The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  He paused, at the top of the huge staircase, facing a gallery of empty doorways, and listened to another scream, while the smell of cooking flesh came seeping upwards. He hurled himself forward, through the first doorway, found himself in a bedchamber, a wide expanse of costly drapes and highly polished wooden floors, dominated by the immense tent-bed in the centre of the room. He flung himself on this, pulled the pillows over his head, stuffed them into his ears as shriek after shriek, now accompanied by roars of laughter, came howling upwards through the house.

  And heard another sound, closer at hand. He sat up, right hand instinctively snatching the cutlass from his side. The room was empty, but a door had opened, and then closed. And now he saw the door, a small one clearly giving access to a dressing-room. He tiptoed across the floor, seized the handle, pulled the door wide, gazed at the two girls, huddled against the far wall from whence they had been dragged by their mother's screams. Because clearly they were her daughters. One was perhaps fourteen, the other a year or two younger; each possessed the statuesque dignity of their parent, if that still existed, the strong features, the rich brown hair, the tall bodies, hardly concealed beneath their nightdresses. No doubt their father had fallen on the plain. Or had he run like a coward to the shelter of the forest, leaving his women to suffer?

  'Oh, Christ,' Kit said. Because here was what those monsters downstairs really sought. The gold would keep, but not their lust.

  The girls stared at him. The woman downstairs had stopped screaming, and the only sound was the terrible laughter.

  Kit ran back across the room, closed and bolted the bedroom door. The girls watched him. They held hands, but had said nothing. 'Listen,' he said. 'I claim you as my prisoners. My slaves, eh? Be that, and you will be safe.' He spoke in French, and watched the older girl's eyes flicker. 'You understand me,' he said. 'What is your name?'

  'Isabella.' The voice was low. Perhaps she was not afraid. Perhaps she did not know what might soon be happening to her.

  Kit sat on the bed. Suddenly he was exhausted. And afraid. Of himself. 'Isabella,' he said. 'You understand what is happening?'

  She nodded, and her sister's fingers tightened on her arm. 'Come here,' he said.

  She looked down at her sister, and then gently freed her hand and walked across the room to stand in front of him. The nightdress became filled with light as she stood between him and the window; he could trace the curve of her thigh, the long line of slender leg beneath. Was he then no different to those abominations downstairs?

  But she was close enough to touch. She humoured him, perhaps in an attempt to save her sister. There was courage here, and resolution. Perhaps even curiosity. Or was he no more than hoping for these things? Because he could not save her now. It had been too long. It had been forever, in fact, and here was no whore, but something young, and fresh, and totally innocent. Something beyond his experience, beyond his wildest dream. His hands stroked through her hair, and drifted across her shoulders and she understood her fate. He held her close and buried his face in the front of her nightdress, and found softness there too. She was Marguerite Warner, come to life, here in his arms, passive and non-resisting. She was a dream, suddenly walking. Yet he did not wish to hurt her. He prayed she would not resist, as his hands slipped down her back and raised the nightdress over her thighs. Her legs were better than he could have hoped; the down on her belly came as a surprise, but one which only increased her desirability. He lost his face in that dry forest, and realized that he was afraid to raise his head, afraid to look into her face. But this had to be done, as he laid her on the bed beside him, and found to his amazement that her mouth was open. With passion? Or with prayer? Tears rolled out from her eyes, but he felt her fingers biting into his shoulders as his body crashed on to hers, and again. It took no more than seconds, such was the urgency of his passion. She moaned once, and then lay still, as did he for some seconds, before slipping from her body and from the bed, to kneel beside her.

  'May God forgive me,' he whispered. 'May you forgive me, Isabella. May God have mercy on me. I swear, I will protect you. I will marry you, Isabella. This I swear. I will look after you and honour you, always, Isabella. And I shall protect your sister. This I swear, Isabella. Say that you understand me. Say that you believe me.'

  Now he wept as well, and the girl had ceased crying. She stared at him, her forehead gathered into faint wrinkles. A voice shouted outside, calling his name in the rolling tones of Agrippa.

  He went to the door, unlocked it. 'They said you were up here,' Agrippa said. 'I feared for you, Master Hilton. I fear for us all; this army has gone mad. And now the town burns.'

  Kit inhaled, and smelt the tang of smouldering wood. 'Aye,' he said. ' 'Tis not a day I shall want to remember. But ...' he saw the expression on Agrippa's face, and turned, as the pistol exploded. He gazed at the figure of the younger girl, falling forward to her knees as a gush of blood exploded from the white front of her nightdress. 'Oh, Christ,' he cried.

  But there were two pistols in the belt he had so carelessly thrown on the floor. The girl Isabella had turned to face them, and as they watched she dropped the weapon she had just fired and drew the other. Her face remained as impassive as earlier when she had been raped; only the dark eyes suggested the torment that was burning in her brain.

  'Duck, man,' Agrippa yelled, seizing Kit's shoulder and throwing him to one side. But Kit knew the bullet was not meant for him. She had already reversed the pistol and placed the muzzle inside her own mouth.

  Song and laughter filled the forest, scattered outwards from the river, accompanied the splashes of the paddles. But even paddling was no labour, on this journey; the boats flowed with the stream. And besides, they followed the lead canoes, on which the gold was stacked, as a pack of dogs might follow a butcher's van. They homed, on the beach at Chagres, where everything they had ever dreamed of would be granted to them.

  As if they had not already accomplished their wildest dreams. There was scarce a sober man in the army, and they had brought enough wine to float their fleet with them. They had brought captives, too, women and young girls and boys, and those who did not work the paddles continued a week-old orgy in the bilges of the canoes. They sang, and laughed, and belched, and fornicated, and crammed their mouths with sweetmeats and fine cheeses, and relieved themselves where they sat. They were men who had scaled the heights, and taken the untakable. A vast stench accompanied the fleet. Port Royal might have transferred itself bodily to the Panamanian jungle.

  'A ship.' Jean DuCasse lay in the stern of the canoe and waved at the branches which occasionally passed overhead. 'I shall buy a ship. Twenty guns to a broadside. Sakers fore and aft. I will put a copper sheath on her bottom. No worm for Jean DuCasse. With that ship, I will conquer the world. You'll sail with me, Agrippa?'

  The Negro smiled, but his smile was sad. 'What of Master Hilton?'

  'Christ.' Jean stuck out a foot, prodded a toe into Kit's thigh. 'He is a melancholy fellow, for a devil from hell. I know not what will become of him. Kit, Kit. They were but bits of flesh. Had you not taken the girl, someone else would, and much less gently.'

  Kit turned. 'We are all bits of flesh, Jean. We are but arrogant if we assume that God could ever have created us in His likeness.'

  'Listen.' Jean stared at the bottle, and threw it over the side. 'Listen. Those were Spaniards. They hanged your grand-mother. Whatever they suffered was yet too good for them.'

  'What we will suffer will surely be too good for us,' Kit said. 'There were no men at Panama, Jean. There are no men here. Does it make you proud to belong to a pack of wild animals?'

  'For Christ's sake,' Jean shouted. 'What would you do? Fight for the Dons, then?'

  Kit sighed. 'Had I a flaming sword I would destroy us all,' he said. 'Dons and buccaneers, and leave these blessed islands to the Indians, as I have no doubt was originally intended.'

  'Bah,' Jean declared. 'Did not the Indians kill one another? Are not the Caribs cannibals
? Now, how much worse can you get than that? Did you see any Spaniards eaten alive, back there?"

  'Is that the worst fate which can befall a man?' Kit demanded. 'I tell you this, I have done with it. May Heaven strike me dead if I ever seek to take a human life again, save in defence of my own.'

  'There speaks a unique buccaneer,' Jean said. 'What say you, Master Agrippa?'

  The Negro continued to stare at Kit. 'That Master Hilton is right, Monsieur DuCasse. Supposing such a thing is possible. I had thought there could be no man more vicious than a Barbadian planter. Now I know better.'

  'God's truth,' Jean said. 'You are a right pair. What will you do, then? Become priests?'

  Kit stared at the blue vault of the heavens; they were close to the beach. 'What do you estimate each share in this victory will be worth?'

  'You mean you will dirty your hands with such bloodstained money?' Jean asked. 'You amaze me.'

  'If I can put it to good use,' Kit said. 'Tell me its worth.'

  Jean shrugged. 'They are speaking of a thousand pieces of eight to the lowest deckhand, and each of us commanded a section.'

  'Then say five thousand pieces of eight.'

  'But you also commanded a squad of musketeers.' Agrippa said. 'Which indeed played a decisive part in the battle.'

  'Ten thousand pieces of eight, Kit,' Jean said. 'I would estimate that to be your share. There is a fortune, if you like.'

  'In gold,' Kit said. 'There will be few people can have seen that much money before. Not in the Leewards, to be sure. I'll to Antigua, by God. And buy myself a plantation. Will you come with me, Agrippa?'

  'I'd know your purpose.'

  'No slavery. You have my word. A plantation on which men will work for a decent wage, and hold their heads high, because they are free. What say you to that, black man?'

  Jean laughed again. 'Faith, the noise of battle has addled your brain, Kit. Slavery is a natural condition of man, unless he be strong enough to fend for himself. Besides, your fellow planters would stone you in the street.'

  'That pack of curs? I'd have their tongues out of their throats before they could spit.'

  'And what of your oath, not to spill blood save in self-defence?'

  Kit flushed; he had already forgotten those hasty words. 'I meant, save in a worthwhile cause.'

  'Now you are being specious. What you should say is that you fell in love with a pair of Spanish thighs, and were saddened to see them disappear. But what would you have done with them, Kit, once they were yours? They could never have done other than hate you. Come now, own the truth of what I say.'

  'I'll have no more of this,' Kit said. 'There is a new oath. I'm to Antigua, and a better life. By God, I'll make sure of that.'

  'Then I'll come with you, Master Hilton,' Agrippa declared. 'Add my share to yours, and we'll be doubly sure of that plantation. 'Tis a dream I have had. Make it come true, and I'll never leave you

  'And here's my hand on it.' Kit felt the firm grip of the huge black.

  'And there's the beach,' Jean said. 'So you can set about making your dreams come true. But what's that?'

  They sat up to stare forward. The river was widening before opening into the bay where the ships lay at anchor, and beyond was the blue water of the Caribbean Sea. Each was a most welcome sight. But not apparently to all. The first men to reach the beach and scramble from their canoes were veiling and gesticulating, and now they were rounding the last bend they could see that the Monarch had already put to sea, and was in fact nearly hull down as she made her way towards Jamaica.

  'But what is the matter?' Jean led them ashore. 'Bart. Bart? Give us a reason for this hullabaloo.'

  'Reason?' Bart bellowed, his face red with rage. 'Reason? Why, did not that foul wretch Morgan promise that the money would be divided here on the beach at Chagres? And to make the division easier did he not command that all the goods we assembled were to be shipped in the lead canoes?'

  'So he did,' Kit agreed.

  'Well, sir, you may be interested to know that this villain, whom you are proud to call friend, travelled down with those canoes, ever urging his men to greater efforts so as to draw away from the rest of us, and on reaching the beach he loaded every last penny on board that ship of his and put to sea.'

  'But ...' Jean stared at the angry faces, gathering in ever increasing numbers on the edge of the water to stare after the departing flagship, demanding explanation from the crews they had left behind, who could only say that they had known of no arrangements made in Panama, as they had not been present. In loading the Admiral's ship they had done no more than obey orders, as they had always obeyed the Admiral.

  'What must we do?' Jean asked, staring at Kit.

  Kit began to laugh.

  But that was long ago. How long? Since the beach at Chagres? Or since he had laughed?

  Or since he had lain upon the girl Isabella, and known a moment's paradise before stepping down into hell?

  And would he ever laugh again? He sat on the beach and gazed at the empty harbour. Empty compared with the crowded activity they had seen on their first arrival here, more than a year gone. It had been full once more, when the fleet had come storming back from the Chagres, searching for their Admiral. But the Admiral had gone, stopping at Port Royal long enough to pick up his friend Tom Modyford. Some said they had had no choice; peace had been signed between England and Spain on about the day Morgan had disembarked his army, and so for all the Cross of St George under which they had marched, they

  had committed piracy and robbery, murder and rape—not an act of war. Morgan and Modyford had gone home to explain, and attempt to avoid the hangman. And they had taken the money with them. Perhaps to bribe the King. Who could be sure? Certain it was that none was left in Jamaica.

  Kit had supposed then that he would witness another sack, another horror to equal that of Panama. But was Port Royal worth sacking, when they could have anything of value there for the asking? And for the main they were English, and this was a part of England. They would be murdering their own kind, and not all of them were prepared to go as far as that. He had played a part in averting that disaster, and was proud of it. The result was that the French had left immediately, angrily declaring that they would never again sail with the English. Bart had gone amongst the first, and Jean had gone with him. He had made a last effort to persuade Kit to accompany him. They had been friends all their lives; they had watched their only relatives die together. They had fought for each other for two years in Hispaniola, and they had shared everything in life worth having.

  Kit had refused. Then, he had still been gripped by the tragedy in which he had participated. He had been as confused and as disappointed as any of them. He had both liked and admired Morgan, as he had respected the Welshman's courage and ability. He had thought that they might become friends, that he himself had been marked out for advancement by the buccaneer Admiral. He remembered the words Morgan had used before they had landed. 'Stay close to me,' the Admiral had said. At the time that had meant nothing more than that Morgan wanted his section commanders close within earshot. But had he even then been planning to desert his men? Had he led them through that frightful forest, won for them that fantastic victory over a Spanish army, and then loosed them in that abominable sack, all the time only waiting for the business to be completed so that he could steal the fruits of their valour?

  If that were so, and who could doubt it, then what remained in life worth having? That had been no act of revenge against the Spaniards, no act of war, even, in defence of the British colonics in the Caribbean; rather had it been a calculated robbery of the very men who had followed him to hell and back. Kit's personal anger at having participated in such a crime and in such a dupe redoubled every time he thought of it. As his own resolution, his very manhood, had dwindled every time he thought of it. So he had stayed, waiting in Port Royal, perhaps for Morgan to come back, perhaps for the memory of that dreadful day in Panama, which obscured even all those other dre
adful days before, to fade.

  He had become a beachcomber, in a society of thieves and whores. He was not the only beachcomber. How had he despised those gaunt and dead-eyed men in the tattered breeches who had kicked the stones along the Tortuga shore? How he had thought Bale too low even to be considered human. He had thought, had any man the right so to misuse the gift of life? But had not all those men, even Bale, something similarly terrible of which they dared not think, and of which they dared not risk a repetition?

  And Morgan had not come back. There were rumours that he had been convicted, and would be hanged, and others, that he had amused the King, and so would be acquitted, and return in triumph. To face the men he had deserted? There would be an act of courage.

  Footsteps. He did not turn his head, because these he recognized. He was not alone. Perhaps Agrippa, in that huge black brain of his, locked behind those sombre dark eyes, had also found Panama beyond the reaches of his stomach. Or was Agrippa also waiting to have his revenge on the Admiral? How many were there like that?

  'A bottle of wine,' Agrippa said. 'And this fish. Roasted, fresh.'

  The snapper was still hot.

  'Now, where did you get that?' Kit asked.

  'A bet,' Agrippa said carelessly. 'That I could not balance my cutlass on the end of my chin.' He grinned. 'There are always people who will bet me that. This one is a dandy.'

  He pointed at the only ship in the harbour which looked capable of going to sea in safety, a trim two-masted schooner which had dropped anchor but two days previously.