by Vivienne Cox
“Oh, aye.” O’Connell released his tight hold. “Tell me where you got the garments, Admiral.”
Thomas didn’t deign to answer. The slap that followed would have taken him to the ground were it not for the hands that held him up. But, before O’Connell could hit him again, Alexander was somehow between him and the other pirate, very close, staring hard into Thomas’s eyes. “Now, Admiral, tell the nice man where you got the outfit from.”
Thomas met the wild eyes. Could he allow himself to hope? There was nothing in the dark depths to answer him, nothing but a flat stare that seemed to offer only an utter lack of mercy. Thomas felt chilled, even though sweat was sticking the shirt to his back. “For what business it is of yours, I stole them from a washing line.”
“Ah.” Alexander turned. “See, the oh so upright officer is a thief! King George must be very disappointed…”
O’Connell laughed out loud and clapped Alexander on the back. “What d’we do with thieves, Alexander?”
“Well, I usually recruit them to me crew, but I’m not sure the Admiral ‘ere would be too willing.
And besides, the others’d all mutiny an’ I’ve been there, it wasn’t nice.” He shook his head gravely.
O’Connell growled, and most of his men visibly cowered. “None o’ this lot’ll mutiny. Ye should keep a tighter hold of your men.”
“Indeed I should. Perhaps ye could be giving me some hints and tips?” “Pleasure. When we’re done with pretty, here.”
“I could just give you the money?”
“You could. But where’d the fun be in that. Come on, Alexander, Get in the carriage, I want to enjoy meself. There’s plenty o’ rum to be drunk too.”
“Rum? Good idea, mate, let’s get his lordship back to your nice house.” Alexander grinned.
“Tie up the Admiral. Make him feel wanted.” O’Connell grinned, and putting an arm around Alexander’s shoulders led him away.
Thomas watched them as his wrists were bound, wincing as the ropes were pulled burningly tight. He felt drained, utterly exhausted. When they pushed him forward he stumbled and fell to his knees. Looking up and around he saw groups of people watching, laughing and making comments in both Spanish and English. Entertainment for the populace. Dragged to his feet, he walked on, straight-backed as he could manage, and with a thought assigned them all to Hell.
Only the chiefs among his captors had the joy of riding in the luxury of the – undoubtedly stolen – carriage. Oh, and their captive. Shoved and pummelled until he walked forward, Thomas was brought to the open door. Inside, Cruise was sitting back, one hand stroking his beard, while O’Connell avidly watched his men push Thomas up the step, to make him kneel in the narrow floor space at the pirate captains’ feet.
A casual slap knocked him sideways. Someone kicked his feet until he curled up and the carriage door clicked shut. After a moment the whole vehicle lurched forward, rumbling over the cobbles. Thomas started to sit up, but a foot in the belly dissuaded him, and he shifted painfully back, giving the boots around him more room. Struggling for some sort of composure, he lay in the dirt, and cursed silently as O’Connell lifted his legs and simply used him as a footstool.
It was a long journey back to the house. The distance had not seemed that far when he was running, but from where he lay it seemed now to be immeasurable. His mind hardly aware, he heard the two men talking above him, but nothing of what they said seemed to make much sense. The carriage jolted and bounced over the rutted track, each jolt digging the boots deeper into his hip. The one consolation was that Alexander didn’t join his fellow in using him so. It was shameful enough as it was.
Pressed tight to the floor, eyes closed, his body jolted at every step of the horses’ hooves, he lay and sweated. Fear was there, in his mind, but more pressingly he knew he could not let himself give in. His honour demanded it. All that waited to be seen, was if he could uphold his principles. If he would bend or break.
And what part Alexander Cruise would play in either eventuality.
::::
Chapter 9
They hauled him out of the carriage with no more care than if he was a sack of wood. Tugged out, feet first, he crashed onto the earth. Lying breathless, he stared up, taking in the vast, cloud-swirling sky, the trees, the brightness of the light. All things he had almost forgotten in the dark cage of a cellar where he’d been chained. Things he might not be graced with the sight of again. The thought made him curse, for self-pity was contemptible. What was the point snivelling when wasn’t dead yet, and there was a chance – a slim chance – that he might yet survive.
A chance that seemed less real as they manhandled him. A groan slipped from his lips as he was hauled mercilessly upright. Pushed and prodded into the house, they took him not to the cellar but to the long room that held even worse memories. Cold as ice, he shivered as they pushed him to his knees. O’Connell walked past him.
“Rum! Bring rum for everyone!” He grinned widely as his men all cheered. There was a scurrying of boots and in a trice a case of bottles was brought into the room. The eight or so men grabbed at them, before settling around the room – as if ready for entertainment.
Which, Thomas supposed, they were.
Boots came into his view. He kept his head down, then grunted as a large hand wove itself tightly into his short hair, and forced it up.
“Welcome back, Admiral.” Thomas gritted his teeth, and gathered all his resources to glare at O’Connell. “Lovely to see yer spirit’s still there.” The pirate grinned, then spat in his face.
Bound as he was, Thomas could do nothing. He could only wait as the spittle slowly slid down his cheek, its passage watched by O’Connell’s burning eyes.
“Is he alive, then?”
Cruise, at O’Connell’s side. Thomas swallowed on the dryness that was his throat, and stared up at them both, hoping he didn’t look as afraid as he felt. “I’m alive.” His voice sounded hoarse, strange. He coughed painfully.
“Little bit parched are we?” Alexander Cruise crouched down at his side, a bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He looked very drunk. Willing himself not to care, Thomas stared up at the man who had almost certainly betrayed him. Cruise tutted. “Course you are, mate!” And just as Thomas was about to answer, he pushed the bottle neck into the opening mouth, and tilted. Gasping, Thomas sputtered, rum splashing down his face and neck, filling his mouth. Hardly able to breathe he swallowed, the rum fierce as it slipped into his gullet.
Another tilt, another fast gulp, and the bottle was gone, lifted instead to Alexander’s own mouth. Thomas watched as he drank deep, watched the fine lips suck where his own had just been. He shivered, and hated the man who could make him feel so.
“I’m surprised you wasted your rum on me, Cruise.”
“Why not?” Alexander stepped away, grinning. “Rum for everyone… the world’d be a much better place doncha think, Connor?”
O’Connell slapped a hand around his shoulders. “Good lad, and quite right. Because I want him nice and talkative. See, Mister Royal Navy Admiral, you got away from me, and I’m interested to know which of me men let ye go free.”
Voices stilled and the men who sat or slouched around the room all focused on what their captain was saying. Suddenly, Thomas knew he was not the only man there who was afraid. The boy who had helped him was sitting in the far corner.
“No one aided me.” Thomas was careful not to stare at the boy, who was clutching a bottle so tight it seemed the glass was in danger of shattering.
“I’m thinking that’s a lie. What d’ye think, Cruise? Is this worthless dog deceiving me?”
“Lord knows.” Alexander swayed, his hands gesturing expansively. “Are King George’s officers permitted to lie as well as steal?”
“Aye. This one lied about me brother. Lied before God, the law and the hangman.”
“What? Wasn’t he a murdering, thieving, plundering pirate then?”
O’Connell looked indignant. “Cour
se he was! But this bastard told them Red was a rapist too.”
Alexander looked down and tutted. “Admiral, fancy telling nasty lies like that!”
Bridling, Thomas had to defend himself. “Your brother was exactly as I described. I took the statements from two different women myself.”
“And they were lying bitches!” Stepping past Alexander, Connor kicked his prisoner, hard. “Just like you!”
Thomas jack-knifed forwards, bile rising in his throat. Dimly he heard laughter, but by the time he was aware of what was happening, he’d been hauled to his feet, and was once again standing, held fast before the pirates, breath heaving painfully in his lungs.
O’Connell came very close, the stench of his breath almost overpowering. “He never took a woman who didn’t want ‘im. The O’Connell boys are never short o’ willing wenches.”
“Mayhap those two prove you wrong.” Thomas forced the words out. He knew he should be silent, but he had not lied. And if he was to die here, then standing his ground would make no difference at all.
“Really?” O’Connell’s face was so close that ever detail - from his pox-scars, to the grime that was ingrained into his skin and to the sores weeping under his beard - was all disgustingly clear.
“Yes.”
“Bastard!” The shout made Thomas jerk backwards, though the men held him fast.
“Connor, mate.” Alexander was tugging at O’Connell’s sleeve. “What about if the jades were the ones doin’ the lyin’, eh? What about that, then?”
The big pirate took a long breath. “Aye.” He nodded, and then stared viciously at Thomas. “What about that, Admiral? What if the whores were lying?”
“I spoke to them myself…” Thomas shook his head. It was beyond strange to be discussing whether or not a dead man, a man who had been justly executed for appalling crimes including murder and torture, had also been guilty of taking a woman against her will. It was an evil crime, but in the grand scheme of things the murder of countless men and women had been far worse, and Red O’Connell had been guilty beyond doubt of that. “He was guilty of everything.”
“And I say you lie.”
“Then we shall have to agree to differ.” With a lift of his head, Thomas looked into the pirate’s bloodshot eyes. Dimly he was aware that Cruise was making a face at him.
“Who let ye go?”
Alexander was mouthing something. Thomas shook his head. “No one…”
“String the bastard up!”
Thomas fought as they brought him into the centre of the room. A rope was already there, hanging from the hook that had once supported a chandelier. With acute distaste, Thomas remembered this scenario all too well. Fast and practised, they unbound his hands from behind his back, and then re-fastened them in front. A few twists of rope later he was tethered, and he felt his arms lifting as the rope was hoisted upwards. When his wrists took his weight, it re-awoke all the old misery in his back and shoulders – the sudden pain made him gasp sharply, before he bit down on his lip. They liked it when he screamed. He wouldn’t… couldn’t. Sucking blood from his torn lip, he struggled to get his feet to grip the floor, to find his balance, both of body and mind.
He wouldn’t be their entertainment.
Then a knife was at his throat – and his mind went blank.
“I could gut you now, ye bastard. Slice ye open and fry your liver for me tea. But that’d be too easy. And besides, Captain Cruise here has need of ye too. So be a good Admiral and tell me, which of my pond-scum crew betrayed me?”
“None.” The word was gasped out, and Thomas watched the rage simmer in O’Connell’s eyes as the knife pressed into his skin. Just a nick, but enough for him to feel the warm flow of blood down his neck.
“There are a thousand ways to get information from an unwilling man. I’m sure the Navy uses a good few itself, though I’d wager a ship’s plunder that ye’ve never tasted any of them yourself, Admiral – apart from the games we’ve had here, o’ course.”
“You have a warped idea of what constitutes a game!” Thomas gasped the words, keeping his eyes level with an icy challenge he felt hopelessly inadequate in presenting.
“Ah, boys, he remembers!”
“Do your worst…”
O’Connell turned to the room and shouted his laughter. “My worst!”
All the men laughed. Alexander too. Then, with a swift turn, O’Connell was again facing the hanging man. Sunlight shafted in from a tall window and flared off the knife, to burn brightly into Thomas’s eyes. Curiously, he realised he’d always thought to die at sea, from a canon’s blast, or a shard of shot-torn wood. Never had he imagined this. This was a helpless way to die. Finally, from somewhere came the words of a prayer and in his thoughts he feverishly said them over, the words trickling past by rote. They didn’t calm him, or succour him. He felt no ease, or hope. He began to start again, hardly understanding the words he was thinking but repeating them again and again. To no avail. Then he knew. Prayer was hopeless. He had no more hope of either redemption, or safety through the graces of God, than this pirate before him. He was not a good enough man. Nor someone sufficiently repentant of their sins. The words in his mind stuttered to a halt. Then, slowly, his mind cleared.
For he could die well, even if he couldn’t die a true Christian. So, let it be done.
He took a deep breath, as the blade touched his skin once more. Cold and hard, though it stroked as gently as a maid. O’Connell was watching him intently, and Thomas lifted his eyes to stare back, coldly as he was able. When the knife nicked his skin, he hissed through his teeth.
With a lick of his lips, O’Connell leant in closer, and the steel sliced down, hard and fast, to part Thomas’s shirt in two.
Thomas shuddered, his breath coming fast, as wildly disordered as his thoughts. “Aye, death ain’t ready for ye yet, Admiral.”
“Bastard…”
“You’ll like my games in the end. I’ll be sure of that.” Laughing, he paused only long enough to lick Thomas’s blood lasciviously from his blade. “Right then, boys, get those clothes off him. He’s ours now – and prisoners are best kept naked!”
With hoots of laughter, two men came forward, their hands rough and eager as they cut his garments away. O’Connell retreated to his great wooden chair, watching. Next to him, hardly moving from his slouch, sprawled Alexander Cruise, a bottle close to wedded to his lips, his hat by his side, brushed by his dangling fingers.
The men cut away Thomas’s clothes – with only a little more loss of blood. They slapped him on the arse and grabbed his genitals, all the while making the crudest of comments. Thomas tried to ignore everything. But his gaze, without his volition, fastened on the disreputable figure lounging before him.
The dark eyes stared back. Then Cruise gestured with one hand. “Connor, I thought you’d ‘ardly touched ‘im?”
“You now how it is, Alexander. Looks like maybe we were more enthusiastic than I’d thought.” He nodded proudly. “Well done boys – looks like you done yer best.” He slapped his thigh as his men cheered, then leant back, settling into the chair. “Pasty – more rum, we’ll let the Admiral hang a while. They say anticipation’s good for the soul.”
The men who had stripped Norrignton, cheered along with the others. One of them slapped his back to set his body swinging, feet scrabbling to find purchase on the floor. Pain tore though his shoulders, and with his eyes tight closed, Thomas only dimly heard the laughter surrounding him.
Finally he got some grip on the wooden floor, and the wild swinging stilled. Gasping, he opened his eyes, to jerk in surprise because someone was there, right in front of him, and suddenly a bottle was being forced through his lips. He fought against it, but the pressure was too insistent and his lips parted, the glass clattering against his teeth as rum flooded into his mouth, making his vision blur from the sharp burn on his torn skin.
“Don’t give in.” A mouth was close to his ear, and it took a moment for him to realise that the
sounds were words. “Don’t…” Blearily, he stared past the bottle to find Alexander Cruise’s dissipated face. It leant closer. “I’ll think o’ something.”
The bottle tilted up again, and this time Thomas choked as he breathed in liquid. Gasping - belly and chest heaving as he struggled to breathe, eyes watering - he dimly watched Cruise turn and bow elaborately in acknowledgment of the hoots and catcalls that resounded through the room.
But the words. Was this hope – or just a more exquisite form of torture? Thomas pulled at the ropes around his wrists, the hemp tearing at his skin until the pain was sharp enough to clear his mind. For, if the words Cruise spoke were not a lie… But, if there was a way out of this - other than his own ignominious demise - then he’d need to be alert. Though, as he looked around the room, escape seemed as remote as Antarctica.
In a sudden flurry of movement, Alexander Cruise was almost dancing around the room, talking here, laughing there, making one boy turn scarlet at something he said, making another stroke his own nose with a look of total confusion on his raddled old face. Thomas watched him, and from somewhere felt hope leech into him, warmer than the rum, sweeter than any prayer. After all, this was Captain Alexander Cruise, and anything was possible.
:::
He was far less drunk than he looked. Which was just as well. Or maybe not, depending on whether he was going to have to watch Thomas being tortured. Alexander didn’t like pain at the best of times – certainly not his own, and not that of those he liked. And he had conclusively proved to himself in that dusty church tower, that he seemed to have a fondness, at the very least, for the young Admiral.
Walking back into the square in front of the church to find him taken had been one of the worst moments in his life. Worse even than watching the Siren sail away into the sun, with himself alone on a thin strip of sand scattered about with a few palm trees. Worse than… no, not worse than that. He shuddered delicately and went back to his couch.
Sitting down, he tucked one hand into the sash about his waist. The rum was in his other hand, and he drank deep, thinking. Eight men, plus two elsewhere and O’Connell. One door into the house and a pair of long glass doors into the garden. Apart from his own knife, pistol and sword, there was nothing he could utilise. Of course, all O’Connell’s crew were armed to the teeth, but there was nothing left casually around for him to make use of. No handy mortar, or canon. Which really was a terrible shame.