On a Lee Shore (36 page)

They ran up the moonlit beach, hands muffling the shift and clink of metal against metal. As they topped the slope they slowed, and Kit nodded to the men he had singled out as scouts. Jonas and Lewis slipped through the bushes, one left, one right, and flitted almost silently across the open space. Kit nodded to the others when all remained quiet, and they followed, keeping low. Entering the trees they found Lewis waiting for them.

“Jonas said he could smell smoke and has gone ahead to see what he can see,” Lewis murmured. “It will be dark under the trees. Keep close.”

Kit followed him, setting his feet down carefully. Behind him he could hear Detorres murmuring a prayer, or a curse, and the brush of fabric against branches or the crunch of leaves underfoot. None of them were sounds that would carry to the beach but were enough to keep Kit’s breath short, his heart beating fast.

They threaded down the slope, following the path Jonas had marked for them—slips of bark peeled away to show white in the little filter of moonlight. Lewis grunted and reached to grasp Kit’s arm. He drew him forward and whispered.

“I can see Jonas,” he said. “And—I dunno—can you hear voices?”

“From the beach,” Kit breathed. “Yes. Go on.”

Soon Kit could see Jonas too. He was leaning against a larger tree and beckoning, indicating that Kit stoop below the level of the undergrowth.

“Half a moment, wait here,” Kit instructed Detorres then hurried to join Jonas. The Danish pirate nodded to him.

“Look,” he said, pointing. “They drinking.”

Kit stepped past him, keeping close to the tree, to get a better view.

There was the beach lit by the bright leap of flames, and there close to the hull of the Garnet sat a group of men. Griffin’s white shirt was lit gold by the fire, and Kit could see the bottle in his hand. There was no sign of Protheroe.

Kit bit his lip. Griffin did not look as though he was in danger. He looked perfectly at ease. Across the fire from him Kit could see the firelight flickering on the tarnished bullion of Jago Stockley’s coat and the heavy swing of his pigtail. Then he leaned to pick up a bottle—with his right hand, whole and unblemished.

“Who is that?” he demanded, pointing. Jonas scowled, frowning down at the beach.

“That not Jago,” he growled. “No—by damn—he Wigram!”

Kit scowled too. There was no sign of Campbell, Jago’s sailing master, nor of those pirates from Africa who had decided to stay aboard Santiago apart from Wigram’s particular friends. Now he came to look more closely, Probert was standing at Griffin’s back, pistol held loosely in his hand, but Kit would have bet it was primed and cocked. “We must go down,” he said. “Jonas, can you try and find where the others have been taken? Campbell and Protheroe must be there somewhere.”

Jonas nodded. As he disappeared into the patchy darkness, Kit returned to the rest of the men. “I don’t like the look of it,” he added. “Griffin doesn’t look hurt or alarmed, but he doesn’t look as though he’s drinking either.”

“And him with a bottle in his hand?” Lewis shook his head. “Then there is something most terrible wrong. Did you not see Protheroe?”

“No,” Kit admitted, “nor Campbell or any of the others. I’ve sent Jonas to see where they are.” He hesitated a moment before telling them the most worrying news of all. “And I could not see Jago. I think he may have been deposed. Wigram is wearing his coat and Wigram’s friends have their pistols at Griffin’s back.”

“Dear Lord,” Lewis muttered. “Then what do we do?”

“Wait for Jonas’s word,” Kit suggested. “Then try to free the others. Some extra help wouldn’t go amiss. And I’ll be happier when I know what has happened to Stockley.”

“Would they have killed him?” Detorres demanded.

“Not if it went to a vote and he stepped down gracefully,” Lewis murmured. “He’d be planning to let Wigram and his cronies scupper themselves then step in to save the ship. Stockley knows how it goes.”

“And Griffin?” Kit asked. “How would they be viewing him?”

Lewis did not reply, but Kit saw the shrug silhouetted against the sky.

They didn’t have long to wait before Jonas returned, but it felt like an age to Kit.

“I see them,” Jonas hissed when he reached them. “They are tied to the anchor cable under the trees.” He nodded north along the beach. “There are guards but they have a bottle.”

“How many are tied?” Kit asked and was surprised by Jonas’s chuckle.

“A lot,” he said. “I saw Protheroe. He didn’t look as though he was hurt.”

“Can we get close enough to free them?” Lewis demanded.

“They can be seen from the fire.” Jonas shrugged. “Maybe—if we can be sure that the guards stay quiet and nobody comes to check.”

“So we need a distraction.” Kit pursed his lips, thinking. “Could we get a man on the Santiago and start a small fire? Lots of flame and smoke but no damage?”

“That could happen,” Jonas said. “Someone could swim out to her—or maybe there’s a boat?”

“Well, perhaps that’s the way to go then. Volunteers? Thank you, Jonas—and you, Runyon. A count of five hundred should give you time then we’ll move in to free the crew. Was Jago with them?”

“I couldn’t see,” Jonas shrugged. “Some of the men were sleeping.”

“Well, let’s concentrate on freeing our men first. That will give us more support for when we confront Wigram. Here,” Kit offered Jonas two of the grenadoes. “Those might help.”

Lewis sighed as Jonas and Runyon, counting quietly, moved off. “Wigram is a nasty customer,” he said.

Kit nodded, holding the count in his head. “I know.” He reached out and gave Lewis’s shoulder an encouraging slap. “That’s why I’m going to stay here and keep an eye on him. You take charge of freeing Protheroe and the others.” He grinned. “No fondling, though, until we’re safe back on the Africa.”

Lewis snorted, but it wasn’t an annoyed noise. A moment later Kit heard him whispering to the other men, and they moved off along the beach waiting for Jonas’s signal.

Kit looked around at Detorres, Lopez, and Curro. “So,” he said, “down to three. I want to get close to the shoreline. If Wigram starts anything, I need to be able to step in.”

“Just put a bullet in him from cover,” Detorres suggested. “As you would a mad dog. He deserves no less.”

Kit shook his head. “That’s tempting. Wigram will make the seas run red from here to the Spanish Main if he has his way. But we wouldn’t have time to shoot all of them. And my primary concern is Griffin’s welfare.”

Detorres muttered a curse but said no more. Kit led them down through the trees to the edge of the undergrowth. It made poor cover being sparse and spindly, but at the top of the beach there was a little hollow under the last few trees, and Kit and his companions settled down in the patchy shadows to try and hear what was being said.

The voices didn’t carry particularly well over the sounds of the sea and the buzz of insects, but one could pick up a lot from the tone. Wigram was doing most of the talking and seemed pretty pleased with himself. There was a boastful sneer in his voice, and his gestures were expansive. Drunk then, but how drunk? Griffin looked amused, his pose relaxed, but he was keeping an eye on the man at his back. If he spoke it was just a few words, but some of the pirates lounging around the fires would laugh. Kit couldn’t see Wigram’s face, but there was something about the set of his shoulders that suggested he was not pleased. Kit caught Detorres’s eye and nodded to the guns they had collected. Quickly, they primed them and lay them on the sand.

“Six shots,” Kit murmured. “If we have to, we’ll need to drop Wigram and Probert—see, the one standing behind Griffin—first.”

“Lopez is a good shot,” Detorres said, his eyes on the group at the fire. “I’ll tell him to take the man behind Griffin. What’s the count?”

“Two ninety,” Kit replied. “I wonder if we left them enough time to get into position?”

Detorres cupped his hands around his eyes and peered into the darkness. “I would hope so,” he said, “or we might—”

A shout from the fire cut him off midsentence. Wigram was on his feet, gesturing with his bottle toward Griffin, who shrugged and spread his arms.

“If you don’t,” Wigram’s voice carried clearly now, “it’ll go hard with you and your crew. You’ll get your share and have my respect, but you’ll follow my orders until we know we can trust you.”

Griffin’s lips tightened. “But I can’t sail the Santiago,” he said as he rose to his feet. “She’s too big a ship. You need someone experienced. You need an experienced crew. These laggards wouldn’t do it. We’d lose her the first big blow.”

“Then there’s no reason to keep her is there,” Wigram said. “And no reason to keep you.”

Probert was fiddling with his pistol, and Kit’s heart rose into his mouth.

“Shall we shoot?” Detorres demanded.

“No, wait.” Kit slid back into the bushes and ran along the edge of the underbrush. He made sure that he made some noise as he pushed through the bushes then, when well away from where Detorres and Santos were lurking, he darted out onto the sand in clear view.

“Griffin!” he bellowed. “Damn your eyes, sir. I have an accounting with you.” As he was speaking he strode forward, ignoring the pirates, some of whom had scattered. Others had drawn weapons and were on their feet, watchful but not yet alarmed. Some even seemed amused.

“What do you mean by this?” Kit raised his arm, to show the metal cuff and length of chain wrapped around it. “How dare you restrain me in such a fashion? Come, sir, an explanation if you please.”

Griffin had started along with the rest, but now his mouth was set in lines of annoyance, though Kit was pleased to notice that some of the tension had gone from his shoulders. Probert’s pistol was pointing at Kit now, less than half a pace away, and Griffin gave it a speculative glance before replying.

“You went against my orders, Penrose, which were to remain aboard the ship, out of my way. You have gone against my orders again. Indeed there will be an accounting.”

Kit stopped about ten paces distant and pretended to look about him for the first time. “Wigram? Why are you wearing Stockley’s coat? Come to that, where is Stockley?”

“Deposed,” Wigram said, his small brown teeth glinting as he grinned. “It was decided that yours truly would be a more appropriate captain now we have the two ships and you—why you might make yourself useful.” He nodded to Kit’s uniform waistcoat. “With you in that uniform on the railing with a rope round your neck the Miranda would think twice about firing on us.”

“Not the Miranda,” Kit laughed. “You could have King George on the railing with a rope round his neck and Captain Thomas Wells will still fire. Didn’t you hear—he has declared war on all the pirates in the Leeward Isles.” He paused to let the laughter and muttering of the pirates die down. “And as part of the crew, even as a forced man, there’s no quarter. There’s no going back for me, boys.”

“Kit!” Griffin’s fists were clenched at his sides. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Buying time didn’t seem like a politic answer, so Kit ignored him.

“I heard what you said, Wigram. Griffin may not be able to sail the Santiago to good effect, but I can, and I can navigate her. Sure, we’re short of crew, but Africa and Garnet don’t need many to sail safely. Give me—say, four dozen men who are prepared to try and we can soon pick up more men from our prizes. There’s not a ship in these waters that could stand against us.”

Wigram stared at him, and Kit stared back, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he was avoiding looking at Griffin, who appeared to be thunderstruck.

“Let me get this straight in my head,” Wigram said. “You’re suggesting that you captain the Santiago?”

“Yes,” Kit said. “As the one person in this company most qualified to do so.”

“And what about Captain Griffin?” Wigram asked, grinning again.

“Griffin forfeited my loyalty when he chained me to a bulkhead.” Kit swung the chain to glint in the dying firelight. Surely the count of five hundred was finished by now! “Let him take the Africa and its milksop crew to perdition for all I care.”

There was a shout of laughter at that and Probert snorted. “Sounds like your molly-boy’s balls just dropped, Griffin. Let him do it, Wigram. If the ship founders, we’ll take another.”

“Santiago’s a good ship,” Kit protested. “Unless the lubbers who were sailing her holed her when she ran aground.”

“Well!” Wigram shook out his cuffs, and Kit saw dark stains on the lace. “Fo’c’sle Fancy to captain’s cabin in just a few short months. Promotion’s easier when you only have to fuck one man.”

“You’d know, Admiral Wigram.” Kit showed his teeth, hoping the snarl might be taken for a grin. “Bet you never thought you’d hear yourself called that!”

Wigram laughed, and Kit took a moment to glance at Griffin, a glance, he hoped, filled with apology and warning. Their eyes locked, and they were still staring at each other when the boom of a gun brought even the drunkards to their feet. Flames leaped up from the Santiago.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Even Kit, who had been expecting it, started, and Wigram and Probert turned, mouths open, to face the spurt of fire.

“Goddam.” Wigram clutched his head with both hands. “Those bastards. If they’ve let my flagship catch fire…”

Probert made no reply. He was slumping down to the sand, Griffin’s hand drawing back from the punch that had felled him. The pistol in Griffin’s hand trained on Wigram’s belly.

“Now,” Griffin said. “Let’s talk again. Where is Jago?”

“Here!” Someone shouted and knots of men spilled out from the shadows. Some were fighting. Others backed away from the guns. One, who could only be Lewis from the breadth of his shoulders, was supporting Jago and helped him into the light of the fire.

“Damn your eyes, Wigram,” Jago spat. “Damn your eyes.”

He had never looked particularly well to Kit’s eyes, but now he was haggard. His lips were lax and scruffy with stubble, and a swelling closed his left eye. He limped right up to Wigram and brandished the stump of his right arm.

“Give me my hook, you bastard. And my coat.”

Wigram raised both hands, backing away. “Now, hold hard there. We put it to the vote. By the hand of most of the men present I was to be the new captain of the Garnet. That’s how it’s laid down in the articles.”