by Andre Norton
“Some men kill their enemies quickly. Their revenge is over when the blood drips from their steel, and then their lives are barren. But he who waits and plans, and is content to wait and plan, why he, Scarface, he knows the true joy of vengeance and his is the full reward. When we stand in Bridgetown, boy, then shall my reward come at last—and a long harsh score shall I put an end to.” Again he laughed. “So shall I keep you by me, Scarface, to remind me of past pains and a contract unfulfilled.” Then Cheap fell silent, seeming to look beyond the boy at some pleasing scene. And ever and anon he smiled.
Scarface moved at last and roused the Captain from his dream.
“Ha, boy, get to your pots! I would dine.”
Thankfully Scarface made his way back to the galley where the giant Negro cook, Ghost Peter, stirred his kettles.
“The Captain would eat,” Scarface announced shortly. He hated and distrusted Peter. And in that he was not alone for it was very well known that Peter talked with ghosts and had strange powers when he wished to use them.
“Dar,” the Negro jerked a flat thumb at a laden tray covered by a fine white napkin. Cheap demanded such niceties even aboard ship. “Dey sez,” Ghost Peter addressed his pan rather than the boy but Scarface knew an answer would be required of him, “dat we is gwine t’ Barbados.”
“That is the way of it.”
“Pow’ful ill luck dat a-way.” Peter spat into the clay-lined firebox. “Why we do?”
“Cheap’s orders.”
Peter stook his head, but made no further comment. And the boy went off about his duties. But later that night when he was free, he sought the upper deck and stood there a long time. Why was Cheap so determined to raid Barbados when all sense should urge him away? What vengeance pulled the Captain there?
Barbados, the word had a good, mouth-filling sound. Like as not the island was rich. And Cheap had a nose for loot. Look at what they had taken out of San Rafael last year. Barbados. He wondered when they would sight the island.
Chapter Three
* * *
ILL WIND FOR A SOLDIER
* * *
IT WAS a half hour after dawn when they sighted a little island sloop beating up against the wind on their own course. And the sight of her was like showing a blob of meat to a starving dog, because for the past week they had raised nothing save a frigate, slow-sailing, but well-fanged enough to keep them at their distance. And now this plum could be snapped at ease.
Cheap had sailed the Naughty Lass to his own liking so that Quittance turned a hang-dog scowl to the world and the muttering of the crew had become open mutinous talk. The Gulf of Honduras and the hope of a Don was much more to their taste than this cruising into British-patrolled waters. But Cheap struck through the channel and down toward the Windwards and in that was a measure of the man. For when a captain is elected by the common vote of his crew he can be as easily set aside, and yet none aboard the Naughty Lass had suggested that Cheap be removed.
The sloop tried to run and, by accident or cruel design, she did win to the very edge of freedom before they sailed her down and with one raking shot lifted the mast out of her. The rest was butchery in which Cheap did not deign to take part. But when the long boat of the boarders pulled back to the Naughty Lass, leaving a gutted wreck half-awash behind them, there was the flash of a scarlet coat among them and Creagh called for a line to be dropped to haul up a prisoner.
With as little ceremony as if he were a bale of goods or a net of supplies, the securely trussed body of a Queen’s officer was slung up and over the rail and landed with a thud on the deck. But there was fight yet in the fellow. His shoulders writhed as he tried to roll over and Scarface, without knowing just why, reached down to catch hold of a torn epaulet and pull the officer to his knees. So aided he won to his feet.
He stood there, feet braced wide apart, swaying a little, a runnel of dark blood across his chin, his shaven head wigless to the sun. But there was nothing shrinking about that square chin or those level greenish eyes. He spat a clot of blood, showing for an instant a torn lip and broken teeth, and then he glanced from face to face of those hedging him in.
“What is this, Creagh?” Cheap called from the after-deck.
As he spoke the officer turned to face him. Creagh grinned.
“A gift wot'll pleasure ye well, Cap'n. This foine soljer be one o’ ‘em as lives ‘igh at Barbados. Seein’ as ‘ow ye be thinkin’ o’ thar—”
Cheap laughed. “So there be a wit or two in that thick skull of yours after all, Nat. Aye, this gift pleasures me. Speak up, fellow, who are you?”
The officer cleared his throat and spat red for the second time before he answered steadily enough:
“I am Major Humphrey Cocklyn of Her Majesty's service in the West Indies. Since your men did not slit my throat as they did the throats of those other poor devils I take it that you want ransom—”
“Not so fast, my fine Major,” interrupted Cheap. “The questions are mine to ask. What were you doing at sea? Or has Her Majesty lately enrolled foot soldiers to serve her on the waves?”
Cocklyn contrived to shrug, even with his arms bound torturously behind him.
“I was on my way to Barbados with dispatches—”
“Ahhh—” That was a sound of pure delight. Cheap's lips were parted, his long-fingered hands in spite of their weight of jeweled rings played a triumphant little tattoo on the rail. “Creagh, my bully, you have done better than I first thought. And where are these so important dispatches, Major?”
Cocklyn's ill-used mouth stretched in a crooked smile. “Where you needs must now dive to read them. One of your men emptied the case overboard when he found no gold in it.”
Cheap's hands were still. Then he nodded once as if in answer to a thought. But when he spoke his voice was silky and Scarface felt a familiar and dreaded chill between his shoulder blades.
“But you, Major Cocklyn, doubtless know how went the messages?” he suggested.
“Do I?” returned the Major, his voice still even and unhurried.
Cheap laughed again. “If your memory betrays you we shall refresh it—speedily! I have good reason to wish to know all matters concerning Barbados. And I have the means of satisfying my curiosity. Several of my men are well schooled in the business of loosening too tight tongues—”
Cocklyn coolly looked again at the ring of faces about him. “That I don't doubt. But when I say that I do not know what those papers contained, I may be speaking the truth.”
“There is that, of course,” Cheap nodded amiably, “and then it will be doubly unfortunate for you. Come, come, Major. All the Main knows that you who are sent to officer the levies here are men without any hope of advancement or profit at home. Why cling to that coat which has brought you nothing in the past? For a man with his wits about him there is a fortune to be gathered on the Main—and you seem no cabbage head!”
“For that compliment, thank you. But though my coat is old and, as you have remarked, somewhat threadbare, it has served me well and I have no wish to lay it aside—”
“Your wishes have but small weight here, Major!”
Cheap motioned and Cocklyn went down, one blow from Creagh's fist sending him sprawling.
“Peg him out on the hatch,” the Captain ordered. “I'll warrant he'll find his tongue quick enough when the sun gets to him. And have that coat off him!”
Once spread-eagled on the hatch grating, a bucket of salt water brought the Major to groaning consciousness and Cheap's smile must have been the first thing he saw clearly.
“You have mayhap been long enough in our pleasant climate, Major, to know the strength of the sunlight, especially in the full heat of the day. But if you have not, you will learn it now. If you have any wish for water, my boy here will be most willing to ease your thirst. But, since our supply is limited, you needs must—being in the manner of speaking a stowaway—be satisfied with that from the sea. And should you at any time wish to continue our conversation co
ncerning your mission—on a plane more satisfying to both of us—you need not hesitate to disturb me—I shall be entirely at your service.”
“That”—the Major drew deep breaths between his words—"is most obliging of you. But I do not think that you need worry about being disturbed—”
“Mayhap not this hour, or in the next, but the day is a long one, my friend. And I have all the time in the world.”
“That I would not be too sure of,” returned Cocklyn and closed his eyes with the air of one who wished to conclude an annoying interview.
“You know your orders.” Cheap turned to Scarface. “Sit you here and stir not until this scum of a redcoat finds his tongue or is broiled past the using of it.”
Scarface wet dry lips. Never before had Cheap set him such a task—such nastiness had been left to Creagh who delighted in it and the boy had kept as far as possible from the scene of the sport. Why had Cheap not left this captive to the tender mercies of the boatswain? Unless, knowing Creagh well and wishing to preserve some life and reason within Cocklyn's body, he had deliberately chosen as guard the one member of the crew he knew had no taste for beastliness.”
What was Cheap's game? For the Captain did nothing without good cause. Why—?
His head snapped back and he staggered, caught his balance and still stood, but with a brain which whirled within his skull for one sick instant. Then he blinked the dizziness from his eyes and felt across his chin and cheek the burn of the blow Cheap had given him almost carelessly.
“Dream not on this guard, wry-face, or I'll have the skin off the bones in that stiff back of yours.”
“Best leave th’ redcoat t’ me, Cap'n. I'll ‘ave ‘im a-talkin'!” Creagh stood there, a sort of red eagerness in his small eyes, his furry paws flexing.
Cheap shook his head. “Not this time, Creagh. Let this brat earn his keep, he has grown squeamish of late. Not that you may not keep an eye to the both of them now and then, mind you—”
“Aye, aye, Cap'n!”
So Scarface squatted down by the edge of the hatch, knowing that Creagh's pig-eyes, wherever his body might be on deck, would be upon them. As for Cheap, he went unhurriedly below to sample a bottle from the few the sloop had yielded.
The sun climbed and Scarface, feeling its bite on his own shoulders, could guess what it meant to that half-naked body pinioned under its full glare. And yet not a murmur came from those bloodstained lips. Whatever else this Major might be, he was also a man of iron endurance.
Scarface watched Creagh. Nat might be hot about any business when it was new come to his mind, but he was not a stayer and if the sloop had given wine for Cheap's table, it must also have supplied the boatswain with at least one private bottle. Creagh was never one to neglect his own comfort. And Nat had a thirst which would grow with the hours. It was only a matter of waiting—but could the Major outlast Creagh's sense of duty?
The boy began to move his fingers, casting grotesque shadows on the deck planking. Once he touched the bruise on his jaw where Cheap had struck; it was aching bravely. Cold water on it now—
Water—!
His tongue was suddenly thick in his mouth at the thought of it. But he could get up, could cross the deck, could drink from that hollow gourd by the barrel—and no man would stop him. While the Major—
Creagh was coming toward them. He leaned over the captive and with sudden viciousness pinched the sunblistered flesh. But the soldier made no sound and Scarface wondered if he had fainted.
“This be no way t’ serve a tongue-tied man,” he commented. “I'll below t’ th’ Cap'n an’ ‘ave ‘is word fer another way.”
And go below he did. But, Scarface noted, he did not turn towards the great cabin. It was plain that the boatswain was bound for his own cubby and the bottle he had taken pains to secrete there.
Scarface got to his feet and went to the water barrel. The stuff was none too fragrant, it had been more than a week since those barrels had been filled. But it was water and not salt. He dipped the gourd and brought it out three-fourths full.
“Vot do you, boy?”
Water splashed out of the gourd. It was Roder who stood there behind him, a puzzled look on his half-moon face.
“I try a plan of my own to make a talker of this Englishman,” returned Scarface. “This will I drink before his eyes, mayhap pouring some out beyond his reach. That will give him much to think on.”
Roder considered the idea and then nodded heavily. “A goodt head have you, Scarface. Vhen a man must drink yet und sees de wasser—yah, dat is goodt—goodt. Do you so.”
So he crossed to the hatch with Roder watching, the gourd in his two hands. And then he stooped closer to the Major's head.
“Water, soldier,” he said, loudly enough to satisfy the gunner. “Water to drink.” He put the gourd to his mouth and sucked noisily.
Those green eyes were open, fixed on him in a sort of horror. The battered lips drew back in an animal's snarl. But only a thin whisper of sound came through.
“Devil—devil—”
It was the ship herself who helped him play the trick he had planned for. Under them the deck gave a sudden lurch and the canvas cracked under a thrust of wind. Seawise Roder's eyes snapped aloft.
But the water in the gourd splashed down, down into that gaping mouth, across that bloodstained face. Some of it must have meant easement. For the horror in those eyes gave way to something else. A strange questioning look which Scarface answered only with a curse at the ship and his own clumsiness. Only, when he went to return the gourd to the barrel, that shorn head against the grating turned painfully too and the eyes followed him still questioning.
But such a trick could not be played twice nor could he see anything else which he could do for the other now. And dark was hours away—!
Communion with the captured wine in the quiet of his own cabin had done something to Cheap. He came up while the sun was still over the mainmast, walking with his panther tread straight to the hatch where lay his victim.
“So he is still of a stubborn mind, eh?” he asked of Scarface. “Well, mayhap I can find another use for him. Some deaths are too easy and I have no liking for wanton waste. Roder!”
The gunner came across the deck to answer that hail.
“Get this carrion below and lay it snug until I have use for it. When we raise Bridgetown I think Major Cocklyn will serve us very well.”
They dragged the limp body below to the small chain locker and, having made fast arms and legs, thrust the Major in. It was then that Scarface dared to protest to Cheap.
“Without water he will not last out the night. Remember that black Creagh treated so, and he was well used to the sun.”
Cheap was pleased to be generous. “True enough. That soft streak in you may have saved us much this time. Get below, you lily-livered whelp, and bring him around. Mind you, I want him alive and useful when I need him.”
For the second time Scarface filled the gourd and took it to the small locker where the fetid air was smothering. He dropped down and pulled the heavy body of the man to him, drabbling water through the parted lips.
“What's to do—?”
The rasping whisper was that of a man who still had all his wits.
“Cheap will not have you cooked this day. He has another plan.”
“So— Do you have more of that blessed water, boy?”
But when Scarface put the gourd to his mouth he did not gulp at its contents heedlessly, only sipped.
“Many thanks, Ganymede.” The hoarse whisper had lost some of its huskiness. “And can I believe that your services above deck were calculated too?”
“Believe what you wish. I've orders to keep you alive.”
“I wonder”—the man allowed his head to drop back against the thin shoulder of his nurse—"whether I should bless or curse you for that. I'm afraid that if Cheap has his way I'm like to be a long time dying—”
He gave a little sigh and his eyes closed. Then to Scarfa
ce's amazement his heavy even breathing became that of a man asleep. Leaving him so, the boy fastened the locker behind him and went on deck.
But Captain Cheap was not done with his cabin boy. He had left orders that Scarface was to join him in the great cabin and Scarface went, to discover Roder and Quittance there before him. Cheap was sprawled across the table, poking at points on a well-worn chart to clarify his plans. As the boy came in upon them he looked up almost pleasantly.
“And here, mark you,” he said to his officers, “comes the key to our lock. A key I have the turning of. You shall continue to cosset this soldier,” Cheap spoke now to Scarface. “Do aught you can to comfort him in his distress.” The Captain's sweetly evil laugh broke through his orders. “Play his friend, offer to free him, if you will. That would be an easy promise to make with the Naughty Lass well away from any shore he might win to. But in turn strive to learn why he was sent on that sloop to Barbados. And above all, question him as to where Scarlett now lies. It may be that the worthy governor has gone out to aid in the drive against the French—even as that turtle fisherman told us. But learn the truth. You have a simple, honest face—if one ugly enough to fright babes in their cradles—and he may come to believe in you.
“But—play me false with this Englishman.” Cheap continued to smile, his handsome face lighted and happy. “Play me false, and you will be caught between the pot and the fire. For this Cocklyn has no use for you except as a tool—and should you and he win, by some miracle, to Bridgetown, it will be to attend your own hanging. There is no quarter to be found there for any who have sailed under the Black Flag. And should he escape and you remain—well, Creagh shall then have the schooling of you —that do I swear by the sea itself!”