On A Lee Shore Read online

  “Scratchy,” Detorres admitted. “But I can see. And tomorrow I will see better.”

  Kit ordered a celebration and offered Detorres the freedom of the Africa’s small library. Holding one of Griffin’s prized mathematical texts on his knee—as a promise of recovery rather than to read it—Detorres sat under the stern lantern and watched Kit use Griffin’s octant. “A strange device,” Detorres said. “But a useful one. Yet it brings us no nearer to answering the question: How far east have we come?”

  “At this latitude not far enough,” Kit admitted. “We should have sighted the northernmost point of Aruba before dark, going by my reckoning, but maybe the currents say otherwise.”

  “Perhaps,” Detorres said. He was studying the flyleaf of the book, written over in several different hands, Griffin’s flourished signature standing out among the rest. “But I do not understand why you are doing this. Why go back to the pirates? You have a good vessel and, I can attest, a kind crew. You could take the sloop to San Cristobal. You would be welcomed.”

  “Possibly,” Kit agreed. “But I gave my word to an honorable man, you see. My word is my bond even if given to someone I despise, so when I give it so someone for whom I have regard, I’m even less likely to break it.”

  “That is laudable.” Detorres’s lopsided smile was bright among the scruffy honey smeared stubble. “If a little reckless. Why not escape while you can?”

  Kit considered what could happen, assuming he would not be foresworn. Davy would be overjoyed to be homeward bound, but Lewis would be stricken at the thought of never seeing Protheroe again, and Ramon, Maxwell, and the others would be even more upset at foregoing their share of the Santiago’s treasure. And Kit… He had promised to return the Africa to Griffin. So there was no more to be said.

  “All in good time,” he said. “And for now I think you had better go below. I think it’s going to rain.”

  “I don’t mind the wet,” Detorres said.

  “No, but the book might,” Kit said. “You may sleep in the great cabin.”

  Once he had the quarterdeck to himself, Kit checked his heading again and settled down, leaning against the tiller as the wind began to gust. Davy brought up his oilskin when the rain started and held the tiller while he pulled it on. Africa was heeling over, her sails taut.

  “She’s a lovely sloop,” Davy said. “It’s been a privilege to sail her, but I can’t help but feel we’ll be better at home.”

  “I could let you off at Curacao,” Kit suggested. “We’re at peace with the Dutch at the moment. You could most probably work your way home. Failing that I was hoping to be able to set you ashore at Nevis or St. Kitts. I would write you a letter commending you and explaining your situation. You could meet Hypatia next time she comes into port.”

  Davy grunted, looking out on their wake glinting gold from the lantern light. “Maybe,” he said and cupped his hands around his eyes.

  “Thought I saw something,” he said. “There—about east-nor’east. A light.”

  “Really?” Kit also shaded his eyes from the lantern, but all he saw was blackness scattered with the tiny falling sparks of the rain. “I see nothing, but the seas are high. When Lewis comes to relieve me, I’ll ask him to keep watch.”

  At midnight Kit went to snatch a few hours sleep and found that Detorres had put himself to bed in Kit’s hammock. Griffin’s book was on the table, so Kit returned it to the shelf before laying down to sleep in what he couldn’t help thinking of as Griffin’s bed. The fine linen sheets, if a little damp, felt like silk. So had Griffin’s skin that time, in this very cabin, when Kit had put out his hand in apology and had accidentally touched him. And then, overcome with excitement at what they had planned, Kit had kissed him. It had been no accident. When they met again a comradely embrace might not be out of place. A swift clap on the back, a meeting of palms in a strong handshake, an exchange of smiles. Griffin would be vindicated in his conviction that Kit was not foresworn, Kit would be pleased to have fulfilled his obligations to a captain who was in so many ways admirable, if in others sadly lawless. Once business was seen to, perhaps they would sit and talk about the Santiago and how she sailed, and the differences between navigating with the cross-staff and the octant. Griffin would sip his brandy and laugh and say “Oh Kit!” whenever he showed a flash of backbone or devilry. It would be a good return, Kit was sure of that. And later, once they were alone, perhaps there would be more kisses?

  Light was streaming in through the cabin windows when he awoke, starting and sitting up with a guilty gasp. Detorres, who had been shaking him, smiled. “I said we’ve sighted a sail.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” Kit demanded, reaching for his breeches.

  “Easier said than done. Also, I may not be looking my best—and if ever a means of making a man feel small should be required, I can recommend covering him in honey—but my brain is in good order, and I haven’t forgotten how to take a reading.” Detorres nodded as Kit looked a question. “We are on course, God willing. And the sail is a small one, but they are signaling to us. We have woken you when it was necessary. A good captain needs to trust his crew.”

  “Indeed,” Kit agreed and dropped his voice. “But I must remind you that they are pirates and sighting a sail does not always presage an exchange of trade goods and pleasantries.”

  Detorres laughed. “We have already had that discussion, but Davy—he has good eyes—pointed out that the vessel is probably too small to be worth ransacking.”

  “Good man.” Dressed, Kit didn’t bother with shoes but wound a scarf around his waist and thrust a pistol through it, just in case. On deck he eyed the distant speck and took the spyglass Davy offered him.

  “A long boat,” Kit said. “Is that red pennant a shirt?”

  “I think so.” Davy looked and sounded worried. “They’ve raised and lowered it twice. I reckon they want us to heave to while they come up with us.”

  Kit nodded. “We’ll do it—but let’s load some guns just in case. Grapeshot I think.”

  Detorres laughed, and yelped as his wounds pulled. “The irony—that you should be attacked by pirates. You may rely on my—I was going to say sword hand, but it’s in dock at present. I could probably manage a boarding axe in my left.”

  “Then an axe you will have,” Kit promised.

  They dipped the Africa’s pennant in acknowledgement and shortened sail, bringing her head into the wind to wait for the other vessel to catch up. The sudden choppy movement of the sloop roused the sleepers below, and Lewis ambled up on deck, yawning and scratching his belly.

  “Longboat?” he said. “That’s no threat. Why have we stopped?”

  “They were signaling to us.” Kit pointed to the red speck at the longboat’s masthead. “See. Davy thinks it’s someone’s shirt.”

  “Red pennant dipped twice? That’s Griffin’s ‘heave to’ signal.” Lewis turned to Davy and grabbed for the glass. “Aye, I can see it. And Protheroe. He’s there.” He beamed and shoved the glass back into Davy’s hands. “I’ll wake Pollack. They’ll be hungry.”

  Davy stared at him then applied the glass to his eye. “How did he do that?” he asked. “I can barely make out the crew.”

  Kit shaded his eyes to stare the distant sail. “I suspect he saw what he really wants to see.” He blinked the sleep from his eyes and willed one of the dots under the sail to be Griffin.

  The sun was high before the long boat approached, and long before that they had recognized who was sailing her. Frantic with worry, Kit cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled a greeting across the narrowing gap of sea.

  Valliere raised a bandaged arm and shouted back. “You must change course. Jago has played us false!”

  Lewis was at Kit’s side muttering under his breath as he watched Protheroe limp forward, painter in hands. Lewis caught the tossed rope and made it fast, drawing the longboat to the side of the Africa, then leaned over the railing. Protheroe looked up at him, his face drawn.

&n
bsp; “I’m not much hurt,” he said. “Help me get Denny aboard, and Val. Some of the others are damaged too.”

  With the sails flapping overhead, the two small crews merged and exchanged stories. The half dozen men who had accompanied Valliere were cut and bruised and were loud in telling how they got them until Kit called them to order.

  “I thought better of the Africa’s,” he said. “I truly did.”

  Saunders dabbed at the grazes on Denny’s face. “That much treasure is enough to addle the brains of any man,” he said. “Assuming they have any to start with. But, O’Neill? Damn the man.”

  “Griffin did what he could,” Valliere told them. “But Jago was baying for blood. He was talking about setting up a pirate kingdom in the Grenadines. It worked for Morgan, he reckoned. We reckoned we’d leave before any more blood was shed. The Santiago’s long boat is sound and well provisioned. Jago gave us his blessing, even offered us our shares of the silver. Then Wigram got involved.”

  “Told Jago he’d be short a navigator,” Protheroe growled. “And when Griffin refused to stay, they took Denny and threatened to gut him.”

  Safe on the deck of the Africa, Denny made light of his bruises and nodded to Kit. “They did. They hit us all too. Griffin swore at them.” He beamed and took another drink.

  “Where were they going?” Kit asked, clasping his hands to prevent them shaking with fury. “And why isn’t Griffin with you?”

  Protheroe and Valliere exchanged uneasy glances before Protheroe replied. “He helped us get away. Agreed to stay as long as they let us go. Kit—he says you are not to follow. You should take the Africa into Port Royal as a prize and claim we are all forced men.”

  “That is not something I can do.” Valliere sat cradling his injured arm. “I will not go back to slavery. Let me take the longboat. I will make my own way, alone if necessary.”

  “We’ll be with you, Val.” Protheroe looked across at Lewis. “Won’t we, cariad?”

  “And I.” Ramon shrugged. “It’s a long time since I looked an honest man. Why tempt fate?”

  Kit stared at them all. “I am not taking the Africa to Jamaica,” he snapped.

  “There are English in Barbados,” Valliere pointed out.

  “I know Davy wishes to go home, so we may put in there at some time,” Kit conceded. “But first I will return the Africa to Griffin, as I promised. Jago may be faithless, but I am not.”

  His voice had risen, and he was aware that his face was hot with anger and indignation. It grew even hotter when Protheroe said, “Told you so,” and Valliere handed over a shilling.

  “Then you will need a course,” Valliere said, scowling as Protheroe bit the shilling. Establishing the course was important, but so was the welfare of the returning crewmembers. Saunders promised bandages, purges, or cupping to any of them who were man enough, while Maxwell and Davy shooed the Spaniards off to make food for the whole company. Kit, busy with charts and compasses, noted Lewis and Protheroe standing close by the cabin door and asked after Protheroe’s leg.

  “Most dreadful sore, lad,” Protheroe replied. “In fact I have no idea just how bad it’s hurt. Haven’t had a chance to see, me being Valliere’s top hand.”

  “Saunders will—” Kit started, but Lewis interrupted smoothly.

  “No need to trouble the doctor. I can see to Protheroe’s hurts my own self. I just need a measure of brandy and a rag or two and a little quiet.”

  “In fact, if you’re not using the cabin…?” Protheroe grinned, and the cabin door shut behind them with a thump before Kit had a chance to reply. He stared at the painted panels, hearing a soft murmur followed by a groan, and carried the charts up to the deck by the tiller where there was a good light.

  “How was Protheroe hurt?” he asked.

  Valliere shrugged as he spread the charts. “He bruised his knee on the railing climbing down from the Santiago. We hoped Griffin might be able to follow but… Where are we? We were lucky to sight you. You made better time than we thought.”

  Kit checked his logbook and placed a finger on the chart. “There,” he said, “as far as I know. We haven’t sighted land for two days. “

  Valliere nodded. “Then we need to go north and east. They are sailing slowly, the Santiago is unhandy, and Probert knows less than he led Jago to believe.”

  “Well that gives us at least some idea of a course to set,” Kit sighed. “But I would dearly love to know their destination.”

  “Ithlath errrrrrmanoth,” Denny said. He was perching on the railing, his elbow crooked around a stay. “Ithlath ermmmmmanoth.”

  “Thank you, Denny,” Kit said, smiling fondly at him before continuing to follow the supposed course of the Santiago to the northwest.

  “No.” Detorres had leaned forward. “Say that again, man. What did you say?”

  Denny repeated himself, rolling the R and huffing the “th” with relish.

  “Did you hear someone say that?”

  “Yethhhh,” Denny said and chuckled. “They wath all talking like thith. Ithlath—”

  “Yes, thanks, Denny,” Kit said and grinned. “Sing us your song.”

  “Lowlands, Lowlands, Low!” Denny whooped and swung into the ballad.

  “I’m sorry,” Kit said, “Denny is a…natural creature.”

  “But he said Islas Hermanos.” Detorres’s Spanish accent wasn’t nearly as pronounced. He raised his voice over the singing. “Denny? Is that where they were going?”

  “I said! Now be quiet! I’m singing!” Denny rolled his eyes at their bad manners and continued to warble his favorite song.

  “Islas Hermanos is an island,” Detorres said. “A long sandbar and some rocks with a scatter of trees.”

  “But there’s nothing on the chart.” Kit scanned the chart feeling more and more anxious. “Maybe the heading is wrong?”

  “They may have changed course once we were over the horizon,” Valliere admitted. “And if they did, they could be anywhere.”

  “Jago couldn’t know you’d find the Africa so quickly,” Kit mused. “Nor that I’d be prepared to honor my promise to Griffin. Or if I did, he’d expect me to try and rendezvous at the careening bay on Curacao. Perhaps Denny misheard? Or Islas Hermanos has nothing to do with where they are going?”

  Detorres snorted. “Those are English charts are they not? Permit me to point out that the Spanish were here first, and you do not know everything there is to know about the Caribbean.”

  “There are Spanish charts in the cabin,” Kit said. “Would the island be marked?”

  “Possibly,” Detorres agreed. “If they are good ones. If they are the ones stolen from the Santiago,” he added with a lift of his chin, “the island will be marked. It got its name, the story goes, from two skeletons found there. One had a sword through his ribs and was laying across the lap of the other, who seemed to have died of thirst. There was an empty water bottle at his side.”

  “A prime spot for marooning,” Valliere murmured, his lips pinched with worry.

  “That’s what Jago said,” Denny agreed. “When he was talking to—what’s his name—he said maroon the bastard and have done with it.”

  Denny’s impersonation of Jago’s voice rang across the deck, following Kit’s rush down to the cabin door. He burst into the cabin, ignoring the yell from the cabin cot, and snatched up the thick roll of charts. Turning, he got a good sight of what Lewis and Protheroe were about, and he felt his cheeks flame.

  “Don’t!” Lewis said as Protheroe began to stand up. “You don’t want to frighten the lad!”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Kit mumbled and fled.

  Up on deck, he and Valliere found the chart they wanted, and Detorres stooped over it with them. He drew his finger along one of the marked routes then a little off it to indicate the merest flyspeck of land.

  “Here,” he said. “So no more than a day, God willing, if this lady can make all sail.”

  Kit studied the chart, noting the differences from the one
s he was used to, then nodded. “A day with the wind in our favor. With it on her quarter, Africa flies.”

  Valliere was already on his feet. “All hands,” he bellowed, and they listened to the rush of feet. Even Saunders emerged from his sick bay and hurried across to them.

  “What’s the excitement?” he asked.

  “We’re going to rescue the captain,” Denny informed him. “Mr. Kit’s all upset.”

  “I’m not!” Kit said. “I just—let’s make sail.”

  Africa spread her wings and heeled over as the wind took them. Spray flew and Kit looked up at her topsails and wished they were twice the size.

  An hour later they were scudding along with every inch of canvas straining and could take a moment to admire their efforts. The men were in high spirits, apart from Protheroe, who had a scowl on his face and kept muttering to Lewis. Lewis was more amused than annoyed.

  “It’s all right for you,” Protheroe grumbled, pitching his voice so Kit would be sure to hear. “You were all right. I still had a way to go when Mr. Bloody Lieutenant Penrose, sir, there, started shouting the odds.”

  “That’s the point, see.” Lewis’s voice was reasonable. “A bit of speed makes the odds much better that we find Captain Griffin hale and hearty. Also—I can make it up to you later.”

  Kit stared out to sea, trying to ignore the conversation, and made some minute adjustments to the tautness of a sheet.

  “The lad’s bound to be anxious, bless his dear heart,” Lewis added. “What say I give Pollack some help in the galley. You just bide awhile. It’s not the end of the world.”

  Protheroe snorted. A moment later Kit lurched as a heavy hand slapped his shoulder.

  “All right there, Captain Penrose,” the Welshman said. “Sure of your heading?”

  “As I can be,” Kit said. “As long as Denny didn’t mishear or misinterpret I think we should sight the island tomorrow. It was sheer luck Detorres overheard him and understood.”

  “Ramon knows of the island too,” Protheroe pointed out. “But yes, the sooner we get there the better. For all of us, not just you. The pirating life suits me well, and I have no doubt that without Captain Griffin you’d try to make honest men of us.”