HF - 03 - The Devil's Own (9 page)
least an anchor watch, and boats plied ceaselessly to and fro.
' 'Tis like a fleet of war,' Bart whispered. 'Preparing for an armada.'
'They'd not survive their first gale of wind,' Kit said contemptuously.
'But the storm season is over,' Jean pointed out. 'Why, it is all but Christmas.'
'I wonder what we must do,' Bart whispered, half to himself, 'to announce our arrival. Port Royal is but the seaport. There is another place somewhere on the mainland itself, where the Governor resides.'
'Spanish Town,' Kit said. 'I have heard of it.'
'It must be over there.' Jean pointed at the north-eastern end of the bay, where the roofs of houses could just be seen. 'But it seems we have to worry less about visiting them than having them visit us.'
They looked after his finger. A barge came towards them from the mainland shore. It was propelled by twelve oars a side, each manned by a half-naked, sweating Negro. Amidships and forward were a guard of a dozen soldiers, wearing long, red coats and wide, flat hats, and armed with pikes and swords. And in the stern were two gentlemen, from their dress; above their heads a gigantic Cross of St George floated in the breeze.
'You'll gather, lads,' Bart bellowed. ' 'Tis being visited by the authorities, we are.'
The
boucaniers
formed two lines on deck. They were still sufficiently elated by their victory of two days before to obey their leader without question. And they looked more like men, now. Most had shaved; Kit and Jean indeed had removed all the hair from their faces, but many of their companions had retained at least moustaches. And they wore velvet breeches and cambric shirts. One or two sported coats and one hardy soul even insisted on wearing a breastplate, despite the heat. Their heads were bare, the occasional one boun
d up in a brightly col
oured bandanna; their feet were also bare. But they had armed themselves well, and no one could possibly mistake them for anything less than fighting men.
Nor were the two visitors likely to make any mistakes in their judgements. First in the g
angway was a small man, with
narrow features, a perpetual frown to suggest that he was shortsighted, but none the less with piercing, inquisitive eyes. He did not uncover as he gained the deck, but instead stared aft and then up at the rigging, seeking a flag and finding none. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, blue with a gold trim, and his coat was also dark blue, edged with gold lace. His breeches were white buckskin, which made a startling contrast. His stockings were also white, and his shoes black leather. But most amazing of all, he was unarmed and carried only a cane similar to the one Kit remembered in the possession of Philip Warner.
'By God,' he remarked. 'As villainous a collection as even I have ever seen. My name is Thomas Modyford, and I am His Majesty's Governor of Jamaica. Who is master of this ship?'
Bart stepped forward, looking unusually nervous. 'I have that privilege, sir.'
'A
boucanier,'
Modyford said, in tones of contempt.
'As are my followers, monsieur.'
And whence came you by this ship?' The question was asked by the second man, who now appeared at the top of the ladder. He was altogether bigger than his companion, although not tall, heavy-set, with powerful shoulders and wide thighs, suggesting an enormous physical strength. His face was round, with full cheeks and a big chin, decorated by a carefully trimmed wisp of brown beard, as his moustache was also carefully combed and curled. The marks of the dandy extended to his clothes; his coat was of gold-coloured cloth, and open, to show the lace in his shirt front, and his red breeches vanished into cavalier boots which clumped on the deck. His sword was a Spanish rapier, hanging from a wide, crimson velvet baldric, and he wore a leather belt at his waist, ostensibly to carry two pistols, but more, Kit thought, to pull in his belly. He sported a diamond ring on each of the fingers of his left hand, and smelt of pomade. He might easily have been mistaken for a fop. But there was a habit of command in his voice, and his brown eyes, disarmingly mild, flickered from right to left with total certainty as he established the capabilities of the ship.
'We took her, monsieur,' Bart said. 'Off the coast of Hispaniola. Not two days gone.'
'Took her, by God,' Modyford said. 'With this band of butchers?'
Bart grinned. 'It was butchery we needed, Your Excellency.' 'You've a cabin?' asked the big man.
Bart indicated the companion-way. Modyford stepped past the waiting men, but his companion checked before Kit, frowning. 'I know your face, boy,' he said. 'Have you sailed with me before?'
Kit's heart started to pound. The voice had a Welsh lilt to
it.
'No, sir,' he said. 'Perhaps you knew my father. My name is Christopher Hilton.' 'Tony Hilton's boy?' 'His grandson, sir.'
'Then you're a rascal, by Christ. I've known no greater scoundrel than Tony Hilton, and I'm no stranger to villainy.'
Kit felt his cheeks burn. But mainly with anger. His name, and Susan's memory, were his only worthwhile possessions. 'You'll acknowledge he was also a man of courage and ability, sir.'
'What, Tony Hilton?'
'Or must I make you,' Kit shouted, his hand dropping to his sword hilt.
'Draw on your betters, would you?' Modyford cried. 'Kit, be careful,' Jean begged.
But the big man laughed. 'Tony Hilton's grandson, by Christ. You've the manner more than the appearance. When first I came to these accursed islands I sailed with Tony Hilton. Aye, he had courage, and ability, and he was my friend. As will you be. Give me your hand, boy. My name is Henry Morgan.'
Kit had his fingers crushed.
'Christopher Hilton.' Modyford was frowning. 'You're from Tortuga?'
'Some time ago, sir,' Kit said.
'Aye. Your name was mentioned to me but a few months back, as I recall. Why, 'tis a small world, to be sure.' 'My name, sir?' Kit was incredulous.
'In St John's, it was. I've estates in Barbados, you understand, and was on my way home to Jamaica from a tour of inspection, when a contrary wind blew me into Antigua. There I was the guest of the Deputy Governor, Colonel Philip Warner.'
'And
he
asked after
me,
sir?'
'He mentioned your name, Master Hilton, but in no very complimentary terms, I am sorry to say. I spoke of the projects planned by my friend here, Admiral Morgan, and Colonel Warner wondered that we did not recruit in Tortuga. A den of cu
t
throats, was his description of the place. Of whom, he said, the Hiltons are the worst. There are but two left, thank God, he said, the old whore and her pirate grandson.'
'My grandmother is dead, sir.'
'Then you've my sympathy.' Modyford's face relaxed into a smile; his eyes remained cold. 'But you're not without a friend in the Warner household, lad, if it's any solace to you. The Governor's daughter, young Mrs Templeton, took me aside and asked if indeed we planned to visit Tortuga. They were then unaware that it had been taken by the Dons.'
'Mrs Templeton?' Kit's heart pounded more than when he had boarded the coaster. 'Would her name be Marguerite?'
'Aye. The most beautiful creature I have ever seen. There's the truth. And married to a man four times her age. A sad waste.'
Sad? And Marguerite had asked after him? Marguerite, whom he had all but forgotten? Marguerite, whom he had caused to hate him, he was sure. 'But, sir,' he cried, as Modyford would have turned away again. 'What did she say?'
Again the frosty smile. 'Why, I forget most of it, indeed I do. Something about giving you her regards, as she had decided to forgive you. And I did not even find out what you had done to the gorgeous creature. But I formed the impression, as much from her father's dislike as from her own consideration, that you were a man of parts. The lad is your sailing master, no doubt,' he remarked to Bart.
'Eh? Oh, yes, indeed, sir,' Bart agreed. 'He is that. And a devil when it comes to action. Why, that is what we call him, amongst ourselves. The devil's own spawn.'
'The devil's own,' Morgan said, and laughed again. 'Aye, a good name for a Hilton. A good name for you, boyo.'
'She remembers me,' Kit said to Jean, ignoring the men. 'By God. After all these years, she remembers me.'
'And perhaps me also,' Jean said with a smile. 'Will you not allow me to meet these gentlemen?'
'Oh, forgive me, dear friend. I am quite overwhelmed. Quite
... allow me to present my friend, Jean DuCasse, Captain Morgan.'
Morgan frowned through his smile. 'Admiral, Kit. You'll call me Admiral. The pleasure is mine, Monsieur DuCasse. You've wine on board this ship?'
'Oh, indeed, monsieur,' Bart said, and led the way into the great cabin.
'A Spanish merchantman.' Modyford sat at the table, still without removing his hat. 'And taken by a handful of
boucaniers,
by God.'
'You came in through the stern, there.' Morgan did remove his hat, placing it carefully beside him. He had found the bullet marks on the deck-head, while the stain on the table was clearly blood.
'Kit led the way,' Bart said. 'Why, he'd have taken her single-handed if we'd lagged behind.'
'Tony Hilton's grandson,' Morgan said again, smiling at the boy. 'Your grandfather had a gift of command, Kit, lad. You'd do well to follow in his footsteps. He might have made a great name for himself, but his interests lay at home, with that magnificent woman of his. She's dead, you say?'
'She was hanged by the Dons when they took Tortuga.'
'By God,' Morgan said. 'Hanged, by God.'
'So you've a score to settle,' Modyford said.
Kit stared at him. The thought of Marguerite remembering him had quite driven every other concept, even his reason for being here, from his mind. But how could
he
remember
her,
without also remembering everything else. 'Aye, sir,' he said. 'I've a score.'
'You all have, Mr Hilton,' Modyford said. 'As you were
boucaniers.
First thing, you'll hoist the English flag.'
'I am a Frenchman, sir,' Bart said. 'And so are all my crew, saving only Kit.'
'If you sail with me,' Morgan said. 'It is as Englishmen.'
'And do we sail with you, Admiral?' Jean asked.
'These ships are not here to rest,' Morgan said. 'I've accumulated them all the year. This ship of yours will carry a hundred men.'
'She'll sail, and fight, better with forty,' Kit said.
'Spoken like a seaman, Kit. But I need men. Men are even more important than ships. The ships must carry them without sinking. Nothing more.'
'Carry them where, Admiral?' Bart asked.
Morgan smiled at him. 'Where Henry Morgan sails is known to Henry Morgan alone,' he said. 'Saving my good friend Governor Modyford here. But I'll promise you all the riches in the world, Captain Le Grand. Ask those who were with me at Porto Bello, or Maracaibo.'
Bart glanced at the two boys. ' 'Tis what we came for.'
'Aye,' Kit said. 'We'll sail with you to hell itself, Admiral Morgan.'
Still Morgan smiled. 'It may well come to that, Mr Hilton. And you will, indeed, sail with me.' He caught the expression on Kit's face. 'And your friend, Monsieur DuCasse. We'll find you another sailing master, Captain Le Grand. These two young men are my special charge. Why, the very name of Hilton will inspire the fleet.'
Because it was, after all, a fleet. There were more than a score of ships, led by the two galleons, but dwindling down to little ten-man cockleshells, wallowing in the long Caribbean swell. A fleet, carrying him to fame and wealth? Morgan promised him no less. And what would he do then? How the mention of her had indeed brought memory flooding back, every gesture, every movement, every change in her tone. Married to a man four times her age. And a mother? He did not know. But thinking of an episode from her past. Suppose, then, he did reappear, famous and wealthy?
Supposing it were possible. He stood on the poopdeck of the
Monarch,
the larger of the two galleons, and watched the rest through his glass. They had been at sea for over a week, making ever south-west across an empty ocean, and throughout that time they had been favoured with a light beam wind. Yet on nearly all the ships the pumps had clacked ceaselessly, and streams of dirty brown water poured over the sides; leave vessels as rotten as these for twenty-four hours and they took six feet of water in the hold. How they were ever manoeuvred or fought, what would happen were the slightest wind to spring up ...
