On A Lee Shore Read online

  Lewis thumped the gunwale gently with the side of his fist and nodded. “Aye aye, Captain Penrose,” he said and made his way aft.

  With all her sails set and the wind at her flank, the Africa flew along. The sloop felt strange with her decks almost empty instead of crowded with loafers. Strange and silent. The crew was willing, including Saunders, who had made a trip below and hurried back up into the sunlight saying he needed the company. Kit had some reservations about how Africa might handle if it came on to blow, and manning the guns was out of the question. But now, with the sun close to setting and even with the pillar of smoke to guide them to the awfulness that must surely lie beneath, Kit felt a little of the fierce joy that sailing a well-found ship could bring him.

  Joy tempered with caution. As soon as the ship was on course, Kit hurried below to check the powder store, then searched quickly in case one of Jago’s men had left a surprise elsewhere. There was a surprise—a sealed barrel and a tightly bound chest stored neatly under Griffin’s table in the cabin while a sheaf of charts lay on the table, but Kit didn’t have time to do more than notice them and decide to keep their presence to himself. He shut the cabin door firmly and returned to the tiller just as the sun set.

  Light drained from the sky, and the base of the smoke flickered with orange light.

  “Looks like hell, don’t it?” Lewis murmured. “Uffern we’d say at home. That Stockley. I hope he rots.”

  “Why are you a pirate, Lewis?” Kit asked. “You just—well—you don’t seem to have the heart for it.”

  “Better a pirate than dead.” Lewis smiled up at the sails. “Protheroe found me burning up with fever outside an inn in Antigua and looked after me until I was better. Nobody else ever did that before. When he took a berth with Stockley, I did too, and we moved to the Africa as soon as we could. Griffin kills if he has to, to keep us alive. Stockley kills for the fun of it. Don’t turn your back on him, Kit. He’ll have you marked as one to dispose of.”

  “If I don’t get him first,” Kit said. He glanced at Lewis. “This was a filthy thing to do.”

  “It was that,” Lewis agreed. “And if you were to—see to him—you’d find some who’d keep your back while you did it.”

  They sailed on, another hour by the glass before Davy hailed them from the bow.

  “I can see fire,” he shouted, pointing.

  Lewis adjusted their course, and Kit went forward to see for himself.

  “Dear God,” he murmured to Davy. “We mustn’t get down wind of that. Those flames must be fifty feet high.”

  The brightness of the fire was doubled by the reflections on the sea. They took in the sails, and Kit ensured that there were buckets of water and old pieces of sailcloth well damped to deal with any sparks. Fire at sea was every sailor’s nightmare.

  Ramon and Kit took the Africa’s boat, and Kit rowed while Ramon called. The heat from the burning hulk was fierce, and they didn’t dare get too close. There was a scatter of bodies in among the debris, burned and broken, and they saw nothing living on their first circuit of the ship.

  Coughing at the stench of burning tar, wood, and flesh, they returned to the Africa and were about to try again when Lewis called for quiet.

  “Thought I heard something,” he said. “Listen—what’s that.”

  A rhythmic squeak sounded from the shadows beyond the Africa. Davy fetched a lantern and held it high.

  “There, look, I think it’s a boat,” he said.

  “Hola, amigos,” Ramon called.

  The boat, crewed by five men, was soon brought alongside. They had a single oar with which they had been sculling, and one man was leaning over the side and holding a piece of wreckage with another body clinging to it. They croaked their relief and thanks to Ramon and then croaked their rage and disgust at Kit when they recognized him. Kit apologized as best he could while helping them onto the deck then turned his attention to the body on the wreckage. The man’s breathing was harsh, his face and hands blackened, his clothing in rags. Kit grimaced as he touched his face and the man’s beard crumbled under his fingers. Between them Lewis and Kit lifted him up to the deck and tied the boat alongside their own.

  “Shall we take the boat out again?” Davy asked. “There might be other poor souls there.”

  “Let’s hear what Ramon has to say first,” Kit suggested, watching as Saunders busied himself with the injured and Ramon crouched to interpret.

  Soon the little Spanish pirate came to join them at the tiller. “They’ve been looking for survivors since it happened,” he said. “We might have better luck in full light, but I think most of the two crews were below making accommodation for the men off the Santiago. They survived because they were in the bow stowing the boat. They just tossed it overboard and went in after it. The other man—he’s an officer. They saw him fall from the quarterdeck. There was debris raining down so they didn’t get close. They spotted him on that grating just before they spotted us.”

  “Have they any idea what caused the fire?” Kit asked.

  “Just before she went up, a man came running from below screaming something about grenadoes.” Ramon shrugged. “A bag of grenadoes with a slow match hung against the powder store door. Jago has done that before.”

  “He’s done it before?” Kit demanded.

  “Or so I heard,” Ramon muttered. “I was not there. I would not help with such a thing.”

  Kit decided not to push the issue. “Please, Ramon, help Saunders. We’ll hold off a little and search again when we can see.”

  They spent the rest of the night with Africa drifting a mile from the wreck of the Ciervo, but that was still too close for their peace of mind. Kit couldn’t sleep. In the back of his mind was the fear that the wind or current could change and the Africa could get too close to the incandescent skeleton of timbers that was the brightest thing by far, brighter even than the half moon. He noticed that the other men must have shared his fear, for all who could remained on deck, watching the flames and hearing the distant crack and splutter. Just past midnight the stump of the main mast burned through. It fell with a crash, sending a new burst of flame soaring.

  “Benedigiad Duw.” Lewis’s voice was choked, and he put his arm around Kit’s shoulders, his hand gripping tight. Kit was upset enough to accept the comfort offered rather than to resent the familiarity.

  By dawn the Ciervo had burned down to the waterline. Lewis and Ramon took a boat to search closer to the wreck while the Africa quartered downwind. They found bodies, mostly horribly burned, wreckage, and ash, but not another living soul. After hours of fruitless searching, Kit went below to consult with the doctor.

  The patients had been placed securely with food and drink once their hurts had been tended. Only the man who had been found on the grating was left, and Saunders was bending over him anxiously.

  “Get out of my light,” Saunders snapped. “Oh, it’s you. Bring the lantern close. I need to see if there’s anything in this wound.”

  Kit held the lantern steady and grimaced as Saunders probed the blistered flesh. “Will he live?” he asked. “What’s that you’re putting on him?”

  “Honey,” Saunders replied. “It lessens infection but he’s already showing a fever and this is the last of it.” He spooned the last scraping out of the crock and spread it over the wound. “Have you recognized him? It’s Detorres.”

  “Is it?” Kit shook his head. “No, I hadn’t. I would have liked to apologize.”

  “Might be just as well that he’s dead to the world. He’d most likely want your head on a pike. So, have you found any more survivors?” Saunders asked. “I’m not surprised. They were packed like so much cargo. Nobody on the gun decks would have survived. What are you thinking to do, Kit?”

  “Follow Griffin to Curacao,” Kit said. “But first we should find a safe place to leave the ones we have rescued. I don’t trust Stockley. He might feel it worth putting them over the side.”

  “That is the safest thing to do,”
Saunders pointed out. “But you must call the hands together and give them their options. This isn’t the Navy. You’re only giving orders because you know one end of the cross-staff from the other. “

  “I’ll call a meeting,” Kit promised. “Will you come up?”

  “Half a glass and I’ll be with you,” Saunders said. “Odd’s cods I need a drink.”

  Kit requested another sweep around the wreckage, this time to see if there was anything to salvage, and in the middle of the forenoon called his crew aft to, as Lewis put it, ‘take counsel.’

  He struck a snag immediately.

  “We have to take them with us,” Ramon said.

  “Yes, we’re short-handed,” Maxwell agreed. “Most of them are fit for work.”

  “Which means we’d have to guard them and feed them. I thought we might put them ashore. Maybe at Aruba?” Kit suggested.

  “Where there’s a port for the Spanish costa garda?” Ramon shook his head. “Word will get out about the Ciervo, but it will get out the sooner with them showing their burns and howling for blood.”

  “Let’s face it,” Armstrong said. “They are lucky we came back for them, and that’s that. Forced men can make good pirates—like you and Davy.”

  “I don’t feel like a good pirate,” Davy said and shot Kit a reproachful glance. “I just want to go home. An’ I bet they do too, so why not give them the choice?”

  “Aye,” Ramon said with a grin. “Let us do that.”

  Ramon, Lewis, and Saunders went down to interview the prisoners while Kit made enough sail to set their course for the first leg of the journey to Curacao. They were soon joined by the first of the uninjured Spanish sailors, a couple who arrived hand-fast. They took their place at the sheets with a smile and a nod to Kit. Lewis and Ramon had followed them on deck and approached him.

  “Only two?” Kit asked.

  Ramon shrugged. “They all want to come with us,” he said. “Better to have a sound ship under them even if we are pirates than a leaky boat and a hostile shore. Saunders is deciding who is fit to work.”

  “Also, Detorres is conscious,” Lewis added. “Saunders says he’s looks worse than he is, but it might ease his mind to speak to you.”

  “Very well,” Kit said and braced himself for what was bound to be an unpleasant interview.

  Detorres face was blistered beneath the salve, likewise his right hand and a long stripe down his right thigh where his breeches had given at the seam. Otherwise the wool of his uniform had protected his body. His hair and beard were singed down to a spikey stubble, and Saunders had put a bandage over his eyes.

  “He tells me that I should recover my sight,” Detorres whispered as soon as he heard Kit’s voice.

  He spoke proudly through cracked lips, rejecting pity, and continued before Kit could speak. “Thank you for coming back for us.”

  “The explosion was none of our doing,” Kit said. “I swear it.”

  “I accept your word,” Detorres said. “Yet it was your doing that the Ciervo was taken. If it had not been for you, Penrose, my ship and my men, and the men of the Santiago would be safe.”

  “That is so,” Kit said. He felt wretched. “Do you know what happened?”

  “To me? I was on the quarterdeck, making all sail for the anchorage. My captain was below with the senior officer of the Santiago. They were arranging accommodation. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to share with some cabrón and looking aft and dreaming of getting a party together to follow you and take back the Santiago and send you pirates and your ships to the seabed. Then I heard a shout and men running and—poof.” He waved his left hand. “Next thing I knew I was in the water. Something hit me and I grabbed it, but it was on fire. I’m told I was on a grating. I think that must have been it.”

  “I’ll get you home,” Kit said, a sinking in his gut even as he made that often repeated promise. “Somehow. I’m not sure how.”

  Detorres laughed. “Do you think they’ll want me?” he said. “Other than to hang? I lost the Ciervo and I lost the Santiago. Someone will be needed to take the blame for both. It would have been better if you had left me on the grating.”

  “Well, I didn’t. And I’m not about to put you overboard now. I’m taking you to Curacao. The Dutch have a settlement there. We will put you ashore to heal. If at some time you get another ship and have a chance of blowing Jago Stockley out of the water, take it with my blessing.”

  “I will live for that possibility,” Detorres snarled. “And for the opportunity to tell the Escurial that their security is compromised. That anchorage was supposed to be a secret.”

  “Was it now?” Kit said, remembering the course Griffin had set and his eagerness that they make good time. “I wish you good luck with that too. Is there anything I can get you?”

  “Other than my ship and crew whole and unharmed?” Detorres shook his head, wincing as the bandages pulled on his blisters. “Only clear vision and an easy shot at whoever set the charges on the Ciervo. And…some rum would be good.”

  “The rum is yours,” Kit said and left him with a sense of cowardly relief.

  One of the rescued Spaniards died before morning. One moment he was talking with his fellows and the next he had keeled over and was gasping his last through blue lips. Saunders shook his head sadly and said that his heart must have given out. As the sun rose they read over him and sent him to his rest with regret. Detorres had insisted he be allowed to attend the burial. He stood grasping the arm of the most robust of his surviving crew and shaking with pain.

  Saunders took Kit aside. “I am running out of supplies to make the medicines I need. Also we need better food. Make haste Kit or we may lose more of them.”

  Kit sighed and looked at the pennant streaming out from the masthead. “It would be quicker to go north then, with the wind and the currents in our favor. Curacao will be hard sailing.”

  “Jamaica—and a noose?” Saunders shook his head. “Much as I love you, Kit, if you suggest that they’ll feed you to the sharks, and I don’t know that I wouldn’t help them. Just make the best possible time is all I’m saying.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Kit promised.

  And they did, sweeping in a wide tack to the northeast, then to the southeast, getting sight of the coast once or twice a day. Kit pored over the charts, staring at the coastline through the spyglass until his eye watered, and consulted with anyone who might have an opinion about their location. Detorres was surprisingly helpful under the circumstances. He was white and pinched around the mouth, where he wasn’t yellow with honey, but he claimed that he felt less pain. Kit doubted that but would never have suggested that Detorres might be anything less than scrupulously truthful.

  That honor was much on the man’s mind was proved on the third day of sailing when they met with a coaster. The crew hailed them without fear, calling for news and shouting a warning.

  “Pirate ships!” the captain said once they were in earshot of each other. “The biggest I ever see.” He was a short, cheerful Dutchman, bound for Aruba with a cargo of cotton topped up with tea and other little necessities. He described meeting the two ships, a brigantine and a huge galleon, and how they had fired warning shots and had moved to intercept him. Through feats of daring seamanship he had managed to elude them. They heard him out, Lewis and Ramon keeping a watchful eye on the Spaniards who were on deck, and then conversation moved to matters of trade. Kit left Saunders to negotiate for supplies, and while the doctor and the Dutchman established what each had to offer, Kit drew the Spaniards aside.

  “Do you wish to go to Aruba?” he asked. “I will ask the Dutchman if he will take you aboard.”

  Two of the Spaniards shrugged and said they would follow Detorres. The two least injured grinned and slipped their arms around each other before going to stand with Ramon. Detorres’s lips pinched as he considered Kit’s suggestion then he shook his head carefully.

  “If I go to Aruba, how will I kill the men who wrecked my ship?” he sai
d. “No, Kit, I will stay, if you are brave enough to keep me.”

  There could be only one answer to a challenge like that, and Kit went to hurry the traders up. The Dutchman was happy to assist distressed mariners and accepted a newly minted eight reale piece in payment without question or comment.

  “And now,” Saunders said, clutching a large crock of honey as the two ships drifted apart, “we must make all sail. I think that Dutchman may have recognized the Africa. He asked some pointed questions about our cargo. By the time he reaches Aruba I suspect he’ll have fought us off just as gallantly as he did the Garnet.”

  “You mean—he’d lie?” Lewis said with mock shock. “Then let us depart this place with all speed.”

  “Excuse me—who gives the orders?” Kit asked. His crew made fond noises then, unasked, ran to make sail.

  “A unique style of command,” Saunders said with a wry smile. “If you need me, I will be in the bow reading.”

  Kit took the tiller, watching the sails fill as he set a course farther to the north than he liked. But then wind and water were no respecters of men’s urgencies.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The evening of the following day Saunders risked removing the bandages across Detorres’s eyes. In the dimness of the cabin, Kit held the lantern behind Detorres’s head and watched anxiously as the doctor unwound the pieces of linen. Saunders gestured him to hold the lantern a little closer and peered at both of Detorres’s eyes in turn.

  “Well,” he said, “the swelling has reduced, and the redness is fading. See if you can open them. Kit, keep that light well back.”

  Detorres blinked, grimacing, then his frown eased. “I…yes,” he murmured. “I can!” He turned his head toward Kit, who hastily moved the lantern out of sight.

  “Careful,” Kit suggested. “Get used to this little bit of light first.”

  “Yes,” Saunders grabbed Detorres’s head and turned him to face front again. “A little light at a time. We mustn’t strain your eyes. And you need to bathe them often. Clean seawater should do it. How do they feel?”