On a Lee Shore (10 page)

That got another roar of approval. After some discussion the captain agreed. “Landfall, resupply, and then south. Assuming we don’t run foul of any patrols.”

“The Garnet and the Africa are more than a match for any sloop of war,” La Griffe swore. “We’d send ’em to the bottom, ay, and any man who sails on her. And who’s to say the word we had was right?”

“My word,” the captain said and raised his cup. “And you know what that’s worth. For now though, let’s have some music, where’s that new fiddler?”

With a new cask of gin broached, and with Davy fiddling away in the company of a piper and a man who banged a drum to keep time, the meeting broke up and a party of sorts started.

Some of the hands drank and danced, others just drank. The captain and his guest talked together then rose and made for the stairs down to the cabin where, Kit assumed, the real business could begin.

So much for democracy, Kit mused as he watched the two men link arms and stroll aft, picking their way between the revelers.

As they reached the stairs La Griffe must have felt Kit’s regard because he looked up, saw him, and let out a laugh. The captain looked too, his head tilted the better to hear La Griffe’s murmur.

There was a moment when, to Kit’s imagination, everything stilled. The captain’s eyes sharpened and he looked directly into Kit’s face with something that looked a little like sympathy. Then they were gone, and Kit heard the captain laugh as he accompanied La Griffe down the stairs.

Chapter Six

Kit was left wondering what La Griffe had said. Had he reminded the captain that Kit wasn’t to be trusted, or implied that he was steeped in unnatural vice?

He suspected the former. Davy had mentioned Lewis and Protheroe, confirming something that Kit hadn’t looked at too closely. There were other men on the Africa who seemed more affectionate than the norm—it wasn’t wise to look too closely if two or more were “talking” in a corner. Nobody seemed to object to their friendships. But they were wholeheartedly part of the crew. Kit was still the enemy, a representative of a hostile power. No wonder they all kept him at arm’s length.

Amidships the party was getting rowdy as the musicians sawed, pounded, or whistled. One crew challenged the other to wrestle and made wagers on the outcome. It looked like anarchy, but there were men in the waist of the ship who stepped in if the struggle got too aggressive. Kit found himself laughing as he watched Saunders, bottle held safely out of the way, battering a brawny pirate about the shoulders with the despised volume of Homer.

Saunders spotted Kit, abandoned the brawlers, and made his way to his side. He offered O’Neill a swig from his bottle and leaned back against the transom.

“What a to-do,” he said. “Damn fellow knocked my bottle over, would have spilled it if I hadn’t looked sharp.”

“So inconsiderate,” Kit nodded to the book, “and he made you lose your place.”

“Hanging is too good,” O’Neill commented as he offered the bottle to Kit, who shook his head. O’Neill passed it back to Saunders.

“Barbuda,” Saunders said suddenly. “That is our destination. There I should be able to replenish our medicine chest—try as I might the men will keep catching things. While we are in port they will have the opportunity to catch some more I wouldn’t wonder. “

“Something to look forward to then—you and your syringe.” O’Neill grinned as Kit shuddered. “And what will you do, Mr. Penrose?”

“He will give his parole,” Saunders said, “as befits an officer of His Majesty’s Navy, and will accompany me to Willaerts coffee house to see if we can trade this unlovely item for something more elevating.” He waved the book again. “Or he will not give his parole and will spend our time in port chained to a long gun—possibly. It depends on our lord and master’s whim.”

Kit’s spirits had sunk to hear that, and he shook his head. “You must see that I can’t give my word not to try and escape?” he said. “I can promise to guide the ship to safe waters, but I won’t take part in acts of piracy or neglect my duty to return to my post.”

“You’re a fool then,” O’Neill said, without rancour. “This can be a fine life for those of us cast out. Half the men on board here would be hanged or starving, else. True there are a few who would knife a blind beggar for half a groat, but most are just getting along.”

“Indeed we are,” Saunders said. “I too, Kit, was once part of your glorious institution,” he said the word with great relish. “But I too fell foul of the authorities. I lost the life of a man rather than, as in your case, Kit, losing a mere boat. That I had a drink or two taken was seen as the reason for his demise, though a far better and soberer doctor than I would have been hard pressed to save him. So—they consigned me to Gehenna.”

“Gehenna? I wouldn’t have described the Africa as Gehenna,” Kit said. Saunders had mentioned the wreck of the Malvern, so he was half expecting a reference to the cities of the plains. Gehenna had thrown him.

“Hah! No! You’re right. The Africa is an abode of angels. I was referring to the Army!” Saunders rolled his eyes and took a drink to wash away the memory. “No wonder I ran away to sea. Come, Kit, you must have a drink with me to celebrate our disgrace and our subsequent escape from tedious respectability.”

Kit took the bottle, containing God knew what. “To tedious respectability,” he said and made a creditable mime of taking a sip until O’Neill slapped him hard on the back. Kit choked down a mouthful and coughed.

“Well done, Lieutenant Penrose, sir,” Saunders crowed. “We’ll make a pirate of you yet.”

“If I live!” Kit wiped his tongue on the back of his hand. “Trying to drum up trade, sir? That’s truly awful.”

“Isn’t it though?” O’Neill said taking the bottle. “Now you hit me while I take a swig.”

“The thing is,” O’Neill said when Saunders had gone for a refill, “that the people who start the wars, who tell us they are necessary and just and glorious, aren’t the ones fighting and dying. Nor are they the poor damn sods holding a man down on the table while some other poor sod, like old Will Saunders there, digs a musket ball out of his privates with a blunt knife. If they were, they might not be so quick to break the treaty or cross the border or decide we need a change of government.”

Kit eyed him anxiously because that was deeply seditious talk and at home could have O’Neill and anyone who listened to him taken up in short order. But O’Neill was staring into the distance lost in thought, and Kit stepped aside to check the compass.

“If we are going to Barbuda,” he said, “I’d better check our heading.”

“Wait a bit,” O’Neill said. “La Griffe needs to say his piece. Here, take the tiller, I need to piss.”

Kit remained at the tiller for another hour, keeping the ship steady as she drifted, almost baremasted, before the wind. More of the men were inclined to talk to him now, and Denny came and sat nearby and sang loudly about a ship called the Sweet Trinity. Kit laughed, because he knew the song, and joined in with “sailing in the Lowlands, Lowlands, Low” until Denny got bored and wandered away. Seen up close, the little man was as unkempt as ever, but his face and hands were clean today, and his hair had been cut short at the collar. What his story was Kit couldn’t imagine, but it was good that someone was caring for him.

The day was well advanced when the captains of the ship Garnet and the sloop Africa reappeared and La Griffe announced their destination.

“Barbuda,” he said, “to collect some stores and off load some of the gin. Then south away to see what the Portuguese have to offer us.”

Kit watched the boat pull away toward the Garnet then went to find and congratulate the doctor on his lucky guess.

“Guess,” Saunders scoffed. “That was no guess. It just took a while to bring everyone round to thinking it was their idea. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my patients to consider.”

A couple of sprained wrists and a dislocated finger, from the wrestling contest, were treated with a mixture of brutal battlefield medicine and copious amounts of gin. Kit predicted a full recovery in each case, once they had recovered from what would surely be ferocious hangovers. His own head was aching a little from the combination of hours in the sun and the drink he had shared with the doctor, so he was glad to get his evening repast and his measure of water, even if it was getting cloudy.

Soon it was the brief twilight, the sun setting in a blaze of gold and madder, stars pricking out overhead before the western horizon had cooled. Kit had the dogwatch, so he took himself off to his hammock, stripping to his breeches but still sweating in the sweltering fug of the fo’c’sle. He slept soundly that night and his dreams, if he had any, were no trial to him. But something roused him, and he lay dozing in that warm hinterland between sleep and waking where nothing much makes sense. Least of all the shift of air as his blanket slipped and the soft humming of “Lowlands, Low.” Then a hand touched his belly and moved down to grip hard. Kit swung a fist, felt it connect, and then tumbled off the other side of the hammock. He landed on his feet, fists clenched, panting with the pain of the tight squeeze. He heard laughter and someone crying. Kit blinked the sleep from his eyes.

Denny sat on the floor, holding his nose and sobbing. “You di’n oughter dun that,” he wept. “That HURT! I was just—I just…” He waved a hand at Wigram who was a few paces away, holding his sides. “He said you was a maid. He said you wouldn’t mind.” Denny seemed more heartbroken at the betrayal than from the pain of his nose, and Kit was overcome with pity and rage at how both he and poor Denny had been made to look ridiculous.

“Wigram.” Kit snarled and flung himself at the bo’sun’s throat.

It was a short fight. Wigram looked stunned that anyone should attempt to hit him. He reached for his pistol, but Kit clubbed it from his hand and closed with him, pounding a fist under his ribs, and blocking Wigram’s blow with his forearm. Wigram may have been a pirate, but he didn’t know any dirty tricks that weren’t practiced every day in the berths of an English war ship, and Kit soon had him on the back foot. As they struggled to damage each other, hands reached to pull them away and other men got between them.

“Damn your eyes,” Wigram swore. “Did you see that, lads. He hit poor Denny—for nothing—and then went for me.”

“I…I…” Kit was almost incoherent with anger. He spat blood—the cut on his lip had opened again—and strained against the hands holding him, but the two stocky Welshmen hoisted him up until his feet barely touched the floor. “You told Denny to do that.”

“Aye,” one of the men holding Kit agreed. “Denny was there when we were wondering.” He grinned as Kit stared at him. “Though for my own part I think you’re fine as you are.”

“Duw, Protheroe, cariad,” the other said. “And you promised to cleave to me only.”

Some laughed at that, but others shouted angrily. One man claimed he’d seen this and another that, and people who couldn’t have possibly seen anything expressed an opinion.

“Stow it!” O’Neill was there, lantern in hand and glaring angrily around. “What are you at? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this is a fo’c’sle not a bear pit.”

“Penrose attacked Denny and hit me when I intervened,” Wigram snapped. “I knew it was a mistake to bring him aboard.”

O’Neill looked them over with a knowing eye and jerked his thumb toward the quarterdeck.

“You don’t need to convince me. He’s awake and wants to know what’s going on. Wigram, Penrose, and you, too, Denny, come with me, and the rest of you shut up and go back to sleep unless you want to change watches now? Penrose, leave the shirt. A little night air won’t hurt you.”

Kit was halfway along the deck before he realized both Wigram and Denny were dragging their heels.

O’Neill glanced at him and shook his head. “You did it right and proper. Why couldn’t Wigram have chosen a night when he hadn’t been drinking?”

“Is there any night on this tub when we haven’t been drinking?” Kit asked, and O’Neill just snorted by way of reply.

Outside the captain’s cabin O’Neill placed Kit and Wigram on either side of the door and told them to stand still and shut up.

“One word out of either of you,” he growled, “and I’ll shoot you myself.”

Denny had fallen silent apart from the occasional sniff but stepped into the cabin eagerly as soon as the door was opened. O’Neill went in with him and shut the door.

“He’ll gut you,” Wigram whispered his voice masked by the rise and fall of Denny’s complaints. “Nobody hits Denny and gets away with it.”

“And what about someone who uses him as a cat’s paw?” Kit said. “What then? If I’d hit him squarely I might have broken his neck, but either way it would have been to your account.”

“Me? What did I have to do with it?” Wigram grinned. “Denny makes stuff up all the time, poor addled fool that he is. I heard him cry out and was coming to help him when you attacked me.”

A footfall on the other side of the door shut Wigram’s mouth. They watched as the door opened and O’Neill drew Denny out. The little man had a dripping cloth over his nose and seemed much more cheerful. As Denny ambled off toward the stairs, O’Neill jerked his head toward the door.

“Wigram,” he said and raised his eyebrows as Wigram gave them both a cocky smirk. He stepped into the cabin, O’Neill holding the door open. Kit scowled as he heard Wigram’s opening gambit.

“Is Denny all right? I thought that young bastard was going to do for hi…”

The sharp impact of fist on flesh cut Wigram’s voice off. The bo’sun bounced off the door frame and crashed down onto his back on the floor.

Kit stared as Wigram’s eyes rolled up in his head.

“Dear God, is he dead?” Kit asked.

“Do you care?” O’Neill asked then gave him a push. “Go on, it’s your turn.”

In nine years naval service Kit had seen many captains’ cabins. He had even once been allowed to accompany his captain as far as the door of an admiral’s domain and, as he took his master’s boat cloak and received orders to keep the boat crew ready, he had been afforded a brief glimpse of the riches within.

Some cabins had been lavish with comfort, some had been utilitarian, others had been so middling he couldn’t really recall them. Every detail of Gasson’s cabin on the Malvern was etched into his memory. The poor Isabella had escaped the rocks off Scilly by the skin of her teeth while other greater vessels had been lost. He could only remember her cabin smashed and dripping and her captain shrugging, hollow-eyed, and saying, “Well, at least we’re all still alive.”