On a Lee Shore (16 page)

“I would,” Lewis stated proudly.

“That’s because you have a long nine, me dear, but the lad only has a little swivel gun, bless his heart.” Protheroe spoke with a total lack of concern that Kit was “sleeping” in his hammock just a few paces away.

Kit couldn’t think of anything he could do other than keep his eyes closed and his breathing even. He could hardly challenge Protheroe as a liar when nothing he had said was untrue—apart from maybe the bit about the swivel gun, because there was no way Protheroe could know.

“Oh aye?” Maxwell, a short and cheerful Scot, had been sold as an indentured servant after getting mixed up in the 1715 rebellion. He certainly wasn’t a fire breathing Jacobite, so Kit suspected he had just followed the wrong leader. “How’d you find that out then? Do you know about this, Lewis?”

“Of course.” Lewis sounded as though he was grinning. “After the storm, me and my carwr helped the captain pick Kit up and put him to bed. Denny wanted to mop the floor in the cabin, and he was sleeping in a puddle. Couldn’t not look, could we?” He must have made some kind of gesture because there was a snuffle of laughter.

“The poor lad had been cold for a very long time,” Protheroe pointed out kindly, then his voice changed. “Look sharp, everyone. Here comes Wigram.”

A very useful warning. Kit was prepared when a hand grabbed the edge of his hammock and tipped it, and he was able to land on his feet. He had the presence of mind to yawn and look shocked as Wigram snapped, “You’re wanted on deck,” and rounded off the order with a couple disgusting suggestions about why Kit might be needed.

Kit ignored him and pulled on his shirt.

Barbuda was just a smudge on the horizon, and the Africa was making sail with her bowsprit pointing a little west of south.

“Kit,” O’Neill hailed him. “Do you know Isla Aves? We need a course for it. Quick as you like.”

“West-sou’west from Antigua,” Kit said. “I’ll go get the exact readings now. We look to be—what? Five miles south of Barbuda? What speed?”

“Five miles. Six knots,” O’Neill said. “And Kit, the captain said I should give you this, and it’s to be used only for the purpose for which it was made.”

Kit took the waxed paper packet, feeling the razor weigh heavy in his hand. “Thank you,” he said to O’Neill, hoping his anger didn’t show in his face or sound in his voice.

Kit headed down to the chartroom. How dare the man think I might take the coward’s way out. But of course the captain did dare, and had dared far more than that, and none of it would Kit forgive. He opened the chartroom door as far as it would go and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Once he could see he sorted out the correct chart. The one he judged to be most up to date was French and had been burned all down one edge. A useful reminder of where he was and why on no account he could stay there.

It took a little time to plot their position and to extend a line from there due south toward Antigua then southwest from a point where Antigua would just be visible. That should take them south of Nevis and from there they could take another bearing for the island.

He assumed it was a rendezvous. The island was scarcely more than an outcropping of coral, a rough oval of blinding white sand with some scrubby trees and vegetation at its heart. Miss it and there was nothing but sea for miles until you reached the Spanish Main.

Lands rich in silver and gold.

Kit considered that for a moment, tapping the points of the compasses against his lips then altered the course half a point to the west. That would take them closer still to Nevis and the English naval base. How much help that would be he had no idea but…

“Sail!” The shout from above, followed by a rush of feet, brought Kit to the door of the chartroom, but he halted as the cabin door opened and the captain stepped out, checking the priming on one of his pistols. He too halted when he saw Kit, then nodded and thrust the pistol into a fold of his sash.

“Stay below,” he ordered, sneering as he added, “I wouldn’t want your delicate sensibilities to be offended.” He ran up the stairs, and Kit heard him shouting orders as he reached the deck.

The sudden shocking boom of a gun brought back a vivid mental image of the master of the Hypatia shredded and splashed along her deck, and Kit ran for the stairs too.

Ahead of them a small vessel, similar to the Bonito in size and shape, had spread its wings and was flying to the south. Africa was giving chase and gaining steadily. The gun boomed again. A spout of water went up off the boat’s starboard bow, and she rocked and lost way. The crew of the Africa cheered. They were arming themselves and readying the boats. For once nobody was loafing and most of the faces bore excited grins.

“Kit. Mr. Penrose!” Davy Forrest approached, pale faced. “What shall we do? They’re going to take that little ketch.”

“I don’t know,” Kit murmured. “I don’t think we can stop them. We might be able to stop any killing. Just…don’t board the ship. Refuse if you have to. Our business is to sail the Africa—no more than that. Witnesses on the Hypatia will say we were taken unwillingly, but that will count for nothing if you’re seen to take part in pillaging a ship. You get yourself below, out of sight.”

“What about you?” Davy asked, edging toward the stairs.

“I have something to do,” Kit said and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning to look for the captain.

Valliere was on the tiller with the captain near at hand, supervising the lowering of a boat.

“Captain,” Kit said, his heart beating in his throat. “This ketch. What do you intend?”

Griffin scowled at him, obviously a busy and preoccupied man who had just been asked a stupid question. “We are pirates, Kit,” he said. “We are going to stop her and see what cargo she has. If it’s of use to us, we will take it. That’s what pirates do. And if I remember correctly I ordered you to stay below. Go down to the chartroom immediately or I’ll chase you up the mast again.”

Valliere grinned at Kit and nodded to the stairs. “Go on,” he advised. “We don’t want to risk being left with no sailing master.”

“Now,” Griffin snapped. “Lewis, toss Mr. Penrose down the aft stairs and shut the hatch on him until I say otherwise.”

“Duw, bachgen,” Lewis growled as he grabbed Kit’s arm. “Get you down. We’ve more to do than ensure you’re safe.”

He didn’t toss Kit down the stairs but marched him firmly to their head then gave him a shove. His grip was such that Kit’s arm was numb; fighting and failing to break free would be even worse a loss of dignity than compliance.

On the stairs he stopped and looked back, moving aside a little so Davy could join him. Above, at the masthead, the black flag streamed, snapping out its warning. The Africa was spilling the wind from her sails, and they could just make out another mast nearby. The other ship would be right under their guns.

Sure enough there were shots, the sounds flat in the hot air, but they were musket fire from the men in the rigging, and they brought faint yells of alarm from the other ship.

Kit and Davy could follow most of what was happening just from the sounds they heard. The long boats pulled away, and the men still on board the Africa shouted and howled, brandishing their weapons. They kept up the ferocious racket for maybe half a glass then the boats came back and within ten minutes, the Africa was underway again.

There was a good deal of laughter, and Denny appeared at the top of the stairs wearing a large straw hat.

“You can come up now,” he said. “Come an’ see what we got!”

“That’s a fine hat, Denny,” Kit said as he climbed the stairs and was rewarded by a grin as Denny grabbed his sleeve to haul him up the last couple of steps.

Kit looked back along their wake and saw the little ship calmly making sail to resume its journey. One of the crewmembers even waved.

“Look,” Denny said. “Look what we got!”

As booty went it wasn’t that impressive, but everyone seemed pleased with it. A stickily oozing sack, Kit could smell the sweet, musky scent of the sugar from where he was standing, and two large nets full of lemons. Saunders was on one knee beside them, knife in hand to slit the fastening and was inspecting them for freshness.

“These will do very nicely,” he said passing a half dozen to Pollack. “Ah—Davy, Kit, will you help me take the rest below?”

Davy didn’t hesitate, grinning as he picked up the sack by the ears, so Kit stepped forward as well and took up a net in each hand.

“Ingredients for rum punch,” he said to Saunders. “Couldn’t we have as easily bought that on Barbuda?”

“Ah, Kit, but this way is so much more diverting!” Saunders said.

In these small seas there was plenty of traffic, and Africa moved among the other vessels like a sparrow hawk through a flock of titmice, her erratic course playing havoc with Kit’s calculations. The third boat they approached seemed no more inclined to resist than the first, but the second turned and ran and was sent reeling by a shot below the waterline. The crew dashed to shift their cargo and so were too busy to fight when the pirates swarmed aboard. The rummaging was brutal and fast and netted a haul of spare clothing and a barrel of axe heads.

Kit was astonished to see a couple of pirates helping the victims to plug the hole in the hull with pitch and rags and commented on it to O’Neill.

“Of course we’d care if they sunk,” he said. “If they sink we can’t rob them next month as well.”

Kit shook his head over this and was still nonplussed when darkness fell and the captain declared a brief celebration. Kit had asked around and got the impression that each attack had been fast and terrifying and sometimes brutal, but no hands had been taken and only those who had resisted had been hurt. That was no excuse for the thefts, of course, but even those had been just parts of the cargo rather than all of it.

Could they really be doing it for sport?

Saunders obviously thought so and was in great good humor as he brought Kit a large cup of the eye-watering punch he had gotten Pollack to brew.

“Drink it,” he ordered. “It will keep you healthy!”

O’Neill was at the tiller. He greeted Kit with his usual relief and a dash for the side. Kit took over, leaning on the hands-warmed bar of timber to keep the heading and holding his cup in his free hand. Amidships it looked like chaos, but he was fairly certain that a good time was being had by all, including the captain. Tall in his pale linens with the bright silk of his sash picking up the light of the lanterns, he was laughing at something the doctor was saying then looked up and saw Kit watching him, and his smile changed.

Kit wasn’t surprised, nor was he happy, to see the captain approach a few minutes later. He didn’t speak but poured a little of the punch in his cup into Kit’s then went to stand a few paces away looking back along their wake.

I won’t look at him, Kit promised himself. That’s what he’s waiting for. He wants me to look at him, wants me to want him, but I won’t.

So he stared at the compass, then down at the crew in the waist, singing and chivvying Davy and the other musicians to play faster than the dancers could follow. He looked up at the stars, across to the moon and back to check that the sails were evenly filled.

But every moment he felt the captain’s eyes on him.

Like a warm hand, like a caress, said that unruly little voice in the back of his mind, and finally Kit couldn’t not look back.

He’s looking at my mouth, he’s remembering.

Kit remembered too. It was shameful how his skin prickled with the need to be touched. His loins ached! Kit set his jaw and closed his eyes. When he opened them Griffin had gone.

Kit awoke with a thumping head. He had a vague memory of sitting with Saunders and accepting another cup of the vicious punch, by then far less lemony and far more rummy, and talking about—natural physics? At least Saunders had talked and Kit had listened and inserted the occasional comment. And he had drunk a lot more punch.

“Well at least,” he murmured and was shocked to hear that his voice was still slurring. “At least I won’t get scurvy.”

That piece of wisdom was according to a man who, last night, had been expounding the belief that albatrosses—or maybe albatri, they hadn’t been able to decide—never came to land but mated on the wing, and the female deposited her egg in the downy feathers of the male’s back.

Groaning, Kit rubbed his eyes, then got out of his hammock because he desperately needed to ‘keep a good watch on the lee-side.’ Shirt thrown over one shoulder, he ambled up on deck, squinting at the combination of brightness and noise. He was half unbuttoned before he noticed the other mast and realized that the yelling he could hear wasn’t on board.

“Well done,” he said. “A commendation to Lieutenant Christopher Penrose for sleeping through a pirate attack.”

Matters being pressing, Kit went aft and pissed off the stern. Valliere was at the tiller and gave him a grave good morning.

“I didn’t expect to see you for a while,” he said. “We have been left leaderless. O’Neill and the captain are still blind drunk. You were, you said, not yourself, and Wigram is too much like himself to be useful.”

“Ah, unfortunate,” Kit said, blinking at the compass. “So who suggested the Africa stop that—what is that? My vision is a little hazy this morning.”

“Pirogue,” Valliere said, grinning. “This is a fishing boat, but Wigram decided that there must be better cargo aboard. I believe he was hoping for a woman.” Valliere grimaced. “Wigram is not to be trusted with women.”

“Is anyone?” Kit’s aim for a lustful leer fell short, and he settled for a grimace. “I wonder if the fisherman would care to sell some fish. Pollack was saying he has a fine way with tunny, and I for one am sick of salt beef.”

“You could ask,” Valliere suggested, “if you speak French. The man’s English is not good.”

“Then it will be interesting because my French is atrocious!”

Kit obtained some pennies from Pollack, who was flattered and amused by the suggestion that he cook a fish dinner for the crew. The captain of the pirogue was short and stocky with a three-day beard flecked with spittle as he roared his disapproval of the way his belongings were being handled. His crewman was so similar in appearance, merely lacking a couple of decades, that he had to be a son. The crewman just watched glumly as a couple of the pirates turned out the contents of a chest. There was very little there—certainly nothing worth taking. However there was a fine catch of fish in barrels amidships.