Casca 15: The Pirate (11 page)

Casca poked through a pile of rubbish and grumped: "Wonder what killed the crew. Whatever it was got all of them and it looks like at about the same time."

"Odd," Katie said thoughtfully.

"There's something else odd, too," Casca said, looking down the deck.

"What?"

"The hatches."

"Nothing odd about that, Scarface. They're battened down as they should be. The men were at the guns. Obviously they expected a battle."

"Aye. But
…"

"Oh! I see." She caught it before he had a chance to tell her. Now, that was the kind of woman he liked. "The forward hatch."

"Wide open." Followed by Katie, Casca started forward, but she stopped him at the first hatch. "Let's see what kind of cargo she was carrying." The hatch cover off, both peered over the coaming.

"Damn!"

"Uniforms!" she added.

The cargo hold under this hatch was stuffed with military uniforms not boxed or crated, but baled. The scent of the wool was strong, but it also had an odd additional
odor that Casca found familiar... the odor of some fruit... Persian? He could not quite remember.

The next compartment was filled with barrel after barrel of gunpowder. The one after that had stacks of muskets.
Somebody was supplying an army. A revolution? It would make sense here in the tropics the gunpowder and muskets but not the woolen uniforms.

Again, coming from both cargo compartments, there was that
odor, stronger now, so strong that it even overpowered the smell of the gunpowder.

"Somebody's been eating almonds," Katie said, sniffing the air. "Funny
odor for a ship. "

Now Casca remembered.
Misch misch. Sweet Persian apricots. They had pits that smelled of bitter almonds. When they got to the open hatch, the smell was not quite as strong, but, then, the compartment had shipped a lot of water in the storm last night. Not enough, though, to wash away the evidence of what had happened.

"What do you make of it, Scarface?"

"The same thing you do. Sloppy stowage. They had a cargo of fruit of some kind here. Looks like peaches and smells like apricots but that doesn't make sense because that's not the kind of fruit that grows around here. Anyway, whatever had spoiled began to work like wine.

Together they retrieved the splintered board that was stuck in the ladder leading down into the compartment.

"Part of a crate. Got smashed." In the darkness at the bottom of the ladder, in the gooey mass of the fermented fruit, there were odd looking containers. Bottles but not like wine bottles. The last time Casca had seen anything like them was in a private laboratory of an alchemist two hundred years ago. The stupid bastard had been trying to turn lead into gold but had only managed to kill himself with the fumes from the damn stuff he had mixed up. But that was a long time ago....

"There's an address on the crate," Katie said, meaning the piece of wood.
It had been burned on, but it wasn't easy to read. "Herr Doktor Stahl, Physician to His Majesty, King of Prussia, His Majesty's Palace, Berlin."

Katie read the look in his eyes. "What's wrong, Scarface?"

"Let's go see if there's a logbook in the captain's cabin."

There was a log, all right, but it was written in a language neither Katie nor Casca could read. Portuguese, Casca thought and he was pretty sure he was right when they found the Portuguese flag, neatly folded in a cubbyhole of the captain's desk.

But it was the charts that confounded Casca.

"Portugal? Spain? You mean they were all the way over on the other side of the ocean?" Katie's voice was incredulous.
But that's what the charts said. The last marking on the chart.

As best Casca could guess something had happened in the forward compartment. Either the medicines or alchemical supplies or whatever they were that were being carried to
Dr. Stahl or the rotting fruit had created such a stink that the captain had opened the hatch to keep the odor out of the uniforms. Then there had been some kind of danger. Pirates? Anyway, while the men were at their stations, something had killed them. Killed them instantly. And the ship had been carried by the current south, far south, until the current turned west, and wind and current had carried the ship to the Americas. Must have taken a long time because the bodies had dried out to where they were like paper. That was why he had seen the helmsman at the wheel, the captain at the binnacle; their dried bodies were propped against these supports and apparently there had been no storms to dislodge them. There wouldn't have been if the current had carried them south.

But what had killed them? Poison? "We better not eat any of the food," he growled. He looked at the open hatch. Could the smell coming out of that have killed them? Shit! Casca had been in a lot of stinking places, and none of them had ever killed anybody that he knew of. "I wonder
…"

"Save it, Scarface," Katie said quietly.

"What?"

"We got company."

He looked where she pointed, just off the port bow. There was a ship, hull up, on the horizon.

"If she holds that tack another quarter hour we'll be on a collision course," Katie said.

Damn!

Casca had Julio hoist the Portuguese flag, but there was damned little they could do against the ship now bearing down on them under full sail. She was a schooner, apparently a merchant ship, and she was
flying British colors.

"Looks pretty," Katie murmured.

Casca eyed her, thinking
, I'd forgotten she was a woman
. But the schooner did make a nice picture, racing toward them at full speed, bow cutting the water and throwing a white spume against the blue sea, now so calm after the storm of three days past.

But pretty or not, the schooner could be a potential hazard. The English flag might be a ruse. If so, he and Katie would just have to play it by ear. For a second he regretted having tossed all the bodies overboard. They might have had the same effect on the
schoonermen as they did on the other men from the brig.

The vessel showed no sign of reducing her speed or lowering any sail. She only veered off enough to pass within hailing distance. Close enough so that Casca could make out the figurehead of the schooner clearly, a freshly painted figure of a woman with feathered headdress and bare boobs with rosy nipples. And on the aft deck, the master stood with a hailing trumpet in his hands.

As they passed, the master's voice called out: "Pirates! Pirates ahead!" And then called out, "... arleton... uncan!"

Either he had said "Tarleton Duncan!"
or Casca had imagined it.

There had been a few crewmen lining the rail of the schooner, but not many. They were apparently not interested in Casca 's ship. All they wanted to do was to get the hell out of there and into safer waters.
Then they were gone. Casca turned back to Katie, but she had a thoughtful look on her face. She was searching the horizon ahead, but it was empty. She looked back at the receding sails of the schooner. And then she headed for the hatch which led to the captain's quarters, taking her clothes off as she went. Julio averted his eyes at this brazenness. Big Jim just swallowed his Adam's apple.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Get out of your clothes, Scarface. Now!"

“Why?”

"Because you've been wanting to diddle me ever since we met. And I think, dammit, I want to try you on for size right now. Besides if I know anything about that ship, we might be too busy to do it later. But right now we have time, so let's have at it."

Casca thought about that for a moment.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" She was down to the buff, and damn if there wasn't a woman under all those men's clothes. Nice. Very nice. She had firm high breasts with nipples already hard and puckered from the sea breeze. "You can look later," she complained. "Now get on with it, you clod!"

He did. Julio busied himself with whatever he could find to do. Sex was still an adventure yet to come for him. Big Jim just whistled a few bars of filthy sailor's songs and tightened his grip on the wheel.

The sight of his body all the scars, all the evidence of past wounds brought a puzzled look to her eyes. "How did you get cut up like that?"

"It's a long story."

"Er..." She hesitated. "You still can..."

Casca laughed. "Hell, yes. Hell, yes!"

McAdams listened to the man's report and shook his head. Giving the wretch a few silver coins he sighed deeply. Well it was a long shot at best. Cass Long didn't get very far. Damn! Now he would have to think up another plan for the disposal of Duncan. God! The swine infuriated him. Who did Duncan think he was? If it had not been for McAdams' patronage the man would never have had his own ship. And now the dog turns on his master and bites the hand that fed him. Ingrates! The world is full of them.

McAdams sat in his woven cane chair on the veranda and looked out over his domain. It had taken years of labor and pain to acquire all that was now his and he hadn't gotten it by giving up anything. No, by the gods, he got where he was by taking. Duncan knew that. It was he, McAdams, that had first taken Duncan, when he was a wet nosed pup, to sea with him. It was he who had taught him the craft of the sea raiders. For that was how McAdams had gained the foundation of his wealth. Always he had stayed in the shadows never letting his face be seen by those who survived a raid. It was Duncan he had put to the forefront and made captain of his own ship when he moved back to the island and became the principal broker for the Brotherhood. It was because of his management that Duncan, Teach and the others were rich men. He could have welded them into a major power.

But now! Duncan, that motherless pig, had outgrown his pants. McAdams had never interfered with Duncan's small pleasures. He understood them. But this recent betrayal was too much.

He called for rum punch from one of his male servants.

Duncan had grown greedy, wanting more, always more. Not only more of the money but of the power that was rightfully McAdams'. They had
quarreled and McAdams had struck Duncan across the face.

Pride, McAdams thought. That was it. Duncan had too much pride and arrogance. It drove him to challenge McAdams for control. Since then Duncan had done his best to make McAdams' life miserable, undermining his authority at every chance. Now Duncan had taken something which was his and this he could not tolerate and many knew of it. If he didn't move and move fast his power would bleed away from him and so would his wealth. That he could not, would not let happen...

Luck?

Casca wondered about that. Usually when something looked like luck it meant he was just about to get his ass in a sling. So maybe he shouldn't feel too good about the way it had worked out.

After he and Katie had bedded and that had been pretty damn good, he had to admit they had not encountered Tarleton Duncan as the British had warned. Instead, they had raised land. The luck part was that Katie recognized the coast, had been in the
harbor, knew the town, and more importantly knew the waters. She had also spotted the
Scorpion
in port. It had not been easy bringing the ship around in a curving arc to approach offshore from a direction not visible from the town. And there was always the possibility that Tarleton Duncan had stationed a lookout on the point of land that rose up from the bay. But they had made it and there had been no lookout. Duncan's men were apparently too busy raiding the town – a small trading village that had known this kind of thing before and was powerless to do anything about it.

It was not possible to do much with the ship. Anchoring was relatively easy. Getting away would be a different matter. They could cut the anchor rope, but unless they were lucky with tide and wind the ship would be useless to them. He and Katie might be able to manage a single sail but that would be all. So, if they were unlucky, it would be the ship's smaller boat the captain's gig and the open sea.

Unless they lucked upon a fishing craft.

At the moment, Katie was in the gig below him. She, too, was dressed in one of the uniforms. And in the gig was the money chest from the captain's cabin, a small canister of gunpowder, several loaded muskets, and flint and steel. They were ready to board Duncan's ship.

The pirate standing gangway watch on the
Scorpion
was, naturally, drunk but not all that drunk. The apparition that he saw coming aboard made him blink his eyes. He had never seen such a gorgeous uniform, all dark wool and gold braid, gleaming medals hanging from colorful ribbons, a crimson sash, bright even in the dull light of the ship's lantern and that enormous bearskin hat with its white feather plumes. What in hell!

"Captain Tarleton! And, by damn! step lively, lad, or... " The apparition whipped off into language that the pirate understood very well indeed.

"I don't know–" The pirate started to protest, but something in the icy depths of the pale blue eyes stopped him. He looked over the side. The apparition had come in a small gig, and there was another uniformed soldier not nearly so gorgeous at the oars. In the spilled light from the ship's lantern that single man was certainly no danger. Nor was the apparition armed except for the customary short sword any high ranking son of a bitch would wear. The pirate nodded at a smaller companion. "Take him to the captain." The second pirate shrugged and started aft, Casca following.

The captain's quarters were protected by a closed door at which the pirate knocked. A big black man opened it
, a man naked to the navel and with cold, hard eyes. Casca could not remember seeing such a giant since Jubala, the Numidian he had fought in a Roman arena long, long ago.

He asked for the captain. It was obvious that the pirate was afraid of the black man but did not want to show it. The black giant said nothing, only held the door wider for Casca, and when the scar faced one was inside the companionway, the bearskin hat's plumes brushing the overhead, he closed and bolted the door. The silence in the companionway was uncanny. The area must be relatively soundproof. And if the other doors were as thick as this one... Casca began to worry. But he had no choice now. He was committed.

The giant led him down the companionway to another door. Before it was a small space, a tiny square room made by offsets set into the walls on either side and lighted by a ship's lantern hung in gimbals from the overhead. There was a small, hard bench in the offset on either side of the door. The giant pointed to one of the benches.

"Wait," he mumbled, his voice soft and slurred as though he were mouthing soft mud. "Captain busy."

Casca bad no intention of waiting for anybody, but he moved as though he were going to sit on the bench.

The kick was so swift he was certain the black giant would not see it, would only feel the smashing blow of Casca 's boot into his testicles.
The blow was enough to bend any ordinary man over in agony, but it apparently did not faze the black giant who now came at Casca.

But Casca had not counted only on the kick. No sooner had the full force of his blow landed then his balled right fist was traveling toward the giant's neck, toward the voice box. The very momentum of the giant's own attack added to the blow, and Casca felt his arm almost jam back into its socket as it connected.
It was enough to momentarily stagger the giant, which was all Casca needed to smash the other fist full into the man's left eye.

The bottle of wine was lagniappe
– pure luck that it should be available. The giant was still lunging forward, and Casca stooped down to avoid his rush and caught the bottle with his free hand. Holding it by the neck, he jammed it into the giant's face. The glass broke, and splinters sliced across the flat nose and into the one good eye in a spray of wine and blood. Casca leaped aside, and the giant crashed into the bulkhead, going down. He went down completely when Casca smashed the back of his neck with a chopping blow of his right fist and followed that with as hard a kick into the man's kidneys as he could muster. The giant was now a silent heap at the foot of the door.

But Casca still had to get in the room. In the light of the ship's lantern he examined the door. Solid oak. He could see that it opened inward, which meant it was probably barred from within. A very heavy door, and it was fitted tightly all around with an edging of iron.

He made his decision and pulled one of the flasks out of his waistcoat pocket. He had not planned on using it here, but he had extra ones in the bearskin hat.

He dragged the unconscious giant out of the way, put the flask down at the bottom corner of the door, inserted the slow match fuse, and piled the two benches in front of it all. He lit the slow match with the ship's lantern, replaced the lantern and stepped back beyond the giant and lay down flat on the deck.

The gunpowder blew.

Casca was not an explosives expert. In the years since the invention of gunpowder he had had only some experience with the stuff, but that was it.

Yet whatever he did apparently worked. There was a terrific blast. Wood splinters flew everywhere. The ship's lantern was blown out. Smoke and fumes filled the companionway except for the narrow space down close to the deck where Casca was, and there was instant darkness.

But there was also a rough triangle of light where the door had been blown ajar, and it was toward this light that Casca propelled himself.

The door had only been blown off one hinge. The other, though twisted, still held. There was barely enough room for Casca to crawl in but he managed.

As he crawled into the cabin, he saw a girl tied to the stanchion. This must be Michelle, he thought. He also saw a nude female slave bound down on the table.

And he saw what Tarleton Duncan was getting ready to do to her and knew what Tarleton Duncan really was, an animal of the worst kind.

There was no need for words. Casca pulled the short sword and lunged for Duncan, who dodged around the table, dropped the knife he had in his hand, and pulled a sword from a pair crossed on the bulkhead.

They went at it.

Casca cut, thrust, and parried Duncan's thrusts again and again. He worked with cold contempt, the way one would in killing vermin. He thrust.

Tarleton Duncan parried. They fought thus across the table, across the nude slave. The smoke from the gunpowder was now beginning to flow into the room that and another smell.