by Jan Needle
And when her father mentioned Bentley’s name, she asked “Which one was he?” And then remembered. “Aye, the little one. Indeed, he seemed quite pleasant, for a youth. He had a handsome friend, as I recall.”
Swift felt rage begin to rise inside him, not sufficiently countered by her plain face and scrappy ringlets, by her ill-chosen clothing, by her big bony feet and hands. Her father ditto, it would appear. The colour rose sharply in his face, and his voice congested instantly.
“You may go, Miss. You had better go. Indeed you have displeased me, child, severely. Oh no, don’t ask me how!”
Lady Felicity had no such intention. She bowed, then turned and left the room. Swift was genuinely shaken. Women were a mystery to him, and always had been. He had wild thoughts of a whipping, though, a whipping that would bring her weeping down.
When they were seated once again, with more port in glass and puffing at cigars from Spanish Cuba, they regained their equilibrium. The slighted father gave a laugh, though gruff and short.
“A terror, eh, sir? A temper like a lioness, and ugly as an ape. Perhaps your Will won’t be so keen as you might think him. Felicity, however, will agree. You have my pledge on that. And twenty thousand pound, remember. Twenty thousand pounds. That buys a lot of married happiness, my friend. It is satisfaction guaranteed…”
They shook hands on it, wreathed in smoke and bonhomie. They shook hands on it and drank.
The future. Aye. The future.
Chapter Three
Will Bentley’s plan to face the French was more a testing of the water, he explained to Gunning and Ashdown, to gauge their chances, or if they had a chance at all. By the time they reached the headland the night was black as pitch, but from their distance off they could make out waves bursting into a cove mouth, that looked exceeding narrow in the rising wind. The Worm, though, tapped his nose. The entrance, he was hinting, held a useful secret.
As they rounded, they could see what he had not explained. There was a long nose of rock that obscured the entrance to the cove, but sheltered it as well. From offshore there appeared to be a maelstrom, but there was a passageway, narrow but almost calm, which formed the perfect pirate anchorage. On shore there was a fire burning high and bright, which was also invisible from the outside world. It threw the tall cliffs behind it into a stark relief, and also backlit a brig which was pulled in almost to the beach. At that moment, rain fell down, a hard and sudden burst. They raised their open mouths in gratitude, and their hearts rose also. Visibility, for their enemies looking out, was almost nil.
“Luff up,” said Will to Gunning, who was at the tiller. “Worm, hold off the skiff, don’t let her crash and make a din.” His voice was low, as were the others’ when they spoke. As Gunning brought her head to wind, Ashdown and Bentley muffled the flapping sails, while Worm pulled the skiff short on its painter.
“Right,” said Will. “We’ll anchor off the jollyboat, and go in in the skiff. Jack – get the sail down, handsomely. I’ll get the killick ready.”
The plan was formed, and each man grasped it instantly. They were four hundred yards from their prey and with care would not be seen. The hook was dropped, the jollyboat was eased astern to lie behind a rocky outcrop, her sail was stowed, and two oars transferred to the dandy skiff. Within five minutes they were rowing almost silently towards the darkened brig. With luck, Will hoped, she would not even have watchmen on board. With luck there would be liquor round the fire on the beach. With luck they would step over the bulwarks, find swords and firearms, and be masters of a floating fortress, just like that.
Just like that, though, the breeze dropped completely, and the rain stopped like a celestial tap turned off. On the instant, through a rending of the bundled clouds, the moon burst through as bright as sunshine.
Stark in the quiet waters stood the dandy skiff, not thirty feet from the French brig. And on her poop deck was a watchman, smiling quietly at the scene on shore. As the skiff came to a standstill – two men resting at their oars, Will Bentley at the tiller like a statue, the black man black and silent in the bow – this watchman turned and looked at them. Will felt his stomach turn to water. He was staring into the Frenchman’s face. And the Frenchman stared straight through him.
It dawned on Bentley slowly, that they were in some strange way invisible. Perhaps the lights on shore, perhaps the moon, perhaps the fact that they could not be there. The watchman’s eyes were full upon him, but they held no recognition of the fact. The four men and the dandy skiff did not exist.
Will recalled that he had seen the like before, in Portsmouth harbour, on another ship. It had been a friendly wager, between two captains for a puncheon of Madeira secreted on a neutral ship, with rival boat’s crews sent to try and snatch it. The target ship had kept the normal lookout, but the first boat, under a cloudless sky with half a moon, had paddled up beneath her bowsprit, and three of her men had gone on board. They had been seen on leaving, true enough, but the deed was done – they brought back the puncheon. Looking at the Frenchman’s cheery face, cheery perhaps because the rain had gone, Bentley could not believe it, still.
Then the lookout turned away. The noises on the beach were louder, there was a ragged cheering, and the sound of crashing logs feeding the fire. Showers of sparks flew up, and it was like a carnival. Bentley was not inclined to cheer, nor were his fellows. They exchanged glances and old Worm, up on the stem, could be seen shaking his black and silver head.
“Look,” hissed Gunning. “Bloody fire and damnation! There’s another bastard!”
As their watchman moved slowly forward, they could see a second coming down along the deck. Not one of them believed in double-providence, but Bentley, without conscious thought, knew what to do.
“Worm,” he whispered, urgently. “Take her in! Gunning, Ashdown! Get underneath the sail! Quietly now, quietly! Leave room for me! Oh, move!”
They took the thought immediately, with not a word of doubt. Ashdown spun his oar forward to the black man, who turned it deftly for a paddle, his legs straddling the bow, while the Irishman slid beneath the skiff’s torn sail. Gunning unshipped his oar without a bang or rattle, bringing it below the canvas cover beside his body, and Bentley went down too. It had taken seconds. They lay in a bundle, not daring to pant. They had put their trust in a mad old castaway they did not even know. They heard him dip his makeshift paddle, and they felt their little vessel give a forward surge.
It was unbearable. Will clutched the handle of his cutlass and damn near groaned with tension. If Worm should indicate their presence they would be shot or speared like fish beneath the canvas. His ears ached to hear a Frenchman’s shout of warning.
But it was the Worm who spoke at last, and he spoke extremely cheerfully in what, perhaps, he hoped was French.
“Hey! Ho! Mushoor, Mushoor! C’est moy, your servong! I come back!”
First one, then two men answered, and their French was shocked, and voluble, and – beneath the bundled sail – incomprehensible.
“No, no, friend, amee!” they heard Worm call, then the bow bumped into the brig, and the skiff jerked and rocked as she was hauled alongside. Then she lurched as he clambered out, then knocked against the side again, but light and loose.
“Ola! Black man! Where you been, eh? D’où ’ave you get la chaloupe? You bad man! Where you been gone away?”
“Donne-moi la ligne,” came another voice. “Oui, ça, ça! Bon. Voilà.”
The skiff bumped once more, then floated free. The voices receded quickly, and beneath the canvas Bentley and his companions lay still. “By Christ,” said London Jack. “By holy bloody Mary.”
“We’ve got to move!” hissed Will. “He’ll tell! They’ll search! Unless they’re lunatick!”
“Gently, gently” Ashdown said. “Your foot is up my arse.”
“Be ready with your blades,” said Bentley. “Ah, Christ, I’m jammed. Ow! Hell!”
The boat was rocking and the noise was terrifying. They scram
bled out from under fearfully, expecting to be greeted with bullets or cold steel. The moon was bright, but Will noted with relief an edge of cloud heading towards it. He felt a spot of blessed rain.
“Where are they, sir?” It was Ashdown, crouched beside him. He had a cutlass with a ragged blade. “God, listen to that row up on the beach. Have they took old Mr Worm ashore already?”
Alongside now, they could see the brig was almost touching the shore, held by lines up to the trunks of slender palms, with two anchors holding off the stern. Aloft, a new foremast was half-complete, with shrouds fitted and some running gear, although no yards as yet. No topmast neither, but no matter. There was a forestay rigged so they could raise a jury headsail or so, and the main course and topsail were lashed on their existing yards and could be loosed in double time.
“Christ Mr Bentley, look at that!” breathed London Jack. “They’ve got no boats ashore! They wades out and clambers up the bobstays or a ladder. Where are their watchmen? Surely not them two only? And where’ve they gone, and our lovely Worm?”
The rain began to fall, soft but insistent, very warm. Will caught a movement at the bow. The Frenchmen were emerging from a hatchway, but the Worm was not. After a moment’s conference, the two began to amble forward.
“They’re going ashore with the news,” Ashdown, excitedly. “Shall I nab them, sir?”
“But if they’re ashore,” said Gunning. “And we’re on board… Eh, Will?”
“Fine well,” Bentley replied. “And if the men on shore don’t know there’s aught amiss, think of the time and leisure we’ll gain. Ashdown, you go to larboard, I’ll go to starboard. Silent as the grave.”
“The Frenchmen’s grave,” said London Jack. He had a mordant wit. “Or ours,” he added, “if there’s other men on board this tub that we ain’t paid mind to yet.” He headed for a companionway. “I’ll go and take a look.”
As the clouds slid across the moon the light grew dimmer, and was then cut off. The guards, not hurrying, had only reached the bowsprit heel when Ashdown and Bentley had made it to their flanks. Ashdown still held the cutlass, but saw that the lieutenant had seized a belaying pin of iron, and picked one up himself. How good to have command of thinking men, thought Will: if they just killed the sailors they would have no hands to help them sail the brig away. And sail the brig away they must – or most likely die themselves.
They moved in like a pair of cats, and struck simultaneously. Both Frenchmen dropped without a cry, and lay there breathing almost gently, and not a drop of blood at all.
“Well done,” said Will. “Now stuff a kerchief in their mouths and bind ’em. I’ll go back and help Mr Gunning, who I think has disappeared. God help he don’t find no sleeping Froggoes down below and wake the bastards up.”
“Aye,” Ashdown. “God help he don’t find no drinkables, an’ all.”
Will glanced ashore before he left and saw the ship’s crew still gathered round the fire, which was burning bright. There were awnings rigged, but most seemed not to mind the rain, and lounged about and drank from bottles, which were plentiful. There was a heady smell of roasting from one end of the blaze, and a hunger-clench near turned him inside out. Going down a ladder cautiously, he met Worm coming up, who gave a great gummy grin. He had two pistols in his hand and a short sword hanging from his waist. Behind him Gunning came, loaded up with guns.
“Pennies off a blind man,” he said cheerfully. “There’s food and drink in plenty, we’ve already stuffed our mugs. It’s like a coaching inn without the horse shit.”
“No other men? No more guards, no watchmen, sleepers? Did you look everywhere?”
Gunning nodded.
“She’s not a big ’un. Armed trader, quite a handy little craft when we’ve got her rigged again. I checked the usual lurky-holes. Why would men hide? They didn’t know we’d come a’visiting.”
Will eyed him curiously. He had not mentioned the one commodity most men would have taken as priority. Dick Kaye, thought Will, would have grabbed and hidden it, and then kept quiet, but this big, bland Londoner had no such venal interests. He made money easily, but seemed to have no lust for wealth at all.
“No treasure, then?” asked William. “The hold ain’t stuffed with gold?”
Gunning laughed.
“There’s treasure in plenty, Mister. There’s treasure beyond price. But it’s the liquid kind, that country boys like you quite disapprove of. Wine and brandy enough to satisfy a bloody pirate. Christ, I can’t hardly keep me tongs off it.”
Tension crept into Will’s gut. He needed Gunning, the need was desperate. He said lightly: “But you did not open up a bottle, just to taste it? Very good. I’ve heard it said you never touch a drop.”
When liquor was the banter, one could never tell with London Jack. But his smile expanded.
“I have been known to,” he conceded. “Now there’s a rare admission! But we’ve got work to do. Four men, one mast, four cables on the head and stern, two hundred Frenchies on the beach with guns and swords and bottles. Shit and buns, Mister, do you take me for a Bedlam?”
“Two hundred! Christ, man, are you serious?”
Jack was not, and William felt relieved and foolish. But the great relief was to hear the pledge. If he opened a bottle, if he even took the cork out so the genie could escape, then London Jack was lost. He was a seaman, though, and he did not want to lose his life. It occurred to William that Gunning only ever was incapable when he was surrounded by good men. This time, he needed every ounce of strength and wit to get out with his skin.
A low hiss came down the companion ladder. It was Ashdown, straining eyes into the gloom.
“What goes on below there? We haven’t got all bloody night, I doubt. Begging your pardon, sir, for my bloody cheek.”
“Quite right,” Will said. “I stand rebuked. Have you bound them up? Any sign on shore that we’ve been rumbled?”
Pointless questions, no answers needed. The three men below returned to the deck and looked about them with their seamen’s eyes. One headsail bent on ready to hoist, enough sails on the yards to drop and brace, a brailled-up lateen at the stern, and the carousing on the beach quite unabated. Gunning slipped into sailing master guise.
“With your permission, sir?” he asked sardonically. “We need axes to cut off the warps that go to shore, we need to let go the anchor off the starboard quarter so the wind’ll swing her along the beach with a jib or two up, then we can drop the mains’ll and cut the port quarter anchor free. We need men aloft though. The Worm’s too bloody old, the bloody skeleton, but he can use an axe. I’m going to take the tiller. Which leaves you and Mr Irishman to do the scuttling about. I take it your namby hands ain’t too soft to go aloft?”
“Navy discipline, Jack,” said Will, equably. “You’ll never get the hang of it, will you? What about our Frenchmen, though? They’ve got muscles, haven’t they?”
“They’re French,” said the black man. “You cannot trust them, sir.”
“They’ve got headaches,” said Ashdown. “As much use as a putty prick.”
“I don’t need no bloody Frogs.” said Gunning. “I’ll get this tub out single-handed if I have to. Big gun would be useful, though. Just in case.”
“There’s a swivel in the waist,” said Ashdown. “Larboard side. Two pounder I would judge. Be nasty if we had some grape.”
The Worm showed his gummy grin.
“I know where the powder’s kept. And the shot. You want me to break it open?”
“Surely no need,” said Will. “Even a Frenchman would leave his pieces up and ready in a trap like this place. What if an English ship chanced in? A rout.”
This seemed most likely, and Ashdown confirmed it by a check. The black man went to the galley to ignite a slow-match “just in case,” then they gathered amidships. The tension was on the rise. Bentley looked from man to man.
“Right,” he said. “Mr Worm, nip down below again and bring some vittles up in case we get s
tuck on deck here a long age. Everybody seize a pistol and check it’s charged and primed. There’s axes there and there, and when we’re set we’ll use them to cut our bow ropes off. Now, Mr Gunning. I put the sailing in your hands.”
“Good,” said London Jack. “Mr Ashdown, if you please. Get up aloft and prepare the course to loose, Mr Bentley, single up down here so you can brace her round to starboard, and lay on tacks and sheets. Worm – go forward now and check that headsail’s ready to rouse up.”
“And everybody,” Bentley added. “Keep your heads down and your movements gentle. If they spot us there’ll be bullets flying, at the very least. They might have got a gun ashore as well. We’ll know it when they open fire.”
“Right; scoot!” said Gunning. “Ashdown, on that main yard. Don’t holler when you’re through, I’ll keep a look out for it when you wave.”
“Aye aye,” said Ashdown. And, like a feline in the dripping darkness, he was gone.
The operation – four men to unmoor a good-sized brig and get her rigged sufficiently to sail, and all un-spotted by thirty sailors not ten fathoms distant – struck William as probably impossible, and an awful lot of fun. While Gunning hacked through the lightish warp by which the starboard quarter was anchored off, he sorted out essential lines for when the mainsail should be free to drop, aware that Ashdown was ready on the yard. He lashed the brace and sheet to leeward so that the sail would catch the wind as soon as dropped, to be trimmed as soon as maybe. After only a couple of minutes Worm joined him and declared the headsails were free for running up, and even better, they would not need to cut the bow lines to the shore. They were light grass warps with their bare ends not far beyond the bitts. To free her head to swing would take them only moments.
“Well done,” said Gunning, who had joined them. He looked aloft, returning Ashdown’s wave.
“Right,” he said. “All ready, Mr Bentley, sir? All ready, Worm? Now, the two of you. Cast off the bow ropes and sway that jib up, and sheet it hard aback. Now go like lightning! Go!”
