The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  'A dandy, in Port Royal?' Kit chewed, slowly. They did not eat this well every day; they did not even eat every day.

  'A sight-seeing Virginian,' Agrippa said. 'Do they have slaves in Virginia, Kit?'

  'Now that I cannot say. Why, had you thought of shipping with this man?'

  'Him, no,' Agrippa said. 'He is a shade too tart for me, and besides, there is a wildness in his eye. But it is a fact that every day we spend here we grow less fit to spend any days at all anywhere else. We must do something, Kit.'

  'I make no claim on your company.'

  'While you sit here and rot? By God, I will soon think that Monsieur DuCasse was right, and that you pine after that girl. No man should brood for so many empty months. What of those dreams you spoke of?'

  'Like most dreams, they were overly dependent upon money,' Kit said.

  'And can we not earn some more?'

  'By pirating? The thought still turns my stomach.'

  'By shipping as seamen, then.'

  'By Christ, but you are a simple soul. Do seamen exist any better than sitting here? Except that they must work and be flogged for their pains. I'll hear no more.'

  He got up and walked away from his friend, into the acrid stench of the town. He was at least safe from molestation. Most people here knew Kit Hilton, and all had heard of his grandfather. They knew he could handle his cutlass better than most, and they knew he had commanded the musketeers before Panama. If he chose to waste his life on the beach, there was no one in Port Royal disposed to make an issue of it; rather did they still remain anxious to greet him, to receive a nod or even a glance from so famous a buccaneer.

  But this day he walked with more purpose than usual. A man with a wildness in his eye. A tantalizing phrase. He would see for himself, and if the stranger was indeed a gentleman, he should not be hard to find, in these surroundings. Besides, he knew where to look. The tavern lay at the end of the street, and even on a hot afternoon would be filled with thirsty seamen, and acquisitive whores, and the hangers-on to both, the pimps and the men who were handy with a pair of dice, and equally with their knives when the dice would not roll true.

  Today the tavern was more crowded than usual. Men overflowed through the door on to the street, scuffling and muttering amongst themselves as they fought for a better position, while the effluvium of their unwashed bodies surrounded them like a miasma. Kit elbowed his way through them, reached the doorway, gazed into the termite-eaten timbers of the room, at the long board set upon two empty barrels which served as a pot-table, littered with bottles and jars, for most of the liquor sold in this establishment was home-brewed and the more potent for that. Beyond the trestle, the space that was normally crowded with drinking, lecherous seamen had been cleared; here three men crouched on the floor and rolled dice. Two of them Kit knew well enough; he had been with Captain Jackman on the march to Panama, and had often enough been offered a berth on his ship since returning. And John Relain was an officer in the garrison; his face was deeply pock-marked, and he moved stiffly, as if the habits of discipline and drill had entered his very bones. Except when rolling dice; then his lean face came alive and his shoulders quivered with excitement.

  But it was the stranger he had come to watch. He and everyone else. A gentleman, certainly. He had discarded his blue coat, and his shirt was cambric, and freshly laundered; Kit had forgotten that clothes could be so white. His breeches, too, were of best broadcloth, in pale blue, and his stockings had a whiteness to match his shirt. But his clothes were irrelevant, merely a showcase for the man himself. He knelt, but Kit estimated that he was tall enough, and he had a good pair of shoulders. Above which, at the top of a somewhat long neck, was a singular face, with features that were large but splendidly proportioned, to form an impressive whole, dominated by the straight nose and even more by the sparkle in the grey eyes. Expressions flitted across his face with rapidity and completeness, changing in less than a wink from a frown of pure venom as the dice disobeyed his whim to a smile of a quite dramatically winning quality when he saw the game was his. He was bareheaded, and wore no wig, although his hair was cropped sufficiently short to suggest that he was no stranger to one.

  And the dice was rolling his way often enough to keep that winning smile more in evidence than the disturbing frown. That much was testified to by the pile of coins beside his elbow. And that was what the onlookers wished to see. Captain Jackman was a bad man from whom to take too much. Already his face was red and his great, shaven scalp glowed.

  The strange young man was rolling once more. 'Seven it is,' he said, triumphantly. 'My stake, sir. You'll bet again?'

  'And your dice, by Christ,' Jackman growled. 'We'll have another pair.'

  The young man frowned. 'Do you seek to question my honour, sir?'

  ' 'Tis too steady a winner you are. What say you, Master Relain?'

  'Aye,' the soldier agreed. 'We'll have them changed.' 'Then, sir,' the young man declared, 'I withdraw from the game.'

  'You'll not, by God,' Jackman said. 'You've my money there.'

  'You mistake the situation, sir.' The young man scooped the money into his hat, and stood up. 'It is my money, now.'

  'A cutpurse, by Christ,' Jackman said, and also got to his feet, drawing his cutlass as he did so. The American stepped back, laid the hat on the table with a resounding tinkle, and found his own discarded swordbelt. But he wore nothing heavier than a rapier, a wisplike gleam of steel, hardly calculated to face a cutlass, especially when wielded by such an old hand as Ben Jackman.

  As the onlookers knew. 'Cut his whistle for him, Ben,' they bawled. 'Take off his ears.'

  Jackman grinned, and whipped the cutlass to and fro. The young man watched him come, no longer smiling, but not obviously concerned, either, his right leg and his right arm alike thrust forward, his left arm free behind him and pointing at the ceiling; clearly he had been taught swordsmanship in a good school. But this was no school at all. Jackman leapt forward, and the two blades clashed for a moment; the young man sought to parry and then riposte, and saw his blade beaten aside by the sheer force of the onslaught. He recovered quickly enough, and was again in position to parry the next sweep, but this was travelling with such tremendous violence that it swept the slender sword from his hand, to send it clattering against the wall, while the onlookers howled their glee.

  The young man glanced after his weapon. His face was pale, and he breathed a trifle heavily, but he remained apparently unafraid.

  'His ears, Ben,' the crowd shouted. 'Off with his ears.'

  'Aye,' Jackman said, advancing. 'I'll have them, and my money too.'

  The revulsion against these men, against himself for being one of them, against the heat and the stink and the avarice with which he was surrounded, welled up into Kit's throat. Before he had stopped to weigh the consequences he had drawn his own cutlass, reversed it, and thrown it across the room. 'Try stronger metal, Virginian,' he suggested.

  There was a lull in the tumult, as heads turned, amongst them Jackman's. The young man hastily reached forward, stooping to pick up the cutlass and ducking under Jackman's arm in the same instant, and turned, his right arm snaking forward. He may never have been taught the use of a cutlass, but he clearly knew weapons; the broad, sharp blade was already waving menacingly, and now he smiled, and it was Jackman's turn to frown.

  'By Christ,' Relain muttered, and drew his sword.

  'Avast there.' Kit moved against the wall, and levelled his pistol.

  'By Christ, Kit Hilton. You'd take a sharper's side?'

  ' 'Tis yet to be proved that he has cheated,' Kit said. ' Tis more likely your luck has run low.'

  'By Christ,' Jackman said, still watching the American, but making no move to advance. 'You'd turn this into a melee, Kit? You'll find too many against you.'

  'You'll need men with stomach, Captain Jackman.' Agrippa's bulk filled the doorway. He had not yet drawn his cutlass, but his hand rested on the hilt. The spectators muttered amongst themselves,
but even Jackman's crew were reluctant to become involved in a fracas which must cost some of their blood to no obvious profit.

  'Ah, bah,' Jackman said. He slid his blade into its scabbard, and picked up his hat to cram it on his head. ' 'Tis only money, by God. There is plenty more where that came from.' He stepped past the motionless American, followed by the soldier, and pushed his way into the crowd.

  'Faith, sir,' the young man said. 'I owe you my ears, it seems.

  And maybe more.' He made one or two passes with the cutlass, and then reversed it as he held it out. 'You'll find that I understand a debt, sir. And this weapon it seems I must learn to use. They call you Kit Hilton, sir. 'Tis a name I have heard. Daniel Parke, of Virginia, at your service.'

  'And this is Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa’ Kit said.

  Parke already holding out his hand, checked and half turned. 'Indeed, we have already met, when his dexterity cost me a gold coin. He is a good servant, I have no doubt.'

  'You mistake the situation, Mr Parke,' Kit explained. 'Agrippa is my friend, not my servant.' He found the American's fingers dry and firm, despite his exertion. But Parke did not offer to shake hands with the black man.

  'Then is he a good friend also,' he said. 'I would depart this place, gentlemen. I have a ship, at anchor in the bay. Perhaps you would join me on board for a glass of wine.'

  'That would be most pleasant, sir,' Kit agreed, and accompanied him out of the tavern, Agrippa following behind. 'Did you say the ship was yours?'

  'A charter, you understand. It is my father's wish that I visit the Caribee Isles, to understand something of this sugar cane which is on everyone's lips. Perhaps it can be planted with profit in Virginia.'

  'And for that he chartered a ship?' Kit wondered. 'By God, sir, gambling for you can surely be nothing more than a pleasure. But you'll find little cane in Jamaica.'

  'So I have discovered,' Parke said. 'And to say truth, it was not my father's intention that I come here. But, visit the West Indies and not see Port Royal? I could as well sail the Atlantic and not pay my court to His Majesty. Although, had you not happened on the scene my stay here might have been a miserable one. Again, my thanks, sir. You have but to name your wish, and I shall giant it, if I can.'

  'I wish no reward, Master Parke,' Kit said.

  'To you, Kit, my name is Daniel. I'd not have you forget that.' They were at the shore now, and a boat was pulling from the schooner. Parke halted, and looked Kit up and down. 'I said I heard your name; now it comes to me. Your father was Governor of Tortuga a while back.' 'My grandfather,' Kit said.

  'No matter. You are cast in his mould. And you are a buccaneer. A compatriot of these people, I have no doubt.'

  'I was with Jackman, and Morgan, at Panama,' Kit said. 'As was Agrippa.'

  'The devil,' Parke said. 'I envy you, sir.'

  'As I envy you, Daniel, for having not yet discovered the beast in man.'

  'Ah. And so you turn against your fellows. And yet would remain here in their company? Be sure, that even with this gigantic fellow to guard your back, they will find a way to slip a knife between your ribs. At least let me offer you a passage to some more congenial clime.'

  'You are returning to Jamestown?'

  'Not for a while. I must first pursue this stalk which has become so valuable. I am bound for the Leewards. St Kitts and then Antigua. I have letters of introduction to Sir William Stapleton and Colonel Philip Warner.'

  'Warner,' Kit muttered. How painfully his heart pounded, and he had thought to forget that name, with all his other memories.

  'You know Colonel Warner? His family is the oldest and most famous in these islands, so I am told.'

  'With mine, Daniel. Together they founded these colonies.' 'Indeed? But you have not answered my question.' 'We have met, Colonel Warner and I.'

  Parke gazed at him, frowning, and then smiled that tremendous smile. 'Then meet him again, Kit. As my guest. I promise you he shall sing a different tune.'

  Kit glanced at Agrippa. 'What say you, Agrippa? 'Twas our first idea.'

  'You have but to decide, Kit.' The Negro's voice was as calm and as deep as ever.

  'Then we accept, Daniel,' Kit said. 'And here is my hand on it.'

  'And mine,' Parke cried. 'I am honoured by your company, sir. Here is my boat. Unless you have gear to gather, we can weigh anchor this evening.'

  'No gear,' Kit said. 'And to say truth, I shall not even cast a glance over my shoulder.'

  The boat was at the beach, and Parke ushered his new friends on board. He sat beside them in the stern, took the two dice from his pocket of his coat, and dropped them over the side, watched them drifting downwards through the translucent depths. ' 'Tis certain they will bring me no more fortune than they have already achieved.'

  Kit smiled. 'You flatter us, Daniel. Now tell me straight, were they loaded?'

  Parke's laughter filled the afternoon. 'But of course. How else may a gentleman be sure of winning?'

  4

  The Lady of Green Grove

  'By God, but 'tis a thriving place.' Daniel Parke clung to the rigging as the schooner brought up into the wind and dropped her anchor. 'They tell no lies when they speak of the prosperity of Antigua.'

  Kit could not quarrel with that judgement. St John's nestled beneath the gentle hills which surrounded it, in strong contrast to the more rugged outlines of St Kitts, which they had left at dawn. And it prospered; the steeples of the churches, the fresh paint on the houses, the bustle on the waterfront and even more important, the activity in the harbour itself, where two ships were being warped away from the quayside to allow two more to take their places, were sufficient evidence of this. But for a week now he had known the nostalgia of being amongst these islands, where it had all begun, where Tony Hilton and Edward Warner, and Susan Hilton as well, had fought side by side to establish themselves, where they had slept under the sky often enough, with no change of clothing and no certainty where they would obtain their next meal. How Susan would have stared at this metropolis.

  And how inadequate did he suddenly feel. For had he a change of clothing? Daniel had done his best, and they were much of a likeness in build. But Daniel's clothes had been made by the best tailor in all Virginia; they were magnificently cut, and cut from magnificent cloth—and they had been intended to cling to Daniel's frame like a second skin. Too obviously they had not been so created for Kit Hilton. And these haughty planters would know that.

  'There's a boat waiting, Mr Parke,' said the captain of the schooner. 'I know you're in haste to be ashore. Your baggage can follow later.'

  Daniel Parke stepped down from the rigging, and preened himself. He wore a mauve velvet coat with gold buttons, and in honour of the occasion had donned a grey periwig beneath his black tricorne. His cravat was white, and edged with lace; his shoes black leather, with red heels and metal buckles; his stockings were grey. He did not deign to carry a sword at all, but preferred a gold-handled cane. 'Do you think I will stand out well amongst these islanders, Kit?'

  'You'll have them bowing,' Kit observed, and straightened his own hat, a plain brown tricorne. He wore no wig, and his coat was open over his white shirt. And he carried a cutlass, hanging from a leather baldric. He had no wish to rival his friend, even if that had been possible. But Christ that he would stop sweating from fear.

  Fear of what? Of stepping ashore amongst civilized people, knowing what he was? Or fear of seeing the Warners again, and one Warner in particular? Again, knowing what he was.

  'Let us assault this shore,' Parke decided, descending the ladder to the boat. For this, Kit was coming to realize, was how his new friend looked at life. There could be nothing ordinary, nothing dull, nothing even peaceful, around Daniel Parke. Life was a military exercise, a continual battleground, with Marshal Parke ever eager to tilt at whatever windmills he could find.

  'And Agrippa?'

  'Oh, bring the big buck, by all means,' Parke said. 'We may have need of his muscle.'

  Agrip
pa took his place in the bows, while Kit sat aft with Parke, and the boat pulled for the shore. It was early afternoon, and the sun was starting to drop, but it remained close and hot, although a breeze entered the harbour from the Atlantic, separated from them by the other myriad islands they had seen from the ship as they rounded the headland. But there were no other islands, once one made the acquaintance of Antigua. None which mattered, at any rate. Soon they were in the midst of the bumboats and the jollys, which were making their way out to the new arrival, handled by sweating white men in garb hardly superior to any to be found in Port Royal, Kit discovered to his relief, but in the main cheerful, happy, and more important, healthy-looking men. For he had heard sufficient tales of the debilitating fevers which could ruin a man's health in the southerly islands, and he had seen enough of it in the march to and from Panama.

  The boat nosed its way alongside stone steps, and the oars were shipped. Agrippa took the painter ashore, and Kit and Parke followed him on to the crowded jetty where the stevedores, mostly Negroes these, stopped to stare at the new arrivals, and the few white men also gaped. 'By God,' someone said. 'A gentleman. A regular macaroni.'

  Parke tapped the fellow on the shoulder with his cane, and the suggestion of laughter died as he took a closer look at the American's face, and eyes. 'Aye,' Parke said. 'I am a gentleman, and you'd do well to remember that, before I have my friends here set about breaking your heads. Buccaneers, my bravos. Morgan's men.'

  The onlookers, now fast forming a crowd, gaped some more, and Kit and Agrippa exchanged glances. Parke had made them relate their adventures in Panama often enough after dinner on board ship, but that he would shout their erstwhile activities from the rooftops had not crossed their minds.

  Certainly he was pleased with the effect of his words. 'You'll not have seen their like in this backwater, I'll wager. Now, you, I have letters for the Deputy Governor. You'll direct us to his estate. Quickly.'