The Quality of Mercy (48 page)

Dunstan yanked on the halyards, hoisting up the starsail. His back felt a pull of tension, a sharp stab of pain with each draw of the rope. Though cold black gusts of wind had seeped into his bones, he sweated profusely and gasped for breath. A shot of foam sprayed his clothes, dusting his clothes and face with salty mist. He coughed. Lungs of a gallant, he thought, ill-suited for common labor.

A moment later the tautness in his arms was partially relieved by another set of limbs helping him with the riggings. Dunstan turned to Shakespeare and asked,

“And how is our mighty helmsman of the sea?”

“What?” asked Shakespeare.

“The captain,” Dunstan shouted over turbulent waves. “How does he fare?” He drew the lines aft, the rope cutting into his palms.

“Quiet finally, the foul-mouthed churl,” Shakespeare yelled back. “Though I suppose he has good reason for his spleenish mood. Watch, if you can, how quickly dissipates his bile once the sparkle of gold hits his eye.”

“Gold has medicinal powers,” Dunstan shouted.

“I’ve got a bit of good news,” Shakespeare said.

“What is it?”

“Inside the hatch lie other things besides fish.”

“Go on,” Dunstan said.

“Six pistols and three calivers,” said Shakespeare.

Dunstan broke into a grin.

“Your brother was most displeased by the discovery,” said Shakespeare. “He claimed that true men fight with swords not firearms.”

Dunstan smirked and said, “Tommy is entitled to his weapon of defense. I’m entitled to mine.”

The boat suddenly lurched portside as white-tipped waves splashed water onto the deck. Shakespeare lunged for the shroud to the masthead and pulled it tightly, keeping the boat upright. The staysail boom swung outward. Dunstan grabbed it, was dragged forward and tripped over his boots. Clumsy was his footwork, but at least he prevented the boom from knocking over the player. Shakespeare offered him a hand, hoisted him upward.

“Many thanks,” Dunstan said. The last wave had thoroughly soaked the soles of his boots. His feet felt like ice. “What’s Krabbey doing with firearms?”

“Perhaps he’s selling them to the highest bidder,” said Shakespeare.

“A smuggler?” asked Dunstan.

“Or a pirate,” Shakespeare said. “The man is less than honest, and fishermen are notorious for hauling in booty that doesn’t swim.”

“What do you know about pistols?” Dunstan asked.

“Not much,” Shakespeare said. “You?”

Dunstan shook his head.

Shakespeare said, “The hand-held firearms are noted for being unreliable. They’ll just as soon fire backward as forward.”

“Ah, but if they do what they’re smithed to do…”

Shakespeare completed the sentence. “If they work, your enemy is dead.” Spray stung his eyes as the boat bounced upon the waves — a small star in a restless black sky. Shakespeare tightened the rigging and stabilized the boom. He said, “The biggest obstacle is how to dry out the gunpowder.”

“All of it is wet?” Dunstan asked.

“Every bit.”

“Mayhap Becca can blow on it. She’s full of hot air.”

Shakespeare said nothing. Dunstan felt himself go red with shame.

“Where is Becca?” Dunstan asked softly.

“What?”

“Where’s Becca?” he repeated, shouting as loud as he could.

“Singing Krabbey to sleep,” Shakespeare said. “I placed the blindfold back upon the old fart’s eyes. The moon has risen, highlighting our faces. I didn’t want him seeing yours or your brother’s. The less men he can identify, the better.”

The wind blasted the bellows of their shirtsleeves, cracking them like whips. Shakespeare tented his eyes with extended fingers upon his brow.

Dunstan said, “How far are we from the galleon?”

“Don’t know,” Shakespeare said. “But Krabbey thinks the cutter is making good time.”

“The winds are strong and skittish.” Dunstan held the lines with one hand, his stomach with the other. “So are the waves.”

“All the better,” Shakespeare yelled. “Calm air is the archenemy of the mainsail. Krabbey told me to pull the riggings aft. It will keep the jib upright.”

Dunstan tugged on the lines. How his muscles ached.

“You have need of anything else?” Shakespeare asked. “Dry hose, perhaps?”

Though Dunstan’s were soaked, he answered, “Mine are dry enough.”

Shakespeare asked, “Where is your brother?”

“Opposite side.” Dunstan’s voice was hoarse from screaming, raw from the blow of cold wind. “At the stern, near the companionway, manning the boom gallows.”

“I’ll see if I can be of service to him. There shall we continue our discussion of the merits and detriments of pistols.”

Dunstan smiled, then grew serious. “How fares Becca?” he asked. “Does she talk with you much?”

“She’s stingy with her words, altogether miserly with her thoughts.” Shakespeare hesitated, then said, “I fear she is as unstable as the water upon which we sail. May God keep her strong.”

“And safe and warm.”

“Amen,” answered Shakespeare.

The men bowed their heads piously, then eyed each other. The two of them, alone, battling the vagaries of the enemy Neptune, each one dependent on the other for survival. An alliance at last? Slowly, they smiled at one another.

Self-righteous bastard,
thought Dunstan.

Machiavellian prick,
thought Shakespeare.

Rebecca’s eyes opened suddenly. She was awakened not by sound nor touch nor bad dreams, but by an intangible aura that told her something of significance was about to occur.

She’d been resting at the rear of the ship, her back against a pile of nets, a bag full of clothes resting in her lap. Her face felt numb, her fingers stiff. Since she was alone, she slipped out of her punk costume and dressed in mariner’s garb. Though chilled, the clothes were roomy and
dry,
thanks be to God. She double-gloved her hands, wrapped a cloak and two blankets around her shoulders, and attempted to stand. It was a balancing act accomplished in pitch black. Every time she tried to upright herself, the boat would rock and she’d fall down — a terrible feeling to be unable to walk. She crawled about on hands and knees, her fingers scratching at the wet deck like a cat without claws, her eyes incapable of penetrating the shroud of icy darkness. Needing help, Rebecca almost called out for Shakespeare. Then she remembered: no
real
names, nothing that could link them with the pirating of the boat. She shouted out “Arden,” Shakespeare’s mother’s maiden name, and waited for him to respond. After a minute which seemed like an hour, she heard approaching footsteps.

“Annie!” answered a voice. It was Dunstan’s.

“Aye,” said Rebecca, on her knees. “I need help standing afoot.”

“I’m coming.”

“Where’s Arden?” she yelled, trying to be heard over the tide.

“Wait a moment,” Dunstan said.

A few feet beyond her eyes Rebecca could make out Dunstan’s figure, his profile and extended hand. She reached out and he pulled her upward. The boat reeled portside and she careened into Dunstan’s chest. He embraced her tightly.

Dunstan said, “Gods, you’re warm and dry.”

“And you’re
wet,
” Rebecca said, squirming in his grip.

Dunstan released her. “Sorry,” he said.

She could see her cousin clearly now. His teeth were chattering. Salty spray had frozen to slivers of ice that coated his mustache. Rebecca held his face, brought his cheek to her mouth and kissed him softly. For a moment her warm lips stuck to his skin.

“Take a blanket, Dunstan,” Rebecca said. “I have two.”

Dunstan shook his head. “The blanket is
dry
. Save it for necessity.”

“Did you bring a change of clothes amongst your provisions?”

Dunstan nodded. “Several sets.”

“You must get out of these—”

Dunstan brought his fingers to her lips. “Worry not about me. Just keep yourself warm, eh?”

“Where’s Shakespeare?”

“Watching Krabbey steer the ship.” His voice had become harsh. Rebecca ignored his tone.

“Anything new?”

“Krabbey claimed he
smells
something.”

“What means that?” asked Rebecca.

“I don’t know. I don’t speak to the man directly,” Dunstan said. “Tommy and I are hidden from the churl’s eyes. Shakespeare says that Krabbey insists he
smells
something in the air — the Spanish ship.”

Rebecca nodded in agreement. “I
smell
it as well. The stink of the Spanish jolted me awake.”

Dunstan said, “All I smell is rotting fish.”

The boat swayed upward and the sea threw handfuls of water onto their clothing.

“I must get back to my position afore this whole craft is capsized,” Dunstan said. “I’ll help you walk to Shakespeare if that’s what you desire.”

Rebecca was seized with sudden fright, instantly aware of the peril that faced them — a gnawing, raw horror that Miguel had braved and overcome for the sake of their trapped brethren. What was Miguel feeling now? Was he as frightened as she? Was he even alive? And Raphael. What thoughts had filled his head as death bore down upon him? With effort she emptied her mind of horrible images and regarded her trembling cousin. He had not the skill of the fence as Thomas did, nor the bravery of Shakespeare. He was just a man — a man with faults, aye — but nonetheless he knew the animal of fear as she did and was ready to fight it. She hugged Dunstan with an intensity he’d never felt before. He returned her embrace, knowing the reason behind it.

“Don’t worry, Becca,” he said softly. “My life has been good.”

“Watch well your moves, Dunstan,” she said.

Dunstan pulled a gleaming firearm out from his cloak. “I shall.”

“Where did you find the pistol?” Rebecca asked, dropping her arms to her sides.

“Krabbey had a half dozen lying around the hatch. Better booty than fish, eh? It would be a sin to let them go to waste.”

“You know nothing of firearms, Dunstan. You’ve never battled in war.”

“I’ll ’prentice on the job,” he answered tightly. “I need a service from you.”

“Speak.”

“The gunpowder is wet. All three of us have been too occupied to find a way to dry it out—”

“I’ll take care of it. Where are the boxes?”

“Shakespeare’s hidden them somewhere,” Dunstan said.

“Then take me to him, to Krabbey as well.”

“Aye,” answered Dunstan. “Let’s go smell a galleon.”

“Who is this pissant cuss?” Krabbey said when he saw Rebecca dressed as a man. The captain broke into laughter. “A lad to make merry with when the wench is too busy fucking others?”

Shakespeare said nothing.

“I could use a little making merry,” said Krabbey, straining the leather straps that bound his wrists and ankles. “If I can’t have the whore, how about the lad?”

Shakespeare said, “Leave your prick in peace and concentrate on finding the galleon.”

Rebecca was propelled forward by a sudden wave and tumbled to her knees. Shakespeare helped her up and she grabbed the masthead for support. Bringing her mouth to Shakespeare’s ear, she asked him about the gunpowder. He whispered back its location.

“Are you able to walk there without help?” he asked.

“I’ll help the lad,” said Krabbey. “All he has to do is bend over and I’ll help him but good.” The captain let out an evil laugh. “’Course when I’m done helping him, he won’t be able to walk too good.”

Shakespeare said, “Your tongue holds more muck than the jakes of Paris.”

“Piss off,” Krabbey said. He made kissing noises to Rebecca. “Come here, lad, and I’ll show you what it’s like to be a boy on the high seas.”

Rebecca ignored him. Her eyes turned to the sea as the captain continued swearing. Then she saw it and gasped.

The galleon grew out of the shimmering fog and displaced the sea — the most awesome craft she’d ever witnessed. A thousand tons of ship with a mast that reached the moon. It held three open decks, two tiers of guns on the lower decks and a third tier on her half deck and forecastle. There must have been two or three decks below as well. Muzzles peeked out from every porthole and above the ramparts like pins in a cushion. Sheet upon sheet of billowy sail blocked out the sky. Scores of oars pushed away the sea, moving the hulk forward. It was impossible to make out each crew member, but there had to be hundreds of men aboard.

“Holy Mother of God!” Krabbey cried, open-mouthed.

Shakespeare felt a sudden sharp pain in his lungs. His knees began to shake. He turned to Krabbey and said, “You did your toil well, Captain. May God grant us the strength to do our job with equal skill.”

Quickly, Shakespeare slipped the blindfold over Krabbey’s eyes. He said to Rebecca, “Get your cousins. I need help in bringing this corpulent body to the hatch.”

Rebecca did as told then sat under the mainsail of the ship to dry the gunpowder. She threw a tarp over her head and prayed it would prevent dampness from seeping in and frustrating her efforts. The tinder was mercifully dry, the spark of the flint rock strong. It was skillful business. The warmth of the flame was needed to dry the powder, but too much heat would cause an explosion. Still, it was her duty to perform her task well, and she knew she would succeed.

All three men were needed to lift Krabbey into the hatch. The captain kicked, spat, and let out inarticulate curses muffled by the gag in his mouth. With Krabbey safely locked away, the men immediately put their plan into action. The English flag was lowered, the Spanish flag raised upon the
Good Bounty
masthead. Dunstan tore open their bags and handed out the clothes of the Spanish seafarers. Quickly, they began to dress.

Dunstan said to Shakespeare, “Remember! You’re not to utter a sound, having had your vocal cords severed in battle.”

Shakespeare nodded and showed Dunstan the scar about his neck — a self-inflicted scratch. He hoped it looked convincing.

Thomas pulled up knee-high breeches and said, “Well done, Shakespeare. I like how you did all those little nicks. As if you were sliced by a careless hand.”

“I was,” Shakespeare said. “My own. I’m not very steady without a looking glass.”