Fire

by C. C. Humphreys

  Noises faded. He thought he was alone and was about to rise – until he heard the voice.

  ‘Not joining us, brother? Are you not a disciple of Christ?’

  The Irish voice was gentle now it was not ranting. Coke was tempted to keep his head down and mumble, but that might seem suspicious. Besides, how could the man recognise him? He was much changed from their few exchanges on the tavern’s roof – one side of his face still livid from his burns, hair and eyebrows scorched away on one side, growing back in stubble. Nonetheless he let his native Somersetshire accent thicken. ‘No. For I’m Jewish, zee,’ he replied, looking boldly into Captain Blood’s eyes. The Irishman stared a moment longer, laughed and left.

  In the doorway, he passed someone else coming in. ‘Cap’n!’ Dickon cried, running up to him. ‘I b-brought your ointment.’

  Dickon was the only one to be excused the meeting, for he could never sit still and his cries of ecstasy were not ones that any preacher would have appreciated. Now he sat down on the pew beside his guardian and handed over the familiar jar.

  It was filled with pig grease, its rank smell alleviated a little by the flowers that Greta van der Woude crushed into it. It was part of his fortune, he felt, a sign that gave him hope. For when the Dutch had pulled him and Dickon from the sea and taken them aboard their ship, their surgeons had, of course, treated their own sailors for their burns first, and in approved style – pouring scalding oil over the wounds to puncture the blisters. Many men had died screaming on the spot, several others a short time after. He’d been transferred to smaller craft and then, after three days, to Terschelling before the physicians could attend him. So it had been left to Greta to treat him with the foul ointment. He had stunk since then. But he had healed too.

  As he smeared it on, Dickon jumped up and ran to the chapel’s door. The sounds of celebration came through it. ‘Beer, Cap’n?’ he called. ‘Shall I fetch ya some?’

  ‘Nay, lad. It comes at too high a price.’

  ‘Does it?’

  That voice was back. Coke turned.

  Blood was in the doorway. He was holding Dickon by the shoulders, the boy squirming under the grip. Behind the Irishman was a tall young man, perhaps fifteen years of age. Behind him were the two soldiers. ‘Part of my trade requires a prodigious memory, for I write little down,’ Blood said. ‘Codes. Holy texts. I remember them all. Faces.’ He smiled. ‘Yours confused me for it is altered since we exchanged blows. But your boy here, who I saw just the once in your company before the theatre,’ he moved his hands up to Dickon’s neck, ‘now he hasn’t changed a bit.’ Then, without turning, he barked, ‘Seize him!’

  The soldiers came fast. Coke wondered if he should fight, realised he could not – not with Blood’s hands clamped now around his ward’s throat. He was grabbed, his arms pinioned behind him, and marched to the doors. ‘There now,’ said Blood, easing his grip on the wriggling boy.

  It was a mistake. Loosed, Dickon swung his knee up and hard into the Irishman’s groin. Blood yelped, released him, and Dickon was gone, sprinting across the chapel’s yard, through the gate, into the town.

  The young man started after him. ‘Shall I chase him, Father?’ he cried.

  Blood was bent over, his eyes pained. He shook his head. ‘Let him go,’ he gasped, then slowly straightened up. ‘We have who we want.’ Then he drew back his fist and round-housed Coke. It was a good punch from a big man and the captain dissolved swiftly into the darkness.

  —

  Water woke him from a dream of fire.

  ‘Wake up!’ someone bellowed, and Coke blinked away the liquid, opening his eyes. They were still filmy from the blow and the light was poor in the hut, a single gated lantern on a hook above him. Focusing, the two shapes before him resolved into the Bloods – father and son.

  ‘By, and it was a good hit, Pa,’ declared the younger, bending close to study Coke’s jaw. ‘Did you break it, d’you think?’

  The elder bent too. ‘ ’Tis a fine thing, sure, the judging of that. I’m hoping not, for I’m keen to hear clearly what yer man here has to say, the many things he has to say. Relieve our concerns, Captain Coke. Can ye talk?’

  There was no point in denying it. It would not long delay what these men had in mind. Probing with his tongue showed that a tooth was loose and that his jaw had swollen mightily; but it was not broken. Indeed, the greater pain for now was at his wrists which someone had tied so tightly behind him that he could not feel his fingers.

  He rocked forward and the chair creaked. ‘I can,’ he replied.

  ‘Splendid. Then we can begin.’ Blood pulled up a chair to face him, while his son still stood by. ‘I am sure you know how this goes, Captain. We will ask you questions. Depending on your answers, we will cause you pain or not. Do you understand?’

  Coke squinted at him. He didn’t know what he had to tell. But since it was fairly certain that he would be killed at the end of his telling, he knew he must drag out this session until something else came up – though what, he had little idea. Perhaps his gentle host Gerrit would object. This was Holland, after all, not Ireland. ‘I do,’ he said.

  ‘There. No pain for that reply. Simple, is it not?’ Blood smiled. ‘How long have you worked for Sir Joseph Williamson?’

  ‘But I do not work for him. I –’

  The nod was imperceptible. But the boy reacted as if he’d been waiting for it all this time and hit Coke hard with an open-handed slap right on his swelling jaw. It may not have been broken but the bruise was tender and white agony overwhelmed him. He also felt something give. The chair rocked with the force, and returned. Bending over, he spat the tooth at Blood’s feet.

  The Irishman peered at the floor. ‘It’s either my old eyes, or the room’s dim. Ah!’ He bent, picked up the tooth and stared at it. ‘I sympathise, man. I’ve lost too many of these to blows and battles. Gets harder to chew meat each day, don’t it? Nevertheless,’ he put the tooth on his thumb and flicked it into Coke’s cheek, ‘unless you want to eat naught but soup for the rest of your life, you’d best be answering truthfully now.’

  Coke took a deep breath. ‘I do not work for him,’ he saw the boy’s arm raise, ‘except upon occasions.’

  The hand stayed high. ‘Like when you heard rumour of an attempt upon the king’s life?’

  ‘Then we are summoned.’

  Another nod, and the hand lowered. ‘We? That’s you and this thief-taker, this Pitman, hmm?’ On Coke’s nod he continued, ‘In London, a fellow Saint told me much of you two. You thwarted a holy plot last year, didn’t you? Killed one of our brothers? You two and this whore you both straddle?’

  ‘She’s no whore, you Irish pig –’

  The slap came fast and harder; this time the chair crashed to the ground and he struck his head. ‘Dear, dear,’ said Blood as he stepped to help his son right the chair and the prisoner. ‘Did I not tell you that insults would be punished the same as lies?’ Coke was flung back onto the righted chair and Blood bent closer. ‘No, I can’t see his eyes, which I need to. Else how can I tell his lies from his truths? Light another candle, Tom, will ye?’

  His son reached up to the lantern and unhooked it from above the chair. When the warm metal passed close to Coke’s face, he couldn’t help but flinch. Blood’s eyes narrowed. ‘Those are some nasty burns you have there. I was burned once myself, at a siege. The skin remains sensitive for a time, does it not?’

  Coke ran his tongue around his bloodied gums. ‘Is that a question you would like answered?’ he said.

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ Blood replied, ‘that one I can answer for myself.’ He reached back, grasped the candle in its pewter holder that his son had lit, then frowned. ‘What’s that?’ he said.

  Perhaps it was the ringing in his ears that prevented it the first time. But Coke heard in a moment what the other two already had.

  ‘Thunder?’ said the younger.

  ‘No,’ said Blood, standing straight. ‘Cannon.’ He waved with the candle at th
e door. ‘There’s our ship and many others in the Vlie channel. Go and see if for some reason they have chosen to practise their gunnery at night.’ The boy nodded, unbolted the door and stepped out. Blood turned back, bringing the flame near again. ‘Now, where were we?’

  Through the open door, the noise of cannon fire came, more of it and louder. There were shouts now too, and the sound of running feet. ‘Father!’ The younger Blood ran back in. ‘ ’Tis the English. They’re raiding the fleet.’

  ‘What? Probably just one of their damned frigates.’ Blood hesitated, then put down the candlestick and unhooked the lantern. ‘No, I’d better see. Come.’ He looked back. ‘Pleasure delayed only, Captain Coke.’

  They went out, slamming the door. He heard a key turn, and the growing noises of attack beyond. Then something nearer. A scratching. ‘Cap’n,’ came the familiar voice.

  ‘Dickon!’ He twisted around to the sound. At the window, high up and barred, fingers waved. ‘Dickon! Try the door, did they leave the key in it?’

  A moment and then his ward was at the front. ‘N-no. Shall I smash it in?’

  In the flickering light, Coke could see that the room was small with stone walls and a thick oak door. It would take even a strong man time to knock that down. And he suspected he did not have long. ‘Are we close to the van der Woudes’?’

  ‘Aye, it’s just down –’

  ‘Find the Menheer. Bring him. He may be able to stop this. Fast now.’

  ‘Aye.’

  He heard the boy step away. ‘Dickon?’ he shouted. The footsteps returned. ‘Have you your knife?’

  ‘Aye, Cap’n.’

  ‘Drop it through the window.’ A moment later the knife clattered down. ‘Now go.’

  He rose and looked at the knife. He did not see how he could cut himself free with his wrists so bound. As he wondered, he heard the sound outside change. The cannons had ceased, and a different weapon commenced. ‘Muskets,’ he breathed. These did not come in the ordered volleys he had heard on battlefields across England. There was a crack, a crack-crack, more shots, singly and in pairs. There was only one reason for firing muskets. Men were landing to raid. Other men were resisting them.

  He knew suddenly, clearly, what this would mean. Captain Blood could not risk being taken here. He would flee. But he would not leave his enemy behind.

  Coke’s eyes were drawn to flickering light. Ever since his burning he’d kept away from flame. Now, with no choice, he went to it.

  He burnt himself the first time he placed his hands there and knocked the candlestick as he jerked away. But it tottered, righted and, after an agonising moment, the yellow cone again streamed high. Taking more care, he pushed his hands closer, slowly. He cried out as his skin heated; then, turning very slightly, his pain diminished as the flame settled on the rope. It took a while, and his hurt only grew. He stifled it, biting his lip until the blood ran, humming tunes – and finally, only by concentrating entirely on Sarah: remembering every detail of her face, of her body; remembering her belly kick when last he’d placed his hand upon it. Kicked by his son.

  The tarry rope was raising lots of smoke before he felt it give. He pushed out against the bonds, grunting with the strain of it. Slowly, slowly, he felt the strands part and dissolve. Breaking his hands free, he tucked both wrists under his arms until the agony abated.

  The musketry, which had multiplied along with cries and wailing, was growing louder, getting nearer. In moments he heard English shouts in the distance as well as Dutch, and the running of feet. Then, under those, a more measured tread. ‘I tell you no, boy,’ said Captain Blood. ‘You will fetch our sacks and bring them here. Swiftly now.’

  As the key turned in the lock, Coke snatched up Dickon’s knife, then slumped back into the chair.

  The opened door admitted more shouts, more screams, more explosions. ‘I am sorry our acquaintance must be so brief, Captain Coke,’ Blood said, entering, then closing the door. ‘Sorrier still that I will not hear more of what you would be telling me. Know my enemy is a dictum I have long lived by. And with what we have planned –’

  He tipped his head back to the sound of combat. ‘But that’s your lads coming fast and in force and I must be gone.’

  He put down the lamp, extinguished in his journey. Only the candle now lit the room, and just the part around the table – the two men in a small circle of light. Blood reached to his belt, to the pistol there. Even without the gunpowder, Coke would not have staked much on himself in his weakened state, against a man as powerful as Blood. Unless he evened the odds.

  Leaning forward, Coke blew out the candle.

  There was an oath, a spark, an explosion. Flame shot from the muzzle, the ball preceding it, smashing into the chair – that Coke was no longer in. He moaned loudly anyway, then rolled to place his back against the wall beneath the window. ‘Captain?’ came Blood’s voice. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Coke inhaled softly. Beyond the room, the noise of combat continued, drawing nearer. Within it he could only hear the Irishman’s harsher breaths – and then the sound, always distinctive, of a sword clearing a sheath. ‘Captain,’ Blood called again, then said, ‘Shite!’ as he banged into the table. Two swishes followed, a rapier slashed back and forth through the air.

  He kept his breathing steady still as he heard the Irishman shuffle forward.

  ‘Coke,’ whispered Blood. ‘Let’s be reasonable here. You must be wounded. I’ll fetch you a physician. You’ve trumped me, and I respect a bold enemy.’ The man shuffled closer. ‘What’s say we call a truce, eh?’

  He was right before him. So Coke lifted the candlestick he’d picked up and threw it into the far corner of the room. With a cry, Blood swung about, slashing before him. And Coke, putting all on the hazard, threw himself up and stabbed right where a man’s waist might be.

  His blade entered flesh; which part he could not know. It left flesh too, as the man leapt forward with a shriek. Coke did not pursue – a good choice as he felt the wind of a sword cut in the air before his face. He moved swiftly left, found the back wall, slid down it. And listened with satisfaction to the swift breaths of the other man.

  ‘By God, I’ve not been stabbed in twenty years,’ Blood gasped. ‘I doubt it’s mortal, Captain. But now we both bleed, cannot we say we’re even and call that truce?’

  ‘What makes you think I am bleeding?’ said Coke, moving again as he spoke.

  There was a roar, a rush, as Blood leapt to where he’d last heard sound. He crashed there, his breathing ever more laboured. By God, I might even have the fellow, thought Coke. He came onto his knees and changed his grip on the knife. Now he could stab down.

  Perhaps he would have if the door had not burst open at that moment. If Blood’s son had not been standing there, screaming ‘The English!’, and if Blood, instead of using the little light to hunt down his enemy, used it instead to stagger to the door and through it.

  Coke put back his arm to throw, then didn’t. Partly because he suddenly thought it better to retain his weapon against his enemy’s possible return. Mainly because he saw where the Irishman clutched himself and the sight weakened him for just the moment of decision.

  For it appeared that he had stabbed Captain Blood in his arse.

  —

  Admiral Robert Holmes was as fierce as his reputation – and as much a man of mode. He stood now in the great cabin of his flagship, the Tyger, in his famous gold suit, his hair falling in styled waves to his shoulder, his beard and moustaches waxed and pointed to a fine brush’s tip. ‘It is an astonishing story,’ he boomed, stepping forward to refill their three mugs – for Wilbert Bohun, who’d found Coke and Dickon in the town, stood beside him. ‘No wonder that Ayscue made that promise to you. You are a bold dog indeed. And I speak as a wolfhound mesself. Huzzah!’

  While Holmes drank deep, Coke sipped his sack. He’d grown unused to liquor in his time with the sober Dutch, and he’d been forced already to pledge the king, damn the Hogens and drink two do
wn. He also wanted to be clear that he had achieved his desire – and that the admiral would be sober enough to remember it. Indeed, he had told little enough, leaving the full conspiracy behind his pressing murky, speaking more of the fireship attack and its consequences.

  ‘Don’t blame your son for going after his monkey, though,’ Holmes now shouted, as if his audience was the length of a ship away rather than three paces across a cabin. ‘Why, I’d venture over scores of burning decks to save my Achilles, would I not, dear heart?’ His Irish brogue deepened as he addressed this last to the boy and the baboon, the latter of whom bared his teeth and chittered at him before turning back to the competition Dickon had engineered over a tray of fruit. ‘So I am delighted to reaffirm Ayscue’s promise to ye. When the chance arises, you will be returned forthwith to your native shore.’

  The chance arising was what concerned Coke. ‘Do you have a thought when that might be, Admiral? My need is –’

  ‘As soon as possible, I say, and mean it,’ Holmes cried, moving to slap a huge hand on Coke’s shoulder. ‘But you can hardly expect a fellow to dispatch a warship to take you back there on the instant. Pardon I, but there’s the little matter of the Hogens to defeat first, eh?’ He slapped him again and turned to pick up his hat, gloves and a map case. ‘Which matter I must attend to now, with the other admirals aboard the Charles. We’ve stung ’em at Vlie and by burning Brandaris. Kicked ’em in their purses, which they hate.’ He beamed. ‘I hear they are already calling it “Sir Robert Holmes’ Bonfire”. But there’s no doubt they’ll be coming after us.’ He strode to the door. ‘When I return, you’ll join me for supper and more tales, sir. Though,’ he looked Coke over, from his bare feet to his torn shirt, ‘I shall require you to dress. Dear heart, have you something close to the captain’s size?’

  ‘It will be my honour to find him something, sir,’ Bohun replied, bowing.

  Holmes swept out. The two men drank off the rest of their sack more slowly, then Bohun beckoned. ‘Come. We gentleman volunteers have a nook for’ard, and there’s a dead man’s hammock for ye, if you like. Dead man’s clothes too, for he was of your build. But what of your boy?’