by Barry Sadler
Unless they lucked upon a fishing craft.
At the moment, Katie was in the gig below him. She, too, was dressed in one of the uniforms. And in the gig was the money chest from the captain's cabin, a small canister of gunpowder, several loaded muskets, and flint and steel. They were ready to board Duncan's ship.
The pirate standing gangway watch on the Scorpion was, naturally, drunk but not all that drunk. The apparition that he saw coming aboard made him blink his eyes. He had never seen such a gorgeous uniform, all dark wool and gold braid, gleaming medals hanging from colorful ribbons, a crimson sash, bright even in the dull light of the ship's lantern and that enormous bearskin hat with its white feather plumes. What in hell!
"Captain Tarleton! And, by damn! step lively, lad, or... " The apparition whipped off into language that the pirate understood very well indeed.
"I don't know–" The pirate started to protest, but something in the icy depths of the pale blue eyes stopped him. He looked over the side. The apparition had come in a small gig, and there was another uniformed soldier not nearly so gorgeous at the oars. In the spilled light from the ship's lantern that single man was certainly no danger. Nor was the apparition armed except for the customary short sword any high ranking son of a bitch would wear. The pirate nodded at a smaller companion. "Take him to the captain." The second pirate shrugged and started aft, Casca following.
The captain's quarters were protected by a closed door at which the pirate knocked. A big black man opened it, a man naked to the navel and with cold, hard eyes. Casca could not remember seeing such a giant since Jubala, the Numidian he had fought in a Roman arena long, long ago.
He asked for the captain. It was obvious that the pirate was afraid of the black man but did not want to show it. The black giant said nothing, only held the door wider for Casca, and when the scar faced one was inside the companionway, the bearskin hat's plumes brushing the overhead, he closed and bolted the door. The silence in the companionway was uncanny. The area must be relatively soundproof. And if the other doors were as thick as this one... Casca began to worry. But he had no choice now. He was committed.
The giant led him down the companionway to another door. Before it was a small space, a tiny square room made by offsets set into the walls on either side and lighted by a ship's lantern hung in gimbals from the overhead. There was a small, hard bench in the offset on either side of the door. The giant pointed to one of the benches.
"Wait," he mumbled, his voice soft and slurred as though he were mouthing soft mud. "Captain busy."
Casca bad no intention of waiting for anybody, but he moved as though he were going to sit on the bench.
The kick was so swift he was certain the black giant would not see it, would only feel the smashing blow of Casca 's boot into his testicles. The blow was enough to bend any ordinary man over in agony, but it apparently did not faze the black giant who now came at Casca.
But Casca had not counted only on the kick. No sooner had the full force of his blow landed then his balled right fist was traveling toward the giant's neck, toward the voice box. The very momentum of the giant's own attack added to the blow, and Casca felt his arm almost jam back into its socket as it connected. It was enough to momentarily stagger the giant, which was all Casca needed to smash the other fist full into the man's left eye.
The bottle of wine was lagniappe – pure luck that it should be available. The giant was still lunging forward, and Casca stooped down to avoid his rush and caught the bottle with his free hand. Holding it by the neck, he jammed it into the giant's face. The glass broke, and splinters sliced across the flat nose and into the one good eye in a spray of wine and blood. Casca leaped aside, and the giant crashed into the bulkhead, going down. He went down completely when Casca smashed the back of his neck with a chopping blow of his right fist and followed that with as hard a kick into the man's kidneys as he could muster. The giant was now a silent heap at the foot of the door.
But Casca still had to get in the room. In the light of the ship's lantern he examined the door. Solid oak. He could see that it opened inward, which meant it was probably barred from within. A very heavy door, and it was fitted tightly all around with an edging of iron.
He made his decision and pulled one of the flasks out of his waistcoat pocket. He had not planned on using it here, but he had extra ones in the bearskin hat.
He dragged the unconscious giant out of the way, put the flask down at the bottom corner of the door, inserted the slow match fuse, and piled the two benches in front of it all. He lit the slow match with the ship's lantern, replaced the lantern and stepped back beyond the giant and lay down flat on the deck.
The gunpowder blew.
Casca was not an explosives expert. In the years since the invention of gunpowder he had had only some experience with the stuff, but that was it.
Yet whatever he did apparently worked. There was a terrific blast. Wood splinters flew everywhere. The ship's lantern was blown out. Smoke and fumes filled the companionway except for the narrow space down close to the deck where Casca was, and there was instant darkness.
But there was also a rough triangle of light where the door had been blown ajar, and it was toward this light that Casca propelled himself.
The door had only been blown off one hinge. The other, though twisted, still held. There was barely enough room for Casca to crawl in but he managed.
As he crawled into the cabin, he saw a girl tied to the stanchion. This must be Michelle, he thought. He also saw a nude female slave bound down on the table.
And he saw what Tarleton Duncan was getting ready to do to her and knew what Tarleton Duncan really was, an animal of the worst kind.
There was no need for words. Casca pulled the short sword and lunged for Duncan, who dodged around the table, dropped the knife he had in his hand, and pulled a sword from a pair crossed on the bulkhead.
They went at it.
Casca cut, thrust, and parried Duncan's thrusts again and again. He worked with cold contempt, the way one would in killing vermin. He thrust.
Tarleton Duncan parried. They fought thus across the table, across the nude slave. The smoke from the gunpowder was now beginning to flow into the room that and another smell.
Burning wood.
The blast had set the ship afire, as yet only in the companionway. But Casca, whose back was to the door he had blasted open, could now feel the intense heat. The door must be afire. He saw Tarleton Duncan's eyes flick toward the opening, and immediately the pirate captain began to edge his way around the table, fighting, but trying to retreat toward the heavily curtained stern window of the cabin.
Casca would not let him get away. Duncan was an excellent swordsman but Casca's arm had had the experience of countless years, and the blade in his hand might just as well have been part of Casca's body. He not only fought Duncan to a standstill, he took the attack and pressed the pirate captain steadily back until he had him against the wall against the side bulkhead, two steps away from the possible safety of the curtained window.
Duncan did not make any mistakes. In fact, he lunged suddenly, a perfect thrust that would have gone deep into Casca's guts had not the scar faced one anticipated it and danced out of the way.
Then Duncan tried for the window.
He was too late. Casca's blade snapped the sword from his hands, and he was powerless. He stood motionless, a crafty look corning into his eyes as he anticipated the end of the fight, knowing full well that this one in front of him would not kill an unarmed man.
Casca, however, had seen what Duncan intended to do to the slave girl, and the question of whether or not to kill an unarmed man never occurred to him. The matter of destroying vermin did, however. He simply swung his sword quickly, the point slitting Duncan's throat from ear to ear. And, to make doubly sure, when the pirate captain started to fail forward, he made one quick thrust into the guts, turning and twisting the blade in order to sever the spinal cord and insure that this particular p
irate captain would never get his jollies in his favorite way again...
“Hell Scarface,” Katie whispered as she helped Casca lower the unconscious Michelle who had fainted at the shock of the battle into the gig from the stern window, "you set the damn ship afire."
He turned back up to the stern window, to the frightened face of the naked slave he had cut loose from the table. Smoke was billowing all around her. "Get your ass down in the boat! Quick!" She climbed out the window and slid down the rope as ordered. Casca leaped for the second pair of oars. "Let's get the hell out of here."
It was none too soon. There was a sudden cry from on deck. Confused voices. They must have smelled the smoke.
"Row like hell, Scarface! " Katie suddenly said. Stupid order.
"Why?" he grunted.
"Because..." she said, straining at the oars, "I think I set... too short a... fuse!"
She had.
The gunpowder canisters she had placed and which she had lighted when she got the signal from Casca at the stern window she had been lying in the gig waiting suddenly blew. By then flames were licking up on the deck of the Scorpion. By the time they reached the sails they would also be at the powder magazine.
Casca and Katie rowed like hell...
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Casca did not regret saving the young slave. She had friends.
By morning he had the Portuguese ship under sail and standing out to sea with an all black crew. Casca did not ask questions. He needed a crew and they fit the bill. That's all he cared about.
The young female slave was helpful, too. She took care of Michelle. A woman like Katie, Casca could handle mostly because when you got right down to it Katie wasn't like a woman at all. More like a comrade.
Katie was the navigator. "Look, Scarface," she said, "we don't have charts for this part of the world, but I know this coast pretty well. Go north about fifty miles or so and there's this town some damn name I can't say, but it begins with Saint Something or other, and likely as not we'll find a ship of some kind there that'll take you to Jamaica."
So they had started. But on the way, they had made friendly contact with a small sloop a Brotherhood sloop and Katie had known the captain. So Casca invited them aboard to have a friendly cup of wine.
And since the black crew had brought aboard new provisions, there was definitely a lot of wine to be drunk. The sloop captain was a young fellow, maybe twenty five, and Casca liked him. For once Katie played the woman. After a couple of drinks she left the cabin to the men. Casca noticed this, but he didn't think much of it until after the sloop officers had left and the pirate ship had pulled away. He didn't see Katie. He went back to his own cabin, and the young female slave met him.
"Missy woman say give you this, Cap'n Long." The letter was short, though the penmanship was bold and decisive:
Scarface,
It's been great fun, but it's just one of those things. I'm not ready for respectability. Yet. Give my regards to Jamaica, and maybe we'll cut across each other's bows some other time.
Your obedient servant (Casca grinned at her writing "obedient servant")
Katie Parnell
The blacks had helped him out of a spot, so when they got to the port Katie had indicated, Casca had the ship anchored offshore and he, Michelle, Big Jim, and Julio rowed to shore in the gig. What the blacks did with the ship from there on out was their affair.
A couple of days later he and Michelle were on a schooner. Casca thought it was one of McAdams' ships, though he could not be sure as paying passenger on their way to Jamaica. He left Big Jim and Julio back at port. He would meet them after he finished his business with McAdams.
Michelle seemed to have recovered, but she was not the kind of woman Casca could get close to. Or, maybe it was because Katie Parnell was still fresh in his mind...
Any fears Casca might have had about the kind of man McAdams was were allayed when, almost at twilight, the stage stopped at McAdams' compound and the fatherly old Scotsman himself met them.
"Michelle! My poor Michelle!"
Casca watched the greeting. Admittedly he had been a little suspicious. An old man and a rich old man at that and a pretty young girl. I've seen too much of the dark side of life, he told himself. It will be good to move on.
And McAdams seemed equally appreciative of Casca after he had welcomed Michelle, of course. At first he was surprised to see Cass Long. But the surprise quickly left his face. The man is obviously better than I thought. He insisted that Casca stay for dinner, but the scar faced one was anxious to return to the coast, to go aboard ship and get some distance between them though, of course, he did not tell McAdams that.
There was one thing, though, the pungent odor in the air, the smell of the boiling syrup in the sugar vats. Odd that it should be in the air this high up in the mountains.
McAdams caught the motion of Casca's nose, sniffing. He smiled. "A whim of a rich old man," he explained a little sheepishly. "I made my fortune in sugar, so I keep one small vat always boiling up here. Irrational, I fear, but it's a relatively inexpensive peculiarity. The cost of transporting the cane up here from the fields is small. Besides, with all my money, why should I not spend it as I see fit?"
No argument there, Casca thought. Particularly since, in McAdams' office next to the bedroom where Casca had entered weeks ago before an ornate mahogany desk and in the light of a multi candled chandelier, McAdams promptly paid him in gold exactly what he had promised.
"About Tarleton Duncan... "
"I assume you had to kill him."
"Aye.”
"Unfortunate, of course. But when such a thing is necessary... " McAdams let the words trail off.
Casca did end up staying for a mug of rum and for some discussion of the pirate situation. McAdams seemed genuinely glad that the concept of a Pirate Empire had run into snags, and Casca was ashamed that he had considered McAdams, like Governor Eden of North Carolina, might be involved with the pirates. Sitting in the office, watching the candlelight play on the lined face of the fatherly old Scotsman, he was reminded of the dim memory of his childhood and his own father in Falerno, Italy, centuries before... Bitterness welled in his heart, bitterness for not being like other men.
Abruptly he got to his feet.
"Ah!" McAdams said. "You must be anxious to be on your way... wherever it is." He called for a servant. It was now quite dark outside, the brief tropical twilight having given way to a dense, moonless night. "A toast for the road and my thanks to you, Cass Long."
It was in the narrow stone corridor leading to the outside that Casca, a step behind the young slave who was his guide, first felt the dizziness.
Damn!
The "fatherly" McAdams had drugged that last mug of rum.
He stopped and stuck a finger as far down his throat as he could until he gagged, and then threw up. The slave who had been leading him looked back, fear in his black face. Casca retched as deeply as he could. But the drug had already begun to take effect. Everything before his eyes was blurring. He fought to keep from dropping into sleep. Damn! When the Jew gave his body power to repair wounds so he could stay alive, why hadn't there also been the power to resist drugs? Anger... Anger at the thought helped. He was still nearly blind, almost helpless, but the anger helped. He fought the weakness in his arms.
The slave who had been leading him suddenly took to his heels, running, shouting something that the dazed Casca could not quite make out. But Casca had enough sense to draw his sword. He leaned against the stone wall of the passageway, fighting the drug within him.
He could hear voices.
Arguing voices.
The drug effects were slowing. Some of his vision was coming back. Ahead of him, blurred but partially distinguishable, were the two who were supposed to waylay him where the passageway was crossed by another. They had poked their heads around the corner. As Casca's vision cleared he could see the expressions of uncertainty in their faces. He waited. And they waited. The longer
the minutes dragged by, the more the drug slowed in its power over his body. But something was wrong and he was too drugged to figure out what.
Then he knew.
Maybe it was the whisper of sound. Maybe it was the momentary flicker of expression in the eyes of one or the other of the two before him. Maybe it was simply knowledge gained from past experience. No matter. He heard. And immediately dropped to one knee.
So the one slipping up so silently behind him in the passageway overshot his blow, the knife in his hand slicing close to Casca's head but missing it. His body tumbled over Casca's bent form.
Casca had no time for niceties. The drug still had a heavy effect on him and there were three of them. He swung the sword quickly down at the side of his assailant's throat and was lucky. The head was neatly severed and began rolling like a ball down toward the two who were now rushing for Casca, swords drawn.
The rolling head of their compatriot gave both of them a little something to think about, so their attack on Casca was not quite as well timed as it should have been. Casca rammed his own sword in the gut of one and immediately sidestepped, taking what cover there was behind the body of the dead man and letting go completely of his own sword. As he expected, the third assailant, presented with a moving target, slipped momentarily in the blood gushing from the stump of the dead man's body, and the blow aimed at Casca missed. Immediately Casca had him by the arm, pulling with all the failing strength in his still drugged body. Coupled with the slippery footing from the blood it was enough. The man lost his balance and was falling forward when Casca let go of him and chopped him violently behind the ear with a balled fist. There was no time to regain his own sword, so he picked up the downed man's sword and brought the edge sharply against the third man's face, slicing away the cheek and cutting into the eye. But the man still wasn't dead. Casca drove the sword into his kidneys, twisted the blade, and pulled. After that he was sure the man had lost interest in the proceedings. He kicked the other dying man in the face, regained his sword, wiped it clean on the man's clothing, and started to step around the bodies.