Scarface (8 page)

“I like that a sight better than Master Lewis’ tales— there is never any fighting in them. But this Hamlet— could he use both hands when he fought duels?”

“That I never asked him.”

“Now tell me about the pirates. I have been down to the jail to see them. There is one little man who just sits upon a stool in the corner and wags his head back and forth thus. And he will answer no questions. Tim Davis, the jailer, says that he must be French for he speaks French words sometimes.”

“That must be Gaspard Pye,” said Justin slowly. “But how did you get to see him? Surely Lady Hynde did not suffer you to—”

“Amos took me there when mother was busied in the
still room with the new maid. Tell me about this Gaspard Pye—is he a pirate captain?”

“He was quartermaster of the
Naughty Lass
and the quartermaster ranks nigh to the Captain. But he is an unhappy man. He comes from Jersey, one of the Channel Isles and he was wrongfully pressed aboard a king's ship in James’ day.”

Sir Francis nodded wisely. “Before the Glorious Revolution, I know—”

“Aye. There he was treated so ill that his wits were ever after disordered and he hates all navy men very bitterly. Yet once he was an honest man and one of birth and standing. In his own way he is clever and he is held in high regard by his companions. So they took Pye—eh? Tell me, Sir Francis, did you see among these prisoners one Nat Creagh, a big hulking fellow lacking ears but with a bull's roaring voice and the will to use it often?”

Young Hynde shook his head. “He was not in the room with those Tim Davis showed me. Is he a leader too?”

“He is a man not good to cross, Sir Francis, and an enemy to me. But mayhap he was killed in the fighting.”

“Some of the pirates got away. Amos said that my uncle and Lieutenant Griffen were angered at that. It was the bungling of the militia which allowed them to escape.”

“How many won free?”

“My uncle doesn't know. But he was not able to find the captain or his mate afterwards and there may have been others.”

Cheap and Quittance then were not waiting in the jail for justice. And Creagh—what about Creagh? Justin
stirred uneasily. He would give much to know the present abiding place of Nat Creagh.

“That's cannon—the harbor cannon! Listen!” Sir Francis was running toward the steps at the far end of the long veranda. A second dull boom brought Justin to his feet. Was Bridgetown being attacked for the second time?

“D'you think it's the French come?” screamed the younger boy. “Should we take our swords?”

But he still ran on towards the gate which gave on the lane. Through its iron work they could catch part sight of a ship dropping anchor below. It bore aloft the red ensign— very plain to see.

“That's the Royal Standard!” chattered Sir Francis. “That's the governor's own brig! He's come back to hang the pirates!”

There was a flurry in the town. A carriage drove past them down towards the wharves. And now a horseman spurred up the hill straight for the gate where the boys stood.

“Hi, Francis!” he called from the saddle and Justin recognized him as Lieutenant Griffen. “Is Major Cocklyn at home? Sir Robert's in the bay!”

Chapter Eight

HIS EXCELLENCY OF BARBADOS

IT WASN'T until Sir Robert had been two days ashore that Justin was summoned to meet His Excellency. But those two days had been ones of such activity on the island that the boy now looked forward to this ordeal with some apprehension. Lady Hynde might be the whirlwind in Cocklyn's house, but Scarlett was a hurricane in Bridgetown.

When the summons came he dressed himself carefully in the decent brown suit Cocklyn had found for him and tried with unaccustomed fingers to loop his borrowed steenkirk in the same devil-may-care loose folds which the Major's boasted. But in spite of all his best efforts his hair could be reduced only to partial order, looking as unkempt as a straw rick beside the smooth rolled curls of the periwigs he saw about him. He was glad that, having no claim to being a gentleman of the first fashion, he was not condemned to the heat and mustiness of one of those.

As he joined Cocklyn the soldier eyed him in some surprise. “Very good,” he observed after close inspection. “Even your Captain Cheap might be hard put to give name to you now. Speak up when Sir Robert addresses you, but be not forward. He is sometimes in a hasty temper and he is certainly not in a good humor now over this business of the
Naughty Lass
—deeming it sadly bungled—which it was —thanks to those dunderheads of militiamen! But don't be afraid—”

“I'm not.”

Cocklyn laughed at that vehement denial. “Strap me, but I believe you speak the truth! Well, you have yet to meet Sir Robert. And he is not a gentleman with whom one trifles. Come along now, it is close on the hour he appointed.”

They walked up the curve of the hill toward the government house. Sentries saluted Cocklyn at the gates and they were passed speedily through to follow a dazzling path of crushed white coral to the broad veranda of the long, low house.

Coming into the rooms darkened against the sun Justin blinked blindly for a moment, but when the gloom seemed less dense he stared about him eagerly. He had some dim imaginative picture of thrones and courts, of gold and scarlet, so that the elegant simplicity of these long rooms appeared very bare. This might be any planter's house save that sentries guarded the doors.

Major Cocklyn paused before one portal part way down the hall and motioned Justin impatiently to hurry, almost pushing his charge before him into a book-lined study where Master Firken sat at a desk high piled with papers, plying his pen in a sort of desperate haste.

“Oh—'tis you then, Major,” was the greeting he had for them. “Go in—go in. Mayhap you can have a brightening influence upon him—you or Master Blade here—if the boy is prepared to find his tongue!”

“It's bad then, Firken?”

The prim secretary cast his eyes to heaven, or at least to the ceiling of the room. “One of his worst moods. He had
her
picture uncovered this morning.”

Cocklyn lost some of his jaunty bearing. “Like that is it? Mayhap we'd better wait for a more propitious time—”

“No, he would be even worse if he found you had come and gone again. He is quiet—and deadly.”

Cocklyn squared his shoulders with the air of one about to face artillery and rapped at the closed door behind Firken's chair. There was a murmur from within which the Major seemed to interpret as a command to enter and, waving Justin to follow, he opened the door and walked through.

. . .
under examination by a pair of uncommon eyes . . .

The room was dark, for the shutters were closed against the sunlight. In consequence, the air seemed lifeless and odorous of old books, candle grease and oiled leather. On a small table at the far end burned two tall candles, their light falling full upon the head and shoulders of the man seated there.

Justin gaped as widely as any village oaf at the fearsome Sir Robert. This quiet gentleman with the long, narrow head, the unsmiling mouth and half-closed eyes was no roarer, no lusty bully such as he had been expecting—no Creagh in a gentry’s fine skin. Rather he was another, if more worldly edition, of that meek Firken, a man more at ease with a book under his hand than with naked steel in his fist.

“You keep your time well, Cocklyn.”

The voice was crisp with a snap to it. It might not be a barrack’s yard bellow but it would have brought any lounger to full attention. Even the Major’s shoulders twitched as if he were prepared to stand to arms on that instant.

“I strove to do so,” Cocklyn returned. “This is the boy, Your Excellency.” He motioned Blade forward and Justin obeyed the summons a little unwillingly.

He found himself under examination by a pair of uncommon eyes, deep-set and dark, with no readable expression in their depths. In return he stared as intently back, seeing opposite him the long oval of a narrow face where strong bones lay close beneath an ivory skin drawn tight. Although the beard had been freshly shaven from cheek and chin it was still a dark shadow sharply defined. Sir Robert’s jaw was cleanly cut and square enough to spoil the regularity of
his features, and his lips were very thin and firmly set together. In all it was a face from which all emotion had long since been exiled and Justin had the unpleasant feeling that he was being studied from behind a mask by someone quite different—by someone he didn’t think he would like should their acquaintance ripen.

“We shall each know the other again, I think,” commented the Governor. “So you are of that scum from Tortuga—”

Justin’s chin went up, finding in that tone a goad he did not choose to stand silent under. “I was of the crew of the
Naughty Lass.”

“Jonathan Cheap was your master?”

“He was.”

“Hmm. Cocklyn tells me that you have sailed with him for some years—”

“At least fifteen, Your Excellency.”

“Fifteen! Faith now, would you have me believe that you were one of the Brethren from your cradle—?”

“My first memories were of Cheap’s ship, sir.”

“And you say that Cheap prated of your being some sort of a weapon in his hand?”

“So he told me, Your Excellency, upon several occasions.”

“Blade, Justin Blade,” Sir Robert repeated reflectively. “No—the name means naught—”

So Cocklyn had not seen fit to inform the Governor of his christening.

“How many men were aboard when Cheap sailed for Bridgetown?”

Justin shrugged. “I was but the cabin boy, sir. I have no idea.”

“Cabin boy, eh?” Those black eyes were fast upon the sword Justin wore with the ease of old custom. “Yet I am informed that you have sword tricks not seen hereabouts before. A fighting cabin boy. I’ll warrant you swung a boarding hanger with the rest of that filthy rabble when there was need!”

“Your Excellency!” Cocklyn cut across the other’s scornful comment. And at that the Governor showed white and even teeth in a smile which had no humor in it, being more like the snarl of a mastiff.

“No, Humphrey, I am not accusing your lamb of wolfishness—though doubtless his hands are as red as his fellows’. Mayhap even you do not know
all
about him. However, so high a value do I set upon him now that I think I shall keep him by me for the while. Since the rogue is out of employment I will seek to find some work for him. The Devil, as I was oft reminded in my youth, finds much for idlers to do.”

“I am a seaman—” began Justin eagerly.

“If you are not, you’re a fool!” snapped Sir Robert. “But do not think to find me minded to offer you command of a ship—if that is what lies in your head. There is a fine mess ashore here to be cleaned away before any of us put to sea again. And as a member of the crew of the
Naughty Lass
you can aid in that. Tell me—who were your officers? Speak up now!”

“Ask them their names,” flared Justin, ready tinder to the other’s spark. His dislike for the quiet gentleman was growing with every moment that they fronted each other. “I may have taken the Queen’s Pardon, but that does not make me a bearer of tales.” He was discovering, to his secret
pride, that he had no fear of Scarlett. Because, though the Governor might be the tyrant Bridgetown named him, he lacked that strange blackness of spirit which was so much a part of Cheap in his evil moods. When it served his purpose, His Excellency might be hard on a man right enough, but he would not punish for the pleasure he took in breaking a victim.

And he was now in no wise aroused to anger by Justin’s hot reply. Rather did his dog smile lift his lip again. “This is a saucy rogue, Cocklyn, a cock who needs his spurs clipped for him. Who told you, sirrah, that I can be answered so?”

“No one. But neither did any man say that you show fondness for a sniveling swivel-tongue. Why should you hold me ready to swear my fellows into a rope collar at your wish? Some of them are forced men with no more liking for the trade than I have had.”

“So—you had no liking for the trade, my fine buck! That is interesting. Humphrey, I am beginning to think that you were right after all—there is something about this cub— But if you will not speak of the ship, you gallows’ meat, mayhap you will answer of Tortuga. Or do these fine scruples of yours extend to include that sink also?”

“Of the island,” Justin refused to be eyed down, “ask me what you will.”

“Then name me the Lords who sit there in council now.”

“There be Marteens, the Dutchman, and Lechmere, Buck of the Swift Arrow, Camperdown, and Quinby, and Cheap—”

“Cheap? Among the Lords? Strike me, Tortuga has fallen on evil days! To put that ruffler among their Lords
argues woolly wits among the Brethren. In the old days he would not have dared to rise above the lower table in any tavern. Cheap among the Lords!

“Now Marteens is a sober fellow and looses his great hate only against the Dons, whom he has good cause to belabor. And Lechmere is a drunken swine who will end well pickled by the rum he pours down his camel’s throat. Buck— Buck—he is new to the Main, since I have not heard of him. What manner of man is Buck?”

“He sails from the northern colonies, sir. Some say that he was a pressed man who took to the trade and throve. He keeps much to himself when ashore and there is little known of him.”

“Camperdown, now,” continued Sir Robert musingly. “Aye, he was mate to Eli White and has wits of a sort. And Black Quinby—but he was always speaking of trying the Red Sea Trade. I marvel that he still haunts Tortuga.”

“Captain Quinby has had ill luck for two seasons now. And he finds it hard nowadays to get him a crew. They have begun to whisper that he is cursed.”

“If that is being said of him it would be well for Quinby to quit the sea before it swallows him. So those are the mighty ‘Lords,’ the great Captains of the Brethren this year. And a sorry lot they are. Now in the old days—Lud, then we had men for ‘Lords’ and the whole Main was open for our plucking!”

Justin remembered suddenly that this same governor had once been one of the Lords who ruled the motley gathering in the buccaneer colony.

“When you sailed how many of these captains lay in port?”

“Lechmere and Quinby only. Buck was careening in the cays—of the others there was no report.”

Scarlett nodded. “Good enough. Marteens, I am sure, will be beating up the inner gulf. In his stubborn hunting down of the Spanish he serves our purpose too and we shall not trouble him as long as we fight a common foe. Camper-down and Cheap—those two—”

“Cheap may be dead,” Justin ventured. “He could not swim.”

“Jonathan Cheap could not swim? Lord, boy, that man was a shark in the water. I have seen him win five pieces of eight at a time with his underseas tricks!”

Justin stared and Sir Robert was quick to catch his amazement.

“What’s this mystery? Why are you so sure Cheap could not swim? I, myself, have seen him diving in the cays.”

“Ever since I have known him, sir, he has feared the sea. There is a tale among the men that he was cursed, that a witch-woman once told him that he came out of the sea and into it he would go when his death came. And I think that he believes that.”

“Hmm. Odd, Cheap never paid heed to curses in the old days. Well, he came out of the sea right enough—and mayhap he has gone into it for good and all. But that I doubt very much. When Jonathan Cheap departs this life he will do it in such a wise as men shall long remember him. No, Captain Cheap is not dead. And I for one am glad—glad—glad of that!” He pulled to pieces with sudden vicious tweaks the quill he had taken up.