by Kage Baker
Captain Bradley came up and was cut down almost at once by a bullet that broke his shin, so he rolled screaming on the bloody ground. John staggered to him and gripped his leg tight; Dick Pettibone appeared out of the haze and helped him bind and set the leg, and splint it as best they could. So they missed the end of the fight, when the last of the Spanish holed up in the inner castle and their officers died to a man. John and Pettibone dragged Bradley behind a broken wall, into a patch of shade.
John sat beside him, meaning only to wait until the shooting had stopped. When he opened his eyes, the shade had gone clean away. He was all alone. The noonday sun was broiling straight down, and flies were buzzing to celebrate the taking of Chagres Castle.
* * *
John went limping like a ghost among the dead and wounded, hoping to find a bottle of rum somewhere that might ease his pains. The slash on his arm had bled through its bandage; he had taken a couple of arrow-points in the fat of his leg, sometime in the long night, and a musket-ball had creased his scalp, and he’d hit his head on something hard enough to raise a lump like a goose egg.
He didn’t know where the girl had gone. He had a sick fear of finding her dead, but could not stop himself searching, wandering to the heap of piled corpses to look into every staring face. He was crying as he tottered along, in an absent-minded way, like a child will do. Ned Cooper was lying there amongst the slain, his old shipmate from the Clapham, but nobody else he knew.
None of the living paid him any mind. Privateers were ordering gangs of slaves and prisoners about; the wreckage of battle was being cleared away and the defenses already being repaired. The Spanish dead were being pitched down the cliff into the sea by their weeping fellows.
Tom Blackstone came blinking out of one of the doorways, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. His head was bandaged, his arm in a sling; he was pale and filthy and looked to be in a savage temper.
“Looking for your little friend?” he said to John. “I shouldn’t fear for—him. He preserved his life through the fray. Pettibone tried to get him to tend the wounded, but the, ah, boy went off with a gang to round up slaves.”
“Oh, bugger off,” said John, ever so grateful.
“I ask myself: ‘Has this pirate swain any wits at all? For surely a certain vicious little fury will do for him when she’s weary of his embrace, or else our dear Admiral will have him hanged for debauching a maiden fair’.”
“It wasn’t like that,” said John.
“Oh, no, of course not.” Blackstone stared down at the heap of dead men. He picked at the dried blood in his beard. “I’ll keep your secret for you; none of my concern, after all. What will you do for me in return?”
“I don’t know,” said John.
“Well, I’ll tell you. Should I get my death-wound on this wretched venture, perhaps you might get word of it back to a certain lady in Port Royal.” Blackstone squinted at John, then leaned down and took hold of the arrow-stump protruding from John’s thigh. One quick jerk and he had it out, taking a flap of skin with it. John stared down dumbly at the little gush of blood, too surprised to curse. Blackstone held the arrowhead up, examining it. “Look at that edge! A man could shave with that.”
“Did you find your prince?” John groped, pulled away his neckerchief and held it to the wound.
“Haven’t had time to look, yet. I hope he wasn’t being kept in the inner redoubt; they were all slaughtered, in there.”
“Or you been diddled again, I reckon, and he wasn’t never here in the first place,” said John, spiteful.
“Entirely likely, damn your eyes,” said Blackstone, tossing the arrowhead away. He glanced over at the prisoners who were at work on the seaward battlements. “But let’s you and I take a walk over yonder, messmate. One never knows who might have had the sense to beg for quarter.”
They went shambling to the parapet together, looking like a couple of beggars, and saw Jacques lounging in a shady corner, with his musket trained on the prisoners. The Spaniards were praying at each body before they cast it over the edge, and every time they made the sign of the cross Jacques would too, solemn and respectful, before pointing his musket at them again.
Blackstone led John promenading up and down once or twice before John realized what he was about; that was when one of the Spaniards noticed John’s boots, and nearly dropped his end of a dead capitano. His mates swore at him, or at least that was what it sounded like to John, and he seemingly apologized and hauled the body up again. All the while he was praying at the edge, though, he kept his red-rimmed eyes on John’s boots. Blackstone grinned.
“Je v’lui parler,” he said to Jacques, jerking his thumb at the Spaniard. Jacques nodded, crossed himself and took aim at the hapless man. Blackstone pulled him aside.
“You like the boots?” he said. The Spaniard, who was small and thin and wretched-looking, said something in Spanish, not surprisingly. Blackstone talked back to him in the same tongue. The gist of what they said was, as John found out after:
Prisoner: Please, sir, you are too late.
Blackstone: I hope you’re not going to disappoint my friend with the fine boots. See what a big man he is? He could flatten you with his fist.
Prisoner: Please, please, señor, I am not to blame. We kept the Englishman here as long as we dared.
Blackstone: Oh, dear, my friend won’t be happy to hear that. I might be able to prevent him from hurting you, but you must tell me everything.
Prisoner: If you had come sooner, all had been well. It was the safest place we could think of to keep him. How were we to know your Enrique Morgan would be so mad as to come here? Now the Englishman has been taken to a new hiding-place.
Blackstone: Gone again, is he? Why, damn your soul.
Prisoner: Did you bring the money, señor? I could serve as your guide thence.
Blackstone: Did I bring the money? You impudent little ape, I’ll find my own way, with fire and sword. When I tell my friend here what you just said, he’ll throw you down the cliff alive.
Prisoner: Oh, in God’s name, señor, have mercy! I am only a clerk!
Blackstone: Then tell me this much: Why all this mummery? Unless you have been lying, and the Englishman was never here.
Prisoner: No! No! Look, señor, here’s proof!
He drew a leather bag from out of the depths of his shirt, digging in it. He held up something that glinted in the sunlight. Blackstone snatched it from him, and studied it closely. John leaned down and had a look at the thing; it was a seal-ring with a curious device on the shield, such as great folks have painted on the doors of their carriages.
Prisoner: I was bid to give you this, and tell you to come to the river-post called Torna Caballos. That is all I know. Please, señor, I am not to blame, I am a poor creature.
Blackstone turned away in disgust, taking John by the arm.
“Another damned feint,” he said. “Let’s go see if we can find some wine.”
* * *
You may have heard tales of all the merry times to be had when a city is sacked on the Spanish Main: all the drinking, and looting, and whoring, and happy freebooters lying unconscious in piles of plunder. There was none of that at Chagres Castle, at all.
Captain Bradley lay sweating in a fever, but his shattered leg was cold. If a man were at all inclined to be fanciful, he might almost see the black-robed figure with the scythe waiting patiently in a corner, just passing the time in a game of primero with War and Pestilence. Captain Norman stalked about hollow-eyed and sleepless, seeing to the repair of the defenses; for John hadn’t been the only one to notice the canoes escaping up the Chagres, and everyone reckoned it was a race to see who arrived first, Morgan with the rest of the fleet (please God) or Spanish troops come to the relief of their comrades.
The first night’s watch fell to John and his messmates, by the open palisade. They’d only a low basket of coals to warm themselves, as a cheery fire would have blazed out through the fallen wall good as an invitation f
or any snipers who cared to pick them off.
John sat with his head in his hands, feeling low. His skull ached and his wounds stung, but all he cared for was that the girl hadn’t come back, and nobody seemed to have seen her.
“It’s on your own conscience,” said Dick Pettibone, shrill as a fishwife. “You ought to have known better than to have brought that poor child. She was half mad, after what she’d suffered. Then, to think of her being pawed by a great brute like you! And now, I don’t doubt she’s run mad in the forest, and will perish miserably.”
“Run mad maybe, but I doubt very much she’ll perish,” said Blackstone. “You didn’t see her fighting! A more bloodthirsting harpy I never saw.” He looked sidelong at John. “She’s left you, you great lout, and you ought to be grateful. Can’t you see that she kept with you only to serve her purposes? You got her where she wished to go, and then it was hail and farewell. If I were you I’d be grateful I still had my prick.”
“So you should,” agreed Jago, where he lay with his head in Jacques’ lap. “She fight like a devil, but they are heartless, heartless.”
“So you say,” said John.
“Men are more heartless than women,” said Bob Plum. “Do they think twice about deserting their faithful wives? Do they care for the helpless infants left to starve? Oh no, they go swaggering off to the arms of other women—or to ale houses—or the wars—perfidious, treacherous beasts!”
The others turned their heads to stare at him. Reverend Hackbrace, so bound up from a score of wounds he looked like a great long roll of bandage, shifted uncomfortably where he sat.
“Now, then, Bob, let us keep our tempers,” he said. “Scripture tells us—
“Oui, Scripture! What about the sin of Eve, eh?” said Jago. “Slut mother sleep with the Serpent and eat of the fruit, get us all thrown out of Paradise. And Jezebel. And Salome.”
“Delilah,” said Jacques.
“And Delilah!”
“That’s true,” said Bob, looking down at his feet. “I must bear in mind the counsels of Saint Paul. Women are of a more natural disposition to sin, alas. After all, there are no male whores.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Blackstone. “You have never been at Court, or you’d never say such a thing.”
“Ain’t you never heard of the Grand Turk?” John lifted his head. “ ’Course there’s boy whores.”
“There are?” Bob’s eyes were wide. The Reverend cleared his throat.
“The sins of the people of the plain, Bob,” he said. “The crime of Sodom.”
“Buggery,” said Blackstone. Bob’s eyes got wider.
“You mean people are still doing that?” he said. Jago began to snicker.
“Don’t be an imbecile, Bob,” said Pettibone waspishly.
“But—but why hath not the Lord rained down fire and brimstone upon them?” cried Bob.
“I often ask myself that question, in the still watches of the night,” said Blackstone.
“No doubt the Almighty is waiting His vengeance for the Last Trumpet,” said the Reverend.
“Yes, that must be the case,” Bob agreed. “How dreadful!”
“Perhaps a more edifying topic of conversation might be begun,” said the Reverend. John listened in wonder; it was the first time he had ever heard the Reverend say so much at one go, in his ruined-sounding voice. “For example, it might be pleasant to contemplate what we shall do with the riches awaiting us at Panama.”
“So it might,” said Blackstone. “For my part, I’ll set up as a planter. Build myself a grand house, live in style; perhaps in Virginia or Carolina. The weather is more temperate there, so I hear.”
“I thought of doing that,” said John. “Or setting up in a shop, you know. I was going to settle down with—” He choked back what he had been about to say, and hated himself for the hot tears that welled in his eyes.
“No, you wouldn’t have done,” said Blackstone, not unkindly. “You’ll spend it all on a spree, my friend, and go to sea again.”
“I ain’t like those poor, stupid bastards you see in the gutter,” John protested. “I could have been a bricklayer, you know.”
“Well, well perhaps you may yet. What about you gentlemen?” Blackstone looked at the Reverend and his mates. “But why do I even ask? Surely you’ll establish a mission for the conversion of the benighted Indian.”
“No, sir, we will not,” said Dick Pettibone. “The Reverend has humbly acknowledged that he lacks the patience for missionary work.”
“I am too great a sinner,” said the Reverend mournfully.
“Being as he is no gentle persuader, he is nevertheless a brilliant man of God,” said Pettibone. “We have resolved to buy a quiet country retreat where he will complete his great scholarly work, so unfortunately interrupted when we were obliged to fly from Yorkshire.”
“It is called One Thousand Canonical Instances Wherein the Claim to Authority of the Bishop of Rome Is Refuted,” said Bob proudly. “With appendices.”
“Really,” said Blackstone. “And what will the two of you do?”
“Why, keep house for him,” said Bob. “A-and perhaps engage in small farming.”
“I see,” said Blackstone. Jago coughed in a pointed sort of way.
“And take ourselves virtuous wives,” said Dick Pettibone. “Of course.”
“Now, what in hell do you need a wife for?” John asked.
“There is more to a marriage than swiving,” said Pettibone, with great dignity.
“Than what?” said Bob.
“Swiving,” said John, and called it by another name. Bob reddened and fell silent.
“What about the two of you?” Blackstone inquired of the boucaniers.
“We need nothing,” said Jago proudly. “Buy ourselves the tabac, buy the powder and shot. New muskets, belike, eh, mon plus cher? Go back to Tortuga, we got Paradise already.”
“Adam avant I’erreur,” said Jacques, nodding.
“If you’ve such a damned Paradise, what are you out of it for?” said John crossly.
“The revenge,” said Jago, with a red light in his eyes. Jacques sighed and shook his head.
“On whom, exactly?” inquired Blackstone.
“All of them,” said Jago. “Spain specially. When I was little boy in Marseilles, my monsieur, he keep me in the golden cage. I wear the ribbon, like the kitten, eh? He feed me the candies, sweet rice, sweet wines. I sleep on his sheets, wear the perfume. Then he gamble away everything and English lord win me, give me to his lady to wear the turban. She make me stand in the livery by her door. But Sir Robert gamble too, and then Don Pedro win me. I am nothing, me, but the object.”
“C’était il y a un longtemps, mon cher,” murmured Jacques.
“Don Pedro ship me off to Hispaniola. Poor little me, never before worked in the fields! I am beat half to death. When I get big, I kill him and run away. Steal the boat, go adrift, almost die of the thirst. Wash up on the little island. There was Jacques.
“My Jacques, he’s too poor orphan, steal the game on the rich man’s land. They catch him, make him row the prison galley. Galley taken by the pirates, Jacques set free, turn pirate. Spanish catch him and take him to be hanged. Beat him bad. But their ship goes on the reef off the little island, they drown, he swim ashore. When he find me, carry me to his refuge with great tendresse.
“My Jacques, he is the, the philosopher. He explain to me: the black, the poor, neither one creatures of reason, say the rich men. They make us only the beasts. Eh bien, then we are beasts, and free. We prey on them like the lions, like the wolves. What they have, we are free to take, if we can take; or die free. There is no, no coupable for the beasts. No sins.”
Jacques said something long and earnest in French, which Jago translated to mean that he and Jacques, playing at being animals, had found their way back into Eden: freedom, and true comradeship. Free air, the forest and the sea, all things held in common between true brothers, far from the jealous eyes of other me
n or wicked whores. He said further, that he hoped as how Jago might slake his thirst for revenge soon and give over his anger, so they could go back to their island. “It is indeed a noble idyll,” said Bob Plum, “but for being Godless.” They all looked at Bob in wonderment, except for Dick Pettibone, who hid his face in his hands, and the Reverend, who was gazing into the coals contentedly, as though he watched the damned burning there.
* * *
For a week they worked on the bastions of San Lorenzo, building them up with as much effort as they’d expended in bringing them down. John, who was reckoned able-bodied compared to some of the others, was sent into the jungle with a gang of prisoners to cut wood and haul logs back through the heat and stink. He searched the green shadows, shading his eyes with his hands, hoping to catch a glimpse of a white leg or a peering face; but he never saw his girl.
He worked with the grave-digging detail too, putting the wounded away in their eternal beds as they died, and he looked closely at each gray face as the dead were sewn into their shrouds; but none of them were the girl.
He wandered amongst the company in the evenings, from watch-fire to watch-fire, questioning all whether they’d seen a young lad in the fighting, no more than fifteen, wearing sailcloth breeches and a blue shirt. He said how the lad was his cousin, run away to the West Indies after listening to pirate tales, and how he’d felt obliged to look out for him for his mother’s sake. Some had seen the boy that night, and some hadn’t; some had seen him since the fighting, but couldn’t recollect where. None could tell him where to find her.
* * *
“The fleet!” roared the lookout. There was a rush to the wall, to stare out at the wide sea. The crowd parted to let Captain Norman through, with his spyglass, but the sharper-eyed had already made them out: the foremost of Morgan’s ships, hull-down yet on the horizon. Norman closed his glass with a snap, and looked ever so relieved as he said: “Bleeding Jesus, not before his time. Run up the colors!” So the flag was hoisted up, the English colors true and plain. A shot was fired, and in the anchorage below, the Mayflower and her sister ships, which had been brought down the coast after the victory, ran up their colors too.