On A Lee Shore Page 8

  Amidships the party was getting rowdy as the musicians sawed, pounded, or whistled. One crew challenged the other to wrestle and made wagers on the outcome. It looked like anarchy, but there were men in the waist of the ship who stepped in if the struggle got too aggressive. Kit found himself laughing as he watched Saunders, bottle held safely out of the way, battering a brawny pirate about the shoulders with the despised volume of Homer.

  Saunders spotted Kit, abandoned the brawlers, and made his way to his side. He offered O’Neill a swig from his bottle and leaned back against the transom.

  “What a to-do,” he said. “Damn fellow knocked my bottle over, would have spilled it if I hadn’t looked sharp.”

  “So inconsiderate,” Kit nodded to the book, “and he made you lose your place.”

  “Hanging is too good,” O’Neill commented as he offered the bottle to Kit, who shook his head. O’Neill passed it back to Saunders.

  “Barbuda,” Saunders said suddenly. “That is our destination. There I should be able to replenish our medicine chest—try as I might the men will keep catching things. While we are in port they will have the opportunity to catch some more I wouldn’t wonder. “

  “Something to look forward to then—you and your syringe.” O’Neill grinned as Kit shuddered. “And what will you do, Mr. Penrose?”

  “He will give his parole,” Saunders said, “as befits an officer of His Majesty’s Navy, and will accompany me to Willaerts coffee house to see if we can trade this unlovely item for something more elevating.” He waved the book again. “Or he will not give his parole and will spend our time in port chained to a long gun—possibly. It depends on our lord and master’s whim.”

  Kit’s spirits had sunk to hear that, and he shook his head. “You must see that I can’t give my word not to try and escape?” he said. “I can promise to guide the ship to safe waters, but I won’t take part in acts of piracy or neglect my duty to return to my post.”

  “You’re a fool then,” O’Neill said, without rancour. “This can be a fine life for those of us cast out. Half the men on board here would be hanged or starving, else. True there are a few who would knife a blind beggar for half a groat, but most are just getting along.”

  “Indeed we are,” Saunders said. “I too, Kit, was once part of your glorious institution,” he said the word with great relish. “But I too fell foul of the authorities. I lost the life of a man rather than, as in your case, Kit, losing a mere boat. That I had a drink or two taken was seen as the reason for his demise, though a far better and soberer doctor than I would have been hard pressed to save him. So—they consigned me to Gehenna.”

  “Gehenna? I wouldn’t have described the Africa as Gehenna,” Kit said. Saunders had mentioned the wreck of the Malvern, so he was half expecting a reference to the cities of the plains. Gehenna had thrown him.

  “Hah! No! You’re right. The Africa is an abode of angels. I was referring to the Army!” Saunders rolled his eyes and took a drink to wash away the memory. “No wonder I ran away to sea. Come, Kit, you must have a drink with me to celebrate our disgrace and our subsequent escape from tedious respectability.”

  Kit took the bottle, containing God knew what. “To tedious respectability,” he said and made a creditable mime of taking a sip until O’Neill slapped him hard on the back. Kit choked down a mouthful and coughed.

  “Well done, Lieutenant Penrose, sir,” Saunders crowed. “We’ll make a pirate of you yet.”

  “If I live!” Kit wiped his tongue on the back of his hand. “Trying to drum up trade, sir? That’s truly awful.”

  “Isn’t it though?” O’Neill said taking the bottle. “Now you hit me while I take a swig.”

  “The thing is,” O’Neill said when Saunders had gone for a refill, “that the people who start the wars, who tell us they are necessary and just and glorious, aren’t the ones fighting and dying. Nor are they the poor damn sods holding a man down on the table while some other poor sod, like old Will Saunders there, digs a musket ball out of his privates with a blunt knife. If they were, they might not be so quick to break the treaty or cross the border or decide we need a change of government.”

  Kit eyed him anxiously because that was deeply seditious talk and at home could have O’Neill and anyone who listened to him taken up in short order. But O’Neill was staring into the distance lost in thought, and Kit stepped aside to check the compass.

  “If we are going to Barbuda,” he said, “I’d better check our heading.”

  “Wait a bit,” O’Neill said. “La Griffe needs to say his piece. Here, take the tiller, I need to piss.”

  Kit remained at the tiller for another hour, keeping the ship steady as she drifted, almost baremasted, before the wind. More of the men were inclined to talk to him now, and Denny came and sat nearby and sang loudly about a ship called the Sweet Trinity. Kit laughed, because he knew the song, and joined in with “sailing in the Lowlands, Lowlands, Low” until Denny got bored and wandered away. Seen up close, the little man was as unkempt as ever, but his face and hands were clean today, and his hair had been cut short at the collar. What his story was Kit couldn’t imagine, but it was good that someone was caring for him.

  The day was well advanced when the captains of the ship Garnet and the sloop Africa reappeared and La Griffe announced their destination.

  “Barbuda,” he said, “to collect some stores and off load some of the gin. Then south away to see what the Portuguese have to offer us.”

  Kit watched the boat pull away toward the Garnet then went to find and congratulate the doctor on his lucky guess.

  “Guess,” Saunders scoffed. “That was no guess. It just took a while to bring everyone round to thinking it was their idea. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my patients to consider.”

  A couple of sprained wrists and a dislocated finger, from the wrestling contest, were treated with a mixture of brutal battlefield medicine and copious amounts of gin. Kit predicted a full recovery in each case, once they had recovered from what would surely be ferocious hangovers. His own head was aching a little from the combination of hours in the sun and the drink he had shared with the doctor, so he was glad to get his evening repast and his measure of water, even if it was getting cloudy.

  Soon it was the brief twilight, the sun setting in a blaze of gold and madder, stars pricking out overhead before the western horizon had cooled. Kit had the dogwatch, so he took himself off to his hammock, stripping to his breeches but still sweating in the sweltering fug of the fo’c’sle. He slept soundly that night and his dreams, if he had any, were no trial to him. But something roused him, and he lay dozing in that warm hinterland between sleep and waking where nothing much makes sense. Least of all the shift of air as his blanket slipped and the soft humming of “Lowlands, Low.” Then a hand touched his belly and moved down to grip hard. Kit swung a fist, felt it connect, and then tumbled off the other side of the hammock. He landed on his feet, fists clenched, panting with the pain of the tight squeeze. He heard laughter and someone crying. Kit blinked the sleep from his eyes.

  Denny sat on the floor, holding his nose and sobbing. “You di’n oughter dun that,” he wept. “That HURT! I was just—I just…” He waved a hand at Wigram who was a few paces away, holding his sides. “He said you was a maid. He said you wouldn’t mind.” Denny seemed more heartbroken at the betrayal than from the pain of his nose, and Kit was overcome with pity and rage at how both he and poor Denny had been made to look ridiculous.

  “Wigram.” Kit snarled and flung himself at the bo’sun’s throat.

  It was a short fight. Wigram looked stunned that anyone should attempt to hit him. He reached for his pistol, but Kit clubbed it from his hand and closed with him, pounding a fist under his ribs, and blocking Wigram’s blow with his forearm. Wigram may have been a pirate, but he didn’t know any dirty tricks that weren’t practiced every day in the berths of an English war ship, and Kit soon had him on the back foot. As they struggled to damage each other, hands r
eached to pull them away and other men got between them.

  “Damn your eyes,” Wigram swore. “Did you see that, lads. He hit poor Denny—for nothing—and then went for me.”

  “I…I…” Kit was almost incoherent with anger. He spat blood—the cut on his lip had opened again—and strained against the hands holding him, but the two stocky Welshmen hoisted him up until his feet barely touched the floor. “You told Denny to do that.”

  “Aye,” one of the men holding Kit agreed. “Denny was there when we were wondering.” He grinned as Kit stared at him. “Though for my own part I think you’re fine as you are.”

  “Duw, Protheroe, cariad,” the other said. “And you promised to cleave to me only.”

  Some laughed at that, but others shouted angrily. One man claimed he’d seen this and another that, and people who couldn’t have possibly seen anything expressed an opinion.

  “Stow it!” O’Neill was there, lantern in hand and glaring angrily around. “What are you at? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this is a fo’c’sle not a bear pit.”

  “Penrose attacked Denny and hit me when I intervened,” Wigram snapped. “I knew it was a mistake to bring him aboard.”

  O’Neill looked them over with a knowing eye and jerked his thumb toward the quarterdeck.

  “You don’t need to convince me. He’s awake and wants to know what’s going on. Wigram, Penrose, and you, too, Denny, come with me, and the rest of you shut up and go back to sleep unless you want to change watches now? Penrose, leave the shirt. A little night air won’t hurt you.”

  Kit was halfway along the deck before he realized both Wigram and Denny were dragging their heels.

  O’Neill glanced at him and shook his head. “You did it right and proper. Why couldn’t Wigram have chosen a night when he hadn’t been drinking?”

  “Is there any night on this tub when we haven’t been drinking?” Kit asked, and O’Neill just snorted by way of reply.

  Outside the captain’s cabin O’Neill placed Kit and Wigram on either side of the door and told them to stand still and shut up.

  “One word out of either of you,” he growled, “and I’ll shoot you myself.”

  Denny had fallen silent apart from the occasional sniff but stepped into the cabin eagerly as soon as the door was opened. O’Neill went in with him and shut the door.

  “He’ll gut you,” Wigram whispered his voice masked by the rise and fall of Denny’s complaints. “Nobody hits Denny and gets away with it.”

  “And what about someone who uses him as a cat’s paw?” Kit said. “What then? If I’d hit him squarely I might have broken his neck, but either way it would have been to your account.”

  “Me? What did I have to do with it?” Wigram grinned. “Denny makes stuff up all the time, poor addled fool that he is. I heard him cry out and was coming to help him when you attacked me.”

  A footfall on the other side of the door shut Wigram’s mouth. They watched as the door opened and O’Neill drew Denny out. The little man had a dripping cloth over his nose and seemed much more cheerful. As Denny ambled off toward the stairs, O’Neill jerked his head toward the door.

  “Wigram,” he said and raised his eyebrows as Wigram gave them both a cocky smirk. He stepped into the cabin, O’Neill holding the door open. Kit scowled as he heard Wigram’s opening gambit.

  “Is Denny all right? I thought that young bastard was going to do for hi…”

  The sharp impact of fist on flesh cut Wigram’s voice off. The bo’sun bounced off the door frame and crashed down onto his back on the floor.

  Kit stared as Wigram’s eyes rolled up in his head.

  “Dear God, is he dead?” Kit asked.

  “Do you care?” O’Neill asked then gave him a push. “Go on, it’s your turn.”

  In nine years naval service Kit had seen many captains’ cabins. He had even once been allowed to accompany his captain as far as the door of an admiral’s domain and, as he took his master’s boat cloak and received orders to keep the boat crew ready, he had been afforded a brief glimpse of the riches within.

  Some cabins had been lavish with comfort, some had been utilitarian, others had been so middling he couldn’t really recall them. Every detail of Gasson’s cabin on the Malvern was etched into his memory. The poor Isabella had escaped the rocks off Scilly by the skin of her teeth while other greater vessels had been lost. He could only remember her cabin smashed and dripping and her captain shrugging, hollow-eyed, and saying, “Well, at least we’re all still alive.”

  The cabin of the sloop Africa was another one he would always remember. It was small and low, lit dimly by a hanging lantern, with two great guns, each with a chest for powder and shot and a rack for the tools. A hanging cot swung gently above one gun, a demountable cupboard was fixed to the wall above the other. Through the glazed panels of the doors Kit could see the dull glint of pewter and brighter sparks reflecting from glass. Painted oilskin was under foot, the scrolls and curlicues scuffed and stained despite scrubbing. A table and chair stood in the small space in the center. On the table lay a chart weighed down by compasses, pen and ink, a logbook, a bottle and a baluster-stemmed glass with an inch of amber-colored liquid slanting to the sway of the ship.

  Kit must have taken all that in, because it came back to him so clearly later, but at that moment—as he stepped over Wigram’s legs and felt O’Neill close the door behind him—he could see nothing but the man standing by the table, rubbing his right hand’s knuckles with his left hand and giving him an unfriendly smile.

  He was dressed in the usual loose breeches and his shirt was open at the front, clinging slightly to perspiration damp skin in the heat of the cabin. His expression gave nothing away, but his eyes were cold as he inspected Kit from his disheveled hair to bare feet. Kit saw his lips thin.

  Kit’s righteous anger began to fade, and he took a deep breath to try and quell his—he forced himself to be honest—fright.

  “You hit Denny,” the captain said and folded his arms. “Why did you do that?”

  Fright was a pointless emotion, Kit reminded himself, unless it could be tempered into healthy caution.

  “I woke from sleep and hit a shadow who had just grabbed my cods,” Kit replied. “I hit him once. As soon as I realized my mistake, I hit the man who needed to be hit. I…I apologize for hurting Denny. It was unfortunate and unnecessary. I won’t apologize for punching Wigram.”

  The captain had taken this terse explanation in with an increasingly bleak expression, his position under the lantern throwing shadows on his face that brought the fine strong bones into relief but made him look even more grim and haggard.

  “I think you will,” the captain said. “Denny is easily soothed. You sang with him and he liked that. Take care to do it again and we’ll say no more about it. But Wigram—you will apologize publicly for the blows exchanged in public.”

  Kit stared at him and, as their eyes locked, he felt a familiar surge of excitement. Kit enjoyed a fight, he was good at it, and his healthy caution suggested that this man might be a very testing opponent.

  “I will not. The man is a coward and a bully.”

  “And you are insubordinate. You will apologize to Bo’sun Wigram at noon today or face my extreme displeasure.”

  Kit didn’t need to reply. The captain must have read the denial in his face because his eyes widened with shock and anger. Kit was already moving to avoid the punch he expected, so he stepped right into the left-handed slap that made him see stars. A hard fist took him under the ribs, robbing his own blow of power and his lungs of air. He had never been hit so hard by a man. All he could liken it to was the occasion he had walked into a swinging boom and had almost been tossed overboard. That had left him with the same breathless terror he felt now as his attempts to defend himself, to retaliate, were brushed aside. Another slap rocked his head back, and the captain’s hand fastened on his throat. The man grunted as Kit punched, Kit’s fist landing squarely on a rock-hard gut that jarred his wrist.
He punched again, felt his wrist caught, his arm twist.

  His cheek impacted against cool smooth wood. His vision cleared, and his free hand scrabbled, sending the pen flying and grabbing at the compasses.

  “Oh no you don’t.” The growl was almost in his ear as the captain’s hand came down on his, pinning it to the chart. He almost sounded amused. “Damn you, Penrose. If you spill my brandy I will throw you to the sharks. My word upon it.”

  An empty threat because Kit couldn’t have moved had he tried. The railing at the edge of the table was cutting sharply at his waist, the minor pain of that nothing to the warning twinge in his shoulder, both increased by the weight of the man holding Kit still. Kit gasped in a breath and lost it again as more weight was applied.

  “You’re going to listen to me,” the captain said, almost whispering, his mouth so close to Kit’s ear he could feel the warmth of his breath. “You, Lieutenant Penrose, are walking a fine line and you don’t even know it. Let me tell you how the men on board this ship see you, shall I? No, be quiet, I don’t want to hear your voice.”

  His voice—Kit fixed his attention on that to block out the weight and heat of the body so close to his—it was educated, well spoken, with a faint familiar burr under it. Devon, maybe, or North Cornwall? He tried to think of that and not of the hands holding him, the heart he could feel beating against his spine.

  “Some of us see a gentleman,” the captain said, “with fine clothes and fine long words, just like the justices that sentenced us to the gallows or to servitude. Some of us see an Englishman, the old enemy imposing a foreign religion and taking away our rights and our languages.” His voice was calm but filled with bitterness and Kit wondered if he was speaking of himself until he shifted again, pressing more closely, and Kit was sure of it.