On A Lee Shore Page 5

  “Kit!” Sir George stared at him.

  “Can’t let them fall into the wrong hands,” he said. “Grab a’ hold, sir! Any moment now…”

  Sir George sat on his cot with a grunt. “Well,” he said, “it seems as though the gamble didn’t pay off. I was assured that a small fast ship would have more chance of winning through.”

  Kit was listening, trying to make out what was going on from the thumps and indistinct shouts above, and his lips tightened as Sir George broke his concentration. He tilted his head and motioned Sir George to stay quiet. Outside voices sounded, and there was a rending creak as a door was forced. Kit turned and looked at his chest, where his pistols and sword remained unused, until now un-needed. He took a deep, calming breath, composed himself, and stooped to straighten Sir George’s wig. “Ready, sir?” he asked. “I believe we may be required on deck.”

  “Oh? Yes, Kit,” Sir George said and accepted his help to rise.

  Kit took a moment to straighten his own clothing. He pulled on his stockings, fastening the ties over the hems of his breeches, and slipped his feet into his shoes. As neat as he could be in the short time, he unlocked the door and opened it a crack. There was a roar from the dimness outside, and someone kicked the door in, making Sir George start.

  “I say, sir,” he yelped.

  “Hu’d yer wisht.” The man leveled the blade in his hand at Kit’s throat. “Or I’ll spit yer both. Get yourselves on deck now.”

  Kit took Sir George’s arm and helped him through the door and along to the steps. The ship was alive with men rummaging in every corner, but they either ignored Sir George and Kit or grinned at their captor.

  The deck was bright with sunlight, which made the blood, and worse, from Vargas an even more horrifying sight. Sir George gasped and his hand closed on Kit’s wrist.

  “The ruffians—the ruffians,” he repeated, shaking, as they were hustled across and thrust into a line with the rest of the crew.

  “Calmly, Sir George, if you please,” Kit murmured. “If we don’t challenge them they will take what they wish and go on their way.”

  “That’s all right for you to say,” Captain Dorling spat. “I’ll be ruined, damn you. I wish I’d never taken the money from you, Wilberforce.” He groaned loudly as he heard a whoop and a smash from below.

  “Sounds like they’ve found the gin,” Uttley whispered.

  “The gin,” Dorling mourned. “Well, they may as well have it. And I wish them joy of the sherry as well. Without Vargas we have no chance of finding our way to St. Kitts.”

  Uttley’s face fell and Kit glared at the captain, but he was too busy wringing his hands to notice.

  The Hypatia was flanked now, the brigantine and the sloop standing off a little with their guns ready. Their gunwales were lined with more men, and there were marksmen in the tops. More were in the longboats that they had used to board Hypatia. Kit did a quick head count and hissed with surprise; there must have been close to one hundred and fifty between the two crews. To a man they were bristling with weapons, and many of the pirates on the Hypatia now had bottles in their hands. A team, with rather more purpose, was bringing up barrels and transferring them to the boats, but most of the rest were drinking. Sadly that didn’t go for their guards who were watchful and poised.

  “They’ll be finished soon,” Kit murmured to Sir George, “so we’ll just stand here and…”

  “Oh Kit!” Sir George’s face fell. Another man had come aboard. A small man with a wide, gap-toothed grin and two sodden books and a crumpled packet of papers in his hand.

  “Now, who tried to throw these away,” he crowed from his perch on the railing. “Got a bone ter pick with you. They fucking well near brained me.”

  Kit might have reached him if he hadn’t slipped a little in a runnel of Vargas’s blood. His guard roared and swiped him with the butt of his gun. Kit took the blow on his shoulder instead of his head, but it still drove him to one knee. Another glancing blow made his head reel as he rose, but he managed to tear the packet with the admiralty seal from the little man’s hand. The pirates’ fury broke over him like a heavy sea, smashing him down to the deck. He did his best to roll with the blows, protecting his head and face with one arm while he crushed the papers to his chest. A kick rolled him into the scuppers, and he had just enough presence of mind left to thrust the packet of papers through the nearest hole. He felt his shirt give at the seams as he was dragged back, and a kick from a bare foot, almost as hard as a boot, robbed him of his breath. Over the roaring in his ears he heard Sir George’s appalled cries. A heavy weight crushed him to the deck as the buffeting stopped. Kit gasped in a breath and heard another voice, harsh with fury, say, “So—give me a reason to let you live.”

  Chapter Four

  Kit knew he was hurt, but the need to fight, to battle, was still pounding through his veins. He bucked against the restraint—a knee, he thought, set between his shoulder blades with the full weight of a man on it—but stilled as he felt the touch of stinging cold that spoke of a blade hovering close to the big blood vessels in his neck.

  “Be still, damn you,” his captor snarled and shifted. A fist in Kit’s hair wrenched his head back. Kit cursed the frugality that had urged him to let his own hair grow out rather than shaving his head and buying a wig.

  He couldn’t see who was holding him, but now he had a good view of his shipmates and the bizarre figure who was looming over them. Dressed in tattered finery with a plumed hat set askew on his head, he held the tip of a fine Toledo blade to Dorling’s breast and smiled at Kit as though Kit’s life wasn’t imperiled.

  “Well,” he said raising his voice over the uproar. “Won’t any of you lily-livered swabs speak up for him?”

  Sir George’s eyes were shadowed in his pale face. “Please, please—don’t. He’s my valet, he…”

  “Hah,” the man laughed, a harsh bark of sound. He raised his right hand, and Sir George looked even more appalled as he was pushed back a pace. Instead of a hand, the pirate’s wrist was capped off with a leather cup and a grimy-looking iron hook that left a rusty mark on his shirt. “You can dress yourself, old man,” the pirate said. “You don’t need no one to hold your smalls for you to step into.”

  “La Griffe,” Sir George said. “From the French—griffe—claw. Oh my.”

  La Griffe inclined his head in a little bow. “So pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said and made a leg, although his blade didn’t waver. “Your young man wasn’t sensible or polite. Denny had a prize, and he took it from him. That’s theft that is, and there’s only one penalty for that.”

  The blade moved at Kit’s throat, and he tensed involuntarily. But La Griffe chuckled and shook his head. “Too quick,” he said. “I reckon we can all dress ourselves too. Over the side with him!”

  Kit gritted his teeth as the hand in his hair hoisted him to his knees. He grabbed for the wrist, determined not to go without a fight, and winced as the sting at his throat bit a little deeper.

  “Wait,” Forrest spoke up, his voice cracking with panic. “He’s got a master’s ticket. Ain’t you, Mr. Penrose?”

  “Ah, now, that’s a bit different,” La Griffe said. “We can always use a sailing master, someone who knows his way, like. None of these swabs can find their way up a whore’s skirts without someone to point their cocks in the right direction.”

  “If you think…” Kit began but broke off with a shocked gasp as the man holding his hair struck him. Kit felt his lip split and blood filled his mouth.

  “Shut it,” his captor snarled. “Keep your mouth shut.”

  Kit coughed and spat, staring up into furious gray-blue eyes and trying to control a fresh spurt of fury of his own.

  “That’s better,” La Griffe said. “Gotta show some respect to the Gentlemen of the Coast. We’re going to let you up and let you collect your traps, if there’s anything left of ’em, and you’re going to come with us, like, to be made a gentleman of. Anyone else for the free l
ife? We have a few berths for young men of a lively and adventurous humor. You, sir,” he poked Sir George again, “are too old, so don’t ask.” He began to move along the line of captives, inspecting each in turn. He dismissed Dorling with a sniff. “You’re a sour-looking dog,” he said. “Ah, a young’un. You might do, if you didn’t look like to piss your britches.” Uttley did look sick with a terror born, if Kit was any judge, of knowing he was responsible for the welfare of the Hypatia—assuming the pirates didn’t sink her.

  “And how about you?” La Griffe said, locking eyes with Probert, then turning to Forrest. “Or you?”

  Despite loud protests from the crew, and even louder ones from Dorling, the selection was made and Probert and Forrest were driven across the deck to Kit. Forrest was gasping with shock and flinched as the pirate standing over Kit stepped away from him and gestured with the blade of his cutlass.

  “Help him up,” the man said, “and stay put. Denny, O’Neill—keep an eye.” He walked away without a backward look, going to La Griffe’s side and speaking quietly to him.

  Kit was profoundly grateful to be alive, but as the fighting fury abated, he felt hurt and sick and cold with worry over what would happen to Sir George and the Hypatia.

  “What’ll become of us?” Forrest whispered as he helped Kit to sit against the gunwale. “Sweet Jesus, what’ll become of us?”

  “We’ll do what we must to stay alive,” Probert said. “I don’t want to be dropped overboard for the sharks.”

  “Nor I,” Kit mumbled, his lips feeling stiff and swollen. A quick inventory had shown up scrapes and bruises. His ribs hurt, but not with the raw pain of breakage, and the nick in his neck had already stopped bleeding. Most of the blood staining his clothing was Vargas’s. He had been lucky—if he was to escape he couldn’t afford injury. He studied the pirates, knowing that he had better learn pretty damn quick who was in charge, who thought they were in charge, and who to avoid at all costs.

  La Griffe, of course, roared and blustered and had everyone hopping around him.

  The little man, Denny, whose coat draped him to the ankles, grinned at Kit. “You took my bits a’ paper. That were wrong, that were. You gonna hafta make it up to me. What you got?”

  “Shut it, Denny,” O’Neill said. “Or Griffe’ll have your hide. You just bide quiet, now.”

  As guards they were effective. O’Neill stood out of reach with a pair of cocked pistols and the sort of calm expression that suggested he’d use them, whereas Denny, almost bouncing with excitement, hugged the ledgers and watched their every move. The Scot who had fetched Sir George and Kit up from their cabin supervised the raising of a net full of casks. The man who had hit Kit inspected the smashed tiller while issuing terse instructions to Uttley, who was trying not to look at the shattered remains of Vargas.

  Most of the other pirates were squabbling over what they had found and yelling with excitement at each new discovery. Kit noticed that any money was handed to La Griffe.

  In a remarkably short time the ship had been stripped and La Griffe and Dorling entered into a bizarre negotiation about what the Hypatia would be allowed to keep. Food and water, some of the cargo—“You can keep half—these bilge rats can hardly sail sober. Christ knows what they’ll do full of Geneva!”—and most of Sir George’s papers were left. Personal belongings had been ransacked, but enough was left to clothe each man, and when one begged to be allowed to retain a gimcrack brooch intended for his wife, the pirate who was holding it laughed and gave it back, pressing a shilling into his hand so man and wife could celebrate his safe homecoming.

  When Kit’s chest arrived on deck, La Griffe pawed through what remained in it, paying particular attention to the books and the weapons. He grinned. “Valet, my arse,” he said but ordered the chest to be placed in a boat. Probert’s and Forrest’s belongings were found and taken off the Hypatia as well. Then La Griffe beckoned to his new recruits. “Wave good-bye to your old lives. In the boat, you three.”

  “Please,” Sir George said. “May we not wish them farewell?”

  La Griffe grunted and shrugged. “Be quick about it,” he said.

  Probert was ready to go, not having anyone in particular to speak to. But Forrest almost wept to have to part from his friends.

  “Please,” he begged, “tell me Ma. Captain Dorling, please. Tell her I didn’t want to go.”

  Kit listened to Dorling’s rather grudging reply, biting his sore lip in annoyance. “I’m sorry, Sir George,” he said, gripping the old man’s veined hand in both of his. “This is damnable luck, but there’s no helping it. Please support Uttley. He’s perfectly capable of getting you to journey’s end in safety as long as you don’t allow him to doubt himself.”

  “I will,” Sir George promised. “And if I am able, I’ll see what can be done for Forrest’s family. I feel I have failed in my duty. I…”

  “Look sharp now,” La Griffe shouted, “and no kissing.”

  “Take care of yourself, Kit.”

  Sir George’s desolate expression made Kit’s heart sore, but he smiled as best he could and replied briskly. “I intend to. I’ll send word if I can. They must come to port sometime. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Bless you, Kit,” Sir George said, squeezing his hand.

  The pirates made them crouch on the boards in the base of the long boat as it pulled away from the Hypatia. Kit tried to look back, but the oarsmen blocked his view of the ship. It wasn’t until he had scaled the side of the sloop that he was able to spot Sir George, looking very small and forlorn as the officers and men of the Hypatia tried to rig a replacement for the smashed tiller. But he only had time for one look before he was being pushed toward the tumble of belongings.

  “Take what’s yours,” O’Neill ordered. “And get below.”

  The deck of the sloop was a mess of stolen cargo and bundles of purloined belongings, but what Kit could see of the rigging was orderly, and a team of men were already trimming the sails. The glare of the morning sun pained his aching head, so he turned away to watch the boat that he had arrived in heading for the brigantine. Probert was now in the stern, calling the stroke, and raised his hand to wave.

  “Why’s he not with us?” Kit asked.

  O’Neill grinned. “Tom? That’s where his berth is, see. Oh yes, he’s been with us awhile now. Makes a good decoy. Now you get below, the Captain’ll want to get underway and won’t thank you to be underfoot.”

  “The captain,” Kit asked, looking at the brigantine where he could make out La Griffe’s scarlet coat.

  “Our captain,” O’Neill said. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. He nearly cut your throat less than half a glass ago.”

  “Come on, Mr. Penrose,” Forrest urged, “let’s get out of sight. I don’t want to see him again.”

  “Neither do I,” Kit agreed, picking up his chest, and they hurried to the hatch and down into the darkness below.

  Shown where they could leave their chests and hammocks, they were told to stay put until called for. The fo’c’sle was dark, cramped, and messy. Kit hugged his knees, scowling into the dark.

  “What will we do, Mr. Penrose?” Forrest whispered, the catch in his voice betraying his distress. Kit scowled again, but at his own selfishness this time, and put his arm around Forrest’s shoulders.

  “What Probert said.” Kit tried to sound cheerful. “What we must do to stay alive. You’re a top hand, and I’m a sailing master. Thanks for that, by the way. We’re valuable to them.”

  “The thought of firing on a ship—one like the Hypatia—I don’t think I could do it.”

  “Then it probably won’t be asked of you,” Kit said. “I suspect it will be awhile before either of us are trusted with powder and shot. And before then, Forrest…” Kit frowned. “What is your Christian name? There are no ranks here. It seems strange to be so formal. Please call me Kit.”

  “Davy,” Forrest said. “Before then what?”

  “Before then, Davy,” Kit murmured,
“I hope we can take the opportunity to escape.”

  Sitting together in the noisome dimness of the fo’c’sle, Davy told Kit what had happened that morning.

  “Dice,” Davy said. “We’d got a game going. Probert joined in for once and lost his afternoon watch to me. Said he might as well do my dawn one as soon as maybe. If I’d’a known…”

  “No way you could have,” Kit said. “He was running a risk. That ball could have killed him if he’d been at his post.”

  “Naaah, I reckon he knew what would happen,” Davy growled. “He’d gone forward, said he was going to check the galley fire was out.”

  Kit drew up one knee, wincing as a bruise twinged, and he set his chin on it. “I have decided,” he said, “to think no more of Tom Probert. We must look about ourselves and see how we may gain some advantage. So—we’re on a sloop-rigged ship. French by the rake of the masts. Have you seen her before, Davy?”

  “Not that I recall,” Davy admitted. “But Dorling has a usual round. Portsmouth, Cape Verde, down the trades to St. Kitts, then we beat north picking up what we can on the way. You know how it is. We just never crossed her path before.” He looked around the dim fo’c’sle at the mess of chests and bags and slung hammocks, some of which were occupied. “This crew’s too big. There’s no way they could make a profit trading.”

  “But for piracy—how many would you say? Fifty or sixty men mean they have enough crew to tend the ship, man the guns, and send out boarding parties.” Kit thought a moment. “We’ll be heading for shore, maybe a port. With this large a crew they won’t be able to carry that much water and food. Also they’ll want to spend what they stole.”

  “There was precious little gold on board the Hypatia,” Davy said.

  “Well, then they’ll be wanting to drop anchor so they can drink the gin.” Kit grinned at him and was pleased to see an answering smile. “And when they are all stinking drunk, we’ll see if we can’t get ashore.”