Jean shrugged. 'They are speaking of a thousand pieces of eight to the lowest deckhand, and each of us commanded a section.'
'Then say five thousand pieces of eight.'
'But you also commanded a squad of musketeers.' Agrippa said. 'Which indeed played a decisive part in the battle.'
'Ten thousand pieces of eight, Kit,' Jean said. 'I would estimate that to be your share. There is a fortune, if you like.'
'In gold,' Kit said. 'There will be few people can have seen that much money before. Not in the Leewards, to be sure. I'll to Antigua, by God. And buy myself a plantation. Will you come with me, Agrippa?'
'I'd know your purpose.'
'No slavery. You have my word. A plantation on which men will work for a decent wage, and hold their heads high, because they are free. What say you to that, black man?'
Jean laughed again. 'Faith, the noise of battle has addled your brain, Kit. Slavery is a natural condition of man, unless he be strong enough to fend for himself. Besides, your fellow planters would stone you in the street.'
'That pack of curs? I'd have their tongues out of their throats before they could spit.'
'And what of your oath, not to spill blood save in self-defence?'
Kit flushed; he had already forgotten those hasty words. 'I meant, save in a worthwhile cause.'
'Now you are being specious. What you should say is that you fell in love with a pair of Spanish thighs, and were saddened to see them disappear. But what would you have done with them, Kit, once they were yours? They could never have done other than hate you. Come now, own the truth of what I say.'
'I'll have no more of this,' Kit said. 'There is a new oath. I'm to Antigua, and a better life. By God, I'll make sure of that.'
'Then I'll come with you, Master Hilton,' Agrippa declared. 'Add my share to yours, and we'll be doubly sure of that plantation. 'Tis a dream I have had. Make it come true, and I'll never leave you
'And here's my hand on it.' Kit felt the firm grip of the huge black.
'And there's the beach,' Jean said. 'So you can set about making your dreams come true. But what's that?'
They sat up to stare forward. The river was widening before opening into the bay where the ships lay at anchor, and beyond was the blue water of the Caribbean Sea. Each was a most welcome sight. But not apparently to all. The first men to reach the beach and scramble from their canoes were veiling and gesticulating, and now they were rounding the last bend they could see that the Monarch had already put to sea, and was in fact nearly hull down as she made her way towards Jamaica.
'But what is the matter?' Jean led them ashore. 'Bart. Bart? Give us a reason for this hullabaloo.'
'Reason?' Bart bellowed, his face red with rage. 'Reason? Why, did not that foul wretch Morgan promise that the money would be divided here on the beach at Chagres? And to make the division easier did he not command that all the goods we assembled were to be shipped in the lead canoes?'
'So he did,' Kit agreed.
'Well, sir, you may be interested to know that this villain, whom you are proud to call friend, travelled down with those canoes, ever urging his men to greater efforts so as to draw away from the rest of us, and on reaching the beach he loaded every last penny on board that ship of his and put to sea.'
'But ...' Jean stared at the angry faces, gathering in ever increasing numbers on the edge of the water to stare after the departing flagship, demanding explanation from the crews they had left behind, who could only say that they had known of no arrangements made in Panama, as they had not been present. In loading the Admiral's ship they had done no more than obey orders, as they had always obeyed the Admiral.
'What must we do?' Jean asked, staring at Kit.
Kit began to laugh.
But that was long ago. How long? Since the beach at Chagres? Or since he had laughed?
Or since he had lain upon the girl Isabella, and known a moment's paradise before stepping down into hell?
And would he ever laugh again? He sat on the beach and gazed at the empty harbour. Empty compared with the crowded activity they had seen on their first arrival here, more than a year gone. It had been full once more, when the fleet had come storming back from the Chagres, searching for their Admiral. But the Admiral had gone, stopping at Port Royal long enough to pick up his friend Tom Modyford. Some said they had had no choice; peace had been signed between England and Spain on about the day Morgan had disembarked his army, and so for all the Cross of St George under which they had marched, they
had committed piracy and robbery, murder and rape—not an act of war. Morgan and Modyford had gone home to explain, and attempt to avoid the hangman. And they had taken the money with them. Perhaps to bribe the King. Who could be sure? Certain it was that none was left in Jamaica.
Kit had supposed then that he would witness another sack, another horror to equal that of Panama. But was Port Royal worth sacking, when they could have anything of value there for the asking? And for the main they were English, and this was a part of England. They would be murdering their own kind, and not all of them were prepared to go as far as that. He had played a part in averting that disaster, and was proud of it. The result was that the French had left immediately, angrily declaring that they would never again sail with the English. Bart had gone amongst the first, and Jean had gone with him. He had made a last effort to persuade Kit to accompany him. They had been friends all their lives; they had watched their only relatives die together. They had fought for each other for two years in Hispaniola, and they had shared everything in life worth having.
Kit had refused. Then, he had still been gripped by the tragedy in which he had participated. He had been as confused and as disappointed as any of them. He had both liked and admired Morgan, as he had respected the Welshman's courage and ability. He had thought that they might become friends, that he himself had been marked out for advancement by the buccaneer Admiral. He remembered the words Morgan had used before they had landed. 'Stay close to me,' the Admiral had said. At the time that had meant nothing more than that Morgan wanted his section commanders close within earshot. But had he even then been planning to desert his men? Had he led them through that frightful forest, won for them that fantastic victory over a Spanish army, and then loosed them in that abominable sack, all the time only waiting for the business to be completed so that he could steal the fruits of their valour?
If that were so, and who could doubt it, then what remained in life worth having? That had been no act of revenge against the Spaniards, no act of war, even, in defence of the British colonics in the Caribbean; rather had it been a calculated robbery of the very men who had followed him to hell and back. Kit's personal anger at having participated in such a crime and in such a dupe redoubled every time he thought of it. As his own resolution, his very manhood, had dwindled every time he thought of it. So he had stayed, waiting in Port Royal, perhaps for Morgan to come back, perhaps for the memory of that dreadful day in Panama, which obscured even all those other dreadful days before, to fade.
He had become a beachcomber, in a society of thieves and whores. He was not the only beachcomber. How had he despised those gaunt and dead-eyed men in the tattered breeches who had kicked the stones along the Tortuga shore? How he had thought Bale too low even to be considered human. He had thought, had any man the right so to misuse the gift of life? But had not all those men, even Bale, something similarly terrible of which they dared not think, and of which they dared not risk a repetition?
And Morgan had not come back. There were rumours that he had been convicted, and would be hanged, and others, that he had amused the King, and so would be acquitted, and return in triumph. To face the men he had deserted? There would be an act of courage.
Footsteps. He did not turn his head, because these he recognized. He was not alone. Perhaps Agrippa, in that huge black brain of his, locked behind those sombre dark eyes, had also found Panama beyond the reaches of his stomach. Or was Agrippa also waiting to have his
revenge on the Admiral? How many were there like that?
'A bottle of wine,' Agrippa said. 'And this fish. Roasted, fresh.'
The snapper was still hot.
'Now, where did you get that?' Kit asked.
'A bet,' Agrippa said carelessly. 'That I could not balance my cutlass on the end of my chin.' He grinned. 'There are always people who will bet me that. This one is a dandy.'
He pointed at the only ship in the harbour which looked capable of going to sea in safety, a trim two-masted schooner which had dropped anchor but two days previously.
'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 m
oved 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.
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