On a Lee Shore (27 page)

“Follow Griffin to Curacao,” Kit said. “But first we should find a safe place to leave the ones we have rescued. I don’t trust Stockley. He might feel it worth putting them over the side.”

“That is the safest thing to do,” Saunders pointed out. “But you must call the hands together and give them their options. This isn’t the Navy. You’re only giving orders because you know one end of the cross-staff from the other. “

“I’ll call a meeting,” Kit promised. “Will you come up?”

“Half a glass and I’ll be with you,” Saunders said. “Odd’s cods I need a drink.”

Kit requested another sweep around the wreckage, this time to see if there was anything to salvage, and in the middle of the forenoon called his crew aft to, as Lewis put it, ‘take counsel.’

He struck a snag immediately.

“We have to take them with us,” Ramon said.

“Yes, we’re short-handed,” Maxwell agreed. “Most of them are fit for work.”

“Which means we’d have to guard them and feed them. I thought we might put them ashore. Maybe at Aruba?” Kit suggested.

“Where there’s a port for the Spanish costa garda?” Ramon shook his head. “Word will get out about the Ciervo, but it will get out the sooner with them showing their burns and howling for blood.”

“Let’s face it,” Armstrong said. “They are lucky we came back for them, and that’s that. Forced men can make good pirates—like you and Davy.”

“I don’t feel like a good pirate,” Davy said and shot Kit a reproachful glance. “I just want to go home. An’ I bet they do too, so why not give them the choice?”

“Aye,” Ramon said with a grin. “Let us do that.”

Ramon, Lewis, and Saunders went down to interview the prisoners while Kit made enough sail to set their course for the first leg of the journey to Curacao. They were soon joined by the first of the uninjured Spanish sailors, a couple who arrived hand-fast. They took their place at the sheets with a smile and a nod to Kit. Lewis and Ramon had followed them on deck and approached him.

“Only two?” Kit asked.

Ramon shrugged. “They all want to come with us,” he said. “Better to have a sound ship under them even if we are pirates than a leaky boat and a hostile shore. Saunders is deciding who is fit to work.”

“Also, Detorres is conscious,” Lewis added. “Saunders says he’s looks worse than he is, but it might ease his mind to speak to you.”

“Very well,” Kit said and braced himself for what was bound to be an unpleasant interview.

Detorres face was blistered beneath the salve, likewise his right hand and a long stripe down his right thigh where his breeches had given at the seam. Otherwise the wool of his uniform had protected his body. His hair and beard were singed down to a spikey stubble, and Saunders had put a bandage over his eyes.

“He tells me that I should recover my sight,” Detorres whispered as soon as he heard Kit’s voice.

He spoke proudly through cracked lips, rejecting pity, and continued before Kit could speak. “Thank you for coming back for us.”

“The explosion was none of our doing,” Kit said. “I swear it.”

“I accept your word,” Detorres said. “Yet it was your doing that the Ciervo was taken. If it had not been for you, Penrose, my ship and my men, and the men of the Santiago would be safe.”

“That is so,” Kit said. He felt wretched. “Do you know what happened?”

“To me? I was on the quarterdeck, making all sail for the anchorage. My captain was below with the senior officer of the Santiago. They were arranging accommodation. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to share with some cabrón and looking aft and dreaming of getting a party together to follow you and take back the Santiago and send you pirates and your ships to the seabed. Then I heard a shout and men running and—poof.” He waved his left hand. “Next thing I knew I was in the water. Something hit me and I grabbed it, but it was on fire. I’m told I was on a grating. I think that must have been it.”

“I’ll get you home,” Kit said, a sinking in his gut even as he made that often repeated promise. “Somehow. I’m not sure how.”

Detorres laughed. “Do you think they’ll want me?” he said. “Other than to hang? I lost the Ciervo and I lost the Santiago. Someone will be needed to take the blame for both. It would have been better if you had left me on the grating.”

“Well, I didn’t. And I’m not about to put you overboard now. I’m taking you to Curacao. The Dutch have a settlement there. We will put you ashore to heal. If at some time you get another ship and have a chance of blowing Jago Stockley out of the water, take it with my blessing.”

“I will live for that possibility,” Detorres snarled. “And for the opportunity to tell the Escurial that their security is compromised. That anchorage was supposed to be a secret.”

“Was it now?” Kit said, remembering the course Griffin had set and his eagerness that they make good time. “I wish you good luck with that too. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Other than my ship and crew whole and unharmed?” Detorres shook his head, wincing as the bandages pulled on his blisters. “Only clear vision and an easy shot at whoever set the charges on the Ciervo. And…some rum would be good.”

“The rum is yours,” Kit said and left him with a sense of cowardly relief.

One of the rescued Spaniards died before morning. One moment he was talking with his fellows and the next he had keeled over and was gasping his last through blue lips. Saunders shook his head sadly and said that his heart must have given out. As the sun rose they read over him and sent him to his rest with regret. Detorres had insisted he be allowed to attend the burial. He stood grasping the arm of the most robust of his surviving crew and shaking with pain.

Saunders took Kit aside. “I am running out of supplies to make the medicines I need. Also we need better food. Make haste Kit or we may lose more of them.”

Kit sighed and looked at the pennant streaming out from the masthead. “It would be quicker to go north then, with the wind and the currents in our favor. Curacao will be hard sailing.”

“Jamaica—and a noose?” Saunders shook his head. “Much as I love you, Kit, if you suggest that they’ll feed you to the sharks, and I don’t know that I wouldn’t help them. Just make the best possible time is all I’m saying.”

“I’ll do my best,” Kit promised.

And they did, sweeping in a wide tack to the northeast, then to the southeast, getting sight of the coast once or twice a day. Kit pored over the charts, staring at the coastline through the spyglass until his eye watered, and consulted with anyone who might have an opinion about their location. Detorres was surprisingly helpful under the circumstances. He was white and pinched around the mouth, where he wasn’t yellow with honey, but he claimed that he felt less pain. Kit doubted that but would never have suggested that Detorres might be anything less than scrupulously truthful.

That honor was much on the man’s mind was proved on the third day of sailing when they met with a coaster. The crew hailed them without fear, calling for news and shouting a warning.

“Pirate ships!” the captain said once they were in earshot of each other. “The biggest I ever see.” He was a short, cheerful Dutchman, bound for Aruba with a cargo of cotton topped up with tea and other little necessities. He described meeting the two ships, a brigantine and a huge galleon, and how they had fired warning shots and had moved to intercept him. Through feats of daring seamanship he had managed to elude them. They heard him out, Lewis and Ramon keeping a watchful eye on the Spaniards who were on deck, and then conversation moved to matters of trade. Kit left Saunders to negotiate for supplies, and while the doctor and the Dutchman established what each had to offer, Kit drew the Spaniards aside.

“Do you wish to go to Aruba?” he asked. “I will ask the Dutchman if he will take you aboard.”

Two of the Spaniards shrugged and said they would follow Detorres. The two least injured grinned and slipped their arms around each other before going to stand with Ramon. Detorres’s lips pinched as he considered Kit’s suggestion then he shook his head carefully.

“If I go to Aruba, how will I kill the men who wrecked my ship?” he said. “No, Kit, I will stay, if you are brave enough to keep me.”

There could be only one answer to a challenge like that, and Kit went to hurry the traders up. The Dutchman was happy to assist distressed mariners and accepted a newly minted eight reale piece in payment without question or comment.

“And now,” Saunders said, clutching a large crock of honey as the two ships drifted apart, “we must make all sail. I think that Dutchman may have recognized the Africa. He asked some pointed questions about our cargo. By the time he reaches Aruba I suspect he’ll have fought us off just as gallantly as he did the Garnet.”

“You mean—he’d lie?” Lewis said with mock shock. “Then let us depart this place with all speed.”

“Excuse me—who gives the orders?” Kit asked. His crew made fond noises then, unasked, ran to make sail.

“A unique style of command,” Saunders said with a wry smile. “If you need me, I will be in the bow reading.”

Kit took the tiller, watching the sails fill as he set a course farther to the north than he liked. But then wind and water were no respecters of men’s urgencies.

Chapter Sixteen

The evening of the following day Saunders risked removing the bandages across Detorres’s eyes. In the dimness of the cabin, Kit held the lantern behind Detorres’s head and watched anxiously as the doctor unwound the pieces of linen. Saunders gestured him to hold the lantern a little closer and peered at both of Detorres’s eyes in turn.

“Well,” he said, “the swelling has reduced, and the redness is fading. See if you can open them. Kit, keep that light well back.”

Detorres blinked, grimacing, then his frown eased. “I…yes,” he murmured. “I can!” He turned his head toward Kit, who hastily moved the lantern out of sight.

“Careful,” Kit suggested. “Get used to this little bit of light first.”

“Yes,” Saunders grabbed Detorres’s head and turned him to face front again. “A little light at a time. We mustn’t strain your eyes. And you need to bathe them often. Clean seawater should do it. How do they feel?”

“Scratchy,” Detorres admitted. “But I can see. And tomorrow I will see better.”

Kit ordered a celebration and offered Detorres the freedom of the Africa’s small library. Holding one of Griffin’s prized mathematical texts on his knee—as a promise of recovery rather than to read it—Detorres sat under the stern lantern and watched Kit use Griffin’s octant. “A strange device,” Detorres said. “But a useful one. Yet it brings us no nearer to answering the question: How far east have we come?”

“At this latitude not far enough,” Kit admitted. “We should have sighted the northernmost point of Aruba before dark, going by my reckoning, but maybe the currents say otherwise.”

“Perhaps,” Detorres said. He was studying the flyleaf of the book, written over in several different hands, Griffin’s flourished signature standing out among the rest. “But I do not understand why you are doing this. Why go back to the pirates? You have a good vessel and, I can attest, a kind crew. You could take the sloop to San Cristobal. You would be welcomed.”

“Possibly,” Kit agreed. “But I gave my word to an honorable man, you see. My word is my bond even if given to someone I despise, so when I give it so someone for whom I have regard, I’m even less likely to break it.”

“That is laudable.” Detorres’s lopsided smile was bright among the scruffy honey smeared stubble. “If a little reckless. Why not escape while you can?”

Kit considered what could happen, assuming he would not be foresworn. Davy would be overjoyed to be homeward bound, but Lewis would be stricken at the thought of never seeing Protheroe again, and Ramon, Maxwell, and the others would be even more upset at foregoing their share of the Santiago’s treasure. And Kit… He had promised to return the Africa to Griffin. So there was no more to be said.

“All in good time,” he said. “And for now I think you had better go below. I think it’s going to rain.”

“I don’t mind the wet,” Detorres said.

“No, but the book might,” Kit said. “You may sleep in the great cabin.”

Once he had the quarterdeck to himself, Kit checked his heading again and settled down, leaning against the tiller as the wind began to gust. Davy brought up his oilskin when the rain started and held the tiller while he pulled it on. Africa was heeling over, her sails taut.

“She’s a lovely sloop,” Davy said. “It’s been a privilege to sail her, but I can’t help but feel we’ll be better at home.”

“I could let you off at Curacao,” Kit suggested. “We’re at peace with the Dutch at the moment. You could most probably work your way home. Failing that I was hoping to be able to set you ashore at Nevis or St. Kitts. I would write you a letter commending you and explaining your situation. You could meet Hypatia next time she comes into port.”

Davy grunted, looking out on their wake glinting gold from the lantern light. “Maybe,” he said and cupped his hands around his eyes.

“Thought I saw something,” he said. “There—about east-nor’east. A light.”

“Really?” Kit also shaded his eyes from the lantern, but all he saw was blackness scattered with the tiny falling sparks of the rain. “I see nothing, but the seas are high. When Lewis comes to relieve me, I’ll ask him to keep watch.”

At midnight Kit went to snatch a few hours sleep and found that Detorres had put himself to bed in Kit’s hammock. Griffin’s book was on the table, so Kit returned it to the shelf before laying down to sleep in what he couldn’t help thinking of as Griffin’s bed. The fine linen sheets, if a little damp, felt like silk. So had Griffin’s skin that time, in this very cabin, when Kit had put out his hand in apology and had accidentally touched him. And then, overcome with excitement at what they had planned, Kit had kissed him. It had been no accident. When they met again a comradely embrace might not be out of place. A swift clap on the back, a meeting of palms in a strong handshake, an exchange of smiles. Griffin would be vindicated in his conviction that Kit was not foresworn, Kit would be pleased to have fulfilled his obligations to a captain who was in so many ways admirable, if in others sadly lawless. Once business was seen to, perhaps they would sit and talk about the Santiago and how she sailed, and the differences between navigating with the cross-staff and the octant. Griffin would sip his brandy and laugh and say “Oh Kit!” whenever he showed a flash of backbone or devilry. It would be a good return, Kit was sure of that. And later, once they were alone, perhaps there would be more kisses?