to ask a question.

  “I see you got soundly thrashed,” Saunders said. He was back in his little cabin, checking over his medicine chest, and the place was sharp with the scent of crushed herbs and alcohol. “Denny is a phenomenon. Some things he does excellently well, others—hopeless. Did you bet? Don’t lie. People always do bet despite my advice. What did you lose?”

  “I am going to be spending some of each day cleaning Denny’s shoes,” Kit said, smiling. Then, feeling a little as though he was picking a scab that might be better left undisturbed, he added, “He also said something most strange. He said I have to be nice to the captain of the ship?”

  Saunders tilted his head. “Indeed? Can you not do it? I have always found the man to be firstly humane, secondly intelligent, thirdly well read, fourthly attractive, fifthly—a fifthly escapes me for the moment, but I am sure I will capture it in time. Surely to engage his interest would not be too onerous a duty.”

  “Engage his— What, sir, are you suggesting?” Kit stared at him, outraged. “Despite what rumors you may have heard, I am not in the habit of prostituting myself to senior officers.”

  “I merely intended to imply that the captain might appreciate the company of a kindred spirit.” Saunders bowed to Kit to emphasize the considerable compliment. “It distresses me to think what your life must have been to cause you to leap to such a conclusion. Truly I am sorry for you, Kit, if you have that uncomfortable supposition always in the forefront of your mind. It must make your life very difficult.

  “Unless, of course, the captain’s behavior has been such to suggest he might welcome that kind of liaison.” Saunders’s smile had an element of impatience about it that made Kit feel very young. “But in my experience, people prefer more joy and less self-consciousness in their lovers, of either sex, so you have even less to worry about.”

  The sense that he was being insulted far more than he was being reassured robbed Kit of words for a moment. He could, of course, tell the doctor how Griffin had first baited him then kissed him, but he dreaded the knowing look in Saunders’s eye if he noticed Kit’s color wasn’t entirely due to outraged embarrassment. In fact he could feel the heat building in his cheeks now. He took a deep breath and retreated to a stance of offended politeness.

  “If he had—though I’m not saying he did,” he said, “it would surely be folly to dig myself into an even deeper hole than I already inhabit. To throw off the undeserved mantle of pirate must be my first concern. I certainly don’t want to cloud the issue further with any other capital crimes. The captain’s state of mind is none of my concern.”

  There was a moment’s silence as Saunders’s lips thinned. “Oh go away,” he said with a sigh. “You’re a dear boy, Kit, when you aren’t being a sanctimonious and self-righteous little prig, but I’ve really had enough of you for today.”

  “But—” Kit started, shocked.

  “Out,” Saunders said, turning back to his bottles, and Kit did the only thing he could under the circumstances.

  * * *

  The long day was drawing to its close when Kit stepped out along the crowded deck to try and find a quiet place to think. This was difficult. Even with the depleted crew the deck was busy. Some hands were skylarking in the rigging, no refuge there. Below was no better—as soon as he set foot in the fo’c’sle he could hear lustful groans and the squeak of a hammock under stress. Kit found a corner under the barrel of a long nine and settled down to take stock.

  He would have been the first person to admit that he wasn’t much of a thinker. In his profession introspection could be a dangerous thing—dangerous both for his person and his ship. It was far better to accept orders and carry them out to the best of one’s ability. If along the way one had the chance to show one’s mettle, to use a little initiative, fair enough, but generally one’s superiors knew best. That that held true in the world outside the Navy was also self-evident. It stood to reason that if schoolmasters, parsons, and justices did not deserve their positions, the Good Lord would not have allowed them to remain in them. Doctors too.

  So Saunders’s dismissal of Kit’s justifications was both annoying and unsettling. There were rules. If Kit abided by them his body might, unfortunately, come to harm, but at least his soul would not. He really couldn’t see Saunders’s objection to that.

  It seemed hard that there was nobody for him to talk to about this problem—that the captain of the ship appeared to want to entice him into committing a crime that, theoretically, could get them hanged. And, to be honest, it scared him more than hurricanes that he was half inclined to accept the invitation.

  Kit didn’t want to hang. He had seen hangings aplenty and, while he accepted their necessity, found them distressing and was disgusted by the bestial pleasure with which the crowd greeted each anguished twitch of the criminal. He was saddened by the fact that sometimes an innocent was convicted and punished, but he had never before questioned that the man, or woman, in the noose might have been punished for a crime that should not be a crime at all. If a man stole a loaf, he hanged. If he stole a loaf to feed his family, he hanged. If a man took a woman against her will, he deserved to hang. If two men, two sailors—he thought of Lewis and Protheroe proudly arm in arm, earrings bobbing—were caught showing their mutual affection, the admiralty decreed that they should hang. There was no leeway in the law with theft, just as there was no leeway with sodomy. Both were wrong and upon both fell the full wrath of the law.

  But was that fair?

  The Bible placed an equal ban on the sin of Onan, and there wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t have hemp around his throat if they tried to enforce that. In most cases as frequent offenders.

  He shook his head. He had to get off the ship. As soon as possible, by any means possible—but preferably not in Tortuga.

  Even from the anchorage he could hear the revelry in the town. Music, shouts, faint screams, occasional shots. It sounded as though a good time was being had by all. Kit envied them neither the rum nor the whores—just their ability to grab pleasures with both hands with no guilt or recriminations afterward. He wished he could do that. He really wished he could.

  Griffin’s mouth had been hot against his lips, his hands strong, his body hard.

  Kit groaned aloud as he turned away from the lights of the shore. Miserably he took himself off to his hammock, making himself think only of the morrow when they would leave and he might hope to achieve another sort of release.

  They had to spend another night in that hellhole. The captain had gone ashore with the first wave of crew but was brought back beastly drunk at noon the following day. By then Kit was furious at the delay, but when he saw Griffin his anger was replaced by worry. He formed one of the party who carried the captain to his cabin to put him in his cot. Griffin was pale, sweating, red eyed and filthy. He looked nothing like a man who had been having fun. Kit’s heart turned over with sorrow for him, but he steeled himself to do what needed to be done and sent Denny to fetch the doctor.

  “I didn’t think I’d find you here,” Saunders said when he entered to find Kit placing the captain’s spattered clothing in a bucket.

  “There’s a job to be done,” Kit said, accepting a pair of stockings from Denny and adding them to the bucket. “So I will do it. Excuse me.”

  Kit helped Denny wash the clothing as well as they could and hung it to dry. He also set Pollack to heating fresh water.

  “A bucketful?” the cook asked.

/>   “No, a tub full. The captain needs a bath. You haven’t been close enough to smell him,” Kit added in response to Pollack’s shocked expression.

  “A bath,” the cook grumbled. “It takes all the strength out of a man.”

  “And stops him turning the stomachs of his crew,” Kit said. “There’s no particular rush. He’ll be unconscious for hours yet. But tomorrow morning for definite.”

  Pollack shook his head but stoked up the galley fire anyway.

  There was half a tub the hands used for washing their clothes on their infrequent sprucing up days. Kit was able to get it down the stairs without too much difficulty but had to remove the cabin door from its hinges to get it into the cabin. Denny was entranced by the whole idea. He brought out fine linen towels and French-made soaps while Griffin snorted in his bunk.

  “He’ll be awhile yet,” Denny said, looking Griffin over affectionately. He pulled the blanket up over Griffin’s bare shoulder, only to expose a large well-shaped foot and a tanned shin flecked with cinnamon-colored hair.

  Kit looked at the foot, uncomfortably aware that for a moment, before he got them back under control, his eyes had followed the line of blanket-draped calf and thigh up to the curve of haunch and waist. He felt ashamed of himself, as though he had committed an assault.

  “Why does he drink so much?” he murmured.

  “I dunno,” Denny said. “Something to do, isn’t it? Let’s go an’ sing.”

  Kit blew his cheeks out with exasperation at Denny and himself as he followed the little man up on deck.

  Apparently, Griffin awoke sometime after midnight in a foul temper, but Denny and Saunders did manage to persuade him to get in the bath. However, first he sent men ashore to retrieve the rest of his crew and deliver a message to Jago Stockley. Kit found out about all that when Denny delivered a summons for Kit, a peremptory invitation in the grand manner.

  “Mr. Penrose is requested to attend upon Captain Griffin in the great cabin at his earliest convenience.” It was an order worthy of an Admiral of the Blue, even if it was delivered in Denny’s husky croak. So Kit hurried to comply, glad that he had used some of the time in port to neaten himself up. If Griffin would be washed, brushed up, and in clean fresh clothes, Kit felt he needed to be as tidy as possible.

  Denny grinned at Kit as he opened the cabin door. His face was clean too, likewise his shirt. It made a considerable improvement.

  “Mr. Penrose, sir,” he said over his shoulder, then stepped aside.

  Kit’s heart sank. Even before he stepped into the room he had heard the slop of the bath water, so once he was inside he kept to attention and kept his eyes on his own reflection in the cabin windows.

  “Sir?” he said.

  “Ah Kit,” Captain Griffin said. “Formal as ever. Sit down, boy, do.”

  The only chair had been placed by the door, so Kit parted his coattails to prevent creasing and settled there with his hands on his knees. This placed him squarely in front of Griffin, who looked at him with a grin and sipped his brandy.

  Griffin’s hair was darkened with damp, clinging to his forehead and shoulders. Those parts of him that weren’t sun-browned were now a clean and healthy pink from the heat of the water. He had propped his arms on the edge of the tub, and his legs, too long for the cramped space, were resting with his knees over the other edge, feet dripping. His eyes were clear now, if a little red-rimmed, and bright with wicked humor.

  “Thank you for arranging for my bath,” Griffin said. “Denny, get Mr. Penrose a drink. He looks like he needs one.”

  Kit raised a hand. “No, thank you, sir, Denny. I’m due on watch shortly. What can I do for you, sir?”

  Griffin raised his eyebrows. “No time for pleasantries? Very well.” He drained his glass, put it down, then rested his elbows on the tub edge again and stirred the surface of the water with his fingers. Ripples slopped against his belly. Kit looked away.

  He could see himself reflected in the window—clean shirt and waistcoat, uniform coat only a little faded, the buttons still bright, hair combed, curls not as well ordered as a perruque but good enough, cheeks neatly shaved—a credit to the service, if he hadn’t looked like he might bolt at any second. He took a deep breath and tried to look more professional.

  “So,” Griffin said. Kit suspected that Griffin had been waiting for that relaxing breath. Major Griffin must have been a good mentor to his nervous subalterns.

  “Your orders,” Griffin continued. “Obviously I don’t want to make sail with only half my crew aboard, but I can’t afford to wait much longer. I’ve sent word that they have until dawn. I’ll fire a gun then, and they have until the next gun—a glass should do it—to get themselves back on board. Most of them will be reeling drunk and useless, but I would think a man of your experience could sail the Africa with a small crew.”

  “Five men should do it.” Kit nodded. “If we don’t have to man the guns.”

  Griffin shrugged and the water slopped again. “It is to be hoped that we don’t,” he said. “Denny, will you pass me that chart, please.”

  Kit found it easier to look at Griffin now they were discussing matters of business. He even found no difficulty in going to the edge of the tub and dropping to one knee to study the chart, following the course delineated by Griffin’s water-shriveled finger. It was a difficult course that would try the mettle of Africa and her men and test the abilities of her navigators to the utmost.

  Kit nodded, excited by the challenge. “I understand,” he said. “How long do we have?”

  “Not long,” Griffin warned. “We’ve wasted time coming here, but the crew needed it and so did Jago. He needs to be seen to be La Griffe. He enjoys the fiction, enjoys the attention. I enjoy the prospect that one day, if I feel so inclined, I could stop this and settle down as a gentleman planter, or some such.”

  “Tobacco,” Kit said with a grin. “That’s the big thing. There’s an increasing fashion for it at home. It calms the nerves and is an aid to health.”

  “And it grows like a weed in the islands,” Griffin agreed. “We could enter into partnership, Kit.”

  “A pleasant ambition,” Kit said, enjoying the fantasy. “I even have a contact in London who would, I’m sure, be delighted to handle that end of the business for us.”

  “Oh, who is that?” Griffin asked, tapping the map with his forefinger.

  “Tristan Polgerran,” Kit said. “He is in the Navy Office but has fingers in many pies.”

  “Polgerran, Tregarne,” Griffin smiled. “Penrose. You know what they say—‘by Pol, Tre, and Pen, you may know Cornishmen’ and that seems to hold true in your case. We West Country folk must stick together. Very well, that’s settled. Here’s to a life of respectability. Denny, my glass. You will take a drink with me now, Kit?”

  Kit drained the glass that Denny had ready. “I’ll always drink to respectability, sir,” he said. “I think I might have a knack for it.”

  As Griffin set the chart aside, Kit flushed—he could see far too much for his peace of mind.

  Griffin laughed. “Go on, Kit,” he advised. “You have much to do before we sail, and I still need to sober up.” He picked up a rag and dipped it in the water and applied it to a ball of soap. “Unless you’d like to join me, of course?”

  The door was just a couple of paces away. Kit had the door open before it occurred to him that such an abrupt flight was undignified. So he paused and turned back.

  Griffin’s hair was drying in tangles, and his teeth were white in his brown face. Kit took that picture to his heart, wanting to remember it forever—along with the paleness of the skin of his belly and the soft drift of hair under the water.

  “I think not, sir.” Kit grinned. “Because, from what I could see, the water must be rather cold.”

  “Hah! Kit!” Griffin drew back his hand, and Kit just had time to slam the door before something, he suspected the rag, splatted against it. Kit let out a deep breath and headed for the stairs, hearing Denny�
�s murmur and Griffin’s laughter. He felt as though, for a moment, he had held his own.

  Chapter Eleven

  Once they had rounded the easternmost tip of Hispaniola the real sailing started. East and south was their goal. Initially Kit had thought they would strike out boldly across the open center of the Caribbean but had soon been put right by Wigram.

  “Oh no you don’t, bully-boy,” he said. “You keep to the sea lanes. How else we going to find prizes?”

  This saddened Kit and seemed to be causing Griffin some irritation as well. Kit felt he might have overruled Wigram and his coterie if it hadn’t been for the wholehearted agreement of the crew of the Garnet.

  Jago said as much during one of their frequent captains’ meetings. To these Kit was invited with either O’Neill or Valliere, depending on who was available, and Campbell, the Garnet’s sailing master. He was a tall, fresh-faced Scot with red hair that stood up like a dandelion clock, he said, if he let it grow. So he shaved his head and wore a marvelous black perruque that clashed with his orange eyebrows. He had been on an East Indiaman, learning his trade, when Jago Stockley and the Garnet had hove into view and he had, he said, never looked back.

  He nodded as Jago said, “How are we going to keep the hands sweet if they’ve nothing to do? When the rum gets short they’ll be plotting. You know they will. This isn’t the Navy where you can keep them in line with a flogging or two.” Jago looked at Kit. “That’s how it’s done, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Kit said. “Well, yes, in the worst cases—but generally the men serve out of patriotism and loyalty to the ship and her captain.” He scowled until the laughter died down and leaned away as Stockley tried to ruffle his hair.

  “Oh Kit,” Griffin said, grinning broadly as he charged all their glasses. “You’re as good as a play. That may work in the Navy but not here. Panem et circenses, that’s the way to go. So, it is agreed then? We skim the edges of the shipping lanes and stop what we find, but at the first sign of the Miranda’s topsails—”