On a Lee Shore (34 page)

“Are you sure?” Lewis asked leaning into the tiller. “Val was definite.”

“I’m hoping to gain some miles and come to the anchorage down the current from the northwest.” Kit shrugged. “Since time is of the essence, it has to be better than sailing all day and going nowhere.”

Lewis grunted, nodding. “Let’s get it over with,” he murmured. “I don’t mind the sailing and sometimes the pirating is good sport but…well, I don’t want Protheroe to get hurt. He loves a scrap, damn him.” He glanced at Kit and gave him a sheepish smile. “Bet two bits you feel the same about Griffin.”

Kit didn’t reply for a moment. He knew that if Griffin challenged Jago there would probably be a fight, and it stood to reason that someone would be hurt. The idea that Griffin could be killed or crippled was one he was not prepared to contemplate. That Lewis had been contemplating it—had been worrying and fretting over the possibility that Protheroe might be lost to him—struck Kit hard. All at once he felt childish and heartless. Just because he refused to think about something didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

“It may not come to a fight,” he said. “But if it does, I’ll do my best to keep him—them—safe.”

Lewis nodded. “Can’t say fairer than that,” he agreed. “Ah—look there, see. We’re out of that bit o’current.”

Kit leveled his glass at the island, trying to match what he could see of Carriacou to the chart. “I suppose that Jago will have chanced sailing the Santiago in these waters,” he mused. “With a ship like that I’d feel it more likely he’d head north through the Gulf. Easier sailing with Tortuga at the end of the journey.”

“Not Jago,” Griffin replied instead of Lewis. When Kit turned to face him, Griffin took the glass from his hand. “Why are we so far off course?”

“The current,” Kit explained. He would have expanded on that, but Griffin just grunted and shut the glass with a snap.

“Needs must,” he sighed. “But don’t risk going far enough north to clear the point. Jago’s not a fool. He will have posted guards.”

“They took rum from Grenada,” Kit pointed out.

“Don’t presume to try and teach me my business, Mr. Penrose,” Griffin growled. “I was commanding men when you were still in frocks, and I know Jago Stockley’s mind as well as I know my own. La Griffe would post guards, so there will be guards. When we are due east of those rocks—see the surf—wear ship.”

“Sir,” Kit snapped, angered by Griffin’s peremptory tone. Griffin whipped round to glare at him, and for one moment Kit’s heart thumped as he thought they might fight, then again as he remembered the strength of Griffin’s grasp. He took a pace forward, not sure whether to punch him or kiss him.

The Africa lurched, spilling wind from her sails, and they both caught their balance as Lewis sang out an apology.

“I’m getting hungry, see,” he said. “Shall I go see if Pollack has heated up that salmagundi he was making?”

“Aye,” Griffin nodded. “The helm is yours, Kit. Due east of those rocks, remember.”

“Yes, sir,” Kit said, taking the tiller, and watched with a heavy heart as Griffin followed Lewis forward.

* * *

Entering the anchorage was easy enough, though Kit was glad of Valliere’s hand at the tiller. They dropped anchor in four fathoms, the water under their hull clear, turquoise crystal alive with tiny fish.

Griffin called a meeting immediately, setting them their tasks in a brisk manner that invited no arguments. Saunders, Denny, and Pollack always stayed aboard, and Griffin decreed that Runyon, Davy, and the Spaniards should also remain.

Detorres scowled. “I should be ashore,” he said. “I have a disagreement with La Griffe, and it is my right to meet with him to settle it.”

“As it is mine,” Griffin stated. “But there is more at stake than honor. True, we robbed. But we never committed murder for murder’s sake. Jago is no saint, but some of his men are far, far worse. Detorres, if I think that they will do less harm following Stockley than they will on their own, you may have to forgo settling your accounts with him.”

Detorres’s jaw set, but he nodded. “I give my word that I will do nothing to interfere—until it is clear that you are playing me false.”

“I too wish to come,” Ramon said. He looked gravely at Griffin and waved the knife he had been sharpening. “Jago made a liar of me also, and I always hated Probert. I’m part of this crew now.”

“Very well.” Griffin looked over the rest of his crew. “Valliere. The ship is yours. Maxwell, Ramon, Lewis, and Protheroe with me.” He glanced at Kit then away, as though trying to ignore his presence. “Load your guns but don’t prime them. I don’t want any accidents.”

Food, water bottles, and weapons were obtained and loaded into the long boat. Griffin gave Kit a hard stare when he climbed down to take an oar but said nothing. Kit remained silent too. He could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t sound childish.

They bent to their oars, with Lewis and Protheroe setting the stroke, while Griffin guided the long boat to the shore. They dragged the boat up above the tide line, left Maxwell to guard it, shouldered their arms, and followed Griffin up the sand to the edge of the beach.

“Beyond this slope,” Griffin reminded them, “is a narrow plateau and beyond it more scrub descending to the careening beach. The plateau is where the sentries will be. We had better not be seen.”

“We won’t be,” Detorres said, his eyes on the crest of the hill. He nodded toward the slope. “Lead on.”

Griffin gave him a sour look but moved off, loping up the slope through the scrubby trees. Kit fell in beside Detorres and scowled as he noticed him wincing under the weight of his musket.

“Your burns hurt,” he said. “Shall I take that for you?”

“No.” Detorres’s mouth was pinched with pain as he replied. “I bear the pain gladly for the sake of my lost ship and my crew.”

They were all blown by the time they reached the top of the slope and Griffin called a halt to allow them to get their breath back. Ahead was a patch of ground with thinner scrub, but there were no sentries to be seen.

“Perhaps they are keeping watch to the south?” Kit suggested. “Runyon did say that the Miranda was going to sweep in that direction.”

“Perhaps,” Griffin said, his tone grudging. “We’ll go ahead. Keep to cover. Ramon?”

The little pirate slung his musket and slipped into the brush without a rustle.

“Old school Ramon is, see,” Lewis whispered to Kit. “Happier on land than at sea, but the old ways are mostly gone. He says when he was a lad he took a shot at Morgan. He missed, but it’s the thought that counts.”

Kit grinned at him but didn’t reply because Griffin had just grunted and begun to move forward. Kit followed, crouching and taking his time. The ground underfoot was stony and scattered with spiny leaves that crackled softly as he set his feet down. He was glad he had put on his shoes. Protheroe, barefoot, was cursing quietly as the prickles stabbed his ankles.

Ramon was waiting where the ground began to fall away to the northeast. Between the scrubby trees Kit could see the sea, empty to the horizon, but the beach was still out of sight.

“Can you smell it?” Ramon asked. “They have let the fire go out but…”

The smell of tar was sharp over the fresh greenness of the land. Kit took another breath and grimaced at the taint of it.

“I need to see.” Griffin was craning his neck to peer down through the trees. Ramon touched his arm and led them south through the trees, always a little downhill, until the undergrowth thinned enough for them to see the beach.

The tide was well out, leaving a wide band of blinding white sand. There, amid a great chaos of equipment, casks, rigging, and yardage, lay the Garnet, weedy bottom on display, with half a dozen figures milling around her. There was nobody else to be seen.

“Duw, look at Santiago,” Lewis muttered, pointing. The galleon was listing, plainly aground.

“Where do you think they could be?” Detorres demanded. “Where is Stockley?”

“Asleep?” Griffin said, his tone grim. “Drunk? Dead? I don’t know. He could be anywhere. But from the look of it we have time. Garnet isn’t even half done yet.”

“What shall we do then?” Detorres demanded.

“Could we get some men onto Santiago?” Kit suggested. “She looks as though she may float off at the next high tide but, even if not, we could bring guns to bear on the beach.”

Griffin was leaning against a tree, his hand white-knuckled around a branch. He looked over his shoulder at Kit then turned to address Detorres. “I must speak to Jago first,” he said.

“But why?” Detorres demanded. “The sooner he is dealt with the better.”

“Because I owe him, that’s why,” Griffin muttered. “Ramon, see if you can get a glimpse of the rest of the crew. Lewis, find a way to get down to the beach but without being seen. Protheroe, I need you to go along to the other point. See if there’s a sentry there but don’t let him see you.”

“And what shall I do?” Kit asked.

“Keep out of sight and out of my way. Take Detorres with you,” Griffin snapped and followed Ramon down the slope. Detorres cursed, his hands clenching on the musket, and he took a step after him, but Kit caught his arm.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Griffin won’t take kindly to direct orders being ignored. You and I should go back to the ship. I want to take another look at the charts. I think we could get a boat around that point,” he nodded to the Santiago, “without being seen from the beach.”

“To reclaim Santiago might do something to repairing my reputation,” Detorres mused as he followed Kit back toward Africa.

“Don’t make too many plans,” Kit advised. “You would be trying to sail her with a crew of four, assuming that all your Spaniards wanted to go with you.”

“That’s true,” Detorres said. “Then perhaps I can serve La Griffe the same turn he served me and deny him her use. I can lay a fuse as well as any pirate.”

Detorres’s face had paled and his mouth was working over unvoiced curses. Better by far, Kit decided, to keep an eye on him and ensure he got nowhere near Santiago’s powder stores. Kit had a far better use for her in mind.

Griffin’s party caught up with them on the slope back down to the Africa. Griffin himself looked better, as though he had reviewed all the options and come up with a workable plan. But he kept his own counsel until they had gotten back to Africa. Over the course of the evening he ensured that everyone ate well and called Saunders up to make them some punch.

“The condemned men,” he said. “We should be as well provisioned at least as Jago and his crew.”

Saunders nodded as he mixed and tasted. “At least,” he agreed. “And mayhap a drink or two will loosen your tongue. Men need to know what the plan is if they may be called upon to risk their lives.”

“Aye, I will tell them,” Griffin promised. He held out his hand for the first glass. “But I need a drink first!”

With the punch going round and plates of Pollack’s spicy salmagundi to line their stomachs, the crew were content to wait until he was ready. Griffin laid out their options in the fewest words possible. Their biggest asset was surprise, though he was still of the opinion that Jago would soon come to his senses and place sentries. Their greatest weakness was lack of numbers. Protheroe and Ramon had managed to get a better sight of the beach and do a rough head count. There were fewer men there than expected but still over one hundred pirates, most of whom had been snoozing in the shade.

“Drunk.” Ramon grinned. “No point in being sober on land. There was still some of that Geneva left.”

“And Santiago was well provisioned with rum,” Detorres added.

“Drunk or sober, I need to speak to Jago,” Griffin said. “If I can get down onto the beach without being challenged he will meet with me and, I think, we may come to some accord. I will not ask anyone to come with me. This is my affair alone.”

“And if Probert or Wigram chooses to challenge you?” Valliere asked. “What then? No, Griffin, you must take some of the company. It is a matter of dignity. Protheroe and Kit at the very least.”

“And I,” Detorres said. “I have my own business with La Griffe.”

“Then come and be damned to you,” Griffin snapped, glaring at him. “Anyone else? The more the merrier? Jugglers, stilt walkers, a dancing bear?”

The sound of Lewis scratching in his beard filled the angry silence. “Not stilts,” he said. “They’d dig into the sand.” Protheroe snorted a laugh, as did the Spaniards once Ramon had muttered a translation.

“You the bear,” one of them said to Protheroe, who grinned proudly down at his thickly furred chest and belly.

Griffin grunted, but Kit could see that he was smiling and sighed with relief as the tension melted away.

“So,” Griffin said. “I will take my party down through the trees. We can get close enough to the camp without being seen. I’m not ordering anyone to come with me. Jago might have given orders that we are to be shot on sight.”

“No.” Saunders paused in pouring another drink. “I suspect Jago will give you a hearing, at least. His pride will demand it—just as yours demands to meet him face-to-face rather than doing the sensible thing and picking him off from a distance with a musket.”

“Or blowing the whole beach to kingdom come by loading the Santiago’s larboard guns with grape,” Lewis added. He was looking at Protheroe as he added, “Then maybe none of us would be harmed and Africa could go on her way. We have a fine ship with a fine crew for coasting and enough friends among the islands to pick up trade easily.”

“Legitimate trade? Wash your mouth out!” Protheroe said. “I’m going with Griffin. There isn’t a man in Jago’s crew with the balls of a bilge-rat, but Griffin needs someone to watch his back and see we both come back safe.”

“But who will watch yours?” Lewis asked.

“I will,” Kit said. “In part this problem was caused by my presence. If I hadn’t been here would you have attempted the Santiago? No, I thought not. And without the Santiago and her treasure, Garnet and Africa would still probably be sailing in company, and you,” he gave Griffin a challenging glare, “would be preventing atrocities like the village on Grenada. I’ll come and, if you can’t bring yourself to do what has to be done, I will.”