Authors: Elin Gregory
Kit tumbled out of his hammock and grabbed for his clothes without further thought. He fastened his breeches, pulled his shirt on over his head, and crammed his bare feet into his shoes without bothering with stockings.
“Kit?” Sit George was blinking up at him. “What are you doing? Are you feeling ill?”
“No sir,” Kit said, “I just need to see what’s happening on deck. Perhaps it might be a good idea to get up and get dressed. Just in case.”
He left Sir George sitting on the edge of his bunk with his shirt half buttoned and ran up into the misty morning light.
Uttley was talking to Vargas, his face pale. Dorling pounced on Kit and grabbed his arm.
“Sails,” he said. “They came up by night. No lights. Oh dear God, look at them. What shall we do?”
No need now for a telescope. Both ships were close enough for Kit to see the bow wave glint white in the morning sunshine and flecks of sooty black where the colors should be.
Vargas, no fool, took the decision that needed to be made. “All hands,” he ordered. “Make sail.” In case they didn’t grasp the urgency of the situation he bellowed, “Pirates!”
There was no question of standing to fight. Outgunned and outnumbered, the only thing the Hypatia could do was run. So run they did, the crew hurling themselves in all directions in response to the master’s shrieked orders.
Kit joined them, kicking off his shoes to scamper up the rigging. The wind tossed his hair across his face and plastered his shirt to his back as he raced Forrest to the top. A quick glance back made his breath catch. The two ships were coming apace, a brigantine much larger than Hypatia and the other, closer, sloop rigged with a huge spread of white sails. The black flags were more apparent now, and Kit’s heart raced as he edged along the footrope.
“Have a care, Mr. Penrose, sir,” Forrest said as he too reached the yard. “Go back down, sir, do!”
“I know what I’m about, thank you, Forrest,” Kit said, and when he leaned to reach the reef lines with as much agility as any of them, the man grinned and left him to it.
The sails filled with a crack, and the Hypatia met the next wave head on. Kit looked back at the pursuing sails, calculating distances and speeds. As he watched, the tan sails of the brigantine were obscured by a puff of white smoke. A relieved curse ripped from Forrest’s lips as a spout went up well astern.
“That’s it,” he said. “Them devils’ll not catch us now.”
They both whooped their approval, and Forrest shook a fist. “You’ve no fancy to be a pirate then, Forrest?” Kit said with a laugh.
“Me, sir? No fear, sir,” Forrest said. “There’s only one way that can end, and I’ve no desire to be turned off—God a’ mercy!”
A gun had boomed again, this time from the sloop. Forrest and Kit stared in horror at the wreckage of blood, flesh, and splinters that had exploded from where the master had been standing at the tiller. Hypatia shuddered and lurched, shaking Kit loose. For a sickening moment his legs swung free over the chaotic deck, before he hooked a toe into the footrope and clung to the yard to get his breath back. Below he could see Captain Dorling wringing his hands while Uttley hung over the stern, either retching or trying to see the damage.
Forrest cursed again. “He’s going to strike,” he muttered. “The captain’s going to strike.”
Kit envied Forrest the ease with which he swung hand over hand down the shroud. He followed, muscles protesting at the effort, jumped the last six feet, and ran aft.
The sloop and brigantine were approaching fast.
“Black flag,” Dorling shouted as Kit reached him, “so we have a chance. Strike the flag, strike it, I say. It’s La Griffe—once he flies the red flag there’s no mercy. Get the colors down, damn you.”
There was a shout from one of the hands as the tattered rag of black flapping from the brigantine’s main mast dipped and began to lower. On deck Kit could see a flash of red and gold, but Dorling was already scrambling to lower the ensign himself.
Kit groaned. He snatched up his shoes and hastened down to the little cabin where he found Sir George still half-dressed with his wig askew, braced in a corner amid a chaos of papers.
“Ah, there you are, my boy,” Sir George said. “What are they doing up there? I almost fell off my cot. Everything fell off the shelves. And I heard gunfire!”
“Pirates, Sir George,” Kit said and reached for Sir George’s coat. He began to help him into it. “Our tiller is shot away, and the master is dead. I believe that we may be safe if we cooperate.”
“Oh my word,” Sir George said, clutching at his wig. “Kit—never mind me. There are papers. Quick, Kit. The chest.”
Kit slid the chest out from under the cot, and Sir George threw the lid open. He slid a panel aside revealing another small lock. The key to that was on a string around his neck, and Kit watched grimly as he fitted it to the keyhole.
“They would probably never find it, sir,” Kit said as a section of the lid hinged open. “I would never have guessed that was there.”
Sir George looked guilty and took out a package wrapped in oilskin. “Sealed admiralty orders, Kit. Of the utmost secrecy. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you…”
As Kit took the packet, the bright light from the little window was shadowed by sails. He cursed and grabbed the nearest heavy object, Sir George’s close stool, to smash out the glass. He seized the package of orders and threw it out then crammed the most important of the ledgers out as well.
“Kit!” Sir George stared at him.
“Can’t let them fall into the wrong hands,” he said. “Grab a’ hold, sir! Any moment now…”
Sir George sat on his cot with a grunt. “Well,” he said, “it seems as though the gamble didn’t pay off. I was assured that a small fast ship would have more chance of winning through.”
Kit was listening, trying to make out what was going on from the thumps and indistinct shouts above, and his lips tightened as Sir George broke his concentration. He tilted his head and motioned Sir George to stay quiet. Outside voices sounded, and there was a rending creak as a door was forced. Kit turned and looked at his chest, where his pistols and sword remained unused, until now un-needed. He took a deep, calming breath, composed himself, and stooped to straighten Sir George’s wig. “Ready, sir?” he asked. “I believe we may be required on deck.”
“Oh? Yes, Kit,” Sir George said and accepted his help to rise.
Kit took a moment to straighten his own clothing. He pulled on his stockings, fastening the ties over the hems of his breeches, and slipped his feet into his shoes. As neat as he could be in the short time, he unlocked the door and opened it a crack. There was a roar from the dimness outside, and someone kicked the door in, making Sir George start.
“I say, sir,” he yelped.
“Hu’d yer wisht.” The man leveled the blade in his hand at Kit’s throat. “Or I’ll spit yer both. Get yourselves on deck now.”
Kit took Sir George’s arm and helped him through the door and along to the steps. The ship was alive with men rummaging in every corner, but they either ignored Sir George and Kit or grinned at their captor.
The deck was bright with sunlight, which made the blood, and worse, from Vargas an even more horrifying sight. Sir George gasped and his hand closed on Kit’s wrist.
“The ruffians—the ruffians,” he repeated, shaking, as they were hustled across and thrust into a line with the rest of the crew.
“Calmly, Sir George, if you please,” Kit murmured. “If we don’t challenge them they will take what they wish and go on their way.”
“That’s all right for you to say,” Captain Dorling spat. “I’ll be ruined, damn you. I wish I’d never taken the money from you, Wilberforce.” He groaned loudly as he heard a whoop and a smash from below.
“Sounds like they’ve found the gin,” Uttley whispered.
“The gin,” Dorling mourned. “Well, they may as well have it. And I wish them joy of the sherry as well. Without Vargas we have no chance of finding our way to St. Kitts.”
Uttley’s face fell and Kit glared at the captain, but he was too busy wringing his hands to notice.
The Hypatia was flanked now, the brigantine and the sloop standing off a little with their guns ready. Their gunwales were lined with more men, and there were marksmen in the tops. More were in the longboats that they had used to board Hypatia. Kit did a quick head count and hissed with surprise; there must have been close to one hundred and fifty between the two crews. To a man they were bristling with weapons, and many of the pirates on the Hypatia now had bottles in their hands. A team, with rather more purpose, was bringing up barrels and transferring them to the boats, but most of the rest were drinking. Sadly that didn’t go for their guards who were watchful and poised.
“They’ll be finished soon,” Kit murmured to Sir George, “so we’ll just stand here and…”
“Oh Kit!” Sir George’s face fell. Another man had come aboard. A small man with a wide, gap-toothed grin and two sodden books and a crumpled packet of papers in his hand.
“Now, who tried to throw these away,” he crowed from his perch on the railing. “Got a bone ter pick with you. They fucking well near brained me.”
Kit might have reached him if he hadn’t slipped a little in a runnel of Vargas’s blood. His guard roared and swiped him with the butt of his gun. Kit took the blow on his shoulder instead of his head, but it still drove him to one knee. Another glancing blow made his head reel as he rose, but he managed to tear the packet with the admiralty seal from the little man’s hand. The pirates’ fury broke over him like a heavy sea, smashing him down to the deck. He did his best to roll with the blows, protecting his head and face with one arm while he crushed the papers to his chest. A kick rolled him into the scuppers, and he had just enough presence of mind left to thrust the packet of papers through the nearest hole. He felt his shirt give at the seams as he was dragged back, and a kick from a bare foot, almost as hard as a boot, robbed him of his breath. Over the roaring in his ears he heard Sir George’s appalled cries. A heavy weight crushed him to the deck as the buffeting stopped. Kit gasped in a breath and heard another voice, harsh with fury, say, “So—give me a reason to let you live.”
Chapter Four
Kit knew he was hurt, but the need to fight, to battle, was still pounding through his veins. He bucked against the restraint—a knee, he thought, set between his shoulder blades with the full weight of a man on it—but stilled as he felt the touch of stinging cold that spoke of a blade hovering close to the big blood vessels in his neck.
“Be still, damn you,” his captor snarled and shifted. A fist in Kit’s hair wrenched his head back. Kit cursed the frugality that had urged him to let his own hair grow out rather than shaving his head and buying a wig.
He couldn’t see who was holding him, but now he had a good view of his shipmates and the bizarre figure who was looming over them. Dressed in tattered finery with a plumed hat set askew on his head, he held the tip of a fine Toledo blade to Dorling’s breast and smiled at Kit as though Kit’s life wasn’t imperiled.
“Well,” he said raising his voice over the uproar. “Won’t any of you lily-livered swabs speak up for him?”
Sir George’s eyes were shadowed in his pale face. “Please, please—don’t. He’s my valet, he…”
“Hah,” the man laughed, a harsh bark of sound. He raised his right hand, and Sir George looked even more appalled as he was pushed back a pace. Instead of a hand, the pirate’s wrist was capped off with a leather cup and a grimy-looking iron hook that left a rusty mark on his shirt. “You can dress yourself, old man,” the pirate said. “You don’t need no one to hold your smalls for you to step into.”
“La Griffe,” Sir George said. “From the French—griffe—claw. Oh my.”
La Griffe inclined his head in a little bow. “So pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said and made a leg, although his blade didn’t waver. “Your young man wasn’t sensible or polite. Denny had a prize, and he took it from him. That’s theft that is, and there’s only one penalty for that.”
The blade moved at Kit’s throat, and he tensed involuntarily. But La Griffe chuckled and shook his head. “Too quick,” he said. “I reckon we can all dress ourselves too. Over the side with him!”
Kit gritted his teeth as the hand in his hair hoisted him to his knees. He grabbed for the wrist, determined not to go without a fight, and winced as the sting at his throat bit a little deeper.
“Wait,” Forrest spoke up, his voice cracking with panic. “He’s got a master’s ticket. Ain’t you, Mr. Penrose?”
“Ah, now, that’s a bit different,” La Griffe said. “We can always use a sailing master, someone who knows his way, like. None of these swabs can find their way up a whore’s skirts without someone to point their cocks in the right direction.”
“If you think…” Kit began but broke off with a shocked gasp as the man holding his hair struck him. Kit felt his lip split and blood filled his mouth.
“Shut it,” his captor snarled. “Keep your mouth shut.”
Kit coughed and spat, staring up into furious gray-blue eyes and trying to control a fresh spurt of fury of his own.
“That’s better,” La Griffe said. “Gotta show some respect to the Gentlemen of the Coast. We’re going to let you up and let you collect your traps, if there’s anything left of ’em, and you’re going to come with us, like, to be made a gentleman of. Anyone else for the free life? We have a few berths for young men of a lively and adventurous humor. You, sir,” he poked Sir George again, “are too old, so don’t ask.” He began to move along the line of captives, inspecting each in turn. He dismissed Dorling with a sniff. “You’re a sour-looking dog,” he said. “Ah, a young’un. You might do, if you didn’t look like to piss your britches.” Uttley did look sick with a terror born, if Kit was any judge, of knowing he was responsible for the welfare of the Hypatia—assuming the pirates didn’t sink her.
“And how about you?” La Griffe said, locking eyes with Probert, then turning to Forrest. “Or you?”
Despite loud protests from the crew, and even louder ones from Dorling, the selection was made and Probert and Forrest were driven across the deck to Kit. Forrest was gasping with shock and flinched as the pirate standing over Kit stepped away from him and gestured with the blade of his cutlass.