On A Lee Shore

by Elin Gregory

  Lewis snorted, but it wasn’t an annoyed noise. A moment later Kit heard him whispering to the other men, and they moved off along the beach waiting for Jonas’s signal.

  Kit looked around at Detorres, Lopez, and Curro. “So,” he said, “down to three. I want to get close to the shoreline. If Wigram starts anything, I need to be able to step in.”

  “Just put a bullet in him from cover,” Detorres suggested. “As you would a mad dog. He deserves no less.”

  Kit shook his head. “That’s tempting. Wigram will make the seas run red from here to the Spanish Main if he has his way. But we wouldn’t have time to shoot all of them. And my primary concern is Griffin’s welfare.”

  Detorres muttered a curse but said no more. Kit led them down through the trees to the edge of the undergrowth. It made poor cover being sparse and spindly, but at the top of the beach there was a little hollow under the last few trees, and Kit and his companions settled down in the patchy shadows to try and hear what was being said.

  The voices didn’t carry particularly well over the sounds of the sea and the buzz of insects, but one could pick up a lot from the tone. Wigram was doing most of the talking and seemed pretty pleased with himself. There was a boastful sneer in his voice, and his gestures were expansive. Drunk then, but how drunk? Griffin looked amused, his pose relaxed, but he was keeping an eye on the man at his back. If he spoke it was just a few words, but some of the pirates lounging around the fires would laugh. Kit couldn’t see Wigram’s face, but there was something about the set of his shoulders that suggested he was not pleased. Kit caught Detorres’s eye and nodded to the guns they had collected. Quickly, they primed them and lay them on the sand.

  “Six shots,” Kit murmured. “If we have to, we’ll need to drop Wigram and Probert—see, the one standing behind Griffin—first.”

  “Lopez is a good shot,” Detorres said, his eyes on the group at the fire. “I’ll tell him to take the man behind Griffin. What’s the count?”

  “Two ninety,” Kit replied. “I wonder if we left them enough time to get into position?”

  Detorres cupped his hands around his eyes and peered into the darkness. “I would hope so,” he said, “or we might—”

  A shout from the fire cut him off midsentence. Wigram was on his feet, gesturing with his bottle toward Griffin, who shrugged and spread his arms.

  “If you don’t,” Wigram’s voice carried clearly now, “it’ll go hard with you and your crew. You’ll get your share and have my respect, but you’ll follow my orders until we know we can trust you.”

  Griffin’s lips tightened. “But I can’t sail the Santiago,” he said as he rose to his feet. “She’s too big a ship. You need someone experienced. You need an experienced crew. These laggards wouldn’t do it. We’d lose her the first big blow.”

  “Then there’s no reason to keep her is there,” Wigram said. “And no reason to keep you.”

  Probert was fiddling with his pistol, and Kit’s heart rose into his mouth.

  “Shall we shoot?” Detorres demanded.

  “No, wait.” Kit slid back into the bushes and ran along the edge of the underbrush. He made sure that he made some noise as he pushed through the bushes then, when well away from where Detorres and Santos were lurking, he darted out onto the sand in clear view.

  “Griffin!” he bellowed. “Damn your eyes, sir. I have an accounting with you.” As he was speaking he strode forward, ignoring the pirates, some of whom had scattered. Others had drawn weapons and were on their feet, watchful but not yet alarmed. Some even seemed amused.

  “What do you mean by this?” Kit raised his arm, to show the metal cuff and length of chain wrapped around it. “How dare you restrain me in such a fashion? Come, sir, an explanation if you please.”

  Griffin had started along with the rest, but now his mouth was set in lines of annoyance, though Kit was pleased to notice that some of the tension had gone from his shoulders. Probert’s pistol was pointing at Kit now, less than half a pace away, and Griffin gave it a speculative glance before replying.

  “You went against my orders, Penrose, which were to remain aboard the ship, out of my way. You have gone against my orders again. Indeed there will be an accounting.”

  Kit stopped about ten paces distant and pretended to look about him for the first time. “Wigram? Why are you wearing Stockley’s coat? Come to that, where is Stockley?”

  “Deposed,” Wigram said, his small brown teeth glinting as he grinned. “It was decided that yours truly would be a more appropriate captain now we have the two ships and you—why you might make yourself useful.” He nodded to Kit’s uniform waistcoat. “With you in that uniform on the railing with a rope round your neck the Miranda would think twice about firing on us.”

  “Not the Miranda,” Kit laughed. “You could have King George on the railing with a rope round his neck and Captain Thomas Wells will still fire. Didn’t you hear—he has declared war on all the pirates in the Leeward Isles.” He paused to let the laughter and muttering of the pirates die down. “And as part of the crew, even as a forced man, there’s no quarter. There’s no going back for me, boys.”

  “Kit!” Griffin’s fists were clenched at his sides. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Buying time didn’t seem like a politic answer, so Kit ignored him.

  “I heard what you said, Wigram. Griffin may not be able to sail the Santiago to good effect, but I can, and I can navigate her. Sure, we’re short of crew, but Africa and Garnet don’t need many to sail safely. Give me—say, four dozen men who are prepared to try and we can soon pick up more men from our prizes. There’s not a ship in these waters that could stand against us.”

  Wigram stared at him, and Kit stared back, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he was avoiding looking at Griffin, who appeared to be thunderstruck.

  “Let me get this straight in my head,” Wigram said. “You’re suggesting that you captain the Santiago?”

  “Yes,” Kit said. “As the one person in this company most qualified to do so.”

  “And what about Captain Griffin?” Wigram asked, grinning again.

  “Griffin forfeited my loyalty when he chained me to a bulkhead.” Kit swung the chain to glint in the dying firelight. Surely the count of five hundred was finished by now! “Let him take the Africa and its milksop crew to perdition for all I care.”

  There was a shout of laughter at that and Probert snorted. “Sounds like your molly-boy’s balls just dropped, Griffin. Let him do it, Wigram. If the ship founders, we’ll take another.”

  “Santiago’s a good ship,” Kit protested. “Unless the lubbers who were sailing her holed her when she ran aground.”

  “Well!” Wigram shook out his cuffs, and Kit saw dark stains on the lace. “Fo’c’sle Fancy to captain’s cabin in just a few short months. Promotion’s easier when you only have to fuck one man.”

  “You’d know, Admiral Wigram.” Kit showed his teeth, hoping the snarl might be taken for a grin. “Bet you never thought you’d hear yourself called that!”

  Wigram laughed, and Kit took a moment to glance at Griffin, a glance, he hoped, filled with apology and warning. Their eyes locked, and they were still staring at each other when the boom of a gun brought even the drunkards to their feet. Flames leaped up from the Santiago.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Even Kit, who had been expecting it, started, and Wigram and Probert turned, mouths open, to face the spurt of fire.

  “Goddam.” Wigram clutched his head with both hands. “Those bastards. If they’ve let my flagship catch fire…”

  Probert made no reply. He was slumping down to the sand, Griffin’s hand drawing back from the punch that had felled him. The pistol in Griffin’s hand trained on Wigram’s belly.

  “Now,” Griffin said. “Let’s talk again. Where is Jago?”

  “Here!” Someone shouted and knots of men spilled out from the shadows. Some were fighting. Others backed away from the guns. One, who could only be
Lewis from the breadth of his shoulders, was supporting Jago and helped him into the light of the fire.

  “Damn your eyes, Wigram,” Jago spat. “Damn your eyes.”

  He had never looked particularly well to Kit’s eyes, but now he was haggard. His lips were lax and scruffy with stubble, and a swelling closed his left eye. He limped right up to Wigram and brandished the stump of his right arm.

  “Give me my hook, you bastard. And my coat.”

  Wigram raised both hands, backing away. “Now, hold hard there. We put it to the vote. By the hand of most of the men present I was to be the new captain of the Garnet. That’s how it’s laid down in the articles.”

  “And I’d have abided by that if it hadn’t been for that foolishness on Grenada.” Jago lunged toward Wigram, and Lewis pulled him back. “Why couldn’t you have left ’em alone? There are other villages—unfriendly ones—where you and yours could have had your fun.”

  “But I’m the captain!” Wigram turned to his remaining supporters, many of whom had distanced themselves as soon as they saw the guns trained upon them. One sidled up to Jago and offered him the hook, which he took with a curse.

  “If I see a prize I say ‘go for it, boys.’” Wigram nodded. “And on Grenada, not a man of you hung back.”

  “What about O’Neill?” Griffin asked, his voice cold.

  “O’Neill challenged me.” Wigram shrugged. “You know as well as I do that you can’t let a man challenge the captain’s authority without some comeback.”

  Griffin snorted and glanced at Kit. “Wigram, I think it’s time for another vote. As I see it the contest is between you and Jago. I intend to recover those of my crew who wish to sail with me and our fair shares of the treasure from the Santiago. After that you can hang for all I care.”

  “Now then.” Jago gave him a grin made all the more hideous by the loss of one of his gold-capped teeth. “I’m not challenging Wigram for my captaincy. Let him take the chances for once. I’ve done my share.”

  “So.” Wigram’s smile grew brighter. “Then it’s me. And I only have one thing to see to before I take my right and proper place. Another challenge was issued—I’m sure some of you remember—and I’ll have blood for it, so help me God.”

  “But perhaps it has slipped the lad’s mind,” Longland suggested. He took a small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Yes, on the fourteenth last the challenge was issued and accepted, said duel to be carried out at a time of mutual convenience.”

  “You did what?” Griffin stared at Kit. “Why was that?”

  Kit’s attention had been divided between Griffin and the dying fire aboard the Santiago. He was just planning the accolade deserved by Jonas and Runyon when he realized that Wigram was addressing him. A shock because, as Longland suggested, he had forgotten about it.

  “A disagreement over the set of the sails,” Kit admitted, regretting that he had not given Detorres permission to shoot Wigram when they were in cover. “And yes I did accept the challenge issued by Mr. Wigram. But only as and when it would not interfere with our endeavors in regard to the Santiago.”

  “Which is in our hands,” Longland pointed out. “So I see no impediment.”

  “No more do I.” Wigram chuckled. “We’re on dry land with an even footing and seconds aplenty. So let it be here and now.” He leered at the sword sheathed at Kit’s waist. “And let it be with cutlasses.”

  “We have no time for this folly,” Griffin snapped, but Jago and Wigram shouted him down.

  “It’s a matter of honor, y’see.” Jago smiled at Kit as other men took up the call for him to fight.

  “Can’t let the honor of the Africa down,” Lewis murmured, although his broad face was creased with concern.

  “And I don’t intend to,” Kit said, removing pistols from his sash and pressing them into Protheroe’s hands then lifting his sword and hanger from his shoulders. “Look after these for me?”

  But it was Griffin who took the sheathed sword from his hand. “What were you thinking?” His face was pale under the tan, his knuckles white as his fingers closed on the sheath of Kit’s sword. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because,” Kit pitched his voice so it would carry, “you were busy planning the taking of the biggest prize in the history of piracy, and you had no time for the petty squabbles between a bully and an English naval officer out of his depth. But now the Santiago is ours, we are safe on dry land and, as Wigram said, now we have the time and opportunity to settle our differences.”

  Wigram had roared at being described as a bully, and his protests masked Griffin’s furious hiss. “Stupid boy. Do you think this will be played by any rules you know? Wigram will cheat.”

  Kit grinned, heart beating fast now. “Thank goodness for that—it means I can too.” Raising his voice, he added, “Can someone loan me a cutlass? I promise to clean it before I return it? I wouldn’t want Wigram’s guts to spoil the shine.”

  The pirates who were drunk enough to find that funny laughed, others growled with annoyance or worry depending upon who they supported. The cutlass was provided by Protheroe, who had a black eye and a cut on one cheek but otherwise seemed unharmed. He grinned as he slapped the heavy hilts of the cutlass into Kit’s hand.

  “Don’t you trust the bastard for one moment,” he muttered. “When he looks done he won’t be.”

  “No—and he tends to cut for the legs too.” Griffin scowled at Kit. “But it occurs to me that none of us know what you’re capable of Kit. You’ve seen to that. Can you kill him?”

  “I’ve been fighting for my country since I was twelve years old,” Kit said. “If I can’t, I’ll be a disgrace to the Service.” He gave Griffin a cocky grin that didn’t completely describe his feelings. Actually he was far less confident than he appeared, but at least he knew what he was facing. Hand to hand fighting in the crazy melee of boarding and battle wasn’t a new thing for him, even if a one to one duel was. He hefted the cutlass, shifting his grip on it and letting the point waver as though he found the weight of it burdensome.

  The pirates drew back, leaving a fire-lit circle of sand. Wigram was laughing with Muddiford and Longland over Probert’s bruised jaw and missing pistol but fell silent as he saw Kit step forward.

  “I’m going to carve your lights out, boy,” he shouted. “Then I’ll take your bollocks off and your ears.” He laughed again, working himself up into a rage. “You’ll be screaming before I’m done.”

  “The Brethren of the Coast have their own honor,” Kit replied. “But you, Wigram, are a rapist and a murderer and are beneath contempt. Are we going to talk until dawn?”

  The enthusiastic whoops and roars of the pirates faded as Kit concentrated on his opponent. Wigram was still talking, now larding his threats with filthy comments about Kit’s person and family, and the nature of his relationship with Griffin. It could have hurt to hear his mother described as a whore or to hear himself described as a catamite. It could have been infuriating, but Kit knew that was what Wigram wanted. So he just waited.

  Wigram laughed. “Scared? You should be,” he said, and Kit had the barest warning, a flicker of Wigram’s eyes, as the blade lashed out.

  If it had connected, it would have taken Kit’s head from his shoulders. So, Wigram had lied about wanting to maim him. That made a difference. Kit pressed forward with more confidence. Blades clashed, sending sparks flying, and Kit gritted his teeth against the strength of Wigram’s blows. They were much of a height with a similar reach. Wigram was strong, hellish strong, but was a hacker. After a few exchanges Kit knew he could defeat him—assuming his own guard didn’t waver. But there was no room for doubt. Kit wielded the cutlass the way he had been taught and watched for that one perfect moment. He hoped it would come soon.

  Sweat was in Kit’s eyes; the sand dragged at his feet. Each parry jarred his wrist. He was tiring, and Wigram knew it from the way he hammered at his blade. Griffin knew it, too. Kit caught a glimpse of Griffin’s face—drawn and
snarling—as he was driven back almost to the edge of the circle. Kit blocked another wicked cut. The blades slid and locked hilt to hilt. He and Wigram strained against each other, feet slipping in the sand. Then pain tore into Kit’s side. Kit heaved, pushing Wigram back, and stumbled away, trying to buy himself a moment in which to breathe. He pressed his hand to his side just above the right hip. It came away red. Kit knew from experience that the cut wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding profusely.

  “If we was gentlemen we’d end it there,” Wigram said, shouting over Griffin’s roar of fury. The short blade in his left hand dripped red. “But we’re not gentlemen. We’re pirates.”

  “So we are,” Kit said, his heart pounding with anger and exertion. “So we are.”

  This time he took the battle to Wigram, partly because he was angry and partly because he could still feel the spread of blood through his clothing and wanted to make an end before he weakened.

  The cutlasses were dull now, the edges nicked and scraped. More sparks greeted each exchange of blows. Wigram held his knife low, ready for another cut, and Kit stayed out of reach. Cutlass play had done him no good, so he began to fence, making the most of his point. Wigram cursed as a small flower of blood bloomed on his bicep and another on his thigh. For the first time the bo’sun’s gloating grin faltered. His blows became heavier, hammering at Kit’s guard. Then he cut high, and the one perfect moment had arrived.

  Kit leaned back under the sweep of the blade, blocked the upswing of the knife with the hilt of his cutlass, and drove his left hand, weighed with the manacle and several rounds of chain, into the middle of Wigram’s face. It was a good punch coming from the floor, and from the heart. Wigram dropped his knife and stumbled back, clutching his mangled face, blood spurting from smashed nose and broken teeth. Kit beat the cutlass out of Wigram’s free hand with the flat of his blade and placed his own point in the hollow of his throat.

  “Yield,” he snarled. “Or by God I’ll slit your weasand.”