Authors: Elin Gregory
“Help him up,” the man said, “and stay put. Denny, O’Neill—keep an eye.” He walked away without a backward look, going to La Griffe’s side and speaking quietly to him.
Kit was profoundly grateful to be alive, but as the fighting fury abated, he felt hurt and sick and cold with worry over what would happen to Sir George and the Hypatia.
“What’ll become of us?” Forrest whispered as he helped Kit to sit against the gunwale. “Sweet Jesus, what’ll become of us?”
“We’ll do what we must to stay alive,” Probert said. “I don’t want to be dropped overboard for the sharks.”
“Nor I,” Kit mumbled, his lips feeling stiff and swollen. A quick inventory had shown up scrapes and bruises. His ribs hurt, but not with the raw pain of breakage, and the nick in his neck had already stopped bleeding. Most of the blood staining his clothing was Vargas’s. He had been lucky—if he was to escape he couldn’t afford injury. He studied the pirates, knowing that he had better learn pretty damn quick who was in charge, who thought they were in charge, and who to avoid at all costs.
La Griffe, of course, roared and blustered and had everyone hopping around him.
The little man, Denny, whose coat draped him to the ankles, grinned at Kit. “You took my bits a’ paper. That were wrong, that were. You gonna hafta make it up to me. What you got?”
“Shut it, Denny,” O’Neill said. “Or Griffe’ll have your hide. You just bide quiet, now.”
As guards they were effective. O’Neill stood out of reach with a pair of cocked pistols and the sort of calm expression that suggested he’d use them, whereas Denny, almost bouncing with excitement, hugged the ledgers and watched their every move. The Scot who had fetched Sir George and Kit up from their cabin supervised the raising of a net full of casks. The man who had hit Kit inspected the smashed tiller while issuing terse instructions to Uttley, who was trying not to look at the shattered remains of Vargas.
Most of the other pirates were squabbling over what they had found and yelling with excitement at each new discovery. Kit noticed that any money was handed to La Griffe.
In a remarkably short time the ship had been stripped and La Griffe and Dorling entered into a bizarre negotiation about what the Hypatia would be allowed to keep. Food and water, some of the cargo—“You can keep half—these bilge rats can hardly sail sober. Christ knows what they’ll do full of Geneva!”—and most of Sir George’s papers were left. Personal belongings had been ransacked, but enough was left to clothe each man, and when one begged to be allowed to retain a gimcrack brooch intended for his wife, the pirate who was holding it laughed and gave it back, pressing a shilling into his hand so man and wife could celebrate his safe homecoming.
When Kit’s chest arrived on deck, La Griffe pawed through what remained in it, paying particular attention to the books and the weapons. He grinned. “Valet, my arse,” he said but ordered the chest to be placed in a boat. Probert’s and Forrest’s belongings were found and taken off the Hypatia as well. Then La Griffe beckoned to his new recruits. “Wave good-bye to your old lives. In the boat, you three.”
“Please,” Sir George said. “May we not wish them farewell?”
La Griffe grunted and shrugged. “Be quick about it,” he said.
Probert was ready to go, not having anyone in particular to speak to. But Forrest almost wept to have to part from his friends.
“Please,” he begged, “tell me Ma. Captain Dorling, please. Tell her I didn’t want to go.”
Kit listened to Dorling’s rather grudging reply, biting his sore lip in annoyance. “I’m sorry, Sir George,” he said, gripping the old man’s veined hand in both of his. “This is damnable luck, but there’s no helping it. Please support Uttley. He’s perfectly capable of getting you to journey’s end in safety as long as you don’t allow him to doubt himself.”
“I will,” Sir George promised. “And if I am able, I’ll see what can be done for Forrest’s family. I feel I have failed in my duty. I…”
“Look sharp now,” La Griffe shouted, “and no kissing.”
“Take care of yourself, Kit.”
Sir George’s desolate expression made Kit’s heart sore, but he smiled as best he could and replied briskly. “I intend to. I’ll send word if I can. They must come to port sometime. I’ll get back to you.”
“Bless you, Kit,” Sir George said, squeezing his hand.
The pirates made them crouch on the boards in the base of the long boat as it pulled away from the Hypatia. Kit tried to look back, but the oarsmen blocked his view of the ship. It wasn’t until he had scaled the side of the sloop that he was able to spot Sir George, looking very small and forlorn as the officers and men of the Hypatia tried to rig a replacement for the smashed tiller. But he only had time for one look before he was being pushed toward the tumble of belongings.
“Take what’s yours,” O’Neill ordered. “And get below.”
The deck of the sloop was a mess of stolen cargo and bundles of purloined belongings, but what Kit could see of the rigging was orderly, and a team of men were already trimming the sails. The glare of the morning sun pained his aching head, so he turned away to watch the boat that he had arrived in heading for the brigantine. Probert was now in the stern, calling the stroke, and raised his hand to wave.
“Why’s he not with us?” Kit asked.
O’Neill grinned. “Tom? That’s where his berth is, see. Oh yes, he’s been with us awhile now. Makes a good decoy. Now you get below, the Captain’ll want to get underway and won’t thank you to be underfoot.”
“The captain,” Kit asked, looking at the brigantine where he could make out La Griffe’s scarlet coat.
“Our captain,” O’Neill said. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. He nearly cut your throat less than half a glass ago.”
“Come on, Mr. Penrose,” Forrest urged, “let’s get out of sight. I don’t want to see him again.”
“Neither do I,” Kit agreed, picking up his chest, and they hurried to the hatch and down into the darkness below.
Shown where they could leave their chests and hammocks, they were told to stay put until called for. The fo’c’sle was dark, cramped, and messy. Kit hugged his knees, scowling into the dark.
“What will we do, Mr. Penrose?” Forrest whispered, the catch in his voice betraying his distress. Kit scowled again, but at his own selfishness this time, and put his arm around Forrest’s shoulders.
“What Probert said.” Kit tried to sound cheerful. “What we must do to stay alive. You’re a top hand, and I’m a sailing master. Thanks for that, by the way. We’re valuable to them.”
“The thought of firing on a ship—one like the Hypatia—I don’t think I could do it.”
“Then it probably won’t be asked of you,” Kit said. “I suspect it will be awhile before either of us are trusted with powder and shot. And before then, Forrest…” Kit frowned. “What is your Christian name? There are no ranks here. It seems strange to be so formal. Please call me Kit.”
“Davy,” Forrest said. “Before then what?”
“Before then, Davy,” Kit murmured, “I hope we can take the opportunity to escape.”
Sitting together in the noisome dimness of the fo’c’sle, Davy told Kit what had happened that morning.
“Dice,” Davy said. “We’d got a game going. Probert joined in for once and lost his afternoon watch to me. Said he might as well do my dawn one as soon as maybe. If I’d’a known…”
“No way you could have,” Kit said. “He was running a risk. That ball could have killed him if he’d been at his post.”
“Naaah, I reckon he knew what would happen,” Davy growled. “He’d gone forward, said he was going to check the galley fire was out.”
Kit drew up one knee, wincing as a bruise twinged, and he set his chin on it. “I have decided,” he said, “to think no more of Tom Probert. We must look about ourselves and see how we may gain some advantage. So—we’re on a sloop-rigged ship. French by the rake of the masts. Have you seen her before, Davy?”
“Not that I recall,” Davy admitted. “But Dorling has a usual round. Portsmouth, Cape Verde, down the trades to St. Kitts, then we beat north picking up what we can on the way. You know how it is. We just never crossed her path before.” He looked around the dim fo’c’sle at the mess of chests and bags and slung hammocks, some of which were occupied. “This crew’s too big. There’s no way they could make a profit trading.”
“But for piracy—how many would you say? Fifty or sixty men mean they have enough crew to tend the ship, man the guns, and send out boarding parties.” Kit thought a moment. “We’ll be heading for shore, maybe a port. With this large a crew they won’t be able to carry that much water and food. Also they’ll want to spend what they stole.”
“There was precious little gold on board the Hypatia,” Davy said.
“Well, then they’ll be wanting to drop anchor so they can drink the gin.” Kit grinned at him and was pleased to see an answering smile. “And when they are all stinking drunk, we’ll see if we can’t get ashore.”
A good resolution, but easier to say than do. Soon the little man, Denny, the tarnished bullion on his enormous coat glinting in the dimness, ordered them up on deck.
“You got to work,” he said, all self-importance. “Bo’sun Wigram’ll see you behave. If’n you don’t he’ll have the skin off your back.”
“I thought pirates didn’t flog.” Davy stared at him. “I thought that’s why you become pirates, so you don’t get flogged.”
“Pirates don’t flog good pirates,” Denny said as they emerged on deck.
“But cowardly lubberly landsmen who need to learn their place—we flog those with a good will.” Bo’sun Wigram looked them over with a chilly eye. He was middle aged, middle sized, and had a slash of a mouth that closed tightly over small, tobacco-stained teeth. “Welcome to the Africa. Forrest is it? Davy Forrest—what can you do?”
“Make and reef sail, sir,” Davy said. “Steer a course, mend a cask, stitch a sail.” That didn’t seem to be enough, so Davy ploughed on looking more and more uneasy, desperate for some kind of positive reaction. “I had a fiddle, ’less someone’s broke it.”
“Ah,” Wigram nodded, “so that’s why he brought you aboard. Our fiddler got knifed last month—you can replace him. As for you, Lieutenant Christopher Penrose, I know what you can do, and we decided we’d sooner have you on the ship pissing off than vice versa. I don’t like the Navy, sir, and I especially don’t like officers. You will accept orders without argument, treat every man here as your equal, and treat me and the captain with respect. Later you’ll sign our articles, or the captain will want to know why. And just so you don’t get ideas about stirring up your friend here, you can go in different watches.”
“Damnation,” Kit muttered as he and Davy were driven off to get to work.
That first day he was given tasks he hadn’t had to do since his early days as a Volunteer Per Order, gritting his teeth as each request was delivered by Wigram with a “Smartly now, Lieutenant Penrose.” Soon that phrase was taken up by the pirates who lounged about the deck and chanted along with Wigram, who smiled his tight-lipped smile and left them to it.
Kit took the only revenge he could and swabbed and scrubbed and spliced and served in as cheerful, efficient, and naval a way as he could. That night he was given food, from the Hypatia most likely, and got into his hammock. He tried to count his blessings—he was alive, the day’s hard work had stopped his bruises from stiffening, and he had a potential ally in Davy Forrest. Beyond that, where there was life there was hope. He allowed time to worry about the Hypatia but assured himself that Uttley would cope and that Sir George would manage well enough now he was accustomed to shipboard life. There was no helping them now—the sensible thing to do was rest. Kit was addressing himself to sleep when he heard a whisper, a chuckle, the soft rustle of fabric against skin, and a grunt of pleasure. Kit clapped his hands to his ears to block out the sounds but could do nothing to stop the images in his mind’s eye. He screwed his eyes tight closed, concentrating on the sounds of the ship, but it was a long time before he was able to sleep.
Next morning, Kit awoke with a groan as his hammock was shaken. A gruff voice said, “I thought you’d be hurting today. Saunders, unofficial ship’s surgeon. I’ve been told to take a look at you. Get yourself down to my cabin. You have five minutes. Bring a bottle of gin.”
Kit opened aching eyes and watched bemused as a tall, scrawny man walked away.
“You better go.” It was Denny wearing a floppy brimmed hat with a feather and looking very pleased with himself. “’E don’t like to be kept waiting, he don’t. You can take this. It’s not full but ’e won’t notice.”
Kit accepted the onion bottle Denny thrust into his hand, which was not full and nor was it gin. He got out of his hammock and watched, startled, as Denny hopped up into it and pulled the blanket over his head.
It took rather more than five minutes to find Saunders. This was because the first hand he asked sent him aft. He was shouted at by Wigram and sent up on deck where it occurred to him that saying “I need to find the surgeon. Could you please tell me where he is?” had been a bad idea. Holding up the bottle and saying “I’ve been told to take this to Saunders” worked admirably, and Kit was soon at the door of a fetid hole below the waterline.
Kit knocked on the door frame. The door had been replaced with a sheet of sailcloth, and Saunders swept it aside with one hand and took the bottle from Kit with the other.
“Come in,” he said.
Anywhere below on a ship the Africa’s size stank, but the compound of smells in the doctor’s surgery made Kit’s eyes water. Alcohol, tobacco, and feet combined with bilge water, cheap candle grease, and some sharp, stinging chemical smells that caught at the back of the throat.
“Sit down.” Saunders nodded to a stool against the hull. He was seated on a similar one and leaned so Kit could edge past. “What did you want? Or are you the one I was told to look at?”
“You asked me to come down here,” Kit said, a little wary. He had had a chance to look around and even by that dim light neither the surgeon nor his implements looked very clean.
“That’s right,” Saunders said. “First things first.”
He offered Kit the bottle, and when he declined, upended it and drank, Adam’s apple bobbing. He only took the bottle away because he needed to breathe. With a gusty sigh he set it down. “Sack. An unexpected treat. So…” He reached out and gripped Kit’s collar to hold him still and peered into his eyes. “Look up—now down. Left—right. Follow my finger. Have you eaten? How are your bowels? Good and open?”