'Deck,' Jean yelled behind him. 'Get on deck.'
Kit inhaled, scrambled up the ladder, checked as he emerged into the comparative light to see a dozen soldiers clad in breastplates and morions, and armed with muskets, still forming their line, having been dragged from below by the alarmed shout of the watch.
The muskets were levelled. Kit dropped to his knees, and a wave of heat seemed to shroud him, while a cloud of black smoke rose above the line of glinting morions. Someone stepped on Kit's back. No doubt it was Jean. Then there were others, scrambling by, howling with joy as they poured at the soldiers, who desperately dragged their swords from their scabbards as the matelots shrieked at them.
Kit got up, slowly. He was suddenly exhausted, and the blood-lust had gone. So had the exhilaration. Because the battle was over. He wondered how long it had lasted. A matter of seconds. The soldiers lay scattered; helmets rolled in the scuppers, swords and muskets littered the deck like the remains of a hideous feast.
And now the slaughter began. The crew, cowering in the hatchways and forward of the masts, wished only to surrender. To Portuguese Bart and his boucaniers.
The captain was borne to the gunwale, held in a dozen searching hands, fighting and begging for mercy. He was swung to and fro and launched into the air, to fall into the water with a tremendous splash. And as yet the sea was calm, and silent. He went deep and came up, shouting curses. But one of the matelots knew what was missing, and dragged a soldier's corpse to the gangway; the bloody flesh was rolled out, to fall beside the captain. Soon the boucaniers were pushing all the corpses overboard, while others seized the remaining members of the crew, and threw them, screaming and howling, after the dead.
Whom they were about to join. For the blood had spread across the sea, and the ever-present dark fins were creeping towards the ship. Now the living shrieked, in pain and in terror, and the water thrashed and seethed with horrible violence, and the night became hideous with sound.
Yet worse was in store. For lurking in the recesses of the after sleeping cabin the boucaniers had found a priest. With yells of joy they dragged the black-gowned figure on deck, into the glare of the lanterns others had lit, and threw him headlong into the blood and the slime that covered the deck, to roll on his back, arm and legs feebly kicking. Kit, still standing by the companion-way where first he had fallen, stared at him in horror, his mind a jungle of conflicting emotions. From the safety of the ridge behind which he and Jean had hid, he had watched the black-robed man thrusting his cross into the face of Grandmama, had understood what had transpired there, had watched her kiss the piece of wood. And afterwards had watched her pulled high to dangle from that beam. For how many tortured years would that scene haunt his memory?
And here was one of those same Dominicans. But here, too, was a man of age and dignity, grey-haired and restrained, even as he put his hand down to push himself into a sitting position, and then raised the hand to gaze at the red muck which clung to his fingers.
'A priest,' Jean breathed, his eyes alight with hate. For he too had watched the priest in Tortuga. And the woman who had been hoisted first had been his own mother.
'Aye,' Bart said, standing before the Spaniard. 'One of the blood-suckers.'
'Let's have him to the sharks,' someone shouted.
'Aye, let's hear him scream.'
'You don't want to be hasty,' Bart said, his mouth spreading in a terrible grin. 'He's a man of God. He'll give you a curse as he goes. He'll send you to eternal damnation.'
There was a yell of derision.
The Dominican was sitting up, staring at his captors with wide eyes, his right hand fumbling for the crucifix at his neck.
'He's a man of chastity, too,' Bart said. 'I'll wager he hasn't used his tool to do more than pee in twenty years, unless it's been to bugger some poor boy.'
There was another shriek, lust now entering the hatred as they understood their leader's meaning. They descended on the helpless man like a swarm of locusts, and he sobbed in pure terror; no doubt he even understood the bastard French spoken by the boucaniers.
Kit forced himself to move. The breeze was still gentle, and yet the ship seemed to be swaying and tossing, revolving around his head as he staggered forward. Bart looked up.
'Here's our hero,' he bellowed. 'Here's the devil's spawn himself, lads. We must give him the pleasure.'
The priest was below him, his habit pulled around his shoulders, his legs twitching, his thighs pitifully white, his penis shrinking as if it would defend itself.
'Use my knife, Kit, boy,' someone offered, and a sharp blade was pressed into his left hand.
The priest stared at him; he no longer wept, but his lips moved, as if in prayer, or perhaps in entreaty.
'Come on, Kit,' someone howled in his ear.
He pushed the man aside, reached into his belt, pulled out his still unfired pistol.
'Hey,' Bart yelled.
But the pistol was already levelled; at this range he could not miss. There was a flash and a bang, and he was momentarily blinded by the puff of smoke. The limbs at his feet had ceased their twitching.
The boucaniers stared at him.
'Now why did you do that?' Jean demanded. 'You saw your grandmother hang. 'Twas after a priest had finished with her.'
'And now I have avenged her,' Kit said. 'Like a man. Not an animal.' He thrust the pistol back into his belt, dropped the knife to the deck, and faced them.
But there was more bewilderment than hostility in their gazes, and Bart shrugged. 'So you're not a lad for sport, Kit Hilton. You've the gut of a fighting man, spite all. Now let's get this ship turned. We're for Port Royal. And Henry Morgan.' He slapped Kit on the shoulder. 'He'll teach you what you're at, lad.'
Jean stood beside him on the foredeck as the anchor plunged into the translucent green water. 'By Christ,' he said. 'But there is a sight.'
They had thought the harbour at Tortuga the most sheltered in the world. But here was something beyond their wildest imaginings. North of them lay Jamaica, a smaller version of Hispaniola, mountains reaching up towards the sky like rows of gigantic teeth, blotting out the wind, while to the west, protruding from the shore, there curved a long, low spit of land, a natural breakwater which all but encircled the bay in which they lay. The spit itself was chiefly denoted by the row of palm trees which lined it, and which had given it a name, the Palisades, but at the end it widened into a peninsula, and here was the town. A strange town, hardly more substantial to look at than the settlement in Tortuga, with tumbledown shacks and a cluster of tents and only one or two real buildings—but dominated by a church, whose square tower rose above the surrounding debris like a watch-dog.
And unlike Tortuga, even seen from the deck of a ship, this place teemed. It gave off an enormous hubbub, and it gave off an enormous effluvium as well; the faint westerly wind carried the stench of rum and sweat, sewage and perfume, across the huge expanse of water which was the harbour. Although perhaps much of the smell, and the noise, too, came from the ships. Not one of the boucaniers had ever seen so many ships in one place at the same time. Below the clear green water the bottom was obscured by anchors and trailing lengths of warp and chain. There were little rowing boats and half-decked sloops, trim, fast brigs and two-masted schooners, and more than a few big three-masters, dominated by two galleons, with twenty guns in a broadside and culverins peering forward and aft, capable of throwing a twelve-pound ball upwards of a mile with some accuracy. They presented a general air of neglect and even decay, with paint peeling from their topsides, with shattered bowsprits and tarnished giltwork, with sails carelessly furled and revealing many a rent, with long strands of worm-filled weed trailing away from their bottoms. But all possessed at
least an anchor watch, and boats plied ceaselessly to and fro.
' 'Tis like a fleet of war,' Bart whispered. 'Preparing for an armada.'
'They'd not survive their first gale of wind,' Kit said contemptuously.
'But the st
orm season is over,' Jean pointed out. 'Why, it is all but Christmas.'
'I wonder what we must do,' Bart whispered, half to himself, 'to announce our arrival. Port Royal is but the seaport. There is another place somewhere on the mainland itself, where the Governor resides.'
'Spanish Town,' Kit said. 'I have heard of it.'
'It must be over there.' Jean pointed at the north-eastern end of the bay, where the roofs of houses could just be seen. 'But it seems we have to worry less about visiting them than having them visit us.'
They looked after his finger. A barge came towards them from the mainland shore. It was propelled by twelve oars a side, each manned by a half-naked, sweating Negro. Amidships and forward were a guard of a dozen soldiers, wearing long, red coats and wide, flat hats, and armed with pikes and swords. And in the stern were two gentlemen, from their dress; above their heads a gigantic Cross of St George floated in the breeze.
'You'll gather, lads,' Bart bellowed. ' 'Tis being visited by the authorities, we are.'
The boucaniers formed two lines on deck. They were still sufficiently elated by their victory of two days before to obey their leader without question. And they looked more like men, now. Most had shaved; Kit and Jean indeed had removed all the hair from their faces, but many of their companions had retained at least moustaches. And they wore velvet breeches and cambric shirts. One or two sported coats and one hardy soul even insisted on wearing a breastplate, despite the heat. Their heads were bare, the occasional one bound up in a brightly coloured bandanna; their feet were also bare. But they had armed themselves well, and no one could possibly mistake them for anything less than fighting men.
Nor were the two visitors likely to make any mistakes in their judgements. First in the gangway was a small man, with narrow features, a perpetual frown to suggest that he was shortsighted, but none the less with piercing, inquisitive eyes. He did not uncover as he gained the deck, but instead stared aft and then up at the rigging, seeking a flag and finding none. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, blue with a gold trim, and his coat was also dark blue, edged with gold lace. His breeches were white buckskin, which made a startling contrast. His stockings were also white, and his shoes black leather. But most amazing of all, he was unarmed and carried only a cane similar to the one Kit remembered in the possession of Philip Warner.
'By God,' he remarked. 'As villainous a collection as even I have ever seen. My name is Thomas Modyford, and I am His Majesty's Governor of Jamaica. Who is master of this ship?'
Bart stepped forward, looking unusually nervous. 'I have that privilege, sir.'
'A boucanier,' Modyford said, in tones of contempt.
'As are my followers, monsieur.'
And whence came you by this ship?' The question was asked by the second man, who now appeared at the top of the ladder. He was altogether bigger than his companion, although not tall, heavy-set, with powerful shoulders and wide thighs, suggesting an enormous physical strength. His face was round, with full cheeks and a big chin, decorated by a carefully trimmed wisp of brown beard, as his moustache was also carefully combed and curled. The marks of the dandy extended to his clothes; his coat was of gold-coloured cloth, and open, to show the lace in his shirt front, and his red breeches vanished into cavalier boots which clumped on the deck. His sword was a Spanish rapier, hanging from a wide, crimson velvet baldric, and he wore a leather belt at his waist, ostensibly to carry two pistols, but more, Kit thought, to pull in his belly. He sported a diamond ring on each of the fingers of his left hand, and smelt of pomade. He might easily have been mistaken for a fop. But there was a habit of command in his voice, and his brown eyes, disarmingly mild, flickered from right to left with total certainty as he established the capabilities of the ship.
'We took her, monsieur,' Bart said. 'Off the coast of Hispaniola. Not two days gone.'
'Took her, by God,' Modyford said. 'With this band of butchers?'
Bart grinned. 'It was butchery we needed, Your Excellency.' 'You've a cabin?' asked the big man.
Bart indicated the companion-way. Modyford stepped past the waiting men, but his companion checked before Kit, frowning. 'I know your face, boy,' he said. 'Have you sailed with me before?'
Kit's heart started to pound. The voice had a Welsh lilt to it.
'No, sir,' he said. 'Perhaps you knew my father. My name is Christopher Hilton.' 'Tony Hilton's boy?' 'His grandson, sir.'
'Then you're a rascal, by Christ. I've known no greater scoundrel than Tony Hilton, and I'm no stranger to villainy.'
Kit felt his cheeks burn. But mainly with anger. His name, and Susan's memory, were his only worthwhile possessions. 'You'll acknowledge he was also a man of courage and ability, sir.'
'What, Tony Hilton?'
'Or must I make you,' Kit shouted, his hand dropping to his sword hilt.
'Draw on your betters, would you?' Modyford cried. 'Kit, be careful,' Jean begged.
But the big man laughed. 'Tony Hilton's grandson, by Christ. You've the manner more than the appearance. When first I came to these accursed islands I sailed with Tony Hilton. Aye, he had courage, and ability, and he was my friend. As will you be. Give me your hand, boy. My name is Henry Morgan.'
Kit had his fingers crushed.
'Christopher Hilton.' Modyford was frowning. 'You're from Tortuga?'
'Some time ago, sir,' Kit said.
'Aye. Your name was mentioned to me but a few months back, as I recall. Why, 'tis a small world, to be sure.' 'My name, sir?' Kit was incredulous.
'In St John's, it was. I've estates in Barbados, you understand, and was on my way home to Jamaica from a tour of inspection, when a contrary wind blew me into Antigua. There I was the guest of the Deputy Governor, Colonel Philip Warner.'
'And he asked after me, sir?'
'He mentioned your name, Master Hilton, but in no very complimentary terms, I am sorry to say. I spoke of the projects planned by my friend here, Admiral Morgan, and Colonel Warner wondered that we did not recruit in Tortuga. A den of cutthroats, was his description of the place. Of whom, he said, the Hiltons are the worst. There are but two left, thank God, he said, the old whore and her pirate grandson.'
'My grandmother is dead, sir.'
'Then you've my sympathy.' Modyford's face relaxed into a smile; his eyes remained cold. 'But you're not without a friend in the Warner household, lad, if it's any solace to you. The Governor's daughter, young Mrs Templeton, took me aside and asked if indeed we planned to visit Tortuga. They were then unaware that it had been taken by the Dons.'
'Mrs Templeton?' Kit's heart pounded more than when he had boarded the coaster. 'Would her name be Marguerite?'
'Aye. The most beautiful creature I have ever seen. There's the truth. And married to a man four times her age. A sad waste.'
Sad? And Marguerite had asked after him? Marguerite, whom he had all but forgotten? Marguerite, whom he had caused to hate him, he was sure. 'But, sir,' he cried, as Modyford would have turned away again. 'What did she say?'
Again the frosty smile. 'Why, I forget most of it, indeed I do. Something about giving you her regards, as she had decided to forgive you. And I did not even find out what you had done to the gorgeous creature. But I formed the impression, as much from her father's dislike as from her own consideration, that you were a man of parts. The lad is your sailing master, no doubt,' he remarked to Bart.
'Eh? Oh, yes, indeed, sir,' Bart agreed. 'He is that. And a devil when it comes to action. Why, that is what we call him, amongst ourselves. The devil's own spawn.'
'The devil's own,' Morgan said, and laughed again. 'Aye, a good name for a Hilton. A good name for you, boyo.'
'She remembers me,' Kit said to Jean, ignoring the men. 'By God. After all these years, she remembers me.'
'And perhaps me also,' Jean said with a smile. 'Will you not allow me to meet these gentlemen?'
'Oh, forgive me, dear friend. I am quite overwhelmed. Quite
... allow me to present my friend, Jean DuCasse, Captain Mor
gan.'
Morgan frowned through his smile. 'Admiral, Kit. You'll call me Admiral. The pleasure is mine, Monsieur DuCasse. You've wine on board this ship?'
'Oh, indeed, monsieur,' Bart said, and led the way into the great cabin.
'A Spanish merchantman.' Modyford sat at the table, still without removing his hat. 'And taken by a handful of boucaniers, by God.'
'You came in through the stern, there.' Morgan did remove his hat, placing it carefully beside him. He had found the bullet marks on the deck-head, while the stain on the table was clearly blood.
'Kit led the way,' Bart said. 'Why, he'd have taken her single-handed if we'd lagged behind.'
'Tony Hilton's grandson,' Morgan said again, smiling at the boy. 'Your grandfather had a gift of command, Kit, lad. You'd do well to follow in his footsteps. He might have made a great name for himself, but his interests lay at home, with that magnificent woman of his. She's dead, you say?'
'She was hanged by the Dons when they took Tortuga.'
'By God,' Morgan said. 'Hanged, by God.'
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