by Iain Gale
It was a virtuoso performance. He spat on the cobbles, and waited to gauge the man’s reaction. There was a silence and then the pirate began to laugh. The two others joined in and eventually he spoke.
‘I am sorry, sir. We cannot be too careful. There are English spies everywhere. You’ll find Commander Trouin in here, unless he has already repaired to his bed. Will your friend be joining you?’
Damn, Steel thought, they had seen Brouwer. Doubtless they had seen the two of them together, seeing off the drunk. He crused silently and noticed that the officer was still watching him closely. There was nothing for it but to include the Belgian. He turned and caught Brouwer’s eye, then used the first Scots name that came into his head.
‘Come on, Lieutenant Macleod. We’re in luck. They’ll take us both for soldiers.’ He winked and beckoned. Brouwer, totally nonplussed, could do nothing but go along with Steel.
The officer nodded: ‘Well then, in that case I will bid you goodnight, gentlemen. And good luck with Commander Trouin.’
Steel bowed and as the officer ducked back into the inn, he turned to Brouwer, whispering as they passed the guards, ‘Christ. I thought the game was up. I’m afraid that you’ll have to come in with me. But leave as quickly as you can – don’t hang around. And try to look a little more, um, military. I’ll see you later. I have an appointment with a lady.’
And with that, he was gone. Brouwer nodded and as Steel disappeared into the crowded inn, wondered how to manage a ‘military’ bearing. He had never been interested in being a soldier. He had spent his life preaching peace, and sworn never to take up arms. Until recently of course, but then only as a last resort, to defend his country and his family. Nervously, Brouwer looked about him and wished that he had never met the tall Scottish officer. Yet his sense of duty told him that he must do this for his town and for his family. So pushing back his coat, he thrust a thumb in his belt and set his face into what he took to be a military attitude. Then, with a thirst brought on by fear, he walked across to a small vacant table and sitting down, tried to puzzle out how an officer in the British army might ask a serving-girl in a tavern full of pirates to sell him a mug of ale.
ELEVEN
Steel found what he was looking for without much difficulty. René Duglay-Trouin was unmissable. He sat at the head of a table of men against the furthest wall of the inn, distinguished from the others not only by his clothes but by his very presence which marked him out to Steel as a leader. It did not take Trouin more than a few seconds to come to the same conclusion about Jack Steel.
Steel pushed through the throng of drunks and whores towards the pirate’s table. Trouin waved away the girl who had been sitting on his knee and gazed at Steel and as he did so one of his men whispered in his ear.
He spoke and the room around him fell silent. ‘So, you have come to offer your services to me, Mr …?’
‘Thomson. Jack Thomson.’
‘Iam flattered Mister Thomson. You do me an honour.’
Thomson. It was hardly convincing. Steel had settled on it, his mother’s maiden name, the previous evening. He had also tried to modulate his voice but was acutely conscious that even to a Frenchman, his gentle lowland Scottish accent might shine through, in particular marking him out as a cut above the normal rank-and-file deserter. He knew that eventually he would have to admit that he was an officer and that would beg new questions. Clearly, that time was now. He smiled at Duglay-Trouin yet maintained his essential air of sang-froid. Never before, not on any battlefield, had he felt so desperately exposed. He sensed the pirate’s eyes boring into his skull, attempting to seek out the truth.
Trouin frowned: ‘Mister … Thomson. You do not, forgive me for saying so, but you do not strike me as the normal sort of deserter that we see.’ He paused and Steel knew what was coming next. ‘You are an officer I think? Yes?’
Steel swallowed. Unsure as to whether Trouin had already penetrated his subterfuge, he could only play along. ‘Yes. I must admit that I am, sir. At least I was. I was until lately an officer in Queen Anne’s army. But I cannot fight for those colours any longer. In truth, Captain, I was fighting for a lie.’
‘You interest me. How was that so?’
‘I was not fighting for our true monarch, sir, King James. In truth, my conscience has long troubled me and now at last it has driven me to this. I saw such things at the late battle, sir. Our own, I’m sorry, Marlborough’s own troops killing in cold blood men whose only fault I knew to be that they followed the Jacobite cause. It has turned me, sir. I now count myself among them. I desire to fight against the queen, sir. For King James III, the true King of Britain.’
Trouin clapped him on the back. ‘So. You are a Jacobite. Good. We have other men of your persuasion in our ranks. Perhaps you will know some of them. But tell me, why join us? Why not join one of the Jacobite regiments of the French army?’
Steel had prepared his answer. ‘Because, Captain, in so doing I would almost certainly come up against my old comrades in battle, on the battlefield that is. And in such a situation I would be torn in two directions. With you I might serve the French and yet it would seem be less certain of meeting my old regiment.’
Trouin paused, considering the validity of the argument. Steel sensed himself sweating with fear of discovery.
At last, Trouin spoke: ‘That is very true, Mister Thomson. It does not do to kill old friends, whatever side you are on. What was your rank?’
‘I was a captain, sir.’
‘Well Captain Thomson, then perhaps you should retain your rank … when you join us.’ A sense of relief swept over Steel. But Trouin had not finished. ‘There is but one problem. Whereas in your world an officer is naturally considered a gentleman, indeed is that before he becomes an officer and is valued as such above the ordinary man, here, in the world I inhabit, I tend to prefer the company of the commoner. Officers, I have found as a rule, tend not to be as trustworthy as they would have us believe. You understand me?’
This rankled with Steel, but he knew that to disagree would be suicide. ‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘So tell me, Captain Thomson, why I should trust you?’
‘Because I speak the truth, sir, not merely because I count myself a gentleman. Because I fight like ten men and because, as a British officer I can be of great use to you. I am also no mere posturing gentleman-soldier, but a veteran. I fought with the Swedes at Narva, with Marlborough at Blenheim. I did not purchase my captaincy; I earned it with the colours. Are those reasons enough for you?’
Trouin nodded and smiled. ‘If what you say is true, and increasingly I am inclined to believe you, Captain, then, yes. That is enough for me – almost. You are right about the last thing, certainly. We could use a man like yourself, to pass as the enemy and afford us surprise. Yes, that would be good. And I tend to believe your motive too. As to your fighting abilities, I think perhaps that we should make up our own minds.’ He called across the room: ‘Which one of you men has the guts to take on this Scottish gentleman? He wishes to join us and I believe that we need to test his skill at arms.’
Steel looked on as three of Trouin’s men rose to their feet at one of the tables. As if by tacit agreement, only one, a tall, muscular man with a single continuous eyebrow, and wearing a filthy leather jerkin, walked across to Trouin.
‘So, Alexis. You feel like a bit of sport. Think you can beat him? He’s a professional soldier you know.’
The man laughed. He spoke slowly and with contempt. ‘You know me, Captain. Do you think I can beat him?’
‘I believe that you will. And if you do, ten gold pieces. But Alex, my friend; if he should beat you …’ Alexis grinned. ‘Well, who knows? Fair?’
The man grinned again: ‘Fair, Captain.’
Trouin turned to Steel: ‘Your choice of weapons, monsieur. Swords, pistols, hatchets, pikes? What do you favour?’
Steel drew back his cloak to reveal the sword which hung at his side and slowly eased the great blade from its
scabbard. He watched it flash in the lantern light.
‘Swords, sir.’
Trouin looked closely and covetously at the sword, with its fine damascening and delicately darkened markings. ‘That is a fine weapon, Captain.’
‘A family heirloom, Captain. It was made in Italy by Ferrara.’
‘I thought as much. I have rarely seen its like. It would take a true swordsman to handle such a weapon.’
‘I get by.’
‘Well now, let’s see how you get by with Alexis.’
Steel’s opponent drew his own sword, a heavy-bladed scimitar of Turkish design with a flat blade. It was shorter than Steel’s weapon, but he knew that, if wielded properly, it would have sufficient power to sever a man’s arm as soon as touch it. It reminded him of the swords used by three Ukrainian Cossacks, the Zaporozhne, that he had encountered in the army of Tzar Peter in the northern wars and it occurred to him that with his angular face and long moustache the man’s roots might lie in that distant place. He also wondered how skilled he might be in the use of his blade.
Trouin pushed at the crowd of his men and tavern girls that had gathered around the two contestants. ‘Clear the floor. Give them room.’ He turned to Steel: ‘Gentlemen. You may begin … To the death.’
Steel looked at him: ‘We did not agree on that, sir.’
‘But that is ever the way in my world, Captain Thomson. There is no other way. Now, begin.’
He clapped his hands and Steel’s adversary assumed a crude version of the en garde position. Steel, who had thrown off his cloak and coat, did the same and extended his sword-arm. The pirate circled him, throwing the scimitar from hand to hand with worrying dexterity.
Steel drew back his own blade and held it upright in the en garde. The pirate looked confused. For an instant he left the scimitar in his right hand. Steel struck, lunging with lightning speed for the man’s left side and finding flesh. The point of his sword cut into the man’s side, drawing a gout of blood. The pirate hardly flinched. He was angry now and keen to attack. Steel lunged again. A feint this time to the right and the man fell for it. He swore in an unintelligible tongue and attempted to parry but Steel’s blade was gone and once again was slicing into the Russian’s right side. This time the pirate felt the pain. Steel could see the colour rising in his face as he lost control. Now, he thought, this will turn into a very different sort of fight, for his opponent had cast away reason, had abandoned the desire or the need to construct his attacks. Now, Steel knew, this would be a fight to the death. He was up against a madman. He recovered and attempted to guess what his opponent would try next. It was harder to anticipate the tactics of a maniac. The man leapt at him, catching Steel completely off-guard. He brought back his sword-arm but not before the Russian had made contact with it and then the rest of his body.
The two men fell to the ground in a sprawling heap and the man pinned Steel down with his sheer weight. Winded, Steel realized with horror that his sword had been knocked from his hand. He glanced to the right and saw it lying close by. Stretching out he tried to reach it.
The Russian drew back his head and brought it crashing hard down on to Steel’s cranium. The pain was incredible. Steel thought he was going to pass out. He shook his head, and saw blood flash before him. The big Russian was standing above him now, laughing. Steel, careful not to let him know how aware he was, moaned and stretched again for the sword. The Russian moved his foot forward to crush Steel’s hand – and that was his undoing. Steel brought his left foot up hard, directly into the Russian’s groin, and felt it connect with gristle and bone. The man keeled over on to his back and lay there grasping his genitals.
Slowly, Steel sat up, leaning on his hand for support. Now he managed to reach the sword. He pulled himself up and sword in hand walked across to the Russian. But he was not finished. The man spun over and with more speed than Steel could believe for one his size, moved to his own weapon. Then he turned. Steel was ready for him. He cut towards the head, cavalry-style this time and instinctively the man ducked. But that was exactly what Steel had planned. The sabre cut was merely a feint, stopped in mid-air. Instead Steel twisted his sword-hand forward and brought his blade up directly beneath the Russian’s chin. It missed, just, but connected with the man’s left ear, severing a sizeable chunk. The Russian screamed and grabbed at his bloody head. Then Steel was on him again. He recovered the sword with a flourish and swept it across the Russian’s belly. Not deep enough to kill. Just to draw blood. The man sank to his knees. Steel moved closer and kicked him hard in the chest making him fall backwards.
Sensing that the Russian had no fight left in him, Steel stood over him. The man looked up at him with pleading eyes. Steel held the great blade poised at his throat.
Trouin spoke: ‘Excellent. Superb swordsmanship. And not a little street-fighting too. You surprise me, Captain, I had not known that the English could fight so dirty; particularly an English officer. I’m sorry – a Scottish officer. And now, he is yours, sir. You must decide. Kill him or spare him. The choice is yours, Captain Thomson.’
Steel looked down at the Russian and wondered again whether their paths had crossed before somewhere in the Swedish wars. He felt sorry for the brute, but he knew that only two minutes ago the man had been ready to kill him. He knew what he had to do. It went against every grain of integrity as an honourable man and an officer. But if he were to succeed here in his subterfuge, if he were to save the lives of hundreds of innocent people, not to mention Lady Henrietta, there was no other way. He looked one last time into the man’s eyes and leaned hard down on the blade which slipped easily into the pirate’s throat.
Trouin applauded: ‘Bravo. Well done, sir. He deserved to pay with his life. He knew what had to be done. That is our way. And now I have no doubt of your loyalty. Come, you need a drink.’ He nodded to two of his men who went to remove the bloody corpse and clapping Steel on the back, offered him a goblet of wine. ‘Let us drink to your joining my crew. Welcome. You are a natural fighter, sir.’
Steel took a long draught of wine and savoured its bitterness. ‘I need to fight, Captain. It’s the only way I know. Over there I fought for Queen Anne. In here …’
‘You fight for me.’
Steel shook his head and laughed. ‘No, sir. I fight for money and easy women. Most of all I fight for myself. I swear allegiance to the one true king, King James III. But, if you’ll have me, I will do your work.’
‘I will have you, Captain. What I could do with ten of you! Once we’ve finished here, and taken what we can, money, vittles and good, white slaves, then we’ll sail for the Caribbean. Have you ever seen the Caribbean, Thomson? No? Then you’ve a rare treat in store. Sunshine every day; ships laden with treasure, ripe for the taking. And women the same. Women of all sorts.’ He took a long swig of wine and wiped his lips on a delicate silk handkerchief that he extracted from his pocket. It smelt of oranges. He belched and went on: ‘I’ve done with this place, Captain. What the British started here we shall finish. We’ll let them stew outside there for another few days, knowing that we have the girl. And then, when they’re least expecting it, we’ll burn this godforsaken town, butcher those we don’t take and sail out of the harbour free men. And will the British navy give chase? Well, what do you think, as long as we have something that I know they want. For we have something here, something belonging to our English friends. Something to which no harm must ever come. And they know we have her. Such a plan, eh Thomson? Such a plan.’
Steel had to admit that it was sound, though hardly what he had in mind. It was clear that he would have to act quickly to effect Lady Henrietta’s escape. He thought fast: ‘Did I hear you mention women, Captain? By God, there’s nothing like a fight to put me in want of a woman.’
Trouin leered at him: ‘Monsieur, you are full of surprises. I swear, I shall never underestimate the English, or the Scots again. So, women you say. What is your taste? We have many here to choose from. But first we have business.’
>
Steel blanched and wondered whether all along Trouin had seen through his disguise. He scanned the room for Brouwer and saw him sitting alone in a dark corner, nursing a tankard of ale. Brouwer caught Steel’s gaze and quickly looked away.
Trouin laughed: ‘Come. It’s nothing serious. I believe that you may enjoy our little entertainment. And it will give you time to get your breath back before meeting the ladies. A prizefight – you like such fighting?’
‘It can be most entertaining, Captain. Between evenly matched fighters, of course, and with the proper conditions.’
Trouin smiled wryly: ‘Oh, We have evenly matched fighters. And as to the rules, well, we have those too.’
He ushered Steel through a door and into a dimly lit barn in which straw bales had been laid around the walls to act as seats. The place was full already with French sailors, a few regular soldiers from the garrison and Trouin’s crewmen. All were eager for the contest. Most were drunk. Several appeared to be taking wagers and money was changing hands fast.
Trouin ushered Steel towards a hay bale across which had been laid a thick red velvet cloak. ‘Plase join me here, on my own seat.’
‘You honour me, Captain.’
Steel sat down a short distance from the captain and was aware of the huge black bulk of Ajax taking position behind them. Across the back of the barn sheets of material had been draped upon a cord to provide a makeshift dressing room for the contestants. No sooner had they sat down than a man in a green coat – Steel recognized him from the inn as one of Trouin’s senior officers – walked to the centre of the room and clapped his hands to silence the crowd.
‘Gentlemen. Gentlemen, please. A contest of four rounds … or as many as it takes for a kill, between in the left corner The Pride of the Amazon and in the right The Fury.’
The combatants were led out and Steel gasped. For these were not the great hulking prizefighters he had been expecting, but two girls in their late teens or early twenties. They looked, from their glazed expressions, as if they had been drugged or at least made tipsy and both were dressed in a short shirt and a thin skirt of chiffon or cambric. The most extraordinary thing about them, he thought, was that both were uncommonly pretty.