On A Lee Shore Page 19

  Campbell didn’t defend his ship as Kit was sure most of the Africa’s crew would do. Instead he smiled and agreed then asked Kit a remarkably naive question about shipworm. It was only later that it occurred to Kit that Campbell’s question had given Kit a moment of authority to make up for the two hours in the cabin. At the time he just answered as fully as he could, complete with spit-drawn diagrams on the railing.

  For the next two days Africa made her way north, proceeding cautiously because, as those who had sailed these waters warned Kit, sandbars and mud banks moved according to the season and to the weather inland. They kept a reliable man in the bow with the lead and another at the masthead to keep an eye open for landmarks. Garnet, keeping well to windward on account of her greater draft, was doing much the same.

  Over this time Kit and Campbell chattered to each other in Spanish, Kit learning a lot and improving his lamentable accent. Also, at Griffin’s orders, Kit had stopped shaving, so he spent more time than he liked scratching the scruffy stubble about his jaw. By dawn of the third day the growth was pronounced enough for Lewis to draw Protheroe’s attention to it.

  “Duw,” Protheroe said, peering close. “You might be right. Lewis, my heart is sore, for our boy is becoming a man. He’ll be demanding to go with whores next.”

  Their laughter attracted the attention of Wigram who looked and sneered but kept his thoughts to himself. Davy Forrest, who had a full set of luxuriant blond whiskers by this time, grinned and twisted the ends of his moustaches into points very much like the captain’s.

  “Don’t you worry about it, Kit,” he said. “Your beard will come in when it’s ready. Pity it’s growing in so wispy, but that will even out in time too. Um…this beard? It’s nothing to do with where we are going, is it?”

  Kit continued to sight the octant, familiar now to his hands as any cross-staff, on the fading pinpoint of light that was Polaris and held his peace about Griffin’s plans.

  That day they sailed on more cautiously, keeping a good watch as before. It was late afternoon when the Garnet signaled and Kit called for Griffin. By the time he had come on deck, Africa’s own watchman was calling down to them.

  “An island,” he shouted. “No, two.”

  Griffin nodded and spread his chart across his thigh. “Yes,” he said. “It appears, Kit, that we are here.” He put his fingertip on the chart. “And as I have no intention of risking my ship in those channels in anything other than full light that gives us enough time to make some preparations. You, Kit, are relieved. You have preparations of your own to make, and I wish you to be properly rested. You know what to do.” With a curt nod of dismissal he turned to consult with Valliere.

  “Well,” Campbell said. “I think we’ve done all we can. So, Kit, I’ll be away to the Garnet to break out the boats.” He looked toward the islands. “All I can say is, rather you than me.”

  Kit shook his head, feeling his cheeks begin to ache from grinning. “You don’t mean that,” he said and laughed as Campbell assured him that he did.

  For the next twelve hours or so Kit was treated to the sight of the pirate crew working with some purpose for once. Normally a good half of them spent their time lazing and squabbling, and drinking if they still had supplies. But now, with their goal almost in view and Griffin’s clear, concise instructions to follow, they achieved a lot in a short time. Kit also followed instructions, and by the time he turned in was tolerably satisfied.

  Denny came to see him as he prepared for bed and grinned like a monkey. “Captain’ll wake you, he says.” Denny beamed. “It’ll be fun. I can wear my pirating coat again. It’s too fine for every day.”

  “It is indeed,” Kit said. “You be careful tomorrow, Denny.”

  “I always am, Mr. Kit,” Denny insisted and took himself off to leave Kit to sleep.

  Or to try to sleep, because there was a lot to think about and, Kit knew, so much could go wrong. He reviewed the plan, making the usual “and if this happens I could do that” additions, but knowing full well that pitfalls were rarely predictable. In the midst of a contingency plan that was becoming more and more complicated, he slipped into dreaming and must have slept soundly because he woke feeling calm and clearheaded and ready to take on the world.

  What had awakened him, though? All was silent, and there was just the hush of the sea and the liquid flutter of moonlight reflected off the water onto the ceiling of the cabin. He blinked in the darkness and stretched.

  “I’m sorry.” Griffin’s voice was as hushed as the sea. He was just a shadow standing close by. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Kit stretched again. “Denny warned me that you would come to wake me,” he murmured. “It’s early.”

  “It will be a long day,” Griffin said. “Soonest started, soonest finished.” He paused and Kit heard him breathe. “If I could take your part today I would, but I am too obviously the Englishman. We can’t afford for them to have a moment’s doubt. O’Neill and Wigram don’t speak Spanish, and Valliere’s authority would be questioned. You can carry this off. I’m using you, Kit, but I wanted to say that I hope you take no hurt from what happens today. It would…grieve me, if you were injured.”

  Griffin had stepped back to allow Kit to get out of the hammock, but as his bare feet touched the oilcloth and he reached for that day’s clothing, Griffin stepped close again.

  “Do you understand me, Kit?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Your health—your well-being—is important to me.”

  The intensity in his voice made Kit feel that some honest response was required. Griffin might be responsible for Kit’s present position but, when he came to think about it, he had been a good friend, an interesting and erudite companion and, if the circumstances had been different, Kit would have taken great joy in their association.

  A very great joy. Pleasure in fact—from touch and closeness despite the laws of God and man.

  He had thought for too long, and Griffin was moving away. Kit let the bundle of clothing fall and put his hand out. He felt the edge of a linen shirt under his palm, cool skin under his fingertips, a strong heartbeat. Before he could draw his hand away it was covered and held in place.

  “Nothing to say, Kit?” Griffin murmured. “Nothing at all?”

  Kit took a deep breath. There it was—the scent of brandy mingled with the warm smell of the man, so enticing that his head fairly spun with it, and he put his free hand on Griffin’s shoulder to steady himself. There was nothing he could say, but he had to try.

  “Your well-being is important to me too,” he said, and it seemed to be the right thing to say. With the ghost of a laugh, Griffin gathered him into his arm to hold him close, their heads cheek to cheek.

  Kit turned until his nose and mouth were muffled by Griffin’s hair and drew in another breath. Anything could happen today—anything at all—and would it hurt, just this once, to feel cared for and to show he cared? A little more and his lips were touching Griffin’s cheek, his beard harsh against his lips.

  “Oh damnation,” Griffin muttered, his breath warm against Kit’s ear. He too turned his head.

  In the silence of the cabin Kit heard the soft crackle as beard merged with beard, then their lips met and his senses were overcome with the taste of Griffin’s mouth. No brandy today, just sweetness and heat, the sharpness of teeth, and the warm thrust of a tongue. Kit grunted his approval and began to kiss back, his fists closing on Griffin’s shirt then opening again to rove down the muscular back. Nothing mattered—not his past, nor the future—all that mattered was the body in his arms and the fire in his belly.

  “Kit! Kit—stop it.” Griffin squeezed him tight, giving a soft regretful groan, then dropped his hands to Kit’s hips to push him back. “We should have done that last night,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I should have come down here an hour ago. God’s teeth, you’re wrecking me, boy. Now,” he pushed Kit again, “go and wreck the Spaniards instead.”

  There was enough light now for Kit to see
his face, the warm smile, the heat in his eyes that grew as he saw that Kit, shameful as it was, was returning it.

  “Yes, sir,” Kit said and began to dress for the masquerade.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Dieu m’sauf,” Valliere whispered. As their boat rounded the rocks, they came in sight of the bay beyond the islands and the ships at anchor there.

  Kit was unable to reply, being too out of breath with rowing, but he stared as well. It reminded him of Spithead, or Portsmouth, except that the huge lofty galleons were tricked out more fancifully than even the most grandiose admiral could afford. He now knew why Griffin had returned from a trip to the masthead and had said, “Well Kit, good luck. I think we’re going to need it.”

  Kit and Valliere were in the smallest of the Africa’s boats with a few Spanish-speaking volunteers. Three bigger boats, two of which they had borrowed from Garnet, followed them, the crew’s backs bowing as the oars dipped. Beyond them, inching her way through the narrow channel at the end of the towing lines, was the Africa, looking as though she had been to hell and back. It hurt to look at her. Normally she was such a graceful seabird.

  “Ready, Kit?” Valliere asked, and Kit took a deep breath and nodded. They cast off the tow, and the little boat leaped forward. Ramon, an aged little pirate borrowed from Garnet, waved and yelled lustily in the bow. Their target was the nearest ship, about a sixth rate, if Kit was any judge, called Ciervo—a nice looking craft. Men were already at the side calling and pointing at Africa.

  A few minutes more and Ramon caught the painter that was tossed down to them.

  “Permission to come aboard?” Kit begged and scaled the side of the ship at the nod from an officer who was looking alarmed.

  In torn and blood-spattered clothing, with a filthy mix of galley fire soot to darken his beard and hair, Kit knew that he looked almost as bad as Africa. The lemon juice that Saunders had squirted into his eyes just before he got into the boat made him look as though he had spent much of the last few hours crying about it.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, bobbing his head and hoping that the unevenness in his speech might be put down to exhaustion and fright. “Thank God we are in time. We were sailing to join you when we were attacked. Our sister ship was lost, and as you can see our craft is badly damaged.”

  “Attacked?” the officer said. “Come speak to our captain. Your name, sir?”

  “Hernandez,” Kit said, following him. “Cristobal Hernandez. My captain was killed, the other man injured. We picked up what survivors we could and have been rowing ever since. Perhaps my men could have a drink? The pirates took most of our stores.”

  “Of course, with pleasure,” the officer said with a smile and a bow and issued curt orders to the crew.

  Kit followed him to the quarterdeck where he poured out his heart to the captain of the ship. He had been well coached by Campbell and Griffin and didn’t think he laid it on too thick. His report was terse and skimmed over the more distressing parts of the invented story and, as they had hoped, his audience read between the lines and came to their own conclusions. They nodded sympathetically and possibly a little contemptuously. That two smallish trading ships should have been attacked by a larger, well-armed pirate vessel was no wonder. That one of the captains, mere peddler that he was, should have panicked and collided with the other ship was only to be expected. They assured Kit that he had done well to save what lives he could and bring his crippled ship so far, and they patted his back and offered him a glass of sack.

  “Unfortunately,” the captain said with a smile, “our stores are such that we are unable to spare a sufficiently large spar to repair your bowsprit.” They all looked at the contraption of ropes and spare timbers apparently holding Africa’s in place. “But perhaps one of the other ships?”

  Kit joined them in looking out at the fleet—armada—and he tried to look hopeful and grateful instead of alarmed. Perhaps they had bitten off more than they could chew, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  After a little discussion, during which the Africa drew close enough for the boat crew’s grins to be visible, it was decided that perhaps they could move off station and take Kit to one of the larger ships.

  “Such great kindness,” Kit said, his voice breaking. “So very kind—ah, I believe my friend, the captain of the Consuela, is trying to come aboard?”

  Griffin, his head swathed in bloodied cloth and beard spiky with greasy soot, was helped aboard and limped to the quarterdeck supported by Valliere and Protheroe. Behind him other crewmembers of the Africa had filtered up onto the deck, those who could wailing about what a fearful time they had had of it and those who couldn’t nodding vigorously in agreement.

  On the quarterdeck Griffin accepted the commiserations of the Spanish officers gracefully, thanked them for their kind offers of help, and smiled as he pressed the barrel of a pistol to the Spanish captain’s belly.

  “And now, gentlemen,” he said as the other guns came out and were leveled. “Perhaps we could borrow your ship for a short time. I assure you that you will come to no harm—if you comply?”

  Kit smiled apologetically as he collected the weapons. “A ruse de guerre,” he explained to Detorres, the man who had helped him aboard. “Tell me that you would not have done the same.”

  The Spaniard scowled. “But it would be different,” he pointed out, “if it was happening to you.”

  At any moment all could turn to disaster. The Spaniards had thought themselves safe. Nobody, surely, would be stupid enough to attack such a huge number of ships, yet here they were. All it would take was for the watchmen on one of the other ships to raise the alarm as the Ciervo raised her anchor, made a little sail, and began to lead the Africa, still towed by her boats, deeper into the mass of shipping.

  “Now, which ship shall it be?” Griffin asked the captain, his pistol still leveled. “I suggest you choose one that is well laden.”

  “My choice?” the captain said with a lift of his brows. He glanced around the deck, now almost completely populated by pirates, and at the Africa calmly making sail despite what had looked like a shattered bowsprit and ruined rigging. “In that case—the Santiago.”

  He pointed to the ship and Griffin smiled. “Oh, good choice.”

  “That’s—huge,” Kit breathed and winced as Griffin slapped him on the back.

  “And a huge cargo I wager,” Griffin said. “Is that not so, Captain?”

  “I would say so.” The captain of the Ciervo folded his arms and pressed his lips together to indicate he would say no more.

  With the Ciervo to vouch for her, the Africa and her accompanying boats were able to come alongside the Santiago, whose watchmen hung over the gunwale asking for news. The captain of the Ciervo, politely if reluctantly, passed on their request for help in making repairs, the officer of the watch said it might be possible and invited Kit and Griffin aboard to take chocolate while they discussed ways and means. Kit felt sorry for him as the pirate crew swarmed aboard.

  Detorres shook his head as he said good-bye to Kit. “Our captain chose well,” he said. “The Santiago is so laden that your men will run riot. It will take hours to transfer just the reales to your ship, let alone the raw silver and emeralds, by which time the other warships will be alarmed.”

  Kit thanked him for the advice. “But that isn’t the plan,” he said and left Griffin to explain while he went aboard the Santiago to get some sails up. As he threw his leg over the gunwale, he was laughing at the Spaniard’s startled yelp. “The whole ship!” Once the few officers aboard the Santiago were under lock and key—the commander and his senior officers were ashore hunting game for the wardroom larder—most of the remaining crew could be put to work. The pirates spread out among them, roaring dire threats, and the anchor was raised, a gun or two loaded, and enough sail raised to get them underway in a laudably short time.

  Flanked by Ciervo and Africa, whose depleted crew had busied themselves by undoing the “damage” they had
done earlier, the Santiago made her way majestically toward the outlet of the natural harbor.

  Valliere had the helm and the chart, and Kit kept an eye on him as he hared around the ship bellowing orders in his sailors’ Spanish. When he had time to take note, he saw some activity among the remaining Spanish ships and Ciervo raising a string of pennants, he hoped, to allay their fears. But Griffin was counting on sheer disbelief to give them a decent head start.

  Clear of the rocks they put on more sail, and Valliere steered them as far east of north as the huge square sails could take them. Santiago was less lively than the little Africa, whose masthead barely topped the Santiago’s main yard. She smashed through the waves rather than skipping over them, and the pirates cheered as the spray flew.

  “Just let that bloody Miranda try and tackle us now,” Probert yelled, slapping both hands on the barrel of one of Santiago’s huge guns. “We’ll smash her to splinters.”

  “Let us hope that we don’t meet her,” Kit warned him. “Because we don’t have enough men to sail the ship, guard her crew, and man the guns.”

  But despite some misgivings, Kit couldn’t be downhearted. While nominally at peace with Spain, he had about a fair idea of their reception if Griffin should sail the Santiago into Kingston and hand her and her cargo over to the Governor of Jamaica.

  “A free pardon for every man of us, I shouldn’t wonder,” he commented to Davy Forrester, who grinned at him before going back to shouting at Spanish crewmembers. There was a lot of shouting going on and some pushing and shoving. Kit kept an eye open for unnecessary force, but the pirates were in too good a humor, from success or relief, to be as brutal as he knew they could be. Even Muddiford kept his knife sheathed.

  Beyond the scatter of islands they found the Garnet idling along with slack sails. She raised her colors, made sail, and fired a gun in salute. Then the little fleet sailed onward through the bright morning.