The Dagger X (The Dagger Chronicles) (24 page)

“Have you done this sort of thing before?” Kitto said.

X giggled and had to wipe the smile away with a bony hand. “Of course not. This is madness.”

The tension of the moment forced its way through Kitto into a smirk of his own. He turned away. “Madness or brilliance,” he said.

“
Ja, ja!
Always they are so close to each other, no?” X said.

The Spanish captain was dressed in fine red wool and wore a hat with gallant sweeps of felt and adorned with a large crimson feather. The ship had drawn close enough for Kitto to pick out the details of the hat without the spyglass. He decided that such a hat would surely get a man shot in Falmouth. Another officer stood at his side, and the two of them bent toward each other to speak privately. About them a few dozen sailors stood by their stations, and a uniformed line of six soldiers stood rigid with muskets affixed to their sides. The galley’s giant oars were still in the water, and through the galley portholes Kitto caught occasional glimpses of faces looking
across the water at them. He counted twenty oars on the side facing them, which happened to be the galley’s port side, the two ships lying bow to stern of each other.

The officers parted and the captain lifted a cone-shaped instrument to his mouth. Kitto had never seen one before, but its purpose was immediately obvious when the man’s accented English rang out clearly over the water.

“Are you an English ship?”

X nodded. “Aye, English,” he called weakly, not sounding very English at all as far as Kitto was concerned.

The Spanish captain pointed to the flag. “You require assistance?”

X cupped his hands around his mouth. “Have you a surgeon? Have you a good supply of medicines?”

The captain took his time in responding, huddling first with his mate. Finally, “Is there someone sick on your ship?”

X leaned toward Kitto. “Pretend I am telling you something secretive,” he said.

“What?” Kitto said, shaking his head in confusion. X nodded at Kitto, as if the boy had said something wise. He turned back to the Spanish captain.

“Fever! There are only a dozen of us left alive, out of forty.”

“That’s a wee bit excessive, don’t you think?” Kitto said out of the side of his mouth.

“Shut up,” X said, patting him on the shoulder.

The Spanish captain exchanged alarmed looks with his mate. He lifted the horn to his mouth.

“Greatest apologies. We have no surgeon. Very sorry for your loss. When the wind comes again, head due west. Barbados is only a few days’ sail. Should we see another ship, we will make inquiries on your behalf. But we must sail.”

“Wait! Please do not leave us!” Exquemelin wailed.

“What are you doing!” Kitto hissed behind his hand.

X mumbled back, “Realism, boy. Harrowing circumstances require the finest of the dramatic arts.”

It seemed to Kitto that the first mate and the captain were having some sort of disagreement about leaving the ship in its “forlorn” condition. The two ships were close enough that Kitto could see the captain’s jaw muscles clench in frustration.

Into the midst of this argument a third man appeared, quite small in stature, and without the military uniform. He wore a fine jacket and a black felt hat sporting a showy peacock feather. He stood between the captain and first mate, his eyebrows puckering as he inspected the
Port Royal
across the water.

“Ezel drol!”
Exquemelin wheezed, turning his back quickly on the other ship.

“What is wrong?” Kitto said.

“The man who just came up, he is looking over here,
oui
?” X tugged at his beard absently, his fingers searching for the beads.

Kitto narrowed his eyes. “He seems to be looking at you, mostly, more than the ship. And now he’s pointing, and saying something to the other men. They are looking
now too.” For the first time since he had heard the call of the sighted sail, Kitto felt a hollow pang in the pit of his stomach.

“You know that man, don’t you?” The little man in black was stomping his foot on the deck and pointing across the water at them.

“You remember I tell you we . . . helped ourselves to a ship? And then the worms sank the ship?” X said, his back still to the galley.

“That man is the captain of the ship you stole?” Kitto’s voice quavered.

“In the flesh.”

The Spanish captain was hailing them again. “Captain! Captain, have you perhaps heard of a ship, the
Santa Rosa Alegra
? It was taken by pirates a few weeks ago in these waters.”

“And that was the name of the ship,” Kitto said. X grunted in agreement. An idea struck Kitto. “Captain, you do not look well, sir.” Kitto placed a hand on X’s arm. “It would be terrible if the fever caused you to fall to the deck at this precise moment.”

Exquemelin raised a finger as if to tell the Spanish captain to wait just one moment, his back still to the galley. He removed his hat and allowed his head to loll loosely on his neck. He reached out to grab Kitto by the shoulder.

“I will get below,” X said. “The men must vote on whether to fight or surrender.” With that X wilted and fell to the deck and out of sight of the galley behind the solid ship’s rail. Kitto pretended to tend to him where he had
fallen, though X scampered like a crab along the port rail, trying to get to the stern hatch where he could get below without being seen by any of the Spanish sailors.

Kitto turned to the galley. He pointed down at the spot of deck where X had fallen and contrived a distressed look.

“He is very sick!” Kitto called out. “He needs a doctor! Have you a doctor?” The little merchant captain had gone purple in the face now, spouting a veritable fire of Spanish to the two officers. The captain held up his hand to the merchant, then lifted the speaking horn toward Kitto.

“We will send over assistance! Please prepare to be boarded!” The Spanish captain turned from the rail, speaking quickly to the first mate, who turned to bark the orders to the men.

“But I fear you might catch the fever!” Kitto shouted, suddenly frantic. But no one was listening to him.

In perfect unison every oar quickly withdrew into the ship, and the hatch doors were slammed shut. Just above these hatches, a row of twelve doorways swung open, and the rumble of cannons being rolled out on their trucks carried clearly over the water. Kitto now stared at the gaping mouths of a dozen cannons. He gulped.

He forced himself to step slowly over to the rope ladder and toss it over the side. It occurred to him that he could choose not to do so, but that would only fuel the Spanish captain’s fury.

Is there any way out of this?

Kitto turned and walked to the hatch leading down to the fo’c’sle.

There the entire company hovered in silence about X, who peered out a port hatch, his left eye twitching with nerves.

“A hundred men. Easily.
Ezel drol!
We cannot fight,” he said.

“Bollocks! We’ve fought before against these Spanish, ain’t we?” Fowler said, pushing his way to the middle of the men.

“Not this many, you ass!”

“Please!” Sarah said. She stepped forward. “Please.” The men, surprised to hear a woman’s voice among them, fell into silence. Sarah was a picture of contrast, Bucket tucked in the crook of one arm, the other arm resting on the pistol hilt at her hip. “Fighting would be suicide. Surely you all can see that. Surrender at least gives you all a chance at life!”

Now Pickle stepped forward. “I know the Spanish,” he said. “Have you forgotten, Pelota?” he said. Pelota shook his head slowly. “We surrender, and many of us find ourselves on a Spanish plantation again. Slaves! I will fight.”

“You will bloody well do as told!” X snapped. “I am the captain.”

“That’s not the articles we live by,” Fowler said. “We vote, X. We put it to a vote.”

Exquemelin thrust a finger out the open hatch. “They are lowering boats with armed marines, you pigeon-head! The men must be told. Perhaps I am the death of us all!”

“We vote,” said Fowler. Enough nods about the room silenced any further protests by Exquemelin.

“How many say ‘fight’?” Pickle called out, his own
hand raised. Pelota’s hand shot up, as did Fowler’s, Xavier’s, and several more. Kitto counted the hands, and he couldn’t help noticing that nearly every one of the dark-skinned seamen chose a nearly certain death rather than face the consequences of surrender.

“I count eight,” X said. “Agreed?” Fowler pointed a chubby finger at each of the hands around the fo’c’sle, checking the count. He grunted approval.

“And how many risk surrender?” X said. Hands raised. Van lifted his own, but X swept past him.

“You are not one of us,” he said. He counted on, and Van lowered his hand with a scowl.

“Eight again,” X said. “A stalemate, ah? In such a case the captain should be the one to decide.”

“There ain’t nothing in them articles about that!” barked Fowler. He stepped roughly to grab X by the lapel of his frock coat. X did not flinch as Fowler dug about in X’s coat pocket and came out with the oilskin pouch. He thrust it before Exquemelin’s nose.

“Fine,” X said, his voice eerily calm. “What, then, do you propose?”

Kitto pushed his way forward, elbowing Quid aside. He snatched the pouch from Fowler who glared dangerously down at him. Kitto withdrew the parchment and let the oilskin fall to the deck. He unfolded the document.

“Van is not one of you and does not get a vote,” he said. “But there is one name missing from this document.” Kitto glared about the room. “Mine!”

Fowler threw a nervous look toward Pickle, then
back at Kitto. “No time for any of that now,” he said.

“The boy is right,” X said. He reached out to pat Kitto’s cheek, but Kitto pushed his hand away.

“Don’t insult me!” he said. “A boy doesn’t have to choose between life and death. I do.” He pointed a finger at Fowler. “We made a deal. Here you are on the ship I promised you. Is that not true?”

“Still just a boy,” Fowler grumbled, his brow hooded in shadow.

“Perhaps,” Kitto said. “But I have not acted like one. ’Tis more than anyone could say of you if you deny me my due here and now.”

Fowler’s hand slowly raised and came to rest on the butt end of the knife at his belt. “You would best watch your tongue,” he said.

“I will not,” Kitto said. “You are not a coward, nor is any of these men. You agreed to sign me on if I made good, and you will not back down now out of fear.” Fowler’s head dropped a touch, and his hand slipped from the hilt of the blade.

X giggled. He dug in his coat pockets and produced a bedraggled quill and a vial of ink.

“Come, come, you smelly animal,” he said, speaking to Fowler. “Make yourself useful. We must obey the articles, as you have reminded us so handsomely.” Fowler scowled but turned and bent over so that Kitto could lay the document flat on his back. X dabbed the quill tip into the vial and handed it to Kitto, who took it and placed his palm on the document.

Alexandre Exquemelin

“Kitto, wait,” Sarah said. Kitto turned to look at her. Sarah’s piercing blue eyes seemed to glow in the uncertain light of the fo’c’sle. “If you sign that . . .”

“Aye,” Little John said, speaking for the first time from the back of the crowd. “Sign that and you’re one of us, lad. Whatever them Spanish do to our necks, they’ll do to yours as well.”

Kitto and Sarah locked eyes, and in that instant Kitto felt something he did not remember feeling ever before: compassion for his father, sympathy for the choices he had been compelled to make.

He never told me my true name. He never told me about my mother. He kept so much from me. But perhaps he did the best that he could with what life dealt him. I must do the same.
Kitto turned away and lowered the quill to the page.

“Our lots are cast together then,” he said. The quill tip scratched against the parchment.

Christopher Quick.

He looked up from the paper.

“I vote that we surrender without fight and look for our first opportunity to escape.”

X slapped Kitto hard on the shoulder.

“Huzzah, boy! You are a pirate now. May your years stretch longer than your neck ever will!”