On A Lee Shore

by Elin Gregory

  “You?” Wigram spat blood through crushed lips. “You don’t have the—”

  The stunning crash of a gun rent the air. Wigram was swept away in a mess of shattered bone and blood.

  “Dear God. It’s the Miranda!”

  Kit didn’t see who had shouted. Another gun crashed, spurting fire from the elegant shape of the ship standing off the shore. Against the bright sea, three boats were silhouetted, each filled with men.

  Kit had no time to see more. Griffin had him fast by the arm. They ran up the beach, heading for the shelter of the trees. Muskets crackled. One of Jago’s crew, running a little ahead of them threw up his arms with a shriek. Griffin and Kit sprinted the last few yards into cover then off up the hill. “Back to the Africa,” Griffin shouted. “Come on, lads. Stir your stumps.” He passed Kit his sword and cocked Probert’s pistol. “Run.”

  They ran. Pirates were scattering in all directions. Kit heard Lewis curse nearby and Protheroe laugh and reply in Welsh. Further up the hill someone bellowed an order and more shots sounded.

  “Marines,” Kit said.

  Griffin grunted. “Damn it.”

  “So it’s not just Africa who can put men ashore,” Kit said. “We’ll have to try and slip past them before it gets light.”

  There was already a sheen on the horizon that suggested dawn was not far off. Kit looked at his lover and grinned. “Wells has enough on his plate with the Garnet and Santiago. He’ll not try to follow us. Hell, he probably doesn’t even know we’re there. We’ll be south away before he can clear the northern point.”

  Griffin nodded, stumbling a little in his haste. “Is that cut bad?” he asked.

  “No,” Kit said. “Just a nasty messy slice. Saunders will bind it up for me.”

  “Good.” Griffin said no more because they were nearing the crest of the slope where the ground leveled off. There was already a battle in progress, uniformed men struggling with the fleeing pirates. Griffin pointed, and Kit followed him toward Lewis, who was beckoning urgently.

  “Quick,” Lewis said. “Kit, we must…damn, boy, that’s a lot of blood.”

  “I’m fine,” Kit said. “Have you seen Detorres? Protheroe, have you?”

  “No, I—Duw!” Protheroe darted past him to Griffin, who scowled and put one hand on Protheroe’s shoulder. The other was pressing the pistol tight to his belly low down under his coat. Blood dripped from the muzzle of the pistol.

  “Griffin?” Kit stared.

  “Musket ball, I think, back in the woods,” Griffin whispered, his teeth gritted against the pain. “Go on. I’ll be with you.”

  With that he let the pistol fall and sagged into Kit and Protheroe’s arms.

  Again everything faded. Kit could no longer hear the shouts and screams from the beach, nor the snap and whine of musket balls as they whipped through the trees. All he could hear was Griffin’s gasping breath and the shocked curses of the two Welsh pirates as they laid him down and pulled at his clothing to expose the wound.

  “Let me see,” Kit demanded. “Lewis? How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough,” Griffin growled, batting at their hands. “Get Kit back to the ship. You need a navigator. Hurry now.” He was breathing sharply between each sentence, and when Kit touched his skin, it felt cold to the touch.

  “They have Valliere,” Kit said. “We must get you back to the ship. You need Saunders.”

  “God’s teeth, Kit,” Griffin began to hitch himself up and choked off a cry.

  Lewis and Protheroe exchanged a couple of words and lifted him, getting an arm across each set of broad shoulders.

  “Come on, Kit,” Protheroe said. “He’ll be right as rain, you’ll see. Ahhh, damn it’s getting light.”

  The fast tropical dawn was flooding the plateau with cool misty light. From the trees they could hear the shouts of approaching Marines. Kit groaned and gave the two Welshmen a push. “Go,” he said. “I’ll…I’ll try to slow them down.”

  “No, Kit,” Griffin raised his head, groaning with pain. “Come with us. Don’t…Wells…don’t…”

  “Look.” Kit gripped Griffin’s shoulders. “I’m in naval uniform. I’m bloody. God’s teeth, I’ve got a manacle round my wrist. There’s a chance they will believe I was a captive. I…I’ll tell them I was on the Garnet. I…I’ll tell them I don’t know what happened to Africa. I’ll tell them anything, just go—go and…and be safe!”

  “Kit.” Griffin’s murmur was weak, his face paling still further. “Don’t…”

  Kit took a deep breath. “Please,” he begged, his hands either side of Griffin’s face. “We’re on a lee shore, likely to have our hearts broken on the rocks. This is your only chance, Griffin. I-I can’t bear the thought of what might happen if they caught you. I can’t—won’t—see you hanged.” Kit leaned in to kiss him, hard, then pushed Griffin’s clutching hands away. “Now go,” he said. “Lewis—please!”

  “God speed, cariad,” Lewis said, and the two Welshmen bore Griffin, still mumbling protests, away.

  Kit tore his attention away from the departing figures and ran for the top of the slope down to the beach. He felt cold and light-headed, and a lump building in his throat made breathing difficult for a moment. A pirate dashed past him, head down, taking glances over his shoulder. He ignored Kit so Kit ignored him. From the slope he could hear the sergeant of marines shouting orders, and he found a tree stump and crouched behind it. A moment later a ragged volley was followed by shouts and a scream. Slaughter was being done, and Kit wanted no part of it.

  “Miranda,” he bellowed. “Hold your fire!”

  The marine shouted an order, but a crash of foliage close at hand startled him, and he turned to see a musket leveled at his chest.

  “You planned this, damn your eyes,” Jago swore. He was holding the musket one handed, but his hook, firmly fixed once again to his stump, was on the trigger. A blood-soaked figure flanked him, long knife in hand. Muddiford. “One twitch and I blow your head clean off. Where’s Griffin?”

  “Hurt. A musket ball caught him.” Kit indicated where. “Lewis and Protheroe are taking him back to Africa. I said I’d try to stop them from being followed.”

  Jago snorted. “They can be followed by me. Go ahead, and no fun and games. Muddiford—tie Mr. Penrose’s hands. Better yet, use that chain.”

  Muddiford forced his way through the brush to come at Kit from the side and yanked the chain away from his wrist and behind his back. The smooth round bore of the musket directed at Kit’s chest did not waver.

  “He’s done,” Muddiford said. Kit tested the strength of the chain and twisted his hand to feel the piece of rope attaching it to his wrist. Maybe a foot of play—Muddiford had rushed the job.

  “Then come along,” Jago said as he gave Kit a push. The fighting was more sporadic now—just the occasional shot, a distant ring of swordplay, the hoarse shrieks of a wounded man. Kit kept an eye open and hurried with Jago and Muddiford at his heels. “The Africa will be on her way by now,” he murmured. “They were raising the anchor when I left her to follow Griffin. He might not even reach her alive.”

  “I hope for your sake he does,” Jago said. “Because if he dies, I’m nailing your head to my mast for the gulls.”

  “Funny.” Kit sighed. “If you cared that much for the man, why did you maroon him?”

  “Because Wigram and the others were going to kill him,” Jago said. “And because I’m a pirate, and what is the point of being a pirate if you don’t act like one.”

  “Griffin is a pirate,” Kit pointed out. “But he is a man of honor.”

  Jago snorted. “That’s what you think? So young, so stupid. Griffin is as much a liar as—”

  Muddiford grunted, clutching his chest, and Kit flung himself flat as the rattle of musket fire sounded and balls snipped through the foliage around them.

  “Hold hard there,” a voice bellowed. “Surrender or we’ll shoot you all.”

  “Damn your eyes,” Jago howled. He grabbed the
chain yanking Kit to his feet. “I have one of your own here—a lieutenant no less. And if you shoot again I’ll put my blade through his throat.”

  It wasn’t Jago’s knife that lodged against Kit’s Adam’s apple but the point of his hook. Kit remembered O’Neill and the damp glisten of his ruined throat and stilled with his head drawn back against Jago’s shoulder.

  “I want to speak to him.” The voice of the officer was peremptory. “You, sir. The captive. Your name and rank if you please.”

  “Go on,” Jago hissed. “And tell him who your godfather is too.”

  “Lieutenant Christopher Penrose, sir,” Kit called. “Most lately attached to the Navy Office as an assistant to Sir George Wilberforce. We were separated when our ship was attacked by pirates.”

  “Penrose!” There was a short paused, filled with the sound of men moving closer and the cocking of muskets. “Penrose the pirate, eh? We’ve been keeping an eye open for you.”

  “Hardly a pirate, sir,” Kit protested. “And for the moment I’m acting as a buffer between your bullets and my captor. It’s an uncomfortable position to be in.”

  “Come on, lads,” Jago shouted. “You have to let me go. His godfather is some old bastard with a red flag to his name. Admiral something or other. If you let him be killed, you’ll be in deep trouble. Let us go and I’ll leave him somewhere for you to find.”

  “Leave him? Take him, I don’t care.” The unseen man laughed. “You’re my quarry, La Griffe. Kill him and it will just make it easier for me to hang you. We’re already stringing up your crew on the beach. You I’ll take back to St. Kitts for the gibbet.”

  Jago shifted uneasily. “That’s no kind of deal to offer a man,” he said.

  “It’s all you’re getting. I don’t negotiate with pirates.”

  Jago cursed and backed up through the brush, dragging Kit along with him. “I’d gut you now,” Jago whispered, “but you’re still useful. You bide quiet now.”

  Quiet was impossible as they pushed through the prickly bushes, their feet catching in the dead undergrowth, but Kit did not speak, trusting to luck and Jago’s determination to keep at least the thickness of one body between him and the following marines.

  “Which way to the Africa?” Jago muttered. “Just nod your head.”

  “And spike myself on your hook?” Kit asked. “I don’t think that would suit either of us.”

  Jago grunted and moved the hook away, the sharp point hovering inches from Kit’s face. “Where?” he asked.

  Kit turned his head to look. “There,” he nodded. “See the tree with the dead branch. We came out under it. There’s a path down to a steep anchorage. Not much beach.”

  “I know it,” Jago said, hook still poised.

  The shot was so close as to be deafening. Kit jerked away, but the point of the hook caught him, ripping cross his cheek, and he bit off a cry as Jago’s dead weight dragged him down. Blood filled his eyes and mouth, and he shouted again as the hook tore loose.

  Sobbing with fright, Davy rolled Jago’s inert body off Kit and helped him to turn over. “Lieutenant Penrose, sir,” he gasped. “Are you all right? Oh sir!”

  Kit groaned, wiping the blood from his eyes and spitting out what had run into his mouth. “I don’t think it’s too bad,” he said, though he could feel his head swimming with the pain of it. “Why aren’t you with Griffin? Why aren’t you running?”

  “They put him in the boat, sir,” Davy whispered. “And Lewis told me to come find you. Oh sir, I thought Jago would gut you for sure.”

  “Thank you for shooting him, then.”

  “Oh, that wasn’t me.” Davy nodded to his left and Kit turned his head, the movement wrenching a groan from his lips. Detorres, drenched with blood, was swaying in the arms of Lopez and a bemused-looking English sailor.

  “He done the shooting, sir,” Davy said, “Snatched the gun right out of that man’s hands as the officer tried to arrest us.”

  The officer was approaching, sword in hand. “On your feet,” he snapped. “We’ll get the surgeon to check your injuries once we’re back on the ship, but make no mistake, you’re all under arrest for the crime of piracy, and if you attempt to escape, we’ll save the hangman the cost of a rope.”

  Kit stared at him—the voice was familiar. “James?” he said. “Lieutenant James Goodrich, if I’m not mistaken.”

  The man started at him. “Kit? So you are the Penrose we’ve been looking for. I’d hoped not. I couldn’t believe that you would turn pirate.”

  “No more he did,” Davy protested. “No more than Mr. Detorres there, or Mr. Runyon. S’not our fault if we got taken off our ships, is it?”

  Goodrich frowned and gestured with his sword blade. “That’s for the courts to decide. But a friendly word of warning—treat our captain with respect. He has a hatred for pirates and will feel no particular compunction in stringing you up forthwith.”

  Detorres snorted but fell silent at Kit’s gesture. Kit had to accept Davy’s help to stand. The pain in his face eclipsed that of the cut on his side, and his right eye was watering. With his arm across Davy’s shoulders, he followed Goodrich down the slope through the trees and out onto a sunlit beach scattered with bodies. The living were sitting in a miserable cluster, some still too drunk to fully understand what had happened, others jeering as each new prisoner was added to the group. Among the latter was Probert. He spat when he saw Kit.

  “Damn you, Penrose, I always said you’d bring us to ruin.”

  Longland leaned to see past him. “Well, Probert, at least if they hang us alphabetically you’ll get to see him die first.”

  There was a growl of agreement from the other more sober prisoners, and Goodrich scowled. “I suspect that if I put you in with them you won’t reach St. Kitts alive.”

  “We should not be prisoners at all,” Detorres said.

  Goodrich shrugged and directed his men to guard Kit and his companions a little distance away.

  There they were found by Wells a few moments later. He came storming out of the undergrowth above the beach, bellowing orders and gesturing toward the Miranda, who was drifting, sails flapping, half a mile offshore.

  “Get those men aboard,” he shouted. “Matthews, take a party to dispose of the carrion and see how seaworthy these ships are. Goodrich, why have you kept those men separate?”

  “British naval officer, sir,” Goodrich explained, “and a Spanish captain and two forced men. I feared for their safety, sir.”

  “Safety, my arse.” Wells strode across the bloodied sand to glare down at Kit. “Hah. I hoped it might be you. Goodrich, put Penrose in irons. The others are of no concern. Get them all into a long boat and aboard Miranda. You have fifteen minutes.”

  A ridiculous amount of time for the work that needed to be done. Once Wells had turned away, Kit caught Goodrich’s eye, and they exchanged knowing and sympathetic glances until Goodrich remembered that Kit was no longer a fellow officer. Then he flushed and turned away, issuing orders in a tense and unhappy bark.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  On board Miranda they were hustled below. Again Goodrich separated Kit and Detorres plus their helpers from the main bunch of prisoners.

  “You can use the purser’s cabin,” Goodrich said. “He died of fever a month ago, but it wasn’t the catching sort. There will be a man on the door.” He looked them all over. “I caution you again.” He spared a particular glance for Detorres. “Keep a civil tongue in your head and don’t speak back to the captain. He is a brisk man in a tearing hurry and has no patience for those who try to waste his time. He’s inclined to hang first and consider later, if you know what I mean.”

  “Thank you, James,” Kit said.

  Goodrich nodded, his cheeks red under his tan. “If it means anything, I’m sorry to see you brought to this, Kit. I never believed what they said at the Malvern trial but Wells—Wells is…”

  “I know exactly what Wells is,” Kit said. “Thank you, James.”

&n
bsp; Goodrich fled, obviously relieved, and Kit was finally able to let out the gasp of pain he had been holding onto and let Davy guide him to sit leaning against the curve of the bulkhead. Detorres sat on the narrow cot and looked around the small room. Lopez and Davy between them took up almost all the remaining space. “Home from home,” he said. “And this is how your officers live? I am impressed.”

  He didn’t sound impressed, and Kit snorted with laughter then grunted as his wounds pulled.

  “Let me help you, sir,” Davy said.

  “I thought we’d dropped the sirs, Davy,” Kit reminded him as Davy helped him off with his waistcoat.

  “Seems better in present company, sir,” Davy said. “Got to remind ’em that we’re not just any old sailors but, with your permission, an officer and his—I dunno—valet?”

  Kit chuckled. “Valet is as good a description as any, Davy. I’m not sure that Wells will take notice of it. How are you, Detorres? Are you much hurt?”

  “Most of this is Curro’s blood. He was a good man,” Detorres said with a grimace. “My own hurts are small. On my own ship I would say I would survive. Here—I am not so sure.”

  “The ship’s surgeon will be seeing to the crew first, pirates later,” Kit pointed out. “But he will come. Honor demands it.”

  “Such strange notions of honor you English have,” Detorres complained.

  It wasn’t until the Miranda was under way that the surgeon came to find them. He too was an old acquaintance, though it was a while before he showed any recognition of Kit. First he examined Detorres and treated the cut on his shoulder and a graze from a musket ball on his leg that had left an oozing furrow across the muscle.

  “You were lucky,” he said. “Another inch or two and it would have smashed your shin bone. No, there’s not much I can do other than ask you to keep it clean. You two—are you hurt?”

  Davy was unblemished though smeared with Kit’s blood. Santos had a splinter removed, and the doctor shook his head over a swollen wrist. “I’ll send my orderly up to strap it. Now you—come and stand under the light.”