On a Lee Shore (17 page)

“Monsieur,” Kit called to fishermen and held up a penny. “Combien pour les poissons? Pour quatres—les plus grand?”

Both fishermen stared at him then the older man replied. Kit’s French may have been poor, but the man made himself understood. Kit could take his penny and—a word Kit didn’t recognize—because surely he knew that the moment Kit gave him a penny one of the other—another strange word—would steal it. Just take the fish—ruin him?—what did they care?

Laughing, the younger man selected four large tunny and held up four fingers. Kit held up one, and they settled for two. It was a generous payment, but the pirates were enjoying the show and some, perhaps, the memory of a world where fair prices were paid for good merchandise.

Wigram made his contempt clear when he saw Pollack and Kit with the fish. “Don’t you think I’m eating that muck,” he said. “Penrose, stop loafing and get the ship underway. There’s nothing worth taking there. Pollack, either throw those stinking things over the side or get them out of my sight.”

Both of them hurried to comply, because Wigram looked as though he too had a headache and was eager to share the misery.

“Fish for supper,” Kit said to Valliere. “I don’t suppose anyone has any inkling where we are, do they?”

“Of course,” Valliere said. “We are south of the course you plotted—a little—and a few miles west of Montserrat. I saw the island just after dawn.”

Kit squinted at the sun, still well astern and nodded. “I need to wash,” he said. “I’m all over fish scales. Do you mind keeping the helm until then?”

“Go ahead,” Valliere said. “But when you come back I will sleep. It has been a long night.”

Guilt-stricken, Kit hurried to get a bucket of water to wash in. Shaving was difficult, soap wouldn’t lather in seawater, but he did his best and put on his cleanest shirt, his waistcoat, neatly buttoned, and his shoes before returning to the tiller.

Valliere nodded. “Far more like a naval officer,” he said. “I had begun to worry that you were lowering your standards.”

With that he headed for his hammock, leaving Kit with food for thought. True, keeping up appearances was difficult on the Africa, and the captain didn’t seem to bother much. But then the captain had a natural authority that Kit lacked. O’Neill got by on competence and charm. Wigram was just vicious. And Valliere was so plainly a consummate seaman as well as having that grave and pleasant dignity that it seemed natural to defer to him.

Kit had—what? Ten years training in a Navy most of the crew despised, a random if extensive education in anything any of his previous officers had felt he should know about, and a dubious reputation for manliness, if the captain was to be believed.

Kit rubbed his smooth-ish chin and made a few resolutions to do with smartening up his appearance.

Davy Forrest brought him food and drink when he noticed him at the tiller, and they were together when Wigram hallooed from the bows and pointed. “A sail,” he shouted. “A prize. Come on lads.”

Kit scowled at Davy and kept to their heading. A few moments later Wigram came storming along the deck and put his hand on his pistol when he saw who was at the tiller. “You two,” he said. “I might’a known. Protheroe, come and take the helm. Forrest, get below. You,” he glared at Kit. “You can help me fire the warning shot. You know how to do that, don’t you?”

“I’m not firing on an innocent trader,” Kit said. “I’ll do all in my power to prevent the ship from running aground, and if we are attacked—by pirates or ships of a hostile power—then, yes, I will fight, but other than that…”

He had been keeping an eye on Wigram’s pistol, so he almost missed the punch aimed at his face. It stung his ear as it passed, and he hit Wigram as hard as he could in the short ribs.

“One blow each, honor even,” he said as Wigram staggered back. “I’ll guide the ship—if that’s good enough for the captain it should be good enough for you!”

Wigram’s hand closed on his pistol again. “I’ll do for you, Penrose, so help me I will,” he swore.

“Are you twp or something?” Protheroe demanded. “While the captain’s ill, Kit’s all we’ve got between us and the rocks. Send him below. We don’t need him to stop another fishing boat.”

“It was a lot bigger’n a fishing boat,” Wigram said. “I think—”

There was a frantic halloo from the bow. “Lily-livered the lot of you,” Wigram spat as he went forward again.

Kit went forward too and stopped dead as he saw a great ship, hull up, heading straight for them with all her pennants flying, sailing impossibly close to the wind.

“Navy,” Wigram said. “That’s not the Rose or the Shark. What the fuck is that?”

The Miranda. Kit gaped at her as a puff of white smoke belched from her prow and a gout of water shot up ahead, a little to starboard. A ranging shot, not a warning. Kit remembered how she had attacked the Bonito. He assumed the crew of the Africa could expect even less mercy.

“Rouse the captain,” he told Wigram, “and tell the crew to clear for action.”

“You’ve changed your tune,” Wigram said.

“I’m not fighting, I’m running,” Kit snapped. He hurried back to Protheroe.

“Southeast,” he said. “Fast as we can.” He bellowed the necessary orders, sending the more seamanlike hands scurrying. Davy Forrest gave him an appalled look as he dashed past. Kit tried to smile reassuringly but found it difficult.

From her hull the Miranda should have had a brigantine rig, but almost all her sails were fore and aft. Kit had seen something similar on lateen rigged ships in the Mediterranean. He knew how handy they could be, and how fast.

“The way I see it,” he said to Protheroe, “is that we do our best to outrun her then try and lose her among the islands. Have we got anyone who knows these waters well?”

“The best—that would be Valliere,” Protheroe said and shouted to one of the hands to wake him.

The sails swung and Africa leaned, butting through the waves. On this tack she was fast, but it would take time to turn her. Miranda’s next shot ploughed into the water much closer than the previous one.

“We’ll do it,” Kit said and slapped Protheroe’s shoulder. “More sail.”

Ahead was the cloudy smudge that, please God, was Montserrat and, he hoped, escape. He looked up as Africa’s great white wings opened and spread, then back at the Miranda, but she too was putting on more canvas.

“Damnation.” Griffin, sallow cheeked and red eyed, had arrived on deck. He too looked back and stared. “What is that?” he demanded.

“I think it’s the Miranda, sir.”

“Kit!” Griffin glared at him. “We’ll discuss this later. For the moment, more sail. Where’s Valliere? Val, I want you at the helm. Protheroe get Lewis, we’ll be needing you two to take soundings. Kit, get the chart from my table and my glass, then clear my cabin. I’ll be needing those guns. Denny will help. Don’t just stand there, boy.”

Kit flung himself down the stairs to do his captain’s bidding. No quibbling now about duty.

Denny’s face was white and his nose running, but he was working manfully when Kit returned to the cabin after delivering the items requested by Griffin.

“Gotta get these out, see,” he explained to Kit. “Don’t want any of his nice things broke.”

While Kit unhooked the cot and manhandled it below, Denny was padding the items in the hanging cupboard with twists of rag. When he stated that he was satisfied, he and Kit lifted it from its brackets and carried it into the chartroom and slid it under the little table.

“There,” Denny said. “Safe as ’ouses. Now for them guns.”

Given a routine job to do, Denny impressed Kit with his speed and efficiency. They removed the glass casements from the windows and the legs from the table. With the windows packed in the hollow of the table they set it against the far wall and then rolled up the oilcloth. In the chests under the guns was all the necessary rigging, and Kit connected the tackle to the carriages and the rings set flush into the floor.

“Come on then,” Denny said and flung himself against the ropes. Working together, the two of them could move the gun an inch at a time. In Kit’s opinion it would have made more sense to get a couple of hands to help, but Denny shouted at him when he went to call. “Got to be just right,” he said. “Just right for the captain, you’ll see.”

They only had to move each gun about eighteen inches, but Kit was soaked with sweat by the time Danny allowed it was ‘just right.’ There was a rack of shot under the window—now a large rectangular gun port offering a good view of the Miranda, who was coming along like the thoroughbred she was.

She was close enough now for Kit to be able to see the figures on her deck, specks as yet, but clear where he hadn’t been able to make them out before. She hadn’t shot again, and Kit wondered if it was because she was hoping to get close enough to grapple or maybe because the captain wanted to get broadside on and pound Africa to bits at his leisure. Either way the sloop was outmatched, either way she and the men in her were doomed.

Whenever Kit had thought about escape, he had assumed that he would leave Africa and her crew to go about their nefarious business. He had never considered that he might be rescued—that the ship might be taken, the crew imprisoned, tried, and hanged as the pirates they were. Just the thought of it put his heart in his throat.

Saunders, O’Neill, Valliere, Lewis, and Protheroe were all good men in their own way. Denny? Better a pirate than chained to a wall in some Bedlam. And the captain of the ship—Kit suddenly couldn’t bear to think of all that ferocious intelligence cut short by the noose.

The sound of feet on the stairs snapped him out of that uncomfortable consideration, and Denny poked him in the side. “We got to get powder now,” he said.

“Well done!” the captain said as he entered the room. “Excellent work, Denny! Now for some charges, please. Kit—you’ll be in the way. Go sail the ship for me, lad. Valliere will tell you what to do. No arguments.”

“No, sir,” Kit said and vacated the room to allow the gun crews to get inside.

On deck there was chaos of an orderly kind. Men crouched in the shelter of the railings, armed to the teeth, shouting bloodcurdling threats at the pursuing ship. Theirs was a difficult, heartbreaking job. They had to wait, trusting that the ship would carry them to safety.

As Kit arrived at the tiller, Valliere sent Protheroe running for the bows and bellowed for silence. He pointed to one of the hands. “I need you, you two, and you there on the sheets. The rest of you be quiet. We’re going to tack. Kit, bring her about. Luff. Let’s see how close to the wind that salope can sail.”

The Africa’s empty sails flapped, then they filled again and she was off. Valliere raised the glass and looked at points on the distant land. “We’re here,” he said lowering the glass and pointing to the chart. “Near as I can make out. Can she take another point, Kit?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Valliere,” Kit said and leaned on the tiller.

Valliere nodded. “That will do,” he said. “That ship, what does she draw?”

“I don’t know,” Kit admitted. “But it can’t be less than eight feet. Not with the weight of guns on her.”

“Then we might have a chance,” Valliere murmured. They both flinched as the Miranda’s guns spoke again and water fountained. It was closer still.

“Five fathoms,” Protheroe shouted from the starboard bow.

“Less,” Lewis yelled, and Kit looked ahead and saw the deep blue of the ocean paling.

“Dieu m’sauf,” Valliere muttered. “Steer for that, Kit.”

“Amen,” Kit agreed. Sandbank or rock, at this speed it could tear the keel out of the Africa.

It did neither, but she did strike it on her left side, throwing every man from his feet. Juddering, she scraped past and wallowed on the other side. Kit, winded, scrambled back to the tiller. Precious seconds passed as they got her underway again, and that was enough for the Miranda to close. The next shots threw up water to the larboard and just astern, spattering the deck. Kit gasped at the shock of the cold of it.

From below a shout went up. Both cannons in the great cabin roared. Smoke billowed, blanking out Kit’s view of the Miranda. Ears ringing, he worked his jaw and checked the compass. He wanted to look back. Miranda would be reloading.

Valliere had jarred his wrist again and was holding it as he got to his feet. “South, Kit,” he said. “Take her south around that point. See if we can keep her at bay with the reef.”

Africa answered more slowly this time, as the sailors grappled with the sheets to trim the sails. She made way gently over the pale green water—Kit could even seen the ripple of the sand on the sea bed and shadows of fish fleeing before the larger shadow of Africa’s hull.

Miranda’s next shot kicked up water just beyond them.

“Bracketed, par Dieu,” Valliere whispered, and he and Kit ducked down behind the transom as another gun spoke. Africa lurched, her boom swinging. There were screams. Kit looked up as Valliere leaped to his feet and ran forward. MacGregor, the big Scot, flopped like a fish, hands holding a bloody mess where his guts had been, until blood burst from his mouth and he fell back and stilled. A section of rigging where he had been standing hung in a hopeless tangle.

“Get up, get up,” Valliere yelled, grabbing men, shoving ropes into their hands and shouting at them to pull. Hasty repairs were being made even as Kit counted off the seconds until Miranda would be able to bring more guns to bear. She was turning, showing one shoulder, and Kit heard a crackle of musket fire. One spent ball did bounce along the deck, but the range was too long and the others did no harm. But for the long guns the range was fine. Africa was almost still in the water—an unmissable target.

The deck shook under his feet as Africa’s guns belched smoke and fury. Smoke swirled, making him cough, but he heard a cheer from the bow where they could still see.

Another gun boomed, and another, and another, but the Africa was not their aim. Tan topsails were silhouetted against the sky beyond the point as, still out of sight of the Africa, another ship challenged the Miranda.

Smoke cleared. Kit saw a hole appear in Miranda’s mainsail. The elegant tracery around her figurehead was already marred, but she was turning, turning, the black squares of her gun ports like squinting eyes.