On A Lee Shore

by Elin Gregory

  “Not lucky,” Kit shook his head. “That shot was laid by a major of artillery, a gentleman, and a mathematician.” He looked to the south where Africa was dwindling to a sunlit spot of white against the horizon. “Leave him be, James. He’ll not trouble us again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Miranda limped back to the careening bay with every possible hand pressed into service. Even the pirates were dragged up onto the deck and put to work, much though some of them complained. Others were eager to be seen to be cooperative and loud in their claims to have been forced into piracy. Some of them may even have been telling the truth. Kit didn’t know—he didn’t care.

  Once the excitement had ebbed away again, all the pain and uncertainty rushed back. He was only now beginning to acknowledge that he would never see Griffin again. That their peculiar relationship, engendered, he assumed, from shared interest and proximity, was over. That should not have hurt him, but it did. As soon as it was permissible he retreated to the infirmary to have his wounds properly treated and thence to the little cabin that served as his and Davy’s prison. Now that the crew of Miranda was reduced there was room to quarter Detorres and Lopez separately.

  Kit lay on the floor in the blanket provided, put his head on his arm, and tried to sleep. Sleep eased into fever dreams and from there into sickness. He was conscious when the doctor returned to treat his wounds again and was aware of the pain, protesting loudly, when the man cut away the loose part of his torn ear and again when the iron was applied to cleanse it.

  “Not so pretty now, Kit?” he asked himself. “Now you really look like a pirate.” He didn’t care about that either.

  It took three days to get back to the careening beach on Carriacou and the best part of a week to careen and refloat Garnet. Santiago proved easier to recover, and Goodrich was delighted with what they found in her hold.

  “Our fortunes have been made, Kit,” he said. “The two ships alone are worth a tidy sum, but the treasure, now that’s something different.”

  “We won’t see a pistole of it,” Kit warned him. “I’m still under suspicion, and Wells was captain at the time you came across Santiago. You might get acknowledgement, but it’s just so much money that it clouds men’s sense of fair play.”

  Goodrich pooh-poohed his pessimism and indeed he did have a point. Runyon had not only survived but had taken possession of the Santiago in the name of his Britannic Majesty, claiming that he had done so on the orders of Mr. Penrose. Goodrich and the other officers were treating him as an equal and ignoring the claims of a few of the pirates that Kit was as blackhearted as any of them.

  Kit did his part, helping where he could, and agreed to sail the repaired and refloated Garnet. With depleted crews they had no choice but to press the pirates into service on both Garnet and Santiago. That Davy was allowed to accompany him was a relief, but Kit had strong suspicions that the marines put in charge of supervising the prisoners who sailed the ship had orders to keep an eye on him and shoot him stone dead if he sailed out of sight of Miranda and Santiago. They nursed the three ships north through the islands, and while a French snow came to look at them and a sloop that the watchmen swore was flying the Joli Rouge shadowed them for half a day, they met no opposition.

  “Just imagine what Stockley might have done,” Davy said. “He would have outgunned anything in the Leewards.”

  “So it’s as well Detorres shot him down,” Kit said. “Davy, I think we need to shorten sail. I don’t like the look of the sky.”

  The massing clouds proved to herald another short, nasty storm, and Goodrich abandoned his plans to sail the damaged Miranda and her prizes to St. Kitts. Instead they took refuge on Montserrat, dropping anchor at Plymouth in the nick of time.

  They arrived under a black sky and drenched with pouring rain. No sooner had Kit set foot on the dock than he was back in irons.

  “A mere formality.” Major Cochran, as representative of the island council, oversaw the application of the manacles to the prisoners, but greeted Kit with a cheerful smile. “I don’t really think that you’ll murder us all in our beds, Penrose, but you know what civilians are like. And the womenfolk are even worse.”

  By then Kit was so tired and dispirited that he merely nodded, accepting it as his due. “I understand,” he said, “and have no objection at all as long as I get a bed too.”

  “Hah,” Major Cochran grinned at him. “I think we can manage that. In fact I’d be pleased to billet you myself until the hearing, of course.”

  “Not a court martial?” Kit asked.

  “Lord no, you’re supposed to be a pirate. That means your case will be heard under civil law. Come, I’ll have a room prepared, and while you wait I have some particularly fine Geneva to keep the cold out.”

  Kit accepted Cochran’s hospitality with good grace, drank the Hypatia’s Geneva, and was assured that he would not have long to wait before the hearing. But before the day was out he had begun to sweat and shiver. Cochran called the island’s sole medical man, who bled Kit profusely then announced that he was suffering from a simple fever brought on by some slight infection in the wound on his side and not from yellow jack, as Cochran had feared. He took a month to recover, by which time the initial ardor to see his blood had been appeased by the trial and hanging of several of the more notorious pirates. Davy kept him apprised of what had happened, bursting into his room with a whoop of relief on the day when his own story about being a forced man was accepted.

  “You’ll never guess who came to back us up, Kit,” he said as he helped him to sit up in bed.

  “Queen Anne?” Kit asked. “The Tsar of all the Russias?”

  “Sir George!” Davy said. “He’s outside—sent me ahead to see if you were well enough to see him.”

  “Good grief,” said Sir George as he settled in a chair at Kit’s bedside. “I did not expect you to be quite so—so yellow. I must say you looked better last time I saw you.”

  “Whereas you, sir, are in the pink of health,” Kit said with a smile.

  “You know Kit, I rather think the Caribbean agrees with me,” Sir George said with a laugh. “Now, see, I have brought you some limes and rum and a bag of sugar. You have an important meeting in a few days, and Davy tells me that they are the very best things to keep a man fighting fit.”

  Rum punch and good company certainly helped, and by the time the day of the hearing dawned Kit was feeling very much better. Dressed in borrowed uniform and polished to perfection, Kit accompanied his representative, Captain Whitney of HMS Rose, to the home of William Frye, currently the senior official of the council of Monserrat.

  Captain Whitney was a large, good-natured, slightly lazy man, and Kit couldn’t imagine him being any threat to the pirates. Griffin would—would have—run rings around him. Possibly this is why the powers had felt it necessary to send Wells and the Miranda to the Leeward Isles. But Whitney was a good friend to Kit and had arranged for him to borrow everything he needed and even offered to find him a nice clean girl to share his bed. Kit appreciated his care and refused the latter offer, claiming, untruthfully, that in his bed she wouldn’t stay clean for long and he might take him up on the offer once the unfortunate affliction had passed. Whitney laughed sympathetically and let him be, much to Kit’s relief.

  “Cheer up, Kit,” Whitney said as they stepped under the shady eaves of Frye’s house. “It may never happen. Hats off, now.”

  Mr. Frye was a short, vigorous man of Irish descent and had an apparent impatience with formality. He opened proceedings with a short declaration of his right to call the meeting and demand the truth from all who attended, then ordered Kit front and center and requested a full account of his actions. This was a far less formal arraignment than Kit had been expecting, but he remained at attention and replied as though facing all the admirals, Red, White, and Blue, rear or otherwise.

  When he had finished the man nodded. “Thought as much,” he said. “So the only actual act of piracy was to remov
e the Santiago from the possession of the Spaniards and transfer her to His Sovereign Majesty. Bearing in mind her cargo, I think that charge may be waived. We have taken statements from witnesses that affirm that your conduct has been beyond reproach in other respects. Sir George Wilberforce for instance. Captain Whitney took a statement of Captain Tolbert of the Eugenie and his wife. Davy Forrest, who was forced along with you. Able Seaman Runyon, Lieutenant James Goodrich. They have all given you a glowing character reference and recommend you to the mercy of this court.”

  He paused as though waiting for Kit to say something, but Kit held his peace. Frye had an expectant air about him as though there was more to come.

  Frye nodded and continued. “So, there is one last charge to answer. A prisoner by name of Probert asserted that your relationship with the captain of the sloop Africa was of a disgusting and unnatural nature. I’m sure I need say no more. But in view of the seriousness of that accusation I must ask if this is true?”

  Kit’s heart had fallen. There before him on the table lay the Bible to show this meeting was under the eye of the Almighty and the sword to show that the secular authorities approved as well. Could he lie and keep his countenance? Dare he admit to what had happened and throw himself even further on the mercy of the court. His career was finished anyway. He would never see Griffin again. Why not salvage what he could from the ruins?

  No.

  No lying. Kit stepped up to the table, lay his hand on the bright blade of the sword, and met Frye’s eye with a smile. “While in Captain Griffins company,” he said, “I did nothing of which I feel ashamed nor anything that reflects badly upon my honor. My only regret is the aftermath of the ruse by which we took the Santiago—that cost far more lives than was necessary, and I feel those to be upon my conscience.”

  The governor pursed his lips and glanced down at the blade of the sword. “I see,” he said. “Well, I think that’s a fair enough answer. I see no reason to keep Lieutenant Penrose on his feet any longer. Gentlemen, do you concur?”

  There was a murmur of agreement and that appeared to be that.

  Outside again Kit eased the tightness to the neckcloth he had borrowed. “So what happens now?”

  Whitney shrugged. “I believe that passage back to England will be arranged for you if you want it. After that your guess is as good as mine. Have you considered settling out here? There’s a good living to be made for a man with a master’s ticket. You’d just need the right kind of backers.”

  “And where would I get those?” Kit asked.

  Whitney nodded to Frye’s house. “You have impressed them. There aren’t many men who can sail into the middle of a Spanish treasure fleet and sail out again with a fortune in silver. Repeat that trick and you’d be the darling of everyone from Trinidad to Jamaica.”

  “For that they really needed Captain Griffin—a man whose loyalty they discarded.” Kit shook his head. “I will take the passage home as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  As Kit climbed the steps to the entrance of the Navy Office, a stinking east wind dashed pellets of ice into his face. He cursed, ducked his head, and hurried into the shelter of the building. He was expected, but knew he would have to wait so wasted no time to leaving his name with the clerk on duty and went up to take his place on the bench in the waiting room. No Wells this time to loom over him and sneer at him. A couple of Letter boys trotted past, their uniforms stiff and shiny with newness, and stared at the scarring on his face, his ragged ear.

  The wound had healed cleanly, and Kit knew that it would soon calm down. It was red and raw looking and made his face appear to be lopsided. His mother would have been horrified, but Kit was relieved. On his way here nobody had looked at him more than twice.

  If my face was my fortune, now I am the veriest beggar.

  It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought because that was what he was going to do—beg for a ship—any ship. Even a coastal cutter. Anything that would keep him employed and food in his belly.

  He waited all morning and into the afternoon. By four o’clock he was feeling sick and faint from lack of food but knew he didn’t dare leave to get something to eat. The gods have a nasty sense of humor. He dozed a little and so was startled awake when a clerk gave his shoulder a gentle shake. The man’s face was impassive, but his eyes were kind.

  “Mr. Penrose,” he said. “Sir William will see you now.”

  The office hadn’t changed and neither had Sir William, other than perhaps being a little more portly and a little more purple in the nose.

  “Ah there you are, Kit,” Sir William said. “Come, sit. Have you waited long? I’m sorry, there’s a crisis brewing and the place is in uproar. Samuels, the tray if you please.”

  This time Kit didn’t disdain the port wine and was grateful for the plate of small biscuits. Sir William nodded.

  “You look ill,” he said. “So, I read your report. What did you leave out?”

  “Fever,” Kit said. “It was a mild dose, but on top of some slight infection in my wounds it made for an interesting autumn. Then I had to wait for a ship that could take me.”

  “I’d say you are lucky to be here at all. Can you hear on your right?”

  Kit nodded. “A flesh wound only. It aches in the cold.”

  “So—my godson the pirate.” Sir William drew a quill through his fingers. “You were exonerated on all charges. I’ve seen the letters from Montserrat. And you brought back some interesting intelligence about the Spanish.”

  “I’d like to know how Griffin knew about the new assembly point for the treasure fleet before we did,” Kit said. “He said he had contacts. But whether they were in the Leeward Isles or closer to home I couldn’t discover. It occurs to me that since he had put Probert ashore in the Cape Verdes ready to get aboard Hypatia, he may well have got his information on this side of the Atlantic.”

  Sir William sniffed. “Intelligence is a dirty business, Kit. But something all governments need. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, but they have been celebrating in the admirals’ mess over the Santiago. I am—um—sorry about the prize money. I’ve done what I can for you, but it’s not your proper share. Enough to live on for a while.”

  Kit nodded. “I’d hoped to get a berth,” he said. “If there’s war…”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Sir William promised. “But for now I suggest you look about you for something else. Where will you go?”

  There was a finality in Sir William’s voice that Kit couldn’t ignore. He smiled, trying not to show how crushed he felt. “Home, of course. It will be good to see Cornwall again. The house is under lease, but the harbor cottage is still empty. I joked once that I might settle down there and buy a crabber. There’s more than one way of making a living from the sea.”

  “Then I will visit in the spring,” Sir William promised. “You do know that you will always be welcome in my home, Kit? Never doubt that.”

  Kit stood, sensing the interview was over. He offered his hand, and Sir William took it in both of his wrinkled, hairy knuckled paws.

  “I’ll be honored to visit,” Kit said. “I’ll bring you a crab.”

  * * *

  When all was said and done, Kit wasn’t too badly off. The prize money from Santiago and Garnet was in no way commensurate to his rank. It had been explained to him that as he had been traveling as a private citizen rather than in any naval capacity so the payment was merely an honorarium. But it was still a tidy sum, and Kit had savings put aside. Taken along with his cut of the rent of the land and the family home, he could live quietly and comfortably in the little house he had once mentioned to Davy.

  He reached Helston on a chilly afternoon in late January having taken two weeks to travel the long weary miles from London. His goods and chattels, such as they were, were deposited outside the Corn Exchange, and Kit paid a child a farthing to mind them while he negotiated the hire of a farm cart for the last two miles of his journey. He was tempted to pay for a night’s
accommodation in one of the inns and enjoy some hot food and comfort, but Kit knew that it would be worse if he put off his arrival at his new home any longer.

  Built from the local stone and still snugly thatched, the little two-roomed dwelling stood at the top of a slipway on the narrow cove that had once served the Penrose family. A stone quay streaked with red from the rusting iron rings cemented into its surface offered a secure dock for larger boats. There had been a mine of some kind, Kit had been told, long abandoned, and the cottage had once served as an office for the master of the tiny harbor as well as his home. Behind it there was a patch of ground, now thick with dried out nettle stalks, with the ruins of hen coops and pigs’ cots. Isolated but sheltered, it suited Kit’s mood.

  That first afternoon he set to work to make it habitable—raking out a crow’s nest from the chimney, lighting a fire on the hearth, finding a place to hang his hammock. He had bought bread and cheese in Helston, and there was clean water in the brook that ran down fifty paces from the house. He would manage. The Navy trained its young officers well, trained them to face what came and to make the best of every situation. But as the sun sank, leaving the cottage lit only by the embers of Kit’s fire, it was hard to be cheerful. For lack of other occupation—he had stupidly forgotten to buy candles—Kit put himself to bed with the intention of making a list of all the things he needed to turn the bare shell into a proper home. Instead, he lay listening to the sea on the rocks and the wind rattling the shutters and tried not to wish, instead, for the creak of rigging and the voices of the men on watch.

  One particular voice—calm or raging, slurred with drink or rough with passion—he refused to remember. Remembering made the constant ache of loss flare up in a consuming blaze of grief.

  The following morning he was better able to take stock of his new home. Hoofprints frozen into the mud near the brook and signs of a boat having been drawn up the slipway seemed recent. Kit scowled at them and made a mental note to obtain some kind of weapons.