Scarface (15 page)

“Then won't he give tongue when he sees her coming to port again here?” Buck had been quick to seize upon the flaw in that. He was not easy in his mind over this affair, that was plain for the dullest to see.

“Shrimpton will have no chance to see her. We have those ashore who have already taken care of Master Shrimpton.
As for the rest of the townfolk—well, we have ready a fine tale of disaster. One day out and captain and mate were struck low by the fever. Those fish-heads ashore will believe that story more readily than they would believe that we dare what we dare. With the yellow plague flag up none will be too ready to board and ask questions. And no owner, no matter how tightly he pinches his silver, could expect aught from that crew of harbor scourings he has managed to throw aboard her. Good men do not sail when there is talk of pirates outside—unless they are offered more to line the pockets than our dear friend ashore will part with. So these will speedily back when left without direction—if they do not entangle themselves in the gear in the process.

“So you say, Scarface, that Sir Robert fears a French attack?” Cheap returned to his examination.

“He has said so.” Justin answered with the truth for it was no more than all the Main had already guessed.

“Did he also chance to say where his other sloop was cruising or when he expects a visit from the fleet?”

“No. He had no reason to blat out his business before me. All I can tell you is also common knowledge in the town—such as you yourself might have heard!”

“Scarface, you disappoint me. With such a golden opportunity to serve us all, you used it so poorly. Were it not that you have protested so stongly your good will towards us, I might almost believe that you are Scarlett's man. And that would be unfortunate, very unfortunate for you.”

“You hold hostage for me—” Justin began and then would have liked to bite through his betraying tongue for the mischief it had done him. He did not even need to see that
quirk of a smile in Cheap's eyes to put the seal of certainty upon his foolishness.

“Aye, I was forgetting our hostage. And he may not be as stubborn a rogue either. There is a chance that he has used his eyes and ears to greater advantage than you have done. Shall we have in Sir Francis and put him to question?”

Quinby came out of his private world. “Gabble, gabble,” he spat at Cheap. “There's a deal of useless talk here. If we're for Bridgetown, then let us to it! And that speedily! You always were a clacking fellow, Cheap.”

No betraying nerve or muscle moved in Cheap's face at that plain speaking but Justin knew what spark within the Captain had been brought to life now. Cheap never took any crossing easily.

“You must have patience, Captain. We want certain information which is necessary to our plan. But I believe that Scarface will supply us with it. Otherwise Creagh will amuse Sir Francis Hynde after his own fashion. Do you understand, you maggot?”

Justin looked from that handsome arrogant face down to the hands clenched on his knees. Aye, he understood. And this was just what he had feared from that first moment of their meeting in the Harp and Bottle. Because against this he had no defense, no defense at all. And Cheap knew it.

“What would you have of me?” he asked sullenly.

“Are the harbor forts manned?”

“Aye.”

“With militia or regulars?”

“Both at times. The regulars always.” (That was a desperate lie but he must take the gamble that the gossip
of the town which Cheap might have heard had not yet repeated that squabble in the council which was plaguing Sir Robert into supplying an unnecesssary guard to the plantations.)

“How many guards on duty at the palace?”

“Ten. They are doubled at night.” (Lies, lies! But could he keep thinking of them fast enough to snap back such answers without the hesitation which would make Cheap suspicious?)

“And the sloops of war?”

“One is in harbor and the other cruises—where, I don't know.”

“Hm. Well, now that you have found your tongue, I'll trouble you to keep it.”

There were other questions, some from Buck and Quinby, and to them all he made the best answers he could. But he was gnawed by the fear that his best was not good enough, that sooner or later he would make some fatal slip and lose the game. Then Cheap would delight in carrying out that very threat which kept him talking.

So it was with a dull surprise rather than a feeling of relief that he saw the Captains' meeting come to an end at last and watched the three Lords go out of the cabin, leaving him with Cheap.

The latter was in fine humor, humming a song and thumping time to the tune of it with his fingers. So good-humored was he that, when the others were gone, he got to his feet and crossed to the sea chest against the far wall. He rummaged within its tumbled contents and brought out a small ebony box which Justin had seen before. It
was a jewel case, taken from a galleon, which had long served the Captain as a strong box for his chief treasures.

“This at least I was able to bring out of the
Naughty Lass,”
he said. “And glad I am that I did, since the laborer is worthy of his hire and your wages are within, Scarface. 'Tis a pity you will never know the proper market in which to spend them.”

He snapped up the lid of the case and took out a gleaming band which flashed in the air as he tossed it to the boy. Justin put out a hand half-mechanically and caught a length of soft gold braided into a supple chain which ended in a flat medallion bearing a partly erased design.

“Your wages, Scarface. And how generous I've been! Some day you will discover how generous. Ha, Sir Francis, and how did you like our sports?”

But the boy standing in the companionway was more interested in what Justin held than in the Captain's question.

“What is it?” he demanded. “A knife? What wages, Justin? What is the Captain paying you wages for?”

Cheap laughed. “For value received, Scarface having imparted to us many interesting things about Bridgetown. No, it is not a knife—though in the proper hand it would be a dagger!”

Chapter Fifteen

TOO LATE IS NEVER

“WHAT DID you tell them?” Francis demanded. Cheap chuckled. “Enough to make us masters of Bridgetown, my small man. I did better than I thought to when I brought Scarface with me. He has a good eye and has used it knowingly. Now do you two bide here until I have need for you. I have no fancy to see either of you underfoot.”

He equipped himself with a sea-glass from the chest and went out. Justin sat where he had been and so he would have continued to sit—in a half-stupor—if Francis had not run toward him, his small face red, his hands balled into fists.

“You foul traitor!” and to this opening shot he added a string of oaths more apt from the mouth of a waterside brat than from a gentleman of family. “Now will Sir Robert and my uncle—” He choked on his own rage and added at the very top of his shrill voice, “You’ll hang, you dog! You’ll hang! I’ll tell them—tell them that you were Cheap’s spy—as I know now. All the men aboard this ship know that. Spy!” He spat.

And Justin stared down at the drop of moisture on his coat front. He wished that Francis would quiet, would go away and leave him to nurse his aching head.

“I’m thirsty,” he muttered to himself. And his dry mouth roused him to look for water. Only, in that instant he was seeing not the stuffy cabin of the brig but a tree-bordered pool in Tortuga.

Then the pool was gone and with it Francis. He, Justin, was on his wavering feet, his fingers locked on the back of Cheap’s chair to hold him steady. And that act seemed to break through his shell of pain. He had been talking, hadn’t he? For a long, long time. What had he said that was worth payment from Cheap, payment which was now coiled about his wrist. He held up his arm to examine the bangle more closely. It was obviously very old and the design on the drop had some resemblance to a coat-of-arms, but so faint were the lines of the engraving that he could make out nothing save the outline of an animal’s head. Since Cheap had kept it among his treasures it must be of some value and he would hold it safe. With fumbling fingers the boy tucked it into the pocket folds of his belt sash, putting it there so close to his skin that he could feel its length through the silk against his middle.

Then he crossed the cabin, clutching at table and wall, to the half-cupboard where the wine was kept. A half glass of Cheap’s brandy burned across his tongue and down his raw throat—but its fiery passage seemed to clear his head that he might think of the future again. And so he looked about him for his fellow prisoner.

Francis was curled up on the stern locker, staring out over the water, showing no interest in his companion.

“Francis!”

Young Hynde hunched his shoulders stubbornly and made no other answer.

“Francis, listen to me. We must lay our plans—”

The younger boy could hold his pose of indifference no longer. At that appeal he came around right enough to front Justin, but he showed a stormy face.

“I’m not listening to you—you—you dog of a spy!” he shouted. “When Sir Robert gets you again, he’ll show you how he deals with pirates! He’ll crook your neck with the rope fast enough!”

“Doubtless he will,” returned Justin wearily. “But if you wish him to
catch me, you had better pay heed to me now. Captain Cheap has an excellent plan which may win him his desire of taking Barbados—unless he can be stopped. And you, Francis, if you wish, can have the stopping of him. Think how well Sir Robert and your uncle would rate you—”

He had by luck struck upon the right approach; the younger boy was listening.

“Why do you do this if you are Cheap’s man?”

“Mayhap because I owe Major Cocklyn a debt, mayhap because I still have some faint hope of so saving my neck
—does it greatly matter? Think what you please, but we must plan. When this ship puts in again at Bridgetown the bumboats will be out to greet us—’til they see the yellow plague flag and are warned off. Then you must swing through these stern windows and make for them—You can swim?”

Francis nodded. “Aye. ’Twas all that I did that my uncle ever spoke fairly of. But do you come with me?”

Justin shook his head. “No. I would be missed the quicker and if I stay here to say that you sleep in the cubby, then will you have a brighter chance. Get you ashore as soon as you may, Francis, and then to the palace and rouse Sir Robert. If he is warned he may be able to win after all.”

The long day wore slowly on and, since they were confined to the cabin, there was no chance to discover if they really were bound for Barbados again. Now and then Justin’s head ached maddeningly when the dull pain above his eyes became a pounding hammer of agony which made him forget all else until it eased. He guessed that he had the dreaded coast fever and he could only hope to hold to his wits until he was able to get Francis away.

Once Patawamie brought them food—an ill-cooked mess which must have been scooped from the crew’s common kettle instead of from the officers’ supplies. This time Francis was hungry enough to choke it down, but not without making hearty complaint all the while.

There was a good and favoring wind aloft and the brig answered well to its urging, better than did one of her consorts, a sloop which wallowed well in her wake as if suffering from a weed-grown keel. That was Lechmere’s,
Justin guessed. Though a master gunner and a man good to have at your back in a fight, he was no proper sailing master and never had been. By bringing him into this scheme Cheap might have dealt himself ill luck, since the drunken Captain was ever unpredictable in or out of his cups. Buck and Quinby, on the other hand, were steady men—good choices for such an affair.

“A fish! Scarface—see! A fish flying!” Francis had thrust himself half out of the stern window to watch this marvel.

“Aye. They’re common enough hereabouts. Now mind yourself, this is no spot in which to topple into the sea, and no one aloft will trouble himself to recover you if you do. Sit still and be quiet, Francis, ’twill be time enough to take to the water later.”

Justin put his head down on his arms with a sigh and it was sprawled thus across the table that Cheap found him a few minutes later. The Captain laced fingers in his hair and pulled him up to catch sight of his flushed face.

“What’s to do here? Faugh, you never used to be fond of the bottle, brat. Has our worshipful friend Scarlett made you free of that pleasure?”

Then his contempt faded as he put a questioning hand to Justin’s burning flesh, and, looking into the boy’s half-open but unfocused eyes, he whistled.

“So that is it, is it? The coast fever. And a pretty time for it to strike you too. But that cannot be helped. Francis, do you speak to Patawamie—he stands without. Tell him to summon Peter.”

Justin stirred then, trying to twist loose of the Captain. He had no wish to fall into Ghost Peter’s hands, even though the Negro was reputed to be better at doctoring
than half the men who walked the hospitals of Europe. But Justin was not consulted and afterwards he had only very foggy memories of how the tall Negro and Captain Cheap served him. Several nauseating brews were poured by force down his throat and he was otherwise handled and mishandled past all resistance.

It was dark night and there was something buzzing, buzzing close beside his ear. Now and then he even thought he could make out words:

“Please—they take me away lest I have the fever too. Please—I can’t go through the window— Please—wake up, Scarface! Wake—!”

But he could not answer and after a while there were sharper voices a long way off and the buzzing ceased so that he slept in peace again, to awaken feeling oddly clean and free. He lay on a sort of pallet on the floor of the cabin which he could not remember ever having seen before. This was certainly not the
Naughty Lass
—and yet just last evening he had sailed on her out of Tortuga. Or had he? He had a faint memory of something else—some strange happenings which were now tattered edgings of dreams. At any rate he had better be out and about before Cheap came after him.

He got to his feet and stood looking in startled wonder at the clothing covering him. In place of canvas breeches and torn tow shirt which were his known wardrobe—and the whole of it—he was wearing stained and dirty, yet well-fitting gray breeches of cloth and there were stockings on his legs—thread stockings. Tossed across his pallet was a shirt of finer stuff than any he had ever worn, but since it was left as if it belonged to him he drew it on.
Where had all this wealth of clothing come from—what had happened to him?

With his hand to his head he pushed out of the small cabin and found himself in the quarters of the vessel’s master—but not on the
Naughty Lass.
He lurched unsteadily over to the stern windows and looked out. There was land! A thin rocky point of it—not Tortuga, of that he was reasonably sure, though he seemed able to account for little in this crazy world. Also within eyesight was a sloop, being handled none too well, but apparently playing follow-the-leader with the ship in which he stood.

“So you’ve recovered your wits, have you?”

He looked over his shoulder at a familiar figure. Quittance had come in, to avail himself of a supply of gunpowder he poured from one leather bottle to another. Scarface wet dry lips before he dared to ask the question he must have answer to.

“What ship is this?” There, he had asked it! Only why was Quittance staring at him as if he had said some monstrous thing? What had happened to him since they had left Tortuga? And the mate wasn’t going to answer him either; instead he was slipping out of the cabin as if he feared to share it with Scarface.

The boy was still standing there when Cheap and Ghost Peter came in, moving with some haste as if they expected trouble. At the sight of Scarface on his feet the Captain’s heavy eyelids twitched and he glanced at the Negro as if asking his opinion.

“How do you feel?” he inquired of the boy.

“Well enough. But—please—what has happened? This is not the
Naughty Lass!”

“The
Naugh
—
!
” Cheap stopped in mid-word and turned to Ghost Peter but the Negro was nodding and grinning.

“Tol’ ye it do queer tings, massa. Dis jungle root be pow’ful juju. Feveah it kill, also time it kill too. He do’an’ ’member nothin’ now; some day he will—jes’ like dis!” He clicked his fingers together sharply.

“You mean that he doesn’t remember anything?” Cheap demanded incredulously.

“Somet'ings—but all t’ings no. Ask ’im.”

“Well, what do you remember, my buck?” Cheap looked to Scarface.

“We sailed from Tortuga—last night?” Scarface made a question of his answer. He was beginning to piece knowledge together for himself now. Ghost Peter had mentioned the fever and that he had been dosed with one of the Negro’s herb remedies. So part of his memory was gone, was it? But that— that was witchcraft! He shrank from the two of them, a horror of them, of this strange cabin, of himself, beginning to grow within his mind. What had happened in the time he could not remember?

“Last night—?” Cheap laughed. “By the sword, that is as rich a jest as any man would want to hear. No, brat, ’twas not last night that we sailed from Tortuga, but some weeks since. You have had a bad touch of the fever. Mayhap it is well that Peter played doctor to you, since the days past are better out of your memory. So Scarface sails again with me— Well, I was never the one to spit in Lady Luck’s face. But best get you cutting tools, lad, we’ve hot work before us if anything goes ill.”

“Where are we?” demanded Scarface desperately as Cheap was about to leave the cabin.

“In the harbor at Bridgetown, Barbados,” Cheap grinned. “And since you have never seen this spot before, come on deck with you and look your fill.”

Cheap was mocking him now, he knew that tone of old. And why did the Captain watch him so closely when they reached the deck and he went to stare over the railing at the town across the water? What was there about Bridgetown which he should have known? To look at, it was any Indies’ town—its white-walled, tiled-roof houses like all the others to be seen up and down the Main. He had seen its like many times before and would doubtless see them again. But how had Cheap won into the harbor without a fight? Was this his fine plan for raiding Sir Robert’s own doorstep?

There were other ships at anchor—a sloop of war and a rather battered-appearing brig which must have fought her way through storm before she had reached her present anchorage. Then there was the brig on which they stood, a strange ship to him, and three other ships which kept close to her as if they shared her purpose. Yet Cheap had sailed alone from Tortuga.

“Well, Master Scarface, and how do you like Bridgetown?”

That was Cheap, still mocking. Scarface answered him as indifferently as he could.

“It is much like other towns I have seen—”

“And have fought through? But if all goes well we shall not have to take to the sword here. That is our quarry.” He nodded toward the storm-worn brig. “She has that on board which will well line all our pockets and she’ll come
to our call like a lamb to the fold. Then we’ll shear her—all clean.”