On a Lee Shore (37 page)

“And I’d have abided by that if it hadn’t been for that foolishness on Grenada.” Jago lunged toward Wigram, and Lewis pulled him back. “Why couldn’t you have left ’em alone? There are other villages—unfriendly ones—where you and yours could have had your fun.”

“But I’m the captain!” Wigram turned to his remaining supporters, many of whom had distanced themselves as soon as they saw the guns trained upon them. One sidled up to Jago and offered him the hook, which he took with a curse.

“If I see a prize I say ‘go for it, boys.’” Wigram nodded. “And on Grenada, not a man of you hung back.”

“What about O’Neill?” Griffin asked, his voice cold.

“O’Neill challenged me.” Wigram shrugged. “You know as well as I do that you can’t let a man challenge the captain’s authority without some comeback.”

Griffin snorted and glanced at Kit. “Wigram, I think it’s time for another vote. As I see it the contest is between you and Jago. I intend to recover those of my crew who wish to sail with me and our fair shares of the treasure from the Santiago. After that you can hang for all I care.”

“Now then.” Jago gave him a grin made all the more hideous by the loss of one of his gold-capped teeth. “I’m not challenging Wigram for my captaincy. Let him take the chances for once. I’ve done my share.”

“So.” Wigram’s smile grew brighter. “Then it’s me. And I only have one thing to see to before I take my right and proper place. Another challenge was issued—I’m sure some of you remember—and I’ll have blood for it, so help me God.”

“But perhaps it has slipped the lad’s mind,” Longland suggested. He took a small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Yes, on the fourteenth last the challenge was issued and accepted, said duel to be carried out at a time of mutual convenience.”

“You did what?” Griffin stared at Kit. “Why was that?”

Kit’s attention had been divided between Griffin and the dying fire aboard the Santiago. He was just planning the accolade deserved by Jonas and Runyon when he realized that Wigram was addressing him. A shock because, as Longland suggested, he had forgotten about it.

“A disagreement over the set of the sails,” Kit admitted, regretting that he had not given Detorres permission to shoot Wigram when they were in cover. “And yes I did accept the challenge issued by Mr. Wigram. But only as and when it would not interfere with our endeavors in regard to the Santiago.”

“Which is in our hands,” Longland pointed out. “So I see no impediment.”

“No more do I.” Wigram chuckled. “We’re on dry land with an even footing and seconds aplenty. So let it be here and now.” He leered at the sword sheathed at Kit’s waist. “And let it be with cutlasses.”

“We have no time for this folly,” Griffin snapped, but Jago and Wigram shouted him down.

“It’s a matter of honor, y’see.” Jago smiled at Kit as other men took up the call for him to fight.

“Can’t let the honor of the Africa down,” Lewis murmured, although his broad face was creased with concern.

“And I don’t intend to,” Kit said, removing pistols from his sash and pressing them into Protheroe’s hands then lifting his sword and hanger from his shoulders. “Look after these for me?”

But it was Griffin who took the sheathed sword from his hand. “What were you thinking?” His face was pale under the tan, his knuckles white as his fingers closed on the sheath of Kit’s sword. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because,” Kit pitched his voice so it would carry, “you were busy planning the taking of the biggest prize in the history of piracy, and you had no time for the petty squabbles between a bully and an English naval officer out of his depth. But now the Santiago is ours, we are safe on dry land and, as Wigram said, now we have the time and opportunity to settle our differences.”

Wigram had roared at being described as a bully, and his protests masked Griffin’s furious hiss. “Stupid boy. Do you think this will be played by any rules you know? Wigram will cheat.”

Kit grinned, heart beating fast now. “Thank goodness for that—it means I can too.” Raising his voice, he added, “Can someone loan me a cutlass? I promise to clean it before I return it? I wouldn’t want Wigram’s guts to spoil the shine.”

The pirates who were drunk enough to find that funny laughed, others growled with annoyance or worry depending upon who they supported. The cutlass was provided by Protheroe, who had a black eye and a cut on one cheek but otherwise seemed unharmed. He grinned as he slapped the heavy hilts of the cutlass into Kit’s hand.

“Don’t you trust the bastard for one moment,” he muttered. “When he looks done he won’t be.”

“No—and he tends to cut for the legs too.” Griffin scowled at Kit. “But it occurs to me that none of us know what you’re capable of Kit. You’ve seen to that. Can you kill him?”

“I’ve been fighting for my country since I was twelve years old,” Kit said. “If I can’t, I’ll be a disgrace to the Service.” He gave Griffin a cocky grin that didn’t completely describe his feelings. Actually he was far less confident than he appeared, but at least he knew what he was facing. Hand to hand fighting in the crazy melee of boarding and battle wasn’t a new thing for him, even if a one to one duel was. He hefted the cutlass, shifting his grip on it and letting the point waver as though he found the weight of it burdensome.

The pirates drew back, leaving a fire-lit circle of sand. Wigram was laughing with Muddiford and Longland over Probert’s bruised jaw and missing pistol but fell silent as he saw Kit step forward.

“I’m going to carve your lights out, boy,” he shouted. “Then I’ll take your bollocks off and your ears.” He laughed again, working himself up into a rage. “You’ll be screaming before I’m done.”

“The Brethren of the Coast have their own honor,” Kit replied. “But you, Wigram, are a rapist and a murderer and are beneath contempt. Are we going to talk until dawn?”

The enthusiastic whoops and roars of the pirates faded as Kit concentrated on his opponent. Wigram was still talking, now larding his threats with filthy comments about Kit’s person and family, and the nature of his relationship with Griffin. It could have hurt to hear his mother described as a whore or to hear himself described as a catamite. It could have been infuriating, but Kit knew that was what Wigram wanted. So he just waited.

Wigram laughed. “Scared? You should be,” he said, and Kit had the barest warning, a flicker of Wigram’s eyes, as the blade lashed out.

If it had connected, it would have taken Kit’s head from his shoulders. So, Wigram had lied about wanting to maim him. That made a difference. Kit pressed forward with more confidence. Blades clashed, sending sparks flying, and Kit gritted his teeth against the strength of Wigram’s blows. They were much of a height with a similar reach. Wigram was strong, hellish strong, but was a hacker. After a few exchanges Kit knew he could defeat him—assuming his own guard didn’t waver. But there was no room for doubt. Kit wielded the cutlass the way he had been taught and watched for that one perfect moment. He hoped it would come soon.

Sweat was in Kit’s eyes; the sand dragged at his feet. Each parry jarred his wrist. He was tiring, and Wigram knew it from the way he hammered at his blade. Griffin knew it, too. Kit caught a glimpse of Griffin’s face—drawn and snarling—as he was driven back almost to the edge of the circle. Kit blocked another wicked cut. The blades slid and locked hilt to hilt. He and Wigram strained against each other, feet slipping in the sand. Then pain tore into Kit’s side. Kit heaved, pushing Wigram back, and stumbled away, trying to buy himself a moment in which to breathe. He pressed his hand to his side just above the right hip. It came away red. Kit knew from experience that the cut wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding profusely.

“If we was gentlemen we’d end it there,” Wigram said, shouting over Griffin’s roar of fury. The short blade in his left hand dripped red. “But we’re not gentlemen. We’re pirates.”

“So we are,” Kit said, his heart pounding with anger and exertion. “So we are.”

This time he took the battle to Wigram, partly because he was angry and partly because he could still feel the spread of blood through his clothing and wanted to make an end before he weakened.

The cutlasses were dull now, the edges nicked and scraped. More sparks greeted each exchange of blows. Wigram held his knife low, ready for another cut, and Kit stayed out of reach. Cutlass play had done him no good, so he began to fence, making the most of his point. Wigram cursed as a small flower of blood bloomed on his bicep and another on his thigh. For the first time the bo’sun’s gloating grin faltered. His blows became heavier, hammering at Kit’s guard. Then he cut high, and the one perfect moment had arrived.

Kit leaned back under the sweep of the blade, blocked the upswing of the knife with the hilt of his cutlass, and drove his left hand, weighed with the manacle and several rounds of chain, into the middle of Wigram’s face. It was a good punch coming from the floor, and from the heart. Wigram dropped his knife and stumbled back, clutching his mangled face, blood spurting from smashed nose and broken teeth. Kit beat the cutlass out of Wigram’s free hand with the flat of his blade and placed his own point in the hollow of his throat.

“Yield,” he snarled. “Or by God I’ll slit your weasand.”

“You?” Wigram spat blood through crushed lips. “You don’t have the—”

The stunning crash of a gun rent the air. Wigram was swept away in a mess of shattered bone and blood.

“Dear God. It’s the Miranda!”

Kit didn’t see who had shouted. Another gun crashed, spurting fire from the elegant shape of the ship standing off the shore. Against the bright sea, three boats were silhouetted, each filled with men.

Kit had no time to see more. Griffin had him fast by the arm. They ran up the beach, heading for the shelter of the trees. Muskets crackled. One of Jago’s crew, running a little ahead of them threw up his arms with a shriek. Griffin and Kit sprinted the last few yards into cover then off up the hill. “Back to the Africa,” Griffin shouted. “Come on, lads. Stir your stumps.” He passed Kit his sword and cocked Probert’s pistol. “Run.”

They ran. Pirates were scattering in all directions. Kit heard Lewis curse nearby and Protheroe laugh and reply in Welsh. Further up the hill someone bellowed an order and more shots sounded.

“Marines,” Kit said.

Griffin grunted. “Damn it.”

“So it’s not just Africa who can put men ashore,” Kit said. “We’ll have to try and slip past them before it gets light.”

There was already a sheen on the horizon that suggested dawn was not far off. Kit looked at his lover and grinned. “Wells has enough on his plate with the Garnet and Santiago. He’ll not try to follow us. Hell, he probably doesn’t even know we’re there. We’ll be south away before he can clear the northern point.”

Griffin nodded, stumbling a little in his haste. “Is that cut bad?” he asked.

“No,” Kit said. “Just a nasty messy slice. Saunders will bind it up for me.”

“Good.” Griffin said no more because they were nearing the crest of the slope where the ground leveled off. There was already a battle in progress, uniformed men struggling with the fleeing pirates. Griffin pointed, and Kit followed him toward Lewis, who was beckoning urgently.

“Quick,” Lewis said. “Kit, we must…damn, boy, that’s a lot of blood.”

“I’m fine,” Kit said. “Have you seen Detorres? Protheroe, have you?”

“No, I—Duw!” Protheroe darted past him to Griffin, who scowled and put one hand on Protheroe’s shoulder. The other was pressing the pistol tight to his belly low down under his coat. Blood dripped from the muzzle of the pistol.

“Griffin?” Kit stared.

“Musket ball, I think, back in the woods,” Griffin whispered, his teeth gritted against the pain. “Go on. I’ll be with you.”

With that he let the pistol fall and sagged into Kit and Protheroe’s arms.

Again everything faded. Kit could no longer hear the shouts and screams from the beach, nor the snap and whine of musket balls as they whipped through the trees. All he could hear was Griffin’s gasping breath and the shocked curses of the two Welsh pirates as they laid him down and pulled at his clothing to expose the wound.

“Let me see,” Kit demanded. “Lewis? How bad is it?”

“Bad enough,” Griffin growled, batting at their hands. “Get Kit back to the ship. You need a navigator. Hurry now.” He was breathing sharply between each sentence, and when Kit touched his skin, it felt cold to the touch.

“They have Valliere,” Kit said. “We must get you back to the ship. You need Saunders.”

“God’s teeth, Kit,” Griffin began to hitch himself up and choked off a cry.

Lewis and Protheroe exchanged a couple of words and lifted him, getting an arm across each set of broad shoulders.

“Come on, Kit,” Protheroe said. “He’ll be right as rain, you’ll see. Ahhh, damn it’s getting light.”

The fast tropical dawn was flooding the plateau with cool misty light. From the trees they could hear the shouts of approaching Marines. Kit groaned and gave the two Welshmen a push. “Go,” he said. “I’ll…I’ll try to slow them down.”

“No, Kit,” Griffin raised his head, groaning with pain. “Come with us. Don’t…Wells…don’t…”

“Look.” Kit gripped Griffin’s shoulders. “I’m in naval uniform. I’m bloody. God’s teeth, I’ve got a manacle round my wrist. There’s a chance they will believe I was a captive. I…I’ll tell them I was on the Garnet. I…I’ll tell them I don’t know what happened to Africa. I’ll tell them anything, just go—go and…and be safe!”

“Kit.” Griffin’s murmur was weak, his face paling still further. “Don’t…”

Kit took a deep breath. “Please,” he begged, his hands either side of Griffin’s face. “We’re on a lee shore, likely to have our hearts broken on the rocks. This is your only chance, Griffin. I-I can’t bear the thought of what might happen if they caught you. I can’t—won’t—see you hanged.” Kit leaned in to kiss him, hard, then pushed Griffin’s clutching hands away. “Now go,” he said. “Lewis—please!”

“God speed, cariad,” Lewis said, and the two Welshmen bore Griffin, still mumbling protests, away.

Kit tore his attention away from the departing figures and ran for the top of the slope down to the beach. He felt cold and light-headed, and a lump building in his throat made breathing difficult for a moment. A pirate dashed past him, head down, taking glances over his shoulder. He ignored Kit so Kit ignored him. From the slope he could hear the sergeant of marines shouting orders, and he found a tree stump and crouched behind it. A moment later a ragged volley was followed by shouts and a scream. Slaughter was being done, and Kit wanted no part of it.