On a Lee Shore (33 page)

The sailor was looking better now he had rested, though he was still keeping close to the center of the boat. “Ah, Carriacou’s where they was headed,” he said. “Them pirates. I heard them talking. Something about careening. They was going to see to the brig.”

“Where’s the careening beach on Carriacou?” Kit asked. “I know there’s a wide beach to the northeast but wouldn’t that be too exposed?”

“It’s the best place,” Valliere said, shrugging. “Who’s going to interfere with the Garnet and the Santiago?”

“Miranda would,” Kit said and grinned to hear Runyon saying it along with him.

“He would. Wells would,” Runyon added. “He’s sworn to hang every pirate he catches in the town square on Nevis. He likes a hanging does Wells. If he can’t get pirates, thieves’ll do. If there are no thieves…” His voice trailed off, and he glanced at Kit, his eyes dwelling on Griffin’s hand as it closed on Kit’s shoulder. “He’ll find some other excuse. And better pray he don’t catch us, because he says there’s no such thing as a forced man. He says that if you sail in a ship, eat her food, drink her drink, you’re part of the crew, force or no force.”

There was a general mutter of dismay at that, broken by Protheroe, who snorted.

“We best be sure to stay out of his way then. I for one am eager to get some good greens and water that doesn’t make me keck. We going to the usual place, Captain?”

“We are,” Griffin confirmed. “We’ll overnight there and—all of you—anything we take, we pay for. They are good people with a nice tight little harbor. I want to be able to use it again.”

The meeting broke up after that, and Kit busied himself with changing tack. These were familiar waters, sailed on the old fourth rate Weymouth, but she had never handled as deftly as the Africa. Kit called the orders and men such as Davy and Lewis may have carried them out, but the living quiver of the tiller under his hands as the boom swung and the sails filled, and the lift of the deck under his feet, made him feel as though the ship had heard and was answering of her own accord.

“You beauty,” he said and leaned on the tiller with a laugh. The laugh was echoed by Griffin, who paused to smile at him before putting his glass to his eye and taking a long cautious look at the open sea and the still distant islands.

“No point in courting trouble,” he murmured to Kit. “Get Davy aloft with a glass. I don’t want any surprises, not with Miranda about, and Kit—let’s see about clearing for action. Not all the way perhaps, but enough so it’s easy. I’m going to set some of Valliere’s watch to making charges as soon as they wake.”

They were standing close again and most of the hands were busy. Kit couldn’t resist putting his palm on Griffin’s chest to feel again the strong, steady beat of his heart. He smiled as Griffin took his hand and squeezed it before setting it back on the tiller.

Chapter Twenty

The sun was setting when they rounded a point, Valliere standing well off because of the rocks, and entered a little bay. Initially they were too busy to look about them, wanting to get the sails down and the anchor lowered before full dark. But by the time they had lowered the boat, Griffin was worried. Denny was sent running for lanterns as the rest of them manhandled the empty water casks to the railing.

“We’ll need to see,” Griffin murmured to Kit as he helped pass a cask down to Lewis and Protheroe.

“See what?” Detorres asked.

“Why nobody has put out to meet us,” Griffin replied.

They filled both boats and left the Africa in the care of Maxwell, Pollack, and two of Detorres’s Spaniards. The trip to the shore was made in silence apart from the slop of the waves and the creak of rowlocks. The oarsmen rowed with their chins on their shoulders, made nervous by the quiet darkness where there should be life and light.

Protheroe found the first body as he jumped over the side of the boat to help run her up the beach.

“Oh, Duw, no,” he sighed, and when he raised his lantern they saw a few more. Some had been shot, some knifed. All were men or older children.

“Mother of God,” Detorres groaned.

Griffin was staring up at the black hills beyond the strip of beach, searching for signs of movement, for a light. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and hallooed, his voice ringing in the night air.

It took a while for the survivors to emerge. Angry men were followed, when Saunders added his calls to Griffin’s, by half a dozen distraught women clinging to their babes. Lewis found an elderly man in the wreckage of his house. He had been beaten but could still walk, and he raged to Griffin in broken French.

Kit followed the conversation with difficulty, the language was so mixed and muddled with sailors’ English and the local dialect, but Griffin seemed to understand, and after a moment he sent people hurrying.

“They sent for help,” he told Kit. “Some of the young men who escaped had a boat in the next bay. They went to try and find the coast guard. Get those casks filled and loaded. I want to be away from here before dawn.”

It seemed heartless to try and conduct their business with people who had lost so much. But Saunders was treating minor hurts, and when Lewis and Protheroe returned from the Africa after dropping off the first load of water casks, they brought spare sailcloth and tools and set to work to build a shelter. While they did that Kit and Detorres led parties to collect what food they could find, and Griffin led another to help the survivors find others who had fled inland.

They gathered by the shelter with their baskets and bags, and Griffin divided it with the elder’s agreement. Two of the women objected but fell silent when they saw the size and weight of the purse he handed over.

“A fair price,” Griffin told them, “though nothing can repay you for your losses.”

“They barely touched our food,” one of them said. “They just looked for rum and silver and women. When we ran they fought among themselves.” She grimaced. “Animals—worse than animals. The costa garda will put an end to them.”

“That being so we should be on our way,” Griffin said.

They had returned to the boats with the final load of casks when Lewis came running, lantern bobbing.

“You best come,” he said to Griffin. Kit followed to the place where they had gathered the bodies and watched as Griffin stooped over one. He swore and slowly settled on his haunches, head bowed.

“O’Neill.” Griffin’s voice was harsh with unshed tears. “He was a thief and a pirate, but not a rapist. He couldn’t bear—oh, damnation.”

“He was a good friend,” Kit said as Griffin stooped to close the corpse’s eyes.

“And a good seaman, though somewhat prone to piss,” Saunders agreed.

“He should have come with us when we left.” Protheroe sighed. “We asked him and he would’ve but…well, all that silver, see.”

“We will bury him with our own,” the old man promised.

Griffin nodded, his face pale, and snapped at them all to shift their worthless arses. On the Africa he left Kit to see to business and retreated to the cabin. Kit joined him after an hour, the stamp of the men raising the anchor masking his tap on the door. He knocked again, and when there was no reply he opened the door and went in.

Griffin was seated at the table, pen in hand, making a note in the logbook. He didn’t look up but nodded to the cot. “Sit. Pour yourself a drink. If you want one.”

“No, I don’t.” Kit seated himself, drawing his foot up to hug his knee. “Do you wish to talk about what has happened?”

“No.” Griffin blew on the wet ink to dry it. “But if I must—Jago killed O’Neill…with his hook. I’m going to detour to Nevis. Davy and you and Detorres and anyone else who wishes to separate can go ashore. Then I’m going after Jago.”

Kit stared at him. “I’m not leaving you to deal with him alone.”

“Why not?” Griffin closed the book with a snap and glared at him. “You’ve always planned to run off home. You may as well go now. I’d have left you here,” he nodded toward the still dark island, “only the costa garda would hang you. If I’m going to leave you somewhere it’ll be within sight of safety. I’ll put you all in the long boat, and you can say you escaped.”

“They might have finished careening Garnet by then,” Kit pointed out. “And at sea the Africa is no match for Garnet and Santiago. If you’re going to lay Jago in his blood you have to go now!”

Griffin stared at Kit, his eyes cold. “Insubordinate, Mr. Penrose,” he growled. “You’ll do as I say. Get out, I have work to do.”

Kit felt his heart speed as he stood. “No, I’m just telling you what has to be done. Your only chance of dealing with Jago is to catch him ashore, and you need every hand. You can’t afford to lose any of us. Valliere will take the Africa out, and I’ll set a course for Carriacou.”

“Are you challenging my word, Penrose?” Griffin was on his feet too.

“Yes,” Kit admitted, his hand on the latch. “For the good of the service. Jago must be stopped, and you need me to lead the party on land while Valliere sails and you lay the guns.”

Griffin thumped the table with the flat of his hand, but Kit didn’t flinch.

“You have it all worked out,” Griffin said. “But doesn’t it occur to you that one of Jago’s priorities will be to kill you?”

Kit stared at him because none of that had occurred to him, and he felt his color rise. “Then I will be very careful,” he promised. “Griffin, there isn’t time. Do your work,” he added, “then sleep. We’ll see Africa safely on her way.”

“We’ll discuss this again,” Griffin said, his expression bleak. “When I’ve rested. Go, you, and take care of my ship. Tell Denny my bottle is empty.”

Kit drew breath to protest then left the cabin, closing the door behind him, giving Griffin his time to mourn in peace.

* * *

Their course lay to the north, and as far east of north as they could manage. Africa answered well to Kit’s demands even though the currents were tricky. The wind turned gusty, and by dawn rain was driving down, washing the decks and dampening the sails, but that just made Africa more eager. Kit would have felt exhilarated if the journey had not had such a serious purpose.

He stayed at the helm until Valliere came to relieve him then went down to the cabin. Griffin was asleep on his cot, empty brandy bottle abandoned on the table. It slid from one side to the other of the polished wood, and Kit put it away before going to cover Griffin with a blanket. His captain’s face was relaxed in sleep, mouth slightly open, snoring a little on the indrawn breath. It occurred to Kit that there were more lines on Griffin’s face today than he had noticed for a while. In particular there was a deep groove between his eyebrows, and those that bracketed his mouth no longer spoke of past laughter. Kit drew the blanket up over Griffin’s chest and stood watching him sleep until the shift of the deck warned him that they were about to change tack. He touched Griffin’s chest, just a light pressure of fingertips, then hurried back on deck.

The blowy weather worsened as the day wore on. By nightfall they were standing well off the northwest coast of Grenada. When Kit turned in to sleep, Griffin, still tense and bad tempered, was arguing with Valliere about how much sea room they should allow themselves. Valliere was for caution. Griffin was for sailing close into the shelter of the island and anchoring overnight. Kit left them to their debate, since every interjection of his was met with a glare from Griffin, and put himself to bed in his hammock. Denny claimed his shoes, declaring that they were in need of cleaning and shook his head when Kit asked what Griffin was so annoyed about.

“Dunno,” he said. “But I wouldn’t like to be under Jago’s hat when he catches him. What he done was wrong, killing poor O’Neill like that. Almost as bad as putting our captain on that island. Sweet dreams.”

Kit did sleep well, oddly enough, and woke to a clear, moonlit night. Griffin was in his cot again, and Kit felt that he was awake, but he didn’t stir as Kit rolled and stowed his bedding nor when he left the cabin to go above decks. Griffin’s kisses were sweet and his anger was daunting to face, but Kit had no idea how to meet this silent resentment.

“Is it my fault Jago played you false?” he asked as he climbed the stairs. “Have I done this to you?”

“What was that, Kit?” Valliere asked with a smile.

“Oh—just thinking aloud,” Kit replied. “Where are we?”

Valliere nodded to the compass. “Standing off Carriacou. Griffin let me have my way. We will be where we need to be by noon.”

“Good.” Kit took the glass. “I’m going aloft to see what I can see.”

That was little enough at that hour. The sea was bare of sails right to the horizon and the island was uniformly dark. The Africa and those who sailed in her might have been the only things moving upon the face of the world, until Kit saw a spray of phosphorescence off the larboard bow and heard the wheezy huff of a porpoise.

Back on deck he stowed the glass and went to take the tiller. “My watch,” he said to Valliere.

“Aye, it is.” Valliere leaned back against the transom and looked up at the sky. “Today we will find Jago,” he said. “I know it in my bones. But what we will do, I can’t tell.”

“Griffin thinks they will be drunk,” Kit said. “And so we will be able to get near them.”

“Probably they will be drunk,” Valliere agreed. “But drunk enough? I don’t know. Jago has been on the account for four years. That’s a long time. He’s hard to catch napping, and he has a hundred men or more. We have fifteen, and we can’t allow Saunders or Denny to fight.”

“And thirteen is a chancy number,” Kit murmured. “If the Garnet is beached and the Santiago unmanned—ah, but we need to see how the land lies.”

“When it gets light,” Valliere said and yawned. “I need to sleep, Kit. Keep to this heading for about another glass then bring her about. Come dawn, we should be in sight of a safe harbor.”

“You know these waters well,” Kit said with a smile. Then a thought occurred to him. “Valliere, how long have you been on the account?”

“Far longer than Jago Stockley,” Valliere replied with a grin. “Good night, Kit.”

When the sun rose, Kit combined what he could see of the island with their charts and the last glimpse he had taken of Polaris. True to Valliere’s word, he found they were a few miles south and west of the anchorage that Griffin had selected. It was not plain sailing. There was a ferocious current and with her head that close to the wind, Africa made slow progress. After a time, noting that they were making no headway, Kit ordered a change of course. Africa turned her flank to the island and swung out across the current.