by Jan Needle
He had not though, for probably it was impossible. Each man, for the first two hours or so, got down further every time, improving his technique of holding breath and saving energy, but neither the divers nor the watchers from the yawl could tell how far away or close they were. Kaye kept insisting that the tide would surely drop soon which would make it easier, but if it ever did, it was not enough to measure by the Biter’s drowned mast. And although each man got down deeper for their first few dives, each man grew tired as the time rolled on. When they called a halt for dinner and a midday rest, all four of them had swollen eyes, sore throats, and thickened tongues. All four claimed they had reached the deck. All four were lying.
Kaye forced two more men, called Bell and Jolley, to join the diving boat after their dinner, but Bell got stomach cramp on his first attempt and almost drowned. Jolley was rendered so terrified by this that he could not leave the yawl unaided, and when he was shoved overside by the boatswain’s mate, let out a scream and swallowed half a gallon. Which fired up the others to greater efforts, to prove their superiority. Later, Bell and Jolley made some proper dives, but never really got the hang of it. Sweat ran, frustration grew, tempers were getting frayed.
“It is boys that do it in the Gulf,” said Tilley idly at one stage – and instantly regretted it. Kaye gave him a dirty look, because they had no boys, just men, and then the penny dropped. Tilley’s regret grew a hundredfold and he wished that he had bitten off his tongue. Black Bob, who for once seemed almost tranquil, was trailing fingers in the water, unconscious that he was the focus of attention.
“It’s worth a try,” said Kaye, and the men just gazed at him. “Bob,” he said. “You can swim boy, can you not? You aimed to swim away at Port Royal, you faithless wretch.”
The little African glanced up, surprised, not realising what was going on.
“Strip off” said Kaye. “It is not a hard thing, Bob. Just hold your breath and down you go. Then you’ll find treasure, and I’ll give some to you. There! Is that not a handsome thing I do?”
The boy, whose grasp of English nobody knew for certain, still did not appear to understand. His eyes, though shocked, were not yet full of terror – but it was there not many seconds afterwards. Kaye went to him, and lifted him up by one arm, and said again “Strip! Strip, sir, down to your buff. Do you need a whipping, sir? Now do your duty!”
The men were all uncomfortable. No one liked this thing about the captain and his pet, it was an idea that obscurely revolted them. The boy was pretty, well enough, and many would have liked a go at him themselves, but the captain was a gentleman, and should behave. This poor boy was a plaything, a helpless little child. Now his eyes were bulging from his head; he had worked out what his master had in mind for him.
“No, sir!” he stammered. “No swim lord, sir! No swim!”
However guarded were the people’s faces, Kaye could feel their disapproval and it incensed him.
“Whey-face bastards,” he snapped, generally. “Don’t sit there, dummies, there’s treasure to be got. The child can swim, he is a bloody native, ain’t he? Bob – I charge you – now you must pay me for your keep.”
Black Bob began to cry, and then to scream, and Kaye smacked him hard across the face. He stripped him efficiently till the black boy stood quite naked, covering himself from all the seamen’s gaze, then jerked him up by the wrist towards Tom Tilley.
“A light line,” said Kaye, “Tie it round in case the bastard swims away. Oh you, ungrateful!” he shouted at Black Bob. “It is not a lot I ask you, is it? You will enjoy the swim!”
Bob could swim, it transpired, but try as he might, threatened though he was, he could not get himself underneath the water for more than seconds. He came up kicking and spluttering, and tried to avoid Kaye’s repeated blows. After several attempts, the captain dragged him back on board and threw him down among the sailors’ feet.
“I’ll go again, sir,” said Macintosh. “It looks like…”
“Me, too,” said Jones. Kaye quelled them with his eye.
“Tilley, haul up that grappling hook. I’ll get the bastard down there, malingering little toad.”
A grim silence descended on the yawl as Tilley hauled up the grapnel hand by hand. Black Bob was not looking, had no idea what might be happening. Surgeon Grundy, similarly, appeared to have no clue. He sat in the bow, full-dressed despite the killing heat, a look of dreary blankness on his face. He held his box much like a talisman, a comforter. But he could not open it and drink, he knew that well. He was suffering.
“I shall not tie you to it, toad,” said Kaye to Bob, as the hook came inboard. “Unless you fail me. Just keep a grip on it, that’s all, and down you’ll go, like clockwork. We’ve all been to the deck, look at your fellows. It will be easy.”
Black Bob had slipped into his normal mode, of just not understanding. His eyes were blank, his face was neutral, he allowed himself to be stood up on the thwart as uncaring as a wooden doll. He did not any longer cover up; he was indifferent. Tilley cleared the line tied to his wrist, and lifted up the grappling hook to him. Bob looked at it, uncomprehending.
“Take it, you fool!” snapped Kaye. He seized the black boy’s fingers and closed them around the iron shaft. “Hang on to it and Mr Tilley here will drop you down. Breathe in, boy! Fill up your chest! Hold your breath!”
He had both hands on it and had taken a breath, but whether he knew what was going to happen next was anybody’s guess. He stared wide-eyed at Kaye, and then Kaye pushed him overboard. Bob disappeared in a splash, and immediately shot up again, frantic and thrashing arms and legs. Tilley grabbed the rope to stop the grapnel going down, and Kaye pulled Bob roughly from the water by his arm and punched and clouted him.
“Hold it, you devil, hold it, hold it!” he screamed. “Once more now boy immediately, and you will hold it or I will wring your neck, d’you understand?! I’ll strangle you! No! This time, we tie it on!”
“No!” wailed the black boy. “No, sir! No! I will hold, sir! I will not let go!”
Kaye lifted him without a moment’s pause, slammed his feet onto the gunwale, and pushed the grapnel at him, so that he took the shaft in both his hands.
“Breathe in!” he roared. “That’s right, breathe in! And hold it, stupid oaf! Hold it!”
The faces of the seamen were a stony picture, of anger and disapproval they dared not express. Kaye, triumphant, tipped Black Bob overboard, letting out a “Hah” as he went under with no massive fuss. Staring downwards he said “Hah” again, and the others, almost with reluctance, followed his gaze. In the crystal waters Bob was dropping like a stone, clutching the grapnel like a cuddle to his chest.
“You see,” said Kaye, complacently. “I knew the fool could do it.”
Although he had the line in hand Tilley let it run free, and it went at amazing pace. Bob’s lifeline, flaked next to it, whipped overboard at equal speed, and the sight became mesmeric. Even Grundy watched it with his sickly zombie eyes, and his pale tongue licked his lips. Then, with a grunt, Tilley stopped the grapnel rope, then the other one.
“He’s off,” he said. “He’s gone down far enough.”
“Shit!” shouted Captain Kaye. “He’s let the bastard go! Good Christ, he’s almost there, an’ all!”
In the pale sea below them, Black Bob was writhing and twisting like a hooked eel. He was rising to the surface but not swimming for it, and bubbles were pouring from his face.
“Christ, he’ll drown! He’s drowning!”
Tilley passed the grapnel rope to other hands and began to take up the lifeline slack at speed. In a couple of seconds it tautened with a jerk, and he could see Bob being dragged upwards by his leading wrist, head sideways, mouth open, but fewer bubbles now, hardly any. Men reached over the gunwale to seize him when he surfaced, but Kaye moved sideways, keeping clear. His face was a strange mixture, of anger and concern. The hand came first, on the lifeline, then Tilley grabbed the arm, pulled him on board, and checked the l
ashing had not destroyed his wrist. He rolled Bob over, bent him double, and lifted him by his skinny hips. Water gushed from him, and he gasped, and choked, and coughed – and then he wailed.
“Bah, there’s nothing wrong with him, the article!” said Kaye. “Grundy! Open your casket, man! Some medicine for the boy! Your best!”
The surgeon’s eyes flashed out such horror that several of the men burst into laughter. Grundy made no move to open, until Kaye raised a fist and shook it at his face. Then, beneath the fascinated eyes of men who had never seen inside the magic box, he worked the lid up an inch or two.
“Higher, man!” shouted the captain. “It is no bloody secret, sir. It is a bloody sawbones box!”
They caught a flash of saws and blades and clamps, but very little more. The surgeon’s hand darted inwards like a striking serpent, to come out with a bottle in it, square and ridged and black. He pulled the cork and made to take a swig himself until the captain half-exploded. Grundy smiled sickly, stammering, “a test, sir. I am not sure if it –”
But Tilley whisked it from his grasp, and cupped one huge hand beneath Bob’s head.
“Open mouth, child,” he said. “A drop of brandy’s what the doctor orders. It will have you on your feet again instanter.”
Black Bob, however, was far gone. His eyes were open, but they were reddened, bulging, with a mass of angry veins across the whites. His tongue inside his mouth had been bitten, and one ear was dribbling blood. He was still gasping, but his cries had ceased. As the bottle approached his mouth he was panic-stricken.
“No, no,” said Tilley, kindly. “It will not hurt you, boy. Good medicine.”
Bob arched his back, but Tilley slopped in a quantity, which slid past his tongue and down his throat, with extraordinary effect. He folded up then arched again convulsively, with a cough like an explosion, then a gush of vomit from deep inside of him, which although nine parts sea water caused the men to jump and roar. Convulsions over, he then began to scream, high-pitched and piercingly. Grundy darted forward and snatched his bottle back, and Kaye leaned down to give the boy a clout across the face. He then lifted him up bodily, and planted him, naked and howling, on the bow. At which instant, everybody heard a shot, which stopped them in their tracks. Black Bob’s wailing was suddenly the only sound.
“The lieutenant, sir!” said Manton. “Look, on the beach! The lieutenant, with a gun!”
It had been fired to attract attention, and Holt was waving with vigour now, for them to come ashore. As far as could be seen he was alone, and he was shouting, as he might well have been for some time past. But Bob was still screaming, balanced on the prow, and Tilley took his arm in case Kaye should toss him overboard. He also slipped the painter from the broken mast and told Jones, Macintosh, Jolley and Collins to ship oars, and Bell to take the tiller. Dick Kaye did not demur, and moments later they were leaping for the strand. Holt’s face, when he saw the naked, battered boy resting on Tilley’s knee, drained of all colour. He was horrified.
He was also, Kaye realised, quite alone.
Chapter Nine
Seeing the naked boy, seeing the bedraggled sailors in wet underdrawers, Holt knew before the forefoot touched the sand what Captain Kaye had done. He was enraged, he was beside himself.
“What in hell?” he roared. “Good God alive! Captain Kaye, sir – what in hell?”
Kaye matched his anger instantly.
“We have almost got the treasure up!” he snapped. “You have not got anything, or anybody. Where are my men, sir?”
Collins had unshipped and hopped lightly off the prow into the water. Holt saw the grapnel and the fathoms of wet line, and his horror grew. Bob’s colour was still peculiar, and his ear was bleeding freely.
“I heard him screaming!” Holt shouted. “I saw you strike him, sir! I fired my shot to stop it, sir!”
“Where are my men, sir?” Kaye’s eyes flashed fury at his lieutenant. “It was not you that stopped it, sir, do you not think that! This child is useless. Such a song and dance. Now he feigns hurt, and you are taken in, you namby! He is the scion of an inferior race, do not you understand? He has lost my treasure!”
The silence from all the other men was almost palpable. To be caught between two angry officers – angry at each other, both like exploding bombs – was an awful nightmare. They knew not where to look, they dared not make a sound, they knew not what to think. Though all, in this instance, were on the side of Holt, and anti Richard Kaye. They did not even dare to unship the other oars and pull the boat up.
“I repeat, sir,” Kaye ground out. “Where are my sailors? What have you done with them?”
“Tilley,” said Lieutenant Holt. “Pass the boy out. Now, sir! Move! And gentle!”
“Tilley!” roared the captain. “How dare you – oh, to hell with it. Go on, go on. And get this boat stowed, for the sake of Christ! It’s a bumboat for a shoreside slattern whore!”
He clambered through the oarsmen as ungainly as a guinea hen. By accident or design he kicked Grundy in the face as he went by, and Grundy did not dare to even squeak. As he jumped ashore Holt stepped aside, and they did not share a glance. Tilley jumped over the side with Bob in his arms and walked him up to the lieutenant. Sam reached out to touch him and the black boy shuddered.
“Where are they, then?” said Kaye. “I charge you answer, sir! Has there been a massacre?”
In a way there had, but not as Kaye feared. At that moment there was a hallooing closer to the camp and Hinxman was seen loping from the nearest trees and underbrush, swinging a bundle from one hand that looked not unlike a pudding in a cloth. Behind him Bosun Taylor and the soldier Simms appeared, much more soberly. They carried nothing, and Taylor had a sort of haggard air.
“Hah!” said Kaye irascibly. “Here are the laggards. You found nothing, then, did you? Another wasted goose chase.”
Holt was still stationed close to Bob and Tilley, fearing that the boy might die. He had opened his eyes, though, and was lying easy in the giant’s arms. “There there,” said Sam. “You will be all right, boy. You will be all right.”
Kaye, with a look of frank disgust, gave his lieutenant up for lost and summoned Taylor up to him. The boatswain was panting slightly, face bright with sweat. It had cuts and scratches also, as did his hands and arms. His shirt had several rents.
“So?” demanded Kaye. “Report, sir, as your lieutenant is not disposed. What did you find, and why the pell-mell? Is there a road? A garrison?” He gave a short, dismissive laugh. “Or only bloody savages? Did they frighten you away?”
Grundy made a sudden noise. He was perched on the boat’s bow, his black box balanced with him.
“Sir,” he gasped. “Good God, sir, what is that?”
The pudding-cloth that Hinxman held was dripping from the bottom, and the bottom was stained with spreading red.
“Christ, man!” snapped Kaye, in horror. “What have you done? What is that there?”
“It is a shirt, sir,” Hinxman replied, in a half-witted way. “It is McGuigan’s, sir. His head’s in it.”
It could not have been the shock to his humanity, for Surgeon Grundy had none, as everybody knew. But he slipped off the prow, and cursed, and then let out a genuine scream, as his black box slipped as well, and splashed into the water.
“God’s bones!” shrieked Grundy.
“Oh hell,” said Holt. “This is a revolting farce.”
To bring the final curtain down, Hinxman let go one corner of the pudding-cloth, and McGuigan’s severed head rolled on the sand. It hit Grundy’s box, and he kicked it sideways, and snatched his most precious up and hugged it to his stomach. Tilley laughed, then quickly cut it off.
“Sorry, sir,” he said to Holt. “I thought to hear the surgeon tell us McGuigan was malingering.”
“Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell!” said Captain Kaye. “Is this the worst, Sam? Have they killed them all? Are there hordes up there?”
“We only saw them flitting in the shadows,
sir. They did not attack, so maybe there aren’t many. I told this man to bury poor McGuigan, sir. Left them to complete the task and came to give report.”
Hinxman was aggrieved.
“I did, sir. Bury ’im. I thought Cap’n would like to see his nog for proof, like.” He looked at Kaye. “I buried Markie Sweeney, sir, he was the worst. We found him first, and they’d spent more time on him. They’d cut his bollocks off and stuffed ’em in ’is gob’ole, sir. Very Christian, I don’t think!”
Inevitably, the company had come down the beach to hover. But Holt was still outraged.
“I said to bury him,” he gritted out. He was panting with suppressed anger. “You are a savage, Hinxman.”
Through shock or not, this infuriated the captain in his turn. He stamped across to Tilley like a pouncing cat and smacked Black Bob across the face, a ringing blow. The strange irrelevance made everybody gape.
“No sir!” he snapped at Holt. “We are not the savages! It is this vile object and his ilk! Black savages, murderous criminals, apes! We are surrounded, sir, and you choose to show pity for this boy! I should have drowned him while I had the chance, an unwanted puppy!”
Holt’s face was white, his lips trembling with the effort of keeping dumb. Sweetface Savary chose this moment to try and break the spell.
