Casca 15: The Pirate (2 page)

McAdams turned to the table beside his bed where a carafe of red wine and crystal glasses waited. "Wine?"

Something bothered Casca, something he could not quite put his finger on. "But–"

McAdams smiled and handed him one of the glasses. "I know. You don't think men who make their living raiding and butchering are smart enough to be empire builders. Well, you're right almost. Duncan Tarleton is. He's smart enough. There is one problem though."

Casca had not been going to say any such thing, for he had seen the same types of men rise to power time and again over the centuries, but he let McAdams continue. Responding to the last flow of the Scot's words, he asked, "What?"

Something came into McAdams' eyes that should have warned him. But at that moment McAdams choked on his wine. The sound of his choking masked the thin sound of sandaled feet behind him.

Before Casca could register it, there was a thin cord around his neck tightening, and a very sharp point of steel in the small of his back. There was also an odd odor in the room, one Casca seemed to remember as a taste from long, long ago.

"Drop your weapon! " McAdams barked.

Casca did as he was bade, letting the Main Gauche fall from his fingers along with the wine glass.

"You didn't think you could get away with making a fool of me, did you?" McAdams asked curtly.

Casca said nothing. The cord around his neck was just tight enough to keep his vocal cords from responding. Let McAdams talk. He was listening to the breathing behind him, his nose sorting out the smells. He thought he had it about right. His eyes straight ahead he stared at McAdams, who had a good
humored look on his face.

Without warning he smashed the back of his head straight back, crushing the cartilage of the nose of the man who held the ends of the
garrote about his neck. Before a grunt of pain could come from the full-fleshed lips, he had grabbed a hold on one wrist and was pivoting down and to his right side, his right leg serving as a lever that the strangler was drawn over with enough force that his grip on the garrote broke and he left the floor of the bedroom as his body twisted in the air. The sound of his back hitting the hardwood floors was accompanied by the booming exhalation of air from the slave's lungs. Casca did not stop his turn. Coming up low, he blocked the oncoming thrust of the taller slave's knife and not wanting to get fancy simply grabbed a large handful of balls and applied all the pressure he could with his fingers for the space of two seconds. It was enough. The taller of the blacks hit the deck, his hands coddling his abused testicles. Casca made one further move and that was to stomp on the neck of the one who had held the garrote. The sound of his spine breaking was quite clear. Sweeping back to the floor he recovered his dagger and began to face toward McAdams who had simply stood there all this time, his wine glass still in his hand as if none of this really concerned him very much.

Before he completed his turn a shadow moved slightly in the doorway. Whipping around to face what he thought would be a new attack, he saw instead a giant white man. He lowered himself into the knife fighter's stance, left leg extended, knees bent, the right hand holding the dagger close to the side of his right leg, his left hand extended, fingers spread. The huge man in the doorway made no move one way or the other. For the space of several heartbeats it was very still in the room.

Then McAdams laughed heartily. His voice held ungrudging admiration. "Well, damn my eyes! You are rather good. " He motioned to the white man who grabbed each of the slaves, the dead one and the one who still sobbed in great gasping breaths as he held onto his nearly jellied balls. He lifted them from the floor and dragged them out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Casca was a bit pissed off.
"You set that up for some kind of a show?"

"No, no. They were just coming to waken me. Planters do rise early you know.”

"What about the choking on the wine?"

McAdams snorted amusedly at his little joke, "Well, yes. There was this opportunity to see how you handled yourself in unexpected situations."

Casca's face turned hard. He had killed a man for no reason.

McAdams snorted again at the hardness he saw gathering around the eyes and mouth of his guest. "Very well then. I'll make it an even thousand pounds and guarantee you passage to anywhere you may wish to go after completing the job."

"That's a lot of money for one woman, even a niece."

"I have a lot of money. Besides..."

"Besides what?"

"You might have a little difficulty with Tarleton Duncan. " Again his eyes probed Casca's. "I would not be displeased if you were to kill him."

McAdams had dressed and Casca was sitting with him on an open veranda eating breakfast. The sun was up. It lay like a dust of thin gold over the tops of the emerald forest that stretched out below them. Gold. There were times when Casca wondered why the hell men were so anxious to acquire the stuff. Too much of it seemed to make its owners all a little mad.

"Try some of this," McAdams urged, offering Casca a dish of a sticky white substance. Casca tasted it; wanted to spit it out, but didn't. McAdams laughed at him.

"What is it?"

McAdams spooned a large portion into his mouth and smacked his lips. "You have to acquire a taste for it as I did when I was a bonded man. It's called `acky'," which to Casca was what it tasted like. McAdams pointed out a tall tree with wide spreading branches, saying that that was where the stuff came from, but when Casca looked, he saw beyond the tree on the far horizon the topsails of a ship, golden in the morning sun.

"Probably Mr. Teach, better known as, as I said earlier, Blackbeard," McAdams observed. "He's coming in today. We'll get you aboard."

Casca looked at him. Pirates coming and going on schedule? What was McAdams up to? What was his real reason for wanting the girl?

"We'll have to get you some clothes," McAdams said, reaching for a small silver bell on the table.

"Get me aboard?" Casca queried. "How are you going to do that?"

"Oh, I have some influence with the good captain as well as wit
h some members of Duncan's crew. " He rose from the table.

Well if you have men there, what do you need me for?
Casca thought. He was beginning to have his doubts about this, but there wasn't much he could do about it. This seemed to be the only path to take right now that could get him off the island quickly. He followed McAdams and the servant who had answered the silver bell. Half an hour later. he was dressed in what surely must be the height of fashion in London or more likely Paris: justacorps, dark blue waistcoat, short breeches, elegant stockings, and the most expensive mahogany colored boots he had seen for a long time.

"Why so elaborate?"

"Blackbeard has a reputation of which he is proud, but he is still a fool in many ways, impressed by quality folk. It will please his ego to have a gentleman in his company. Therefore we shall make you one, Master Long. You are now Squire Long, a man of quality who has fallen upon evil times and is forced to seek refuge where he may find it." He handed Casca a brace of pistols hung on a silk sash and a small sword with a silver engraved hanger.

At the door of the waiting carriage, McAdams even shook his hand and wished him luck.
“Bring back my niece to me for I value her highly and am responsible for her well-being. As long as Duncan has her he can force her to do his bidding. I have chosen you for my agent because you are unknown and you appear to have the skills I require. I will gamble on you, Cass Long. But remember, I am not a good loser."

It sounded simple enough. McAdams had made arrangements to get Casca properly introduced to one of the leaders of the freebooters community and from there all he had to do was get on board Tarleton's ship, the Scorpion, rescue the French girl and bring her back to her uncle. He would then collect his money and be gone.

Opening the door of the carriage, he climbed in and looked casually at the man McAdams had waiting to take him to Blackbeard's crew, the man who was to be his contact. That was when he almost broke off the whole thing. Inside was the giant white man who had been in the doorway of McAdams' bedroom.

"Let me introduce you," McAdams said. "This is Big Jim, who some call, for an unknown reason, the Dutchman. He saw your show at the
Carib, in whose establishment, by the way, I am also a small partner."

A child's voice, crying happily, "Daddy, Daddy!" in the morning sun was just about the last straw for Casca. Looking out the window of the carriage he saw a little boy of not over four or five years of age running toward McAdams. Behind him came a woman obviously pregnant and most certainly the child's mother.

McAdams presented a perfect picture of the kind of wealthy self-made man who loved his family and tried to do his best by them.

Casca also knew that McAdams had a touch of ruthlessness to him as demonstrated by the senseless death of one of his slaves for whom he'd shown no more concern than if the man had been cockroach. As the carriage jolted away he wondered if the reason McAdams wanted his niece back was true. He didn't seem like the kind of man who could be blackmailed very easily, but then where things of family and blood were concerned logic was not always the rule.

His companion, Big Jim, said nothing. He merely looked blankly out the window as they began the ride down the mountainside to where the air was thick and hot leaving the cooler climes of the high ground behind them.

Casca watched the giant's face, but
the man said nothing. He just rode quietly with the smile of a child on his face.

But he smelled.

Casca recalled now where he'd first smelled that strange odor, that strange heavy "brownness." It was in the Eagle's Nest of Hassan al Sabah in Persia. Hashish.

At any rate it was none of his business. Casca had no desire to either reform or corrupt the world around him. But if Big Jim was to be his contact with McAdams, he would be spending a bit of time with him so he tried to strike up a conversation.

He got nowhere. The giant seemed to have a perpetual grin on his face, but he spoke no words. Casca wondered why he was called Big Jim. Maybe it was because that was what he looked like. He had thick heavy shoulders and blondish red fuzz on a square head set on an even thicker square neck. The full face had rosy cheeks and a small pursed mouth which looked as though it would have been better set in the face of a child.

They had been jolting downward for nearly half an hour when it suddenly dawned on Casca why the giant didn't talk very much.
The big bastard wasn't carrying a full complement of guns. He was simpleminded. And this was going to be his ticket to the world of the freebooters. Settling back in the soft cushions of the jolting carriage he decided there was only one way to describe this day.

Bullshit!

What he didn't know was that about a quarter of a mile down the mountainside, in an exceptionally thick forested part of the mountain, the road narrowed and made a sharp and difficult turn a perfect ambush site. Waiting in ambush were a dozen escaped slaves, Maroons, men who had more than enough cause to hate the rich who rode in carriages, and were willing to do something about it. They heard the clatter of the wheels and prepared themselves.

The rhythmic motion of the carriage lulled Casca. The morning sun, coming through the open carriage window, warmed his face. Drowsiness crept into his eyes; it had been a long night. He felt calm and comfortable. Nothing bothered him, not even the silent grinning giant on the seat beside him. He thought of a time long past when he had been much richer than old McAdams could have ever dreamed of. The thought brought a smile to his lips. The dim witted giant with him saw the smile and grinned even wider.

Casca thought,
he must think I'm as barmy as he is
. Looking out the window he could see the path the carriage took. The road ran down beside a small gorge, and the gorge was on his side of the carriage. He couldn't see ahead though. For a moment that fact vaguely bothered him, for he had idly noted that the cover was getting denser, the trees closer together and the underbrush much thicker. It was a good place for an ambush.
Wonder what's ahead? Now, that was a stupid thing to be worrying about. I've been in too many battles
, he told himself.
Now I'm seeing trouble in the middle of paradise
. And the Blue Mountains of Jamaica were as close to paradise as he was likely to get on this earth. The morning was now clear, the air moving with the sea breeze as light as crystal. Every detail the green branches of the trees, the lush colors of tropical flowers growing in wild profusion beside the trail, the outcroppings of rock was sharply cut and distinct. And now they were approaching a small waterfall formed by a delicate stream of the purest water, splashing across the brown rocks, the spray turned rainbow colors in the sun. By the gods, it was pretty and so peaceful. He wished fleetingly, knowing it was impossible, that he could find somewhere on the earth where he could sit and be at peace, letting the seasons turn in their endless course till at last he too passed on. Sometimes he felt so old, so tired... He shook his head to rid it of the cobwebs which were becoming too thick. He was thinking too much. And that was dangerous. The few times in his existence he'd done too much thinking he had wound up with his ass in a sling. He was still contemplating the troubles that too much thought had gotten him into when the first arrow from the Maroon bowmen cut through the carriage window within inches of his face.

It buried its steel point in the wooden framework of the opposite side of the coach, the feathered nock end momentarily quivering in a blur of red and brown.

The Maroon leader was an exceptionally tall black man nearly seven feet and had muscles that came from a hundred generations of ancestors who lived on the plains and deserts of an environment that knew no mercy. He was stripped to the waist. His body had no visible sign of hair on it, which accented the long tough sinews of his chest muscles even more. Scars covered his face and arms and back. Not all of them were tribal markings. Most had come from the kiboko, rhinoceros hide whips used by the Arab slavers who had taken him captive and brought him to his new masters in these strange and distant lands. He had the thin facial features of one with some Masai blood with dark intelligent eyes that observed the carriage as it careened to a halt to avoid the log he had placed across the trail. At what he judged to be the right moment, he yelled not really a word or a command, but a single, high pitched cry like that of a night bird.

He had planned his ambush well. This was the spot where the road narrowed and deepened showing the sea across the dropping land. Anyone driving here would have to come to an almost complete stop to negotiate the sharp turn. He placed the log so that the carriage would have to stop
in order to avoid going off the side of the gorge. He wanted McAdams alive. But he had no idea McAdams wasn't in the carriage. That was his fatal mistake.

The first flight of arrows from his bowmen in the trees killed the driver. The archers comprised all the firepower the Maroon leader had. Neither he nor the half dozen men with him had any weapons other than clubs and knives. He did not expect too much trouble from the passengers. The carriage was small and if he moved quickly he would have the advantage of surprise and numbers on his side. At the leader's cry his men converged upon the stationary carriage
, trying to avoid having their legs broken by the log barrier.

From the jungle he heard the sounds of men coming to the side of the carriage where his silent giant companion sat. But Casca had been in ambushes before. He sat perfectly still. And out of his side vision he could see that the giant was doing the same thing. Good. He was an old pro, then. Slow, maybe, but that need not affect how he fought.

While this was going through Casca's mind there was a noise on the roof of the carriage, and a moment later the body of the driver fell past Casca's open window.

At the same time, the Maroons had reached the giant's side of the carriage, and two of them now pulled the door open.

One of them was a skinny young fellow, not much past boyhood. The other was about Casca's size and weight and in his late thirties. Both had Gullah features. They might have been brothers.

The giant moved.

One moment he was sitting motionless on the carriage seat. The next, he had the younger Maroon's neck in one powerful arm and was pushing him backward into the second Gullah, and then came the sharp crack of the boy's breaking neck!

Casca followed them, right hand on his sword, eyes alert for any who might have guns.

When he saw that none of the Maroons had weapons other than clubs, the deep sadness and the rage within him boiled together, and he pulled his sword from its hanger and slashed out to get this over with as quickly as possible. By now he knew who the attackers were, knew that they were poor, hungry fugitives. In his mind he silently cursed a world where he could come from a rich man's breakfast table, from a man who had everything, to men who had nothing; all this in less than a quarter hour. He felt a great pity for these Maroons.

But, pity or not, they were out to kill him. It was kill or be killed. He had the sword, and he used it.
  Finally, it was he and the Maroon leader. The giant was finishing off the last of the others. The Maroon leader was fairly good with the club and with his nearly seven feet of height and long arms he had the reach on Casca. He fought well, blocking Casca's cuts with his club, parrying his thrusts.

Casca stepped back. "You fight well. Want to call a draw of it?"

A shadow passed across the face of the leader, and for a moment he seemed to waver in indecision. Then he drew back his club and rushed Casca.

"I'm sorry," Casca said and pushed the sword into the chest wall, into the heart, a quick, familiar move with his own body turned inside the oncoming club. The Maroon was dead before he had finished his rush.
Casca pulled the blade from the fallen body, watching the blood drip off the edge onto the hairless chest of the Maroon. "I'm sorry,” he repeated softly to the dead man. He really was. He hadn't wanted to kill any of these men.

"Watch!"

The giant's cry broke the spell for Casca, and he whirled just in time for an arrow to miss him. But he had seen the movement in the trees across the gorge where the archers were hidden, and he instinctively pulled one of the pistols from his sash, aimed carefully and fired. The gun roared in the morning air, the gorge picking up the sound and amplifying it. There was a high pitched cry from the tree, and then a body fell from the branches, still clutching a makeshift bow.

The body fell on an outcropping of the brown rock just under the trees, seemed to bounce once, then tilted and slowly began to slide down into the gorge. There was plenty of time for Casca to see it quite clearly, to see the face of the dead one.

A woman.

The Maroon leader had put his women into the trees with makeshift bows and arrows.

Casca looked out across the forest top to the distant sea where the sails of ships pirate ships were blowing in from the horizon.

The morning was no longer beautiful.