The Quality of Mercy (50 page)

Rebecca said nothing. Dear Providence, it was cold in the hole. To be stuck with this foul-mouthed churl. But at least she was safe for the moment. Krabbey was tied up and the Spaniards hadn’t detected their presence.

Krabbey said, “Yer as stupid as yer tight-arsed friend. All he’ll be getting you is yer head in the stocks and yer ears burned off. What’s he to you anyway?”

Rebecca remained silent.

“You ever had a wench, lad?” Krabbey asked. He arched his eyebrows and snickered. “Not some old cock like your mate diddling your thing, but a real wench, boy. With big teats and a honey pot dripping with love juices. A nice big home for yer throbbin’ will, eh?”

She smiled.

“You like the sound of that one, eh?” Krabbey continued. “I can get a wench for you, laddy. I can get you a dozen wenches with whole teeth and big arses. The kind that are plump and white till you squeeze ’em. Then they turn all pink and pretty.”

Rebecca didn’t react.

“But I can’t do nothin’, laddy, unless you untie me hands and feet from this chair…. Otherwise, boy, me and you and me boat are gonna sink. Or worse, boy. We’ll be in the hands of the Devil himself. The Spanish with their racks and stocks and water tortures. Me boy, that’s pain!”

Rebecca lowered her head.

“We could escape, lad,” Krabbey went on. “We could cut the rope and sail back to mighty England. I could handle the
Bounty
all by meself. But I can’t do nothin’ if me hands and feet are tied to this blasted chair.”

Silence.

“What do you say, laddy? How ’bout it? You and me on the high seas.” Krabbey paused and licked his lips, trying to spur his brain to fire. With renewed enthusiasm, he said, “We’ll be
partners,
boy. I’m the captain and you… you’ll be the first mate. I do lots of other business, lad. ’Nough callin’ you lad. Tell me whatcha call yerself, boy?”

Rebecca didn’t answer.

Krabbey kept talking. “I haul in lots of booty for certain rich gentlemen. I could teach you how to fight with a dagger. I could learn you how to shoot a caliver. Blow yer enemy to dust. Pow… heh, heh, heh.”

Krabbey looked at Rebecca and stopped laughing. He said, “They be paying me well, those gentlemen. They’d be paying you goodly, too, if you was me
partner
.”

More silence.

“What do you say? You and me! Partners! Reelin’ in the booty. Fuckin’ all the pretty wenches till they’re sore and beggin’ us to stop. ’Course they love to beg. Don’t you be fooled by that. Always get yer money’s worth, that’s what I always say. And beware of the poxed ones lest they be givin’ yer will more than a goodly ride. What do you say, m’laddy?”

Rebecca walked over to the captain, stood over him. She picked up the rag that Shakespeare had used for a gag and stuffed it in Krabbey’s mouth. Then she sat back down and tried to catnap.

They’d been crouching behind the rope deck for an hour. Dunstan forced himself steady, his knees ready to fold, yet Tommy and Shakespeare were as still as granite. How could they remain motionless without wincing in pain?

Dunstan shifted his weight, again, and Thomas shushed him, again.

They waited. Thomas’s eye went to Captain Mundo at the helm of the ship. He was standing twenty feet away under a small roof of wood that protected him from the elements, drinking from a pot. Behind him were his first mate and navigator, both sipping from a gourd, discussing something, pointing to a map pinned at their left, the tidal roars drowning out any hope of hearing their words. Thomas brushed his hair out of his face and cursed the wind. It was blowing at full force again, the cold seeping under his clothes and skin, and it was a feat not to shiver. But he was determined not to expend any unnecessary energy. He glanced at the rapier resting against his leg, then looked back to Mundo — a dark devil with a black beard and olive skin. The enemy captain carried in his belt a falchion. Good for slicing off heads, but unwieldly and slow — easy to take him down. Mundo had a smashed nose and was missing three fingers. But he still had a prick and eventually he’d have to use it to piss.

Thomas’s stiff fingers wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. A gift for you, you whoreson — for the death of Raphael, for the torture of all the others held prisoners by the Inquisition, for the death of all his fellow Englishmen fighting in wars, battles that Thomas was barred from joining because his help was needed in the trade company.

To the devil with the business, thought Thomas. This was how a man became a man, not by counting coins in a purse. He looked at Shakespeare, at his brother squirming on his knees. Gods, if he’d known Dunstan would make so much noise, he would have left him down in the boat with Becca. The player and he could save Miguel… he could save Miguel alone. All it took was confidence and skill of the fence. And Dunstan had neither.

Cursed am I, thought Thomas. Born without a proper beard, born after Dunstan, thereby being reduced to the status of the
younger
brother. He reflected upon his hap for another moment then asked for God’s forgiveness. At least he had the good fortune to live to his majority. Not like the two brothers born between Dunstan and him. Isaac dead at seven from the plague — death so mighty, so swift, his skin never erupted into telltale buboes. Edward, dead at age ten, every inch of his body riddled with pox.

“Does the man have a barrel for a bladder?” Dunstan whispered.

Thomas bade him quiet.

“The Devil take you,” Dunstan said, squirming.

Thomas whispered, “Be still, for God sakes.”

Shakespeare shushed them both.

A minute passed.

“We’ve been gone too long from the hatch,” Dunstan said. “What if they bring us food then discover us missing?”

“Then go back to the hatch, brother,” Thomas whispered back. “That’s obviously where you belong.”

Shakespeare tapped them both on the shoulder and brought his finger to his lips. A few minutes later he whispered, “Even if we were discovered missing, it would take them hours to search a ship this well-sized.”

“The scum comes,” Thomas said.

Mundo gave the helm over to the first mate. The navigator remained deep in study of the map.

“Must have been the last pot that did him in.” Dunstan smiled.

The captain stood atop the rampart and undid his breeches.

“Let him piss first,” Dunstan said. “If we scare him, he’ll douse us.”

“Move quietly,” Thomas whispered. “We mustn’t attract attention.”

Mundo finished urinating and reattached his codpiece. A split second later he was struggling in a pair of powerful arms. A hand was clamped over his mouth and nose, a dagger was at his throat.

“The Englishman,” the voice said in rapid Spanish. “Where is he? And whisper else it will be your last sound.”

Mundo continued to squirm, attempted to bite the meaty palm that was suffocating him.

“Where is the Englishman?” the voice repeated. “Do you know about the Englishman?”

Mundo nodded his head rapidly.

“Where is he?”

The palm was partially released. Mundo attempted to cry out, but the hand was slapped back over his mouth.

“You son of a bitch!” the voice hissed.

The dagger plunged in and out of Mundo’s shoulder. The pain seared through his body.

“Try again, señor,” said the voice, calmly this time. “Where is the Englishman?”

Again the hand yielded a little air. Mundo sucked in a mouthful and answered him truthfully.

“You believe him?” said the voice in English.

Mundo felt himself go limp. The stranded mariners! Disguised Englishmen!
El Diablo Draque!
He croaked out, “
Es la verdad!
Zee trute!”

“Zee trute, zee trute,” mocked Dunstan.

Thomas eased the knife against Mundo’s throat and looked at his brother and Shakespeare.

“What should we do with him?” he asked.

“Tarry not in your decision,” Dunstan said, firming up his grip on the captain’s arm. “He’s a strong one.”

“Ask him if the Englishman is dead,” said Shakespeare.

Thomas asked,
“Esta muerto el Ingles?”

“No! Yo juro que no! Juro que el Ingles vive!”

“He swears the Englishman lives,” Dunstan said to Shakespeare.

“Como se llama el Ingles?”
asked Thomas.

“No se,”
said Mundo.
“El Ingles no me dice nada!”

“What next, men?” asked Dunstan.

“Es la verdad?”
Thomas asked Mundo again.

“Si, es la verdad!”

“We’d better do something quickly,” Shakespeare said. “No piss takes this long.”

“Aye,” Thomas said. In one fluid motion he slit Mundo’s throat. Blood poured over Thomas’s hand and arm and over the captain’s body. Mundo tried to gurgle out words but provided only bloody bubbles. The captain slumped into Thomas’s arms.

Thomas took the sword from the dead man’s belt and fastened it to his own hilt. He said, “Help me lift him and don’t let the feet drag. We’ll throw him overboard twenty feet down, where there’s a lot of noise from the turbulence.”

Shakespeare took Mundo’s feet, but Dunstan froze where he stood.

Thomas slapped him soundly across the face. “Get hold of your wits, man.”

Dunstan didn’t react.

“Go,” Shakespeare urged Thomas. He held the captain’s feet with one hand and dragged Dunstan along with the other.

Well hidden from public view, Thomas quickly spotted a piece of iron scrap metal and tied it to Mundo’s feet with loose twine. A minute later the body fell unnoticed to its watery gravesite.

“This way,” Thomas said, leading the others. Dunstan lagged behind.

Shakespeare whispered to Thomas, “What are we going to do with your brother? He’s worse than a woman.”

Dunstan overheard the barb. “I’m well,” he said shakily. “In sooth, I’m well. Leave us to go. I’m well now.”

They quickly descended to the bottom deck. It was dark and dank, reeking with the sour odors of illness, mold, and sweat. They stood at the entrance to the central passageway. Feeding off the hallway — like a river with its tributaries — were the doors to the cabins and hatches. The passageway was barely illuminated by the small flames from rush candles and filled with noise. Sounds echoed against the wooden walls — an unsettling mixture of drunken shouts, slamming doors, raucous laughter, and unhealthy groans in Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish. Whittled mariners staggered about, going in one cabin, out the other.

“Where’s Miguel?” Shakespeare whispered.

“Mundo said he was hidden in the bottom deck, third or fourth hole to the left of the first mate’s cabin,” Thomas answered back. “The whoreson captain was mumbling.”

“Where’s the first mate’s cabin?” Dunstan asked.

“Damned if I know,” Thomas said. “I think Mundo said it had a blue door and some sort of red insignia—”

“You killed him too soon,” Dunstan said. “You should have waited—”

“Stow it,” Thomas barked. “Get a liver, man.”

“Let’s try this way.” Shakespeare pointed.

“Someone’s coming,” Dunstan said. “Act casual.”

They strolled down the passageway, the brothers speaking lower-class Spanish, and the sailors passed the Englishmen without a second glance. They blended in as smoothly as a blackbird in pitch. As soon as the mariners were gone, Dunstan felt his knees buckle under his weight. Maybe it was the stench, the fear, the leaden air pressing down on his lungs. He became light-headed and had to stop a moment. Thomas offered him a hand, but Dunstan slapped it away.

“I’m well,” Dunstan said. “Truly, I’m well. Go.”

They began to check hatches, constantly glancing behind their backs to see if anyone was looking. Sometimes a mariner would smile at them, engage them in drunken conversation. Shakespeare was surprised at how easily Thomas played the role of the seaman. The beardless boy would have been an excellent player. And he was fleet-footed as well, quickly moving from one hatch to another whenever he had a moment of privacy. He opened a hatch that held crates of wine, broke off the neck on one of the bottles.

“Make a bowl with your hands, brother,” he said.

Dunstan brought his trembling palms together into a slight concavity. Thomas splashed the wine into his brother’s hands, a wave of it spilling onto the wooden floor.

“Drink,” Thomas ordered.

Dunstan complied.

Thomas poured him another handful. “Again.”

Dunstan greedily lapped up the wine, snatched the bottle from Thomas’s hands and poured the spirits directly into his mouth. He felt his strength returning and said, “Aye, such sweet succor.”

“Not too much,” Thomas said. He offered the bottle to Shakespeare, who drank the leftovers.

When they finished the bottle, Thomas broke open a second and poured it over his head, shaking out the wet strands of blond hair like a soaked puppy. Shakespeare and Dunstan doused themselves as well. It cooled them off for the moment, small relief from the stifling heat that clogged the bottom deck.

“We’d better go,” Shakespeare said, drying his face with his shirtsleeve. “Before we forget for whom we came.”

“Aye,” said Dunstan. He was walking upright now.

They found another store laden with green-staved barrels full of maggoty meat. Another glance around, another smile for a boozed mariner, an invitation to drink was offered. Thomas declined gracefully. Alone at last, he checked another hatch. This one emitted a detectable stench ten feet away. Thomas held his nose and opened the door a crack. A funnel of black flies swirled from the hole. Thomas swatted them away.

“God, that
stinks
!” Dunstan said.

“Rotted flesh,” said Shakespeare.

Thomas lit a piece of tinder and peered inside — gray oblong-shaped lumps of flesh dusted with rice-size maggots. “My God!” he moaned, backing away. He closed the door to the hole.

“Dear Almighty, the stowaways,” Dunstan said weakly.

“Must have been,” Thomas said.

Shakespeare asked, “Is Miguel among the dead?”

Thomas was about to look, but he suddenly espied a sailor walking toward them. He leaned back against the walls and loudly cursed Dunstan in drunken Spanish. Dunstan cursed back as Shakespeare pretended to bring up dry heaves. The mariner lolled past them without notice. A moment later he disappeared into a cabin. Alone once again, they all took deep breaths and held their noses.