Golden Lion (20 page)

Hal had laughed. In truth, for all his scoundrel ways Tromp was much more Hal’s kind of man than the cold, pallid, bloodless Pett. Still, whatever his failings, Pett could not be called a coward. Just being willing to take his place on the deck, with his pistol in his hand, proved that there was nothing wrong with his guts.

Captain Tromp’s own men stood along the starboard rail amidships, chained to each other by ankle irons, and Tromp called to them now in Dutch, telling them that he would win back their pride by putting a hole in the Englishman’s head. Some cheered him but most did not, for their captain had led them to disaster and they held it against him.

‘He’s sweating like a ripe cheese now,’ an experienced foremastman named Ralph Bigg said, pointing at Tromp.

‘Aye, he’s soggy as a pair of apple dumplings in a Spanish brothel,’ another man called, raising a chorus of bawdy laughter and insults aimed at the Dutch.

‘But look at Mr Pett,’ a good topmastman named Bosely said. ‘Not a bead on him. Calm as a millpond he is.’

‘Cold, more like,’ another man countered. ‘Cold as the frost on a witch’s tit.’

Both men were dressed in breeches, shirt and nothing else, their feet and heads bare, whereas almost every other man aboard wore some manner of headgear to keep off the sun. Hal swept the broad-brimmed hat from his own head and dabbed his forehead with a kerchief, for it was approaching midday and getting hot. Even Judith was beginning to perspire, though she was born and raised beneath the African sun, and Hal had insisted on erecting an awning to keep her, and the baby she carried, well shaded.

‘It’s heat, not fear, that has Tromp sweating,’ Hal said, though he would not have put money on it. Tromp himself must have been wondering by now why Pett, who was supposedly so much more proficient at business than war, had so confidently given him the choice of weapons and why the Englishman was now standing there examining the dirt under his fingernails as though he had nothing more pressing to do.

‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’ Big Daniel called from where he hung six feet off the deck in the mainmast shrouds, close to Pett and Tromp, yet away from the line of fire between them.

Both duellists called their assent and now a hush fell across the deck. The wagers had been placed, the catcalls and insults had long since drifted off across the ocean like gun smoke on the breeze, and the stage was set.

‘You will not give fire until I give the word
fire
,’ Daniel continued. ‘Then you may each fire once, as and when you will. Only in the event of a grievous wound to either man, so that he is unable to fire his pistol, or both pistols having been shot, will the duel be over. Do you understand?’

‘Let us get on with it,’ Captain Tromp replied. Pett simply nodded.

Instinctively Hal stepped in front of Judith. It would have to be an appalling shot, taken at the moment of being shot himself perhaps, for Tromp to hit anyone standing on the poop deck, but Hal would take no chances.

Time seemed to stretch out like the ocean. Somewhere a man farted loudly, which caused a ripple of laughter and only made Big Daniel keep them waiting longer, both men’s arms stretched before them, the pistol in Tromp’s hand beginning to tremble.

‘Fire!’ Big Daniel bellowed and there was a delay, then a flash of flame and a wisp of smoke followed by a loud crack from Tromp’s pistol and Pett’s left shoulder was thrown back though his feet remained planted on the deck. There was a murmur from the crowd and blood bloomed scarlet on Pett’s shirt, and Hal thought that both pistols must have gone off at the same time and that Pett must have missed. But then it was clear that Pett had yet to fire, for his arm was still outstretched, the pistol in his hand still cocked, its match smouldering.

Pett hardly felt the wound that was spilling blood down his side to stain his breeches because he was savouring the moment the way a lord might savour his finest wine. He had never missed from this range. He had never failed to kill a man he meant to kill and so he would make them all wait now so that they might see how it was done properly. His attention was so absolutely concentrated on the gun in his hand and the figure of Tromp who was standing with a horrified look on his face – the look of a man who realizes too late that he has been played for a fool and is about to suffer the consequences – that he did not even notice the quiet all around, not just on the deck but also in his head. The voices were silent, all of them.

Then he squeezed the trigger and the dog catch brought the match coal onto the priming pan and there was a flash followed by a report and Tromp flinched as the ball gouged the flesh from the top of his left arm.

‘
Jesus Christus!
’ he blurted, all teeth and scowl.

Pett looked at his pistol, glaring at it as though it had betrayed him.

‘Swords would have been better,’ a sailor called Logward shouted, crossly, as an air of anti-climax settled over the deck. Hal, however, was delighted by the outcome, breathing a long sigh of relief that both men had survived. He knew full well that even a scratch could kill if it turned gangrenous, but he would deal with that problem if and when he came to it.

‘That’s it then!’ Big Daniel called. ‘It’s over.’ Both men stood there still, staring at one another. It was clear that neither had received a fatal wound, though it was impossible to say whether each was relieved to be alive, or rather wishing for more powder and shot so that they could try again.

‘Are you satisfied then, Mr Pett?’ Tromp called, wincing in pain the moment he had asked the question.

Pett handed the pistol back to Big Daniel. ‘I am satisfied, Captain Tromp,’ he said, but his flat voice and expressionless face were in stark contrast to the storm that raged in his head.

‘Aboli, go to my cabin and fetch the French brandy,’ Hal said.

‘Are we celebrating, Captain?’ Will Stanley asked.

‘It’s to wash out their wounds, Stanley, you mud,’ Ned Tyler said.

‘I can piss on them to save your brandy,’ Aboli called loud enough for the two duellists to hear. His belief that human urine prevented wounds becoming infectious was well known among those who had sailed with him the longest, and some had even had cause to admit, through gritted teeth and a tightly pressed nose, that the treatment appeared to work.

‘You keep your great black snake trapped in your breeches,’ Tyler shouted, ‘or I’ll wager Mr Tromp would rather take his chances with the sharks.’

This raised a laugh from the
Bough
’s crew and Hal was pleased to hear it because it suggested that the duel had served its purpose. No one had been killed, but both men were bloodied, and there were several aboard, John Lovell among them judging by the smirk on his face, who had won coin by betting on that exact outcome.

‘I am glad that it is over,’ Judith said in her rich, low voice, then shook her head. ‘You men and your pride.’

Hal’s eyes roved over her face, drinking in those honey-coloured eyes with their long, curled lashes, her skin which had the dark translucence of acacia gum, and the full bow of her lips.

‘Perhaps pride is a sin as the Papists claim,’ he said, ‘but I can’t condemn Pett for it. I know what it feels like to have everything taken away, to be treated like an animal and come to the edge of despair.’ He fell silent as he remembered the days and nights chained like a slave on the
Gull of Moray
,
and the long months of servitude in the Cape Colony. ‘Sometimes, my love, our pride is all we have left.’

Hal turned and descended the poop deck ladder to join Mr Pett aft of the mainmast. Pett had taken off his shirt in order to examine the wound in his shoulder.

‘Just a scratch, Captain,’ he said.

Hal nodded. ‘You were both lucky,’ he said. ‘I must admit I am impressed that you managed to keep a steady hand and hit the man after taking the wound. I could expect no more from my own men, but they have been in many fights, while you have never seen action.’

‘My father fought in the wars at Cheriton in forty-four and at Naseby,’ Pett said. The men nearby murmured at the mention of those bloody battles, for all of them had friends or family who had been killed in the Civil Wars. ‘He taught me how to shoot, so I was glad when the Dutchman chose pistols. I fear I would not have lasted long if he’d have gone for swords.’

Hal smiled. ‘Then it would seem your luck still holds, Mr Pett,’ he said, looking at Tromp who was having his wound examined by Big Daniel. ‘More so seeing as I have French brandy for your wound, which is preferable, I’m sure you’ll agree, to having Aboli piss on you.’

‘I have never tried it, Captain Courtney,’ Pett said solemnly. ‘It might be beneficial.’

‘Good.’ Hal nodded curtly. ‘Then if you will excuse me I must get these rascals back to work. The wind is returning, Mr Pett,’ he said, looking up at the colours stirring atop the mizzen. ‘Up anchor, Mr Tyler. Mr Moone, Mr Stanley! Get these lazy sons of Satan to their stations and set all plain sail.’ In moments the
Golden Bough
was a hive of industry as the Amadoda raced up the shrouds and scrambled out along the yards. The canvas billowed and the ship seemed to shiver with the thrill of it, as though she too were eager to turn her bows into the south once more and feel the ocean race along her hull.

And as Aboli poured good French brandy into the bloody raw wound on his shoulder, Mr Pett watched Captain Courtney, wondering what plan the Saint had for him and when he would be called upon to execute it.

As for Captain Tromp, Pett could not say how he had missed the Dutchman from that range, yet he knew the Saint had played some part in it.

Two men had been allowed to live when Pett had planned for them to die. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. There must, he reasoned, be some meaning to such an extraordinary phenomenon. And in due course, he felt sure, he would discover what that reason was.

wo days had passed since the duel and neither Pett nor Tromp seemed troubled by the condition of the flesh wounds they had suffered. With the boil of their enmity lanced, the
Bough
was sailing south on a fresh breeze and in good heart. It seemed to Tromp like an ideal moment to approach Hal as he stood on the poop deck to ask,

‘Might I have a word with you, Captain?’

‘By all means,’ Hal replied. He was the master of his ship, with the sun on his back, the wind on his face and the woman he loved by his side. All was well with the world.

‘You may recall that I recently asked you whether you might allow me and my crewmen to join your ship’s company. Of course, you have had other things to worry about …’ Tromp gave a wry smile and cast an eye towards the thin figure standing by the stern rail, looking out across the water. ‘Isn’t that so, Mr Pett?’ Then he turned back to Hal. ‘Have you had time to consider my request?’

Hal laughed. ‘No one could deny that you have the devil’s own cheek. First you wanted to kill us, now you want to sail with us.’

‘I never wanted to kill you,’ Tromp protested. ‘I just wanted this ship and a square meal.’

Aboli had walked up to join the conversation. ‘You can’t blame him for that,’ he said, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Let me join your crew,’ Tromp continued. ‘I am an experienced captain, but you are the master on this ship and I can see that Mijnheer Aboli is your trusted first mate. Very well, then, take me on as second mate. I know these waters. I have experience of the coast as far north as the Horn and south around the Cape. I have sailed all the way to the Spice Isles, so the waters of the Indies also are familiar to me. I will gladly share the many trade contacts I have cultivated over the years. I have friends, Captain.’

‘You must have,’ Hal said, ‘to have survived this long with so many enemies.’

Tromp looked at Hal with an uncharacteristically thoughtful, almost solemn expression. ‘You are a man of destiny, Captain Courtney,’ he said, and there was no trace of levity in his voice. ‘Anyone can see that for you wear it like a fine cloak. It would be an honour to serve under you.’

Aboli and Ned Tyler, who was standing at the wheel and could hear every word that was spoken, looked towards their captain. Tromp had placed the ball firmly in his court. No one could deny that he had spoken well, nor that he had a good case to make. How would their skipper respond?

Hal was lost in thought, weighing up what Tromp had said. It was Judith who broke the silence. ‘Did you not say you were short of crew, Henry?’

‘I did.’

‘Then would you not welcome such experienced seamen as these?’ she asked.

Tromp was staring at Judith, clearly amazed that the woman whose life he had threatened was now pleading on his behalf.

‘You are a remarkable creature, my dear,’ Hal told Judith, who looked from him to Tromp.

‘I have seen so much death,’ she said. ‘If it is within your power to save this man’s life and the lives of his crew, then you must do it.’

‘Thank you, madam,’ Tromp said, and Judith nodded a silent acknowledgement of his gratitude.

‘How do I know you will not try to seize my ship at the first opportunity?’ Hal asked. ‘It seems to me you are a man who has little respect for authority, and yet you would serve me as a midshipman?’