On a Lee Shore (39 page)

“They are going after the Africa,” he murmured to Davy. “I’m sure of it. Feel that—she’s hitting the waves hard—that means more sail. Wells is going to try and take the Africa.”

“Captain Griffin won’t let ’em do that,” Davy said, but his tone was strained.

Kit clenched his fists and hugged his knees more tightly. Africa wouldn’t be able to escape the Miranda, not if it came to a simple stern chase. Valliere would take to the islands, the narrow channels, and the shoals. With her shallow draft Africa could go where Miranda could not, but only if she could stay out of reach of the guns.

By the time Frobisher came for Kit, it was gone noon and Kit was feeling hot as well as cold. Frobisher placed him on a stool and set his stitches without any ceremony, only asking Davy and Detorres to hold Kit’s arms and head. Kit endured the treatment with as much courage as he could muster, but his head was swimming by the time Frobisher tied off the last knot. Frobisher swilled his instruments in a bucket of seawater and gave him an affable nod. “It isn’t as bad as it feels,” he promised. “I’ll change the dressing before dark. Meantime, try not to talk too much. You’ll strain the stitches.”

“Thank you,” Kit mumbled and, at Frobisher’s suggestion, followed Davy and Detorres forward. He did need to piss, but his attention was fixed on the bright dot ahead—the snowy white spread of canvas that was the Africa speeding down the current that he had fought only a day before. He sighed as he watched her and wondered who was at the helm. Was Griffin in his cabin looking at his charts to find the best place to give Miranda the slip or was he even now on deck wrapped in canvas ready to slide over the side and down into the cold dark.

Kit caught his breath, feeling wretched. He tried to wipe his eyes with his sleeve—the right was watering copiously and the left was nearly as bad. “The long, dark, cold alone.” That was what Lewis had said to him. He caught his breath again, looking down at the water speeding by below. Perhaps, even now, Griffin was spiraling down into the dark, and who had been there to say the words for him? The man Kit had loved, who could have been so much more than a pirate.

“You said?” Detorres gave him a concerned look as he clawed his breeches back up and fastened them.

“Nothing,” Kit whispered and kept his eyes on the bright sails until their guards forced them to go below again.

With the quarry in sight, Wells seemed reckless in the amount of canvas he crammed onto Miranda’s yards. Kit knew that Wells must catch Africa before dark, otherwise she might escape into the scatter of islands, shoals, and reefs. Miranda pitched uncomfortably, and the four men in the purser’s cabin had to cling tight to the fixings to avoid being upset. Davy braced his shoulder against Kit’s. Detorres cursed as the cot swung back against the bulkhead and bruised his shoulder. Lopez prayed, crossing himself from time to time with one hand as he clung to the ringbolt that supported the cot with the other. Kit reflected that at least they were in a fairly comfortable spot. It must be far worse for the prisoners below decks in the hold.

Bells rang for a watch change, but from the lack of stir Kit judged that most of the available men were already on deck.

“They must catch them soon,” Detorres said. “Will Griffin stand and fight?”

Kit took a deep breath, wincing as the swollen flesh of his cheek pulled against the stitches. “Griffin was dying,” he said hoping that the tremble in his voice would be put down to pain. “He was gut shot. I think that Valliere is most probably in charge, and he will run. If Wells fails to catch Africa before dark, Valliere will take her into the shoals and disappear. If Wells does catch her, he’ll pound her to pieces. I…I do not wish that. Some of the men aboard are decent men even if they have done wrong.”

“Dying?” Detorres shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry to hear that, though perhaps I shouldn’t be. He was a pirate.”

“But his heart wasn’t in it,” Davy said, his arm tight round Kit’s shoulders. “I know that and so should you. Otherwise why did he send Kit back to save you?”

Detorres shrugged. “Honor,” he said. “It means different things to different men.”

Kit didn’t respond; the pain in his head was worsening, and he was feeling hot and cold by turns. He had seen many wounds in his career, had even once spent a horrifying two hours assisting the surgeon after a battle when the lob lolly boys had been killed. He knew the score. If the damage had been to his hand or arm he was pretty certain Frobisher would have offered to remove it for him, but the rawness in his face and neck suggested that for this wound there was not a lot Frobisher could do. Not that it mattered. If Wells had his way, Kit would be stretching hemp before the night was out.

They fell quiet, there not being much to say, and Kit may have dozed. At least, he was startled up by the roar of a gun and sat up, head spinning.

Detorres tilted his head, listening to the rumble as a gun was run in to reload. “Just one shot, so that was for ranging. Not long now.”

But it was another ten minutes by Kit’s count before the next shot. He listened, on his feet now, tense, pacing the two paces that was all he could take between wall and door. Davy leaned against the bulkhead out of his way, his pale blue eyes sympathetic.

“They’ll be hard pressed to catch her,” he murmured and added what Kit already knew. “Valliere will keep her safe.”

“He will,” Kit said but whirled as another gun fired. This time the shot was followed by a roar of triumph from the crew.

“Sweet Christ,” Kit murmured.

Footsteps sounded overhead then footsteps approached their prison. The marine guard opened the door to allow Wells to lean into the doorway. “Ah Penrose,” he said. “If you will accompany me? I have something I want you to see.”

On deck Kit hastened to the railing. Africa was in irons, her sails flapping, no more than a mile to starboard. As he watched she met a sea awkwardly and spray dashed across her deck. One of her sails was holed and had torn, strips of canvas fouling the lines.

“A lucky shot,” Wells admitted. “But satisfying none the less. This way we can take her at our leisure, board her, and carry the crew that have survived the bombardment back to St. Kitts to join you on the gallows.”

“You won’t,” Kit said, his knuckles white on the railing. “They keep gunpowder down by the keel. They have an accord that rather than be taken they will blow the ship and themselves to Kingdom Come. Some of the men are ex-slaves. Death is preferable to going back to the cane or tobacco fields.”

Wells snorted. “They will have to be quick then, because we intend to board her as soon as maybe. But it occurred to me that she has those heavy guns, does she not? So perhaps some kind of demonstration of futility is in order. I think that the sight of some of their fellows will not stop them firing, but who knows, maybe it will. With a dozen of you on display perhaps they will decide not to make a fight of it.”

Kit shook his head. “They won’t,” he said. “They can’t.”

Unless more men had reached the Africa they were still managing with the small crew. Even with Valliere on the helm and just two men to adjust the sails, there were not enough men aboard to man more than one of the guns. “They won’t fight,” he repeated.

Wells laughed and gave Kit a push toward the quarterdeck where Goodrich was waiting, looking very uneasy.

“This won’t work, Captain,” he said. “Penrose was their captive, a forced man. They have no loyalty to him.”

“No, I don’t suppose they would have,” Wells said. “But nevertheless he can join the rest of the prisoners in our little display. Get them on deck. Manacles all round. We can’t have any one trying to jump overboard and swim to safety can we?”

“Too many sharks,” Goodrich said. He caught Kit’s eye and flushed. “Penrose,” he said. “You’re an officer, so I’ll do you the courtesy of leaving you untied if you give me your parole.”

“I do,” Kit said, adding to forestall Wells protest, “but I don’t think that will suit your captain. Treat me as the others, James. Don’t make trouble for yourself.”

“James?” Wells scowled. “You were not an…intimate of this creature were you, Goodrich.”

“We served together,” Goodrich admitted, “which is why I’m happy to accept Penrose’s word. I know him to be a man of honor.”

“Well, I know him to be a pirate and a stinking sodomite,” Wells snapped. “And what you have just said makes me fear for your immortal soul as well. See to the other prisoners, Goodrich, and I’ll deal with Penrose.”

Kit held out his hands to allow Wells to fasten the cuffs around his wrists. “Heavy, aren’t they?” Wells muttered, glancing at Kit. “You won’t swim far wearing those. I’m not risking you trying to blacken my name in court, you stinking molly.”

“You were in no danger from me,” Kit whispered. “But I don’t expect you to believe that. Your brain is addled, Wells.”

Wells shook his head. “No, I know your type. Pathetic creatures aching to be touched. Seeking for love in desperate places. Sneaking and hiding and crippled with fear. You’ll not tar me with that brush. Your days are numbered, Penrose. Pray that you drown before the sharks reach you.”

Seized by the collar, Kit had no choice but to stumble to the railing, where his manacles were attached to a length of chain.

Soon he had the company of Davy and Detorres, protesting loudly that it was shameful that Wells should treat an officer of his imperial majesty in this fashion. Lopez prayed. More men were added to the chain then they were driven forward and placed to stand on the railing, clinging to the shrouds and the ratlines. For the moment all they could do was hang on and hope for the best as Miranda felt her way toward the stricken Africa.

“What’s going to happen?” Davy asked. He was a step or two up the ratlines from Kit and clinging tight. “Will they be able to see us from there?”

Kit had caught a glint of light from the deck of the Africa, so he nodded. “They have seen us,” he assured Davy. “But I don’t know what we can do to help.”

The ship rolled a little as Miranda’s guns spoke again, and this time water kicked up all around Africa. “Was she hit?” Kit demanded. “I couldn’t see.”

“I don’t think so,” Davy said. “But she’s bracketed. The next shots…”

The guns were being reloaded. Kit caught his breath then yelled with shock as Miranda lurched and Davy was thrown from his perch. Kit clung on to the ratlines as Davy clutched at him and tried to scramble back onto the ropes. Miranda lurched again, an ugly grating sound coming from beneath her keel, and Davy was thrown back onto the ropes.

“She’s aground,” Detorres said. “Jesu, she’s aground.”

Sails flapping and with her crew in disarray, Miranda wallowed against whatever had brought her up short, laying over until her larboard rail dipped into the next wave. As it passed she heaved, righting a little then crashing down again. Kit locked his hand on Davy’s collar and hauled him up. They clung together and looked across at Africa. She was calmly making sail, turning to present her stern.

“You clever bastard,” Kit said. “Oh, damn my eyes, you clever bastard.”

“Drew us in they did,” Davy said then his smile faltered. “But Kit—will they fire on us?”

Kit fixed his eyes on the Africa, but the distance was too great to see anything other than suggestions of the activity on the deck. Then there was another flash of reflected light, no more than a spark, and his hammering heart slowed a little.

“Cover your eyes, Davy,” he said. To the distant sloop he murmured, “Do what you must, my love, and go with my blessing.”

Smoke spouted, and the double boom of the long guns was so close together as to sound almost as one. The detonations were succeeded by a peculiar whistling howl.

“Chain,” Detorres shouted and they all flung themselves down into the shelter of the railing.

Miranda reeled, shrouds and stays snapped, and the grating of her keel on rock was masked by the tortured creak of timber strained beyond breaking point. Slowly the deck tilted, and from below came the ominous rumble of shifting guns. Kit was enveloped in wet canvas, the heavy weight of it pinning him to the deck, and he fought his way free, cursing. On his knees he stared around at the chaos on deck. Amid the tangle of canvas and ropes the crew and prisoners were struggling. The mizzenmast was shattered, one great sail enveloping the quarterdeck and the rest trailing over the side. Kit and his friends had been caught by the fore and aft sails torn loose between the masts.

Nearby a sailor sat dazed, blood streaming from his scalp, and more blood ran along the deck from where one of the yards had crashed down. James Goodrich clambered over the wreckage.

“Kit—is that you? Help me with this. You there!” Goodrich summoned a sergeant of marines. “Free these men.”

Kit made his way aft and took the boarding axe James handed him. Miranda was in irons, her side still perilously close to the hidden reef, and at any moment she could strike again, could tear a hole in her side or break her back to leave them all floundering in bloodied water. He hacked at the ropes holding the broken mast and canvas. Other men had come to help, Lopez and Davy among them.

“Where’s Detorres?” Kit looked around when he had a moment.

“He’s hurt,” Davy replied. “Knocked silly, but he should be all right. Ah, that’s got it.”

The mass of wreckage fell away, allowing Miranda to answer to her rudder and pull a little away from danger.

“Thanks, Kit,” Goodrich rubbed his hands over his face leaving bloody smears from a cracked knuckle. “Oh God, look at her. She didn’t deserve this.”

“No, she didn’t,” Kit said. “She’s a good ship, cursed with a vengeful captain. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Goodrich said. “He was on the quarterdeck before the mast came down.”

“He’s here, sir,” one of the Miranda’s called. “A stay caught him,” he added. “Popped his head off, clean as a whistle.”

Goodrich and Kit grimaced at the bloodied corpse.

“Cover him up then, Barratt.” Goodrich ordered. “We’re still far too close to the reef. Can we get any way? Penrose, I—um—would be prepared to take your parole if you’d help me out here.”

“Accepting help from a pirate.” Kit grinned and swore as the wound in his face pulled and started to bleed again. “That will do you no favors with the admiralty.”