On A Lee Shore Read online

  “God save us,” one of the hands said. “No other bugger will.”

  “Then we must save ourselves.” Kit raised his voice to a wheezy bellow. “Cox’n? How many men were below? Have we boats enough for the rest?”

  “Most washed away, sir,” the cox’n replied. “Like the rest of us, no doubt.”

  And many of them were. The next big sea took Alford, bottle still in his hand as he disappeared into the foam. They managed to get the jolly boat away before Malvern began her final slide into the deep, but then it was every man for himself.

  Clinging to a grating, with the gruff old cox’n holding him on by the scruff of his neck, Kit called for names. Hollins was there and four others. The jolly boat crew tossed them a line to tow them to the shore, and so the voyage of the Malvern ended.

  Nobody else survived, although Kit did not know that at the time. It was a full week before he was well enough to understand that of a crew of eighty less than twenty had survived, and he was the only officer. Or that the Malvern, well-found and well-sailed ship that she was, had driven onto the rocks off Bovisand Bay within sight of home. The fury of the admiralty broke over them with greater force than anything the storm had summoned up.

  “What happened? I’ll tell you what happened,” Hollins said, still raging, and the realization that something far more sordid than nautical incompetence was going to be broadcast brought the court martial to a halt.

  Further witnesses were sought who had served on the Malvern or Gasson’s other commands. Now that Gasson was dead people seemed willing to speak up, not admitting anything on their own account, of course, but damning Gasson’s eyes for his unspeakable tastes while casting bright and accusing eyes over the surviving crewmembers.

  Bright and accusing eyes.

  “Damn it, now I have you,” Kit murmured into the dark. Tom Probert, that was it. Kit closed his eyes, comforted by the fact that while he might have an enemy at least Kit could put a name to him.

  Chapter Three

  Probert’s presence, and that he was prepared to talk, made itself noticed almost immediately. The crew of the Hypatia had been politely contemptuous of Kit, and he had had to bite his tongue a few times when they kindly told him things that he knew perfectly well. Now opinion seemed to be split as to whether he had played a grand joke on them in letting them think he was a landsman, or that it had been some kind of plot to make them feel stupid.

  Uttley had no doubts. The next time he took his reading and Kit stood close to observe, he flushed. “I suppose you think I’m making a real hash of things. I don’t suppose they do it this way in the Navy.”

  “No, we don’t,” Kit said quietly. “But then the Navy has more recent equipment. That cross-staff could have sailed with Drake.” He grinned at Uttley. “I’m just keeping my hand in. Your readings are fine.”

  “Are they?” Uttley’s face was a picture of surprise. “Vargas thinks I’m an idiot.”

  “He’s the master, but you’re the captain’s nephew. If he trains you up too well, you’ll take his post.” Kit shrugged. “If you think I can help, just ask, and if I see you doing something that might get the ship in trouble I’ll say, but it’ll be just between the two of us. All right?”

  Uttley nodded and applied himself to his equipment without a fumble, while Kit turned his face up to the sun, closed his eyes, and soaked up the warmth.

  Captain Dorling was delighted. As far as he was concerned a passenger—a mouth to feed who did little to pay his way other than the occasional bit of laundry—had become another person upon whom he could load some responsibility. He would have had Kit standing a watch if Sir George hadn’t intervened.

  “While I have no objection to Kit assisting, I’m afraid I need to be able to call on him freely.” Sir George took his wig off and scratched his head. “Like now. Kit, fetch my hat.”

  Vargas just grunted at Kit, but it was with a little more respect than usual.

  What else Probert had told them became apparent gradually. It was three days before he heard the ship’s cook mutter a reference to Gasson’s Fancies, and he rounded on the man at once with a demand that he speak up.

  “Didn’t mean nothing by it, sir,” the man said.

  “Well, don’t let me hear you say that again,” Kit insisted. “God, man, you might hurt Probert’s feelings!” Thus showing he knew the originator of the epithet and tossing the ball back into his court.

  Probert met him later that day. “I wondered if you’d recall me, sir, our meeting was that brief,” the man said. His sharp, dark eyes looked Kit over like a weasel speculating on the weakness of a buck rabbit.

  “It took a while, but I am glad to see you looking so prosperous. I know this isn’t the Walsingham,” he said, naming the ship Probert had been attached to at the time of the court martial, “but one takes what berth one can find in the times of peace.”

  “That we do, sir,” Probert said, looking pointedly at the bucket full of damp clothing in Kit’s hand. “Best get on, sir.”

  “Indeed you had. Thank you, Probert.” Kit stood his ground, as honor demanded, until Probert had stepped around him.

  Later, Forrest, one of the younger hands, waved a spyglass at Kit and said, “Care to go aloft, sir? I don’t suppose a bit of height will bother you?”

  “Sir George?” Kit asked.

  “Oh, feel free,” Sir George said, casting a wistful eye at the rigging. “Make notes. Tell me what you see. Tell me what it feels like.”

  “I will, sir,” Kit said, already half out of his shoes and stockings. He ran after the man with Sir George’s instruction not to fall off ringing in his ears.

  Forrest kept an eye on Kit until he was satisfied that he was secure. They didn’t go right to the masthead but stopped on the little fighting platform. Kit was surprised to see it still in place, but he supposed that it hadn’t occurred to Dorling to have it removed.

  Forrest grinned at Kit and offered him the telescope. “Want to have a look-see, sir?” he asked. “Don’t drop it or the master’ll have our hides.”

  “Masters are the same everywhere,” Kit said with a chuckle as he hooked an arm around a topmast shroud and raised the telescope to his eye. They were on a main shipping lane at a good time of year, but the Atlantic was a big place. He wasn’t surprised not to see anything other than the immensity of the Atlantic under a sky flecked with racing clouds.

  Unless…

  “Forrest,” Kit passed him the glass. “A little south of east.”

  Forrest looked—and grunted. “You got good eyes, sir. I might have thought that was a bit o’ cloud but, no, it’s a sail.”

  “It’s nice to know we’re not alone,” Kit said. “Have you been with Hypatia long?”

  “Since Dorling bought her,” Forrest said. “I was on the ship he had before that. Poor old thing she was, but got us there safe enough. Dorling came into some money—legacy, he said—and traded up a bit.” He grinned at Kit. “Home from home, sir? She being ex-Navy like you.”

  Kit shook his head. “A hundred times better than my last ship. And that goes for the crew too.”

  “Ah,” Forrest said, nodding. He passed Kit the spyglass again, and Kit looked back along their wake to the tiny fleck of mist on the horizon that could have been cloud but wasn’t.

  By evening the sail had gone, and Kit joined Uttley for a game of backgammon while Dorling and Sir George watched and criticized every move. In the first game Kit had an easy victory because Uttley got flustered by the criticism of his play, but he braced up when Kit kicked him under the table. Uttley was a competent man crippled by his own uncertainties who needed a few solid successes to give him a better view of his own abilities. Kit was an indifferent backgammon player and didn’t need to give points away once Uttley began to play properly. After three games, where Kit was soundly trounced, the older men demanded they put the board away and get out the cards.

  Uttley was good at whist, too.

  “God be thanked we’re no
t playing for money,” Kit sighed after he counted up his points in the final game.

  “Ship’s rule,” Dorling said. “Games of chance should be played only for love. Saves the hands falling out.”

  Kit nodded agreement to Sir George’s enthusiastic endorsement of this but had his reservations. Men would bet and favors would change hands. It was probably as well that Captain Dorling stayed in ignorance of what went on before the mast.

  He said as much to Uttley as they went aft again after visiting the heads.

  “You mean they flout my uncle’s rules?” Uttley murmured, shocked.

  “Of course they do. Probably not money, but extra rations or even watches if you don’t keep an eye on them. They need their amusements just as much as the officers do, and if you avert your eyes from those small infringements they may not be tempted into anything more serious.”

  “Ah,” Uttley said. “I suppose that makes sense, though our crews are far smaller than yours were. How many naval ratings would you have on a ship this size?”

  “Assuming six guns and a contingent of marines?” Kit said. “Maybe—eighty including officers.”

  “And we have twelve, including officers, plus Sir George and yourself,” Uttley said. “Not even enough to man two of the guns. Besides, the powder’s damp.”

  “Then why, for pity’s sake, am I sharing my cabin with a four pounder?” Kit demanded.

  “A four pounder?” Uttley grinned. “I’m sure you’re right, but you’d never think it to look at Sir George.”

  When Kit had finished whooping laughing he asked again. “It takes up so much room. Why not get rid of it?”

  Uttley shrugged. “Without the guns the old lady yaws. I guess she was designed to carry them, and without she’s too high in the water. Uncle got them cheap.”

  “Dear God,” Kit said. “First thing tomorrow we’ll see if any of the powder is salvageable, and if it is maybe we can do a gun drill. Probert was on a second rate, the Walsingham. He probably knows more about it than I do.”

  Uttley raised his eyebrows. “He didn’t mention that to my uncle,” he said. “He just said he’d sailed on the Rosemary out of Southampton. Uncle knows the Rosemary’s owner.”

  “I didn’t mention my naval career either,” Kit pointed out. “Let’s face it, your hands have to work a lot harder than the average naval rating. Maybe he thought you’d prefer to hear he was a merchant seaman? His work is satisfactory, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, he’s most obliging.”

  They parted shortly after, Uttley to take the watch, Kit to go below. But before he went, he took the time to look to the east along their shining wake to where a nail paring of moon was rising. The sky was lightly barred with cloud, and the air was warm to the skin. Kit plucked his shirt away from his chest and sighed with satisfaction. It was a beautiful night.

  “Kit, there you are!” Sir George said when Kit entered the cabin. He was at his desk with a ledger in one hand and a pen in the other. “Can you make out this word? I think from the context it’s the name of a ship, but I’ll be damned if I can read my own writing.”

  Kit peered over his shoulder. “Miracle, sir? Or—no—maybe Miranda?”

  “Miranda, that was it,” Sir George said. “A real innovation and our new naval presence in St. Kitts. How does it feel to have an island named for you, dear boy?”

  “Ah, but I’m no saint,” Kit said, pouring Sir George his accustomed tot of brandy.

  “No sailor, of whatever rank, is,” Sir George said with a smile. “You may turn in if you wish. I’m perfectly capable of putting myself to bed.”

  “I don’t doubt it, sir,” Kit said leaning back against the gun to strip off his stockings. He inspected them glumly, making plans for a mending session, and removed his shirt and breeches, intending to sleep in his drawers. “Good night, sir,” he said.

  “Oh, good night, Kit,” Sir George said with a smile then turned back to his work.

  Kit got into his bed, tucking one arm under his head and pulling the single blanket up to his chest. He closed his eyes, smiling to hear the quiet scratch of the pen and the hiss of the candle, distinct despite the other familiar noises of the ship, and was asleep before he knew it.

  Kit woke briefly as the watch changed. He yawned, listened for a moment to the soothing sound of wind and water, then slept clear through to dawn, only to be roused by a call from the man on the helm. Kit stretched and contemplated trying to sleep some more, but the call was followed by a panicky yell from Captain Dorling.

  Kit tumbled out of his hammock and grabbed for his clothes without further thought. He fastened his breeches, pulled his shirt on over his head, and crammed his bare feet into his shoes without bothering with stockings.

  “Kit?” Sit George was blinking up at him. “What are you doing? Are you feeling ill?”

  “No sir,” Kit said, “I just need to see what’s happening on deck. Perhaps it might be a good idea to get up and get dressed. Just in case.”

  He left Sir George sitting on the edge of his bunk with his shirt half buttoned and ran up into the misty morning light.

  Uttley was talking to Vargas, his face pale. Dorling pounced on Kit and grabbed his arm.

  “Sails,” he said. “They came up by night. No lights. Oh dear God, look at them. What shall we do?”

  No need now for a telescope. Both ships were close enough for Kit to see the bow wave glint white in the morning sunshine and flecks of sooty black where the colors should be.

  Vargas, no fool, took the decision that needed to be made. “All hands,” he ordered. “Make sail.” In case they didn’t grasp the urgency of the situation he bellowed, “Pirates!”

  There was no question of standing to fight. Outgunned and outnumbered, the only thing the Hypatia could do was run. So run they did, the crew hurling themselves in all directions in response to the master’s shrieked orders.

  Kit joined them, kicking off his shoes to scamper up the rigging. The wind tossed his hair across his face and plastered his shirt to his back as he raced Forrest to the top. A quick glance back made his breath catch. The two ships were coming apace, a brigantine much larger than Hypatia and the other, closer, sloop rigged with a huge spread of white sails. The black flags were more apparent now, and Kit’s heart raced as he edged along the footrope.

  “Have a care, Mr. Penrose, sir,” Forrest said as he too reached the yard. “Go back down, sir, do!”

  “I know what I’m about, thank you, Forrest,” Kit said, and when he leaned to reach the reef lines with as much agility as any of them, the man grinned and left him to it.

  The sails filled with a crack, and the Hypatia met the next wave head on. Kit looked back at the pursuing sails, calculating distances and speeds. As he watched, the tan sails of the brigantine were obscured by a puff of white smoke. A relieved curse ripped from Forrest’s lips as a spout went up well astern.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Them devils’ll not catch us now.”

  They both whooped their approval, and Forrest shook a fist. “You’ve no fancy to be a pirate then, Forrest?” Kit said with a laugh.

  “Me, sir? No fear, sir,” Forrest said. “There’s only one way that can end, and I’ve no desire to be turned off—God a’ mercy!”

  A gun had boomed again, this time from the sloop. Forrest and Kit stared in horror at the wreckage of blood, flesh, and splinters that had exploded from where the master had been standing at the tiller. Hypatia shuddered and lurched, shaking Kit loose. For a sickening moment his legs swung free over the chaotic deck, before he hooked a toe into the footrope and clung to the yard to get his breath back. Below he could see Captain Dorling wringing his hands while Uttley hung over the stern, either retching or trying to see the damage.

  Forrest cursed again. “He’s going to strike,” he muttered. “The captain’s going to strike.”

  Kit envied Forrest the ease with which he swung hand over hand down the shroud. He followed, muscles protesting at the effort, j
umped the last six feet, and ran aft.

  The sloop and brigantine were approaching fast.

  “Black flag,” Dorling shouted as Kit reached him, “so we have a chance. Strike the flag, strike it, I say. It’s La Griffe—once he flies the red flag there’s no mercy. Get the colors down, damn you.”

  There was a shout from one of the hands as the tattered rag of black flapping from the brigantine’s main mast dipped and began to lower. On deck Kit could see a flash of red and gold, but Dorling was already scrambling to lower the ensign himself.

  Kit groaned. He snatched up his shoes and hastened down to the little cabin where he found Sir George still half-dressed with his wig askew, braced in a corner amid a chaos of papers.

  “Ah, there you are, my boy,” Sir George said. “What are they doing up there? I almost fell off my cot. Everything fell off the shelves. And I heard gunfire!”

  “Pirates, Sir George,” Kit said and reached for Sir George’s coat. He began to help him into it. “Our tiller is shot away, and the master is dead. I believe that we may be safe if we cooperate.”

  “Oh my word,” Sir George said, clutching at his wig. “Kit—never mind me. There are papers. Quick, Kit. The chest.”

  Kit slid the chest out from under the cot, and Sir George threw the lid open. He slid a panel aside revealing another small lock. The key to that was on a string around his neck, and Kit watched grimly as he fitted it to the keyhole.

  “They would probably never find it, sir,” Kit said as a section of the lid hinged open. “I would never have guessed that was there.”

  Sir George looked guilty and took out a package wrapped in oilskin. “Sealed admiralty orders, Kit. Of the utmost secrecy. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you…”

  As Kit took the packet, the bright light from the little window was shadowed by sails. He cursed and grabbed the nearest heavy object, Sir George’s close stool, to smash out the glass. He seized the package of orders and threw it out then crammed the most important of the ledgers out as well.