Smiling and acknowledging the people around her, she made a beeline for where Pierce and David stood.
‘Oh,’ Pierce said in a whisper. ‘I should have warned you about this: try to remember your place.’
‘So, gentlemen,’ she purred. ‘This is the young man with the scars.’
Pierce flustered and said, ‘Lady Margret, may I introduce Lieutenant Fletcher.’
‘You may, Pierce. Now let’s get you a drink.’
She took David’s arm and propelled him further into the room.
‘Once you’ve spoken with my husband,’ she spoke quietly into his ear, ‘you must tell me all about this terrible pirate and I must see your scars.’
A glass appeared in David’s hand and under cover of taking a drink David glanced at the woman beside him. She looked about the same age as his mother with her hair piled high on her head, she wore too much make up and her large breasts looked ready to leap out of her gown.
‘You must sit beside me at dinner,’ she said and David gave a little start as he felt her hand glide across his buttocks.
Pierce appeared beside them. ‘The admiral will see you now,’ he said and led the way to a side door. Before going in he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get you away before dinner.’
Admiral Keyton sat in a padded chair in front of an empty fireplace; he was a large man, not too tall but large in every other way. His eyes, close together, were separated by a beak of a nose; his body for all the world looked like a balloon tied up in a fancy uniform. The impression at first glance was of a soft, spoiled man. The moment he opened his mouth, however, all such thoughts were dispelled.
‘Come in, Mr. Fletcher.’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘Pierce, get the lieutenant a chair.’ Once David was seated he continued. ‘So, Mr. Fletcher, you’re the man with the scars.’
‘Yes, sir,’ David answered. ‘Would you like to see them, sir?’
The admiral smiled. ‘No, Mr. Fletcher, that’s my wife not me.’ David looked startled, which made the admiral laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Fletcher, my wife and I have been together for a very long time; we have an understanding. I suggest you leave by the creek.’
His expression changed. ‘I understand you have put yourself in a deal of personal danger, Mr. Fletcher. Your experiences must have been traumatic. This Carter is indeed a devil from hell and I’m afraid I can only make things worse.
The French have come wholeheartedly into the war.
In St. Kitts the troops are hard pressed, I can spare neither ships nor men. The crew of the Trojan must stay with her. We will go through with this plan, but when you leave, your schooner will be manned only by your boarders and commanded by yourself.
There is a chance that this pirate is still here, but it is more likely that he has lifted the gold and gone.
‘Ask me anything, Mr. Fletcher, but I have no ships or men to spare; anything else Pierce will try to provide.’ The admiral stood. ‘Good luck, David,’ he said, ‘and good hunting.’
The path down to the creek began with stone steps and then became a mud track; at the bottom of the steps David sat down and put his head in his hands.
Of his boarders there remained twelve men; the picture of their attempted boarding of the merchantman stood clear in his mind. His scars tingled and the feeling in his stomach was stronger than ever.
David stepped into a boat and was rowed across to the dockyard. That night his dreams were full of dark-haired pirates and he awoke feeling more tired than when he had gone to bed.
He had, however, resolved to see this matter to an end; this pirate would be brought down or David would die in the attempt.
The schooner he would command was anchored in the shallow water above the dockyard; her name was the Dancer.
David gathered up his men early the following morning and was rowed out to her. All in all he was pleased with what he found. A strong, well-fitted little ship of seventy-five feet on deck, she mounted two four-pound cannon on each side, plus a nine-pound bow chaser. There were also two swivels, one each side of the tiny quarter deck. This was heavy armament for an armed schooner.
His crew looked pitifully small as they wandered about the deck.
David was crawling through the bilge when he heard a boat bump alongside.
Back on deck he saw the midshipman, Stephen, who had always accompanied Peterson, standing beside a sea chest.
‘Hello, sir,’ the boy called. ‘Pierce thought you might want some company.’
David took his outstretched hand and shook it warmly. ‘You are very welcome, Stephen.’
The lad grinned. ‘I have a score to settle with that pirate; I blame him for my uncle’s death.’
‘Uncle.’ David looked puzzled.
‘Yes, Captain Peterson was my uncle. My name’s Peterson.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’ David didn’t know what else to say.
Stephen smiled again. ‘Anyway, I’m told I’m a pretty boy too, so let’s go kill the bastard.’
David’s sea chest was still in his room at the dockyard so he left the crew on board and returned ashore for the night. Now his mind was full of store lists and the excitement of his first command. Midshipman Peterson’s arrival had brightened him up no end; he didn’t feel as abandoned as before.
The next morning he was back in the port office. Peterson had met him there with a list of the powder and shot needed on board the schooner. They also needed small arms and ammunition as well as food and water.
Most of the morning was spent with paperwork; he might be commander of one of the smallest ships in His Majesty’s navy but the clerk wanted everything as if he was captain of a first rate.
At last escaping the office, David walked through to Falmouth Harbour. He was still worried about Elle. He assumed the lady who had hit him was Elle’s mother. They must live somewhere close.
As he walked along, deep in thought, a carriage pulled up alongside him, its door opened and he found himself looking into the face of Lady Margret.
‘Get in, Lieutenant,’ she ordered. ‘We have unfinished business.’
Climbing in David said, ‘Please, madam, I—’
‘Shut up, man,’ she interrupted. ‘Let’s look at those scars.’ She started undoing his britches.
‘Madam, my scars are under my shirt,’ David breathed.
She smiled up at him. ‘Don’t worry, my boy, we will get there.’
Sometime later David was ejected from the carriage, which set off down the road. His shirt was open down the front and his britches half done up; new shoes and blue coat lay in the road. As he rushed to do up his clothes he noticed, to his horror, a marine sitting watching him from the other side of the road.
‘That’s a strong woman, sir,’ the marine called. To his relief David recognized Chaney. ‘If you want me to take a turn now and again, sir, I’m available.’ He grinned.
‘Chaney,’ David began. ‘This is not what it seems.’
‘Really, sir.’ The marine smirked. ‘What is it then, sir?’
Once David was properly dressed and feeling a little less vulnerable, he walked over and sat down beside Chaney.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘If this got out, it could cause trouble for everybody.’
‘Yes, it could, sir,’ agreed the marine.
They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. ‘Is there something I could help you with, Chaney?’ David asked.
‘There is, sir.’ The marine smiled. ‘You’re going after that pirate again; take me with you. I’m well sick of guarding a gate.’
‘I’ve no marines aboard my little ship,’ David said in surprise.
‘Yes, but you should have, sir,’ the man answered. ‘Tell them I’m your brother or your mother; tell them anything.’
Once again David stood in front of Pierce’s desk. ‘What is it, Fletcher?’ the officer asked without looking up.
‘I’ve a favour to ask, sir.’
‘Let’s hear it then.’ Pierce
looked up.
‘There is a sergeant of marines attached to the dockyard, sir. His name is Chaney; he saved my life when I was a midshipman and he has volunteered to join me on board the Dancer.’
Pierce stood up and walked round his desk. ‘Look, Fletcher,’ he began. ‘You heard what the admiral said: anything but ships or men. He believes this pirate has taken his gold and gone.’
David said nothing.
Pierce started again. ‘Look, I know this is not fair, we set you up as bait and then leave you to defend yourself. I wish we had never started this—’
‘He is out there, sir,’ David cut in, ‘and we will catch him.’
Pierce looked at him. ‘Very well, Mr. Fletcher, you shall have your sergeant of marines and I’ll let him choose five of his ruffians to take with him. Now go and don’t ask any more favours.’
As David walked back to collect his sea chest, Chaney was leaning against the wooden steps that led up to the officers’ rooms.
‘Sergeant Chaney,’ he shouted. ‘Select five men and muster them with their kit on the dock at the double.’
Chaney punched the air and shouted, ‘Yes,’ before running off in the direction of the barracks.
Suddenly, all David’s gloom was gone. How could they fail?
CHAPTER 9
The ketch Good Fortune eased alongside a wooden jetty in yet another bay on yet another island. John Carter watched as his crew made all fast and then wandered along the jetty. Soon people would come and look over his stores; some would buy. Carter had no interest in trade and was sick of pretending he did. Twice they had approached Farmer’s Island and twice been driven off, firstly, by a Spanish warship and then a second time by an English frigate. He had let his crew think he had mistaken the second for a Spaniard.
The idea of lifting the gold without anybody knowing was proving to be harder than he had thought.
This posing as an honest trader was also becoming harder to stand as time went on.
The three crewmen were very wary of him; his temper was getting slowly more out of control.
The rage was very close to the surface now. He would soon have to slate his thirst.
As he sat in the stern brooding, a white man and woman came walking down the jetty.
‘Good morning,’ the man offered. John grunted in reply.
‘Would you have flour?’ the woman asked.
John stood up, better to play the game. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have.’
Down in the hold John pointed to a stack of sacks he had purchased three days before.
‘Wonderful,’ the woman exclaimed. ‘We’ll take two.’
‘I’ll get my men to take them on deck,’ Carter offered.
‘No need,’ the woman replied. ‘Here comes our son.’
The rage leapt into Carter’s throat as he watched the young man climb down into the hold. The boy was well proportioned, handsome and had light brown hair.
The older man put a sack of flour on each of his son’s shoulders and helped him up out of the hold. ‘Strong as an ox,’ he said, his voice full of pride.
‘Do you live far away?’ Carter asked.
‘No,’ the woman told him as she handed over the money. ‘Just above the bay.’
Later Carter sat in his cabin, drinking rum. For months he had kept the rage in check pretending to be a trader. This was all just so much stuff. He hated this life. He should go back to his men, lift the gold and be a real man again. If any got in his way, he would cut them down.
As night drew in he walked away from the ship.
‘Be ready to sail,’ he told his crew. ‘We’ll take the land breeze out of here.’
There were two houses above the bay; both showed light in the windows. He crept up to the first and peered in: an old woman sat dozing with a book in her lap.
He moved on to the second house. A family sat round a large wooden table; there sat the boy but surrounded by three other young men. To one end sat the man and woman who had visited the ship.
Carter cursed his luck; too many people. For a moment he contemplated rushing in and killing them all, but immediately rejected the idea. Armed only with his knife, it would be a risky affair and anyway not the hours of playful cutting he had promised himself.
He thought of going back and cutting the old woman’s throat, but where was the sport in that?
John Carter walked back towards his ship, his frustration boiling in his chest. As he passed through the shanty town at the foot of the jetty, a man of about thirty came out of a wooden shack. Without thinking, Carter leapt upon him cutting and stabbing, blind to anything but his rage.
As his vision cleared he realized he had made too much noise. Quickly he dragged the body behind a pile of firewood that was close by, covering it as best he could. A woman was calling a name from a shack doorway.
Carter fled, keeping to the buildings as much as possible. As he arrived at the ship, the voice was joined by others all calling the same name. As John Carter ran down the jetty he cast off the shorelines and once on board set a headsail. The ketch slowly moved out into the bay. He called the crew.
‘Set sail,’ he said. ‘I’m sick of this place.’
Alone in his cabin Carter stared at the half-empty rum bottle; that way goes all caution, he thought, but in the end who cares? This was no life, pretending to be a shopkeeper.
There was blood on his coat and britches; it reminded him of Rotterdam and the Delft. He laughed out loud and said, ‘It was an animal, Captain.’
The next morning he had made up his mind.
‘Sail to St. John’s, Antigua,’ he told his crew. ‘We wait for Ben.’
With the ketch anchored to one side of the channel, Carter waited until dusk before sculling ashore. Bill started up from behind his bar and came to meet John as he walked through the door.
‘There’s been trouble,’ he said. ‘Pirates came searching for this John Carter; there’s soldiers everywhere.’
‘So what’s that to me?’ Carter said, sitting down. ‘What happened to these pirates anyway?’
‘All hung except three. They’ve gone off to show the navy where the gold is.’
‘Have they now?’ John smiled. ‘When do you expect Ben?’
‘This night or the next. Will you drink?’
‘No,’ said John. ‘Bring me a chicken and some bread.’
‘Takes time to cook a chicken,’ Bill muttered.
‘I’ve got plenty of time,’ the pirate said. ‘Bring me some cheese in the meantime.’
*
‘What are you doing here?’ Ben said the next evening. ‘Do you look for death?’
‘I’m sick of playing traders,’ John replied. ‘I’m going to pick up my crew and lift all the gold in one hit.’
‘What will you do with it?’ Ben asked.
‘That’s your problem,’ said John. ‘Trade it for me.’
‘Trade it,’ Ben hissed. ‘There’s not that much money in the world, or not that I can get hold of.’
‘Think of something,’ Carter said, getting up from his chair. ‘I’m going down island.’
‘Wait,’ Ben said. ‘Have some sense, man; the world’s at war. The French are attacking St. Kitts again and that’s only just over the horizon. It’s dangerous enough just moving around the islands, let alone going pirating.’
‘It’s the best time,’ John laughed. ‘They’re all too busy to worry about us.’
This time Carter sailed north around Antigua. Once clear of the shoals he sailed due east until he was well away from the islands and then turned south.
When the crew questioned his course he told them he was keeping clear of the French.
The ketch sailed well with the wind on her larboard quarter and forty-eight hours after leaving St. John’s Carter started to gradually close on the islands.
With the first island sighted on the horizon John Carter went into his cabin; two hours later he came back on deck. He had shaved off his beard, let down his hair,
which he had been keeping tied up under his hat, and was dressed in his black clothes.
He stood with two pistols in his belt and his sword on his hip, and looked at the three men on deck. ‘My name is John Carter,’ he shouted. ‘You join my crew or die.’
Keeping clear of the land and constantly watching for Spanish warships, Carter approached the island where he had hidden the brig.
With the first of a new dawn the ketch slowly entered the bay and eased towards the mangrove swamp at the northern end. There was no sign of life, not even a bird’s squawk broke the silence. John anchored the ketch and had the boat lowered. The brig was as he had left it and having walked through her he was sure nobody had lived here for some time.
As they rowed out of the swamp, a man was seen walking down to the water’s edge.
‘Pull over there,’ John ordered. The man was Owen, one of the brig’s crew.
‘Where are the rest of the men?’ Carter asked.
‘On the other side of the hill, Captain. We couldn’t stand the smell in that swamp. There’s a good camping place there with a little stream of fresh water, but, Captain, the navy came and there was a battle with the Spanish not ten days ago.
‘Five months you’ve been gone, Captain,’ Owen said. ‘We thought you had gone off and forgotten us. Some wanted to rig the ship and get out of here, but the rest of us said no, stay here and wait for the captain.’
‘You saw no Spaniards on the island?’ John asked.
‘Not a soul, Captain. None live here anymore.’
‘Good,’ said Carter. ‘We won’t be disturbed.’
‘Where are the rest of the crew?’ Owen inquired.
Carter laughed. ‘Hung by the neck until dead,’ he said.
Rigging the brig after months in a swamp was no easy task; getting her clear of the mud took three days of back-breaking work with kedge anchors and hours at the windlass.
The spars were in reasonable condition, as were her sails, which had been stowed below. The problem was the filth that had covered everything. Her warpage looked as if it was growing.
The powder in the barrels needed to be remixed and the guns polished to a shine, especially the bores; nobody fancied a gun that might explode on them.
By the Knife Page 12