Authors: Elin Gregory
“I think not, sir.” Kit grinned. “Because, from what I could see, the water must be rather cold.”
“Hah! Kit!” Griffin drew back his hand, and Kit just had time to slam the door before something, he suspected the rag, splatted against it. Kit let out a deep breath and headed for the stairs, hearing Denny’s murmur and Griffin’s laughter. He felt as though, for a moment, he had held his own.
Chapter Eleven
Once they had rounded the easternmost tip of Hispaniola the real sailing started. East and south was their goal. Initially Kit had thought they would strike out boldly across the open center of the Caribbean but had soon been put right by Wigram.
“Oh no you don’t, bully-boy,” he said. “You keep to the sea lanes. How else we going to find prizes?”
This saddened Kit and seemed to be causing Griffin some irritation as well. Kit felt he might have overruled Wigram and his coterie if it hadn’t been for the wholehearted agreement of the crew of the Garnet.
Jago said as much during one of their frequent captains’ meetings. To these Kit was invited with either O’Neill or Valliere, depending on who was available, and Campbell, the Garnet’s sailing master. He was a tall, fresh-faced Scot with red hair that stood up like a dandelion clock, he said, if he let it grow. So he shaved his head and wore a marvelous black perruque that clashed with his orange eyebrows. He had been on an East Indiaman, learning his trade, when Jago Stockley and the Garnet had hove into view and he had, he said, never looked back.
He nodded as Jago said, “How are we going to keep the hands sweet if they’ve nothing to do? When the rum gets short they’ll be plotting. You know they will. This isn’t the Navy where you can keep them in line with a flogging or two.” Jago looked at Kit. “That’s how it’s done, isn’t it?”
“No,” Kit said. “Well, yes, in the worst cases—but generally the men serve out of patriotism and loyalty to the ship and her captain.” He scowled until the laughter died down and leaned away as Stockley tried to ruffle his hair.
“Oh Kit,” Griffin said, grinning broadly as he charged all their glasses. “You’re as good as a play. That may work in the Navy but not here. Panem et circenses, that’s the way to go. So, it is agreed then? We skim the edges of the shipping lanes and stop what we find, but at the first sign of the Miranda’s topsails—”
“We run like buggery,” Jago said. “Broadside to broadside I think the Garnet might have her measure, but we’d be pounded to splinters. There’s no profit in that.”
“It was nice to meet you,” Campbell said as Kit escorted him to the waiting boat. “If ever there’s the leisure and you would like a change of scene, I would be pleased to welcome you aboard the Garnet. For dinner perhaps?”
“Thank you,” Kit said. “I would be very pleased to come.” They shook hands and Campbell exchanged slightly sheepish grins with Kit as Jago summoned him.
“Move your arse, you lubberly Scotchman.”
“Toujours la politesse,” Campbell sighed. “Farewell, Penrose. Keep your chin up and your sneck snicked.”
“Why so glum, Kit?” the captain asked. He leaned on the gunwale beside Kit, joining him in watching the long boat pull across the water to the Garnet. The crew of the Africa was already making sail and water was beginning to chuckle around her rudder.
“Not glum,” Kit said. “But perhaps a little regretful for the social niceties. Campbell issued a dinner invitation, should I ever be allowed to leave the Africa, and I feel a touch of regret that if I accepted it I wouldn’t be able to reciprocate.”
Griffin grunted. “Well if you’re pining for society, there’s no help for you. But if it’s a social life you’re after, there are plenty of options aboard the Africa. For instance, you could dine with me.”
“With you, sir?” Kit tried hard to make his voice sound pleasantly surprised, but when he saw the captain’s wry smile, he knew that a trace of wariness had crept into his expression.
“With me,” the captain confirmed and looked around to check how many hands would overhear. He must have considered it an acceptable number because he added, “I won’t jump on you, you know. Not unless I think you really need it, and at the moment I get the impression that you’re not at all sure what you want.” His smile broadened, sounding warmly in his voice. “And since I enjoy your company for its own sake, Saunders can join us, and Denny would be there anyway. So what do you say, Kit? Will you chance it?”
Griffin’s eyes were bright with anticipation, but not, Kit thought, for fun at his expense. Perhaps he too missed sharing some of the elegancies of a gentleman’s life? And Saunders, who was still keeping Kit at arm’s length, would be there to keep them in order.
“Thank you, sir,” Kit said. “That is most kind.”
Griffin nodded. “My pleasure,” he said. “Perhaps once we have made some way? I fear the crew will need driving for a week or two. The ship is yours, Kit, for the time being. Call me if a sail is sighted.”
“Aye, sir,” Kit said and went to take off his coat, for the day was a hot one.
Over the next week their hard sailing was interrupted several times by the call of “Sail!” The Garnet remained within sight at all times, and the two ships worked as a team to pursue and halt their prey. Kit was often sent below out of sight, and he assumed that on these occasions they were stopping English ships. Otherwise he remained at the tiller while Griffin and his boarding party swarmed across to the other ship. Generally the thievery took place with the usual sound and fury but little violence. Crews and captains were herded together by the mast and held under the guns of the pirates while the ship was ransacked. What was taken depended on the cargo and the cooperation of the prize’s crew.
Rarely the situation got ugly, but when it did, it happened fast. They had bracketed a large Portuguese snow, easily out sailing the heavily laden vessel, and grappled her and brought both pirate ships along side. The captain of the snow was furious but polite and watched with resignation as his medicine chest was rifled and his personal stock of brandy picked over. His crew was less patient. They howled protests in Portuguese and broken English, and the pirates replied in the same vein. What was said Kit couldn’t make out over the general racket, but one young man screamed with fury—“Filhos de mãe”—and another crewman seized a gun from his captor to shoot one of Jago’s pirates in the throat. The sight of the blood spraying and the gurgling cries of the unfortunate man seemed to drive the pirates wild, and they turned on the crew for vengeance.
Kit hung over the gunwale of the Africa adding his voice to the captain and O’Neill’s demands for peace. It was to no avail. The crew was slaughtered to a man, and Jago and Griffin almost came to blows on the blood-spattered deck.
“What does it matter?” Jago demanded. “They are Portuguese. Scuttle the ship and no one will ever know.”
“I will know,” the captain snarled from his stance on the railing. “Damn your eyes, Jago!”
“What happened?” Kit asked as the captain dropped to the deck at his side. “I couldn’t see. Why did they do that?”
“Wigram,” Griffin growled. The stocky bo’sun was in the thick of it, organizing the stripping of anything useful from the snow and the corpses. “He seems to have a knack for getting under people’s defenses. Those two were brothers. He called their mother a whore. I must do something about Wigram before too long.”
Kit felt wretched, his anger and guilt only a little comforted by the disgust with which some of his crewmates referred to Wigram. Lewis and Protheroe, in particular, were scathing and taught Kit a few choice phrases to apply to Wigram that brought a grudging smile as they explained or pantomimed what the words meant. That the captain was furious was obvious, but that didn’t prevent him from warning the Garnet when a sharp-eyed watchman spotted a threat on the horizon.
The Miranda, Kit assumed, as they fled. Neither Griffin nor Stockley showed anything but contempt for the other two ships berthed at Nevis. The captains of the Rose and the Shark, Griffin said, had too much respect for La Griffe to make any serious challenge. But the Miranda was another matter.
South and east they sailed, sometimes coming in sight of land and then the charts would come out and the log would be consulted as Griffin and Kit tried to establish exactly where they were. Readings made by the new octant were checked against those of the cross-staff and quadrant and found to be good. Griffin seemed to be pleased with the speed they were making and the way Kit handled the boat. But Kit was still angry and had his heart in his mouth every time they approached a possible prize.
One bright morning off the coast of Martinique they spotted a likely prospect. The vessel was small and sloop rigged, French, as was to be expected in those waters. She spilled the wind from her sails at the first musket shot. While the Garnet stood off, the Africa grappled and the boarding party went aboard. Kit leaned on the gunwale and watched her captain shrug and bow to Griffin. They spoke and laughed, and a gentler rummaging than usual began.
She was a well-appointed little vessel—the Eugenie—and Kit was leaning over the gunwale and admiring her lines when he caught sight of something white through one of the tiny windows high in the transom. For a moment he thought he had imagined it, then he saw it again—a pale face with a brown hand clapped fast over the mouth and a curve of shoulder.
Wigram had gone on board but was nowhere to be seen on deck.
“Take the tiller,” Kit snapped to Davy Forrest.
Kit crossed to the Eugenie with a running leap. There was only one place where Wigram could be. Kit ignored Lewis’s surprised shout as he pushed past him and darted down the few steps to the cabin.
Sure enough. “You bastard,” he snarled and grabbed Wigram by his belt, still fastened praise be, and hauled him off his captive. She was purple in the face and drew breath with a great whooping cry before screaming like the crack of doom.
Kit swung Wigram off his feet and threw him out of the cabin then slammed and locked the door. The woman was still screaming but was on her feet, and Kit had to duck as she swung Wigram’s discarded pistol in his direction. The pistol went off, punching a hole in the cabin door and filling the room with powder smoke. Beyond her was a displaced panel in the cabin wall—presumably where she had been hiding until, perhaps, she heard the sound of laughter on deck and thought it safe to come out.
Kit ducked as the pistol swung again, this time clubbing down toward his head. “Madame, s’il vous plait,” Kit gasped. She was a strong, broad-shouldered lass with a mass of thick black hair and would probably have been very pretty if she hadn’t been trying to claw his eyes out.
The cabin door thudded as someone, probably Wigram, kicked it, and the woman redoubled her efforts to get free.
“Madame,” Kit gasped, grabbing her wrist and trying to take the pistol from her hand. “Please—stop hitting me. I am Lieutenant Christopher Penrose of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy and, I assure you, you are in no danger.”
“I’ll give you danger,” she squawked, her accent pure Portsmouth. Then, as if speaking her mother tongue enabled her to understand what he had said, she took two gasps of air and let out another wail, this time of fright and relief.
The cabin door burst open, the lock shattered by the combined weight of Lewis and Protheroe. They fell into the cabin followed by Griffin and the French captain, both of whom looked astounded to see Kit with the lady sobbing against his shoulder.
“There he is,” Wigram howled. “Wanted her for hisself, he did.”
“I rather doubt that,” Griffin snarled. “Madame, calm yourself, you are no longer in any danger. Captain, please, go to your lady.”
With some relief, Kit gave her up to her spouse, rolling his eyes at Protheroe who looked unaccustomedly grim.
“We heard the screams, bach, and thought we’d better come and rescue you,” Protheroe murmured, laying a heavy hand on Kit’s shoulder. “Oh, but you’ve done it now, boy. The old man is not happy.”
Indeed, Griffin seized Wigram by the collar, shook him, and pushed him toward Lewis, who caught his arm. “Take him back to the Africa, Lewis,” he said, “and shut him in the powder store. As for you…” He glared at Kit. “Protheroe, get Kit back to his post immediately. Captain, please accept my sincere apologies. Rest assured that both men who laid hands on your wife will suffer appropriately.”
The French captain’s reply was lost as Protheroe pushed Kit from the cabin and up on deck. Wigram was being held between Lewis and O’Neill and spat a stream of curses at Kit as soon as he saw him. Before Kit could reply in kind, Protheroe’s grip transferred to the scruff of his neck, and Kit had no choice but to go with him or choke.
Deposited under Valliere’s eye at the tiller, Kit watched as Wigram, fighting every inch of the way, was hauled below. What cargo was to be transferred was already being handed across, and the few pirates left aboard the Eugenie were hopping to it as Griffin stalked along the little deck.
“God help us,” Valliere said as the Eugenie’s captain and his wife came on deck. She pointed at Kit and waved, shouting a farewell, and the man removed his hat and bowed to him.
“Au revoir, M’sieur, M’dame.” Kit bowed equally low and staggered as Valliere gave him a shove. “Look to your charts, Kit,” he said. “Set a course to bring us west of Barbados.”
By the time the Africa was under way again, butting bravely through a considerable swell as the wind howled in her rigging, the excitement from his clash with Wigram had died away, and Kit was feeling cold and a little apprehensive. The captain conferred briefly with O’Neill before nodding to Valliere. As he made his way below he paused and gave Kit a beckoning flick of the hand.
“Go on,” Valliere ordered. “And be sharp about it.”
The cabin door was open when Kit reached it, and Denny came scurrying out with the captain’s coat clutched to his chest. He stared at Kit then hurried away.
“Come in and close the door,” Griffin said. He was, as expected, pouring a drink but with sharp angry movements that sent brandy spattering across his table.