HF - 03 - The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  This time? The ship was about a mile away, still becalmed, still drifting. All afternoon they had watched the heavens, anxiously, fearing the slight puff of wind that might carry their prize beyond their grasp. But the day had stayed motionless.

  Their prize. Kit lay against the pirogue's gunwale and stared at the ship. It was like a man, barehanded, setting out to seize a lion. Unless the lion slept. Then, perhaps, the man might have a chance. And certainly the ship had shown no interest in them. She drifted along, content in the knowledge that Hispaniola was close, that the next little wind would blow her around the headland and into port. Her crew had no reason to fear an open boat containing a few mad boucaniers.

  Suddenly it was dark, with only the gigantic glow low on the horizon to mark where the sun had been. 'Look to your weapons,' Bart said. 'And be sure you make no noise.'

  He stood up, to peer across the swell at the coaster; she was easy to find because of the huge lantern dangling from her stern. 'Give way.'

  The paddles dipped, and the pirogue started to crawl up and down the swell once again. Gone was the sea-sickness now, and even the fear. These men lived by violence, and here was the prospect of violence, with the prospect of rewards beyond their wildest dreams at the end of it. The ship grew ever larger.

  'Stop.'

  The swish of water stopped, and the paddles lay still. The men breathed, slowly and heavily, and Bart stared at the ship. It was only a hundred yards away now, turned downwind, for now too there were catspaws on the surface of the sea. Soon she would take off and leave them far behind. But now they were close enough; they could see the glow of the lanterns in the great cabin.

  'Women,' someone muttered beside Kit. 'Do you think there'll be any women?'

  Kit glanced at him, saw the saliva dribbling over the matted beard. By God, he thought, women. It hadn't occurred to him to want, or fear, that. But he wanted it, desperately. And feared it, too.

  'Now,' Bart whispered. 'There can be no more stealth. Make as hard as you can for the stern. Give way, lads. Give way.'

  The pirogue surged forward, the paddle-blades splashing. The ship remained a dark hulk on the water, its lanterns bobbing to the swell. Kit crouched up in the bow, his cutlass in his hand. He meant to be first on board. To seek women? To kill, and perhaps to be killed? He panted, and felt the sweat starting out on his body, making his hands slippery on the haft of his weapon.

  He was afraid. But less of the thought that in a moment he might be killed than of the understanding that in a moment he would be killing. Always before it had happened suddenly, an act of desperate self-defence. This was premeditated. But those people were Spaniards. They had hanged Grandmama, those men or others like them. After doing what to her, first? They had heard a scream on that dreadful night, but it had been from Helene DuCasse. She had been younger, and possibly more attractive.

  And when they had finished, they had tied ropes around their necks and hoisted them from the verandah floor, legs kicking obscenely, bodies functioning obscenely. There. Now he hated. Now he would kill, and kill, and kill. And this time he would not vomit.

  A voice cried out above him. The stern of the brig was immediately over his head, and a man looked down, for the first time seeing the dark shape of the pirogue as it sped through the water; he was shouting his alarm. But they were close enough. Kit placed his cutlass between his teeth, reached up, touched the ornate decorations which surrounded the stern cabin. And the great window opened, allowing a belch of light to flow over the sea and the pirogue, and the bearded animals who crouched there.

  There was another shout, ended by an explosion as Bart fired his pistol. Kit wrapped his fingers around the lip of the open window, dragged himself up, swinging his legs through and seizing his cutlass as he opened his mouth to utter a gigantic shout. There were four men in the cabin, standing up, reaching for weapons, one just collapsing on to a seat; he was the one who had been looking through the window when the pistol had gone off.

  Kit swung the cutlass round his head and then to and fro. He struck one of the men on the shoulder and blood flew. Another put up a sword, but it was a thin Spanish rapier, and the sweeping cutlass brushed it aside as if it had been a toothpick. The sword clattered against the wall and the Spaniard jumped behind it, his eyes bulging as Jean climbed through the opened window, followed immediately by Bart himself, brandishing a cutlass and roaring like a bull.

  Kit was on top of the table, on his hands and knees as his back touched the low deck-beams. There was no one between him and the door, but the door was opening as one of the deck watch came in. Kit swung round, propelled himself forward, struck the man on the chest. He sat down at the foot of the companion-way to the poopdeck, and Kit stamped on him as he went up the ladder. There was another man at the top, just starting down. He held a pistol, and fired as he saw the boucanier beneath him. The flash filled the narrow space, and Kit fell against the bulkhead. But he felt no pain, and a moment later was lungeing up the ladder, the cutlass held at the end of his rigid arm like a lance. The Spanish sailor took it in his belly, and made a frightful sound like an exploding bag of air. Blood cascaded over Kit's arm, and his stomach rolled, while the man came tumbling clown the ladder to cannon against his legs.

  'Deck,' Jean yelled behind him. 'Get on deck.'

  Kit inhaled, scrambled up the ladder, checked as he emerged into the comparative light to see a dozen soldiers clad in breastplates and morions, and armed with muskets, still forming their line, having been dragged from below by the alarmed shout of the watch.

  The muskets were levelled. Kit dropped to his knees, and a wave of heat seemed to shroud him, while a cloud of black smoke rose above the line of glinting morions. Someone stepped on Kit's back. No doubt it was Jean. Then there were others, scrambling by, howling with joy as they poured at the soldiers, who desperately dragged their swords from their scabbards as the matelots shrieked at them.

  Kit got up, slowly. He was suddenly exhausted, and the blood-lust had gone. So had the exhilaration. Because the battle was over. He wondered how long it had lasted. A matter of seconds. The soldiers lay scattered; helmets rolled in the scuppers, swords and muskets littered the deck like the remains of a hideous feast.

  And now the slaughter began. The crew, cowering in the hatchways and forward of the masts, wished only to surrender. To Portuguese Bart and his boucaniers.

  The captain was borne to the gunwale, held in a dozen searching hands, fighting and begging for mercy. He was swung to and fro and launched into the air, to fall into the water with a tremendous splash. And as yet the sea was calm, and silent. He went deep and came up, shouting curses. But one of the matelots knew what was missing, and dragged a soldier's corpse to the gangway; the bloody flesh was rolled out, to fall beside the captain. Soon the boucaniers were pushing all the corpses overboard, while others seized the remaining members of the crew, and threw them, screaming and howling, after the dead.

  Whom they were about to join. For the blood had spread across the sea, and the ever-present dark fins were creeping towards the ship. Now the living shrieked, in pain and in terror, and the water thrashed and seethed with horrible violence, and the night became hideous with sound.

  Yet worse was in store. For lurking in the recesses of the after sleeping cabin the boucaniers had found a priest. With yells of joy they dragged the black-gowned figure on deck, into the glare of the lanterns others had lit, and threw him headlong into the blood and the slime that covered the deck, to roll on his back, arm and legs feebly kicking. Kit, still standing by the companion-way where first he had fallen, stared at him in horror, his mind a jungle of conflicting emotions. From the safety of the ridge behind which he and Jean had hid, he had watched the black-robed man thrusting his cross into the face of Grandmama, had understood what had transpired there, had watched her kiss the piece of wood. And afterwards had watched her pulled high to dangle from that beam. For how many tortured years would that scene haunt his memory?

  And
here was one of those same Dominicans. But here, too, was a man of age and dignity, grey-haired and restrained, even as he put his hand down to push himself into a sitting position, and then raised the hand to gaze at the red muck which clung to his fingers.

  'A priest,' Jean breathed, his eyes alight with hate. For he too had watched the priest in Tortuga. And the woman who had been hoisted first had been his own mother.

  'Aye,' Bart said, standing before the Spaniard. 'One of the blood-suckers.'

  'Let's have him to the sharks,' someone shouted.

  'Aye, let's hear him scream.'

  'You don't want to be hasty,' Bart said, his mouth spreading in a terrible grin. 'He's a man of God. He'll give you a curse as he goes. He'll send you to eternal damnation.'

  There was a yell of derision.

  The Dominican was sitting up, staring at his captors with wide eyes, his right hand fumbling for the crucifix at his neck.

  'He's a man of chastity, too,' Bart said. 'I'll wager he hasn't used his tool to do more than pee in twenty years, unless it's been to bugger some poor boy.'

  There was another shriek, lust now entering the hatred as they understood their leader's meaning. They descended on the helpless man like a swarm of locusts, and he sobbed in pure terror; no doubt he even understood the bastard French spoken by the boucaniers.

  Kit forced himself to move. The breeze was still gentle, and yet the ship seemed to be swaying and tossing, revolving around his head as he staggered forward. Bart looked up.

  'Here's our hero,' he bellowed. 'Here's the devil's spawn himself, lads. We must give him the pleasure.'

  The priest was below him, his habit pulled around his shoulders, his legs twitching, his thighs pitifully white, his penis shrinking as if it would defend itself.

  'Use my knife, Kit, boy,' someone offered, and a sharp blade was pressed into his left hand.

  The priest stared at him; he no longer wept, but his lips moved, as if in prayer, or perhaps in entreaty.

  'Come on, Kit,' someone howled in his ear.

  He pushed the man aside, reached into his belt, pulled out his still unfired pistol.

  'Hey,' Bart yelled.

  But the pistol was already levelled; at this range he could not miss. There was a flash and a bang, and he was momentarily blinded by the puff of smoke. The limbs at his feet had ceased their twitching.

  The boucaniers stared at him.

  'Now why did you do that?' Jean demanded. 'You saw your grandmother hang. 'Twas after a priest had finished with her.'

  'And now I have avenged her,' Kit said. 'Like a man. Not an animal.' He thrust the pistol back into his belt, dropped the knife to the deck, and faced them.

  But there was more bewilderment than hostility in their gazes, and Bart shrugged. 'So you're not a lad for sport, Kit Hilton. You've the gut of a fighting man, spite all. Now let's get this ship turned. We're for Port Royal. And Henry Morgan.' He slapped Kit on the shoulder. 'He'll teach you what you're at, lad.'

  Jean stood beside him on the foredeck as the anchor plunged into the translucent green water. 'By Christ,' he said. 'But there is a sight.'

  They had thought the harbour at Tortuga the most sheltered in the world. But here was something beyond their wildest imaginings. North of them lay Jamaica, a smaller version of Hispaniola, mountains reaching up towards the sky like rows of gigantic teeth, blotting out the wind, while to the west, protruding from the shore, there curved a long, low spit of land, a natural breakwater which all but encircled the bay in which they lay. The spit itself was chiefly denoted by the row of palm trees which lined it, and which had given it a name, the Palisades, but at the end it widened into a peninsula, and here was the town. A strange town, hardly more substantial to look at than the settlement in Tortuga, with tumbledown shacks and a cluster of tents and only one or two real buildings—but dominated by a church, whose square tower rose above the surrounding debris like a watch-dog.

  And unlike Tortuga, even seen from the deck of a ship, this place teemed. It gave off an enormous hubbub, and it gave off an enormous effluvium as well; the faint westerly wind carried the stench of rum and sweat, sewage and perfume, across the huge expanse of water which was the harbour. Although perhaps much of the smell, and the noise, too, came from the ships. Not one of the boucaniers had ever seen so many ships in one place at the same time. Below the clear green water the bottom was obscured by anchors and trailing lengths of warp and chain. There were little rowing boats and half-decked sloops, trim, fast brigs and two-masted schooners, and more than a few big three-masters, dominated by two galleons, with twenty guns in a broadside and culverins peering forward and aft, capable of throwing a twelve-pound ball upwards of a mile with some accuracy. They presented a general air of neglect and even decay, with paint peeling from their topsides, with shattered bowsprits and tarnished giltwork, with sails carelessly furled and revealing many a rent, with long strands of worm-filled weed trailing away from their bottoms. But all possessed at

  least an anchor watch, and boats plied ceaselessly to and fro.

  ' 'Tis like a fleet of war,' Bart whispered. 'Preparing for an armada.'

  'They'd not survive their first gale of wind,' Kit said contemptuously.

  'But the storm season is over,' Jean pointed out. 'Why, it is all but Christmas.'

  'I wonder what we must do,' Bart whispered, half to himself, 'to announce our arrival. Port Royal is but the seaport. There is another place somewhere on the mainland itself, where the Governor resides.'

  'Spanish Town,' Kit said. 'I have heard of it.'

  'It must be over there.' Jean pointed at the north-eastern end of the bay, where the roofs of houses could just be seen. 'But it seems we have to worry less about visiting them than having them visit us.'

  They looked after his finger. A barge came towards them from the mainland shore. It was propelled by twelve oars a side, each manned by a half-naked, sweating Negro. Amidships and forward were a guard of a dozen soldiers, wearing long, red coats and wide, flat hats, and armed with pikes and swords. And in the stern were two gentlemen, from their dress; above their heads a gigantic Cross of St George floated in the breeze.

  'You'll gather, lads,' Bart bellowed. ' 'Tis being visited by the authorities, we are.'

  The boucaniers formed two lines on deck. They were still sufficiently elated by their victory of two days before to obey their leader without question. And they looked more like men, now. Most had shaved; Kit and Jean indeed had removed all the hair from their faces, but many of their companions had retained at least moustaches. And they wore velvet breeches and cambric shirts. One or two sported coats and one hardy soul even insisted on wearing a breastplate, despite the heat. Their heads were bare, the occasional one bound up in a brightly coloured bandanna; their feet were also bare. But they had armed themselves well, and no one could possibly mistake them for anything less than fighting men.

  Nor were the two visitors likely to make any mistakes in their judgements. First in the gangway was a small man, with narrow features, a perpetual frown to suggest that he was shortsighted, but none the less with piercing, inquisitive eyes. He did not uncover as he gained the deck, but instead stared aft and then up at the rigging, seeking a flag and finding none. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, blue with a gold trim, and his coat was also dark blue, edged with gold lace. His breeches were white buckskin, which made a startling contrast. His stockings were also white, and his shoes black leather. But most amazing of all, he was unarmed and carried only a cane similar to the one Kit remembered in the possession of Philip Warner.

  'By God,' he remarked. 'As villainous a collection as even I have ever seen. My name is Thomas Modyford, and I am His Majesty's Governor of Jamaica. Who is master of this ship?'

  Bart stepped forward, looking unusually nervous. 'I have that privilege, sir.'

  'A boucanier,' Modyford said, in tones of contempt.

  'As are my followers, monsieur.'

  And whence came you by this ship?' The questio
n was asked by the second man, who now appeared at the top of the ladder. He was altogether bigger than his companion, although not tall, heavy-set, with powerful shoulders and wide thighs, suggesting an enormous physical strength. His face was round, with full cheeks and a big chin, decorated by a carefully trimmed wisp of brown beard, as his moustache was also carefully combed and curled. The marks of the dandy extended to his clothes; his coat was of gold-coloured cloth, and open, to show the lace in his shirt front, and his red breeches vanished into cavalier boots which clumped on the deck. His sword was a Spanish rapier, hanging from a wide, crimson velvet baldric, and he wore a leather belt at his waist, ostensibly to carry two pistols, but more, Kit thought, to pull in his belly. He sported a diamond ring on each of the fingers of his left hand, and smelt of pomade. He might easily have been mistaken for a fop. But there was a habit of command in his voice, and his brown eyes, disarmingly mild, flickered from right to left with total certainty as he established the capabilities of the ship.